"Sunghoon lives for nights like this you in his lap, tits in his mouth, windows fogged beyond saving."
Pairing:박성훈 x f!reader.ִֶָ𓂃ּ ֶָ֢.
Content+Warnings: Explicit sexual content,fwb? Casual sex,Unprotected sex + creampie,Heavy breast/nipple play & tit worship,Multiple sex positions in a car cowgirl, folded missionary, doggy style,Fingering, clit stimulation, multiple orgasms,Dirty talk?,Light pain/pleasure mix (hard pinching, biting, slapping on breasts),Marking/hickeys,Strong language
Wc: 4k
Mdni
Note: saw this on tw those hands looked sm like hoon's 🚬 idk vro..
The notification lit up your phone at 11:47 pm.
Hoon: you up?
You stared at it for a second, thumb hovering. You knew exactly what it meant. It had been the same for the last few months, ever since that night Yunjin dragged him along to your group’s late dinner and he’d spent half the evening staring at your chest like it was the only thing worth looking at. Some tipsy flirting and you ended up in his car.
You typed back
You: yeah,where?
Hoon:outside in 15
You didn’t bother dressing up. Black cami n some boy shorts, nothing underneath. Your nipples were already tightening just from the anticipation. You grabbed your keys and slipped out.
His matte black car was idling by the curb, tinted windows hiding everything. You climbed in. The scent of his cologne — something woody and expensive hit you immediately. Sunghoon was slouched in the driver’s seat wearing a plain black tee that looked two sizes too small. The fabric stretched obscenely across his broad chest and thick shoulders, biceps bulging even when he wasn’t flexing.
He didn’t say hi. Just reached over, big hand landing high on your thigh, squeezing once as he pulled away from the curb.
“Missed you,” he said, voice low, eyes flicking to your covered chest.
You laughed softly. “sure.”
The drive was quiet except for the low hum of R&B playing through the speakers. His hand stayed on your thigh the whole time, thumb rubbing slow circles higher and higher until it slipped under the hem of your shorts. Not pushing further. Just teasing. Building it.
He drove farther than usual tonight, leaving the busy streets behind until he turned into a quiet, half-empty parking lot behind an old business park. No cameras. No people. Just distant streetlights painting faint orange stripes across the fogged windows once he killed the engine.
Silence settled. Thick. Heavy.
Sunghoon turned toward you, dark eyes locked on your body. “C'mere.”
You unbuckled and climbed over the console, knees settling on either side of his thick thighs. The moment you were in his lap, his hands were on you. His big palms shoved under your cami and pushed it up roughly, bunching the fabric right under your chin. Cool air hit your bare skin for half a second before his hot hands covered you.
“shit” he groaned, squeezing immediately.
His fingers dug deep into the soft flesh of your tits, kneading hard, pushing them together, spreading them apart.His thumbs dragged over your nipples, flicking them back and forth until they were stiff peaks, then pinched hard enough to make you gasp.
You arched into his touch, hands bracing on his broad shoulders. The muscles there were rock-solid under your palms.
Sunghoon’s breathing was already getting heavier. He leaned in, burying his face between your breasts, inhaling like he was addicted. Then he started sucking wet, open-mouthed kisses all over the soft skin, leaving faint marks. One hand kept mauling your right tit, squeezing rhythmically while the other slid to your back, pulling you closer so he could suck a nipple into his mouth.
The wet heat made you moan. He sucked harder, tongue flicking rapidly, teeth grazing just enough. His free hand worked the other breast rolling the nipple, tugging, slapping the underside lightly so it jiggled against his palm.
You rocked your hips slowly against the growing bulge in his sweatpants, feeling him thicken. The car was heating up fast. Windows already fogging at the edges.
He pulled back just enough to yank your cami completely off, tossing it into the backseat. Then he attacked again. Both hands on your chest, pushing your tits up and together so he could drag his tongue across both nipples at once. He sucked them into his mouth together, groaning deep in his throat as he did it. The vibration went straight between your legs.
Your hands slid into his hair, gripping the dark strands as he worked you over. He was relentless squeezing, kneading, sucking, biting softly. Every time you moaned, he did it harder. His cock was fully hard now, pressing insistently against your soaked shorts.
“Shorts off,”
You lifted up just enough to shove them down. He helped, big hands yanking them down your thighs along with your panties. The second you were bare, he pulled you back down, but not before shoving his own sweatpants and boxers down just enough to free his thick cock. It slapped heavy against his abs flushed, veined, already leaking.
You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly. Sunghoon hissed, hips bucking once, but his eyes stayed glued to your chest.
“Wan' 'em around me,” he said.
You leaned forward, pressing your tits together around his cock. Sunghoon cursed loudly, head falling back against the seat as you started moving. The sight of his thick length sliding between your soft breasts made him throb. He reached down and helped, hands covering yours, squeezing your tits tighter around him, thumbs still flicking your nipples.
“Shit… look at that,” he groaned, watching mesmerized as the head of his cock disappeared and reappeared between your cleavage. Precum smeared across your skin, making everything slicker. He thrust up gently, fucking your tits while his hands kept them pressed tight. After a few minutes he grabbed your hips and pulled you up, lining himself up with your dripping entrance.
"Ride me?"
You sank down onto him inch by inch, gasping at the stretch. He was thick always took you a moment to adjust. The second you bottomed out, Sunghoon’s hands returned to your chest like magnets. He squeezed hard, using your tits as handles while you started rolling your hips.
The car rocked gently. Skin slapped against skin. His breathing was ragged, eyes half-lidded as he watched your breasts bounce in his grip. Every time you sank down, he thrust up to meet you, fingers digging deeper.
“Harder,” you whispered.
He grinned,Then he took over.
Gripping your ass with one hand, he fucked up into you fast and deep, the other hand still full of your tit. He slapped it lightly, watching it jiggle, then squeezed again, pinching the nipple until you cried out. The mix of pleasure and faint pain had you clenching around him.
He switched positions after a while pushing the seat back as far as it would go so you could lean back against the steering wheel. This angle let him see everything. He kept one hand on your chest, mauling both breasts while the other rubbed tight circles on your clit. His thrusts never slowed.
You came hard the first time, thighs shaking, walls fluttering around his cock as you moaned his name. Sunghoon didn’t stop. He fucked you through it, groaning at how tight you got,
When your orgasm faded, he pulled out suddenly and flipped you around. “Backseat rightnow baby”
You climbed over. He followed, muscular body filling the space. He laid you down across the seats, one of your legs hooked over the front seat, the other bent. Then he was on you again.
This time he pushed your knees toward your chest, folding you, and slid back inside in one smooth thrust. The new angle made you see stars. Sunghoon braced one hand on the seat behind you and started pounding deep, powerful strokes that made your tits bounce wildly.
He couldn’t resist. He leaned down, sucking one nipple into his mouth while his hand worked the other. The wet sounds of his mouth mixed with the obscene slap of skin and your broken moans. Every thrust pushed your breasts up toward his face. He motorboated them messily, groaning, then went back to sucking hard enough to leave marks.
“Love suckin' these while I’m inside you,” he panted. “So fucking soft… godamn.”
You reached between your bodies and rubbed your clit, chasing another high. Sunghoon noticed and replaced your hand with his, rubbing fast while he kept thrusting.
Your second orgasm hit even harder. You clenched around him, back arching, crying out as pleasure crashed through you. Sunghoon cursed, hips stuttering, but he held back.
He pulled out again, breathing hard. “Turn over. On your knees.”
The backseat was cramped, but you managed hands braced on the seat, ass up. Sunghoon knelt behind you, one foot on the floor. He rubbed his cock along your soaked folds once, twice, then pushed back in.
This position let him go even deeper. He gripped your hips at first, pounding hard, but soon one hand slid around to grab your swinging tits. He squeezed them from behind, pulling you back onto his cock with every thrust. The angle made everything feel filthy and perfect.
He leaned over your back, chest pressed to you, one arm wrapped around so he could keep playing with your breasts while fucking. Fingers pinching, palm kneading, mouth sucking on your shoulder.
“You gon cum again? Want to feel it on my cock.”
His hand moved faster on your clit. His thrusts turned punishing deep, rapid strokes that had the whole car shaking. You came a third time, almost sobbing with how intense it felt, walls milking him tight.He buried himself deep and came hard, groaning loudly as he filled you, hips twitching with every pulse. His hand stayed on your tit the entire time, squeezing rhythmically like he was grounding himself.
You both collapsed, sweaty and breathing hard. The car reeked of sex. Windows completely fogged. Sunghoon stayed inside you for a long minute, lazily kissing your neck, hand still gently groping your sore, marked-up chest.
Eventually he pulled out with a wet sound and sat back, pulling you into his lap again. This time it was softer. He rested his forehead against yours, one big hand still idly cupping your breast, thumb brushing the nipple almost tenderly now.
“Better than the gym,” he muttered with a lazy smirk.
You hummed breathlessly. “mhm"
You stayed like that for a while naked, tangled, his hands tracing the marks he left.
“Round three?” he asked after ten minutes, already half-hard against your thigh.
You raised an eyebrow. “hell nah , don't wanna limp like a loser tomorrow."
He laughed and you both cleaned up as best you could with some wipes he kept in the car. You pulled your cami n shorts back on. He fixed his sweatpants.
He drove you home in comfortable silence, hand back on your thigh. When he pulled up to your building he leaned over and kissed you deep but short.
“Text me when you want it again,” he said.
You smiled. “You’ll probably text first.”
“Probably.”
You stepped out. He waited until you were inside before driving off.
SYNOPSIS: You died centuries ago and Sukuna never forgot. When he finds you reincarnated in the modern era, he knows immediately. Unfortunately for him, you think he’s a creep.
WORD COUNT: 11.5k
The Heian era was a time of blood and gold.
Sorcerers carved their names into history with blades and curses, while lords and emperors hid behind paper screens and whispered prayers. In the shadow of those fragile thrones walked Ryomen Sukuna. With four arms, four eyes, tattoos like black flames across his skin, and a second mouth that laughed at every scream it tasted.
They called him the King of Curses. Calamity.
Everything except what he truly was to you.
Yours.
You were no trembling village girl offered as tribute. Your name already carried weight among the clans. Starfire chains, your inherited technique, could bind even the strongest cursed spirits, wrapping them in burning light until they shattered like glass. Clans had tried to marry you off for alliances. You had burned every proposal scroll in front of their envoys.
Then came the day the great Ryomen Sukuna arrived at the borders of your clan’s territory, not to conquer, but to see the sorcerer who had single-handedly sealed a special-grade curse that had been terrorizing three provinces.
You met him in the open courtyard under a blood-red sunset.
He towered over every warrior present. Two arms crossed over his broad chest, the other two resting lazily on the hilts of his cleavers. His lower eyes watched the trembling guards while the upper pair fixed solely on you. The mouth on his abdomen grinned with too many teeth.
You walked forward without hesitation, bare feet silent on the stone, your crimson robes whispering against the ground. Your hair was long then, falling to your waist in loose waves, adorned with a simple gold circlet that caught the dying light.
Sukuna’s voice rolled like distant thunder. “So this is the little star who thinks she can chain what I would devour.”
You stopped only a few paces away and looked up at all four eyes, all that raw power without flinching.
“I don’t think,” you answered, voice clear and steady. “I do. And I choose who I stand beside.”
A low chuckle escaped both mouths. The guards around you shifted, hands tightening on weapons they knew would be useless.
Sukuna leaned down slightly, one massive hand reaching out. Clawed fingers stopped just short of your chin, as if testing whether you would retreat.
You didn’t.
Instead, you stepped into his reach and tilted your head so his fingertips brushed your jaw.
“I choose you, Ryomen Sukuna,” you said softly, but loud enough for every witness to hear. “Not because the world fears you. Because I don’t. Because something in you looks… bored. And I want to see what happens when you’re not.”
Silence fell across the courtyard like a blade.
Then Sukuna laughed. A full, rolling sound that vibrated through the air and made several lesser sorcerers drop to their knees. He straightened, but his hand did not leave your face. Instead, his thumb traced your lower lip with surprising care.
“Bold,” he murmured. “Foolish. Intriguing.” His lower eyes narrowed with dark amusement. “Very well, little star. Come with me. We’ll see how long that fire lasts before it burns out.”
You smiled. “It won’t.”
That night you left your clan’s compound without looking back. No forced marriage, no chains, no fear. You walked beside him willingly, your hand resting lightly on one of his lower arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The first time he took you to his domain. A ruined temple he had claimed as his own, the air tasted of incense and old blood. He watched you explore the halls with four unblinking eyes.
You stopped in front of the great throne of carved bone and gold, then turned to face him.
“Everyone says you destroy everything you touch,” you said quietly.
Sukuna’s grin was sharp. “They’re usually right.”
You crossed the distance between you, robes sliding from your shoulders until they pooled at your feet. Naked, unafraid, you looked up at the King of Curses and traced the black markings that ran across his chest with gentle fingers.
“Then touch me,” you whispered. “And let’s see what happens.”
Four hands descended on you at once.
Two pinned your wrists above your head against the cold stone wall. One gripped your hip hard enough to bruise. The last cupped the back of your neck, tilting your head so he could claim your mouth in a kiss that tasted of smoke and iron and something dangerously close to hunger.
He was not gentle. Sukuna had never needed to be.
He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed you against the wall. The mouth on his stomach opened, teeth grazing your collarbone while his main mouth bit down on your shoulder, drawing a sharp gasp from you.
“You’re smaller than you look when you’re burning things,” he growled against your skin, voice rough with want. One of his hands slid between your thighs, fingers teasing until you were trembling. “But you feel just as fierce.”
When he finally pushed inside you—thick, hot, unrelenting—you moaned his name like a challenge. He fucked you against the wall with deep, powerful strokes, four arms holding you exactly where he wanted you, the second mouth licking and sucking at your breasts until you cried out.
You came hard, nails raking down his back, starfire flickering at your fingertips and leaving faint glowing marks on his skin that healed almost instantly.
Sukuna followed with a low groan that vibrated through both his mouths, spilling deep inside you as if marking territory no one else would ever claim.
Afterward, he did not let you go.
He carried you to the furs piled near his throne and laid you down, surprisingly careful. Two arms wrapped around you, the other two resting possessively over your waist and thigh. For the first time anyone had ever seen, the King of Curses looked… at ease.
You traced the tattoos on his chest with lazy fingers.
“I told you,” you murmured sleepily. “My fire doesn’t burn out.”
Sukuna’s lower eyes closed. The upper pair watched you with something dangerously close to fondness.
“We’ll see, little queen,” he rumbled. “We’ll see.”
Outside the temple, the world already whispered in fear.
The monster had taken a bride.
And she had chosen him back.
The months that followed your choice blurred into a rhythm of violence and intimacy that no one else in the Heian world could have understood.
You rode beside Sukuna on campaigns that turned rivers red. While lesser sorcerers hid behind barriers and chanted protective sutras, you stood at his right hand on the battlefield. Your starfire chains lashed out alongside his cleavers, binding groups of enemies so he could carve through them with leisurely precision. He never ordered you to stay back. He never treated you like fragile porcelain.
Instead, he watched you fight with open amusement and something darker—pride.
One particular skirmish against a coalition of rival clans remains burned into your memory.
The valley was narrow, hemmed in by steep cliffs. Three hundred warriors and sorcerers had gathered under a false banner of “righteous purification,” thinking numbers and a hastily constructed anti-domain barrier would be enough. Sukuna had laughed when the scouts reported it.
Now the air reeked of smoke and opened bodies.
Sukuna stood at the center of the carnage in his full glory. Four arms moving like separate instruments of death. Two cleavers sang through armor and bone. One hand summoned slashes of cursed energy that bisected men mid-scream. The fourth hand occasionally flicked away arrows as if they were annoying insects.
You fought at his flank, crimson robes stained darker with blood that was not yours. Your chains of starfire whipped through the air, glowing white-hot. They wrapped around a cluster of archers, tightening until their bows snapped and their screams cut short as the flames consumed them from the inside.
A spearman broke through the chaos and lunged at your unprotected side.
Before you could react, one of Sukuna’s lower arms shot out, massive hand closing around the man’s head like a vice. With casual strength he crushed the skull and tossed the body aside.
“Careful, little star,” Sukuna called over the din, voice carrying easily. “I’d hate to have to replace you so soon.”
You laughed, it was bright and unafraid. Sending a chain lashing toward a sorcerer who was trying to weave a binding vow. “Then stop talking and keep up, my king.”
His answering grin was feral.
When the last enemy fell, the valley had become a slaughter yard. Crows already circled overhead. Sukuna wiped blood from his cleavers on a fallen banner and turned to you.
You were breathing hard, hair wild, a shallow cut across your forearm already clotting. Without hesitation you stepped over corpses until you stood directly in front of him. Two of his hands settled on your waist, lifting you effortlessly onto a broken stone pillar so you were closer to eye level.
“You enjoyed that,” he observed, lower eyes half-lidded.
“I enjoyed watching you,” you corrected. Your fingers rose, tracing the black markings that ran down the side of his face. The touch was gentle, familiar. No one else alive would have dared. “You move like the world is too slow for you.”
Sukuna’s main mouth curved. The stomach mouth opened slightly, teeth glinting. “Everything is too slow except you.”
He leaned in and kissed you right there among the dead. Deep, claiming, tasting of iron and victory. One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back. Another slid beneath your robes to rest possessively against the bare skin of your lower back. The kiss was not soft. It never was. It was heat and teeth and the promise that whatever came next, you would face it together.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours for a moment. Four eyes closed, a rare moment of stillness.
That night you returned to the ruined temple he had claimed as his seat of power.
The great hall was lit only by braziers and moonlight filtering through cracks in the ancient roof. Sukuna dismissed his few remaining followers with a lazy wave. The moment the heavy doors closed, the air between you shifted.
You barely had time to loosen your blood-stained robes before four hands were on you again.
He lifted you onto the wide stone altar that served as his makeshift throne platform. Your back met cool rock as he loomed over you, tattoos stark in the firelight.
“Strip,” he ordered, voice low and rough.
You obeyed slowly, deliberately, enjoying the way all four eyes tracked every inch of revealed skin. When you were bare beneath him, he paused—just watching.
“You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted to keep,” he said quietly. It was as close to a confession as the King of Curses ever came.
Then he descended.
Two hands pinned your wrists above your head. One large palm spread your thighs wide. The fourth hand traced lazy circles on your stomach, claws lightly scraping. His main mouth claimed yours again while the mouth on his abdomen moved lower, hot breath ghosting over your inner thigh before the tongue. Longer and more dexterous than any human’s, licked a slow stripe up your center.
You arched with a sharp cry.
Sukuna chuckled against your lips. “Still so responsive. Even after painting a valley red.”
He didn’t tease for long. The second mouth latched onto your clit, sucking and licking with relentless focus while two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling just right. The stretch burned beautifully. You moaned his name like a prayer and a challenge at the same time.
When you were trembling on the edge, he withdrew.
You whined in protest.
He positioned himself between your spread legs, the thick head of his cock nudging your entrance. In this form he was large—almost too much—but your body remembered him, opened for him.
He sank in with one slow, powerful thrust, bottoming out as you gasped.
“Fuck—Ryomen—”
“That’s it,” he growled, voice layered. “Say my name while I remind you who you belong to.”
He set a brutal pace. Deep, punishing strokes that rocked your entire body. The altar creaked beneath you. Four hands held you open and pinned, allowing no escape, no mercy. The stomach mouth continued its work, licking at your breasts, teeth grazing nipples until they ached.
You came first. Hard, vision whiting out, starfire flickering uncontrollably at your fingertips and leaving glowing trails across his shoulders that faded slowly.
Sukuna followed with a low, guttural sound, hips stuttering as he spilled deep inside you, marking you from the inside out.
Afterward he did not pull away immediately. He stayed buried within you, arms wrapping around your smaller frame, holding you against his chest as if you were something infinitely precious.
You traced idle patterns on his skin, fingers following the black tattoos you knew by heart.
“They will come for me one day,” you whispered into the quiet. It was not fear but simply fact. “Because they cannot kill you directly.”
Sukuna’s grip tightened fractionally. “Let them try. I will burn the world before I let them take you.”
You pressed a kiss to the mouth on his stomach. It nipped your lip gently in response.
“I know,” you said. “But if they ever succeed… remember this. Remember how I chose you. How I looked at you without fear.”
He was silent for a long moment.
Then, so quietly you almost missed it: “I will not forget.”
The fire in the braziers crackled. Outside, the night wind carried distant screams. Remnants of the day’s work.
Inside the temple, the King of Curses held his queen close, four arms a cage no enemy had yet breached.
But the world was already whispering.
They could not defeat the monster.
So they would target the one thing he refused to lose.
Winter came early that year, cloaking the Heian provinces in frost and silence. The ruined temple you shared with Sukuna felt warmer for it. Braziers burned hotter, furs piled thicker, and the air carried the constant scent of incense mixed with the faint metallic tang of recent blood.
Your days settled into a dangerous rhythm of power and peace.
Mornings often began with strategy. Sukuna would lounge on his throne of bone and gold while you sat cross-legged on the wide stone steps below him, maps of rival territories spread across your lap. Your starfire technique allowed you to sense cursed energy signatures from miles away, so you marked weak points with glowing embers that hovered in the air like tiny stars.
Sukuna listened.
That alone was a miracle. Generals who had served him for decades were cut down for speaking out of turn. You spoke freely, challenging his plans, suggesting subtler approaches when brute force would waste energy.
“You could take the eastern pass without leveling the entire village,” you said one frost-bitten morning, pointing at the map. “Leave the survivors to spread stories. Fear is a better weapon than ash sometimes.”
One of his upper eyes narrowed in amusement. The lower pair watched you with lazy heat. “Since when did my queen become merciful?”
“Not merciful,” you corrected, rising to your feet and stepping between his spread thighs. Two of his hands automatically settled on your hips, claws pricking lightly through your robes. “Strategic. Dead men tell no tales. Terrified men tell exaggerated ones.”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest and the mouth on his stomach. “You’re getting dangerous, little star.”
You leaned in, brushing your lips against the black marking on his cheek. “Good. You were getting bored.”
That evening he rewarded your cleverness in the way he knew best.
The temple’s inner sanctum was lit only by moonlight and a single brazier. Sukuna had you on your knees on the thick furs, your upper body draped over a low wooden bench. Your wrists were bound behind your back with one of his spare sashes — not because you couldn’t escape, but because you both enjoyed the illusion of restraint.
He knelt behind you, four hands mapping every inch of your bare skin.
Two palms smoothed up your spine, pressing you down. One hand gripped your hip, holding you steady. The last traced slow circles over the curve of your ass before delivering a sharp, stinging slap that made you gasp.
“Still so responsive,” he murmured, voice rough with approval. “Even when you play at politics all day.”
His fingers slid between your thighs, finding you already wet. He teased your entrance with two thick digits, pumping slowly while the mouth on his abdomen licked a hot stripe up your spine.
You moaned, pushing back against his hand. “Ryomen… stop teasing.”
He laughed darkly. “You forget who gives the orders here.”
But he obeyed anyway, because it was you.
He replaced his fingers with the thick head of his cock, pushing in with one long, relentless thrust until he was seated to the hilt. The stretch was perfect, bordering on too much, and you cried out in pleasure-pain.
Sukuna set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping forward, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing off the stone walls. Every thrust drove you harder against the bench. His lower hands kept your hips angled exactly how he wanted, while his upper hands reached forward to cup your breasts, rolling your nipples between clawed fingers.
The second mouth joined in, its tongue flicking teasingly over the sensitive skin of your neck and shoulders, occasionally biting down just hard enough to leave marks that would linger for days.
You came first. Walls clenching around him as starfire flickered uncontrollably at your fingertips, leaving faint glowing patterns on the furs beneath you.
Sukuna followed with a low growl that shook the air, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you, hot and endless.
Afterward he untied your wrists and pulled you into his lap, four arms wrapping around you like a living cage. You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady, inhuman rhythm of his heartbeat.
“I love you,” you whispered into the quiet. It was the first time you had said the words so plainly.
Sukuna was silent for a long moment. Then one hand stroked through your hair with surprising gentleness.
“You are the only creature I have ever allowed to speak those words and live,” he said finally. “That should be answer enough.”
You smiled against his skin and traced the tattoos over his heart. “It is.”
But peace never lasted long in the Heian era.
The first whispers reached you during a rare journey to a neutral hot spring valley. A place even rival clans respected as temporary ground for negotiation.
You and Sukuna traveled with only a small escort of his most loyal (and terrified) followers. The springs were steaming under a clear winter sky, the water rich with minerals that soothed cursed energy fatigue.
That night, while Sukuna soaked in the largest pool with three arms draped lazily over the rocks, you lingered at the edge, letting the heat seep into your muscles.
A young sorcerer from a minor clan approached under the guise of offering scented oils. His hands shook as he bowed.
“My lady,” he whispered when Sukuna’s eyes were half-closed in apparent relaxation. “There are those who fear what you have become. A queen to the King of Curses… it upsets the balance. Some speak of… removing the attachment. For the good of all sorcerers.”
You turned your head slowly, eyes sharp. “And you bring this message to me?”
The boy swallowed. “As a warning. Leave him. Return to your clan. Or they will make you leave.”
Before you could respond, Sukuna’s voice cut through the steam like a blade.
“Bold of you to threaten my queen in my presence, insect.”
Four eyes opened fully. In an instant the boy was lifted into the air by an invisible slash of cursed energy, dangling helplessly.
You placed a hand on Sukuna’s arm, the one closest to you. “Let him go. He’s just a messenger.”
Sukuna’s jaw tightened, but he released the boy, who scrambled away into the darkness, sobbing.
You turned back to Sukuna, water lapping at your waist. “They’re starting to realize they can’t kill you directly.”
He reached out with two hands, pulling you through the water until you straddled his lap. The other two arms wrapped around your back, holding you flush against his chest.
“Let them plot,” he growled against your throat. “They will die screaming for their arrogance.”
You kissed him softly, tasting mineral water and restrained violence. “I’m not afraid. But promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“If they ever come for me… don’t hesitate because of me. Burn them all.”
Sukuna’s grip tightened possessively. “I would burn the heavens themselves before I let them take you from me.”
You believed him.
But the whispers grew louder in the following weeks.
Messengers arrived with false offers of alliance. Minor clans sent gifts wrapped in protective charms. Once, during a solo scouting mission you insisted on taking alone, you found a letter nailed to a tree with a cursed dagger:
“The monster’s weakness must be excised. For the sake of the world, the star must fall.”
You burned the letter to ash and said nothing to Sukuna when you returned.
He noticed anyway.
One night, as you lay tangled together on the furs. Your body still humming from the way he had taken you twice, slow and deep, whispering filthy praise against your skin. Sukuna traced the gold circlet in your hair with one claw.
“You’re hiding something,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question.
You sighed, pressing closer to his warmth. “They’re planning something. Targeting me to hurt you. But I can handle it. I’m not fragile, Ryomen.”
His four arms tightened around you. “You are the only thing I refuse to lose. If they touch you…”
You silenced him with a kiss, then guided one of his hands between your thighs again, distracting him the best way you knew how.
“I know,” you whispered as he rolled you beneath him once more. “Now remind me who I belong to.”
He did. Thoroughly, possessively, until the only sounds in the temple were your shared moans and the crackle of dying braziers.
But in the quiet hours before dawn, when Sukuna’s eyes finally closed in rare rest, you lay awake staring at the ceiling.
You understood the danger.
They couldn’t defeat the King of Curses in open battle.
So they would try to break his heart.
And you had already decided: if it came to that, you would make sure they paid for every second of his pain.
Spring thawed the frost, but the whispers did not melt away. They grew sharper, more coordinated, like blades being honed in secret forges across the provinces.
You felt the shift in the cursed energy of the land itself. Subtle tremors in the web of power that connected every sorcerer and spirit in the Heian era. Your starfire technique made you sensitive to such things; faint resonances of binding vows being woven in hidden mountain shrines, alliances forming between clans that had once been bitter enemies.
Sukuna noticed your distraction during a quiet afternoon in the temple courtyard. Cherry blossoms—somehow surviving in the shadow of his domain—drifted lazily on the breeze. He lounged against a pillar, two arms folded behind his head, the other two idly spinning one of his cleavers like a child’s toy. The mouth on his stomach hummed an old, bloody war chant.
“You’re thinking too loudly, little star,” he rumbled without opening his eyes. “Speak it before I get bored and make you.”
You sat on the edge of the stone fountain, trailing your fingers through the cool water. Droplets glowed faintly where your cursed energy brushed them. “They’re getting bolder. Not attacking you outright, they know better. But messages keep coming. ‘Temporary truces.’ ‘Shared threats from rogue curses.’ All of them mention me by name. ‘The Star Queen must mediate.’ ‘Only she can seal the threat without escalation.’”
Sukuna’s cleaver stopped spinning. All four eyes opened, fixing on you with predatory focus. “Let them send their pretty lies. I’ll decorate the temple steps with their spines.”
You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “If I ignore them, they’ll claim I’m hiding behind you. Weakening your image. If I go…” You let the thought hang.
He sat up slowly, massive frame casting a long shadow over you. One lower hand reached out, claws gentle as they tilted your chin up. “You will not go alone.”
“I know,” you said softly, leaning into his touch. “But rushing in with full force gives them the excuse they want. Proof that the King of Curses cannot be negotiated with. That his queen is just a leash.”
Sukuna’s jaw tightened. The stomach mouth snarled silently. “Since when do we care about their excuses?”
“Since they started targeting the one thing that makes you hesitate,” you answered, voice steady. You rose and stepped between his spread legs, placing both hands on his broad chest, tracing the familiar black tattoos with your thumbs. “I’m not fragile, Ryomen. My chains can bind armies. And I have you. But let me play their game for a little while. Gather information. Make them reveal their hands.”
He stared down at you for a long moment. Four crimson eyes searching your face as if memorizing every detail. Then, with a low growl, he pulled you flush against him. Two arms wrapped around your waist. The other two cupped your face.
“You test my patience more than any enemy ever has,” he muttered against your lips. “If anything feels wrong, anything, you burn the entire negotiation site to glass and return to me.”
“I promise,” you whispered.
“Be careful,” he said, so softly it almost didn’t sound like him. “The world can burn. But not you.”
You kissed the corner of his mouth, then the marking beneath his lower eye. “I’ll come back to you. I always do.”
The next morning, the false alliance message arrived via a trembling envoy from the Fujiwara-adjacent clans.
A rogue special-grade curse has manifested near the northern border, threatening trade routes vital to multiple provinces. Only the Star Queen’s unique sealing technique can contain it without unnecessary bloodshed. We request your mediation under a flag of temporary truce. No weapons. No armies. Neutral ground at the Valley of White Mist.
You read the scroll aloud to Sukuna, who listened with a bored expression that didn’t hide the murderous glint in all four eyes.
“It’s a trap,” he stated flatly.
“Obviously,” you agreed, rolling the scroll. “But if I refuse, they paint me as the tyrant’s consort who dooms innocents. If I go with force, they scream that Sukuna cannot control his queen. Let me go. Take a small escort if it eases you. I’ll assess their strength, then return.”
He didn’t like it. The air grew heavy with his cursed energy, shrine-like pressure making the braziers flicker.
But he trusted you, the only person alive he truly did.
“Take my cleaver,” he said finally, pressing the smaller of his two into your hands. “And this.” He removed the thin gold circlet from your hair, kissed it once, then placed it back. “Come back wearing it. Or I will paint the valley red searching for you.”
You smiled, rising on your toes to kiss him deeply. “I will. Wait for me, my king.”
As you rode out with a handful of his most loyal (and disposable) followers, Sukuna stood at the temple gates, four arms crossed, watching until you disappeared over the horizon.
The Valley of White Mist waited.
And somewhere in the shadows, a hundred sorcerers bound by a desperate collective vow sharpened their techniques, ready to excise the King of Curses’ only weakness.
The journey to the Valley of White Mist took three days on horseback. You rode at the head of the small escort Sukuna had grudgingly allowed. Six of his most hardened retainers, men who had survived enough battles to know when silence was wiser than questions. They kept their distance, eyes darting nervously between the road and the gold circlet still gleaming in your hair.
You felt the shift in cursed energy long before the valley came into view. The air grew thick, heavier, like breathing through wet silk. Your starfire technique hummed beneath your skin in warning, the chains coiled invisibly around your wrists and ankles ready to manifest at a thought. The cleaver Sukuna had given you rested at your hip, its weight a comforting reminder of him.
The valley itself was deceptively beautiful. Thick white mist rolled between ancient cedar trees, glowing faintly under a pale spring sun. A wide clearing had been prepared in the center. Flat ground ringed by stone lanterns that flickered with unnatural blue flame. Representatives from three minor clans and one major Fujiwara offshoot waited there, dressed in formal robes, faces carefully blank.
No obvious weapons. No large army in sight.
You dismounted, crimson robes brushing the dew-wet grass. Your escort stayed mounted behind you, hands hovering near their blades.
The lead negotiator, an older sorcerer with a neatly trimmed beard and eyes that betrayed nothing, bowed low.
“Lady Star Queen,” he intoned. “We are grateful you answered our plea. The rogue curse has grown stronger than anticipated. Your unique binding technique is our only hope for a bloodless resolution.”
You studied him calmly, letting your senses expand. Beneath the polite words, the cursed energy in the valley pulsed like a living thing. Layered, synchronized, bound by a complex vow. Not one curse. Many.
“I see,” you said, voice even. “Show me the curse, then. Quickly. My king grows impatient when I am away too long.”
They led you deeper into the mist.
The trap sprang the moment the trees closed behind your escort.
White light erupted from the ground in perfect geometric patterns. A massive collective domain, not quite a full expansion but something worse: a binding cage amplified by a hundred linked sorcerers hidden in the treeline and behind illusion barriers. The mist thickened into opaque walls. Your escort’s screams were cut short as slashes of cursed energy tore through them like paper.
You reacted instantly.
Starfire chains exploded outward in a blazing lattice, burning through the nearest bindings and shattering three stone lanterns. The air filled with the scent of scorched cedar and blood. You moved like you had on a hundred battlefields beside Sukuna—graceful, ruthless, unafraid.
But they had planned for you.
Dozens of sorcerers emerged from the mist, their techniques synchronized into a single overwhelming assault. Binding chains of their own—weaker than yours but multiplied—wrapped around your limbs. Anti-domain stakes drove into the ground, suppressing your output. Spears of condensed cursed energy pierced your side, your shoulder, your thigh.
You didn’t scream.
You laughed instead, low and bitter, as blood soaked the front of your crimson robes.
“So this is it,” you said, voice steady despite the pain. Your chains still lashed out, snapping necks and burning limbs, but they kept coming. “They cannot kill him, so they kill what he loves. Pathetic.”
A particularly strong binding vow slammed into your chest, cracking ribs. You staggered but stayed on your feet, cleaver in hand, slashing through two attackers in one fluid motion. Sukuna’s weapon sang with his residual cursed energy, cutting deeper than any ordinary blade.
Yet the numbers were too great. The cage too tight.
You realized too late how perfectly they had timed it. Far enough from the temple that even Sukuna’s speed might not save you in time, close enough that he would feel every second through the bond of cursed energy that had grown between you over the months.
“They’re trying to break him,” you whispered to yourself as another spear grazed your cheek, drawing a hot line of blood. Your vision blurred at the edges, but your hands never stopped moving. Starfire flared brighter, desperate. “Fools. He will burn the world for this.”
The final blow came from behind. A cursed technique designed to pierce the core, not kill instantly but ensure a slow, agonizing death. It drove through your back and out your chest, just missing your heart but shredding everything vital around it.
You dropped to your knees in the blood-soaked grass.
The mist began to thin as the sorcerers stepped closer, faces triumphant and terrified at once.
You lifted your head, gold circlet still somehow intact, now stained crimson. Your breathing came in shallow, wet gasps, but your eyes glowed bright with starfire even now held no panic. No begging.
Only calm understanding.
In the distance, the sky tore open.
Black shrine gates manifested like jagged teeth against the clouds. Malevolent energy rolled across the valley like a tidal wave. Sukuna had arrived.
He landed in the center of the clearing with earth-shaking force, four arms already in motion. Cleavers flashed. Dismantle and Cleave shredded the air itself. The collective domain shattered like glass under the weight of his true domain expansion, Malevolent Shrine, painting the sky red and black.
But it was too late for the trap.
It was too late for you.
Sukuna’s lower eyes found you instantly. The upper pair widened fractionally. The closest thing to shock the King of Curses had shown in centuries.
He crossed the distance in two strides, dropping to one knee beside you. Two massive hands cradled your face with a gentleness that would have stunned anyone watching. One pressed desperately over the gaping wound in your chest, trying to stem the blood that wouldn’t stop. The fourth gripped your hand so tightly your bones creaked.
The remaining sorcerers tried to flee. They didn’t get far. Invisible slashes turned them into red mist before they could take three steps.
You looked up at him. Four crimson eyes, tattoos stark against his skin, the face you had chosen without fear, and smiled through bloodied lips.
“Ryomen…” Your voice was barely a whisper, but it carried. Your free hand rose, trembling, to trace the black markings beneath his lower eyes exactly as you always had. The touch was weak but sure. “Even now… you came.”
He snarled, but the sound cracked. “You promised you would return. You lied to me, little star.”
A wet, broken laugh escaped you. “I’m sorry… but they needed to learn. They thought… taking me would break you.” Your fingers slid down to rest over the mouth on his stomach. It opened, teeth gentle against your palm for the first time. “Don’t let them win that way. Remember how I looked at you. How I chose you. Not out of fear… but because you were worth choosing.”
Blood trickled from the corner of your mouth. Your starfire flickered once, twice, then began to fade.
“I would find you again,” you breathed, eyes locking with all four of his. “In any life. Any form. My king… my equal… I lo—”
The light left your eyes.
Your hand slipped from his face and fell limp into the grass.
For one endless second, the valley was silent except for the distant crackle of dying flames.
Then Sukuna roared.
It was not grief in any human sense. It was annihilation given voice.
Malevolent Shrine expanded to its full radius. Shrine gates manifested in endless rows. Every surviving sorcerer in the valley. Every hidden ally, every coward who had planned this was torn apart at the atomic level. The trees turned to ash. The mist evaporated in screams of steam. The ground itself cracked and blackened as if the earth were bleeding.
He destroyed everything.
When the rage finally ebbed into something colder, sharper, Sukuna remained kneeling in the crater that had once been a valley. The gold circlet, somehow untouched amid the devastation, lay beside your body. He picked it up with one bloodied hand, then carefully removed it from your hair and wrapped it around the hilt of his cleaver, tying it with a strip of your torn robe.
He lifted your body with all four arms, cradling you against his chest as if you weighed nothing.
The King of Curses walked back toward his temple alone, leaving nothing but silence and ruin behind him.
For the first time in his long, bloody existence, Ryomen Sukuna carried something he could not conquer.
Something he could not get back.
Centuries passed like ash on the wind.
The Heian era crumbled into legend. Sorcerers rose and fell. Curses evolved. The world forgot the exact shape of the King of Curses’ wrath, but the scars remained. Craters where mountains once stood, blood-soaked soil that still refused to grow anything pure.
Ryomen Sukuna endured.
He sealed himself away in pieces, scattered across fingers and artifacts, waiting. Plotting. Remembering.
He kept the gold circlet wrapped around the hilt of his favored cleaver. Sometimes, in the long stretches of boredom between hosts, he would run a clawed thumb over the thin band of metal and feel the faint echo of starfire still clinging to it. Your final words haunted the empty spaces inside him.
“I would find you again… In any life. Any form.”
He never spoke them aloud. But they anchored him the way nothing else ever had.
A relatively new graduate from Jujutsu Tech’s hidden curriculum, assigned to the Tokyo branch under Gojo Satoru’s loose supervision. Your cursed energy was unusually potent for someone so young: bright, burning, instinctive. Instructors called it “starfire-adjacent” in hushed tones when they thought you couldn’t hear. You had no memories of the Heian era. No recollection of four arms, black tattoos, or the taste of blood and incense on your tongue.
Yet some things refused to stay buried.
You never flinched in the face of special-grade curses. When others hesitated, you stepped forward as if you belonged at the front line—beside power, not behind it. You fought with a quiet fearlessness that made veterans raise eyebrows. And sometimes, late at night in your small apartment in Shinjuku, you would catch yourself tracing invisible patterns on your own arms—black, looping marks that weren’t there.
Dreams came more frequently now.
Blood-soaked valleys. Gold catching moonlight. A deep, layered voice calling you “little star.” Four crimson eyes watching you with something between hunger and devotion. You always woke with your heart pounding and a strange ache low in your belly, as if your body remembered pleasure your mind had forgotten.
You chalked it up to stress.
Today’s mission was routine on paper: investigate a localized curse outbreak in an abandoned subway station beneath Shibuya. Grade 1 at worst. You were paired with a second-year student who kept glancing at you nervously.
“Stay behind me,” he muttered as you descended the stairs, flashlights cutting through the dark.
You ignored him and moved ahead, chains of glowing starfire already flickering at your fingertips. Your technique had manifested as luminescent binding links that could seal or burn on command. The cursed spirit that lunged at you was fast, but you were faster. One chain whipped out, wrapping its torso and igniting. It shrieked and dissolved into black smoke.
“Show-off,” the student grumbled.
You smirked. “Just efficient.”
The platform was quiet after that. Too quiet.
Then the air changed.
A heavy, ancient cursed energy rolled through the tunnels like smoke from a distant fire. It tasted of iron and old incense. Your pulse quickened for reasons you couldn’t name.
A figure stepped out of the shadows at the far end of the platform.
Pink hair. Dark tattoos crawling across his face, neck, and bare arms. He wore a casual hoodie and pants that looked borrowed, but the energy radiating off him belonged to something far older than any teenager. Two eyes glowed with lazy malice, but you swore… for a split second, you saw the flicker of two more.
He stopped a few meters away, head tilted, studying you like a puzzle he already knew the answer to.
You raised your chains instinctively, glowing bright. “Identify yourself. Now.”
The boy—no, the thing inside the boy—grinned. It was too sharp, too knowing.
“You’ve gotten smaller,” he said, voice low and rough, carrying an echo that vibrated through your bones. “And your hair’s shorter. I liked it longer. Easier to wrap around my fist.”
Your stomach dropped. The words sounded insane, yet they landed somewhere deep inside you, stirring half-remembered heat.
“Who the hell are you?” you demanded, stepping forward despite your partner’s frantic tugging at your sleeve.
He took one step closer, hands in his pockets, utterly unbothered by the glowing chains pointed at his chest. “You used to look at me without fear. Still do, apparently. Good. Some things don’t change.”
Your partner summoned a weak technique and tried to step between you. “Back off, curse user—”
The pink-haired stranger flicked two fingers. The student flew backward into the wall, unconscious but alive.
Now it was just the two of you under flickering fluorescent lights.
He studied your face again, all four—no, two—eyes narrowing with something dangerously close to fondness. “Still burning bright, little star. Even if you don’t remember why.”
The nickname hit like a physical blow.
Little star.
Your chains faltered for half a second. Memories that weren’t memories flashed. Strong hands on your hips, a second mouth dragging across your skin, the sound of your own voice moaning a name you couldn’t quite recall.
You shook it off and strengthened your stance. “I don’t know you. And if you don’t stop talking like a delusional creep, I’ll seal you right here.”
His grin widened. “You always did threaten me when you were flustered.”
He vanished in a swirl of red mist before you could strike, leaving only the faint scent of blood and incense behind.
Your partner groaned as he came to. “What… what was that?”
You stared at the empty platform, heart hammering. “I have no idea.”
But your body remembered.
And somewhere deep inside the pink-haired vessel, Ryomen Sukuna leaned back in his makeshift throne of consciousness and laughed—low, dark, and triumphant.
The queen had returned.
She just didn’t know it yet.
That night you barely slept.
The dreams were clearer than ever.
A ruined temple. Braziers casting golden light on black tattoos. Four arms holding you close after battle, after pleasure, after everything. A voice rumbling against your ear: “You are the only thing in this rotting world I don’t get bored of.”
You woke gasping, skin flushed, thighs pressed together against an ache you couldn’t explain.
In the mirror, you traced the faint, phantom lines on your arms again.
And for the first time, you whispered to your reflection:
“Who are you… and why do I miss you?”
The encounters didn’t stop.
If anything, they escalated.
Over the next two weeks, the pink-haired curse user—who still hadn’t given you a proper name—became a walking, talking migraine wrapped in tattoos and smug arrogance.
First incident: the convenience store at 2 a.m.
You had dragged yourself there after a long night exorcising low-grade curses near Roppongi. Your hair was messy, your jacket smelled like burnt curse residue, and all you wanted was strawberry milk and something fried. You were reaching for the last onigiri when a familiar voice spoke right behind your ear.
“Still eating like you’re about to march into battle. Some habits never die.”
You spun around so fast the milk carton nearly slipped from your hand.
He was leaning against the ramune fridge, arms crossed. The tattoos stood out stark under the fluorescent lights. Two eyes watched you with lazy amusement, but you swore you could feel the weight of two more.
“You again,” you hissed, keeping your voice low so the sleepy cashier wouldn’t call security. “What is your problem? Personal space exists for a reason.”
He tilted his head, grin widening. “You used to let me closer than this. Much closer. Naked, usually.”
Your face burned. A customer two aisles over dropped their basket.
“Creep,” you snapped, slamming the onigiri into your basket. “I don’t know you. I don’t want to know you. Stop following me or I’ll exorcise that smug look off your face.”
He laughed—low, rolling, far too pleased. “There she is. That fire. You threatened me with chains the first time we met too. Ended up wrapped in them for entirely different reasons.”
You marched to the counter, paid, and left without looking back. But the entire walk home you felt eyes on your back, and the phantom scent of blood and incense lingered in the night air.
Second incident: the training grounds at Jujutsu High.
You were sparring with Maki when the air pressure shifted. A figure appeared on the rooftop overlooking the field—lounging against the railing like he owned the school. Pink hair ruffled by the wind. Tattoos visible even from a distance.
Maki paused mid-strike. “Who the hell is that?”
You didn’t answer. You just raised your hand and sent a warning chain of starfire whipping toward the roof.
He caught it.
With one hand.
The glowing link wrapped around his wrist and he tugged playfully, as if testing its strength. “Cute. But you used to bind me with a lot more enthusiasm, little star.”
Maki’s eyes narrowed. “Friend of yours?”
“Absolutely not,” you growled.
Before you could launch a proper attack, he vanished again, leaving only a faint chuckle echoing across the field.
Third incident: your apartment balcony.
You had just stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around you, when you sensed him. You yanked the sliding door open, starfire already blazing between your fingers.
He was sitting on the railing like it was a throne, four—no, two—arms resting casually. In the dim city light his tattoos looked alive.
“You’ve gotten even smaller when you’re half-naked,” he observed, eyes raking over you slowly. “I approve. Easier to carry.”
“Get the fuck off my balcony!” you shouted, launching a chain that shattered the railing inches from where he sat.
He didn’t even flinch. “Still shy after all this time? You used to ride me on a stone altar while the temple burned around us. Literally.”
Your mouth opened, closed, then opened again. Heat flooded your face—half embarrassment, half something dangerously warmer. “I’m calling the police.”
He actually laughed out loud, the sound rich and mocking. “The police? Me? The King of Curses reduced to a suspicious individual? How the mighty have fallen.”
Then he disappeared in red mist, still chuckling.
You stood there dripping wet, towel slipping, heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.
The dreams got worse after that.
Every night you saw fragments: strong hands pinning you down, a second mouth dragging hot and wet across your stomach, four eyes watching you come undone with something like worship. You woke up aching, thighs slick, whispering a name you couldn’t quite remember into your pillow.
By the end of the second week you were done.
You marched into the local police station with your arms crossed and determination in your eyes. The officer behind the desk looked half-asleep.
“I need to report a stalker,” you said firmly.
The officer sighed and pulled out a form. “Description?”
“Male. Early twenties appearance. Pink hair. Face and body covered in black tattoos. Extremely rude. Keeps saying delusional shit like ‘you’ve gotten smaller’ and ‘you used to ride me on an altar.’ He appears out of nowhere like rooftops, my balcony, convenience stores. He’s insane.”
The officer scribbled slowly. “Has he touched you?”
“Not yet. But he keeps implying he has. In detail.”
Just as the officer asked for your contact information, the station door exploded inward with a casual kick.
Every head turned.
There he stood. Pink hair, tattoos, hands in his pockets, looking deeply unimpressed with the entire metropolitan police force. The cursed energy rolling off him made the lights flicker.
The room went dead silent.
You pointed. “That’s him!”
The pink-haired man sighed, the sound of someone who had toppled empires and was now dealing with paperwork. “Really? The police? I annihilate bloodlines and you file a formal complaint?”
One brave officer reached for his gun. “Hands where I can see them!”
The man raised an eyebrow. Two extra spectral arms flickered into existence for half a second—enough to make the entire precinct freeze—then vanished. “She’s my wife. Reincarnated. It’s complicated.” He glanced at the trembling officer holding the form. “You’re going to ignore this, right? Good. Saves me the cleanup.”
He looked straight at you, eyes softening with dark amusement. “Still fighting me at every turn. Adorable. You’ll remember eventually.”
Then he walked out as casually as he had entered, leaving the door hanging off its hinges.
The station erupted into chaos.
You stood there, face burning, fists clenched. “I am not his wife.”
But your voice shook.
And deep down, something ancient and hungry stirred at the word.
That night the dreams returned stronger than ever.
You saw yourself in crimson robes, sitting beside a four-armed king on a throne of bone. You saw four hands on your body—pinning, claiming, worshipping. You heard your own voice moaning “Ryomen” like a prayer.
You woke up gasping, fingers pressed between your thighs, chasing a release that felt centuries overdue.
In the darkness of your room, you whispered to the empty air:
“Who are you… and why does my body remember you better than my mind does?”
Miles away, Ryomen Sukuna smirked in the shared mental space.
“Soon, little star,” he murmured to no one but himself. “You’ll remember. And then I’m dragging you back where you belong.”
The police report accomplished exactly nothing.
No one at the station wanted to touch the case after the pink-haired intruder casually kicked the door off its hinges and called you his wife in front of twenty witnesses. The report was “misplaced.” The officers suddenly developed convenient amnesia. Even the security footage developed mysterious glitches.
You were on your own.
And he knew it.
Sukuna’s approach changed after that day. The casual, taunting appearances gave way to something more intentional. More predatory. He no longer popped up for cheap shocks. He watched. He tested. He closed the distance.
First came the rooftop again, but this time he didn’t stay at a distance.
You were finishing a solo mission near an old shrine on the outskirts of Tokyo, wiping cursed energy residue from your hands, when you felt him behind you. Not the playful flare of cursed energy from before. This was heavier. Closer. Ancient.
You turned slowly.
He stood only a few feet away, pink hair tousled by the night wind, tattoos stark under the moonlight. He looked deceptively relaxed, hands in his pockets, but the aura rolling off him pressed against your skin like a physical weight.
“You stopped running,” he observed, voice lower than usual. Rougher. It slid down your spine like warm velvet dragged over gravel.
“I’m not running,” you replied, summoning a single glowing chain that hovered between you like a warning. “I’m deciding whether to seal you or hear you out. Talk. Who are you really?”
He took one step closer. Then another. You didn’t back away. Something in you refused to.
“I’ve told you pieces,” he said, stopping close enough that you could smell that faint trace of blood and incense again. “You used to sit beside me on battlefields. You used to trace these marks with your fingers while I was still inside you.” One hand lifted slowly, as if giving you time to flinch. When you didn’t, he brushed a thumb along the side of your jaw. “You used to call me yours.”
Your breath hitched. The touch sent sparks through your nerves. Not fear, but recognition. Heat bloomed low in your belly. The phantom memory of four hands holding you open flashed behind your eyes.
You slapped his hand away, but there was no real force behind it. “Stop saying things like that. It’s insane.”
“Is it?” He leaned in, voice dropping to a murmur that vibrated against your ear. “Then why does your body remember? Your pulse is racing. Your cursed energy is flaring brighter. You’re not afraid of me. You never were.”
You swallowed hard. He was right. The fear you should have felt was absent. In its place was something far more dangerous. Curiosity, longing, a pull you couldn’t name.
“Back off,” you whispered, but your chains had lowered without you realizing.
He didn’t back off. Instead he stepped even closer until your back met the shrine’s wooden pillar. One hand braced beside your head. The other hovered near your waist, not quite touching.
“You’re starting to dream again, aren’t you?” he asked softly. “Blood. Gold. Me. Not this borrowed face, the real one. Four arms. Four eyes. The mouth that used to taste every inch of you.”
Your knees weakened. A vivid flash hit you: strong hands pinning your wrists, a second mouth licking a hot trail down your stomach, a deep voice growling “Mine” while you came apart beneath him.
You shoved at his chest. He didn’t budge.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lied, voice breathy.
He chuckled, the sound dark and intimate. “Liar. But that’s all right. I can wait. I’ve waited a thousand years already.”
Then he was gone again, leaving you trembling against the pillar, thighs pressed together, cursed energy flickering uncontrollably around your fingers.
The dreams intensified after that night.
They were no longer fragments. They were memories wearing the skin of dreams.
You saw yourself in a ruined temple, crimson robes pooled at your feet. Four massive hands lifted you onto a stone altar. Black tattoos shifted under firelight as he moved above you—inside you—deep, relentless thrusts that made you cry out his name. “Ryomen—” The second mouth on his abdomen sucked marks into your breasts while the main one bit your shoulder hard enough to bruise. You came screaming, starfire exploding from your hands and painting his skin with temporary glowing brands.
You woke up every night gasping, sheets soaked with sweat and something far more embarrassing. Your fingers would find their way between your thighs before you could stop yourself, chasing the echo of a pleasure that felt centuries old.
Each time he got closer. Each time his voice dropped lower. Each time your resistance frayed a little more.
You stopped reporting him.
You stopped trying to exorcise him on sight.
Instead you started looking for him.
One rainy evening, you found him waiting on the rooftop of your apartment building again. The city lights glittered below like scattered stars. Rain plastered his pink hair to his forehead and made his tattoos glisten.
You stepped out under the downpour without an umbrella, chains dormant at your sides.
“Why me?” you asked, voice barely audible over the rain. “Why do you keep coming back?”
He turned to face you fully. For once the smirk was gone. In its place was something rawer. Hungrier.
“Because you chose me when no one else would,” he said simply. “Because you sat at my right hand and never trembled. Because even when they killed you to break me, you looked up at me with those same eyes and told me you’d find me again.”
He took a slow step forward, rain streaming down his face.
“And because this body is only a vessel. When you remember, truly remember, I’ll show you the real me again. The one you loved. The one with four arms that used to hold you like the world could burn and it wouldn’t matter.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. Another flash hit you: gold circlet in your hair, four hands on your body, a second mouth growling your name like worship while he spilled deep inside you.
You didn’t run.
You stepped closer instead, until you stood directly in front of him, rain soaking both of you.
“I don’t understand any of this,” you whispered. “But… I’m not afraid of you. Not anymore.”
His hand rose slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. When you didn’t, he cupped your cheek, thumb brushing rain from your lower lip.
“Good,” he murmured, voice rough with centuries of waiting. “Because I’m done being patient, little star.”
He leaned in, lips hovering just above yours. You felt the heat of him, the ancient power coiled beneath borrowed skin. Your eyes fluttered half-closed.
But he didn’t kiss you.
Not yet.
Instead he pulled back with visible effort, a dark promise in his eyes.
“Soon. When you see me I won’t stop at almost.”
Then he vanished into red mist, leaving you alone in the rain with trembling legs and a heart that no longer felt like it belonged entirely to this life.
That night the dreams changed again.
This time, when you woke gasping his name “Ryomen” it didn’t feel like a question.
It felt like the beginning of an answer.
You called in sick to Jujutsu High the next morning.
Instead you wandered the rainy streets, hood up, starfire flickering restlessly at your fingertips. Every shadow felt like it might hide him. Every gust of wind carried the faint scent of blood and incense.
He found you near the old shrine where you had first properly confronted him weeks ago.
This time he didn’t hide on the rooftop. He stepped out of the torii gate like he belonged there, pink hair dark with rain, tattoos glistening. He wore no hoodie tonight. Just a simple black shirt that clung to Yuji’s muscled frame and revealed more of the black markings crawling across his skin.
You stopped in the middle of the stone path. Rain poured down around you both.
He didn’t speak at first. He simply walked forward until only an arm’s length separated you.
“You look like you haven’t slept,” he said quietly. No taunt this time. Just raw observation.
“I haven’t,” you admitted. Your voice shook. “The dreams… they’re not dreams anymore. I see blood. I see gold. I see… you. But not like this.” You gestured at his current form. “Four arms. Four eyes. A mouth that… that used to…” Heat flooded your face.
Sukuna’s expression darkened with hunger. He closed the remaining distance in one step, one hand rising to cradle the back of your neck. The touch was firm, possessive, but he held back—waiting.
“Say the name,” he murmured, voice dropping to that low, layered register that made your knees weak. “The one you whispered in your sleep last night.”
Your lips parted. Rain streamed down your face.
“Ryomen,” you breathed.
Something in him snapped.
He pulled you against him, mouth crashing down on yours in a kiss that tasted of centuries of waiting. It wasn’t gentle. It was claiming—teeth and tongue and raw need. One hand fisted in your wet hair while the other gripped your waist hard enough to bruise. For a moment you swore you felt two extra spectral arms wrap around your back, holding you tighter.
You kissed him back just as fiercely, hands sliding up his chest, nails digging into his shoulders. Starfire flickered at your fingertips, leaving faint glowing marks on his skin that healed almost instantly.
When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard.
“You’re close,” he growled against your lips. “So close to seeing me. The real me.”
You stared up at him, chest heaving. “Show me.”
His eyes flashed. For a heartbeat the vessel cracked. Pink hair darkened, tattoos spread further, two extra arms manifested fully, and four crimson eyes burned down at you.
The sight hit you like lightning.
The rooftop dream. The temple. The valley. The way those four hands had held you. The way those four eyes had looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth keeping.
Recognition slammed into you all at once.
You didn’t recoil.
Instead your hands rose, trembling, to cup the sides of his face. Tracing the markings exactly as you had in every memory, every dream, every lifetime.
“It’s you,” you whispered, voice breaking. Tears mixed with rain on your cheeks. “Ryomen Sukuna. My king. I only knew your true form… I didn’t recognize you in this vessel. But it’s you.”
A sound tore from his throat—half growl, half laugh, pure relief and obsession.
He lifted you effortlessly with all four arms now fully manifested, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed you against the nearest torii pillar. Rain poured down, but neither of you cared.
“Finally,” he snarled against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse. “My queen. My star. You’re mine again.”
You clung to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, starfire and cursed energy mingling in the air around you.
“I remember,” you gasped as one of his lower hands slid beneath your soaked shirt, claws lightly scraping your skin. “I remember everything. The battles. The nights. The way you held me when the world tried to tear us apart.”
His forehead pressed to yours, four eyes blazing with centuries of devotion and hunger.
“Then let me remind you of the rest,” he growled, voice rough with promise. “Right now.”
The rain continued to fall, washing away the last fragments of your old life.
But in the shelter of four arms and four burning eyes, you had finally come home.
The torii gate groaned under the sudden surge of cursed energy as Sukuna’s true form tore fully through the borrowed vessel.
He was massive again. Towering. The real Ryomen Sukuna you had loved in the Heian era.
And between his hips, where the vessel had hidden it, two thick cocks stood hard and heavy, already leaking at the tips from the sheer force of recognition. The upper one curved slightly, ridged along the underside. The lower sat heavier, thicker at the base, both flushed dark and pulsing with cursed energy that made the air around them shimmer.
You didn’t flinch. You had never flinched from him.
Instead you reached up with both hands, fingers tracing the black markings across his chest exactly as you had done a thousand years ago. Starfire flickered at your fingertips, leaving faint glowing trails that faded almost instantly.
“It’s really you,” you whispered, voice thick with emotion and need. “My king. My monster. I only knew this form… I didn’t recognize the boy’s face. But these marks… these eyes… this body that used to ruin me so perfectly.”
A low, guttural sound rumbled from both his mouths. The main one curving into a feral grin, the one on his stomach opening to drag a hot, wet tongue across your collarbone.
“Mine,” he growled, voice layered and rough, echoing with the weight of every lonely century. “You kept me waiting, little star. Centuries of nothing but ash and memory. Now I’m taking back what’s mine.”
Four hands moved at once.
Two pinned your wrists above your head against the rain-slick torii pillar. One gripped your hip, claws shredding through your soaked clothes with casual ease until they fell away in wet ribbons. The last cupped your jaw, tilting your face up so he could claim your mouth in a bruising kiss.
His tongue—longer, rougher—invaded without mercy, tasting every gasp and whimper. The stomach mouth latched onto your neck, sucking a dark mark while its tongue flicked over your pulse.
You moaned into the kiss, arching against him. Rain poured down your bare skin, but the heat rolling off his body made you burn. When he finally pulled back, a string of saliva connected your lips.
“Ryomen… please,” you breathed. “I remember how you felt. Both of them. I need you.”
His laugh was dark and triumphant. “Greedy little queen. You always were.”
He lifted you effortlessly with the two lower arms, spreading your thighs wide around his waist. The upper two kept your wrists pinned while one hand slid between your legs, thick fingers parting your folds and finding you already dripping—not just from rain.
“So wet for me already,” he rumbled, two fingers pushing inside you without warning, curling hard against that spot that made your vision spark. “This cunt still remembers its king. Clenching like it missed me.”
You cried out, hips rocking desperately against his hand. The stretch was familiar, perfect. Starfire flickered wildly around your fingers, painting glowing patterns across his forearms.
He pumped his fingers faster, scissoring them, stretching you open while the stomach mouth moved lower to latch onto one of your breasts. Sharp teeth grazed your nipple before the tongue soothed the sting, sucking hard until you were trembling.
When you were shaking on the edge, he withdrew his fingers and replaced them with the heads of both cocks.
The upper one nudged your entrance first, thick and insistent. The lower pressed just below it, sliding against your clit with every shallow thrust.
“Look at me,” he commanded, all four eyes blazing. “Watch who’s claiming you again.”
You locked eyes with him as he pushed in. Slow, relentless, both cocks stretching you open at once. The burn was exquisite. Your walls fluttered and clenched around the dual invasion, the ridges and thickness dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. He bottomed out with a shared groan, hips flush against yours, both cocks buried to the hilt.
“Fuck—Ryomen—so full—”
“That’s it,” he snarled, voice rough. “Take both of them like the queen you are. This pussy was made for me. Only me.”
He didn’t give you time to adjust. He started moving. Deep, powerful thrusts that rocked your entire body against the pillar. Rain streamed down your joined bodies, making every slide wetter, filthier. The dual stretch was overwhelming in the best way; every thrust dragged both cocks against your walls, the lower one grinding perfectly against that spot inside while the upper rubbed your clit from the inside with every withdrawal.
Four hands held you exactly where he wanted you—open, pinned, claimed.
The stomach mouth continued its assault on your breasts, licking, sucking, biting until your nipples ached deliciously. His main mouth crashed against yours again, swallowing every moan and scream.
You came first, hard and sudden. walls spasming around both cocks as starfire exploded outward in a brilliant lattice, wrapping around both of you like glowing chains. Your vision whited out, a broken cry of his name tearing from your throat.
Sukuna followed with a guttural roar that shook the shrine grounds. His hips stuttered, burying both cocks as deep as they would go while he spilled inside you. Hot, thick pulses from both lengths, filling you until it leaked out around him despite how tightly you were stretched.
He didn’t pull out.
Instead he kept you impaled on both cocks, four arms wrapping fully around your smaller frame as he carried you away from the pillar. He laid you down on the wet grass beneath the torii, still buried deep, covering you with his massive body like a living shield.
Rain continued to fall, but his heat kept you warm.
You reached up, tracing the markings on his face with gentle fingers, tears mixing with rain on your cheeks.
“I remember everything now,” you whispered. “The battles. The nights. The way they tried to break you by taking me. I told you I’d find you again… and I did.”
Sukuna’s forehead pressed to yours, all four eyes half-lidded with something dangerously close to tenderness beneath the raw hunger.
“You kept your promise, little star,” he murmured, voice rough but softer than you had ever heard it. One hand stroked through your wet hair while another rested possessively over your lower stomach, where you could still feel both cocks twitching inside you. “Now you wear my crown again. Rule beside me. The world once tried to separate us. It failed.”
You smiled, pulling him down into another deep kiss.
“Then remind me one more time tonight,” you whispered against his lips, rolling your hips to feel both cocks shift inside you. “Make me scream your name until the whole city hears who I belong to.”
His grin was feral.
“Gladly.”
He started moving again. Slower this time, deep and deliberate, both cocks dragging against every oversensitive inch. Four hands explored every curve, every mark he left behind. The stomach mouth licked the rainwater from your skin while he fucked you through another orgasm, then another, until you were sobbing with pleasure beneath him.
Only when the rain finally began to ease did he spill inside you a second time, both cocks pulsing as he marked you from the inside out.
Afterward he pulled you against his chest with all four arms, the gold circlet. Somehow still with him after all this time, now resting once more in your damp hair.
You traced idle patterns on his skin, fingers following the black tattoos you had memorized lifetimes ago.
“I chose you then,” you said softly. “I choose you again. In this life. In every life.”
Sukuna’s arms tightened around you, possessive and eternal.
“And I will burn every world that tries to take you from me,” he vowed.
The King of Curses and his Queen lay together beneath the clearing sky, two bodies. One ancient and monstrous, one reborn in starfire, finally whole again.
☆ summary: a quiet life was never supposed to be possible for leon. but somehow it happened anyway — a beautiful wife, a house in a wooded suburb outside the city, a son who thinks he has the coolest dad ever, and another baby on the way. for the first time in years, things are calm. normal. until one morning, leon receives a photo taken from within his home. in it, his family is asleep. someone has been watching.
☆ caution: age gap relationship! don’t shoot! reader in mid twenties to early thirties. pregnancy, motherhood, stalking, canon typical resident evil tension/violence/danger (though, this instalment is pretty tame).
☆ word count: 3,000.
what is that noise..?
it’s subtle at first— drawers opening, something heavy set down on wood, the soft zip of a bag? your brain tries to ignore it for a few seconds, trying to cling to sleep because god knows you need it. but the sounds are continuous and you’re now registering them somewhere down the hall and it pulls you up the rest of the way.
the bedroom is still dark with the exception of the night light across the room and the digital clock at your side of the bed.
2:17 AM.
you sit up slowly, blinking blearily as the oversized t-shirt you slept in slides off one shoulder. there’s a heatless curl ribbon still tied in your hair from when you set before bed, stray ends that came undone in your sleep hang down in soft loops— you don’t even know where your bonnet went. but its almost always stuck somewhere between the mattress and the headboard or somewhere discarded on the floor.
your stomach rises in a precious round curve beneath the cotton when you shift. for a moment you just lie there, then something warm shifts beside you and a small heel presses into your side. you blink slowly and turn your head to see your three year old son sprawled across the bed sideways; half on your pillow, half on your arm, breathing softly with the deep and heavy sleep only toddlers seem capable of after a long day of terror (play). one of his hands is tangled in the hem of your shirt and you're certain he fell asleep holding onto you. his hair is messy, sticking up in soft tufts against the pillow— he looks just like his father. you almost want to take a picture.
your son stirs with a sleepy little noise. “..mama..”
“shh,” you murmur, brushing your fingers through his curls. “go back to sleep, baby.” he sighs softly and curls deeper into the blankets.
you’re six— almost seven months along in your pregnancy now and everything takes a second longer than it used to. your back is a little tight and your breasts feel sore and heavy, it takes you a few moments to gather yourself before your legs swing over the side of the bed and push yourself up with a small grunt, rubbing sleep out of your eyes as you waddle toward the hallway.
the light in the living room is on. that’s the first thing you notice.
the second is your husband, leon. how strange. was this a dream? he wasn’t supposed to be home for a couple days. and you know that for a fact because you were counting down the days with a little pochacco widget on the homescreen of your phone. you’re not upset by any means, you’re just very confused, disheveled and half asleep.
leon’s moving quickly through the living room, tossing things into a duffel bag on the couch with urgency that makes your chest tighten before you even understand why. jacket. flashlight. an ammo box. something metallic you don’t recognize and there’s a couple more bags by the door already packed too.
“leon?” your voice comes out soft with sleep and he freezes for just for a second before he turns toward you. oh. you know that look. that’s the look he gets before missions— really focused, distant, already five steps ahead of wherever he is.
“..is he awake?” he asks.
you shake your head. “no.”
leon nods once and relief flashes across his face for just a moment. “good.”
you shuffle further into the room, one hand instinctively resting over the curve of your stomach and the hardwood floor is cold under your bare feet.
“what are you doing..?” you ask. he doesn't answer right away, he zips the duffel bag closed instead then moves past you toward the front door where another bag is already sitting by the entry table.
you frown. “leon.”
he stops again and this time when he looks at you, his eyes soften just slightly. enough that it almost makes you more nervous. “we’re going for a drive, baby.” he says.
your eyebrows knit together. “..a drive?” you glance toward the windows. it’s still dark outside— early enough that the sky hasn’t even started turning gray yet. “leon, it’s like two in the morning.”
“yeah.” he reaches for his jacket off the chair and slips it on, you take another few slow steps toward him.
that’s when you see the axe and the gun holstered at his hip like it always is when he’s working, but seeing it here in the living room in the dead of night, makes your stomach dip unpleasantly. he already knows how you feel about live guns in the house, you don’t care about what he does for a living. he’s not to bring weapons in you guy’s home if its not an emergency.
“why do you have that on?”
leon doesn’t look at the gun when you ask; he looks at you. but really looks this time— taking in his shirt that swallows you almost, the sleepy confusion in your face, the ridiculous polka dot, satin ribbon wrapped in your hair, the way you’re standing there barefoot and pregnant. christ, you’re beautiful.
his jaw tightens. “go grab shoes,” he says instead.
you blink at him. “…what?”
“shoes, sweetheart. your shoes.” he repeats, already reaching for the car keys on the counter. “and maybe a sweater. it’s chilly outside.”
you don’t move. “leon, you’re being weird.”
he exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s trying very hard to keep his head on. “i know.”
“well that’s not really great to hear, weirdo..” you shift your weight, wincing a little when the movement pulls at your lower back. “did something happen?”
“nothing you need to worry about,” he says.
you give him a look. “i’m seven months pregnant, leon. everything is something i need to worry about— don’t piss me off.”
he runs a hand through his hair, clearly losing patience with the conversation. “just— go get your shoes and i’ll let you know what’s going on.”
“no.” the word comes out before you can stop it.
leon’s head snaps back toward you. “no?” he repeats, brow raised.
you cross your arms loosely under your chest, the fabric of the big shirt bunching over your stomach.
“no,” you say again, stubborn now. “not until you tell me why you’re packing like the house is on fire.”
you hardly have time to react before your husband is closing the gap between you both so quickly it nearly startles you. he reaches up and places both of his hands on both sides of your face. the contrast between his warm hands and the cooler wedding band feels so familiar— it's only then you realize you haven’t physically touched each other in almost two weeks since he left.
“listen to me.” his voice is low, tight with something that makes your heart drop. “i need you to cooperate right now.”
you blink at him and leon’s eyes search your face like he’s trying to make sure you actually understand what he’s saying.
he’s serious. you know it because he has a look in his eyes— something akin to desperation..
“okay..” you nod in his hands. “can i least know what’s going on.. please..?”
silence stretches between you then leon’s eyes flick briefly toward the kitchen counter and you follow the movement without thinking.
there’s a phone there, his personal phone actually. you close the gap and unlock the phone with the passcode— your birthday.
the photo is already pulled up on the screen, the brightness catches your eye before you even realize what you’re looking at, but your stomach drops so suddenly it feels like the floor shifted beneath you. your fingers loosen around the device and you immediately set it back down on the counter like it burned you, taking a small step backward before you can stop yourself.
when you look at leon again there’s fear in your expression before you can hide it.
it was a photo of you and your son. you recognize the room immediately. the angle of the shot, the dim amber glow of the nightlight, the familiar shape of the blankets pulled halfway up your body. your son is curled against your side in the image, one small arm thrown across your chest the way he does when he crawls into your bed during the night. his face is buried against your shirt, hair sticking up in every direction from sleep. you’re asleep too, one arm loosely wrapped around him. even in the low light, the shape of your pregnancy is obvious beneath the shirt.
the picture.. wasn’t taken from across the street. hell, it wasn’t even taken earlier in the evening while you were awake. whoever took it had been close enough that the details of the bedding, the edge of the nightstand, even the small toy car on the floor beside the bed were perfectly visible.
someone had been in your while you were sleeping.
close enough to see your son. close enough to take their time lining up the shot while both of you slept completely unaware.
“leon..” his name barely leaves your mouth and hen you look back at him, he’s already watching you. there’s no surprise in his expression, no confusion— “what—okay, um—what do you want me to do?”
“shoes, phone, documents,” he says quietly. “and grab my kid.” he pauses. “please.” he adds on, still wanting to have some manners about his orders.
the house suddenly feels different, like its no longer your little slice of life’s pie. you rest one hand against the underside of your stomach as you walk down the hallway again supporting the weight of it as the baby shifts, it draws a labored breath from you. its probably because you’re moving about a bunch at an hour you’re supposed to be replenishing your rest. the satin ribbon tied around your hair has slipped crooked from sleep, one end hanging loose against your shoulder as you walk.
the bedroom is still dim when you step inside and your son hasn’t moved much since you left. he’s still sprawled sideways across the mattress in a tangle of blankets, face buried halfway into the pillow. one leg sticks out from under the comforter, his small foot hanging off the edge of the bed. you move closer and sit carefully on the edge of the mattress, easing your weight down with a soft exhale and the bed dips slightly beneath you. your fingers slide gently through his messy hair.
“hey,” you murmur softly. “buddy.”
he reacts with a little whine, rolling his face deeper into the pillow and you rub slow circles on his back.
“i know, honey..” you whisper. “mommy’s sorry. but we have to get up for a little bit, okay?”
he squirms, one arm reaching out blindly until his fingers find your sleeve and he bunches the fabric in his fist and tugs weakly. “..mama.”
“i’m right here.” another sleepy noise escapes him as he drags himself halfway upright, eyes barely open. he leans heavily into you, resting his forehead against your chest and you smooth his hair down.
“we’re gonna go for a drive, okay?”
he blinks slowly. “..drive?”
“mhm, with papa.” you nod and ge considers this for a long moment in sleepy silence, then lifts his head just enough to mumble: “…papa?”
a small laugh escapes you despite the tight feeling in your chest. “yeah.. papa’s home, lovebug.” and that seems good enough for him. he lets you pull his sweater over his head with minimal protest, though he keeps leaning against you like he might fall asleep standing up.
by the time you make it back to the living room, your shoes are finally on, you have sweats on and a sweater pulled over the shirt. leon is already outside again, the front door standing half open and letting the cold gray light of early morning moon spill into the house. you can hear the dull thud of the trunk closing and reopening, the shuffle of bags being moved around as he rearranges things.
your son has gone almost completely limp against you in the few minutes it took to get dressed. the moment you lifted him from the bed he buried his face into your shoulder and never really woke back up. now his arms hang loosely around your neck, his cheek pressed warm against your collarbone as he breathes slowly into the fabric of your sweater.
you adjust him carefully, one hand supporting his weight under his legs as you walk toward the door. the cold air hits your face the second you step outside; leon’s car is parked in the driveway with the trunk wide open, the interior light casting a warm glow over the scattered bags already inside. leon stands at the back of it, moving quickly, lifting another duffel and shoving it farther in before slamming the trunk down with a solid thud.
he turns at the sound of the door behind you, then he’s already walking toward you.
“hey,” he murmurs quietly as he reaches you, his voice lowering automatically when he sees how deeply asleep his son is. you shift your weight slightly, adjusting the small body slumped against you. even half asleep, your son instinctively curls closer, his fingers tightening weakly in the fabric at the back of your sweater.
“didn’t wake up,” you whisper.
leon’s eyes soften when he looks at him. “figures.”
he reaches out without hesitation, one hand sliding carefully under the boy’s back while the other supports his legs. the transfer is gentle and your son barely stirs as leon lifts him away from you, just making a soft sleepy noise before his head drops against leon’s shoulder instead.
you exhale quietly when the weight leaves your arms, and leon notices immediately. “i got him, go sit.” he says softly as ge turns and walks to the back seat, opening the door and leaning in to settle the boy into the car seat already strapped in place. he works slowly, carefully buckling the harness without jostling him too much. your son squirms once, eyes fluttering halfway open before he sinks right back into sleep, his head tipping to the side.
leon adjusts the strap gently near his shoulder, making sure it sits right. only after he’s satisfied does he shut the door softly.
you’ve made your way around to the passenger side by then, lowering yourself carefully into the seat. the cushion dips under your weight and you lean back with a quiet breath, one hand resting on your stomach out of habit. leon walks around the car, stopping when he sees you watching him through the open passenger window.
“baby, can you do me one favor?” you ask.
leon pauses with his hand resting on the roof of the car. “what do you need?”
you glance back toward the house. “i left my bear on the bed.”
his eyebrows pull together slightly. “the one i won you?”
you nod a little, almost sheepish. “i know it’s stupid,” you say quietly. “but you know i can’t sleep anywhere without it.”
leon exhales softly through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “not stupid.”
he's leaning down so he’s level with you and up close you can see the exhaustion in his face,
“two minutes,” he says but before he straightens, you reach out slightly, your hand catching the sleeve of his jacket.
“hey.” you call out softly and he pauses.
you lean toward the open window just enough to press a quick kiss to his lips. it’s soft and brief, but warm— something sweet in the middle of everything that suddenly feels uncertain. you also didn’t get a chance to give him his welcome home kiss.
leon lingers for half a second when you pull back, his forehead almost brushing yours before he finally straightens again.
his hand briefly touches your cheek.
“love you too,” he murmurs. then he turns and jogs back toward the house. a minute later he steps out again with the plushie in his hand, walking straight over to the passenger side and passing it through the window to you. the fabric is worn soft from years of being held, but you recognize it instantly.
“almost left without your emotional support,” he mutters.
you take it from him and put it between your thighs.
“thank you, bub.” you smile a little, despite the anxiety.
leon taps the roof of the car lightly before finally moving around to the driver’s side, hopping in and starting the engine before backing out of the driveway. your thumb fidgets with your wedding ring; a pretty princess cut, four and a half carat diamond.
leon turns onto the empty road, heading toward the highway that cuts through the wooded suburbs outside of dc. at this hour the neighborhood is still dark, porch lights glowing faintly between the trees as the car slips past sleeping houses.
YOUR 'BETTER BOBBY' FIC WAS SO GOOD! if you ever felt inspired would LOVE to read more about them. maybe another entity attacks them and they get separated? and alone and lost, reader can't help but miss the real Bobby ahhh. anyway, love you, thank you for writing!
I'm so glad you're all loving this idea, because inspiration hit me so hard I wrote this in one sitting. Continuation to this. Def let me know if you wanna see more 👀
warnings: horror (finally got to write my true love), and some gore (nothing explicit/implied)
series masterlist.
You've been here long enough that you've stopped counting the hallways.
That, in hindsight, should probably scare you the most. The fact that it doesn't scare you anymore.
The yellow used to make your skin crawl, that specific shade of institutional sick. Now it's just... the colour of home. Better Bobby's taught you that. Through sheer repetition of safety.
Every time he pulls you into a new room and checks the corners before letting you sit down. Every time he angles his body between you and a doorway without thinking about it. Or when he hands you something to eat. You've stopped asking where the food comes from. That's another question that goes in circles every time you try it. He watches you until you take a bite, satisfied, like feeding you is the only task on a list he takes very seriously.
You have a room now. Your room. He found it for you three (days? rotations? sleeps?) ago, deeper in Level 0 than you'd been before, tucked behind a series of turns that he walked so confidently you wondered if he'd planned the route in advance.
It's quieter than the others. The carpet is thicker, the hum lower, and there's a warm patch on the floor near the far wall where some buried pipe must be running. Better Bobby dragged every blanket he'd scavenged into a pile on that warm spot and when you'd looked at him he'd shrugged, one shoulder, earring catching the fluorescent light.
"What? You get cold."
Real Bobby used to steal the covers.
You try not to make the comparison. You try so hard. But Better Bobby makes it impossible because he's everything real Bobby was on your best days. Distilled and concentrated, with all the carelessness burned off.
He touches you constantly. Not sexually, just contact. His hand on the back of your neck when you walk. His chin on your shoulder when you're sitting together. His fingers finding yours in the dark when the lights flicker, which they do sometimes. And in those brief, stuttering seconds of blackness you can hear things moving in the walls and Better Bobby's grip tightens. He says I'm here like it's a fact of physics. Like his presence beside you is as fundamental and non-negotiable as gravity.
It's a Thursday, you think, or what you've decided is Thursday—you've started naming the days by feeling, which probably means you're losing it—when everything goes wrong.
You're walking. Better Bobby's slightly ahead of you, one hand trailing the wall, talking about something. He talks to you the way real Bobby used to, a constant low-level narration.
Except Better Bobby's commentary is about the architecture of this place, which hallways are safe, which ones echo differently than they should. The way the carpet changes texture near certain thresholds you should know about. You're half-listening, comfortable in the drone of his familiar voice, when he stops abruptly.
You almost walk into his back.
"Bobby?"
He doesn't answer. His head tilts slightly, the way a dog would listen toa distant sound. His whole body goes rigid in a way you've never seen before. Better Bobby doesn't tense up. Better Bobby is languid and easy and always, always calm.
"Bobby, what—"
"Don't move."
His voice is different. Stripped of the warmth, the lazy drawl, all the honeyed softness he pours over you. What's left is flat and hard. Something in your hindbrain fires that hasn't fired since you got here because Better Bobby has kept you so safe that you forgot what fear tasted like.
You taste it now. Bright and metallic at the back of your throat.
The lights flicker abovehead. Not the usual gentle stutter or dimming it does at random intervals. This is violent, a seizure of light, and in the strobe of it you spot something at the end of the hallway.
You can't process it. Your brain tries and slides off the shape the way water slides off wax. It's too tall, and wrong. So wrong. It takes up too much space for its size, like it's pressing against the dimensions of the hallway from the inside, and it's looking at you with something that isn't a face.
Better Bobby shoves you behind him. Both hands this time. Hard.
"Go."
"I'm not leaving you—"
"Go. Left, left, straight, third door. I'll find you." He looks over his shoulder at you and his eyes are dark and flat. Ancient in a way that makes your stomach drop because for just a second—just a flicker, shorter than the lights—the thing looking out from behind Bobby's face isn't Bobby, either. "Baby. Run."
You run.
Left, left, straight, except there's no third door. There's no door at all.
The hallway stretches and bends and the carpet under your feet changes from rough to damp to something that feels horribly organic so abruptly you almost skid. You're running and the fluorescent yellow is shifting with you, deepening in increments, and the walls are getting narrower.
The ceiling goes lower suddenly and you realise, with a lurch of animal terror, that you're not on Level 0 anymore.
You don't know when it changed. There was no door, no threshold, no moment. The hallways just... became somewhere else. Like you walked through an edit. A jump cut in reality.
You stagger to a stop. Your breathing is so loud it fills the quiet corridor.
It's dark here. Not quite pitch black, mercifully. There's light, but it's coming from somewhere wrong. Faintly blue, sourceless, the colour of television static.
The walls aren't yellow anymore. They're concrete instead. Industrial. Stained with something you refuse to look at closely. The ceiling is a mess of exposed pipes and dead wiring, and water (you hope desperately it's water) drips in a strange pattern that sets your teeth on edge
It's cold here. You're shaking, you realise a moment too late.
You press your back against the concrete wall and slide down to the floor, pulling your knees to your chest and try to make yourself small. Try to make yourself invisible. Because Better Bobby isn't here and without him you're nothing in this place.
Just soft, warm, alive thing in a place that is none of those things.
That's when you see it. From the corner of your eye.
It assembles itself in pieces in the dark, the way a photograph develops, the way something reveals itself to you only once it's already too close.
Teeth first.
A grin. Too wide and white, wrong, hanging in the blue-black dark about thirty feet down the corridor. Human teeth in a human smile except there are too many of them and the smile is too wide. It's not attached to anything you can see, either. Just the grin, suspended, luminous. The way a Cheshire cat would look if the Cheshire cat wanted to kill you.
It doesn't move. You don't breathe.
Then it's twenty feet away.
You didn't see it move. You didn't blink. Not once. It was thirty feet and now it's twenty and the grin hasn't changed, not even slightly. The same frozen rictus of delight, and you understand with a sick, cold certainty that it's not walking toward you. It's just... closer. Like the distance between you is a thing it can edit. A number it can change at will.
Fifteen feet. The grin widens. You didn't think it could widen.
You can see more of it now, or rather you can see the shape of more of it. The suggestion of a body behind the smile, darker than the dark around it, a silhouette that doesn't quite hold its edges. And the sound. There's a sound now, low and wet, like someone trying to laugh through a mouthful of something thick. A gurgling, hitching, delighted sound.
It's happy to see you. Whatever this thing is, it's so, so happy that you're here.
Ten feet. You can feel the cold coming off it. Not temperature, exactly, something else. An absence. A pulling. Like it's drawing the warmth out of the air between you one degree at a time and feeding the grin with it.
You open your mouth to scream and nothing comes out.
"Close your eyes."
The voice comes from directly behind you.
You didn't hear him arrive. You didn't hear footsteps or breathing or the rustle of fabric. He's just there, the way he's always just there. His hand closes over your eyes from behind, firm, warm, his palm flush against your face, fingers curving over your brow.
"Close them. Keep them closed. Don't open them until I tell you to."
Better Bobby's voice is calm. Completely, impossibly calm. The same tone he uses when he's telling you to go back to sleep after the lights flicker. But underneath it—deep underneath, in a register you feel more than hear—there's something else now. An edge that doesn't sound like Bobby at all.
His hand lifts off your eyes. You keep them shut. You squeeze them so tight you see colours behind your lids. Bright, bursting phosphenes, and you press your face into your knees and you hear him move away from you. Toward it.
Then the sounds start.
You can't categorise them. You won't.
There's a tearing sound. Not fabric, or paper; something denser, wetter, something with resistance. A sound like a dog shaking water from its fur except heavier and it ends in a crack that reverberates through the concrete floor and up through your spine.
The gurgling laughter changes pitch. Goes higher. Then higher still. Then it's not laughter anymore, it's something between a shriek and a frequency. A sound that vibrates in the roots of your teeth, and underneath all of it is a low rumbling that you realise is coming from Better Bobby. A sound no human throat should make, a sound like tectonic plates grinding in the dark.
There's a splash. Something hisses, like water on a hot pan. The shrieking cuts out—not fades, cuts, abruptly, like someone hit a switch—and then there's a long, wet, dragging sound that moves away from you down the corridor and fades into the pipes and the dark.
Silence.
There's a ringing in your ears. Your fingers feel numb, heavy. You're biting the inside of your cheek so hard you can taste blood in your mouth.
Footsteps. Normal ones. The soft pad of sneakers on concrete.
"Okay, baby. You can open your eyes now."
You do. Better Bobby is standing in front of you, looking down at you with that soft, tilted expression. Same white tee. Same denim shorts. Trusty camera over his shoulder. Not a drop of anything on him. Not a wrinkle. His hair isn't even mussed any more than usual. His earring catches the faint blue light and throws a tiny star onto the concrete wall and he's smiling at you, gently, like you just had a bad dream and he's here to tell you it's morning.
There's nothing in the hallway behind him. Nothing on the floor. No sign that anything was ever there at all, except a faint smell. Ozone, copper and deeper beneath that, an almost rotten stench. You try to examine it but it's already fading.
You don't ask. You can't ask.
Your body moves before your brain does. You launch yourself off the floor and into him so hard he actually rocks back a step. Better Bobby, who's never been moved by anything in your presence, who stands in front of horrors like a wall moves this time. Your arms lock around his neck and you bury your face in his chest.
You're shaking. So violently that it's almost convulsive, these full-body tremors that you can't control, and the sound coming out of you isn't crying exactly. It's more animal than that, a high keening thing that you'd be embarrassed about if you had any room left for embarrassment but you don't, you used it all up being terrified.
Better Bobby catches you. He doesn't stumble again. His arms come around you and they're solid and warm. He holds you so tight that the shaking has nowhere to go, like he's absorbing it into himself, and one hand cradles the back of your head, pressing your ear against his chest. His heartbeat is steady, steady, so steady, and how is he so steady, how is he always so steady—
"Shhh. I got you. I'm here. It's gone."
You can't stop. You're gripping his shirt in both fists, knuckles blanching, and you're gasping against his collarbone and he just...
He holds you. Doesn't rush it. Or tell you you're okay or that it wasn't that bad or any of the things real Bobby would say in later months to make you feel silly for being scared. He just holds on and rocks you, the smallest movement, his cheek resting on top of your head.
Your voice comes out cracked and ruined. "What—what was that, what did you— how did you—"
He hums gently. "Don't worry about it."
"Bobby, that thing, it was—its face, it was smiling, it was—"
"I know." He pulls back just enough to look at you. Tips your chin up with his knuckle. That lazy smile, easy and warm and so perfectly Bobby it makes your chest splinter. "I know what it was. It's gone now. Don't worry about it."
"How did you get rid of it?" you rasp.
His thumb strokes your jawline. "Does it matter?"
"Yes."
He looks at you. For a moment something flickers behind his eyes. Something vast and patient and very, very old. Then it's gone, and he's just Bobby again, warm-eyed and soft-mouthed, tucking your hair behind your ear.
"I told you, baby. Nothing gets past me." He kisses your forehead. Slow. Gentle. His lips are warm and the concrete corridor is freezing around you. You lean into him like he's the last source of heat in the world. "Come on. Let's go home."
He takes your hand.
You let him lead you.
He leads you back through the concrete and the pipes and the blue-dark, his thumb rubbing circles on your knuckles, and you don't look behind you.
Not even once. Because whatever he did in that corridor is something you have decided you don't need to see the aftermath of, and also because some part of you—the part that still thinks clearly, the part that Better Bobby hasn't quite reached yet—understands that there is no aftermath.
That whatever Better Bobby does to the things in the dark, he does it completely. He doesn't leave evidence. He doesn't leave remains. He unmakes them, and he does it wearing Bobby's crooked smile, Bobby's silver earring and Bobby's cut-off shorts like a costume. Like a skin, like a love letter written in someone else's handwriting.
The concrete gives way to carpet. Just as abruptly. The blue darkens to yellow again. The cold lifts. The hum returns, and for the first time ever you're grateful for it. The way you'd be grateful for the sound of traffic outside your apartment window because it means you're back in the world, or at least, back in the only world you have left.
Your room. The warm patch. The blankets.
Better Bobby guides you down, wrapping the blankets snug around you. He tucks himself behind you and you press back into his chest, his arm winding around your waist. You're still shaking faintly, these little aftershock tremors, and he absorbs every single one.
"Sleep, baby. I'm right here."
And you close your eyes and you think about real Bobby.
You think about the apartment in Santa Clara. The kitchen counter where he used to roll joints with the window open because you didn't like the smell building up inside. The way his camera equipment colonised every flat surface, cables and lenses and that one light diffuser he was so particular about. You used to complain it and he used to say babe, genius needs room to breathe and you'd throw a dish towel at his head while smothering a grin.
You think about the night you fell in love with him. Not the day you realised it (you'd known for a while by then) but the night it actually happened.
You sitting on the hood of his car in a parking lot off El Camino Real, sharing a joint, and he'd turned to you with the camera for once not in his hands and said, so disarmingly, you're the most wonderful girl I've ever met, and his face looked stripped of its usual cockiness. Bare. Scared. Young.
He was so young. You both were.
You wonder if he's sitting in that apartment right now with the TV on and the lights off, not really watching, just existing in the space you used to fill.
You wonder if he's looked at your toothbrush in the holder next to his. If he's opened the fridge and seen the leftovers you made two nights before you vanished (was it two nights? you're losing track of the real timeline, it's blurring at the edges, and that scares you more than the grin in the dark) and whether he ate them or whether they're still sitting there. Slowly going bad, a small decomposition that mirrors something larger in your life.
You wonder if he's picked up his pager. Scrolled to your name. Stared at it.
You wonder if his thumb hovered over the button the way it used to hover over the shutter release—that perfect hesitation, that half-second of do I or don't I—and whether he pressed it or whether he set the pager down and rolled over. Told himself he'd deal with it tomorrow the way he's been telling himself he'd deal with you tomorrow for months now.
You wonder if somewhere under the indifference and the exhaustion and the slow-growing cruelty there is still a version of Bobby who filmed you sleeping because the light was good. Who cut a Metallica shirt into a crop top with kitchen scissors and held it up like a trophy. Who said hold still, the light's doing something crazy on you and meant I love you, you're beautiful and couldn't say it any other way.
You wonder if that Bobby still misses you.
You wonder if he'd ever come looking.
Better Bobby pulls you closer. His mouth finds the spot behind your ear. The one real Bobby discovered during your second date together. The one that makes everything go quiet inside your skull.
"You're thinking again," he murmurs.
"I know."
"About him."
You don't answer. You don't have to.
Better Bobby is quiet for a long time. His breathing is slow and even against your back. The lights hum their tuneless hymn in your ears. Somewhere deep in the walls, something moves again, and you tense at the scraping sound.
Better Bobby's arm tightens around you. A reflex, instant, protective, the one thing about him that never feels performed.
"He's not coming, baby," he says softly. He doesn't say it meanly this time, either. Not triumphant. More so sad. Almost like he wishes it weren't true, for your sake. Because even this thing that wears Bobby's face and unmakes grinning horrors in the dark doesn't want to watch you grieve. "You know that."
| Prequel | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |
⤷ Join the tag list for the prequel here
Summary: The ring on Joe Keery’s index finger? That’s his wedding ring, just orbiting the wrong planet. Except this time – he’s tired of keeping secrets
ˋ°•*⁀➷ Fluffy lil angst but only if you squint, just Joe being unable to control himself.
A/N: okay, I’m so overwhelmed by the love the first part got I went a little overboard (so much that I'm over the word count to reply to the lovely anon), but I never had an intention to write a part two until I saw this and I was just immediately – YES. So, thank you everyone!
Word Count: 3,681
Your phone buzzes on the kitchen counter. Once. Twice. Three times before you even dry your hands, the vibrations echoing like distant thunder heralding a storm you didn't know was coming.
Joe: don't look at twitter
Joe: I’m serious don't look
Joe: okay maybe look but just know that I love you and I’m sorry and also, I’m not sorry
You stare at the messages, dish towel frozen mid-twist, water dripping from your fingers like a countdown you can't stop. The last one is time-stamped four minutes ago. The one before it, six. The first one, eleven. He's been spiraling for eleven minutes and you're only just now finding out because you were doing dishes, because you had your phone on vibrate, because you live in a world where Joe Keery doesn't usually panic-text you about social media. The words blur on your screen, black birds against white sky, carrying news you can't yet decipher.
You text back with damp fingers, the keys slippery beneath your touch:
You: what did you do
Three dots appear immediately. Disappear. Appear again, like a heartbeat stuttering, like someone trying to speak through tears.
Joe: I answered a question
Joe: honestly
Joe: with my hand
You don't understand. The words hang in the air like smoke, obscuring everything. You open Twitter.
The first thing you see is JOE KEERY MARRIED trending at number one, the letters bold and screaming, a neon sign flashing in the dark of your quiet kitchen. It's surrounded by flame emojis and crying gifs and a million question marks, a digital bonfire consuming the platform in real time. You scroll past the panic, the celebration, the speculation - the internet a hive mind swarming with curiosity - until you find the video someone uploaded from the front row.
The crowd is a roar, a living ocean crashing against the stage. Someone shouts "Marry me, Joe!" - same as they always do, same as you've heard in a dozen other clips he's sent you, laughing about it afterward like it was a joke between you, a secret only you understood.
But this time he stops playing. Fingers frozen on the strings, the music dying mid-breath. And then his right hand rises, index finger pointing toward the ceiling like he's conducting electricity, like he's drawing down lightning, like he's planting a flag on territory he's finally ready to claim. The silver band catches the stage lights and throws them back, a small deliberate supernova against the dark, a star being born in real time.
"Can't," he says, and his voice carries, rough and sure as bedrock. He wiggles the finger slightly, showing it off, making sure they see what they've been missing all along. "I already am."
The scream that follows doesn't sound human. It sounds like a dam breaking, like twenty thousand hearts stopping at once, like the moment before an avalanche when the snow still looks perfect and then - collapse.
Your phone buzzes again, insistent as a pulse.
Joe: you looked didn't you
Joe: I can feel you looking
You: You showed them the ring
Joe: I showed them the ring
You: JOE
Joe: I know
Joe: I know I know I know
Joe: but I kept thinking about you at home with your ring on a chain or in a drawer or wherever you hide it when I can't wear mine and I just
Joe: I wanted to wear mine where it belongs
Joe: and if I was going to do that I had to explain why
Joe: so, I explained
You read the texts three times. Four. Your hands are shaking now, dish towel dropped on the floor, forgotten, a white flag of surrender. The video autoplay’s again - someone else's angle, closer this time, close enough to see the sweat on his temple, the tremor in his hand before he raised it. You watch his face in the seconds after he says it. The relief flooding in like high tide. The terror like a riptide beneath. The rightness of it, like a door he'd been leaning against for six months finally giving way, spilling light everywhere.
You: where are you
Joe: backstage
Joe: my manager is talking very quietly which is worse than yelling
Joe: I think I broke my contract
Joe: I don't care
You call him. He answers on half a ring, like he was waiting with his thumb hovering, like he'd been holding his breath since the moment you knew what he’d done.
"Hi," he breathes, and he sounds - God, he sounds alive. Like someone who jumped off a cliff and discovered he could fly, like Icarus finally touching the sun and finding it warm instead of burning.
"You held up your ring," you say like a broken record on repeat. You're watching the video again, muted, his hand suspended in the air like a promise made visible, like a secret turned into song.
"I held up my ring." He confirms, you can hear him moving, probably pacing some green room hallway, his footsteps echoing like a heartbeat, probably running his thumb over that silver band like he always does when he's overwhelmed - touching base, finding north, making sure you're still there even when you're not. "I thought, if I'm going to say it, I should show it. Make sure they knew what they were looking at. What they've been looking at all along and not seeing."
"Joe - "
"You're not a secret," he interrupts, and his voice cracks, fierce and frightened and free all at once, a bird breaking through ribs, through cage bars, through every careful wall he'd built. "You're the best thing that ever happened to me and I've been making you live in the spaces between my public life like you're something to be ashamed of. Like you're a footnote instead of the whole story. And I just... I couldn't do another song. I couldn't play another chord knowing you were watching from home with your ring hidden while I hid mine on my index finger like that was enough. Like wearing our promise sideways was fair to either of us."
Your throat closes. You press your palm to your chest, your own ring, still on the chain around your neck. Now you feel the weight of it, the absence of it on your finger like a phantom limb, the parallel he's drawing between your hidden hands, two magnets kept apart, two halves of the same coin never touching.
"Twenty thousand people," you manage, the number too large to hold, a stadium of strangers now carrying a piece of your life in their pockets.
"Twenty thousand people who know I'm married." He laughs, shaky and bright, a candle flame in wind. "Twenty thousand people looking at my hand trying to figure out when, trying to figure out who. My manager says CNN is already running the clip. Says I need to prepare a statement. Says - " he breaks off, and you hear someone speaking in the background, low and urgent, the murmur of machinery trying to contain a wildfire, " - says a lot of things I'm not listening to. I can't hear anything over the sound of finally telling the truth."
"You're going to lose - "
"Nothing," he says firmly, an anchor in storm water. "I'm going to lose nothing. The people who matter already know. The people who don't..." He pauses, and you can picture him shrugging, that particular lift of his shoulders that means what can you do, the world will turn regardless, "They'll adjust. They'll find something new to wonder about next week. But I'll still be married to you. That doesn't change. This - " you hear a rustle, picture him holding up that finger again in some fluorescent hallway, looking at it like he's looking at you, like it's a photograph he can't stop studying, " - this is still true. Truer now actually and exactly where everyone can see”
Your doorbell rings, sharp and insistent as a reporter's question. You ignore it. Let them knock. Let the world wait outside while you gather the pieces of this moment, this threshold you're both crossing.
"I’m going to the airport. Soon. I told them I'm going home to my wife, and they can get me a flight or I'll walk." A pause, filled with bustling sounds of backstage and his breathing and the distant chaos of a life detonating in real time, beautiful and terrifying as fireworks. "Can I come home? I didn't ask, I just - I need to see you. I need to put this ring back where it belongs and hold you while the world figures out what to do with us. I need to hold up my hand and have you hold up yours and know that we match. That we finally match."
"Joe." Your voice breaks, but you're smiling, crying, both at once, salt and joy mixing on your tongue. "You never need an excuse to come home."
While he's still talking - about the car to the airport, the flight that leaves in an hour, the way his bandmates looked at him afterward, shocked then grinning then raising their drinks in salute like soldiers to a comrade - you unclasp the chain at your neck. The ring slides into your palm, warm from your skin, warm as a held breath, and you slide it onto your left ring finger where it's always belonged.
It fits perfectly. It always has, like it was forged for this exact moment, this exact hand, this exact yes.
You take a photo of your hand - just your hand, the silver ring catching the afternoon light through your kitchen window, a small sun finally risen - and send it to him. He stops talking mid-sentence, the silence sudden and heavy with meaning.
"You're wearing it," he breathes, and you can hear the smile breaking across his face like dawn, can picture him staring at his screen in some love-struck idiot and at his own ring finally, finally matched, two mirrors facing each other, infinite reflection.
"Hurry home," you say. "I'm wearing our secret in plain sight now too."
"Four hours," he whispers, reverent as prayer. "Three hundred and forty minutes. I'll count everyone like rosary beads."
"I'll be here. With my hand where everyone can see it."
He laughs, bright and warm and entirely yours, no longer traveling through fibre optic cables but right here, immediate, home in his voice even from thousands of miles away, a thread connecting you across distance, across time zones, across the sudden vastness of public knowledge. "Mrs. Keery," he tries out, and it sounds different now, spoken in a public hallway, claimed in front of the world, attached to that raised finger like a flag, like a promise, like a name written in permanent ink.
"Mr. Keery," you reply, and it sounds like the beginning of something, like the next chapter, like the beautiful brave choice to stop hiding and start living out loud.
The call drops as he sits in a taxi, the silence sudden as snowfall. You sit in the silence of your apartment, your left hand foreign and familiar all at once, the weight of public knowledge settling over you like a blanket you didn't know you needed. You don't open Twitter. You don't need to - you've seen the moment that matters, his finger raised in declaration, his voice rough with honesty. The rest is just noise, static, the hum of a world adjusting to a truth you already knew.
But your sister calls. And your mother. And three numbers you don't recognise that you send to voicemail without listening, their curiosity a tide you don't have to answer to. The doorbell rings again, persistent as a heartbeat. You pull Joe's stolen sweater over your head - the one that smells like him, like home, like safety - and wait.
Four hours. Three hundred and forty minutes. Twenty thousand seconds of the world knowing what you've known all along: that Joe Keery is in love, that he's married, that somewhere in his life there exists a person who makes him brave enough to raise his hand and say there, that, mine, like a gardener finally pointing to his favourite bloom and saying I grew this, I tend this, this is mine to care for.
When his key turns in the lock, you don't wait in the hallway. You're right there, pulling the door open before he can finish turning it, and he stumbles through with his bag half-sliding off his shoulder like an afterthought, his eyes finding yours immediately, always, like a compass finding north.
"Hi," he breathes, the word carrying six months of secret and one monumental hour of truth.
"Hi."
He drops the bag. Doesn't care where it lands, the sound of it hitting the floor like punctuation, like the end of one sentence and the start of another. His hands find your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones like he's reading braille, like you're a language he's still learning, will always be learning, and he's looking at you like he's trying to memorise you after weeks apart instead of hours, like you're a dream he's afraid to wake from.
"You're not mad," he says. It isn't a question, but his voice tilts upward anyway, searching for confirmation like a ship searching for shore.
"I'm not mad." You lean into his palm, turn your head to kiss the centre of his hand, the lifeline there, the heart line, every ridge and whorl that makes him him. "How could I be mad? You pointed at the truth and named it beautiful."
"I didn't ask. I just - " his thumb traces your jaw, your temple, like he's mapping you back into existence after too long apart, like you're a country he's been exiled from and is finally returning to, " - I just told them the truth, and I didn't ask if you were ready for it to be loud. If you were ready for the noise, the questions, the - "
"I was already ready," you tell him, and your voice is the shore he's been searching for, solid and waiting. "I was just waiting for you to be. I've been wearing your promise on a chain, on my finger, in my heart. I was always ready to wear it in the light."
Something breaks open in his expression, some last tension draining away like water finding its level. He makes a sound - not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh, but something born of both, something new - and pulls you into him, arms wrapping around you like he's drowning and you're the shore, like you're the oxygen he's been holding his breath for.
His face buries in your neck, his breath warm and shaky against your skin, a secret told in the hollow of your throat, and he just holds you. You feel his heart hammering against your chest, a bird against glass, then finding the window open, flying free. You feel his ribs expanding with each breath, the tremor running through him that he probably doesn't know is there, earthquake and aftershock, the ground settling into new shapes.
"Don't let go," he mumbles into your shoulder, the words half-prayer, half-demand, all need.
"Never."
"I mean it." His arms tighten, crushing you closer, and you don't mind the pressure, the weight, the absolute certainty of being held. You'd crawl inside him if you could, make yourself small enough to carry in his pocket, anywhere he goes, everywhere. "I need - " he breaks off, swallows hard, his throat working against your collarbone, " - I need to not let go yet. I need to hold you until I remember what home feels like - " he squeezes tighter, " - until this is the only thing I know."
You pull back just enough to see his face, his eyes bright and overwhelmed and so completely yours, constellations you could navigate by. "Joe," you say softly, and his name settles him, you can see it, the way his shoulders drop, the way his breathing steadies, the way the tremor stills, "You can hold me as long as you want. I'm not going anywhere. I'm anchored here, with you."
You reach for his right hand, still wrapped around your waist, and he lets you take it, pliant as water, strong as current. His ring is still there on his index finger, the finger that carried your secret for six months like a message in a bottle, the finger that finally spoke it out loud like a lighthouse beam cutting through fog. You touch the silver band, warm from his skin, still bearing the faint indentation from its journey, a road map of hiding and hoping and finally, finally, showing.
"Can I?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, a question and an answer both.
He nods. Doesn't speak. Just watches you with that particular softness that belongs only to you, the one he doesn't show cameras, the one he saves for fluorescent-lit courthouses and dumpling restaurants and moments like this, when it's just you and him and the weight of promises kept.
You slide the ring from his index finger. It moves easily, like it was always waiting for this, like a bird waiting for the cage door to open. You hold it for a moment in your palm, this small silver thing that has spent six months of hiding in plain sight, six months of sideways glances and secret touches and love letters written in metal and skin. Then you take his left hand - his real hand, his honest hand, the one that will carry your promise forward - and slide the ring onto his ring finger where it's always belonged.
It fits perfectly. It always has, like two puzzle pieces, like lock and key, like the last note of a song finally resolving into chord.
"Now we match," you say, and thread your fingers through his, both silver bands gleaming side by side, two moons in the same sky, two promises finally speaking the same language.
He stares at your joined hands, wonderstruck, then looks up at you with that crooked smile. The one that’s for your eyes only behind closed doors.
"We match," he repeats, and pulls you back in, tucking his face against your neck again, breathing you in like your oxygen after drowning, like he's memorizing your scent for the next time they try to take him away, like he's planting roots. "I like that. I like that so much I can't find better words."
"Then don't find words," you murmur into his hair. "Just keep holding me."
You walk him backward toward the couch, still tangled together, a single organism, a knot that can't be untied, and collapse onto it in a heap of limbs and relief and the particular weight of coming home, of finally, finally being in the same room, the same breath, the same moment. He pulls you with him until you're half in his lap, his arms locked around your waist like a seatbelt, like a promise, like he's keeping you safe from a world that suddenly knows your name, his face pressed to your collarbone, your joined hands resting on his chest where both rings catch the lamplight, twin stars, twin beacons.
"You're shaking," you murmur, running your free hand through his hair, still damp from travel, from adrenaline, from the storm of the day.
"Adrenaline." He turns his head, presses a kiss to the hollow of your throat, your pulse point, the place where your heart beats closest to the surface. "Panic. Joy. You. Always you, the one thing that makes the rest of it matter."
"Me?"
He brings your joined hands to his mouth, kisses your ring, his ring, the space between them where your fingers intertwine, inseparable now. "I was so scared after I realised what I'd done, that I may lose you, I - I couldn't handle it. And now, that I know I'm not. I just want to hold your hand. For hours. For days. Until the world stops spinning so fast, until the noise fades, until it's just us again, just us and the truth we finally told."
"That might take a while."
"Good." He settles deeper into the couch, taking you with him, his thumb tracing endless circles on your palm, a message in code, a love letter written in touch. "I have time. I have nothing but time, as long as you're here, as long as this - " he squeezes your hand, gentle but fierce, " - as long as this is real."
You stay there, curled together like quotation marks around a secret, while the world adjusts outside. The trending topic rises and falls like breath. The speculation swirls and fades like weather, like seasons, like everything that changes while you remain. None of it matters. What matters is his heartbeat under your ear, steady now, a drum finding its rhythm. What matters is his whispered "I love you" into your hair every few minutes like he needs to say it, like he needs you to hear it, like he's making up for every time he couldn't say it loud enough before, every time he had to whisper it in darkened rooms, in stolen moments, in the spaces between.
"I love you too," you whisper back, each time. And you do. You love him in the quiet and in the noise, in secrets and in spotlights, in index fingers and ring fingers and every way he's ever found to carry your promise, to keep it close, to finally, finally, let it shine.
And you stay there, tangled together, while the world spins on without you. Two silver bands gleaming in the lamplight, finally where they belong, finally speaking the same language. Two hearts beating in time, a rhythm you could dance to forever. One promise, properly, beautifully, loudly, bravely worn - out loud, in the open, for everyone to see.
☆ ★.ㅤ 𝐃𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐒.ㅤ ㅤ──ㅤㅤ sleeping habits. cortis & f reader , fluff. not proofread.
ZHAO YUFAN
you notice it the first time on a quiet night, when the room is dim and the only light comes from your phone screen slowly fading to black beside you.
he's lying on his back, one arm draped lazily across his stomach, the other just barely brushing yours. at first, everything about him looks normal. steady breathing, relaxed shoulders, lips parted just enough to let out soft, even breaths. but then your eyes drift up, and your stomach drops just a little.
his eyes are open, not wide, but open enough to make it look like he's watching you.
"james?" you whisper, eyebrows pulling together, because there's no way he's just lying there like that.
you push yourself up on one elbow, leaning closer, squinting like that'll somehow make more sense of it.
"why are you staring at me?" you mumble, a little embarrassed, a little weirded out, your voice barely above a breath.
he doesn't answer or move. the silence stretches long enough to make your skin prickle.
"okay . . . not funny," you reach out to poke his shoulder lightly.
still nothing.
you hesitate, then wave your hand slowly in front of his face, watching closely for any reaction. "if you're messing with me right now, i swear—" but his eyes don't track your movement at all, just fixed somewhere past you.
"are you—hello?" you stop, leaning closer. "are you asleep?"
it sounds ridiculous the moment it leaves your mouth, but everything about him says yes except for his eyes.
you tap his cheek gently this time. "hey. james. wake up for a second."
there's a pause, then finally, a faint reaction. his brows twitch, his lips part a little more.
"mm?" he hums, voice rough and barely there, like he's surfacing from somewhere far away. his gaze still doesn't quite focus, even as his head shifts slightly toward you.
"you're—your eyes are open," you whisper, because what else are you supposed to do with that.
he blinks slowly, unevenly, the action itself being too much effort for him. "huh?" he mumbles, words slurring together, confusion written all over his face but dulled by sleep.
"you're staring at me," you insist, gesturing between the two of you, even though he can barely keep up.
he squints at you, or at least tries to, his eyes struggling to fully close. "wasn't. was sleepin'," he mutters, already drifting again, his voice soft and unfocused.
"no, you were not, your eyes were literally open," you press, a little more awake than you planned to be.
he lets out a quiet, sleepy exhale. "do that sometimes," his head tilts slightly toward your shoulder, eyes still barely open, lashes heavy. "go back t'sleep."
"james, that's creepy," you whisper.
he doesn't respond this time, already slipping under again, breathing evening out.
you stare at him for a second longer, watching the way his eyes stay just slightly open, unfocused and distant all over again.
carefully, you lift your hand and brush your fingers over his eyelids, gently coaxing them shut. they stay closed this time, and something about that makes you feel oddly relieved.
you settle back down beside him, still a little unsettled, but more amused than anything, already knowing you're going to bring this up again in the morning.
KIM JUHOON
you wake up slowly, dragged out of sleep by a deep, rumbling sound that doesn't quite make sense at first. it's low, uneven, almost rhythmic.
annoying? yes. why? because it's vibrating right next to your ear.
your brows knit together as you blink into the dark, trying to figure out what you're hearing. then it clicks, and you let out a slow, disbelieving exhale.
you turn your head just enough to confirm it. juhoon, dead asleep beside you, snoring with no shame.
you stare at him for a second, hoping somehow that if you just wait, it'll stop on its own. it doesn't. if anything, it gets louder, the sound dipping and rising.
"juhoon," you mumble, voice rough with sleep, reaching over to nudge his arm. "be quiet."
he doesn't react at all, completely unreachable.
you push yourself up onto your elbow, squinting at him with annoyance, your patience already thinning.
"juhoon," you try again, a little sharper this time, giving his shoulder a firmer shake. "stop snoring, seriously."
he just breathes in deeply and there it is again, loud and uninterrupted.
"oh my god," you mutter, dragging a hand over your face as you glance around like the solution might magically appear.
your eyes land on the extra pillow beside you, and you go still for a second, considering it. "don't make me do this," you whisper, even though he obviously can't hear you.
with a quiet huff, you grab the pillow and lift it, hesitating only briefly before pressing it straight against his face.
"be quiet," you insist, pushing it down just enough to muffle the sound. for a split second, it actually works. the snoring cuts off, the room falling blessedly silent.
then, without warning, his hand comes up.
still completely asleep, juhoon swats at the pillow with surprising accuracy, knocking it right out of your hands. the force of it makes you jerk back slightly, the pillow tumbling into your lap as you blink at him.
he doesn't wake up, doesn't even open his eyes, just shifts a little. and right on cue, the snoring starts again, just as loud as before.
you sit there for a moment, stunned into silence, trying to process what just happened. you watch the way he sleeps so peacefully, completely unaware of the chaos he's causing.
with a frustrated sigh, you flop back down onto your side, turning away from him and yanking the blanket up over your ear.
"i hope you wake yourself up," you grumble, squeezing your eyes shut as you try to block it out.
behind you, he keeps snoring without interruption, completely unbothered and impossible to reason with.
somehow, even as the sound drives you insane, you don't move any farther away because as annoying as he is, you're still right there beside him.
EDWARDS MARTIN
you finally shut the game off, the screen going dark after what felt like hours of tension that never really let up.
the silence that follows feels heavier than it should, the atmosphere of the game still lingering in the room with you. you stretch your fingers, trying to shake off the stiffness, but your mind keeps replaying the last scene.
you glance over your shoulder at the bed, where martin is fast asleep, half buried in the blankets, completely unaffected by the tension that's still clinging to you.
"must be nice," you mutter under your breath, reaching for your phone just to ground yourself in something normal.
you move around the room not long after, going through your usual routine, but it feels like the room isn't as safe as it was an hour ago. the shadows look deeper, the corners of the room a little too quiet, your senses still stuck in that heightened, paranoid state.
you turn off the last light and climb into bed, pulling the blanket up as you settle beside him. for a moment, it's fine. just you, the quiet, and martin's steady breathing beside you. then you hear a soft tap.
you freeze instantly, your entire body going still as your ears strain for the sound again. another knock follows, and it sounds like it's coming from inside the walls.
your stomach tightens, every nerve suddenly on edge as your imagination runs straight back to everything you just played. you slowly push yourself up, eyes locked on the wall across the room as you wait for it again.
the sound echoes faintly, making your skin prickle. you immediately lurch closer, grabbing onto him and pressing yourself against his side, your hands clutching his shirt.
"martin," you whisper, turning quickly toward him, your voice urgent. "martin, wake up."
he doesn't respond, still completely asleep, face buried in the pillow. "okay, no, seriously—wake up," you insist, reaching over and shaking his shoulder a little harder.
he stirs, letting out a groggy sound, clearly pulled from deep sleep. "what—" he mumbles, voice thick and unfocused, barely opening his eyes.
another soft knock sounds, and you tighten your grip on him instantly. "do you hear that?" you whisper urgently.
he blinks slowly, still out of it, trying to process both you clinging to him and whatever you're saying. "hear what?" he mutters, head tilting slightly as he tries to wake up. another tap.
this time, he goes still for a second, his expression shifting just enough to show he noticed it too. his brows furrow faintly as he glances toward the headboard.
"oh," he exhales, voice still raspy with sleep, but there's a hint of realization. he lifts his hand slightly, and you feel it brush against the headboard again. it's the same exact sound.
you blink, following the movement, your fear faltering as confusion starts to take over. "wait," you mumble, loosening your grip.
he lets out a quiet, breathy laugh, the sound growing as he wakes up a little more. "my bad."
you stare at him, your brain trying to catch up as the adrenaline slowly drains out of you. "you're knocking on the wall in your sleep? you never stop playing the beat?"
"yeah," he nods, glancing at you with a sleepy smile, "and you thought it was . . . what, a ghost?"
that does it. you pull back to smack his arm lightly. "i just finished a horror game!" you whisper-shout, embarrassed and defensive as you settle back down beside him.
even when his hand twitches faintly near the headboard, you just sigh and grab it, holding it still to make sure the knocking doesn't start again.
EOM SEONGHYEON
you're curled up on your side, phone propped against a pillow as the crime documentary plays quietly in the dark. the narrator's voice is low and eerie, each word dragging you deeper into the story despite how late it already is.
beside you, seonghyeon is completely out, having knocked out early the second his head hit the pillow, too tired to even pretend to stay awake with you.
"you're really missing everything," you mumble under your breath, glancing at him briefly before turning your attention back to the screen.
the room is dim, lit only by your phone, shadows stretching along the walls in a way that makes you slightly more aware of your surroundings. still, you keep watching, completely pulled in.
the documentary shifts into a darker segment, the music dropping into something tense and unsettling as the narration lowers. you pull the blanket up slightly, your eyes glued to the screen.
"why would you go in there?" you whisper to yourself, watching a reenactment play out in grainy detail.
the house on the screen creaks, footsteps echoing through empty hallways, and you can feel your nerves start to build.
you swallow, adjusting the blanket around you, telling yourself it's just a documentary. then, right when the tension peaks, you hear a soft whisper right next to you.
you go completely still, your heart skipping before slamming hard against your chest. you slowly turn your head away from the screen. another faint murmur follows, barely audible but unmistakable, like someone speaking under their breath.
you let out a sharp scream and immediately dive under the blanket, yanking it over your head like it's going to protect you from whatever that was.
seonghyeon jolts awake beside you, startled by the sudden scream cutting through the quiet. "what—what happened?" he mumbles, voice rough with sleep as he turns to you, still half out of it.
you don't come out from under the blanket, clutching it tighter as your breathing stays uneven. "i heard something," you insist, your voice muffled but urgent.
he blinks, trying to process the situation, one hand reaching over instinctively until it finds your back. "hey . . . hey," he murmurs, gently rubbing your back in slow, grounding motions. "why are you screaming?"
"there was whispering," you pull the blanket down just enough to peek out at him, eyes wide. "like—right here. someone was talking."
he squints at you, still waking up, his expression shifting from confusion to something more thoughtful. "talking?" he repeats, voice slow as he tries to recall anything.
you nod quickly, gripping his sleeve. "yes, i heard it, i swear."
"you should go to sleep too," he mumbles, voice soft, trying to calm you down. "you're just freaking yourself out."
"i'm not!"
he lets out a quiet breath, his hand still moving gently along your back. "that was probably me."
you blink at him, thrown off. "what do you mean you?" you ask, your fear starting to fade into confusion.
he rubs his face with his free hand, letting out a small, sleepy huff. "i talk in my sleep sometimes," he mutters, glancing at you with half lidded eyes.
you stare at him, your brain slowly catching up as the panic drains out of your system. "you're telling me you were whispering in your sleep?"
he shrugs faintly, already starting to sink back into the pillow. "yeah. it happens," he mumbles, clearly ready to fall asleep again.
you let out a shaky breath as you process everything. "you scared me."
he huffs out a small, amused breath, his hand giving your back one last gentle rub. "you scared me," he murmurs back, voice soft with lingering sleep.
you hesitate for a second before finally lowering the blanket completely, leaning into him a little. you glance at your phone, the documentary still playing, and immediately reach over to pause it.
"i'm not watching that anymore," you mutter, settling closer to him instead.
AHN KEONHO
you're sitting cross legged on the bed, a small box of hair chalks spread out in front of you.
keonho is completely knocked out beside you, face relaxed, breathing slow, one arm tucked under his head because he thinks nothing in the world could bother him.
"you really shouldn't fall asleep this early around me," you whisper, already picking out a color and leaning closer. carefully, you drag the chalk through a small section of his hair, trying not to laugh at how easy this is. "this is what you get."
he doesn't react at all, just shifts slightly before settling again, completely unaware of what you're doing.
you reach for another color, debating whether to go subtle or completely ruin his image, when a faint sound makes you pause. it's quiet, almost easy to miss, but then it comes again. gritty and uneven.
you lean closer, squinting slightly as you listen. "are you grinding your teeth?" you whisper, lowering the chalk slowly.
you watch him, and sure enough, his jaw tightens slightly before the sound comes back again.
you're immediately reminded of your own habit. you've been told you do the exact same thing, and more importantly, it reminds you of the one method that always gets you to stop.
you know he's not gonna like it.
you shift a little closer, lifting your hand cautiously as you look at his face one more time. without overthinking it too much, you give his cheek a quick, firm slap. his face scrunches instantly, his whole body jolting slightly as a confused sound escapes him.
"—what the hell?" he mumbles, eyes snapping open just enough to glare at you through sleep.
"you were grinding your teeth," you say immediately, pointing at him.
he blinks at you, still half asleep, one hand coming up to rub his cheek. " . . . you slapped me," he says slowly, making sure he didn't imagine it.
"yeah," you nod, completely serious. "it works."
he stares at you for a long second, trying to process that, his expression shifting between confusion and disbelief. "that's insane," he mutters, voice rough as he squints at you. "you could've just woken me up like a normal person."
you shrug, already reaching for the chalk again. "that takes too long. this one's quicker."
he scoffs weakly, still rubbing his cheek, clearly offended even through the fog of sleep. "you just wanted an excuse to hit me," he accuses, narrowing his eyes at you.
"no i didn't!" you shoot back immediately, not even looking at him as you go back to his hair. "you were making noise, i fixed it."
"i mean, i know it's not right to eat your leftovers, but still," he adds, starting a completely different conversation.
"pause. what did you just say?" you ask slowly, turning your head toward him.
he blinks, clearly trying to hold onto his train of thought. "your food," he mutters, waving his hand vaguely. "earlier. i ate yours too." he says it like it's nothing, like it's a normal, acceptable confession to make right after getting slapped awake.
you stare at him, your brain taking a second to catch up then your eyes widen. "you ate my leftovers? the ones i said i was saving?"
he frowns slightly, now realizing this might be a problem. " . . . you weren't there," he offers weakly, hoping that's somehow a valid defense. "so i thought—"
"you thought what? that they just became yours by default?"
he pushes himself up a little, still clearly half asleep but now mildly defensive. "i was hungry and you weren't eating them."
"i was going to!" you fire back immediately. "that's the point of leftovers, keonho! leftovers!"
he looks genuinely confused for a second. "then why didn't you eat them earlier?"
you stare at him, speechless. " . . . because i was saving them," you slowly repeat.
he lets out a small huff, running a hand through his hair, smearing a bit of chalk without realizing it. "you can't just claim food forever. there's a time limit."
"a time limit?" you echo, offended. "who decided that?"
"me. just now."
you let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "oh, that's great. so by your logic, anything i don't eat immediately is yours?"
"if i'm hungry, yeah," he nods once, proud of that answer.
you shake your head, grabbing the chalk again with renewed purpose. "you know what? fine. keep that same energy when you look in the mirror."
he frowns, confused, reaching up instinctively. "what did you—" his fingers brush against the chalked strands. "what did you do to my hair?"
you don't look at him, adding another streak. "don't worry about it. there's no time limit on this one."
Summary: After receiving a shipment of dresses from Dragonstone, you finally experience a moment of happiness and reconnect with your former self.
TW: Emotional abuse, Psychological abuse, Domestic abuse, Misogyny / slut-shaming, Gaslighting, Age-gap relationship, Implied sexual coercion / marital sexual abuse themes
WC: 6K
The morning of the day everything changed began like so many mornings before it quietly, with the weight of someone else's choices pressing down on you before you had even opened your eyes.
You woke to the sound of the bells. Oldtown was a city of bells, something you had not known before you came here. They rang at dawn, at noon, at dusk, at every hour in between, marking time with a relentlessness that made you feel like you were living inside a heartbeat. The sound echoed through the stone walls of the Hightower, bouncing off the ancient masonry, seeping into your dreams. On Dragonstone, you had woken to the sound of the sea and the distant cry of your dragon. Here, you woke to bells.
You lay still for a moment, watching the light creep across the ceiling. The curtains were heavy but a single sliver of gold had found its way through the gap, painting a line across the stone above your head. You traced it with your eyes, following it from one corner of the room to the other, and tried to remember what day it was.
It did not matter. The days were all the same now.
You turned your head on the pillow. Ormund was already gone. His side of the bed was cold, the blankets pushed back, the indentation of his body already fading from the mattress. He rose early, your husband. He had a city to run and a household to command. You had learned quickly that he did not expect you to be awake when he left. He did not expect anything from you in the mornings except that you would be there with your legs opened when he returned.
You sat up slowly, pushing the heavy blankets aside. The air in the room was cool, carrying the faint, familiar scent of smoke from the fireplace. Your shift was wrinkled from sleep, twisted around your legs, and you smoothed it down automatically before swinging your feet to the floor.
You crossed to the window and pulled back the curtain, just a little. The view was spectacular, you could not deny that. The Hightower rose above the city like a spear thrust into the sky, and from your chambers near the top, you could see everything. The Honeywine River winding its way to the sea. The rooftops of Oldtown spreading out below, a patchwork of slate and tile and thatch. The Citadel in the distance, its domes and spires gleaming in the morning light. And beyond it all, the Whispering Sound, blue and endless, stretching toward the horizon.
It was beautiful. It was not home.
You let the curtain fall and turned back to the room. Your gown was laid out for you already. It always was. You had not chosen the dresses you wore since your wedding night. They simply appeared each morning, draped over the chair by the hearth, waiting for you. Today's was a deep charcoal grey with silver embroidery along the scooped neckline and long, tight sleeves. The fabric was heavy—it was always heavy—and the cut was modest. You had never worn anything like it before you came to Oldtown, and now you wore nothing else.
Your ladies arrived as you were washing your face. Three of them, all Hightower women, all chosen by Ormund's steward. They helped you into your dress without comment. The laces were pulled tight, the sleeves smoothed down, the high collar fastened close around your throat. You stood still and let them work, lifting your arms when they needed you to, turning when they asked. You had learned that it was easier to comply than to question.
"Your hair, my lady?" Ellyn asked, her hands already reaching for the brush.
You hesitated. "I thought I might leave it down today."
A pause. Barely a heartbeat, but you felt it.
"Lord Ormund prefers it up," Ellyn said. Her voice was neutral. Polite. The voice of a servant who had been given instructions and intended to follow them.
You opened your mouth to argue—it was your hair, after all, your head, your choice—but the words died on your tongue. It was not worth the fight. Nothing was worth the fight anymore.
"Very well," you said quietly.
Ellyn nodded and began to brush. You watched yourself in the mirror as she worked. The girl looking back at you was beautiful—you knew that, had always known that, had been told it so many times it had ceased to mean anything—but she did not look like you. She looked like a portrait of you, painted by someone who had only heard a description. The hair was right, silver-gold and falling in soft waves. The eyes were right, violet and clear. But something was missing. Some spark. Some light.
You looked tired. You looked pale. You looked like a woman who had been slowly fading for weeks and had not noticed until this moment.
Ellyn pinned your hair up in an elaborate twist, securing it with silver combs. You felt the weight of it pulling at your scalp, the familiar tension that always followed. Your mother had never made you wear your hair up. Your mother had let you wear it however you wanted—loose and wild when you were flying, braided with ribbons when you attended court, simple and unadorned when you were alone. Your mother had always said that you were beautiful because you were yourself, not because you looked like anyone else's idea of beauty.
You missed your mother. You missed her so much it felt like a physical ache, a hollow space in your chest that nothing could fill.
"There," Ellyn said, stepping back to admire her work. "Very proper, my lady."
"Thank you," you said, because that was what you were supposed to say.
They left you alone after that, retreating to their own tasks, and you sat by the window for a long time, watching the clouds move across the sky. Somewhere out there, beyond the city walls, beyond the Whispering Sound, beyond the Reach and the Kingswood and the Blackwater Bay, your mother was sitting on Dragonstone. Your brothers were running through the halls, laughing, arguing, living their lives.
And you were here. In Oldtown. Married to a man you barely recognized anymore.
The courtship had been so different. You remembered it now, sitting in the grey morning light, turning the memories over in your mind like stones. Ormund had come to King's Landing two years ago, representing his house at some council or another, and he had seen you across the throne room. You had been ten and eight then, young and shy. He had been thirty-six, a widower with four children, a lord in his own right. He had looked at you with such intensity, such focus, that you had felt like the only person in the room.
He had been charming. He had sent you gifts, books from the Citadel, rare perfumes from Lys, a necklace of sapphires that matched your eyes. He had written you letters, long and eloquent and full of praise. He had sought you out at feasts and tourneys, always finding a way to sit beside you, to speak with you, to make you laugh.
Your mother had been skeptical at first. "He is older than you," she had said, her brow furrowed. "And he is a Hightower. The Hightowers are ambitious, my love. They do not do anything without purpose."
But you had argued for him. You had told her that he was kind, that he was good, that he made you feel special. And eventually, reluctantly, she had agreed to the match. Not because she trusted him—you knew now that she never had—but because she trusted you. Because she wanted you to be happy. Because she thought that denying you this would only make you want it more.
And there was the political reality, too. You had known that, even then. The Hightowers were powerful. The Hightowers were influential. The Hightowers could tip the balance in the coming struggle for the throne. Marrying you to Ormund was a way of securing their loyalty, of ensuring that when the time came, Oldtown would stand with Rhaenyra.
You had been a gift. A guarantee. A hostage wrapped in silk and sent south with a smile.
You had told yourself it did not matter. You had told yourself that Ormund loved you, that he would be good to you, that the political reasons were secondary to the personal ones. You had believed him when he promised to cherish you, to protect you, to make you happy.
You had been so stupid.
The knock at the door startled you out of your thoughts. You turned, smoothing your features into the placid expression you had learned to wear, and called out, "Enter."
It was a servant, one of the many whose names you had not yet learned. He was young, barely more than a boy, and he bowed awkwardly when he saw you.
"My lady," he said. "A shipment has arrived for you. From Dragonstone."
Your heart stopped.
"A shipment?" You rose from your chair, and your voice came out breathless, eager, the way it used to sound before you learned to keep your feelings hidden. "Where is it?"
"In the courtyard, my lady. I can have it brought up to your chambers, if you wish."
"No." The word was too quick, too sharp. You forced yourself to slow down, to breathe. "No, thank you. I will come down myself. I would like to—" You stopped. You did not know how to explain what you wanted. You wanted to see it. You wanted to touch it. You wanted to hold something from home in your hands and remember what it felt like to be yourself.
"Of course, my lady," the servant said. He bowed again and retreated, and you were alone once more.
You did not run. Running would have been undignified. Running would have drawn attention. But you walked faster than you had walked in weeks, your heart pounding in your chest, your hands clasped tightly in front of you to hide their trembling.
The courtyard was busy when you arrived. Servants and guards and grooms going about their daily tasks, none of them paying much attention to the crate sitting near the stables. It was large, nearly as tall as you were, made of dark wood and bound with iron bands. And stamped on the side, clear and unmistakable, was the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
You stopped a few feet away, suddenly afraid to approach. It was silly, you knew. It was just a crate. Just wood and iron and the things your mother had sent. But it felt like more than that. It felt like a message. A reminder. A lifeline thrown across the distance between Dragonstone and Oldtown, telling you that you were not forgotten.
"My lady?" A servant—a different one, a woman with kind eyes and flour on her apron—approached with a slight curtsy. "Shall I have it brought to your rooms?"
"Yes," you said, and then, because you could not help yourself, "No. Wait. I want to open it here."
The woman looked surprised, but she nodded. "As you wish, my lady. Shall I fetch a crowbar?"
"Please."
You stood there, in the middle of the courtyard, while she went to find the tools. The sun was warm on your face, warmer than it had been in days, or perhaps it only felt that way because you were happy. You were actually happy. The feeling was so unfamiliar that it took you a moment to recognize it.
When the crowbar arrived the scent hit you first.
Jasmine. Your mother's perfume. The same perfume she had worn since you were a child, the same scent that had clung to her hair when she held you, to her gowns when you pressed your face into her shoulder. It was faint, barely there, but it was enough. Your eyes stung, and you had to blink rapidly to keep the tears from falling.
And then the dresses. They were packed in layers of fine paper, each one wrapped carefully to protect the delicate fabrics. You pulled them out one by one, your breath catching in your throat each time. Silk. Chiffon. Velvet so soft it felt like water running through your fingers. The colors were breathtaking, deep violet, pale blue, crimson, silver, black, gold. Lyseni cuts, every one of them. Flowing skirts and fitted bodices and sleeves that would flutter when you walked.
These were your dresses. These were the clothes you had worn before your wedding, before Oldtown, before everything. These were the clothes that made you feel like a Targaryen princess instead of a Hightower wife.
And then, at the very bottom of the crate, you found it.
The silver-grey gown.
You lifted it from the paper with hands that shook, and the sunlight caught the beadwork, and for a moment you forgot how to breathe.
It was the most beautiful dress you had ever seen. The bodice was gathered chiffon, layer upon layer of it, so fine and sheer that it looked like morning mist made solid. Tiny silver beads traced patterns across the fabric—flowers, vines, delicate spirals that caught the light and sparkled like captured stars. The neckline was a sweetheart, low and elegant, designed to frame the collarbones and accentuate the curve of the breasts without being vulgar. The sleeves were off the shoulder, sheer and flowing, held in place by jeweled straps so fine they looked like threads of starlight. The waist was fitted, structured, creating a dramatic contrast with the flowing pleated skirt below. And the skirt was layer after layer of soft, swirling fabric that would catch the air and dance with every step you took.
It was a dress for a princess. It was a dress for a dragonrider. It was a dress for you.
You held it up against your body, right there in the courtyard, and you could not stop smiling. You probably looked ridiculous—a lady of House Hightower clutching a gown to her chest like a child with a new toy—but you did not care. You did not care about anything except the feel of the fabric beneath your fingers and the sudden, overwhelming certainty that things were going to be better now.
"Would you like to wear it, my lady?"
You looked up. The servant woman was still there, watching you with an expression that was almost a smile.
"May I?" you asked, and then realized how foolish the question was. You were the lady of the house. You did not need to ask permission. But somehow, without thinking, you had.
"Of course, my lady," the woman said. "I think it would suit you beautifully."
You dressed alone. You did not want anyone else's hands on this dress. It was too precious, too personal, too much a part of you. You slipped it over your head carefully, reverently, letting the silk whisper against your skin. You adjusted the bodice, settled the sleeves on your shoulders, smoothed the skirt down over your hips. And when you looked in the mirror—
You gasped.
You were beautiful. You spun in front of the mirror, watching the skirt flare out around you, and you laughed. A real laugh, bright and surprised, the kind of laugh you had not made since your wedding night.
And then the knock came.
"My lady?" Margot's voice, muffled through the door. "The other ladies are asking if you will join them in the solar. They have heard about the dresses and are eager to see."
You took a deep breath. You smoothed your hands down the front of your gown. And then you opened the door.
Bethany gasped first. Loud and delighted, the way only a girl could gasp. "Oh, my lady! You look like a queen!"
Ellyn was more restrained, but even she could not hide her surprise. Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened slightly before she caught herself. "It is... very fine work, my lady," she said carefully. "Lyseni, I presume?"
"Yes," you said, and your voice came out stronger than it had in weeks. "My mother sent them. I used to wear this style at court."
The walk through the Hightower was different than it had ever been before. You had walked these halls dozens of times since your wedding, head down, eyes averted, trying to take up as little space as possible. But today, in your gown, you walked with your head high. You looked people in the eye. You smiled.
And people noticed.
Servants stopped to stare as you passed. Guards straightened, their gazes lingering on you longer than was proper. A young squire dropped the sword he was carrying and had to scramble to pick it up, his face bright red. You felt their eyes on you and you did not mind. You had been invisible for weeks. It was nice to be seen.
—
Ormund found you in the solar.
It was late afternoon by then, the sun beginning its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the room in shades of gold and amber. You were sitting by the window, reading your mother's letter at last—it was full of news from Dragonstone, gossip about your brothers, questions about how you were settling in—when the door opened and he walked in.
You looked up and smiled. "Husband. I did not expect you back so early."
He did not smile back. You should have noticed that. You should have seen the storm gathering behind his eyes, the tightness in his jaw, the way his hands were clenched at his sides. But you were still floating on the happiness of the morning, still wrapped in the warmth of your mother's words and you did not see.
"Where did you get that dress?"
His voice was flat. Too flat. The kind of flat that comes before a storm.
"It was in the shipment from my mother," you said, and you heard the happiness in your own voice, bright and fragile and utterly unaware. "She sent me dresses from Lys—the kind I used to wear at court. Isn't it beautiful? I have not worn anything like it since—"
"Stand up."
You blinked. "What?"
"Stand. Up."
You stood. The letter slipped from your fingers and floated to the floor. You stood, and he looked at you, and the silence stretched out between you like a wound opening.
"Ormund," you said carefully, "is something wrong?"
He crossed the room in three strides. He grabbed your arm and pulled you toward the door.
"You will come with me," he said. "Now."
"Ormund, you are hurting me—"
"Now."
He dragged you through the corridors. You stumbled after him, your beautiful skirt tangling around your legs, your jeweled straps digging into your shoulders. Servants saw you—you knew they saw you, you saw their faces turn away, their eyes drop—and shame burned hot in your cheeks. You were the lady of the house. You were a princess of the blood. And you were being pulled through your own home like a disobedient child.
He did not speak again until the door to your chambers slammed shut behind you.
Then he let go of your arm, and you stumbled backward, catching yourself on the back of a chair. Your chest was heaving. Your heart was pounding. And when you looked at his face you barely recognized him.
"What," he said, low and dangerous, "are you wearing?"
You stared at him. "It is a dress. I told you. My mother sent—"
"Your mother." He spat the words like they tasted of poison. "Your whore of a mother sent you a whore's dress, and you decided to parade yourself through my keep in it."
The word hit you like a slap. Whore. Your mother. He had never—no one had ever—
"Don't look so shocked." He stepped closer, and you stepped back, and the chair between you felt like nothing, like paper, like a wall that would crumble at a single touch. "You know what I am talking about. You know exactly what your mother is. The whole realm knows. She spreads her legs for every man who looks at her twice, and now she cannot even control her own daughter."
"That is not true." Your voice came out thin. Reedy. Nothing like the strong, confident voice you had used all day. "My mother is not—you cannot speak of her that way. She is your future queen—"
"She is a whore." He said it flatly. Calmly. Like he was remarking on the weather. "She is a whore who put bastards in the line of succession and expected the realm to bow. She has fucked her sworn shield for years—everyone knows it, even if they are too afraid to say it—and those Strong bastards she calls sons are proof. And now she has sent her daughter to me, dressed like a common bedslave, and I am supposed to be grateful?"
Your hands were shaking. You pressed them to your stomach, trying to steady yourself. "I am not dressed like a—I am not. This is just a dress. This is the kind of dress I have always worn. You saw me in them at court. You said I was beautiful. You said—"
"I lied."
The words stopped you cold.
"I lied." He stepped closer again, and this time there was nowhere to back away to. Your shoulders hit the wall. "Of course I told you that you were beautiful. That is what men do when they are courting. We flatter. We praise. We tell you what you want to hear. And you—" His eyes raked down your body, and you felt naked, exposed, like every inch of skin was on display. "You were a maiden then. Untouched. A prize to be won. I could look at you and imagine all the things I was going to do to you once you were mine."
He paused. His tongue swept across his lower lip, and the gesture made your stomach turn.
"Do you want to know what I really thought, when I saw you in your pretty little dresses? I thought about what was underneath. I thought about tearing them off you. I thought about bending you over a chair and seeing if you were as tight as you looked. I thought about how sweet it would be to be the one who finally got to touch what you were showing everyone."
"Stop—" The word came out as a choked whisper. "Please, stop—"
"But that was then." His voice hardened. "That was when you were a maiden. That was when you were untouchable. Now you are my wife. Now you wear my name and live in my house and sleep in my bed. And my wife does not dress like a whore."
"I am not a whore." Tears were burning in your eyes now, hot and stinging. You blinked rapidly, trying to hold them back. "I am a Targaryen princess. I am a dragonrider. I am your wife, and I have done nothing wrong—"
"Nothing wrong?" He laughed, and it was an ugly sound. Ugly and cruel and nothing like the warm, charming laugh you remembered from the courtship. "You paraded yourself through the entire keep in a dress that shows your tits to every man with eyes. Guards stared at you. Servants stared at you. My squire -your own uncle- dropped his sword because he was too busy looking at your body to remember what he was doing. And you think you have done nothing wrong?"
You had not known about the squire. You had not noticed. But it did not matter. It would not have mattered. He had made up his mind about what you were, and nothing you said would change it.
"It is just a dress," you whispered. "It made me feel beautiful. It made me feel like myself. I have been wearing your dresses for weeks—your grey dresses, your heavy fabrics—and I have not complained. I have not asked for anything. I just wanted one thing that was mine. One thing that felt like home."
"Home?" He sneered the word. "You mean Dragonstone? You mean your mother's castle, where she hides her bastards and her lovers and pretends she is fit to rule? That is not home. That is a den of sin and corruption, and you are lucky I took you out of it."
"Lucky?" The word escaped you before you could stop it, high and incredulous. "You think I am lucky? You think I am grateful for this? For being dragged through the corridors like a prisoner? For being called a whore in my own home? For being married to a man who—"
"Who what?" His voice dropped to a dangerous murmur. "Who what? Say it."
You opened your mouth. You closed it. The words were there, burning on your tongue, but you could not make yourself speak them. You were afraid. You were so afraid.
"Who does not love you?" He finished the sentence for you, and his smile was terrible. "Is that what you were going to say? That I do not love you? Let me tell you something, little wife. I love you more than you deserve. I love you despite your mother, despite your reputation, despite the rumors about your parentage. Everyone knows you are not Laenor's daughter—no more than the Strong bastards are. And now you come here, dressed like a whore, and expect me to be grateful?"
"My father loved me." Your voice cracked, and the tears spilled over at last. Hot and wet, tracking down your cheeks. "Laenor Velaryon raised me. He was my father. And you will not speak of him that way."
"Laenor Velaryon was a fool." Ormund's lip curled. "He raised another man's bastards because he was too weak to do anything else. Just as your mother is too weak to control her own desires. And you are just like her. Weak. Vain. Desperate for attention. You think you are special because you have a dragon? You are nothing. You are a spoiled princess who has never had to work for anything, who has never had to serve anyone, who does not know the first thing about being a wife."
"I am not—"
"You are a piece of property." He stepped forward, and his hand came up, and for one terrible moment you thought he was going to hit you. But he did not. He touched your face instead, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a gentleness that made your skin crawl. "My property. Your body belongs to me now. Your hair, your face, your tits, your cunt—all of it. You do not get to decide what you wear or what you show. You do not get to decide anything. You are mine. And I will not have my property parading around like a common whore."
"Let go of me."
You did not recognize your own voice. It was quiet and cold and utterly steady, nothing like the sobbing, broken girl you felt like inside.
He did not let go. His grip on your jaw tightened, just slightly. Just enough to remind you of his strength.
"You do not give me orders," he said softly. "You are my wife. You obey me. You do what I say, when I say it. And if you cannot do that—" His thumb pressed harder, digging into the soft flesh beneath your cheekbone. "Then I will teach you. I will teach you to be grateful for my attentions. I will teach you to be the wife I need you to be. And by the time I am finished, you will thank me for it."
"You are hurting me."
"I am trying to help you. But you are making it so difficult." He released your jaw, finally, and stepped back. His eyes dropped to the dress. To the silver beadwork. To the sweetheart neckline that he hated. "Take it off."
Your blood ran cold. "What?"
"Take. It. Off."
You did not move. You could not move. Your body was frozen, your mind screaming, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.
"Please," you whispered. "Please, Ormund, I will not wear it again. I will put it away. I will wear whatever you want. Just please—"
"Take it off, or I will take it off for you."
You raised your hands. Your fingers were shaking so badly you could barely grip the fabric, but you tried. You tried to be good. You tried to do what he wanted. The jeweled straps slipped from your shoulders, and the bodice sagged, and then—
His patience ran out.
He grabbed the neckline with both hands and pulled.
The sound the fabric made was like a scream. A high, rending shriek of tearing silk, and then the bodice was splitting, the beadwork scattering in all directions like falling stars. You cried out and tried to pull away, but he was too strong. His hands found the seams and pulled, and the dress came apart in his grip like paper. Chiffon shredded. Beads flew. The jeweled straps snapped, the tiny stones scattering across the floor and skittering into corners where you would never find them again.
"No, no, no—" You were sobbing now, your hands batting uselessly at his arms, your voice rising to something that was almost a scream. "Please stop, please, it was a gift, it was from my mother, please—"
"Your mother." He grabbed the skirt and tore it from the waist, the pleated fabric ripping with a sound like thunder. "Your mother should have taught you how to be a wife. Instead she taught you how to be a whore."
"My mother—" You could barely speak. The words were choked with tears, your throat raw from screaming. "My mother loves me. She sent me this because she loves me—"
He laughed. It was the cruelest sound you had ever heard.
"Your mother sent you here because she wanted to get rid of you. Because you were inconvenient. Because she has her bastards to think about now, her precious Strong boys, and there was no room left for you. You were a spare. A surplus. A problem to be solved. And I solved it. I took you off her hands when no one else would."
That was when you slapped him.
You did not think about it. You did not plan it. Your hand just moved, arcing through the air and catching him across the cheek with a crack that echoed through the room. You stared at him, your palm stinging, your breath coming in ragged gasps. And he stared back at you, his head turned slightly from the force of the blow, his cheek already reddening. For a long, terrible moment, neither of you spoke.
Then he turned back to you, and his eyes—
His eyes were dead. Empty. Two pits of black that looked at you without recognition, without humanity, without anything at all.
"You should not have done that," he said quietly.
And then he reached for the rest of the dress.
You did not fight him anymore. You could not. Your body had gone limp, your strength drained, your spirit crushed into something small and broken. You stood there, shaking and crying, as he tore the remaining fabric from your body. The skirt fell away in ribbons. The underskirt followed, ripped from the waistband like paper. And then you were standing in nothing but your shift, your arms wrapped around yourself, your shoulders bare and trembling.
He stepped back. His chest was heaving. His face was flushed. And in his hands, he held the ruins of your dress. He held it up. Looked at it. Then looked at you.
Then he walked to the fireplace.
"No." The word came out as a broken whisper. "No, please. Please, Ormund. Please don't."
He threw it into the flames.
You watched it burn. The silk caught immediately, curling and blackening like a living thing in its death throes. The beadwork melted, silver droplets running down the fabric like tears. The chiffon vanished in a flash of orange, there and gone, consumed by the fire that had never felt warm, not once, not since you arrived in this cold, cold city.
You sank to your knees. You could not stop crying. Your whole body was wracked with sobs, your shoulders heaving, your hands pressed to your face to muffle the sounds. You were kneeling on the cold stone floor in nothing but your shift, surrounded by scattered beads and torn silk and the ashes of the only thing that had made you feel like yourself in weeks. And you had never felt so small in your entire life. You had never felt so alone.
And then he was there.
He knelt in front of you. His hands found your face, cupping your cheeks, tilting your head up so that you had to look at him. His expression had changed completely. The fury was gone. The cruelty was gone. In their place was something that looked almost like tenderness. Almost like love.
"See?" he said softly. Gently. As if he were comforting a frightened child. "See what you made me do?"
You stared at him through blurry eyes. You could not speak. You could not think.
"I do not want to be like this." His thumbs brushed your tears away, tracing gentle paths across your cheekbones. "I want to be a good husband to you. I want to love you, and cherish you, and protect you. But I cannot do that when you dress like a whore. You make me angry. You push me to do things I do not want to do."
You shook your head. It was a tiny, weak movement, barely perceptible. But he saw it.
"Yes," he said, and his voice was so certain, so utterly convinced of its own righteousness. "It is your fault. If you had worn what I told you to wear, if you had been a good wife, if you had simply obeyed me, none of this would have happened. I would not have had to raise my voice. I would not have had to rip the dress. You made me do this."
"I did not—" Your voice was wrecked, hoarse, barely audible. "I did not make you do anything."
"You did." He stroked your hair now, smoothing it back from your tear-stained face with a gentleness that made your stomach turn. "You know you did. You knew how I felt about those dresses. You knew I did not want you wearing them. And you wore it anyway, in front of everyone, flaunting yourself like a common—" He stopped himself. Took a breath. Softened his voice even further. "You chose to disobey me. And actions have consequences. You understand that, don't you?"
You did not answer. You could not answer. You were trapped in a nightmare, and the monster was stroking your hair and telling you it was all your fault.
"But I forgive you." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, and his lips were warm and dry, and you wanted to scrub the feeling of them off your skin. "I will always forgive you. Because I love you. Do you understand that? Everything I do, I do because I love you. If I did not love you, I would not care what you wore. I would not care who looked at you. But I do love you. I love you so much it drives me mad. And that is why I get angry. That is why I cannot control myself sometimes. Because I love you, and I cannot bear to see you make yourself look like a whore."
You were shaking your head again, but you did not know what you were denying. The words coming out of his mouth? The gentleness of his touch? The horrible, impossible reality of everything that had just happened?
"Say you are sorry," he said.
"I—"
"Say it." His grip on your chin tightened, just a fraction. Just enough to remind you that he was still in control. "Say you are sorry for what you did."
You were sorry. You were so sorry. You were sorry you had worn the dress. You were sorry you had opened the crate. You were sorry you had been happy, even for a moment. You were sorry you had ever come to Oldtown, ever said yes to his courtship, ever believed him when he looked at you with hunger in his eyes and told you it was love.
"I am sorry," you whispered.
The words tasted like ash.
"Good girl." He kissed your forehead again. "Good girl. I forgive you."
He pulled you into his arms. He held you against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head, and you could feel his heartbeat. Steady. Calm. Satisfied.
"See?" he murmured into your hair. "It is over now. It is over. I love you. I love you so much."
You could smell the smoke from the fireplace. The ashes of your dress. The death of the girl you used to be.
"I will always take care of you," he said. "I will always forgive you. But you have to learn. You have to be better. You have to be the wife I need you to be. Do you understand?"
You nodded against his chest. You did not know what else to do.
"Say it."
"I understand." Your voice did not sound like your own. It was hollow. Empty. A shell of the voice that had laughed in the dragonpit this morning.
"Good girl." He stroked your hair. "Good girl. We are going to be happy together. I promise you. We are going to be so happy."
He held you there, in front of the dying fire where your dress was ash, and you cried into his chest until you had no tears left and when he finally pulled back and tilted your face up to look at him, you let him see the tears drying on your cheeks and the emptiness in your eyes, and you did not flinch when he smiled.
"There," he said. "That is better. That is my good, obedient wife."
He kissed you. Softly. Tenderly. The kiss of a lover, not a monster.
And you did not pull away.
Because you were learning. You were learning to be the wife he needed you to be. You were learning to smile when you wanted to scream, to nod when you wanted to fight, to say "I love you" when what you really meant was "I am afraid of you."
It was easier than admitting that you had made the worst mistake of your life, and you did not know how to undo it.
Your husband forgets your second anniversary. What starts as disappointment and heartbreak soon spirals into doubt- about your love, your marriage & whether he even sees you anymore. But when Jungkook realizes his mistake, he’s willing to do anything to prove that his love has never wavered..
Pairing - CeoHusband!Jungkook x Wife!Reader
Genre - 18+, established relationship au, angst, fluff, smut, some more angst MDNI
ONESHOT - 11k words
Warnings - angsty ride, hurt/comfort, workaholic Jungkook, miscommunication, crying, deep emotional intimacy, slow build, Jungkook is an idiot but trust me he's sweet alright😭, Explicit smut- unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), soft dom Jk, nipple play, lots of kissing, love-making, creampie, pet names <3, praises, happy ending (sad ending's not in my veins🫸)
a/n- snsjkqkw It's my first fic (well more like I've taken the courage to actually post it)🥹 do let me know your thoughts on it <3 n consider a reblog if you like it, thank you for reading! 🫶
The soft glow of the overhead light casts long shadows across the dining room, but its warmth does nothing to chase away the cold emptiness creeping into your chest.
You sit in one of the dining chairs, fingers idly tracing the gold band on your ring finger, the once-familiar weight of it.. feeling heavier than ever. The house is silent, except for the distant hum of the city beyond the huge windows.
Jungkook is late. Again.
You’ve lost count of how many nights have passed like this, curled up alone in bed, the space beside you growing colder with each passing hour.
He always has a reason. A meeting that ran overtime, a last-minute project, something urgent that demands his attention more than you do. And you’ve always understood. Until now.
Your second anniversary is just around the corner, and for the first time in weeks, you have something to look forward to. Something that, surely, he wouldn’t forget.
You let out a slow breath, staring at the untouched dinner on the table. It’s the third time this week you’ve set two plates, only to eat alone. The food has long gone cold, but you still can’t bring yourself to clear it away. Some foolish, desperate part of you still hopes Jungkook will walk through the door, pulling you into his arms, murmuring apologies against your skin.
But the door stays closed. Your phone stays silent.
You check the time—almost midnight.
He used to call. Even when he was busy, he always found a way to let you know he was thinking about you. A quick text. A voice note. Something. Now, hours pass without a word, and you’re left wondering when exactly you started feeling like a ghost in your own marriage.
You clench your fists, blinking back the sting in your eyes. This isn’t you. You don’t doubt him. You don’t overthink things. But these days, love feels a lot like waiting, and waiting feels a lot like breaking.
And you’re so damn tired of breaking.
You close your eyes, trying to remember the Jungkook from before, before work took over, before the distance set in. The man who, despite his quiet nature, always found a way to make you feel cherished. He wasn’t one for grand speeches, but his words had always carried weight. Small, simple confessions once meant everything. Now silence is all you get.
It wasn’t always easy with Jungkook. Back in college, he was cold, reserved, a storm you could never quite predict. But little by little, he let you in. His love had been careful, deliberate, whispered promises in the dark, stolen glances across crowded rooms, fingertips brushing against yours like a secret only the two of you understood.
And now, it feels like you’re losing him.
The thought sends a sharp ache through your chest. You tell yourself it’s just work, that the weight of being CEO is heavier than either of you expected. That he still loves you, even if he doesn’t say it as often.
But love isn’t supposed to feel like this.
The clock hits midnight.
You don’t know what you were expecting. A text? A call? Maybe the sound of the front door unlocking, Jungkook stepping in, exhausted but still managing to hold you close?
But there’s nothing.
Your throat tightens as you stare at the small cake sitting on the dining table, the frosting slightly uneven, the decorations a little clumsy. You were never a good cook. Jungkook knew that better than anyone. But in the early days of your marriage, you had tried. Because back then, cooking together had been something special. Flour-dusted fingertips, shared laughter over burnt pancakes, stolen kisses between stirring batter.
So tonight, with him too busy and too stressed, you thought a quiet, cozy celebration would be enough. Something small, something just for the two of you.
But now, looking at the untouched dinner, the unlit candle, and the cake that no longer seems worth eating, you realize how foolish that hope was.
You glance at your phone- no messages or any missed calls.
You put away the plates. You put the cake in the fridge, even though you know it’ll probably stay there, forgotten.
And then you crawl into bed alone, wrapping your arms around yourself because if Jungkook won’t hold you, who else will?
----
You stir, feeling the warmth of an arm lazily draped around your stomach. The weight is familiar, and for a moment it feels like everything is okay.
Jungkook is still asleep. Shirtless, his toned chest rises and falls in steady breaths, his face soft in the morning light. His lips parted just slightly, making him look so much younger, so much more at peace.
You take your time looking at him, memorizing the exhaustion on his face, the faint crease between his brows even in sleep. He must’ve come home late—so late that you hadn’t even heard him.
Still, he’s here. Beside you. And that alone is enough to make something flicker in your chest.
Maybe he’s planned to stay home today.
Of course he remembers.
You can’t help but lean in, pressing a soft, loving kiss against his cheek. His skin is warm beneath your lips, and for a fleeting moment, everything feels like it used to.
Jungkook mumbles something incoherent, his brows knitting slightly before relaxing again. A small, sleepy noise escapes him, and the sound makes you giggle softly.
He stirs, his grip on your waist tightening just a little before his lashes flutter open. His dark eyes, still hazy with sleep, land on you, and for a second, there’s nothing but quiet warmth in them.
"You're up early," he murmurs, his voice thick with drowsiness. His thumb absentmindedly brushes over your waist, a touch so familiar yet so foreign all at once.
You smile, brushing a few strands of hair from his forehead. "Couldn't sleep much," you admit softly.
Jungkook hums in response, his eyes falling shut again for a moment. He nuzzles into the pillow, his grip on you still firm like he has no intention of letting you go. And for a brief, fragile second, the weight of last night, of the distance, of everything, seems to disappear.
Maybe he really did plan to stay home today. Maybe this morning means something.
Your heart clenches with the smallest trace of hope.
Jungkook lets out a long breath and shifts onto his back, stretching his arms above his head before blindly reaching for his phone on the nightstand. His warmth leaves your side, the air turning cold almost instantly.
You watch as his expression shifts, sleep slipping away as his screen lights up. His brows furrow, jaw tightening ever so slightly.
He mutters without a glance in your direction. "Shit, I need to get to the office."
The hope you held onto so desperately.. is gone.
Your mind scrambles to catch up.
Maybe he's kidding. This is definitely just one of his teasing games where he acts all nonchalant just to catch you off guard later. That’s how it used to be. Him pretending to forget something important, only to turn around and surprise you in a way that left you breathless.
You wait.
You wait for the smirk to tug at his lips, for him to toss his phone aside and pull you into his arms. You wait for him to kiss you insane, to murmur a husky "Happy anniversary, baby," against your skin.
You wait for him to prove you wrong.
But he doesn't.
Jungkook swings his legs over the bed, rubbing a hand down his face before standing up—grabs a fresh shirt from the dresser, checks his notifications again, already half-immersed in whatever work emergency is pulling him away.
The realization settles in too suffocating for you. He’s not playing or pretending. He really forgot.
And with that, the last flicker of hope inside you dies.
----
The sound of the bathroom door clicking shut barely registers in your mind. The faint rush of water follows soon after, but you’re still frozen in place, staring at the empty space where Jungkook was just moments ago.
Your fingers grip the sheets as you try to process it, try to make sense of the ache settling deep in your chest.
He forgot.
The thought circles endlessly, refusing to fade. It should be simple, just a mistake, something easily fixed with an apology. But it doesn’t feel simple. It feels like another crack in something that’s already been fragile for weeks.
Your gaze drifts to your phone, the screen lighting up with messages from friends and family. Warm wishes, sweet texts. All reminders of the day that Jungkook should have been the first to acknowledge. And of course, they must have messaged him too.
But you know the answer before you even have to question it. Jungkook has two phones—one for work, one for personal use. And these days, his personal phone sits untouched, collecting dust somewhere in the house while his work phone never leaves his side.
Your throat tightens.
Even if someone did remind him, would he have even seen it? Would it have even mattered?
You swallow hard, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes.
Maybe you should say something. maybe try reminding him.
But a part of you, one that you don’t want to acknowledge—wonders if it even matters anymore.
You push yourself up from the bed, the weight in your chest making it harder than it should be. You don’t want to sit here, waiting for him to remember, waiting for an apology that might never come.
Just as you step toward the bathroom, the shower turns off. The door opens a moment later, as Jungkook steps out, towel slung low around his waist, droplets of water trailing down his toned chest.
For a brief second, your eyes meet. He looks at you, blinking away the last remnants of sleep, his expression unreadable. There’s no sign of realization, no flicker of guilt or hesitation. Just the same tired, distracted gaze you’ve been seeing for weeks.
You say nothing. Instead, you walk past him, entering the washroom to go about your usual routine. brushing your teeth, washing your face, anything to avoid the tightness in your throat.
The sound of the sink running is the only thing filling the silence between you.
By the time you step out of the washroom, Jungkook is already dressed for work. His tie is slightly loosened, one hand adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves while the other holds his ever-present work phone. He looks like he’s in a hurry, but that isn’t surprising. He’s been having breakfast at the office for weeks now—always rushing out, always too busy.
Still, you can’t grasp that he’s actually forgotten.
Some part of you still expects him to pause, to turn around and say something. But he doesn’t. He’s focused on his screen, scanning through emails like today is just another ordinary morning.
Your chest tightens. You need to look away before the emotions creeping up inside you spill over.
You settle at the table, opening your laptop like it’s just another workday. Since you’ve been working from home for the past couple of months, this isn’t unusual—but today, it’s not about work. It’s about avoiding him. About keeping your head down so he doesn’t see the way your hands tremble slightly.
If you act normal, maybe it’ll hurt less.
Maybe you won’t break in front of him.
And maybe, just maybe, if you pretend hard enough, you can fool yourself into believing it doesn’t hurt at all.
“Baby, can you help me with the tie?”
His voice is smooth- like every other morning before this one. Like today isn’t supposed to mean more.
You hesitate for half a second before standing up, walking towards him. Your fingers move automatically, looping the fabric, tightening the knot, straightening it against his crisp shirt. You should pull away the moment you’re done, return to your seat, to your laptop, to pretending like everything is fine.
But just as you step back, Jungkook’s hand catches your wrist.
Before you can react, he tugs you closer, his warmth enveloping you as his large hand cups the side of your face, fingers splayed against your skin. His touch is tender, his thumb tracing slow circles against your cheek, his dark eyes holding yours for a beat too long.
His mouth find yours.
Warm & lingering. He kisses you like he actually means it.
“Need it for good luck,” he mumbles lovingly against your lips.
You blink up at him.
Jungkook pulls back slightly, offering a small smile. “Big deal with the Kims today.”
And just like that, reality crashes back in.
Your mind struggles to process, to understand how he can be like this. How can he kiss you like this and still not remember.
His mind is somewhere else. His thoughts, his focus—none of it is here. None of it is with you.
You force a smile, nodding wordlessly. Because what else is there to say?
----
You stay where you are, settled on the couch with your laptop open, pretending that your heart isn’t sitting heavy in your chest, while Jungkook moves around gathering his wallet and keys.
Just as he’s about to leave, he steps toward you, bending down to press a quick kiss to your forehead.
“Love you,” he murmurs.
He’s already halfway through the living room before you even get a word out.
A bitter chuckle escapes your lips before you can stop it.
You remember a time when things were different. When he used to whine, pout, and nudge you relentlessly if you didn’t say it back right away, just to tease him.
Flashback
The movie playing in the background had long been forgotten, the dialogue drowned out by the soft moans slipping from your lips. The purple neon glow cast dreamy hues across the living room, painting Jungkook’s skin in shades of violet as he moved above you.
His fingers laced tightly with yours, grip tightening slightly as his thrusts grew more desperate.
“J-Jungkook…” you moaned softly, nails digging into his hand.
He groaned against your neck, his breath hot, voice wrecked. “Fuck, baby…”
Your body arched beneath him, pleasure building to something uncontrollable. “I—I’m gonna—”
“Come for me, baby,” he urged, sending you tumbling over the edge.
You both unraveled together, gasping, shaking, holding onto each other like the world outside didn’t exist.
Jungkook pressed lazy, loving kisses all over your face, his lips brushing over your cheeks, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. “You alright?” he whispered.
You nodded, a sleepy, satisfied smile tugging at your lips. But then he just stared at you. A little too long.
"I love you.” The words came out barely above a whisper.
Your eyes widened slightly, a playful grin tugging at the corner of your lips as you bit down on them, trying to contain your smile. He’d been saying it more often lately, slowly getting used to voicing what he felt.
But when you took a second too long to respond, he groaned dramatically, dropping his head into the crook of your neck like a kicked puppy.
“Say it back,” he grumbled.
“What?” you teased, laughing.
Jungkook huffed, then playfully bit down on your shoulder, just enough to make you squeal.
“Say it,” he demanded, his voice muffled against your skin.
Still giggling, you cupped his face and pressed a soft kiss to his nose. “I love you, you big baby.”
His grin was instant, arms wrapping around you as he pulled you even closer, like he could never get enough.
End of Flashback
Now, he just says it in passing. quick, thoughtless, already moving on.
The front door clicks shut, and just like that, Jungkook is gone.
You sit there, fingers motionless on your laptop’s keyboard as the weight of what just happened settles deep in your chest. He forgot. He kissed you, held you, told you he loved you, but none of it was because he remembered.
Is this what your relationship has become?
Work, work, work. Always work.
It’s not that you expect Jungkook to run behind you all the time, to ditch his responsibilities just to shower you with affection. Hell, you supported him through everything- through college, through late nights chasing his dreams, through every stressful moment leading up to him becoming CEO. You believed in him.
But what about your love? Your marriage? Communication?
You’ve been patient. Too patient. more understanding than any normal wife would be. And you know Jungkook. You know he loves you, would bring you the whole damn world if you asked. But then why—why are you beginning to question it all?
Jungkook stepped into the CEO position a few months ago. At first, things were fine. He handled it well, still made time for you. But then… everything became about work. Slowly, then all at once.
You can’t even remember the last time you had truly loving sex. Not that Jungkook doesn’t love you but it doesn’t feel the same anymore. There’s tension in his touch, frustration in the way he moves against you. It’s not the warmth, the desperation to be close to you like it used to be.
Is this how life is going to be from now on?
Sure, you could talk to Jungkook about your feelings. Tell him that the distance is starting to feel unbearable.
But when?
When he’s always checking his phone? When he barely even looks at you in the mornings? When you feel like you’re living with the CEO rather than your husband?
Well, happy anniversary to you.
----
Your gaze drops to your hand, to the delicate band wrapped around your finger.
Your wedding ring.
For the first time in a long time, you really look at it- tracing the intricate details, the subtle shimmer in the morning light. And suddenly, it feels… heavier. Like you’re only noticing the weight of it now, as if it’s trying to remind you of everything it once meant.
Before you even realize what you’re doing, your fingers slip beneath the band, sliding it off. It’s only when the cool air brushes against your bare skin that it hits you.
Your breath catches, eyes widening at the sight of the ring resting in your palm. You hadn’t even thought about it—you just did it. And now, staring at the small, beautiful piece of jewelry, something inside you cracks. Tears gather before you can stop them.
Jungkook had spent weeks searching for this ring. Dragged you to countless jewelry stores, analyzing every cut, every design, obsessed with finding the perfect one. And no matter how many times you had told him that anything would make you happy, he had refused to settle for less.
"It has to be special," he had murmured against your temple the day he finally found it, slipping it onto your finger with the softest smile. "Because you’re special."
A broken sob escapes your throat as you clutch the ring tightly in your palm.
How did you end up here?
----
Jungkook leans back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he watches the final contract details appear on his screen. The deal with the Kims had gone smoothly, better than expected, actually. It should’ve been a moment of satisfaction, of relief.
Instead, he just drowns himself in more work.
The hours blur together, his coffee going cold beside him as he moves from one task to another. Another meeting. Another report. Another email. The same routine, the same cycle.
It’s later than evening when a familiar voice interrupts his space.
“So you’re really here.”
Jungkook glances up, his fingers still typing as Taehyung steps into his cabin, arms crossed and a deep frown on his face.
“Hey, hyung,” Jungkook greets, barely looking away from his screen.
Taehyung scoffs, shaking his head playfully. “I really didn’t believe it when Yuna said you were still in your cabin.”
“Why?”
Taehyung gives him a look like he’s the biggest idiot in the world. “Y/N must really love you to let you work even today. My wife—dude, she would’ve killed me.”
Jungkook hums absentmindedly. “Mmm.”
Taehyung clicks his tongue, watching him for a second before letting out a chuckle. “Anyways, you’re still an asshole for working on your anniversary.”
Jungkook’s fingers freeze over the keyboard. The realization crashes into him all at once, like ice spreading through his veins.
Fuck.
Jungkook’s fingers hover motionless over the keyboard.
His mind races to catch up with Taehyung’s words, but they don’t make sense. Not right away.
Anniversary?
No, that can’t be right. His brows furrow slightly as he glances at the date on his laptop screen.
November 22.
His wedding anniversary.
For a second, he just stares, as if the numbers might shift into something else, something that doesn’t prove what an absolute idiot he’s been. His heartbeat picks up, but his body doesn’t move. It’s like his brain refuses to register it fully, like if he doesn’t react, it won’t be real.
He’d forgotten.
Completely.
Just an entire day of emails, meetings, and a deal he had been so damn focused on that he hadn’t even spared a single thought for you.
His wife.
But—no, that can’t be right. He would’ve remembered. He should’ve remembered.
His jaw tightens, his mind scrambling for some excuse, some reason. anything to justify how this happened. But no matter how many ways he tries to twist it, the truth doesn’t change.
You had expected something. Of course you had. And Jungkook had given you nothing.
Taehyung’s voice barely registers now, his casual teasing just background noise to the way Jungkook’s pulse is starting to hammer against his ribs.
His wife. His love. His anniversary.
And he had let it pass him by like it was just another day.
How the fuck is he supposed to fix this?
Taehyung squints at Jungkook, waiting for some kind of reaction. When Jungkook stays quiet, his fingers frozen over the keyboard, Taehyung lets out a sharp laugh.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” He leans forward, palms flat on Jungkook’s desk. “You just realized, didn’t you?”
Jungkook inhales deeply through his nose, his jaw tightening. “Hyung, not now.”
“Oh, no. Especially now,” Taehyung shoots back, shaking his head. “Damn, man. Y/N must really love you to put up with this shit.”
Jungkook doesn’t reply, his mind already spiraling. He checks the time—late. The entire day is gone. He’s spent hours sitting here, drowning himself in work while you—
Fuck.
He pushes his chair back abruptly, grabbing his phone and shoving it into his pocket. His coat is next, yanked from the back of his chair as he moves on instinct.
“Whoa, whoa.” Taehyung raises an eyebrow. “So now you care?”
Jungkook levels him with a glare. “Hyung.”
Taehyung lifts his hands in surrender, though his smirk lingers. “Go. Try not to get divorced on your second anniversary.”
Jungkook doesn’t wait for another word. He’s already out the door, moving faster than he has all day.
And for the first time today, work is the last thing on his mind.
----
Jungkook’s mind races as he grips the steering wheel, his fingers tightening with every passing second. The city lights blur past, but all he can focus on is the suffocating weight in his chest.
How the fuck did he forget?
His phone vibrates in the passenger seat- probably another work email but for the first time in months, he ignores it. Instead, he swipes through his contacts, pressing the first name that comes to mind.
“Pick up, pick up,” he mutters, jaw clenched as the dial tone rings.
“Yes, Mr.Jeon?”
“Yuna.” His voice is rushed, urgent. “I need you to get me something. Flowers. A gift. Something big—just—fuck, anything.”
A pause. “Sir?”
“Now,” he snaps.
There’s a shuffle on the other end before his assistant hesitantly speaks again. “I…Mr.Jeon, it’s almost 10 p.m. Most places are closed.”
Jungkook exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. Of course they are. Because he’s too fucking late.
His grip tightens around the wheel. “Just—check. Call whoever. I’ll pay whatever.”
“Understood,” Yuna replies before hanging up.
What the fuck is he even doing?
No expensive gift, no overpriced bouquet, no last-minute grand gesture can erase the fact that he forgot. That he spent an entire day drowning in work while you—his wife, his love, the woman who has stood by him through everything—sat at home, waiting for him to remember.
His hands clench the wheel.
How much had he missed? How much had he ignored?
And the worst part—the part that makes his pulse spike, that has panic clawing at his ribs is the question he doesn’t have an answer to.
What if you’re done waiting?
Jungkook slams his foot down on the gas.
He’s not losing you. He won’t.
----
Jungkook steps into the house, and immediately, something feels off. The air is still. The silence stretches, suffocating, pressing against his chest. Almost all the lights are off, the space eerily empty, like no one has been here for hours.
His throat dries. “Baby?”
No answer.
He frowns, dropping his keys onto the counter with a sharp clink. His feet move quickly, checking the kitchen, the living room, even the hallway leading to the bedroom. nothing.
A weird feeling starts creeping up his spine. His heart beats faster as he strides toward the bedroom door, only to find the bed untouched, the sheets exactly the way he had left them this morning.
You’re not here.
His pulse spikes, a cold sweat forming at the base of his neck. His hands tremble as he yanks his phone out, immediately dialing your number.
One ring.
Two rings.
Three.
Straight to voicemail.
His stomach drops. A shaky breath escapes him as he stares at his screen, the call log mocking him with the lack of response. His fingers tighten around the device, his mind spiraling.
Where are you? At this time of night, alone- where could you have gone?
The walls feel like they’re closing in on him. His lungs strain for air.
Then, another thought claws its way in, violent and unwelcome.
Did you leave?
No. No. His chest tightens, his breath coming faster now. That’s not—that’s not possible. You wouldn’t just leave him. You wouldn’t—
He swallows hard, shaking his head. Don’t go there, Jungkook. Don’t even fucking go there.
But the panic is already curling around his ribs, suffocating, unrelenting.
You’re not here. And right now, that is the worst fucking thing in the world.
Jungkook’s fingers tremble as he redials your number.
Voicemail. Again.
“Fuck.” His breath comes out uneven, panic clawing at his throat. His hands are clammy, his chest tightening with every passing second. Where are you?
His mind is spiraling now, every worst-case scenario flashing through his head. His jaw clenches as he swipes to his contact list calling your friends.
Each time, the same response.
No, I haven’t seen her.
Did you check with—
Wait, what’s going on?
Jungkook grits his teeth, his hand tightening into a fist. His breathing is shallow, his pulse out of control. You weren’t with your friends. You weren’t picking up. You weren’t home.
And he still had no idea where you were.
Jungkook grabs his car keys with shaky hands, his mind racing. He doesn’t know where to go, doesn’t have a plan. All he knows is that he has to find you.
His feet move on instinct, carrying him toward the door. But just as he reaches for the handle, something catches his eye.
A small glint.
His breath stills. His gaze shifts toward the couch, and that’s when he sees it.
Your wedding ring.
Sitting there. Abandoned.
For a moment, everything stops. The pounding in his chest, the rush of his movements. Everything.
The air in the room feels so heavy he might collapse. His fingers twitch at his sides as he stares at the delicate band, his stomach twisting into something painful.
You never took it off. Never.
Jungkook swallows, his throat suddenly dry. He steps forward almost cautiously, like touching it will somehow make this nightmare real.
His hand trembles as he picks it up, the cool metal pressing into his palm..
Jungkook stares at the ring in his palm, his vision blurring as a lump lodges itself in his throat. Tears burn at the corners of his eyes, his chest tightening painfully.
You wouldn’t just leave him like that… would you?
The thought alone knocks the air from his lungs. His grip on the ring tightens as his mind spirals, drowning in questions that only make the ache worse.
Were you thinking about this before today?
How long have you been feeling like this, so alone, so unloved that taking off your ring even crossed your mind?
A sharp breath escapes him, shaky and uneven. His knees buckle, and before he can stop himself, he’s sinking onto the floor, the weight of everything crashing down at once.
The ring feels heavier than it should, pressing into his palm like a cruel reminder of everything he’s neglected, everything he’s taken for granted. He squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling a slow, trembling breath.
He needs to find you. He needs to fix this.
Before it’s too late.
Jungkook exhales shakily, forcing himself to move. His legs feel unsteady, but he pushes through, gripping the wedding ring so tightly it bites into his skin.
Somehow, he manages to stand, his entire body tense with desperation. He stumbles toward the door, his heart pounding, his mind racing with every possibility of where you could be.
But just as his fingers reach for the handle—
The door swings open.
And there you are.
Jungkook freezes, his breath catching in his throat. His entire world narrows to the sight of you standing in front of him.
He crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly it nearly knocks the air from your lungs. His grip is desperate, his hands fisting into your clothes, his entire body pressing against yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
You stand there, stunned, your own arms hovering slightly, unsure of what just happened.
"…Jungkook?” your voice comes out confused.
But he just clings to you, burying his face into your neck, his breath warm and uneven against your skin.
You don’t know what’s going on.
But Jungkook?
He feels like he just got his heart beating again. You feel the way his body trembles against yours, his grip impossibly tight, like he’s holding onto you for dear life.
Then, the sound reaches you. A broken, uneven breath, followed by the unmistakable hitch of a sob.
Your heart clenches. “Kook…” Your voice is soft, laced with worry as you try to pull back, just enough to see his face. But he doesn’t let you. His arms only tighten, his body curling into yours, as if letting go would physically hurt him.
Panic bubbles in your chest, your hands instinctively reaching up to cradle his face, your fingers threading into his hair. “Hey… what happened?” Your voice wavers slightly. “Are you okay? You’re scaring me.”
But Jungkook just shakes his head against your shoulder, another shaky breath leaving him.
You don’t understand.
But whatever this is, whatever’s breaking him like this—your own heart aches just watching him fall apart. Your concern deepens with every shaky breath that leaves Jungkook. He’s still clinging to you, his body trembling slightly, his face buried against your shoulder like he’s afraid to let go.
You don’t know what’s wrong, but seeing him like this—Jungkook, your Jungkook—completely unraveling, is enough to make panic rise in your chest.
Gently, you pull back, your hands cupping his face. His skin is warm, slightly damp from his tears, and when his glassy eyes finally meet yours, your stomach twists painfully.
“Come inside,” you whisper, your voice softer now, coaxing. “Please.”
He swallows thickly, nodding ever so slightly, but his grip on you doesn’t fully loosen. You guide him inside anyway, one hand wrapped around his wrist as you lead him toward the couch.
He sits down heavily, elbows resting on his knees, fingers threading through his hair as he exhales shakily. His shoulders are still tense, his whole body radiating something raw and unspoken.
You kneel in front of him, reaching for his hands, but he doesn’t lift his head.
Your worry deepens. “Jungkook… please tell me what’s wrong.” suffocating silence stretches between you. His fingers twitch against his temples, his breath uneven.
“I—” His speaks as his voice cracks slightly. He swallows hard, gripping his knees. “I thought you left me.”
It takes you a moment to fully process the words he let out.
He thought you left him?
Your brows furrow slightly as you shake your head. “Jungkook, I was babysitting Hanuel.”
His eyes flick up to meet yours, searching.
“Hana and Seokjin had a date night,” you explain gently. “They asked me to watch him for a few hours.”
Hanuel, your neighbour's son. Jungkook stares at you as his mind hasn’t caught up yet. You watch as his lips part slightly, his gaze flickering between you and the ring still clutched in his hand.
His fingers tighten around it, his knuckles paling. A beat of silence passes before he swallows thickly, his voice barely above a whisper.
“…then why was this on the couch?”
The question hangs heavy in the air, fragile and uncertain, as if he’s afraid of the answer. And for the first time tonight, you don’t know what to say.
“I..” The word barely escapes your lips before you stand up, turning away from him. You can’t meet his eyes, not when your emotions are still raw, not when the weight of everything is pressing so heavily on your chest.
Jungkook notices immediately. Panic flickers across his face, and in an instant, he’s scrambling up after you. “Wait—baby, please.” His voice is desperate now, thick with emotion, his hands reaching out like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, stepping closer, his tone cracking under the weight of his own guilt. “I—fuck, I forgot—I don’t know how, I don’t even have an excuse, but—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head, his eyes glassy as they plead with yours.
“I never meant to make you feel like this,” he whispers. “I swear, I didn’t.” But you still don’t look at him. And that alone is enough to make his heart sink.
You swallow hard, your arms wrapping around yourself as you stare at the floor. His words, his desperation, his guilt—they all swirl around you, but they don’t erase the ache in your chest.
“Do you even realize how much this hurt?” Your voice is quiet, but the weight of it makes Jungkook flinch. “I spent the entire day thinking—hoping—that maybe you had something planned. That maybe you were just pretending to forget.”
Jungkook’s throat bobs as he steps closer, hesitating before reaching for your hand. You don’t pull away, but you don’t hold onto him either.
“I know,” he whispers. “I know I fucked up, baby. I—I was so caught up in work, I just…” He trails off, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “That’s not an excuse. Nothing is. I should’ve remembered. I should’ve been there.”
You let out a hollow laugh, finally lifting your gaze to meet his. “Jungkook… this isn’t just about today.”
His brows furrow, but he doesn’t interrupt.
You take a shaky breath. “It’s been weeks..maybe even longer—since I felt like your wife instead of just… someone waiting for you to come home.” Your voice wavers, but you push through. “And it’s not that I don’t understand. I do. I’ve always understood. But at what point do I stop being understanding and start being invisible to you?”
Jungkook’s breath catches, his grip on your hand tightening like he’s afraid to let go. “You’re not invisible,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “You never could be.”
“Then why do I feel like I am?”
Silence.
Jungkook shakes his head, his jaw clenching as he exhales unsteadily. “I never wanted to make you feel this way,” he murmurs. “You are everything to me, baby. Everything. I don’t even know who I am without you.”
Your eyes sting, but you force yourself to hold his gaze. “Then show me, Jungkook. Because I can’t keep being the only one fighting for us.” The vulnerability in your voice nearly breaks him.
He’s been losing you, piece by piece, for a while now. And he hadn’t even noticed.
Jungkook feels his stomach drop, the weight of your words hitting harder than any argument, any fight you could have thrown at him. His grip on your hand tightens, but you don’t squeeze back.
He’s losing you.
And it’s not because of one forgotten anniversary—it’s because he hasn’t been here.
He swallows hard. “Baby…” His voice cracks, his free hand reaching up to cup your cheek, but you step back before he can touch you.
The distance, however small, is enough to make his chest ache.
“Tell me, Jungkook,” you whisper, your voice barely holding together. “When was the last time we sat down and had breakfast together? When was the last time you really looked at me—not just kissed me on the forehead before rushing out of the door?” You shake your head, a bitter chuckle escaping. “When was the last time we made love without it feeling like you were trying to release your stress instead of loving me?”
Jungkook’s breath hitches.
You let out a slow exhale, your voice calmer now but even heavier with hurt. “I don’t need grand gestures. I don’t need fancy gifts or a picture-perfect romance. I just… needed you to see me.”
His entire body feels cold. Because the truth is—he doesn’t have an answer.
He’s been so caught up in his responsibilities, his work, his stress, that he’s let the one person who has always been there for him slip through his fingers.
“Fuck.” His voice is raw, his hands running through his hair as he looks at you, really looks at you. At the exhaustion in your eyes, the way your lips tremble slightly like you’re holding back everything.
His heart clenches painfully. “I fucked up, didn’t I?”
You hold his gaze for a long moment before whispering, “I don’t know, Jungkook. Did you?”
Jungkook's heart hammers too quickly as he stares at you, at the distance between you, the weight of your words suffocating him.
His hands reach out- cupping your face, his touch desperate, almost shaky. His forehead presses against yours as he exhales a trembling breath, like he’s trying to hold himself together.
“I see you,” he whispers, his voice raw, strained. “I swear to god, I see you, baby. I just..I lost myself somewhere along the way, and I didn’t even realize I was dragging us down with me.”
His thumbs brush over your cheekbones, a silent plea laced in his touch. “I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you.”
Your heart clenches, but you don’t push him away. You should- you should make him sit with this, make him feel what it’s been like for you all this time. But then his grip tightens, his voice breaking.
“Please, baby.” His lips hover just above yours, not quite touching, his breath warm against your skin. “Tell me it’s not too late.”
His vulnerability shakes you to your core.
You close your eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to steady yourself. “I don’t want to lose us either, Jungkook,” you whisper. “But I can’t keep being the only one holding on.”
Jungkook shakes his head instantly. “You’re not. You won’t be.” His lips ghost over your forehead before he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “Let me prove it to you. Please.”
His desperation is tangible, seeping into every word, every touch. And for the first time tonight, you wonder if maybe, just maybe—he really does see you now.
Jungkook watches you, searching for something—anything in your eyes that tells him he hasn’t completely lost you.
Before doubt can settle in, he takes your hand, pressing it over his chest, right where his heart is hammering wildly. “Feel that?” he whispers. “That’s what you do to me, baby. Always.”
Your fingers twitch against his shirt, but you don’t pull away. You don’t move at all, just staring up at him, your expression unreadable.
He swallows hard. “I know I don’t say it enough. I know I don’t show it enough, but fuck, Y/n—” His hands tighten around yours, his voice barely above a breath. “There is nothing in this world that matters more to me than you.”
You let out a slow exhale, your gaze flickering, like you want to believe him. like a part of you does, but the hurt is still too fresh. So he gives you more.
“I’ll fix this,” he promises, his thumb brushing soft circles over your wrist. “Not with some last-minute bullshit—but with me. With us.”
His voice drops lower, thick with emotion. “Just tell me it’s not too late.” Your lips part slightly, but you don’t speak. Instead, you finally—finally press your palm flat against his chest, feeling the way his heart beats erratically beneath your touch.
It’s enough to break something inside Jungkook. His grip tightens as he leans in, his lips brushing against your temple, hesitantly then to your cheek—as if he’s still afraid you’ll slip away.
And when you don’t, when you let him, he exhales a shaky breath, his forehead resting against yours once more.
“I love you,” he whispers. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
Like if he says it enough, he can make up for all the times he didn’t. And maybe, just maybe—you’ll believe him again.
Jungkook’s breath is warm against your skin, his forehead still pressed against yours, his grip on you unwavering. His words linger in the air between you. raw, desperate, filled with a love that had always been there, even when he’d failed to show it.
You swallow hard, blinking against the tears clouding your vision. He’s waiting—watching you so intently, so hopelessly, as if your next words will either put him back together or completely shatter him.
You take a shaky breath. “Jungkook…” Your voice wavers, and his grip tightens instinctively. “I love you too.”
A sharp exhale leaves him, his entire body sinking slightly in relief. But before he can say anything, you continue. “But this hurt,” you whisper. “More than you realize.”
Jungkook stiffens, nodding quickly, his hands cupping your face again, his thumbs brushing away the tears that slip down your cheeks. “I know, baby. I know. And I hate myself for it.” His voice cracks, his jaw clenching before he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead.
You let your eyes flutter shut for a second, exhaling slowly. “I don’t want promises, Jungkook,” you murmur. “I just… I need to feel like I matter to you again.”
His hands tremble slightly as they slide down, wrapping around yours. He lifts them to his lips, pressing gentle, reverent kisses to each of your knuckles, his dark eyes never leaving yours.
“You do,” he whispers. “More than anything. And I’m going to spend every damn day proving that to you.” His voice comes out steady with a determined love.
and this time you don’t just hear him but believe him too. even if a little.
Jungkook presses another loving kiss against your knuckles. But before he can lose himself completely, you gently murmur, “Have you eaten?”
The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. He shakes his head, gaze still searching yours. “No… I—"
“Go freshen up,” you say softly, stepping back just a little. “We’ll eat together.”
His fingers twitch against yours, hesitating to let go, but eventually, he nods. With one last glance—like he’s making sure you’re really here, he pulls away and heads toward the shower.
While he’s gone, you move to the kitchen, setting out dinner in quiet contemplation. The ache in your chest hasn’t completely faded, but there’s something else now-
a warmth that wasn’t there before.
----
By the time Jungkook emerges, hair damp, dressed in a fresh t-shirt and sweatpants, you’ve already placed the food on the table.
He hesitates for only a second before joining you, sliding into his chair. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice softer now.
You nod, offering a small smile as you take a seat. The conversation is light, effortless. Jungkook fills the silence, stealing glances at you like he’s still memorizing you all over again. And through it all, his hand never leaves yours, his thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles against your skin.
After dinner, he helps with the dishes, working beside you in quiet understanding. The air between you feels lighter, yet still fragile, like something delicate being pieced back together.
Jungkook sets the last dish onto the drying rack, wiping his hands on the towel before turning to you. There’s a soft, almost hopeful look in his eyes, like he’s clinging to this moment.
You step away, hesitating for just a second before opening the refrigerator. Jungkook watches in silence as you carefully pull out the cake, placing on the counter, your fingers grazing the edges of the plate, before finally speaking.
“I…I’d made this.”
The words are quiet, but they hit harder than any raised voice ever could. Jungkook’s entire body stiffening as guilt crashes into him all over again. His eyes flicker to the cake- to the careful details, the effort, the thought you had put into it, for him. And suddenly, it feels like the walls are caving in.
His throat tightens. His fingers curl at his sides. He can’t look at you. He doesn’t deserve to. Tears gather in his eyes, blurring his vision, his heart breaking all over again, not just because he forgot today, but because he had broken you in so many ways without even realizing it.
And that? That’s something he doesn’t know how to forgive himself for.
“Jungkook..”, your voice barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the heavy silence like a knife.
He wants to look at you, wants to say something—anything, but he can’t. His head remains bowed, his hands gripping the edge of the counter, as if holding himself together takes everything in him.
You take a small step forward, the space between you feeling larger than it actually is. His silence is deafening.
“Jungkook,” you say again, a little firmer this time.
His lips part, a shaky breath slipping through, but no words come out. He wants to speak, to apologize again, to tell you how much he loves you, to somehow fix this- but his throat feels tight, his chest heavy.
He doesn’t know if words are enough.
“I… I’m so fucking sorry, baby,” Jungkook chokes out, his voice trembling as he finally speaks. His hands shake at his sides, his eyes still glassy with unshed tears. “I’ve been an asshole—a terrible husband. I don’t even know how to make this right.” His breath stutters, his words spilling out faster now, raw and desperate.
“I wouldn’t even be surprised if you left me,” he continues, shaking his head. “You should’ve. You deserve better. I—I can’t believe I—”
“Jungkook.”
You don’t let him finish.
Instead, you reach up, cupping his face with both hands, your thumbs brushing away the tears that have already begun to fall. His rambling is cut off as you rise onto your toes.
A gentle kiss on his lips.
Soft. Loving.
Tear-streaked and real.
Jungkook exhales shakily against your lips, his whole body melting into yours. His hands find your waist, holding onto you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.
The kiss is slow, there's no urgency. Just you and him, emotions bare. Tears continue to slip down your cheeks, mixing with his, salty and warm, but neither of you pull away. Because in this moment, there’s no need for words.
When you finally pull away, your forehead rests against his, both of you breathing heavily, your tears still wet against each other’s skin. Jungkook’s grip on your waist is firm as if afraid to let go. His lips part to speak, but before he can, you whisper,
“You’re not a terrible husband, Jungkook.”
Jungkook’s eyes glisten with more unshed tears, his lips pressing into a thin line, unable to speak. You wipe his tears away with your thumbs, offering him the smallest smile. “Just… love me better, okay?”
His throat bobs as he swallows hard, nodding again, more determined this time. “I will.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but you believe him.
You press one last gentle kiss to his cheek before stepping back, glancing at the cake still sitting on the counter. “Come on,” you say, nudging him lightly. “Let’s cut this before it melts.”
Jungkook lets out a breathy chuckle, wiping at his face as he nods. He steps beside you, his hand instinctively finding yours again as you both move toward the small cake. The two of you cut into it together, Jungkook’s fingers lacing through yours around the knife handle. He doesn’t let go, even as you both take small bites in comfortable silence.
Once the plates are cleared, you tug at his wrist, nodding toward the bedroom. “Come to bed?”
Jungkook exhales, relief washing over his features as he nods. “Yeah.”
A few minutes later, you’re both under the covers, warmth surrounding you as Jungkook pulls you against his chest. His arms wrap tightly around you, his breath fanning against the top of your head as he whispers,
“I love you.”
This time, you don’t hesitate to say it back.
“I love you too, Jungkook.”
And for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep in his arms, where you’ve always belonged.
Jungkook’s fingers still tremble against your skin. Even as he holds you, his grip is laced with hesitance, a silent fear lingering beneath the warmth of his touch. It’s in the way his hands press into your back yet remain careful, as if he’s afraid of holding on too tightly.
You can feel the erratic thud of his heart beneath your palm, his breaths uneven, his chest rising and falling as if he’s struggling to keep himself steady.
And something about that, about him—makes your own heart ache.
Slowly, you lift your head from his chest, your eyes locking onto his in the dim glow of the room. His lips part slightly, his gaze unreadable, but the moment you lean in, his breath catches.
You kiss him.
It starts soft, so gentle, full of longing. Filled with everything you can’t put into words.
Jungkook melts into it instantly, his grip on you tightening, pulling you impossibly closer. The warmth of his lips, the slight hitch in his breath when you press harder. It sends a familiar heat curling through you.
The kiss deepens, your fingers gripping his t-shirt with urgency, needing to feel more. It’s desperate, heady, the space between you charged with something deeper than just want—something raw, something that had been missing for too long.
Jungkook pulls back gently. His forehead stays pressed against yours, both of you panting softly, but his hands shake slightly as they hold you in place.
His lips part, his breath uneven. “I… we shouldn’t…” He swallows hard, voice thick with hesitation. “I mean… I don’t want you to think I’m gonna fix this with sex.”
His words cut through the haze of warmth between you, pulling you both back in reality. You understand. Because even now—even now, he’s afraid. Afraid that this isn’t enough, that he isn’t enough.
Your eyes soften as you take in his hesitance, the uncertainty in his gaze, the way his breath trembles against your skin.
You reach up, your fingers threading gently through his hair. “I’m never gonna think like that, Kook,” you murmur, your voice quiet but sure.
His lips part slightly, his brows still knitted in concern, but before he can say anything, you lean in again. This time, the kiss is softer, filled with nothing but love.
You linger for a moment, your lips brushing against his as you whisper, “I just… I need you.” Another soft kiss. “Please.”
Jungkook exhales sharply, his entire body shuddering under the weight of your words.
And just like that, whatever hesitation he had left—it’s gone.
Your breaths grow uneven as your lips move against his, the heat between you intensifying with every passing second.
Jungkook shifts, his body hovering over yours, his weight pressing down just enough to make you feel him. His hands slip beneath the oversized t-shirt you’re wearing, his touch still hesitant, fingertips ghosting over your waist like you're nothing less than fragile.
You tug at his shirt, a silent plea, and Jungkook obeys without question, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. Before he can think, you pull him back in, capturing his lips in another deep, hungry kiss.
A quiet groan escapes him, his hands finally exploring freely, pressing against your skin, feeling the warmth beneath his palms. His lips leave yours only to trail down your neck, his breath warm as he presses soft, lingering kisses there.
You shiver when he reaches the collar of your shirt, your own hands moving to help him remove it. Dark, love-filled eyes roam over every inch of your skin, his lips parting slightly, as if he’s trying to find the words but nothing he could say would ever be enough. Still, he tries.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe. “So fucking perfect.”
Your breath catches when he lowers himself again, his lips planting soft, reverent kisses along your collarbone, trailing lower over your shoulder, your chest. Your husband's mouth mapping you like you’re something sacred.
His lips slowly wrap around one breast, his tongue flicking teasingly before sucking softly. A moan escapes you, your fingers tangling into his hair, tugging lightly as he hums against your skin. His other hand moves to your neglected breast, his thumb brushing over the sensitive peak as he keeps mouthing sweet nothings against you.
“You’re everything,” he whispers between kisses, his voice muffled against your skin. “I love you so much, baby.”
And as the heat between you builds, his touch grows bolder. A desperate whimper escapes your lips as your fingers tangle deeper into Jungkook’s hair, your body arching toward him, silently pleading for more.
He groans against your skin, the sound low and warm, vibrating through you. “Patience, baby,” he murmurs, pressing another lingering kiss to your chest before trailing lower, his lips tracing the curves of your body. “Let me take my time… let me make love to you.”
The way he says it, love—makes your stomach tighten, your heart aching as much as your body craves him. His hands glide down your waist, slow and purposeful, before slipping between your legs. His fingers find the damp fabric of your panties, pressing just lightly enough to make you gasp. Your hips lift instinctively, chasing his touch, and Jungkook groans at the feeling.
His dark eyes meet yours, silently asking for permission. You nod, unable to form words, and that’s all he needs.
Hooking his fingers into the waistband, he tugs your panties down, dragging them slowly along your legs before discarding them somewhere behind him. His gaze never leaves you as he lowers himself further, trailing kisses down your stomach, over the sensitive skin of your hips.
He settles between your legs. You feel completely bare under his intense gaze, the way his lips part slightly, his eyes darkening as he drinks you in.
“So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice filled with something reverent, something devoted. His hands spread your thighs wider, his thumbs brushing along your skin in slow, soothing circles.
“My wife.”
The words send a shiver down your spine, making your core clench in anticipation.
Finally, he closes his mouth around you. One long, slow stroke of his tongue, and you fall apart instantly, a breathless moan slipping from your lips as your head tilts back against the pillows.
Jungkook hums against you, pleased, his hands gripping your thighs as he licks another slow, teasing stripe through your folds. “So fucking sweet,” he groans, the heat of his breath against your slick skin making your body tremble. “Gonna make you feel so good, baby.”
He isn't just making love, he's devouring you.
Jungkook hums against you, the vibration sending a shockwave of pleasure up your spine. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open as his tongue moves with slow, deliberate strokes. learning you all over again, savoring every little gasp and shudder that escapes you.
“Jungkook—” Your voice is breathless, almost pleading, your fingers tightening in his hair, tugging him closer.
He groans at that, the sound reverberating through your core as he laps at you with more purpose. His tongue flicks over your clit, teasing, testing, before he sucks gently, making your back arch off the bed.
“Fuck—” You whimper, your thighs threatening to close around his head, but his strong hands keep you spread wide, completely at his mercy.
His lips brushing your sensitive skin as he pulls back just enough to look up at you. His lips are slick, his dark eyes burning with desire.
Your cheeks burn, he dives back in, this time with more urgency. His tongue moves in tight circles, alternating between slow, teasing strokes and deeper, firmer licks that have your breath hitching.
One hand slides up your stomach, fingers splaying across your skin before reaching your breast, rolling a nipple between his fingers. The combined sensation makes your thighs tremble, a moan tearing from your lips as your hips buck against his mouth.
Jungkook groans, clearly enjoying how responsive you are, his grip on you tightening as he eats you out like it’s his last meal. He flicks his tongue over your clit again, then sucks, harder this time, sending sparks shooting through your body.
“-fuck, Jungkook—” Your head tilts back, eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure builds, coiling tight in your stomach.
He pulls back just enough to murmur against you, “You gonna cum for me, baby?”
The heat inside you is unbearable now, hot and consuming. You nod desperately, your moans spilling freely as you grip his hair, your body teetering on the edge. Jungkook doesn’t stop. He pushes you closer, his mouth working you over with expert precision, his hands holding you steady as your body starts to tremble.
“Come for me, baby,” he whispers against your heat. “Let me taste you.”
And with one final flick of his tongue, you shatter. Pleasure crashes over you, your back arching, thighs trembling as you moan his name like a prayer. Jungkook groans, drinking in everything you give him, his hands stroking your body as he helps you ride it out.
Only when your body goes slack does he finally pull away, pressing soft kisses against your inner thighs, his voice thick with pride and adoration. “You’re so perfect,” he breathes between kisses, his voice thick with adoration. “My love. My wife.”
Jungkook moves up, trailing kisses along your body, over your stomach, your ribs, your collarbone. When he reaches your lips, he captures them in a deep, languid kiss, his hands cradling your face like you’re something fragile, something cherished.
Your fingers roam over his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles before moving lower, brushing over his abdomen until you reach the hardness straining against his sweats.
A groan rumbles from his chest at your touch, his hips twitching into your palm as you cup him, feeling just how ready he is.
“Baby…” he breathes against your lips, voice thick with want. You tug at the waistband of his pants, wordlessly asking for more. Jungkook obliges, sitting back just enough to push them down, kicking them off entirely.
He’s fully hard, the sight of him making your stomach tighten, heat pooling between your legs again. But before you can even reach for him Jungkook takes your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. The intimacy of it overwhelming.
His other hand moves between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance, his eyes locked on yours, searching, making sure-
With a final nod from you, he pushes in, slow and careful, stretching you inch by inch.
A soft moan escapes your lips, but Jungkook kisses you instantly, swallowing the sound, his own groan muffled against your mouth as he sinks deeper. The moment he’s fully inside, he stills, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing you in. And as he holds you close, as your bodies mold together so seamlessly, you realize- this isn't just sex.
This is home.
Jungkook moves slowly, each roll of his hips deep and deliberate, as if he’s trying to make up for every moment he let slip away. His body is pressed flush against yours, warmth seeping into every inch of your skin, his breath shaky against your lips as he kisses you between each movement.
Your fingers dig softly into his back, nails pressing just enough to ground yourself in the overwhelming sensation of him. One hand moves to his hair, your fingers threading through the strands, tugging gently as his lips travel from your mouth to your jaw, down your neck, planting soft, lingering kisses that make your heart ache.
It’s slow, it’s deep, it’s love.
A feel a faint tremble against your body.
Something warm and wet against your neck where Jungkook has buried his face.
Your breath catches as realization dawns- he’s crying. Tears gather in your own eyes without warning, the sheer weight of the moment crashing over you all at once.
You tighten your hold on him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as you press a soft kiss into his hair. “Kook…” you whisper, your voice barely holding steady.
He shudders at your touch, at the way you hold him, like you’re not just letting him fall apart but falling apart with him.
“I—” His voice cracks as he exhales shakily, his thrusts faltering for a moment. “I’m so sorry, baby.” His lips find your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin as he presses kisses there—apology after apology, praise after praise.
“You’re everything to me,” he murmurs between kisses, his words thick with emotion. “You always have been.” A tear slips down your cheek as you cup his face, guiding him up until his forehead rests against yours.
“I know,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I know, Jungkook.”
His lips crash against yours again, the kiss slow and deep, his movements resuming, gentle but full of something raw, something unspoken. His hands grip your waist tighter, his body moving in perfect sync with yours, as if this moment is rewriting everything.
“I’ve got you,” you whisper, voice laced with love. “I’ll always have you.”
Jungkook shudders, gripping you tighter, his lips pressing against your shoulder, his movements slowing but never stopping. You can feel the love in every touch, every kiss, every whispered breath against your skin.
And when the pleasure builds to its peak, you come undone together, your bodies melting into one as waves of warmth crash over you. His name spills from your lips, his deep groan following right after, his arms holding you so tight you swear he never plans on letting go.
Silence lingers, only the sound of heavy breathing filling the space. Then, Jungkook shifts, lifting his head just enough to press the softest kiss to your lips.
“I love you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse but full of devotion. “I don’t deserve you… but I swear, I’ll spend my life proving that I do.”
You cup his face, your thumb brushing away the remnants of dried tears. “Just love me like this, Jungkook,” you whisper, voice steady. “That’s all I need.”
His hands tightening around you as his forehead presses against yours. “I’ll love you more,” he vows, his voice breaking slightly. “More than this, more than anything. Always.” His words settle deep in your chest, warm and real, and when he pulls you impossibly closer, tucking you into his arms, you believe him.
His heartbeat is steady now, no longer frantic with fear. Just warm, solid, home.
As sleep begins to pull you under, you hear him whisper one last thing against your hair.
