#forbidden romance

[fleebites]

#junicorn

day 27

‘taboo’

[apple7ead]

Healing Touch

pairing: michael jackson x fem!reader (jackie’s wife) era: late 70s/otw wc: 1.8k

summary: after a long day of cooking and hosting the family gathering, your feet are killing you. jackie is too busy drinking with his friends to help, so his sweet, shy younger brother michael offers to rub your sore feet.

warnings /tags: ⚠️ infidelity(?), brother-in-law trope, age-gap (reader is slightly older), loads of sexual tension, heavy pining, reader is jackie’s neglected wife :(, mj is whipped, hes soooo sweet and shy

Hayvenhurst was full of warmth and noise. Laughter spilled from the living room where Jackie and his friends were drinking, talking loud, and enjoying the night. You had spent the entire day in the kitchen — cooking, cleaning, making sure everyone had full plates and smiles on their faces. Your feet ached terribly from the heels you’d worn since early afternoon. Every step sent a sharp throb through your arches, and by evening you were walking with an obvious wobble.

Your ankles ached so badly it felt like the bones themselves were sore, and every step down the hallway came with a little wobble you were trying very hard to hide.

You paused near the archway to the den, gripping the wall for a second.

Jackie sat sprawled on the couch with two of his friends, drink in hand, laughing loud enough to shake the room.

"Baby," you called softly.

He glanced over distractedly. "Yeah?"

"My feet are killing me."

"Mhm."

You stared at him.

He took another sip.

One of his friends started telling another story and Jackie immediately turned back toward him, already halfway into another laugh.

You stood there for a second longer than you should have.

Then quietly:

"Never mind." The words came out small.

You forced a small smile, blinking back the familiar ache in your chest. You were his wife. You took care of the home, the food, the family… but nights like this made you feel invisible.

You turned away before he could notice the disappointment on your face, carefully stepping back into the hallway.

The house suddenly felt too warm.

Too loud.

Slipping into one of the back rooms off the corridor — one of the guest rooms everyone used for throwing coats and purses during parties — you shut the door halfway behind you.

Finally, silence.

You sat at the edge of the bed with a tired sigh and peeled one heel off.

“Oh, thank God…”

"Y/N…?"

The voice startled you.

Michael stood near the hallway, watching you with those big, gentle eyes. He looked so handsome in his patterned shirt, curls framing his face. At twenty-two, he still had that sweet, almost boyish shyness about him. You were twenty-six — four years older — but right now you felt small and tired.

"My feet are trying to kill me," you admitted dramatically.

His brows lifted sympathetically. "You been on 'em all day."

"Mhm. Cooking, cleaning, hosting…" You rubbed your ankle carefully. "Trying to look cute while suffering."

That made him laugh softly. God, that laugh.

Michael glanced toward the hallway before stepping inside and closing the door just a little more.

"You want ice or somethin'?"

"I want new feet."

He smiled again, shy and crooked.

"…I could massage 'em for you."

You blinked.

"What?"

His ears immediately started turning pink.

"I mean— only if you want. Momma used to make us rub her feet after church all the time," he rushed out nervously. "I'm good at it."

Your heart melted at how sincere he sounded. "Michael, you don't have to—"

"I want to," he said quickly, then looked down, embarrassed. "Please? You've been taking care of all of us all day. You deserve to rest."

"You wanna massage your brother's wife's feet?"

Now he looked flustered.

"I-I just don't like seeing you hurtin' ."

You softened immediately.

"Well…" You leaned back slightly against the bedframe. "That's the sweetest offer I've gotten all night."

Michael hesitated before sitting carefully at the edge of the bed near your legs.

Even then, he looked like he was waiting for permission. You extended your foot toward him slowly.

"There," you teased softly. "Be a gentleman."

His fingers wrapped around your ankle carefully.

And Lord.

The first press of his thumbs into the arch of your foot nearly made you melt straight into the mattress.

"Ohhh," you breathed. "Michael."

He looked up instantly, worried. "Too hard?"

"No, not hard enough." You chuckled.

He blushed deeply, focusing intently on your foot as if it were the most important thing in the world. "You've been on your feet all day," he murmured softly. "Cooking such delicious meals, attending to everybody… You do so much, Y/N. Jackie's lucky to have you. We are lucky to have you."

His words hit something tender inside you. You leaned back, watching him through glassy eyes. Michael was always like this with you — sweet, attentive, never too busy. His hands moved with such care, massaging each toe, then your ankle, then slowly up to your calf. Every movement was respectful, but full of quiet affection.

He handled you like something precious.

"You're really good at this," you murmured.

His shy smile returned.

"Told you."

"You treat all your little girlfriends like this?"

The second the words left your mouth, Michael nearly choked on air.

"What?!"

You laughed.

"Oh, don't act innocent."

"I am innocent!"

"That pretty face says otherwise."

His entire face flushed deeper, a rich, warm brown that made his cheeks and ears glow. He ducked his head, focusing hard on your foot like it was the only thing keeping him from disappearing.

"I— I don't have any girlfriends," he mumbled, voice quiet and shy. His thumbs kept working in those slow, perfect circles, melting the ache from your arch. "You know that."

You smiled softly, watching him. "Mhm. Sure don't look like it when you're blushing like that, Mikey."

He let out a nervous little laugh and gently switched to your other foot, cradling it with both hands as if it might break. The tenderness in his touch made your chest tighten. Jackie hadn’t even looked at you properly when you asked him, but here was his little brother — on the edge of the bed, completely focused on making you feel better.

"You're too sweet," you murmured, watching him with soft eyes.

His gaze flickered up to meet yours for just a second before dropping back down to your foot, suddenly shy again. "I just wanna help," he said quietly.

"And you always do." Your voice softened without meaning to. "You always notice things."

That made him go quiet. His fingers slowed against your ankle as a thoughtful look settled over his face. "You notice everybody too," he murmured after a moment.

"Not everybody deserves it," you replied, the words slipping out heavier than you intended.

Michael’s brows lifted faintly, but he didn’t push. Instead, he studied you for a long second before speaking again, his voice gentle. "You sound tired."

"I am tired."

"No, I mean…" He hesitated, thumbs still moving in slow, soothing circles. "Not just tonight."

The gentleness in his tone nearly undid you. You looked at him — this beautiful, shy boy sitting at your feet like it was the most natural thing in the world. Jackie’s younger brother, only twenty-two, and somehow already kinder than most grown men you knew. Without thinking, you reached over and brushed a stray curl away from his forehead.

Michael froze completely. His hands stopped moving, breath catching in his throat at the light touch. There it was again — that quiet tension, that dangerous little spark that had been living underneath every glance the two of you had shared lately.

"You get nervous so easy," you whispered with a small smile.

He swallowed hard. "You make me nervous."

Your heart skipped. "Oh?"

Michael let out a soft, embarrassed laugh, the sound barely above a breath. "You know you do." He ducked his head with the shyest grin imaginable when you gently pressed him. "You're pretty," he finally admitted, simple and honest.

The sincerity of it made warmth bloom instantly in your chest. Not flashy or rehearsed — just pure. You laughed softly and leaned back against the pillows. "That's your big answer?"

"It's true," he said, cheeks still flushed.

"And that makes you nervous?"

"A little." He finally looked up at you, those warm brown eyes helpless and far too sincere. "A lot."

Lord, he was adorable. You bit back your smile before it grew too obvious. "You're adorable," you murmured.

Michael groaned quietly, hiding his face for a second behind one hand. "Don't call me adorable."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm grown," he protested, though the deep blush spreading across his face completely betrayed him.

"You're blushing like crazy right now."

"I can't help that!" he laughed, embarrassed but clearly pleased.

You laughed too, the sound quieter this time, full of affection. His hands eventually returned to your calf, his careful thumbs easing the deep soreness from the muscle there. The relief drew a soft sigh from your lips, your eyes fluttering for a moment.

"Mmm," you breathed. "I might steal you from your girlfriends, y'know."

Michael nearly dropped your foot. "Y/N—"

"I'm kidding," you said with a soft laugh, though the way he looked at you made you wonder how much you actually meant it.

Still, he looked flustered — and maybe just a little pleased.

"You shouldn't say stuff like that," he mumbled, ears turning pink again.

"Why?" you teased gently. "Scared I'll corrupt you?"

He smiled shyly to himself, clearly at a loss. "I just… I dunno what to say back."

"You don't gotta say anything."

The room grew quieter after that, filled only with the muffled sounds of the party downstairs, the soft drag of his thumbs against your skin, and the steady rhythm of your breathing. Then Michael spoke again, almost too quietly to hear.

"You deserve somebody takin' care of you."

The words settled heavy and warm between you. You glanced toward the door for half a second, listening to the distant sound of Jackie's loud laughter, then looked back at Michael — at the softness in his face, the care in his hands, the way he sat so close without ever crossing a line.

"Yeah," you whispered sadly. "Maybe I do."

For a moment, neither of you moved. The air felt too warm, too aware. Your hand still rested lightly near his shoulder while his fingers curved gently around your ankle. Then, from the hallway, Marlon's voice rang out.

"MIKE!"

Michael blinked hard, like he’d been pulled from a dream. He called back, voice cracking just slightly, before looking at you with an apologetic expression.

“I should probably…”

"Probably," you agreed softly.

But neither of you moved right away. His hands lingered against your leg for one extra heartbeat, and your fingers brushed lightly against his wrist. The look he gave you in that moment — shy, affectionate, and full of quiet wanting — nearly made your stomach flip.

"You feel better?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled at him, eyes holding his deliberately. "Much. Lucky girl your future girlfriend's gonna be."

Michael laughed nervously and stood up too quickly, nearly stumbling as he headed for the door.

"Goodnight, Y/N."

"Goodnight, Mikey."

[vidaliarkv]

The Nanny's Intrusive Heat

pairing. older! Zuko x nanny! fem! reader

warnings. ⚠️ MATURE / NSFW WARNINGS While this specific excerpt is "NSFW-adjacent" (heavy yearning/panting)

an. I think Zuko in a tailored charcoal suit is neat, but Zuko completely unraveling because the reader smells nice is even neater ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ He is down bad, your honor. 34 going on clinically insane.

enjoy xx

(CHAT I KNOW IT'S SHORT. there will be parts to this dwdw)

P1 (you're here) | P2 | P3

The glass-and-steel expanse of the Caldera Heights penthouse was always quietest in the late afternoon, just as the sun began to dip behind the sprawling metropolis of Republic City. It was a residence designed for a specific kind of architectural prestige—sharp angles, polished basalt floors, and minimalist furniture that seemed to discourage the actual mess of human living. For Zuko, the silence of the apartment was both a sanctuary and a cage. At thirty-four, he was the chief executive of Fire Nation Global Holdings, a sprawling industrial conglomerate that required him to spend his days locked in boardrooms, navigating the treacherous corporate politics of a globalized world. He was a man defined by a permanent, rigid discipline, his tailored charcoal suits acting as his suit of armor to hide the jagged burn scar that covered the left side of his face—a remnant of a volatile childhood that had left him permanently guarded.

His marriage to Mai was an extension of that same quiet, structured discipline. They had been together since their early twenties, a match that made perfect sense on paper and in the high-society columns of the financial papers. Mai was an archivist and an estate lawyer, a woman of aristocratic bearing whose emotional spectrum was notoriously narrow, characterized by a cool, unbothered detachment that mirrored the basalt floors of their home. They didn't fight; they didn't scream; they simply existed in a state of polite, parallel alignment. But when their daughter, Izumi, was born five years ago, the sterile perfection of the penthouse had been forced to accommodate a sudden, chaotic burst of life that neither of them was entirely equipped to handle alone.

That was how you had entered the periphery of his vision.

At twenty-two, you were a senior at the local university, pursuing a degree in early childhood development while scrambling to find a flexible part-time position that could accommodate your unpredictable schedule. When the fellowship you worked for paired you with the prominent corporate executive, you had walked into the high-security penthouse with nothing but a canvas backpack, a gentle disposition, and a total lack of intimidation regarding the family’s immense wealth.

To Zuko, your presence over the last four months had been a slow, systematic disruption of his carefully calibrated environment. You were a magnificent, striking young woman, possessing the kind of natural, unforced beauty that made his focus curdle the moment you stepped into a room. You had a soft, curved frame, expressive eyes that always seemed to find the humor in Izumi’s endless tantrums, and a way of holding yourself that was entirely devoid of the stiff, performative elegance that characterized the women in his social circle.

He couldn't help but stare. It had become a private, deeply unprofessional habit that he couldn't break. He would find himself lingering at the kitchen island in the mornings, nursing a cup of black coffee he had already finished, just to watch the way you interacted with his daughter. You were an absolute saint with Izumi, turning mundane tasks like eating breakfast or tie-dyeing t-shirts into grand, imaginative adventures. Even more staggering to Zuko was the way you navigated Mai’s notoriously difficult temperament. Where other domestic workers had quit within a week due to Mai’s biting, monosyllabic critiques, you remained sickeningly sweet, offering a serene, unflappable warmth that left even his wife without a single weapon to deploy. You treated Mai with an impeccable, deferential kindness, always ensuring her favorite blends of loose-leaf tea were prepared before she left for the firm, establishing yourself as an indispensable, flawless fixture of their domestic life.

But beneath the professional veneer, Zuko was drowning in a silent, boiling lake of attraction that felt entirely inappropriate for a man of his standing and age. It was the sensory details that destroyed his discipline. Every time you passed by him in the narrow hallways of the penthouse, you left behind a faint, intoxicating wake of sweet vanilla oil and clean, sun-warmed skin—a scent so completely different from the expensive, bitter perfumes Mai favored that it felt like an explicit provocation to his senses. He would catch himself watching the way your soft lips parted when you laughed at Izumi’s jokes, or the way the fabric of your casual sweaters stretched across your plush breasts when you bent down to tie the five-year-old’s sneakers. He was a married man, a father, and a public figure, yet his mind was increasingly occupied by dark, vivid fantasies of pressing your delicate frame against the polished basalt and tasting the sweetness he could smell on your neck.

The ultimate fracture in his restraint occurred on a sweltering Friday afternoon in mid-June. The city was trapped in a heavy, oppressive heatwave that made the glass windows of his downtown office building heat up with thermal tension. Zuko had left a quarterly financial review an hour early, his chest feeling tight, his tie already loosened as he rode the private elevator up to the penthouse. Mai had called earlier to inform him she would be detained at a corporate merger gala until past midnight, meaning the vast apartment would be quiet.

When the elevator doors slid open directly into the foyer, the apartment didn't possess its usual air-conditioned chill. Instead, the massive glass accordion doors that separated the main living area from the expansive outdoor terrace and the infinity pool had been thrown completely wide open. The sound of bright, high-pitched childish laughter echoed off the high ceilings, mixed with the rhythmic, wet splashing of water.

Zuko set his leather briefcase down on the entry table, his jacket already draped over his arm as he walked slowly toward the terrace. His leather loafers made no sound against the stone floor as he stepped through the threshold, the hot, heavy summer breeze immediately hitting his face, carrying with it the sharp scent of chlorine, sunblock, and that unmistakable, sweet vanilla oil that always signaled your presence.

He stopped dead in his tracks right beside a massive potted palm, his breath locking completely in his throat as his eyes adjusted to the glaring afternoon sun.

Izumi was splash-pad training in the shallow end of the infinity pool, wearing a bright pink life vest and kicking her feet with a frantic, joyful energy that sent glittering sheets of water into the air. But Zuko’s gaze didn't stay on his daughter for more than a fraction of a second. His eyes were instantly, helplessly pinned to the woman standing in the center of the pool beside her.

You were standing in waist-deep water, your back turned slightly toward the apartment as you reached down to catch Izumi after a particularly vigorous kick. The afternoon sun was hitting your skin perfectly, turning the water droplets clinging to your shoulders into a scattering of tiny, diamond-like stars. You had your hair pinned up in a messy, wet bun at the crown of your head, exposing the long, elegant curve of your neck and the pale, vulnerable expanse of your upper back.

Zuko felt a physical, heavy blow hit his chest as his eyes dragged down the reality of your body. You were wearing a simple, two-piece bikini that was a deep, forest green—a color that made your skin look impossibly creamy and warm. The fabric was a thin, stretchy material that was completely unequipped to handle the lush, plush reality of your curves. The top piece was straining violently against the weight of your breasts, the soft meat of your cleavage spilling over the center seam as you bent over, the fabric so tight that the round, full undersides of your breasts were visible just above the water line.

As you laughed, lifting Izumi into the air, you tilted your head back, and a heavy cascade of pool water rushed down your face. Zuko watched, completely paralyzed, as the water tracked down the delicate slope of your chin, running in thick, glistening streams down the center of your throat before pooling in the deep, shadow-filled valley between your breasts. The water slicked the fabric of the green top, making it cling so tightly to your skin that the prominent, tight shadows of your nipples were faintly visible through the wet material.

The visual was a carnal execution to his discipline. A sudden, violent surge of pure, unadulterated lust slammed into Zuko’s lower stomach, the heat radiating outward until his veins felt like they were filled with boiling oil. His jaw locked tight, his breath emerging in short, ragged puffs as a thick, unyielding erection formed instantaneously against the front of his tailored trousers. It was a brutal, rigid swelling that pressed uncomfortably against the heavy cotton of his dress pants, his pulse throbbing so hard against the fabric that it felt like a physical heartbeat.

He didn't move. He couldn't. He stood in the shadow of the terrace doors, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the fabric of the suit jacket in his hand, his eyes wide and dark with a predatory, starving hunger as he watched the water fall over your body. He was completely, utterly ruined by the sight of his daughter’s nanny, the moral boundaries of his life dissolving into the pool water before him.

"Daddy!"

Izumi’s high-pitched squeal suddenly broke the spell. The five-year-old had spotted him through the palm fronds, her small arm pointing frantically toward the terrace as she splattered water with her hands. "Look! Daddy's home early!"

You turned around instantly at the sound of her voice, your wide, pretty eyes locking directly onto Zuko’s silhouette standing in the shade. A sudden, soft flush of pink stained your cheeks as you realized how intensely he was staring at you, but instead of scrambling for a towel or looking uncomfortable, a slow, incredibly sweet smile pulled at the corners of your lips. You waded through the water toward the steps of the pool, your breasts bouncing slightly with every step against the resistance of the water, making the erection against Zuko’s pants throb with a fresh, agonizing spike of pain.

"Ah, Mr. Corporate is home early," you murmured, your voice a low, velvety purr that seemed to carry across the hot air of the terrace with an explicit, hidden warmth. You stepped out of the pool, the water streaming in sheets down your thighs and your stomach, pooling around your bare feet on the hot basalt. "The heatwave must have shut the office down. Izumi and I were trying to stay cool. I hope you don't mind."

"I don't mind," Zuko managed to rasp out, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone that sounded completely foreign to his own ears. He stepped out of the shadows, his eyes never leaving the way the green fabric of your bikini top dipped low across your chest. He felt like a man walking into a trap he had spent months building for himself, the empty penthouse behind him offering nothing but a silent permission to finally break.

[taylorswift13131313131313]

If things were different... (Footman John X Bridgerton!Fem!Reader)

No warnings just feeling all the feels about Footman John atm. I haven't written fic in a while so apologies if it's not as good as it could be.

If things were different... If they could be different... Would he stand a chance?

In which the oft-overlooked Bridgerton sister realises she's fallen for the charms of the footman who couldn't forget her if he tried...

Chapter 1

"We are late!" Exclaimed Hyacinth, picking up her skirts and rushing down the staircase (with maids still fluttering around her in a last-ditch attempt to affix her hair in a somewhat seemly fashion).

"No we are not, we are simply... fashionably not early!" Said Benedict, grinning as he himself sauntered in such a manner as would suggest they had all the time in the world.

They very much did not.

"Late is the word you are searching for there Benedict, late." Snapped Eloise. She, of course, did not actually want to go. However, she had enough reason about her to know that a badly timed appearance at a crowded event such as this one has the power to earn you more stares than a punctual one. That fact being a fate worse than death, it presently being a looming possibility meant she was in a state of heightened irritability that her brother appeared exasperatingly oblivious to.

"I was just trying to lighten the mood with a bit of humour, it's not my fault if you are all far too busy being outside-of-the-realms-of-on-time to notice."

"Oh, if you make one more flimsy temporal metaphor I declare I am going to... to..."

"Can we not do this today, of all days?" Said Lady Bridgerton, wearily. "We were supposed to have departed a quarter of an hour ago, the carriage has been waiting even longer and at this rate we are going to miss the coming-out entirely. I suggest you stop your childish disagreement and make haste out of the door. Go on! OUT."

"Why does y/n get to stay?" Asked Gregory, who was currently wishing he had an excuse good enough for his mother to allow him to miss his younger sister coming out into society. He didn't.

"Your sister has just had a nasty case of influenza and is still recuperating. You surely cannot expect us to bring her when there is still a chance she might be contagious? What if she coughs in front of Her Majesty? No, absolutely not. She must stay at home."

"But she's fine! If y/n gets to stay I am staying."

"No, you are not. Now, go outside and get into the carriages the lot of you."

"But-"

"Go!"

With many grumbles and a near-miss involving Hyacinth's feather and a misjudged awareness of the dimensions of certain doorframes, the younger Bridgertons and their mother were safely secured inside the carriage and set off on their way to the palace. Daphne and Simon, Anthony and Kate, Francesca and John and Colin and Penelope would be arriving separately as they each had their own transportation at their disposal (and a desire for at least a semblance of peace before the madness of the season in which all nine siblings would be out in society together commenced).

As the carriage rolled away, footman John closed the front door and looked around. His eyes scanning the entry hall for signs of life, his gaze finally settled on the pale blue pointed toe of a slipper peeking out from underneath a curtain. He smiled to himself, then straightened his face.

"They're gone!" He announced to seemingly no one in particular, and then smirked as the curtain shifted slightly.

He wandered over with a convincingly innocent look on his face, the sound of his boots on the polished floor earning a small intake of breath from the figure behind the curtain. He stopped just short of it and, leaning on the wall, murmured just low enough for her to hear "One might wonder, if a person is supposed to be ill and in bed why it is that that person would feel the need to hide behind curtains to avoid her family.."

The breathing behind the curtain suddenly became very still.

"Could it be that she is delirious and that we ought to send for the doctor? With my albeit limited experience on the subject, I am relatively certain that well-to-do young ladies are not generally to be found in curtains, or any other form of drapery for that matter."

John could hardly conceal the grin on his face, as any attempts from the girl behind the curtain to remain as still as possible were in fact causing it to rustle far more obviously than it had been doing at all before he'd started talking.

"Or," He ventured, "Is it that she didn't want her mother to see that she is in fact recovered, and could in fact have been well enough to go today?" John had to stifle a laugh when a hand appeared (with apparently nothing attached to it), and began to fiddle nervously with one of the tassels on a dangling tieback. He composed himself as best he could, but there was still a hint of teasing merriment in his voice when he said "But surely not? She would surely never wish to miss seeing the last of her sisters be presented to Her Majesty The Queen? That would be too cruel, even for- aah!" John was cut off. Because, in that moment, y/n burst through the curtain and started swatting him with her copy of 'Much Ado About Nothing' by William Shakespeare.

"I'll." Swat "Show." Swat "You." Swat "What's." Swat "Cruel- aaah!" She had aimed for his head, but he had ducked, causing her to lose balance. It would be just her luck that she would end up in a heap on the floor and actually need a doctor this time. She braced herself for the pain-

But it didn't come.

Instead, she felt a strong arm (stronger than she'd ever imagined.. not that she'd ever imagined his arms.. of course not, why would she?) wrap quickly around her and break her fall. He had instinctively dropped to his knees to catch her, and that's where she found herself: lying across his knees with his arm - oh, his arm - firmly but gently around her shoulders. She opened her eyes, and saw him. He was breathing heavily, and his eyes met hers with such deep concern (and something else that she couldn't quite put her finger on) residing within them that she felt the overwhelming urge to comfort him. Even though she was the one ostensibly in the state of need, his care for her in that moment gave her courage. Slowly, she lifted a delicate hand up and gently touched one side of his panicked face. His breathing calmed as he lent his cheek into her lace gloved palm.

"I am alright." She smiled shyly. "You do not need to worry about me, John."

"But I do, Miss Bridgerton. I always do."

They gazed at each other, dazed. Y/n gradually managed to bring herself to take her hand away from his face. It was as though, for some reason, she could not bear to be separated from him straightaway. Well, as separate from someone as you can be while you're still draped across them like a guitar on the lap of a knee sliding rockstar. (Y/n was very ahead of her time, and had made predictions on how people might perform music hundreds of years in the future. She was mostly correct except for that one occasion on which she predicted the electric lute.)

"If you will permit me," He began, still not able to tear his eyes away from hers, "I will carry you into the sitting room, and you can lie on the sofa until the rest of the family return. I know how you hate to be alone in your room away from everyone, and you have been stuck there for nine days now what with your mother wanting to make sure that you would not infect Miss Hyacinth before her debut."

All y/n could think was that it was true: servants really do know everything. Also that John had the kindest eyes she had ever seen, and he was looking at her in such a.. well desperately kind way that it made her want to cry. But that could quite possibly mean nothing and was neither here nor there.

It was then that she realised that he probably expected an answer, and the fact that she had just been gazing deliriously into his eyes for who-knows-how-long was (if anything) probably making him even more worried for her health than before. So she said "Yes." Then quickly added, "Please."

He smiled at her briefly, then set to work. He put his other arm underneath her knees, brought one of his own knees up (so he was now kneeling as one would if they were proposing) and stood with her in his arms. Instinctively, y/n wrapped her arms around John's neck. She was now so close to him that she forgot to breathe.

He carried her with ease across the entrance hall and into the sitting room, placing her gently down onto the sofa facing the window. He knelt next to her as he did this, removing his arms from her gently and placing a cushion behind her head.

"Is there anything I can get for you, Miss Bridgerton?" John asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"No, no I do not think so." Said y/n, softly. John gave her a small smile, and nodded. He stood, and turned to leave.

"John?" Said y/n. He looked around at her, with an almost imperceptible glimmer of hope in his eyes. "Thank you for looking after me."

"I always will."

Eeeeek what do you think? Should I carry on? Is it rubbish? Let me know!! :)

[soft-jkdark]

His Greatest Sin • JJK

Summary: Trapped inside her father's mafia empire, Y/N's only constant is the bodyguard sworn to protect her. But one reckless night blurs the line between duty and desire—and some lines can never be uncrossed.

Genre: Mafia AU • Bodyguard AU • Forbidden Romance • Smut

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Reader

Warnings: Mafia Violence • Blood • Death • Threats with a Weapon • Possessive Behavior • Strong Language• Explicit Sexual Content (18+), Mature Themes.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────

You couldn't remember what life looked like beyond the walls that surrounded your home.

Your father used to tell you they were there to keep you safe. You'd been too young to question him, too innocent to understand what "protection" really meant. As the years passed, you stopped trying to make sense of it. The walls became your reality. The guards, the cameras, the constant surveillance—it was all you'd ever known.

By the time you turned eighteen, your father had officially brought you into the family's business. It wasn't much of a choice.

Being watched every second of the day had become second nature. Someone always wanted to know where you were, who you were with, or when you'd be back. Privacy was a luxury you'd never experienced.

But you always found a way to slip through their fingers.

That was... until Jungkook.

He had entered your life when you were fifteen without warning. No one ever explained where he came from. From that moment on, he stayed by your father's side, becoming his most trusted right-hand man. His loyalty belonged to your father—and your father alone.

Then, two months ago, everything changed.

Your father received a threat. No one knew who had sent it or where it had come from.

Only a single message was enough to put your father on edge. For the first time in your life, you saw fear flicker across his face.

That same day, he gave Jungkook one simple order. "Don't let her out of your sight."

From that moment on, Jungkook became your shadow. Every step you took, he followed. Every door you opened, he was already there. Every attempt to escape ended the same way—with him standing in your path, calm as ever, waiting for you to give up.

Your house no longer felt like a home. It felt like a beautifully decorated prison.

It was well past midnight when your phone buzzed against the nightstand, breaking the silence that had settled over your room. You had been lying awake for hours, staring at the ceiling. Sleep rarely came easily anymore. Every day had become the same—no late-night drives, no spontaneous plans, no freedom. Just your father's men watching your every move, making sure you never stepped too far out of line.

You reached for your phone, and the moment Layla's name appeared on the screen, a smile found its way onto your lips. She was your best friend, the only person your father had ever allowed into his tightly controlled world. Somehow, she had become the one piece of normalcy you still had.

Please... come tonight. Just this once.

Your smile slowly faded as you reread her message.

You wanted to go. God, you missed feeling normal. But sneaking out wasn't nearly as easy as it used to be. Not with Jungkook around.

Ever since your father had assigned him to watch you, escaping had become almost impossible. It was as if he knew your every move before you made it. No matter how carefully you planned, no matter which way you chose, he always seemed to be there.

Still... you had managed to outsmart him a few times before. Maybe you could do it again.

The thought alone sent a rush of excitement through your body. It was reckless, and you knew it. If your father found out, you would never hear the end of it. But for one night, you wanted to make your own choice.

Without giving yourself another second to overthink it, your fingers moved across the screen.

"You know what? I'm coming. Screw it."

You hit send and tossed your phone onto the bed beside you. A grin spread across your face as adrenaline replaced the hesitation that had been weighing on your chest.

Tonight, you refused to let anyone decide where you could go.

Not your father. And certainly not Jungkook.

The moment you stepped inside the club, the heavy bass pulsed through your body, settling deep in your chest. The air was warm, thick with perfume, alcohol, and the unmistakable rush of people who had come to forget the outside world. Red neon lights swept across the crowded dance floor, flickering over laughing faces while music vibrated beneath your feet. Glasses clinked somewhere behind the bar, conversations blurred together, and no one seemed to care about tomorrow.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you weren't the daughter of one of the city's most feared mafia bosses.

You were just... you.

"To your freedom, at least for tonight," Layla cheered, raising a shot glass with a grin.

A genuine smile spread across your face as you clinked your glass against hers. "To freedom."

You tossed the shot back in one go, instantly regretting it as the alcohol burned its way down your throat. You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, coughing quietly while Layla burst into laughter.

"I'll never get used to that," you muttered, fanning your mouth.

Layla watched you with an amused smile before a mischievous glint appeared in her eyes. "I honestly never thought I'd see you without your ridiculously hot bodyguard."

You let out a laugh, looking at her as if she'd completely lost her mind. "Hot?" you repeated. "Are we seriously talking about the same guy?"

"Oh, come on." She nudged your shoulder. "You cannot tell me Jungkook isn't gorgeous."

You rolled your eyes and reached for another shot. "He's annoying."

"But he's hot."

"He's controlling."

"Still hot."

You couldn't help laughing as you shook your head. "You've definitely had too much to drink."

Layla crossed her arms, still smiling. "Don't tell me you've never thought about it."

"No," you answered a little too quickly.

The word left your mouth with confidence, but the thought lingered anyway.

Of course, you'd noticed. Jungkook was undeniably attractive, and pretending otherwise would've been pointless. But every time that thought crossed your mind, you buried it just as quickly. His looks didn't change the fact that he constantly watched you, questioned every move you made, and somehow managed to get on your nerves without even trying.

"So that's your final answer?" Layla teased.

"It is."

"Hm." She smirked, clearly unconvinced.

You grabbed another shot from the bar, downed it before she could tease you again, then slipped your hand into hers with a grin.

"Come on," you laughed, pulling her toward the dance floor. "Let's dance before you start making up more nonsense."

Together, you disappeared into the sea of bodies moving beneath the crimson neon lights. The bass pounded through your chest, so loud it drowned out every lingering thought in your mind. People laughed, shouted lyrics they barely knew, drinks spilled across the floor, and no one seemed to care. For the first time in weeks, you found yourself laughing just as freely. Your head tipped back as Layla pulled you into another dance, both of you singing completely off-key while the alcohol warmed your veins. It blurred the edges of your thoughts, softened the weight you'd been carrying for months, and for a little while, you almost forgot what it felt like to be watched.

"I'm getting us another drink!" Layla called over the music.

Before you could answer, someone stepped in front of you. "Would you like to dance?"

You looked up, finding a man wearing an easy smile as he held out his hand. Dark, slightly messy hair framed his sharp features, and his warm brown eyes met yours. There was something effortless about him—charming, attractive.

A small smile tugged at your lips. "Sure."

Layla glanced between the two of you before smirking. "I'll be at the bar," she teased, disappearing into the crowd with a playful wink.

The stranger guided you a little farther onto the dance floor, leaving enough space between you that you didn't feel trapped. At first, the distance remained, both of you moving awkwardly to the music while exchanging amused smiles whenever you failed to hear what the other was saying.

When the next song started, his hands settled carefully on your waist.

He hesitated, almost as if waiting for you to pull away. You didn't.

Instead, you stepped closer, swaying with him as the rhythm slowed. His touch was gentle, respectful, nothing like the suffocating grip control had always had on your life. A quiet smile spread across your face. To him, you weren't someone's daughter, someone's responsibility, or someone's problem.

You were simply another girl enjoying her night.

Suddenly, a chill crawled up your spine, so sudden it made your body go rigid. The smile on your lips faltered as a familiar knot tightened in your stomach. You'd felt it too many times over the past two months to mistake it for anything else.

Someone was watching you.

Your movements slowed until they came to a complete stop. The stranger looked at you with a puzzled expression, his hands still resting lightly on your waist, but you barely noticed. Your pulse pounded in your ears as your eyes wandered across the crowded dance floor.

Then they found him.

Jungkook.

He stood several feet away, completely motionless. People bumped into his shoulders as they danced past, yet he never reacted. Dressed in an immaculate black suit, he looked less like he belonged in a nightclub.

His eyes were locked on you.

But, they drifted lower, lingering on the man's hands resting against your waist.

A muscle in Jungkook's jaw ticked.

Your mouth suddenly felt dry. Every instinct screamed at you to step away, but your feet refused to move. It was ridiculous—you were on the other side of the room, surrounded by hundreds of people.

Yet somehow...

It still felt as if the two of you were the only ones there.

Jungkook moved through the crowd with slow, unhurried steps. The flashing lights swept across his face, but they couldn't soften the coldness in his expression. There was no anger, no frustration—only that terrifying calm you had learned to fear. It was the same look he wore whenever someone crossed a line they weren't supposed to.

He stopped in front of you, his gaze flickering briefly to the man's hands resting on your waist before meeting your eyes again. "We're leaving."

You forced yourself not to look away, even though your pulse was hammering against your ribs. A humorless laugh escaped your lips as you slowly pulled away from the stranger. "I'm not leaving."

"We are." His tone remained flat. "Now."

You folded your arms over your chest, lifting your chin in defiance. "Can you stop controlling every second of my life? I'm having fun for once."

Jungkook exhaled slowly through his nose, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. "I won't ask again."

"...Then don't." The second the words left your mouth, his hand closed firmly around your wrist.

You sucked in a sharp breath, instinctively trying to pull away, but his grip didn't budge. "Jungkook!" you snapped, struggling against him. "Let me go!"

He ignored every protest as if he couldn't hear you. With one firm tug, he dragged you through the crowd. Your free hand pushing against his arm in a desperate attempt to make him stop.

When the cold night air hit your skin, did he finally let go. You immediately rubbed your sore wrist, glaring at him while trying to steady your breathing. Without saying a word, he opened the passenger door of the black car waiting outside and looked at you with the same unreadable expression. "Get in."

You clenched your jaw so hard it ached. Every part of you wanted to scream at him, to walk away, to prove that he couldn't order you around forever. But deep down, you knew exactly how this would end.

With an angry scoff, you shoved past him, dropped into the passenger seat, and slammed the door hard enough for the entire car to shake. The ride home passed in complete silence. You turned toward the window, your arms folded tightly across your chest as tears of frustration threatened to sting your eyes. Outside, the city lights blurred together, while beside you, Jungkook drove as if nothing had happened—his expression calm, his hands steady on the wheel, as though dragging you out of the club against your will had been nothing more than another task on his list.

The moment the door clicked shut, you ripped your arm from Jungkook's grip, stumbling back as the alcohol in your veins surged with adrenaline.

"Have you lost your goddamn mind?" Your voice cracked. You jabbed a finger toward him, your eyes blazing with rage. "You completely humiliated me in front of everyone."

Jungkook said nothing. He shrugged out of his tailored jacket, the fabric sliding off his broad shoulders. He draped it over the back of a chair and leaned against the doorframe, arms folding across his chest.

"I brought you home," he said, his voice infuriatingly calm. "That's all."

"Bullshit." You spat the word, stepping closer. Your heels clicked against the marble floor, each step punctuating your anger. "You treated me like some petulant toddler. You dragged me out of there like I was property."

"Because you were acting like a child." His gaze never wavered, fixed entirely on you.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms. "I wanted one night, Jungkook. One night with Layla without your shadow hanging over me."

"People are hunting your father," he said, his tone dropping lower. "They wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet in you just to send a message. You're playing games with your life."

"My life?" A bitter laugh escaped your throat. "You don't give a damn about my life. You treat me like a prisoner in a gilded cage."

"Then stop acting like a spoiled brat."

The words hung in the air.

Your breath hitched. "What did you just call me?"

"You heard me." He pushed off from the door, moving toward the armchair. He sat on the edge of the leather seat, his posture deceptively relaxed, but his jaw was tight, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "You're losing your mind."

"You're the one who's lost it," you screamed, closing the distance between you. You didn't even realize you were moving until your palms slammed against his chest, shoving him backward. "You don't know the first thing about me, you arrogant bastard."

He barely moved. Your hands remained flattened against the hard plane of his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heartbeat beneath your palms.

"I know you better than you want to admit," he said. His hands gripped the armrests, knuckles whitening as he restrained himself.

"You don't know me," you hissed, shoving him again. "You only know your precious assignment. Your job. I'm just a paycheck to you."

His eyes flashed—something dark and volatile breaking through the surface. "You live in a fortress," he said, leaning forward despite your hands still pressed against him. His face was inches from yours now. "You wear clothes that cost more than most people's rent. You drive cars worth more than houses. Everything you have—everything you are—comes from Daddy's blood money. And yet you stand there, tears in your eyes, playing the victim."

The words sliced through you. You hadn't even realized you were crying until he mentioned it—hot, angry tears spilling down your cheeks, blurring your vision.

"I hate you," you whispered, your voice cracking. You pushed him again. "You're just like him. You're exactly like my father."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Jungkook stared at you, his expression unreadable, his chest rising and falling in sharp, controlled breaths.

"If that's what you believe," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. He stood slowly, forcing you to step back or be overwhelmed by his proximity. You chose to step back, your back hitting the wall as he towered over you.

"Then there's nothing left to say."

"Get out," you breathed, your throat tight.

He turned toward the door, his hand on the handle, when he paused. Without looking back, he said, "Sleep it off. Maybe you'll be reasonable in the morning."

The door clicked shut with a finality that echoed in your chest.

The moment the lock engaged, your gaze landed on the crystal vase perched on your nightstand—an obscene thing, probably worth thousands, a gift from some diplomat your father had entertained. You seized it without thought, your body moving on pure, white-hot instinct, and hurled it at the closed door.

Two weeks had passed since the argument with Jungkook.

In those two weeks, silence had become your weapon.

Whenever he asked you something, he was lucky if he got a simple yes or no. Most of the time, you ignored him completely, acting as though he wasn't standing a few feet away. Every morning, he was still there. Every hallway you walked through, every room you entered, every step you took—he followed.

Tonight, the villa was unusually alive.

One of your father's endless business dinners was underway. Expensive suits filled the hallways, low conversations echoed through the marble corridors, and classical music drifted through the house, almost elegant enough to disguise what these gatherings really were. Deals were being made. Alliances were being tested. Men with blood on their hands smiled over crystal glasses of whiskey as if they were discussing the weather.

The thought alone made your stomach turn.

Ever since you'd walked downstairs in your fitted red dress, you had felt their eyes lingering on you for far too long. Their smiles were polite, but their stares made your skin crawl.

You'd had enough.

The second no one was paying attention, you grabbed your jacket and slipped out through the back entrance. Cool night air brushed against your face, instantly easing the suffocating heat that had been building inside you. You inhaled deeply, letting the silence replace the endless chatter behind you as you wandered down the narrow gravel path leading toward the iron gates. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the scent of rain while silver moonlight spilled across the gardens.

Somehow, your thoughts drifted back to Jungkook.

You hated that they did.

No matter how hard you tried, you could never figure him out. He spent more time beside you than anyone else. He probably knew your routines, your habits, even your moods better than you did. Yet he remained a stranger. He never spoke about himself. Never laughed. Never got angry. No matter how hard you pushed him, he always hid behind that same unreadable expression.

And somehow... that was exactly what frustrated you.

Because, despite the distance he kept between the two of you, no one else was ever as close as he was.

He was always there. A step behind you. Standing between you and anyone who got too close. His hand was around your wrist whenever danger appeared. His body shielding yours before you even realized you needed protection.

Why did that bother you so much?

..Or maybe the real question was why you couldn't stop thinking about it.

Before you could answer yourself, a rough hand suddenly clamped around your wrist.

Your breath caught in your throat.

A violent force yanked you backward, tearing you out of your thoughts before you had the chance to react.

Your back collided with the unforgiving stone wall, the impact sending a jolt of pain through your spine. The stranger advanced mercilessly, crowding you into the narrow alcove between the manicured hedges that seemed to lean inward like mocking spectators to your terror.

"Let me go!" The words tore from your throat in ragged gasps, your palms pushing uselessly against his chest as you thrashed against his grip.

His fingers only tightened, digging into the soft flesh of your upper arm with sadistic precision. In one fluid motion, he withdrew a blade from the depths of his leather jacket.

The edge pressed against your throat.

Your breath stopped. Every muscle in your body seized as the steel bit into your skin. Your heart hammered against your ribs with such ferocity that you swore you could hear it, a frantic drumbeat echoing in your ears.

"Please," you whispered, the sound barely audible, trembling. "Don't hurt me."

The man studied you for a moment, his head tilting with predatory curiosity. Then his lips curved into something that might have been a smile—if smiles held no warmth, no humanity. "Tell your father time is running out."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You don't need to, sweetheart."

Slowly, he increased the pressure. The blade sank into your flesh—not deep, but enough. Fire erupted along your throat. You felt the warmth before you saw it—thick droplets sliding down your skin, pooling in the hollow of your collarbone, staining the fabric of your dress.

He pushed harder, leaning close enough that you could smell tobacco and something metallic on his breath. His whisper caressed your ear like a lover's secret. "Goodbye."

The gunshot shattered the night.

It was deafening, a thunderclap that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. The grip on your arm slackened instantly. The man's eyes widened—surprise, perhaps, or the dawning realization of mortality—before his body went limp and collapsed forward, dead weight crashing against you.

Blood erupted; it sprayed across your chest, your face, your mouth. You tasted copper and salt.

You stood frozen, trembling violently, but it wasn't fear anymore—it was adrenaline, pure and intoxicating, flooding your system with electric intensity. The corpse slumped at your feet stirred nothing in you that shock hadn't already numbed. You'd seen death before. You'd simply never been this close to joining it.

Footsteps approached.

Jungkook materialized from the shadows, his gun still smoking in his hand, his expression carved from granite. He stopped before you, his gaze sweeping over the scene with tactical precision before settling on your face.

"Y/N?" His voice was different—softer than you'd ever heard it.

With infinite care, he reached out and brushed a blood-matted strand of hair from your cheek. His fingertips lingered against your jaw, his thumb tracing the path of the crimson smear. His eyes dropped to the wound at your throat, before rising to meet yours.

"Are you hurt?"

You couldn't speak. Your throat felt welded shut.

Instead, the adrenaline crested—a tidal wave crashing through your bloodstream, obliterating rational thought. For the first time, the reality of the moment crashed over you: the blade, the pressure, the whispered goodbye. You'd been seconds from oblivion.

Your hands moved of their own accord, fisting into the front of Jungkook's shirt. You pulled him toward you.

And then your mouth was on his.

The kiss tasted of blood and gunpowder and survival, born from the desperate, overwhelming relief of still being alive, of lungs that could still draw breath, of a heart that could still hammer against your ribs. You poured every shattered emotion into it.

Jungkook went rigid beneath your touch.

When you finally broke apart, you stumbled back a step, your fingers instinctively rising to your lips as if you could still feel the kiss lingering there. Your pulse slammed wildly against your ribs, each heartbeat louder than the last. What the hell had you been thinking?

"I..." The word caught in your throat. You couldn't even bring yourself to look at him. "I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I... I shouldn't have done that."

The silence that followed was unbearable. You didn't wait to hear his response.

Turning on your heel, you hurried back toward the villa, your breathing uneven as your heels echoed across the stone path. By the time you reached your room, your hands were trembling. You pushed the door shut behind you with more force than necessary and pressed your back against it, squeezing your eyes closed while running both hands through your hair.

"Damn it..." you muttered under your breath, your chest rising and falling rapidly. "What were you thinking?"

Your thoughts refused to settle. They crashed into one another, replaying the kiss over and over until your cheeks burned with embarrassment.

Then the bedroom door flew open with a deafening bang.

You flinched so hard your heart nearly leapt into your throat.

Jungkook stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the frame. His expression hadn't changed, but somehow that made it worse. His face was unreadable, his eyes dark enough to make the air in the room suddenly feel colder.

He closed the door behind him without taking his eyes off you. "Why?"

You swallowed hard, your gaze dropping to the floor. "I'm sorry," you said again, folding your arms tightly across your chest as though they could shield you from him. "I wasn't thinking."

"No," he replied after a long pause. "You weren't."

Every instinct told you to keep your distance, but he was already walking toward you. Each step seemed louder than the last until your back instinctively retreated.

"You crossed a line."

You frowned, finally looking up at him. "What are you talking about?"

"You have no idea what you've done."

A nervous laugh almost escaped you. "Done?" You kept backing away until the edge of your bed pressed against the back of your legs. "Jungkook, it was just a kiss."

He didn't stop.

Your knees gave out as they hit the mattress, forcing you to sit down. Before you could stand again, he had closed the distance between you. He towered over you, one hand braced against the bed beside your head, leaving you no choice but to look up at him.

"His eyes met yours, dark and impossibly calm.

"You don't understand what that kiss means," he said quietly. "Or the consequences it's going to bring."

"What consequences?" you asked, trying to sound braver than you felt. "I kissed you. It's not like I killed someone."

For the first time that night, something flickered behind his eyes.

His jaw tightened as he leaned down just enough for his voice to reach only you.

"That's exactly why," he said quietly, his gaze never leaving yours, "you should think very carefully before you ever do something like that again."

Your eyes locked onto his. The air between you thickened, charged, and dangerous, and you couldn’t look away even if you’d wanted to. Jungkook watched you for a long moment, half-shadowed by the dim light bleeding through the curtains. Then, with excruciating slowness, he lifted his hand.

His thumb found your mouth.

The touch was feather-light and devastating, grazing the swell of your lower lip. Your pulse hammered under your skin. You sat frozen under his scrutiny, lips parting instinctively against his touch.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he murmured, voice low enough to vibrate through your chest.

Your fingers moved before your mind caught up, wrapping around his wrist. You held him there, keeping his hand against your mouth, eyes lifting to meet his—wide, almost innocent. The contrast between that soft look and the way your nails dug into his skin was sharp.

“Why not?” you whispered. The words brushed against his thumb.

Jungkook’s jaw tightened. A muscle jumped. His gaze dropped to your mouth and darkened until your stomach clenched. You felt the shift in him immediately—the rigid control he’d held since he burst through your door starting to fracture. His free hand came up and gripped your jaw, tilting your face up with a possession that sent a shiver down your spine. His fingers pressed into your cheek just hard enough.

“Because now I know,” he said, thumb still resting against your lip even as his grip tightened, “how you taste.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t pull away. Your grip on his wrist shifted; your thumb traced the rapid pulse under his skin. You leaned into his palm, cheek pressing into it, lips brushing feather-light against his thumb.

“Then don’t hold back,” you breathed.

Jungkook’s hand in your hair tightened, fingers threading roughly at the nape of your neck. He leaned down until his body blocked out the room, and all you could see was him. His mouth grazed the shell of your ear.

“If I stop holding back,” he whispered, “I won’t be able to stop. Do you understand that? I won’t stop at a kiss. I won’t stop at touching. I’ll ruin you in ways you can’t even imagine, and I won’t care about the consequences until it’s too late for both of us.”

The words should have terrified you. Instead, something molten and desperate pooled low in your stomach and spread until your skin felt too tight, too hot. Your fingers tightened around his wrist, pulling him closer.

You turned your head. Your cheek brushed his. Your lips found the corner of his jaw.

“Then ruin me,” you said. “I don’t want you to stop. I don’t care about consequences.”

The words barely left your mouth before his hand in your hair yanked your head back hard enough to sting. The gasp that tore out of you wasn’t from pain.

His free hand gripped your waist hard enough to bruise. His mouth crashed against yours with a violence that knocked the breath from your lungs. His teeth sank into your lower lip until you whimpered. His tongue forced past your lips and claimed every corner of your mouth.

You moaned into it. Your hands flew to his shoulders, gripping hard muscle like it was the only thing keeping you from dissolving. He tasted like smoke and something infinitely more dangerous. The cold precision with which he angled your head, the calculated way he bit down on your jaw, then your throat, leaving stinging marks—none of it was soft.

Your back hit the mattress hard enough to force the air from your lungs. Jungkook followed you down. His hands found your wrists and pinned them above your head. His knee pressed between your thighs with deliberate, devastating pressure.

He leaned down, breath against your ear. “You asked for this,” he said. His teeth grazed the shell of your ear with a cruelty that made you writhe. “Don’t expect me to be kind.”

“I don’t want kind,” you gasped. You strained against his hold, not to escape but to feel the strength of it. “I want you.”

His free hand traced down your side with clinical slowness, designed to make you feel every inch of the distance he was closing. When his fingers found the hem of your dress and dragged the fabric up roughly.

“I’m yours.”

The words unlocked something final in him. His grip on your wrists tightened until your fingers went numb. He didn’t kiss you again. He didn’t need to. The way he looked at you—like he’d already devoured you and was simply deciding where to start chewing.

“Mine,” he repeated, and the word sounded like a brand. His hand slid higher, rough palm dragging against your inner thigh until your breath hitched and your back arched. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours.”

He leaned back over you, mouth finding the hollow of your throat, teeth sinking into the tender flesh.

He shifted his grip, dragging your arms down and pinning them at your sides with pressure that felt like iron. He arranged your body beneath him with cold efficiency, eyes cataloging every tremor, every hitch of breath, every involuntary arch of your spine.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

Your eyes snapped open. He hovered over you, weight balanced on one forearm, free hand tracing a path down your sternum with excruciating slowness until he reached the neckline of your dress.

“You don’t get to close your eyes. You don’t get to hide from what you asked for.”

His fingers hooked under the fabric and pulled it down until your breasts were exposed to the cool air. Your nipples tightened instantly. He looked, gaze raking over you with a detachment that should have humiliated you and only made the heat between your thighs burn hotter.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. Your back arched. A whimper escaped.

He noticed. His eyes narrowed. His thumb finally brushed your nipple, flicking the sensitive bud with casual cruelty that sent lightning down your spine.

“You like that. Being told what you are. Being told you belong to me.”

“Yes,” you gasped. Your hips rolled helplessly as he toyed with you—circling, then pinching hard. The sharp spike of pain made you cry out. “Please—”

“Please, what?” He pinched again, rolling the flesh between his fingers until you were writhing. “Use your words. Tell me what you want, or you get nothing.”

“Touch me,” you begged, voice breaking. “Please, Jungkook, I need you to touch me—”

“Where?” His hand abandoned your breast, trailing down your stomach with torturous slowness. Fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your underwear but went no further, simply resting there. “Here? Is this where you want me?”

You nodded frantically, hips bucking. He didn’t move. He held your gaze.

“Say it properly,” he said, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Tell me exactly what you want, or I’ll leave you like this.”

The threat should have terrified you. Instead, it finished what he’d started.

“I want your fingers inside me,” you whispered, cheeks burning. “I want you to fuck me with your hand until I can’t remember my own name. Please, Jungkook—”

He moved.

His hand slid lower. Two fingers pushed inside you in one smooth, merciless thrust. You cried out, back arching off the bed, a keening sound tearing from your throat that you didn’t recognize.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re so wet for me. Look at you, taking my fingers like a good girl."

The praise washed over you. Your walls fluttered around him. His eyes darkened as he began to move—curling to hit that perfect spot until stars burst behind your eyelids. But he kept the pace agonizingly slow, calculated to drive you mad, to bring you to the edge and never let you fall.

“Jungkook,” you whimpered, hips chasing his hand. He pressed his free hand against your hip and held you still. “Please, I need—”

“What do you need?” He crooked his fingers against that spot, and you saw white. “This?”

“Yes—please, let me come—”

“No.”

He withdrew completely, leaving you empty and aching and on the verge of tears. You cried out. He simply held your gaze, brought his fingers to his mouth, and sucked them clean.

“You don’t come until I say you can,” he said, voice steady. “You take what I give you, and you beg for more. That’s the only rule. Do you understand?”

You nodded, tears pricking. “I understand. I’m sorry. I’ll be good—”

“I know you will.” He moved down your body, hands gripping your thighs and spreading them wide. “Because you want to be good for me, don’t you? You want to be my good girl.”

“Yes,” you breathed. The term sent a fresh wave of heat through you.

“Then prove it.” He lowered his head. His breath ghosted over your most sensitive flesh. “Don’t look away. Watch me while I eat you.”

The first swipe of his tongue was devastating—a long, slow drag from your entrance to your clit that made your entire body jerk. He didn’t pause. He didn’t tease. He settled in and found a rhythm that was merciless and perfect, circling your clit with varying pressure until you were suspended in agonizing pleasure with nowhere to go.

Your hands flew to his hair. He reached up, grabbed your wrists, and pinned them to your stomach with one hand while the other slid under your hips, lifting you to his mouth. The new angle made everything sharper. His tongue worked you with near-cruel precision until you were sobbing his name, legs trembling violently on either side of his head.

“Please,” you begged, voice broken. “Please, Jungkook, I can’t—I need—please let me come, I’ll do anything—”

He hummed against you. The vibration sent shockwaves through your core. You spiraled toward the edge with terrifying speed. Just as your muscles began to tighten, he pulled back, gave one final cruel flick to your oversensitive clit, and sat back on his heels.

His hand moved between your legs. Fingers found your clit and pressed down with exactly the right pressure as his mouth descended on your breast and his teeth closed around your nipple, biting hard.

The orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave. Every muscle seized. Your back arched off the bed. Your scream tore through the room. He didn’t stop. His fingers kept circling, his mouth kept working.

When you finally collapsed, gasping and trembling, he released your nipple with a final gentle lick. His hand slowed but didn’t leave, tracing lazy patterns through the oversensitivity until you whimpered.

“Beautiful,” he whispered against your sweat-damp skin, pressing kisses to your sternum, your throat, your jaw. “So beautiful when you come for me. So perfect. My good girl.”

You felt him shift, positioning himself between your thighs. When you opened your eyes, he was looking down at you with an expression that was no longer cold—burning with a hunger that promised this was only the beginning.

“Again,” he commanded, voice rough with his own need. “We’re not done. You’re going to come for me again and again until you forget there was ever a world outside this room.”

He didn’t give you time to recover. Before the last waves had faded, he was hauling you up, stripping the remaining clothes from your body with rough efficiency. Fabric tore. Cool air hit your overheated skin. Then you were naked while he remained fully clothed, the contrast sending a fresh spike of arousal through your spent body.

“I want to see you ride me.”

He settled back against the headboard. You scrambled to obey, limbs weak but driven by need that overrode exhaustion. Your fingers fumbled with his belt and zipper. When you finally freed him, he was hard and heavy in your palm. You positioned yourself above him, hands braced on his shoulders, and slowly lowered yourself onto his length.

The stretch was exquisite—a burn that bordered on pain as he filled you. Your head fell back on a moan that seemed to come from your soul. He was thicker than his fingers, and the sensation of being utterly claimed made your walls flutter around him.

“Fuck,” he hissed, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “So tight. So fucking perfect. Move.”

You rose until only the tip remained, then sank back down with a roll of your hips that made you both groan. You found a rhythm—slow and deep at first, grinding down to feel every inch—but the pleasure was too intense. Soon, you were bouncing on him with abandon, breasts swaying, nails digging into his shoulders as you chased the building pressure.

“Look at you,” he growled, gaze fixed on where you were joined. “Taking me so well. Such a greedy little thing. You love this, don’t you? Love being full of me.”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, I love it—please—”

He surged up without warning, arms banding around your waist, and flipped you both. He pinned you beneath him and began to thrust. Each stroke hit that spot that made you see stars. The bedframe shook.

“Not yet,” he snarled against your ear. “You don’t come until I say."

He pulled out abruptly, leaving you empty and aching, then dragged you off the bed by the wrist. You stumbled after him until you reached the leather armchair in the corner—the same one he’d sat in when he’d called you a spoiled brat.

“Here,” he said, sitting and pulling you toward him. “Ride me here."

You straddled him again, knees sinking into the cool leather, and lowered yourself onto him with a moan that echoed in the quiet room. He hit places that made your vision blur. You moved—rolling your hips in tight circles, rising and falling with desperation that bordered on madness, hands gripping the back of the chair for leverage.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, voice rough, hands roaming your body with possessive hunger—cupping your breasts, pinching your nipples, gripping your ass to guide your movements. “Fuck yourself on me. Take what you need. Show me how desperate you are.”

You lost yourself in it—the slap of skin, the wet sounds of your bodies. You climbed again, muscles tightening around him as the orgasm built with nowhere to go.

“Please,” you sobbed, movements becoming frantic. “Please, Jungkook, I can’t—I need to come—”

He gripped your hips and stilled you, holding you impaled on him while you whimpered and squirmed. “I want to see you when you come.”

He lifted you off him and set you on your feet. Your legs buckled. He held you upright and guided you toward the full-length mirror against the far wall. You saw yourself in the glass—flushed, disheveled, lips swollen, eyes wild with need—and behind you, Jungkook, trousers open, expression dark and completely focused on you.

“Hands on the glass,” he ordered, turning you to face the mirror and pressing your palms against the cool surface. “Don’t look away. Watch yourself while I fuck you. Watch what you look like when you’re being ruined.”

He kicked your feet apart and entered you from behind in one smooth thrust that filled you to the hilt. You cried out, forehead pressing against the mirror. He didn’t give you time to adjust. He began to move, hips snapping against yours with a force that drove you forward against the glass.

“Look,” he commanded, fist in your hair, pulling your head back so you had to meet your own gaze. “Look at yourself.”

You forced your eyes open. The sight undid something in you—your face contorted with pleasure, mouth open on silent screams, body taking his punishing thrusts without resistance. His free hand slid around to find your clit, circling with rough, demanding pressure.

“Please,” you begged, voice barely audible, eyes locked on his reflection. “Please, I can’t—I’m going to—”

“Come,” he ordered, his own control finally shattering, thrusts becoming erratic. “Come for me now."

Your orgasm crashed through you with devastating force. Your walls clamped down on him in rhythmic pulses that seemed to go on forever. Your scream echoed. You felt him follow—thrust deep and stay there, body going rigid as he spilled inside you with a groan torn from somewhere deep, grip bruising, forehead falling against your shoulder as you both trembled through the aftershocks.

You collapsed against the mirror, palms sliding down the glass, legs giving out. He caught you, arms banding around your waist, holding you upright even as he remained buried inside you.

Jungkook stayed inside you for long moments, forehead pressed to the curve of your shoulder, breath uneven against your skin. You could feel his heart hammering against your back, matching your own. For one stolen second, his arms tightened around your waist with something that almost felt like tenderness.

Then he withdrew.

You watched in the mirror as he stepped back. His expression shuttered closed like a door being slammed. He didn’t look at you as he fastened his trousers.

“Jungkook—” you started, your hand reaching for him.

“Don’t.”

You flinched. He finally met your eyes in the reflection, and what you saw there made your stomach twist. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, exhaled slowly, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, controlled.

“This can’t happen again.”

Your arms crossed over your chest. “What?”

“You heard me.” He looked at you directly now, jaw tight. “This was a mistake. One I allowed because I lost control."

“A mistake?” The word tasted like ash. You took a step toward him, legs trembling, body still humming. “You can’t seriously—after what just happened, you can’t stand there and tell me that meant nothing.”

“It meant exactly what it was,” he said, voice hardening, that familiar edge of cruelty creeping back in. “A moment of weakness. I shouldn’t have touched you. I shouldn’t have kissed you. I sure as hell shouldn’t have fucked you. I work for your father.”

The words cut through your protest like a blade. He stepped closer—close enough that you could see the tension in every line of his body.

“I am employed by him. Paid by him. I swore an oath to protect you, not to corrupt you. He trusts me with your life, and I just betrayed that trust in the most unforgivable way possible.”

“He doesn’t own me,” you said, voice rising.

“He owns my loyalty. I owe him everything. My life. My allegiance. And tonight I betrayed that. I took something that wasn’t mine to take, and I enjoyed it, and God help me I want to do it again—but I won’t.” He reached out. His hand hovered near your face before he forced it back down into a fist. “I can’t.”

He was choosing your father. Choosing loyalty over the electricity that had crackled between you from the moment you met.

“So that’s it? You touch me like that and then you just—what? Go back to being my father’s obedient dog? Pretend this never happened?”

Something flickered in his eyes—pain, or regret so deep it looked like agony. He reached out again, and this time he didn’t stop himself.

“I have to,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, rough and scraped thin. “For both our sakes. Your father isn’t a man who forgives betrayal. If he knew what I did tonight, he wouldn’t just fire me. He’d destroy me. And he wouldn’t stop there.” His hand dropped. His expression hardened back into the cold professional mask you knew too well. “I can’t protect you if I’m dead. And I can’t be near you without wanting things I have no right to want.”

He stepped back, putting distance between you that felt like miles.

“Get dressed,” he said, turning toward the door, back straight, shoulders rigid with the effort of control. “I’ll be outside. And tomorrow we go back to how things were. You are the job. I am the protection. Nothing more.”

You stood there as he reached for the door handle. He paused, hand on the knob. “ I’m sorry I touched you."

Then he was gone. The door clicked shut behind him with a finality that echoed in your chest like a gunshot.

You sank to the floor, back against the mirror that had witnessed your undoing, and wrapped your arms around yourself. He had walked away—choosing loyalty over you, duty over desire.

[idkyetxoxo]

Corrupt | Series Masterlist | Azriel

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Summary - They told her he was a monster. A violent, remorseless prisoner buried deep inside a supermax facility. A man no one could control... and no one could understand.

As the new prison psychologist, she was brought in to study men like him. To analyse him. To fix what couldn't be fixed.

She knew the risks but nothing could have prepared her for the moment their eyes met... and something shifted.

Azriel didn't look at her like prey. He looked at her like she was his. And suddenly, every rule she's ever followed began to blur.

The most dangerous place in that prison isn't his cell—it's the pull between them, dark, obsessive and completely forbidden.

Tags - prisoner x psychologist AU, dark romance, morally grey characters, forbidden romance, obsessive love

Contents -

⚠︎ One | Welcome to Hell | 2.2k words

⚠︎ Two | Under Observation | 2.1k words

⚠︎ Three | Pressure Points | 2.1k words

⚠︎ Four | A Hand in the Dark | 3.1k words

⚠︎ Five | Calculated Risk | 2.6k words

⚠︎ Six | The Shape of Absence | 2.4k words

⚠︎ Seven | Unravel | 2.3k words

⚠︎ Eight | Crossing the Line | 2.2k words

⚠︎ Nine | Into the Night | 2.6k words

⚠︎ Ten

ACOTAR Masterlist

A/n - As always content warnings will be at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.

Another requested fic and I ATE this up... I had way too much fun writing it. The plotting, the tension, the characters—everything about this had me completely hooked from start to finish!!

It's 10 whole parts which is the longest fic I've written in months, so you already know I went a little feral with the ideas and let myself fully lean into the chaos xx

Please don't hesitate to vote or comment along the way, it truly means the world to me <3

[punk-in-docs]

Storm kissed - lightning stung

Lyonel Baratheon x Lady Reader

Forbidden romance trope

Summary; Lyonel spots you dancing in the crowds in his Pavilion- and something about you makes him curious- and doomed.... silly little one shot I wrote in an hour. Be kind ! My first time attempting to write this guy

Forgive the random tags but I’m Tagging some phenomenal akotsk babes whose fics gave me life. Let me know if you want on/off the list. I’m new to AKOTSK so forgive my presumptions @the-darklings @jintaka-hane @mynameistocool @lovebugism @maekarsmistress @pearlessance @noxiousstrrawberries @ingystark @oakleafing @marsrambles @just-some-random-blogger @vhagars-dementia @escapic-mezzanine @tearsweetenedtea @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @halerune @adumbgirlinloove @crayonbug @celestrys @targlocket @faelinda @captainfern @fayefayefay

any reblogs or comments are greatly appreciated -

For a man so used to the boisterous nature of storms, it’s amazing how gently you come to his notice.

Another night. His Pavillion raised. Gold as the heart of the burning sun. Wine and ale flow like rich strong rivers through this place. Every cup kept full. Air alive with the iron of roasted meat and the sugar tang of fine sweet delights.

Candles burn at every corner. Spitting gold up the sagging cloth walls. Stag antlers protrude proud from every inch. Enough to take eyes out. As he would hope.

The house Baratheon is not designed to fall gently upon this world.

You creep to his notice. Rolling to a slow boil. And for a man used to things that bellow and roar just for a slither of his attention, it stays under his skin. Catches him the wrong way.

You make him curious. That’s dangerous.

You’re dancing when he spies you first. Skirts flying. Eyes bright, like freshly struck lightning bolts in the yellow dim. The way you move, fluid like a river around rocks, with a smile on your lips. The arch of your arms and the turn of your neck. Your partner is enchanted. He can well understand the addiction.

You bow and dip. Hair swinging in its braids down your shoulders. The gossamer of your sleeves as light and artful as your touch as you round the cleared space to the musician’s drums.

He doesn’t recognise your face. No obvious colours which tie you to any house. It’s itching at him. He wants to place you. He can’t place you. Your clothes are fine enough to suggest rank. But you move and laugh and slip through small folk like you were born to it.

He does what he always does when something sneaks under his skin like a clever knife. He drinks until he can scarce stand.

Then he dances about it-

Feet stomping. Clapping his hands like thunder claps themselves. Coiled hair shaking. His tunic flying. Black and gold flashes like an animal warning before poison comes. The rhythm turned to liquid gold in his drunken veins. The drums take his heartbeat.

The dance leads him to you. Inelegantly so.

You catch him when he bodily collides with you. Warm black leather and sweat on his bronze skin. His tunic seeps warmth onto the plum velvet of your dress.

Careful, calm hands. Steady as rock. Smile like a siren. Joy flowing out of you in the glow of your cheeks and the excellent flash of those clever, devastating eyes.

You’ve caught the laughing storm in your hands. That’s a feat no one can hold claim too.

He yanks you close. Too close for propriety. A hand like steel on the small of your back.

He spins you. Spins along with you. Watches your skirts whirl. The bend of your hair when you twist. Your laughter like warm sugar poured on his ears. He almost curses how loud the music is so he can’t hear it’s plain simplicity for himself.

He likes the way your scent envelopes him this close. Nectarine blossoms and honey. Like a deep pull of a violet evening in the spring. The sweet nudge of petals and warm fruit.

He halts the dance. A mere second. Stares deeply into your eyes. In a way that cuts. In a way that makes most men scared when they smell a storm brewing.

“Would you give me your name?” He demands. Iron and thunder stroked on his voice.

Your smile grows. Unfettered. Silky and bright as a summer song.

“And what would you do with it, Ser?” You tease. Voice tinged a little breathless with the way you’ve been whirling around.

“Flatter it. Speak it often and loud so that I might learn the shape to whom it belongs.”

“If I do not wish to offer it? What then?” You test.

He lands his eyes on your mouth. Stands with his hand not leaving your hip. It strips you bare. How his touch sinks beneath the fabric of your dress like a warm hot brand.

“You would deny a Lord...” He threatens.

There’s no sharpness in it. It’s all grinning flirt, and playfulness under the shade of his hair falling over his eyes. Wine like heavy dark opium spice in his breath. His smouldering cologne comes with him as you sway together. Dark leather. Charred birch wood from the fires. Intense and hypnotic. Breathing him in, this close, is like wandering through a spiced forest.

He’s nearly crammed hip to hip with the crowds reel on around you.

“If it pleases me. Yes.” You cheek. Stepping forwards. Right up to the stag. Bracing antlers with him. Without fear of being struck.

You duck out of his touch and spin away. Like sand through his fingers. Onto the arm of another. Flying away. Feet taking elsewhere. “I must find my amusement somewhere. My lord. “ You call back. Tormenting him further.

He grins and dances on. Eyes catching yours over bobbing heads and weaving figures.

He stands there. Trying to catch his breath. Laughing true and loud like the wild man he is. Feeling like you’d turned him inside out.

He follows you in your mania and smiles, dances on and on. Chasing you through the steps til the soles of his feet hurt.

~

Truth be told. He came outside to take a piss.

He staggers out of the Pavillion for air that doesn’t claw. Isn’t smogged with drink and body heat and the fug of soot and acrid smoke.

Relieves himself up against the side of some ash tree. Hand braces to it. Rings glitter fat hungry gold in the moonlight. He opens the neck of his tunic. Sweat is sheeting down his chest like a river. Sticking to raven curls of chest hair.

He turns and attempts to trudge his way back to the dying party. The music softened to a lull. Drunks slumped in the corners, drooling. Food scattered in crumbs and bones left on platers. Wine stains from clumsy, drowsy hands splotch every table top.

He finds you here too. Between the canvas of the tents. The glow of the torches lit from within touch the muddy earth like jewels, warm orange, purple, red.

You are simply stood. Beneath the moonlight. Bathed in it. His dancing beauty. His steady rock that even chaos like him carves around.

He struggled to stand upright. But let it not be said of him he didn’t hold his drink like a warrior.

“My lady.” He slurs. Treats your name like spun glass in a thugs grip.

“Laughing Storm.” You greet back. Walking towards him. Hands steady like you’re worried he’ll topple.

The sour eye of the moon catches in those eyes of yours like molten silver pools. Threaded into your hair and made you like some dragon queen.

“You won’t let me know of you, will you?” He states. Honesty falls off him like heavy rain.

Your answer guts him. Clean and true. The slight pinch of your face makes him want to haul you close and soothe the ache away.

“I fear it won’t do any good.” You offer.

He frowns. Never a man. To smother down his passions. He staggers a step closer. Swallowing. Trying to find the words that churn in his chest.

“Would a lady let me kiss her?” He asks. Voice chafed to a drunk whisper. “Just once.”

Your breath hitched. Mouth gaping. For the first time tonight, he’s finally caught you out. It feels like hooking a prize animal in a hunt.

“I fear that wouldn’t do any good either.” You warn.

But you’re coming closer. Edging in the way one would approach a stag on a hunt. No attempt to spook or spoil.

His eyes settle on your soft, sultry mouth. Yours gaze to his. To that salt and pepper goatee. The way that stupid golden earring dangles like a glittering gold bug into his curls you want to lose a fist in.

“What use is good. My lady. When the opposite is so much more fun.” He charms. Eyes like liquid devastation.

Because he always did seek out danger. The viper in the forest to see the flash of its fangs. The swelling bruised clouds of a storm that he sails his ship directly into. The melee of a fight - he aims right to the heart of where the fighting hits the thickest.

You reach for him first. Boldly. Stroke a fingertip over the sharp of one cheekbone. Eyes falling to his mouth. He shifts. Leaves his hand carefully over your hip. Stroking the velvet and the even finer grain of the feel of you underneath.

“Fun. But ill advised. Seldom recommended.”

“Fuck your ill advised.”

He reels you in. Right to his chest. Just like the way you danced earlier. Arms coiled around each other. All close and intoxicating body heat.

He kisses you then. And it shatters you to fragile sharp little pieces.

A stunning kiss. Not gentle or kind in any way. There’s the sting of teeth. The mess of shared spit. His moans sink to the bed of your tongue and you nearly cannot comprehend the enormity of the passion that strikes clean through you.

His hands are big and rough, battle scarred, warm skin on your face as he takes this kiss off you like he needs it to live, but vehemently doesn’t want it.

You taste his moans. His tongue curls to seek out yours. Your hand heaps into his hair like you’re trying to keep tethered to this earth.

You claw his neck when he bites your lip. He hisses a smile at the sting. Breaking the kiss to rest his forehead to yours. Utterly drunk on you. Hands on your lower back. Resisting the urge to drag you closer by the plump of your ass.

“Forgive me.” You whisper like warm honey sin onto his lips.

“Shan’t.” He sneers. Then he grins. Tries to hold you closer once again.

You cup his face. Then you turn. Slip away like smoke dissipating under the moonlight. Torchlight turning your hair to spun flame. Cloak lapping your heels.

He watches you leave. Something like grief wrapped its stinging barbs around his heart.

~

He sinks into a sober misery come the rise of the dawn. A determined grit in his jaw. He hunts. He was born with a storm at his back. A shield and sword in his other. This will not best him.

He flays every banner man he can get his hands on, in the hopes someone the night before managed to get the taste of your name on their tongue.

His luck runs dry. No one knew you. Plenty remembered your beauty. Plenty remembered dancing with you. Too drunk to have gathered your name. All spinning skirts and smiles. No name.

He must ride to the tourney field. Gilded in his fine yellow armour that screams Baratheon from a mile away. Like the sun had chewed him up and spat him out in it’s colours.

He rides into that mud bogged field. A shining smile and a laugh tucked in his throat as always. Parades like a prize stag with balls made of iron, in front of the nobility. Antlers high and proud.

He was negotiating for the hand of some Lordling’s daughter. It was high time the heir paramount to Storms End tied himself to someone who would settle him. Someone who could quell and soothe the rising tides and madness of his hurricane temper.

In truth, he does not look forwards to any match that promises him some trembling noble girl whose being sold on like chattel, for bartering grain, swords or livestock from the heir to Storms End.

He rides his horse to the stands where the nobles sit. Some plain, small little Blackhaven lords daughter had been offered to him. Of marriageable age. He would not even touch nor entertain the idea of a child bride with a ten foot lance.

He recalled her fathers letters. A girl borne of the storm lands. Used to the fierce lashings of the sea. Learned the shape of the waves the same way he’s been raised too. Familiarity to the way the wind could break ships masts. Someone weather worthy. Ready to stand alongside him and spit into the eye of the storm.

She’s a pretty thing. He’ll give her that. Frail as the first snowdrop in spring. But she looked like one breath of wind, or even a mere necklace of heavy gems would flatten her.

She’s excellently educated in the way she preens and moves and beams just right. Every action angled and taught to perfection. He’s never been able to stand anything as stifling and neat as affection.

She hands him her favour with a mousy promise. A token she’d embroidered herself. She wishes him good fortune on the field. He takes it with a bowed head.

He winks boldly at this small girl. Because he’s nothing if not bold. He can talk charm and flirt with almost anyone he wishes. That is his grace. “With your luck, my lady, it is as good as promised.”

His horse shifts. His attention comes to the person sat to the right of this small tepid creature they’re offering up to him. Like a mouse to a falcon. He can’t pretend he looks on the match with any great enthusiasm. A slip of a girl will not withstand the hurricane that is being the Lady of Storms End.

When his eyes take the shape of the person sat behind his intended bride. It was like someone ripped the golden earth out from below his feet. Tore out his spine and left him to bleed. A flayed man.

It’s you.

Your father, a heavy set man. Plump off pies and port. All jewels and formality and frown lines from worry. Stumbles to bring you forwards. He cowers beneath Lyonel’s gaze. Wheedled and made sure nothing but courtesy and flattery fell off his tongue.

You stand. Slow and steady. Hands crossed. The very picture of a tempest smothered deep into your bones. Stormborn. Iron surety in the way your hold yourself. Your eyes find and fix on him with all the sharp wicked charm of lightning. He feels stung by it.

“Pray may I introduce my eldest daughter, Lord Lyonel…” He speaks your name.

Lyonel tests the weight of it on his tongue in a whisper. He finally gets the flavour of your name. And it’s devastating. It falls like a slip of honey laudanum. Or some sweet violet petal. Melts on his tongue.

He’s taking you in like he can’t quite believe the gall of you.

“Lord Lyonel.” You greet. And there’s a small stroke of cleverness, and muted pain, tucked in the corner of your smile. All poise and dread.

You turned out to be Lady Dondarrion of Blackhaven. Cousin to the crowned princess. Older sister to the meek young woman he’s being promised to in marriage.

It enraged him how much it made sense.

After all, what better companion for a storm, than a bolt of lightning?

[starr-jazz]

nooooo the girls want more star-crossed knight x princess jason todd pleaseeeeeeee

The Beauty and the Broken☆⋆

you ask and you shall receive. more knight!jason todd x princess!reader.

warning: suggestiveness. it gets more and more suggestive and sensual as we go bear(bare?) with me.

← pt.1 ⟡pt.2⟡ pt.3 ➔

Knight!Jason Todd who overhears the maids gossiping. “Have you seen the Young Lady as of late?” “Yes! She’s got the glow of a girl in love!” And he can’t help but smile to him, smile being a quirk up of corner of his lips.

Knight!Jason Todd who can’t believe someone like you, prim, proper and an intelligent beautiful lady, looks at him, a scarred and broken man. How you look at him with such adoration and gentleness.

Knight!Jason Todd who can see you get ticked off and dismiss maids that look at him all dreamy, much like how you used to look at him(still do). “Surprisingly, jealousy sure seems to look good on you, my Princess.” “Oh, shush.”

Knight!Jason Todd whose embraces are the most comfortable, most like home. Anytime his Princess has a tough day, he holds you as you cling to him, sometimes crying and sometimes simply sighing, but whatever it is, he holds you, he’s always there.

Knight!Jason Todd who has to time and time again turn down every gift you offer him, from books and pastries to clothes and jewels. “Can’t a Lady give a caring gift to her loyal guard?” You asked as your finger traces the stitching on his linens. “It is not appropriate—” and you shut him up with a kiss.

Knight!Jason Todd who lays you down on his chest, stroking your hair as he tells you stories of battles and sometimes, rarely, about his family. Who whispers in your ears until your eyelids get heavy and breathing evens out. Lifting you like you weight nothing, tucking you into bed and then sneaking back into his own quarters.

Knight!Jason Todd who slips letters into your study drawers or under your pillow, giving you something to look forward to everyday. Who sometimes writes you poems, short stories of his own or sometimes just singing praises of you. You press your nose to the parchment and it smells inherently like him.

Knight!Jason Todd who doesn't realise when you finally slip an embroidered handkerchief into his pocket, one you made yourself. Wrapped in it is a note. "For my most handsome man, I made this with you in mind so it is only right if you have it. Think of me every time you see it. —Love, Your Princess." And he does, think of you that is, especially on his days off, when he cant help but miss you terribly. Who is grateful to carry around of piece of you with him.

Knight!Jason Todd who lets you think he’s asleep when you draw hearts over his chest, where his heart is.

Knight!Jason Todd who lets you kiss his scars, whispers of compliments and sweet nothings between each, letting you peck away to your hearts content.

Knight!Jason Todd whose voice has you entranced. Whose voice you could sit and listen to for hours on end, a calm cornerstone in this chaotic world. You love the way he says you name and you insist that he does when you two are alone. ‘My Lady’ to the world. Your name behind closed doors.

(kinda more suggestive here so tiny warning)

Knight!Jason Todd who didn’t mean for you to see him shirtless. He was simply sparring with a fellow solider of the kingdom in the training grounds. Without his shirt. And then you passed by and gosh, he looked like he was sculpted by gods. Wide shoulders, perfectly etched back muscles decorated with scars, thick thighs and bulky biceps. Your grateful you didn’t catch the front of his bare chest ‘cause you’re certain you would’ve passed out.

Knight!Jason Todd who holds you like he’s scared to break you, like one would hold a fine glass. Touch always fleeting. But when he finally builds up the courage, he touches you like he means it. Like a devotee worshipping their god, because he is worshipping you, ‘cause you deserve nothing less.

Knight!Jason Todd who takes his time exploring and memorising every crevice of your skin. His calloused hands contrasting your soft body.

Knight!Jason Todd who lets you mark him because after all, he belongs to you and only you. Who, after a little convincing and an ‘Are you disobeying your Princess?”, marks you too, in places only he can see and you two know of.

ᯓ★ NOTES: should i do an angst one cause like the forbidden part of the forbidden romance. also highkey loving this format so so much. its writing a fic without actually writing the fic ;) and i wanna do a nsfw but um writing smut makes me cringe 🥲

← pt.1 ⟡pt.2⟡ pt.3 ➔