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Summary: You go to a bar Frank’s told you hundreds of times not to, and you find out what makes the place so dangerous. When you get home, Frank grills you about your decision—and suddenly you can’t breathe.
Warnings: this is heavy imo. Hurt, unresolved comfort, violence, yelling, panic attack/panic, mentions of drugs, prostitution, neo-nazis. both are in the wrong, mentions of reader’s vague past abuse, attempt of SA on reader (foul language, no graphic details, it doesn’t happen, NOT FRANK). Protective!Frank = unintentionally loud, angry, scared Frank. MDNI, reader is always 18+.
requested by anon
w/c: ~4k
song rec
Frank doesn’t ask you for much. When he does, it’s in your best interest. Boundaries to keep you safe.
So you aren’t why, tonight, you cross him. It isn’t intentional… you really don’t see the harm in it, walking into this bar with your friends. It’s just a bar. You’ve not heard anything of it other than your come and go friends—Tabitha and Johnny’s—incessant nagging to try out this hole in the wall. There’s thousands of them. Little bars, quirky dives.
Frank’s just… overprotective. That’s what you tell yourself, reasoning the bad decision against his unproven logic.
It didn’t start out this way. Your friends wanted to hit a few bars on the usual strip, so you did. It was fun. Laughs, drinks flowing, familiar camaraderie. But after those few places… you ended up… here. Exactly where Frank doesn’t want you. Where you promised you’d never go. And you find out why Frank made you swear this place off limits.
But maybe it’s the bartender with inked black eyes, surgically implanted horns on his head, and the repulsive black sun tattoo sprawling his neck handing you your drink with the snarl of a creature, not a man.
Or red light bleeding from the curtained room beyond the bathroom. The crowd of half-dressed prostitutes working a street siren’s magic to paying customers. Or the pimp that the tears open the curtain to bitch slap one of them for no reason other than lack of cashflow.
Two guys in the corner shake hands and blatantly exchange baggies of coke, cut with…?
Oh, god. No wonder Frank told you to never, ever come here.
And… no one blinks.
Bar stuffed to the brim with New York’s unfinest, the filth tacks onto your skin. You feel… dirty, just being here. Dirty, because you don’t belong. You’re not a vagabond or a prostitute or a pimp or someone that agrees with the iconology of a black sun…
You clutch your drink so hard the sweat squeaks on the glass. Death metal assaults the speakers in bloody shrieks. Red strobes batter your retinas to the point of a dull, gnawing headache. Your friends—Tabitha and Johnny—nudge you, laughing about the characters here, how insane is this?, how anything goes, and the cheap drinks and a guaranteed show when a game of pool goes awry.
You can’t hear over the music (if it can be called that). You can’t see through the haze of smoke, pot, cigarettes, the flashing lights. It smells rancid and you wonder if your goodness is eroding with it just by being here. Your friends being your ride, your begging to leave was shrugged off. Your discomfort, your nerves all disregarded for the sake of… fun? This isn’t fun. It’s sick and scary and not you.
Somewhere right after your first sip of your drink and the vulgarity of watching a suited man shove a prostitute’s face in a pile of coke and laugh about it, you excuse yourself from the bar, from your ‘friends’, leaving the drink behind. You need air, to see a world beyond this depravity.
Weaving through the crowd of leather vests and ill intentions, you pull your phone out as you head out the back door. The light flares blue over your face, a shaking thumb typing a text to the one person who’d never do this to you. Never leave you in a place like this, never shrug off your discomfort. The person that told you to never, ever go here. Frank.
You: Can you please come get me? Please don’t be mad. I’ll explain everything later.
With the address.
You pocket your phone and push outside. The cool breeze drags the scent of lit cigarettes and phlegmy laughter.
You don’t see the ten missed calls from Frank. Or the barrage of texts telling you to lock yourself in a bathroom stall ‘til he gets there.
The last one? The most important one.
Frankie: Whatever you do, princess, don’t fuckin go outside, you hear me? Bathroom. Pepper spray in your purse. And wait.
☠︎
You bound down the two steps, music muffled by the steel door closing behind you. Closing one door opens another. You hear it just as you take your first breath.
One that could be your last.
A low wolf-whistle from the shadows.
You startle, hands sinking deeper into your pockets. An instinctual step back, yet you bump into something solid.
A tongue clicks behind you, grimey breath on your ear. “D’awww, lookie here. This one’s puuuurdy.”
You jolt forward with a gasp, spinning to face him. A head skinned hairless, the nose of a pig, tattoos etched everywhere but his eyeballs.
“I’m- I’m leaving,” you state, a sharp bite to your tone. And you stamp forward, but— boof. Another solid body.
“Leaving so fast?” A second voice chides with a tut. Your eyes flash up to him. This second man—horrifying. Skin gnarled like someone’s dumped acid on him, leathery mouth stretched to show crack-black teeth. “No, no, noooo,” he sings. “Stay. Hang around me and my guys awhile… We’ll show you one hell of a time, baby. You like coke, huh? You got some coke. Get you nice and coked up and have a little fun with us, little fox.”
“NO!” You shout. “I’m leaving! Get- get your fucking hands off me!”
But they laugh at you. Push you around into each other, passing you like the piece of meat they see you as.
“Hey, boys!” The pig squeals over his shoulder. “Come look at the pretty pussy we got over here!”
Two more depart from the shadows, as though darkness breeds them. The third saunters with a bum leg, chain-link belt rattling pestilence with every step closer.
“Who gets to go first?” The fourth calls out. Through the bodies cramming you, you see him. Face full of meth craters, a greasy slick of hair over his head. His eyes, though… it’s looking at the devil himself. It’s sin. It’s evil because it understands innocence, right versus wrong, and chooses temptation.
“Don’t gotta go just one at a time,” the one with scarred skin hums with hunger.
You shove. Kick. Punch. Scratch. You fight against the cage of four men. And the fight is futile.
You cry—scream—for help. What you get is Frank.
An engine thunders through distance alleyways; the sound of pure reckoning.
You press back against the wall, brick biting your palms as you spit indignation. “You better- you better back the fuck off! My boyfriend’s coming—and he’s gonna be pissed!”
They laugh in your face. Spittle on your cheeks. Their breath hot and stale with beer. They laugh.
Tires screech rage over the streets. It’s a screaming symphony of: he’s coming, and blood will follow.
They won’t be laughing.
Their hands prod, crossing boundaries where your yells of no, stop, leave me alone! mean nothing. Your stomach. A brush at your thigh. The fine line down your neck. Your gut flips—their touch, the suffocation of retribution like iron in the air. You tremble. You wait. You taste imminent death in the air. Copper on your tongue. Bile in your throat. You jerk your head out of their hands. You’re prey. You’re their victim. How many victims before you? How many lived? And you should’ve listened to Frank.
One of them grabs the bottom hems of your shirt. Rips. One bottom button flies off, clattering down the sewage drain. One piece of innocence defiled with a promise of more to come.
You swing, battery ram your fists. But there’s too many. They’re bigger. Stronger. Drunker. And you? You should’ve listened to Frank.
As the pungency of the dumpster mingles with their breath on your skin; putrefying gases tell you time is running out.
The shriek of tires comes down this alley, a rubber skid charred on the asphalt.
A headlight.
The bike’s fucking mean as it barrels down the narrow road. Black plague tonnage; a beast of heavy chrome exhaust pipes flaring out from the sides.
And over that headlight? The first glimpse at destiny, the promise of what’s to come…? Something they all know. And fear.
The skull.
Its rider’s name is Death.
And Hell follows with him.
☠︎
The kick stand cuts a scrape over the ground. A shrill grate of metal as Frank stomps it down, walking off the motorcycle as it growls in idle.
His boots move the ground, an earthquake from the soles. Each step closer, each step unraveling his thin leash.
It razes up your spine, seeing this version of Frank.
Disgust solidifies Frank’s face as he storms forward, upper lip raised in a snarl, preserving his face as the personification of righteous fury. “Think you gotta right to fuckin’ touch her, huh?!” he sneers, voice lurching to a boom, the savagery of his physique backlit by the beam from the headlight.
The hands breaching your body snap off in startled curses. The men congregate together, forming a swaying wall to barricade their treat: you.
“It’s- it’s The Punisher—” Pig stutters.
“Oh, fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, go!” The gimp cries.
“Get your goddamn guns!” Greasy orders, fumbling for his shoved down the back of his pants. “He’s in our territory now.”
They scramble together in a frenzy, but Frank’s voice seizes them. That’s the power of Frank Castle.
“I asked you a fuckin’ question. When I ask somethin’, I want a goddamn answer. You fuckin’ deaf?” Frank roars, tearing a lead pipe one-handed from the wall without breaking stride.
Two feet of lead. Five pounds of blunt force. And Frank stops three feet short. Flips the pipe once. Tests the weight. Cements his fist to the end. The musculature of his shoulders knots. Nostrils flare, nose quivering undeterred ire. Becoming man in his truest form…
Violence’s overture.
Just one man. A pipe.
Four disgusting men standing between you two.
“You alright, sweetheart?” Franks grits while dark eyes clock his targets. Doesn’t wait for an answer—you gotta be. No choice right now. “Need you t’do somethin’ brave right now, hm?”
You peel yourself from the wall with gelatinous legs, safety disguised in his mere presence though you’re far out of reach yet. You nod little bursts, mouth dried shut.
“Walk ‘round,” Frank instructs, head canting to signal where. “Wait on the bike. C’mon, sweetheart. Now. Ain’t no one gonna move while you walk outta this.”
Silence in agreement. Silence in waiting.
Eyes darting between the men, Frank, your escape route of the motorcycle behind him, you dash a wide berth on your tiptoes. As you get within his reach, Frank extends the pipe around you. Uses it like a lead revolving door to guide you out.
Reaching the safety of the motorcycle, you throw a leg over it. Straddle the rumbling leather, fingers digging into the warm seat to placate the tremble wracking your spine. Over the dormant hostility of the bike, you can’t hear carnage coming to a crescendo.
☠︎
“How many times she say no, huh?” Frank asks, dragging the head of the pipe in jarring rakes over the asphalt beside him. “Do I wanna know?…Yeah. Yeah, think I do. ‘Cause how many times she said no’s how many I’ll take t’break your goddamn head open.”
“You’re- you’re just one man!” Greasy spits out, his gun rattling in the terror-lock of his hand. “There’s four of us, man, you’re fucking s-stupid for trying us like this!”
Frank wears solemnity. A vacancy in his expression known as acceptance. Acceptance in the mission, the nature of the beast, the necessity to make sure this won’t happen again.
“Yeah,” Frank says, raising the pipe. “One man they mistake for a goddamn army.”
☠︎
Skulls got a specific sound when they break. Yeah. Not like other bones.
Other bones splinter. Crack.
Skulls’re different. It’s a wet kinda crunch.
So when the lead pipe lashes down into Pig’s head—bone ‘n brain squelch. Yeah. Wet. Crumples the swiney fucker in a gushing heap.
Gimp charges Frank with a belligerent wail, leg dragging. S’fine. No problem. WHOOMP.
Frank slams the shaft of the pipe into his gut. Chain belt jingles. Gut blows got a dense, meaty sound, the choked punch of breath knocked out of ‘em as the guy stumbles back, clutchin’ his insides. Jams the jagged end through his chest like a fuckin’ kabob. Frank hauls the belt off. Winds the metal links around his neck. Takes the end of that chain… and hoists it over bar the sign. Pipe speared through his chest oozes blood. Chains seizure ‘til he stops movin’. Public hanging for all of ‘em to see.
From behind—raisin skin slings a heavy fist at Frank’s head.
Turning, Frank slips the punch. No thought, pure instinct. Instinct like this can’t be learned. It’s innate.
Frank snatches Raisin’s wrist. One sharp snap down. Crrallllck. Screams “NOOO, AHHH, NO NO NO—!” Bone raptures up from his skin. Sprays a fan of blood over Frank’s face.
“No?” Frank mocks. “Ain’t a word we know, ‘member?” Yanks him by the broken wrist… and grinds the bone down the brick wall ‘til it’s a bleeding nub. Makes for damn sure these hands won’t touch another woman again. Then? Then he uses his face like a goddamn sponge. Grates his skin over the prickled brick, peeling off tattered ribbons of flesh ‘til he can’t make another sound.
Greasy guy’s got the most sense. Runs. Frank’s never lost sight. Raisin’s body dropping at his feet, Frank goes for the holster on his hip.
“HEY!” Frank yells, the baritone of his voice an augury of the night. Raises his Beretta in a final send off.
Greasy trips a step. Doesn’t fall. Twists back to look as he runs for his goddamn life down the blackened alley. His last mistake.
“Ain’t no runnin’ from me.”
And one shot rings out.
Body falls.
Blood glugs from the hole between his eyes.
☠︎
Wind slices through the visor of your helmet as Frank tears down the streets of New York with you latched on his back. It cools your skin, but not the guilt turning over and over under your skin. Your arms wind around the tense width of his midsection, jittery fists bunched in the front of his shirt.
Streetlights blur much like the night.
Frank doesn’t reciprocate anything. A stoic wall in front of you radiating raw, humming anger.
You bury your helmeted face into his back, trying desperately to break the ice, to get his affection back, but there’s no give. No forgiveness. All you can do is sit here, behind him, and wait.
☠︎
song rec
In the apartment, you try to slink off for the bathroom. One sallow light tinks above the sink, as if it’s petrified to bring light to what you’ve brought home.
Try. You get two steps in, then—
“Where the hell you think you’re goin’?”
The smallest flicker of a wince in your shoulders. You stop right then and there. Fingers lace together, cold and clammy under rightful scrutiny. “…I wanna take my makeup off,” you say, so mousy it’s sour on your tongue. “Can I please go take my makeup off?”
“Ain’t goin’ anywhere ‘til we talk,” Frank says in a low, grave tone. He posts up at the center island of the kitchen, palms flat and shoulders wide. The posturing of an animal asserting indisputable dominance.
You inch a half turn until you partially angle towards him. Your arms bunch around yourself, scared if you let go, your insides might spill out. You glance over at Frank and your stomach drops. Dried blood under his nails. Red-hot anger in the razor-sharp slant of his jaw. His eyes—dark and domineering—welded to you.
“Wanna tell me how the fuck you ended up there?” Frank asks, so low it’s venomous. “Ain’t where you said you were goin’. You forget I told you t’stay the fuck away from there, hm?”
“No, I didn’t mean to—”
“Then what?” he snips, words dragging harsher with each one. “Didn’t meant to, but you’re the one that walked in those fuckin’ doors, yeah?”
“No! Yes! I mean, yes! No, I did— I did, Frank, and I’m sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry, that’s not what the evening was supposed to be!”
It’s not good enough.
Frank snaps.
“You’re smarter th’n that! C’mon. Get real. Jesus fuckin’ Christ, coulda found you dead ‘n the alley after those sick fucks did whatever the fuck they wanted. What I tell you ‘bout goin’ t’that bar, huh? What’d I tell you?” It’s a literal question, a demand for answers. “Fuck. Anything I ask ‘a you’s f’your own damn good.”
Coming down from the alcohol, heart working overtime, your feet inch together. Your shoulders curl in, forging a weak shield around yourself. “I just- I was with friends, I thought it’d be fine if I was with my friends. The plan wasn’t to go there, Tabitha and Johnny walked us there and I didn’t realize what it was until we got there! They- they were my ride, I couldn’t just—”
“You could. You call. I answer. Every fuckin’ time. See how that works? How fuckin’ easy that woulda been? Some fuckin’ friends lettin’ you go alone in a place like that.”
His justified anger, his disappointment—it’s palpable. Eats at you until your insides are mush, your worth ruptured in a few sentences. If only you would’ve listened. Why didn’t you listen? You had one simple task and it was to listen to Frank and you still didn’t do it.
Frank throws a hand up, frustrated with the lack of sense. Drags that hand down his face, then presses just his fingertips into the countertop. A repetitive jab of them on the granite—a demand—his brows hiked up to burn the severity of the look into you. “Your friends offer up an idea s’ dumb s’that? Shit. You sure you wanna be friends with ‘em? People hangin’ out there, huh, wanna be ‘round all that? They say somethin’ as stupid s’that, that’s when you say no. S’when you don’t go, you hear me? Don’t give a shit ‘f it’s someone’s dyin’ wish—you don’t go. Need some new goddamn friends.”
He’s- He’s mad. He’s mad at you. You did this. Your actions did this. If you just would’ve opened your mouth, said no, heeded his warnings, listened—your night could’ve looked grossly different.
Air clogs in your throat. Your pulse beats manic emergency, heart raging against your ribs. Breath tighter. Breath shorter. Oh my god, you can’t fucking breathe. Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong. Your throat jumps a frantic test. Air won’t move. Words freeze up on the back of your tongue.
“What ‘f I didn’t get t’you in time, hm? You think ‘bout that? Got all those brains, where was they t’night? You forget ‘em at home? Christ. Tryna understand this. Tryna understand where the hell your head was at.”
The floor sways under you. The room tilts. Lightheaded, heart pounding too fast, choking on your own pulse.
“Goddamn it, say somethin’!” The demand in his tone. The raise of his voice. “Use your words! Stand here all goddamn night ‘f I got to.”
Oh, it triggers the old, wounded parts of you… The parts you can’t heal. Parts you didn’t ask for when someone else—long ago—decided yelling meant you’d understand. You were just a kid. Yelling didn’t make you understand. It made you scared.
The back of your throat clicks a dry suck—no room for air. Your heart ramps to the point of danger. If you don’t calm it— oh my god, what if you don’t calm it? If it goes any faster, you might induce a heart attack. Oh my god… what if it’s already a heart attack? Your knees knock together in the wobble. Tears burn down your face, but you don’t feel them. No, you only feel the life-threatening pain twisting shards in your chest, your lungs scorching for air you can’t collect. When your crooked fingers claw at your throat, your bulging eyes red-rimmed as your vision swims, Frank stills.
A falter in his reprimand. A one second pause to calculate.
“B-baby—?” Frank tests.
“Frank— can’t- can’t—” a wheezy rasp sears down your throat; a noose of someone else’s making still strangling you.
Frank moves. He’s on your side in an instant, one big hand splayed and pressed over your chest, the other right on the other side of you, on your back. Squeezes you, compressions to breathe for you.
“Hey, hey, hey—” Frank rasps, all ire parched from his body. “C’mon, sweetheart, c’mon—“ His eyes bolt over your face, tracking the blanched terror as your breath drops to hyperventilations. “No, no, no. C’mon. Easy, sweetheart, easy. Control it, hm? In f’four. Ready? C’mon. Do it with me, baby girl. C’mon.”
With his hands packing you together, holding the shaking pieces, Frank demonstrates a loud, deep inhalation through his nose. For four seconds.
You jolt in place with the count of each second; a systemic failure wringing your body to catastrophe.
One—you could die.
Two—right here.
Three—because you didn’t say no.
Four—and there’s no room for a full breath, your chest stuffed with panic.
“Hold it f’four, sweetheart, c’mon. Hold.”
Four seconds have never felt so long. Or stupid. You go catatonic, face stuck in a gasp, fingers contorted around your throat.
When the corrective breathing doesn’t ease anything, Frank binds an arm around you to drag you along.
You ain’t got legs? He’ll be your legs.
Arms won’t work? He’s got two.
You’re making all kinds of noises that scare the shit out of him. Heaves, wheezes, hummed cries as you gasp for help. Frank rips open five drawers. Rummages the contents, shit clattering to the floor.
“Gum, sweetheart. Gum. Where’s th- the gum, huh? Mint. Get you that mint gum, hm?” Vocal panic of his own, dark eyes wet as he digs for one of your antidotes. Mint gum.
Finally—finally—Frank finds it. Big fingers fumble the pack open, tearing three sticks from the wrapper. Shoves them all in your mouth. More means it’ll work better, right?
“Chew, baby. Chew. C’mon, pretty girl. Yeah. Yeah, there she is. Atta girl.” Hand on your back, he uses the other to guide your chin. Help you chew.
The tang of spearmint explodes in your mouth. Forces salvia back into it. You chew, chew, chew. Masticate the wad, breaking out the potency of the flavor, swallowing it down to hose out the uncontrollable fire in your chest.
“Atta girl. Keep doin’ that, hm? You keep chewin’ f’me, alright? Lemme know you hear me, baby. Nod f’me.”
You do. It’s stiff and mechanical, his voice distanced by the nauseating pump of your heartbeat in your own ears.
“Alright. Good. Doin’ so good, baby. Gonna be jus’ fine, got my word. Ain’t nothin’ you can’t handle. Strong girl, you know that? Won’t let it get you.”
Your shoes drag squeals over the floor as Frank lugs you to the kitchen sink. He slaps on the water, tugs it to the coldest setting with a grunt. “Alright, here we go. Gimme your hands, sweetheart, you do that f’me? C’mere,” gently—so fucking gentle you’d cry if you felt it—he unwinds your hands from your neck.
Bracketing your hands with his, Frank dunks them under the shocking freeze of the running tap. Holds your hands open and under the rush, his thumbs on the tendons of your wrists.
Under his thumbs, your pulse’s in a crisis. Rapid fire on his calluses, each frenzied knock accelerating the rot in his gut.
But the water, the mint, the full-weight press of Frank’s chest into your back… it’s a remedy.
The water a rapid reset for your nervous system.
The mint gum forcing you into mobility, the crisp flavor a distraction.
And Frank’s weight? Deep pressure, heaviness severing the emergency alarms in your body.
Minutes go by. How many, you aren’t sure, but Frank’s there the entire time. Undivided attention and gravelly praise, his thumbs pushing gentle strokes from the veins in your wrists to the heel of your hands.
“You with me?” he asks, eyes closed with a pinched brow, his stubbled chin against your temple. “Talk f’me, princess. Gotta hear you. Gotta know you’re okay.”
Clear rills of snot down your nose, tears wiping tracks of makeup from your face, your lashes flutter back from the separation in your mind. “I- I, yeah. Here,” you croak, vocal cords afflicted yet.
“Thank god,” Frank breathes, mashing his nose against your head when he sticks a rough, relieved kiss to your temple. “There she is. There’s m’girl.“
Water drenches your arms, his, splatters to the floor at your feet with his as your shadow.
Chest stuttering, lungs cooperative, you take one big, full breath. Your lungs belong to you again. Frank’s heartbeat on your back, yours slows to match it. You’ll follow him. Anywhere, even the mechanics of your heart knows that.
“Yeah, there,” Frank murmurs. “Easy. Slow.”
“Frank, I–” you shift in place, throat closing with a well of tears. “I’m sorry.”
“Sh-sh,” Frank hushes. Blinks his eyes open, but keeps them low on your shoulder. “Ain’t doin’ that right now. All’s that matters is I got you.”
An appreciative hum crackles in your ribs. You nod. Okay. Not right now.
“Alright f’me to turn this off?”
You nod.
He does, hand lingering on the facet.
A weighted quiet now. Heavy with your mistake. Heavier with his regret.
The quiet plink… plink… plink of water dropping into the sink basin, remnants of the night; decisions water can’t make clean.
Side of his face pressed against yours, rough stubble to soft skin, Frank grabs the hand towel. Drapes it over your hands, squeezing them dry one by one.
“That happen ‘cause ‘a me?” he asks, thick with remorse.
“Not… you…” you whisper, licking salt from your upper lip as you watch his hands work on yours. “Just… your… tone. I don’t- I don’t like ye—”
“I know,” he softly interjects, eyes pinching shut for two seconds. “Yellin’. Got… too loud.” Thinks about saying he didn’t mean to, but that was the excuse he wouldn’t let you have earlier. “Shouldn’t’a got loud with you like that.”
“I get it—”
“No. Don’t gotta do that shit. F’give like that when I fucked up.” Hands dried, Frank sets the towel aside with unnecessary precaution. Like now he doesn’t trust himself not to make more ruin.
“Can we… can we just go to bed? I think I wanna go to bed. Forget about all this ‘til the morning,” you say, voice scratchy, all of your weight leaned back on Frank. “We can have a more constructive talk… in the morning. I just… I just really want you to hold me and touch me and tell me everything’s all right for tonight. Can we, please?”
Big arms band around your waist. Frank buries his face in the sweat-slick curve of your neck, breathing you in, seeking penance. “Yeah, sweetheart. Yeah. Can do that.”
“It’s… on hold,” you say, “until tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Frank sighs against your neck, fans warmth. Tightens his arms around you; an apology in its strength. “‘Til tomorrow.”
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◜ including ⠀! ⠀matt murdock. benjamin poindexter. frank castle.
◟ warnings ⠀! ⠀nsfw. minors dni. obsessive characters. fem reader. masterlist. english is not my first language.
matt murdock
you barely get him inside you before his hips jerk violently.
“fuck— oh god—” his voice cracks as he buries himself to the hilt in one desperate thrust. his whole body tenses, muscles locking up. you feel his cock twitch hard, then he’s cumming already, thick spurts flooding you in under a minute.
“shit— i’m sorry,” he gasps, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. “i didn’t— i couldn’t hold it. you feel too good. too fucking wet and tight around me.”
he stays buried deep, still twitching, face flushed with shame and lingering pleasure. his guilt hits instantly. “i wanted to make you feel good first… i ruined it.” but even as he apologizes, his cock is already twitching back to life inside you. he rolls his hips slowly, pushing his cum deeper. “let me make it up to you. please. i’ll stay hard for you this time. i’ll eat you out first if you want— just don’t be mad.”
benjamin poindexter
dex is already shaking the second he pushes inside you.
his eyes are wide, pupils blown, staring at your face like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. he manages maybe thirty seconds of frantic, shallow thrusts before his rhythm falls apart completely.
“f-fuck— wait— i c-can’t— i’m gonna— stop stop stop— p-please—” his voice cracks into a pathetic whimper. his hips stutter violently as he cums way too fast, spilling deep inside you with a broken sob. “no— no no no— i d-didn’t— i couldn’t stop—”
he freezes, still buried in you, but his face crumples. tears spill down his cheeks instantly. his hands grip your hips too tight, trembling.
“i’m sorry— i’m so f-fucking sorry— so s-sorry” he stutters, voice wrecked and cracking. “you feel t-too good. i disappointed you. i a-a-always disappoint you. i’m p-pathetic— i couldn’t even last a minute— p-please don’t hate me... please.”
real tears are running down his face now. he looks genuinely devastated, like he might spiral. his cock is still twitching inside you, not fully soft, but he’s too busy panicking to move.
“i’ll do b-better— i swear. l-let me stay inside. i’ll get hard a-again. i’ll make you c-cum first next time. just… please don’t push me away. i need you. i-i love you. i’m sorry i’m such a fuck up...”
he buries his face in your neck, crying quietly while his hips make tiny, desperate little movements, like he’s terrified you’ll leave him over this.
frank castle
frank grunts as he sinks into you, but he only gets a handful of deep thrusts before his control snaps.
“goddamn it—” he growls, voice strained. his hips jerk hard once, twice, then he’s cumming with a low, frustrated groan, flooding you in thick pulses. it’s over.
he stays buried deep, breathing heavily against your shoulder. “fuck. too fast.” he sounds pissed at himself more than anything. one big hand slides down to rub your clit roughly, trying to make up for it immediately.
“didn’t mean to bust that quick,” he mutters, voice rough. “pussy’s too fucking good tonight.” he doesn’t pull out. instead he starts grinding slow and deep, pushing his cum around inside you while his thumb works your clit.
“you gonna let me try again?” he asks, nipping at your neck. “i’ll last longer next round. i’ll fuck you right.” his free hand grips your thigh hard, you can feel his frustration. “ain’t stopping till you cum all over my cock like you deserve.”
Hiii could you write Dex with an insecure girlfriend? Like her mentality is so “He’s so handsome why is he with me” and stuff
Not hiding anymore
Benjamin Poindexter x fem!Reader
warning: insecure reader, fluff
The thought followed you everywhere these days. It slipped into your head whenever Dex’s hand settled at the small of your back, whenever women you don’t know glanced at him a second too long.
He was beautiful. His face, his body, fuck, everything about him was beautiful. The way his face harmonizes together. Just… everything!
And then there was you.
You had spent so much time convincing yourself that he would eventually realize he could do better that you had almost started treating it like a fact rather than a fear.
Dex noticed the change before you ever said a word. The way you looked away whenever someone complimented him. The way your pulse jumped whenever you caught the eyes of a stranger on him. Lust written all over their faces.
You were sitting together on the couch when he finally spoke.
“You’ve been avoiding my eye contacts.” The statement caught you off guard. It shouldn’t catch you off guard because you knew that he over analyzed everything.
“What?”
“You’ve been doing it for twelve days.”
“Twelve-” You blinked. Has it really been that long?
“Twelve.” There wasn’t even a hint of uncertainty in his voice. You stared at him for a moment before looking down at your hands. Dex waited until you said something but nothing followed. Eventually the words slipped out of your mouth.
“I don’t know.” A blant lie. You knew why you had been avoiding his eye contact for so long.
“You do.” You swallowed and look down, not wanting to meet his eyes. He knew that you know the reason for all this. And for a second he thought that he was the problem.
“It’s stupid.”
“I didn’t say it was.” Yeah thanks Dex…
His expression remained the same, silence stetching between you. Then quietly you admitted it.
“Sometimes I don’t understand why you’re with me.”
The room became so quiet, it felt uncomfortable. You immediately regretted saying it.
“It sounds ridiculous, I know, but you’re…” You laughed weakly. “Look at you, Dex.”
His eyebrows pulled together. You continued before you could stop yourself.
“You’re attractive and confident and people notice you everywhere we go and I just keep thinking one day you’re going to realize you settled for me and leave me.” You stop to take a deep breath before you continued. “Like maybe you just haven’t noticed yet that I am not the person you want to spend your time with.”
For a second, Dex simply stared. Then he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
“You think I haven’t noticed?”
“What?” You frowned but you’re not completely shocked.
“I know exactly what you look like.” His gaze stayed fixed on you. The bluntness of the response made your face heat immediately.
“Dex-” He cuts you off before you can say anything further.
“No.” His voice wasn’t harsh. Oh my, it was anything but harsh.
“I know what your face looks like when you’re trying not to laugh. I know how you wrinkle your nose when you’re annoyed. I know the sound of your footsteps compared to everyone elses and I know how much you love taking care of stray cats.” His eyes never left yours while he was saying all these beautiful stuff. “I know you always move closer when you’re tired even though you pretend you’re not affectionate.”
“I notice things.” The statement carried a weight that made it impossible to argue with him.
“You act like I ended up here without me wanting it,” he continued quietly. “Like I somehow missed all the other options.”
A bitter laugh escaped you. “That’s not what I-”
“It is.” His jaw tightened at the thought of you putting yourself down. For the first time, something vulnerable slipped through his body “And it’s wrong.”
“I chose you.” The words landed harder than anything else had. Dex reached for your hand. His thumb brushed across your knuckles.
“If I wanted someone else, I’d be with someone else.” You looked down.
“But-”
“No.” He cuts you off again but this time firmly. You looked back up to find him already watching you.
“I don’t stay where I don’t want to be.” There was something almost painfully honest in the statement. You know that Dex is honest. He wasn’t the type of person who remained out of obligation. He never had been and never will be.
“So stop deciding what I should want for me.”Your breath caught. His fingers tightened around yours.
“I know exactly who I’m with and I love where I am.” For a moment neither of you spoke.
Then, quieter this time, he added. “And for the record, every time you look at me and wonder why I’m with you, I’m usually wondering why you’re still putting up with me. Why you’re with me.”
You stared, trying to process everything he just said. Dex immediately looked annoyed with himself for admitting that. Which somehow made you smile and the tension finally eased from your shoulders.
“What’s funny?” His eyes narrowed slightly.
“You are funny.”
“That wasn’t a joke.” He sighed.
“I know.” But when you leaned against him a second later, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you closer without a word, holding you there with the same certainty he’d used all evening. He gently kisses your temple and rests his head against yours.
“You’re it for me. Never say that again about yourself.” He quietly said. “Never hide from me anymore.”
bf!dex who looks way too pleased with himself when you get angry enough to hit him.
you two make a very disfunctional couple, that much could be said. you patch him up from knife and bullet wounds more often than you go out on dates, and you're constantly arguing about dex's obsessive, infuriating need to keep everything in your life under his control.
on particularly bad fights, you make him grovel for days.
dex will mostly spend them chasing you around your apartment while you pretend not to notice the hulking mass of a man stalking you around every room, an inevitable presence you couldn't get rid of even if you tried. he says i'm sorry and please talk to me and i'll do anything while you try your best to remain unphased, even if the undeniable lack of remorse in his voice only fills you with even more rage.
one day you turn on your heels and slap him across the face.
it's a sudden, sharp crack that echoes around the room like a gunshot. his head turns to the side and stays there, because you struck him hard enough for dex to freeze like that for a moment before he blinks once in surprise, tongue moving inside his mouth to poke the inside of his cheek.
you can see it in him, the change that happens when dex registers the sting and the heat that starts spreading across the side of his face, the shape of your fingertips painting his skin a crimson red. his mouth curls then, lips tugging into a smile as his eyes flutter closed to savor the impact.
you make a disgusted sound, and because you're still pissed, even more mad now than before you realized you can't even hurt him without his deranged brain turning it into this, you snarl: "what the fuck is wrong with you?"
dex only laughs in response, seemingly pulled out of his trance by the sound of your voice. it's the first time you've spoken to him in hours, and something inside him hums in satisfaction at finally earning back your attention, even if you're still scowling at him with an intensity that would make a lesser man feel the urge to bolt.
to dex, though, the only thing worth registering is that he has your eyes back on him once more, your touch back where it belongs—on his skin, burning across his cheek as physical proof.
he reaches out to grab your hand, fingers enclosing around your wrist and lifting your arm with enough gentleness to make you hesitate upon the thought of pulling it right back, then guides your palm to lay flat against the other side of his face.
"i'll let you take it out on me all you want, we both know i deserve it," he says, soft eyes fixed on yours despite the haze of rage still clouding your vision. "but if you really want to hurt me, then you'll have to hit me harder, sweetheart."
hey girl hey, this is highkey my first time sending a request to any author but OPLA usopp is so fine, the need for him has got to be quenched. PLSSS I NEED A FIC W HIMM PREFERABLY SMUTTT TY GIRL I LOVE YOUR WORK!!!!
Omggg thank you for having me be your first request! I'm really glad you enjoy my work! This one is for you anon ;D
PS. SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG MY WRITERS BLOCK WAS GOIN BRAZY-
Frustrated (OPLA Usopp x Reader)
"Zoro go do something else! Stop asking questions and hovering over me!" Usopp snaps, your shoulder tensing as your gaze travels from home to Zoro and back again.
You swallow hard, arms folded over your chest as Zoro looks...slightly shocked.
"Cause this isn't helping." He reiterates, looking at the plethora of items splayed out in front of him.
Zoro leaves, and the tension is still thick as the brown-skinned male's eyes flutter closed. He takes a deep breath, and you're already by his side with a small reasuring smile.
"You okay?" You hum, hands coming up to massage his shoulders. He shrugs you off, shaking his head in frustration.
Usopp had moments like these at times, and you were always there to cheer him up or at the very least calm him down. But right now, it seemed like there was more weighing on him than he was leading on.
Your once smile downturns and he presses his lips into a thin line.
"Sorry, just..." he can't seem to find the words to describe it but you know there's underlying stress he's not telling you about.
"S'okay. Just trying to help. You know I'm here for you, right?" You ask, letting him initiate the touch this time, and he happily accepts the feeling of your warm palms cupping his cheek.
"Mhm." He nods, kissing the inside of your wrist.
You presses kissed across his face, minding his bruised eyes before humming in thought.
"Y'know, it has been a whileeee, maybe we could?~" You suggest, tracing the collar of his jacket as he shivers.
"I uhh, y-yeah I think that could help," He responds, eyes flickering down to your lips.
And just before you could meet, Nami calls for you from the deck.
___________________
It happens again, though. Later that same evening he had snapped at Luffy, and this time it was a lot worse. Then again, when you'd tried to talk to him.
"Your anger is misdirected. If you aren't gonna tell me how you're feeling or how I can help then I can leave." You state plainly, blinking at him with your own newly formed attitude.
In the stillness of your closed quarters comes to a close when Usopp takes another long, exasperated breath, practically falling into your arms. He winces, though, eye pretty busted and bruised still.
You from faintly, running your fingers through his locs.
"Usopp, baby? What's bothering you?" You ask again, his lips fluttering against your exposed neck and collarbone.
"I- hm," He hums, motioning for you to sit as he pops the buttong on your jacket open.
"I don't know but I...I'm just annoyed." He voices, becoming increasingly frustrated when beneath the jacket is just more buttons.
He growls, fists clenching as you chuckle at his irritation.
"Yeah, I see that. Here." You begin, swapping places with him before shugging your jacket off and onto the floor.
"Just let me do the work yeah? I know I got pulled away earlier but we have time now." You explan, already straddling him as your pull the jacket from his shoulders, followed by the loosening of his overalls.
"You're already so wound up." You mutter.
He nods, tiling this headback to give you space enought to suck purple onto his neck. Despite him whimpering at the feeling, he manages to grip your hips harder, guiding you to sit closer, his hips rolling up as he shudders out a breath.
He winces a little when you brush just beneath his bruised eye but your discontinues the pain away.
Your lips meet, still fully clothed and his overalls fall off his shoulders, and he takes the opportunity to take his top off, ushering you to do the same.
It’s quiet, just the faint creak on the bed frame as you both adjust to meet one another’s hips.
“Kiss me,” he practically begs, chasing your lips and you half laugh, already swapping spit again.
“I just did Usopp-“just
“Then do it again.” He demands, his hand coming up to your throat, squeezing gently as you try your best to push the denim of his and your jeans off your bodies.
He chuckles nervously, already palming a handful of the fat of your ass, tucking his lower lip between his teeth before yours meet for the umpteenth time.
He scoot back, dragging you with him s you hover above him, hand pressed to his bare chest. He smiles up at you and you swear you melt a little.
"Don't look at me like that!" You half laugh, face heating as he swiped his thumb over your cheek with that same adorable goofy smile.
"Like what? I just can't get over how beautiful you are." He hums, chocking when you finally slide yourself down onto his length, the slick, sopping of your wetness riding in the air as you let out a much needed and satisfied breath.
Usopp may have played coy and avoided jabs directed at his length before, but the one who really knew was you, and god did he manage to hit ever spot trapped in your walls so perfectly.
He groans, the upward curve of his cock massaging your gooey Wass just as you sink down to take him all the way to his base.
"F-Fuck-" You whimper, fists clenched against his chest as he rolls his hips upward, just enough to drive you mad.
"I thought- damn, I thought you said you were gonna do all the work?" He chuckles, guiding your hips to meet his every time he rolled them.
That delicious vein on the underside of his length hits you so perfectly.
"Shut up, I- ohhhh fuck- Usopp baby~," You mutter, brow knotted up with focus.
His free hand had managed to come down to your sopping wet cunt, his thumb drawing circles over your clit lazily.
"You never told me- mhm, what was bothering you?" You ask, the faint 'plap' 'plap' 'plap' from your hips meeting punctuating your sentence. ]
He doesn't respond, too focuses and caught up in how good your walls feel sucking and squeezing him. He's got a sheen of sweat over him and uses the strength he has left to swap places, sliding out of you with a wet 'shlip'.
Your backs' against the mattress now, one ankle strength over his shoulder while the other sets at his hip.
And you fight a pleasure yelp when he bottoms out, you hand clenching the headboard above for support.
"Fuck, I needed this. You feel so good baby," He rambles, exchanging sloppy kisses across your body before sucking one of your nipples into his mouth.
"Almost forgot how damn good you feel," he huffs against your skin, your back arching off the bed slightly when he thrusts faster.
The beds slamming up against the wall now and you pray everyone else's too busy up on the deck to pay attention tot eh fact that you were being put through the mattress in an attempt to cleanse Usopp of his attitude.
It was defiantly working.
His stokes were getting sloppy, a clear sign that he was close and you shut your eyes, focusing on the pleasure, the similar knot already twisting up in the pit of your belly.
"Damn it baby, you're squeezing me so- mmmmh- so tight," He whines, your arms lacing behind his neck before your mouths meet.
And great timing on your behalf because just as you did he come undone, pathetic, sound moan swallowed up by your lips as he spills ropes of cum against your stomach and thighs.
"F-Fuck, y/n, baby," he huff breathlessly, shivering when you Gide your hand up and down his length.
"Feel better?" You hum, twirling his hair between your index finger and thumb with a cock-drunk smile.
He nods, taking a long breath before falling to rest again tour chest.
"I don't even remember what I was so upset about in the first place."
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for ages, he’s spent countless hours by himself. whether it be during battle, at sea, or simply within the quiet croaks of his castle.
and for a long time, mihawk thought that he’d prefer the silence. that it was better to be alone, as it created less issues. or maybe it was that it’s easier to keep everyone at arms length than let them in.
i guess maybe it was just his lack of trust. how was he supposed to trust anyone in a world like this?
somewhere along the lines, he ran into you.
mihawk can remember the exact moment he laid his eyes on you. it lays vivid in his memory.
beautiful legs that were accentuated by those black strappy heels. a figure of a goddess. lips painted in a dark blood red, tempting him to smear it with his lips and fingers. and most of all, eyes that made him feel like he was drowning in something unknown.
you quickly began to make a mess of mihawk’s life. or maybe his mind. or maybe his heart. whatever it was, mihawk wasn’t sure how he survived this long without you.
and today, as he returns home after a cross guild meeting he sees you in your shared bedroom. wearing a black thin silk robe with lace on the edges.
you sat on your vanity. soft music played off the record player. you had just completed your makeup, and were putting on a pair of earrings that mihawk had bought you for your wedding anniversary.
mihawk got drunk off the sight of you. divine creature, bewitching his mind, body, and heart.
how could this feeling be real.
within a moment, you noticed mihawk staring at you through the mirror.
“dracule,” you said breathlessly.
you turned your head to face him. his gaze was so sharp, always so laser focused. and it made your heart thump.
sometimes it’s hard to believe this is real.
mihawk walked closer to you. he reached out for your hand, slowly pressing a soft kiss.
mihawk thought he didn’t understand what soft meant before you. he thought everything in life was supposed to be done harsh and rough. but with something as delicate as you, how could he be anything but soft?
you were the reason for every breath. you were the reason for the end of every battle he fought. you were the reason he fought carefully. you were the reason he saw good.
deep down, you were the only thing that kept him bound to the world.
“i say we skip this gala, darling wife,”
“and what do you propose we do instead?”
you were both standing now. you stood so closely together, eyes intently staring at each other. his hands lay tight on your waist, as if you were his anchor.
in turn, you placed both of your hands softly on either sides of his face. it grounded both of you.
for a moment, mihawk really didn’t think.
i mean how could he, when his eyes were locked on yours. pools of thoughts and lust we’re gathered in his mind.
“dracule?”
mihawk softly placed his head against yours. and he began to move slowly, so that you both ended up dancing to the melody playing softly.
and in this moment, mihawk could only think of one thing. how incredibly lucky he was.
The weather had taken a drastic turn towards the cold and without Nami, you didn’t know if it was simply Grand Line temperature shifts or if you were approaching an island. You buttoned up a brown, fur coat and left the cabin to speak with the rest of the Straw Hats.
When you made it to the deck, you noticed that Sanji wasn’t in his usual spot. No doubt still watching over Nami. You could hear Usopp by the helm and took the stairs to meet your friends.
“It’s been three days. We really need to find a- oh my god!” Your speech about a doctor went overboard when your eyes landed on Zoro. Shirtless.
With a small yelp, you covered your eyes with your hands. Usopp snickered from the wheel but all you heard from the swordsman was a light huff.
“You’ve seen me shirtless before.” Zoro stated.
You lowered your hands and narrowed your eyes. “What? No, I haven’t.”
Zoro crossed his arms and looked to the sea. “Don’t like what you see, look away.”
Your hands returned to your face. The nerve! Zoro walking around shirtless wasn’t an issue for you. This was about Straw Hat decency and him being a distraction.
“Fine, maybe I will.” You snapped and turned to prove a point.
You could navigate the Going Merry in the dark so you stepped forward and, instead of wood, your foot met something slippery - ice. Gasping, you expected to hit the ground but there was a hard tug on your wrist, whirling you around.
Your hands found new purchase on a warm, solid chest while an arm kept you firmly braced upright.
“Shit. You okay?” Zoro asked, a light concern in his voice.
Shaking off the fright, you took one look at Zoro and forgot how to string a sentence together. This proximity was new and, the longer that you stared into his warm eyes, intoxicating.
Why were they so comforting?
How was his hair so bright and soft?
How was his skin a furnace in this cold?
“See something that you like?”
His question snapped you back to reality - no shirt, slipped on ice, Zoro pulling you close to keep you from the snow-covered decks.
With your feet now on steady ground, you were prepared to push away from the swordsman but couldn’t find the strength to actually do it. It seemed that neither did Zoro from the way he held firm.
Usopp cleared his throat. “Plenty of rooms on the ship.”
The comment came at perfect timing, reminding you both that the whole interaction was being watched. It probably seemed dramatic to the marksman.
You smiled and then burst into a small laugh. Zoro tipped his head forward, cheek brushing yours, as he joined in. It was needed after a tense few days. Zoro loosened his hold and let you step back safely, a smile on his face.
You glanced at Usopp, who was giving you a knowing look, and tried to ignore it by focusing back on the swordsman. Zoro reached into his pocket and pulled out a shirt which he slipped on effortlessly.
“Happy?” He teased.
You walked past him and lightly bumped his shoulder. “You’re insufferable.”
~~~
When Zoro left the helm, he retired to the Crows Nest where it was peaceful. He sat down, legs folded, and leaned against the wall. Eyes closed, Zoro began to clear his mind and drift away.
Your hands had touched his skin.
Your lips were so close to his mouth.
Your laugh… it made his heart twist.
Smirking to himself, maybe Zoro would walk around shirtless more often to see it again.
~ More One Piece imagines here ~
A/n: apparently I predicted my own fall with this fic - except there was no Zoro to break the fall :(
민윤기x f!reader ˖ ࣪ ꉂ🗯˙ ‹— cw | idol!yoongi • domestic boyfriend!yoongi • fluff • comfort • clingy yoongi • long distance during tours • lots of physical affection • late night calls • lowercase intended
┈ [ ✉️ ] Hi angels !! This was a request by an anon in my inbox !!! And this is SO overdue I apologize. I have been very unproductive lately so… bear with me 🥺 Also, I am so close to 500 followers and I love you and thank you all so much !!! But Any-whom !! Happy reading !!
before tour boyfriend!yoongi :(
— spends more time in his studio with you sitting nearby :( doesn’t even need you talking. just likes looking over and seeing you there while he works
— gets quieter before leaving but not in a sad way. more thoughtful. like he’s mentally trying to memorize your routines before he has to be away from them again
— the type to casually ask “you’ll call me if something happens, right?” instead of directly admitting he’s worried about leaving you
— absolutely makes songs while thinking about you but will deny it immediately if you point it out
— starts sleeping later before tour because he doesn’t want to waste time unconscious when he could still be beside you :(
— prefers quiet nights together before leaving. takeout containers on the coffee table. tv playing softly. your legs thrown over his while he scrolls through random videos
— acts completely normal the morning he leaves but holds your hand a little tighter right before he has to let go
during tour boyfriend!yoongi :(
— terrible texter during busy days but sends random messages at like 3am because that’s when he finally slows down enough to miss you properly
— the type to send pictures with zero explanation : blurry studio setups. late night ramen cups. city lights outside hotel windows
— facetimes you while laying in bed half asleep, voice rough and quiet because he’s too tired to pretend he isn’t exhausted
— honestly misses silence with you the most. just existing in the same room without pressure to talk
— sends short voice notes instead of paragraphs. little “heard this and thought of u” messages attached to unfinished demos or songs he’s working on
— definitely falls asleep with the tv running in hotel rooms because complete silence feels too empty without you there
— when he misses you really badly he gets clingier in subtle ways :( answering your texts faster, staying on calls longer, asking what you’re doing every hour
— secretly rereads your messages before concerts sometimes because they calm him down more than he’ll ever admit
— acts like tour is just work to him but quietly tells you one night that every hotel starts feeling the same after a while
after tour boyfriend!yoongi :)
— coming home with him feels calm :) no dramatic entrance. just him dropping his bags, pulling you into his chest, and staying there for a long moment like he finally relaxed
— immediately changes into comfortable clothes and settles beside you on the couch like he’s reclaiming his spot again
— domestic affection with him is quiet but constant after tour :) forehead kisses while passing by, hand resting on your knee, pulling you against his side while watching movies
— absolutely the type to stand in the kitchen late at night eating snacks with you while talking softly about random things he thought about during tour
— loves the peaceful parts of being home most : hearing you in another room while he works, falling asleep beside you, rainy mornings where neither of you has to be anywhere
— starts bringing you into his studio more after tour because he missed your presence there while he was away
— spends the first few nights back sleeping deeper than he did the entire tour because being beside you finally lets his body relax again
— after tour he loves you in an even quieter way. comfortable. steady. like home became less about a place and more about wherever you are
Perm taglist : @kimmynammy @celliez @alphabetically-deranged @m4aimm @raceme2hell @bo-rimmy @mustanggbabyy @divakoo (comment or ask to be added)
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[ ▸ ] — you tell yourself jungkook is not yours because he has never promised to be, but every part of him feels close enough to make that truth unbearable. he gives you softness without certainty, desire without definition, and just enough tenderness to make walking away feel impossible
[ ✐ ] — 15k
[ ⌗ ] — non idol!jungkook x f!reader fwb slow burn angst hurt / comfort jealousy miscommunication big dick!jk graphic & detailed smut oral ( f & m receiving )
[ ✉︎ ] — first jungkook fic baby! y'all...this has been a wip for so long. first of all, love sza so much. that's my girl. go listen to 2 am by her if you never have bc this is where the inspo came from! and if you have, listen to it again to get in the feels. was debating whether to leave this with a sad ending but y'all know i can't f*cking do it. maybe in the future lol anyway big thank you to @solecize for the amazing banner and for high key inspiring me to write for jk. pls enjoy reading, hunnies <3
With Jungkook, things had a way of becoming complicated long after you’d already fallen into them.
That was the worst part, maybe, because if he had been colder in the beginning, if he had been arrogant or careless or obvious in that cheap, glossy way men sometimes were when they knew exactly how much damage they could get away with, you might have known what to do with him. You might have known where to put him in your life. You might have known to keep your heart tucked away somewhere private, somewhere he could not reach with his bright smile and gentle hands and that easy little laugh that made it sound like the world was never as heavy as you made it out to be.
But he was not like that. He was kind. He was warm.
And he remembered things.
He remembered that you hated lemon in your drinks but liked the flavor of it in your food, which made no sense to him, and he had teased you about it for ten full minutes the first time he watched you pick one out of a glass of water at dinner. He remembered that you got cold too easily in movie theaters and always, always brought a hoodie after the first time you had tried to pretend you were fine through an entire film while your knees knocked together beneath the seat. He remembered the name of the stray cat you fed that lived behind your apartment building, even though you had only mentioned it once while distracted, and sometimes when he walked you home he would look toward the alley and ask, “Has Chairman Meow eaten today?” with such sincere concern.
That was the problem.
He didn’t treat you like you were temporary.
He didn’t leave after, not right away, not with the easy cruelty of someone who wanted only your body and none of the person inside it. He stayed. He curled around you while the room cooled and the night softened at the edges, his mouth resting against your shoulder, his breath slow against your skin, his thumb moving in little absent circles at your hip.
He made breakfast sometimes, badly, but with confidence so undeserved it almost became charming on its own.
He texted during the day, not constantly, never enough to call it something, never enough to put a name around it without feeling foolish, but enough that your phone became a little trap. A random selfie. A song he thought you would like. A complaint about a coworker that you didn’t technically know, but felt like you did from the stories Jungkook would tell you about him. A picture of his lunch with the silly little captions.
Normal things. Friendly things.
But it was the nights that got you.
Two in the morning had become a dangerous hour because Jungkook never made it easy to say no. He never sent a you up? text or anything flat and ugly enough for you to roll your eyes at. He never gave you the mercy of being obvious. He sent things that sank under your skin.
come and see me, baby.
i miss you, beautiful.
can’t sleep. wish you were here.
Sometimes you stared at those messages until the screen dimmed in your hand. Sometimes you typed out no and deleted it. Sometimes you typed out you only miss me at night and deleted that too, because it was not true enough to be useful and too true to say without bleeding.
Most times, you went. And every time, on the ride over, you told yourself you understood the arrangement.
You had never asked him for anything. He had never promised you anything. Nobody had lied. Nobody had drawn lines and then crossed them. You were both consenting adults, both aware, both stepping into the same warm, dim room with open eyes.
Maybe it was your fault for falling for someone like him.
Maybe there were girls who liked men like Jungkook exactly as he was because they were free and tethered by and to no one, because there was something exciting about not knowing where you stood, because wanting less made them feel powerful. Maybe they knew how to take the pleasure and leave the rest. Maybe they could kiss him and still keep themselves separate, could sleep beside him and wake up whole, could let him call them baby at two in the morning without hearing it echo for days.
But not you.
You had thought you could be casual. You had thought you could do no strings. You had thought that wanting him would be manageable as long as you kept your expectations small and your voice steady and your foolish little heart on a leash.
Then he started kissing your forehead in the kitchen when you stood half-asleep in his shirt, waiting for the coffee machine to stop making sounds like it was fighting for its life.
Then he started touching you in a way that made the word casual feel impossible to believe, because nothing about the way he held you ever felt careless.
It was one of those nights again, the kind that started with a message you should have ignored and ended with you in his bed, surrounded by the warmth of his room, his sheets twisted beneath you, and his hands making it impossible to remember why you had ever tried to stay away.
Your back arched off the mattress, spine curving as another orgasm crashed through you like a fucking tidal wave. Three in the morning and Jungkook showed no signs of stopping. His face was slick with you, chin glistening, lips swollen and pink as he worked you through your fifth climax of the night. His fingers rolled your nipples, tugging and twisting just enough to make you gasp, your hands fisting the sheets above your head.
"Oh god—fuck, Jungkook, please—" You didn't even know what you were begging for anymore. For him to stop? To never stop? Your thighs shook around his head, muscles trembling from exertion, but he held you open with those strong hands, his tongue still working your oversensitive clit in slow, devastating circles.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your soaked pussy. "One more, baby. Give me one more." His voice was wrecked, rough and desperate in a way that made your stomach flip. He dove back in before you could respond, sucking your clit between his lips while two fingers curled inside you, finding that spot that made you see stars.
You screamed his name. Actually screamed it, loud enough that his neighbors probably hated you both, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. Not when he was looking up at you like that, dark eyes watching your face as he fucked you with his mouth, groaning against your flesh like eating you out was the best thing he'd ever tasted. Like he needed it more than air.
Your fifth orgasm hit you so hard you forgot your own name for a second. White-hot pleasure seared through your veins, every nerve ending alight as you convulsed around his fingers, your release gushing into his waiting mouth. He moaned like he was the one coming, lapping up everything you gave him, tongue gentle now as he coaxed you through the aftershocks.
"Jungkook, please—" You tugged at his hair, trying to pull him up because you were so sensitive it almost hurt, your pussy clenching around nothing as he withdrew his fingers.
He kissed his way up your body, lips trailing over your hip bone, your stomach, the valley between your breasts. By the time he reached your mouth, you could taste yourself on his tongue, salty and sweet and undeniably arousing. He kissed you deeply, slowly, one large hand cradling your face while the other braced his weight above you.
"You're so fucking pretty when you come," he murmured against your lips. "Could watch you fall apart all night."
"You have been," you managed, your voice wrecked. "For thirty minutes."
He smiled against your mouth, that boyish grin that made your chest tight in ways you refused to examine too closely. "And I'd stay down there for another hour if you let me." His hips settled between your thighs, and you felt him—hard, thick, pressing against your hip. He'd been grinding against the mattress this whole time, getting himself off on getting you off, and something about that made your pussy clench all over again.
"Let me—" You reached down, wrapping your fingers around his cock through his boxers. He was big, thick and long in a way that had made you nervous the first time you'd seen it. Now you knew exactly how good that size could feel, how perfectly he filled you. "Let me suck you. You deserve it."
Jungkook groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. His hips jerked into your touch. "Fuck, baby, you can't just say shit like that."
"I want to." You tugged at his waistband, freeing his cock and stroking him properly now, feeling him pulse in your grip. The head was already leaking, slick with precum that you spread down his shaft. "Let me make you feel good."
"No." The word came out strangled, desperate. He grabbed your wrist, stilling your hand. When you looked up at him, his jaw was clenched, his nostrils flared. "I need—I need to be inside you. Need to fuck you. Please."
The urgency in his voice made your whole body flush. He was shaking, actually shaking with the effort of holding back. You realized then that he'd been denying himself this whole time, focusing entirely on your pleasure while his own need built to a breaking point. That thought sent a fresh wave of want through you, your exhausted body suddenly desperate for him again.
"Then fuck me." You spread your legs wider, hooking one calf around his hip. "I want you inside me."
Jungkook let out a sound that was half-growl, half-moan. He reached toward his nightstand, fumbling in the drawer for a condom. His hands were unsteady as he tore the packet open, and you watched him roll it down his length with quick, practiced movements. Then he was positioning himself at your entrance, the thick head of his cock nudging against your opening.
"Look at me," he said, voice low. You met his gaze, and something in his expression made your breath catch. He looked wrecked, desperate, but underneath that was something softer. "You feel so good, baby. So tight. Every time—I swear every time feels like the first time."
He pushed in slowly, inch by agonizing inch. You both moaned at the intrusion, your pussy stretching around him in that familiar burn that bordered on too much and not enough. He was thick, thicker than anyone you'd been with, and he took his time sheathing himself fully even though you could feel how much he wanted to move. His arms shook where they braced above you, his jaw tight with restraint.
"Fuck," you gasped once he was fully seated, your walls fluttering around him. "You're so big. So fucking big, Jungkook, I can feel you everywhere."
He dropped his head, pressing his forehead to yours. "You're so tight. Squeezing me so fucking hard." He rolled his hips experimentally, and you both groaned at the sensation. "I'm not gonna last, baby. Need you too much."
"Then don't." You cupped his face, pulling him into a messy kiss. "Just fuck me. Make yourself feel good."
He pulled back until only the head remained inside you, then snapped his hips forward hard enough to make you cry out. "Oh, I intend to." He set a brutal pace, each thrust driving you further up the mattress. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, obscene and wet, mixing with your combined moans and the creak of his bed frame.
"This tight little pussy was made for me," he growled against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. "Made to take my cock. Fuck, you feel so good—so fucking good—"
You couldn't form words. Could only hold on, nails raking down his back as he fucked you with a desperation you'd never felt from him before. This wasn't the slow, sensual Jungkook you'd grown addicted to. This was something rawer, more urgent. Like he couldn't get deep enough, couldn't get close enough, no matter how hard he tried.
"More," you heard yourself beg, the word slipping out before you could stop it. "Please, Jungkook, more—"
He shifted, hooking your knees over his elbows and folding you nearly in half. The new angle let him sink impossibly deeper, hitting that spot inside you that made fireworks explode behind your eyes. You screamed, back bowing off the bed as he pounded into you.
"Right there?" His voice was rough, breathless. "That's the spot, isn't it? Right fucking there."
"Yes, yes, fuck, yes—"
He bent down to kiss you, swallowing your moans as his hips snapped forward relentlessly. You could feel another orgasm building, which should have been impossible after five already, but the way he filled you, the way his pelvic bone ground against your clit with every thrust—it was inevitable.
"I'm close," you gasped against his mouth. "Jungkook, I'm gonna—"
"Come for me." His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles. "Come on my cock. Want to feel this tight pussy squeeze me."
That was all it took. Your orgasm crashed through you harder than any of the ones before, your vision going white as your walls clamped down around him. You heard yourself sobbing his name, fingernails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
"Fuck, fuck—" Jungkook's rhythm faltered, his thrusts growing erratic. "You're squeezing me so fucking tight—I'm gonna come, baby, I'm gonna—"
He buried himself deep one final time, a groan tearing from his throat as he spilled into the condom. You could feel him pulsing inside you, his cock throbbing with each wave of his release. He collapsed onto his elbows, careful not to crush you, his face buried in your neck as he gasped for breath.
For long moments, neither of you moved. The only sounds were your combined breathing and the faint hum of the city outside his window. His heart hammered against your chest, or maybe that was yours—you couldn't tell anymore. Everything felt blurred together, your bodies tangled in a way that made it hard to tell where you ended and he began.
"That was—" you started, but your voice gave out.
Jungkook laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. "Yeah." He pressed a kiss to your jaw, then another to the corner of your mouth. "That was fucking incredible."
He pulled out slowly, both of you wincing at the oversensitivity, and disposed of the condom before settling back beside you. He pulled you into his side, strong arm wrapping around your shoulders as your head found its familiar spot on his chest.
You traced patterns on his skin, fingers drifting over the tattoos that decorated his arm. This was the part that confused you most. The casual intimacy that felt anything but casual. The way he held you like you were something precious, pressing lazy kisses to your hair, your temple, any part of you he could reach.
"You okay?" he murmured, voice heavy with approaching sleep. "I wasn't too rough?"
You shook your head against his chest. "You were perfect." The words came out softer than you intended, weighted with more meaning than they should have carried.
He hummed, his hand stroking up and down your back in a way that made your eyes heavy. "Stay. I'll make breakfast in the morning."
This was the problem. This right here. He could have asked you to leave. Could have made some excuse about an early morning or needing space. That's what situationships were supposed to be—casual, no strings, easy to walk away from. But Jungkook never made it easy.
He made you breakfast. He held you while you slept. He kissed you goodbye like it physically hurt him to let you go. And every time, you fell a little deeper into something you knew was going to end with you shattered.
"Okay," you whispered, because you were too weak to say no to him. "I'll stay."
His arm tightened around you, and you felt him press another kiss to the top of your head. Within minutes, his breathing evened out, his body going lax with sleep. But you lay awake, staring at the ceiling through the darkness, wondering how you'd let yourself get here.
By the time you padded out of his bedroom the next morning, Jungkook was already in the kitchen with nothing on but gray sweatpants, his back to you as steam climbed around his shoulders. The rice cooker sat open on the counter. A small pot simmered on the stove. His hair was damp at the ends, skin still warm from the shower, muscles shifting as he reached up for bowls like he had no idea what kind of damage he was doing before nine in the morning.
You stopped in the doorway, swallowed by his black hoodie, sleeves hanging past your fingertips.
“Are you trying to kill me?” you asked.
He glanced back. “With breakfast?”
“With all of that.”
His eyes dropped to the hoodie, then dragged back up to your face, slow enough to make your pulse trip. “You look so good in my clothes.”
You look away, smiling despite yourself.
His smile tugged at one corner before he turned back to the stove, ladling soup into two bowls. Rice followed. Gim. Kimchi. Rolled egg cut clean and pretty because, of course, he had to be good at everything.
You sat while he brought the food over, watching him place your bowl down first.
“You look too pleased with yourself,” you said.
“I made breakfast.” Jungkook leaned over your shoulder to set down the chopsticks, voice dipping close to your ear. “Eat before I make you say thank you.”
Your stomach flipped.
You reached for the spoon, pretending the heat in your face came from the soup. “This is unfair.”
“This is love.”
The word landed too heavily.
You saw the moment he realized what he had said because his fingers stilled around the plate, and for half a second something flickered through his eyes, quick and startled and impossible to hold. Then he smiled, smaller than before. “Chef’s kiss,” he said, quieter.
You could have teased him. You could have rescued the moment. You could have said something careless enough to make the air breathable again.
Instead, because you were sleep-warm and stupid with him, because his hoodie smelled like him, because you had woken up with his arm around your waist and his face tucked against the back of your neck, you said, “Is that what this is?”
Jungkook looked at you. “What do you mean?” he asked, but his voice had changed.
You looked down at the food. It was easier than looking at him. “I don’t know.”
He didn’t answer right away. That was the first warning.
Jungkook always answered quickly when things were light. He had a comeback for everything when the room was safe, when the joke was waiting, when the door stayed open behind him. But when something real stepped in, something with hands and teeth and a heartbeat, he went quiet.
You hated that you knew that about him.
You hated that you had learned his silences well enough to understand them.
He moved around the counter slowly and leaned back against it, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. He was not defensive, not exactly, but he was holding himself still in the way people did when they were trying not to run.
“I care about you,” he said finally.
But it wasn’t enough.
The words should have comforted you, maybe, because they were not nothing. They were gentle. They were true, or at least you believed they were true in the way Jungkook knew how to make things true, moment by moment, room by room. But they were not enough, and you felt the shape of that lack like a bruise—a deep ache beneath the surface.
“I know,” you said.
His brows pinched. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you look like that?”
You laughed once, but there was no humor in it. “Like what?”
“Like I hurt you.”
He sounded upset, almost offended, and that made something sharp move through you because he had hurt you, and he had not, and both things were true enough to make you feel ridiculous.
“You didn’t,” you said.
He looked unconvinced.
You pushed the bowl away gently. “I should go.”
The words startled him. You saw it before he covered it. “You don’t have to.”
“I do, actually. I have laundry.”
“Laundry?”
“Yes, Jungkook, people do laundry.”
“All of a sudden?”
“I am suddenly responsible, yes."
He smiled because you gave him the shape of a joke, but it did not reach his eyes. Still, he let you stand. He let you take off his hoodie and fold it over the back of the chair. He let you gather your bag from beside the couch while the room pressed against your back with everything neither of you were saying.
At the door, he touched your wrist, fingers against your pulse.
“Text me when you get home?” he asked.
You wanted to say no.
You wanted to say, Stop asking for pieces of me if you don’t want the whole thing.
You wanted to say, Stop looking at me like that.
You wanted to say, I’m not built for this, and you should have noticed by now.
Instead, you nodded.
He opened the door for you, and when you stepped into the hallway, he said your name softly enough that you almost pretended not to hear it.
You turned.
Jungkook looked at you from inside his apartment, one hand still on the door, his hair soft and fluffy, his face bare and tired and more beautiful than was fair. For a moment, you thought he would say something. For a moment, you thought the right words were there, climbing up his throat, ready to save both of you from the long fall.
Then he swallowed. “Get home safe,” he said.
You smiled because it was easier than crying.
His door shut behind you with a quiet click.
You texted him when you got home before actually doing your laundry. He sent back a heart. You stared at it longer than you liked to admit.
After that, you tried to be smarter.
For three weeks, you became very busy.
You just stopped being available every time he called you close. You answered his daytime texts, but slower. You liked the selfies and laughed at the work complaints. You stayed friendly because friendship was the last scrap of dignity you had, and you were determined not to make him responsible for feelings he had never asked to hold.
But you stopped going to him at night.
He texted you one night while you were in bed with your phone face down on your bed, trying to read the same paragraph of a book for the fourth time.
jungkook: can i come over?
Your throat tightened. You turned the phone over for six minutes before turning it back over and replying.
y/n: i’m tired tonight
Three dots appeared almost instantly, vanished, appeared again.
jungkook: okay. get some sleep
Then, a second later—
jungkook: goodnight, beautiful
You cried, which made you angry, which made you cry harder because there was nothing more humiliating than being undone by someone respecting your boundary.
Then another day, he sent: miss you :(
You replied in the morning with: sorry, fell asleep :(
jungkook: it’s okay, baby
jungkook: did you sleep well?
The next time he reached out, he didn’t text at two but called at ten in the evening. You let it ring until it stopped, and the guilt sat in your stomach all night like a stone.
The next day, your mutual friend Hana invited you to a last minute birthday dinner, and you almost said no the second she mentioned Jungkook would be there. Not because you didn’t want to see him, which was the lie your brain offered up immediately, neat and pathetic, but because you wanted to see him too much, and you didn’t trust yourself to survive him in public.
In private, you at least knew what the danger looked like. It looked like his couch, his bed, his kitchen, his hand at your lower back while he moved around you to reach for a mug. It looked like low light and warm sheets and his voice turned soft at the edges.
In public, there would be other people. Other women. Other reminders.
You spent too long getting ready for someone you were pretending not to want. You changed three times. You did your makeup with unnecessary precision. You told yourself you were dressing for yourself, which was partly true, and then you chose the earrings Jungkook had once complimented, which was not.
The restaurant was already loud when you arrived, full of laughter and the steady hum of Friday night conversations. Hana waved you over from the long table near the back, her smile bright, her crown-shaped birthday headband crooked in a way that suggested she had already started drinking.
“You made it!” she shouted, standing to hug you.
“Barely. Traffic was evil.”
“Traffic is always evil. Sit, sit, sit.”
You let yourself be pulled into the noise, into the warmth, into the easy chaos of introductions and menu passing and Hana insisting everyone order appetizers because “birthday law says calories don’t count.” You were halfway through laughing at something one of her coworkers said when you heard Jungkook’s voice behind you.
“Sorry, sorry, I’m late.”
Your body reacted before your mind could tell it not to.
He had come in with Taehyung, his hair tucked beneath a black beanie, his jacket open over a plain white shirt, and cheeks flushed faintly from the cold outside. He looked relaxed, apologetic, beautiful in that unfair way of people who did not appear to have tried very hard. His eyes moved over the table while he smiled, greeting everyone, silver lip ring glinting under the restaurant lights…and then they found you.
For one second, all the noise thinned.
His smile shifted, softening into something private.
Your fingers tightened around your water glass.
He said your name.
Just your name, nothing else, and it still sounded like a hand reaching across the room.
“Hi,” you said.
He stood there for half a beat too long before Hana smacked his arm with a menu.
“Stop blocking traffic, Kook. Sit down.”
He laughed and slid into the empty chair across from you, because the universe had apparently hated you and had him seated in your direct line of vision.
Dinner should have been fine. And at first, it almost was fine.
Jungkook didn’t act strange. He joined conversations, laughed at Hana’s stories, ordered too much food, and then proceeded to eat almost all of it himself. He didn’t bring up the unanswered calls or the late-night messages you had stopped accepting. He was careful in a way that made you more restless than if he had been reckless.
Sometimes you caught him looking.
Never long enough to accuse him of anything.
Just little glances, his eyes flicking to your face when someone made you laugh, to your hands when you reached for your drink, to your mouth when you leaned forward to answer a question. Each time, he looked away first, and each time, it left something unfinished hanging between you.
Then Hana’s work friend Siwoo arrived late.
You had met him once before, briefly, at a housewarming. He was handsome in a clean, harmless way, with nice hair and an easy smile, and when Hana introduced him again, he remembered your name immediately.
“That’s right,” he said, sitting beside you after one of the others scooted down to make room. “You’re the one who recommended that restaurant in Myeongdong.”
You blinked. “You remember that?”
“Of course. It was good.”
“See?” Hana said from two seats down, pointing with her fork. “My friends have taste.”
Siwoo leaned closer, lowering his voice as if the conversation belonged just to the two of you. “I actually went twice.”
“Twice?”
“Yeah, but the second time was with my sister, so it was less romantic than that sounded.”
You laughed, surprised by it.
Across the table, Jungkook looked down at his plate. You saw it.
Siwoo was easy to talk to. That was the trouble. He asked normal questions and gave normal answers and seemed interested in what you had to say without making your heart feel like it was standing on a ledge. He didn’t look at you like he already knew what you sounded like in the dark. He didn’t carry the weight of every unsent sentence you had ever swallowed.
He was simple. Safe.
You let yourself enjoy it because you were tired of being careful. You let yourself lean into the conversation. You let yourself smile when he made a dry comment about Hana’s “birthday laws” apparently expanding with every drink she ordered. When his arm brushed yours, you didn’t move away immediately.
Jungkook noticed that too.
By the time the plates were cleared and Hana announced that everyone was going to a bar nearby because she had not yet been “celebrated at the correct intensity,” the mood between you and Jungkook had shifted once more.
He was quieter on the walk over.
He still answered when people spoke to him. He still laughed while grabbing Hana when she nearly tripped over nothing and blamed the sidewalk for being jealous. But there was a tension around him now, subtle and controlled, visible only because you knew the relaxed version too well.
The bar was crowded, low-lit, and warm enough that everyone started peeling off jackets within minutes. Music thumped through the floor. Hana claimed a booth with the determination of a military commander, and someone ordered the first round before half the group had even sat down.
Siwoo ended up beside you again.
Jungkook ended up at the bar. You told yourself not to watch him, but your eyes, the little betrayers that they are, locked onto his figure.
He stood with Taehyung, one elbow against the counter, nodding at something the bartender said. A woman beside him turned slightly, her long hair falling over one shoulder as she smiled up at him. You couldn’t hear what she said, but you saw Jungkook smile back out of politeness or habit or charm. You saw him lean closer because the bar was loud. You saw her touch his arm.
It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did. It mattered so much that the room seemed to sharpen around it.
You turned back to Siwoo too quickly.
“So,” he said, eyes moving over your face with mild curiosity, “how do you know Hana again?”
“College,” you said, grateful for the question and incapable of remembering any details about your own life. “We had a class together.”
“What class?”
“Psychology.”
“Useful?”
“Mostly taught me that everyone is lying to themselves.”
He laughed. “That sounds useful.”
“It’s been haunting me ever since.”
His smile softened. “You’re funny.”
It was a nice compliment. You smiled back because you knew Jungkook could see you from the bar out of the corner of your eye.
That was ugly of you. You knew it as you did it, knew the small cruelty of using Siwoo’s attention like a shield, knew jealousy was not a language anyone should be proud of speaking. But the woman at the bar was still talking to Jungkook, and he was still standing there, and something in you had been hurting quietly for weeks.
Siwoo leaned in to hear you better when you answered his next question. His knee pressed against yours under the table. You didn’t make a move to get distance.
A minute later, Jungkook appeared beside the booth with drinks. He set Hana’s in front of her first, then yours.
“Thanks,” you said, keeping your eyes on the glass.
He looked at Siwoo, then at you. “No problem.”
His voice was even. Too even.
Hana, already glowing with birthday power, reached across the table and tugged him down into the booth on her other side. “Kook, sit. You keep hovering and it’s making me anxious.”
“I don’t hover.”
“You literally do. It’s one of your main hobbies.”
He sat, but his eyes went back to you.
Siwoo was saying something about a trip he wanted to take to Busan, and you were trying very hard to listen, but Jungkook was across from you with his jaw set and his drink untouched, and every nerve in your body seemed to be turned toward him.
You hated this.
You hated how much you wanted him to be jealous.
You hated how much you hated seeing him jealous because it meant he cared, but not enough, maybe never enough, and there was no comfort in being wanted by someone who still would not choose you.
When Siwoo excused himself to take a call, you stood almost immediately.
“I’m going to get some air,” you told Hana.
She looked between you and Jungkook, and despite being several drinks into her birthday, her eyes narrowed with sudden clarity. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, I’m okay. Stop worrying, enjoy your night, birthday girl,” you said, smiling, trying to convince your friend that you really were.
You grabbed your jacket and slipped through the crowd before anyone else could say anything.
Outside, the cold hit your face hard enough to make your eyes sting. The sidewalk was busy with people moving between bars and restaurants, their laughter trailing through the air in bright pieces. You walked a few steps away from the entrance and stopped near the side of the building, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself.
You just needed a minute. That was all. A minute without music. Without Siwoo’s harmless attention. Without Jungkook’s eyes on you. Without the terrible, crawling ache of wanting someone who seemed perfectly capable of wanting you back only when the room was dark and the consequences were quiet.
The door opened behind you. You knew it was him before he said anything.
“You didn’t even try your drink,” Jungkook said.
You closed your eyes for a second.
You turned around. “I came outside for air, I’ll go back inside soon.”
He stood a few feet away, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. The streetlight caught on the silver hoops in his ears, on the curve of his mouth, on the uncertainty he was trying and failing to hide.
“You okay?” he asked.
You laughed softly, looking away. “Do you actually want the answer to that?”
His expression changed. “Yes, you know I do.”
The honesty in his voice made you angry. It was easier than letting it make you sad. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you get to know.”
His brows drew together. “What does that mean?”
“It means you don’t get to follow me outside and look at me like that and ask if I’m okay when you only want the parts of the answer that don’t require anything from you.”
Jungkook stared at you.
The noise from inside the bar pulsed faintly through the wall behind him.
He took a breath. “Is this because of Siwoo?”
You looked at him then, really looked, and the jealousy in his face was not subtle anymore. It sat there, plain and wounded and irritatingly beautiful, tightening the line of his mouth.
“No,” you said. “It’s not because of Siwoo.”
His jaw flexed. “You seemed pretty interested in him.”
“And?”
His eyes sharpened. There it was—the tiny break in his composure.
“And?” he repeated.
“Yes, Jungkook. And?”
He looked away, tongue pressing briefly against the inside of his cheek, and when he laughed under his breath it sounded nothing like amusement. “Nothing.”
“No, say it.”
He shook his head.
“Say it,” you pushed, because the night had already cracked open and you were tired of stepping carefully around the pieces. “You followed me out here. You brought him up. Say whatever it is you’re trying not to say.”
He looked at you again, and his voice dropped. “I didn’t like watching him touch you.”
The words moved through you with a force you were not prepared for. Your heart kicked once, hard. But the hurt was bigger. “No,” you said, almost to yourself.
Jungkook’s face tightened. “No?”
“No, you don’t get to do that.”
“I’m just telling you the truth.”
“Now?” You stepped closer, anger warming your face despite the cold. “You want to tell the truth now because someone else sat next to me? Because someone else laughed at my jokes and looked at me like maybe he wanted to know me in daylight too?”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s not?” Your voice shook, and you hated it, but you kept going. “What part isn’t fair? The part where you get to call me baby at two in the morning, and I’m supposed to understand it doesn’t mean anything? The part where you stay over me, and hold me, and remember every stupid little thing I tell you, and then when I ask what this is, all you can say is that you care about me?”
His face went pale beneath the streetlights.
You had never said it out loud before, but now that you had started, you couldn’t stop.
“I know you never promised me anything. I know that. I have told myself that so many times it’s basically carved into my skull, so don’t worry, I’m not accusing you of lying to me. You didn’t. You never said we were together. You never said you wanted me like that. You never asked me to wait for you or choose you or turn down anyone else for you.”
Jungkook swallowed.
You pressed a hand briefly to your chest, as if you could hold yourself together from the outside.
“But you don’t get to be jealous like you have some claim on me when you won’t even admit you want one.”
His eyes flashed. “I do want one.”
The words came out fast. Too fast, maybe. They seemed to startle him as much as they startled you.
Jungkook dragged a hand over his face and turned away for a second, breathing hard. When he faced you again, the carefulness was gone. So was the jealousy, or at least it had been swallowed by something larger and more frightened.
“I do,” he said again, quieter but steadier. “I want one.”
Your mouth went dry. “No, you don’t.”
Pain crossed his face. “Don’t tell me what I want.”
“Then stop acting like you don’t know.”
“I’m not acting.”
“That’s worse, Jungkook.”
He flinched and God did you wish that satisfied you.
He took a step closer, then stopped, keeping space between you both. “I know I messed this up.”
You laughed faintly, and it broke at the end. “That’s not a confession.”
“I’m trying.”
“You’re jealous. There’s a difference.”
His eyes shone under the streetlight, dark and wide and scared in a way you had never seen from him. “I was jealous in there because I love you.”
Inside you, everything went silent.
Jungkook stood in front of you with his hands flexing at his sides, the words between you now, visible and impossible to take back.
You stared at him.
He looked like he wanted to reach for you and knew he had no right.
“What?” you whispered.
“I love you,” he said, and this time the words did not rush. They landed carefully, with all the weight he had denied them before. “I think I’ve loved you for a while, and I was too much of a coward to say it because I didn’t know what to do with it, and because saying it meant I could lose you if I didn’t become the kind of person who deserved to keep you.”
Your throat burned.
He kept going, voice rough now.
“I told myself I wasn’t hurting you because I never lied. I told myself we were both choosing it. I told myself you knew I cared, and that should have been enough until I figured myself out, which was selfish and stupid because I was still asking you to come over. I was still asking you to stay. I was still taking everything you gave me and acting like it wasn’t a choice every time you showed up.”
You blinked hard, but a tear slipped anyway, hot against your cold cheek.
Jungkook’s face crumpled slightly at the sight, but he didn’t touch you.
Good. You needed him not to make it easy.
“I didn’t know how to be casual with you,” he said. “I just knew I was scared to be serious.”
“That’s not fair to me.”
“I know.”
“No, I need you to hear me.” Your voice shook again, but you held his gaze. “You made me feel loved and then left me alone with it.”
His eyes reddened. “I know,” he said again, and this time it sounded like it cost him something.
You wiped your cheek quickly, frustrated by the tears, by the cold, by the fact that even now, even angry and hurt and exhausted, some part of you wanted to step into him because he looked devastated.
“You don’t get to say it now just because you saw me with someone else.”
“I’m not.” He shook his head. “I’m saying it now because seeing you with someone else made me realize how much I was expecting you to stand still while I figured out how to stop being afraid. I hated it, and then I hated myself because you weren’t doing anything wrong. You were just sitting there with someone who was actually acting like he wanted you in front of people.”
His voice cracked on the last word.
You looked down.
For a few moments, neither of you spoke. Your anger was still there, but it had changed shape. It was no longer fire. It was exhaustion, grief, want, all tangled together into something heavy and hard to carry.
“I can’t keep doing this,” you said.
Jungkook nodded quickly, too quickly, panic flashing across his face. “I know.”
“I mean it. I can’t keep being the person you miss when you’re lonely and hold when you’re soft and avoid when things get real.”
“You’re not.”
“I was.”
He swallowed. “You were.”
The admission hurt, but it also steadied you. He wasn’t defending himself. And despite the hurt you felt, that still mattered to you. Not enough to fix everything, not immediately, not with one speech on a sidewalk, but enough to keep you from walking away before the conversation could finish.
“What do you want?” you asked.
Jungkook looked at you like the answer was obvious and terrifying. “You.”
The word hit you low in the chest.
He took a breath and forced himself to continue. “Not just at night. I want to take you out properly and hold your hand where people can see and wake up with you without pretending breakfast is just breakfast. I want to be able to call you because something stupid happened and you’re the first person I want to tell. I want to know if your day was bad. I want to fight with you and fix it. I want Hana to make fun of us because she saw this coming before we did. I want you to be mine, and I want to be yours, and I know I should have said it before someone else gave me the courage by making me feel like I might lose you.”
Your breath trembled. “And what happens when you get scared again?” you asked.
“I tell you.”
“That simple?”
“Not simple,” he said. “But I’ll do it.”
You searched his face for the exit. The loophole. The little shadow of uncertainty that had always been there before, ready to widen whenever you stepped too close. You found fear, but you could not find retreat.
“You really hurt me,” you said.
His eyes closed briefly, as if the words had struck him exactly where they were meant to. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want an apology that just makes tonight feel better.”
“I know.”
“I want changed behavior.”
“I know.”
“I want you to work for it.”
His eyes opened. There was something raw in his expression now, something almost relieved.
“I will.”
You looked at him for a long moment, letting the cold air move between you, letting the ache inside your chest settle into something you could understand. “You don’t get to come home with me tonight.”
His face flickered, but he nodded. “Okay.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.” He nodded again, slower this time. “I’ll get you a cab if you want. Or I’ll walk you home and leave at the door. Or I’ll go back inside and leave you alone. Whatever you need.”
You debated for a moment before sighing softly. “You should go back inside,” you said.
He absorbed it. It wasn’t what he wanted, but he didn’t—couldn’t—argue. “Okay.”
You almost thanked him, then stopped, because you didn’t want to thank a man for respecting the boundary he had helped make necessary.
Jungkook looked down at the sidewalk, then back at you. “Can I text you tomorrow?”
You considered saying no just to see if he would take it. Maybe he knew that, because he waited without pushing.
“Yes,” you said finally. “But not at two in the morning.”
A tiny, pained smile touched his mouth. “Not at two in the morning.”
“And not something that sounds pretty because you’re lonely.”
His smile vanished. He nodded. “Okay.”
You held his gaze. “I mean it, Jungkook.”
“I know,” he said, voice soft. “I’ll text you during the day.”
You turned toward the street before you could do something foolish, like forgive him too quickly or touch his face. You lifted a hand to signal for a cab, but one did not come immediately, so you stood there in silence while Jungkook remained a few feet away, close enough to make you feel him, far enough to prove he was listening.
When a cab finally pulled up, he opened the door for you.
You got in, but before you shut it, he leaned down slightly, keeping one hand on the top of the door.
“I love you,” he said, just placing it there, where you could take it or leave it.
Your fingers tightened around your bag. “I heard you,” you said.
His throat moved. “Okay.”
You closed the door and the cab pulled away. You didn’t look back until the car turned the corner—he was still standing there.
For once, you let him watch you leave.
For once, you did not text him when you got home.
He texted you the next morning at 10:17.
jungkook: good morning
jungkook: i hope you got home safe
jungkook: i meant what i said. all of it.
You stared at the messages for a long time, wrapped in a blanket on your couch while sunlight moved slowly across your living room floor. Your chest hurt, but not in the same way. There was still sadness there, still caution, still the bruised tenderness of a heart that had been handled too carelessly by someone who had not understood the weight of it until it almost slipped out of his hands.
You replied after twenty minutes.
y/n: good morning.
That was all.
jungkook: thank you for replying
You set the phone down and cried again, quieter this time.
Jungkook didn’t try to rush you. It would have been easier in some ways if he had. If he had pushed, you could have been angry. If he had panicked and tried to charm his way through the damage, you could have used the disappointment to pull yourself away. But he did what you had asked, and the steadiness of it was more dangerous than any two-in-the-morning text had ever been.
At first, the messages were careful and random like him.
jungkook: did you eat lunch?
jungkook: are zebras horses?
jungkook: i cut my bangs again…i look like i’m twelve
He didn’t call you baby or any other pet name. He didn’t send anything designed to tug you back into his bed. And he didn’t pretend things were normal.
Three weeks after the bar, he asked if he could take you to dinner.
You stared at the message until Hana, who was sitting on your floor eating chips from the bag and pretending not to monitor your entire emotional state, groaned.
“Just answer him before you have a mental breakdown.”
You looked at her. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes if you want to go. Say no if you don’t. Say ‘I need more time’ if you need more time. Revolutionary technology, communication.”
“You’re very annoying.”
“I’m wise. People confuse the two, I think.”
You looked back at the message.
jungkook: can i take you to dinner this weekend? no pressure if you’re not ready.
Hana watched you over the chip bag. “For what it’s worth, he looked like someone kicked his soul after you left.”
“Hana.”
“I’m not saying forgive him because he has sad eyes. Men weaponize sad eyes every day, it’s a national crisis. I’m saying I’ve known him a long time, and I’ve never seen him scared like that.”
You swallowed. “He said he loves me.”
“I know.”
Your head snapped up. “He told you?”
“No, you just did.”
You threw a pillow at her. She caught it badly, chips nearly flying everywhere. “Rude.”
You looked back at the phone, your thumb hovering before typing.
y/n: i’m not ready for dinner.
Three dots appeared almost immediately, then disappeared. You braced yourself.
His reply came a moment later.
jungkook: okay. thank you for telling me.
jungkook: would coffee feel better? public place. daytime. you can leave whenever you want.
Hana leaned over shamelessly. “Daytime. Public. Leave whenever you want. Growth. Bare minimum, but we clap politely when they locate the floor.”
You huffed a laugh despite yourself.
y/n: coffee is okay
jungkook: i’ll take okay.
The coffee date was awkward.
You met at a café halfway between your apartments on a Saturday afternoon when the sky was gray and the city smelled faintly like wet cement. You arrived early because you were nervous and hated being seen arriving nervous. Jungkook arrived five minutes later with damp hair and a black jacket, and when he spotted you at the table near the window, his face softened so visibly that you had to look down at your cup.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
He didn't hug you even though he looked like he wanted to. He went to order before sitting across from you, so handsome even in a small, little coffee shop, legs bouncing with anxious energy.
For the first ten minutes, you talked about safe things. Work. Hana’s birthday hangover. A movie neither of you had seen but both pretended to have opinions about based solely on the trailer. Jungkook told you about trying a new workout and the bulking season he had planned out.
He made you laugh with his random thoughts and stories, a startled expression forming on his face before it shifted to quiet pride.
The awkwardness loosened little by little. Then, because he was trying, and because you had asked him to work for it, Jungkook set his cup down and said, “Can I talk about us?”
Your fingers tightened around your lid. “You can.”
“I don’t want to make this a speech every time we see each other,” he said carefully. “But I also don’t want to avoid it just because things feel okay for five minutes.”
You stared at him. That was so painfully the right thing to say that it made you suspicious.
He seemed to read that on your face because he smiled faintly, without humor. “I practiced that.”
“You practiced?”
“With Taehyung.”
“Oh my god.”
“He said my first version sounded like I was apologizing to a landlord.”
Despite everything, you laughed.
Jungkook’s smile flickered, real and brief.
Then he grew serious again. “I’m sorry for making you feel like you had to be easy to keep me.”
Your laughter disappeared.
He held your gaze, his own nervous but steady. “I keep thinking about what you said. That I made you feel loved and left you alone with it. I don’t think I understood how cruel that was until you said it.”
You looked down, blinking hard. “I don’t want you to hate yourself,” you said quietly.
“I don’t.” He paused. “I mean, I did for a few days. But I know that doesn’t help you.”
“It doesn’t.”
“I’m working on it.”
You believed him.
Over the next few weeks, coffee became dinner. Dinner became walks. Walks became him picking you up from work with your favorite tea because he had been nearby, except he admitted he had not really been nearby, he had just wanted to see you and thought honesty was better than a fake errand.
He asked before touching you.
The first time he reached for your hand on the sidewalk, he looked at you and said, “Can I?” and your heart hurt so badly you almost hated him for having learned tenderness after using it carelessly for so long.
But you said yes.
His fingers slid between yours, warm and familiar, and his grip tightened just slightly.
He took you to an arcade one night because he said dates should involve opportunities for him to impress you, then lost three basketball games in a row before looking around and climbing on the game and cheating. You beat him at air hockey so badly that he almost turned the date into a real competition because, yes, he was that competitive.
He walked you home after.
At your building entrance, he stopped.
The old version of him would have looked at you through his lashes and said something soft enough to make your knees weak. The old version of you would have invited him upstairs and called the ache in your chest desire because that was easier than admitting it was love with nowhere to go.
This time, he only brushed his thumb over your knuckles.
“I had fun,” he said.
“Me too.”
“I’m going to kiss you now if that’s okay.”
It obviously wasn’t the first time he had kissed you, but It felt like it in that moment.
“Okay,” you said.
He kissed you slowly, one hand lifting to your cheek, the other still holding yours. There was no hurry in it. Just his mouth on yours in the light outside your building, soft and careful and full of everything he was trying to prove without making you responsible for believing him too quickly.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours for one second.
Then he stepped away. “Goodnight,” he said.
Your lips tingled. “Goodnight.”
He walked backward for three steps, which was stupid and dramatic, then nearly collided with a trash can, which ruined the effect.
You laughed.
He pointed at you, cheeks flushed. “You saw nothing.”
“I saw everything.”
Watching him leave didn’t feel like losing this time.
The first time you let him back into your apartment, it was raining.
Not the pretty kind, either. Not the gentle drizzle people wrote songs about. This was ugly rain, hard and cold, slapping against windows and turning the sidewalks slick beneath the streetlights. Jungkook arrived soaked from the shoulders down because he had insisted he did not need an umbrella, and you opened the door to find him standing in the hallway with a paper bag tucked under his jacket.
“You look ridiculous,” you said.
“I saved the pastries.”
“You sacrificed yourself for croissants?”
“For you,” he said, then paused. “And also for croissants.”
You took the bag from him and let him in.
He changed into the dry sweatpants and shirt you still had from before, the ones you had never returned because doing so would have felt too final. Seeing him in them again made something old twist through you, but this time he didn’t act entitled to the space. He gave his wet clothes to throw in the dryer. He kept looking at you like he was aware of every memory in the room and was trying not to step on any of them.
You made tea and he cut the croissants in half on a plate because one had almond filling and the other chocolate, and he said that if he was going to bad, so were you. You sat on the couch with rain tapping the windows and a movie playing low in the background, though neither of you paid much attention to it.
Halfway through, Jungkook looked at you.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“That’s never true.”
He smiled faintly. “I’m happy.”
The simplicity of it disarmed you.
Later, when the movie ended and the apartment had settled into that soft late-night hush you used to fear, Jungkook stood and reached for his jacket.
“You’re leaving?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
He froze, then turned slowly. “I was going to,” he said. “I didn’t want to assume.”
The ache that moved through you then was not the same one you knew from before. It wasn’t confusion. It was want, yes, but it was also choice.
You stood. “I don’t want you to leave.”
His eyes searched yours. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He crossed the room slowly, giving you every chance to change your mind. When he reached you, he touched your face with both hands, careful and loving in a way that made your throat close.
“I love you,” he said.
You had heard it before now. More than once. In texts, in person, at the end of dates, in the middle of conversations when it seemed to surprise him by coming out. He had been saying it without demanding that you say it back, and each time it had loosened something in you.
Tonight, with rain against the windows and his thumbs brushing your cheeks, you finally let yourself answer.
“I love you too.”
For a second, Jungkook did nothing but stare at you, his face opening around the words as if they had reached somewhere deeper than he had prepared for. Then he kissed you, and there was nothing casual in it. There was relief. Hunger. Grief for the time wasted. Gratitude so intense it made his hands tremble against you.
He kissed you like he understood now that love was not proven by staying after only when it was easy. It was proven by staying when the truth asked for more.
Jungkook’s hands tremble when he’s trying to be gentle.
They’re not trembling now, not yet. Right now they’re steady as he kneels on the bed in front of you, knees sinking into the mattress, his dark hair falling across his forehead in that way that makes him look younger than he is. Softer. The bedroom lamp casts amber light across his bare shoulders, his chest, the ridges of his stomach that flex when he breathes.
“Come here,” he says, and the way he says it—low, rough at the edges, like the words scraped against something on the way out—makes your thighs press together.
You shift forward on your knees, the sheets bunching beneath you. Your fingertips find the waistband of his sweatpants first, tracing the elastic, the warm skin just beneath. His stomach tightens under your touch. You watch his throat as he swallows.
“You feel so good,” he murmurs.
“You look so good.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Not the big one he gives when he’s being playful, the one that scrunches his nose. This one is smaller. Hungrier. It lives in his eyes more than his lips.
His hands find the hem of your shirt—his shirt, actually, an old black t-shirt you’d stolen three weeks ago and never given back. He doesn’t rush pulling it over your head. He lets his knuckles drag up your sides as the fabric lifts, lets them skim the outer curve of your breasts before the shirt clears your arms and drops somewhere off the bed.
“Beautiful,” he says, not to you exactly, more like he’s saying it to himself. Like he’s reminding himself of something he already knows.
Your hands slide up his chest. The muscle there is firm, defined, but the skin is soft. You spread your fingers wide, feeling the heat of him, the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your left palm. He closes his eyes for a second, his lashes dark little crescents against his cheeks.
You reach behind your back. The clasp of your bra releases with a quiet snick, the straps slipping down your shoulders. Jungkook opens his eyes and watches the whole thing—watches the fabric loosen, watches you pull one arm free and then the other, watches you toss the bra aside with more confidence than you would’ve before meeting him.
Jungkook had spent hours showing you exactly how much he liked looking. Hours with his mouth and his tongue and his long, clever fingers proving that every inch of you was worth his full attention. And eventually, you’d believed him.
Now you sit back on your heels, bare to the waist, and let his eyes roam.
“Fuck,” he breathes. His hands are on you before the word finishes leaving his mouth, cupping your breasts, thumbs sweeping across your nipples until they tighten into hard little peaks. “You know what you do to me.”
It’s not a question.
You lean into his touch, letting your head fall back slightly. “Tell me.”
His thumbs slow. Press a little harder. “You make me lose my mind,” he says, voice dropping. “Every single time. I look at you and I forget how to think.”
“Good.”
He laughs, low and dark, and pulls you against him.
The kiss starts soft. A press of lips, a brush of tongues—testing, teasing. His mouth tastes like the green tea he’d been drinking earlier, cool and faintly sweet. Your hands slide into his hair, gripping the thick strands at the nape of his neck, and the kiss deepens.
His tongue pushes past your lips. Slow. Filthy. He licks into your mouth like he’s got all the time in the world, like he’s memorizing the taste of you. One of his hands slides down your spine, tracing every vertebra, until it settles at the small of your back and pulls you closer.
Your bare breasts press against his chest, the friction making you gasp.
He swallows the sound.
The kiss grows messier. Wet, open-mouthed, desperate. Teeth scrape. Tongues tangle. His breathing turns ragged, and so does yours, and somewhere in the middle of it your hand finds its way to the front of his sweatpants.
He’s hard. Thick and straining against the fabric, and when you press your palm against him, he groans into your mouth.
“Shit,” he hisses, breaking the kiss. His forehead drops to yours. “We need—I need—”
“Sweats off,” you manage.
There’s a scrambling moment. Elbows and knees and his sweatpants getting caught on his ankles until he kicks them free. Your leggings are harder to peel off, but Jungkook helps, hooking his fingers into the waistband and dragging them and your soaked panties down your legs with a kind of focused intensity that makes heat bloom low in your belly.
And then you’re both naked, kneeling on the rumpled sheets, breathing hard.
His cock stands thick and flushed, the head gleaming in the lamplight. You’ve seen it before—countless times by now—but your mouth still waters.
“Come here,” he says again, but this time his voice is different. Thicker. Needier.
He lies back on the bed, pulling you with him. The movement is smooth, practiced—he knows exactly how to maneuver your body, knows where to put his hands, knows how to guide you until you’re straddling his chest and facing his cock.
The position clicks into place. Your knees bracket his head. Your mouth hovers inches above his length.
He looks up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and glittering. “Sit.”
One word. One fucking word, and your whole body shudders.
You lower yourself onto his mouth.
His tongue finds you immediately—flat and warm and so goddamn skilled—laving through your folds, tracing the shape of you, mapping out every slick, swollen inch. You cry out, the sound punching from your chest, and your hands brace against his stomach. The muscles there contract under your palms.
“Jungkook—”
He doesn’t answer with words. He answers with his mouth, sealing his lips around your clit and sucking gently.
Your vision blurs. Your hips roll without permission, grinding down against his face, and he groans into your cunt like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. The vibration runs through you, hot and electric, settling somewhere deep between your thighs.
But you’re supposed to be doing something. Supposed to be—fuck, it’s hard to think when he’s doing that thing with his tongue, the thing where he flicks it back and forth in short, sharp strokes that make your thighs shake.
Right. His cock. His gorgeous fucking cock, still wet at the tip, still untouched.
You wrap your hand around the base.
Jungkook’s hips jerk. A garbled sound vibrates against your clit.
“That’s it,” you whisper, and you don’t know if you’re talking to him or to yourself. “Fuck, you’re so hard. So thick. I can barely get my fingers around you.”
You can. Just barely. He’s thick enough that your grip doesn’t close entirely, thick enough that your hand looks small wrapped around his shaft, and the sight of it—the contrast between your skin and his—makes you forget to breathe for a second.
You lean down and take him into your mouth.
The first inch, stretching your lips. The weight of him on your tongue.
Jungkook’s whole body tightens. His hands, which had been resting on your thighs, clamp down hard enough to bruise, and his hips buck up reflexively, pushing himself deeper. You relax your throat the way you’ve learned to, the way he taught you, and take another inch. And another.
Saliva pools under your tongue. Spills down his shaft. You hollow your cheeks and suck, pulling back until just the head remains between your lips, then slide down again.
Below you, his mouth has gone slack against your cunt.
You pull off just long enough to gasp, “Don’t stop.”
His tongue starts moving again. Slower now, distracted—you can feel his concentration splintering, feel him losing focus as your mouth works him—but he’s still Jungkook. Still the man who’s spent months learning exactly where and how to touch you. His tongue finds that spot just above your entrance, the sensitive ridge, and presses, pulling a cry from you.
He murmurs something against your flesh. The sound is muffled, but you catch the shape of it: your name. He’s groaning your name.
You moan around his cock. The heat building between your legs is spreading now, creeping outward, swirling low in your stomach. You hollow your cheeks again, setting a rhythm—down, up, tongue swirling around the head, down again—and Jungkook matches it with his mouth. Every stroke of your lips answered by a stroke of his tongue. Every suck met with another. It’s sloppy and wet and completely, devastatingly filthy, both of you fucking into each other’s mouths like you’re trying to crawl inside each other.
His thighs are trembling. You can feel them against your shoulders. So are yours.
“Close,” he pants, pulling away just enough to speak. His lips are slick. Shiny. “I’m gonna—fuck, don’t stop, please don’t stop—”
You don’t stop. You take him deeper, swallowing around him, feeling the way his cock pulses against your tongue. His hips jerk. His breath hitches. He latches onto your clit again and sucks hard, desperate, less rhythm now and more just frantic hunger, and that’s what does it for you.
The orgasm crashes through you without warning. No slow build, no gentle crest—just a sudden, devastating wave that rips a scream from your throat, muffled by his cock still buried inside your mouth. Your thighs clamp around his head. Your hips grind down helplessly, riding his face, riding his tongue, and Jungkook groans, the sound vibrating through your cunt and prolonging every second of it.
And then his hips snap up. Once. Twice.
“Coming,” he grunts. “Coming, fucking—ah—”
Hot salt floods your tongue. You swallow, throat working around him, milking every pulse, and he makes a sound that’s half-choked and half-sob.
His hands are still gripping your thighs. When you finally pull off, gasping, the air tastes like sex and green tea and Jungkook.
You collapse sideways. He catches you, tugs you up, pulls you against his chest. His heart is hammering against his ribs, as fast as yours pressed against him. For a long moment neither of you speak. You just breathe, tangled together, sweaty and shaking and utterly spent.
But he’s still hard. You feel it against your hip—still thick, still flushed, not even slightly softened. Jungkook’s refractory period has always been a little obscene.
“You good?” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple.
“Mm.” You tilt your face up, catching his mouth in a kiss that’s softer than before. Gentler. He tastes like you now, and the combination—your taste on his lips, his taste on yours—makes something warm unspool behind your sternum. “More than good.”
His hand slides down your side. Cups your ass. Squeezes. “Think you can take more?”
You answer by biting his lower lip, just hard enough to make him hiss.
“Condom,” he says, half-laughing, already reaching for your nightstand drawer, knowing exactly where you keep them.
Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “I want you behind me.”
He groans at the words, tearing the foil packet with his teeth and rolling the condom down his length with quick, practiced motions.
Then his hands are on your hips, turning you, guiding you onto your hands and knees.
The position makes you feel exposed. Vulnerable. The air is cool against your slick cunt, and you can feel his gaze on you, tracing the curve of your spine, the swell of your ass, the wet mess between your thighs.
“So fucking pretty like this,” he murmurs, his palm smoothing down your back. Gentle. Soothing. A contrast to what you both know is coming.
The head of his cock nudges against your entrance.
“Slow,” you whisper.
“Slow,” he agrees.
And then he pushes in.
The stretch is incredible. Even after everything, even after his mouth and the orgasm that’s still echoing through your body, he’s so thick that it takes a moment just to accommodate the first few inches. Your body resists, clenching around him, and Jungkook pauses.
“Breathe,” he reminds you, voice strained. “Relax for me.”
You force your muscles to unlock. Breathe out. And he slides deeper.
“Fuuuck,” you groan, dropping your head between your shoulders. “Jungkook, your cock is—” Words fail. Nothing captures it. Nothing captures the feeling of being opened up inch by inch, stretched so full you can’t think, can’t speak, can only feel.
“I know,” he breathes, pulling back just a little before sinking deeper. “You take me so good. Always so fucking tight, so perfect. Feels like you’re squeezing the life out of me.”
The dirty talk makes your cunt clench harder.
He feels it. Laughs, low and dark. “You like that? When I tell you how good your pussy feels wrapped around me?”
“Yes,” you gasp. “God, yes, don’t stop talking—”
“Not gonna stop.” He thrusts a little deeper, a fraction more, and now he’s fully seated inside you, buried to the hilt. His hips press against your ass. His hands grip your waist. “I’m going to tell you exactly how it feels to fuck you. How tight and wet and fucking hot you are. How I can feel every inch of you, every little flutter, every time you squeeze around me like you’re trying to keep me inside.”
He pulls out, then slides back in. He sets a rhythm that’s devastating in its slowness.
It’s filthy. Each thrust drags against every sensitive spot inside you, and when he bottoms out, grinding his hips in a little circle before withdrawing, your arms nearly give out.
“That’s it,” he coaxes, leaning over you, his chest brushing your back. His mouth finds your ear. “Feel it. Feel how deep I am. Nobody else gets to have you like this. Just me.”
“Just you,” you echo, and the words come out wrecked.
His pace picks up. Not fast—not yet—but harder. Deeper. Each stroke punches a sound out of you, a little uh-uh-uh that matches his rhythm. Your breasts sway with the motion. The headboard taps against the wall, a steady thump-thump-thump that’s going to have your neighbors glaring at you tomorrow.
You don’t care.
“Harder,” you beg. “Please, Jungkook, fuck me harder—”
He does. The slow, grindy rhythm shatters into something rougher. Faster. He drives into you with long, snapping thrusts, his thighs slapping against the backs of yours, his breath coming in harsh pants. One hand slides up your spine, tangles in your hair, tugs your head back just enough to arch your neck.
“Louder,” he demands. “Let me hear you. Let the whole fucking building hear how good I’m fucking you.”
You scream. You can’t help it. He’s hitting that spot, the one that makes your vision go white, the one that makes your toes curl and your fingers twist in the sheets. Every thrust pushes you closer to the edge, and his voice—low and rough and utterly obscene—is pushing you the rest of the way.
“Gonna come again?” He’s panting now, losing the smooth cadence from before. “Gonna come on my cock like the good girl you are?”
“Yes,” you sob. “Yes, yes, yes—”
“Do it. Come for me. Come all over this dick, let me feel it—”
Your second orgasm hits harder than the first. Your whole body convulses. Your cunt clamps down around him with a vicious, pulsing grip, and you wail—no other word for it—as wave after wave crashes through you. He fucks you through it, steady and deep, drawing it out until you’re boneless and trembling.
And then he pulls out.
The emptiness is jarring. You whimper, reaching back for him, but he’s already moving—lying down on his back, pulling you with him, positioning you.
“Ride me,” he says. His eyes are wild. His chest is heaving. “Want to watch you.”
You swing a leg over his hips. His cock juts up between you, still covered in the condom, still glistening. You reach down and guide him back to your entrance, sinking down in one smooth motion. Both of you groan.
This angle is different, deeper somehow. You swear you feel him in your throat.
“Fuck, look at you.” His hands skate up your thighs, your hips, your waist. “So beautiful riding my cock. Taking what you need. Use me.”
You brace your hands on his chest and start to move.
It’s slower like this—more of a grind than a thrust. You roll your hips in circles, feeling every ridge and vein of him, feeling the way he fills you completely. Jungkook’s head falls back against the pillow. His jaw clenches. “That’s it,” he rasps. “Fuck, that’s perfect. Keep going. Just like that.”
His hands guide your rhythm. You watch his face—the furrow between his brows, the way he bites his lip, the flush spreading down his neck and onto his chest. He’s beautiful when he’s wrecked. Utterly, devastatingly beautiful.
And you want more.
Your hand drifts down. Finds the base of his cock. Slips lower—
“What are you—” His eyes fly open.
You lift yourself up. Hook your fingers under the rim of the condom. And pull it off.
It lands somewhere on the sheets with an obscene little wet slap.
Jungkook stares at you. His chest stops moving. “What—are you sure—”
“I want you to come inside me.”
The words hang in the air between you.
“I want to feel it,” you continue, and now your voice is lower, needier, stripped of every pretense. “Want you to fill me up. Want to feel you dripping out of me for the rest of the night. Please, Kookie. Come inside me. Come inside my pussy.”
He makes a sound that’s barely human.
His hands clamp down on your hips. “You’re sure?”
You lean down, letting your lips brush his ear. “Come inside me. Fill me up. Please. I need it. Need to feel your come dripping down my thighs. Need you to fuck it deep inside me until I can’t hold it anymore.”
Jungkook’s control snaps. He doesn't ask again. His hands clamp down on your hips hard enough to leave fingerprints, and in one brutal motion he flips you onto your back.
Your head hits the pillow. The air leaves your lungs in a startled gasp. And then he's there—looming above you, dark hair falling forward, eyes blown black with something that looks almost like desperation. His cock hangs heavy between his thighs, slick and bare now, the swollen head flushed deep pink and already leaking.
"You want it raw?" His voice is wrecked. Torn at the edges. "You want me to fuck you with nothing between us and pump my come straight into this tight little cunt?"
"Yes." The word tears out of you, half-sob, half-demand. "Please, Jungkook. Please fuck me. I need to feel it—need to feel every inch of you—"
He lines himself up. The broad head of his cock nudges against your entrance, and the sensation is different already—hotter, slicker, more intimate without the latex barrier. Your body recognizes the difference, cunt clenching in anticipation.
"Look at me," he commands.
You do. His eyes are locked on yours, dark and fierce and so full of want it makes your chest ache.
He pushes in.
The first inch steals your breath. Without the condom, the heat of him is staggering—like being opened by something alive, something velvet-soft and iron-hard all at once. You feel every ridge, every vein, every pulse of his heartbeat transmitted through his flesh into yours. Your fingers twist in the sheets. Your heels dig into the mattress.
"Fuuuuck," he groans, sinking deeper. His forearms bracket your head. His forehead drops to yours. "You feel—this is—nothing between us."
He bottoms out. Stays there, buried to the hilt. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, and the sound he makes is animal—low and guttural, ripped from somewhere deep in his chest.
"Move," you beg. "Please move. I can take it. I want all of it."
He withdraws. The drag is exquisite—you feel every inch of him pulling back, feel the emptiness he leaves behind. And then he thrusts forward, harder this time, and your whole body rocks with the force of it.
"Yes—fuck—just like that—"
He finds a rhythm. Not the slow, grindy thing from before—this is different. This is frantic. Desperate. His hips snap against yours with wet, obscene slaps that fill the room. Skin on skin. Body to body.
"You're so fucking wet," he pants, lips brushing your ear. "I can feel everything. Every drop. Every pulse. Your pussy is gripping me so tight I can barely move."
"Don't stop—please don't stop—"
"Not fucking stopping." He drives in harder. Deeper. The angle shifts and suddenly he's hitting your g-spot, the one that makes fireworks detonate behind your eyes. "Gonna fuck you until you scream my name. Gonna fill this cunt up so full you'll be dripping for days."
A broken wail escapes your throat. Your nails rake down his back, leaving red trails, and he hisses, but he doesn't slow. If anything, he fucks you harder—punishing strokes that slam you into the mattress, that make your breasts bounce and your thighs shake and your voice crack on every syllable.
"Louder," he demands. His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit. He circles it, rough and unrelenting, and the dual sensation—his cock pounding into you, his thumb rubbing tight spirals around that swollen nub—makes you sob. "I want the whole world to hear who's fucking you this good."
"JUNGKOOK—"
His name rips from your lungs, raw and ragged. You can't control the volume. Can't control anything. He's fucking you stupid, fucking you senseless, and all you can do is hold on and take it.
"That's it. That's my girl." His voice is strained, cracking around the edges. Sweat drips from his hair onto your cheek. His rhythm falters—just for a second—and then he's pounding into you with renewed intensity, chasing something, chasing you. "Say it again. Tell me who makes you feel this good."
"You do—only you—Jungkook, Jungkook, JUNGKOOK—"
His mouth crashes onto yours. The kiss is messy—teeth and tongues and no finesse at all—but it's perfect. He swallows your cries, drinks them down like he's starving for them, and his hips never stop moving. Never stop driving into you with that devastating rhythm that's turning your brain to static.
One of his hands finds your thigh. Hikes it higher. The new angle makes him sink impossibly deeper, and you feel him in your stomach, feel the pressure building there like a storm about to break.
"Gonna come," you gasp against his lips. "Jungkook, I'm gonna come—"
"Do it." His thumb presses harder against your clit. His cock hits that spot again—once, twice, three times—and the storm inside you detonates. "Come on my cock, baby. Make me fill you up."
Your vision whites out. Every muscle in your body locks tight—thighs clamping around his waist, cunt clenching around his cock with a grip that borders on violent. You scream, the sound tearing from somewhere deep in your chest, his name mangled and broken, echoing off the walls.
Jungkook keeps fucking you through it. His rhythm turns brutal—short, hard strokes that prolong every pulse, every squeeze, every wave of pleasure crashing through your body. He's talking but you can't make out the words. Just the tone. Low and filthy.
And then his hips stutter. "Fuck—I'm gonna—"
"Inside." Your legs lock around him, trapping him in place. Your heels dig into the small of his back. "Come inside me, baby. Fill me up. I want to feel it. Please. Please."
The word breaks him. He buries himself and lets go.
The first pulse of his release hits deep inside you—hot and thick, so impossibly warm it makes you gasp. You've never felt this from him before. Never felt the visceral, primal rush of him emptying himself into your body with nothing between you. His cock jerks. Pulses again. His whole body shudders above you, muscles locking, jaw clenching, a wrecked groan tearing from his throat.
"Fuuuuuck—" The word stretches out, broken and breathless. "Oh my God. Fuck, your pussy is—baby—oh fuck—"
His hips keep twitching. Keep pumping into you with shallow, helpless thrusts that push his come deeper. You feel it pooling inside you, hot and thick, feel the way your body accepts it, holds it, clenches around it like it never wants to let go.
He stays buried inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Sweat gleams on his brow, his chest, his shoulders. His dark hair is plastered to his temples. His heart pounds so hard you feel it against your own ribs.
"Holy fuck," he whispers. His voice is wrecked. Absolutely demolished. "That was—I've never—"
He can't finish the sentence. You don't need him to.
Your legs are still wrapped around him, still holding him inside. You can feel his come beginning to trickle out around his shaft. The sensation sends a little aftershock through your system.
Jungkook lifts his head. His eyes find yours. They're glazed, still half-lost in the aftermath, but there's something else there too—something soft, something tender, something that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the way he looks at you like you're the only person in the world.
"You okay?" he asks, and even now—even with his softening cock still inside you, even with his release dripping down your thighs—he's checking on you. Making sure you're good. Being Jungkook.
"More than okay." Your voice comes out hoarse and raw. Well-used. "That was incredible."
A smile breaks across his face—the real one, the one that scrunches his nose and crinkles his eyes. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He kisses you. His lips brush yours with a tenderness that makes your heart ache, and when he pulls back, there's something in his expression that looks almost like wonder.
He eases out of you slowly, carefully, and the absence leaves you hollow. A rush of fluid follows, spilling onto the sheets beneath you. Jungkook glances down. His breath catches.
He presses two fingers against your entrance, gently, and pushes the escaping fluid back inside. The sensation makes you whimper—oversensitive, still trembling—but he doesn't stop. Just holds it there, holds you together, holds the moment suspended between you.
"Mine," he says before collapsing beside you, pulling you against his chest.
You're sticky. Sweaty. The sheets are ruined. His release is dripping down your thighs and the whole room smells like sex and you've never been happier.
"I love you," he says into your hair. "You know that, right?"
Your eyes sting. You press your face into his chest, breathing him in—sweat and sex and the faint remnants of his cologne. "I know."
"Good." His lips brush your forehead. "Because I'm not done with you tonight."
Your head snaps up, finding his eyes are dark again.
You wake slowly to the sound of rain still dragging itself down the windows, gentler now, tired from its own tantrum yesterday. For a few seconds, you lay still beneath the blankets, blinking at the pale gray light, aware of the warmth beside you only because it had recently left.
Then you hear him in the kitchen.
A drawer opening then closing, a whispered curse, something clinking.
“Are you fighting my appliances?” you call, voice rough with sleep.
Silence.
Then Jungkook appears in the bedroom doorway wearing his borrowed sweatpants and no shirt, hair messy, eyes wide with innocence so fake it deserves paperwork.
“No.”
“You are.”
“Well why does your stove hate me?”
You laugh and push yourself up against the pillows.
He leans against the doorway, watching you with a softness that used to scare you because you hadn’t known where to put it.
“What?” you ask.
He shakes his head.
“Jungkook.”
“I like waking up here.”
Your heart squeezes. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He looks down, smiling to himself. “I like that your kitchen mugs don’t match. I like that you keep cereal you barely eat because you have a craving for it every other week. I like that you talk in your sleep.”
“I do not.”
“You read out your grocery list last night.”
You stare at him and he stares back. Then you grab a pillow and throw it at him. “Stop exposing me!”
He catches it against his chest, laughing, then walks over and drops onto the edge of the bed.
The laughter fades slowly.
He looks at you, still holding the pillow. “I know this doesn’t fix everything,” he says. He sets the pillow aside. “Last night. This morning. You saying it back. I know I don’t get to treat that like I won something and stop trying.”
You study him. He looks nervous, but not avoidant.
“I’m happy,” you say carefully. “But I’m still scared.”
“I know.”
“And sometimes I might need reassurance.”
“I’ll give it.”
“Sometimes I might get upset about things that remind me of before, even if you’re not doing anything wrong.”
He nods. “Okay.”
“You say that now.”
“I mean it now.” He reaches for your hand, then pauses. You give it to him, and he holds it between both of his. “And if I don’t handle it right later, you tell me, and I’ll listen. I’m not going to be perfect. I know I’m not. But I’m not going to make you feel stupid for needing me to love you out loud.”
Your eyes burn again, because apparently loving Jungkook meant your tear ducts had signed a long-term lease. “You really have been practicing with Taehyung.”
He smiles shyly. “A little.”
“It shows.”
“Good?”
“Good.”
His shoulders ease.
You tug on his hand. “Come here.”
He comes easily, crawling over you with a grin that turns soft when you touch his face. He kisses you once, then again, then lowers himself beside you and pulls you against his chest.
For a while, neither of you say anything.
His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear. His fingers move through your hair.
You glance up at him, reaching up and brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.
He catches your wrist and kisses your palm. “I love you,” he says again, because he can now, because he needs to, because the words no longer arrive only after silence had hurt you first.
You smile. “I heard you.”
He grins, leaning down, mouth hovering over yours. “Brat. I’ll keep saying it anyway.”
“Good.”
Later, after breakfast, Jungkook stands in your kitchen washing dishes while you dry them beside him.
It’s ordinary. Painfully ordinary.
He bumps your hip with his. You bump him back, making him smile down at the sink.
Jungkook rinses the last mug and passes it to you.
He looks at you. You look back.
There was still work ahead, you both knew that. But he’s here, hands wet from your sink, eyes steady on yours in the middle of the afternoon. Not asking you to come to him in the dark. Not making you guess. Not leaving you alone with love.
thinking about clark kent that meticulously tracks your cycle- mdni heavy breeding kink 18+
(clark kent x fem!reader)
your smart watch pings- ovulation day. but you don’t need a fancy app to tell you when your boyfriend is already tongue deep in your pussy, lapping up every ounce of the “sweetest juice” as he calls it.
clark knew the moment you woke up this morning when he tugged you toward him. his hand stroking up and down your spine before carding through your hair. “you’re warmer than normal,” he’d said. “must be fertile.”
“maybe,” you mused, relaxing into his chest.
“maybe?” he teased, shifting down and draping your legs over his shoulders.
“clark, let me shower first,” you whined.
“never,” he hummed, already pressing his nose to the soft flesh between your thighs. “so sweet this time of month, makes me crazy.”
“clark,” you moaned as he licked the first stripe.
and now here you are, thighs shaking as he pulls another orgasm from you with his mouth alone. his lips and chin glisten as the morning sun lights up your bedroom. his eyes are dark and focused on his prize, and he nudges your swollen clit with his nose. the sensitive bud being hit again and again makes you hiss.
“gimme one more,” he husks into your pussy, almost growling. clark is typically so textbook sweet and romantic, but when it’s this time of the month he’s like a man starved. “onemorebabyplease,” he moans, his words running together.
he shifts your legs higher, hitting a new angle with his tongue. your vision whites out for a second before your thighs lock around his head and you’re coming for a third time.
“mmmm…. knew you had it in ya,” he groans, moving up the bed.
“need you in me,” you whine, nearly breathless.
“i know baby, i know. i’m gonna take care of my girl.”
he kicks off his briefs and settles himself between your legs. “this how you want me?”
you answer by wrapping your legs around his waist and running your fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck.
he pushes in with a sigh. he worked you up so much with his mouth that there’s not too much of a stretch this time, and you kind of miss it because you love hearing him tell you “breathe baby” when he works his way inside.
his mouth tastes like your arousal when he kisses you. it’s heady and sweet. one strong arm wraps around your thigh, pulling it up so he can get even deeper.
“fuck baby,” you whine. you’re so full. “right there clark.”
he sighs out another groan- deeper this time, like he’s trying to hold back. his lips brush against the pulse point in your neck and you shiver.
“baby girl, feel so good,” he moans, rutting into you now with sloppy thrusts.
“don’t pull out,” you whisper, almost too quiet, but clark’s impeccable senses hear it immediately, along with the way your heart races.
“don’t say that,” he huffs out with a smile and a kiss. “don’t tease. you know how much i want to make you a mommy.”
“clark…. cum in me,” you whimper, feeling your body ascending to another peak.
“baby girl.”
“clark.”
“you sure? once i start i won’t be able to stop. you know how much there is,” he mutters, eyes searching yours.
“fuhhh- that feels good. i’m so sure- want all your babies.”
his breath catches on a moan- broken and hoarse- before he starts to press both of your legs up underneath him, pressing your body into the mattress. “gonna give you everything,” he grunts as he fucks you harder.
“fuck, lock me down, clark!” you moan, pushing him deeper inside of you as his legs start to shudder.
he gasps once and his eyes roll back before you feel him pumping into you in thick spurts. “there ya go. take it all baby girl,” he says as he keeps thrusting into you, more slowly now. he’s leaning back and watching it pulse out of you with a blush before scooping you up. your limbs feel like jelly, but you ignore them and look up at his flushed, perfect face. it’s not like your babies wouldn’t be adorable. what’s the harm in trying?
“gonna get you cleaned up baby,” he says with a kiss to your forehead. “and then go to the store for prenatals. folic acid. very important.”
“clark….” you start with mock annoyance.
“oh no baby girl, we’re doing this now. it’s my life’s mission to get you pregnant.”
“harem of one?”
“i don’t think it’s a harem if it’s just us,” he jokes. “but you’re the only one i want.”
Don’t Go Where I Can’t Follow [Vinsmoke Sanji x GN!Reader]
“I’d rather have it be me than you. I’ve been made the luckiest man on the Grand Line solely through you choosing to love me, so if I take my last breath protecting you, I’ll do so gladly.”
“Yeah, I know. Trust me, I know. And I don’t think you understand how absolutely terrifying and daunting that is.”
Genre/Tropes: hurt/comfort, established relationship
Word Count: 4k
Warnings: mentions of canon typical injuries
A/N: Rewatching Whole Cake always makes me wanna wrap his self sacrificial self in a blanket and keep him safe even more than I usually do, so here we are. Written with anime Sanji in mind, but could be read as OPLA Sanji, too, I think??
The food in front of you must’ve grown cold by now with how long you’ve been pushing it around your plate listlessly, any appetite replaced by anxiety induced nausea the moment Usopp had found you stumbling out onto the deck, still bleary eyed and only half awake, and had told you to pick up the pace if you still wanted any breakfast. The buzz and chatter of the crew has faded to not much more than static in your ears as you keep stealing glances at the blond serving food and bright smiles like nothing’s wrong in the slightest. It takes several calls of your name to realize Luffy is talking to you, desperately wanting to know if you’re gonna finish your breakfast, so you end up shoving your untouched plate in your captain’s general direction, harsher than strictly necessary, before falling back in your seat heavily, arms crossed over your chest, eyes downcast and overall radiating discontent and restlessness. It earns you a concerned gaze from the cook, one you’ve become so accustomed to you can feel it, yet you refuse to lift your head or react in any other way.
The rest of the crew catches on to the tension between you both quickly, all filing out of the kitchen one after the other with flimsy at best excuses, except for Luffy, who has to be dragged out by Zoro, bless the swordsman’s heart. Silence settles over the room, awkward and strained, so unlike the comfortable warmth that usually occupies the quiet spaces between you.
“Angel, you didn’t eat a single bite. Would you like me to make you something else?”
His voice is low, soft, careful, meant to calm and reassure you. Any other day, it probably would, as it usually does.
Today?
Today, it makes you want to strangle him.
“Are you serious right now…?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level.
“Why wouldn’t I be? We’ve had a rough couple of days and are all still recovering, you need to keep your strength up, ma chérie.”
Tipping your head back, you exhale the anger burning you from the inside out in a long breath before leveling him with a disapproving glare.
“Exactly. So why are you standing here, first day out of a coma, still covered in bandages, pretending like it’s just any other regular morning? Like nothing at all happened?”
The soft smile slips from his face, replaced by a worried frown as he runs a hand through his hair anxiously, leaning against the counter across from you.
“It’s not that big of a deal, we’ve had close calls before.”
“Not that close.”
“Sweetheart, please, I’m fine, you don’t have to—”
“You almost died, Sanji!!” you finally explode, shooting up from your seat so fast, your chair goes tipping over and clattering to the ground loudly. “Your fucking heart stopped and you were out cold for days!! I don’t— Why— How can you just brush that off like it’s fucking nothing?!”
You cross your arms over your heaving chest, a false, thin layer of security over your aching heart, nails digging crescent idents into your arms while you desperately hold on to the anger, lest the grief and fear of the last few days take over again.
Seeing you so upset because of him pains Sanji more than his actual injuries and he just barely resists the urge to wrap you in a hug, fully aware that you won’t let him lull you back into familiar security and comfort through honeyed words and gentle touches this time.
“I am so sorry, my love, I never meant to frighten you like this, but I don’t regret any of it and even if I could go back I would not change a thing.”
Terror comes creeping back into your veins, mingling with the rage to burn like poison, same as the tears you can feel building, threatening to spill from tired eyes as you throw your hands up in exasperation.
“Does your own life really mean that little to you?!”
There’s a tick in his jaw from grinding his teeth too hard, crossing his arms over his chest while he stares right back at you, eyes pleading, but stubborn.
“No. But I’d rather have it be me than you. I’ve been made the luckiest man on the Grand Line solely through you choosing to love me, so if I take my last breath protecting you, I’ll do so gladly.”
You bark out a laugh, short and humorless, the first tears finally falling and leaving streaks across your cheeks.
“Yeah, I know. Trust me, I know. And I don’t think you understand how absolutely terrifying and daunting that is, to be absolutely certain that I can trust you with my life, but not with your own! And I get that it’s not your intention to make me feel like this, that it’s just in your nature to want to protect the people you care about and Sanji, let me make it clear to you that I have not felt unsafe or uncared for for even a single second since meeting you, but when you push it to such extremes, do you have any idea what that ends up doing to me?! I don’t want to lose you in some honorable, heroic act of self sacrifice, I want a future with you!!”
All color drains from his face rapidly, shock taking over his features so instantly and completely, you clamp your mouth shut fast enough for your tongue to get trapped between your teeth, the coppery taste of blood not enough to distract you from realizing what you’ve just let slip - or from how utterly terrified he looks at hearing it. Averting your gaze, you swallow hard around the lump in your throat and wipe a sleeve over your eyes, futilely trying to stop the tears from flowing.
“I guess… I guess you don’t… think about that. I just— never mind, forget I said anything.”
You make for the door as fast as humanly possible, hand already on the knob when he calls out to you. “Don’t. Please. Don’t leave, not… not like this.”
Heeding his request, you turn and let your back collide with the door heavily, sniffling while you wrap your arms around yourself for comfort, but your eyes stay locked on the floor. It’s not like you actually want to leave, you hate arguing with him, as rare as it is, and you’ve never parted ways upset with each other, it’s not how your relationship works. But the shock of almost losing him is still gnawing at your bones, not to mention your own injuries haven’t fully healed; you’re exhausted, mentally and physically, and now the added humiliation of exposing a wish for a future he seemingly doesn’t want is making you want to crawl into a small, dark space to hide.
A pair of black shoes enters your field of vision, followed by slender fingers reaching for your hand, still tightly clamped around your own arm. His movements are slow, careful, giving you ample time to pull away if you so choose. When you don’t, he gently rests his hand over yours in a barely there, featherlight touch and the second his skin touches yours, warm and familiar, relief floods your system, everything else falling away.
He’s okay. He’s alive. He’s right here with you. Nothing else matters right now.
You weave your fingers together, grip like a vice, tight enough that you’re certain it has to hurt, yet he doesn’t let go, in fact, he steps closer and brings your intertwined hands to his lips, pressing chaste, soft kisses to each of your knuckles individually.
“Mon cœur, will you look at me, please…?”
One, two, three deep breaths, in and out through your nose, that’s how long it takes to work up the courage to do as he asks and you’re immediately met with anguished blue eyes, wet with unshed tears. His free hand comes up to brush a gentle thumb over your cheek, wiping away some of the salty tracks still clinging to your skin.
“I have so obviously failed you in countless ways, I couldn’t expect forgiveness, not even from someone as benevolent as you.”
“Sanji—”
“No, let me speak, please, my darling.” he interrupts softly, but doesn’t continue until you give him permission in the form of a small nod. “Not only did I cause you grief and pain through my actions, no matter how well-intentioned they might have been, I also have been negligent enough in my affection and devotion to have you truly believing that I don’t desperately desire a future with you.”
“Y-You do…?” It’s a hoarse whisper, quiet, but oh so hopeful.
“Embarrassingly much.” he confirms with a low chuckle, accentuated by the tips of his ears turning pink. “I’ve thought about introducing you to Zeff, at some point. I’m… still trying to figure out how to set that up without the old geezer sending you bolting in the opposite direction the second he opens his damn mouth…”
That earns him a huff of a laugh, along with the ghost of a smile tugging the corners of your lips upwards and it’s enough to assuage the ever present fear of overwhelming you, of being too much with his version of fondness and love.
“Thinking about finding the All Blue? That dream isn’t complete anymore without picturing you by my side. Getting to be with you long enough to see your smile lines deepen and the first glimpses of gray appearing in your hair, even if I might be the cause of some of them? Nothing would make me happier.”
“Probably all of the gray hairs that Luffy doesn’t cause, let’s be honest.” you mumble, brushing his bangs away from his eyes and cupping his face, heart fluttering when he nuzzles into your touch and presses a quick kiss to your palm.
Then you watch his brows furrow in deep thought, gears in his head clearly turning as he figures out the best way of phrasing his next words.
“I… I don’t want to die, please never think that. And I know you’re perfectly capable of looking out for yourself and that we have a crew that would move heaven and earth for each other, but… if there’s something, anything, I can do to save you when you’re in danger, even at the risk of my own life, I can’t just… uselessly stand by and watch it happen. Not again.” You immediately open your mouth to interject, to remind him that what happened to his mother was not his fault and that there was nothing he could’ve done, but you don’t get the chance before he’s speaking again. “I hate that my actions scared you, mon étoile, but I don’t think… I’m not sure that’s something I can change about myself.”
The poor cook looks so utterly lost and apologetic, hunched shoulders, trembling fingers and glossy eyes, your heart lurches in your chest, rattling around your rib cage, leaving bruises in it’s attempt to get to him. You never meant to make him feel like he has to change such a core aspect of himself just to keep you happy.
“I’m not asking you to, my light. The fact that your kindness knows no bounds, to the point where you would sacrifice anything for the people you care about is one of the reasons I fell in love with you in the first place. What kind of hypocrite would I be if I now asked you to erase that? I just wish you would think about yourself, too, every once in a while. If not for your own sake, then… then maybe you could do it for me? And for the future we both want? Because, Sanji, none of what you talked about can happen without you.”
Heaving a heavy sigh, he ends up dropping his forehead to yours, eyes falling closed while he threads his fingers together behind your lower back in a loose hug.
“Yeah, I… I know. And I’ll do better. Well, I… I promise I’ll try. For you. For us.”
He can quite literally feel the tension bleed from your form at his words.
“That’s all I ask,” you murmur, leaving a quick kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, my love.”
His answer comes in the form of little kisses, ghosted over your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, anywhere he can reach, and just as he leans in to capture your lips, your stomach very loudly reminds you that you’ve barely eaten anything proper in days. Sanji freezes at the sound, which has heat crawling up the back of your neck and stealing into your face instantly, but it only lasts a second, then he’s already laughing, quiet and soft and warm, before pressing a final chaste kiss to your warm cheek. “Will you please let me make you some breakfast now?”
He has already turned around, halfway to the stove, so he completely misses how you purse your lips and narrow your eyes at him in disapproval. “No, I won’t, actually.”
“So what would you— No?”
The blond whips back around so fast it’s downright comical, blue eyes wide and confused and looking so much like a kicked puppy you almost consider taking it back. Almost.
“You heard me, no. We might’ve made up, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t mess up and that has consequences. So you are going to sit,” you gesture at one of the stools at the counter, confidently striding past his bewildered form and beelining towards the cupboards, “and let me make breakfast, because I know for a damn fact that you haven’t eaten either.”
He blinks owlishly, like he’s trying to wake himself up from a dream, rooted to the spot, long, slender fingers flexing at his sides, utterly unsure of what do with himself now. “Love, don’t be ridiculous, I’m perfectly capable of—”
“I know you are, that’s not the point.” you interrupt him, shutting one of the drawers as you jab a spoon in his direction as threateningly as possible and yet again motion for him to take a seat. “This is your punishment so sit down before I make you, you know I can and will.”
Color blooms across his cheeks, stuttered half sentences dying on his tongue as he tries to come up with a defense he already knows you wouldn’t fall for anyways. Defeated, he drops himself down at the counter, chin propped up on one hand, watching you pull a bowl and flour from the cupboards, his fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against the counter top, bottom lip trapped between his teeth in thought.
“Darling, not to throw a wrench in your oh so carefully crafted plans, but being taken care of by you can hardly be considered a punishment.”
Turning back around from where you’ve grabbed a pan, you regard him with raised brows: head cocked to the side, nestled into his palm, blond hair illuminated by the sunlight filtering in through the bullseye on the door almost halo like, blue eyes warm and bright like the sky on a clear spring day and a smile so genuine and soft, your heart just about melts through your rib cage.
Sighing, you deposit the pan on the still cold stove, then meander over to stand opposite of him, forearms coming up to rest on the counter and then leaning in close enough for your breaths to mingle, one wave rocking the ship away from having your lips on his.
“For you, Mister ‘Acts of service are my love language and if I don’t take care of my loved ones constantly I will implode’? Yeah, this’ll do just fine. Nice try, though.” A condescending pat to his cheek paired with a smug grin follows, then you return to the station he usually occupies and start dumping ingredients into a bowl.
“Worth a shot.” Hands raised in surrender with his own grin tugging the corners of his lips upwards despite himself, he seemingly finally settles into his seat, albeit temporarily.
Of course you’re not wrong in your assessment, he does get antsy when prohibited from showing his affection through care, but when it’s you reversing the roles, he never actually minds, and you know this; it’s what has him analyzing the entire situation all over again. Sapphire eyes observe you carefully, the way you so comfortably move around a space that’s usually his like you’ve never belonged anywhere else, humming contently under your breath, calm and at peace for all the world to see, but that’s not what Sanji sees. There’s the slightest tremble in your hands, the inside of your cheek occasionally getting trapped between your teeth, gaze flicking over to him every so often, a shaky, little smile as his reward when you catch him staring - and the truth finally hits him like a slap to the face. No matter what you may claim, this isn’t some actual form of punishment, this is you, still trapped with the fear and panic from the last few days, and not knowing where else to put it all besides making sure he’s safe and sound and cared for. Of course you’re not going to let him lift a single finger. Of course you’re not going to let him out of your sight, the need to reassure yourself that no harm will ever befall him again too great. It’s exactly what he would do in your position and he’s long since learned that you can be scarily similar to each other.
Wether Sanji likes to admit it or not, he had in fact almost paid for his chivalry with his life this time around; had almost gone somewhere you would not have been able to follow, something he’d promised you he’d never even think of. In the moment, he’d told himself it’d be okay. That he’d live and even if he didn’t, you would be alright and that’s all that mattered. You’d grieve him for a while, or so he hopes, and then you’d heal. Move on. Find someone else, someone better, to spend your life with and make you happy. He would want you to. After all, you wouldn’t spend the rest of your life wishing for ‘What ifs…?’ with someone who’d never been worthy of your affections and love in the first place, would you?
In his mind, it had all seemed so easy.
Would it have been easy for him if your roles had been reversed?
The answer is as clear as he pictures the waters of the All Blue and just like that the world tilts on it’s axis, shifting into focus, bathing everything in a different light and Sanji feels nauseous with the weight of what he put you through. His ailing heart drives him from his seat despite the reprimands already falling from your lips, molding his body to yours, arms tightly wound around your middle and head buried in the crook of your neck. The complaints die on your tongue when you realize he doesn’t try to pry the spatula away from you, lets you flip your pancake in peace, no indication that he’s about to take any of the work from you, only a gentle, reassuring presence, strong, steady heartbeat at your back.
“Tu es mon univers entier, mon avenir…” It’s not much more than a quiet murmur against your skin, soft and reverent. “I was… blind to you seeing me as yours. And that is not your fault, my inner demons and insecurities should not have to be your burden and yet—” He cuts himself off with a frustrated huff, arms tightening around you. “I’ll never know what I did to deserve my very own guardian angel, but… thank you, my beloved. For looking out for me.”
Reaching back, you tangle one hand in his soft hair, gently scratching at his scalp and he immediately goes snuggling into you further, eliminating any nonexistent remaining space. “Someone very clearly has to.”
A barely there huff of a laugh, dry and joyless. “There ought to be much better uses of your precious time.”
You hum quietly in mock thought. “Can’t think of a single one.”
The sound that escapes him is somewhere between a laugh and a sob as he spins you around to face him, consciously moving you away from the hot stove and trapping you between him and the counter now digging into your back. There’s nothing but devotion, downright worship, written all over his pretty features, eyes shining like the rays of the sun reflecting off the waves, then, “I really want to kiss you, mon amour, please can I—”
You beat him to it, yanking him forward by his shirt, all too happy to oblige, the movement so hasty and desperate you end up clashing your teeth together. The recovery is quick, seamless, the kiss becoming less frenzied, passion and adoration taking center stage instead. A low groan from the back of his throat has you looping your arms around his neck to drag him impossibly closer, helplessly addicted to anything he gives you, his own hands reaching up to cradle your face in turn, thumbs softly brushing over your cheekbones and angling your head to deepen the kiss further, your surroundings falling away as the world shrinks down to just the two of you.
The need for oxygen is what regretfully forces you apart eventually, yet you stay tangled together, heaving chests pressed against the other, both unwilling to allow even an inch of space to disturb the little corner of the world you’ve carved for yourselves.
His warm breath fans over your face and then he moves lower to busy himself with leaving little nips and kisses against the sensitive skin of your neck, goosebumps following in his wake. “Heavens above, I adore you…” he sighs against your skin.
“Hmmm, lucky me, cause that’s just about the only thing that’s gonna make these pancakes edible.”
Confusion furrows his brows as he straightens back up, watching you reach over to grab the pan, depositing the charred victim of your distraction onto a plate you’d already set aside. When he actually has the audacity to laugh, you level him with an icy glare and jab an accusing finger into his chest. “This is your fault, you know. You distracted me.” Still chuckling, he lifts said accusing finger to brush his lips against it in apology. “Oh come now, love, there’s still batter left, everything’ll turn out fine. Besides, I’d happily eat poison if you were the one to serve it to me.”
You almost feel your knees buckle at hearing that, immediately reaching for his cheeks to pinch both of them in frustration. “I— You can’t— What did we just talk about?! Good grief, you are incorrigible!!” There’s no real bite to your words, only very real, very fond exasperation.
Clearly amused, he’s grinning while he pries your hands off his face and returns them to their previous position comfortably settled at the back of his neck. “And yet…” he starts, leaning forward to leave a small, soft kiss on the corner of your downturned lips, which has them quirking upwards despite your best efforts, “here you are.”
Shoulders dropping in defeat and rolling your eyes at his antics, you try your utmost best to appear cross with him, but you’re already mirroring his smitten, lovesick expression before you know it. “Here I am. And I’m not going anywhere.” A beat of hesitation, your voice growing quiet with the true weight of what you’re about to ask. “Are you?”
His teasing grin softens into something gentle and warm as he regards you: worry and uncertainty creating a crease between your brows, beautiful eyes pleading and fingers anxiously fidgeting with the short hair at the nape of his neck. Carefully unclasping your hands, he brings them to his chest instead, right over his heart, steady and strong against your palms, it’s rhythm trying to prove his next words true, to leave you certain that he means them mind, body and soul.
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summary: You’ve been avoiding Jungkook for the past few weeks because of exams, and it takes him just one visit at your apartment to remind you how wrong you were to do so.
pairing: boyfriend!jungkook x female!reader
genre: college au, established relationship, fluff, little angst, hurt, comfort
word count: 1,734
You turned the page of your textbook for the hundredth time, the words starting to get blurry now as you became more and more tired. What frustrated you was that you have been studying the same topic for hours now, but no matter what method you tried, you were not able to complete it.
Your finals were going on, you were done with all other subjects except this one, and the last one seems to be frying your brain the most. You have been surviving on 4 hours of sleep and caffeine for the past two weeks, and you just wanted to be done with it now.
Tears welled up in your eyes, and before you could allow yourself to bask in the sadness, in the constant feeling of being a disappointment and just not good enough, you closed the textbook. Maybe a break is what you need right now.
The chair scraped against the floor as you pushed it back to stand up. Before you could stretch your body to somewhat relieve the knots in your muscles, you hear your phone buzz on the table.
Three new messages!
Jungkook ❤️: going out with taehyung hyung
Jungkook ❤️: do you wanna join? we can have dinner at your favorite chinese place.
Jungkook ❤️: haven’t seen you in weeks, miss you :(
Your heart ached at his messages. Because of the exam stress, you started spending less time with him so that you could focus only on studying. Being away from him hurts; you miss being close to him. But it’s just about a few more days; you can do this. Right?
You: sounds tempting, but I can't. i'm sorry :( i need to study
You hesitated a little before pressing send. You quickly put your phone back on the desk and went to the kitchen to look for something edible and to make yourself another cup of coffee. You did know that drinking this amount of caffeine is bad for your health, but you really needed to ace these finals. You have to make do with what you have.
After having some light snacks, you go back to your desk with your new cup of coffee and get back into those stupid formulas.
˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊
Knock-knock-knock.
The sudden sound of knocking jolted you up, and you realised you had accidentally fallen asleep on your desk. Glancing at the clock, you noticed you had wasted two hours sleeping. You felt fresh tears well up in your eyes as you bit your lips to stop them from trembling. You only have two more days; what are you doing?
Knock-knock. Another set of knocks reminded you that someone’s at your door. Who would it be at this hour? You take a few deep breaths before heading to the door. Before turning the knob, you glanced out through the peephole. It was him.
“Jungkook…?” you whispered to yourself, confused as to why he was here, but relieved at the same time.
You quickly opened the door, and there he stood. Your boyfriend of almost a year was dressed in his usual jeans and hoodie, looking as handsome as ever. His cheeks were slightly flushed, probably because of the cold. One of his fingers loosely held a takeout bag you remember was from your favorite Chinese place.
“Were you sleeping? I’m sorry if I woke you up.” He smiled apologetically, but you could see it was strained. The distance was hurting him too. You suddenly felt that ache return. You didn’t mean to hurt him.
You nod. “I fell asleep. What are you doing here?” You moved away to let him enter. The sight of him in your small apartment felt all too familiar, with him being here many times before. He took off his shoes and walked to the kitchen to put the takeout bags down before starting to take them out on the counter for you to eat.
“You’ve been avoiding me, baby. You didn’t even say you missed me back earlier.” He spoke softly, though it was laced with quiet hurt. He finished setting up the food before turning back to you. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”
There it was. Those eyes. He was looking at you with those pleading eyes that made you feel like shit for making him stay away from you for weeks. You wanted those eyes to always crinkle with happiness, not be filled with sadness.
You nod, looking away. “I know. It’s just.. exams. I was… studying.” You felt pathetic saying those words. Looking at him was too much right now. You don’t like making him sad.
You felt him coming closer to you—felt his hands cup your face before turning it back to him, his brows scrunched up in concern. “What’s wrong, baby? I know it’s not just exams.” His words made you want to cry, and before you knew it, your eyes filled up with tears.
His eyes widened slightly before he pulled you into a hug, one hand behind your head while the other rubbed your back. “It’s okay; you can cry. Let it out, baby.” His soothing voice made you do exactly that, as you broke down in his arms. You truly did miss him.
Wrapping your arms around his waist, you looked up at him with the tears still flowing down your cheeks. “I- I’m so sorry, Jungkook. I didn’t mean to avoid you, I’m just- so stupid.” You pressed your face back into his chest, letting his hoodie absorb your tears.
“Hey, you’re not stupid. You’re just going through whatever you’re going through alone, but I’m here, yeah? We’re together in everything, right, baby?” He smiled softly as he felt you nod with your face still pressed in his chest.
After another five minutes, you finally calmed down. He pulled away enough to wipe your face clean with his sleeves before pulling you towards the couch. “I got you your favorite; you hungry?” After receiving another nod, he went to get the food he set up earlier and put it in front of you on the coffee table.
He handed you the chopsticks before gesturing towards the food. You looked down at the food before looking back up at him. “All this is for me? Isn’t it a lot?” He shook his head. “I didn’t eat anything. I wanted to eat with you.”
Your heart fluttered at his words. You have always known him to be considerate, but it never stops to make you smile. “Okay. Thank you.” Turning back to the food, you both started eating. The silence surrounding you two was not an awkward one, but rather comforting.
After you two were done, he quickly put away the empty packages in the trash before coming back to sit with you on the couch. You stay seated in your position, with your hands balled into fists on your lap. A heavy silence sat between you two as you debated how to tell him what you are feeling.
A surprised gasp left your lips as you suddenly felt him wrap his arms around you, pulling you close until you were settled on his lap. His hands held your hips in place before moving away to hold your hands.
Warmth slowly crept onto your body as you both intertwined your fingers, letting them rest on your lap. “I missed you.” The words were simple yet held profound meaning. And this time, Jungkook expected you to return the sentiment.
“I missed you, too. I’m sorry.” You looked down, unable to meet his eyes. A soft tug at your joined hands made you look up again. He gave you a comforting smile. It eased your tension a little, your body relaxing. At least he didn’t look sad anymore.
“You know that my finals are going on right now, right?” At his nod, you continued. “I’ve always had this feeling of…. not being good enough. There’s not much I am really good at. Academics is the only thing I can excel in if I put in enough effort. I thought that if I continued spending time with you during my exams, I wouldn’t be able to focus… I know it’s stupid, but I couldn’t help but feel that way. And I ended up pushing you away. It was never my intention to hurt you. I’m- I’m sorry…” You held your breath, waiting for his reply.
Understanding dawned over his face. “Baby, that’s not true. You’re kind. You’re always thinking of others before yourself even when it annoys me. You’re such a hard worker. You always try to make others feel at ease. I’m the happiest when I’m with you. Even if you were to fail your exams, it would not change the way I feel about you. You’ll always be amazing to me. It doesn’t matter whether you excel in academics or not. Just don’t avoid me, baby. Please.” He finished. One of his hands was now cupping your face softly, eyes gazing softly at you.
It never stops to amaze you just how good he was with words, how his touch could make you feel better immediately.
You nodded. Maybe it will take some time for you to actually believe those words, but you can at least try starting today. “I- I won’t. I’ll try to communicate better.”
He smiled softly, with you mirroring it. “That’s all I want. Come here.”
His hands wrap around you, pulling you into his chest with you still on his lap. He hummed when you shifted slightly to find a comfortable position; your hands wrapped around his neck. “This feels nice,” you whispered.
Sometime later, you both end up sprawled on your bed, still cuddling. His chin rested on top of your head as you pressed your face into his chest. This is how you want your days to always end, in his arms. “Jungkook?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you. Thank you for always being here. Even when I’m not being nice.”
He hummed, his arms around you tightening. “I love you, too, baby. And I’m always here.”
One of his hands shifted to the back of your head as his fingers started massaging your scalp slowly. The last thing you feel is his lips on your temple before your eyes begin to close, slowly drifting into the sleep your body had been screaming for for days.
PAIRING: Monkey d.luffy x black!fem WC:Injury, blood, emotional argument, brief harsh language, hurt/comfort, bit of fluff. OPHELIA'S NOTE: Hwshsbbdndjdnxjdjjsjsjskdkl
OVERVIEW:Luffy pushes himself too far, and when you confront him it turns into an argument which leaves distance between you two.
The deck of the Sunny is warm beneath your bare feet, the wood still holding the day’s heat as the sun bleeds into the sea. The sky is a masterpiece—fiery orange, deep violet, a gold that makes the waves look like liquid metal. It’s the kind of sunset that makes you want to sigh, to lean into the person beside you and just breathe.
Instead, your hands are fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms.
He’s been at it for hours. A whirlwind of rubber and reckless energy, throwing punches at the air, at the mast, at nothing. The bandage on his bicep—the one you carefully wrapped just this morning after cleaning the jagged cut from a Marine blade is soaked through. Again.
“Luffy.”
Your voice cuts through the rhythmic of his fists. He doesn’t stop. His grin is a fixed, wild big, eyes focused on some invisible enemy only he can see.
“LUFFY!”
You’re in front of him then, your body a barrier between him and the empty air he’s assaulting. The breeze catches your curls, tossing them across your face. You don’t brush them away. Your gaze is locked on the blooming crimson stain.
He finally stills, chest heaving, sweat tracing paths through the grime on his skin. His straw hat is pushed back, his black hair plastered to his forehead. That grin is still there, but it’s tight at the edges. “Hey baby! You wanna spar? I’m just getting warmed up!”
“No,” you say, the word flat and final. You reach for his arm. “You’re bleeding. Again. The bandage needs to be changed.”
He yanks his arm back, the motion too quick, too sharp. A fresh bead of blood wells up and traces a path down his tan skin. “It’s fine! Doesn’t even hurt! Meat’ll fix it!”
Something in you snaps. It’s not the first time. It won’t be the last. But today, with the golden light making the blood look almost black, it feels like the only time that matters.
“Meat doesn’t fix sepsis!” The words burst out of you, louder than the waves. “Meat doesn’t stop you from passing out from blood loss! You are reopening a wound because you’re too stubborn to sit still for five minutes!”
His grin vanishes. His dark eyes, usually so bright with endless curiosity or simple joy, narrow. “Y/n, I have to train. I have to get stronger. You know that.”
“There’s a difference between training and self-destruction!” You’re in his space now, close enough to see the faint dusting of freckles across his nose, close enough to smell the salt and iron on him. “You are the captain. You have a crew that relies on you. You have… you have me. And I am tired of watching you treat your body like it’s disposable!”
“My body is mine,” he fires back, and his voice has a hard edge you rarely hear directed at you. It’s the voice he uses for enemies, for obstacles. It cuts deeper than any Marine blade. “I know what it can take. You don’t have to babysit me.”
“Babysit you?” A harsh, disbelieving laugh escapes you. “Is that what you think this is? After everything? After last week, when I held pressure on that wound in your side for an hour while Jinbe sailed us to safety? After I sat up all night checking for fever? That’s babysitting?”
“You worry too much!” he shouts, and it echoes off the sails. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Zoro crack one eye open from his nap near the mast. Nami has paused her chart-work, her pen hovering. “You’re always on my back! ‘Luffy, eat something besides meat.’ ‘Luffy, don’t pick a fight.’ ‘Luffy, rest.’ It’s annoying! If you love me, you’d trust me!”
The world tilts. The beautiful sunset suddenly feels garish, cruel.
“If I love you,” you repeat, your voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You think this isn’t love? You think love is just smiling and nodding while you run headfirst into every possible danger? You think love is watching you almost die and saying ‘good job’? Is that what Shanks did? Did he just trust you and let you get that scar under the eye."
He flinches as if struck. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Don’t talk about Shanks.”
“Why? Because he’s the only one who gets to tell you hard truths?” You’re trembling now, with rage, with fear, with a hurt so profound it feels like a physical wound. "I'm trying to keep you alive because i love you idiot, but you never listen and your so—your so unpredictable. Its terrifying."
You see it then—a flicker of something in his eyes. Not understanding, not yet. But a crack in the defiant wall. It’s quickly buried under a fresh wave of stubbornness.
“Then stop being terrified!” he yells, throwing his hands up, the wounded arm flexing and sending another trickle of blood down to his elbow. “I’m gonna be King of the Pirates! It’s gonna be dangerous! If you can’t handle it, then maybe you shouldn’t be here!”
The silence that follows is absolute. The ship seems to hold its breath. The words hang between you, more solid than the mast, more final than the horizon.
You look at him—at the boy who declared you were his the moment he decided it, at the captain who would move heaven and earth for any one of his crew, at the man who is looking at you now with a challenge in his eyes that feels like a goodbye.
All the fight drains out of you. It leaves behind a cold, hollow exhaustion.
“Okay,” you say, and your voice is eerily calm. “Okay, Luffy.”
You turn and walk away, holding back tears with your steps measured and quiet on the sun-warmed deck. You don’t run. You don’t look back.
Dinner is a funeral. The table is laden with Sanji’s incredible food—seared steak, aromatic rice, fresh salads but it might as well be ash. You sit at your usual spot, pushing food around your plate. Your appetite is gone, replaced by a cold stone in your gut.
Luffy sits at the head of the table. He eats. He shovels meat into his mouth with his usual single-minded fervor. He demands seconds, thirds. But he doesn’t talk. He doesn’t tell a wild story with his mouth full. He doesn’t try to steal from your plate or share you some of his food. His eyes are fixed on his food, or on the wall behind you. Anywhere but on you.
The crew moves through the meal with a tense, careful politeness. Usopp tries to launch into a tale, but it dies halfway through under the weight of the silence. The air is thick with unsaid words, with the echo of maybe you shouldn’t be here.
You excuse yourself before dessert is served. No one stops you.
You lie in your bunk in the women’s quarters, staring at the ceiling. Nami is asleep in the bunk above, her breathing soft and even. You envy her. Your mind is a riot of memories—his laughter, his hand finding yours in a crowd, the way he looks at you like you’ve hung the very stars he navigates by. All contrasted with the hard, closed-off expression on his face today.
"If you can’t handle it, then maybe you shouldn’t be here!” Those words inprinted on your mind giving you the same gut wrenching feeling all over again.
The door creaks open. A sliver of moonlight from the porthole cuts across the floor.
You don’t move. You keep your breathing slow, pretending sleep.
A whisper, rough and hesitant, cuts through the dark. “Baby...You awake?”
You stiffen, but don’t turn. You keep your back to the room, curled on your side facing the wall.
You hear a soft sigh, the shuffle of his sandals. The edge of your bunk dips under his weight. He doesn’t try to pull you close. Instead, he lies down carefully behind you, his body a warm line against your back, not quite touching. You can feel the heat of him, smell the salt and night air on his skin. He’s facing you, his breath a gentle stir against the nape of your neck.
Silence stretches, taut and fragile.
Then, his voice, muffled by your hair and so quiet it’s almost lost in the ship’s sighs. “My arm really hurts.”
You don’t answer. The stone in your chest cracks a little.
“Chopper fixed it. He was lecturing me when he did it.” A pause. A deep, shaky inhale. “You were right. I was… I was being an idiot.”
Another tear escapes, soaking into your pillow. You bite your lip to keep silent.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, the words so raw they sound scraped from his throat. “I’m sorry I said that. About you not being here. It was a lie. The worst one.”
That’s what does it. The raw, unfiltered honesty of it. The apology isn’t polished, it isn’t eloquent but it’s Luffy—simple, direct, and devastatingly true.
Slowly, you turn over.
The bunk is narrow. The moment you face him, there’s almost no space left between you. Your noses are a breath apart. In the faint moonlight, you can see every detail—the long sweep of his lashes, the faint scar under his eye, the way his brows are drawn together in a pained, earnest frown. His dark eyes search yours, wide and vulnerable.
“You scared me,” you whisper, your own voice barely audible.
His face crumples. “I know. I don’t… I don’t like that. I don’t like making you scared.”
“Then think,” you plead softly, your hand coming up to rest lightly on his cheek. His skin is warm. “Just for a second. Before you jump. Think about me being scared.”
He leans into your touch, his eyes closing for a second. “It’s hard,” he admits, a confession. “My body just… goes you know. To protect everyone. To get stronger.”
“I know,” you say again, because you do. You’ve always known this about him. It’s what you love and what drives you mad in equal measure. “But getting stronger so you can protect everyone includes protecting yourself. For me. For us.”
He nods, his nose brushing against yours with the movement. “Okay.” He says it like a vow. “I’ll try.”
“And you’ll let me patch you up? Without fighting me?”
A small, genuine smile touches his lips for the first time all night. “Yeah. Your bandages are softer than Chopper’s anyway.”
You can’t help but let out a short laugh escapes you. He grins wider at the sound, as if he’s just accomplished something incredible.
“Forgive me?” he asks, his smile softening into something hopeful, tender.
“Yeah,” you whisper, closing the minuscule gap to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. “I forgive you, idiot.”
He hums against your mouth, his good arm sliding around your waist to pull you flush against him. You melt into the embrace, the last of the day’s chill dissolving in his warmth.
“Your hair,” he mumbles minutes later, his voice already slurred with sleep, his face buried in your curls. “Smells like the wind. And… and meat.”
You snort softly. “Of course it does.”
“S’good,” he insists, nuzzling closer. “My two favorite things." He mutters as his breathing evens out into sleep.
(Please do not copy or claim this work anywhere₊⋆)
By the way i've want to make a taglist for my opla fics so please comment if you wanna be added.♥︎
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