fics

jungkook + anime men <3 dead dove riki 23

[missenu]

in the frame (final act.) ✮⋆˙

synopsis: your skills as a videographer gets put to the test when your friend, who happens to be in the same profession, falls victim to double-booking. problem is, you only specialized in weddings, not adult films. despite your initial reluctance, you take the job. cue the lights … you meet jeon jungkook, a pornstar, on set — in his world. you just never expected him to play a part in yours.

pairing: pornstar!jungkook x wedding videographer!fem reader

wc: 21.1k

genre: s2l, pornstar au, smut, angst, fluff

cw: slice of life, miscommunication, anxiety, fear of future, inaccurate adult filming industry discourse/depiction, jk had a tough time at work, mentions of injuries, tension, yearning, angsty confrontation, alcohol consumption, confessions, fluffy moments, 18+ ONLY, oral (f&m), rimming (f receiving), nipple play, fingering, cum eating, jk watches pix, protected sex, accidental orgasm delay, multiple orgasms, multiple sex scenes, aftercare

a/n: finally here!! 😛🎉 as always, enjoy~

masterlist | prologue | act i. | act ii. | act iii.

Is a glass of water half-full or half-empty?

You observe the glass, hoping for a revelation or answer — a good distraction from your miscalculations all evening; well, miscalculations in the duration of meeting Jeon Jungkook. Tucking yourself further into your small couch, the corners of your lips tug at the reminder of the boy. The icy glass cools your hot skin, which still remembers the flames he left you surrounded in on the dancefloor.

And those eyes — his always spoke to you without words. 

Eyes smitten and playful all evening, you can’t forget how they morphed into fear and panic when you finally moved on the pathway he laid out for you. Were you wrong to assume he wanted more with you?

“Ah, so stupid.” You slam your eyes shut at the memory, shame heats your cheeks at his rejection — at another loss you’ll need to process on your own. Loss, after loss, after loss. It wears on your bones, empties your soul just like how you empty the glass of water clutched in your hand.

Didn’t matter whether your glass was ‘half-full or half-empty,’ the water will eventually be consumed. Jungkook had a way of overfilling your glass with an abundance of hope; however, you later found out the glass you shared with Jungkook contained holes and eventually left you empty.

No one leaves you empty like Jungkook does. 

Sitting up higher on your couch, you dig your lower back into your armrest, wanting to feel some form of support.

Maybe you should’ve stayed and taken the water Jungkook offered. Wake you up from that drunken state and snap you out of your innermost desires for your friend. You’d probably go as far as blaming the alcohol and the night would’ve just ended from there.

Probably would’ve been a better alternative than pathetically running away. Then again, there was no way you were going to last another second in the venue — not after the way he pulled away.

You know it’s rude to leave in the middle of the party. Can’t even bear looking at your phone since ordering a cab outside the club, opting to place it on silent afterwards. Now, the phone rests heavily on your kitchen counter, begging to be checked on.

You should text him. Tell him you’re safe and use indigestion as an excuse for your abrupt departure — no one would ever find fault in that reason. Another pang of anxiety holds you back from touching your phone. What if he didn’t bother checking on you? Upset with your bad habit of leaving? 

He has all the rights to.

Setting your feet into your house slippers, you’re thankful for the flat cushion after a night of dancing in heels. Bathroom first, then you’ll text Jungkook. The order of events seemed the most logical and definitely not your way of avoiding the inevitable. It’s a solid plan—

You jolt at the series of knocks against your door. Although your building was relatively safe, living alone had its downsides, especially at this hour. The grip on your glass changes and you ready yourself for self-defense. 

Best case scenario? A ding-dong ditcher. Worst? Nope. You don’t want your mind wandering there. 

One eye closed, you peer through the peephole.

The fisheye effect warps your vision, but you could easily make out the person standing facing away from your doorway. The dangly, silver five-hooped earrings were a dead giveaway to your visitor. Felt them graze the top of your hand every time he tilted his head in your touch. Felt them when you wrapped your hands at the base of his nape. They glimmered prettily under the club lights, but they look nearly dull now under your complex’s standard lightbulbs. 

He’s a few steps away, pacing, looking anywhere but your door as if it was the most offensive piece of object … as if your home was the most deplorable place he could be at right now.

And it should be. He should be at his party celebrating his wins and accomplishments, surrounded by people who love and care for him — not on shame’s breeding grounds. Shame nearly has you running to hide underneath your covers, hoping he’d leave if you refused to answer. Rather than give into shame’s call for isolation, your fingers flick the locks and wrap around the doorknob.

“Jungkook?” 

He’s still turned away from you, pacing back and forth in your building’s hallway. No longer styled how it was in the beginning of the night, his hair looks to be run through … whether it be by him or a stranger. 

Couldn’t be you.

Your mouth parts, words lodged in your throat, but you manage to utter, “What are you doing here?”

He lets out a breath. So unstable, you could feel the restraint in his action but he stops in his tracks, head tilting up at the ceiling to will the words.

“Why do you keep doing that?” His voice raises, back still turned to you.

You frown, looking around to see if there was anyone in the vicinity. Definitely not at this hour. Your neighbors should be asleep, which is why you don’t want to make a scene outside your home.

“Jungkook—”

Suddenly, harshly, his back shifts and his body whips around, “Why do you keep leaving me? Is that all you know how to do?” 

You’re standing face to face with his wide eyes and desperate furrowed brows. The hand raking through his hair only showcasing more of the distress forming on his forehead.

Your mind flashes back to your meeting at the milestone party. There was nothing wrong with your departure at that time. A small, but selfish part of you, doesn’t think you were at total fault for tonight’s departure either. 

“Jungkook … please,” you stammer, eyes drifting down to your feet. 

“I-I don’t fucking get it, Pix. I just–”

“Can you come inside?” You ask, looking around once more. And although Jungkook hasn’t made far enough noises to warrant a complaint, you’d rather talk inside the privacy of your home. “We can talk in here. Please?” You plead in a small whisper.

Jaw clenched as he looks at you and over the threshold of your home, he nods.

Citrus, with no more lingering scent of cigarettes, wafts past you. Even if he was upset with you, he’s still respectful in your home as he toes off his shoes at the entryway. He exhales through his nose, finally turning to face you. His jaw ticks, eyes bloodshot for multiple reasons but he’ll blame the alcohol and not the exhaustion of looking for you. 

You can’t meet his eyes, can’t even bring yourself to speak in the comforts of your home.

“You keep doing this.” His voice cracks.

“I-I,” Your own voice wavers at his statement, you fight the lump in your throat as you lie, “wasn’t feeling well—”

“Cut the bullshit.” 

You frown, having never seen Jungkook speak nor act this way towards you. He extends patience and understanding towards you like an additional limb on his body; perhaps, you’ve tested them enough tonight. Still, your own emotions come out just as unsteady and unreasonable.

“You’re being unfair.” You croak.

“I’ve been anything but that, Pix.” He retracts his head, brows furrowed. “You’re the one that left. Like you always do when things don’t go your way.”

Your brows pull together, unable to mask the hurt at the accusation. “What did you expect me to do? You—” Your bottom lip trembles.

“What?” He takes a step forward and you’re once again engulfed in his overbearing scent. The action stunts your train of thoughts, and for a split second, you think he’s almost just as affected.

You’re tired of going in circles, chasing but also running away from what appears to be your own desires.

“You led me on all night.” Voice small, Jungkook nearly misses what you say. 

His frustration morphs into surprise, then guilt at the sudden forwardness of your words.

“I …” His eyes widen at the realization as he chews on the inside of his cheeks. He shakes his head, denying the allegations. “I didn’t.”

“But you did.” You walk past him, lower back leaning against the kitchen island. Arms crossed, you don’t miss how Jungkook’s eyes drop to your breasts pushed together. His throat bobs, hands twitching on his sides as he tries to rack up an appropriate response.

“We were dancing. Having fun.” He reasons. “That’s all.”

Friends don’t dance the way you both did tonight; their touches don’t burn. They don’t leave the party after being deserted from a dodged kiss on the dance floor. They sure as hell don’t stare at you like you’re made of stardust. 

“Okay.” As if whatever happened in the last couple of hours could be reduced to ‘just dancing.’

His throat emits a low growl, patience once again tested. “Why’d you leave?”

Truthfully? There was no alternate reality where you’d stay after his rejection.

Your crossed arms drop to your sides, throat tightening to keep the contents in your stomach from hurling out. You can’t bear the truth, which seems to point at the fact Jungkook has moved on and there’s no more room for you in his life and heart. 

He’s left you behind.

Jungkook fills in the silence with the same words circling in your head, slipping from his mouth now directed at you with an ache you’ve done your best to forget. “You’ve moved on.”

Your face falls, having spent months trying to forget him through hobbies, friends, and even another person, only to find out … nothing’s worked.

Unable to meet his eyes, you mutter, “I had to.” 

“I know.” He says, “I know that.”

The filter on your fish tank acts as a buffer for the silence stretched in the small distance.

“You’ve moved on, too.” You don’t mention the woman you saw in his apartment lobby, too afraid of the confirmation that he has indeed moved on.

He lets out a shuddering breath, head hung low. “I tried, okay? I really did.”

Something within you shatters at his revelation. It hurts to be right, and it hurts more knowing no one was at fault in the aftermath of a heartbreak. 

He drags his hand down his face, fighting the drunken exhaustion and confusion. “Things got better, I swear. But then I see you and I’m just reminded …”

“Of what?” You ask.

He stays quiet. So different than the man who was just outside your door ready to scorn the world. You wonder how he has kept his composure during the times of your silence when all you want to do right now is shout for an answer, resolution … or ending. What was left after this? Was there another title after being demoted to friends?

… Strangers?

You don’t wait for his answer, choosing to fill the gaps of the conversation with your reality. “You don’t tell me about your life anymore. Like … like, I’m some sort of afterthought learning all these things about you after the fact.” Tears falling freely, you sniff and palm away the moisture on your cheeks.

“Pix–”

“Why did you push me away?” From his life, from the kiss … no clarification needed — it all bleeds together anyway. “Did I misunderstand?”

“Pix.” He repeats, eyes crestfallen and exhausted. “You’re with someone, there’s no way I would do that to you–”

“I’m not with him anymore.”

He pauses, drawing in a sharp breath. “Still doesn’t make it right.” Despite his words, you recognize a faint glint in his eyes.

Of course he becomes the voice of reason when this conversation shouldn’t exist among supposed friends. Now it’s your turn to stay quiet, too ashamed for further humiliation and rejection.

“All I do is remember you, Pix. All I find myself doing is thinking of you. Could never stop even if I wanted to.” He shakes his head. Your stomach sinks, an uncomfortable mass lodged in your throat as you process his words. “And I’m so tired of having to remember you.” He looks at you with so much anguish, wishing and begging for you to end this turmoil. 

“Jungkook …”

“I still think about the night at the hotel.” He continues, jaw clenched to stop the trembles. “And I feel so guilty.”

You shake your head vehemently. “You never once did anything I didn’t want to do.”

“I knew you couldn’t be with me, but I still pushed for more. It was selfish of me and I—”

“I’ve always wanted you, Jungkook,” you sob. “You never gave me the chance to make things work.”

Your hands cover your face as you heave into your palms, moist from your tears and breath. Jungkook tilts his head up at the ceiling, furiously blinking away the stray tears he thought he had swore away on the cab ride over to your place.

The buzzing travels up from your fingers to the back of your head. Your body convulses from your silent sobs, mind numbing from all the fog and confusion. Like a bee, refusing to leave you alone, you want to cower away from the source of noise. The buzzing continues for another fifteen seconds, too loud even when neither of you utter a word. It’s impossible to avoid when the buzzing happens from within. How do you remedy this? How do you run away? How, how, how—

The buzzing stops.

Zapped away by a strong pair of arms, the bees stop swarming in your mind, all honeyed scent — all citrus consuming your senses.

Jungkook holds you and it’s the closest thing to the security of your home. Possibly better. Home shelters you from the brewing storm, and as you cry into the expanse of Jungkook’s chest, he holds you tighter, chin resting on the top of your head.

“What are we even doing?” Jungkook mumbles against your hair, voice hoarse and tired.

You inhale into your hands and answer honestly, “I don’t know.” 

He swallows, breathing you in, “I hate this.”

Your heart crumbles again. Was this it? Has to be. He’s finally done and wants nothing to do with you anymore.

Instead of his warmth departing from your body like you’ve grown used to, he holds you tighter.

“I fucked everything up.” He says. “I messed you up, and I’m trying to do right by you, I swear, but I–”

His words are cut off with your arms around his waist. Face pressed into his chest, your tears became another source of darkness on his grey shirt, but neither of you cared. 

“You didn’t mess anything up.” You heave. Months passed, things changed. Time was a marker for healing and forgetting old wounds; though, there were just some things — some people — you can’t and don’t want to forget. 

“I missed you so much, Pix.”

You pull back a little to look at his face. Hurt and longing never needed a competition and there’s no winner when both of you were wounded in the process. The frame had always been a little unfocused and hard to decipher, but you’re both in view now.

“I never stopped thinking about you.” You confess.

He blinks twice, hand now coming to cup your wet cheek. Ache and remorse stretches over his face at the time lost in the absence of one another. He needs to be honest, barring out the truth if there was even a possibility to start anew. 

“I can’t promise perfection, P.” He admits, scared and worried for this potential dealbreaker. 

“I never asked for perfection.” You shake your head, breath finally coming out even. Pausing, you let the reality of your recent failures sink in, “I just got out of something and I don’t know if I’m any good, but I wanna figure things out with you — do things properly. Please give me time.” Please give us time.

You both loosen your hold on one another, but maintain your gazes as your hands finally intertwine. The hold is weak, full of uncertainty of the future, but you push forward, “Please?” You ask again, heart in your hands — no, heart in his hands. You pray and hope he handles it with care. He has all the power to do the opposite, turning your heart to cold steel for the next poor soul.

He doesn’t, though — can’t imagine anyone but him holding your heart with delicate hands if you allow him to. 

Jungkook’s always wondered when the world would bend for him; yet, he’s got the world in his arms right now willing to bend for his sake. 

He nods and the night bleeds into the morning as you and Jungkook sit on your small couch to catch up, mending lost time with one another. The hours of bitterness leading up to this moment was well worth it after you finally taste the hint of sweetness lodged behind his growing smiles. The catch up bounces back between idle chatters to late night secrets until you both settle into the mundane and content.

“Group work is the worst, P. Avoid it at all costs.” He recounts the number of times his classmates let him down on a project this past semester.

You laugh wholeheartedly. “Why’d you think I run this business alone?”

“Smart girl.” He grins, and your body warms from the small compliment. 

A natural silence fills you both at this time, between the chuckles and stares. You think you could get used to this. A new norm knowing you both want to start over with an agreed upon future. The two glasses of water on your coffee table gets refilled throughout the night, but sits empty now. 

Yet, you’re both so full. 

And you realize no one’s replenishing the glass the way Jungkook does. Around your imaginary glass filled with holes, Jungkook always does his best to cover and mend them.

“I’m sorry for not keeping you posted on my life.” Jungkook says, knees brushing against yours. “I was trying to figure things out on my own.” He leaves out the part where he wanted to reach out for your opinion, opting to struggle by himself.

“Could’ve reached out to me. I wouldn’t have minded.”

He nods, lips pursed debating his next words.

“What?” You ask, eyes heavy from exhaustion, but you don’t want to miss a single second with your special boy.

“Mm, nothing.” His trademark dimples make an appearance when he hides away a playful smile.

“Come on,” you push, “Tell me.”

He laughs softly, lips pulling to an embarrassed smile, “Wanted you to notice me, so I …”

Your eyes narrow, doing your best to piece together the meaning of his words. Something finally clicks as you lean back against your couch. You’d never peg someone like Jeon Jungkook to do things out of spite or attention, but you suppose love has a way of making people do stupid things.

This was love, right?

“I know. Stupid and immature.” He shakes his head.

“It worked.” You shrug, returning his sheepish smile. He interlaces his fingers with you, relaxed knowing you had been trying to keep up with his life in secret. 

He smiles, but shortly after dips a little at his next musing, “Classes have really taken up a lot of my time. I haven’t been able to work as much, but I still take on projects every month or so.”

Your expression falters a little, guilt filling your system as he relays this information. You nod, head leaning to rest on his shoulder.

“Does it bother you?” He asks another forward question. He doesn’t sound as uncertain as he did months ago in the hotel, courage coming as he knows your inevitable answer. 

“A little.” You admit.

You’ll get used to this just as Jungkook needs to get used to this too — that sometimes he will disappoint and hurt. Your acceptance isn’t a form of a bandaid over a reopened wound; instead, allowing the healing process to take on whatever form is needed. Eventually a scar tissue will rise over the persistent lesion, granting you the chance to perform better this time around.

Around 5 a.m. your sleepy eyes fight to stay open as you watch Jungkook put on his shoes. He stands up, eyes heavy but with so much anticipation. Realizes the moment the door shuts behind him, he’ll be left anticipating the next time he’ll be graced with your company again.

He comes close, and with a soft exhale through his nose, he presses his lips to your forehead. Breath fanning over, his voice is low and gravelly on your skin, “See ya, Pix.”

Life with Jungkook, again, is ever soft and changing. The effort is there, the pace of the relationship slow as it should be. Jungkook’s main focus is school now and you’re there to support him along the way. You come over to work while he’s studying or in virtual lectures.

He wants you close. Giving you access to his apartment by creating your personalized finger scan into his home. You also give him a spare key to your place, prompted by a recent out of the city wedding you had to attend and no one else was available to feed Gum and Bubba.

On his large couch, you sit on the opposite end as you answer email inquiries. Wedding season’s peaking again and no matter how busy you may get, you’re never too busy for Jungkook. Nothing stops Jungkook from remaining close to you — not even his overly large couch. He’s never too far, wanting your legs slung over his lap as he listens to his lecture through his headphones. His hands mindlessly massage the bottom of your soles, knowing exactly where you’re most sensitive and tired after a long weekend of being on your feet.

You aren’t quite lovers, but you definitely are not just friends. What you’re building with Jungkook takes time. Lots of failing and hard days, but there are just as many and if more, softer and gentler days where you’re reminded this was all worth it.

Things move as they intend to. Like your slow evening walks, shared hot meals, and camera shutters when Jungkook needs to work on his portfolio or an assignment for class. He tags along with you on a couple of weddings to keep you company, inevitably revealing to you that weddings aren’t his thing. It’s good to be honest with these truths — one less field he’d find himself dipping with in the world of photography. But no matter his contempt, he likes being where you’re at. 

His lecture finishes and he closes his laptop on his table, leaning back as he rests his eyes after realizing how long he’s been on the computer. Sure, school was difficult, but it was structured — no surprises. Just an obligation he willingly signed up for. 

You don’t look up from your laptop, speaking as you type up a response to an inquiry, “What’s on your mind?”

He debates sharing his predicament, hands haven’t stopped his ministrations on your feet as if you were his version of a stress-ball. You breathe through your nose when he hits a particular pressure point.

“I have to go to work next weekend.” He sighs, working on your other foot now. “I’m tired.”

“Can you decline or postpone?” You look up, blue light from your screen bouncing back to your face. 

He shakes his head. “Can’t. I signed a two-parter contract a while back and this is the last installment.”

You close your laptop, feet swinging down to touch his fluffy carpet rug as you scoot closer to him. You were aware contracts and waiver forms existed to protect a business and their clients. In Jungkook’s case, the production he signed with was protecting their assets and securing their future projects. It’s a little demoralizing to view Jungkook as an asset, but that’s how business worked. He had to fulfill his duties to avoid legal penalties.

You lean in and it’s a familiar sight Jungkook’s grown fond of these couple of weeks: cheek squished on his shoulder, you look up with reassuring eyes. ‘It’ll be okay.’

Slowly, you’ve grown to manage the unease of his work, ache returning similar to tides crashing onto land. Sometimes the waves hit stronger than anticipated, but smaller and more manageable tides come ashore.

“Just one day, and it’ll be over soon. Then you’ll be free to focus on your exams afterwards, hm?” You soothe, setting the scenario to make the finish line easier to visualize.

“Yeah.” He grunts, not completely relaxed at the idea of having to do something he doesn’t particularly want to, but a job was a job.

“Hey,” you sit up higher, “is there anything I can do to make it better?”

Shouldn’t have offered that because there’s probably a number of things Jungkook can list off the top of his head. His tongue grows heavy in his mouth at the mere idea of having anything he wanted from you. 

“Something sweet?” You suggest, brows wiggling up and down.

“Right now?” Declining was never in the books when it came to desserts.

You shake your head with a small laugh, “Whenever you’re done with the project. I can bring something after.”

“Okay, Pix. I’d love that.” His hand holds yours. “Surprise me.”

Nights were always spent like this until it was time for one of you to leave. He walks you to your car, waving at the kind receptionist on the way out to the guest parking lot. No longer embraced in summer’s sweltering heat, fall’s brisk air hits your cheeks when you both step out the complex. You never needed an excuse to press your body closer to Jungkook’s side, hand lodged deep in his coat pocket.

“Bye.” You whisper, tippy-toeing as you press a kiss to his cheek, letting your lips linger on his cold skin just a little longer.

The grip around your hands tighten as he fights off the intrusive thoughts of wishing for your lips to move over any expanse of his skin. There’s no need to deny the fact of having impure thoughts of you … had always been the case whether or not you were with him. It doesn’t help when you press your body closer to his, testing the boundaries of your new relationship with each other. Though, the test always stops where it is needed. 

Passing the test, he gulps, “Text me when you get home, ‘kay?”

“I will.”

Five hours of work and he’ll be free. Considering the masses need to work on average an eight hour shift and sometimes more, Jungkook is fortunate for his work hours to salary ratio. Still not easy doing what he does especially since he isn’t in the right headspace at the moment and school’s been eating up his time — a love-hate relationship when it comes to being in a new learning environment. 

He’s been reevaluating a lot these days, wondering how he’ll juggle his profession with school. And when he finds himself thinking too much of the possibilities, he forces himself to run from those thoughts of quitting everything all together. 

In those difficult moments, thinking about you helps calm his nerves about the future and he feels himself landing back on reality. Not everything needs an immediate answer or decision; moreover, he’s allowed to make mistakes. Much like your relationship with him, the ambiguity doesn’t make him run for the hills anymore. Although you and Jungkook don’t currently have any labels for what you are now, there isn't any uncertainty in his devotion towards you.

He checks his bathroom mirror one more time, piercings taken out because today’s shoot may be a little more physically demanding and he isn’t keen on risking any additional injuries like he had sustained in the first shoot. He signed up for the project on a whim because … well, at the time the money and deal seemed decent. BDSM isn’t something he dabbled a lot in on both the receiving or giving end. However, around the same time he signed the contract, he was still grieving the relationship with you and in need of a distraction — something to make him feel again no matter how painful or rigorous to the body. 

After the first shoot, he needed at least two weeks of rest … both mentally and physically. He isn’t fond of his co-star — Jungkook still remembers the numbers the man did to his body despite signaling his discomfort. 

Locking his door, he makes his way to the elevator. The doors open to reveal a familiar face: Yoona. 

She smiles at him, the lines around her eyes crease from the action. Jungkook nods and steps into the elevator next to her. Her strong perfume permeates his senses; a little too floral for his liking in comparison to the subtle cucumber and jasmine scent on your skin he’s grown attached to. 

“Work?” He asks, looking at his phone. It’s nearly noon, a little late to be going into the office. Then again, what does he know about the corporate life?

“Hyunbin wanted me to visit.” Ah, her ex-husband — explains her appearance and unusual demeanor. He assumes a revenge outfit underneath her long fur coat. “You working?”

“Yup.” He exhales through his nose.

Even without his explanation of his reluctance, Yoona reads him easily … just like how she read him the first two weeks after his split with you, choosing to end things with him because she wasn’t fond of messing with someone who was in emotional distress. She’s already got a lot going on and the last thing she wants is a fuckbuddy using her as an emotional crutch.

She’d rather be a friend or a … mentor? Maybe just a friendly neighbor until he got his shit together.

Be it her years of wisdom or her innate ability to read the younger man, she catches wind of his unwillingness to go to work.

“Hang in there.” She offers, just as her friends regurgitated on multiple venting sessions during the nasty divorce process. It’s the bare minimum as a friend if they aren’t able to do more for you.

“Thanks, you too.” He returns the encouragement with a toothy grin. One of the advantages of being taller than most is his ability to spy over people’s phones. Yoona types away in her phone, the prior messages included a clear image of a male’s lower half and her own response with an image of her freshly showered body in a towel. 

Even with her sunglasses on (which, by the way, are totally unneeded with this gloomy weather), she rolls her eyes under the elevator’s fluorescent lights.

“He’s been begging to make things work again.” She places her phone in her purse. 

“You gonna let him back in?” Surely would lessen the alimony she has to pay him.

Yoona scowls, “I may be single, but I am not lonely.” The elevator dings and signals their arrival on the ground floor. “I can have my cake and eat it.” She smiles, red blooming with her pearly white teeth.

Jungkook laughs under his breath, a surge of sweetness also embraces him now after realizing he also has his ‘cake’ too. Hasn’t quite eaten you the way he wants to, but he’s content. Loves where you are both at and is willing to wait till things settle more in life for the both of you.

Yoona clears her throat, strong floral scent leaving along with her as she steps out of the elevators first. “Take care, Jungkook.” Her heels click on the marble floors as she runs out to the cab waiting for her. 

Jungkook sighs again, making his way to his car and already programming the job site’s address into his Maps app.

Five hours and he’ll be done. 

As promised, you have a sweet treat ready to reward Jungkook after his shift.

It’s uncharacteristic of Jungkook to not answer your texts after a couple of hours. You push away the worry as you make your way up the elevators, tiny brown bag containing something rich and icy you’d typically save for the summer. 

Though, there were no rules on when to consume ice cream, especially if it was made by scratch — especially when you made it with your own spin. Anticipation brews as your steps near the front entrance of his home.

Your fingers press on the knob’s scanner and the latch clicks, ready for you to turn and enter into his home.

The living room’s dark, save for the small light Jungkook programmed to turn on at a specific time. There’s no greeting like you’re used to. Hanging your coat and scarf on the stand, you peer past the entryway as you toe off your shoes.

“Jungkook?” You call out with an air of uncertainty. 

Still no answer. Your eyes adjust to the dim surroundings, eyes eventually falling onto a figure you’d recognize in any condition. 

Jungkook’s laid down on his couch, one arm over his eyes. He’s in his sweats, showered and asleep. Your shoulders drop, tip-toeing past him to put the sweet treat into the freezer. You come back to the living room, not without picking up the fallen throw blanket on the ground, placing it on his body.

You could crack open your laptop to do some work in his kitchen until he stirs awake or just leave and let him rest. Straightening up from your bent position, a sharp inhale comes from below as Jungkook removes his forearm from his face and lifts his head up to peer around his surroundings. He sees you and drops his head in relief, breathing patterns stabilizing with a drag of his hand down his face.

“What time is it?”

“A little past 8.” You reply, sitting near his knees. 

“Sorry, Pix. I crashed.” His throat cracks from sleep, “Time slipped.”

“‘S okay.” You reply, pinkie hooking onto his. “Would you like to rest some more? I won’t bother you.”

He swallows, unsure if he would rather be left alone or if he needed your company. He’s not sure he would be good company.

“I don’t know.” His other arm comes up again to cover his eyes. Misery also needed company too, and he doesn’t want to be away from you.

You seem to get the hint. Couch, stiff and hard as ever, seems to bend at the weight of you both for this moment of tenderness. 

“Hard day?” You ask.

His throat bobs, and that’s when you notice the red marks near his Adam’s apple and his wrist. Your lips tug down, fingers itching to soothe the pain over his skin. You curl closer to him, hoping your presence would be enough to redirect his thoughts.

“Yeah. Was difficult.” He replies, voice shaky. His breath comes out uneven as he sniffles into his arm. “Ah, sorry, maybe it’s better if I’m alone.”

He hadn’t realized a couple tears had slipped out from the corners of his eyes until one of your hands cups his jaw, thumb rubbing away some of the moisture in your touch. He sucks in another breath, chest stuttering as a small sob tumbles out. He turns, burying his face into your chest as his arms come from underneath to hold you.

“I’m sorry.” He apologizes repeatedly. You repeatedly tell him you’re not leaving — that you’re here to stay. Fingers running through his dark locks, your touches force his eyes shut, a relieved sigh exiting as he regulates his breathing. 

“I’m here, you’re okay.” You promise, your nails scratching his head produces a soft whimper as he buries his bigger frame deeper into your body. When you try to pull away to assess his face, he only tugs you in tighter. You chuckle, hand patting and soothing the expanse of his back.

“Kook?”

He grunts, too exhausted to verbalize a reply.

“I’m gonna go make something, okay? You stay here and rest.”

He reluctantly loosens his grip on you, and holds onto the fact you were staying. Accepting your proposal, he goes back into a more dignified position with his arm slung over his eyes.

You move with precision; kitchen layout memorized of where all the seasonings and cooking utensils were located, you come back into the living room with a small pot of ramen in under ten minutes. The wooden heat protector clanks onto his coffee table in your descent to the ground. You wince, apologetic for startling him again.

“Didn’t have to make me food, Pix.” He pushes himself up slowly, face contorting in discomfort as he sits upright.

“Wanted to. Come on, have a bite, please?” You had already started rolling the noodles into the spoon, creating a perfect single bite. You blow on the food a little before Jungkook dips his head halfway to receive the food. 

Unlike the painful expression he previously sported, his brows furrow as he chews on the food — a good sign. Nothing’s more healing than a warm meal; a warm meal made with love. 

“Thanks, P.” He smiles, and the parts of him lost during the hours of the shoot are slowly coming back.

“I’m glad.” Your eyes land on his neck first, then over his wrists where the red rings were most prominent. “Did you want to put on ointment? Tell me where you keep your medicine and I can—”

“It’ll heal on its own.” He declines, ready and rehearsed for your concerns. And because he knows there were a billion other questions in that pretty head of yours, he comes clean on his reasons for tonight’s exhaustion. “Co-star went off script towards the end and it threw me for a loop.” He explains, head rested on the back of the couch.

You nod, arms tightening around him. “That sounds awful. I’m sorry …”

He releases another heavy breath. “I-I don’t know, Pix. It’s usually not this bad.”

“What do you mean?” Frowning, you didn’t think you’d ever witness Jungkook in this state: defeated over the profession he willingly chose and stayed for. 

His blank eyes stare off into the distance, zeroing on the corner of his flat screen television. The corners of his mouth twitch, exhaling a shaky breath before murmuring, “I’m scared to quit.”

And despite his discomfort with the subject, he continues, “I … I’ve been thinking about it and it feels like I can’t focus on other things when I have to think about work.” He also doesn’t want to mention the shame he has in quitting, inevitably proving people right that his line of work was not sustainable in the long-run. He doesn’t want to admit he’s outgrown the field that’s built everything around him: his friends, home, experiences, and … you. If it weren’t for his job, he wouldn’t have found you.

But was gratitude and loyalty needed for a profession that brings him more stress and worries?

Though rare, he’s wrestled with these difficult moments in this field, often wondering how life would be if he didn’t need to endure. What version of him exists outside of the industry? He knows what happiness is, but he’s also familiar with the deep dread and disappointment in staying. 

“It’s scary.” You concede, staring off into the same space Jungkook had fixated. “But I know you’ll figure it out. You’re not alone. I’m here with you no matter what you decide on.”

His eyes well up again. He used to think people were crazy for suffering, crying during and off work hours. Now? He’s no different. Change is scary, but remaining the same is scarier. And he’s remained the same for so long, fighting the norms and societal expectations of him.

All this to realize … he’s also just a boy with dreams and aspirations, hope cupped in his hands waiting to be discovered. The industry may be a part of him, but it was never all he was. While he doesn’t know what the future entails, he knows he needs to do something different — his profession does not define his identity.

“Yes, I know.” He lets you rub gentle circles on his bruised wrist, lets you bring up his wrist and blow a cooling breath over his skin before you lay a gentle kiss. “Thank you.”

You and Jungkook remain like this for a while, just sharing each other’s warmth and company until you perk up about the dessert you brought over. He chuckles as you pry open the container and a peek of light orange reaches his vision. Jungkook relishes in the small notes of cinnamon and persimmons hitting his taste buds.

The container of ice cream gets annihilated within fifteen minutes, cold running down your esophagus and tummy, but there’s always a source of heat in your stomach as you sit close to your biggest source of warmth.

Refusing his offer to walk you to your car, you only allow Jungkook to see you out his door in favor of him resting more.

“Thanks for tonight, P. I really needed this.” He needs you more than ever. Holding your hands, he lets his gaze trail down to your lips before he brings them back up to your eyes. He’s been through this route many times, showing restraint because he knows better than to do something too rushed despite his mind and body screaming at him to disobey the boundary you both set. 

As always, he presses a tender kiss to your forehead.

It’s enough. Because he feels you through the food you make for him, your touch, and your unwavering care.

As you stare up at him with starry eyes, he also realizes:

Intimacy doesn’t have to be perfect, but it is with you.

Jungkook completed his first semester of courses with flying marks. With a heavy heart, he decided to stop working in adult filming after another week of mulling through his options. In his resolve he tells himself the decision’s indefinite … subject to change. But ever since he let his agent know of his career change, he has not looked back. 

Though the weather remains chilly, spring’s around the corner. The season brings the birds in the early mornings, flowers blossoming around his apartment complex, and the love blooming in his chest whenever he sees you.

Tonight’s a special night for you. Your cohort wanted to do a little social gathering at a club and you invited Jungkook as your plus-one. He wasn’t planning on drinking, opting to be your designated driver for the night. He looks over at you, eyes sparkly with glitter … or perhaps, you glow more under his stares.

Weather’s still cold, but he knows it will warm up at the venue as the night progresses. He lays his brown jacket on your lap as he drives you both to the venue. You’re so pretty in your skin-tight black turtleneck and gold chain necklace. Upon final inspection in your body length mirror, you made a remark how you looked like The Rock minus the fannypack. Jungkook laughed and tugged you along, mumbling how you looked beautiful and how you were going to be late if you did another outfit change. And while the weather is ever turbulent, jumping between hot and cold days, there’s nothing turbulent between you and Jungkook.

Even though you abstained from changing out of your ‘Pre-2012 The Rock’ fit, you were late with how the parking situation worked out. Too many cars, too little parking options when you were deep into the nightlife district of the city. Jungkook parked at an open lot about a twenty minute walking distance. Terrible, you know. But the trip was well worth it with his company. Had you been alone, you probably would have chosen to order a cab, but you’ve never felt safer in Jungkook’s hand as you both walk down the busy streets on a Saturday night. 

“Thanks again for coming with me.”

“Wouldn’t miss it. Plus,” He squeezes your hand. “You’re coming with me to my friend’s wedding next weekend. So we’re even.”

“Oh no … weddings are so, so, so awful,” you chide with batted lashes. 

He grins, “It is when you gotta be in dress pants.”

You giggle, staring up at the illuminated neon lights around town. “My classmates are excited to meet you, Mr. 9th-Annual-Shutter-Winner.” You grin, the side of your body presses close to him. You look down at his phone where it navigates the leftover walking distance to the club: estimated time of arrival – five minutes.

Jungkook was nervous. Not as a result of meeting your classmates, but he knew a certain someone was going to be there. Kim Taehyung, your best friend and confidant, will also be in attendance. He’s gotten along with him in the past on set. Eccentric guy, a bit of a Namjoon fanatic, but birds of a feather flock together. Namjoon’s creative, kind, and visionary. It’s only natural Taehyung gravitates towards him in this industry.

Regardless, Jungkook’s nervous. He doesn’t voice his concern when you had disclosed that Taehyung was aware of your relationship history with Jungkook. He would never hold you back on talking about your troubles to your friends because it’s important to build that trust and rapport. He hopes his entire persona isn’t completely irreconcilable just yet with the time he’s spent trying to grow and cultivate a healthy relationship with you.

Once in the club, you make your rounds with Jungkook by your side. Lots of new faces, and maybe a select few that were recognizable as a result of the photography competition. 

“Hey Jungkook, heard you were in the photography program,” one of the judges for the past photography competition, Rowoon, smiles, “I know at the end of your photography program they’re going to request for an internship. Let me know if you need help connecting with a photographer.”

“That’d be awesome.” Jungkook smiles.

Jungkook’s appreciative for moments like these, easy conversations blending in with your life. You’ve been surrounded with good people. Well, good enough for you to want to rekindle and meet up every so once in a while.

He watches you from afar now, a mocktail in hand as he lets the ice melt and lessen the syrupy taste of the drink.

You smile into your cup as one of your classmates animate a pose of some sort — probably from a recent project or client. Regardless, he finds himself smiling too, eyes focused on your figure. It’s all tunnel vision, really, how everything around you blurs and this gooey feeling swirls and pools in the pit of his stomach.

He recognizes this, having experienced this similar breakthrough in the past with previous partners. While the hard impact of the realization came far less than this moment, his feelings were undeniable.

He loves you.

An awful realization to have when you guys are out in public and not in privacy, where he can bare his emotions to you freely. His palms sweat, heart accelerating at the welcomed epiphany and rush.

He has been patient and gentle in these last couple of months. That, he’ll give himself credit for. But all the self work he’s done is about to leave as he’s one mocktail sip away from walking over to you and declaring his feelings.

Not the right place nor time. Certainly worse when he can’t drink to distract himself.

“Mind if I join ya?”

Jungkook startles out his thoughts, craning his neck to the side to find Kim Taehyung smiling lazily at him. He simply gestures for the empty stool, all while trying to relocate you after the minor detractor.

Even with the heavy bass of the club music, Jungkook’s eyes still remain on your figure, making sure you’re safe and having fun — as you should always be. 

Taehyung grunts in his descent onto the barstool, gaze following where Jungkook looks at.

“You all socialed out?” Jungkook mindlessly asks — a miracle he’s strung up a coherent sentence. 

Taehyung scoffs at the lack of focus, but replies, “Gets a little tiring explaining my gigs and seeing them react the same way.”

This time, Jungkook stares back at the seated man, completely understanding his sentiment. He knows exactly what Taehyung has experienced being in the industry — their little common ground. 

“You know,” Taehyung begins, “I still don’t get the whole thing with you and her.”

Lips pursed, he drums his fingers on the bar counter, “How so?”

“Friends, but not. Lovers, but not.” Taehyung tips his drink back. “What are you guys even waiting for?”

What was Jungkook waiting for?

“Just want to take our time.” He replies. “Not trying to rush things.”

“Kind of backwards, don’t you think?” He shrugs his shoulders before continuing, “Look man, I’ll be upfront. I’m still on the fence about you.” 

“I know.” Jungkook’s aware he’s far from perfect, knowing his hesitancy in moving forward stems from his insecurities and his fears of hurting you in the process.

“She likes you a lot. And I trust my best friend. If things go sour, well … at least we’ll know how to pick up the pieces this time around.”

Taehyung waves down the bartender for a refill. “I give her a lot of shit for putting herself in a box, but all she does is try. So why don’t you guys try?”

Jungkook’s been so afraid of hurting. In turn, he’s robbing you both of the possibility for something so much more. He loves what he has with you, but was this enough?

You turn, also finding him, and smile.

It’s not enough. He wants more — he needs more.

Taehyung settles back as he watches the scene unfold in front of him with a smug smile. 

Finally.

Jungkook’s on autopilot as he weaves through the crowd. The back of his neck grows sweaty, less from the stuffy venue and more from his nerves and this final act of trying to do the right thing for once. He wants to do right by you, and right now all he wants is to be near you.

He needs to be near you.

You seem to think the same too, placing your empty glass onto the edge of the bar top. There aren’t any remnants of green or cherries, only a sliver of yellow on the bottom he recognizes as his trademark drink.

His heart drums against his chest as you do a quick side hug with the classmate, so eager to get to him in the midst of the hazy, man-made smoke and crowded dance floor.

The path to you was damn near impossible to get to, packed like sardines and people unwilling to move. Though, you both will always find a way to each other. Head tilted, you motion Jungkook to the side of the dance floor. It’s dimly lit, some of the club’s strobing lights don’t touch. Light’s not needed because you’re forever drawn to each other.

“Hi.” You smile up at him, eyes slightly droopy as your hand finds his. “Sorry. Haven’t been able to hang out with you that much tonight.”

He shakes his head, placing your hand behind his neck. Your fingers search for the longer locks he sported in the winter months, but you’ve always preferred his shorter cut. The prickle of the undercut was something you’ve longed for all night long. His silver hooped earrings graze your exposed wrist, the cold metal offering a nice touch on your hot skin.

He shakes his head, “‘S okay, Pix.” You both sway, neither of you really know what song is playing. It all blurs to white noise when you’re with each other. “Did you catch up with everyone?”

“Mhm.” You hum, leaning in to press your face against his chest. There’s a slight drop to your shoulders signifying your exhaustion, but Jungkook reads your demeanor like the back of his hands.

With a hum, he murmurs, “What’s on your mind?”

“Everyone’s in production companies.” You sulk, frown felt on his strong front. 

Your words hold a little bitterness, a hint of dejection at the idea you weren’t exactly doing what everyone was doing. But that’s what made you special. You’re doing what you want to do and you’ve stuck by it.

“You ever think about joining one?” He asks into your hair. 

You lift your head from his chest, chin digging into his sternum. “It’s not for me, but sometimes, I feel like I’m missing out.”

Just like how he thinks he might miss out on something wonderful if he continues as things are, but a club where you’re having a reunion with old classmates isn’t the right time or place for a confession.

Jungkook nods. “Can do whatever you want. The world’s your oyster.”

He doesn’t need any of the strobing lights or a spotlight in the tiny nook you’ve both claimed with the way you smile at him. Not when you stare up at him like he’s the world, ready to be claimed by you. Before he does anything too impulsive, he leads you both closer to the center of the dance floor. Back turned to him, his hands rest on the dips of your hips. Chin tucked in the crook of your neck, he takes in your jasmine and cucumber scent, wondering if you’re just as addicted to his scent. 

“Did you have your usual?” He mumbles into your ear.

You shake your head, shivering from his voice. “Midori sour’s not always on the menu.”

He hums in agreement, thinking back to the arrangements he made at the club he hosted his celebratory party at. Honestly, there was no major issue requesting the addition of the drink; the manager was happy to accommodate. 

“What’d you have earlier?” His voice comes out low, rumbling against you.

You nearly whimper your answer as he circles his arms around your midsection, not wanting to lose any physical contact from you. “Highball.”

His grin stretches across his face, muscle memory as his mouth salivates for the drink. “Did you like it?”

You turn around now, and Jungkook does little to reposition his forehead on yours. This time, another type of restraint courses through his body as his eyes bounce between your hooded stare and pouty lips.

“Mm, I wanted to try what you liked. Not my thing,” you conclude. “Wasn’t sweet at all.” 

Jungkook doesn’t need the additional sweetness in his drinks when he’s surrounded by sweetness in his life. Can do away with sugar because you’re here. 

“What did you have tonight?” You ask back.

“Wild night with some sort of wild berry mocktail.” He teases.

“Lucky, I wish I had that.” Your eyes drop to his lips — he follows your line of vision as you look back up at him.

“Was nice.” He concedes, voice dropping an octave. “Better if it was a highball.”

The music’s loud, but nothing’s louder than the drumming in his ears — the voice in his head yelling at him to close the gap between you two. The same gap you both maintained in these last couple of months. It’s been working so well for you two, reworking your foundation and taking things slow all while hoping it would lead to your desired goal: each other.

Jungkook’s forehead remains on yours, lips parted slightly at your delayed blinks. And although the label had always blurred between the two of you, he had always been yours. Yours, when he entered the establishment with his hand on your hips, guiding you away from rowdy groups at the main point of entrance. Yours, when all you’ve done tonight was match his stares, wanting so badly to be in his company instead of folks you haven’t spoken to in years face to face.

All yours.

“Want a taste?” You ask, making no move to go to the bar. He stays rooted there too, knowing full well he’s not allowed a single drop of alcohol in his system. The entrancement lasts all but a second before a flicker of fear flashes across your features. 

Deja vu.

Was this all a figment of your imagination and it could get ripped from you any moment? If you lean in like you did months ago, would you be punished by rejection again?

Your brows furrow, eyes pleading up at Jungkook to answer your unspoken questions.

And he reads you so easily — remembers you and knows your insecurities before you do sometimes.

He breathes you in, nose now nestled against your own with no intentions of ever leaving.

“Please?” Your warmth fans over to him, a soft plea worthy of ending wars Jungkook would only qualify as his own battles.

He thinks about that night at the club where you had left him, foolishly clutching onto the flimsy cone-shaped cups while the world spun with you nowhere in sight. Thinks about the prospect of you leaving again and how ruined he’d be without you.

Jungkook pleads with you too now, “Please don’t leave me.”

You shake your head. “I’m right here.”

He thinks he deserves a little bit of heaven. Funny, how he thinks the universe could grant him kisses from a million angels, but he’d only want a lifetime of yours. The last thing he sees are two slow blinks from your sparkly-glittered lids, pulling and signaling him into a soft landing: to home — he finally finds his way back home.

He cups your face, delicate in how he holds you because there’s nothing more he’d like to do than to handle you with all the care and tenderness in the world. He sighs into your lips, relieved to finally have you like this. Where you both meet in the middle now.

Highball, in the simplest terms, was bland whiskey. The taste of the drink was probably the furthest thing you can get to the sweetness of your typical midori sour. And yet, you still tried for him. He knows how much you try for him and you’ve done your best to accept him — the work and effort you put into adoring Jungkook never goes unnoticed.

He doesn’t taste the highball, none of the usual remnants of the drink he’s grown to like as he runs his tongue over your plump lips. Perhaps it’s also that he no longer searches for that familiar aftertaste; instead, welcoming something he’s longed for and missed these months. His tongue moves over your lips again, slow and deliberate to savor the sweetness. 

Your mouth parts for him, a tentative push of his tongue and you’re reduced to putty. He trails one hand down your hip, pulling you flush against him. 

It’s all muscle memory, how puzzle pieces fit just for you and Jungkook. He groans against your mouth, the low sound vibrates through your body, sending a shock through your body and heat building in your middle.

Your name is all but a rasp as Jungkook goes straight to your lips again after your small whine. He can’t get enough of you, the background noise and people blurring in his pursuit of you. You kiss him back. Months after months of waiting, slowly rebuilding, knowing exactly where the finish line is … and the kiss now was just one of your many monumental milestones with Jungkook.

He needs to pull away for air, mindful of your own state too despite his unwillingness to stray away. It’s everything he’d expect a kiss from you to be after all this time: sweet, with no hint of the drink he fancied. 

Nose nestled to yours and brazen smiles exchanged, Jungkook does his best to regulate his breathing.

“You’d ever give highball another try, Pix?” He breathes, peppering tinier kisses on your lips, rendering it nearly impossible to properly respond.

“Yeah.” You reply in between kisses. “I’d try it again. It’s worth another chance.”

When he finally pulls away with much reluctance, his heart drums against his chest at your response — at your implication. 

You wanted this with him. 

“You’ll teach me how to properly drink it?” You look at him with the softest gaze.

He shakes his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Will drink it with you.”

No one was talking about the drink. Though, much like the drink, love and affection was always better shared and experienced together. 

And it’s so much better savoring those moments with you.

You and Jungkook eventually leave the dance floor to socialize with your other classmates, catching Taehyung with a content smile as he peers down at your interlinked hands. Jungkook’s hand involuntarily tightens around yours and you look up, eyes holding a playful curiosity as to what he wants.

You mouth, ‘You tired?’

He shakes his head no, though, his droopy eyelids and slight sway to his body tells you otherwise. You’re also tired too, wanting nothing more than to be with your desired source of warmth.

You quickly make your rounds, bidding your farewells and blaming your age for not being able to stay longer. Thankfully, a couple of your other classmates left before you, so your attempt to leave didn’t look out of the blue. Your goodbye with Taehyung takes a little longer as he whispers something in your ear, eyes playful as you pull away and lightly smack his arm. 

Jungkook smiles once you’re back by his side, the cold night air hitting you both outside the club. He offered to run to the car while you wait back, but you insisted on coming with him. “Ready for the walk, Miss Rock?” 

With narrowed eyes, you huddle closer, pretty pout on your lips he so wants to kiss. 

“You said I looked great.” You huff, beginning the long trek back to the car. 

“The Rock looked great, and so do you, Pix.” He teases.

Three minutes into your walk, a random downpour starts out of nowhere. 

Jungkook takes off his brown jacket, slinging it over both your bodies as you do your best to run from the rain. Shared incredulous giggles and glances with each other made the trip back even better. Unable to fully avoid the downpour, Jungkook opts to just cover you with his jacket. The theatrics continue once a car passes, wheels producing a splash over your bodies.

Unneeding of the jacket now, you lower the jacket around your shoulder, tugging Jungkook through the rain as you both near the car. He looks at you from behind, catching your stare back while urging him to move quicker. 

But he’s in no rush.

He’s never been in a rush with you.

Steps coming to a halt, you look back again with a questioning expression. His hair’s matted on his forehead, eyes squinting from the rain water, but he can see you so clearly under the yellow of the streetlights.

He says your name, your steps stumble as you land in his embrace. Cold fingers run on your cheek before he admits, “I don’t think I can just be what we’ve been. I want this with you — I want to be with you.” 

He doesn’t ask you if you want the same. Didn’t have the chance as his eyes widened the same moment your lips met his.

Rain beats down on your bodies, hard and punishing. The cold water seeping through your clothing is nothing compared to the heat searing from your bodies. Your fingers run through his hair from behind, urging him closer if it were possible. His hold on you tightens and you unconsciously arch into him, no longer caring how the rain water runs down your face.

Jungkook breaks apart from the kiss, “It’s always been you, P.” Warm breath on your lips as he utters words he's long realized and wanted to tell you, “I … I’m in love with you.”

It’s freeing. Not just his confession, but how the rain continues washing out everything around you both. The good, the bad. The aftermath of a storm allows for rebuilding — for flowers to blossom, for growth and to start anew.

He thinks about all the time spent together and apart — the happiness, trust, and fears … it all inevitably brings him back to you. And as the rain waters continue to fall, he finds himself free falling into your embrace — the easy love.

“I love you,” You profess, brows pulling together tears mixing in with the rain, “So much. You know that, yeah?”

He does. But even so, he still asks, “Please be with me.” He chews on the inside of his mouth, so fearful of rejection as though you could choose any other route. “Please?”

You nod, leaning in for a kiss that could only seal your answer to him. “I’m yours. Always been yours.”

A relieved chuckle stutters from his chest, holding you close. “Home?”

“Home.” You reply.

Jungkook’s home was closer in proximity, so it would only be natural to head over there to change out of your soaked clothes. Even with the seat warmers turned onto the highest setting and his jacket slung over your lap like it was in the beginning of the night, you shiver and shudder in your seat.

“Can use my shower too, P.” He pushes his wet bangs back and reasons, “Don’t want you catching a cold.”

“Mmkay,” Your teeth involuntarily chatters, hands tucked in between your thighs underneath his jacket to retain your heat.

His hand naturally finds yours. “We’ll be home soon, ‘kay?”

Back at his home, he gives you a spare t-shirt with some sweatpants, letting you know that he’ll shower at the guest bathroom while you use the master bedroom’s. It’s not your first time in his bedroom, having been there a couple times when he was busy and needed you to retrieve something for him in there. The citrus scent embraces you as you walk in, fingers tightening around his clothes. He’s fumbling around his dresser to get his own clothing, hair dried to a damp mess and coarse at the ends from the washed away hair products. His shirt drags over his large frame, seemingly heavier around the shoulder area from the rainwater.

Back still turned away, he cranes his neck to you and catches your curious stare. “Go on and use the shower, P.”

You nod, clothes feeling unbearingly tight whether it be from the rain or the suffocating dilemma of not wanting to leave Jungkook’s side.

In the shower, he’s still with you through the shampoo and body wash. You run your hands around your body, knowing this is your way of keeping him close. Will you need to go home after this? Does the mirage end here with the suds of soap pooling at your toes?

Does it end with his scent on your body?

All dried and in his clothes, you stare at the mirror, a small smile playing at your lips at the visual of your body drowned in his oversized t-shirt. You roll the bottom of the sweatpants and tug at the drawstrings to secure around your waist.

You peer into his bedroom. “Jungkook?” No response. 

Walking out to the living space, you notice a tuft of hair on the large couch’s armrest. Two glasses of water — all full — just like your heart, rests on the coffee table. Peering over the couch, your lover lays there, eyes closed with a rhythmic breathing pattern nowhere close to being asleep.

You come around and seat yourself on the edge of the couch. An unsuspecting force pulls you down, followed by a small ‘oomph,’ you attempt to sit back up.

“Can we rest a little before I take you home?” He mumbles, breathing into your hair.

Your ear is pressed against his chest, his heart thumping way too fast for rest. Working up your courage, you snuggle into his warmth as you murmur, “It’s late. Don’t want you driving at this hour.” Before he could ask if you’d want him to fetch a cab, you follow up with, “If it’s okay … can I stay over tonight?”

The drumming in his chest speeds up, but his words come out assertive. “Of course, P.”

The guest room sits empty as Jungkook leads you back to his bedroom, a sleepy smile on his face as he catches your yawn and places the glass of water onto the nightstand closest to where you’ll sleep. He hooks his index fingers in the collar of his shirt and yanks it over his head, tossing the article of clothing on the ottoman near the foot of his bed.

You swallow, eyes raking over his toned body you’ve grown so familiar with. His tattoo lines look darker under the warm hues of his nightlight. Underneath his covers, your eyes fight to stay open, only allowing them to blink shut when he encircles his arms around you.

“Night, P.” He mumbles.

“Good night, Kook.”

Around 5 a.m. you wake up with the worst case of dry mouth, having already drank the glass of water in the middle of the night, and another time Jungkook refilled without your knowledge. You pout at the glass sitting pretty and empty on the nightstand.

There’s an unfamiliar weight on your midsection causing you to suck in a breath as you look down. Intricate patterns and faded colors greet you before you turn your head to meet their owner.

Jungkook’s on his front, pouty mouth parted and lashes kissing the top of his cheeks. His rhythmic light snores tell you he’s still in deep slumber if not for the sleep-lines on the side of his face where he buries himself further into his fluffy pillows.

There’s a stillness in waking up next to Jungkook like this — at the realization there’s no need to run or leave. He’s here within a distance you can comfortably reach. 

You think back to last night, between the kisses and confessions, everything seemed like a dream. You’re tempted to reach over to brush away the strand of his bangs. Want to see if he’d stir awake and look at you as he did before you both fell asleep last night.

That’s the funny thing about love — can’t bear the selfishness and greed of your own desires. So instead, you do your best to uncurl from his lazy hold, already missing his warmth as you grab the rims of your glass to fetch some water.

You’ve only been over in the afternoon and evening, never knowing the brisk morning air. Jungkook’s room was warm, temperature maintained by the heat of your bodies, but in the open living space, you shiver a little from cold and the absence of a familiar body.

Glass refilled, you make your way back to Jungkook, but something pulls you to an abrupt stop.

You’ve only seen this view at night, always curious how differing the morning view would be. Orange peeks and greets you on the horizon, begging for your presence even when there is another star you rather be with.

Just a couple more minutes and the sun will rise — a view you’ve never seen from here. Lips nursing on your glass, you smile as you hear another pair of feet shuffle in your direction. Not subtle at all. He makes his presence known with a small yawn, standing behind you, he presses his chest against you from behind and wraps his arms around your abdomen.

“Whatcha doing up so early?” Voice laced with sleep.

“Wanted to get water,” you bring the glass up to his view, “sun’s about to rise now.” You nod at the window. 

His body vibrates against yours at a particularly low chuckle. “‘S nice, isn’t it? Can see everything from here.”

You hum in agreement. You love the view, love his touch, love him. And because you love him, you give him the remainder of your water. Glass now empty again, he sets the cup on a small stand. The surrounding air stifles as a strong pair of arms wrap around you tighter, cluing in a shift in the easy morning conversation.

“P, I meant everything I said last night.” He says, afraid you hadn’t retained any recollection of last night’s event — as though all the magic last night was all but a trick and illusion.

There’s no illusion in your adoration for him, turning away from the sun, you realize you have everything in front of you worth orbiting for.

“I meant everything too.” You reply, feeling the sun warm your back, but even that source of warmth wasn’t enough incentive to have you turning away from Jungkook again. “I love you. Wanna be with you.”

You tip-toe, lips pressing delicately against his only spurs on his tiny moan as he meets you in the middle. His teeth nibble on your bottom lip, causing you to part them with a small gasp. He takes this moment to lick into your mouth, tongue running against yours to savor you. He could blame the morning wood on … well, the morning, and not your soft lips, but he’s wanted you like this for so long and now you’re finally his.

He angles your chin, doing his best to distract you from the bulge pressed against your stomach, to which you also push against. Grunting, he huffs into your mouth, “Pix, please.”

You hum a small ‘what?’

So dangerous of you to push something he’s been suppressing for months. Aching for your touch, but he’s respectful of the change in dynamics. He wants to be respectful now, but was there a need?

“I’m trying to be good.” He mumbles, kissing along your jaw and making his way down your neck. His teeth rake against the expanse of your skin, reveling in your shivers and the way your nails dig into his back.

“You are good.” You sigh prettily. “So good to me.”

And because of this, Jungkook wants to show you other ways he could be good to you. It’s what you deserve — nothing makes him happier than making you feel good. Back pressed against the glass panes, the initial cold morphs and changes with the sun and your combined body heat.

His hand snakes up your shirt, large palm halting at your stomach until you nod for him to move. You moan at the contact of his thumb moving over your hardening bud.

“Feels good, pretty?” He mouths against your neck.

You swallow and nod, “J-Jungkook, can people,” another moan slips as he sucks on a particularly sensitive juncture of your neck, “see us from here?”

Being on the thirty-fourth floor had its perks and advantages. He doesn’t have next door neighbors except for the floor above and below him, which works in his favor. 

“No one can see us, P.” He shakes his head, “You want them to?”

He grips your chest a little harder, urging for an answer before he continues. Head lifted to your face, his hooded eyes draw you in. 

“No,” you place a soft kiss on his jaw, “Want this just between us.”

He also can’t imagine having another person watch you both. Can’t imagine sharing an experience like this with someone other than you. 

“Yeah, it’s just you and me.”

The hand on your hip runs up your front, cupping your cheek first before he slips a soft request while looking at your lips, “Open, please.”

Your mouth parts, and his hand drags over your cheek, his middle and ring finger probing and sliding over your wet muscle. His cock twitches in his sweats at the thought of possibly feeling your mouth again. Those thoughts break the moment you close around his digits, warm and wet around him. Your cheeks hollow without command as you eagerly suck on his fingers. You look at him with determined eyes, fighting to stay open but loses the battle before fluttering shut when his thumb runs over your hard nipple again.

“Gonna make you feel good.” He promises, “‘s that okay?”

You nod, unable to verbalize a response with his fingers in your mouth. Soon his wet fingers slip out of your mouth and he slips them past the waistband of your folded sweats.

“Oh god,” Your hips buck back from the sudden contact of his fingers, ass pushed against the glass. “P-please.” You beg, unsure of what exactly but Jungkook takes it as a request to move. His middle finger slots perfectly between your wet folds, circling around the bundle of nerves. 

“Wanna touch you, too.” You plead, “Can I?”

He tips his forehead against yours, hips pushed against your hand. “Uh-huh, want you to touch me.”

Your hand slips into his sweats, making contact with his bare length. The angle of your bodies makes it difficult to tug or squeeze as you like, but he shudders just by the mere contact of your soft hand.

“P, don’t—” He moves back slightly to peer down at your hand working over his length. “Don’t tease.” 

Lip tucked between his teeth, his own hand speeds up over your clit, wet sounds growing by the second. He hopes you do the same too, but you keep your lazy strokes, watching him with hooded eyes. “Not,” you pause, eyes closing when he nears you, pressing a dainty kiss, “teasing.”

“Tell me what you need.” You murmur against his lips.

“Faster,” He whines, “need you to go faster—fuck—” He groans when you comply, hand picking up the pace.

And be it from the patience and time endured after months of dreaming of being with you … or he was just that easy, he finishes in his sweats in under a minute. Your hand slowly jerks over his length, hand coated in his cum.

“Koo, did you cum?” You breathe, unsure from the sudden liquidy warmth. He moans a small yes, angling his head for your kisses on his neck, teeth dragging over his collarbone as a reward for his confirmation. Your hand glides over the head of his sensitive cock. “Made a mess all for me.”

He kisses you, deft fingers on your clit as he touches away the embarrassment of cumming before he’s gotten to properly take care of you. It’s no give or take situation, but he wants to give back to you.

He removes his hand and you nearly cry out at the loss of his touch. Your cum covered hand gets tugged from his pants at the same time. Doesn’t care you’re unconsciously wiping away your hand on your shirt — everything was going into the wash anyway, ridding any evidence of the sinful acts you’ll both willingly partake in.

How sinful were they if they were embarked by two people in love? 

Fingers hooked on the waistband of your sweats, he drags them down your hips, leaving both your soaked underwear and pants pool at your ankles. His eye contact never wavers as he drops down on his knees, only breaking at the long shirt length covering your bare cunt. With a knowing glance, you hold the bottom of the shirt, while the other one falls on the side of his head for support as nudges your legs apart. 

“So perfect,” he praises, eyes peering up at you, “All mine.” His fingers form a ‘v’ as he spreads your glistening folds, mouth watering at the sight of your twitching clit. He moves in, placing a kiss on the side of your pussy, just shy of your nub. The action has you furrowing your brows, mouth dropping open as you involuntarily push your hips forward.

You mewl, thighs closing when he finally slots his tongue over the self-made opening between his fingers. He licks, sucks, and kisses the tiny nub. And you stand there, taking everything he’s willing to give you. He loves watching you struggle maintaining eye contact, loves the shy smile you give him when you had a moment of realization of how loud you were in the early hours of his home, and loves the small tug from your fingers in his hair when he repeatedly presses his lips to your clit.

You were already so close before this, but now he has you tipping on the edge again. Jungkook’s eyes close, tongue lapping your cunt.

Your thighs shake, breath caught in your throat as he continues the motions. And even though he’s not looking at you, he knows you’re about to let go as you rock your hips into his face. Using one hand, his fingers dig into the back of your thigh as he brings one of them over his shoulder.

“Baby–” You rasp.

“Hm?” He answers, muffled against your core. The vibrations against your cunt have your eyes rolling to the back of your head as your lids slam shut from the sensation.

You whimper, stomach clenching at the first signal of your orgasm. Your fingers clutch pathetically at the end of the shirt, mindful of the other hand interlocked with his locks. But you’re bolder now, know what you like and need … and what you like is Jeon Jungkook moaning against your core, encouraging you to cum. What you need is to extend this feeling for as long as you can, so you push his head closer as you grind your spasming cunt to his face.

“Cumming,” you manage to get out, “Oh fuck, I’m cumming.”

Jungkook can’t answer, wishes he could; though, all his wishes are being fulfilled as he’s head deep between your legs. He pulls away after your hips press back against the glass, signaling your sensitive state. Hooded gaze fixed, he takes in the visual of your cheek pressed onto your shoulder — a habit he’s noticed every time you’ve cummed. Your eyes blink open slowly, blinded by the light coming in from the rising sun.

“I’m sorry, P.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all with his mischievous grin as he kisses your inner thigh — the one he has thrown over his shoulder. “You missed the sunrise.”

You croon, a small playful pout on your lips. “I did.” You release his hair, hand cupping his jaw. You moan in surprise when he latches onto your clit again, lazy sucks as he peers up at you.

He places one last kiss to your nub and suggests, “Should turn around then, take in the current view.” He leaves out the fact that you’ll have plenty of more chances to see the view.

He places your leg down. While wobbly at first, you plant your feet sturdy before complying with his request. He’s right — the city’s beautiful. 

Jungkook also has the best view in the city too. 

You look back at him from your shoulder, eyes catching his, “You’re not watching with me?”

“Perfect view here.” He scoots back a little, ignoring the discomfort and numbness in his knees. You brace against the glass, fist clenched tightly at the anticipation of what your lover wants to do. No one cares about the prospect of a stained glass as you hinge your hips out to him, the underside of your wet pussy entrances him.

He pushes your shirt up over the curves of your hips and the sight before him has his cock hardening in his sweats again. A creamy white sheen trickles down your slit, begging to be licked up before it dribbles onto the floor.

And he does. With a cock to his head, he slots his mouth over your leaky cunt.

You wail, cheek pressed against the glass as you fog up a small section with your warm puffs of air. His tongue laps over your clenched hole, pleased you haven’t pulled away from him. He rewards you with a small probe of his tongue and you surprise him again by pushing back, tongue gliding into your warm cavern with little resistance.

You both moan, caught in the euphoric moment of this new experience. 

He reels his head back, spreading you wide to look at your gaping pussy — all his doing.

“Please,” you beg, greedy for his mouth. Without warning, he dives back in, tongue thrusting in and out of your hole with a new profound hunger. One of his hands comes from under and rubs at your clit. The new feeling has your legs shaking again, your hand coming around to place on top of his to ground yourself.

He pulls away, placing wet kisses alongside your thighs. “You liked that, Pix?”

“Yeah, I loved it.” You reply, looking back at him through your lashes.

“Good.” He chuckles, stomach warm from your confession, “Keep looking at the view though. Sun’s pretty today.”

The sun’s pretty every day, you think to yourself as you look at your source of light. But you turn away, obedient as you look at the rays the rest of the world relies on. 

“Gonna do something new, ‘kay?” He says, strained as he places a small kiss on one of your cheeks. He lets his teeth graze your skin, fingers digging into the meat of your ass to gain your confirmation. “Tell me if you don’t like it.”

You nod, can’t think of anything you won’t like aside from being away from Jeon Jungkook, but you’re sure to vocalize any discomfort for whatever journey he’s about to embark with you.

“Open wider for me.” He husks. You comply, feet shuffling apart as you hinge lower. 

You couldn’t predict what he wanted to try with you, certainly not anything remotely close to how he parts your ass and you feel his breath on your skin before he leans in.

You nearly cry out at the first lick over the tight ring of your asshole. There was an adjusting period, one that involved your breasts pressed hard against the window, mouth hanging open as Jungkook goes in for another lick.

It’s not unpleasant. New, like he mentioned.

“You taking in everything, P?” His finger slips over your cunt, long index finger teasing the entrance. He takes his time running his fingers between your wet folds, watching your bleary eyes struggle to stay open. It’s fine. You’ll have plenty more opportunities to see the view in the future — he’ll make sure of it.

You moan at the feeling of his finger probing the entrance of your pussy, hole clenched around nothing as he continues teasing you.

“Hm? Answer me, pretty.” His tongue teases around your taint. This time, you relax into it, even going as far as pushing back.

“Mhm,” you try, “‘s pretty.”

You have your head turned again, watching him the best you could, completely unfocused from the view beyond the massive curtain wall. A wrecked moan escapes the moment his long digit pushes into your sensitive cunt — just up to the first knuckle, nothing more. At the same moment, his tongue guides itself past the tight ring of your hole.

You don’t know what to focus on: his tongue fucking into your ass or his finger coated in your arousal as he has you plugged up on both holes simultaneously.

Jungkook’s always been an ass man, and he honors the title as he continuously dives his head between your cheeks. The finger inside your other hole stays in place, never pushing another inch until you whine and reach between your legs. Your fingers touch the top of his, pushing at them to sink deeper into your pussy.

He pushes his digit into you, the full length wrapped around your wet walls. “Do what you need to make this feel good.” He says. “Want you to feel good.”

A content sigh leaves your lips as you rub slow circles, pleasure building again in your stomach as each minute slips by. You’ve never been one to cum multiple times … unfortunately, you’re no better than a man. One and done type of girl, but the eagerness to cum again from this new experience has you motivated and greedy for more. Especially when the experience is with someone you love and care for.

“I-I think I’m gonna cum again.” You announce, pushing your ass back to his face as he continues fucking his tongue into your ass. He groans and nods, picking up the pace from behind with fervor at the mention of your orgasm.

His finger gradually speeds up, curling a little before he decides to add another finger in. 

Oh.

“This okay?” He asks as he senses a change in your demeanor at the sudden intrusion.

You whimper, body stiff and rigid during the adjustment period. The stretch has you halting before you’re rubbing feverishly against your clit, babbling and begging for him to move faster. 

Jungkook’s lucky on the thirty-fourth floor. So lucky no one’s able to hear the the sounds you make both from your mouth and wet cunt as he fucks his digits faster as requested. He curls his fingers and your legs start shaking, your hand no longer able to move as you take everything Jungkook gives from behind.

You gasp, his name falls from your lips as you let go. There’s definitely an imprint of your mouth and cheek on his glass window now, memoirs of the acts you both committed. 

The wetness grows between your legs, both holes pulsating as you finally cum around him again. Jungkook groans, letting you ride out your orgasm as you need.

He removes both his fingers and tongue from your holes and parts your ass to marvel at the mess you’ve made. The puffy ring of your ass shines with his spit, while your pussy quivers from the aftermath of your strong orgasm. He thinks about how it would be if you were stuffed full of him right now, but he’s in no rush with you. Knows there’s no time constraint to loving you right this time around. Your shirt drops from the curve of your hips and down to your knees as you stand upright, turning and pressing your back to the glass again. Jungkook stands up, fingers already in his mouth to lick up any remnants of cum. 

His arms wrap around your waist to hold you up, forehead touching yours as it’s meant to. Doesn’t go for a kiss no matter how much he wants to because he’s not sure of your aversion after where his mouth has been. But you don’t care, looping your arms over his neck and slotting your lips over his for a messy kiss, eventually reduced to small pecks.

“You okay, P?” He asks with round eyes. You nod and ask the same in a hushed whisper.

Why wouldn’t he be when he’s got all he’s ever wanted in his arms? He rubs over your back in a soothing motion, “More than okay, P.”

More kisses are shared, until Jungkook murmurs how he’s still tired and wants to go back to bed. You look at the clock and as tempted you are, you hum and shake your head. His eyes widen at your response, about to offer a quick retort, but you beat him to it.

“You said you had registration for the upcoming semester in a couple hours. Didn’t you say you needed to work on a schedule?”

He tips his head back, both grateful and upset at your memory after he mentioned it to you in passing last week. 

Still, these things can be done while in the comforts of his bed and your company. Hand enclosed in his, he tugs you back to his bedroom, no longer omitting the same warmth when you left.

But perhaps, the warmth was anywhere you were with Jungkook.

Saturn takes twenty-nine years to complete its cycle. When you turned twenty-nine, you thought your Saturn was still out there, taking their sweet time with the journey back home.

“Pixie?” 

“Coming!” You call out, finishing the last touch of your dusty-pink blush. Smoothing out your sage-green dress, you do a small once-over in your mirror before properly greeting your boyfriend. 

Your Saturn’s returned, watching you embark on your new adventure, cheering you on through your wins and losses. Jungkook smiles from the doorway, leather dress shoes placed neatly on the side. His hair is styled as he would for all the wedding events he’s gone to with you, but this was a new suit. Usually in black, the light grey suit brings out his dark features even more — boyish charms emulated with his suit jacket off and hooked on his fingers over a shoulder. The brooches on his vest glimmer on the side, adding a nice finishing touch to his wedding guest look for the evening.

He shines either way when his orbs land on your features, taking in your soft curls and dress you’ve chosen. 

“Pretty.” He’s kind enough to not kiss you, seeing you’ve just freshly applied your lipstick, but you’ve never been opposed to reapplying. You tip-toe to plant a soft kiss, not enough to transfer any product, but enough to tempt him for further damage.

“You look very handsome.” You say, hands automatically coming up to fix the angle of his tie. Spring’s weather is ever unpredictable and today’s one of the more warmer days of the week, but the temperatures rise in the small nook of your home as he stares at you.

To avoid any potential deterrence, you move behind him to get to your shoe rack. He presses his back against the wall opposite to you, watching as you crouch down to pick out a strappy nude heel.

“What if we skipped the wedding, Pix?”

You pout, blowing at the random strands of hair in your peripheral. “Your friend would be disappointed. Plus, we both got all done up. Would be a waste if we didn’t go.”

“It’s not a waste,” he replies, “can just have a night in.”

“Also would give me an excuse to get out of these dress pants.” He adds with a scowl. 

You lean away, doing a double take on the slacks he has on. You’ve always fancied a guy in dress pants and Jungkook was no exception. Loves how his thighs fill up the spaces and how his ass looks in them.

“Couple hours and we can have a night in.” You reassure with a soft smile. “I’ve got a watermelon in the fridge waiting for us.”

The wedding was standard, especially with it belonging to someone you don’t know. Technically most, if not all, weddings you’ve gone to have belonged to strangers. But there was something special about this wedding — it’s the first time you attended a wedding with Jungkook where you aren’t working.

Weddings have always felt magical; the usual string of fairy lights and flower arrangements appear even more enchanting tonight. And you realized, the enchantment started months ago at Yoongi and Hoseok’s union.

During cocktail hour, he made sure to get all your favorite finger foods without request. When the ring bearer and flower girl comes into view during the ceremony, he’s quick to move higher on his seat, letting you peer past him to get a better look at the little ones. And when he holds your waist during the reception’s dance, you know weddings are magical because the moment’s shared with him. 

“This was nice. Thanks for having me as your plus-one.” You sigh in content, cheek rested on his chest as you both slow dance to When a Man Loves a Woman. 

He snorts, lighthearted and warm. “I’m glad you enjoyed.” Meant as a sarcastic remark, he also agrees this evening was a lot nicer than he had anticipated in the month leading up to this day. 

“I really love weddings.” You mumble to yourself.

He loves weddings with you. Jungkook presses his cheek on the top of your head, “I know.”

You and Jungkook stay like this for a while through a couple slow songs until the DJ changes up the genre of the music, signaling older couples to evacuate the dance floors for the younger crowd to reminisce on an era where their knees existed for the thrill of it all.

Your bodies move in tandem: his, warming your back, and your bottom pushed against his groin with your preferred pressure, knowing you’d never go overboard at a wedding but just enough for him to have him let out a shy chuckle.

His breath fans over the shell of your ear, “I really hate these dress pants, P.”

You turn your head to him, sultry expression matching his hooded lids. “Why’s that?”

“Shows everything.” He laughs through his nose, “Can’t leave here any time soon now.”

You ease up a little, facing him again while your fingers slide over the brooches resting on the left side of his chest — where his heart resides. He’d argue his heart is in his arms staring up at him.

“I’ve always loved you in dress pants.” You confess. “‘Cause that’s when we’re at weddings together.”

Considering how he leans down, pressing a small kiss to your lips where you reciprocate with another lingering kiss, maybe being in dress pants isn’t that bad.

“Have we met our quota yet, Pix?” He nudges his nose against yours.

For someone who loves weddings, you’re eager to go home, too. You want nothing more than to just spend time with Jungkook in the comforts of your home.

“Quota met.”

Sheltered by the indoor venue, you didn’t realize how humid it got outside in the time spent at the wedding. Your apartment was practically a sauna by the time you and Jungkook arrived back at your place. Opening up your windows, you have a fan running in the background to air out the space.

“Sorry,” You say sheepishly while cutting into the watermelon. Your eyes rake over Jungkook where he unbuttons his grey vest and rolls up his sleeves to reveal his tattooed arm.

He shakes his head, taking two spoons from your drawers, “It’ll cool down.”

Will it? 

Air heavy with both the atmospheric moisture and tension brewing between you and Jungkook all evening, you’re not so sure if the temperatures will drop any time soon. The watermelon center caves as you both dig with the metal spoons. You favored the center; whereas, Jungkook aimed closer to the watermelon rind. 

He peers over at you where you stand. Hair now put up by a claw clip, he counts the baby hairs sticking onto the back of your neck, momentarily forgetting to dig into the watermelon when it’s his turn. 

“Why do you only pick at the sides?” Your brows twitch, digging into the middle again and turning to him with a center piece.

He shrugs, opening his mouth on cue for you to stick your spoon into his mouth. Sure, the middle pieces were sweet, but he thinks they might be sweeter coming from you. He chews and swallows, tilting his head a little to meet your equally sticky lips.

“Sweet either way, Pix.” He wonders if the salty moisture on your skin would pair well with the sweet watermelon.

Well, one way to find out.

No longer following a script, Jungkook moves on his own accord — loving and falling freely as he likes knowing you’ll be there to catch him. He shifts his body, head dipped in the crook of your neck as he licks a thick stripe over your neck. You gasp, spoon dropping onto the counter as your hands fly to grab onto his forearms for support.

He’s right; you do bring out more sweetness.

The half eaten watermelon sits on your counter, long forgotten in the pursuit of Jungkook’s body pressed to yours. His lips slot perfectly on you, a relieved sigh escapes as your bodies move as it’s desired all evening.

He trails kisses down the column of your throat, marking a pathway on your collarbone. Fingers in his hair, your grip on him tightens as you shyly ask, “Bed?”

Knees digging onto your bed, you sit up taller to kiss your still-standing boyfriend. He’s busy trying to unbutton his dress shirt while you race to unbuckle his belt — a race no one formally declared, but it was an unspoken need. And you both needed each other … badly.

You beat him, of course. The black Calvin Klein lettering on the banding greets you first as the front opening flaps of his pants fall to the side. He whimpers as you run your hand over his bulge. 

“Can I …” Your sentence trails off as you kiss along his exposed neck.

He nods unsure of what you exactly want, but the godforsaken dress pants drop and pool at his ankles without a second thought. You kiss your way down his torso, paying extra attention to his chest. With a determined look, you stick your tongue out on his hard nipple for a tentative lick to glean at his response.

Oh, it’s good — so, so, so good. 

He shivers, hand hitting your claw clip as it flies to the back of your neck to hold you in place. Your teeth grazes over the hardened bud, a sliver of pained pleasure courses through as you bite down with a gentle force. He hisses, mouth dropping open to bite back his moans. You remedy the pain with your tongue, silently apologizing without actually feeling sorry. 

You slither lower on all fours as you take his hard cock out of its confinements. Round eyes look up at him for permission to proceed. 

There’s a slight hesitance in your actions as the last time you wanted to give him a blowjob, he made it a goal to stay protected for both your sakes. He’s always for safe sex, but he knows he’s clean and wants to feel your bare lips around him as long as you’ll allow it. You seem to share the same sentiment as you tilt your head up, eyes burning with want and ownership of his bare skin.

Still, you ask, “Do we need a condom for this?” The thin straps of your pretty evening gown cascades loosely on your shoulders.

“No, but only if you want …” Jungkook pants, a harsh exhale when you give him a gentle squeeze. The small, pleased sound you make, paired with another harder tug confirms your answer.

He releases your hair from the clip, watching it cascade down your shoulders. Bunching your hair in a messy ponytail, he uses it as an anchor as you tug on his shaft. 

“Spit on it.” He pleads, groaning when you comply. Your saliva lands on the tip, dripping over the small bead of precum on his slit. So messy how your thumb glides over his slit, mixing the fluids together. Even messier when you place a kiss on his tip, mixed fluids tainting your pretty lips. His stomach contracts, the dips and ridges of his abs are even more defined as a result.

“Missed this with you, Pix.” He melts. It’s even better than how he imagined over the course of time spent with and without you. 

“I missed you, too.” You reply, tongue darting out and wetting your lips before moving in for a small lick over the head of his cock. “I wanna take care of you.” You mumble as you press messy kisses on the underside of his cock. “Is that okay?”

His stomach warms at your sentiment, knowing it’ll never be one-sided as he’ll always do the same for you. He nods, giving you the go ahead to do as you like. The grip on your hair increases and the hand cupped underneath your chin props you upright to take him fully.

He wonders how a place like heaven could ever beat this feeling with you.

Your eyes never stray from his, watching him through your lashes and how he struggles to maintain eye contact with you. It’s only when his cock begins hitting the back of your throat, your lids flutter shut. You gag from the action, pushing past the discomfort each time to hear more of his grunts and praises. Your skin prickles each time his thumb runs across your skin to soothe your aching jaw. 

“Fuck, Pix, if we keep going like — god,” he hisses, “I’m not gonna last long.” He warns.

“Mmhp,” You try to answer even with your mouth fully stuffed. He pulls back and you whine, robbed at the opportunity of having him release all over your tongue.

“Please,” you breathe, hoarse and rough, “wanna taste you.”

Your mouth falls open again. Instead of sliding in again, Jungkook jerks over his length, fast as he needs with the visual of you on your knees so readily to be ruined.

“Baby–I, I’m gonna cum. Fuck,” He tilts his head up to the ceiling.

And when he finally cums, he does so with your name and a string of praises. The first rope of cum lands on the corner of your mouth. Without another thought, you enclose your lips around his tip. His strangled noises spurs you on in your mission to suck and milk him dry.

When he finally slips out of your mouth, the hand underneath your chin guides you up and your knees walk you close to his standing body again. You still haven’t swallowed, unsure what you want to do with the fluid resting on your tongue.

Reading your expression clearly, Jungkook bites down a smile. “You don’t have to swallow, P.” He chuckles, placing a quick peck to your tightly shut mouth, “Want me to get the waste bin?”

He runs his thumb on the corner of your mouth, catching the stray droplet before wrapping his lips around his digit. Honestly, he doesn’t care for the taste and gets your hesitancy, but you hold his gaze and shake your head no, pressing your lips to his. He groans and opens his mouth for you to slip your cum-coated tongue in.

You whimper at his large hands running up and down your backside, ultimately landing on the bottom of your swelled ass. Absolute sin and filth personified when you both exchange and swallow your mixed fluids. 

Your body aches differently for Jungkook these days. Can’t believe he’s in front of you now in your home, surrounded by everything you love.

And you love him.

“I love you.” He says, as though all your internal thoughts and feelings are tethered to him. It’s no secret, and unworthy of hiding. 

You kiss him again, pulling him down with you. He giggles and shrugs off the rest of his clothing as he hovers over you with starry eyes.

Cupping his jaw, you reply, “I love you. Want this with you.”

The relationship. The love. The experience.

His heart — it’s all yours.

The long dimples appear again, disappearing from view once he lowers his head to kiss your neck all while fumbling on the thin straps of your dress and tugging it to expose your bare breasts.

He's said this before and thinks there’s no greater truth than this, “You’re perfect.” Leaning down, he places a wet kiss on your sternum, mouthing, “so beautiful.”

You keen into his touch, back arching when he takes one nipple in his mouth. He does this for a few minutes, teasing your nipples and rotating between them with equal amounts of love and attention.

Again, the ache runs through your entire body, gathering right at your core when his teeth bites down on your sensitive nipple. Your hand detaches from his hair and makes its descent down to his crotch.

He’s only half-hard, still sensitive from his first orgasm. 

Sensing your impatience, he chuckles against your skin. “Gimme some time, P.” Eyes closing as you squeeze around his length again.

You pout, but nod nonetheless, letting go of his shaft because the last thing you want is to do the opposite of keeping him hard.

“But,” he muses, “you could help me.”

And this is how you end up as equally naked as Jungkook on your bed. You’re supported by your numerous pillows as you lay there, watching his eyes jump between your face and closed legs.

His hands are on your knees, soft as he pries them apart to reveal your soaked core. 

You instinctively move to cover your mound, suddenly feeling shy even though Jungkook has seen you bare from below multiple times. His bigger hand covers yours, pressing against it just enough for you to feel the relief it brings. 

“‘S just me, pretty.” He says, eyes never leaving yours. His words and stare makes you sling your free arm over your eyes, blocking the visual of him: kiss-swollen lips, locks no longer in its styled state, red flush on his chest — a stark difference from the dark, solid ink on one of his arms … you can’t bear to look at him in this state. 

Can’t bear him looking at you either.

“I know,” you reply, “I’m just … embarrassed.”

You can’t see him, but you’re sure he’s giving you one of those smiles. One that asks ‘What for? You’re amazing.’

You think about the sheer amount of people who have watched Jungkook — yourself included — and wonder how he isn’t shy. And because of that, you feel yourself growing braver at the thought of giving Jungkook something to watch and appreciate.

Still, you keep your forearm over your eyes, but the other hand covering your pussy nudges Jungkook’s warm hand away. You move up a little. All practiced precision in how your middle finger dips between your slit, rubbing slow circles on your swollen clit.

“Oh, fuck.” He lets out a breathy laugh. Your senses are heightened in this self-visually impaired state; his swallow is heard in the distance.

You think about whether he’s just looking at your hand on your pussy or if he’s watching your covered face — if his eyelids are hooded … if the visual of you playing with yourself is ‘helping’ him. Perhaps it’s these thoughts that also make you grow wetter in between your legs, the wet sounds reach your ears through your staggered breaths.

You feel his lips press on the top of your knee, his breathing also coming out haggard.

“Is this enough?” You whimper, wanting him to take rein of your pleasure.

“A little longer, please?” He begs. “For me?”

He moans at your compliance, noting the speed change in your fingers. The bed shifts too, he nears your body again and you feel his warm breath fanning over your fingers. Suddenly, a dribble of wetness slides on top of your digits and trickles down to the entrance of your pussy, mixing with the rest of your arousal.

The feeling has you removing your arm, finally looking down where he’s at in between your legs. A small playful smile on his lips as he sits back up in his kneeled position. He's more than ready — just wants to see more of you. 

You take note of his hard cock in his hand, a slow stroke up before he thumbs at the slit like he likes to. A twinge of pleasure hits your core again and you’re forced to rub harder circles to relieve yourself of the heavy ache building up at the sight. He laughs again, a mixture of disbelief and horniness as the pace on his cock speeds up too.

“So much better seeing this in person.” His eyes involuntarily shut as he tilts his head to the side.

Huh?

The movement of your hand pauses and so does he with widened eyes. He clears his throat, trying to find the words before you ask, “W-what’s that supposed to mean?”

A sheepish smile stretches across his face and instead of explaining right away, he leans over your body now. Nose against yours, he places a tiny kiss on the corner of your mouth.

“Promise you won’t get mad?” He asks, his hand moves yours away from your pussy and slots his cock in between your soaked folds. Meant as a distraction or to ease your worries for his next words, he finds himself breathing heavier at the feel of your bare cunt with his shaft. The head of his cock slips over with ease onto your swollen clit, twitching as he moves his cock side to side now.

“I–fuck–Pix, you’re so wet.” He drops his head to your neck.

You nod, almost distracted as well, but you bring his head back to your eye level. He swallows nervously, wrist slowing the movement with his cock. Jungkook should’ve rephrased his question to ‘promise you won’t get embarrassed,’ because shortly after he slyly recounts the details of Your Video™ popping up in your living room, you lay there surrounded in the flames of humiliation.

“So embarrassing.” You mumble, unable to meet his eyes. 

Jungkook giggles, kissing your cheek, “Hey, I liked it a lot.”

You turn your head, nose touching his now, “Did you?”

“Uh-huh, more than you’ll ever know.” His hips shift, resuming the grind on your cunt again. “But I like this more.”

His movements get you worked up again, forgetting about your mortification just moments ago. You whine, whimper, and mew into his shoulder; the ache comes and goes — reminding you need more than just this.

“Jungkook,” You gasp at the taps of his cock against your folds.

“Hm?” Eyes hooded, he watches you through his lashes, mouth dropped open when your hands run down his torso.

“Need you.” You plead, hip angled up so you can press harder against him.

“I know, I know, pretty. Just–” He shuts his eyes, “I gotta get you nice and ready for me.”

He senses your hesitancy again and he stops to stare down at you.

“I-I’ve had sex already,” You say, teeth worrying on the bottom lip and debating if you should say your next words. “With, um, Mingyu. So, we don’t have to prep.” While both unnecessary to tell him and unreasonable to feel this way, guilt courses through your body at the confession.

“Doesn’t matter to me if you’ve had sex.” Jungkook says, “I always want you to feel good and comfortable.” He kisses you, soft just like the fingers he trails at your entrance gathering your arousal.

You swallow, “Are you upset it happened with someone else?”

He blinks, head tilting in confusion, “Not something for me to get upset over, P.” Studying your face, his brows eventually relax as he asks you, “Are you upset?”

You shrug, looking to the side. “It was … whatever.” That’s all you’re willing to say about the experience and you’re sure Jungkook doesn’t want to hear about another man while he’s just about to get intimate with you. At this point, maybe he’d opt out to stopping in general, but he sighs a small hey to gain your attention.

“The experience will always be yours.” He kisses your forehead. “Nobody can take anything from you.”

You nod, eyes closing at the feel of his finger at your entrance. He keeps his lips at your forehead, feeling it furrow as he sinks one finger into your pussy. It’s a slow and leisure pump, easy to have you forgetting about the prior conversation and putting the focus back on him. Penetration has never been your thing; technically, it’s still not. But there’s some relief as Jungkook curls and massages his finger against your walls, stretching you out as he intended to. He refuses to take his eyes off yours, especially when he decides to add in another finger.

“That’s it, baby. Taking it so well.” He praises, voice cracking at the end of the sentence.

“You make me feel so good.” You sigh, eyes closing as he speeds his fingers inside you. “Always feel so safe with you.”

He curses, mentally prepared to hear your choked whine when he removes his fingers from your sopping hole. He says your name sternly, followed by a thick swallow. You hum in response, hips mindlessly chasing after any part of his body for friction. He slots his hard shaft against your wet folds again, giving you both some form of pleasure in the interim. He looks down, moaning at the sight of his cock coated with your arousal.

“Need you inside me.” Your hands hold his waist in place to stop him from grinding against your clit, head of his cock positioned at your entrance. You bubble with anticipation, wondering how he’d feel inside you.

And as much as he’d like nothing more than to finally sink inside, a small part of his lovesick brain still holds some form of logic and manages to utter, “Birth control?”

You blink, a slight falter in your response as you shake your head shamefully. There wasn’t a medical necessity for you to be on birth control before and you didn’t think far enough when it came to intimacy with Jungkook.

He chuckles, “That’s okay, P. I just wanted to check.” He hops off the bed and fishes for his wallet. Another ten seconds go before he drops his wallet onto the ground with a triumphed smile and brings up the small squared package between his fingers. The smile drops a little at the sight of your tiny pout.

Beating him to his question, you remark, “I wanted to feel you …” 

He exhales hard through his nose. Keeping the condom in between his fingers, he makes his way back to you on your bed. You both seem to fall back into position again. 

“Not sure if either of us are ready for kids, P.” The thought of having kids is scary, but weirdly … he finds the fear lessening at the thought of it with you. Seen how you reacted and smiled around children — he wonders if his future kids would have your smile. Either way, too early for these thoughts.

“Okay, okay,” You let his words simmer a little and he suddenly wants to do away with the little package in his hands when you look up at him. “You’re right.” 

He’s right, knows he is when you blink away those irrational thoughts. The same thoughts get pushed to the side when the foil packaging tears and a sweet scent fills your nostrils. This time, hints of rich chocolate and confectioned goodness. You relax back onto your mattress, watching as he positions himself between your legs.

“Do you only have flavored condoms?” You ask, impish smile lifting the awkward conversation from before.

He grins, “Someone gifted a five hundred flavored pack for my birthday last year.” Hint: it was Hoseok. “So … we’re stuck with this for now. Do you hate it? I could stop using them–”

You shake your head and his eyes soften at your answer. There’s relief in knowing it’ll always remain sweet between you and Jungkook. 

“I wanna feel you, too.” He admits as he lines himself at your entrance. He doesn’t push in just yet, watching how your hole clenches around nothing … for now. “We’ll figure something out.”

The defaulted option is to simply have you go on birth control, but that’s something to discuss and for you to decide. If need be, he isn’t too opposed to a vasectomy. You both have all the time in the world to discuss.

“Okay,” you stutter as he begins pushing the head of his covered cock in. That’s all he does for now, opting to drop onto his forearms to kiss you, praise you — love on you. You do little to hide the sting, face contorting before you let out a couple shallow breaths.

“Too much?” He asks, hips stalling and fingers brushing away your hair.

You shake your head, “Hurts a little, but,” you lift your hips a little, legs parting to accommodate Jungkook's body. “Wanna keep going.”

He doesn’t move. 

Tattooed arm dropped in between your bodies, he rubs practiced circles on your clit. You sigh in content, wiggling your hips to push more of him into you. Eyes fluttering shut, similar to how your pussy flutters and gushes around his length after every little push inside as a reward for taking more of him. He shudders and grunts deeply, mentally counting backwards from a hundred to keep himself distracted by how snug your walls feel around him.

You moan, soft and saccharine at the stretch of his full length inside you.

“You feel so good.” He husks into the shell of your ear. “Feel that, Pix?”

“Yeah …” You keen, unable to verbalize a proper response.

“You gotta tell me how you feel, ‘kay?” He lifts his head up and connects his forehead on yours, but his heavy eyes observe how your lower halves connect.

“M-mhm,” You reply, eyes shutting at the fullness below. “Can we stay like this for a bit? I-It’s … it’s a lot.”

He nods. A part of him is thankful for this pause, allowing his mind to think of other things in the meantime so this experience can be better for you. The other part is worried you’re uncomfortable. He wants to make this good for you — wants you to feel good, so it doesn’t matter how long he needs to stay still inside you. Sex could end right now and he’d be okay with it.

“Kiss me, please?” Your request comes out small, but he feels the harsh drumming of your heart against his chest. Your hands are bunched up on his nape, not relaxed how they usually are when you’re with him. 

What else could he do but comply with your wishes?

Kissing’s good — the belief he’ll die on a hill for. Kissing’s even better with you; he loves your lips, the way you lick the seam of his lips, how you sound when you’re being kissed as you deserve. Could stay like this forever with you. The heavy making out goes on for another two minutes, until he unconsciously bucks his hips which forces you to detach from his lips in a loud gasp.

He immediately searches for your face, eyes swelling with concern. “Sorry, I–”

You shake your head, thighs clamping around to hold him still before he pulls out. “‘s okay,” you reassure, “That felt good. Just, go slow.”

The pace he sets out is controlled — slow, as requested. And god, is it good. Your bed creaks with every movement, but the sounds are overshadowed by your shared breathy moans and praises only heard between each other. His fingers move swiftly over your pussy, so love drunk with your body, he feels his balls tightening — a sign of his forthcoming orgasm.

Call it selfish or greedy, he doesn’t want it to end, pulling out at the last second to delay his orgasm. Typically so well-versed in your body cues of an impending orgasm, his own dilemma clouded his judgment when you let out an involuntary frustrated cry at the loss of contact. 

Your chest stutters, stomach clenching from your heavy breaths. And although you should question why he did that, you can’t think when he guides his cock into your warm cunt once more.

“You were gonna make me cum again, pretty.” He lets out a breathy laugh, hips resuming its pace.

You whine, “Was gonna cum, too.” You look down where he fucks his thick length into you. He makes up for the accidental edging by rocking his hips faster into you, fingers once again finding home on your clit forces a high pitched squeal from your kiss-swollen lips.

“Yeah? I’m sorry.” He truly is. Your pleasure’s always his top priority — you’re his priority. 

“You deserve to cum.” His fingers flatten on your mound, and the wet squelching sounds increase with the fastened movements. “Give it to me, pretty.”

So sensitive and lost in the pleasure, you gasp and arch your body into his, eyes slamming shut at the onset waves of pleasure building below. 

“Jung–” Couldn’t finish your sentence before you’re squeezing tightly around him. He doesn’t stop the movement of his fingers, but he stills himself in you, giving you a couple hard pumps while you ride out your sudden orgasm.

He doesn’t think he ever wants to forget this feeling. 

Finally letting off your clit and pushing himself up again, Jungkook marvels at the thin sheen of sweat in between your chest and the white ring of cum coated at the base of his cock where the condom doesn’t fully reach.

“Please, need you to cum inside me.” You beg.

He can’t, not with the condom on, but the sentiment makes him act like he doesn’t have one on. Parting your thighs wider, he thrusts in slowly, mindful of your oversensitivity. The ring of cum builds and thickens at the base, transferring some of your arousal over his pubic bone in a messy haze. Alas, the visual combination of your chest moving in tandem with his thrusts, your scrunched brows, and hand on his stomach was enough for him to release once more. 

Though, the final blow came from your soft declarations of love while you tell him how good he makes you feel.

“Baby,” He manages, hands dropping your thighs, his front also comes down onto your chest as he lazily pumps inside of you with his cum-filled condom. The pleasure continues in the form of your fingers raking up and down his back, drawing shapes and patterns of love.

You know things will always remain sweet between you and Jungkook — like the giggles, doting questions, and soothing hands as he brings you to the shower. It’s not the hot water you feel on your skin, but Jungkook’s tender kisses and embrace forever etched on your body.

“P, sit still, won’t you?” Jungkook stands behind the tripod, angling the camera.

“You ever consider modeling? You’re a natural.” You say as you sift through the album on the tablet. You’re doing everything to avoid Jungkook’s latest assignment in class. Sure, it’ll be a good headshot update for your business card and website, but you weren’t keen on having your picture taken. It was always better behind the camera.

He rolls his eyes, gentle smile on his lips as he walks over. “Flattery won’t get you out of helping me. You promised you’d be my model for this semester.”

“Camera shy.” You pout. “You know that.”

“I know.” Jungkook chuckles. “I’ll teach you.” Leaning down, he places a soft kiss on your lips.

The thing with teaching is that he inadvertently learns as well. Knows it’s also the same for you too. Skills refined, new ideologies unlocked, and discoveries waiting to be explored. He no longer follows a script anymore — no longer feels like he’s boxed in … life is forever limitless as long as he makes it to be.

A shutter goes off from behind capturing the two of you in the frame.

fin.

ending a/n: beta’d by @takeitawaykenny who sat thru my ridiculousness but also entertained it. prologue wouldn’t have existed without her, yall … she rly was brain behind rkivedshots' beginnings on god love u bookie ;__; and @lovieku who’s been nothing but supportive and rode thru my (many) moments of doubt. she was the angel i needed on my shoulder during the makings of my first series and helped shape so much of itf!! couldn't have done this without your guys unwavering love and support!! oceans of gratitude to my two champions 😭🫂

🧚🏻‍♀️࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

alas, thank YOU all for joining me on this fun ride. i hope you guys got something out of this whether it be a chuckle, life lesson, or soiled panties, i’m lucky yall stuck with me. to my lovelies who have been here since the beginning and cuties we picked up along the way: i appreciate your trust, patience, and overall enthusiasm for this series — you’re my dream!! i told yall i’d guide us to my desired ending with so much love and care. ain’t no way this couple wasn’t gonna be end game … i just had to make the journey difficult. oop. anyway call me #aftercarequeen 💅

with that said … epilogue? send your thanks to lovieku for convincing me bahaha it won’t come any time soon cuz i have other things i wanna work on, but do not fear … i have something planned!

in the meantime, feel free to send in your reaccs/thoughts for our lovely itf!couple. i’m here for ya just as you’ve been here with me xoxo ♡

epilogue.

[wintrbears]

The Wife Trap | JJK (MASTERPOST)

Summary: Your husband and his identical twin brother are complete opposites, but when the pair are in a horrific car accident together and the nurse asks Jungkook which twin he is, he decides to spare you the heartache of losing your beloved husband by becoming him.

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader, Jungkook’s Twin x Reader, (Slight) Jungkook x Jennie

Genre: Twins AU, Unrequited Love, Brother-in-Law/Friends to Lovers?, Angst, Fluff, Smut, Slow-Burn, Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 79.4k total

Warnings: chapter specific warnings will be included on each individual post

Author's Note: woohoo! it's finally here!! this is the masterpost for a series that was only ever supposed to be a one-shot lmao. the only thing I'll say beforehand is this story is really, really heavy so please read all the warnings if there are certain topics you know could negatively impact you. like, I honestly think I might be a sadist after writing this 🫣. but it isn't all just angst and in my opinion, despite the sadness, is a truly beautiful story. it's also told entirely from Jungkook's POV which was new for me as a writer. I hope you all enjoy it :)

-> Taglist

Character Profiles

Summary: A sneak peek into the story’s four main characters.

Word: N/A

Part I

Summary: There are two boys but only one girl, leaving Jungkook hopelessly in love with someone he can never have, and doesn't want to have, because that would mean taking you away from the person he loves most. Then suddenly there’s only one boy and one girl, but it's the wrong one.

Word Count: 28.9k

Part II (M)

Summary: Jungkook's been living as his twin for three months without too many hiccups or blunders, but he can't keep you waiting to be intimate again for much longer. Not to mention all the other obstacles which keep constantly appearing in his path.

Word Count: 31.8k

Part III (M)

Summary: There's no turning back after diving headfirst into the deep end with you, not that Jungkook would ever want to, but past secrets and choices entirely out of his control might just topple the delicate house of cards he's spent eight months building to conceal his web of lies.

Word Count: 18.7k

Audio Commentary

Summary: A brief audio commentary about my writing and decision making process for The Wife Trap.

Word Count: N/A

[koo4amor]

this story got me back into my fan fic reading phase that i quite literally never left. Such a good read so many emotions so many surprises that literally had me gasping out loud.

[venusiangguk]

idealizations concerning real life relations | jjk (m)

>>pairing:jungkook x reader / fuckboy!jk x hopeless romantic!oc

>>genre:s2l, fwb, smut, angst

>>word count: 40.9k besties i am so sorry

>>warnings: jk is so sweet, but also so evil lmao, oc lives in her little noggin, angsty fwb, drug and alcohol use, tattoos, multiple smut scenes that include: oral (m/f), fingering (f), light face slapping (with hand and cock??), praise, degradation, marking, dirty talk, so many creampies yum, multiple orgasms, kissing :(, cumming in pants :), probably more but i cant think of it, ok other stuff now, manipulation, infidelity, oc thinks jk is made of stars :(, jk thinks she is so pretty :(, misunderstandings, some fluff if you squint, brunette jk, blonde jk, n blue jk,  1 mentions of: howls moving castle, too many mentions of: stars, the color pink

>>notes: bruv i do not have anything to say for myself EXCPET that i worked v hard on her and i really hope u like it <3 beta: @birbdae​ tysm for dealing with this, she is long lmao >>> soundtrack

this is split up by seasons, so if 40k is a lot for one sitting, you can read one season at a time if that is easier :)

>>summary: jungkook loves to be loved, but he doesn’t love in return.

Keep reading

[koo4amor]

OMG where do i even begin this legit had me crying so bad honestly the ending had me screaming into my pillow but amazing read i love the angst so well written also if u want to make yourself even more sad read die on this hill while reading summer and the epilogue 😭😭😭😭

[ggukiebar]

nda | j.jk

pairing: idol jungkook x f. fan reader

genre: smut

word count: 15.6k

summary: what would you do when your bias offers you an NDA?

warnings: verydom!jungkook x shy!submissive reader, explicit sexual content, clit rubbing, pussy eating, blow job, squirting, edging, spitting, dom/sub dynamic, daddy, heavy degradation, dirty talk, multiple positions, detailed smut, jk is very mean, oral sex, mirror sex, slapping, choking, pussy slapping, anal, rimming, nipple play, praising, dumbfication, usage of slut/whore, cum eating, marking, mentions of oc being his toy, multiple orgasms, rough sex, mentions of sex doll, crying, overstimulation, fingering, nipple slapping, penetrative sex, hair pulling, creampie.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂˚₊┈┈୨୧┈┈‧₊˚⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂

“Please, please, please!” you whispered to yourself, fingers crossed tightly as you stared at the three screens in front of you.

Your laptop. Your phone. Your tablet.

Your eyes were glossy with hope and adrenaline, your feet thumping uncontrollably beneath your chair, a thin layer of sweat forming despite the air-conditioned room wrapping around you in cold comfort.

This was your first time buying concert tickets. Despite being a long-time fan, this was your only chance—because you had finally gathered enough money to secure one.

You had prepared three Weverse accounts under your name and your parents’ names, carefully reserving each slot so you could slip into the presale the moment it opened. You had already studied how fast tickets sold out in other countries—the quickest being around ten minutes. Ten minutes of chaos, of people like you refreshing, praying, losing.

You bit your lip hard enough to feel it sting. You were still in the queue when the screen suddenly shifted, dragging you into a loading page that refused to move. Thirty minutes had already passed, and all three accounts were still stuck.

“Fuck!”

Your eyes widened when two of your accounts abruptly showed session timeout.

With shaky hands, you tried to navigate through it, but everything lagged—hesitating, freezing, slipping away from your control. You cursed under your breath, glancing at your laptop—the only one still holding on, still alive.

Your vision started to blur at the edges. The chances of getting a ticket were thinning by the second, dissolving right in front of you.

“Please, just this one…” you whispered to yourself, eyes locked on the screen with fragile, breaking hope.

Your eyes widened when the screen finally moved.

No Tickets Available.

Just like that, your hopes were crushed.

You slowly looked up at the posters on your walls, the albums stacked neatly on your shelves, the plushies scattered across your bed, and the ARMY Bomb you had recently bought, displayed beside your BTS McDonald’s figurines.

Tears began falling uncontrollably from your eyes, like a flood breaking through something you could no longer hold together. The realization settled in—heavy, final—that you wouldn’t get to see them.

Your lips quivered as you quickly sank onto your bed, pulling your favorite pink cooky plushie close to your chest. You cried into it, letting everything spill out with an aching, exhausted heart.

Your parents tried to comfort you. They knew how much this meant. They had witnessed your journey growing up—how you stayed up all night waiting for comebacks, how you saved every bit of money just to buy new albums, how you would drop everything the moment a Weverse Live started, how you bought multiple happy meals just to complete all the toys, how you binge-watched their content and replayed Run BTS episodes whenever you had free time.

They had seen it all.

How deeply you adored and loved your bias…

Jungkook.

You appreciated how your parents tried to look for tickets online for you, but the number of scams you’d heard about from resellers made you hesitate. Prices were tripled—far beyond your budget. You didn’t want to burden them, even when they insisted they were willing to cover the extra cost.

You were still a student, after all. You told them it was okay—that they should just save the money for your college instead.

“What if you just check in to the hotel they’re staying at? Girl, imagine!” your best friend Mina suggested.

The hot coffee you ordered had already gone cold. The concert was next month, and Mina was now throwing ridiculous ideas at you on how you could possibly see BTS. The supposed study session in the coffee shop had long been forgotten the moment you mentioned the upcoming concert.

“I doubt it. There’s usually no news about it because of their privacy… sometimes I only find out once they’ve already checked in or when they do a Weverse live.”

Mina rolled her eyes. “I’m sure there’s at least some news if you really dig into it. How many days is the concert?”

“Two days. And even if I wanted to stalk their hotel, I’m sure a lot of fans would do that too—and the next thing you know, the hotel is fully booked.” you pouted.

You were being realistic. The chances of seeing them at their hotel—or even getting a room there—were slim. With the number of fans camping out and others researching nonstop, you had almost zero chance.

“Do you want to see them or not? Come on, I’ll book a room with you!” she nudged your shoulders, wiggling her brows as she sipped her caramel macchiato.

You chuckled softly. “Of course I do, but I swear, Mina, it’s harder than you think…”

Mina groaned, stomping her feet. “Ugh, fine! But watching the concert online is really fucking boring when you know they’re literally in the same country as you.”

You sighed. Mina wasn’t really a fan, but she knew how much you loved BTS. When she found out you hadn’t secured a ticket, she had been the first to suggest the most ridiculous ideas—stalking their hotel, camping outside the arena, chasing anything that even remotely felt possible.

After a few months since the presale, it had been a hard pill to swallow—but you had finally accepted it. You wouldn’t get to see them. Even if Mina’s ideas lingered at the back of your mind, you knew better. The chances were too low. You’d rather stay at home, wear your cooky pajamas, and stream the concert online in peace.

Still… there were the sleepless nights.

The what-ifs that refused to leave you alone.

What if you had attended the concert? What if you had somehow booked the same hotel? What if you caught a glimpse of their van outside the arena?

Being a fan for almost a decade, you knew those kinds of scenarios only happened in fictional stories. Seeing Jungkook on a random day was like finding a bag of cash in a public restroom stall—completely impossible.

Though… still, a small part of you never fully stopped hoping.

“Also, isn’t our country their last stop?” Mina said, already searching for dates and details on her phone.

“Yeah… that’s why I actually had enough money and time… but I guess luck just wasn’t on my side,” you murmured bitterly, glancing around the busy coffee shop as if the noise could somehow quiet the ache settling in your chest.

Mina suddenly froze, her eyes widening. “Wait—since it’s the last stop… don’t you think they’ll stay longer? Maybe for a few more days, like… I don’t know, rest?”

You had already thought about it—but how on earth would you ever know their whereabouts? You’d only find out once they were already there, or when they went live. And since it would be after the concert, you were certain they’d want to rest, to disappear into privacy for a while.

“Mina… it’s okay. I swear, I’ll be fine.” you assured her, her ideas now more amusing than anything else.

Until your lunch break ended, Mina kept babbling—throwing out unrealistic scenarios straight out of books and fanfics. You laughed at her what-ifs, at the corny places her imagination kept taking you.

You knew she wasn’t doing it to be silly.

She was doing it because she knew you. Knew how badly you wanted to see them. Knew how quiet you’d become once the concert actually started.

So, as your best friend, Mina had decided something else entirely.

A short out-of-town trip. While BTS was in the country. A way for you both to disappear for a while, to breathe, to rest from studies, from expectations, from everything—including the concert you couldn’t attend.

“Mina! Why didn’t you tell me?” Your eyes widened in shock when you saw the cottage number and the dates.

Mina had booked a five-day beach trip, complete with daily activities that made your head spin just reading them.

“Don’t worry, you can bring your laptop so you can still stream the concert.” she snickered, handing you the itinerary.

“Mina! That’s not what I meant—this is too much,” you groaned.

She giggled, already sitting comfortably on your bed while you scanned through the list she had prepared. “Oh, come on. It’ll be fun! Besides, it’s been a while since we’ve had a girls’ trip.”

You pouted at her, still in disbelief—but the resistance didn’t last. A smile slipped through as you pulled her into a hug anyway. “You and your ideas,” you chuckled.

“Bring cute clothes! Let’s take lots of pics—I want to update my IG!” she said excitedly.

You grinned. “Let’s go shopping tomorrow. My treat.”

Mina shrieked. “God, yes! Let’s go!”

The upcoming concert was still on your mind, but you were also busy preparing for the trip with Mina. You were excited—the small distraction keeping you from spiraling into a full breakdown over not being able to see BTS.

Wearing a cute sundress and brown sandals, you and Mina finally checked in. It was Day 1 of the concert. You had already set an alarm for the online stream later, a quiet kind of excitement settling in at the thought that, at the very least, you had the privilege of watching it while sipping fresh coconut by the sea breeze.

“Why the fuck are you reapplying your lip gloss?” Mina asked when she caught you touching up your makeup right before the concert started.

“To look cute while watching Jungkook,” you giggled, turning your ARMY Bomb on.

After dinner, you and Mina sat on a bench by the sand, your pocket Wi-Fi, laptop, and earphones already set up beside you.

Mina rolled her eyes. “That’s crazier than my ideas.”

You chuckled softly, eyes already fixed on the screen as the countdown began. Your heart raced like you were inside the stadium with them—like the distance didn’t exist at all.

When the concert finally started, Mina had to walk away because you were screaming too loudly, jumping from your seat and almost knocking over the coconut shake on the table.

“Girl, let me walk around and find a cute guy. Your shrieks are lowkey scaring me.” Mina laughed when she came back and saw you on the verge of tears, fanning yourself like you might actually pass out.

“Okay, oka—oh my gosh! They’re performing Dimple! Oh my gosh!” you shouted, already lost in it again.

For two days, you were completely gone in it—fangirling nonstop, fully absorbed in every moment. It was only on Day 3, when Mina had planned actual activities, that you finally stepped away from the screen. Until then, you had spent your time watching, rewatching, and reposting edits like the world outside didn’t exist.

“He’s so hot—I can’t believe he wore that gray shirt. It looked so good on him,” you babbled, telling Mina everything about the concert details and the surprise songs they performed.

The two-night concert had ended like a whirlwind, yet you were still floating on cloud nine. While Mina had been busy taking pictures and scouting for cute guys, you had been replaying everything in your head—taking screenshots, saving edits, and reliving every moment in real time like you couldn’t let it go.

Mina was just happy you enjoyed it. She even swore she almost thought you were going to have a heart attack when you shrieked so loudly after Jungkook lifted his shirt and revealed his abs. Your gallery probably had ten copies of that exact moment.

“And! Guess what!” you said, munching on your breakfast as you wiggled your eyebrows at her.

“Hmm… Jungkook showed his dick?”

“Mina!” Your cheeks burned as you nearly choked on the waffles you were eating.

Mina laughed, casually pointing her fork at you. “That would be good though.”

You shook your head quickly, your face still hot. “I mean—would want that—but guess what! He sang the chorus of Still With You in acapella!” you babbled again, as if Mina would fully grasp the weight of it.

For your third day, you and Mina were supposed to ride a yacht. You were already getting dressed when Mina suddenly squealed behind you, hurriedly tying the strap of her sandal.

“He replied! Oh my gosh, he’s treating me to dinner!” Mina said excitedly, quickly glancing at the mirror you were using to fix your hair.

“Huh? Who?”

“This guy I met while you were watching the concert! He wants to see me again!” She showed you her phone.

Your brows furrowed. “He’s inviting you to his cottage later?” you said, reading the message.

Mina’s eyes widened as she looked back at her phone. “Fuck! What should I do?”

“Wait… so you’re not going on the yacht with me?” you concluded.

Mina smiled cheekily, biting her lip. “Well… he’s cute and… hot…”

You raised a brow. “Make sure he’s really hot,” you chuckled, fixing your hair again in front of the mirror—when Mina suddenly squealed and hugged you from behind.

“Promise I’ll make it up to you! You’re the best!” she grinned, already moving back to the bed to grab her bag.

Mina had booked this trip for you, and you wanted her to enjoy it too. Even though she originally planned it as a girls’ trip, you had spent most of it absorbed in the concert. She had always supported your whims without hesitation—and now it was your turn to support hers.

“Why are you bringing that duffel bag?” you asked, amused at the amount of clothes she was packing.

Mina wiggled her brows. “Gotta be prepared, y’know.”

She walked towards the door, fixing her neckline one last time.

You grinned. “Text me when you’re heading back!”

“Yes, ma’am!” she giggled, throwing you a flying kiss before hurrying out.

The sheer amount of clothes Mina brought made it obvious—she probably wouldn’t be back tonight. You sighed softly, glancing down at your short pink floral dress, your hair tied in a half ponytail.

You still had two days left of the trip, but today was the first time it truly settled in. For the past two days, you had been completely immersed in the concert—no time to walk along the shore, no quiet moments to watch the sunset.

Now, it was finally your time to unwind.

Although you were tempted to doom-scroll edits again, you forced yourself up instead, deciding to follow the planned activity for the day and step outside.

-

“Number 9! Calling for all passengers on Yacht 9!”

You hurried over to the line, double-checking the receipt number Mina had reserved for you.

There were only a few people waiting—some couples and a small group of friends. You didn’t really mind being alone. If anything, you needed this time to unwind, to breathe, to exist without noise pressing in on you.

“Ticket, please!” the man in a white uniform said.

You handed it over, offering a polite smile before stepping onto the yacht.

A few groups had already settled in—holding bottles of champagne, chatting softly, taking pictures against the open sea. You made your way towards the main deck, where a small group of friends sat around a table filled with snacks and laughter.

Based on the crowd, you felt relieved it wasn’t too packed—maybe around twenty-thirty people scattered across the space, enough to feel lively but not overwhelming.

Soft music drifted through the air as the yacht moved gently along the waves. The salt of the sea lingered in every breath you took, calming something in you without you even realizing it needed calming.

You wandered towards a long table filled with food, your short dress and hair swaying slightly with the breeze.

There were different kinds of pastries, a large charcuterie board, bottles of wine and champagne catching the light, stacks of beer lined neatly at one end, and a few bags of chips scattered casually beside them.

Mina had definitely booked a nice yacht. You smiled to yourself, genuinely happy that you could finally relax and enjoy this moment—with good food, fresh air, and a quiet kind of peace you hadn’t realized you needed.

You grabbed a bag of potato chips and a bottle of wine, scanning the area for a place to sit until you spotted a vacant lounger on the sun deck.

“Perfect!” you mumbled excitedly when you noticed no one else had claimed that area.

Carefully placing your bag, chips, and wine down, you quickly took a photo to update Mina.

“Let’s sit here!”

You were still busy snapping pictures when a small group—maybe four or five people—settled in beside you.

You weren’t really paying attention at first, but in your peripheral vision, you noticed they had brought an impressive amount of snacks with them.

You opened your chips and leaned back on the sun lounger. When you heard the sharp crack of a beer can opening, curiosity tugged at you, and you glanced over briefly.

It was a group of Korean men, older than you—probably in their mid-30s to 40s. Some wore black shades, already laughing as they settled into their drinks, their voices easy and relaxed.

They must be on vacation. This beach was a tourist spot, after all.

You turned your attention back to your chips, letting the sun warm your skin as you sank into the view. The group beside you wasn’t loud—they mostly talked about the scenery and the food, occasionally breaking into laughter over the activities they had tried earlier.

The world felt slow again, almost suspended in that gentle rhythm of waves and wind.

You were busy sipping your wine when you suddenly felt it—an unmistakable stare.

The group beside you was still laughing, their voices blending into the soft noise of the sea, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was looking at you.

These men were older, and for a brief moment, unease crept in.

You sneaked a glance over your shoulder and noticed the broad-built man in sunglasses staring straight ahead—past you.

Does he want potato chips or—

With a slight frown, you followed his line of sight properly this time.

He wasn’t looking at you.

He was looking at your bag on the table.

My bag?

When he realized you were looking back at him, he quickly turned away, though the shift in his posture told you he was still thinking. Still aware.

Confused, you glanced down at your bag again.

It was just a simple beige tote bag. Nothing special. Nothing worth staring at.

You shrugged it off. It must’ve been a mistake. Besides, he was wearing sunglasses—maybe he was just spacing out, looking into nothing.

Munching on your chips again, you noticed him typing on his phone, suddenly more focused, as if he had detached himself from the conversation entirely.

You almost laughed to yourself, thinking he might actually be searching something about your bag online.

A strange thought—but harmless.

With a deep, content sigh, you leaned back again, the warmth of the sun and the rhythm of the waves slowly pulling you under.

And somewhere between the breeze and the quiet, you didn’t notice when your eyes finally closed.

By the time you woke up, it was already sunset.

The bottle of wine beside you was empty, and the small group that had been next to you earlier was gone. The sea breeze had turned cooler now—soft and comforting—while the sound of waves blended with the distant chatter of guests still enjoying the evening.

You stretched lightly and sat up.

Some people were still dancing, some chatting, others taking pictures against the fading orange sky. You still had a few hours left before the yacht returned to shore.

Grabbing your leftover chips and the empty bottle of wine, you frowned when something small caught your attention beside your bag.

A paper.

Leaning in slightly, you picked it up—and realized it was a calling card.

Song Hobeom [phone] **** [email protected]

“Who the fuck is this?”

Looking around, you didn’t see the group of Koreans anymore. You assumed the calling card must’ve come from them, especially given the Korean name and number printed on it.

Still… you were confused. Why would he leave his calling card?

Walking slowly along the yacht, you felt a slight dizziness from the wine lingering in your system. You tossed the empty chip bag and bottle aside, your eyes still scanning the space for any sign of the group you had seen earlier. The air had turned colder now, your short dress offering little protection against the breeze brushing against your skin.

Curiosity got the better of you—and maybe the alcohol gave you just enough courage.

You decided to dial the number.

“Yoboseyo?” a deep voice answered.

You swallowed. “Hello? I-Is this Song Hobeom?”

A brief sigh came through the line. “Yes?”

Confusion crept in when he didn’t immediately recognize you as the person from the sun lounger. You hesitated for a moment. Did he really hand out his calling card just like that?

“Uh, I was the one sitting on the sun lounger by the main deck. I think you left your calling card at my table?” you said, biting your lip as nerves slowly settled in.

You had no idea what he wanted—and yet here you were, calling him back.

“Oh, right. Thank you for calling back, ma’am. May I know when you are free? I would like to discuss something with you.” he said in a formal tone.

Huh?

Confusion was written all over your face.

You walked towards the bow of the yacht, trying to escape the soft music and distant chatter, holding the phone closer to your ear.

“Uhm… may I know what for? This is a bit confusing.” You looked around again, but there was still no trace of the group from earlier. They must’ve already left.

“It is a bit confidential, ma’am. But don’t worry, I will give you a short background once we meet.”

You groaned under your breath. “I’m sorry, but can’t you just tell me this over the phone?”

You didn’t want to sound rude, but you didn’t know this man. It was already strange enough that he wanted to meet in person to “discuss something.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we may need to discuss this face-to-face to ensure the call is not being recorded. If you prefer, you may set the time and place.” he said formally.

What the actual fuck.

You rolled your eyes. This was bullshit—it sounded like a scam. Some foreign guy trying to trick people before disappearing back to his country.

“Sorry, but I’m not interested. Thank you.”

You ended the call immediately.

You weren’t stupid enough to meet a stranger like that. You had only been curious, nothing more—but the moment he refused to explain anything over the phone, something in you clicked.

Suspicion.

And you weren’t taking that chance.

You were about to walk back to the main deck when your phone beeped with a new message. You thought it was Mina, but the moment you recognized the country code, you immediately rolled your eyes.

What does he want?

You instantly regret calling his number. Opening the message, you saw that he had sent a file.

“I swear if this has a virus,” you mumbled.

You were about to tap it when another message came in.

Song Hobeom: The file can only be viewed once. Any form of screenshot or screen recording will be detected and notified. Please contact me again if you wish to proceed after reading the contract.

Song Hobeom: Please do not share this file or inform anyone about this matter. This is strictly confidential. Thank you.

Fucking hell?

You snorted softly, finding his messages almost ridiculous. It sounded like a joke—like he genuinely believed you’d get “in trouble” for forwarding whatever this was.

With a small smirk, you already decided you’d tell Mina about it later. You were definitely not falling for some scam. You’d open it, see whatever nonsense it was, and then block him right after.

With a sheepish grin, you tapped the file anyway… your heart giving a small, restless thump as the screen began to load.

What if it’s a jump scare?

Your brows slowly furrowed when the title finally appeared in bold capital letters:

NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT

What?

You quickly scanned the document, reading faster and faster—until your eyes landed on a name that made your heart jolt.

“W-What the actual fuck?!” you gasped in shock. A few people turned to look at you, but you didn’t care. Your attention was completely locked on your phone.

You were starting to hyperventilate. You wanted to close it, to breathe, to think—but it was a view-once file. Your hands trembled as the alcohol from earlier wore off almost instantly, replaced by something sharper.

“This is not real… no freaking way,” you whispered weakly, quickly texting him back with shaking fingers.

No second thoughts—you typed immediately, afraid he might block you or change his mind.

You: I am free tomorrow at around 1 PM. Let’s meet by the coast area near the bar.

Song Hobeom: Noted, ma’am. Thank you for cooperating.

-

You never thought you would find yourself in a situation like this.

You chose a spot with very few people around. It was a nice sunny day, but your face already felt warm—nervous, alert, almost buzzing with anticipation.

Wearing a white floral dress, brown strappy sandals, and sunglasses, you called Mina beforehand and told her you’d be skipping the snorkeling activity for the day. You wanted to tell her the truth, but she didn’t question it when you said you just wanted to swim and relax by the ocean instead.

She told you she wouldn’t be back for tonight, giggling about the cute guy she had met. She kept talking, but your mind was elsewhere the entire time.

Honestly, you were relieved she wouldn’t be back soon. Given the terms written in the file, you needed time alone.

Or this opportunity—whatever it really was—might slip right through your fingers.

“Are you listening to me? You’re like… spacing out, girl!” Mina chuckled.

Your face immediately heated up. “Oh! A-Am I? I was just thinking about buying this merch, and it’s a bit expensive, so I was wondering if I should buy the whole set or just Jungkook’s edition.” you rambled quickly.

Mina laughed, shaking her head. “Just buy it all! Gosh! Anyways, so I went to this island…”

You bit your lip. She believed it.

She continued ranting, and you did your best to follow along, nodding at the right moments, forcing yourself to stay present. You had to hide this—or you’d be screwed.

“Do you want to order, ma’am?”

You looked up at the waiter and nearly froze when, for a split second, you thought it was Song Hobeom standing in front of you.

You were thirty minutes early.

Last night, you hadn’t slept at all—spending hours searching for the man behind the calling card. And what you found had hit you like a truck.

He wasn’t just some random foreign stranger.

He was BTS’s manager.

The weight of the NDA had settled in slowly at first… then all at once.

The same Song Hobeom you had seen on the yacht… was the same man now appearing across articles and videos all over the internet.

“No, thank you. I’ll order later,” you politely declined. You didn’t think you could eat or drink anything at this point.

The waiter nodded and left you alone.

You let out a quiet sigh, glancing at your phone to check the time. Closing your eyes for a moment, you tried to steady your breathing—slow, controlled. You couldn’t afford to panic right now. Not here. Not yet.

“Good afternoon, ma’am.”

The familiar deep voice made your eyes snap open.

He was finally here.

He approached in a composed, almost professional manner, as if this were a business meeting rather than something that had your entire morning spiraling. Black shirt, gray board shorts, black shades. Calm, unreadable.

Your gaze narrowed slightly when you noticed the large iPad and brown envelope in his hands.

You immediately stood up, quickly straightening your dress before offering your hand.

“G-Good day, uh… h-have a seat, please.” you gestured, waiting until he sat down before you did.

“Have you eaten, Ms…?” he asked, pausing as if waiting for your full name.

“Oh, it’s Y/N L/N. I a-already had lunch,” you stammered, your heart racing as you finally introduced yourself.

He smiled and nodded. “That’s good to hear. I’m Song Hobeom, the manager of Bangtan Sonyeondan.”

He opened the brown envelope and showed you its contents. Like a startled kitten, you carefully took the papers.

“Have you read the file I sent you?” he asked casually, while opening his iPad.

You immediately nodded. “Y-Yes, uh… but I only scanned it quickly.”

It was true—you had replied almost instantly because you were scared he might unsend it or take it back.

He nodded. “Alright. Let me explain this to you thoroughly. Before proceeding, we require a Non-Disclosure Agreement to protect the privacy and safety of our artist. This agreement simply means that any information you may see, hear, or experience during your time with us—such as the artist’s location, conversations, or personal details—must remain confidential and cannot be shared with others, posted online, or discussed publicly,” he said in a formal, business-like tone.

You nodded quickly. “Y-Yes, I didn’t tell anyone!” you replied immediately.

He gave another nod, turning the iPad towards you to display the contract details. Then he began walking you through each section, one by one, in calm, structured explanations.

“Ms. Y/N, the NDA does not take away your rights or force you to do anything. It only ensures mutual privacy,” he stated, and you found yourself listening closely, agreeing more than questioning. The moment you had texted back was already a sign—you had chosen to proceed.

“Once signed, the confidentiality rules will remain in effect for the period stated in the document, and breaking the agreement could result in legal consequences.”

“I understand! I-I have researched how NDAs work as well.”

You bit your lip the moment you said it, suddenly realizing how desperate you sounded. You wanted to ask so many questions—why you, of all people, why this situation had landed in your lap—but you were too focused, too eager to get to the part that mattered most now.

Signing that damn contract.

That was your priority.

“Good. If you have any questions or concerns, I want you to feel comfortable asking before signing—”

“No questions! I’ll s-sign,” you blurted out, cheeks warming as excitement slipped through your tone.

Mr. Song chuckled lightly and nodded before handing you an expensive-looking pen.

“Alright, please double-check the terms and conditions. Take your time, Ms. Y/N.”

But you didn’t.

Not really.

Before you even properly reread the contract, you signed it—like your life depended on it. A shy, almost embarrassed smile formed on your lips as you finished.

He looked amused, like this wasn’t his first time seeing this reaction. As if he was already familiar with how quickly people surrendered to these documents.

Then he handed you the iPad for another copy.

Scrolling quickly, you signed again without hesitation.

Your eyes flickered over your own name—and then, for a brief second, your heart stuttered when you saw the name of the artist involved.

Jeon Jungkook.

Mr. Song explained the terms and conditions again. You listened eagerly, a little calmer now that you had finally secured the contract.

“Thank you for signing, Ms. Y/N. Please remember to keep everything discussed and experienced confidential as agreed,” he said with a polite smile, handing you another calling card. “Mr. Jeon will be the one to contact you directly after this for any further coordination.”

You stared at the calling card—Jungkook’s name and number printed on it—your eyes widening in shock.

This cannot be real.

-

“Ugh! I want to cry!”

You stared at yourself in the mirror, now back in your cottage, pacing in front of it like a maniac.

You had one night. One fucking night with him.

The date stated in the contract was after your vacation ended. You were already stressing about what to tell Mina for extending your stay, what to say to your professors, your parents—because you had clearly told them your trip only lasted until next week.

Jungkook hadn’t contacted you yet. It was still too early. You had no idea if he was even on the island already. The only thing you knew was that you were supposed to meet him in Executive Cottage 3 at 8 PM next week.

You still couldn’t believe it.

You had always thought NDAs were just myths—fantasies spun by fans who imagined idols risking everything for a single private encounter.

Sure, you had heard rumors that things like this might actually happen… but you never thought you would experience it yourself—with your own bias, Jeon Jungkook.

It felt unreal. Worse—or better—than a concert. One-on-one. Up close. No distance at all.

Your cheeks warmed at the memory of the agreement, your heart picking up speed at the thought. It almost scared you how much you didn’t want to wake up in case this was all just a dream.

Sometimes you found yourself lightly slapping your cheek, as if reality still refused to fully sink in.

For months, you had been depressed over missing the ticket, and now—out of nowhere—you had the opportunity, the privilege, to meet your bias in private.

Now it made sense.

It was their last concert. Their managers were staying here to rest… and for what? To arrange potential NDAs?

Last night, after Mina’s call, you had spent hours deep in research—so deep it felt less like curiosity and more like you were preparing a thesis you somehow needed to defend. You searched everything: how NDAs worked, how participants were chosen, what would happen if you told someone, and a dozen other questions that only made your head spin the longer you read.

There was no hesitation anymore.

The moment you confirmed that Song Hobeom was actually their legitimate manager, something in you fully locked in. Any lingering doubt that the contract might be fake—or some elaborate prank—disappeared instantly.

It was real.

And you had already signed it.

Your excitement had gone through the roof.

Even though you wanted to tell Mina so badly, your eagerness to meet Jungkook was far stronger. You couldn’t risk it.

“Huh? Why?” Mina questioned when she returned the next day and you immediately told her about extending your stay.

“I just want to relax more, you know… I didn’t realize the sea was this calming,” you smiled, trying to sound convincing.

You and Mina were now getting ready for the snorkeling activity. After dinner, you had decided you would break the news properly.

“Are you lying to me?” Mina raised a brow.

You went pale. “N-No, I j-just really wanted to sta—”

“You met a cute guy, didn’t you?” Mina accused, squinting at you.

You blinked, caught completely off guard by her conclusion. She knew you weren’t the type to extend a trip like this—especially with school starting next week—unless, of course, it was for BTS.

Or a cute guy.

“W-Well…”

Mina giggled. “Ha! That’s why we’re besties!”

Maybe a little white lie wasn’t so bad.

Mina told you she couldn’t extend her stay anyway since she had a presentation due next week. Even though she wanted to stay longer, you reassured her you’d be fine—and that you just wanted some alone time with your “cute guy.”

Yeah.

Cute guy.

-

The following days felt like a whirlwind. You enjoyed your last activities with Mina, all while quietly trying to keep it together every time the agreement flashed back into your mind and sent your thoughts spiraling.

When the last day came, you practically rushed Mina into the van just to get a proper goodbye out before she left.

Tomorrow was finally the day.

And yet, Jungkook still hadn’t contacted you.

The day before, you had already gone through a medical examination—another requirement of the NDA. You were honestly surprised at how professional it all was, how organized everything felt despite how unreal the situation still seemed in your head.

It was almost ridiculous how seriously you had started taking everything.

You shaved your entire body. Scrubbed yourself religiously every night. Applied lotion more than usual. Even started doing small morning workouts after meals, as if preparation alone could somehow calm your nerves.

“Hi, Jungkookie!” you practiced in front of the mirror, batting your eyelashes.

“Fuck! Why did I do that?” you immediately cringed, shaking your head.

You tried again, this time forcing a different tone.

“So… how was the concert?”

“I’m honored to be chosen.”

“Do I just lay here?”

“I love you. You’re my everything.”

You groaned and covered your face completely.

You had no idea what to expect. The thought of meeting Jungkook was overwhelming in every possible way—like your brain couldn’t decide whether to freeze, panic, or completely shut down.

And honestly, you were starting to worry you might faint… or embarrass yourself beyond recovery the moment it actually happened.

The contract stated “private meeting,” and you weren’t exactly Sherlock, so it wasn’t hard to conclude that it involves fucking. Especially considering they required a medical examination—surely not for a simple chat.

You almost screamed when your phone beeped with a message.

Jungkook: Hi Y/N, see you tomorrow at 8!

“Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!” you jumped onto your bed, staring at the text like it wasn’t real.

His message was so casual, completely different from the formal, business-like tone Song Hobeom used. It almost made it feel even more surreal.

“What should I reply… oh my gosh.”

You bit your lip, carefully choosing your words so you wouldn’t mess anything up.

You: See you, Kookie!

-

The cottage was larger than yours—an executive unit reserved for upper-class guests—with soft ambient lighting, a private veranda, a small plunge pool, a carefully kept garden, a few hammocks swaying gently in the breeze, and direct access to the beach.

This area felt different. Quieter. More secluded. Tucked away from the other cottages scattered across the busy island.

You had expected to be guided by bodyguards, but there was no one. No visible security, no presence at all. It felt intentional—like the meeting was meant to be so private that even protection would disrupt it.

Wearing a lilac wrap dress, white glittery doll shoes, and your hair curled neatly at the ends, you slowly made your way towards the cottage.

Your fingers hesitated before pressing the keycard Mr. Song had given you last week. The soft beep that followed made your nerves spike instantly—a quiet confirmation that you had arrived, and that you were allowed inside.

Once the door opened, you stepped in.

You were immediately met with a spacious bedroom featuring a king-sized bed, a lounge area, a large wooden door that likely led to the bathroom, and wide tinted windows with sliding doors that opened directly to a full view of the sea.

You stood there for a moment, taking it all in with wide eyes.

Carefully, you placed your bag beside the bed and began walking around the space, your curiosity slowly building. On the table, you noticed a selection of pastries and a neatly arranged meal set waiting, untouched.

“Hey.”

You gasped, your eyes snapping towards the bathroom door as the man you only saw on screens stepped out.

Jungkook wore nothing but a white towel wrapped around his waist, his hair still damp, droplets of water trailing down his neck and collarbones as he ran a smaller towel through his hair.

Your lips parted slightly. Fuck.

He walked toward the coffee table first, casually lifting the silver cloche to check the prepared dinner as if nothing about this moment carried any weight at all.

But for you, everything had just short-circuited.

Jungkook—right there in front of you. Real. Close. Breathing the same air.

You had seen him countless times on screens, in edited clips and fan videos—but none of that had prepared you for this. In person, his presence felt heavier, more grounded. His frame looked broader, more defined. The tattoos you had only ever glimpsed before were now fully visible under the soft lighting, detailed and striking in a way that made your thoughts scatter instantly.

Even his voice—when he spoke—carried a calm, effortless depth that made your mind go blank before it could catch up.

All the lines you had practiced disappeared completely.

You were speechless.

Frozen.

He was real.

You couldn’t believe he was real.

“Have you eaten?” he asked, turning towards you while still holding the cloche.

Your mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. You stood near the couch like you’d been rooted in place, completely caught off guard.

A quiet chuckle left him as he noticed your reaction. He set the lid back down and began walking towards you.

Your breath hitched when he closed the distance. His fresh scent—clean, minty, just out of the shower—wrapped around you, sharpening your senses in an instant.

“Relax,” Jungkook said softly, his tone calm and steady as he gently placed a hand on your arm.

The touch was light. Grounding.

Warmth spread through your skin immediately, like your body had finally registered his presence all at once.

You nodded too quickly, blinking as if that could reset your brain. Your heart was pounding so hard you were convinced it had to be audible.

Jungkook smiled slightly, looking down at you. “Hmm, look at me.” he said when you kept avoiding eye contact.

You tried—but the moment your eyes lifted, you almost froze again.

Dark doe eyes met yours, steady and unreadable, holding you in place. His right hand lifted your chin just as you instinctively tried to look away again.

“Sit down on the couch for me, mhm?” he said gently, guiding you down with an easy, controlled calm.

You were so nervous, looking up at him like a shy deer. All the conversations you had prepared were completely forgotten—you were mentally blocked.

Jungkook tilted his head at you, still standing as he looked down at your form. “You okay, pretty girl?”

Your cheeks turned crimson at the compliment, and you nodded again like you had lost your voice.

Jungkook chuckled, crouching down to get to your eye level. “Talk to me, baby. Wanna hear you.”

“H-Hi,” you said in a small voice, almost choking on the words.

“Hmm, louder.” Jungkook whispered, raising a brow at you.

You gulped harshly, squeezing your own hands in nervousness. “H-Hi, Jungkook. Nice to meet you.” you said, a little clearer this time.

Jungkook smiled, sitting beside you. “There you go. Good job, baby.” he praised. “So polite.”

You smiled back shyly, your breath hitching when he took your hands—hands you hadn’t even realized you were squeezing so tightly.

“Baby, you’ll hurt yourself doing that…” he said gently, holding your hands and lightly tracing over the faint marks you had left on your skin.

“O-Oh, uhm…”

“Do you want to eat first? What do you want to do?” he asked softly, studying your nervous expression.

He was so calm, so composed, so sweet—it made your stomach twist in a way you couldn’t quite explain. You bit your lip under his attention, suddenly hyper-aware of every small movement you made.

His gaze briefly dropped to your lips. He swallowed subtly, something shifting in his expression for just a moment before he looked back up at you again.

“W-Whatever y-you want to do…”

Jungkook raised a brow at you, tilting his head slightly. “Yeah?”

You nodded quickly. “Yes…”

Jungkook straightened up, his gaze briefly dropping over your short dress, lingering for a moment before he looked back at the table.

“There’s a bunch of pastries you might want to try. Do you like sweets?” he said softly, opening the glass lids of the desserts in front of you.

You smiled shyly, eyes shifting towards the neatly arranged food. “Yes, I like c-cookies.”

Jungkook smiled, reaching for the tray of cookies with different flavors—chocolate chip, walnut, matcha, red velvet, and more you couldn’t even name at a glance.

You kept your eyes fixed on the cookies, forcing yourself not to look at him, especially with how near he was.

“I’ve tried walnut and matcha,” he said, pointing at a few of them.

You pouted and picked the flavor he suggested. He smiled when you chose the matcha, carefully placing the tray back down on the table.

“Do you want milk?” he asked, pointing at the bottle beside the pastries.

You nodded, taking a small bite while he poured a glass for you.

“Thank you…” you said with a shy smile.

He smiled back and stood up to get dressed while you focused on eating the cookies. When he came back, he was wearing a white shirt and black comfy shorts. He sat beside you and took a cookie for himself as well.

Jungkook was patient, sweet, and gentle with you. He occasionally asked about your hobbies, your likes, your favorite food, and small details that only your parents and Mina usually knew.

With a soft, hesitant voice, you slowly opened up—talking about how you became a BTS fan, how long you had followed them, and how much you liked him.

He listened closely, never interrupting, only asking follow-up questions like he was genuinely interested.

His eyes followed your lips whenever you spoke, then shifted to your eyes whenever you looked away. And every time your voice got smaller, he leaned in slightly, as if trying not to miss a single word—especially when you talked about him.

Neither of you mentioned the NDA.

It felt, strangely, like you were simply there to spend time with him.

You honestly thought he wouldn’t talk much, given how shy you were—but Jungkook was unexpectedly patient, giving you space to settle in and feel comfortable around him.

But then

You were giggling about his travel story with Jimin when you noticed his tattooed hands slowly settling around your waist.

“A-And what did he do?” you asked, a little startled.

Jungkook had been talking about some of their personal trips with the members. You were surprised by how open he was with you—the way he spoke during his Weverse lives was exactly the same in person: charming, funny, and easy to talk to.

You hadn’t expected him to answer your small, silly questions, but he was attentive, responding to everything like you had known each other for years. You felt, strangely, at ease.

He pouted slightly, suddenly distracted by the lace ruffles at the hem of your dress, his fingers lightly brushing and playing with them.

“Used all his perfume to spray it on the huge bug.” he chuckled lowly, his eyes still lowered towards your dress.

You giggled, imagining the chaos. “Did the bug get killed?”

Jungkook slowly looked at you, his eyes a little heavy-lidded, his hands still idly playing with the hem of your dress.

“Hmm, no.” he rasped.

Your eyes widened when he pulled you closer, his left arm circling your waist to steady you. His right tattooed hand lifted both your legs across his lap.

“You smell good.” he murmured closely, fingers now toying with the ribbons of your wrap dress.

You gulped harshly, your hands resting awkwardly on his arm for balance. Up close, he could see the details of your makeup—light glitter dusted across your cheeks and eyelids, pink gloss on your lips, a soft blush deepening from warmth, and lashes curled with a hint of mascara.

He lifted a loose strand of your hair, tucking it behind your ear, then let his fingers trail lightly along your cheek.

“You dolled up for me?” he said lightly, tilting his head.

His tone had shifted—less careful now, more playful… almost teasing.

“Y-Yes… do you like it?” you asked shyly. It had taken you hours to finish your makeup, hours to pick a dress and style your hair. You were almost embarrassed when you saw that he looked so fresh and handsome after the shower, while you had taken an eternity to get ready.

Jungkook poked the inside of his cheek. He held your face with one hand, almost squishing both of your cheeks. His touch was gentle, but the way he tilted your head to examine your face made you feel weird.

Made you feel wet.

“I do,” he said lowly. “I like the glitters.”

You smiled, a bit more confident now. “Really?” you said happily, leaning a little closer to him. “Matches my doll shoes right?” You moved your toes up and down.

Jungkook nodded, his lazy eyes staring at you, then down at your dress. His hands traced slow circles on your bare thighs, making you tingly.

“I noticed something though…”

“Hmm, what?” you tilted your head curiously.

He pouted. “Your dress has no glitters, babygirl.” He slightly held the end of your dress, as if examining the texture.

You pouted. “Yeah…” You looked down. “B-But—”

Your thoughts were interrupted when he softly kissed your cheek.

“Hmm…” He slowly held the ribbons of your dress, and with one hand, he untied the knot.

“W-Wait—” you gasped, eyes widening when you saw what he was doing.

“It has no glitters, baby… doesn't match your pretty little shoes and makeup." he said in a mocking tone, removing your dress from your shoulders.

“Jungkook…” you said softly, cheeks growing hot under his gaze.

Licking his lower lip, his gaze dropped to your body.

The soft swell of your breasts was hugged perfectly by the white bra you were wearing, matching the delicate fabric of your panties. The small white ribbon resting between your breasts and the top of your underwear caught his attention—something so simple, yet enough to make his cock tighten.

You looked… soft, so pretty, too cute. Ready to be ruined by him.

His hands slowly moved to the straps of your bra “Oh baby…” he said in a cooing tone. “This doesn’t have glitters as well.” He said it like it was a problem. His fingers hooked onto the straps before pulling them away from your skin—only to let them snap back in place, the sting blooming lightly against you.

You were speechless. The way he talked to you, the way he looked at you, the way he played with you—it made your body heat up, a quiet rush of warmth settling low in your stomach.

Your instinct was to cover yourself, but the way he raised a brow at you made you hesitate, a shiver running through you instead. You blinked slowly, caught between nerves and awareness you couldn’t quite name.

“Jungkook, t-this is embarrassing.” you said in a small voice.

You thought you could be confident—years of reading fanfictions had convinced you of that. You were certain you could fuck him better, that you could show him what you were capable of. Make him feel good. Please him. Make him happy.

You had been so sure of yourself—so full of it, even—thinking you could give him the best night of his life.

But the moment he touched you, your mind went completely blank. All rational thoughts slipped away, leaving you flustered and unsure of yourself, shrinking back into a shy, overwhelmed version of you.

Jungkook chuckled sarcastically. You gasped when he suddenly pulled your hair, his lips reaching under your ear to whisper.

“You signed up for this, didn’t you?” he rasped, his lips grazing your earlobe.

You squealed, his dominance eating you alive. His sweet, teasing tone was gone; the way he pulled your hair closer made you shiver.

“Y-Yes,” you bit your lip. You felt his lips move down your neck, his hot breath tickling you.

“Hmm… do you want me to elaborate on what we’re doing here?” he said in a tone like he was talking to a child. You gasped when he slightly bit your neck.

“Sorry, I was j-just—”

He removed your bra quickly, tossing it somewhere before his fingers grazed near the swell of your breast, teasing you.

“Use your pretty little brain, baby, come on…” he said harshly, suddenly pinching your nipples, making you whimper.

Jungkook raised his head to look at you, his pupils dilated. The way he swallowed harshly when he saw your round breast and pink nipples made him leak.

“Do you know…” he whispered under your ear. “How bad…” He slightly slapped your nipple, soothing it afterward by rolling it gently between his fingers. “I wanted to fuck you?”

“J-Jungkook-”

“Look at you… you’ll let me do whatever I want, right?”

You shut your eyes tightly…followed by a slow nod, stunned by his words and actions.

He raised a brow, eyes dropping to your nipples. Your vision almost slipped when he suddenly spat on them, using his fingers to spread it over your breast.

“Yeah? You’ll let me use you?” he said in a low voice, his hands now trailing down the garters of your underwear. “Like a pretty little, sparkly slut that your are.’’

You knew what he wanted—it had been clear from the very beginning. It had already been hours, and you were still shy and hesitant. You wanted this too, but you were scared to make the first move, scared to say or do something that might turn him off.

He, on the other hand, had been patient from the start—letting you settle in, letting you eat, letting you relax, asking you what you wanted, giving you time without rushing you.

You didn’t realize the way his eyes darkened the moment you entered his room—the way they wandered down the valley of your breasts, the way they roamed over your dress that hugged your curves— showing the swell of your hips, the way his gaze followed the pout of your lips. The way your cute little glitters and doll shoes made you look like a proper little slut for him to use.

It’s been more than a year.

Jungkook had been busy with tour, with the group’s latest comeback. He had been working endlessly—promoting their new songs, filming content for a variety of brands, updating his Instagram and TikTok daily for ARMYs, practicing nonstop to show his best on tour. His schedule had been packed for over a year since their comeback.

Now that the tour had finally come to an end, it was his time to relax and unwind.

Jungkook’s stamina was unreal. Despite his busy schedule, there were times he would ask his manager to arrange private, strictly confidential meetings through NDAs.

Unfortunately, their latest tour had been much bigger, making it harder for his manager to coordinate anything outside of his packed schedule. Because of that, for the past months, Jungkook had been letting all of his sexual frustrations by himself.

It started in 2017. At first, he was the one personally choosing and approving everything himself, but after a few years—once his fame and schedule became even more intense—his manager took over the process. It became less personal and more structured, handled carefully behind the scenes.

With his level of fame, everything had to be treated with strict confidentiality and formal documentation.

For years, all the NDAs Jungkook had been involved with stayed quiet—carefully kept private, out of fear of the consequences, but also lingering with the hope of another night with him.

He was a man, after all. With his busy schedule and global fame, there was no room for commitment or long-term relationships. Everything in his life moved too fast, too publicly, too tightly controlled.

Because of that, he relied on brief, private arrangements—carefully managed and kept out of the public eye—to relieve stress and maintain some sense of personal balance amid his packed schedule.

It was almost like something carefully curated over time. He didn’t have a specific type, but his manager knew him well enough to anticipate what he was comfortable with. Over the years, everything had become more structured—quiet introductions, formal agreements, and strict confidentiality before anything could proceed.

After the tour, Jungkook had been particularly insistent on arranging an NDA soon. The long schedule and constant pressure had built up, and he needed a way to release the pent up sexual frustration.

When the team decided to extend their stay in the country after the final stop, his manager quietly began looking into possible private, strictly confidential arrangements handled under NDAs.

It wasn’t urgent—more of a routine precaution when they had extended time in one location. In most cases, it was beneficial if the person involved was already an ARMY, since familiarity with boundaries and expectations made things easier. Over time, most of the people who signed were fans in one way or another, while others were simply individuals who happened to be in the right place at the right time and agreed to the confidentiality terms.

Jungkook himself rarely interfered with the process. He trusted his manager to handle the details, especially during tours and rare breaks when privacy mattered more than anything else. The goal was simple: rest, recovery, and avoiding unnecessary exposure.

That was why his manager moved discreetly when he saw you—subtly noting your presence, your behavior, and your isolation from the crowd before eventually placing a small calling card on your table.

When Jungkook saw you standing in front of him, frozen like a deer caught in headlights, all his rational thoughts slipped away for a moment. You looked so sweet, ready to be used.

Jungkook was unbearably horny.

He wasn’t the type to extend another night, even with a potential NDA—but he was the type who wouldn’t stop fucking you once you stepped into his space. The kind who fucked hard. The kind who took control and dominated you without hesitation. The kind who would leave marks—bruises that lingered long after the night ended. Whether you were the shy type or the bold type, you would fold once he touches you, once he pulls your hair and manoeuvres your body to his own liking.

He’s mean when he fucks, praising you in a degrading way… though he would always start off sweet, to ease the tension, with his usual kind self and bunny smiles.

But, afterwards?

He would fuck you like a dirty whore, play with you like a little toy, use you like a cum dump.

When he noticed how hesitant and vulnerable you were, he took the lead by making sure you were comfortable at first. But his patience was running thin. Your sweet scent engulfed his senses—your soft voice and small giggles, your shy smile and twinkling eyes—it all made his cock twitch.

It had been months—too long without a proper release. At first, he wanted to take his sweet time with you, but your hesitance and shy demeanor were driving him crazy. Jungkook wanted to bend you over and fuck your unused holes, wanted to wrap his hands around your neck, wanted to fuck your pretty mouth until you were gagging and crying for him, wanted to feel your warm pussy wrapped around him until he could no longer think straight.

He forcefully ripped your underwear, leaving red marks on your thighs. Your body was now fully exposed to him.

“Pretty girl,” he mused, when his gaze dropped at your pussy, you instinctively closed your legs.

He gripped your thighs, forcing them open so he could look at your cunt. “Pretty little pussy.” he whispered, staring at your cunt with a faint shine visible from your wetness. “Acting so shy yet your pussy is soaking.”

“Jungkook, p-please…” you pleaded, slightly moving your legs.

“Aww, a few moments ago you wouldn’t let me see you. Now you’re pleading, hmm?” he cooed.

Your breath hitched when his index finger traced the slit of your cunt, gathering your juices.

“Oh, t-that’s—” you whimpered. 

You were long gone.

He was making you so wet and turned on. Not that you weren’t already—your shyness was already getting the best of you—but the moment he took the lead, whatever composure you had left began to slip away. Your thoughts scattered, your attention narrowing to him alone, your body reacting in a way that made you feel both overwhelmed and helplessly aware of him.

Your eyes widened when he licked the finger that had gathered your wetness, staring at you while his tongue rolled over it.

“Hmm, you taste so good.” his finger, now wet with saliva, went back down your cunt to gather your juices again, bringing it to his mouth to taste it once more.

“Do you taste yourself?” 

“N-No, I haven’t,” you admitted shyly.

He placed his wet finger on your lip. “Open,” he said sharply, like he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

You slowly opened your mouth, his finger immediately sliding in so you could taste yourself. 

“That’s it… twirl your tongue, baby.” You obediently twirled your tongue around his finger, your saliva dripping down his hand messily. His cock twitched at the sight, he pulled his finger from your mouth with a soft pop.

“Get on the bed and spread your legs.” slapping your thigh lightly to urge you up.

You were almost dizzy, his words barely registering in your mind… you stood up, almost stumbling, but Jungkook caught your waist firmly.

“Careful, baby.” he chuckled lowly, your cheeks heating up in response.

Your legs felt weak as you made your way to the bed, Jungkook following behind. When you bent down to remove your doll shoes, he held your arm to stop you.

“Leave them.”

“O-Okay,” your brows furrowed, slowly sitting on the bed with your doll shoes still on.

Jungkook raised a brow at you. “Raise your legs on the bed.”

“But my shoes…” you pouted.

Jungkook chuckled, crouching down to level with your face. “It has glitters, baby. No need to remove it.”

You blinked slowly, the realization settling in as you recalled his earlier comment about your dress and undergarments not having any glitter details.

Raising your feet, you let your doll shoes rest on the mattress. Your legs were folded as you adjusted yourself, your wet cunt fully exposed under his gaze.

Jungkook’s hand moved absently over his shorts as he looked at you with heavy-lidded eyes, his attention fixed on your wet pussy. “Spread wider, baby. Hold your ankles for me.”

You spread your legs wider, holding your ankles, making yourself open for him. Your juices leaked down onto the mattress, giving him a clear view. Your cheeks and neck turned red from what you were doing for him.

“That’s it, wider.” he groaned, removing his shirt and shorts in one go. Your arms almost gave out when you saw him naked in front of you.

He was so huge—his cock red and veiny, precum leaking from the tip, his hand gripping himself, rolling the foreskin, pumping more wetness onto his mushroom head.

Jungkook moved closer, looking down at your cunt while palming himself shamelessly. “Do you like how I touch my cock?’’

You whimpered when his other hand went down to you, his middle finger sliding into your hole easily. The wet squelching sound filled the room.

“Slut,” he whispered. 

Using your wetness, he spread it around his cock like lubricant, mixing it with his precum. “You’re so wet baby, my good little whore.”

You whined, your arms growing tired from the position. When you tried to let go of your ankles, Jungkook slapped your pussy.

“Keep them open,” he said harshly, squeezing his cock tighter, releasing more precum at the tip. 

“Let me see your pretty holes, yeah?” His cheeks hollowed as he gathered saliva and spat onto your exposed cunt, letting it drip inside your wanting hole.

“Jungkook, p-please… I can’t anymore,” you whined, your body clenching around nothing. You wanted him to touch you.

“Shh, be a good doll and stay still, yeah?” he groaned, spitting down on his cock, spreading it along his shaft as he pumped faster while looking at you.

It was so overwhelming—the way he looked at you while touching himself made you so wet.

“P-Please, t-touch me.” you pleaded, your eyes glossy with need, whining when you felt more of your juices spill onto the bed.

Jungkook groaned, “Be a good fucking slut and watch me touch my cock.”

It was obscenely dirty—watching him touch his cock so fast, his gaze locked on your pussy. Every now and then, he’d gather your slick with his fingers, spreading it along his length, making himself even wetter, even more desperate.

And just when it looked like he was about to cum—he stopped.

His hand tightened around the tip, squeezing just enough to hold himself back, dragging the moment out, edging himself with a restraint that only made it worse.

“Fuck!” he quickly kneeled down in front of you, his face now very close to your pussy. When you looked down, your eyes fluttered when you saw him staring closely at your twitching hole.

“You look so tight,” he groaned, his finger tracing your cunt lightly.

“Koo…” you moaned, already shaking from the contact.

He kissed your inner thigh, occasionally biting the soft skin to leave marks. When you were already getting too whiny, he leaned in closer, his tongue pushing inside you.

“Oh, Jungkook—” you moaned loudly, the feeling of his hot tongue inside your hole making you quiver. He was pushing his tongue so deep, like he wanted to collect all your juices.

“Mhm,” he moaned, the vibration giving soft pulses down your clit. He collected all your juices, sucking them as much as possible, going deeper and deeper just to spit it right back up on your swollen clit.

“Oh my gosh—” you whimpered. He was making you as messy as possible. When he wrapped his lips around your clit to suck, you almost saw stars from the pleasure, the sensation pulsating through your whole body making you roll your eyes back.

“You like that?” he murmured while sucking your clit, his tatted finger going inside your hole, releasing more juices from you.

You nodded almost instantly, holding your ankle tighter. When he nipped harshly on your clit, you almost dropped your legs, shaking from how good his lips and tongue felt. He looked up at you, still sucking your clit while inserting another finger inside you, instantly brushing your sensitive spot.

The way his middle and ring finger brushed your g-spot made your clit pulse. With the pressure of his lips around your clit, you were close to cumming.

“Jungkook, I-I’m gonna…”

“Go ahead baby, wanna eat your cum,” he whispered against your cunt, sucking harder, his fingers moving aggressively inside you.

You were shaking. When you felt your high building, you almost pushed him away, letting go of your ankles to grip his hair.

“Jungkook! S-Stop,” you pleaded weakly. The pleasure was too much, too intense. His pace did not falter, his hand pressing your lower stomach down.

When he removed his fingers, you thought he was done, but he immediately rubbed your clit in circles, spitting down on your hood while holding your wriggling body in place.

You moaned loudly… his fingers, his mouth, his spit—all of it pushed you over the edge. You came so hard you almost fainted. 

He still didn’t stop- you were overstimulated, trying to push him away, but he wouldn’t let you, drawing more release out of you. The pressure of his fingers dragged you into another climax, making you squirt messily around him, splashing his face, his neck, his body.

“S-stop, please Koo…” you cried, shaking uncontrollably as you squirted again. His fingers still didn’t stop. His dark eyes stayed fixed on your swollen pussy, amusement etched across his face.

“Messy girl, good job baby.” he cooed, giving your pussy a light slap to coax out the remaining slick.

Your cheeks were wet with tears, your body weak from orgasm. He leaned down, holding your cheeks gently to make you look at him.

“Poor baby, let me wipe your tears, hmm?”

He leaned down, licking your tears slowly, his hot tongue dragging wetly across your cheeks.

You whimpered, your body barely holding itself together. His lips moved down to your nipple, sucking the hard bud softly, while his other hand caressed your other breast, pinching and rolling your nipples.

His throbbing cock grinds against your spent pussy, his swollen tip smearing messily against your slit, spreading his precum all over your cunt.

“Koo…” you said softly, still tired and hazy from your release.

His mouth moved to your other nipple, his teeth tugging slightly, making you gasp. You were certain you would have bruises—the way he sucked your nipple mirrored how he had sucked your clit, lingering just enough to draw a reaction, coating it in spit before taking it fully into his mouth.

“Baby, can you feel how hard I am for you?” he whispered, his cock grinding slowly against your wet pussy, his tip brushing your clit… making you wetter again. “Do you know how long I wanted to fuck a nice warm pussy?” He grabbed your neck, your lips parting instinctively. He took the chance to spit into your mouth, leaning down to slip his tongue in messily, swallowing your moans and protests. His grip tightened each time you whimpered.

“Been touching my hard cock for months baby,” His movements were slow, deliberate—drawing arousal back into your body. “Need your tight pussy so bad.” The way he rolled his hips against you, the way he silenced you with his tongue so no protests could leave your mouth.

“You wanted this?” he groaned against your lips, releasing your neck only to squeeze your breast harshly.

“Ouch, Koo—”

“Answer me,” he said sharply, tapping your right cheek.

“I w-want this,” you said with glossy eyes, small hands gripping his arm tightly.

He tilted his head at you. “Yeah? You wanted to be fucked like a slut don’t you?” he taunted, sitting up to squeeze his cock, teasing himself by twirling his index finger over his tip. “Are you a slut? hmm?”

You nodded weakly. “Would do anything for y-you.’’ you said shyly.

Jungkook raised a brow, standing up at the edge of the bed. “Come here then, crawl to me.”

It was degrading, the way he treats you like a slut for him to use… yet it makes you wetter, makes you hornier. You crawl towards him like a good whore, looking up at him with pleading, sparkly eyes. Your makeup is ruined, your hair disheveled, your doll shoes still intact, making you look like a ruined sex doll.

“Good girl, now wrap your hands around my cock.” he rasped, holding the base out for you. When your small, shaky hands felt his veiny shaft, you almost came again. It twitched in your grip, hard and flushed red at the tip.

He groaned. “Spit on it, baby. Make it nice and wet for me.”

You spat on his cock, spreading it around the base before moving your hands up and down, rolling the foreskin as you worked him. He moaned loudly, head tipping back, jaw clenched, sweat forming across the expanse of his chest.

“That’s it, what a good little whore.” he praised, caressing your hair.

You tried your best to make him feel good. You raised your other hand, spitting into your palm and spreading it together with his precum.

Jungkook groaned at the sight. Using both of your hands, you made a twisting motion along his length, looking up at him like a good girl.

“I w-want you,” you said with a bit of confidence.

Jungkook cursed under his breath. “Suck my cock.” He slapped your hands away, then pulled your hair, forcing you to take his cock into your mouth. His breath hitched when he felt you gag around him, your nose pressed against his pelvis, your eyes turning watery.

“Take it,” he groaned harshly, guiding your head up and down like you were his personal fleshlight. You tried your best to take him, even though he was so big in your mouth, his tip hitting the back of your throat.

It was sloppy and nasty. Your tongue pressed flat against the underside of his cock, tracing the mushroom tip while you hollowed your cheeks and sucked hard. Spit and precum was leaking down your chin, your eyes glossy and red, the way you twirled your tongue to trace the veins of his cock made him groan.

“Hands behind your back,” he panted.

You immediately did what he said, your body fully under his control. When he pushed deeper, your face pressed against his pubic hair. You choked, saliva and precum bubbling at the corners of your mouth, you want to tap his leg, the air in your lungs limited.

“You look so pretty with my cock- fuck! I’m gonna cum.” he grunted, keeping you close until you felt the liquid heat spreading inside your throat. He forced you to swallow, keeping your face snug against his pelvis so not a single drop would spill.

When he released your head, you almost collapsed onto the bed. Your eyes were red, your mouth slightly bruised, and your neck ached from the way he had angled your face. Due to exhaustion, you let him maneuver your body, pushing you down and flipping you over.

“Bend over, baby. I’m not done using you.”

He was still hard, giving his cock a few more pumps before guiding it towards your pussy.

“Open your pussy, baby. Be a useful slut and spread yourself for me.”

With weak hands, you reached back to spread yourself for him, opening your folds. Your wetness leaked down your inner thighs.

“Look at you. You just came, yet your pussy already wants more… dripping all over my sheets like a whore.” he said mockingly.

You whimpered. “P-please, f-fuck me.” You were almost crying, your arms tired and your body aching from the position, but you wanted to please him so badly, wanted him to use you till you could no longer take it anymore.

Jungkook chuckled behind you. You thought he would tease you again, but you gasped when he suddenly pushed his cock inside you. Despite your earlier orgasm, the stretch was still painful, making you scream into the sheets.

“You’re so tight, fuck.” he groaned, looking down at his cock getting swallowed by your tight pussy.

He leaned down, pressing your head down further, his cock pushing deeper and deeper, making you squirm in both pleasure and pain.

“Fucking slut, so tight around daddy.” he whispered, your face buried in the sheets.

You clenched around him, whining against the mattress.

“Oh, you like that?” he taunted, pushing deeper until he reached your g-spot.

You could feel every drag of his cock inside you—his veins, his mushroom tip. The stretch was so good you were close to cumming, clenching around him as he fucked you deeper.

“Stop that, baby, I’m gonna cum.” he almost laughed, pulling your hair up so he could see your face. “Want to fuck you for hours, baby. I’m gonna use your tiny hole till daddy can’t release cum anymore. Do you want that?”

You whimpered, “Yes, d-daddy.”

He groaned harshly; the way you called him made him even hornier. He pulled out and shifted down on his side, pulling your body snug against his chest, your back pressed against him. “Keep your legs up,” he whispered, holding his cock and directing it against your leaking hole.

You didn’t expect to be fucked by Jungkook sideways. He held your waist while driving his hard cock into you, your legs spread wide in the air as his lips nipped harshly at your neck.

“Feels so g-good, daddy.” you moaned, your body bouncing slightly from the force of the way he was fucking you.

Jungkook bit your neck, his hands moving down to rub your clit. “Uhuh, daddy’s gonna fill you with so much cum and you’re gonna hold it like a good girl.’’

You moaned, trying to bite your moans back, but Jungkook slapped your clit harshly. “Moan louder,” he groaned, his balls hitting your ass as he pushes his cock all the way out just to push it harder all the way in.

“J-Jungkook.” you moaned, eyes rolling back.

“Louder.”

“Jungkook!” you moaned louder.

“Good girl,” he chuckled behind you, his fingers coming back down to rub your clit again.

You could feel your cum dripping down your thighs, the loud squelching sound of his cock fucking into your pussy and his deep groans pushing you to the edge. When he gave your clit a good rub, you came all over his cock, your pussy clenching around his girth, releasing so much cum. You held his wrist to stop him, your thighs shaking—you were certain you almost drooled from the deep pulses your cunt was producing.

Jungkook groaned behind you. You gasped weakly when he removed himself inside your twitching pussy, your cum leaking onto the mattress, but he immediately lowered his head to catch your cum, wasting no drop.

“I c-cant, too much!” you cried.

Jungkook held your thighs firmly, slurping all your juices like a starved man. When he raised his head, his chin and nose were wet from your arousal. Using both his index fingers, he opened your hood, exposing your puffy clit. He leaned down to suck it, and you gasped when you felt your cum and his warm saliva spreading.

“Oh daddy,” you moaned, another wave of pleasure rolling through your body.

He looked up at you, his tongue giving kitten licks on your clit. “Are you daddy’s good girl?” he murmured against it, his thumb circling the bud, the dual sensation making you lose your mind. “Do you like how daddy eats your pussy?”

“Yes daddy, it f-feels nice.”

“Nice?” Jungkook chuckled, sucking his thumb before rubbing his spit all over your clit. “Is this nice?” he mocked, looking at your bud as it looked so swollen and pink.

“Describe nice for me,” he growled before standing up, carrying you with him. Your thighs wrapped around his waist as he walked beside the large mirror. Using both of his hands, he held your ass and pushed his cock inside your used hole, using almost no strength to lift your body just to push you up and down around his hard cock.

You could see your reflection in the mirror—the way he used your body to pleasure himself, the way his biceps flexed every time he pushed and pulled you against him. He carried you like a feather, your body like a used, fucked-up sex doll.

“Is this… nice?” he mocked you, his lips parted as he looked at your pleasured face. He could feel your juices dripping down his muscular thighs. He chuckled at you. “Too dumb to answer, baby? Is my cock making you feel so good?”

You squealed, gripping his arms tightly as your body bounced up and down. He was going so fast, his hips snapping against you, pushing up while forcing you down, the tip of his cock hitting your cervix.

“Gonna cum, baby. Would you hold my cum inside like what I taught you?” he panted, his thrusts getting sloppy, his eyes hazy.

“Y-Yes daddy.” 

Jungkook groaned, his hands gripping your ass hard, enough that it hurt. His cock drilled in so deep that you whimpered when he pulled your body close, forcing you down as he spilled all of his warm cum inside you. He groaned beside your ear, biting your neck through his intense orgasm, balls deep and snug against your ass. Your legs were shaking; you felt so full. You tried to move, but his grip was too strong. You could feel all of his cum filling your pussy, and it was so much that you could feel some of it dripping down your legs.

You thought he was done when he removed his cock inside you. Your legs wobbled as he quickly set you down on the bed, his hands palming your pussy as if to keep his cum inside you. Your eyes almost went out of their sockets when you saw that he was still hard.

“Raise your legs,” he rasped, gripping his cock from the base as he spread the cum that was left on his girth.

When you weakly raised your legs, he could see how much cum was inside your pussy, threatening to spill out.

“Touch yourself, push my cum deeper,” he said with serious eyes while staring at your hole.

Your eyes widened. “J-Jungkook, t-thats-”

‘’Come on baby, daddy’s waiting.” 

You gulped harshly. He was slowly rubbing his swollen cock, teasing the tip while waiting for you to move. Your small hand slowly reached down to your hole, pushing his cum deeper, but some of it spilled onto the bed. You tried your best to push it in further, but your past orgasm was still overstimulating you.

“Like this, d-daddy?’’ you said shyly.

Jungkook groaned, staring at his cum in your tight hole. “Good job baby, can you add another finger for me?” 

You added another finger. It was a lot easier to push his cum deeper, but your pussy was getting sensitive. You were whimpering—the fact that he was just staring at you while rubbing his mushroom tip made you chase another high you didn’t even realize was coming. The pad of your fingers brushing against your g-spot with his cum felt so good, forcing you into another mind-blowing orgasm. The fact that you came just from pushing his cum deeper felt so dirty.

“Oh my gosh, I-fuck..” you were convulsing. You removed your fingers, trying to close your thighs shut, but Jungkook held your legs. He quickly inserted his hard cock, you were still pulsating and the feeling of his cock replacing your fingers extended your orgasm, your wet pussy clenching and unclenching around his cock.

“Fuck you feel so good, Daddy didn’t stretch you enough huh? You’re still fucking tight.” he growled, his hips making a rolling motion as his fingers pinched your nipples harshly.

Your tongue was almost out, your pussy still quivering, your clit so sensitive that even the feeling of his pubic hair brushing against it felt incredibly intense.

“Gonna fuck that tight little pussy till your loose, so that everytime you touch yourself your fingers would be too small for your gaping hole.” he grunted, his hands holding both of your wrists above your head, his other hand gripping your throat. He was fucking you so hard that your body was bouncing up. He crouched down to lick your sweaty neck, then moved down to your underarm, licking your sweat messily. You tried to move your arms, but his hold was firm, licking your other underarm and creating a huge wet mess.

“I-I’m close,” you choked, chasing another orgasm, overwhelmed by how many times you had come—you were certain your pussy would be numb after this.

“Hold it, you slut.” he bit the swell of your breast causing you to scream.

He held your body up, then laid down on the bed while holding your waist, placing you on top of him.

“Ride my cock.”

Desperate for release, you positioned your body in front of him, but Jungkook stopped you.

“On your back, babygirl.” he tapped your thighs.

Your cheeks reddened as you positioned your body with your back facing him. When you sank down, you immediately moaned, your ass against his lower stomach. The stretch felt so good, the veins on his cock filling your spongey walls perfectly.

“That’s it, make daddy proud.” he groaned, holding your waist while you moved up and down on him. Your legs were aching, but you didn’t care. When you felt his right tattooed hand slapping your ass, you almost came.

“You look so pretty.” you heard him whisper, his hand caressing your ass, your brows furrowed when his hand went deeper.  “Lower your body for me.”

Confused and a bit dazed, you lowered your body while still riding him. You shrieked loudly when his fingers played with your exposed rim, circling around the hole. You held his thighs, squeezing them hard when he tried to push his thumb in, the stretch making you shiver.

“Would you let me fuck you here, baby?’’ he whispered, pushing this thumb deeper, your tight walls swallowing him.

You haven’t done that before—you can’t even imagine it. He was the first man who touched you there. You were in so deep that you desperately nodded, clenching around his cock as the thought excited you.

He chuckled, “You’re so dirty baby, gonna let me fill all your holes hmm?”

You nodded again. “Yes, only for you J-Jungkook.”

“Yeah? you love me that much huh? I bet you hump your little cooky plushies thinking it’s my hard cock instead.”

He removed his thumb from your ass just to insert his middle and index finger, causing you to scream at the stretch. "Tell me baby, how many times have you masturbated huh?" Your movements slowed down from the sensation.

“Do you fantasize about me? Fantasize about your bias fucking your slutty holes?’’ he taunted, pushing his fingers deeper, his hips pushing up to meet your thrusts.

It was embarrassing; you didn’t answer, afraid to admit the dirty things you did every time you thought of Jungkook—afraid to admit how dirty you were behind your shy demeanor and innocent looks. You liked him so much, idolized him for years, dreamed about meeting him, dreamed about attending his concert, and in your most hidden fantasies… you dreamed about being his girlfriend, what it feels like to be loved by him, to be fucked by him.

“Hmm, baby? I bet you do,” he chuckled.

He removed his fingers, slapping your ass cheeks, then flipping you down onto the bed. “My dirty little girl, touching her little holes while thinking about her bias.”

You couldn’t maintain eye contact, your fingers fiddling with the sheets when he went down to grind his cock against your pussy, both of his arms beside your head.

“Aww baby, are you shy?” he cooed, pushing his cock inside you, trying to find the angle that hits your spot.

You pouted, your eyes a bit hesitant. He held your cheeks so you would look at him. “Don’t worry… daddy’s here, I’m gonna fuck you so good and make your dreams come true.” 

He spit into your parted mouth, urging you to swallow before fucking mercilessly into your tight hole. He held your thighs, almost folding you in half. Your pussy was so stretched and swollen. He leaned down to whisper moans in your ear, his movements so fast you were impressed by his stamina at this point.

“Cum with me baby,” he panted, his thrusts getting sloppy, his mushroom tip hitting the right spot.

Jungkook forced you into another orgasm. You thought you wouldn’t cum, but your pussy was pulsating so badly, his cock still drilling inside you.

He let out a strained growl, his breathing turning heavier with each passing second. When you felt him cumming, he removed his cock from your pussy… quickly inserting it into your other unused hole.

You screamed loudly, the stretch sudden and painful… you could feel his cock pushing his cum deep inside your ass, the sensation making you shake and cry. When you tried to move, he held your waist tightly, balls snug so he could keep his warm cum inside.

He kissed your cheek, “So good for me, so pretty, so tight.” he whispered.

You thought he was done, but when he kissed you hard, his tongue dominating yours, you realized he wasn’t fully sated yet. He pulled you onto the nearest table, bending you over, your hands gripping it for support.

“Lift your leg here, baby,” he instructed, lifting your other leg so you were exposed to him.

The memories were hazy—you remembered him fucking you on the table while your cheeks burned red from the way he pushed you down. You could see the reflection in the mirror, your doll shoes still intact, the table wet from your drool. After that, he fucked your breasts, urging you to suck the tip like a good little whore.

Every time you thought he was done, he would pull you back again, whispering dirty praises about how you were such a good slut for him. His stamina was so impressive, and you were also impressed that you managed to stay awake the whole time.

Even when he was washing you up, he was very sweet, washing your hair and body, yet his fingers were still trailing down your swollen pussy. You protested, but he told you not to worry, saying, “Don’t worry baby, I’m gonna rub the pain away,” while rubbing your pussy in slow circles, causing you to release another orgasm in the shower.

Before you drifted off to sleep, you felt him spreading your legs, whispering. “Last one pretty girl, let me leave you a present when you wake up, yeah? All nice and wet in the morning.” 

It felt almost unreal—like something pulled from a dream you weren’t fully ready to believe had happened.

When you woke up, Jungkook was no longer there.

Your body felt heavy, drained in a way that made even small movements difficult. You shifted under the covers, blinking slowly as reality started to settle in piece by piece.

The room was quiet. Still.

When you sat up, your gaze fell to your doll shoes placed neatly nearby. 

You stared at them for a long moment, your chest tightening in a way you couldn’t quite explain. A quiet reminder that last night had not been a dream.

You weakly stood up, wearing a comfy oversized shirt you were certain was his. Walking over to the table, you noticed a set of breakfast meals laid out—eggs, waffles, bacon, fruits, and a pitcher of orange juice.

Still a bit dazed, you sat down on the couch and stared at the food in front of you, your mind struggling to catch up with reality. Last night still felt distant, almost unreal—like something your brain hadn’t fully accepted yet. But every time you shifted slightly and felt the marks on your skin, the memory returned sharply.

It was real.

You knew the rules. You would never see him again, you would never contact him again, and anything that happened that night would stay with you—carried quietly, taken to your grave.

Your eyes grew teary, not because you regretted it, but because some part of you wished it didn’t end so quickly.

Wished it lasted longer.

You knew better—that you and him were not in a fairytale. You wouldn’t be the special girl who eventually ends up with him. You weren’t inside some ridiculous fanfiction where he would text you afterward, telling you he missed you, that he wanted to see you again, that he might even love you. Pure fiction.

Looking at the food in front of you, your eyes caught a small folded paper tucked beside the plate.

When you opened it, you had expected something sweet—maybe a cute note, maybe his number. You already knew the number he used wasn’t personal anyway, just an exclusive one-night line tied to the NDA.

“Dollshoes.”

It was written quickly, but you recognized his handwriting immediately.

You looked around and spotted a paper bag beside the bed. You stood up at once, walking towards it, your hands already shaking before you even reached it.

Carefully, you opened it.

Inside was a pair of glittery doll shoes.

You searched for a note, but there was none.

You pouted slightly, your heart still skipping at the small gesture. It wasn’t much—but it was something. At least he had left something for you.

It had been months since that night, but you would never forget it.

You told no one—not Mina, not anyone, not even in passing. You were almost afraid that speaking it out loud would make it less real… or worse, make you forget it entirely, reducing it to something that only felt like a dream.

Over the months, something else slowly clicked into place.

While reviewing your notes one day, your eyes drifted absentmindedly to your tote bag. Only then did you notice the small cooky keychain attached to it.

It had to have been what his manager saw.

A quiet sense of relief settled in you then—knowing that despite changing bags since that day, you had never taken it off.

You also tried to think harder—why did he give you a pair of doll shoes? Does he do that with all his hookups? Does he give them a farewell gift too after sleeping with them?

The thought left a strange mix in your chest. A little sadness. A little jealousy you couldn’t quite justify.

And yet, the doll shoes still felt like a strong reminder that you were once his—like he gave you something so you wouldn’t forget him.

Sometimes you would even wonder if everything that happened was only your imagination. His manager’s contact number, Jungkook’s number—gone from your phone. The NDA had included a strict no-contact clause, and everything tied to that night had disappeared with it.

Afterward, you didn’t see them anymore, and you had no idea whether they had even stayed in the country or left immediately.

The moment the marks on your body began to fade, you almost cried—like something of him was slowly slipping away from you too.

Wearing the doll shoes he gave you, you sat in a nice outdoor coffee shop with your laptop and a hot latte.

It had been almost a year.

Despite the beautiful view around you, your attention was fixed on your screen. You were writing a paper—your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment longer than necessary, like they understood something you didn’t want to admit.

You had been careful. Writing the details with precaution.

You changed the places, the countries, the names. You rewrote reality until it no longer belonged to anyone but you. Until it couldn’t be traced back—not to him, not to that night, not to the NDA that should have never felt real in the first place.

You even made sure to hide it in plain sight.

Just another fanfiction.

Just another story.

Just enough to protect yourself.

Just enough to protect him.

Your foot tapped lightly beneath the table, uneven, restless. A habit you picked up a year ago. A habit you never lost.

And then you wrote it—the memory still too fresh to feel like a memory at all.

“Please, please, please!” you whispered to yourself, fingers crossed tightly as you stared at the three screens in front of you.

And for a brief second—you wondered if anyone would believe it was just fiction.

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[ggukiebar]

sex tape | j.jk

pairing: videographer jungkook x fem reader

genre: smut

word count: 12.7k

summary: looking for a decent job, you stumbled upon jungkook’s job posting on instagram, what could go wrong?

warnings: playfuldom!jungkook x fem reader, explicit sexual content, clit rubbing, pussy eating, edging, spitting, degradation, dirty talk, multiple positions, detailed smut, jk is very playful in a degrading way, oral sex, camera sex, pussy slapping, choking, praising, usage of slut, cum eating, marking, multiple orgasms, rough sex, crying, overstimulation, fingering, nipple spitting, penetrative sex, creampie.

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“How about being a barista again? There’s a job opening at Moonlit Cafe down the street,” Hari suggested while you sat hunched over your laptop, endlessly browsing through job postings.

You were still a student, graduating next year with bills clawing at your throat. When college started, you wanted independence so badly it ached beneath your skin. An apartment near the university. Your own keys. Your own groceries. Your own life.

Your parents had offered to cover everything without hesitation, gentle and loving as always, but guilt settled heavily in your chest whenever you thought about it. They were already paying your tuition fees. You wanted them to live comfortably too, without worrying about whether their daughter had enough money for rent or food. So you smiled and told them not to worry, drained your savings account for the apartment, and picked up multiple part-time jobs just to prove to yourself that you could survive on your own.

And for a while, you did.

The first two years of college went smoothly enough. You found decent jobs, saved enough money to live comfortably, and even bought yourself a flat-screen TV after months of careful budgeting. Your days blurred into exhausting routines—classes in the morning, shifts at the coffee shop at night, and weekends spent organizing shelves as a bookstore assistant.

You were tired all the time, but it was a satisfying kind of tired. The kind that made you feel accomplished. 

Independent. Adult.

Until the coffee shop let you go.

Budget cuts, they said apologetically, avoiding your eyes while handing you the notice. Part-time workers were the first to go.

You still had the bookstore job, but the pay barely stretched far enough to cover groceries, let alone rent, electricity, and university expenses. Asking your parents for help would’ve been easy—too easy—but stubbornness rooted itself deep inside you. There were thousands of job postings online. Surely one of them would take you.

Only they never called back.

Two months had passed, and your savings were bleeding out faster than you could stop them. Every day followed the same suffocating routine: school, assignments, cheap instant dinners, and hours of doom-scrolling through applications until your vision blurred from the brightness of your screen.

You groaned quietly, rubbing your tired eyes before glancing over at Hari, who sat cross-legged beside you on the couch with a milk tea in hand. She had shown up at your apartment earlier carrying takeout bags and your favorite boba, worry written plainly across her face after noticing how little you’d been eating lately.

“I already applied there,” you muttered with a pout, dragging your gaze back to the laptop. “But they want someone full-time.”

Hari sighed dramatically, setting her drink down on the coffee table. “You seriously need to rest. You’ve been staring at that thing for hours.”

Before you could protest, she grabbed your boba and pushed it into your hands. The cold plastic pressed against your palms pleasantly.

“Drink,” she ordered. “And let me do the scrolling before you spiral into another existential crisis.”

A laugh bubbled out of her as she pulled the laptop from your lap, and despite the anxiety twisting endlessly inside your chest, you felt your shoulders loosen just a little.

You pouted lightly, sipping your boba while Hari busied herself with your laptop. Your brows slowly furrowed when you noticed her opening tab after tab with alarming confidence.

“Why are you on Facebook?” you asked with a quiet chuckle, watching her click somewhere else before another page loaded. “And now Twitter? Instagram too?”

Hari rolled her eyes dramatically, her face illuminated by the screen’s pale glow. “Because the jobs on LinkedIn are painfully boring,” she scoffed. “There are tons of part-time job offers on social media. I swear I saw one yesterday.”

She narrowed her eyes at the laptop suspiciously, scrolling with the intensity of a detective solving a murder case.

A laugh escaped you as you leaned against her shoulder, chewing on the tapioca pearls you had missed more than you cared to admit. You’d been saving every spare dollar lately, cutting out small comforts one by one until even buying boba started to feel irresponsible.

“But you don’t even know if those are legit,” you pointed out, tilting your head at her. “The sites I applied to are safer from scams and stuff.”

“I know,” Hari replied instantly. “That’s why we’re looking for jobs with a pay-first policy if it’s online.” She clicked onto another account before adding casually, “And if it’s onsite, we’ll bring a gun in case things go wrong or something.”

You burst out laughing at that, nearly choking on your drink.

“Hari!”

“What?” she laughed too, grinning shamelessly. “I’m just being prepared.”

You shook your head at her usual nonsense, warmth blooming faintly in your chest despite the stress that had been suffocating you for weeks now. Hari always had a way of dragging you out of your own head, even if only for a little while.

The apartment suddenly felt less heavy with her around.

You were honestly relieved that semester break had finally arrived. One whole month without classes. No early morning lectures. No deadlines. No professors piling work onto your shoulders.

But instead of resting like a normal person, you had thrown yourself deeper into job hunting.

Hari hated that.

As your closest friend, she had spent the last week trying to convince you to take a break—to go shopping with the girls, take an out-of-town trip, do literally anything that didn’t involve staring at job applications until three in the morning.

You declined every single invitation.

Your friends understood your situation, but they also thought you were driving yourself insane. Which, honestly, you probably were.

That was exactly why Hari showed up tonight carrying your favorite food and overpriced boba tea, determined to drag you away from your spiral. She kept trying to tempt you into going on a girls’ trip with them, insisting that one weekend away wouldn’t kill you.

But every time you thought about relaxing, all you could picture were your bills piling quietly on the kitchen counter. So instead, you stayed curled up on the couch beside her, stubbornly searching for a job you desperately needed.

Hari was beginning to look almost as desperate as you. Maybe not for herself, but for you—for the way your shoulders had slowly grown heavier these past few months, for the exhaustion permanently shadowing your eyes. She wanted you to land a job already so you could finally breathe again without worrying about rent and unpaid bills swallowing you whole.

Which was exactly why she was now doom-scrolling through Twitter with frightening determination.

“I really don’t think you’re gonna find a job there,” you muttered skeptically, watching her open an alarming amount of random threads. “Most of those look like scams.”

“Wait, wait—look at this!”

Hari suddenly grabbed your arm and pulled you closer to the screen, quickly setting her milk tea down beside her like she was preparing for something serious.

Her eyes widened.

“Okay, this one actually looks promising.”

You leaned in slightly as she read aloud.

mnijungkook on ig posted: i’m looking for someone who can take insanely good videos and photos [of me]. i’ll somehow figure out the equipment myself..! please somehow reach out to me! lol, looking for someone to film for me, seriously. and if you’re good at editing too? let’s go on tour together

“There are so many likes and retweets,” Hari said immediately, already opening another tab to search for the original Instagram post. “This has to be legit.”

The second you recognized the username, you nearly choked on your drink.

Laughter burst out of you uncontrollably, your shoulders shaking as you clutched the cup tighter. Hari blinked at you in confusion while your eyes watered from laughing too hard.

“Hari,” you wheezed out, “That’s Jungkook.”

She stared blankly. “Huh? The boss?”

Another laugh escaped you.

Hari genuinely knew almost nothing about K-pop or Korean artists in general, and moments like this always reminded you just how different the two of you were.

Meanwhile, you had once been painfully obsessed.

You used to stay up until dawn watching livestreams, memorizing lyrics, collecting photocards you definitely couldn’t afford, and keeping up with every tiny update posted online. Back then, being a fan felt like a second full-time job.

But life eventually became busier.

School consumed your mornings, work consumed your nights, and somewhere in between surviving deadlines and paying bills, your fangirl phase quietly faded into the background. You still listened to their music almost daily, still smiled whenever one of their songs shuffled into your playlist, but you no longer kept up with every post or appearance the way you once did.

You guessed you had simply grown up.

Even so, seeing Jungkook casually asking for a videographer and editor on Instagram felt surreal enough to make you laugh all over again.

Not updated enough to know that Jungkook was apparently posting job offers on Instagram now. Or that he was even on tour.

“No,” you laughed, shaking your head as you finally calmed down a little. “That’s Jungkook. From BTS. They’re, like… insanely famous, Hari. This is probably some kind of joke or publicity thing.”

Hari’s brows knitted together in confusion before realization slowly dawned across her face. She clicked onto the Instagram profile, eyes widening at the blue verification check and the terrifying number of followers sitting beneath his username.

Nearly thirty million.

“Ohhh, BTS,” she murmured thoughtfully. “Wait—I think I’ve seen him before.” She squinted at one of the photos. “Wasn’t he in a Calvin Klein ad or something?”

You snorted. “Yeah. That’s him.”

Honestly, you expected her to laugh it off after realizing who posted it. Maybe call the idea ridiculous and move on to another job listing.

Instead, Hari clicked onto his Instagram story again with alarming seriousness.

“That means…” she trailed off.

“It’s probably a joke,” you interrupted immediately.

“This is good pay,” she said at the exact same time, eyes practically glittering now.

Before you could stop her, she pressed the reply button beneath the story.

Your lips parted slightly. You genuinely couldn’t tell if she was being serious or completely delusional right now. Probably both. But either way, you let her continue typing because there was absolutely no chance Jungkook himself would ever see it.

He probably received thousands of messages every minute. Millions, even.

The thought alone felt ridiculous.

“Whatever,” you muttered with a helpless chuckle, giving up entirely. “I’m heating up the rice bowl.”

Hari waved you off distractedly, already multitasking between your laptop and her phone like this had suddenly become her personal mission.

You shook your head fondly before standing from the couch, grabbing the takeout container she bought earlier. The apartment filled with the quiet hum of the microwave a moment later, warm light spilling across the tiny kitchen while Hari continued aggressively applying for a job that definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent was never going to happen.

-

You woke up to the shrill sound of your alarm, already preparing yourself for another long day of job hunting.

Hari went home late last night after spending an absurd amount of time DMing Jungkook and scrolling through social media for more “opportunities,” as she called them. Somewhere between laughing at ridiculous job listings and sharing takeout on your couch, the two of you ended up watching an old Disney movie to help you relax.

She still tried convincing you to go on the girls’ out-of-town trip. You still refused.

No matter how badly you wanted a break, your priorities were painfully clear right now. You needed stability first. A stable paycheck. A stable life. Then maybe you could afford to breathe.

After showering, you made yourself a decent cup of coffee and opened your laptop with a tired sigh, mentally preparing to send out another batch of applications that probably wouldn’t get answered.

Then your phone buzzed beside you. An Instagram notification lit up the screen.

You snorted softly to yourself. “This must be Jungkook,” you joked under your breath, absentmindedly opening the app.

What the fuck.

Your heart nearly stopped when you saw the message sitting in your inbox. The coffee suddenly tasted bitter in your mouth.

What the actual fuck?

“Hari!” you practically shrieked the second she answered your call. “Fuck! I don’t even edit videos! I only know basic stuff! I can’t even record properly without my hands shaking!”

You paced around your apartment while panicking into the phone, one hand gripping your hair as you reread the messages over and over again in disbelief.

Sometime after you went to the kitchen last night, Hari had apparently taken it upon herself to completely ruin your life.

She sent Jungkook your entire curriculum vitae.

Not only that—she also wrote and attached a full cover letter explaining why he should hire you.

The realization alone nearly made you pass out.

And when you discovered she had changed your insta profile picture into a formal-looking one while you weren’t paying attention?

You almost laughed and cried at the same time.

It genuinely looked like you had desperately prepared for this opportunity your entire life.

Your eyes skimmed through the cover letter again, horror slowly mixing with something embarrassingly emotional. Hari had written your entire backstory in there—about struggling financially, balancing school and work, trying to stay independent despite everything.

And then she started lying. Blatantly.

Apparently, according to Hari, you were “highly skilled in video editing” with “experience in cinematography.”

Cinematography my ass.

“Hehe… well,” Hari giggled shamelessly through the phone, completely unbothered by your spiraling. Noise echoed behind her, voices and music blending together enough for you to realize she was already with the girls on their trip. “You have to fake a few things to get accepted sometimes, right?”

“Ugh, I can’t do this!” you cried dramatically, pacing back and forth around your apartment while gripping your phone tightly. “I literally don’t know anything about filming! And what if he sues me for faking my skills? He’s famous and influential, Hari!”

Your eyes darted back toward your laptop sitting open on the table, Jungkook’s message glowing on the screen like a ticking time bomb ready to ruin your entire life.

Hari only laughed harder through the call.

“Girl, just try!” she said between giggles. “Watch a tutorial on YouTube or something. Besides…” her tone suddenly turned suspiciously persuasive, “It’s really good pay.”

“Hari!” you screamed again, horrified.

“God, I still can’t believe he actually replied to you,” she continued teasingly. “You must’ve impressed him with your amazing cinematography skills.”

You groaned so loudly you nearly scared yourself.

The worst part was that she wasn’t wrong about the pay.

Your eyes had nearly bulged out of your skull when you saw the amount attached to the offer. There were so many zeros that your brain genuinely short-circuited for a moment.

That was exactly why you couldn’t let it go.

Out of everyone who probably replied to his story, Jungkook somehow answered you. 

You. The probability alone felt absurd.

Thousands of people would kill for this opportunity right now, and meanwhile you were pacing around your apartment like you were preparing for a court trial instead of a job offer.

At first, the teenage fangirl buried deep inside you nearly exploded from excitement. The situation dragged you back to years ago—staying up until four in the morning streaming music videos, binge-watching funny compilations, memorizing choreography you could never actually dance, spending money you absolutely shouldn’t have spent on albums and photocards.

Back then, BTS had practically consumed your life. But time passed.

Somewhere between work shifts, college deadlines, and trying to survive adulthood, you slowly stopped keeping up with them. You still listened to the music, of course, but you no longer knew where they were, what they were doing, or how much they had changed over the years.

Curiosity eventually got the better of you. So you stalked Jungkook’s Instagram a little.

And oh.

Oh, he had changed.

A full sleeve of tattoos now wrapped around his right arm, dark ink decorating skin that used to be bare. Silver piercings glinted against his face in ways that somehow suited him unfairly well. His frame had broadened too, shoulders stronger, body lean and built with the kind of maturity that made him almost unrecognizable from the boy you remembered.

You were used to soft brown hair, oversized hoodies, black skinny jeans, clean arms, and those wide doe-like eyes that made the entire internet lose their minds.

Now he looked mature. Sharper. More dangerous somehow.

A man instead of a boy. And annoyingly enough, it looked really good on him.

“Fuck,” you muttered to yourself, finally realizing you’d been staring at a motorcycle video he posted for far too long.

You immediately locked your phone and pressed it dramatically against your forehead.

“I cannot fangirl right now or I’m seriously gonna lose it.”

Hari kept telling you to just go for it. “You literally have a whole month off from school,” she argued over the phone while you spiraled for the hundredth time. “This is basically the perfect sideline job.”

Sideline job. As if working for Jungkook of BTS was equivalent to tutoring kids after class.

Your stomach twisted anxiously as you stared at the message again. Every second that passed made you feel like the opportunity was slipping farther away. With the amount of people probably flooding his inbox right now, there was no guarantee he wouldn’t change his mind the moment someone actually qualified replied to him.

Your eyes skimmed over his message again, pulse quickening embarrassingly fast.

mnijungkook: hey, i saw your cv ㅎㅎ you really didn’t have to explain everything, but i’m glad you did. i can tell you’re being genuine about this. even without samples, the way you talked about cinematography/editing made me feel like you actually care about it and pay attention to details. sometimes that matters more to me than someone trying too hard to look “professional”

also i get the whole semester break thing. a month is still enough time to try something fun and see if we work well together

don’t stress too much about equipment either because i barely know what i’m doing there yet lol

for payment, don’t worry. if you end up coming with me, i’ll make sure you’re paid well — probably around $20-30k usd for the month depending on the schedule + travel and hotel covered. 

send me your contact info? we can talk more properly :))

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“I am not passionate about cinematography,” you nearly whimpered to yourself, dropping your face into your hands. “To hell with cinematography.”

The amount of lies in Hari’s cover letter was genuinely evil.

And now Jungkook thought you were some hidden creative genius with an artistic eye and a deep love for filmmaking when in reality you barely knew how to stabilize a phone camera.

You felt sick.

But then your eyes drifted back to the payment offer. Twenty to thirty thousand dollars. Travel covered. Hotels covered. Your bank account practically screamed at you to shut up and take the opportunity.

So with trembling fingers and the overwhelming sensation that you were actively ruining your own life, you began typing a reply. A reply that dug your grave even deeper.

You agreed with him. You agreed that you were a “good editor.”

You added your contact details while simultaneously praying that YouTube tutorials could somehow transform you into a professional videographer overnight.

Your fingers hovered above the send button before you forced yourself to press it.

You: thank you so much for even considering me :D i really do believe i’m a good editor, especially when it comes to making things feel natural and cinematic instead of overdone. 

i’d genuinely love to work for you if you’ll have me. i’m willing to learn fast, adjust to whatever style you want, and work hard during the whole month of my semester break.

my contact details are below, thank you so much!

The message was sent instantly.

You stared at the screen in silence afterward, horror slowly settling into every inch of your body.

Yeah. You were doomed.

-

“Wow, what the hell.” Your eyes widened the second you stepped into the hotel room Jungkook had booked for you.

The past few days had moved so fast it almost gave you whiplash. After you sent your contact details, Jungkook immediately messaged you about schedules, filming dates, locations, and travel arrangements as if hiring strangers from Instagram was a completely normal thing for him to do.

Everything had already been prepared before you could even panic properly.

Your plane ticket? Booked.

Hotel room? Paid for.

Transportation? Arranged.

Food allowance? Included.

All you had to do was pack your bags and somehow learn how to film and edit professionally before embarrassing yourself on an international scale.

Easy.

“I am so spoiled,” you muttered in disbelief, slowly stepping farther into the room. It was huge.

Bigger than huge, honestly. The hotel suite looked almost the size of your apartment back home, warm lighting spilling across polished floors and neatly arranged furniture that looked far too expensive for you to even breathe near.

Then your attention landed on the large table sitting near the windows. And your soul nearly left your body.

Equipment. So much fucking equipment.

Two massive black cameras rested neatly beside a smaller handheld one. There was an iPad, a laptop, tripods, microphones, chargers, lighting equipment, and cables so intimidating they looked like they belonged inside a spaceship instead of a filming setup.

Your luggage slipped from your fingers onto the floor with a dull thud as you walked toward the table cautiously, like the devices might explode if you touched them incorrectly.

Your eyes widened even more.

For the past several days, you have been desperately teaching yourself how to edit videos and film cinematic shots. Watching tutorials until sunrise. Memorizing transitions. Learning random camera terms you barely understood.

But you had been practicing with your phone. Your fucking phone.

Meanwhile these cameras looked expensive enough to pay your rent for the next ten years.

You carefully picked one up with both hands, terrified you’d somehow damage it through sheer incompetence alone.

Honestly, you were still shocked Jungkook never asked for samples of your work.

If he had, your career would’ve ended immediately.

The only thing you could’ve shown him was a mediocre CapCut edit with dramatic black-and-white filters slapped over it to make it look “cinematic.”

You groaned loudly, dropping your forehead against the edge of the table.

“Oh my God,” you whispered into the expensive wood. “I’m actually a fraud.”

You nearly lost balance holding the enormous camera in your hands, quickly tightening your grip before your entire future shattered onto the hotel floor in high definition. “Woah, this is heavy.”

Your eyes stayed locked on the equipment nervously as you adjusted the strap around your wrist, trying your best to look like someone who actually knew what they were doing. Because if Jungkook realized how painfully inexperienced you were, he might personally send you back to your country on the next available flight.

You wouldn’t even blame him. The past few nights had been brutal.

You barely slept at all, surviving almost entirely on instant noodles, caffeine, and pure fear while desperately teaching yourself editing techniques through YouTube tutorials. Your laptop had become an extension of your body at this point, constantly running sample footage you filmed around your apartment just so you could practice transitions, lighting adjustments, stabilization, and color grading.

You even studied Jungkook’s editing style specifically.

The pacing of his vlogs.

The soft cinematic filters.

The random zoom-ins.

The casual, natural feeling of the clips.

You analyzed everything like your life depended on it because technically, your rent kind of did. You were getting paid for this. A ridiculous amount, too.

And there was absolutely no way you could afford getting exposed now.

“Okay…” you muttered slowly while fiddling with the camera settings. “This is kinda… easy?”

You said it more like a question than a statement. Still, you forced yourself to keep going.

You searched up tutorials for the exact camera model, watched setup guides, practiced adjusting focus and lighting, and filmed random clips around the room like an aspiring film student fighting for survival.

At some point, you even started taking artistic shots of your coffee cup near the hotel window. For practice, obviously.

Tomorrow was your first official filming day.

According to the schedule Jungkook emailed you earlier, you’d be accompanying him to a golf activity before the concert. He wanted behind-the-scenes footage for the fans—small moments throughout the day, casual interactions, preparations before performing.

And apparently that was only the beginning. Over the next few days, you’d also be filming soundchecks, backstage moments, errands, workouts, rehearsals, and random snippets of his daily routine while on tour.

Basically, your entire existence now revolves around documenting Jungkook’s life aesthetically.

No pressure.

You used his latest vlog as your main reference while practicing, pausing every few seconds to study angles and editing choices carefully. Honestly, the style itself wasn’t impossible to recreate. It leaned more natural than overly polished, which helped calm your nerves slightly.

The problem was you. You weren’t skilled.

And the more you thought about his expectations, the more your stomach twisted itself into knots.

But backing out wasn’t an option anymore.

Not after the cover letter.

Not after the hotel.

Not after the plane ticket.

Definitely not after seeing the paycheck.

So instead of panicking yourself into quitting, you threw every ounce of energy into learning. Practicing. Training.

Like you were preparing for the Olympics instead of secretly faking your way into being Jungkook’s videographer.

You almost had a heart attack when your phone suddenly buzzed while you were testing the cameras.

The heavy device nearly slipped straight out of your hands as Jungkook’s name flashed across the screen.

Your pulse instantly skyrocketed.

Jungkook: hey, i left all the equipment on the table in your hotel room because i had to leave early for rehearsal. camera batteries are charging already, memory cards are inside the small black case, and i think i accidentally tangled all the wires together so… good luck with that honestly ㅎㅎ

there’s also a pass hanging on the chair for backstage access. don’t lose it or my manager’s gonna kill me lol

take your time checking everything first before we head out tomorrow. and if anything’s confusing just call me :))

You stared at the message for a moment longer than necessary, a smile unconsciously pulling at your lips.

His personality somehow translated perfectly even through text messages alone—easygoing, playful, ridiculously approachable despite being one of the biggest celebrities in the world.

It reminded you exactly why he used to be your ultimate bias years ago. There was something naturally charming about him. Something warm.

You quickly typed a reply before you could overthink it too much.

You: yes! i am checking them out hehe.. the batteries are currently charging, the cards are safe, and i’m currently fighting for my life trying to untangle these wires hahaha

good luck with rehearsal!! see you tomorrow!

The second you pressed send, immediate regret flooded your body. You stared at your message in horror.

Why did I sound like that?

Your cheeks burned violently as you reread the multiple “hehe’s” and unnecessary laughter typed into the conversation like a teenager texting her crush for the first time.

You physically covered your face with your hands.

“Oh my God,” you groaned into your palms. It wasn’t like you were trying to flirt. 

Or maybe… just a little bit.

Which honestly made the situation infinitely worse.

You used to be an incredibly dedicated ARMY once upon a time, and frankly, this entire situation was making your heart malfunction.

Working for Jungkook.

Texting Jungkook.

Meeting Jungkook.

It all felt unreal in the most dangerous way possible.

But you forced yourself to set the fangirl part aside before it completely consumed you. You needed to stay professional. Calm. Composed.

Otherwise, you were genuinely convinced you’d suffer a stroke before filming a single decent piece of content for him.

So instead of spiraling, you spent the entire night practicing.

Testing the cameras.

Learning the settings.

Adjusting lighting.

Checking the microphones repeatedly to make sure the audio sounded clean.

You edited random sample clips until your eyes burned from exhaustion, determined to familiarize yourself with the equipment enough to at least fake confidence tomorrow.

And somehow, by pure fear-driven determination alone, morning arrived faster than expected.

You woke up early to practice filming one last time before leaving, moving around the hotel room with nervous energy buzzing beneath your skin. You were oddly dedicated now—almost desperate—to prove that hiring you wasn’t a mistake.

After showering, you dressed carefully in clothes that screamed “professional videographer” despite the fact that you absolutely were not one.

A black long-sleeved polo, dark slacks and black shoes. You even tied your hair back neatly, staring at yourself in the mirror afterward like you were about to infiltrate the FBI instead of filming golf content.

A knock sounded at your hotel door.

“Good day, Ms. Y/N. Are you ready?”

You immediately straightened up before opening it, greeted by one of the bodyguards Jungkook assigned to escort you. His black shades reflected your visibly nervous expression back at you.

“Yes,” you answered quickly, trying to sound more confident than you felt.

Before leaving, you double-checked everything one last time—the batteries, memory cards, laptop, chargers—making sure nothing important was missing before following the bodyguard downstairs.

Outside, a sleek black car waited for you.

Your heartbeat quickened the moment you stepped inside.

You were scheduled to arrive an hour earlier than Jungkook so you could prepare the equipment and set everything up properly before filming started. Which meant you had an entire hour alone to panic in peace. 

The ride itself was painfully quiet. Only the soft hum of the air conditioner filled the car while city lights blurred past the tinted windows. Your hands rested stiffly over your bag, fingers nervously tapping against the expensive camera inside while your thoughts spiraled endlessly.

You swallowed hard. “I can do this,” you whispered quietly to yourself.

Though honestly, you sounded unconvinced. The moment the golf course entrance came into view, your stomach twisted so violently you almost gagged.

Oh God. This was actually happening.

The bodyguard escorted you inside shortly after, guiding you toward the smaller private golf area before leaving you alone to prepare your setup.

The silence that followed felt enormous.

You slowly placed the equipment down, inhaling deeply as the morning breeze brushed against your face. The golf course stretched beautifully beneath the early sunlight, calm and expensive and intimidating all at once.

And somewhere in the middle of unpacking tripods with trembling hands, one horrifying realization settled heavily into your chest.

Soon, Jungkook was going to arrive.

You looked around quietly, taking in the golf course while trying to calm the violent beating of your heart.

The place felt tucked away from the rest of the world somehow—small, peaceful, almost unreal in its stillness. Unlike the massive championship courses you usually saw online, this one felt more intimate. The holes were laid out closer together across smooth fairways trimmed so perfectly they looked like green velvet beneath the morning sun.

Small sand bunkers curved around the landscape, soft hills rolling gently beneath clean white flags planted in the distance.

No screaming crowds. No cameras flashing endlessly. Just the distant rustling of trees, the muted hum of golf carts somewhere farther away, and every now and then, the satisfying thunk of a golf club striking a ball cleanly through the air.

Though, it would’ve been relaxing if you weren’t moments away from throwing up from anxiety.

Your hands were already sweaty as you unpacked the equipment carefully, trying not to look like you had absolutely no clue what you were doing. You adjusted the camera repeatedly, searching for decent angles while silently thanking every higher power possible that there weren’t many people around.

Only a few locals occupied the course, minding their own business.

Good.

Less witnesses for your downfall.

You became so focused on testing camera movements and practicing steady shots that you completely failed to notice someone approaching behind you.

It wasn’t until you angled the camera upward during practice that your soul nearly exited your body.

Jungkook stood directly in frame, smiling right into the lens. Your heart stopped.

“Hi,” he greeted warmly, amusement flickering across his face as he glanced at the camera in your hands. “Looks like you’re having fun already.”

A black sports bag rested beside your equipment now, meaning he must’ve walked over while you were too busy pretending to be a professional filmmaker to notice.

Your eyes widened instantly. “Oh my God—”

You almost tripped over your own feet while hurriedly lowering the camera, panic rushing through your body all at once.

“I was just, um—checking the angles,” you explained nervously, mentally cursing yourself for sounding so awkward. “Nice to meet you! I’m Y/N.”

You quickly wiped your damp palms against your slacks before offering your hand to him politely.

Up close, he somehow looked even more unreal. Tall, broad-shouldered, with beautiful tattoos curling around his arm, silver piercings catching the sunlight softly whenever he smiled.

And unfortunately for your sanity, he was even more handsome in person. Ridiculously so. The kind of handsome that made it difficult to think properly when he looked at you for too long.

He chuckled softly before taking your hand in his. His grip was warm. 

Your brain short-circuited immediately.

Dressed in a fitted white polo shirt and black Nike shorts, a black cap resting low over his dark hair in a way that somehow made him look both ridiculously expensive and effortlessly casual at the same time.

The shirt did absolutely nothing to hide how built he was.

You could see the outline of his muscles beneath the fabric every time he moved, his shoulders broad enough to almost completely block the sunlight from where you stood.

“Hello,” he said warmly, shaking your hand once. “I’m Jungkook. Nice to meet you too.” Your cheeks instantly burned.

Seeing him through a screen was one thing. Seeing him in person felt entirely different.

He was so much more charismatic up close it almost irritated you. His bunny teeth peeked out whenever he smiled, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners while he spoke in that easy, friendly tone that made it impossible not to relax around him.

His entire aura felt bright somehow. Light. Dangerously charming.

You were absolutely screwed.

“I’ll leave the filming techniques up to you,” he continued casually, walking over toward the cooler nearby. “Feel free to film me however you want. No pressure.”

No pressure.

As if your nervous system wasn’t already collapsing in on itself.

He grabbed a cold bottle of water before offering another one toward you naturally, like this entire situation wasn’t surreal at all.

“Thank you,” you answered quickly, taking the bottle before immediately setting it aside again. “Uh—I’ll start filming now!”

You lifted the camera again with almost aggressive determination, eager to gather as much footage as possible. More clips meant more editing options later. More editing options meant a smaller chance of exposing yourself as a complete fraud.

Jungkook raised an amused brow at your sudden seriousness, his gaze briefly traveled over your outfit before returning to your face.

“You sure?” he asked lightly. “You don’t wanna eat first? I still have to stretch and stuff anyway.”

You shook your head immediately. “Nope.”

Your grip tightened around the camera slightly. “I wanna include behind-the-scenes snippets too, so…” you explained, trying your best to sound professional despite your racing heart. “This would actually be good footage.”

The determination in your voice made Jungkook smile again. And for some reason, that tiny look of approval made your stomach flip harder than it should have.

Jungkook chuckled softly. “Alright,” he said easily. “Just tell me if you need specific details or angles.”

Then he walked toward the side of the golf course to begin stretching.

You immediately followed after him with the camera clutched in your hands exactly the way you practiced all night, quickly pressing record before your nerves could stop you.

At first, things seemed to be going surprisingly well. You filmed everything.

His warm-ups were slow, deliberate—like he was already in control of everything around him.

The way he adjusted his gloves with quiet precision. The subtle flex of his arms as he set up his iron, muscles shifting beneath fabric like something effortless and practiced. The clean, confident swing of the club cutting through air before striking the ball with a sharp, satisfying sound. The soft crunch of grass beneath his shoes as he shifted his stance, grounding himself between each shot.

Then the stillness between it all.

Him sitting down beneath the shade, momentarily retreating from the sun. Him lifting a bottle of water to his lips, throat moving as he drank, the back of his hand brushing sweat away from his neck without much thought.

You practically documented his entire existence.

At one point, you even almost followed him toward the restroom before your brain caught up with your body at the last second.

You genuinely thought you were doing an amazing job.

From your perspective, more footage meant more options later during editing. You didn’t want to miss a single moment that could potentially look cinematic or useful.

But from Jungkook’s perspective… It was a little concerning.

At first, he simply watched quietly. He noticed the small mistakes immediately—the way you held the camera too stiffly sometimes, the awkward adjustments of the lens, the shaky transitions between movements.

Still, he tried convincing himself that maybe you were just getting comfortable with the equipment. Maybe you simply needed time.

But as the day continued, realization slowly settled in. Especially when he caught you aggressively zooming into completely unnecessary details before quickly rotating the lens too fast, creating footage that would probably look dizzying when played back.

Beginner.

The word settled into his thoughts almost instantly. You followed him everywhere with unwavering focus, constantly checking the framing, adjusting settings, filming from different angles even when your hands visibly started struggling beneath the camera’s weight.

By the time he returned from the restroom later that afternoon, he paused slightly at the sight of you near the equipment table.

You were rotating your shoulders carefully with a tired grimace, trying to ease the soreness from carrying the camera all day. Sweat clung lightly against your forehead beneath the heat of the sun, and your fingers looked faintly red from gripping the equipment for hours.

Still, the moment you noticed him approaching again, you instinctively reached for the camera.

“I think you have enough footage for today,” Jungkook said quietly before you could pick it up again.

His voice carried something firmer now. Your hands froze mid-motion.

You blinked at him in confusion. “Huh?” you asked, adjusting your grip on the camera. “But you’re not done yet.”

He was still in the middle of playing. There were still shots left, more footage you could take, more angles you could practice.

But instead of continuing, Jungkook simply placed the iron back onto the rack with a quiet sigh.

Something about his body language had changed. Subtle, but noticeable.

The playful brightness from earlier dimmed slightly, exhaustion settling into the slope of his shoulders as he rubbed the back of his neck.

And suddenly, anxiety crept beneath your skin.

Was he disappointed?

The answer was yes. Not angry—he wasn’t angry. But disappointed enough to realize the truth little by little throughout the day.

You don’t have any clue on what you were doing.

The way you handled the camera, the inconsistent framing, the random zoom-ins, the awkward adjustments every few seconds—it was painfully obvious that you were inexperienced.

And for a brief moment, ugly thoughts crossed his mind despite himself.

He trusted you.

Even without polished sample reels or impressive portfolios, he still chose to trust you. Your cover letter had been painfully sincere, especially the part about wanting independence. Wanting to do things on your own so you wouldn’t burden your parents. Wanting to make them proud. Wanting to stand on your own feet.

That part stayed with him longer than it should have.

A lot of people sent him impressive applications. High-quality edits. Cinematic videos. Professional portfolios crafted carefully to catch his attention. Thousands of direct messages flooded his account constantly, most of them blending together into meaningless noise after a while.

But yours stood out somehow.

Maybe it was the formal profile picture that made him laugh- looked strangely earnest among the endless stream of unserious messages. Maybe it was the desperation hidden between your carefully written sentences. Or maybe it was simply because your letter resonated with him more than he expected it to.

He understood that kind of desperation.

That overwhelming need to prove yourself to the world.

He had been independent from a young age too, forced to grow up far earlier than most people ever had to. He knew what it felt like to carry pressure so heavy it started shaping the person you became.

But still—

Maybe you lied just to get close to him.

Maybe you wanted the money.

Maybe you were just another person trying to take advantage of him somehow.

God knew he had already met far too many people like that.

But every time those thoughts surfaced, they disappeared almost instantly the second he looked at you again.

Because you were trying so hard. Too hard, honestly.

The determination written across your face all day felt painfully genuine, from the way you followed him around with aching arms to the sweat gathering near your forehead while you forced yourself to keep filming despite your obvious exhaustion.

You looked less like a manipulative opportunist and more like someone desperately trying not to fail.

Still, disappointment lingered quietly beneath his ribs. A dull ache he couldn’t quite shake away no matter how sincere you looked trying to impress him.

And instead of sending you home immediately, another thought slowly crept into his mind.

Something dangerous.

Something mean.

Something dirty enough to make his pulse slow.

He wanted to punish you for it.

Not enough to truly hurt you—never that—but enough to make you understand exactly what happened when you lied to him. Enough to leave you breathless beneath the weight of his attention, overwhelmed by the consequences of trying to fool him so boldly.

Jungkook had always been competitive for a reason.

He hated losing, hated being made a fool of.

And now that you had managed to slip past his guard so easily, there was no way he was letting you walk away untouched by it.

Oh, he was going to have so much fun with you.

“I wanna film something,” he finally said instead, voice quieter now. More serious.

Your breath caught slightly at the sudden change in tone. The warmth from earlier had faded into something calmer. Harder to read.

“Oh,” you answered softly, momentarily caught off guard. “Okay! What kind of content?”

You quickly stood up and began fixing the equipment into your bags, noticing him grab his car keys from beside his sports bag.

“You’ll see,” he said simply, before turning toward the exit.

Your own brows furrowed in confusion. The schedule he sent clearly stated golf content for today. Nothing else.

Still, you followed him quietly anyway. When he told you to ride with him instead of the escort vehicle, your confusion deepened even more, though you didn’t question it aloud. Maybe he wanted driving footage or some cinematic clips for the vlog.

That had to be it.

Your heart thumped nervously as you climbed into his car beside him, immediately noticing how sleek and absurdly expensive the interior looked. The soft scent of fresh mint lingered in the air, clean and comforting somehow.

The realization that you were sitting inside Jungkook’s car with Jungkook himself nearly made your soul leave your body.

Your hands instinctively reached toward the camera bag.

“No,” Jungkook chuckled softly the moment he noticed. “You’re not gonna film here, pretty girl.”

Pretty girl.

Your entire brain stopped functioning. Heat rushed violently into your cheeks as you slowly pulled your hands away from the bag.

“Oh,” you answered weakly. “Okay…”

You bit your lip afterward, turning slightly toward the window to hide your expression while curiosity twisted tighter inside your chest.

Where exactly was he taking you?

The moment you saw the familiar hotel building come into view through the windshield, confusion settled deeper into your chest.

You followed Jungkook quietly through the lobby, nerves buzzing beneath your skin with every step.

He had gone strangely quiet after golf. Still calm, still composed—but not as bright as before. The easy smiles disappeared, replaced by something heavier lingering beneath his expression, and it made your stomach tighten painfully.

“Uhm…” you started carefully while standing beside him inside the elevator. “Are you gonna get a few more cameras or something?”

The elevator doors slid shut. Jungkook glanced at you briefly, his doe eyes half-lidded in a way that made your throat suddenly feel dry.

“Take a guess.”

Your heartbeat stumbled. Something about his tone made nervousness crawl violently through your body. And when the elevator finally opened onto your floor, Jungkook grabbed your wrist without warning.

You gasped softly, he dragged you out impatiently, long strides carrying the two of you quickly down the hallway toward your hotel room. His grip wasn’t painful, but firm enough to make your pulse race uncontrollably beneath your skin.

By the time you stopped in front of your door, your mind was already spiraling. Jungkook looked down at you expectantly, his pupils dilated, still holding your wrist while waiting for you to unlock the room.

Did he figure it out? The thought struck so hard your chest physically tightened.

Your fingers trembled slightly while pulling out the keycard. Guilt flooded your system all at once, thick and suffocating.

You were scared.

Scared he’d yell at you. Scared he’d confiscate the equipment. Scared he’d have you booked on the next flight home before you even had a chance to explain yourself.

Completely unaware of the way his dark, playful mind worked. Completely unaware of how badly he wanted to punish you.

“Jungkook, I—”

But the words died immediately when he walked past you instead.

He took the camera bag from your hands and moved straight toward the table, pulling out the camera you used earlier before checking the rest of the equipment you left behind.

You blinked in confusion. Huh?

Jungkook grabbed another camera calmly before setting up one of the tripods with practiced ease. The way his fingers moved across the equipment was fast and precise, adjusting settings effortlessly while rotating the camera into position like second nature. His shoulders flexed beneath the white polo each time he lifted the tripod, veins bulging faintly along his tattooed forearms while he fixed the lighting behind it.

Your lips parted slightly without meaning to. He looked ridiculously good doing something as simple as setting up cameras.

“W-What are you doing?” you stammered, confused.

Jungkook glanced back at you over his shoulder while tightening something near the tripod head.

“Sit on the bed for me.”

Your stomach flipped violently. “H-Huh? I mean okay,” you answered quietly, swallowing hard before slowly moving toward the bed.

You sat carefully near the edge while watching him continue adjusting the setup.

With one hand alone, Jungkook lifted the heavy tripod effortlessly and positioned it directly in front of the bed, angling the camera downward toward where you sat.

The veins along his arms flexed again beneath the strain.

Your throat went completely dry. The room suddenly felt much smaller than before.

Hotter too.

You watched silently as he grabbed another tripod, this time placing it to the right side of the bed. Both cameras pointed directly at you now. And for some reason, the sight made your heartbeat pound harder than ever before.

He looked through the camera lens carefully, head tilting slightly as he adjusted the angle. “Lay down on the bed.”

Your eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “What—”

“Lay down.” he commanded sharply.

This time, his tone came out firmer. Serious. Leaving absolutely no room for argument.

And somehow, the way he looked at you through the camera lens sent a sharp shiver crawling down your spine.

To your own horror, excitement slowly started mixing with the fear curling inside your stomach.

You almost wanted to slap yourself for it.

You swallowed hard before slowly slipping your shoes off, awkwardly climbing farther onto the bed until your back rested against the headboard.

Every movement suddenly felt painfully self-aware beneath the cameras pointed directly at you.

Jungkook poked the inside of his cheek thoughtfully while studying the frame through the viewfinder, eventually stepping forward again to move the tripod closer.

Before you could shift yourself lower against the mattress, he suddenly walked toward you instead. Your breath hitched the second he crouched down in front of you holding the clip-on microphone.

He leaned in close enough for you to catch the faint scent of mint lingering on him.

“You forgot these earlier,” he said lightly, though there was something mocking beneath the softness of his voice now.

“Oh,” you answered weakly. “Uhm… I was in a rush, so…” Your cheeks burned instantly from embarrassment. 

Of course you forgot the microphones!

Jungkook raised a brow slowly. “You were in a rush?” he repeated with a quiet chuckle before standing back up again.

Then he walked toward the table and grabbed the smaller digital camcorder, casually aiming it toward you.

The amount of cameras pointed at you now made your stomach twist uncomfortably. Instinctively, you tried sitting up straighter, but Jungkook stopped you immediately.

“Stay still,” he said calmly. “I wanna test the cameras.”

“Test the cameras?”

“I think you need a little demo, baby.” Your heartbeat stopped. “You weren’t doing a very good job earlier.” The teasing mockery in his tone hit you like a truck.

And suddenly everything crashed down at once. Your eyes widened in horror.

Fuck. 

He knew.

Of course he knew!

Heat rushed violently into your face and neck, humiliation crawling across your entire body so intensely it almost hurt. Your chest tightened painfully while tears burned behind your eyes before you could stop them.

You looked away instinctively, shame flooding every inch of you.

God, this was so embarrassing.

“J-Jungkook, please,” you stammered quickly, panic slipping into your voice. “I’m not trying to scam you or anything, it’s just that—”

He stepped closer until his knees brushed against the edge of the bed.

And somehow, that almost satisfied look on his face made your stomach twist even more.

You looked so shy. So cornered. Like a poor little thing unknowingly walking straight into his hands.

His gaze lingered on you with dangerous amusement, as though you had already become his favorite test subject for the cameras.

Dark lazy eyes dragged slowly across your body, taking their time, shamelessly roaming over every inch of you while his imagination sparked vividly to life. You could almost see the thoughts forming behind his eyes—every filthy thing he wanted to do to you, every position he wanted to bend you into, every sound he wanted to force out of your mouth while the cameras kept recording.

And somehow, what excited him even more was the thought of filming it all. Editing it afterward. Watching you fall apart for him frame by frame.

“Shh,” he murmured softly. “It’s okay.”

Your watery eyes lifted toward him immediately. “I’ll teach you how to film, hmm?” he said mockingly.

“W-What?” Your lips parted in disbelief.

Jungkook tilted his head slightly, dark eyes fixed on yours with an unreadable expression.

“Gonna show you the right angles, baby,” he cooed. “What do you think?” He smiled without humor.

The contrast made you shiver. “B-But…”

“Will you cooperate with me?” he asked, voice smooth and almost condescending, like he was speaking to a child. His fingers tapped lightly against one of the cameras beside him. “We wouldn’t want these cameras to go to waste, would we?”

Your throat tightened. Part of you wanted to disappear completely. To book the next flight home, apologize profusely, and somehow repay every expense he wasted on you.

But another part of you—the younger version buried deep inside your chest, the girl who once stayed up all night watching his videos and smiling at her screen—couldn’t let go of this moment.

Because despite everything, Jungkook still hadn’t thrown you out.

He wasn’t yelling at you.

He was giving you another chance.

And maybe that meant you still had an opportunity to prove yourself.

Thousands of people probably wanted your position right now. Yet somehow, he was still here. Patient enough to teach you himself.

Completely unaware of how dangerous that patience actually was.

Because the lessons Jungkook had in mind were nothing like the ones you were expecting.

So slowly, you nodded.

Hope flickered weakly beneath your embarrassment while your thoughts tangled themselves around one desperate need: to impress him somehow.

“Okay,” you whispered nervously. “I—I learn fast when someone’s teaching me and…”

Jungkook raised a thick brow at you. “Pretty girl’s a fast learner, huh?”

Your cheeks immediately reddened again. You nodded shyly despite the obvious teasing in his tone, unconsciously pouting a little from embarrassment.

His eyes went down to your lips, eyes darkening. “Can you count the cameras for me?” he asked a bit impatiently.

You glanced around quickly toward the setup.

The two cameras mounted on tripods.

The camcorder in his hand.

“There’s three,” you answered softly.

Jungkook chuckled under his breath. “Good job, baby.” he slowly lifted the camcorder higher, zooming the lens closer toward your face.

“Now look here.”

You shyly looked into the camera lens, your cheeks dusted with pink beneath the warm lights.

The way Jungkook stared at you through the camcorder made you shrink into yourself slightly, suddenly aware of every little movement you made on the bed.

He tilted his head slowly. “So pretty.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Heat crawled up your neck as you shifted uncomfortably against the mattress, fingers curling slightly into the sheets. The entire situation suddenly felt strangely intimate, and for a second your thoughts drifted somewhere dangerous before you quickly forced yourself to focus again.

This is just a demo.

He’s teaching you.

Nothing else.

“Open the first few buttons of your top,” he said, voice quieter now as he continued looking at you through the camcorder.

Your eyes widened instantly.

Did I hear that right?

“W-What?” you nearly choked out, pulse quickening embarrassingly fast despite how badly this entire situation could end for you.

And somehow, against all logic, excitement started curling through your stomach.

“Need you to cooperate, baby,” he answered smoothly. “Come on, do a nice show for me.”

The teasing edge in his tone made your stomach twist nervously.

You hesitated for a moment before slowly bringing your shaky fingers toward your top, feeling painfully aware of the cameras pointed at you from different angles.

Jungkook watched carefully through the lens, adjusting the focus ring slightly while observing the framing.

“That’s it.” he encouraged.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, fingers trembling as you slowly undid the first few buttons of your blouse. Heat crawled up the back of your neck, burning the tips of your ears as the reality of the situation settled deeper beneath your skin.

He’s filming a sex tape.

You were so fucking stupid because instead of panicking properly, instead of running or completely losing your mind, you were following him blindly. Worse—you were getting excited.

Fuck, you should’ve been crashing out right now.

But the way he looked at you— God.

It felt like he wanted to devour you whole. His dark eyes dragged over every inch of exposed skin with quiet hunger, liquid heat pulsed embarrassingly between the gap of your thighs before you could stop it.

“Open your eyes baby, stare at the camera.” he said firmly, an obvious edge underneath it.

You slowly opened your eyes. Your cheeks were already burning, breath uneven as you finished unbuttoning the last one, revealing just enough of your chest to make your thoughts scatter. The camera lens felt heavier now, more invasive, like it was watching you breathe, waiting for you to make the wrong move.

“Hmm…touch your breasts baby, give it a nice squeeze for me.” he whispered, still holding the camcorder, directing it with the ease of someone who knew exactly what every angle captured.

Completely under his control, you obeyed, your hands moving hesitantly at first before you held yourself through the fabric, giving a light squeeze that made your breath hitch. You bit down on your lower lip, trying to stay steady, trying to keep your eyes locked on the camera like he told you, even as your vision softened at the edges and your body betrayed your focus.

The room felt smaller now. Heavier.

You were getting so wet.

Jungkook let out a low groan, eyes still fixed through the lens.

“Remove your top, wanna see your pretty nipples.”

Your ears burned red at the filthy undertone. With shaky hands, you slowly pulled your top off, revealing the white lace bra beneath. The delicate fabric hugged the soft swell of your breasts perfectly, and the moment Jungkook’s eyes settled on them through the camera lens, another wave of heat rushed through your body.

You slowly tugged at the first strap, then the second, freeing your breasts as your nipples hardened, flushed and sensitive against the cool air.

“That’s it,” he instructed, voice steady. “Roll those pretty nipples for me.”

You obeyed, pinching them gently before rolling them between your fingers. Your lips parted at the rush of sensation that followed, breath catching as your panties got more stickier with your arousal.

When your gaze dropped, you noticed the strain in his black shorts—the obvious tent pressing against the fabric. A shiver ran down your spine at the realization that despite his composed, professional expression as he filmed you, he wasn’t unaffected.

He groaned, zooming in on how you were rolling and pinching your nipples, his cock throbbing at the sight, precum leaking from its mushroom tip.

“Bring your hand to your mouth,” he ordered, directing the camera at your face. “Now, spit on it.”

You whimpered. Like a good girl, you gathered your saliva and spat thickly onto your palms, showing it to him after.

He bit his lower lip, his cock getting so hard from your submissiveness. “Good girl, now rub it on your nipples—make it nice and wet for me,” he rasped.

You rubbed the spit on your breast, the warm, sticky fluid on your nipples feeling so raw and dirty, spreading the saliva messily as he watched you through the lens with hooded eyes.

You were getting so horny, the dirty act turning you on so much that you could feel your panties sticking to your core.

“Look at you,” he chuckled, slowly reaching toward you. “I bet you’re so wet right now.”

You looked so pretty—your neatly done hair now slightly disheveled, cheeks flushed from all the things he’d been instructing you to do, pebbled nipples glistening under the camera lights. Your legs trembled slightly, aching to be touched, your lips parting every now and then as your breath turned uneven, eyes hazy and unfocused.

The sight made Jungkook’s cock throb painfully hard.

His pretty little doll.

He handed you the camcorder. “Hold this, baby. Show them who’s making you this wet.”

With shaky hands and glossy eyes, you took the camera and tried to point it toward him, your eyes rolling back when he removed his white polo shirt and black shorts, leaving him in his gray Calvin Klein boxers.

You whimpered as you could see the outline of his huge cock, precum leaking at the tip, wetting the center of the cloth.

“Your angle is wrong,” he raised a brow, noticing how your shaky hands were failing a bit at holding the camera properly.

You panicked. “I’m sorry,” you rushed out, trying to straighten it, ignoring the painful pulses between your legs—your body begging to be touched.

He chuckled, leaning over you. “It’s okay, baby. That’s why we have another camera.”

His hands came up to your cheeks, gently holding and angling your face to the right so you could look toward the second camera set up by the side of the bed. “I bet you’d look so good getting fucked from that angle,” he whispered.

His grip on your cheeks tightened slightly, squishing them just enough as the camera captured everything—the way your eyes fluttered, the way your nipples hardened under his gaze, the way your legs shifted restlessly, searching for any kind of friction.

You gasped loudly when his free hand went down to cup your pussy through your pants, your eyes rolling back as he felt the wetness through the fabric.

“Fuck, let me see how wet you are, yeah?”

With one hand, he unzipped your pants, pulling them down in one forceful motion while his other hand remained on your cheeks, keeping your gaze fixed on the camera. Your other hand trembled as it tried to capture what he was doing below.

“Capture this, baby,” he breathed, guiding your hand holding the camcorder to angle it downward, towards your wet pussy.

You almost dropped the camera when he suddenly slapped your cunt, your panties nearly see-through from how wet they were with your arousal.

“Jungkook~” you whimpered.

He sat up and held both of your legs, spreading them wider until your ankles were almost on either side of the bed.

“You’re so wet, I can see your cute little slit through your panties baby.” He chuckled, leaning down and hollowing his cheeks to spit right above your clothed clit, making it even messier.

You whimpered, your toes curling at the sensation, gripping the camcorder tightly as you felt him crouch down, spreading his spit over your panties. His warm tongue then licked along your pussy through the fabric, slotting between your folds, the wet material pressing inside your slit.

“Make sure the camera can see how good I’m gonna eat this pussy.” He whispered while looking at you, flipping your panties to the side and groaning when he saw how wet and pink you were, his jaw slackening as he took almost your whole pussy into his warm mouth.

It was so wet and messy, and you could see him through the mini screen of the camcorder, maintaining direct eye contact with the lens while eating you out, making sure to pull back your hood so the camera could capture how his lips would wrapped around your swollen clit.

He suctioned around it, spreading more spit, sucking as if his life depended on it, then moved down to gather your juices before sliding his hot tongue inside you, coaxing more from you. His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, showing you how he drank every bit of your wetness.

“That feels so g-good.” You moaned, trying to zoom in on how his tongue played with your folds.

He hummed, the vibrations making you twitch in pleasure.

“Yeah? This feels good?” he asked, sucking harshly on your clit as your eyes rolled back, your release building up fast. Your pussy throbbed, your clit growing more sensitive with every passing second.

“I’m gonna-’’

You moaned loudly when he buried his face deeper, never letting go of your throbbing clit, his head moving from side to side as he groaned low against you. When he finally let go of your clit, you gasped as he gathered a thick amount of saliva, hollowing his cheeks to spit harshly down on you, then leaning back in with his tongue out to spread it in slow, kitten-like licks.

When he looked up again at the lens, you exploded, your orgasm so intense you could feel your pussy pulsating so hard you almost saw stars.

‘’Stop, please!” You whined, overstimulated as he kept licking your cunt, your legs shaking from the oversensitivity.

His chin and nose were soaked, his lips slightly red and pouty, his dark locks messy, and his pupils dilated. You gasped when he suddenly removed his boxers; his cock was hard and pretty, curving slightly upward, decorated with thick veins and a red, swollen mushroom tip.

Jungkook took the camera and angled it towards you, wide glossy eyes looking up at him weakly.

“Say… thank you for making me cum, Jungkook.” He breathed, his other hand gripping his cock as he spread the precum along his shaft.

“Thank you for m-making me cum, Jungkook.” You croaked, your legs still trembling from your intense orgasm.

He smiled proudly. “My smart girl, very good at following instructions,” he praised, placing the camcorder down beside you and angling it so it could capture how his mouth leaned down to suck your nipples, while his free hand squeezed and rolled the other bud between his fingers.

“Jungkook—” you moaned as his tongue twirled and sucked around your breast, just like he had done to your clit—messy and pouty with saliva.

He bit your nipple playfully, earning a soft whimper from you, his tattooed hand reaching down to cup your swollen pussy.

You gasped when he inserted his middle finger, your walls tightening around the intrusion.

“You’re so tight and warm.” He murmured against your nipple, letting it go with a soft pop before moving to suck on the other one.

You whimpered, your pussy growing wetter from the way he sucked and played with your nipples, the pad of his middle finger brushing against your spongy spot, making you writhe in pleasure.

“Please- too much.” You moaned, his middle finger going so deep that his knuckles were hitting your ass, his finger curling in a “come here” motion inside you, rubbing your spot deliciously as your tight hole produced more juices, the feeling of your previous release being pushed inside you making you tremble.

He let go of your nipple and leaned in immediately, pouty lips capturing yours in a hungry kiss. His tongue slipped into your mouth, messy and demanding, tangling with yours as the kiss deepened and turned overwhelming.

At the same time, his other hand moved up to your throat, fingers wrapping gently around the column of your neck, giving it a light squeeze as he held you in place.

Your lips parted in response, and he took the opportunity to push his tongue deeper, exploring every corner of your mouth, sucking on your tongue and swallowing your whines and protests.

His hard cock pressed against your inner thigh, impossibly close to your wet pussy, grinding lightly as he shifted. You could feel his precum, warm and slick, and the firm pressure of his mushroom tip against your skin made you bite back a shaky breath, a mix of pleasure and nerves twisting together inside you.

Your walls tightened around his finger, making it almost impossible for him to move it from how tightly your pussy gripped him.

He groaned, biting your lip and nudging your thighs wider with his legs, inserting another finger and making you gasp from the mix of pain and pleasure. He swallowed your moans, almost bruising your tongue from the way he was kissing you, the air in your lungs growing limited every time he squeezed your throat.

“Shh, behave for the camera.” he whispered, his thumb caressing your throat while his middle and ring fingers rubbed your spongy spot in slow circles.

Tears fell from your eyes, the overstimulation and edging making you cry from pain. You had already come, but you wanted to cum again so badly, your pussy aching and throbbing for another release, his fingers brushing your g-spot in a teasing, ticklish way, making you shake and move your legs in protest.

“Let me cum again, please, please…” you pleaded, fat tears rolling down your flushed cheeks.

He gripped your throat a little tighter, making you gasp for air. “Aww, you wanna come again?” he cooed.

You nodded desperately, moving your hips to meet his fingers. “Yes, please.”

He chuckled at you. “So polite.” he said, lazily grabbing the camcorder from the side and angling it down towards your spent pussy. “Spread wide, baby.”

You immediately held your ankles, making yourself completely open for him, desperate for release, your body aching from denied pleasure.

He angled the camera at your twitching hole, filming how your wetness dripped down the sheets. He held his hard cock, spitting down onto his shaft and pumping it a few times before angling himself towards your wet cunt.

You gasped loudly when his blunt head entered your hole, biting your lip harshly at the foreign intrusion, the stretch nearly overwhelming you from his swollen mushroom tip alone.

“So big…” you whimpered, holding your ankles tightly as a new wave of tears gathered in your eyes.

Your breath hitched, trembling as you tried to adjust, the sensation stealing every coherent thought from your mind.

Jungkook cursed under his breath, zooming in on your wet cunt to capture how your walls were sucking him in.

“Your pussy looks so good on camera baby, so tight and pretty.” He grunted, pushing halfway in and earning a loud moan from you.

His bangs stuck to his forehead, his lip ring catching the light as he bit down on his lower lip. His broad chest rose and fell heavily, veins tracing along his neck, flushed and taut with effort. Even like this, he held the camera with unnerving steadiness, like nothing about the moment could shake his focus.

So steady and professional at producing sex tapes.

When he bottomed out, you almost fainted, the stretch overwhelming—painful yet intoxicating—as he pressed fully against you. His balls settled deep, his pelvis flush with yours, the soft trim of hair brushing your clit each time he rolled his hips.

He groaned harshly. You could feel his cock throbbing inside you, his jaw clenching as your walls enveloped him.

“Relax, baby—you’re gripping me,” he groaned weakly, this time angling the camera toward your face.

You whimpered, trying to cover your face with your small hands, but he caught both of your wrists and pinned them above your head. His sudden hard thrusts made your body bounce slightly with every movement, leaving you breathless.

“Don’t be shy, baby—show your pretty face to the camera,” he drawled lazily, angling it towards your flushed expression.

“Show them how good I’m making you feel.” He grunted, rolling his hips against you. The curve of his cock hitting your g-spot perfectly, buried so deep that he barely pulled out at all—only circling his hips, grinding in a way that made it feel like he wanted to push even further. The sensation drew a sharp arch through your back.

His gaze stayed locked on you through the screen, lips parted, breath uneven—like he was caught between control and losing it. The way your pussy gripped him made his cock throb, his expression darkening with something possessive and unspoken. 

“Look at you, whimpering like a pretty little slut.” he said in a condescending tone.

“I-I’m not a slut.” You pouted, your walls tightening around him at his degrading tone.

He raised a brow. “Oh really? You think a lot of people won’t agree once I upload this?”

Your eyes widened, panic flashing across your flushed face as his thrusts turned harsher and sloppier, the rhythm giving away how close he was getting. You were almost impressed that he was still managing to keep the camera steady.

“N-No, you are not gonna do that,” you panicked, your eyes wide and glossy, your small hands trying to push the camera away.

He grunted, his cock throbbing as he felt your pussy tighten around him. He shifted just enough to avoid the camera when you reached for it, tightening his grip around both your wrists so you couldn’t move.

“You like that, huh? Come on, pretty—let me film you properly.” He snapped his hips harder, angling the lens toward you while your bodies met in sharp, rhythmic collisions.

The friction made your breath hitch, your clit brushing against his pubic hair in a way that sent jolts of pleasure racing through your body. His grip tightened around the camcorder, breathing uneven as he watched you come apart through the screen, completely drunk on the sounds you were making for him.

“Moan louder.” he commanded.

You moaned loudly, your chest rising and falling as his harsh movements made your body react against him. His eyes rolled back slightly from the way you kept pulsating around him, every drag sending him deeper into overstimulation.

He bit his lip. “My dirty girl, getting fucked on film.” he rasped.

Then, abruptly, he let go of the camcorder and set it aside.

A soft sound escaped him as he pulled out, the sudden emptiness making you whimper. Before you could fully register it, he was already moving you—pulling your body forward and repositioning you in front of him.

He settled behind you, guiding you into place so that you were now facing the cameras on the tripod, your body fully on display while his broad chest and hard cock pressed close from behind.

“You see those two cameras baby?’’ he whispered behind your ear, spreading your legs wide.

“Yes.” you replied weakly.

You gasped loudly when he entered you from behind, your body settling against his lap as his thighs kept your legs spread wide, positioning you so the camera could clearly capture the way he entered you.

“Smile for them baby, need some footage from this angle.’’ He cooed softly, thrusting his hips upward while his other arm circled around your waist to keep you steady.

You moaned, trembling so badly when you saw how the lights caught both of your bodies—the glittering sheen of sweat, your smudged makeup, and his tattooed colored arms all captured in high definition under the harsh glow.

"My pretty pretty girl, should I post this? show them how I fuck?" he murmured against your skin before pressing a kiss to your cheek, his tongue brushing lightly over the dampness left behind by your earlier tears.

The tenderness of it contrasted so badly with the hunger in his voice that it made your breath hitch. His hand cradled your face carefully, thumb stroking beneath your eye as though he was soothing you and provoking you at the same time, and the way he looked at you through half-lidded eyes made heat rush straight to your chest.

He suddenly grabbed the clip-on mic from your necklace, your eyes widening as you realized he was angling it downward—towards where his cock met your pussy.

“Need to test the mic baby, let the viewers hear how much of a nasty slut you are.”

The mic was so close that every sound was picked up clearly—the wet, obscene squelches echoing as he pushed and pulled inside you, the way he dragged against your tight heat sounding even more intense through the recording. The noise alone felt almost sinful in how loud and wet it was.

“I bet they can hear how tight your pussy is.” he grunted, putting the mic closer to your cunt.

He could feel how slick everything had become, wetting his balls each time he pushed, your arousal makes each movement messier.

“Gonna cum, oh gosh.” You moaned, your body growing hypersensitive as your clit throbbed with the pressure of an approaching orgasm.

He grabbed both of your cheeks when he noticed your head starting to fall back from pleasure, forcing you to look straight at the camera in front of you. “Be a good girl and look at the lens, don’t want my content to be bad quality.’’

His other hand clipped the mic back onto your necklace before sliding down again, rubbing slow circles over your clit. You moaned loudly, your back arching as your orgasm edged closer and closer.

“Cum for me baby, show them your cute little juices.” 

Your legs were shaking when you finally reached your orgasm, your clit throbbing so intensely, your limbs giving out as your body hit its peak. Your swollen bud pulsed uncontrollably in fast, erratic heart beats, your walls clenching around his cock as he was still thrusting inside you.

Your eyes rolled back into your head when you felt your orgasm stretch further from his deep thrusts, his mushroom tip brushing against your g-spot and dragging you straight into another wave. You came again, consecutively, your body twitching as overstimulation took over, your legs instinctively trying to close.

"J-Jungkook I can't anymore."

Jungkook forced your legs to stay open, his index and middle fingers spreading your pussy lips apart for the camera, showing how your clit pulsed beneath the warm lights while his cock remained buried deep inside you.

''Mhm.. spit on your clit baby, make it extra wet before I use you." he whispered.

You squirmed, obediently leaning down as his fingers kept you spread open. With trembling breaths, you gathered saliva on your tongue before letting it drip down onto your clit, both cameras capturing the filthy sight in sharp detail.

A low curse slipped past Jungkook’s lips at the view, his grip tightening instinctively as he watched you, completely consumed by the way you willingly put yourself on display for him.

He quickly flipped your body down to chase his own pleasure, entering you again and sloppily thrusting into your wet used walls, pushing your cum deeper and deeper inside you. You were so weak, your heart still racing as you weakly reached for the camcorder to film him.

When he saw what you were doing, he groaned harshly, his grip on your hips tightening so hard it bordered on bruising as he held you down.

“My smart girl, you learned well huh?” He praised you, thrusting fast and hard, the camcorder shaking in your grip as you tried to capture his deep strokes.

"Your little brain functioning well with my cock deep inside you.'' he muttered darkly, thumb brushing against your cheek as he watched your expression unravel for him.

“A-Am I doing a good job?” you asked softly, biting your lip as you adjusted the camera to capture his face this time.

He let out a low growl in response, movements losing their rhythm slightly as pleasure started pulling him apart at the edges. “Uh-huh,” he breathed heavily. “You can be my personal little porn star. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

A loud moan escaped you at the thought, heat rushing instantly to your cheeks as you tightened your grip on the camcorder, suddenly far too eager to keep filming him.

“Gonna fuck you anytime I want,” he breathed, dilated eyes locked on you through the lens. “Film it however I like.”

With a harsh final thrust, he came inside you, grunting as he pushed through the last of it, staying buried as he finished, his body still tense with the release. You could feel his cock pulsing inside you, warm cum spilling and pooling, some of it leaking out and staining the sheets beneath you while he stayed balls deep.

The camcorder slipped from your grip, forgotten as you breathed heavily beneath him. You were completely spent, still sensitive as his hips gave a few slow, instinctive movements, as if trying to push his cum deeper despite his softening cock.

“Jungkook?” you asked weakly, fingers absentmindedly playing with the soft ruffles of his hair.

“Hmm?” he hummed against your neck, lips pressing lazy kisses there, his cock still buried deep inside you. The red recording lights on the cameras kept blinking steadily in the background.

“A-Are you really gonna post this?” you bit your lip, glancing back at the two large cameras perched on the tripod.

Jungkook let out a quiet chuckle, teeth grazing your skin in a teasing bite. “Mhm. I still need to edit it though.”

“Jungkook!” you squealed, panicking again.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and sharp with need, still carrying that lingering haze of desire. “Do you even know how to edit?” he asked, eyes squinting in playful doubt.

Your eyes widened. “I can edit,” you insisted quickly. “I learned a few things… I kinda know the basics.” Your voice softened at the end, almost uncertain.

A small smile tugged at his lips as he slowly pulled out, earning a shaky breath from you before he reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness.

“Hmm. Okay…” he murmured softly, lifting the camcorder slightly between you. “Edit this video for me, then.”

“What, r-really?” you blinked, surprised that he was letting you work for him.

“Uh-huh,” he said casually. “Then we’ll see if I have to keep you or not.”

You pouted instantly at that, but he was already shifting away from you, looking at the camcorder and checking the footage with the ease of someone far too experienced at this.

The screen’s glow reflected faintly against his handsome face as he replayed a few clips, brows slightly furrowed in concentration. Even now, completely relaxed, he somehow still looked annoyingly professional.

“Okay…” you mumbled softly, a little disappointment slipping into your voice before you could hide it.

He noticed immediately. Of course he did.

A smirk pulled at his lips as he lifted the camcorder slightly, teasing you with it. “Make sure you include your pretty moans, baby,” he drawled. “Or else we’ll have to retake this again.”

He stood up then, completely unbothered, removing the cameras from their tripods like the decision had already been made long before you realized it.

Retake.

Oh. He was definitely keeping you.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂˚₊┈┈୨୧┈┈‧₊˚⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂

© 2026 ggukiebar, all rights reserved

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[koo4amor]

oh i’m sat

[espressojoons]

SERVICE FEE (S) 𐙚 JJK

masterlist ✉︎

SUMMARY.  After a long, hellish week at work, the only thing you’re looking forward to doing is smoking a joint and winding down. But when you come up short on cash, your new dealer makes it clear he is as strict as he is dangerously hot. He only takes cash, and no, you can’t pay him back next time. Unless… you can find another way.

word count. 7.7k

warnings. dom!jungkook x sub!reader, nasty filthy smut, NSFW, penetration, oral sex, gun play, scratching, mention of drugs, jk and reader get very high, big dick jk, buying drugs, swearing, light blood mention, light impact play, use of weapons, size kink, praise + degradation, creampie

note. i bring to you dealer jk!! i hope you guys enjoy this fic, i am super excited to share this with you and thank you so much for all the love on thirst trap and the teaser. i was not expecting it to get as much attention as it did! you guys are the best. once again, no character in this story is based on anyone in real life, this is merely a work of fiction. also please make sure to read warnings before reading, there is consensual gun play. also, please leave a comment if you enjoyed the fic! it means a lot <3

taglist. @jeonmaleficent , @jeontylv, @in-a-way-that-i-should-not

comment to be added to the taglist! 𐙚

You flipped through your wallet, then flipped through again, thumbs fumbling with the bills under the heated gaze pinning you in your seat. The low purr of the engine made it worse, like even his car was waiting on you. “I swore I had enough cash, I literally just went to the bank.”

Next to you, Jungkook sat silently, one hand steady on the wheel, the other rubbing at his chin. He didn’t say anything, staring ahead at the dimly lit street.

You cursed under your breath, hands flailing at your pajama pockets that you already knew would result in nothing at all. Between your legs was the little baggie that was supposed to transform your week—so in your grasp but slipping further and further as you realized your dire situation.

You looked up at him with an apologetic expression. “I-I don’t think I have the money.”

The tatted man took a deep breath, shutting his eyes, trying to regain composure. He chewed at his silver lip ring, in thought. “You made me drive 20 miles.”

“I know, I’m sorry! I really thought I had the cash.” Your voice cracked halfway through, palms clammy as you scrambled for excuses. “It’s just, this whole week at work’s been hell, and all I wanted was to wind down this weekend with some weed. My friend swore by you, and I guess I got too excited to check and…” You trailed off, eyes darting back to the baggie between your knees, taunting you. “And now I’m just, shit...”

Jungkook finally turned his head, eyes cutting to you. The harsh shadows of the streetlight carved into his sharp cheekbones, the strong slope of his nose, the metal glint of his lip ring. He didn’t look real. He looked like he belonged in some moody editorial. The sheer fact that this man was sitting next to you in a beat up car, jaw tight, cologne drawling in the air, made your words stumble even more than they already were.

“Can I… pay you back next time?” you tried weakly, the suggestion falling flat even to your own ears.

“Absolutely not.” His tone was flat and final. “I don’t even know you.”

You bristled, fumbling with your wallet again, your fingers trembling more from his stare than from nerves. “Okay, okay, but what about Venmo? Apple Pay? Anything?”

“I already told you.” He scoffed, low and humorless. “Cash. Only.” His eyes didn’t waver from your face, and it was unbearable, like he was dissecting every movement of your mouth.

You flipped through the same wallet again even though you knew it was useless, pretending to double-check. He didn’t even let you finish before cutting in, voice dark. “There’s nothing in there.”

Your head snapped up, heat rising in your cheeks. “So… now what?”

For a moment he didn’t answer. Then, slow as ever, Jungkook reached across the small space between your legs, his tattooed hand brushing low until his fingers grazed the baggie nestled between your thighs.

Your entire body jolted, face going bright red. “E-Excuse me!”

Unbothered, he plucked the weed back, knuckles grazing your leg with casual assertion, and leaned back into his seat. “Hit me up when you have the money.”

Desperation made your hand dart out before your brain caught up. You grabbed his wrist lightly, holding him in place. Not sternly, but just enough. The second you touched him, his gaze darkened, eyes flicking down to your fingers on his skin before returning to your face, heavier.

“C’mon,” you sighed. At the base of your neck, a deep heat settled as you took in his response to your bold move.

Silence pressed in like smoke. He didn’t move, his expression unreadable.

“You know what?” he said finally, voice measured. “Maybe there is something.” His thumb drummed once against the steering wheel before he nodded toward your building. “Let’s smoke first.”

The flight of stairs to your apartment was silent. Painfully so. The tall man loomed behind you, with arms crossed over his chest, watching you mess with your keys.

When you got into your apartment, his eyes darted around, narrowing at your sofa in the middle of your living room. “Smoke here?” he murmured, voice gravel-low.

You barely managed a nod before he was already lowering himself into the cushions, broad shoulders sinking into the fabric like he belonged there. He shrugged off his leather jacket, fluidly revealing curved colored tattoos.

You sat gingerly at the other end of the couch, a bit too far away, palms flat against your thighs. He didn’t look at you, not right away, just pulled the baggie out with casual ease, plucking at papers from his pocket. You watched in silence as he rolled with practiced precision, fingers deft and certain. When his tongue dragged a wet stripe along the paper before sealing it shut, you felt something strange ripple through your chest. He looked unfairly good doing it.

The blue flicker of his lighter caught the edge of the joint, and he leaned back, one arm slung over the back of the sofa. He offered it to you without a word.

You took it, inhaling carefully. The smoke burned hotter than you expected, clawing at your lungs until you coughed, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth.

Jungkook tilted his head, watching you with a faint curve at the corner of his lip. Then, without comment, he took it back and drew in deep, holding it with ease.

“This isn’t how I pictured my Friday night,” you admitted softly, voice scratchy from the smoke.

“Mm.” He exhaled slowly, smoke spilling like mist. “What do you do?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Accounts. Paperwork, spreadsheets… boring stuff.”

One raven brow lifted. “Numbers?”

“Yeah,” you said with a hollow sigh. “Numbers, audits, invoices. Glamorous, right?”

The corner of his mouth tugged faint, almost like a smirk. “Kind of what I do.”

You glanced over out of curiosity, tucking a hair behind your ear. “What, balancing ledgers?”

His eyes cut toward you, sharp even under the fog. “Among other things.”

“What are other things?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

He just laughed, low and quiet, leaving the question hanging between you.

Your curiosity sparked, but you didn’t press. “I only do it occasionally, you know. To relax.”

Jungkook chuckled low, smoke curling from his lips. “Doesn’t look like you’re very relaxed, pretty.”

The word pretty hit you harder than the joint did. You swallowed, trying to mask it with another pull when he passed it back. The smoke burned, but you forced yourself to hold it, coughing only when you finally exhaled. Embarrassed at how much your body reacted. Relax, you told yourself. Calm down.

“Not much of a smoker,” he observed, voice roughened with amusement.

“Yeah, well.” You exhaled shakily, settling back into the couch. “Guess I need more practice.”

His chuckle was quieter this time, under his breath, but it stayed in the air between you. The conversation slowed after that, little pauses stretching longer, words softening with the high settling in. Your cheeks felt warm, your eyes half-lidded, red and tired. You knew the high was setting in when you felt a warm rush, a lazy sweet buzz that made you feel like your fingertips were tingling. When you glanced over, you noticed Jungkook’s gaze matched yours, darker now, glassed over, a light flush coating his dewy skin. He looked pretty, in an oddly soft way.

He cracked his neck slowly, the sharp sound cutting through the grey air. When you looked back at him, his eyes were already on you, lingering too long, tracing your features as though committing them to memory.

“What?” you asked, catching a lip between your teeth. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

His jaw shifted. Finally, his voice broke the silence. “You’re very pretty.”

Heat pooled in your cheeks, and you thanked him gently, the word barely above a murmur. He nodded back, but his eyes were subdued, softer. Something in you shifted, lightly, as though the smoke had tipped you off balance. 

Your eyes couldn’t stop catching on his flexed body, particularly his half clothed arms. Without thinking, your fingers brushed over the ink spiraling down his forearm.

You traced the lines until they grew bolder at a wide petalled flower etched in blue and orange. “What does this one mean?” you asked, voice quieter.

His eyes dropped to where your fingertip lingered. If he was affected, he didn’t let it show. “Protection,” he said after a beat. “It’s supposed to keep bad luck away.”

“Does it work?” you asked. You ran a knuckle over a curved petal.

His tongue darted across his lips. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

You let your touch drift upward, across the thick slope of his arm. His bicep flexed beneath your palm, solid and warm. The movement drew your breath shallow. “And this?” you pressed, brushing over a jagged black design near his shoulder.

His lip ring caught the light as he took a deep hit of the joint. “That one’s nothing. Just a doodle.”

“Kind of a waste,” you murmured, tracing it twice. “Feels like everything on you should mean something.”

That was when his hand closed around your wrist. Not tight, but just enough to pause you. His grip burned hot against your skin, as if he’d pressed the very joint between his lips against you.

His eyes flicked up to yours, decided. “What are you trying to do, baby?”

You froze, lips parting but no sound coming out. “I…”

He watched you like he had all the time in the world, not challenging your hesitance.

Your throat tightened, the words catching, so instead you let your pulse answer for you. You paused a beat, then tilted your chin up and pressed your mouth to his before you could overthink it.

His mouth was warm, unmoving at first, and for a split second you thought you’d made a mistake. Then his lips pressed back decisive, and the air left your lungs in a rush.

He tasted like nothing you expected. How could someone taste so brilliant? The musky taste of weed lingered on his tongue with the spiced freshness of cinnamon gum that it seemed like he had just recently chewed. The chilled metal sting of his lip ring danced across your lips. He tasted like magic, like a spell that was crafted just to lure you in. The kiss was anything but shallow. It was the deep depths of the ocean, the violent waves that broke apart even the strongest of ships. His tongue swirled in your mouth, his wet muscle exploring like no one ever had.

His palms pressed into your face, cradling you. Not forcefully, but stern. He kept you in place and cupped you close to him like you were the most precious thing he had.

Even through the lazy haze of what you had smoked, you couldn’t help but open your eyes to peer at the beautiful man you were kissing. His dark lashes crested his cheek and his eyebrows furrowed together in concentration. His eyebrow piercing caught the light and gleamed. The weed had your mind fucked, you thought, because you felt like you were kissing a Grecian statue, a man so handsome he could only be carved by an artist himself. You wanted him more than you ever had before. You nipped at his bottom lip and suckled at it, and in response he moaned into your mouth deeply. Your bite was strong enough to draw the smallest trace of blood, and the salty, delicious tang of his bleeding lip mixed into your mouth. Clearly, Jungkook liked the rough gesture quite a bit. He lowered a veined tattooed hand and gripped at your ass, kneading the clothed flesh with vigor.

When you finally pulled back to breathe, Jungkook seemed even higher than before. His eyes were heavy and glazed, and he ran his teeth over his bruised, swollen lip.

“You’re driving me fucking crazy,” he rasped. You didn’t even have time to respond before his mouth was on you again, this time suckling bruises into the thin skin of your jaw. He was greedy for you, leaving open-mouthed kisses over the side of your face, licking and sucking at whatever skin he could find. His mouth found your neck and he licked a thick flat stripe, savoring the taste. You shuddered deeply in response and clutched at his inked bicep.

“F-fuck,” you whimpered out as he found a particularly sensitive spot at the base of your neck. He relentlessly sucked blossoming bruises you could only find tomorrow. Your hands roamed down his arms, relishing the way his muscles rippled underneath as he tensed at your touch. His hand left your ass to sweep up under your shirt to feel the honeyed skin of your belly. He dragged his nails across your abdomen, leaving trails of heat over your skin that tightened beneath his touch. You arched into his sharp caress, letting out a shaky breath.

Jungkook pulled back from your neck, his hand still up your shirt, and reached behind your head, grabbing the joint. He brought it to his flushed mouth and took a drag before pressing it to your lips. Eager to not break the delicious haze you were in, you took a deep inhale, letting the smoke fog your brain again.

“That’s it, baby.” He encouraged, “Breathe it in.”

Baby. You warmed at the nickname, smiling shyly before pointing your head up and blowing the smoke out, creating a cloud over the both of you.

Jungkook’s fingers traced your neck, analyzing the mess he made on you. “Bet you’ll stare at these in the mirror later and think of me.”

“Make more.” You leaned away from him, dragging his warm hand out of your shirt. He watched intently as you pulled your shirt over your head, your tits bouncing free and hardening immediately at the chill in the air.

“Holy fuck.” He admired, “Fucking divine.” His hands were quick to seize your tits, kneading them roughly as though testing their weight. His hand fit perfectly over them, as if they were made just to rest in the palm of his hands. He lowered his head, kissing over the swell before taking a nipple into his mouth with a deep groan. He sucked hard, his other hand twisting at the peak of your other breast. He was manhandling your tits like he owned them, like he was made to do this.

“Oh my god!” you gasped, leaning into his warm mouth. He hummed and clamped his teeth around one nipple gently and pulled. You hissed at the sweet sensation and squeezed his shoulder. A heartbeat grew between your legs, each pulse stronger than the last. Your eager hands kept roaming, squeezing wherever you pleased, greedy for every inch of him. You traced the way his shoulders curved like heavy mountains and how his triceps flexed with each teasing squeeze of your tits. Your palms slid lower, mapping the firm slopes of his arms before dipping into the surprisingly delicate curve of his waist.

Your fingers wandered further, hungry, until you brushed the thick muscle of his thighs. They were solid, unyielding, carved like rock under your touch. Heat radiated from them, and when you gave an experimental squeeze, the muscle twitched beneath your palm, alive, flexing as if in answer to your touch. This elicited a deep, primal groan from Jungkook. His thighs weren’t just strong; they were dangerous, made to cage you and hold you in place. The thought alone made your breath hitch and the ache in your core sharpen.

Your hands wandered further down, curious fingers tracing at the rough pockets of his jeans until you brushed against something cold. Solid. Surprised, you broke out of your trance and jerked forward as if you’d been burned. The haze of the smoke and lust cracked as you realized… Jungkook was armed. Your breath stuttered, your pulse went uneven. A thousand thoughts clawed at the back of your head. What the fuck were you really thinking, letting this man into your apartment? Of course he had a fucking gun; he was a dealer. How could you be so seduced by him that you didn’t even realize he could actually be dangerous?

Jungkook froze too, not because he was startled, but because he wanted to watch you. His hand stilled on your breast, lips hovering just above your skin, eyes dragging up to lock with yours. The knowing smirk he carried was gone, replaced by something darker, sharper. He didn’t say a word, just studied your face like he was waiting for your verdict.

“You really… carry that around?” you whispered, eyes glancing back and forth wildly from the thick metal and Jungkook’s unwavering gaze. Being in such close proximity to the weapon had your mind numb.

His hand never left your tits, his thumb flicking at your erect nipples with a surprising ease. “Yeah,” he rumbled. “Like I said, I do a lot of things, pretty.”

His words should’ve calmed you, but paired with the cold analytical steel of his eyes, they only made your pulse falter further. He tilted his head, catching the way your throat bobbed as you swallowed.

“Don’t look so scared.” One calloused hand reached up, fingers brushing your jaw, coaxing your face back to his. “I’d never hurt you. Not unless you ask real nice.”

“What?” You shivered.

His smirk curved slow and timed, like he was thriving off the shift in your body. You sat up. He leaned closer, lips grazing your ear with a snake-like precision.

“Maybe,” he whispered, “you could put those pretty lips to better use.”

His hand slipped over your wrist, guiding it back toward the cool steel. He flattened his palm against your smaller one, letting you feel the real weight of the glock pressed against his thigh.

“Bet you’d look so fucking hot with it in your mouth. Like you’re sucking me off.”

Want pressed heavy between your thighs, insistent and sticky, demanding to be touched. The sound of his twisted, menacing words hit you harder than expected, and your panties started to stick to you uncomfortably, the cloth becoming damp and sticky.

“Y-you want me to put that in my mouth?” Your eyes stayed heavy on his palm flexing your hand on the gun. He reached up again, brushing a spare lock behind your ear.

“Only if you want to.” He eased. He paused, drinking up your shaky breaths and widened eyes. “You wanna give it a try for me?”

The way he asked, you would give anything a try. You nodded, squeezing your clothed thighs, and he chuckled. He leaned over, pressing a chaste kiss to your bare shoulder before issuing his command. “Get on your knees, baby.”

You stood with a sense of urgency that you hadn’t had before, not even when Jungkook’s tongue was down your throat. You could feel Jungkook’s eyes trained on your figure. Your thumbs hooked into the sides of your pajamas as you shimmied out of them, leaving you in your sticky panties glued to your mound. You heard Jungkook inhale next to you, a sound so quiet and tender you almost missed it.

The fabric pooled at your ankles uselessly as you stepped out of it. The chilled apartment air prickled over your bare creamy thighs like the room was breathing with you. When you sank to your knees the carpet’s rough pattern dug into your knee, leaving a welcoming reminder that this was real. You were kneeled in front of Jungkook, mouth ready for anything you were given.

You folded your hands before you, like you were at the altar, and peered up at him through dark lashes. Wide-eyed, trembling, yet impossibly willing. Like a baby deer stumbling into a wolf’s den. A deceitfully innocent baby deer.

“Fuck…” Jungkook cursed under his breath, his tongue sweeping over his lip ring as he took you in. “Aren’t you fucking something.”

His hand dipped to his thigh, removing the dangerous cold steel. The gun came free, gleaming in the dim light the way he did. He leaned back into the couch, legs spreading wide in a deliberate manly sprawl. The weapon rose in his grip, angled down at you, thick and girthy like it was Jungkook’s own cock.

His gaze reeled you in, heavy and arrogant, as his words spilled like smoke into the space between you. “Open up.”

Your lips parted in desire, and you opened your little pink mouth for him to use. You drew your shoulders inward, the motion pressing your tits together and straining them upwards for him to admire. His grip on his gun grew tighter, and a little vein in his temple shifted. “Lick.”

You extended your wet tongue out and pressed it against the base of his knuckle and traced the length until your tongue reached the tip. Jungkook shivered as your tongue slithered lightly over his finger. The cool metal tasted acrid like iron and smoke, but you still savored the lingering taste like Jungkook was branding you inside out.

“You’re so fucking filthy,” Jungkook admired. He reached a hand out, patting your cheek before giving you a light slap. The sting was delicious, divine even, and you moaned softly, rutting into the carpet underneath you for sweet friction.

All fear you had was gone, replaced by withering, deep desire. Jungkook angled the barrel against your lips, nudging until you opened for him again. His hand guided the heavy metal into your mouth, sliding it slow, deliberate, in and out of your mouth. The weight of it pressed against your tongue obscenely, as he fucked your mouth with it.

“Just like that,” he groaned, eyes fixed on the way your lips stretched around it. You hollowed your cheeks obediently, sucking gently, giving him the same innocent gaze like you had no idea how filthy you looked. The sides of your mouth slicked with spit, warm trails running down to your chin.

Jungkook’s breathing hitched, his thighs flexing where he sat sprawled in front of you, cock straining visibly against his jeans. He looked as affected as you were, jaw tight, veins straining in his forearm as he kept the steady movement. “Fuck… you’re killing me,” he growled.

When your spit finally dripped down your chin and onto your breasts, he stilled you with a sharp tug of your hair. You moaned at the tug and at his intense gaze. Jungkook dragged the gun free from your mouth, slick and messy, and ran the barrel down your jaw, collecting the drool that clung there. His eyes darkened further, almost feral, as he brought the weapon to his own lips. Without hesitation, he licked the steel, tasting you, his tongue running over the wetness you’d left behind.

His eyes fluttered shut for a beat as he savored it, chest rising unevenly. When they opened again, they gleamed with something wild. “Fucking sweet,” he rasped, his voice basking on the edge of mania.

The act was so obscene you thought the rush you got from it was going to make you snap in two. Your jaw dropped in shock, and you swore you could cum untouched from the action alone.

“Jungkook…” you started, the name spilling out before your thoughts could catch up.

He rested the gun on his thigh, head cocked to the side as he drank in your fucked-out expression.

“I need you.” You weren’t even sure what you meant, what exactly you needed him to do. Only that your body demanded him, begged him, craved solace from the candle burning low in your belly and dripping onto the carpet beneath you.

Jungkook went quiet, his eyes locked on yours. For a moment, you thought he might haul you back onto the couch or throw you over his shoulder. But no, Jungkook was never one for the predictable. He rose, towering just long enough for you to tilt your chin up to follow him, before lowering himself to the ground beside you, like a predator crouching close to its prey. His proximity stole your breath, and you gaped at him, your need swelling until it burned the voice out of your throat. You pressed harder into the carpet, desperate to ground yourself against the slick heat gathering between your thighs.

Jungkook’s gaze flickered down, then back up, and he leaned closer, centimeters from your face. “What do you want me to do to you, baby?”

You felt like someone had strangled the air out of your lungs. Words tangled in your throat, your lips parted but no sound came out. The silence stretched, the only hum in the air the buzz of your freezer. Jungkook raised a sympathetic hand up to your face, cradling your cheek and running a thumb across the tender flesh.

“I said, tell me what you want me to do to you or I’ll leave you dripping.” The promise was sudden and harsh, sending a chill down your spine.

“N-no, no, no, no. Please touch me, Jungkook, please.” You shook your head frantically, words spilling out broken. You couldn’t be left high and dry — you’d die from desperation.

“Where, baby? How do you want me to touch you?” His voice softened as he caressed your face.

Your mouth opened, then closed, your throat catching on every word. “I—fuck, I want—I need…” You licked your lips. “Please, Jungkook. Please just—fuck me. I need your cock, I need it in me, please.”

Jungkook’s mouth curved, satisfied at your response. “That’s my girl.” His voice dropped so low it rattled through your chest.

He pressed a heavy palm to your torso and pushed lightly. “Lie down for me, baby. Let me make you feel good.” God, you wanted to feel good.

You obeyed without hesitation, laying back onto the carpet, knees up and hands resting by your side. You raised your head to watch Jungkook’s movements, not wanting to miss a single beat.

Jungkook admired you, pressing a tender kiss at your knee and running his hands up your soft thighs, squeezing the fleshiest part. “So smooth,” he huffed out.

You gasped softly as his fingers hooked into your simple cotton panties before he dragged them down your legs. The cool air hit your throbbing, heated core, and you leaned your head back, eyes fluttering closed in anticipation and relief from your ruined underwear. You glistened beautifully, your clit peeking out from your tender folds.

His breath hitched, and for a moment he stared at your arousal. His tongue fiddled with his lip ring, and he ran an experimental thumb up your slit, nudging at your clit.

“Oh!” You gasped, and he chuckled.

His palms anchored against the insides of your knees, prying you wide until you were stretched to your limit, spread helpless beneath him.

He let out a noise low from his throat. “Such a pretty fucking pussy.” His voice was wrecked with want.

You shivered and bit your lip, turning your face away to hide your heated cheeks.

He tutted. “Look at me, baby. Look at me while I make you feel good.” You locked your hooded eyes onto his.

Jungkook’s gaze was sharp and dark, so intense it pinned you to the floor more than his hands ever could. He leaned back onto his heels, one hand fumbling for the forgotten joint, the thin curl of smoke still glowing faintly. He brought it to his own lips, inhaled deep, then pressed it back to your mouth. “Take a hit, baby,” he murmured, voice smoky itself. “I want you high as fuck while I ruin you.”

You listened, of course, lips parting around the rough paper as you drew in. The burn scorched your lungs, mixing with the dizzy throb between your thighs. Before you could exhale, Jungkook pressed a lingering kiss just above your knee, then another closer to your heat, his lips trailing fire as they moved higher.

By the time he reached the softest part of your inner thigh, you were trembling, a whimper slipping out. His mouth lingered there, plush lips sucking a bruise into your soft flesh before he finally shifted, dragging his lip ring directly over your swollen clit. The sharp chill of metal against your most sensitive nerve sent you arching off the floor with a cry, the joint nearly tumbling from your fingers.

“Fuck!” you cried out, attempting to arch up, but his firm hands kept you in place. You reached one hand into his hair, not yanking but curling and intertwining with his soft locks.

That’s when he lost his restraint. Jungkook’s mouth sealed over you, tongue plunging deep, then circling back up to suck your clit with brutal pressure. He groaned into your folds like he couldn’t get enough, the vibrations rattling through your bones. Your hips thrashed, your thighs attempting to clamp him in, but he just held you open and devoured you like a starving man.

Every drag of his tongue was merciless, every suck harsher than the last. Your back bowed, your nails scraped his scalp, and the joint burned into the carpet.

The high of the weed and the high of getting devoured by Jungkook had your brain in a trance, your vision growing spottier as you babbled. “Feels s-so good, feels so good, thank you, thank you…”

His fingers dug deeper into your thighs, holding you wide open as if you were nothing but his feast. “Damn right it does,” he muttered into your folds before sucking harder, punishing and worshipping all at once. Your mouth fell open, unable to hold onto all the pleasure coursing through your body.

The fire in your belly grew, and Jungkook fed into it with each brutal caress of his tongue. The fire was so intense you could only relieve it by chasing and running away from his relentless mouth. But he kept you pinned, his well-crafted muscles and inked hands keeping you down with no effort at all. You bit down on your lip, swelling it beyond what Jungkook had done to your mouth. The fire built and roared until you were seconds from being ignited all over.

“Come on, baby.” He urged, still buried between your legs. You echoed his name as you came, every nerve engulfed in molten pleasure. The sparks of your orgasm froze your body, and your spine jerked wildly.

Jungkook eased your burning heat by detaching from your clit with a wet pop and pressing kisses on your plush folds, lapping softly at your sweet juices. When you finally calmed, your neck was covered with a light sheen of sweat and your chest heaved up and down. Your eyes squeezed shut, trying to regain control of your body.

Jungkook released your knees and shifted forward, settling between your legs. The weight of him, still fully clothed while you lay bare and wrecked beneath him, elicited a gasp from you. Your eyes fluttered open to watch his gaze run down your flushed, trembling figure. His tongue darted out, licking your essence off his lip ring.

“One orgasm wrecked you this badly,” he murmured in your ear. You whimpered weakly, rubbing your head into his. He drew lazy circles on your hipbone, the other hand resting by your head. His eyes were red and glassed over, the high taking over him as strongly as it had you.

“Jungkook…” You breathed out, reaching one hand into his hair again. He hummed in delight as you steadied yourself, letting your fingers entangle in the longer hair at the nape of his neck.

“Come back to me, baby. I’m not done with you yet.” The promise had you shifting underneath him, eyes going wide.

“Y-you’re not?”

“Mhm. Still gotta fuck you, pretty girl.” His nose nudged yours, the gesture gentle in contrast with his delectably dark gaze.

“Can’t waste a pussy that perfect on just my mouth,” he continued, his lip ring nudging at your lips.

Your eyes chased his before you lowered a hand, tugging at the waistband of his jeans.

“Fuck me then.” You weren’t sure if it was a plea, demand, or a prayer.

Jungkook’s mouth twitched into something darkly amused, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted back onto his knees, dragging the hem of his shirt over his head. The fabric peeled away slow, and your breath caught at the sight of him. His torso seemed like it was cut from marble, abs ridged and sharp. A colorful sleeve wrapped one arm, ink twisting over his thick muscle in bold mysterious strokes, somehow making you higher than you were.

His eyes didn’t leave yours as you reached up, fingers tentative, brushing along his chiseled torso. The muscles shifted beneath your touch, and Jungkook’s breath came out in shaky gasps, like he hadn’t expected your touch.

Then he pushed to his feet, making quick work of his jeans. His dark denim slid to the floor, followed by black boxers that clung to his well-defined waist. His cock sprang free, heavy, flushed an angry red that deepened to a beautiful blushed purple at the tip, veins pulsing thickly along the shaft. The sight alone had your mouth drying, your thighs pressing together in want. His cock was as gorgeous as him.

“C-can I…” Your voice trailed off, hand twitching upward.

His jaw clenched, the vein at his temple flexing. “Yeah. Touch me.” He lowered himself back to his knees in front of you.

Your hand wrapped around him gingerly at first, then with more confidence, stroking the velvety skin. Jungkook groaned low, head tipping back as his cock twitched in your hand. His hand caught your wrist, not to stop you but to feel your movements. Your thumb ran over his sensitive head, and you smeared the pre-cum down his shaft. He hissed in delight, his eyes shifting rapidly under his closed eyelids. You watched him, amazed like he was art itself. Jungkook’s eyes flew open when you leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to his hip bone. You weren’t sure where the softness came from, maybe from the shadowed aftermath of the hits you had taken of the joint.

“You’re killing me, baby,” he said through gritted teeth.

You blinked up at him before you flattened back onto the carpet, guiding his fat cock head to press onto your soaked folds. His breath tore ragged, and he muttered a curse so filthy it made you blush. He lowered himself over you, hands on either side as you continued to tease him lightly. You gripped his shaft and slid his cock up and down your slit, and moaned gently in his ear when it nudged your clit. Jungkook was evidently having trouble restraining himself, his breath fanning out on your face each time he tremored from the pleasure. Your slick coated him perfectly, his cock glazed over in his pre-cum and your juices.

He reached down, pressing his forehead to yours, sweat dampening his hairline. “S-stop fucking teasing me, pretty,” he said weakly, his hips bucking against your hand.

You reached a tender hand up and ran your fingers along the side of his face. “You promise to cum in me?”

Jungkook’s eyes widened for a split second before darkening into something primal, his jaw flexing as if he was trying to hold himself back.

He hissed out as you let his tip rest against your fluttering hole. “Fuck, I-I’ll fill you to the fucking brim.”

Satisfied, you pressed down on his tip. The fat crown popped inside with little resistance. You moaned at the light intrusion, the sting so good, so delicious, you needed more.

Jungkook finally had enough of your feather touches. Suddenly, he gripped the sides of your curved thighs. He lifted both your legs up and pressed down under the backs of your knees, letting your thighs press into your stomach. Your ankles were in the air, on either side of his ears. Jungkook slithered between your lifted legs, hands firm at the back of your thighs, and savored the sight of your thick pussy in his clear view, glistening with evidence of how he’d wolfed down on you just minutes ago. Your swollen pink clit peaked out, and your hole fluttered in anticipation.

“Jungkook—” You didn’t have to finish your sentence as Jungkook started pushing in, knocking the air out of your lungs. The noise that ripped out of your throat was something you’d never heard, an erotic cross between a whine and a moan. To say Jungkook was stretching you out was an understatement — he was ripping you open, tearing you apart to make a mold out of you. A place in your sopping core only meant for him. The sting was so good, so filthy, so deliciously painful all you could think of was him. Jungkook hissed as he met resistance and released one thigh for a quick second to pinch at your abused clit.

“Oh my god!” you yelped, head shooting back into the rugged carpet.

“Your cunt’s choking me out,” he said through gritted teeth and pushed in more, shifting his hips side to side to make space. You were euphoric, enjoying every moment of being speared open by the handsome, inked deviant. Soon, your greedy hole started trying to suck him in, clenching and gripping around him with such intensity that Jungkook’s jaw dropped.

“F-feels so fucking good, pretty,” he groaned out, and bottomed out. His balls slapped against your ass, and he stilled, needing a second to ground himself.

“Fuck, Jungkook—you’re so fucking big,” you moaned loudly, eyes rolling back. You were so full that you thought you were going to burst. Your lower belly bulged with his cock, and Jungkook could see his own imprint perfectly. He couldn’t take it anymore; he shifted his hand back to the back of your thigh and pulled out till his balls slapped your ass.

“Say it again,” he demanded, his voice ragged.

“You’re so fucking big, my god, you’re splitting me open,” you sobbed, clenching tighter at the filthy confession.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, gripping tight, dragging your nails over his skin. He started pummeling into you with a force you had never felt before. Your body rocked underneath him, the burn of the carpet stinging your shoulder blades and spine, but you didn’t care. Nothing mattered when Jungkook was burning his mark in you. Your tits bounced with each weighty thrust, and your tummy was taut in pleasure.

“Look at these,” he rasped, slapping one tender mound hard enough to make you squeak. The slap shot straight to your core. He palmed both breasts, squeezing, twisting your nipples between his calloused fingers. “Obsessed. I’m fucking obsessed. Gonna ruin them, mark them up till they ache.”

Your back arched into his greedy touch. You were for sure going to have marks tomorrow. He licked a stripe over one peak before sucking it harshly into his mouth, teeth grazing your pebbled nipple until you gasped out again. Your eyes squeezed shut so tight you could see geometric patterns, and your lips pouted out, savoring each filthy jolt of him fucking into you.

Jungkook let out a shaky breath, seeing your euphoric face. His pace turned relentless and punishing, pulling out with each stroke and shoving back in with full force. His mouth started pouring out filthy promises, causing a blush to rise off your neck.

“I’m gonna cum in you so deep, you’ll feel me for days, baby,” he vowed.

Tears pricked your eyes, the sensation of being stretched and his filthy words too much for you to handle.

“Jungkook,” you gasped, suddenly remembering. “Jungkook, the gun.”

His hips stuttered to a pause, and he stayed buried in you, analyzing your face. He panted over you, quirking a raven brow.

You let your hands roam down his solid torso and stopped where you both joined, letting your fingers brush against him. “Please, I wanna feel it again.”

The sentence and your gentle brush pulled a feral noise from his chest. He reached for it, understanding what you wanted instantly, and pressed the cold barrel against your throat. Your pulse jumped under the steel, heat and fear twisting into something intense. When he resumed his thrusts, your eyes rolled back, savoring the feeling of the dangerous object holding you down along with him.

You had to be crazy for letting a stranger point a gun at your throat, but your rational side had taken a backseat ages ago. Jungkook’s punishing strokes did the deed of pushing away any sanity, any reasoning, any thoughts you had.

Each time you leaked around him or let out a pleading gasp, Jungkook forced the gun harder against your tender throat and savored the way your head leaned against the carpet and your eyebrows knitted together in desperation. You were a mess, a shaking fragile version of yourself about to snap in half at any second. You had no doubts he could feel how close you were, and his plump cock head kissing at the spongy spot deep in you wasn’t helping. You curled into him, running away from the raw scrapes of the carpet burn starting to form on your figure, and he accepted you gladly, burying his face into your neck.

“You’re about to cum, aren’t you, baby?” he breathed out, his veined length driving into you as if it was made for you.

You nodded vehemently, arms wrapping around him and scratching down his back. Jungkook hissed in delight. The ceiling swam above you, clouded by his broad shoulders hovering and blocking anything in your field of vision. The coil in your belly was getting tighter and tighter, and your toes curled out. Salty tears ran down your chin as you felt yourself snap, a wave of unbridled, pure pleasure coursing through your body. You grasped at anything and everything he gave you, your nails digging into his lower back, his shoulders, his biceps, his jaw. His jaw clenched and he closed his eyes, enjoying the piercing prick of your nails as they branded him like proof. If your vision wasn’t darkened by your raging orgasm, you would have seen the red trails blooming on his olive skin.

“Fuck, good girl, that’s it, I’ve got you.” He eased, letting his gun run down the side of your face. His thrusts slowed but deepened, and his eyes trailed over your knitted face and then his own scratched arms.

“Marked me up real fucking good when you came, baby.” He said it with a low, half-broken laugh.

You couldn’t even reply, so fucked out from your brutal peak. His powerful thrusts bounced you up and down on the carpet, and your face lulled to the side, lying flat with closed eyes. He dropped his gun by your head and grabbed your jaw with his hands, squeezing your cheeks together so your lips formed a swollen pucker.

He leaned down and kissed you, with an unexpected softness. You moaned softly and kissed back, returning from your haze. “J-Jungkook…” You trailed off.

“Tell me, baby.”

“I want you to cum.” You urged, your eyes glazed over and bearing into his.

Your shudders barely faded before he was chasing his own high. He drove forward into you, greedy, using your limp weight as his own little toy. You watched him through half-lidded eyes, his jaw locked tight, chasing a peak with the kind of hunger that looked like it might consume him.

He pumped into you rabidly, hands balled up by your head and teeth gritted like he was hanging on his last thread of control. He used one hand to hoist your leg on his hip like you were some sort of glorified doll and drilled into you. He groaned out loudly, sweat beading and collecting at his forehead as he bullied your tight heat.

“Oh my god!” you squealed weakly as he angled into you. “Cum in me, please, please, please.” You begged.

“I’m gonna—” Jungkook couldn’t finish his warning before hot ropes of his release shot inside you.

“Holy fuck.” You gasped out and lowered your eyes, watching your sopping heat get filled up. Jungkook’s mouth opened in a beautiful O-shape, and his hips shifted as he fucked out his orgasm.

“Take it all,” he rasped, voice ruined. “Every drop.”

You were helplessly sensitive, feeling your sopping hole filled to the brim. His body rocked against yours lazily as he made sure every drop of him was squeezed out into you. He kept himself plugged in, making sure nothing went to waste. You could feel the thick veins of his length drag against you.

Finally, Jungkook stilled, resting his forehead against yours and panting, trying to catch the life that had escaped him from drilling into you at a manic pace. He slipped out, and you flinched at the sudden loss of fullness. You felt his lashes flutter against your eyelids, and he ran a large hand down your body and cupped your heat.

“Filled you all the way up like you wanted, pretty.” His voice was mesmerizing, dripping with honey, so contrary to his roughness that was on display just seconds ago.

You whimpered as his palm pressed against your swollen folds and clenched your thighs around his hand, keeping it trapped between your fleshy curves.

He chuckled at your silence. “Not gonna thank me?”

“Thank you,” you panted, words tumbling out shamelessly. “Thank you for filling me, f-fuck, thank you.”

He pressed his palm flatter against you. “You’re so welcome, baby.”

You clenched tighter around his hand until the tremors dulled, until all you could do was collapse against the floor, boneless and wrecked. His laughter brushed over your skin, low and smug, before he finally pulled back, leaving the simmer of absence everywhere he touched.

The silence after was heavy but not awkward, only your panting filling it, and then his voice cut through smooth and unbothered, as if he hadn’t just ruined you.

“So,” he drawled, brushing his thumb over your hip like punctuation. “You wanna smoke again?”

[envy-of-the-apple]

Pleaser

Dark!Gojo Satoru x reader -College AU

word count: 6.6k

Synopsis: You’ve always had a hard time standing up for yourself. Your new roommate loves that about you.

(Warnings: yandere, dark content, manipulation, slight exhibitionism, forced voyeurism(?), non-con, gojo being a freak)

It was a clerical error. 

Gojo Satoru wasn’t supposed to have a roommate because he was Gojo Satoru. The apartment was specifically his, as most things were. 

You were a mistake. 

The administration apologized to you both. They’d fix it in no time, they promised. This would only last a month before you’d move to your permanent residence. 

You didn’t mind the error. His apartment was large and expansive, and you’d already unpacked your stuff. The plan was to keep you there until everybody settled in for the semester, and then they could swap you out to an empty room. 

Gojo didn’t seem to mind too much either. You assumed he’d be a bit more irritated with the situation, but his lax nature was a pleasant surprise. You wouldn’t necessarily call the two of you close, but you weren’t on bad terms either. 

Positive, is the better word. Not exactly neutral, but not too friendly either. You existed on the edges of each other's peripherals, and you were pretty happy with that. Gojo wasn’t a bad roommate either. He kept the apartment mostly clean and didn’t leave any food out. You thought you’d have to deal with loud parties; he seemed like the type, but the tiny circle he gravitated towards never overstayed its welcome. 

The only issue was the music. 

It wasn’t bad music. You enjoyed his taste. You would just rather not hear it blasting through the walls at 2 am. 

A roommate disagreement. It’s the first one you’ve ever had. 

You want to do this right. Your biggest worry is offending him. You spend days figuring out the best way to approach him. You look up ways to gently bring up disagreements between your roommate. You fill a bag with treats and sweets–the kinds you’ve seen him munch on before. You even write a letter because you know how flighty you get in these situations, and you can’t thank him enough for all that he’s done for you, but if he could just maybe perhaps slightly–

“-So you just want me to turn the music down?” Gojo interrupts your rambling.

He’s sitting on the sofa, one leg across the other. You remain standing, too strung up to really relax. The paper you were reading out loud crinkles as you fold it back up. 

“Yeah.” You mumble. “If you can.” 

He takes another candy you’d gifted him, popping it in his mouth. 

“Yeah, sure.” He shrugs, as if it were hardly an inconvenience. 

You, on the other hand, nearly deflated in relief. You didn’t expect it to be so simple. You were half-preparing for the possibility that he’d blow up at you and go back to administration, demanding your eviction. Everything was resolved so easily. 

“Thank you.” A genuine smile graces your lips.

Gojo hums. The candy cracks between his teeth. 

“You’re pretty shy, huh?” He tilts his head, studying you.

A laugh escapes your throat. Nervous. 

“I just don’t like confrontation,” you admit. 

Gojo nods, returning your wave when you say your goodbyes. You think nothing of the exchange. Hours later, you’re still riding the high of how effortless it all went. 

⌂

Two things change today. 

First, Gojo is up this morning. 

He’s never up this early. Usually, you only hear him moving around at noon. You’re the early bird, not him. You never minded his routine. If anything, you appreciated that you ran on separate schedules. 

Second, he was naked. 

Gojo typically dresses conservatively: T-shirts, sweatpants, hoodies. He adorns the look of a typical college student most days. His tastes are a bit on the expensive side, considering how casually he wears luxury brands, but he’s mostly covered up.  

Today, Gojo walks around the kitchen in nothing but boxers.

You’re awkwardly standing in the hallway. You want to go back to your room and hide out until he leaves, but you’re already running late for class. Briefly, you think about keeping your head locked on the ground and slinking out the door. Maybe, if you’re lucky, he won’t notice you. 

You aren’t that lucky. 

Gojo looks at your miserable figure. There’s no embarrassment about how little he’s dressed. No apologies. No stutters that will make you feel the tiniest bit human. He bares his white teeth as he smiles. 

“‘Morning, roomie!” He chirps. 

You repeat the pleasantry with far less enthusiasm. You avoid looking at him directly, preferring to look at the counter, the floor, the refrigerator, anywhere that didn’t have Gojo in it. 

This was normal, you kept repeating to yourself. This is his house. You’re practically a squatter. He should be comfortable in his own home. He should wear whatever he wants. 

Besides, now you can make the most of your situation. You first considered skipping breakfast, given his situation. Now that the worst has happened, you could grab an apple or something. 

You slip past him. You think Gojo is making some type of smoothie, but you refuse to look directly at him to confirm. The fruit basket is right at your fingertips. You start to swipe the first one you can grab before making your escape.

Something presses against your back, caging you against the counter. You freeze. You feel hard muscle as Gojo reaches up to mess with the cabinets. 

“Sorry.” Gojo casually excuses, rifling through the shelves. “I’ll just be a second.”

One second. 

Five seconds. He’s still there. Your knuckles are white from how hard you’re gripping the counter. 

“Gojo–” 

“My music didn’t bother you last night, did it?” He asks. 

For a second, you wonder if that’s why he was doing this. Maybe you had offended him earlier with your complaint. But you don’t hear any resentment in his voice. He sounds cheerful. 

Delighted, even. 

“No,” you say, “it was fine.” 

He hums. When he finally pulls away, you get your autonomy back. You scramble away from the counter, not wanting to get caught again. 

“That’s good,” He says, “I’m glad you were upfront about this. We’re roommates! No use in hating eachother, right?” 

Temporary roommates, you correct in your head. 

“Also, we should use our first names from now on, roomie.” Gojo continues. “We should speak more comfortably.” 

Fine, whatever. You just wanted to leave. 

He suddenly leans in so he’s eye-to-eye with you. You hadn’t noticed it before, but his gaze is intense. You try to back away, but there’s nowhere to go. 

“Say it.” He lowers his voice. “Sa-to-ru.” 

It feels like he’s mocking you, but you can’t seem to find the joke. 

“Satoru,” you obey. 

He smiles. 

“Yeah.” He pulls away. “Just like that.” 

⌂

After a couple of washes, you finally notice its absence. 

It wasn’t the most expensive of your collection, but it was still pretty pricey. You liked the silk material and the dark red color. It was your favorite pair of panties. 

You skulk around the apartment, hoping it just fell from the basket. That, or the washer ate it. You tried not to think of the other option. 

 Days pass, and you give up searching. You decide to forget about it. You have other pairs. It’s not the end of the world. 

A part of you thinks about asking Satoru, but you’re quickly squashing it down. No way would you willingly ask him something so embarrassing. You just toss it to the back of your mind, hoping it will just show up again. 

And then, Satoru invites you into his room.

It’s not exactly an invitation. When you’re trudging home from class, he pops out from his room, excitedly telling you about a TV show before you’re being dragged inside. You’re not a big fan of the genre, and you have no interest in the show. It doesn’t matter to Satoru. You’re forced to sit on his bed as the characters on screen follow the script. 

He’s doing that a lot lately. Interrupting. Invading. You keep brushing off the thought that he’s testing you, somehow. 

“Roomie, this guy is so annoying.” Satoru comments. “Don’t worry, he dies in the next episode, so you don’t have to suffer for long.” 

You say nothing as he casually spoils the show for you. Honestly, you couldn’t care less. You were getting a little bored. Your eyes wander around his room. It’s cleaner than you thought it’d be. A few clothes are scattered around. A college hoodie hangs off the door. There are all sorts of papers on his desk, each is covered in meaningless algorithms you can’t decipher, and you suddenly remember he’s a physics major. You ask about maybe getting some math help from him later on, before you’re brushing that thought away. 

There’s a snap of fingers. Your gaze drifts back to Gojo. 

“Roomie, pay attention!” He whines, urging you back to the screen. 

There are only 10 minutes of the show left. Fine, you sit there, counting down the minutes until you can make your escape. 

Satoru’s hand brushes the edge of your bare thigh. 

He’s not exactly touching. You two are sitting pretty close. He was just sitting comfortably, resting his weight on his hands. It’s barely a touch, but it’s there. You can feel his fingers on your skin. 

He doesn’t move his hand back. It’s more likely because he doesn’t notice, you convince yourself. You’re overthinking things again. 

He shifts. His hand slips even closer. 

When you try to open your mouth, he hushes you with a, “This is the best part!” and all the courage leaves your body again. 

It feels like hours until the credits finally roll. Satoru steps off the bed to turn off the TV, and you make your move too, eager to find refuge in your room. 

“Oh yeah.” His voice stops you in your tracks. “What did you want to talk about earlier?” 

You stare. It feels crazy to bring up what happened just now. See? He didn’t even notice. 

But now, you have nothing to say, and saying nothing feels like a lie. 

“Did you see something in your laundry?” You blurt out before you can even think. 

Satoru encapsulates a picture-perfect replication of an innocent doe. He tilts his head in confusion. 

“Like what?” He asks. 

Dark red panties, with just the hint of lace. You can’t say it. You just can’t. 

“I think we might’ve swapped some clothes.” You unhelpfully murmur. “If you see anything…just let me know.” 

He nods. “Sure thing, Roomie!” He calls to you as you hurry back into your room and lock the door. 

Soon, Satoru’s actions turn less ambivalent. 

Sometimes, you’d hear him once or twice in the middle of the night. He’s loud. The walls thankfully muffle most of it, but you know what he’s doing. You usually just plug in your headphones and try not to look at him the next day. So far, things have worked out pretty well. 

Today, his door is wide open as he jerks off. 

You’re standing right next to your own door, mouth agape, forced to listen to his moans and babbles for five minutes. You’re already late for class.

But you can’t bring yourself to even open your door. 

To get out of the apartment, you’d have to cross Satoru’s room. The one that is currently open, where you’d see him stroking his dick. 

You know this is going too far. You needed to fucking do something already. There’s no way you can be kept a prisoner in your own home. 

And yet, you stay, forced to listen to him openly masturbate. 

“Fuck yes,” you can hear him say over and over again. “Just a little more, pretty girl. C’mon, just a bit–there we fucking go.” 

He’s talking to someone. No, that’s not right. He’s fantasizing about someone. 

More babblings and you’re squeezing your eyes shut as he comes. He curses again, and you stand there until you no longer want to melt into the floor. 

A few minutes later, you’re stomping around the room, trying to be as noisy as possible. You loudly adjust your bookbag and fiddle with your chair. You try to give him as much time as possible. 

By the time you come out, the apartment is back to normal. His door is still open. You stare straight ahead, ignoring the clear invitation to look as you pass his room. 

“Hey, Roomie.” Satoru casually calls from his place on the bed. 

You nearly trip over your own feet. Satoru gives a hiss. 

“You good?” He asks. 

No. 

“Yes.” You adjust your bag. “Just tripped.” 

“Okay.” You hear him shift. His bed creaks under the weight. “Have fun at class, pretty girl.” 

You slam the door a lot harder than you should. You were ten minutes late for class that day, but it doesn’t matter. As much as you tried to focus on your professor’s drones, your mind kept drifting to the name he called you right before you fled. 

No, no it couldn’t be. You needed to forget about it. 

Also, he was holding something in his hand. You didn’t know for sure, you didn’t want to stare but…

…it was a dark red piece of fabric. 

⌂

You like it when Satoru’s friends come over. They create a buffer between you and him. 

These days, you aren’t in the apartment as much. You’re out early. You come in late. You aren’t avoiding Satoru. You talk to him when he talks to you. You listen to whatever ramblings he has that day. You aren’t avoiding Satoru. 

Today is one of the few times he manages to catch you. Maybe you should count yourself lucky that he did it today, because Suguru was here. 

He lounges on the sofa as Satoru drags you behind him. Suguru barely glances up from his phone. He’s pretty used to Satoru’s antics. You aren’t. 

Satoru plops right next to his friend, picking up his remote. 

“Okay, we’re ready,” he says before frowning and glancing around. “There’s no more space.” 

He’s right. Both men are big, barely overcrowding the minuscule couch. You awkwardly loiter nearby as they both set up. You open your mouth, ready to say that you were fine with not joining, that you didn’t really care about a video game, no matter how awesomely Satoru described it. 

Satoru’s grin is filled with nothing but delight as he turns to you. 

“Here–” he eagerly pats his lap “–I've got plenty of space left, pretty girl.” 

You blanch, and his smile just grows wider. He starts to reach for you before his friend steps in. 

Suguru shoves him off the couch. Satoru dramatically collapses onto the floor. 

“Don’t be a dick.” Geto chides before motioning you to sit. 

You take a seat, with a relieved smile directed at Geto. Satoru grumbles from his spot on the floor, but he doesn’t try to move back as you thought he would. 

“I can’t believe you’re abusing me in my own home,” Satoru complains. “Where I pay rent.” 

“Your parents pay rent, you trust fund baby.” Geto is more than happy to refute. 

“Same thing.” Satoru rolls his eyes. “It’ll all go to me in the end.” 

Out of all of Satoru’s friends, Suguru seemed to have the biggest hold on his collar. They seemed close. Maybe their friendship had spanned years before college. You don’t know if anyone could bear to be around Satoru for that long, but maybe Suguru is that exception. 

You think you spend about an hour watching them play. You aren’t too interested in video games, much less combat games, but they seem to get a kick out of it. Eventually, Gojo demands to play with you. Geto relinquishes his remote to your reluctant hands, more than happy to go back to his phone. 

“Damn.” Satoru laughs as he kills you for the 4th time. “You’re bad at this.” 

You frown at the YOU LOSE on your side of the screen. 

“I haven’t played this before,” you respond. 

“I can tell.” 

He doesn’t seem particularly upset that his new gaming partner sucks. If anything, the more he kills you, the wider his smile gets. 

“We should place bets.” He suddenly pipes up. “However looses a round: strips.” 

You shrink. Geto rolls his eyes. 

“Satoru, stop bullying your roommate and play the game.” He leans back. “Let the poor thing breathe.” 

“Bullying?” Satoru sounds offended. “I’m joking. Y’know I’m joking, right?” 

He whirls around to look at you with wide eyes. You can’t tell whether he’s being genuine. You glance away. 

“Yeah.” You fiddle with the remote. “I know.” 

“See, it’s fine!” Instantly, Satoru forgets the game. He crowds into the couch to circle his arm around you, pulling you into his side. “You’re the only person who understands my humor, pretty girl.” He sighs. 

“This sounds more and more like a hostage situation.” Suguru idly comments. 

But when you look at him, really look at him, you can see the apathy clear in his eyes. 

Maybe that’s why they got along so well. 

“Shut up.” Satoru snaps. 

“You’ll tell me, though, right?” Satoru says as he snuggles even closer. “If I’m going too far?” 

You want him to get off of you. You know he knows, too. 

“I will.” You say instead. 

Satoru grins, continuing to swaddle you with his body. 

“See?” He blows a raspberry in Suguru’s direction. “My Roomie loves me.” 

⌂

Sometimes you prefer to be alone with Satoru. He just gets worse with more people around. 

The club he dragged you into was smoky, with the occasional lights that flicked and changed colors, illuminating the floor. It was crowded. Someone spilled a drink on the floor earlier that night. The sweet sticky scent lingered in the air. 

Satoru had brought a couple of other people too, more than happy to stuff the lot of you into his car before driving off. One of Satoru’s other friends, Shoko, was here somewhere. Suguru was here too, but you lost sight of him sometime back. You, standing against the wall, wonder if you could take a bus back to the apartment. 

The only person in your line of sight was Satoru. 

Earlier, he’d asked if you wanted to dance. You declined. You thought he’d make a bigger fuss out of it, like usually he does when you don’t fully accommodate him. Instead, he shrugged off your rejection, casually tossing over his shoulder to ‘join in at any time’. 

Someone else was with him. She was shorter than him, even with the heels. You watch as she drags manicured nails across his arms as he leans down to kiss her. You doubt they know each other. Satoru’s just like that. Overly friendly. 

It reminds you of all the people he brings over for ‘late-night study sessions’. Apart from the noise, you don’t mind the girls and guys. Most of them are pretty nice. They actually give you a lot of relief whenever you see them. For a second there, you thought that the reason Satoru was doing this to you was that he–

So yes, the people he brings over are a nice thing. 

Someone clears his throat. 

You don’t recognize him. His grin is sheepish. Polite, you smile back. 

The small talk is a bit awkward at first. It’s hard to hear him with the screaming crowd and music. You two exchange names. He comments on the phone case you have, claiming his sister likes that character too. He perks up when he says something that makes you laugh. 

“Did you come here with anyone?” He finally asks. 

“My roommate,” you offer, turning your head to point to Gojo. 

He isn’t there. Neither is the girl he danced with earlier. You wonder if he decided to ditch you and take her home. You don’t think you’d be surprised if he did. 

At the implication you aren’t seeing anyone, he asks: 

“Can I get you a drink?” 

You think you’re about to refuse. You know Satoru and the rest of his group will be drunk by the time the night ends. You’re pretty sure the only reason you were dragged along was to play babysitter and drive them home. 

You open your mouth for a polite rejection. 

Satoru does it for you. 

He was fast. You hadn’t noticed him until he was putting himself right between you and your conversational partner. 

Satoru’s smiling. It doesn’t look friendly. 

“Hey man,” Satoru casually says, “the fuck are you doing?” 

He can read between the lines, something you’re grateful for. Within seconds, the stranger is hurrying off. Lucky, you think to yourself, watching his back disappear into the crowd. Satoru lets him go so easily. 

Unlike you. 

He turns on you almost immediately. You want to sink into the wall. 

“We’re going.” He finally says. 

You pliantly nod, letting him lead you out the seedy club. Only when you get to his car do you realize he meant just you and him. 

“What about–” You cut yourself off when you see his eyes. 

Dark. They no longer resemble the color of cloudless skies. Now, they’re more like thunder and rain. 

You’ve never seen him more furious than the entire time you’ve known him. 

You remain silent as you slip into the passenger seat, tucking yourself into the seatbelt. Satoru starts the car with a distinct rumble. The locks click into place. 

You’ve always known Gojo to be an erratic driver. Tonight feels even worse. His knuckles are white from how hard he’s squeezing the steering wheel. The car keeps speeding up and up, careening past the speed limit. You can hear your heartbeat thudding in your chest. 

And Satoru? 

Satoru looks like he’s about to murder someone. 

“Who was that?” His voice is cold, devoid of all the playfulness he had earlier tonight. 

“I don’t–” 

“Who the fuck was he?” He demands. 

You flinch, and your hands curl into fists to keep them from shaking too much. You can’t do anything but stare into the window, watching the night sky dwindle past with all the other cars on the highway. 

“I didn’t know him.” You weakly tried to defend, even if you didn’t know why. Your instinct was to placate. “He just came up to me, and we started to talk.” 

He laughs. It’s dry, bitter, and sardonic. 

“Okay.” He tells you, turning the wheel so sharply that you press further into the door. “I let you outta’ my sight for two seconds, and you’re letting some fucker feel you up?” 

“I–” 

“What’d you two talk about?” He demands. “Did he ask if he could touch your pussy? If he did, you would’ve let him, right? I mean, you were practically throwing yourself at him like a slut, so maybe the guy thought he had a chance.” 

It hurts to breathe. Something stings in your eyes as your vision blurs. 

No one has ever said such horrible things to you before. 

“Nothing like that happened.” You insist. Why was he doing this? Why was he acting like this? “Please just–” 

“Shut up.” He snaps back. “What, you seriously thought anyone would fall for the shit you pull? You think he actually cared for you? Don’t make me laugh. He only wanted your tits and holes.” 

The words Satoru barks out are mean and vulgar. Your body freely shakes, you press yourself further up against the door, feeling tears stream down your cheeks. Satoru’s voice only softens when your hiccups and sobs fill the car. 

“Baby, no, I–I didn’t mean that shit.” His voice is oddly strained. You feel fingers brush against your neck, but you only shift away. 

You didn’t want to be in that club. You didn’t want to talk to that man. You didn’t want to get into Satoru’s car. You just wanted to go home. 

He can’t even let you have that. 

“No, pretty girl, it’s okay,” Satoru comforts, “Don’t–don’t cry–Fuck fuck.” 

The car slows to a stop right in an abandoned parking lot. Satoru kills the engine, letting the car hum into silence. Whatever happens, you think it will happen now. At this very moment. You prepare yourself for the worst, squeezing your eyes shut.

But it’s even worse. 

There’s a hiss of a zipper. Your eyes open just in time to see Satoru pull out his dripping cock. 

He’s already hard. His cock curves up, almost touching the steering wheel as he wraps his fingers around the base. The tip is painfully swollen as beads of pre-cum leak down his cock. Veins bulge against his skin as he frantically pushes his hand up and down. 

Your fear melts straight into horror as you stare at him. He’s staring right at you, desperately pumping his cock with his hand. The worst part is his eyes–wide, blown out like he’s high. He looks right at you like he wants to eat you alive. 

You’re immediately reaching for the handle. No matter how much you tug, the car won’t open. You’re trapped there, forced to watch as your roommate jerks himself off in front of you because your crying turned him on. 

Your sobs quieten. All you can hear in the car is his moans and the words he mouths, your name over and over again.

You think the worst part is that he still tries to talk to you, to comfort you. 

“You’re okay–you’re okay, baby.” He’s spitting the words out through his teeth as his hand throttles his pulsing dick. “Lemme–lemme–can’t help m’self–just–”, 

You flinch when he comes. His cock spurts white cum all over his hands. 

You’re fully silent. The only thing you can hear is his heavy breathing as he cleans up. 

You think he’s about to reach for you. His fingers never make contact. 

You stare out the window. Everything’s dark. Nobody was around. No one was around to see you. To hear you. 

Even if someone was around…what could you say? 

“Can we go home, please?” 

There’s a sharp inhale.

“Sure.”  The affection in his tone makes you nauseous. 

You close your eyes.

“Anything for you, pretty girl.” 

⌂

Ten minutes later, you’re still twiddling your fingers in the waiting room. 

Getting this appointment had been excruciatingly difficult. Constant last-minute cancellations. Reschedules. It felt like they were trying to deter you from entering the housing office. 

They promised you this was a temporary arrangement. You were only supposed to be at Satoru’s place for a month, maybe even less. But then one month turned to two. Two months turned to three. You don’t think you’d last another day in that apartment. 

He was getting worse each day. It was only a matter of them until he—

A man steps into the lounge. He’s tall and lanky, carrying a smile that screams dismissive. You perk up as he squints at you. When he calls your name, you immediately rise, following him into the back of his office. 

It’s stuffy. There are papers everywhere. You squish into a chair just before he starts talking. 

It’s the usual stuff. You spell out your name, and he pulls up your housing account. He squints at the computer. 

“You said this was a temporary assignment?” He asks. 

You eagerly nod, straightening your posture. 

“Yes,” you say. “My roommate wasn’t supposed to have another one, but there was a mix-up and—“

“No.” He taps on the screen. “You said it was temporary, but here it says it’s permanent.” 

You swallow. 

“What?” 

He messes around with his mouse for a bit. Your hands feel strangely clammy. 

“Ah, here it is.” He cleared his throat. “It says you came in a month ago wanting to make the change. I see your and your roommates' signatures. You must have come here a while ago.” 

You struggle to find the words. 

“I don’t—“ 

“In any case, it’s too late to change anything now. The deadline for reassignment passed weeks ago.” He gives you a sympathetic look that strangely cuts deep into your skin. 

“Are you and your roommate having issues?”

You think about the truth. 

“No,” you hear yourself say. “Everything is fine.” 

You don’t remember much after that. You think you were polite as you stood up. You think you shook his hand. You think you walked out of his stuffy office and out of that stifling building. Everything is a blur until you step into the sunlight, feeling it beat down your face. 

You don’t want to go back to the apartment. You still feel too raw, too fresh. 

You don’t have any classes left for today. You can’t hide out on campus. Satoru will find you. He always finds you. Maybe you should stay at a friend’s place and recuperate. 

Right, you don’t have any friends. Satoru made sure of that. 

Briefly, you think about going to the police. Could you maybe use them as a buffer somehow? At the very least, it might scare him from taking this any further. 

But then you glance over at the campus buildings. The name Gojo flashes brightly in the sun. 

You aren’t stupid. You may not know his family all that well, but you know the influence of his background. There is a reason his campus apartment is thrice the size of everyone else’s. There is a reason he wasn’t supposed to have a roommate in the first place. 

He is everything. He has everything. 

You are nothing. You have nothing. 

When you arrive at the apartment ten minutes later, Satoru is already lounging on the couch. 

He excitedly waves you over. When you get inside striking range, he reaches out, pulling you onto the cushions. You pretend not to notice the way he breathes in your scent as you settle on the sofa. An arm wraps around your body, pushing you into his side. 

“Where were you, roomie?” Satoru whines. “Didn’t class end an hour ago?” It would be a harmless question if his grip weren’t so tight. You won’t be surprised if you find a bruise there in a day or two. 

Something plays on the TV. Neither of you pays attention. 

“Sorry.” It’s all you can muster to say. 

He seems satisfied with your answer–the submission of it. You find yourself counting down the clock. Seven minutes go by before you speak up again. 

“Satoru?” You ask.

There’s a distant hum of an answer. 

“Did you tell Housing I was staying?” 

For the longest while, Satoru does not speak. Then, he relaxes. He groans, easily delving into your space. A hand rests on your thigh. 

“Oh, that.” There’s a yawn. “Yeah, I just went ahead and told them you didn’t need to move out. We were getting along so well, ‘makes no sense why you’d get a different apartment, right? Sounds like a hassle moving halfway through the semester.” 

Then he shifts. You can feel him stare right down at you. 

“Unless you have a problem with that?” 

He doesn’t even bother to hide it. Pure excitement. 

Was there ever a possibility you could’ve come out unscathed had you just stood up to him earlier? Maybe you should’ve been a bit less timid when speaking to him about his music. Maybe you should’ve commented on his lack of clothing around the house. 

Or maybe it was always going to end up this way. 

“No.” You tell him, staring straight at the TV. “I don’t have a problem with that.” 

A couple of days later, another pair of panties goes missing. 

Unlike last time, you don’t bother looking for it. 

⌂

You always locked your door at night, but looking back, it was stupid to assume Satoru didn’t have a spare key. 

This is his apartment, after all. 

The lock gives with barely a click. You’re already wide awake, body rigid, tucked underneath the covers as hallway light bleeds into the room. You’re facing the textured wall, watching as his shadow drifts into your bedroom. The door shuts in a way that sounds final. It’s dark again. 

He’s quiet. You can barely hear the sounds of his breath. There’s a footstep. Then, another. Eventually, he’s right behind you. 

You don’t know what he was doing. You’re too scared to turn and check. Naively, you think if you pretend to be asleep, he’ll leave. 

One minute. 

Two minutes. He’s so still, for a moment, you wonder if you imagined the whole thing. 

The edge of your blankets lifts. Your bed creaks under his weight. His chest presses against your back. Warm hands grasp your shoulders. 

He’ll leave eventually. If you pretend to be asleep, he’ll leave. 

You squeeze your eyes shut when his head nuzzles into the crook of your neck. He inhales. 

Fingers play with the ends of your shirt. 

He’ll leave soon. He’ll leave soon. He’ll leave–

“You’re not gonna stop me, are you?” His voice makes your shoulders tense. You can practically hear his smile. 

His fingers manage to slip under your shirt. You can barely hold in your gasp when he grabs a handful of your tits. He doesn’t even bother to be gentle, squeezing and pulling until you’re practically whining. 

“C’mon.” Satoru coos into your ear. There’s a kiss on your neck. “Say it. Tell me no.” 

He nibbles the skin right on your jawline. His hair tickles your cheek. 

Your hands reach out to grab his own. You squeeze, digging your nails into his skin. 

“Please stop.” 

He laughs–the kind of laugh you’d give to a toddler if they misbehave. It feels so mean. 

“You’re so cute.” Another kiss right at your ear.

“Stop.” You repeat. His hands don’t budge, not even when you start to draw blood. “Let go. Don’t–don’t touch me–” 

He flips you right on your back. From the streetlights peaking through the blinds, you can see his face. The widest smile is stretched over his pretty lips. It looks almost manic. 

Your eyes sting. 

“Can I kiss you?” He asks. It’s almost cruel how soft his voice is. 

You shake your head. His teeth gleam. 

“Please?” He leans closer. “Just one kiss?” 

It’s heartbreaking how sweet the kiss is. Soft, barely touching as he melds his lips with yours. He keeps a hand on your chin, holding you in place before the greed takes over and he ravages you. 

By the time he pulls away, your lips are bitten and bruised.

He sinks lower, face dipping into the skin of your neck as he makes himself home there. It’s laughingly pathetic how weak you were compared to him–how little you fare when he pulls off your shirt, then your shorts. Soon, his clothes join yours, leaving a small puddle of cloth at the foot of your bed. 

He pulls away from your body, looking over the whole of you. 

“Oh, baby.” His eyes are blown out like he’s high. “I…I just wanna do everything to you.” 

You can’t hold back the tears anymore. They drip down your face, sculpting your cheeks. He coos, sinking lower to pepper your face in kisses. 

“I’m sorry, baby.” The excitement in his voice betrays him. “Don’t cry. I won’t do anything bad, I promise.” 

Liar, you want to call him, but you don’t. You can’t. Your throat traps your voice as his fingers delve underneath your panties. 

There’s no tact as he presses into you, immediately filling you up with his finger. Your pussy can barely fit one of him, almost choking when he slips in another. There’s no rhythm, no grace for how fragile you are as he thrusts his fingers deeper and deeper. 

You can barely muffle your cries as he hits a spot deep inside you. 

“See?” he asks, toying with your clit. “Not bad things, right?” 

You don’t answer, barely able to keep the noises in check as he abruptly pulls out of you. His fingers are shiny from your pussy juices. He crudely wipes his fingers on your tits. 

You’ve seen his cock before, but it looks even bigger from this angle. It slaps against your inner thighs as he finishes yanking off your drenched panties. The mushroom-tipped head brushes against your slit. He tosses one of your legs over his shoulder, opening your hole just enough to get his cock in the perfect position. 

The fight comes in too late. You think you’re reaching up to claw at his face, those pretty blue eyes. 

It dies as he bottoms out inside your pussy in one thrust. 

He doesn’t wait for you to settle down; he’s not kind enough for that. As soon as his cock sits as deep as it can into your pussy, he’s immediately moving. Your abused cunt immediately tightens around his cock, almost like you’re trying to suck him back in. 

You squeeze your eyes shut as you feel Satoru collapse on top of you. His head drops into the crook of your neck. You can hear his ragged breaths as he fucks himself deeper and deeper into you. 

“‘need you to relax for me, baby.” He hisses like it’s your fault he can’t control himself. “Can–can barely fit into this cunt.” 

To emphasize his words, he reaches down. There’s a soft slap right on your clit. You yelp. He soothes you with gentle circles with his thumb. 

“Satoru,” you can barely get out from the pressure, “please just stop–” Another smack on your pussy. Harder. 

“Can’t stop.” His breaths are ragged, and his hips shift so he can plow into you at a different angle. “Can’t ever stop. Not when I know how good you feel.” 

There’s a rasp of a laugh as your own noises get louder and louder. Your back arches. Something hot writhes in your belly the more the fucks you. He’s gripping your waist so harshly that you know they’ll leave bruises. 

It’ll pair well with the clawmarks you leave on his back as you arch further into his raw cock. 

There’s a sharp hiss before he’s kissing you again. There’s a harsh thrust that makes you moan directly into his mouth. He reluctantly pulls away, licking the taste of you out of his mouth. 

“I’m so glad I found you.” He tells you, continuing to ram into your pussy. 

“Can’t even imagine how–how someone else would react to you just givin’ yourself to ‘em. Fuck, even thinkin’ about it makes me wanna kill someone.” 

Distantly, you think about all the times you could’ve stopped him. You think about what you could’ve done differently to never cross paths with a man like Gojo Satoru. 

“You’re all for me.” He sighs, leaning close so he’s whispering right in your ear. 

He wants you to hear this right before he makes you cum all over his cock. 

“It’s all you’ll ever be.” 

You're writhing against his cock as he forces you through an earth-shattering orgasm. Your pussy clenches hard around him, milking him for all he’s worth as your climax is reluctantly dragged out of your exhausted body. 

There’s a grunt, then a sigh as something fills you to the brim. His cock pumps his cum steadily into you. There’s so much your poor pussy can’t keep it all inside. It leaks crudely from your hole. 

He stays like that for a minute, breathing you in as you start to come down from your high. Then, Satoru flops to your side, gathering up in your arms. You’re forced to lie against his chest, listening to his quickening heartbeat. 

The anger comes too late to do anything about. 

“I hate you.” You hiss as he continues to cuddle you. “I hate you, I hate you–you sick, twisted–”

“Aw, you don’t gotta’ pretend to be mean with me, pretty girl.” Satoru coos, snuggling into your exhausted figure. You can feel the hard shape of his cock press right against your thigh. 

There’s a chaste kiss on the top of your head. 

“I love you just the way you are.” 

[myladysapphire]

Obsesesed

obsession was a dragons nature, possession was a princes. it was only fitting for Aerion to be entirley obsesed with you, the one person he saw fit to wed a dragon. his wife, his possession. you.

Aerion Targaryen x Wife!reader

Word count: 1,763

CW: MDI, 18+ , smut, obsession, madness and extremely possessive Aerion. blood play. slight dub con?. implied cheating. period s*x. breeding kink. manhandling.

Authors note: kind of part two to this post, where we see Aerions perspective of your marriage. Aerions clueless and insane. And obssesed.

Aerion loved you. Or was more entirely obsessed with you. He watched you always. Like he  the hunter and you the prey. 

He spent his days watching you, stalking you. He loved how well you had adapted as his wife. How quickly you picked up on his quirks. 

But what he loved most of all were the silly little games you played. The games where you pretended to hate him. The games where you pretended to run away from him.

You taunted him and sat far away from him. Ignored him. Scowled at his words and laughed when his father reprimanded him. Those silly games, all for you at the end of the day, fall

He eyes you, his eyes filled with a sick kind of love. You were his, the gods had designed you for him. You who knew his every thought, anticipated his every need.

You were made for him by the gods themselves, and you were his and only his. 

He abhorred the moments away from you, he knew you must feel the same. You always seemed so frustrated whenever he sought you out after a long day apart. 

The past few days apart had ruined him, long nights spent thinking about how badly you must be suffering without him by yourside. 

He knew how much you hated attending tourneys, it's why he always made sure to win so you couldat leastt have some semblance of your joy. You always lit up when he crowned you the queen of love and beauty. 

It had now been a week since he had seen you, a week ou were sure had been nothing but torture for you as it had been for him. He had paced back and forth around your joint chambers in the Ashford keep, waiting for you to show up. He had seen you ride in, stuck beside his bore of an uncle. He was sure you had suffered nothing but boring lectures during your travel, and you were in great need of some fun. 

He stared out the window, watching as you pretended to laugh at one of Baleor's jokes, your hand grabbing his arm, no doubt to push him away from you. His head turned to the doors, guards and maids carrying your trunks. His eyes flicker back out the window, noticing you kissing Baelor's cheek goodbye. He sneered. You were ever so polite, always nice to his stupid family members. Gods, you must be so bored having to pretend to like them without him to deflect you from their incessant nature. 

The maids acted quickly, unpacking your things. They were eager to leave, knowing ull well what Aerion's wrath would look like should they over stay there welcome. 

You walked into the room, your step faltering as you saw Aerion, “husband,” you greeted, your voice as soft as ever. “I did not know we would be sharing rooms”, you hummed, moving to where the maids had placed your jewellery, arranging it to how you like it. 

He tusked as you did so, “you're not a maid,” he tsusked, his hands reaching for yours, “come here, wife, I have missed you,” he spoke, trying to do the sweet tone he knew you adored. He turned you to face him, taking his mouth in yours, a rough, heated kiss that had you both gasping for breath. 

“Aerion,” you breathed, your mouth breaking from his, a trail of saliva connecting you too, “I am sure you missed me,” Your hand went to his chest, stopping him from kissing you again, “but we cannot.”

He clicked his tongue, a scoff falling from his lips, “Why?” He pulled your hand off his chest, his hands grabbing your hips and pulling you into him. Your face filled with a blush, nervous to say whatever it was you had to say. “Has my wife gone shy?” he teased, squeezing your hips. 

“Oh! I'm not shy!” you objected. Aerion's hands flew to the back of your dress, undoing the binds of your dress in practised movements. Your hands reached to stop his, “Aerion, please, I-” you objected, your hand moving to rest on his chest, trying to prevent him form contriining his ministrations. When it was clear he would not stop, you admitted shyly, “It's my time of the month,” you said bashfully, expecting him to stop his movements. 

He laughed at your words, a dark gleam in his eyes, as he kissed your cheek. Soft but possessive. “My poor little wife”, he said in fake pity. His hands continuing his movements to undress you. Soon, you were entirely naked. He had always been good at undressing you, it was his favourite pastime, getting you naked and then staring at your delicious form. “You wouldn't deprive your husband of the sweet taste of his wife’s cunt over a little blood, would you?” 

“Husband,-” Aerion was sure you weren't trying to object. You were so pliant in his hand as lead you towards the bed, throwing you against it.

“I know you're not trying to stop me,” he hummed, his fingers toying with your hair. He pulled your hair gently, he was never too rough with you. His sweet wife, he would never hurt you. The thought of it made him mad, the idea alone of it, from you or anyone else, drove him insane. He would burn the world down for you. He would drink wildfire and transform into a dragon for you. You must know that. You were the only person he kneeled for, even his grandsire did not get the honour. 

He pulled you into a kiss, trying to be as soft as he could, he knew you loved softness and preened at it whenever he went against his nature to press a soft kiss to your cheek. 

The softness faded quickly, however, his mouth dominated yours in a kiss reeking of possession. He pushed you back against the bed after he broke the kiss, his hands forcing your thighs apart as he knelt before you.

Your thighs pressed against his hands, trying to close them. “My wife,” he spoke, his face diving between your thighs before you could close them. He gathered a bit of your blood on his finger, “see it's just a bit of blood”, he spoke, before sucking the finger into his mouth, moaning as he did so. 

“Aerion,” you warned as his head ducked between your thighs. He placed a long lick across the length of your slit, moaning at your taste. He moved you off the bed slightly, his hands gripping your arse as he feasted on you, his tongue moving in and out of your cunt, his nose nudging deliciously agaisnt your clit. 

“Oh gods”, you moaned, your head falling against the bed as you gave in to the pleasure. Aerion withdrew at your words. He crawled over your body, gripping your face between his fingers, “don’t praise the gods, wife” he kissed you, you tasted yourself on his tongue, the taste of your cunt and the slight metal tange of blood. “Praise me,” he spoke once the kiss broke, and instantly delving back between your thighs. 

He feasted on you as his life depended on it, and to Aerion, it did. His hands feld you impossible to his face as his tongue thrusted in and out of you. He moaned into you as he felt your thighs clenching around his head, as he felt the wash of pleasure fall across you, a loud shout falling from your lips as your hips bucked into the air. “Aerion! Gods Aerion, please,” you moaned, your coil snapping as you rode the waves of pleasure. 

Aerion lapped at every lap bit of slick between your thighs, his face glistening with your juices, and even a bit of blood that surrounded his mouth. 

He reached over you, his face grabbingthe blanket to wipe his mouth, before he pulled you into his usual possessive kiss. 

He slapped your cunt as he withdrew from your lips. “Turn over,” he ordered, slapping your arse as you crawled across the bed, your face falling into the pillow as you presented yourself to Aerion. 

He groaned at the sight of you. Standing back from the bed, removing his clothes as he admired you. He licked his thumb as he approached your form on the bed, pressing it slowly into you, as he covered his cock in your slick. 

You moaned at the intrusion, wiggling your hip for more as he slowly pressed in and out of you. His hands reached for your hair, wrapping it around his wrist. His cock eased into you slowly as he tugged your hair, your head falling towards him with a moan. You turned your eyes to him, as a plea for more falling from your lips. 

Oh, how he loved the feel of you around him, your sweet moans. Your begs. You were so perfect, so pliant. Youd let him throw you around like a rag doll if he wished. He knew you loved his cock, your eyes always rolled into the back of your head as he fucked you. He kept his grip on your hair tight as he fucked you. His eyes locked with yours. 

“I should fuck you full,” he mused has hand reaching to spank your arse. “Full of babies, then you'd never have to be embarrassed about a bit of blood again,” he moaned at the thought. “Fill you up, have a whole litter of dragons.” 

His hand reached around to your belly, his hand reaching to squeeze where his cock bulged in your belly. 

A high-pitched scream like a moan fell from your lips, your head reaching further back to look at him as he continued to fuck into you. 

His pace was relentless as he fucked you, he could feel you squeezing on his cock as your second peak washed over you. His pace grew harder and faster, his own peak washing over him as he filled you full of his seed.  He slapped your arse as he withdrew, admiring the white and red ring around his cock.

“I knew you missed me, wife”, he said gleefully, collapsing behind you and rolling you ontop of him, his grip onyouru tight body as he nuzzled into you. 

He always got what he wanted in the end, he got you as his wife, and he had you in his arms. And as far as he was concerned, you were entirely as insane as he was when it came to your feelings for him.

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divdiers by @zaldritzosrose

[konalis]

ㅤㅤㅤ𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍 ━━━ aerion 'brightflame' targaryen

pairing: aerion targaryen x sister! reader

warning: +18 | smut | targcest (both characters share valyrian features + targaryen surname) | p in v | rough sex | riding | power imbalance | breeding kink | slight angst | obsessive behavior | kneeling/begging | dubcon | he wants you to tame the dragon.

summary: you're waiting to leave for Dorne for an arranged marriage. Your cruel and possessive brother, Aerion, refuses to let you go. A confrontation in the Small Council chamber leads to one final, brutal night of passion between siblings who burn too brightly together.

author's note: I thought of this plot while listening to Melanie Martinez's 'Possession' and Luvcat's 'He's My Man', and nothing could define a relationship with him better than these songs.

Ი𐑼 . . . - main masterlist ❜❜ ٫٫ words count: 11K

The afternoon spilled over the Red Keep atop Aegon's Hill as you adjusted your stance, planting your feet firmly on the ground, your wooden sword rising into a guard position before your younger brother.

"No, Egg. Not like that." Your voice was patient, though you'd already corrected that movement a dozen times. "Your wrist is still limp. The enemy'll disarm you before you know it."

Aegon, all of ten years old, furrowed his brow as he tightened his fingers around the practice sword's hilt. His dishevelled hair fell over blue eyes.

"But I'm trying, sister." He swung a clumsy blow toward you, which you deflected with an almost lazy movement. "You're much taller than me."

You laughed, a sweet sound that echoed softly among the courtyard's colonnades. Your dress billowed with the movement, the deep neckline revealing more skin than would've been proper for sword practice, but there was no one there to see, only Egg. And Egg didn't care about such things.

"Height's no excuse, little one." You lowered your sword and tucked a strand of your brother's hair back with an affectionate gesture. "I was smaller than you when I started training. Remember what Ser Roland Crakehall always says?"

Aegon sighed, repeating wearily: "'The sword's an extension of the arm, and the arm's an extension of the will.'" He looked up at you, a shy smile forming on his lips. "You're better than Ser Roland, sister. He only shouts."

"He shouts because he knows you can do more." You ruffled his hair, ignoring his indignant protest. "Come on, one more time. Show me what you've learned."

As Egg took his stance again, his small body tense with concentration, he remarked: "I heard Father talking today. In the Small Council."

Your eyebrow arched, but you kept your guard position.

"Oh? And what did the little rat hear?"

"I'm not a rat." Egg huffed, but curiosity won out over offence. "He was talking with Uncle Baelor about... about a lord from Dorne. With lots of lands. He said you're going to marry him."

Your heart lurched in your chest, not from surprise, exactly. You'd known your father, Prince Maekar, had been negotiating your future for months. Dorne was an important alliance, a territory that had always resisted the dragons, and another Targaryen married to one of its lords...

"And what else did Father say?" You dodged Egg's blow with a fluid movement, but your mind was no longer fully on the training.

"That the lands are rich, that it's sunny all year round, and there're fruits there we don't even have names for here." Egg lowered his sword. "You're not gonna leave me here with Aerion, are you? Promise?"

The smile that bloomed on your lips was genuine, that warmth only your youngest brothers could awaken. You knelt before him, bringing yourself to his height, and held his little face between your hands.

"I promise, Aegon. I'll show you every bit of those lands. We'll eat fruits you've never seen, walk under a sun that never sets, and you'll train with the finest Dornish warriors." You kissed his forehead. "But only if you promise to keep training. I don't want you embarrassing me there, alright?"

"Alright!" Egg agreed, grabbing his wooden sword again. "I'll be so good they'll think I'm a real knight!"

You laughed, rising and taking up your own sword.

"That's my little warrior. Now, show me that move again. This time with spirit, like I'm a Blackfyre traitor."

Egg laughed, and the sound was so pure, so childish, that for a moment you could forget the weight of the responsibilities you carried. Could forget the nights you woke with your body burning, with a man's name on your lips, with the sinful certainty that you desired something you ought to repudiate.

Could forget Aerion.

For a moment only, because then he appeared.

You felt his presence before you saw him, a tension settling in your shoulders, an uncomfortable heat starting in the centre of your chest and spreading. When you looked up at the stone steps leading to the courtyard, your heart stopped for an instant.

Aerion was there.

The same clothes as last night: the dark tunic partly open, the riding breeches, the dusty boots. His silver hair was more dishevelled than usual, and even from a distance you could see the flushed tone of his cheeks, the hazy brightness in his violet eyes.

Drunk. Or nearly.

He must have come straight from one of the Street of Silk's brothels, the ones he frequented regularly and about which your father preferred to feign ignorance. Last night, he'd been in your chamber, not to touch you, but to watch you while you bathed. He'd stood there, his eyes burning your naked skin while you, pretending not to notice, slowly washed every inch of your body.

And then he'd left, without a word, without a touch... as he always did.

"Look here." Aerion's voice echoed in the empty courtyard, slurred. "Our little princess playing at knights with the runt of the litter."

Egg stiffened beside you, his fingers gripping the wooden sword so tightly his knuckles went white. You placed a hand gently on his shoulder, a gesture for him to calm down.

"Aerion." Your voice came out controlled, polite. The older sister who knew how to handle everything. "Didn't know you'd returned to the Keep."

"Returned?" He descended the steps with slow, lazy strides. "Never left, dear sis. Just... occupied myself with matters more interesting than training children."

"Egg's learning." You positioned yourself slightly before your younger brother, a protective gesture that didn't escape Aerion's notice. "And he's a better student than you were at his age."

Aerion stopped a few paces away, and even half-drunk, even coming from a night full of whores, he was absurdly beautiful. The sunlight bathed his perfect features, his strong jaw, the lips you knew so well. Lips that had been on every part of your body.

"Oh, really?" He tilted his head, devouring you with his gaze. "Then show me. Show me what little Aegon's learned."

Before anyone could react, Aerion lunged forward and snatched the wooden sword from Egg's hands. The boy recoiled instinctively, his eyes wide, not with fear (Egg wasn't afraid of Aerion, only harboured a deep, ill-disguised hatred for him), but with surprise.

"Give it back!" Egg demanded, his voice thin but brave. "That sword's mine!"

"There." Aerion tossed the sword away, listening to the thud of wood against stone. "Not anymore. Go play elsewhere, little runt. I want to talk with your sister."

Egg didn't move immediately. He looked up at you, seeking guidance, and you felt your heart clench. The boy admired you, trusted you. And you were going to fail him now, because you couldn't tear your gaze from Aerion, couldn't think of anything but the way his open tunic revealed his collar, the start of his muscular chest, the line of his neck you loved to bite.

"It's alright, Egg." Your voice came out hoarser than you'd intended. "Go. I'll find you later."

The boy hesitated, his eyes moving between you and your brother as if he loathed the idea of leaving you alone, afraid of what Aerion might do to you. Then, without a word, he turned and left the courtyard, his small footsteps echoing until they disappeared.

You and Aerion were alone.

You waited to be sure Aegon wasn't nearby, and Aerion approached slowly, closing any distance between you. His smell reached your nostrils, something like wine, sweat, smoke, and more. Something you knew intimately... the smell of his voracious desire.

"So." He stopped before you, so close you could feel the heat emanating from his body. "You think you can teach our little runt to fight with a sword..."

His hand moved with the speed of a snake's strike, his fingers finding your dress's neckline and pulling. The fine fabric gave way slightly, exposing more of the already-revealed skin, and you caught your breath.

"...dressed in these clothes?"

His smile was cruel, but you felt the heat spread through your belly, felt your nipples harden beneath the fabric, felt your body betray any pretence of innocence you might still try to maintain.

"It's only a dress." Your voice came out steady, despite your racing heart. "And Aegon needs to learn."

"Aegon needs to learn?" Aerion repeated mockingly. His fingers were still at your neckline, slowly tracing the edge of the fabric, his fingertips grazing your skin. "And what else can you teach, dear sis? Besides holding swords, I mean."

You swallowed hard.

"Many things."

"Hmm." He leaned in, his lips so close to your ear you felt his warm breath. "Because, you see, with that dress..." His other hand found your waist, pulling you against him in a brusque movement. "...any man would think you're offering something more. Something one doesn't teach younger brothers."

"Aerion..."

"Keep quiet." He admonished. He pulled back slightly, his eyes roaming your body with a hunger that made your stomach drop. "You know what I see when I look at you now?"

You shook your head, unable to speak.

"I see the tips of your breasts nearly popping out." His voice was meant only for the two of you. "Even in this ridiculous dress, I can see perfectly how hard they are. I bet if I touched..."

He didn't touch. He never touched when he provoked you like this, only watched, waiting for your reaction.

"...they'd be nice and firm between my fingers. Ready to be bitten." He smiled, slow and wicked. "But that's not why you're here, is it? You're here playing at being the responsible sister. The perfect daughter. The Dornish bride."

The mention of Dorne made something shift in your expression, and Aerion noticed immediately. His smile widened.

"Ah, so you already know. Father didn't waste time." He circled you slowly, and you felt his eyes burning your back. "A Dornish lord. With many lands. You're going south, to the sun, away from here."

"Yes." The word came out louder than you'd intended. "I'm going to marry and have a life."

"A life." Aerion stopped behind you, so close you felt his back almost touching yours. "Away from me."

Again there was silence; you could feel his hot breath on your neck, on your nape, sending a shiver through you that made you reprimand yourself.

Then he moved.

His hand slid down your body, squeezing your breasts through the fabric, reckless and senseless, anyone could see. He squeezed hard enough to wrench a gasp from you that made him withdraw his hands and go for the wooden sword in your grip; before you could react, Aerion disarmed you with a brusque movement, and suddenly you were fighting, not really, but like the games you'd known since childhood.

He struck your ribs with the palm of his hand, and you let out a surprised squeak. You tried to dodge, but he was faster, stronger, and his proximity muddled your senses.

"Come on, little princess." His voice was a sing-song provocation. "Show me what you teach our brother. Show me how you fight."

He struck your shoulder, and you staggered sideways, a laugh escaping your lips despite everything. It was absurd. It was wrong. It was exactly what you wanted.

"You're drunk, Aerion." You managed to dodge his next blow, surprising him. "And you're cheating."

"Am I?" He feigned innocence, but he was relishing the sadistic fun. "I think you're just getting slow. Too worried about Dornishmen and marriages."

He struck your leg, and you nearly fell, balancing yourself at the last moment. The dress swirled with the movement, and you saw his gaze darken as more skin was revealed.

"Stop it." You laughed, breathless. "I'll end up hurt."

"Hurt?" He advanced again, and this time you couldn't dodge. His body collided with yours, and his hands grabbed your arms, immobilising you. "You don't even know what hurt is."

You remained like that for a moment, panting, pressed together. His body was hard against yours, and you felt... felt exactly what you shouldn't. Felt the proof of his desire pressing against your belly.

Then he turned you around.

It was quick, rough. Suddenly you were with your back to him, your back pressed against his chest, and his hand was on your neck. Not squeezing — not the way you liked — just holding, just reminding you who was in charge.

"You're trembling." He whispered in your ear, hoarse, low. "Trembling like you do when I'm inside you."

"Aerion..." Your name on his lips came out as a sigh. "You know we should've stopped by now."

"Remember how you moaned?" His lips brushed your ear, and you felt his teeth lightly nip your lobe. "How you begged for more? How you pleaded?"

The hand on your neck tightened slightly, just enough to make your breath catch.

"You're going to marry a Dornishman." The word was spat out, as if you weren't also Dornish. "You'll lie down for him, open your legs for him, let him..."

"And you'll be nothing but a lover."

"...touch what's mine." He finished, ignoring your attempt to interrupt. "Because it's mine, isn't it? Always has been. Since the first night, little sis."

You felt the truth of every uttered word burning in your chest, because since the first night, the one he touched you during dinner, the one he'd entered your chamber, the one he'd kissed you with terrifying and pleasurable hunger, the night he'd deflowered you before Balerion's skull and made you scream his name.

Every night since then — when he called you to his room, when he sucked you until you forgot your own name, when he rode you as if he were a dragon and you his rider — you'd never been able to forget what happened.

"You might not admit it, but you'll miss me, sister. If not me, then how I'm the only one who makes you feel like you're riding a dragon." He grabbed your jaw, forcing you to look at him. "You won't feel that with anyone else."

"And neither will you." You freed yourself from his grip, bringing your lips close. "I hope you wither away looking for a dragon like me."

He grabbed you by the throat, and you saw a sadistic smile, the same smile that appeared when you had rough sex in hidden corners during feasts.

Aerion pressed his body against yours, and you saw the burning desire, the obsession to see you beg and crawl for him. You held his hand, trying to loosen his grip.

Then a voice echoed toward you both.

"Aerion."

You separated brusquely, like when Egg was caught handling Prince Baelor's sword. You turned, bringing your hand to your neck, catching your breath, and saw your father standing at the courtyard entrance, his severe expression — the one you knew so well — hiding whatever emotion he might be feeling.

Maekar was a man of few words and much weight in each one. His gaze moved from you to Aerion, and you saw the weariness in his eyes, something that looked like disappointment. As if he'd already expected this.

"Father." Aerion spoke first, his voice dangerously casual. "Didn't hear you arrive."

"Clearly." Maekar entered the courtyard. He stopped a few paces away, his violet eyes (the same as all his children, except Egg's) fixed on Aerion. "I need to speak with you. And with your sister."

Aerion arched an eyebrow.

"About what?"

"About the future." Maekar shifted his gaze from his son to you. For a moment, he was just your father. The man who'd taught you to ride, who'd held you when your mother died, who'd always trusted you to care for your younger siblings. "But first, Aerion, you may withdraw. I'll speak with you later."

For an instant, you saw the fire in Aerion's gaze, the one that led him to do terrible things, things that shocked even the court. But he only smiled, that false, polite smile he used when he wanted to hide what he truly felt.

"As you wish, Father." He bowed in a mocking reverence, and before leaving, his eyes met yours for a moment.

Just a moment, but it was enough for you to feel the heat return, to remember the sensation of his hand on your neck, his body against yours.

Then he left, and you were alone with your father.

Maekar watched you with that expression you knew so well, the same one he wore when he needed to say something difficult, something that might hurt you.

"Come." He extended his hand, and you took it, allowing him to guide you to a nearby stone bench. You sat side by side, and for a moment he just held your hand in his, as he did when you were small. "Are you alright?"

The question was simple, but you knew what he was really asking: Did he hurt you? Did he touch you in ways he shouldn't? Do you need me to intervene?

"I'm fine, Father." You squeezed his hand. "We were just... playing. Like when we were children."

Maekar sighed, a deep, weary sound.

"You're not a child anymore. And your brother isn't either." He turned his face to look at you. "I see what you do, I have eyes and ears throughout this keep, and I see the way you..." He hesitated. "The way you respond."

Heat rose to your cheeks, but you didn't look away. You wouldn't lie to him. You couldn't.

"I know what you're thinking." Your voice came out low but firm. "And I know... I know I shouldn't. But..."

"But it is what it is." Maekar finished for you. "I understand more than you imagine. When I was young, I also..." He shook his head, dismissing the memory. "It doesn't matter. What matters is that you're going to marry, my daughter. You're going to Dorne, you're going to build a life away from here. Away from your brother."

The mention of marriage made something tighten in your chest, but you kept your expression calm.

"I know, Father, and I'm content with that just be certain you've chosen well?"

"I chose the best I could find one your mother knew well." Maekar smiled, and it was a genuine smile, full of love. "A lord of rich lands, with influence throughout the region. He's older, but respectful. He'll treat you well."

"Older?" You arched an eyebrow. "How much older?"

"Old enough to be wise. Young enough to give you as many children as you want." Maekar squeezed your hand. "You deserve a good life, with a man who respects you. Not..." He hesitated again. "Not what Aerion could offer."

You understood what he didn't say. Not what Aerion would offer, because Aerion offered nothing but nights of pleasure, broken promises, and bastards.

"He'll go to Lys." Maekar continued. "He'll spend some time there, to become a better man." The word was spoken with disgust. "If he wants to make bastards, let him do it far from here. Maybe he'll even prefer to stay there."

"I don't think Lys will make him a better man, it's a place full of people like us." You replied, fearing Aerion might find someone to replace you, someone who'd make him forget what you'd had.

Maekar looked at you for a long moment, and his answer was too honest to be comforting.

"I don't know, my daughter." He sighed. "You look so much like your mother... in every way that matters. The same kindness, the same strength, the same ability to see the best in people." He stroked your face with his free hand. "But Aerion... I don't know who he takes after. My father was hard, but not cruel. My brother has his flaws, but this... this contempt, this recklessness. Sometimes I look at him and wonder if I failed in something. If I could have done differently."

"Father."

"No, no." He interrupted gently. "I don't want you to worry about that. I want you to think about your future. About Dorne, your marriage, the life you'll build." He pulled you into a hug, and you let yourself sink into the warmth of his chest, the familiar smell. "You deserve to be happy, my daughter. You deserve someone who loves you as you deserve."

You closed your eyes and let the tears burn, but not fall. You thought of Aerion, his hands on your body. You thought of what your father said, that you deserved to be loved as you deserved.

The problem was, you weren't sure you wanted to be loved the right way.

That night, you didn't go down to dinner with your siblings.

Not that they weren't good company, after all, your favourite part was sitting between Aemon and Aegon, talking with them about what they loved most. Daeron, as drunk as he might be, tried to attend (and he said it was to keep you company); Aerion always sat across from you and pretended you didn't exist; and your sisters, they'd gone to Summerhall because your father feared they'd become as attached to Aerion as you were.

You stayed shut in your chamber the whole time, and your bath had been long because it was your favourite part, it was when you felt you could think more clearly, with the hot water, the scented herbs, and the maids' hands rubbing your skin as if they could clean something more than sweat and tension. But they couldn't.

Before the mirror, you admired your reflection, touching the points you liked most about yourself, running your hand down your skin and pushing away the thoughts that always led you back to Aerion. The nightgown you wore was... promiscuous. There was no other word. It was a gift from Aerion from two years ago, bought on one of his excursions through the city's less savoury districts. Fabric so fine it was nearly transparent, cut to reveal more than it hid, breasts partly exposed, nipples visible through the cloth, entire legs suggested by the side slit running from hip to ankle.

You thought about how your future husband would react—if he'd only pay attention to your Valyrian features and you'd be nothing more than a Targaryen he'd conquered; or if he'd first see your breasts and bury himself in them and your arse and only afterwards ask what you liked. Or if he'd be like Aerion see you as a whole, as something he didn't want to lose.

The knock at the door interrupted you, but it was soft. You knew who it was before you even allowed entry.

"Come in, Morwen."

The door opened, revealing the septa your father had assigned you years ago. Morwen was a young woman, her face full of freckles and eyes resembling those of your cousin Valarr. She wore the usual traditional grey gown, and tonight was no different.

Her eyes widened when she saw you.

"By the Seven..." She quickly closed the door, as if she could prevent anyone else from seeing. "My princess, what is that?"

You smiled, and there was something provocative in the gesture.

"It's a nightgown, Morwen. For sleeping."

"Sleeping?" Morwen approached, her eyes roaming over the transparent fabric. "My princess, that's not sleeping clothes. That's... that's what the women in Flea Bottom wear waiting for sailors."

"It's just thin cloth for sleeping." You laughed, a low, sweet sound. "Nothing wrong with it."

"Nothing wrong?" The septa shook her head, but couldn't look away. "My princess, if your father saw you like this..."

"My father won't see." You moved from the mirror and sat on the bed, legs crossed, the nightgown opening further with the movement. "He's too busy planning my marriage to a man I've never met."

Morwen sighed, approaching the bed.

"He only wants what's best for you, my princess. We all do."

"I know." You tilted your head, watching the septa. "And you? What do you want for me?"

The blush that rose to the septa's cheeks was visible even in the candles' dim light.

"My princess..."

"You can leave if you want." Your voice was soft, silky. "But if you want to stay... I have a book here. New prayers I'd like to learn. We could pray together."

The invitation was clear to anyone who knew the code you'd both built over the years. The "prayers" Morwen had been teaching you on lonely nights, the "scripture studies" that involved much more than holy words. It had been Morwen who'd taught you early on what to do on your first time with Aerion.

The septa hesitated.

"I..." She swallowed hard. "Tonight I can't."

You arched an eyebrow.

"You can't?"

"I have obligations." Morwen looked away. "The elder septa needs me for the night prayers. It's an honour that's been granted to me, I can't refuse."

"I understand." You didn't believe it for a moment, but you didn't press either. "I'll pray alone tonight."

"My princess..." Morwen stepped forward, hesitant. "Prince Aerion..."

"What about my brother?"

"He's not..." Morwen searched for words. "He's not like others. What he wants from you... it's not pure. It's not good."

You nearly laughed. Pure. Good. As if you wanted purity or goodness. As if that was what woke you in the middle of the night with your body burning.

"I appreciate your concern." Your voice was polite. "But I can take care of myself and handle my brother."

Morwen looked at you for a long moment, as if Aerion truly were a dragon trying to devour you. Then she curtsied and left, closing the door behind her.

You remained motionless as you listened to her steps fading down the corridors, sighed with relief, and picked up a book from the bedside table, not the prayer book, but a Dornish romance your mother had loved to read. Stories of forbidden lovers, of passions that defied kings and gods.

But you tried to read... really tried. Only the words seemed to dance before your eyes, meaningless, you couldn't follow them, only because your thoughts were elsewhere in the courtyard, in Aerion's hands on your neck, in his voice whispering at your ear.

You closed the book with a thud.

The room suddenly felt too small. The walls were closing in, the air growing thin, and the bed where you sat seemed like an empty altar waiting for an offering. You rose before you could think about what you were doing.

Your bare feet found the cold stone floor, and the translucent nightgown floated around your body as you crossed the room. The door opened silently, and you found yourself in the torch-lit corridor, the silence broken only by the distant crackle of flames.

Your feet guided you through halls you'd known since childhood, up and down staircases you'd climbed thousands of times. The castle slept, or nearly did; there were guards at their posts and maids moving about. You knew how to avoid questions about why you were out of bed, how to keep whispers from reaching your father so he wouldn't ask at breakfast whether you'd gone to fetch Daeron from a ditch or visited Aerion in his chamber.

You halted your steps before the Small Council chamber door without knowing exactly why you were there, probably because the view was lovely and you could be alone.

Your heart beat so hard you could feel it in your throat, your temples, every part of your body. Your hand hesitated over the door for a moment too long — long enough to think of all the reasons you should return to your room, to your book, to your empty bed. You stood motionless for a moment, listening to your own racing heart, feeling the nightgown's fine fabric brush your skin.

The door opened silently, and you entered.

The Small Council chamber was bathed in the silver light of the moon streaming through the high windows, transforming the long oak table, the dark chairs, the tapestries on the walls into something questionable. The torches had gone out hours ago, and papers were scattered about the place that belonged to your grandfather, he must have stayed late.

Though it was Aerion sitting in the king's chair.

The chair wasn't the Iron Throne, of course, that monster of swords stood in the throne room, but this was the king's seat on the council, the position of highest authority in this room, and Aerion occupied it as if born to do so. His dirty boots rested on the table, crossed with indolence. One hand held a wine cup, the other rested on the chair's arm as if caressing a lover. He no longer wore last night's tunic. He wore something dark, simple, his shirt open at the chest. He'd certainly returned from another brothel.

His eyes were fixed on the window, on the view of King's Landing with its thousands of lights flickering in the darkness, lives he likely considered insignificant. He didn't turn even when you stumbled on the first steps of the entrance; after all, he didn't need to look, he knew you were there, just as you'd always known when he was near.

"Can't sleep either?"

You closed the door behind you.

"How did you know I'd be here?"

He finally turned his head, and that cruel smile was on his lips—the same as always.

"I didn't, but we keep finding each other, Sis."

The truth of those words hurt more than any insult he could've uttered. You always sought each other out. Since the first night, when he appeared in your chamber with that hungry expression and you didn't scream, didn't call for guards, did nothing but make space in the bed.

"You're drunk." You approached slowly, your bare feet on the cold stone. "More than this afternoon."

"I am." He agreed, raising his goblet in an empty toast. "And you're wearing that nightgown I bought."

His eyes roamed your body slowly, and you felt every inch of that gaze as if it were a touch. The fine fabric hid nothing, your partly exposed breasts, your hardened nipples which the cold night and his presence made impossible to disguise, your legs suggested by the side slit.

"The one you wear when you want me to come to your chamber." He finished, his voice slurred but his eyes on you. "The one you wore the night you let me fuck you against the wall. The one you wore when you begged me to suck you until you forgot your own name."

"Brother."

He laughed and finally took his feet off the table. The movement was lazy, feline, and when he stood, you felt the air shift in the room. He was tall — taller than you — and even drunk, even coming from a brothel, even with his crumpled clothes, he exuded a power that made your knees weak.

"Come here." It wasn't a request. It never was.

You obeyed.

Your feet carried you to him, stopping a few paces away. Close enough to smell him, wine, yes, but also something that made your stomach drop and heat spread through your belly. He watched you for a long moment, the goblet still in his hand. Then his eyes dropped again, roaming over the transparent fabric, the skin beneath, the way you trembled slightly without being able to control it.

"You look beautiful." The word came out like an insult. "Like one of the Street of Silk's whores. The expensive ones, of course. The ones lords pay fortunes to spend a night with."

The compliment disguised as humiliation made something burn in your chest.

"Why are you like this with me?"

"Like what?" He tilted his head, feigning innocence.

"Cruel." The word escaped before you could contain it. "Always so... cruel."

His smile widened, and suddenly he was closer. His free hand found your chin, holding it firmly enough to make you grunt.

"Because you like it." His voice was a whisper against your lips. "Because when I'm cruel, you tremble. When I'm cruel, you get wet. When I'm cruel, you come find me in the middle of the night for me to fuck you."

You wanted to deny it, wanted to say it wasn't true, that wasn't why, that there was something more, something deeper, something that...

"Don't lie to me." He squeezed your chin, and the pain was good, it was exactly what you needed. "I know you better than anyone. I know your body, your moans, the way you squeeze when you come. I know every sound you make, every expression, every lie you tell yourself."

The wine goblet was still in his hand, and you were so close you could feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of your nightgown.

"You came here because you can't stay away from me." He continued, his eyes burning into yours. "Because no matter how hard you try to be the perfect daughter, the responsible sister... deep down you're just mine. Mine to use. Mine to fuck. Mine to humiliate."

"Aerion..."

"You think you can just show up here in this dress and I won't do anything? You think you can provoke me and then go back to your chamber to fuck your septa?"

The movement was so fast you didn't have time to react. The wine cup tipped, and the dark red liquid spilled over your chest, soaking through the thin shift in an instant. You caught your breath, the shock of cold wine against warm skin making your nipples harden even more. The fabric, already transparent, now clung to your body, revealing every curve, every shadow, every detail.

Aerion surveyed the damage with an expression of pure sadistic satisfaction.

"There." He set the empty cup on the table. "Now you can take it off for me."

"You're a monster."

"I am." He agreed, and suddenly his hands were on the wet fabric. "But so are you… why don't you call me that when I'm fucking you?"

He tore it.

The sound of ripping fabric echoed in the chamber, and you felt the night's cold air kiss the skin that had been "covered" moments before. The shift parted from neckline to waist, your breasts completely exposed, nipples hard and pink in the moonlight. His hands found your waist, and suddenly you were being guided backwards, backwards, until your back met the stone wall near the window.

The cold of the stone against your hot skin made you gasp, but Aerion didn't give you time to adjust.

"Stay here." He ordered, stepping back.

You obeyed, pressed against the wall, your breasts exposed, wine slowly dripping down your skin, the torn shift hanging uselessly at your waist. The moon bathed your body, and you knew anyone looking through the windows could see — not at this height, but the possibility existed, and that was what mattered.

Aerion watched you for a long moment, his eyes roaming every inch of your body with a hunger that made your belly clench.

"You're going to marry." He said finally, his voice low. "You'll lie down for a man you've never seen. You'll let him kiss you, bite your breasts, shove his cock inside you. And I'll be in Lys." He paused, approaching slowly. "Making bastards on whores who aren't you. Drinking wine that doesn't taste of you. Biting skin that doesn't tremble when I touch."

He stopped before you, so close you could feel his breath.

"But before that…" His hand found your face, his thumb slowly tracing your lips. "Before that, you'll give me one last night, sister."

"Not that you deserve it," you shot back.

"Don't deserve it? I always gave you the privilege of riding a dragon, the only one you could." His thumb pressed, parting your lips, sliding inside. "I give you every moan, every climax, every tear, and you say I don't deserve it?"

You sucked his finger instinctively, and the smile that curved his lips was conquering.

"And when I'm done with you…" He removed his finger, replacing it with his lips, a brutal kiss with a painful bite. "…you'll remember. Every night in Dorne, with your husband atop you. You'll close your eyes and you'll remember me."

His hand found your neck, squeezing slightly, and you moaned against his lips.

"And you'll come thinking of me. You'll have a child and you'll lament it isn't mine."

He kissed you again, and this time you responded with everything you had. Your hands found his hair, pulling, and the taste of wine and Aerion filled your mouth, and when he drew back, both of you were breathless.

"Turn." He ordered, his voice hoarse.

You obeyed, turning your back to him, your hands braced against the cold wall. The moon bathed your body, and you felt his eyes burning your skin, your back, your buttocks barely covered by the remnants of the shift.

"You see those lights?" His voice was near your ear now, and you felt his body against your back when he abruptly turned you. "All those people down there. If they looked up now… they'd see the Targaryen princess. Naked. Offered. Ready to be fucked by her own brother."

The moan that escaped your lips was ashamed and aroused in equal measure.

"You like that." It wasn't a question. "You like being seen. You like knowing they could see. You like being mine."

"Yes." The word came out before you could contain it. "After all, it's what I should have been if you'd had the courage to face our father."

"That'd be a waste, better I take you entirely for myself, sister."

His hand slid from your neck to your back, slowly tracing your spine until it reached your buttocks. His fingers squeezed the flesh, pulling you against him, and you felt the proof of his desire pressing against you.

"Show me how much you're mine."

The air escaped your lungs as his hands squeezed your buttocks hard enough to hurt, to mark. The pain bloomed under your skin and you arched your back instinctively, offering more of yourself against the cold wall.

"Not like this." His voice was near your ear, warm and cruel. "I want to see your face when I fuck you. I want to see you beg."

He turned you with a rough pull, and suddenly you were facing him, your back against the stone. His hand found your face, his fingers squeezing your cheeks, forcing your lips apart.

"You came here to provoke me." His thumb traced your lower lip, pressing. "Came to offer yourself like the whore you are. So behave like one, sister."

"Aerion…" His name on your lips came out as a moan.

"Quiet" He silenced you with his lips, but it was brutal, it was bite and teeth and tongue that took without asking permission. The taste of wine and Aerion filled your mouth while his free hand found your breast, squeezing hard enough to make you moan against his lips.

He bit your lower lip as he drew back, pulling, and the sharp pain made your body tremble.

"Look at you." He watched you with that hungry expression, his hand still squeezing your breast, his fingers finding your hard nipple and pinching cruelly. "All wet just because I pinched your breast. All wet and I haven't even touched where you really want me."

He pinched harder, and you moaned, your head thrown back, hitting the stone.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you." His hand left your breast and found your face again, forcing you to meet his eyes. "I want to see your eyes, I want to see you fall apart."

His fingers descended your body, slowly tracing the curve of your waist, your hip, until they found what remained of the shift. He tore the rest away with a sharp pull, and the fabric fell at your feet, leaving you completely naked.

For a moment, he just watched you. His eyes roamed every inch of your body, and you were exposed, vulnerable, completely at his mercy and this was exactly what you wanted.

"Beautiful." The word came out like an insult. "My perfect little sister like a dragon of Old Valyria, all naked for me. All wet for me." His hand slid between your legs, and his fingers found what they sought. "Wet. Hot."

He didn't enter, only touched, only teased, his fingers slowly sliding through your cunt, spreading the moisture, making you tremble.

"Please…"

"Please, what?" He tilted his head. "You have to say it. You have to beg, little sister."

"Please, Aerion… Anything, just…" Your voice came out trembling.

"Just what?"

"Just don't stop." You were nearly crying.

He smiled, that cruel smile you knew so well. Then his fingers finally entered. It was brutal. Two fingers at once into your cunt, no warning, no preparation beyond the wetness you already had. The pain made you cry out, but the pleasure came right behind it, a wave that started in your belly and spread through your whole body.

"That's right, I want all of King's Landing to hear."

His fingers moved inside you, finding that spot that made your legs weaken, that blurred your vision. His other hand was on your neck again, squeezing just enough to make your breathing short, to make each movement inside you intensified by the lack of air.

"You'll come like this." He said, his voice calm despite the brutal rhythm of his fingers. "You'll come on my fingers like the whore you are. And when you come, I'll turn you and I'll fuck you against this wall until you forget your own name."

"Aerion…"

"Come." He ordered, his fingers moving faster, deeper. "Come for me now."

And you obeyed.

The orgasm came violently, unexpectedly, taking over every part of your body. You screamed his name, and the hand on your neck tightened, stifling the sound, transforming it into something muffled and desperate. Your legs weakened, but he held you, his fingers still inside you, prolonging each wave of pleasure until you no longer knew where one ended and another began.

When he finally stopped, you were hanging on him, unable to support yourself. He waited, let you catch your breath, let your legs stop trembling. Then, without warning, he turned you. His hands pressed you against the wall, your back to him, your face turned toward the window, toward the lights of King's Landing below. You felt his body against your back, felt his clothes still on him, the contrast of fabric against your naked skin.

"Look at them." His voice was in your ear. "Look at all those people. They've no idea what's happening here. They've no idea their princess is with her brother."

You moaned, your hands braced against the cold stone.

"But you know." His hands found your hips, pulling you back, arching your spine. "You know exactly what's going to happen. You know I'll fuck you until you can't take anymore. And you know you'll love every second."

You heard the sound of his clothes opening, his belt falling to the floor. Then you felt it. Felt the tip of his cock pressing against your cunt, hot, hard, sliding slowly, teasing, torturing.

"Please…" You begged again, and hated how pathetic your voice sounded. "Please, Aerion…"

He entered all at once, rough, deep, and the cry that escaped your lips echoed in the empty chamber. His hand found your mouth, muffling the sound, while the other held your hip hard enough to leave marks.

"Keep quiet." His voice was a growl against your ear. "You want everyone to hear? You want Father to come see his little girl getting fucked by her brother?"

You shook your head, but your body betrayed any pretense, clenching around him, pulling him deeper.

"'Cause I wouldn't care." He began to move, slowly at first, each thrust deep. "I wish he'd see. Wish he'd see how wet you get for me. How you clench. How you moan."

He took his hand from your mouth and placed it on your neck again, squeezing.

"You're going to marry." The words were spat between thrusts. "You'll lie down for a man you've never seen." Thrust. "You'll let him touch what's mine." Thrust. "But never." Thrust. "Never." He thrust harder. "Will he fuck you like this."

His free hand left your hip and found your buttock, his palm striking hard against the skin. The pain was a shock, and you cried out, but the sound was muffled by his hand on your neck.

"There." He struck again, in the same place, and the pain burned, bloomed, mixed with the pleasure of his thrusts. "You like that."

He struck again, and again, and each slap made your body tremble, made you clench around him, made your moans grow louder.

"Ask for it." He ordered. "Ask me to hit you harder."

"Please…" You could barely speak, your voice muffled by his hand, by the lack of air, by the rhythm of his thrusts. "Hit me more."

His hand left your neck and found your face, turning it to the side, forcing you to meet his eyes as he continued fucking you against the wall. His face was close, those violet eyes burning.

"Look at me." He ordered. "I want you to see who's fucking you. I want you to see who makes you come."

His free hand found your cunt, his fingers finding your clit and pressing, massaging in circles to the rhythm of his thrusts. The pleasure was so intense you nearly fainted, nearly lost consciousness, but his eyes held you, kept you present.

"You'll come again." It wasn't a question. "You'll come with me inside you. And when you come, I'll come too. I'll fill you with my seed. I'll leave my spend dripping down your legs, and if the gods bless us, you'll have my child. And when you're lying for your husband…" His fingers moved faster, his thrusts more brutal. "You'll remember this. You'll remember me coming inside you. You'll remember what it's like to be fucked by a dragon."

The orgasm came like a wave, but this time it was different. It was deeper, more intense, taking over every part of your body in successive waves that didn't seem to want to stop. You screamed his name, and he kissed you to muffle the sound, his tongue invading your mouth as he continued to move, prolonging every second of your pleasure.

Then he groaned against your lips, and you felt it. Felt him come inside you, hot spurts that seemed never-ending, filling you, marking you from within. He stayed still for a moment, both of you breathless, pressed together. Then he slowly drew back, and you felt his spend running down your legs, hot and sticky.

Aerion stepped back, watching you. You were still braced against the wall, trembling, unable to move. The moon bathed your naked body, his seed running down your thigh, the marks of his slaps on your buttocks, your lips swollen from so much biting.

"Look at you." His voice was low, full of cruel admiration. "All spread open for me."

You tried to speak, but no sound came out.

He approached again, and for a moment you thought he might touch you, might be gentle. But instead, his hand found your face and he slapped you. His palm struck your cheek hard, making your head turn to the side. The pain was a shock, but the pleasure came right behind it, a hot wave that made your body tremble.

"That's so you remember." He said, his voice calm. "Every time, you'll remember me."

He held your chin, turning your face back to meet his.

"Open." He ordered, his thumb pressing your lips. "Open that mouth."

You obeyed immediately, your lips parting to receive him. He pushed two fingers into your mouth, and you sucked instinctively, tasting yourself on him, tasting the mix of you both.

"Suck it like it's my cock."

You obeyed, your eyes fixed on his as you licked and sucked his fingers like they were the most precious thing in the world. He watched every movement, every contraction of your tongue, every swallow.

"Good, little sister." He removed his fingers and wiped them on your lips, a possessive gesture. "Now kneel."

The stone floor was cold against your knees, but you barely felt it. You had eyes only for him, for his cock still hard, still wet from you both. He looked beautiful there, his shirt open revealing his muscular chest, his breathing still quick, his eyes devouring you.

"Look at this." He held his cock, showing it to you. "Look how you leave me, ready to fuck your mouth."

You opened your mouth without him needing to ask, your tongue out, offering yourself. He stepped closer, the tip of his cock brushing your lips. His hand found your hair, winding the strands around his fingers hard enough to hurt. Then he pulled you forward, guiding his cock into your mouth in one rough movement. You nearly choked on the depth, but he didn't give you time to adjust.

"There." His voice was a low groan. "That greedy little mouth."

He began to move, thrusting his hips forward, each stroke hitting the back of your throat, and you fought not to gag, not to pull away, because this was exactly what you wanted. Tears began streaming from your eyes, and he saw.

"Look at you." He pulled your hair, forcing you to meet his eyes as he continued fucking your mouth. "So pretty on your knees, crying on my cock. Is this how a princess should be?"

You moaned around him, and the vibration made his eyes close for a moment.

"Shit." He gripped your hair tighter. "Do that again. Make that noise again."

You obeyed, moaning loudly around his cock, and the reaction was immediate. His thrusts grew more brutal, deeper, and you felt every inch of him sliding down your throat, felt his taste, his smell, his texture.

"Enough." He pulled your hair, drawing his cock from your mouth with a wet pop. You gasped, trying to catch your breath, saliva running down your chin, tears mixing with it.

His fingers slid inside you, wet, hot, and you moaned around him.

"Wet again." He laughed. "Incredible. I could fuck you all night and you'd stay wet."

His fingers moved inside you, finding that spot again. Pleasure began building again, and you felt your legs tremble, your hips move instinctively against his hand.

"There." He said. "Move."

You obeyed, your hips moving to the rhythm of his fingers, your mouth still occupied with his balls, sucking and licking like your life depended on it. The orgasm approached again, and you felt every muscle in your body tense, ready to explode.

"Don't come." He ordered suddenly. "Not yet."

You moaned in protest, but he gripped your hair tighter.

"I said no." His hand stopped moving inside you, his fingers still, torturing. He withdrew his fingers and stood, moving off your face. "Get up. On all fours."

You obeyed immediately, turning and bracing your hands and knees on the cold floor. The position was humiliating, exposed, and you loved every second. He positioned himself behind you, and you felt his hands on your buttocks, squeezing, spreading, exposing you completely.

"Look at that cunt." He said. "All swollen from how much I fucked it."

He spat on you.

You felt the hot saliva land on your cunt, slowly dripping down, and you moaned loudly.

Then he fucked you again, but this time it was different. Slower, deeper, each stroke reaching the deepest part, the spot that blurred your vision. His hand found your buttocks again, and the slaps returned, hard, rhythmic, in time with his thrusts... He pulled you against him, burying himself to the hilt, and stayed still for a moment, both of you breathless.

"Say it." He ordered. "Say you're mine."

"I'm yours." The word escaped in a sob. "Yours, Aerion."

"Say it again, sister."

"Yours. Yours. Yours."

He groaned, a deep sound, and you felt him come again, hot spurts filling you, overflowing, running down your legs. He kept moving, prolonging both your pleasure, until finally he stopped, panting.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then he slowly drew back, and you felt the emptiness, felt his seed running, running, pooling on the stone floor. You stayed on all fours, unable to move, your body trembling, your breathing ragged.

He knelt behind you and, surprisingly, his hands found your buttocks with gentleness. His fingers traced the red marks from the slaps, the sensitive areas where your skin still burned.

"Beautiful." His voice was low, almost gentle. "All marked. All mine."

He leaned down and kissed each mark, each welt, his lips soft against your sore skin. You trembled at the contrast, at the unexpected gentleness after so much brutality.

Then he turned you, laying you on your back on the cold floor. He lay beside you, propped on one elbow, and watched you for a long moment. His hand found your face, his fingers tracing the marks from his slaps, the red that still burned on your cheeks.

"You're beautiful like this." He said, and for the first time that night, there was no cruelty in his voice. Only admiration, only desire, only something that felt dangerously close to… "All ruined."

He kissed you, and this time it was different. Slow, deep, almost… sweet. His tongue found yours in a lazy rhythm, and his hands caressed your body with a gentleness that made your heart ache.

When he drew back, both of you were breathless again, but for different reasons.

"You're leaving." He said, and it wasn't a question. "Going to Dorne."

"Yes." Your voice came out low. "I am."

He watched you for a long moment, and you saw something in his eyes you'd never seen before. Something that looked almost like… vulnerability? Loss?

"And you'll forget me."

"Never." You answered immediately, your hands finding his face. "I'll never forget you, Aerion. Never."

He smiled, but it wasn't his cruel smile. It was something sadder, more genuine.

"But until then…" He kissed you again, quick, brutal. "Until then, you're mine."

He stood and extended his hand to help you up. You took it, and when you were standing, he pulled you against him, his arms wrapping around your waist.

"Come." He said. "I want to take you to bed."

"Here?"

"No." He laughed, and it was almost normal. "My chambers. Or yours. I don't care. I just want…" He hesitated, and you saw something rare: him searching for words. "I just want to hold you tonight."

You watched him for a moment, looking for the deceit, the hidden cruelty. But you didn't find it. Just him, just Aerion, just the brother you loved in ways you shouldn't love.

"Yes." You answered. "Let's go."

He smiled, and it was so genuine it hurt. Then he bent and lifted you into his arms as if you weighed nothing, and you left the Small Council chamber, leaving behind the remnants of the torn shift, the puddles of wine and pleasure, the moon that had witnessed everything.

The corridors were empty as he carried you to his chambers. No one saw the prince with his naked sister in his arms, the slap marks on her buttocks, the seed running down her thighs. No one saw, but for a moment, you almost wished they had. Almost wished the whole world knew you were his, and he was yours.

His chambers were dark when you entered, but he didn't light any candles. He drew you closer, his lips just a breath away, and the heat between you seemed to intensify with each passing moment. Your eyes opened, fixing on his with an intense, desirous gleam. Your hand slid gently across his chest, the touch light yet as profane as before.

Aerion responded to this gesture with a burning look, his fingers exploring the contour of your face, while your breaths intertwined, quick and ragged. You raised your hand, tracing a slow, seductive line along his neck, before whispering, in a tone barely audible:

"Māzīs." (Come)

The word was an invitation, and Aerion didn't hesitate.

He followed you with a smile, your hands intertwined as you guided him back toward the bed. The fire crackled, and you just let out a low laugh, placing the pillows that were scattered on the floor back onto the bed. When you reached the bed, you pushed him gently, your eyes alight with a passion that seemed to consume everything around you. Aerion lay down, looking at you with an expression of adoration, feeling the desire increase with each of your movements. You leaned over him, your bodies meeting with an intensity that spoke more than any words could express.

Your lips met in a deep, fervent kiss, while his hands roughly roamed your body, expressing all his longing and desire.

"Won't you really tell me how many you sought out?" you whispered near his lips, with Aerion's hands holding your face. "If you don't tell me, I'll find out and I'll get rid of them, brother."

"I'd never find you in any of those women," Aerion replied with a smile, his eyes fixed on your lips and then descending to your exposed breasts, before returning to the intensity of your eyes. "I'd rather die by the dragonfire that consumes me than think anyone could replace you, could burn with me."

"Going without touching me truly changes a dragon." You smiled ironically, sealing your lips to Aerion's and biting them before pulling away.

Aerion's calloused hands found solace on your ribcage, his thumbs slowly tracing the lower line of your breasts, making your nipples harden. The movement was almost calming, but to you it felt like a predator gripping its prey. You let out an exasperated smile as you slowly approached Aerion's lips. He held your breasts, squeezing them hard, pinching and pulling your flesh, while small sighs escaped your mouth.

Aerion seemed to know what you were thinking and decided to strike first. His lips captured yours in an ardent kiss. Aerion's tongue slid into your mouth, tasting every part of you. When you finally parted, your breaths were ragged, chests heaving, and saliva covered the lower parts of your faces. He kissed you repeatedly, becoming increasingly aggressive, biting and pulling your lips and tongue until you tasted iron on them.

Moisture slowly ran down the inside of your thighs again, and you trembled when Aerion's heavy hand turned you and laid you on the bed, pulling you closer to him. He gripped the curve of your hips, his palms sliding upward in a slow exploration that excited you.

"What do you desire?" he asked in High Valyrian.

"More," you begged, rubbing against his erection, emitting desperate moans.

When Aerion's hand descended to fondle your intimacy, you felt your skin burn with fire. Desire swelled in your throat as he ran his hand over your neck, through your hair, grabbing a handful and using it to control you. His touch was possessive and exciting.

Aerion slid inside you, and you arched your back, moaning with pleasure, filling yourself completely. His hands found purchase in your hair, anchoring himself as he deepened into your cunt. Flames of pleasure licked your walls. Ecstasy coursed through your veins like milk of the poppy, numbing and delirious, as he slid in and out of you. The warm pressure expanded, and your eyes rolled back, hearing Aerion's moans echo yours.

You hissed between your teeth. The heat, like hot iron burning flesh, intensified when Aerion's face rested on your shoulder and you could hold him tighter. Aerion bit your shoulder, and you dug your nails into his back, feeling the scars beneath your palms. However, before you could be more cautious, Aerion became even more merciless and deepened further into your cunt.

Seven Hells, you thought.

Aerion's body was covered in sweat, and each time he deepened inside you, you felt as if you were being consumed by fire. The sensation of being filled by him was almost superhuman, a mix of pleasure and pain that seemed endless. The chamber was filled with the sounds of your violent love, the creaking of the bed and the murmurs of pleasure and frustration. you were savages in your desires.

Aerion let out small moans as he pressed his forehead against yours. When he saw you part your lips and dig your nails into his skin, he knew you were close to climax. He maintained a steady rhythm, feeling your orgasm peak and soak the sheets in an uncontrollable squirt. Braced against the headboard, Aerion withdrew from you, and you trembled.

"Can you ride a dragon?" he asked, leaning over you and pushing back the hair stuck to your face. You nodded.

Aerion descended to your lips and kissed you before lying beside you on the bed. He sat up and extended his hand for you to approach. You, with your long Targaryen hair falling to your waist, crawled toward him, braced your hands on his collarbones and positioned your legs on either side of Aerion's hips, aligning your soaked intimacy with the head of his cock.

The position made your toes curl, and the way you sank down and rose repeatedly drew heavy moans from the prince. Aerion squeezed your waist, quickening the movements while admiring you with his lilac eyes, surrendering to pleasure. He felt your hands tighten on his shoulders and your moans increase as he watched your brow furrow. Aerion held your hips firmly and pushed hard, unable to contain himself.

Your lips met his briefly before you felt the warm flow of his seed inside you, running down the walls of your tight intimacy. Aerion smiled, pushing the hair from your face once more, admiring your flushed, exhausted face. You were completely tired, your body light and slow.

You lay down on Aerion, who stroked the back of your neck, while his other hand slid along your waist.

He continued stroking your neck, his fingers tracing a gentle, comforting path on your skin. His eyes, still gleaming from the recent experience, fixed on you as you remained breathless. You knew you couldn't be with Aerion, but you couldn't help burning with him.

You were blood of the same blood, destined to burn together until everything turned to ash.

The next morning, you sat at the breakfast table with your family. You wore a high-collared dress that hid the marks on your neck. Your face was slightly flushed on one side, but you disguised it with rice powder that your handmaidens had brought when they found you in your brother's chambers with him.

Egg sat beside you at the table, chattering about the sword training they'd have later. Daeron, your twin, sipped wine even at that hour of the morning, with deep shadows under his eyes. Your father read documents at the head of the table.

Aerion entered last.

He sat on the other side of the table, far from you, and didn't look in your direction even once. He ate in silence, drank his wine, and left without saying a word, as if nothing had happened. As if the previous night hadn't existed.

And for the first time, you wondered if he felt anything too, or if you were just another of his whores. The difference, you realised with a tightness in your chest, was that you couldn't stop loving him even knowing that — that you wouldn't stop seeking each other out to satisfy your own desires to ride a dragon.

© 2026 KONALIS | all rights reserved. don’t copy my work or translations, and don’t upload them to other platforms. / cr: divider @honeyluvsw

[dragonquilled]

HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON ──── aerion targaryen.

𝓼 they say the dragons died out ages ago. but how could that be true, seeing as you ride one every other week or so?

─── ༯ warnings targcest (reader is baelor’s daughter), p in v—smut minors do not interact, bratty dom aerion, breeding kink, cheating (sorry valarr), knife play, blood, biting, reader & aerion are schizophrenics who think they’re dragons, they’re both evil & crazy, pussy eating, aerion gets tamed in high valyrian, they’re having a brat off, idk man i just made shit up this is pure filth and aerion brain rot.

✉️ porn with a slight cheeky plot me thinks. let’s all collectively ignore the logistics. anyways, hello bloody mouth aerion nation!

REBLOGS&FEEDBACK APPRECIATED ── ༯ word count 3k

SOME GIRLS ARE BORN with pretty eyes or nimble fingers, but you came into this world with both and a third thing, which is the stubborn certainty that you’re fire made flesh.

Not that anyone in King’s Landing would believe it—least of all your utterly loyal and even softer lady in waiting, slipping into your chamber ever so discreetly.

In her hands is a small vial wrapped in plain cloth and half concealed by the fall of her skirts.

“Your—ah, your tea, as you asked, princess.” Amara hands it over without looking at you because she’s polite enough to pretend she isn’t dying to ask, but you see the question flicker over her face anyway, and so you brace yourself for it. 

“Go on, Amara, out with it. you’ve been itching to ask.”

“Forgive me for prying, princess, but… must the Maester prepare it every month? His Grace would be so happy, I believe, if you were to give him a child. The realm would rejoice—”

You cut her off with a smile and take a slow sip of the disgustingly bitter brew. “I am not fit for motherhood, my sweet summer child. There are enough monsters in House Targaryen as it is. Best not give the gods more ideas, don’t you think?”

Amara blushes at your sardonic friendly tone. You know what she’s thinking—she probably assumes you mean your cousin with a known monstrous reputation (and to be quite fair, you do), but you offer her a wicked grin in return because it never once occurs to her that you might mean yourself.

Of all the masks you wear, being the realm’s darling is by far the most tedious of them all.

But what’s a Targaryen princess such as yourself meant to do when she’s Baelor’s one and only precious daughter and Valarr’s terribly adored gleaming little wife? These are roles the gods (or fate, or perhaps your father’s hunger for peace) chose for you that you play so well you almost convince yourself you are who they say you are. 

Amara — the closest thing you possess to a conscience (gods bless her foolishly tender heart) — is now halfway through recounting some spectacularly unflattering gossip about some Lord’s cock (allegedly as underwhelming as his sense of honor) and all you can do is smile like a sweet dove and nod as if your mind isn’t a thousand leagues away.

“—swore it on his honor, can you imagine?” Amara giggles giddily. “But truly, princess, what of you? Has His Grace been keeping you sated?”

Oh, dearest, sweetest lamb. If only she knew a tenth of the filth that fills your nights. She looks at you with such open admiration that you do not have the heart to tell her that this talk of cocks…? and bedding and ordinary desire bores you senseless. 

Though you do enjoy her company. She’s the only person left in this godsforsaken pit who makes you feel almost human, but that’s hardly a high bar. You care for her as much as you’re capable of caring, but loving you is a bit like cradling a starving wolf and praying that they do not lose a hand. Or rather a dragon, if one insists on being poetic. (And you always insist.) Still, you’d cut out your own heart before hurting her. You are quite as certain as your hair is silver that if Amara glimpsed even a sliver of what you have done, she would cross herself and flee to the ends of Westeros as she sobs for the Mother’s mercy.

Which is precisely why you lie to her. (And more so because that is what good princesses do.)

So you go on to tell her pretty stories about Valarr’s gentle hands and careful kisses, and you let her believe the bullshit that you truly are the perfect princess they call you to be — blessed by the Seven and favored by every godly old wife who’s ever prayed for a daughter with silver hair and untroubled eyes. 

“Dragons are never sated,” you say teasingly, and she thinks you are only being poetic and demure and endlessly loyal to your sweet, stifling, perfectly polite princely husband. “Valarr is… ever the gentlest, of course. He is a man who would never risk a wrinkle in my gown, let alone a bruise.”

Well, this much is true.

Valarr is golden and kind and dutiful to a fault. He fucks you as though you’re made of glass, and he worries amd frets and dotes and prays for you before he ever thinks to pray for himself, amongst other things—all of which is to say: he is everything a proper lady could wish for.

The thought alone is nearly enough to make you yawn.

“You are so blessed, princess,” she sighs, and you watch the naivete dance in her eyes. “To be cherished so dearly—surely the Seven watch over you. I hesrd he sent you a dozen flowers just last night?”

What you wish to say is: Is that not the true horror of it all? To be cherished and adored in a cage of silk when all you crave is to be bloodied and devoured.

What you actually end up saying, though, is:

 “Wasn’t it lovely?” You giggle prettily, and sip your wine as if you’re not thinking about blood on your teeth and the sound a certain someone makes when you drag your nails down his back. “He is ever so thoughtful. It’s as if I am in a dream.”

Amara sighs and looks as if what you’re saying is the height of romance, and you wonder with viscous curiosity what she would look like if you told her what you truly dream of. Would she scream or simply crumple? Would she faint, or better yet, would this conversation finally grow interesting? 

The idea of it makes you smile.

The truth is, princess, you… oh, you are not so much the darling the realm believes you to be—and you rather like it that way. Gods, it truly is indescribably tedious, really. The only time you’re even halfway sated is with blood on your tongue with your hands wrapped around a throat and your lips shaped into a cruel smile as you watch a man beg for your mercy. What would Amara say if she knew there is a man who sees you exactly as you are and wants you more because of it? And that that man is not your perfect princely husband? 

You think about him, and something dark and delighted coils in your chest.

“I must leave you for now, sweetling,” you press a kiss to her brow as you stand. “I promised the gods a prayer before supper.” 

“The gods smile down on you, your grace.” she says dreamily and none the wiser.

Oh, you highly doubt the gods are smiling at all—considering the mere reality that the only prayers you’ve offered in years are whispered into the mouth of a monster with silver hair, and your good sense long since abandoned.

Poor Valarr. If only he knew. He will spend his whole life trying to love you, and as fate will have it, it will never be fucking enough. But not because he fails—oh no, it’s not his fault at all. It is just that love is a fickle thing for a dragon, much less a monster such as yourself.

But what your darling doting brother doesn’t know just makes your nights all the more sweeter.

After all, who else could ever sate you, if not another dragon with blood on his mouth and a hunger just as ugly as your own?

Aerion Targaryen is never in the habit of bothering with courtesies.

His idea of a greeting more so leans towards the clatter of a locked door and the snarl of your name as his hand mercilessly finds your throat. 

Tonight in particular, you are pressed to the bedpost with your gown bunched at your hips, and Aerion’s mouth is buried between your thighs as he devours your pussy like a madman. Somewhere beside you, the moonlight glints off a discarded knife—the same one he traced along your thigh minutes earlier, which was just sharp enough to sting but also just dull enough to leave nothing you couldn’t explain away. (Which is utterly disappointing, really, but there are only so many times you can explain away strange marks to your poor husband before he starts asking questions he doesn’t really want answered.)

You’ve already been at it for gods know how long, but your monstrous cousin is nothing if not a sadist who takes his sweet twisted time.

Aerion is far too entertained feasting between your thighs, licking into you with a tongue so wickedly precise it feels as if he’s trying to find the last traces of dragonfire hidden in your cunt. It feels entirely too incredible—except you’re also keenly aware that you’re running out of time before someone comes knocking, and you’re not sure you have another plausible lie left in you today.

“Patience, cousin,” he hisses against your pussy when you whine at him to hurry. "Didn't your septa ever teach you that virtue?”

“My septa died. Much like I’m about to of weariness if you don’t make fucking haste and learn to behave,” you snap, though you grind your hips up into his warm mouth and hiss as he bites your inner thigh. “Fuck— Aerion. I’ll have your head on a spike before morning if you fucking mark me again.”

Aerion flicks his tongue over a faint bruise he left the last time, all while making a show of humming. “You talk so prettily when you’re angry. Do it again.”

“I shall do worse than talking.” You yank at his hair so hard his eyes flash, but he only grins wider and does nothing to stop you. “Don’t. Mark. Me. Valarr’s not half as stupid as he acts.”

Aerion lazily smirks, though his face twists momentarily with something which seems to resemble jealousy quite a bit. “Come to think of it… Perhaps I should hold you down and carve my name into you right here, so there’s no mistaking who you truly belong to. Then we’ll have your brother come running to find you with my cock still inside you. You think he’d put up a fight, little dragon?” 

“I do not belong to anyone, least of all you. And stop smiling, you fool. I’ll cut your cock off and hang it above the—”

“Tsk. You’d mourn it, you impudent little brat,” Aerion cuts you off when he leans and bites at your throat quite harshly. 

“Shut up.” you hiss, though your actions do not match your words as you arch into his touch and moan. “You find too much pleasure in your own voice.”

Aerion’s mouth curls into a twisted smirk, then he licks your slick off his thumb and pushes it between your lips. You suck his thumb and bite down just enough to make him curse, then you moan around his fingers and his eyes glint with hunger. 

“Fuck. Look at you, such a little filthy whore.” 

Your hand flies up and you slap him, and Aerion’s head snaps to the side as a wicked laugh breaks out of him. Anyone else would be dead for even daring to do so, but you’re the only creature in the realm who gets away with this, and you relish in it.

“You’re the only whore in this room, cousin,” you sneer. “Would you just fuck me already?”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Aerion laughs as he drags his fingers ever so slowly over your slick, aching cunt. “Say please. Princesses should know their manners.”

You roll your eyes. “Just get on with it, Aerion. Or I ought to get my husband to do it for me.”

Aerion’s face twists with anger. “Careful. You know what happens to little brats who bare their fangs at dragons.”

Well, it’s a good thing you’re a dragon yourself then, isn't it? And though it is true that you’ve never seen a true dragon with your own eyes, you are well versed enough to know that dragons only ever listen when commanded in their own tongue. 

“Dohaerās, Aerion.” the High Valyrian slides off your tongue as sharp as any blade he has ever used, and the effect is instantaneous. Aerion’s eyes flare in the candlelight as he tilts his head, and for a moment he looks very much like the wicked little dragon he’s been accused of being. 

Obedience is not exactly known to be in Aerion Targaryen’s nature, but you’ve always been the only one who could ever tame him.

Aerion’s hand hungrily drops to rip your skirts even higher, and the next thing you know you’re properly sprawled across silk sheets which you’re supposed to keep pristine for your dear husband. Your head presses into the pillow so your crown of silver hair tumbles loose, and Aerion roughly spreads you out once more, baring your cunt to the candlelight as he frees his cock and fists it.

“See? All you had to do was ask nicely, little dragon.”

Aerion lines his cock up with no preamble or any hint of gentleness whatsoever. He’s bigger than any man has the right to be, and the stretch is always just on the edge of pure utter agony, but it is always your favorite part, anyway. He slides in all at once and steals your breath in a single brutal thrust, and as always, he does not even bother to wait for you to adjust before he starts snapping his hips into you relentlessly—and the filthy beast holds your gaze the entire time, and takes pleasure in your pain.

“Fuck—fuck,” you choke repeatedly as your cunt swallows him whole, and you are so full you can barely breathe. 

“Quit your whining,” he ruthlessly buries himself to the hilt in your glistening cunt. “You can take it. You always do.” He groans and thrusts harder, voice washing over with delight as he watches your already fucked-out face twist in pleasure. “Though… let’s see if you can still curse me and speak of my foolish cousin when you’re full of my cock like this.”

You try—oh, you really fucking try. But all that comes out is a noise that would get you sent to a sept for the rest of your life if anyone ever heard it.

“What a shame. You can’t even—ah—look at you, taking every inch like a whore. can’t even get a single word out, can you?” Aerion’s laughs as he thrusts in so deep your head tips back. The headboard bangs out a rhythm against the wall in time with the obscene slap of skin on skin, and it only gets louder every time he slams into you. “Fuck, you are clinging to me like some maiden at her first bedding. You feel that? Always such a perfect little cunt for me, princess,” 

“Harder, Aerion. Gods, fuck me harder!” you moan deliriously, raking your nails down his back hard enough to mark him as you utter a few words in High Valyrian as though you’re commanding a dragon.

He groans and obeys. The stretch is so utterly dizzying and filthy, and your words continue to sloppily choke out of your throat as he fucks into you. Every single thrust rocks you up the bed with your ankles caught around his waist. 

At some point, your nails find the knife by the pillow and you slash a line down his shoulder just because you can. Aerion hisses, then he grins while he watches his blood paint your fingers. You suck at the mark and drink his blood in when he leans over you, and he groans into the kiss when you crash your lips into his with your bloodied mouth.

“Vicious little bitch,” he pants through bloodied lips, and his balls slap harshly against your ass as he thrusts his hips harder into you.

Then he shoves two fingers into your mouth, and he groans when you bite down on them. Your eyes roll back as you suck and moan around his knuckles, so utterly drunk on the way he fucks you that you can barely remember how to speak.

“Dokimavorse,” the command falls off his tongue in eager High Valyrian, dragging you back from the edge just so you’ll look him in the eye. “Say my name, princess. Say it.”

You gasp as he pulls his fingers out. “Aerion,” you moan.

He rewards you by pulling all the way out slowly, just to slam back in so hard you are quite sure you could swear you feel it somewhere in your soul.

“Again,” he snarls, “Louder. I want them to hear you in the sept.”

“Aerion. Aerion. Aerion,” you scream this time, and you don’t care who hears, not even when you know Valarr is somewhere in this keep, being the terribly oblivious fool he is. 

With a growl, you put your whole weight into twisting out from under him and flipping him onto his back with a force that makes him laugh. The feel of his cock dragging along your walls as you lower yourself onto him makes you both hiss, and the stretch is even more obscene from this angle. 

“Gonna ride the dragon, are you?” 

“Only a dragon can handle a dragon, isn’t that right?”

“Of course it is,” Aerion’s head falls back as he grins, and the sharp line of his throat gleams in the candlelight. “Go on, then. Show me.”

You let out a blood-curdling moan as you feel him pressing up into your deepest parts, and he latches his mouth onto your breast and bites at it. The two of you moan in unison as you begin to bounce on his cock, and his palms are utterly unrestrained as they clamp bruisingly tight to your hips as you set your pace riding him. 

“Tell me what I am. Tell me who you’re fucking. Say you want the dragon.” he demands.

“You’re my dragon,” you gasp into his mouth as you ride him harder, feeling him throb inside you. “Only mine. no one else’s.” You throw your head back and moan. “I want it, I want you, I want to break you open and eat your fucking heart.” 

“Good girl—ride your dragon.” He grins as though you’ve bewitched him, so stupid and awestruck and so madly and desperately in love with every inch of your wicked soul, even if he’d rather cut out his own tongue than say so.

Aerion is damn near weeping with pleasure as he pants your name like a prayer, bucking up into you all while you bounce on his cock and wetness squelches obscenely with every slap of your bodies. “Fuck,” He slaps your ass and then he does it again and again, the pain oh so sharp and sweet. “You take me so well. Ride me, wicked girl, ride me till you can’t speak.”

“Gods, you’re so fucking big—”

“Yeah? Too much, is it?” He fists your hair and yanks your mouth down to his, and he bites your lip until it bleeds. Then he groans and slaps at your ass again. “Fuck, you are mine. My dragon.”

Aerion’s eyes are wild as he watches you with his mouth dropped open, and your cunt squeezes around him as you feel yourself hurtling towards the edge. He must feel it too, because he grabs your hips and takes over entirely. He jackhammers up into you, and your moans grow higher and more desperate. “Gods, I want to fill you up. Make you round and see your pretty belly swell and let that idiot wonder why his heir looks nothing like him.”

The thought of it makes you clench around him harder, though the bitter taste of the moon tea still clings to the back of your throat.

You collapse on his chest as your thighs begin to tremble. “I will gut you. Don’t you dare cum in me again—”

“Or what? You’ll slay your dragon?” Aerion grins all too cruelly and cuts you off with a brutal snap upwards. “Try and stop me—”

Whatever else he says is lost upon you as heat coils tighter in your belly.

“Fuckfuckfuck. GODS. Aerion. Aerion, I’m—”

A scream tears out of you as your orgasm hits you like fire, and your cunt clenches so tight you see white as you squeeze the life out of him. Aerion follows right after and groans your name over and over as he spills inside you anyway, filling your sensitive cunt up with his seed deep inside until it’s leaking out along his cock ans onto Valarr’s pristine sheets.

After, you both lie there in the ruined mess of your stupid sheets and bruised bodies and smeared blood, both of you entirely too stubborn to speak first.

“Wipe up your mess,” you finally mutter, glaring at the crimson stain you just seemed to notice alongside his leaking seed on the white silk. “If Valarr sees that, he’ll—”

“He’ll do nothing,” Aerion cuts you off with a sneer as he pushes the ruined sheets under your hips. “Speak of him once more and I swear by all the gods, I’ll sneak into your chambers and fuck you while your dear husband sleeps beside us.”

You shove at his shoulder, and he grabs your hand and kisses your bruised knuckles reverently.

Seven hells. You truly think you might kill him someday, and you know he hopes you try it.

© dragonquilled all rights reserved — please do not copy, repost, or translate my work. characters belong to the world of asoiaf, but all writing and original content are mine.

[maybestrid33]

Earned Loyalty

Aerion Targaryen x reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Summary: Your uncle guards the royal family with his life, and yet when the prince turns his attention to you, it derails your whole life. What happens behind closed doors becomes a pattern no one names, and a claim no one dares to challenge.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, coercion, unprotected sex, fingering, loss of virginity, she's like incredibly innocent and inexperienced, corruption (!), dub-con/non-con vibes, this is DARK so reader discretion

A/N: i apologise i got very carried away with this fic, its like dark af. ive been sat watching the olympics marinating in my Aerion obsession, so yeah theres been plenty of time for writing <3

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS - WC: 6.0k

The hall is loud in the way it always is when the court gathers. There are too many voices layered over one another, silk brushing stone, the faint clatter of cups and plates as servants move through the crowd.

You stand where you are meant to stand, just behind your uncle's shoulder, hands folded neatly before you.

This is familiar ground.

You have learned how to make yourself small in rooms like this, how to take up as little space as courtesy allows.

Your uncle speaks to another member of the Kingsguard, you listen without really hearing, eyes drifting over banners and torchlight, the gold-threaded dragons that catch the glow and throw it back. The heat of the room settles against your skin.

You think, distantly, about how long you will be expected to stand here before you are dismissed.

Aerion Targaryen has also been bored for most of the evening.

The faces blur together from his vantage at the high table; lords too eager to be seen, ladies too careful with their smiles. He watches them with the faint disdain of someone who has learned the shape of courtly games and found them wanting. His attention drifts, idle, over the room.

It snags on you by accident.

Not because you are loud. Not because you are remarkable in any way the court would name. You are standing half a step behind your uncle, head inclined, eyes lowered in the practised manner of someone who has learned where to place herself.

It is the ordinariness of the gesture that catches him, the way you seem to exist as an extension of another man’s duty.

He knows your uncle well enough. Knows the shape of his loyalty, the steadiness of his service. He has bled for the crown; he has knelt for it. The thought that this, too, belongs to that service; your quiet presence at his shoulder, settles into Aerion’s mind with a peculiar weight.

You glance up at the banners and then away again, attention already moving on. Your face holds no awareness of him. The lack of recognition is almost refreshing.

Aerion leans back in his seat, gaze lingering.

He notes how young you look in the soft torchlight, though not a child, grown enough that the court would not question your presence here, grown enough that your name might one day be spoken in negotiations and favours.

He imagines it spoken now, just to himself. He already knows it, of course. He knows where you come from. He knows what family you are an extension of.

You shift your weight slightly as the crowd moves, a small adjustment to keep from being jostled. Your uncle's hand comes up briefly, a quiet, unconscious check that you are still there. The gesture is so ordinary it almost goes unnoticed.

Aerion’s mouth curves, faintly.

He looks away after that, attention drawn back to the hall, to the murmur of the court and the empty words traded in his presence. But the image of you settles into him and does not quite leave.

That night, you think you are alone.

The fire has burned low, leaving your chambers wrapped in a soft, wavering half-light. You have already unpinned your hair and changed into a thin shift meant only for sleep. The quiet is heavy in the way it always is when the castle settles for the night, the Red Keep sighing around you with distant footsteps and murmured guards.

You are brushing out the last of the tangles when you feel it.

Not a sound or movement.

Just that sudden, pricking awareness of being watched. Your breath catches. You turn slowly, heart stuttering in your chest.

He stands just inside the door.

Aerion Targaryen does not look as though he has crept in. He stands with the easy confidence of someone who has never learned to fear being anywhere he wishes to be. The door is closed behind him.

You do not remember hearing it open.

For a moment, your mind refuses to make sense of what your eyes are telling you. This is not a place princes come. Not unannounced, and definitely not unguarded. Your first instinct is that you are about to be reprimanded for something you cannot name, that you have somehow done wrong without knowing it.

You drop the brush, and it hits the floor with a soft thud.

“My prince,” you breathe, the words coming out thin. You sink into a hurried, awkward curtsy, pulse roaring in your ears. Your thoughts scatter; your uncle serves the crown, your house is loyal, you have never even spoken to him before. You have done nothing wrong.

His eyes move over you in an unhurried sweep. Not leering. Not hurried. But assessing. You are acutely aware of how little the thin fabric hides, how undone you are, hair loose around your shoulders, no jewels, no silks, nothing that marks you as courtly or prepared to be seen.

“So this is where they keep you,” he says mildly.

The words land wrong. Not cruel. Not kind. Possessive in a way that makes your stomach tighten.

You do not know what to say. You have been taught how to speak to princes in daylight, in halls full of witnesses. You have not been taught how to speak to one who appears in your bedchamber after dark.

“I- if you need something, I can fetch my uncle-”

He takes a single step forward. The room seems to shrink around him.

“No,” Aerion says softly. “You won’t do that.”

Your breath stutters. The command is not loud. It doesn’t need to be. There is something in his tone that suggests refusal is not a thing that exists between you and him.

He comes closer, slow, deliberate. You find yourself backing up without quite meaning to, until the edge of the bed presses into the backs of your knees. Your heart is pounding so hard you are certain he must be able to hear it.

“You don’t look like you expected a visitor,” he remarks.

You swallow. “I didn't.”

A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “You will learn.”

His gaze lifts to your face at last. It is sharp, unsettlingly intent, as though he is trying to read something in you. Fear, perhaps, or innocence.

The shape of how easily you might bend.

You have the terrible sense of being seen in a way you never have been before, not as someone’s niece, not as a polite presence in the background of court, but as something singular.

“You don’t even look at me,” he notes.

You realise you have dropped your eyes again without meaning to. You force yourself to raise them, meeting his gaze for the briefest moment before it feels too heavy to hold.

He notices that too.

“So sheltered,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “They keep you all soft and unknowing, don’t they?”

Your hands curl in the fabric of your shift. You are not sure whether you are being insulted, or something else entirely. The room feels too warm.

He steps close enough now that you can feel the heat of him, the solid reality of his presence. You are acutely aware of the difference between you, his height, his certainty, the way he fills the space without effort.

“I noticed you tonight,” he says, simply.

Your chest tightens. You do not remember doing anything to be noticed.

“You stood where you were told. You kept your eyes down. You didn’t even realise I was looking at you.” His mouth curves. “That is either very wise or very foolish.”

"I meant no disrespect, my prince"

His hand lifts.

For a second, you think he is going to strike you. The thought flashes bright and terrifying through your mind. Instead, his fingers catch a loose strand of your hair, lifting it, letting it slide through his hand.

The touch is light, but the effect is not.

“You will learn to look where I tell you to look. To stand where I place you. To understand what is expected of you.”

“You belong,” Aerion finishes, eyes dark on yours, “to me now.”

The silence stretches between you like a drawn blade, and in that terrible quiet, understanding finally crashes over you like a cold wave.

His eyes, those pale violet eyes that have been watching you with such unsettling intensity since he entered your chambers, drop deliberately to your mouth, then lower still, tracing the line of your throat and neckline of your nightgown.

When his gaze returns to yours there's something preying in his expression, something that makes your breath catch and your heart hammer harder against your ribs.

"You've only just realised," Aerion says softly, and there's dark amusement threading through his voice. "How innocent you truly are."

You take an instinctive step backward, but there's nowhere to go. He remains perfectly still, watching your retreat with the patience of a predator who knows his prey cannot escape.

"My prince, I-" Your voice emerges barely above a whisper. "It's late. If someone were to find you here-"

"No one will disturb us." He says it with absolute certainty, and you realise with a sinking feeling that he's right.

He's a Targaryen prince.

Who would dare question his presence anywhere in the Red Keep? Who would dare protect you from him?

"You're trembling," Aerion observes, taking a single step toward you. You force yourself not to retreat again, though every instinct screams at you to run. "Are you frightened of me?"

The honest answer catches in your throat.

Yes, I'm terrified.

But you can't say that to a prince, can you? You've been taught your whole life to be gracious, obedient, and respectful to your betters.

"I'm... uncertain of your intentions, my prince," you manage, trying to keep your voice steady.

His mouth curves into something that might be a smile if it reached his eyes.

"Uncertain." He repeats the word as though tasting it. "Such a diplomatic answer. You've been well-trained." Another step closer. "But I think you know exactly what my intentions are. You simply don't want to acknowledge them."

"The crown has been generous to your family," Aerion continues, his voice soft and terrible. "Your uncle serves in the Kingsguard. Your father holds his lands by royal decree. Everything you have, everything you are, exists because the throne permits it."

He's close enough now that you can see the silver-gold of his hair in the candlelight, feel the warmth of his body. "Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

You do. You belong to the crown as surely as any piece of property, any holding or title. And he is the crown's son.

"Yes," you whisper, because what else can you say?

"Yes, what?"

Your throat tightens. "Yes, my prince."

"Good," the word is almost gentle. His hand rises, and you flinch involuntarily, but he only traces one finger along your jawline, tipping your face up to meet his gaze. "You're lovelier up close."

"Thank you, my prince," you manage to answer, mostly because you're scared of the consequences if you don't.

"So innocent," he murmurs, his thumb brushing across your lower lip. "So sheltered. Tell me, has anyone ever touched you?"

The question sends mortification burning through you. You try to look away, but his hand on your jaw prevents it. "Answer me."

"No." The word emerges small and ashamed. "No, my prince."

"No one?" His eyes gleam with something dark and satisfied. "Not even yourself?"

"My prince, please-"

"Answer the question."

Tears of humiliation prick at your eyes. "No. I- I wouldn't. It would be sinful."

"Sinful," he repeats, and now he does smile, sharp and cruel. "Oh, my sweet, obedient little dove. The things I'm going to teach you tonight will make you reconsider your definition of sin."

Your breath comes faster now, panic rising in your chest. "Please. I'm not- I don't-"

"You don't what? Want this?" His other hand settles on your waist, possessive and sure.

You shake your head against his hand, "No, of course not, my prince, I would be honoured but-"

"It's irrelevant. You belong to me now. I've decided it. Do you think your wants matter against a prince's claim?"

"Someone will hear," you try desperately. "Someone will know-"

"And they'll say nothing." His certainty is absolute. "Because I'm Aerion Targaryen. Who would risk my displeasure to defend you from dishonour?" His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you closer. "Your uncle? He's sworn to obey the royal family. Your father? He's too far away and too dependent on the crown's favour."

The terrible truth of it settles over you like a shroud. He's right. You're alone with him, and no one will help you, and he knows it.

"But perhaps," he continues, his voice dropping lower, "you don't want to be saved. Perhaps there's a part of you that's curious. That wonders what it would be like to be touched by a prince, to be claimed by dragon's blood."

His hand moves up your spine, and despite your fear, despite everything, your body responds with a shiver that has nothing to do with cold. "There it is. Your body knows, even if your mind hasn't accepted it yet."

"I don't-" But your protest dies as his mouth descends to your throat, pressing against the pulse point there. The sensation is unlike anything you've ever experienced, warm and wet and intimate in a way that makes your knees weaken.

"Don't lie to me," he murmurs against your skin. "I can feel your heart racing. I can feel you trembling. Fear and desire aren't as different as you might think."

His teeth graze your throat, and a sound escapes you, half gasp, half whimper. Shame floods through you at your body's betrayal, but you can't control it. You've never been touched like this, never even imagined being touched like this.

"That's better," Aerion says approvingly. "Stop fighting. Accept what this is. You might not believe it, but I'm not here to hurt you." His hands move to the ties of your nightgown, and your own hands fly up instinctively to stop him.

"Please," you whisper, one last desperate plea. "Please, my prince. I'm not ready. I don't know-"

"I know." He catches your wrists easily, holding them in one hand while the other continues its work. "That's what makes this perfect. You're mine to shape, mine to teach. No one else has touched you. No one else ever will. Only me."

The ties come loose, and cool air touches your skin as he draws the nightgown down your shoulders. You squeeze your eyes shut, unable to watch your own ruin, but his voice cuts through the darkness.

"Look at me."

You don't want to, you do not know how.

"Look. At. Me." Each word is a command, and you find yourself obeying despite everything, opening your eyes to meet his gaze.

"Good girl. You're going to watch. You're going to see exactly what I do to you, so you never forget this night."

The nightgown falls away completely, pooling at your feet, and you stand before him naked and exposed. His eyes travel over you with undisguised hunger, possessive and thorough.

You've never felt more vulnerable in your life.

"Perfect," he breathes. "Absolutely perfect. And all mine."

He releases your wrists to touch you properly, and you stand frozen as his hands map your body; shoulders, collarbones, the curve of your breasts. When his thumbs brush over your nipples, you gasp at the shock of sensation, and he makes a satisfied sound.

"Sensitive. I thought you might be." He does it again, watching your face as you struggle not to react. "Your body is honest, even when you try to hide. See how it responds to me? How it knows what it was made for?"

"My prince, we should not be doing this. It is wrong," you whisper, even as heat pools low in your belly.

"This is inevitable." He lowers his head, and his mouth closes over one breast, hot and wet. Your hands come up to his shoulders, to push him away, you tell yourself, but instead you find yourself gripping the fabric of his doublet as your knees threaten to give out entirely.

He takes his time, lavishing attention on your breasts until you're gasping and shaking, until the fear has tangled so completely with sensation that you can't separate them anymore. Then he straightens, and his hands move to his own clothing.

"Help me," he commands, and when you hesitate, "Now."

Your fingers fumble with the fastenings of his doublet, clumsy and inexperienced. He watches you struggle with that same dark amusement, making no move to help, forcing you to participate in your own undoing.

When you finally get the doublet open, he shrugs it off, then guides your hands to the ties of his shirt.

"You've never undressed a man before," he observes. "Never even seen one naked, have you?"

You shake your head mutely, face burning.

"Another first I'm taking from you. Another thing that will always be mine."

When his chest is bare, he catches your hand and places it flat against his skin. His body is warm, solid, real in a way that makes this all undeniably happening. You can feel his heart beating under your palm, steady and sure where yours is racing.

"Touch me," he says. "Learn what a man feels like. What I feel like."

You don't want to, but your hand moves anyway, exploring tentatively. His skin is smooth over hard muscle, so different from your own softness. He watches your face the entire time, reading every flicker of emotion, every hint of reluctant curiosity.

When he begins unlacing his breeches, you look away, but his hand catches your chin.

"Watch," he reminds you. "You don't get to hide from this."

So you watch, heart in your throat, as he reveals himself completely. The sight of him, fully aroused and clearly intent on you, sends a fresh wave of panic through your system.

"Don't look so frightened," he says, though there's satisfaction in his voice, some twisted part of him that enjoys your fear. "I'll make it good for you. Eventually." He steps closer, and you feel him against your belly, hard and hot and impossible to ignore. "But first, you need to understand something. This-" his hand slides between your legs without warning and you whimper in shock, "-belongs to me now. Your innocence, your body, your pleasure. All of it. Mine."

His fingers explore you with a kind of confident familiarity. The sensation is overwhelming, too much, and you try to close your legs, but he prevents it easily.

"Stay still," he orders. "Let me feel you. Let me see how wet you are for me despite all your pretend protests."

Shame burns through you as his fingers slide through your folds, discovering the evidence of your body's betrayal. You are wet, despite your fear, despite your hesitation, and he makes sure you know he's noticed.

One finger circles your entrance, teasing, and you tense in anticipation of invasion. But he doesn't push inside yet, just continues that maddening exploration, building sensation despite your resistance. "I could take you now. Throw you on that bed and claim you quickly, get it over with. But where's the pleasure in that? No, I want you desperate first. I want you begging."

"I won't," you gasp out. "I won't beg you for this."

His smile is cruel. "We'll see."

He walks you backward until your legs hit the bed, then pushes you down onto it. You land on your back, and he follows you down, covering your body with his. You turn your face away, and he allows it this time, his mouth finding your throat instead.

"I'm going to touch you until you're trembling," he murmurs against your skin. "Until you're so desperate for release that you forget to be afraid. And then, when you're ready, when your body is ready, I'm going to take your maidenhead and make you mine in truth."

His hand returns between your legs, and this time his touch is more purposeful. He finds a spot that makes you jerk and gasp, and he focuses there, circling and stroking with maddening patience. The sensation builds despite your attempts to resist it, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in your core.

"That's it," he encourages darkly.

You bite your lip, trying to stay silent, but small sounds escape anyway, whimpers and gasps that you can't control. Your hips move without your permission, seeking more of that terrible, wonderful friction.

"Look how quickly you learn," Aerion says with satisfaction. "Stop fighting it."

His finger finally pushes inside you, and the intrusion makes you tense. It's strange, uncomfortable, foreign. But he works you patiently, adding a second finger, stretching you while his thumb continues its work on that sensitive spot.

The dual sensations war within you, discomfort and pleasure, violation and need.

"So tight," he breathes. "So perfect. You're going to feel exquisite around my cock."

The crude words make you flush, but your body clenches around his fingers in response, and he laughs softly.

"You like that. You like hearing what I'm going to do to you." His fingers curl inside you, finding some spot that makes you cry out. "There it is. Your body has so many secrets, and I'm going to learn every one of them."

He works you with skilled precision, building the pleasure higher and higher until you're writhing beneath him, until the fear has been consumed by sensation, until you're making sounds you've never made before.

Your hands clutch at the bedding, at his shoulders, seeking anchor in the storm of feeling.

"Please," you hear yourself gasp, though you're not sure what you want.

"Please what?" His voice is dark with triumph. "Please stop? Please continue? Please make you come? You need to be specific."

You can't answer, can't think, can only feel as he drives you higher. The pleasure builds to an unbearable peak, "Come for me," he commands. "Just let go. Let me feel it."

Your body obeys him as though it belongs to him already, and the release crashes over you in waves. You cry out, back arching, inner muscles clenching around his fingers as pleasure whites out your vision. "What was that you said about not begging?"

He works you through it, prolonging it, until you're gasping and oversensitive and trembling. "Beautiful," he murmurs, withdrawing his fingers. "Absolutely beautiful. And that was just my hand. Imagine what it will feel like when I'm inside you properly."

You're still floating in the aftermath, mind hazy, when you feel him position himself between your legs. The blunt pressure of him against your entrance brings reality crashing back.

"Wait," you gasp. "Please, wait-"

"No more waiting." His voice is firm. "You'll be fine."

He pushes forward, and the stretch is immediate. You cry out, hands flying to his chest, but he catches your wrists and pins them above your head.

"Breathe," he instructs. "Don't fight it. Accept it."

But it hurts, the invasion too much, too large, splitting you open. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes as he continues his steady advance, claiming you inch by inch.

"That's it," he soothes, though there's possession in his voice, not comfort. "Take me. Take all of me."

When he's fully seated inside you, he pauses, letting you adjust to the fullness. You're breathing hard, tears on your cheeks, and he leans down to lick them away.

"You're mine now," he whispers against your skin. "Completely, irrevocably mine. No one else will ever have this. No one else will ever know you like this." He begins to move, slow withdrawals and deep thrusts that make you gasp. "Say it. Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," you whisper, because it's true now, because he's made it true.

"Again."

"I'm yours, my prince."

"Good girl." His pace increases, and the pain begins to fade, replaced by a strange fullness, a building pressure. "Such a good, obedient girl. Taking your prince's cock so well."

His words should shame you, but instead they send heat through your system. Your body adjusts to him, accepts him, the pleasure begins to build again.

It shouldn't feel good, shouldn't feel like anything but violation, but your body responds to the friction, to the fullness, to the way he angles his hips to hit that spot inside you.

"You feel it, don't you?" He reads your body like a book. "You're going to come on my cock. You're going to come while I take your maidenhead, and you'll never be able to deny that your body wanted this."

"No," you protest weakly, but he's right. The pleasure builds despite everything, despite your shame, despite your fear. His body moves over yours with practiced skill, taking you with deep, possessive strokes that claim you utterly.

"Yes," he counters.

One of his hands releases your wrist to slide between your bodies, finding that sensitive spot again. The added stimulation is too much, and you feel yourself climbing toward that peak again, helpless to stop it.

"Come," he orders. "Come for me while I'm inside you. You can do it."

Your body obeys, clenching around him as pleasure crashes through you again. You hear yourself cry out his name and his answering groan of satisfaction as your body milks his.

"That's it," he gasps. "That's perfect. You're perfect."

His thrusts become harder, more erratic, chasing his own release. You lie beneath him, overwhelmed and oversensitive, as he uses your body for his pleasure. When he finally reaches his peak, he buries himself deep and spills inside you with a groan, marking you internally as surely as he's marked you in every other way.

He collapses over you, breathing hard, and you lie there stunned and trembling, trying to process what just happened. What you just did. What you just became.

After a long moment, he withdraws, and you feel the evidence of your lost innocence between your thighs. He looks down at it with dark satisfaction.

"There," he says softly. "Now it's done. You're no longer an innocent maiden." He traces a finger through the mess on your thigh, then brings it to your lips. "Taste it. Taste what we made together."

You turn your face away, but he's insistent.

"Taste it, or I'll take you again right now, while you're still sore and sensitive."

Reluctantly, you part your lips, and he slides his finger into your mouth. The taste is strange, copper and salt and something else, and you feel tears slide down your temples at the degradation of it.

"Good girl," he praises, withdrawing his finger.

He settles beside you on the bed, pulling you against his body in a mockery of tenderness. You lie rigid in his arms, mind reeling.

"This is just the beginning," Aerion murmurs into your hair, hand sliding possessively over your hip. "I'll visit you whenever I please. I'll take you whenever I want. And you'll accept it, won't you?"

You close your eyes, unable to answer. Your body still tingles with the aftermath of pleasure, even as your mind recoils from what happened.

And the worst part, the part you'll never be able to admit aloud, is that some dark, hidden part of you loved it.

Wanted it.

Wants him still.

"Sleep," he commands softly. "You'll need your strength. I'm not nearly done with you yet."

You belong to Aerion Targaryen now, in every way that matters.

And there's nothing you can do about it.

It becomes a pattern.

Not announced nor acknowledged. But inevitable, the way storms are inevitable once the air turns heavy enough.

Aerion comes to you at night.

Sometimes he arrives when the Keep is still loud with distant laughter and music, when courtiers linger too long over wine and secrets. Sometimes he comes when the halls have gone quiet, when even the servants have learned to walk softly.

You never hear him approach. You only ever realise he is there when the door is already closed and the air in the room feels different.

Your uncle stands guard in the corridor.

The knowledge sits in your chest like a stone. You know the sound of his boots. You know the rhythm of his breathing when he pauses at the far end of the hall. You know that he believes he is protecting you from intruders, from drunken lords, from the careless dangers of court.

He does not know he is guarding the door against a prince.

The first time it occurs to you, really occurs to you, you feel faint with it. The wrongness. The way duty and betrayal sit side by side, impossible to untangle.

You lie awake one night, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet shift of movement beyond your door, and you wonder what it would mean if he ever knew. If you would be ruined. If your house would be.

Aerion laughs when you finally whisper your fear to him.

“They would thank me,” he says lazily, as though you have said something amusing. He is seated at the edge of your bed, boots still on, crown discarded somewhere you cannot see. “You are safer with me than with any number of old men with swords.”

It is the way he says safer that unsettles you.

“You don’t want them to know,” he tells you, fingers idly tracing the line of your wrist. “The court is cruel. They chew soft things to pieces. I am sparing you that.”

You think of the way eyes linger on you during the day now. The way conversations falter when you enter a room. The way someone laughed too sharply behind their hand when you passed last week. You do not know what they know, but you know they sense something.

Being chosen leaves a mark, even when no one can name it.

And then there are some nights when you tell yourself you should refuse him, but the thought never survives the sound of his voice at your door.

There is a terrible relief in the regularity of it.

In knowing when the world will narrow to the size of your chambers, to the weight of his presence, to the certainty of his attention.

“It suits you,” Aerion remarks one evening, watching you with that sharp, considering gaze. “This waiting. This quiet obedience.”

You bristle at the word obedience, but he only smiles, smug and unrepentant.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like being kept,” he adds. “I see the way you look when you hear my steps.”

It is humiliating, how true that is.

“You should be grateful,” he tells you, not unkindly. “I could leave you to the mercy of rumour. Instead, I keep you close.”

You always feel guilty in the quiet hours before dawn, when the Keep is hushed and your thoughts have room to turn on you. Guilty for the ease with which you let this become your reality. Guilty for the way part of you thrills at being singled out by someone so dangerous, so untouchable. Guilty for the strange, unwanted comfort of knowing exactly where you stand with him, even if that place is beneath.

“You are mine,” Aerion repeats, he does so every time you see him, as though it is the simplest truth in the world. “And I take care of what belongs to me.”

The arrangement settles into something that feels almost… stable.

It is dangerous. But it's also intoxicating.

A couple of weeks later, the hall is too bright for secrets.

Torchlight glints off gold and polished stone, off goblets raised in careless toasts. Music spills across the floor in slow, measured rhythms meant for noble couples and careful steps. You stand at the edge of the crowd, doing what you have learned to do best; be present without being seen.

It does not work tonight.

You feel the shift before you see him. The way conversations falter. The way heads turn, then turn away too quickly.

Aerion enters the hall like a disturbance in still water, and the court parts around him without thinking. He is dressed for spectacle, black and gold, the dragon stitched into his shoulder, every inch a prince.

His eyes find you immediately.

The look is not subtle.

Your stomach tightens. You tell yourself not to react, not to let the heat of his attention show on your face. You lower your gaze, as you have taught yourself to do, but it does not seem to matter. He is already crossing the floor.

When he reaches you, he does not bow. Does not offer polite words. He takes your hand.

The contact is casual to anyone watching. Familiar enough to be remarked upon, not scandalous enough to be protested. Your fingers curl around his, breath catching as he draws you out of the safety of the shadows and into the open space of the dance floor.

“You’re hiding,” he murmurs, low enough that only you hear. “That no longer suits you.”

The music swells. The dancers part for you both, forming a loose circle of watching faces. You feel every eye on your back, on the way his hand settles at your waist as though it has always belonged there. The placement is deliberate. Possessive.

Too intimate to be mistaken.

Your heart is hammering. “People are watching.”

“Good,” Aerion says lightly.

He guides you into the dance without asking. His hand is firm at your lower back, fingers splayed. You move because he moves you, your steps falling into rhythm with his as the court looks on. You have never been this visible in your life.

The taboo hums in the air between you.

It is not forbidden, not truly. Your blood is noble. Your house stands high enough that no one can cry scandal without inviting dangerous questions of their own.

There are rules, yes, but rules bend for princes. The wrongness of it is softer than rumour, sharper than law. No one can say it is wrong.

They can only watch.

Aerion’s thumb presses into your side as you turn, a subtle reminder of where you belong in his orbit. He draws you closer than the dance requires. Too close. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him through layers of silk and brocade.

“You feel them staring,” he says, a smile in his voice. “You always do.”

You swallow. “This isn’t discreet.”

He laughs quietly. “I’m tired of discreet.”

The word is a dismissal of the small mercy he once pretended this was.

You catch your reflection in the polished surface of a nearby goblet as you turn, a flash of your face, too flushed, too aware, his hand too sure at your waist. The visual of you together is stark. Prince and girl. Dragon and something caught in its shadow.

You see the way it must look to them, the imbalance written into the very way you stand.

Aerion does not care.

He guides you through the final turn of the dance and does not release you when the music softens. His hand remains at your back. His gaze lingers on you, unapologetic, daring anyone to speak.

Let them see, the look says.

Let them understand what cannot be undone.

The whispers start before the music has even faded. You feel them like a current, brushing past your skin, carrying your name on mouths that do not dare speak it too loudly.

Aerion leans in, close enough that his breath warms your ear.

“You’re done being hidden,” he tells you. “Anyone who has eyes can see what you are to me.”

The claim is not shouted. It does not need to be.

The court has already heard it.

idk what happened here i like blanked lol, im working on like 2 fics atm, one is a part 2 to 'marked by gold' which seems to be in high demand <3

[imeow33]

.✦ ݁MY TWIN FLAME.

⋆˙⟡ aerion targaryen x twin!targaryen!reader

wc, 3.2k .ᐟ

SUMMARY, aerion always gets what he wants and so therefore, when your father betroths you to daeron instead of him, your twin, he pays you a visit in your chambers with a plan to claim you for himself.

╰┈➤ WARNINGS, smut, unprotected p in v, targcest (twin x twin), virginity loss, breeding kink, reader is betrothed to daeron and is described to have silver hair and lilac eyes, titty sucking, rough sex, corruption kink, obsession, mention of blood if you squint.

꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂

Aerion was never patient — not when he was a babe and certainly not now as a man grown. Whenever he saw something he liked, he simply took it, never fearing that consequences may follow. From a young age, he had been convinced he was a dragon cursed to live in human form, and so he also believed that rules didn’t apply to him.

Even more so when it came to you, his twin sister, his beloved. To Aerion, whether or not you belonged to him was not even a question, you were his by birthright. Not only because the two of you had shared a womb and a name day, but because you were his equal, the only other dragon he believed walked this world.

The only one who understood him.

The only one who did not flinch in his presence.

The only woman worthy of carrying his blood.

Aerion was a flame and you weren’t the extinguisher but what kept him burning. However, unlike your twin, you were not cruel and did not take pleasure in others’ misfortune, let alone cause it yourself. Where Aerion thrived on fear, you thrived on peace and thank the Gods you were able to reflect some of it onto your brother.

Recently, a new guard made the terrible mistake of referring to you by your first name rather than your princess title. Though you were quick to forgive the man for his error, your brother, who had witnessed everything, was not.

“What do you suggest, sweet sister?” He laughed as though he were watching the most entertaining play staged, “Should I have his tounge for forgetting your proper title?”

Before you could respond, another dark chuckle escaped Aerion at the sight of the guard’s terrified expression. The man’s knees threatened to buckle as the prince in front of him toyed with the blade in his hands, tapping the edge lightly against the wooden table as if marking the final seconds of a countdown. Each tap echoed loudly through the hall, sending shivers down your spine but not fear.

No — It was never fear. You had seen Aerion at his worst before and knew that this situation was nowhere near the lengths he would go for you. Fortunately, you also knew that if you asked kindly enough, he would stop.

“Aerion,” you breathed, stepping forward, placing a soothing hand on his broad shoulder. The moment he felt your touch, the tapping of the weapon slowed, then it stopped entirely. His compelling eyes flickered to you, silently urging you to continue — because if there was one person who could make the mad Targaryen prince listen, it was no one but the other half of him.

“Leave the poor man be, I believe he’s learnt from his mistake.” You said softly, gently massaging his shoulder, feeling him relax and lean back against you. As soon as the words left your mouth Aerion opened his own as if to argue, but quickly closed it again when your stern gaze met his, “brother…”

“Fine.” He scoffed, lowering his blade down completely. With his now free hand, he gestured toward the man who had been staring at the two of you with narrow eyes, signaling for him to leave. You fought the urge to smirk as the guard made his exit, Gods, how you loved the way Aerion could never refuse you.

“For you jorrāeliros (beloved), I will temper the fire but just this once.”

And that was just one of many examples of how Aerion completely obeyed you. To this day, it still never failed to astonish your father how you had his most troublesome son wrapped around your pretty little finger.

By now, the court had grown accustomed to constantly seeing you and your twin together, it was never one without the other. Yet, despite your unmistakable affection and the way your touches lingered too long, your father chose to turn a blind eye and betrothed you to your eldest brother, Daeron, instead. When you saw the way Aerion’s eyes darkened at the news, realising it was no jest, you recognised that this time you could not control what he would do.

Just as Maekar had predicted his second son would, that very night, he came knocking on his father’s chamber doors, pleading for your hand — only to be turned away.

“Father, she is my twin, my other half—mine by birthright!” Aerion shouted, his patience wearing thin, growing more and more frustrated with every passing second. “Aerion…” Maekar sighed, knowing that nothing he could say would calm him. “Your sister and Daeron shall make a fine match.”

While Maekar, like everyone else, was aware of the twisted love between the two of you, he simply refused to give his first-born, precious daughter away to a monster like Aerion. Sure, his eldest son was a fool who always drank but even in his drunken state, he was not half as mad as Aerion was when he was sober.

Realising that continuing the conversation was pointless and that there was no changing his father’s mind, the prince came up with an even bolder idea — one that would secure more than just your hand in marriage. “Alright, father.” He murmured, his lips forming into a thin line. “I will see myself out.” He said firmly, not bothering to look at the older man before him once as the words left his mouth.

Maekar knew his son, well at least well enough to know that this wouldn’t be the end of it because when Aerion desired something, he always found a way to claim it, one way or another. Though his son’s refusal to pursue the matter any further should have brought him peace, it did quite the opposite. “This boy.” Maekar grunted, pressing a hand to his forehead in distress as he watched Aerion shut the chamber door, the sound echoing through the room and doing nothing to ease his newly formed headache.

He really should have sensed something was wrong, perhaps even stopped his son because for while the dragon prince may have seemed composed, he was anything but and the Gods knew there was nothing more dangerous than an angry, maddened Targaryen.

Aerion’s mind was racing as he now made his way to your chambers. How dare his father try to separate the two of you? Did he not realise that you were his anchor? the only thing keeping him fairly sane?

── .✦

While in the middle of brushing your hair, the sound of someone knocking on the door startled you, causing you to slightly jump in your seat. After all, it was rather late and you had not been expecting any visitors. Still, you rose to greet the unexpected guest, quickly straightening the creases of your nightgown just beforehand.

You furrowed your brows when you were met with lilac eyes identical to your own. “Brother?” You asked, your voice filled with uncertainty at the sight of your twin. What could he possibly be doing here?

Of course, because of how close you were, random visits were not unusual for the two of you but at this hour — they certainly were. It was so unexpected that you felt a tinge of excitement in a place you shouldn’t. Your heart skipped a beat when he took a daring step toward you, your bodies only centimetres away from touching.

“Two dragons shall not be kept apart.” He muttered, before allowing himself into your room and letting the door click shut behind him. “Are you alright you look—” you started but your words of concern were cut off by Aerion wrapping his large arms around your waist, pulling you against him. You gasp at the sudden contact, your hands instinctively rising to his chest.

You have bathed together, slept together, cuddled in each other’s arms, so why did this feel so intimate, so… forbidden? Perhaps it was because you were no longer children but man and woman, or perhaps it was because his actions revealed his intentions.

Luckily enough for you, it was quite dark, so your twin wouldn’t be able you the way your cheeks flushed a rosy pink at your proximity. Otherwise, you were certain he would have mocked you, just as he had the time he stole your first kiss.

“Aw, don’t tell me my innocent, little sister hasn’t had her first kiss yet.” He cooed, teasingly twirling a strand of your silver hair around his finger.

“S—Shut up Aerion and you’re hardly even older, it’s by only 3 minutes!” You exclaimed, rolling your eyes, folding your arms beneath your chest in annoyance.

Your reaction only made his smirk widen. “Whatever you say little flame..” he trailed off before cupping the side of your neck and capturing your lips in another kiss.

Inevitably, his hands didn’t linger on your waist, they were quick to roam elsewhere, greedily exploring your body; from squeezing your wide hips, to caressing your perky tits, right until they landed on your exposed back, feeling the soft skin there. Due to you being only in a thin nightgown, it was almost like you were already bare.

You yelp when your back hits the wall and Aerion uses this as an opportunity to pin your hands above your head. Noticing the frown on your face, he leans in and presses a peck to your lips, “Don’t question zaldrītsos (little dragon), let your brother take care of you.”

If only you werent so consumed by his touch you might have questioned what he was doing, maybe even pushed him away but you didn’t. Instead you looked up at him through your lashes, eyes glossy and nodded gently.

If only.

“Fuck, you look so beautiful like this, my sweet, sweet sister.” Aerion groaned, his voice rough and full with desire, desire for you, his innocent little sister. Your eyes widen when you feel something hard press against your lower stomach, confused by what it is, you attempt to move but Aerion stops you.

“Greedy little thing, already want the dragon in you, do you?” He murmurs mockingly. Without warning, he rips your dressing off and though your first instinct is to cover yourself, the dark look in his eyes makes you reconsider. Your nipples harden as they are exposed to the cold air but one of them quickly softens when Aerion attaches his mouth onto your breast.

“Aerion!” You moan at the foreign sensation, wetness pooling in between your legs as you watched your ‘older’ brother suck on your tit like a babe. He reaches his hand to cup your second, neglected breast, playing with it while his tongue twirled around the nipple of the other one. His dick hardens at the thought of how large they would swell once you were round with his son.

Embarrassed by the loud sounds slipping out your mouth, you attempt to muffle them by biting down on your lip but your brother caught on what you were trying to straight away and responded with a harsh smack on your ass. You shriek as you feel the sting on your backside. Meeting Aerion’s gaze, he casts you a disapproving glare. “Do not try to keep anything from me, dear sister.” He speaks sternly, his eyes never leaving yours.

Your core clenches around nothing and simultaneously you wrap your thighs around your twin’s waist, searching for any kind of friction. “Please, I want…” You gasp out, unsure of what you were even asking for, but Aerion seemed to understand as he began to undo his breeches.

Everything is a blur. Aerion wastes no time, pushing you higher against the wall. The next thing you know you feel something warm press into the entrance of your clit, making your mouth fall open in an O shape. “You sure you want to ride the dragon?” He whispers in your ear, teasingly biting your earlobe. Being impatient, he makes no effort to warm you up first, let alone pause for your answer.

Grabbing your thigh, he enteres you in a single thrust. Your hole stretches around him and you hiss at the pain of being split open, however it is quickly overtaken by a wave of pleasure. None of your sinful fantasies could have ever prepared you for this, prepared you for how good your brother would feel inside you.

“Oh dōny” (sweet) he whimpered, burying his face in your neck, inhaling your feminine scent as he began to move.

“Remained pure for me, did you?” He cruelly laughed, looking down to see the blood covering his length before thrusting again. The rhythm built gradually yet he remained rough, squeezing your breasts with every movement of his hips. You moaned as he hit that spongey spot inside you. Wrapping your legs around him tighter, you push him further into your cunt. Naturally, Aerion seizes this as an opportunity to tease you. “With the way you’re clenching around me I could almost mistake you for a common whore.”

You were so overwhelmed that a single tear rolled down your face at the insult. He smiled sadistically, leaning in to lick it away only to smash his lips onto yours moments after. The kiss was fierce, your tongues clashing like twin dragons in battle, and of course he won. He always did.

The way your tits would bounce every time he slammed into you encouraged Aerion to pick up his pace. “Brother I—!” you squealed, the sound ripping through your throat when he grabbed a hold of your hips to force you to match his speed. The thought that someone would hear you and find out that you had willingly given yourself to your brother, the one who was certainly not your betrothed, made everything all the more thrilling.

You were so close.

He was so close.

The two of you were so close to your release.

You both groaned as he spilled his seed into your womb, now fully claiming you as his. “Need you to swell with my child.” He panted, making no effort to pull out to ensure his seed has taken root. “My sister, my twin flame.” He murmured, gently caressing your cheek.

Now father would have no choice but to betroth you to him. Aerion smirked to himself at how perfectly his plan was unfolding, certain that by now his father knew: whatever he wanted, he always got.

And you were his from the very beginning.

── .✦

[maybestrid33]

Favoured Blood

Aerion Targaryen x Wife!Reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Summary: Chosen for your name, your look, and your blood, you become Aerion's wife by design. When an heir does not come quickly, his fixation turns sharper and far more obesssive.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, targcest (cousins), reader has typical targaryen features, obsessive behaviour, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, manipulation, emotional control, pregnancy themes, breeding, crazy stamina

A/N: i warn already this is FILTHY, and he's maybe a lil ooc in this (dont kill me pls). many people are writing him as being mean and harsh with his wife but i don't think he would be if he chose her (hes not like overrly nice lol but he doesn't hurt her yk) i don't think he even considers the possibility he could have chosen wrong.

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS - WC: 4.5k

The fire has burned low, reduced to a bed of embers that glow like a watchful eye. His chambers smell of heat and smoke and something sharper; wine, maybe, or the faint metallic tang that never quite leaves the Red Keep.

Night presses against the windows, black and endless, but inside the room it’s too warm.

Aerion stands near the hearth, his back to you, silver hair catching the light. He hasn’t turned since you entered. He doesn’t need to. He knows where you are.

He always does.

“How long has it been?” he asks, casually. Almost idly. As though he’s commenting on the weather.

You don’t answer fast enough.

He tilts his head, just slightly. “Since your last bleeding,” he clarifies, voice smooth, patient in the way that makes your shoulders tense. “I keep asking and you keep hesitating. It’s an odd habit for a wife to develop.”

You swallow. “Two weeks.”

He hums, low in his throat, finally turning to face you.

His eyes flick over you with open ownership, your hair, your hands, the shape of you beneath the thin layers of silk. There is no shyness in it. There never has been. You were married before you had time to learn it.

“Months,” he says. “Married for months. Bedded properly. Regularly.” His mouth curves, faintly. “Faithfully.”

You feel the word settle on you like a hand at your throat.

“You were chosen carefully,” Aerion continues, stepping closer. Each measured stride eats the space between you. “Do you know that? I didn’t take just any cousin offered to me. I insisted.” His gaze lifts to your face, sharp and assessing. “Pure blood. The look of Old Valyria is written all over you. Silver-gold hair, violet eyes. No dilution.”

He reaches out, catches a loose strand of your hair between his fingers. Twirls it once.

“You were supposed to take quickly.”

Your breath stutters despite yourself.

Aerion notices, of course. “Don’t,” he murmurs. “Don’t look frightened. This is not an accusation.” A beat. “Yet.”

His thumb brushes your jaw, tilting your face up whether you want it or not. His touch is warm, almost gentle, which somehow makes it worse.

“I’ve done my part,” he says quietly. “Night after night. I have not spared you effort. I have not spared myself.” His eyes darken, intent sharpening into something hungrier. “So we must ask why nothing has come of it.”

You stiffen. “These things can take time.”

He laughs. Soft and disbelieving.

“Time,” he repeats. “That is what men say when they fear the truth. That is what septons say when they have no answers.” His grip tightens just enough to remind you who he is.

“Dragons do not wait.”

He releases you abruptly and turns away again, pacing now. You track him without meaning to, the restless energy rolling off him like heat.

“My father sired heirs without difficulty,” he says. “So did his father before him. It is not in our blood to struggle.” He stops, glancing back over his shoulder. “Unless something is wrong.”

The word hangs there. You feel it settle in your chest, cold and heavy.

Aerion studies your reaction with unnerving focus. As if he’s already learned something just by saying it.

“Have you done anything,” he asks, voice low, “to interfere?”

Your heart jumps. “No.”

“No teas?” he presses. “No foolish advice from handmaids who think they know better than centuries of Valyrian truth?”

“No,” you repeat, firmer now.

Good, his expression seems to say. Because there would be consequences.

He returns to you, close again, crowding your space. His hand slides to your waist, possessive, grounding.

“You understand what you are meant to give me,” he says. “An heir. A living, breathing proof that the blood remains strong.” His gaze drops, lingering. “I did not marry you for only companionship.”

You don’t answer. You’ve learned that silence is safer than the wrong words.

Aerion leans in, his mouth near your ear, his voice dropping into something quieter and far more dangerous.

“Every night I lie beside you and think about it,” he admits. “About what should already be growing inside you. About how it will bear my name. My fire.” His breath ghosts your skin. “I won’t be denied that. Not by fate. Not by gods. And certainly not by a body that forgets its purpose.”

His hand flexes at your waist, fingers digging in just enough to bruise tomorrow.

For a moment, that is all there is.

Then his grip loosens.

Aerion exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, as if reining himself back from the edge of something sharp. His forehead comes to rest briefly against your temple.

“You were always my favourite,” he says quietly, like it’s a fact he’s just remembered. “Did you know that?”

You still. He hasn’t said anything like that before.

“When you were three and ten, and I came home from battle,” he continues, voice lower now, less performative. “You listened. You didn’t fawn, didn’t flinch. You looked at me like you understood what I was meant to be.” His fingers trace the seam of your sleeve, grounding himself as much as you. “That is why I chose you.”

He pulls back just enough to look at your face. His eyes search it, not for fear this time, but for alignment.

“I want this to work,” Aerion says. The words sound strange on him, unfamiliar, but no less intense. “With you.” A pause. “Not because I doubt myself. Never that.” His mouth tightens. “But because I will not have the realm whisper that I chose wrongly.”

His thumb brushes your jaw, almost reverent now, as though convincing himself of something.

“We are of the same fire,” he murmurs. “It will take. It must.”

Then the moment closes. The mask settles back into place, seamless.

“We will try again tonight,” he says, not as a question but as a decree. “And tomorrow. And the night after that, if we must.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes bright with conviction. “Until the realm has its proof.”

He straightens, already done with the conversation, already certain of the outcome.

“Go,” Aerion orders softly.

The summons comes at midnight, delivered by a servant who won't meet your eyes. "Prince Aerion requests your presence in his chambers, Princess."

You dismiss your handmaid with a wave, rising from your seat by the window where you've been pretending to read.

Your stomach tightens with the familiar mixture of anticipation and resignation that's become your constant companion these past months.

The walk to his chambers feels longer than usual. Your hair, unbound as he prefers it, cascades down your back. You're wearing a simple silk robe; there's no point in anything more elaborate.

He'll have it off you within moments anyway.

His door is already open when you get there. You step inside to find him standing by the window, backlit by the dying sun. He's removed his doublet already, dressed only in his shirtsleeves and breeches, and when he turns to face you, his eyes fix on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

"Close the door."

You obey, and the soft click of the latch feels final, sealing you in with him and his purpose.

"Come here."

You cross the room, your bare feet silent on the cold stone floor. When you're close enough, he reaches out and catches your chin, tilting your face up to his. His thumb traces your cheekbone, then your lower lip, pressing against it until your mouth parts slightly.

You hold still under his examination.

You've learned that he likes to look at you like this, cataloguing your features as if reassuring himself of your worthiness. He releases your chin and begins unlacing your robe with deft, impatient fingers.

"Tonight we do this properly."

The silk slides from your shoulders, pooling at your feet, leaving you bare before him. His eyes rake over you with undisguised hunger, lingering on your breasts, your hips, your belly. Despite everything, heat blooms low in your belly.

"On the bed. On your back."

You move to obey, climbing onto the massive four-poster bed that dominates his chamber. The sheets are cool against your skin as you settle against the pillows, and you watch as Aerion strips off his remaining clothes with efficient movements. His body is lean and strong, all taut muscle and pale skin, and when he's naked, his cock is already hard, thick and flushed.

He joins you on the bed, kneeling between your legs. His hands grip your thighs, spreading them wide, exposing you completely to his gaze. You feel yourself flush under the scrutiny, but you don't look away.

His hand slides up your inner thigh, and when his fingers reach your centre they stroke through your folds without preamble. This is preparation, nothing more, making sure you're ready to take him. But your body responds anyway, growing slick under his touch.

He pushes one finger inside you, then two, stretching you open with methodical efficiency. His fingers curl and thrust, finding that spot inside you that makes your breath hitch. Your hips buck involuntarily, seeking more friction, and a soft sound escapes your throat before you can stop it.

Aerion's eyes snap to your face, a slight smirk gracing his features.

He withdraws his fingers, and you watch as he brings them to his mouth, tasting your arousal on them. His eyes never leave yours as his tongue slides along his fingers, and the sight makes something clench deep in your belly.

Then he's positioning himself over you, his cock heavy and hard against your entrance. He hooks his hands under your knees, pushing your legs up and back, folding you nearly in half. The position leaves you completely open, vulnerable, unable to do anything but take what he gives you.

"Dragons breed dragons," he says, his voice rough. "Our children will be worthy of our blood."

And then he's pushing inside you in one long, brutal thrust that fills you completely. The angle is so deep it borders on painful, and you can't stop the sharp cry that tears from your throat.

Your hands clutch at the sheets as he bottoms out, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt inside you.

He doesn't give you time to adjust. He pulls back and drives in again, setting a deep, punishing rhythm. Each thrust is deliberate, angled to go as deep as possible, and you can feel him everywhere; the thick length of him stretching you open, the blunt head of his cock hitting something deep inside that makes sparks shoot up your spine.

His fingers dig into your thighs hard enough to bruise as he holds you in place, using you. The wet sounds of him fucking into you fill the room, obscene and unmistakable. You can feel yourself growing wetter, your body opening for him despite the intensity, despite the way he's taking you like you're nothing more than a vessel for his seed.

"You'll take it," he grits out, his hips snapping against yours. "All of it. You'll give me an heir worthy of our name."

The words wash over you as he continues to drive into you, relentless.

Your body responds despite yourself, or maybe because of yourself, because some part of you has learned to find pleasure in this, in being wanted so intensely, even if it's only for what you can give him.

The pressure builds low in your belly, coiling tighter with each thrust. You bite your lip to keep from making more noise, but small whimpers escape anyway as he fucks into you harder, faster.

One of his hands releases your thigh, sliding between your bodies to find your most sensitive spot. He circles it with his thumb, rough and insistent, and the added stimulation makes your back arch off the bed.

"Come," he commands. "Now."

It's not a request, and your body obeys.

The pressure explodes and you shatter around him, clenching rhythmically around his cock. Your mouth opens in a silent cry as waves of pleasure crash over you.

Aerion hisses, and his thrusts become harder, more erratic. He buries himself as deep as he can go and stills, and you feel the hot pulse of his release flooding you. His cock jerks inside you as he empties himself, filling you with himself. His head drops forward and for a moment the only sound is both of you breathing hard.

But he doesn't pull out. Instead, he carefully lowers your legs, then shifts his weight, rolling you both so that you're on your side, still joined. His hand slides to your hip, holding you against him, keeping everything inside you.

"Don't move. Don't let any spill."

You obey, feeling the warm fullness of him inside you, his seed deep in your womb. His hand splays possessively over your lower belly, and you can feel his cock still twitching occasionally inside you, still half-hard.

His hand moves from your belly to your face, turning you so he can look at you. His violet eyes search yours, and for a moment, you see something beyond the obsession, something almost like satisfaction.

"We'll keep trying. As many times as it takes."

You feel him beginning to harden again inside you, his cock swelling and lengthening. Your eyes widen slightly, and he sees your reaction.

A small, satisfied smile curves his lips.

"Did you really think once would be enough?"

He begins to move again, slow shallow thrusts that make you gasp. You're oversensitive from your first release, and every movement sends sparks of almost-painful pleasure through you. But he doesn't care, doesn't stop. He pulls out only to push you onto your stomach, his hands gripping your hips and hauling them up.

"This way. Deeper."

He enters you from behind in one smooth thrust, and the angle is entirely different. You cry out into the pillows as he fills you again, his cock hitting new places that make your toes curl. His hands grip your hips bruisingly tight as he begins to move, fucking into you with renewed purpose.

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, along with your muffled whimpers and his harsh breathing. One of his hands slides up your spine, then tangles in your silver hair, gripping it tight and pulling your head back.

"You'll swell with my child," he pants, his hips snapping against yours. "Everyone will see. Everyone will know you carry the dragon's heir."

His words are filthy, possessive, and yet they make you clench around him, make fresh wetness gather between your thighs.

"Touch yourself."

You slide one hand beneath your body, finding your sensitive clit. You're so swollen, so oversensitized, that even your own touch makes you whimper. But you obey, circling the bundle of nerves in time with his brutal thrusts.

His grip on your hair tightens, and he uses it to pull you back onto his cock with each thrust. The pleasure builds again, impossibly, and you can feel yourself climbing toward another release.

"That's it," he growls. "Come on my cock again. Your body knows what it needs."

Your second release crashes over you without warning, somehow even more intense than the first. You muffle your cries in the pillow as your body convulses around him, your inner walls clamping down on his length. You feel him swell inside you, his rhythm faltering, and then he's coming again with a guttural groan, flooding you with more of his seed.

This time when he pulls out, you feel the warm trickle of his spend beginning to leak from you. But before more than a drop can escape, his fingers are there, pushing it back inside roughly.

"Can't waste it. Every drop stays inside you."

He manoeuvres you onto your back again, then reaches for one of the pillows. "Lift your hips."

You obey, and he slides the pillow underneath, elevating your lower body. Then he presses his palm against your entrance, as if he can physically keep his seed inside you. You can feel it—the warm, wet fullness of his release deep inside you, more than you've ever felt before.

"Stay like this. Don't move."

You nod, your body limp and trembling, and watch as he rises from the bed. He pours wine from a carafe on the side table, drinking deeply. His cock is still semi-hard, glistening with your combined pleasure, and you can't help but stare at it, at the evidence of what he's done to you.

He brings a cup to you, helping you drink without letting you lower your hips. The wine is cool and sweet on your tongue, a stark contrast to the heat still coursing through your body.

He sets the cup aside and returns to the bed, stretching out beside you. His hand returns to your belly, splaying possessively over the flat plane.

"Not much longer now, I can feel it," he says quietly.

There's something almost desperate in his voice now, beneath the command. As if his entire sense of self, his entire purpose, rests on seeing you pregnant with his child.

"Sons," he says. "Strong sons with the blood of the dragon in their veins." His hand moves up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, making it harden. "Though daughters would be acceptable. If they have the proper features. If they look like you."

He's hardening again against your thigh; you can feel it.

The man's stamina is almost inhuman, driven by his obsession. His hand trails back down your body, fingers dipping between your legs to feel where you're swollen and wet with his seed.

"Still so much inside you. Good."

He strokes gently, almost idly, his fingers sliding through the mess he's made of you. Not trying to bring you pleasure, just touching.

Reminding you both of what you are to him.

The hour passes slowly. He doesn't let you move, keeping you positioned with your hips elevated, his seed deep inside you. Sometimes he talks about the children you'll have, about their dragon blood, about the legacy you'll build together. Other times, he's silent, simply watching you with those intense violet eyes, his hand possessive on your belly.

When he finally deems enough time has passed, he removes the pillow and immediately moves over you again.

"Once more."

You're sore now, tired and oversensitive, but your body still responds to him. Still opens for him as he pushes inside, filling you once again with his thick length. You can feel how swollen you are, how tender, but he doesn't care.

He needs this.

This time he's slower, more controlled. He fucks you with deep, measured strokes that seem designed to reach as far into you as possible. His eyes never leave your face, watching every expression, every reaction.

"Pure and perfect. You were made for this. Made to carry my children," he murmurs, voice low and hypnotic.

His words should horrify you, should make you feel like nothing more than a broodmare. But you're too far gone, too lost in the sensation of him moving inside you. Your hands come up to grip his shoulders, and despite your soreness, despite everything, you find yourself meeting his thrusts.

His hand slides between your bodies again, and you whimper at the touch, but he's insistent, circling with his fingers.

"One more time. Come for me one more time."

You're not sure you can; you're wrung out, exhausted, overwhelmed. But his fingers are relentless, and his cock is hitting that perfect spot inside you, and somehow, impossibly, you feel the pressure building again.

You arch beneath him when you peak again, a broken cry tearing from your throat, and you feel him follow you over the edge, his seed pulsing into you once more. There's so much of it now, so much that you can feel it leaking out around his cock even as he's still buried inside you.

He collapses onto you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and for a long moment neither of you moves. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, his breath hot against your neck. His cock is still inside you, still twitching occasionally, and you can feel the warm wetness of his seed pooling beneath you.

"It will take this time," he murmurs against your skin. "It must."

He rolls off you but immediately pulls you against his side, arranging you so that you're still on your back, still keeping his seed inside you. His hand returns to your belly, possessive and protective.

"Sleep. But don't move. Stay just like this."

You're too exhausted to do anything but obey. Your eyes drift closed, your body heavy and sated despite the soreness, despite the ache between your thighs. His hand remains on your belly, and the last thing you're aware of before sleep claims you is his voice, quiet and determined:

"You're mine. You'll give me heirs worthy of our blood. Worthy of dragons."

And in the darkness behind your eyelids, you can almost see them; the silver-haired children you'll bear him, the legacy you'll create together.

Morning comes slowly, like it’s unsure whether it’s welcome.

You surface to awareness in fragments, heat first, then weight, then the dull, echoing ache threaded through your hips and thighs. The bed smells like smoke and skin, and your body feels heavy, overused, tender in places you don’t want to think too closely about yet.

You try to move and hiss quietly instead.

Aerion stirs beside you.

You’re naked. So is he, stretched out on his back, one arm flung carelessly above his head. The sheet is tangled around your legs, useless. There are marks on you. You can feel them without looking.

Dark bruises blooming along your inner thighs, your waist, the soft underside of your arm where his hand lingered too long.

His eyes open.

They’re already focused.

“Don’t,” he says immediately, voice rough with sleep. Not angry. Not gentle. Just certain. His hand comes down, firm on your hip, holding you still. “You’ll make it worse.”

You freeze, breath caught.

He looks you over openly, assessing. There’s no embarrassment in his gaze, no softness, but there is satisfaction.

“You pushed yourself,” Aerion murmurs, almost to himself. “I told you not to tense like that.”

You swallow. “You didn’t stop.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile.

“No, you are right, cousin,” he agrees. “I didn’t.”

He shifts then, carefully, rising onto one elbow. The movement makes you more aware of your own body, how sore you are, how every small motion pulls.

Aerion notices your wince immediately.

“Hmh.” His thumb presses into your hip, not unkindly, testing. “You’re not injured.”

It isn’t reassurance. It’s a verdict.

Still, he reaches for the bell without asking, gives it a single sharp ring. When the servants come later, he dismisses them just as quickly, taking the basin himself. You watch from the bed, dazed, as he wets the cloth and returns.

“If I ruin you, you’ll be no use to me.”

The cloth is warm. He cleans you with deliberate care, efficient, thorough, avoiding nothing.

His touch lingers where it doesn’t need to, thumb brushing bruised skin as if cataloguing it. You feel him pause once, just long enough for his breath to change.

“Good,” he murmurs. “They suit you.”

Your stomach flips.

When he’s finished, he sets the cloth aside and smooths the sheet back over you, palm resting briefly on your abdomen. Possessive. Thoughtful. As though imagining something beneath his hand that isn’t there yet.

“You’ll rest today,” Aerion says. “No walking the galleries. No visits to court. You stay here.” He looks at you, eyes bright with quiet certainty.

He lies back beside you, close enough that you can feel his heat again, his arm settling around you like it belongs there.

Not cruel.

Not kind.

Just Aerion Targaryen, ensuring that what is his remains intact and ready.

By the time you realise it, Aerion already has.

It’s in the way his questions change, less accusatory, more precise. The way he watches you when you think he isn’t. The way his hand lingers at your wrist when you grow light-headed, his thumb pressing there as if counting something only he can feel.

“How many days?” he asks one evening, voice deceptively calm.

You hesitate. He looks up from where he’s seated, expression sharpening instantly.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Aerion says. “You know what I’m asking.”

“…Nearly three weeks,” you admit.

The room goes very still.

Aerion leans back slowly, eyes flicking to the fire, then back to you, already doing the math. You can see it happen behind his eyes, neat and ruthless. When he stands, he closes the distance between you in three strides.

“You’ve been nauseous,” he says. Not a question. “In the mornings. You haven’t touched wine. And you’ve been tired.” His fingers tilt your chin up, possessive but controlled.

“You should have told me.”

“I wasn’t sure,” you say quietly.

His grip tightens.

"I am"

The maester is summoned the next morning. You sit on the edge of the bed while Aerion paces like a caged animal, every movement coiled with tension.

The old man finally clears his throat, "It is without doubt, my Prince. The Princess is with child."

For a heartbeat, you think he hasn’t heard.

Then he laughs.

It’s low and incredulous, like something has finally aligned in the world. He turns to you, eyes bright.

“You see?” he says, almost triumphant. He crosses the room and takes your face in both hands, thumbs warm against your cheeks. “I told them. I told them all.”

The maester is dismissed with a wave and the door shuts. Silence falls, thick and charged.

Aerion doesn’t let go of you.

“My heir,” he murmurs, then corrects himself, “Our child.”

He studies you like he’s seeing you properly for the first time, pride written openly across his face. His hand slides to your abdomen, reverent now, protective in a way that feels startling on him.

“You did well,” he says. Praise, bare and unguarded.

You look up at him. “Was it ever in doubt?”

Something flickers in his expression, something almost like fondness.

His forehead rests briefly against yours. When he kisses you, it’s not hungry. Not demanding. It’s slow, claiming, deliberate, like a seal pressed into hot wax.

When he pulls back, his hand never leaves you.

“No one touches you now,” he says softly. “No one questions you. You are carrying fire.”

And for the first time since you became his wife, Aerion Targaryen looks at you not just as a means, but as something precious he intends to guard.

he so 🥵

[eu-nicola]

Hi I was wondering if u could do an aerion fic where he’s married to his younger sister and INFATUATED with her.. lile he is OBSESSED. This request is a bit all over the place but yea. :)))

He’s cruel n violent obvi but she’s as delicate as a flower. She loves him very much and always has sinde they were little. Whenever he comes back to Ther chambers she’s always there practically jumping with joy to embrace him

Oh and not to mention his freaky ass deffo likes it when she goes and sulks or cries in his arms crying to him (he probably kills the problem the next day)

(He’s loyal in this fic doesnt even glance at anyone. Afyer all in his eyes She’s the only pure Targaryen the very one who he sees as his equal)

Some genuine soft moments of him too.. veing delusional here ik.

this is gold i swear

perfect couple - aerion targaryen

words: (7,2k) warnings: age-gap, possessive, pregnancy kink, smut

You were barely five years old when you understood that Aerion was different from the others.

While other children played with wooden swords in the courtyard, your older brother remained apart, watching them with those violet eyes that seemed to judge and find everyone lacking. But when you approached in your silk dresses and your silver hair braided, his expression softened in a way no one else ever witnessed.

“Aerion,” you called that day, extending your small hand toward him. “Why don’t you play with them?”

He looked at your hand as if it were something sacred before taking it carefully. “Because they’re common, inferior. But you…” his eyes fixed on your face with an intensity improper for a ten year old boy, “you are like me. Pure dragon’s blood. We don’t need anyone else.”

You didn’t fully understand his words then, but the way he looked at you, like you were the only real thing in a world of shadows, made your childish heart beat faster.

From that day on, you became his constant shadow. And he, your protector.

The years passed like pages in a book, each one writing the inevitability of your shared destiny. When you turned fifteen, Aerion was already twenty and his reputation for cruelty had grown exponentially. Stories of his violent temper circulated through the court like whispered warnings.

But to you, he was still simply Aerion.

“You must be careful,” your septa warned you one afternoon while preparing you for dinner. “Prince Aerion is… dangerous. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. It isn’t proper.”

You turned sharply, your violet eyes, so similar to his, flashing with indignation. “Don’t speak of my brother that way. Aerion would never hurt me.”

The older woman seemed to want to say more, but held back. She didn’t know, no one knew, that you had already spoken of your future. That Aerion had declared before your father that he would marry no one but you, and that he had threatened to burn alive any man who dared ask for your hand.

That night, when you entered the great hall, you felt his gaze immediately. Aerion sat at the high table, wine cup in hand, but his eyes never left you. They traveled slowly, possessively over your figure, lingering on the curves just beginning to form beneath your pale blue silk gown.

You blushed under his scrutiny but held his gaze. You saw his lips curve into a smile that was pure dark promise.

When you sat beside him, his hand found your thigh under the table. The touch was improper, possessive, and sent shivers up your spine.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “More beautiful every day. You drive me mad, did you know that?”

“Aerion,” you whispered, aware of the other diners’ eyes. “We’re in public.”

His hand tightened slightly. “Let them look. Let everyone know you’re mine. That you’ve always been mine.”

Your heart pounded so hard you were sure he could hear it. “We’re not married yet.”

“A technicality that will soon be corrected,” he replied, his fingers tracing circles on your skin through the fabric. “Your sixteenth nameday cannot come soon enough. Though my patience grows thinner every day I cannot claim you completely.”

The double meaning in his words didn’t escape you, and heat flooded your cheeks. Aerion smiled at your reaction, clearly pleased with his ability to affect you so.

Your sixteenth nameday arrived with a private ceremony witnessed only by the closest members of the royal family. Aerion had insisted, he wanted to share this moment with no one beyond the absolute minimum necessary.

You stood before the septon, dressed in white silk embroidered with red dragons, your silver hair falling loose down your back as Aerion had demanded. He stood beside you, imposing in black and red, his hand gripping yours with almost painful firmness.

The kiss that sealed your marriage was anything but chaste. Aerion took you by the waist, pulling you against his body with a possessiveness that made several of those present look away uncomfortably. He kissed you like a starving man, his tongue claiming your mouth in a way that left you breathless and trembling.

When he finally pulled back, there was a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “Mine,” he murmured against your lips. “Finally, completely mine.”

That same night the maids prepared you for the wedding night with trembling hands. They all knew Aerion’s reputation, and they looked at you with something close to pity. If only they knew you felt no fear, only anticipation.

They dressed you in a silk shift so thin it was practically transparent, and left you sitting on the edge of the enormous canopied bed, waiting.

You didn’t have to wait long.

The door opened and Aerion entered, locking it behind him. The sound of the bolt echoed in the room like a promise. When he turned to look at you, his violet eyes darkened until they were almost black.

“By the Seven,” he murmured, approaching slowly, like a predator stalking prey. “You are a vision. My vision. My perfect dragon.”

You rose on trembling legs, and he closed the distance in two long strides. His hands framed your face with a reverence that contrasted with the hungry intensity in his eyes.

“I’ve dreamed of this moment,” he confessed, his thumb caressing your lower lip. “Since the day you began to bloom into womanhood. Do you know how many nights I woke up hard and aching, imagining how you would look beneath me? How your moans would sound with my name on your lips?”

His raw words made you tremble, not with fear. “Aerion…”

“Say it again,” he ordered, voice hoarse. “Say my name like that, like a prayer.”

“Aerion,” you repeated, and he growled, capturing your lips in a devastating kiss.

This time there were no restraints, no spectators. He kissed you until your knees gave out, and he caught you easily, carrying you to the bed. He laid you on the silk sheets as if you were something infinitely precious and dangerously fragile.

“I’m going to ruin you for any other man,” he whispered against your neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin. “Not that there could ever be another. You’ve been mine since you were born. Since before you were born, if such a thing as fate exists.”

His hands roamed your body through the thin silk, exploring every curve, every valley. When his fingers brushed your already hard nipples, you arched with a gasp.

“So responsive,” he murmured with dark satisfaction. “So perfect. Tell me, my sweet wife, have you thought of this too? Of how it would feel to finally belong to me this way?”

“Yes,” you admitted without shame, because what was the point of lying? “Always. Only you.”

Something fierce and possessive crossed his face. “Good. Because tonight I’m going to carve myself so deep inside you that you’ll carry my mark on your soul. Every part of you will belong to me.”

And he kept his promise. He took you with a mixture of reverence and ravenous hunger, worshiping your body while claiming it completely. It was painful at first, inevitable given your inexperience, but Aerion was surprisingly patient, kissing away every tear that fell down your cheeks.

“Shh, my love,” he whispered, staying still inside you while your body adjusted. “The pain will pass. Soon there will only be pleasure. I promise. Trust me.”

And you did trust him. You had always trusted him.

When he finally began to move, it was as if the entire world narrowed to just the two of you. To his violet eyes locked on yours, to his hands pinning yours to the bed, to the sensation of him filling you completely.

“I’m going to fill you,” he growled against your ear, hips still moving. “I’m going to get you pregnant as soon as possible. I want to see your belly swollen with my child. I want everyone to know I’ve claimed you in the most basic, primitive way.”

His words sent you into another unexpected orgasm, and he smiled with dark satisfaction.

When you finally reached climax, it was with his name on your lips and his eyes devouring every expression of pleasure on your face. He followed moments later, burying himself as deep as possible, marking you from the inside.

Afterward, as you lay entwined, sweaty and sated, Aerion held you like his most precious possession. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your bare back.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured into your hair. “Absolutely perfect. And completely mine now. No one can take you from me. No one would dare.”

You curled closer, feeling the deep satisfaction of finally belonging to the only person you had ever loved.

The weeks that followed established a pattern that would become familiar. Aerion was insatiable, taking you several times a day with a dedication bordering on mania.

“I have to make sure,” he would say each time he cornered you in some corner of your chambers, hands already lifting your dress. “I have to make sure you take my seed. That my child grows inside you.”

It wasn’t just desire, though there was plenty of that. It was something deeper, more primal. The need to mark, to claim, to create something that belonged solely to the two of you.

“Aerion,” you gasped one afternoon when he took you over his desk, important parchments and documents falling to the floor without care. “The servants… they’ll hear…”

“Let them hear,” he growled, hips slamming against yours with delicious force. “Let everyone know how well their prince pleases his wife.”

His crude words, combined with the perfect angle of his thrusts, sent you over the edge with a cry that was definitely heard beyond the doors.

Aerion followed moments later, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you. “Perfect,” he panted against your neck. “Absolutely perfect. My wife, taking my seed so well.”

Three weeks after the wedding, you began to feel… different. Mornings brought nausea that sent you running to the chamber pot, and your breasts felt tender, swollen.

You said nothing immediately, wanting to be certain before giving Aerion hope. But of course he noticed. Aerion noticed everything about you.

“You’re different,” he observed one morning, eyes studying you as you dressed. “Your breasts are fuller. And you’ve been pale.”

You blushed, your hands instinctively going to your still flat belly. “I… I think we should call the maester.”

The transformation on his face was immediate. His eyes lit with a fire you had never seen before, wild and triumphant.

“Are you…?”

“I don’t know for certain,” you admitted. “But the signs…”

You didn’t finish. Aerion crossed the room in two strides and lifted you, spinning you while he laughed, a sound of pure joy that rarely came from him.

“I knew it,” he proclaimed, setting you down with infinite care, as if you had suddenly become made of glass. “I knew it would be quick. Your body recognizes it was made to carry my children. Our blood is so pure, so perfect, of course you conceived immediately.”

His arrogance should have annoyed you, but instead it made you smile. It was so typically Aerion.

“We’re not sure yet,” you reminded him.

“We are,” he answered with absolute certainty. “I can see it in you. The way you glow. But we’ll call the maester anyway, for official confirmation.”

Maester Willam examined you carefully while Aerion stood beside you, gripping your hand so tightly it almost hurt. You could feel the tension vibrating through his body, his patience clearly at its limit.

“Well, Princess,” the maester finally said with a smile. “I can confirm that you are indeed with child. Approximately one month along, I would say. Congratulations to you both.”

The sound that came from Aerion was almost animal, a roar of pure triumph. Before you could react, he lifted you from the examination bed, ignoring the maester’s protests about being careful, and kissed you with an intensity that left you breathless.

“My prince,” the maester tried to intervene. “We must discuss appropriate care during pregnancy…”

“Speak,” Aerion ordered without taking his eyes off you. His hand had settled possessively over your belly, spreading wide over where his child grew. “But be brief.”

The poor maester quickly explained diet, rest, and activities to avoid. When he mentioned abstaining from vigorous marital relations, Aerion laughed.

“That is not going to happen,” he declared shamelessly. “My wife is not a fragile doll that will break. Next topic.”

“But my prince…”

“I said next topic,” Aerion’s voice took on that dangerous tone that meant his patience had run out. “Unless you wish to suggest you know more about caring for my wife than I do.”

The months that followed established the rhythm of your marriage. Aerion was possessive to the point of obsession, and you were devoted to the point of worship.

Every morning you woke in his arms. Even when he had early matters to attend to, he stayed in bed until your eyes opened, just so he could see your first smile of the day.

“Good morning, my husband,” you murmured one morning, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

He captured your hand and kissed your palm. “Every day I wake up with you is a good day. Though I must admit I prefer the nights.”

Heat rose to your cheeks at the implication, and he smiled with that predatory smile that made you feel like his favorite prey.

“I love it when you blush like that,” he murmured, rolling until he was above you. “As if you were still my sweet, innocent wife, and not the woman who begged me last night to take her harder.”

“Aerion!” you protested, but your laughter ruined any attempt to look scandalized.

He laughed too, a rare, precious sound only you ever heard, before kissing you deeply. “I could spend every moment of the day in this bed with you,” he murmured against your lips. “Exploring every way to make you scream my name.”

“You have responsibilities,” you reminded him, even as your hands slid down his bare back, encouraging him to stay.

“Fuck responsibilities,” he growled, his mouth descending your neck. “You are my only real responsibility. My only priority.”

And he proceeded to prove it in the most pleasurable way possible.

When Aerion finally had to leave to attend to the kingdom’s affairs, it was always the same ritual. You dressed in his favorite colors and accompanied him to the door of your chambers.

During his absence you embroidered, read, or simply waited. Your ladies in waiting tried to entertain you, but you preferred solitude, counting the minutes until Aerion returned.

And when he did…

The servants had learned to stay far from your chambers when Prince Aerion returned. The sounds that emanated from there were… inappropriate for outside ears.

One particular afternoon you had been especially anxious. Aerion had been gone all day, and when you finally heard his footsteps approaching, you dropped your embroidery and ran to the door.

When it opened, you didn’t wait a second before throwing yourself into his arms. He caught you easily, laughing softly at your enthusiasm.

“My little dragon missed me, didn’t she?” he murmured, pressing his nose to your neck and inhaling deeply.

“Terribly,” you admitted, your legs wrapping around his waist as he held you effortlessly. “Every second feels like an eternity when you’re not here.”

You felt his smile against your skin. “Well, fortunately I’m here now. And I have all night to make up for my absence.”

He carried you straight to the bed and spent the next hours showing you exactly how much he had missed you too.

But then the incident occurred during a banquet you could not avoid. Aerion normally kept you away from such events, preferring to have you only for himself, but your presence had been specifically requested by the king.

You were seated beside Aerion, beautiful in a silver silk gown that matched your hair. His hand rested possessively on your belly.

Everything was fine until Lord Tarly, a visiting noble of considerable power, approached with a goblet of wine and an overly friendly smile.

“Princess,” he said with a bow that seemed to linger a little longer than appropriate. “I must say you are the loveliest creature I have seen in years. Prince Aerion is truly fortunate.”

You felt Aerion tense beside you.

“Lord Tarly,” you replied politely, ignoring the discomfort. “You are very kind.”

“More than kind, only honest,” the lord continued, clearly oblivious to the danger. “If you were not already married, I would certainly have sought your hand. A beauty such as yours is…”

He never finished. Aerion stood so abruptly that his chair crashed backward.

“What did you say?” Aerion’s voice was dangerously soft, the kind of tone that preceded violence.

Lord Tarly paled, finally realizing his mistake. “I… I was merely paying a compliment, my prince.”

“A compliment?” Aerion laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “Declaring your intentions toward MY wife is a compliment? Imagining a world in which she could be yours when she is MINE is a compliment?”

“Aerion,” you whispered, taking his arm. “Please, don’t…”

He looked at you, and you saw madness dancing in his violet eyes. “Are you defending this worm?”

“No,” you answered quickly. “I just… I don’t want you to get in trouble because of me.”

His expression softened marginally when he looked at you, but when he turned his attention back to Lord Tarly, the fury returned tenfold.

“Get out of my sight before I decide to decorate these walls with your entrails,” he growled. “And pray to the Seven that I never hear my name and my wife’s name in your mouth at the same time again.”

Lord Tarly fled, and the rest of the banquet continued in tense silence. Aerion kept you glued to his side for the remainder of the night, his arm around your waist in a grip that screamed ownership.

Later, in your chambers, the tears finally fell. Not because of the incident with Lord Tarly, that was insignificant, but because of the look you had seen in Aerion’s eyes. That dark look that meant someone would suffer.

“My love,” Aerion was immediately at your side, wiping your tears with his thumbs. “Why are you crying? Did I frighten you tonight?”

“It’s not that,” you sobbed, clutching his tunic. “It’s just… I hate when you get like that. I hate when people provoke you. I hate that you have to defend yourself and defend me constantly. I don’t want you to get in trouble because of me.”

“Oh, my sweet,” he murmured, sitting and pulling you onto his lap. “You don’t understand, do you? Protecting you is not a burden. It is my purpose. My reason for existing.”

“But…”

“Shh,” he silenced you, his hand stroking your back in comforting circles. “Let me explain something to you. In this world you are the only pure thing that exists. You are the only person worthy of bearing the Targaryen name at my side. Do you think I will allow any inferior man to even dream of touching you?”

His words, though extreme, comforted you. You curled closer against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

“I love you,” you murmured.

“And I adore you with an intensity that probably should frighten me,” he replied with brutal honesty. “If anything happened to you, if anyone hurt you, there would be no mercy. There would be no limits to my vengeance. I would burn the entire world just to see your tears dry.”

It was a terrifying and romantic declaration at the same time, typical of Aerion.

“What are you going to do to Lord Tarly?” you asked quietly.

Aerion laughed softly, a humorless sound. “Let me worry about that. You only need to know he will never look at you again. He will never speak your name again. In fact…” his voice took on a dark tone, “he will probably not do much of anything in the near future.”

You asked no more. Instead you raised your face and kissed him, pouring all your love and trust into that kiss.

Aerion responded with hunger, his hands clutching you as if you were his salvation. “You are too good for me,” he murmured against your lips. “Too sweet, too pure. I don’t deserve your love.”

“Nonsense,” you answered firmly. “You gave me everything I ever wanted. You gave me you.”

The next day you woke alone, which was unusual. Aerion’s side of the bed was cold, indicating he had left hours earlier.

A note rested on his pillow, written in his precise handwriting:

“My little dragon, I have matters to attend to this morning. Worry about nothing. I will return before lunch to claim you again. Aerion”

You smiled at the note, pressing it to your chest. You knew exactly what “matters” he was attending to. Lord Tarly would discover today that insulting the wife of Aerion Targaryen carried severe consequences.

But as Aerion had said, it was not your concern. Your duty was to be exactly what he needed. You rose and allowed the maids to prepare you for the day. You chose a red gown you knew Aerion adored, and left your hair loose as he liked.

You spent the morning in the gardens, but your mind was with Aerion. It always was, really. It was as if you were connected by an invisible thread that constantly pulled you toward him.

When he finally returned, just as he had promised, you practically flew to him.

“Aerion!” you exclaimed, and he caught you, spinning you carefully so as not to press too hard on your belly.

“My love,” he murmured, inhaling your scent. “You waited well, I see.”

“I always wait for you,” you replied, kissing his jaw. “How… how did your matters go?”

A dark smile curved his lips. “Successfully. Lord Tarly discovered this morning that his tongue is too long for his own good. Literally.”

You shivered, but not from fear. You knew you should be horrified by Aerion’s violence, but instead it made you feel… protected. Valued. Loved in a way no one else could understand.

“Is he…?”

“Alive,” Aerion interrupted. “For now. But he will never speak improperly of you or any other woman again.”

His hands roamed your body, possessive and hungry. “Have I told you today how beautiful you look in this gown?”

“No,” you replied with a smile. “But you can show me.”

He growled appreciatively. “My little dragon has teeth today, doesn’t she? I like it. Though I like it more when you’re sweet and needy.”

“I can be both,” you murmured, pressing yourself against him in a way that left no doubt about your intentions.

Aerion looked at you with that intensity that always made you feel exposed, as if he could read every sinful thought in your mind. “Both, eh? Then prove it to me, my love. Show me how receptive you are for me.”

His words sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine. You knew what was coming, and your body was already responding, growing wet at the mere promise of his touch. He took your hand and guided you to the bed.

He undressed you with deliberate slowness, his skilled fingers untying the laces of your red gown while murmuring praises against your skin. “Look at this,” he said hoarsely, his eyes devouring the slight curve of your pregnant belly. “My child grows inside you, and still you remain the personification of temptation. So soft, so warm… so mine.”

He laid you carefully on the bed, making sure you were comfortable, with pillows supporting your back to avoid any pressure on your belly. Aerion was always attentive to that, his possessiveness extending to protecting what he considered his legacy. He knelt between your legs, parting them with gentleness but firmness, and lowered his head, his hot breath against your intimacy.

“I’m going to worship you first,” he whispered, his tongue tracing a slow path from your inner thigh to the center of your desire. You moaned at the first contact, your hands clutching the sheets as he explored with mastery. Aerion used his tongue expertly, licking and sucking with a precision that made you arch your back. “Gods, it’s as if your body was made only to respond to me. Submissive, yielding, perfect.”

And it was. You loved how he worshiped you like this, with absolute devotion, his tongue dancing over your clit in perfect circles, alternating between soft licks and more intense sucks that brought you to the edge of ecstasy. Your hips moved involuntarily, seeking more, but he held you with firm hands on your thighs, controlling the rhythm. “That’s it, my love,” he murmured, lifting his gaze to look at you with violet eyes darkened by desire.

Pleasure built quickly, a tight knot in your belly that didn’t interfere with the baby but seemed to enhance everything. You cried his name when the orgasm hit you, waves of ecstasy coursing through you while Aerion continued licking, prolonging your climax until you were trembling and gasping.

Satisfied with his work, he rose and kissed you, letting you taste yourself on his lips. “So sweet,” he said with a dark smile. “But we’re not finished. I want more of you.”

Carefully, he turned you, positioning you on your hands and knees, but adjusting pillows under your belly for support and to avoid any uncomfortable pressure. His hand rested protectively over your curve before sliding backward.

He entered you slowly from behind, growling at the sensation of your warmth enveloping him. “Gods, you’re so tight.” His thrusts were deep but controlled, mindful of your condition, every movement designed to maximize your pleasure without risk. Your moans were muffled against the pillow, biting the fabric as the angle allowed him to hit that sweet spot inside you again and again.

The pleasure was overwhelming, and you buried your face deeper into the pillow, stifling your cries as another orgasm approached. Aerion sped up slightly, his own control at its limit, until he spilled inside you with a primal growl, his hand stroking your back as you both collapsed onto the bed, exhausted and satisfied.

He pulled you against his chest, kissing your forehead tenderly. “My perfect wife,” he murmured.

Despite their love, the court whispered. The devotion between you and Aerion was… unusual, even by Targaryen standards.

“It isn’t natural,” Lady Frey murmured to her companions during a tea you had been obliged to attend. “The way he looks at her. As if she were the only thing in the world.”

“And the way she constantly seeks him,” another added. “Like a moth to the flame. It’s unsettling.”

You kept your expression serene, though their words irritated you. They didn’t understand. How could they? None of them had experienced a love like yours, absolute, consuming, eternal.

“My husband loves me,” you said softly, but with a steel edge in your voice. “And I love him. I see nothing unnatural in that.”

Lady Frey had the decency to look ashamed, but another lady, Lady Westerling, pressed: “But Princess, surely you must desire some… freedom. Prince Aerion is so possessive. He never allows you to be alone. He always keeps you at his side.”

You smiled, and it was not a kind smile. “Freedom for what? To bore myself with insipid conversation like this? No, thank you. I prefer to be where I belong with my husband.”

The tea continued in awkward silence after that, and as soon as it was appropriate, you excused yourself and returned to your chambers.

Aerion arrived shortly after, finding you pacing restlessly by the window.

“What’s wrong?” he asked immediately, his hands taking your shoulders. “You’re upset.”

“It’s just… the court,” you sighed, leaning back against him. “Their foolish murmurs about us. About you.”

“What do they say?” His voice turned dangerous.

“Nothing important,” you tried to calm him. “Just that you’re too possessive. That our love isn’t natural.”

You felt him tense behind you. “Tell me who said that.”

“Aerion, no…”

“Tell me.” It was not a request.

You sighed, knowing he would not relent. “Lady Frey. Lady Westerling. Others.”

“Good,” he said simply, but you could hear the dark promises in that single word.

You turned in his arms, taking his face. “You don’t need to defend me from foolish words. I don’t care what they think.”

“But I do,” he growled. “No one speaks of my wife that way. No one questions what we have. They will learn to keep their mouths shut or they will learn what it means to provoke a dragon.”

“Aerion…”

“No,” he interrupted, his lips capturing yours in a fierce kiss. “Don’t ask me to ignore this. Not when it comes to you. Never when it comes to you.”

He kissed you until your knees gave way, until you forgot why you were upset, until the only thing that existed was him.

Despite this, time passed and labor began in the early hours of the morning, with a sharp pain that woke you with a gasp. Aerion was instantly alert.

“Is it time?” he asked, his face pale in the dim light.

You nodded, unable to speak through another contraction.

The chaos that followed was almost comical. Aerion shouted for the midwives and the maester with such urgency one might have thought the castle was under attack. He refused to leave you, ignoring the midwives’ protests that men did not belong in the birthing chamber.

“She is MY wife,” he roared. “It is MY child. I will be here.”

And he was. Through every moment of the twelve hour labor, Aerion stayed by your side. He held your hand while you screamed, wiped the sweat from your brow, murmured words of encouragement in High Valyrian.

“You are so strong,” he whispered. “It’s almost over, my love. Almost over.”

When finally, after what seemed an eternity, the sharp cry of a baby filled the room, Aerion sobbed openly.

“A son, my prince,” the midwife announced, cleaning the baby. “A healthy, strong son.”

“Let me see him,” you ordered weakly, exhausted but desperate to see your son.

The midwife placed the baby, your son, in your arms. He was small but perfect, with a down of silver hair and, when he opened his eyes, flashes of pale violet.

“Perfect,” Aerion whispered, his finger gently stroking the baby’s cheek. “Absolutely perfect.”

Tears fell freely down your face as you looked at the little being you had created. “He’s beautiful.”

“Like his mother,” Aerion replied, kissing your forehead. “You did it. You survived. You gave me a son. My love, there are no words for what I feel right now.”

He spent the next hour simply looking at both of you, as if he couldn’t believe it was real. When he finally held his son for the first time, his hands trembled.

“Hello, little dragon,” he murmured, his voice shaking with emotion. “I am your father. And that beautiful, exhausted woman is your mother, the most important person in the world. We are going to protect you, love you, teach you what it means to be a true Targaryen.”

The baby made a small sound, and Aerion laughed, a laugh of pure joy you had never heard before.

“He already knows me,” he declared with that characteristic pride. “He can feel the dragon’s blood we share.”

The first week after the birth was… intense. Aerion refused to let anyone but you and the most trusted wet nurses touch the baby. He took shifts watching himself, observing his son sleep with a mixture of adoration and paranoia.

“Aerion, you need to sleep,” you told him one night, watching him from the bed where you rested with the sleeping baby in your arms.

“I can sleep when I’m dead,” he replied, without taking his eyes off his son. “Right now I need to make sure both of you are safe.”

“We’re in our own chambers, surrounded by guards,” you pointed out reasonably.

“It’s not enough,” he murmured, finally approaching to sit on the edge of the bed. His hand reached out to gently stroke the baby’s silver hair. “It will never be enough. This little one… is everything. He is our legacy, our continuation. The physical proof of our love.”

His finger traced the baby’s little nose, the round cheeks. “He looks like you,” he observed softly. “He has your nose. Thank the gods.”

“What’s wrong with your nose?” you asked with a tired smile.

“Nothing,” he replied with his usual arrogance. “But I prefer he looks like you. You’re more beautiful.”

The baby chose that moment to wake, his small violet eyes opening. He immediately began to cry, that sharp newborn cry they all master.

“He’s hungry,” you said, beginning to adjust your nightgown to nurse him.

Aerion watched the entire process with absolute fascination. “It’s incredible,” he murmured. “How your body knows exactly what to do. How you nourished him inside you and now continue to nourish him outside.”

“It’s natural,” you replied, feeling the baby latch and begin to suckle.

“It’s miraculous,” he corrected. “We created this. You and I.”

He gently ran his finger across the baby’s forehead while he fed. “What shall we name him?”

You had discussed names during the pregnancy but had never decided definitively. “Maegor?” you suggested.

Aerion considered it. “Maegor Targaryen. It has strength. Yes, I like it. Our little Maegor.”

Some weeks after having the baby you fell ill with fever. It was nothing serious, but Aerion reacted as if you were on the verge of death.

He refused to leave your side, dismissing the maesters after they examined you and declared you only needed rest. He insisted on caring for you himself.

“Aerion, I’m fine,” you protested weakly as he fed you broth. “You don’t need to…”

“Shut up and eat,” he ordered, but his tone was soft, worried. “You haven’t eaten anything all day.”

You obeyed, too tired to argue.

When you finished, he carefully wiped your mouth before helping you lie back down.

“Sleep,” he murmured, his fingers stroking your hair. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

“Promise?” you murmured, already half asleep.

“I promise,” he replied, kissing your forehead. “Nothing could take me from your side now.”

And he kept his promise. Every time you woke, and you woke often, the fever making your sleep restless, he was there. Changing cold cloths on your forehead, holding you when chills made you tremble, whispering comforting words when the fever made you delirious.

“Shh, my love,” his voice penetrated the haze. “You’re safe. I’m here.”

When the fever finally broke three days later, the first thing you saw were his violet eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep but shining with relief.

“You’re better,” he said, and you heard the tremor in his voice.

“Were you here the whole time?” you asked, noticing his disheveled appearance.

“Where else would I be?” he replied as if it were the stupidest question in the world. “You are my life. If I lost you…”

He didn’t finish, but he didn’t need to. You pulled him to you, ignoring your lingering weakness, and held him as he finally allowed himself to break a little, his face buried in your neck.

“Never leave me,” he whispered, and it sounded less like a request and more like a desperate command.

“Never,” you promised. “You’d have to tear me from this world, and even then my soul would remain with you.”

The days after the fever broke were ones of fragile, almost sacred calm.

Aerion barely left you alone long enough for the wet nurses to tend to Maegor or for you to rest without his constant shadow over you.

He slept little, ate less, and his violet eyes seemed to have taken on a darker hue, as if the fear of losing you had carved permanent grooves into his soul.

One afternoon, while sunlight filtered lazily through the tall windows of your chambers, he found you sitting beside the cradle, watching Maegor sleep with that absolute placidity only babies have. Aerion approached silently, as if afraid to break the spell, and knelt before you. He took your hands in his and brought them to his lips.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmured against your knuckles, his voice hoarse from little use in recent days.

You smiled weakly, still recovering. “I’m here, Aerion. Right here.”

He shook his head, as if your words were not enough.

“Not fully. Not like before.” His gaze traveled down your body, lingering on the loose nightgown that covered your still changed forms from childbirth and illness. “I want to touch you. I want to claim you again. To feel that you are mine in the most complete way… but.”

You leaned forward and rested your forehead against his.

“I’m already recovered. The maester said my body has healed.”

“The maester can be wrong,” he growled, but there was no real anger in his voice, only fear disguised as stubbornness. “And if I hurt you… if anything happens to you because of me…”

“Aerion.” Your voice was firm, almost a command.

You took his face in your hands and forced him to look at you. “You want me. I see it in every look, in every caress you hold back. And I want you too. I need you. Not just as my protector, my husband, the father of my child… but as my man.”

His pupils dilated, and for an instant you saw the raw conflict in his eyes: fierce desire battling the terror of harming you.

“With care,” he whispered finally, as if negotiating with himself. “Only with care. If at any moment you feel the slightest pain, you stop me. Even if I have to tear my own skin off to restrain myself, you stop me.”

“I promise,” you replied, and sealed the promise with a slow, deep kiss that tasted of months of restraint.

That night, when Maegor was already asleep in the cradle watched by a discreet wet nurse in the adjoining room, Aerion locked the door and extinguished all the candles except two. The dimness made the room intimate, almost unreal.

He guided you to the bed with a delicacy that contrasted brutally with his nature. He undressed you as if you were made of Valyrian glass: every lace undone with trembling fingers, every inch of skin kissed with reverence before exposing it to the cool air. When you were naked before him, he paused for a long moment, simply looking at you.

“Gods…” he exhaled. “You remain the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life. More beautiful than before, if that’s possible.”

He removed his tunic and breeches with controlled movements, as if afraid to frighten you with his own urgency. When he lay beside you, he did not pounce. Instead he traced you with his fingertips: the curve of your neck, the still sensitive softness of your breasts, the belly that had carried his son and now showed faint silver marks, like tiny dragons etched into your skin.

When he finally positioned himself between your thighs, he did not enter immediately. First he prepared you with patient fingers, slow circles over your clit, exploring your wetness with near religious concentration. Only when he heard you moan his name and arch toward his hand, when your hips began to rock seeking more, did he position himself at your entrance.

He entered slowly, centimeter by centimeter, pausing every time your breath hitched. When he was fully inside, he stayed still, trembling with the effort of not moving.

Aerion let out a broken groan and rested his forehead against your shoulder.

“We should give Maegor a brother or sister soon.”

“Aerion,” you laughed. “I’ve barely recovered from this one.”

“I know, I know,” he replied, kissing your shoulder. “But the idea of you pregnant again, carrying another of my children… it’s intoxicating.”

“You’re insatiable.”

“Only with you,” he corrected.

He began to move then, slow, deep, controlled thrusts. Every time he pulled almost all the way out and entered again, he did so with precision that made you gasp. His hands never stopped touching you: one on your hip, guiding you gently, the other intertwined with yours on the pillow.

Those words broke something in him. His thrusts became a little faster, a little deeper, but never ceased to be careful. When he felt your body beginning to tighten around him, when pleasure brought you to the edge, he slid a hand between your bodies and rubbed your clit with his thumb in perfect circles.

“Come on, my love,” he whispered against your mouth. “Come for me.”

The orgasm washed over you like a slow, burning wave, softer than previous ones but no less intense. His name left his lips in a choked groan as he spilled inside you, deep, hot, trembling with the force of his long contained release.

He stayed inside you long after, simply holding you, breathing against your neck.

“I’m not moving yet,” he murmured. “I want to stay here. Inside you. Where I belong.”

You smiled in the darkness, stroking his damp hair.

“You can stay as long as you want.”

That night, after making love, you lay entwined, your bodies glistening with sweat under the moonlight.

“I get scared sometimes,” you admitted quietly, your fingers tracing the scars on his chest, souvenirs of tourneys and duels.

“Of what?” His voice was sleepy, satisfied.

“That this is too perfect. That something will ruin it. That someone will try to separate us.”

Aerion shifted, rising over you, his violet eyes blazing with fierce determination even in the darkness. “Listen to me well. There is no force in this world that can separate us. I would die first. I would kill everyone and everything first. I would see this kingdom reduced to ashes first.”

“Aerion…”

“No,” his hand gently covered your mouth. “Let me finish. You are the only reason I have not burned everything. You are my anchor, my purpose. Without you, I would be only destruction. With you, I am… human. Or as close to human as I can be.”

You kissed his palm, and he moved it away so he could kiss you properly. “Promise me something,” he asked when he pulled back.

“Anything.”

“If anything happens to me…” he began, and your heart stopped. “No, let me speak. If anything happens to me, do not marry anyone else. Do not give yourself to another man. You are mine, even in death.”

“Aerion, that’s…”

“Obsessive? Possessive? I know,” his lips curved. “But it’s the truth. I could not rest in peace knowing another man touches you, has you, loves you. Promise me.”

You should have protested. You should have pointed out how irrational the request was. Instead you said: “I promise. And you promise me the same.”

He laughed softly. “My love, if you die, I will follow you immediately. There is no world worth inhabiting without you in it. So yes, I promise you. Though my promise is unnecessary, because I will not survive your loss.”

It was morbid. It was dark. It was absolutely perfect.

“We’re crazy,” you murmured.

“We’re in love,” he corrected. “It’s the same thing.”

[targaryenheretic]

CYNOSURE

⁂⁂ aerion targaryen x sister!reader

warnings: targcest, reader is first born and heir (pretend that could happen without contest) canon is shifted around just to make maekar the king so reader would be heir it’s important to the plot trusttttt, jealousy, fingering f!receiving slightly mean aerion in bed, unprotected PiV (wrap it before you tap it), virginity loss. slight breeding kink towards the end.

synopsis: a tourney in summerhall has you enjoying the festivities of the night, though when aerion sees you with a lordling that could possibly take his spot; he takes matters into his own hands.

photos do not represent the fic; for aesthetic purposes only as the only thing that is described is silver hair.

every nobleman wished to wed you, or bed you, for that matter. heir to the iron throne and the realms beauty, it seems you were every lords first choice, the thought of marrying into the royal bloodline would be a miracle for nobles, and when a targaryen was of age for marriage, they swarmed like vultures, pecking at every one they could get.

your septa’s and maester taught you the rules of being a queen before the crown even came close to sitting on your brow, including the avoidance of said vultures. you listened intently, soaking in every lesson you could get, but when you got to three and ten as the lessons dragged on, you began to ignore the repetitive words that left their mouths.

your father would scold. tell you it was not proper, that you needed the lessons if you wished to be a good queen, you tried, truly, you did. but after turning ten and five, you ditched the lessons entirely. you weren’t entirely to blame for your lack of care and rebellion, as aerions increasing influence on you only seemed to spur you on throughout the years.

yes, perhaps he was only getting close to you because he knew you would inherit the throne after your father, but then maybe he got close to you because as the years went by, you were the only one who did not see him as a total monster. you smiled at him and rolled your eyes when he said something insolent; pushed him and wasn’t afraid at what would happen if he decided he had enough, it wasn’t surprising to the court the prince sought you out the most.

and at eight and ten years of age, a lord you do not care to know the name of, holds a tourney at summerhall. awfully boring, but as future queen one day you must go, and you think the reason that you are so ardently forced to go is because your father wants to find a suitable match—which wouldn’t be hard—if you did not refuse all of them; to his utter dismay. you did not wish to marry some daft lord who only wished for the title you carried.

the crowds bustled with noises and loud laughter as the trees thinned out and the keep slowly started to come in view, pavilions being put up by the servants for the lords and ladies to rest their heads come nightfall, knights training for the tournament, yelps and the sounds of metal clashing together fills one of the many clearings besides the stronghold. your hands tighten on the reigns of your horse unconsciously out of a strange unease. you never did keen for tourneys. the bloodshed very unnecessary in your eyes.

the populace of people that seemed to congregate on the bridge, watching from afar, move out of the way for the royal family riding in, gaping and furiously whispering, you glance over at aerion as he seems to preen in the attention and you resist the urge to smack him, like you so carefreely you did as a child. the three headed dragon banners fly high and proud, bannermen on their horses besides you, the wind flapping the fabric the sound grating on your nerves.

not much happens during the start of your stay at summerhall, considering you got in late afternoon, you truly had no time to converse or enjoy any festivities put up for the day as you had matters to attend too, and a meeting the whole family had to attend. it was dreadful.

darkness comes as quick as winter, and so does the commotion of drunken lords and rowdy knights, as they gather in tents where highborns hosted feasts and parties. you enjoy the muffled noises from in your room in the keep, it helped distracted you from the sound of your own thoughts, but you eventually get up and decide and leave the comfort of your bed to go enjoy it yourself.

as you went towards the commotion, you are met with careful looks and murmurs, though it doesn’t last long, people moving on quickly here, it seems. you get chatty with the ladies and whores of the night, the ones not afraid to laugh untimely in case you would wish for your head. after being spoken to like you would snap at any given moment, it was refreshing.

one of the ladies—who was mixed in with the with the others you were speaking too—her name lady androwa, pulls you into the baratheons tent, the supper raging on as people spoke obnoxiously, their voices raising with petty disagreements. Lyonel baratheon sits at the head of the tables, talking animatedly to his bannermen, an he probably would not of noticed you if it was not for the silver hair you never seem able to hide.

“princess!” his voice booms, practically echoing through the tent and you wince internally, suddenly regretting allowing lady androwa to pull you in.

the silence is almost deafening as everyone turns to you. “my lord.” you say, politely. bowing your head for a moment.

“and what do i owe the honor too?”

“nothing, my lord. i simply wish to enjoy the feast.” you say, forcing a courteous smile on your face.

Lyonel’s grin grows, as if he found that amusing. “ah! well then, may you enjoy the festivities, come to me if you need anything, my princess.” he claps twice; signaling to the bards to play their music again, while everyone goes back to what they were doing previously, only a few still send glances your way.

you find the lady that scurried off as soon as Lyonel noticed you—the one who originally pulled you into the godsforsaken tent—at a table on the far left side of the pavilion. you learn she is a ashford, her father a bannerman for the tyrell’s. she was very…talkative, and by the end of the night you think you’ve learned her whole life story, running out of nods and feigned shock or amusement. once she finished her never ending tales of her life; thinking perhaps you can finally escape, she introduced you to her brother.

he was handsome, sure, but you came to this party for reprieve from the stress of being a royal, not to leave the tent engaged. once she introduced you, you learnt that she seems to run away a lot—considering when you looked back to see where she was, you couldn’t find her—leaving the two of you alone in a corner, and he eventually speaks after a few moments of awkward silence. “my princess, it is wonderful to make your acquaintance.”

you nod, politely, glancing over at him. “the pleasure is all mine, my lord.”

he seemed interested in your hand, as all lords are, but he did not immediately start with that. he told you about his family, which most you already learned earlier in the night from his sister, but you feigned that same ignorance, and as the conversation shifted, he moved to speak about himself, even managed to make you actually smile a few times at his jokes.

you would let him down kindly when you decided it was time to return to summerhall for the night, but it felt good not to speak about politics for once in your life. you had a smile on your face, which seemed to only grow as he spoke about something his younger brothers had done that night, a laugh managed to slip past your lips, and before you could reply, a hand goes to the small of your back.

you flinch and whip your head around to see who it was, almost calling for the guards, thinking it was a drunken man who thought he could touch whoever he’d like, but no. you caught the familiar flash of silver hair; aerion. you did not even know he was in this tent, he did not enjoy parties. especially not chaotic ones like these.

his fingers curl against your dress almost possessively as the lord quickly bowed his head. “my prince!”

he makes a little hmph sound, almost undignified, though the lord did not do anything for him to be indignant over. “it seems you are having a lovely time.” his voice tight, like a twig about to snap. “but i must intrude. may i borrow my sister for a moment, lord ashford?”

the lord had no choice, who would refuse a prince? especially when that prince was the “monstrous” aerion, and he looked just about ready to behead someone. “of course, my prince.” he nodded, practically sprinting away.

you turned to aerion, his hand dropping to his side, now that the lord was gone, though it seemed to want to stay. “is that your idea of fun?”

your brows furrow at his tone, “is there something wrong with me enjoying the party that lord Lyonel is so graciously hosting?” words still polite, incase someone was watching, or listening, for that matter.

he scowls at your words. “that lord looked about ready to jump in your bed.”

your eyes widen at his language and scoff, lowering your voice. “i am supposed to be here to look for a lord to marry, even though that is not my priority, i must still look, and what if he wiser to jump in my bed? you have no ownership over me.” you rebutted.

his eyes narrowed at your insolence towards him, and he pulled you out of that tent before you could even ask why.

“aerion—! let go!” you struggled against him, and he eventually does—no guards batting an eye, since this behavior from the both of you was common—only when you both back in summerhall, far from the festivities and the only proof of life is the faint murmurs from the clusters of people outside the gates.

“you will not marry anyone—“ he hissed, pulling you into his chambers.

you scoff. “tell that to father, he seems to want to make me a match by the morrow, i might as well look, so i do not get stuck with a old, fat lord.”

“no.” he says, his voice sharp enough to cut. he steps forward once, getting into your space as he was in the baratheons tent. he grabs your face, not roughly, but enough so you could not move from his grasp. he leans in close enough you could feel his breath against your skin. “you will not marry,” his voice lowering into a mere possessive whisper. “you will not marry unless it is me.”

you blink at him. not knowing how to respond at the information just told to you. him? he wanted to marry you? “aerion…“ you start, not knowing what else to say. what could you say?

“shh.” he hushed you, his free hand trailing down your body, leaving the feeling of fire against the places he touched. “you are mine. you will be mine until you breathe your last breath.” your breath hitches ever so slightly, just to give you away as his hand reaches up your skirts, pushing away the silks and cotton of the underclothes you wore. the hand that was holding your face dropped to your waist to steady you, as you watch him through heavy lidded eyes, shadows casted onto his face from the lanterns lighting the room.

as his hand slip to the warmth between your legs, a slender finger moving to curl inside you, a gasp tears from your throat at the feeling that pools inside you. “we should not—“ you try once more though your protest was weaker, and he knows it.

“i do not care about propriety, and considering how wet you are, it seems you do not either.” he hums mockingly but you couldn’t expect anything less from him; not even in this intimate moment. as he pressed another finger inside, curling in a way which made you see stars, a noise that was rather pathetic left you, hand going to steady yourself against him. he had a smug look on his face as you subconsciously ground against his hand desperately seeking friction.

he continued, the pads of his fingertips press against that little spot inside you until he felt you clench around his fingers. your whines and moans becoming more breathy and needy as the rope inside you threatens to snap, he slips his fingers out, leaving you on the edge.

a quiet groan of annoyance left you, chest rising and falling rapidly. he smiled cruelly. “do not pout.” he says, thumb tracing your cheek as if your reaction was funny. he presses a kiss to your lips. “you will cum,” he hums. sliding his tongue into your mouth to muffle your complaints. “but only on my cock.”

“turn around.”

when you eventually get your bearings back from his words, you do. his fingers deftly start to undo the laces holding your dress together, one by one, achingly slow, until the fabric slips off your shoulders and pools at your ankles. left in just your shift, you turn back around, and he nips marks onto your neck as he pulls down the last barrier separating you from him.

he shifts you and gently pushes you down till you are on the bed, furs tickle your back and you are suddenly self conscious at his stare, shifting slightly. after all, you were bare and he was not. his pupils blow at the sight of you. “they were right..calling you the beauty of the realm.” he hums, tracing a warm hand against your soft skin. agonizingly, like he was worshiping you as a septa would the seven.

he had enough as it only takes a few moments for all his clothes to be almost torn off impatiently, savoring the needy look you had. he pushes apart your legs and gets between them, he leans down, soothing the previous bites he left with the soft touch of his tongue, kissing his way back to your lips, and when your mouth slots against his, it’s rushed and harsh.

you managed to separate from him with a soft noise. he slides his length through your slick a few times as moans slip through your words, “aerion, i have never..” you trail off, hoping he understood what you meant.

he smiles. “good. i will be gentle.” he soothed, voice soft as velvet, but it quickly turns to a groan as he presses inside you achingly slow. he did promise to be gentle, even if it was just this time. you hiss, pain spilling into every vein as he tries very hard not to fully sheath himself in you in a single thrust. you throb around him, part pain and part arousal. your fingers curl against the furs he had laid you against, and a few agonize minutes later, he’s fully nestled into you.

the burning sensation of him taking your maidenhead slowly fading into deep insatiable need. he could tell just with the way you squirmed underneath him, a needy noise leaving you as he did a shallow thrust, testing before pulling out until only the tip of his dick was inside, and shoving back in. “hah—aerion—“ you pant as you try to muffle the obscene noises you are making, the chambers you were in wasn’t exactly sound proof.

he grasped your face, so you could not push your head into the softness of the pillows, “do not muffle your moans, let the whole castle hear how good you feel because of me, let the rumors spread. let them know your mine.”

and in a pleasured riddled haze, you listened, the noises that slipped out now were loud and unfiltered, matching the sounds of skin slapping and the creak of the bed. “fuck,“ you choked on your words at a particularly hard thrust from him. words getting stuck in your mouth as the high you so desperately needed started to climb up.

“just needed me to fill you up, huh?” he pants, fingers pressed hard enough to bruise into the fat of your hips. sounds of sheer pleasure left you, and he continues his almost cocky speech, “you were made for me. nobody else will ever have you…” he bites down against your bottom lip, just sharp enough to not pierce the skin, thrusting deeper harder into you. you cried out. “i know, just feels—so good.” he mocks, though his voice is breathy and strained with his incoming orgasm that threatened to spill before yours. “take it. come on. come on my cock, let the lords hear you scream my name instead of theirs.”

his words push you over the edge, white hot heat flows through you, and it feels overwhelming and underwhelming all at the same time, like an explosion in slow motion, body aching with the pleasure you receive.

aerion followed quickly after with a groan, head falling into the crook of your neck as his seed filled you and he road out his high with shallow thrusts, whines leaving you as every nerve felt as it was on fire.

you lay there, shakily breathing as you try to regain bodily control from your orgasm, aerion still on top of you, though he wasn’t thrusting any longer. his breath still shuttered with the aftershocks and eventually, he managed to rolled off you, the chambers smelt like sex and expensive oils, but with him laying next to you on the blankets, you did not find yourself to care. his fingers danced at your abdomen, like he was trying to will a babe to form in there. he wanted to see you swell with his child, everyone in court would know without a doubt that you were his.

a/n: this was not beta read so i apologize for any errors because i wanted to get this out for asoiaf sunday 🌚🌚

[catbayunthestoryteller]

Growing Strong

Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Summary: Once married against both of your wishes, learning how to charm a Targaryen prince as mad as Aerion is not easy, unless you know exactly how to play the game.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, obsessive behavior, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, manipulation, emotional control, pregnancy themes, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, breeding.

a/n: Reader is Margaery Tyrell coded and plays Aerion like a fiddle. Possibly ooc because it's filthy smut.

You had been taught since girlhood that a Tyrell maiden did not survive by strength of arms, but by knowing when to bend, when to bloom, and when to let thorns show only in shadow. Still, no amount of lessons in smiles and silks had prepared you for being traded like a piece on a Cyvasse board to a prince whose name was spoken in half-whispers and sharp warnings.

Aerion Targaryen.

Brightflame.

Mad.

The words followed him like smoke.

In Highgarden, your protests were received with gentle hands and firm voices. Your father spoke of duty. Your mother spoke of alliance. Your grandmother spoke of survival and said that roses learned early how to grow around stone.

“He is Maekar’s problem no longer,” one of your uncles said with forced humor. “He will be yours.”

Yours.

You had wanted Valarr. Everyone knew it, though no one had said it aloud. Gentle, courteous Valarr, who bowed and smiled and spoke kindly to squires and smallfolk alike. But Valarr was too valuable. He'd probably be betrothed to a Baratheon. An Arryn. A better match. You were to be used to bind a wound no one else wished to touch.

So you went to King’s Landing with your head high and your stomach knotted, wearing green and gold, a rose thrown into dragon fire.

The Red Keep smelled of salt and old stone and power. You were brought before Prince Maekar first, a man carved from stern lines and disappointment. His eyes lingered on you only briefly before flicking away, as if already weary.

“You ought to be patient,” he told you, not unkindly, but without warmth. “My son is…difficult.”

You almost laughed at the understatement.

Aerion did not come to that first meeting. You were told he was training. Or breaking something. Or both.

When you were finally presented to him, it was in a long gallery lined with banners and the bleached skulls of dragons, vast and terrible and beautiful in their dead silence.

He did not bow.

He looked you over the way one might inspect a horse.

“So,” he said, voice sharp and bright as a drawn blade. “This is the rose they mean to bind me with.”

You curtsied, low and perfect, as if he were already your king.

“My prince,” you said softly. “I am honored to meet you.”

His mouth twisted. “Honored,” he repeated. “Do you know what I am?”

“A Targaryen,” you said, lifting your gaze just enough. “Of the blood of the dragon.”

That pleased him, you saw it instantly. The smallest shift in his eyes, the straightening of his shoulders.

“And you?” he pressed. “A pretty little Reach flower. Soft. Common.”

You smiled anyway. “Roses have thorns, my prince.”

He barked out a short, humorless laugh. “You will learn your place quickly. I will give you children. That is your purpose. I suppose you're pretty enough, I can imagine enjoying bedding you. But they will not be brown-haired little gardeners. I will not have it.”

You did not flinch.

“I would never wish to disappoint you,” you said. “Valyrian blood is…otherworldly. To think that my body might carry even a spark of it is more than I ever dreamed.”

That was a gamble.

It paid off.

His eyes sharpened with interest. “You’ve heard the stories.”

“Of dragons,” you said. “Of Old Valyria. Of fire made flesh.”

He turned then, abruptly, stalking down the gallery. “Come,” he ordered. “If you are to bear dragon blood, you should know what it comes from.”

He dragged you from skull to skull, gesturing with restless energy. Balerion’s massive jaws. Vhagar’s curved horns. He spoke of conquest and fear and how men had once trembled at the sound of wings.

“They forget now,” Aerion snarled. “They look at us and see only men. They should see gods.”

“They should,” you agreed quietly. “It must be…infuriating. To be born to such legacy, only to watch it fade.”

He stopped and turned to you, studying you anew. “You understand.”

You tilted your head. “I try.”

From that moment, he talked more. Too much. About dragons. About bloodlines. About how his father did not see him, how the realm did not respect him. You listened. You nodded. You validated every grievance, every simmering fury, as if they were reasonable and righteous.

When he spoke of how he had wanted a sister-wife, you did not recoil. You said, gently, “It is a tragedy, to be denied purity by fate. But perhaps the gods mean to test you. To see if your fire can burn even through lesser blood.”

He liked that.

When he spat about small lords growing bold, you said, “They forget who conquered them. It is your right to remind them.”

He liked that too.

He informed you, bluntly, that he would not be gentle on your wedding night.

You lowered your lashes and said, “Dragons are not gentle creatures.”

The courtship, if it could be called that, was a strange dance. Aerion did not bring you flowers. He did not write poetry. He prowled around you. But you made it into something else.

You let him drag you through the gardens, your skirts gathered in your hands as you laughed and ran, letting him chase you like a predator playing with prey. When he caught you, he would grip your arms, breath hot, eyes bright, and you would laugh into his shoulder and murmur, “The dragon has captured me.”

He liked that more than he should have.

He liked when you watched him train. You sat in the shade with your ladies, clapping softly when he struck true, praising his strength, his form, his speed. Other knights noticed. So did he.

He liked that smallfolk began to recognize you. You made certain of that.

You had bread and coins handed out. You stopped to listen to old women’s stories. You let children touch the embroidery on your sleeves. Soon, whispers followed you through Flea Bottom and the markets.

The Golden Rose. The Dragon’s Lady.

When people spotted you, they bowed and blessed you, and Aerion noticed.

“They love you,” he said one evening, watching a group of women murmur prayers as you passed.

“They love House Targaryen,” you corrected lightly. “Through me.”

That pleased him immensely.

You prayed in the Sept, if only briefly. You never tried to bring him. You knew better. Instead, you let word spread that you were devout enough to soothe the Faith, but not so devout as to shame a dragon prince.

You made friends with your ladies, learning what they heard, what they whispered. You learned which courtiers feared Aerion, which resented him, which flattered him. You stored it all away like weapons hidden in silk.

In private, he began to call you his little rose. At first it was mocking. Then it was possessive. Then it was almost fond.

“You will give me sons,” he told you one night, pacing as you sat at a small table with embroidery you did not truly need. “Strong ones. Silver-haired. Violet-eyed. The gods favor giving your line sons, don't they?.”

“So they say of Tyrell women,” you replied smoothly. “We give the realm sons. They grow strong and healthy.”

He stopped pacing. “Good.”

He stood too close then, invading your space, eyes scanning your face, your mouth, your throat, your waist, your hips.

“At least you are well-proportioned,” he added bluntly. “Your body has merits.”

You smiled sweetly, as if it were a compliment. “I am glad to be of use to you, my prince.”

He did not touch you then but his eyes lingered.

At night, alone in your chambers, fear crept in. You had heard enough. You knew enough. Aerion was cruel. He was unpredictable. You suspected he would not be gentle. You suspected he would not be kind.

So you prepared in the only way you could. You made yourself indispensable.

You became the one person who did not flinch from his talk of dragons and fire. The one who agreed that the world had wronged him. The one who looked at him not with fear, but with admiration carefully measured. You laughed at his jokes, even when they were sharp. You praised his lineage, even when it edged into madness. You let him feel powerful in your presence.

And slowly, dangerously, he began to seek it.

He would send for you. He would ask where you were. He would grow irritated if you were with your ladies too long.

“My rose,” he said one afternoon, fingers tapping against the hilt of his sword. “Come walk with me.”

You rose at once. “Of course.”

As you walked, he spoke of the wedding. Of the feast. Of the bedding.

“They will cheer,” he said. “They will watch. They will see that the dragon has taken his bride.”

Your heart leapt to your throat, but you kept your smile soft. “It will be a night to remember.”

He glanced at you sideways, eyes dark. “For you.”

You did not look away. “I hope to make you proud, my prince.”

Something in his expression shifted. Not softened but sharpened with intent. Ownership. You saw it. You felt it. You also knew you had no choice now but to keep playing.

Three moons later...

It is the hour of the owl. The fire has burned low. His chambers smell of burnt wood, iron and wine.

Cold is beginning to creep in. Or perhaps it is merely your nerves.

Aerion stands near the hearth, his back to you, silver hair catching the low light. He's downing another goblet of wine. You had forgotten to keep count. Foolish of you, usually you were aware when to coax it out of his hand.

“Ten days,” he says, not looking at you.

You still.

“Ten days late,” Aerion continues, voice controlled in that way that means it isn’t. “You let me think.” His hand tightens slowly into a fist at his side. “You let me hope.”

You swallow. “My prince...”

“Don’t.” He turns then, violet eyes bright with fury and something far more dangerous beneath it. “For ten days, I counted. I imagined. I told myself it had finally taken.” His mouth twists. “I thought you were carrying my child.”

The words land heavy between you.

“And now,” he goes on, stepping closer, each stride eating away at your space, “your moon blood comes. As if to mock me.”

You keep your face soft. Careful. “These things...”

“Spare me septa nonsense,” Aerion snaps. “We have been wed for months. You promised me an heir, precious rose.” The endearment is sharp now, almost cruel. “You swore Tyrell women give sons easily.”

His gaze drags over you, taking in your face, your body beneath thin silk. Ownership. Disappointment. Hunger, all tangled together.

“I wanted to bury my head in your lap tonight,” he admits bitterly. “Let you stroke my hair and tell me it will come, like you always do.” His jaw tightens. “But I am tired of being soothed, wife.”

Wife.

The word is not gentle.

“I am tired of waiting.”

His hand comes up, catching your jaw, tilting your face up. His grip is warm, firm, inescapable.

“You will make it right,” he says quietly. “You will remind my body, and yours, what it is for.”

You don’t pull away.

You never do.

“My precious rose,” he murmurs, and then his voice hardens. “My wife. My only whore.”

The words hit different when he’s like this. When frustration twists them into something darker.

“You were late,” he says again, quieter now. “You let me believe. I was patient as a priest. I was faithful as a knight. I didn't let another get my cock wet, not wanting to waste a single drop of my seed.”

“I didn’t mean to...”

He cuts you off by unlacing your robe, fingers rough, impatient. Silk slides from your shoulders and pools at your feet.

“On the bed,” he orders. “On your back.”

You obey.

He strips quickly, efficiently. When he’s naked, his cock is already hard, thick and flushed, anger and need driving it.

He kneels between your legs, grips your thighs, spreads you wide. His gaze is unflinching.

“This is how you make it right,” Aerion says. “You take me. You take all of me. Until your body remembers its purpose.”

His fingers stroke through you without ceremony. One finger, then two, stretching you open. You gasp despite yourself, hips shifting, seeking friction.

He watches your face closely, smirking faintly when you can’t stop the sound that escapes you.

He withdraws his fingers, brings them to his mouth, tasting you while holding your gaze.

Then he positions himself, hooking your legs up, folding you open.

He pushes inside you in one long, brutal thrust.

You cry out, the stretch sharp, the depth overwhelming. He doesn’t pause. He pulls back and drives in again, setting a deep, punishing rhythm.

His hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise. The wet, obscene sounds fill the chamber as he uses you, thrust after thrust, deep and deliberate.

“You’ll take it,” he grits. “You’ll take my seed until it takes root. I will not be denied.”

Your body betrays you, growing slick, opening for him. The pressure builds low in your belly, tight and relentless.

His hand slides between you, thumb finding your most sensitive place, circling rough and insistent.

“Come,” he commands. “If you’re going to fail me, you’ll at least come properly.”

Your body obeys. The release tears through you, clenching around him, and he hisses, thrusts turning harder, erratic.

He buries himself deep and stills, spilling inside you with a guttural sound.

He doesn’t pull out.

He keeps you there, shifting you onto your side, holding you tight.

“Don’t move,” he orders. “Every drop stays where it belongs.”

His hand splays over your lower belly.

“We will try again,” he says. “And again. Until it works.”

He hardens again sooner than you expect.

“Stay laying on your back, you spoiled, soft petal. You can't even lean on your arms and knees long enough for me,” he murmurs darkly.

He drags your hips up and enters you again, deeper, rougher. Your cry is muffled by his fingers in your mouth as he grips your hip with the other. You bite down. He never minds.

“You will carry my child,” he pants. “I don’t care what your blood did tonight. Your body will learn.”

Then he is filling you again, fingers shoving his spend back inside you when it spills.

“Can’t waste it,” he growls. “Not when you’ve already disappointed me once.”

He props your hips up afterward, keeps you still, keeps you full, watching you like you’re something fragile and infuriating all at once.

“Stay,” he orders. “Let it settle.”

Aerion lies on his side behind you, his chest pressed to your back. His arm is draped over your waist, hand warm and heavy against your belly. His breathing is slower now, deeper, the edge taken off by exhaustion.

His palm moves in slow, absent circles over your stomach, almost tender. Almost thoughtful. As if he’s trying to imagine something there by force of will alone.

“There,” he murmurs, half to you, half to himself. “That’s where they’ll be. That’s where my heirs will grow. Inside my precious rose.” His thumb presses gently. “You feel warm there. Like fire under skin.”

You say nothing.

His nose brushes your hair. He exhales against your temple, eyes already heavy.

“They’ll have my hair,” he goes on quietly. “My eyes. They’ll be unmistakable. No one will ever doubt them.” His fingers spread. “And you’ll be their mother. You. Not some courtly fool, not some empty pretty thing. You’re the only one worthy to raise my children.”

It almost sounds like love. Almost.

“I won’t abandon you,” Aerion says, sudden intensity sharpening his voice even through the sleepiness. “Even if your body fails me. Even if you never give me what you promised.” His hand tightens briefly on your waist. “I won’t take another wife. I won’t replace you. You’re mine.”

His lips brush your knuckles when you shift your hand near his.

“I would keep you,” he continues, words drifting, unguarded in a way they never are in daylight. “I would keep you with me, always. You’d raise my children. You’d teach them. They’d call you mother.”

Then, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world, he adds:

“If you can’t give them to me yourself…I’ll take a whore with Valyrian blood. Some bastard girl from Flea Bottom. Silver hair, violet eyes. They’re there, if you know where to look.”

Your stomach turns, but you keep your face still in the dark.

“I’d take her somewhere quiet,” Aerion murmurs, almost thoughtfully. “Somewhere no one watches. I’d breed her. Just long enough to get what I need. I'd have to send you away somewhere as well, around that time.”

His thumb resumes its slow, idle stroke over your belly.

“And when she gives me a child,” he says, voice soft, almost fond, “I’ll kill her.”

The words settle into the room like ash.

“Then you and I will raise the child as our own,” he finishes. “No one will ever question it. No one will ever know.”

Your face twists in a way you’re grateful he can’t see in the darkness.

Aerion brings your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles, gentle as a lover, tender as a husband.

“So,” he murmurs against your skin, “give me an heir, petal. Save us both the trouble.”

His grip loosens slightly, fatigue finally winning.

“Sleep now,” he says. “You’ll need your strength. I’ll start again in the morning.”

a/n: I won't be caught dead simping for a blond unless it's a Targaryen. This deranged man has me in a chokehold helpppp 😭🥵. Comment if you want to be added to Aerion or Targaryens taglist, I'm thinking of making one in case I write more fics about them.

[ghostlybfgf]

bang bang (my baby shot me down)

pairing: aerion targaryen x sister!reader

warning(s): SMUT, DARK, 1ncest, pinv, rough sex, slapping, mention of violence, noncon-consensual, chasing, fearplay, knife play, manipulation, aerion.

a/n: I had this song on my playlist, and it felt aerion and twin/sister reader.. so here it comes, I also don't normally do music fics but I couldn't resist even a little, but omfg— also this isn’t proofread yet so i apologise 😫

I was five, and he was six.

We rode on horses made of sticks.

You remember the sticks you called daggers, the way he always chose the darker handled one, even then, black for him and a stark white for you in difference. As if the game had rules before either of you knew what rules were. He always ran faster. He always caught you. He always decided when it ended.

He wore black and I wore white.

It wasn’t tenderness that bound you — it was collision.

From the moment he was old enough to be aware of you, truly aware, Aerion watched you with a focus that unsettled the adults who noticed and was invisible to those who didn’t. You were not like your brothers, you were smaller, quieter and easier to pull close without comment. On his fifth nameday, when the court praised him and called him dragon-seed and danger both, he stood at your side with a hand already curled possessively into your sleeve.

Rough games only followed from there, attentions far away from your maids. Training yards and scraped knees, dirt ground into your palms. Aerion shoved you too hard and then turned, daring anyone else to try the same. He pulled your braids when you ran past him, sharp and unrepentant. And you bit his hand hard enough to draw blood when he wouldn’t let go.

He didn’t release you. He only smiled.

The septas scolded and voices rose, but he stayed there, even as you cried— frightened more by what you’d done to him than what he’d done to you. The way he made it, and no one thought to separate you, and no one ever did.

He learned early that you were his in ways that did not require permission.

If another child made you cry, Aerion was there before you could speak, standing too close, staring until the offender shrank beneath the weight of it. Inflicting his tortures no matter how much you'd claimed it an accident. Mercy. He had called it, even as the child wept, beaten and bloody, you cradled and shaking under his arm. If you laughed with someone else, he found a way to insert himself— his shoulder brushing yours, breath warm at your temple, presence unavoidable, making it clear for others to take leave. He spoke for you before you could, deciding things for you with the absolute confidence of someone who had never been told no and never expected to be.

He would always win the fight.

And there was a game— you’d almost forgotten it, until he reminded you. The chase, winding through corridors and through to the gardens, laughter turning breathless, hiding places chosen in panic. A cat and mouse game though you never knew which you were until it was too late. And he let you think you had a chance. He always did.

Even now, you'd held affections for your brother that were frowned upon outside of him, outside of your house. And who were you to be trapped to a loveless union, the words rang in your mind— his, and your own. But you were, duty had confined your life so much you could hardly breathe through it, and that's where you drew apart. Because as you stuck to your books and careful instructions from many a lady in waiting, he could do as he pleased, of age and no wife, no children, hardly a responsibility. Except from that of the court, the ones he'd rant to you every night about. You frowned in the thought, running your hand along the endless walls of pale red stone, wandering the corridors just as lessons finished, nearing just enough where he was, the small connected doors opening up into a grand room. 

The grand hall.

It buzzed with the court's endless murmur, few lords and your father swirling like smoke around the Iron Throne's distant shadow. Aerion stood among them, his silver hair catching the torchlight, a princely curve fixed on his lips— polite, charming, such as always the perfect mask. But you knew him better, you rounded the corner behind them all, his jaw ticking as he rocked on his heels. Something had angered him. The slight had come from a lord of House Lannister earlier, a barbed jest about 'incestuous follies' whispered just loud enough for Aerion to hear, eyes flicking around the room as he rested his chin into his hand. It festered in him, that coarse rage bubbling beneath the surface, his jaw tightening imperceptibly as he nodded along, smirking softly at the next vapid compliment. He'd already wanted his head.

Bang bang, he shot me down

Bang bang, I hit the ground

Bang bang, that awful soundBang bang, my baby shot me down

You lingered closer as most departed, your gown whispering against the stone floor, feeling his gaze like a brand even from across the room. He excused himself with graceful ease, weaving through the few men until he reached you, his hand brushing your arm in a gesture. "Sister," he murmured, voice mild as summer wine, though his eyes burned with that familiar possession. "The evening grows tedious. I didn't suppose you'd be here."

"My duties have been done for some time,” you said lightly, half-smiling as you gestured toward the hall. “And you’ve been deep in conversation with the lords, I thought I might steal a moment of air.”

Aerion didn’t answer right away, he watched you instead, the way he always did when you tried to make light of things— eyes sharp in that unreadable way. His fingers closed around your arm, just a fraction tighter than before.

“It’s nonsense,” his voice was hushed,  “Nothing worth your concern. You know I would rather spend my time with you.”

He moved as if it were the most natural thing in the world, turning you gently but decisively away from the crowd, guiding you both back toward the archway you’d come through. His arm slid around yours, drawing you into his side and you let out a surprised laugh, soft and breathless, more reflex than resistance.

“Aerion—”

Your father’s voice cut through the hall before you could finish.

“Aerion.”

Seasons came and changed the time

When I grew up I called him mine

Maekar stood several paces away, flanked by two lords, one clad in deep red and black like yourselves, the other in burnt orange. He raised a single brow as he excused himself from their discussion and crossed the distance with measured steps. Aerion released you at once, posture shifting, all sharp angles and princely composure.

Maekar’s gaze moved between you, lingering just long enough to note the closeness, the half-smothered amusement on your face, and the faint defiance in your brother’s.

“Are you leaving?” he asked Aerion. “The council is not yet finished.”

Aerion inclined his head to you, respectful but unrepentant. “I’ll return shortly.”

Maekar’s attention turned to you then as his hand settled at his shoulder firmly— steady, expectant, but not unkind. “Daughter.”

“That will be all,” and he was already guiding him back toward the waiting lords, fingers falling away from you as he allowed himself to be moved. His boots scraping once against the stone before he straightened, spine stiff with barely leashed irritation. He didn’t look at you as he was steered away, not openly, but you felt it anyway, that invisible thread pulling taut between you. The promise lingered, unspoken but undeniable. We're not done.

Maekar turned back to you once Aerion was safely absorbed into the murmuring circle of councilmen.

“You’ll return to your chambers,” he said evenly, and it wasn’t a question.

You inclined your head, once more. “Yes, Father.”

He studied you a moment longer, eyes narrowing just enough to suggest he knew more than he said. And he did. Then he turned and left, the weight of the crown following him down the hall.

—

Hours had passed by then.

The castle softened as evening crept in— candles lit, footsteps thinned by many in their beds. You lingered longer than you should have in the corridors, letting the quiet settle around you, letting the tension burn itself down into something sharper, more focused.

And it came to you folded into a book you hadn’t opened. A scrap of parchment written in familiar hand and without a seal.

He would always laugh and say"Remember when we used to play?"

Meet me in the gardens, at the ninth bell.

No signature was needed.

You closed the it carefully, heart ticking in time with the distant bells, already knowing that whatever waited among the hedges and shadows would not be so easily dismissed. The ninth bell took its time however. And you counted the moments between its tolls without meaning to, the castle contorting with curiosity as as night drew its veil tight. Each sound felt too loud, too sharp, as though the walls themselves might listen.

When the bell finally rang, it was softer than you expected, almost gentle.

You waited a little longer anyway, out of habit or caution you hadn't decided. Then you slipped from your chambers, silken white cloak drawn close, moving with the practiced ease of many a memory. You checked each turn, each archway, heart thudding as you crossed into the open air. The gardens breathed cool and green around you, night-blooming flowers sweetened the air, heavy and cloying. Moonlight traced the paths in pale silver, leaving the hedges dark and secretive and you shivered with the wind. You followed the curve of the stone walk, senses stretched thin, half-expecting him to step from the dark at any moment.

But he did not.

Not at first, so much so you figured he'd forgotten.

You reached the bench beneath the old yew, fingers brushing the rough wood as you paused. Only then did you hear him— the quiet scuff behind you.

“You came,” 

You turned to see him stood just beyond the reach of the lantern’s glow, expression softened by shadow, already darkened by the hedge around you. There was something almost contrite in the way his shoulders had eased, the tension from court slipping away, only in the ruby red tunic he always wore.

“I apologise,” he added, his voice low. “For earlier, I didn’t intend to leave you like that.”

You knew better than to think it accidental, still the apology landed, it was something no one could help and you knew that when you recalled his comment hours before, "Nonsense duties" He hummed, looking just behind him as he stalked closer.

“I wanted time,” he went on. “With you, without them.”

The last of the light flickered in his movement as you toyed at the edges of leaves, the familiar sharpness of his smile, restrained now, almost thoughtful. His gaze flicked past you once— checking the paths, the hedges, the guards at the balcony— before returning.

“Sit,” he gestured to the bench. You hesitated, only for a moment, then lowered yourself to the cool stone edge. He followed, close but not touching, knees angled toward you, his presence heavy as he looked out ahead. For a moment neither of you spoke, only the noise of the garden hummed softly around you, insects chirring. 

Bang bang, I shot you down

His voice came again, quieter this time, threaded with something old.

“Do you remember that game?” Aerion did not look at you yet. “The one we played when we were small.”

You felt it then, that familiar shift, the air thickening around you. The one you used to feel when he shoved and played with you in the courtyard, the same venom laced amusement he would use.

“We should play it again,” Aerion said at last, turning to you, smile slow and knowing. The sleeve from your cloak dropped down your shoulder just enough to feel the chill and you grabbed it, his eyes following exactly. The words hung between you, innocent to any eavesdropper, but they twisted in your gut like a knife. The chase. You'd almost forgotten it, until he reminded you now, his smile never faltering. Corridors and gardens, breathless laughter turning to panic, hiding spots chosen in haste, him letting you think you had a chance.

Your heart stuttered, fearful of prying eyes to look upon a girl of your age playing such childish games, but you cared not, so you nodded, playing along. "As you wish, brother." He chuckled, low and amused, guiding an arm at your back as he stood— possessive and unyielding. The moment you stepped up into the cooler air steadying on your feet, the mask cracked. His fingers dug into your waist from behind, pulling his mouth close to the shell of your ear. "Run," he whispered, voice dropping to that coarse rasp, you started forward and just as fast he grabbed you back, arm wrapping at you with a fervor he'd bottled all evening. "Not so fast sister.. just like you did before. But this time, when I catch you... you'll be at my mercy."

Bang bang, you hit the ground

The breath that left you was shaky, unsure of exactly what he meant but your head bobbed anyway. "Go.." You bolted, cotton skirts hiked in your fists, dampened grass crunching underfoot as you darted toward the winding maze of honeysuckle and trees. Panic and thrill warred in your chest— the game, yes, but something else buzzed in your chest now, the unspoken threat gaining on you and leaving an ache deep in your core. Laughter from your childhood echoed in your mind, but this was no child's play. You ducked into a side passage, heart pounding, slipping toward the godswood where moonlight filtered through the ancient weirwoods.

He let you go, at first counting down the seconds in his head, matching the steady thrum of his heart. But you soon could hear his boots behind, unhurried, that patience giving you the illusion of escape. The gardens opened before you, twisted paths lined with roses, their thorns glinting like tiny daggers but you found a place to hide. A small marble fountain and you ducked at its side, breath ragged and hoarse in your throat, pulse thundering in your ears. Minutes stretched, the silence mocking you— had he lost the trail?

Then, a rustle. Your gaze darted around, fingers clutching into the basin, head whipping. The wind perhaps, nothing more. You had gotten a head start.

But you hadn't noticing him creeping, the way he ogled at you over the hedge just behind you. His shadow loomed before you could move, and he lunged, coarse hands seizing your wrists and yanking you up against him, sauntering you both against the rough bark of a tree. "Found you," he growled, his fake smile gone, replaced by a snarl of possessive fury. The court slight fueled him now, every word from that lord a spark to his rage. "Do you believe yourself not to be mine? That this is not our prophecy, our lineage." The way he spoke was almost through you, a darkness settling in light violet but they stared into you, shaking you in his hands. You furrowed your brow, opening your mouth to speak.

Bang bang, that awful sound

Bang bang, I used to shoot you down

"Wha—" But he shook you again, shrugging off your words, fueled by the ones that had struck him down.

"Do you think of us as purely incestuous follies. That this is play? As if you're not mine."

You struggled, twisting in his grip, but he was stronger and before another thought his palm cracked across your cheek, heat blooming on your skin. "If these are pointless court jests Aerion, they are nothing—" The words fell out as quickly as you could muster, red hot heat prickling at your skin, "Nothing?" Another slap, harder and with his backhand. Your face fell down, his body pressed flush against yours, pinning you, his cock already hardening through his breeches against your thigh. "That bastard implied we're freaks. For wanting what's ours by blood." His free hand roamed roughly, tearing at the laces of your loose nightly bodice until your breasts spilled free, nipples pebbling in the chill air. He pinched one harshly, twisting until you gasped, then slapped your face again, the rhythm building his anger into something primal.

You kicked out, desperation fueling the motion, but Aerion laughed, dark and triumphant, the sound rumbling through his chest like distant thunder. His grip on your wrists tightened, iron bands that allowed no give, and he spun you around with effortless strength, slamming your chest against the rough bark of the ancient weirwood. The tree's skin scraped harshly against your exposed breasts, where your bodice hung torn and useless, tiny abrasions blooming like fire across your flesh. You gasped, the pain sharp and immediate, mingling with the sting from his earlier slaps on your cheek.

He kicked your legs wider apart with his boot, the force unyielding, forcing you to arch against the unmerciful trunk. He took your skirts into his hands, bunched in his fist as he hiked them up to your waist, the cool night air kissing your bare skin, raising bumps along your thighs. Tears welled hot in your eyes, spilling over to trace salty paths down your face, cooling against the flushed heat of your slapped skin. You sobbed softly, the sound choked and broken, your body trembling between fear and that treacherous pull deep in your core.

"Ah, there, there, my dove" he murmured, his voice dropping to a mocking lilt, the way he had before, just before it fell away. His breath ghosted hot against the nape of your neck, sending shivers racing down your spine. One hand released your skirt to cup the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair— not pulling, not yet, just holding you steady against the bark. "No need for those pretty tears, sister. Shh, shh... I'm only reminding you of where you belong." He leaned in closer, his chest pressing flush to your back, the hard length of his arousal still hard and insistent at your ass. The mockery laced his words, gentle on the surface but edged with that possessive cruelty, as if your distress amused him, fed him even.

You whimpered, trying to twist away, but he only chuckled again, low and indulgent, his free hand trailing down your side in a deceptively tender stroke. "Cry all you want," lips brushing your jawline, shaking with want, "it only makes you more mine. Look at you, already weeping for me. So fragile, so breakable." His thumb wiped a tear from your cheek, smearing it across your lips in a mocking kiss of his own making. It twisted something inside you, humiliation burning bright, yet your body responded against your will, a flush of heat blooming between your thighs, your cunt clenching emptily at the dark promise in his tone. Has it always led to this?

From his belt, he drew his dagger slowly, wrapped in black as you knew it, and you could hear him unclasping the Valyrian steel whispering free with a soft, lethal hiss that cut through the night's quiet. The blade caught the moonlight, rippling like liquid shadow, and he pressed the flat of it cold against the curve of your exposed ass. You stiffened, a fresh sob escaping as the chill seeped into your skin, contrasting the feverish warmth radiating from your core. "Shh, easy now,"he cooed, the shushing soft and rhythmic as he trailed the metal lower, deliberately. It glided over the swell of your cheek, then dipped between your thighs, teasing the sensitive skin there without mercy.

The flat edge nudged against your slick folds, parting them just enough to send a jolt through you— cold steel meeting the wet heat of your arousal. You bit your lip, stifling a moan that threatened to betray you even as you trembled, but tears streamed freer now, unchecked, soaking your lashes and dripping onto the bark below. "Please, Aerion," you whispered, voice cracking, though whether it was a plea to stop or continue, even you couldn't say. Both. The fear coiled tight in your belly, yet beneath it, a dark thrill unfurled, your clit throbbing with need as the blade's chill lingered, promising pain and possession in equal measure.

"Feel that?" his voice a velvet rasp, mocking tenderness wrapping around the threat. He angled the dagger higher, the flat handle pressing firmer against your entrance, sliding through your gathering wetness with agonising slowness. Your hips bucked involuntarily, chasing the sensation despite the sobs wracking your frame, and he laughed softly again, the sound vibrating against your back. "There it is— your greedy little cunt tells me what you can not. Let me mark what's always been mine."

He tilted the blade just so, the edge catching the light as it nicked your inner thigh.,a shallow, precise cut, enough to draw a thin line of blood that welled warm and immediate. The sting bloomed sharp, making you cry out, fresh tears cascading as your body arched in response. But even as the pain lanced through you, that heat between your legs intensified, your pussy dripping now, slick coating the steel as he dragged it teasingly along your folds once more. He reveled in it, you could feel it in the way his breath quickened, his cock twitching against you, his free hand stroking your hip in mock comfort.

"Good girl," he praised, shushing you through another wave of tears, his thumb dipping into the bead of blood and smearing it upward, circling your clit with the crimson warmth before pushing the digit slick with your blood and arousal toward your entrance. He circled there, not entering, just pressing, building the torment as your sobs mingled with ragged breaths of unwanted pleasure. "See? Even your blood knows its owner. Cry for me, sister,let it all out. I'll catch every drop, just like I'll catch you every time." The dagger lingered, cold and insistent, tracing lazy patterns along your thigh, nicking another tiny line parallel to the first, drawing forth more tears, and more wetness, your body a battlefield of conflict where fear fed desire, and his soft mockery only deepened the hold he had on you. He brought his fingers to his lips, coated in your slick and your blood, popping them into your mouth right beside your ear, "Beautiful."

The blade clattered to the grass at your feet, landing with a soft thud amid the soil, forgotten for now in the haze of his rising fury and need. Aerion's hands moved, unlacing them just enough to free his cock, thick and throbbing, veins pulsing along its length. The head already glistening with pre-cum in the moonlight as he gripped the base, stroking himself once, twice, eyes locked on your trembling form pinned against the weirwood, your pussy exposed and slick from the teasing touches. The air charged between you with the ritual of his claiming, each movement measured, as if he were enacting an ancient rite only the two of you could understand. And in his eyes he was.

He stepped closer, the heat of his body enveloping you, and positioned himself at your entrance. He slammed forward without warning in one brutal thrust, burying his cock to the hilt inside of you. The stretch burned fierce and immediate, your walls clenching around the invasion, too tight from fear and the his torments to yield easily. You cried out, the sound raw and echoing through the gardens, your nails scraping against the bark as your body arched in protest. He didn't pause, didn't give you time to adjust; instead, he held there, hips flush against your ass, fingers reaching into your mouth as he ground deep to force every inch deeper, his breath ragged against your neck.

"Quiet sweetling,"' that soft mocking tone returning, laced now with a reverent edge. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding you against the tree. Slowly, he withdrew almost to the tip, the drag of his cock pulling at your sensitive walls, before snapping back in with coarse force. The rhythm built gradually, each thrust drawn out— pulling back with agonizing leisure, then driving forward with a snap that jolted your body against the rough bark. Your breasts scraped with every motion, the pain mingling with the building pressure inside you, your pussy growing wetter despite the tears streaming down your face.

Each drive was punctuated by a slap, marking the cadence of his possession. The first landed on your ass, his palm cracking against the curve where the dagger had trailed, the sting blooming hot and sharp, making your muscles clench around him. He groaned at the sensation, thrusting deeper in reward. "Mine,"he snarled low, the word a vow etched in the night air. Another withdrawal, slow and teasing, his cock slick with your juices, before he slammed home again— and this time, his hand came down on your thigh, right over the fresh nick from the blade, reopening the shallow cut. Blood welled anew, warm and sticky, pulling at the open wound as your fingers clawed into the husk of the weirwood.

You whines, the pain twisting with the unwanted pleasure coiling in your core, your body betraying you as your hips began to rock back to him. He laughed sharply, grabbing a fistful of your hair and wrenching your head back sharply. The angle exposed your neck, your tear-streaked face tilting toward the stars through branches, and his next slap connected with your cheek, firm and ringing, the impact sending fresh tears spilling. "No other courtier will touch what's destined for me," his teeth grazed your shoulder, nipping the skin before sinking in deeper. The bite broke flesh, drawing blood to match the knife's kiss, the coppery tang filling the air as he lapped at the wound like a beast sealing its mark.

"Say it," he demanded, his voice roughened by restraint, hips still rolling in that unhurried, punishing rhythm— thrust, slap, bite, withdraw. He released your hair only to slap your ass again, harder, the flesh reddening under his hand, and you felt the tremor in his cock buried inside you, the way your cunt fluttered around him.

"Yours," you gasped, the words torn from your throat amid the sobs, forced out by the relentless pressure building where his body met yours. It was truth and surrender, whispered like an incantation in this twisted ritual, your voice breaking as another thrust hit deep, stretching you wide, the head of his cock nudging that spot inside.

Pleased, he rewarded you with his fingers, sliding one hand between your thighs to find your clit, swollen and aching. He rubbed roughly at first, circles that were more grind than caress, syncing with the wet slap of his hips against your ass. The sound echoed through the gardens, obscene and rhythmic, like the heartbeat of the godswood itself bearing witness. His possessiveness consumed him wholly now, the anger from the court's slight twisting into this dark claiming, each motion a deliberate step in binding you to him. He withdrew fully once, letting the cool air kiss your gaping pussy, only to plunge back in, slower this time, savoring the way your walls gripped him, the slick sounds of your combined arousal.

"That's it," he whispered, shushing your cries with mock gentleness, his thumb pressing harder on your clit while his other hand traced the bite on your shoulder, proud, smearing the blood in lazy patterns across your skin. "Feel how you take me, sister. This is our blood, our fire." Another slap to your thigh, lighter now, as if anointing you with pain, and he picked up the pace just a fraction, hips snapping with controlled force, building the tension like a slow-burning pyre.

Mid-thrust, he shifted— pulling out with a wet pop that left you whimpering at the emptiness, then spinning you to face him. Your back scraped the bark now, the rough texture biting into your skin as he hoisted one of your legs over his hip, opening you wider. He entered you again in one smooth, deep slide, the new angle allowing him to bottom out, his cock pressing against your cervix with every grind. Your arms wrapped around his neck instinctively, clinging as he began to fuck you in earnest, the ritual evolving into something more intimate, more consuming.

His eyes syncing to yours along with his grunts, his breath hot against your lips. "Mine to chase, mine to claim," he rasped, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide with lust and madness. His free hand cupped your breast, pinching the nipple hard enough to draw a gasp, twisting it in time with his thrusts. The gardens faded around you, the world narrowing to this; his cock stretching you wide, pounding deeper with each roll of his hips, hitting that spot relentlessly now.

He didn't let up, his fingers returning to your clit, rubbing in firm, insistent strokes that matched the building frenzy. "Cum for me," he demanded, his coarse voice breaking on the words, raw with the edge of his own impending release. "Show them— show everyone— you're my dragon's fire. Scream it for the gods, for the court that dares forget." His thrusts grew erratic, deeper, the slap of skin louder, wetter, clenching around him as the pressure coiled tighter, unbearable.

The orgasm ripped through you like wildfire, your pussy spasming wildly, milking his cock in rhythmic pulses as waves of pleasure crashed over the pain and fear. You shattered against him, head falling at his shoulder as you cried out his name in a broken wail, tears mingling with sweat as your body convulsed, nails raking down his back. He followed moments later with a moan that shook the leaves from the branches above, his cock swelling inside you before flooding your depths with him, thick spurt after thick spurt, spilling deep as if to brand you from within, marking you irrevocably as his.

He collapsed against you, chest heaving, arms caging you tight against the tree, his weight pinning you in place, arms aching onto his elbow. The dagger lay forgotten on the ground, but his grip was a promise of more, fingers tracing the welts and bites on your skin, lips brushing your ear in a final, possessive whisper. "This game won't end."