hanniehq

[hanniehq]

Organized Crime (Literally)

Summary: You are a librarian who somehow charms the most dangerous member of the family. The mobster tries to be threatening but keeps getting flustered when you correct his grammar or organize his illegal documents.

Fandom: ATEEZ

Pairing: Park Seonghwa x Reader

Genre: Mafia AU, Romance, Fluff

Warnings: Mentions of illegal activities, Money laundering

A/N: Me writing a reader obsessed with grammatical errors while I make mistakes every few seconds is something...

Organized Standards: Down Bad Behavior

====================================

You’d always prided yourself on being predictable.

Monday through Friday, 7 AM sharp, you’d arrive at the Crescent City Public Library with your color coordinated planner, sensible flats, and a thermos of tea that was always, always Earl Grey. Your life ran on schedules, proper filing systems, and the Dewey Decimal Classification like clockwork.

Which is why finding a man bleeding on your library steps at 6:47 AM on a Tuesday was particularly inconvenient for you.

“Excuse me,” you said, adjusting your glasses as you approached the bleeding man in the expensive looking black coat. “The library doesn’t open until 9 AM. Also, you’re bleeding on municipal property.”

The man looked up, and you were struck by two things: first, he was devastatingly handsome in that dangerous, sharp featured way that belonged in noir films, not small town libraries. Second, his eyes held the kind of cold calculation that suggested he was used to people running away from him, not politely informing him of operating hours.

“Listen, sweetheart,” he began, his voice low and menacing as he struggled to his feet. “I don’t think you understand who you’re-”

“With whom! you’re dealing,” you corrected automatically, pulling out your keys. “The preposition ‘with’ can’t be omitted in formal speech. Are you having a medical emergency? Should I call 119?”

Seonghwa blinked. In his twenty eight years of existence, most of which had been spent in various states of criminal activity, no one had ever interrupted his intimidation tactics to correct his grammar.

“I… what?”

“Your sentence structure,” you explained patiently, unlocking the library door. “You said ‘who you’re dealing,’ but it should be ‘with whom you’re dealing.’ Although, in casual speech, ‘who you’re dealing with’ would also be acceptable, despite the dangling preposition.”

“Are you seriously giving me a grammar lesson right now?”

“Would you prefer to bleed out instead? Because those are really your only two options until the clinic opens at eight.” You held the door open. “Come on. I have a first aid kit in the reference section.”

And that’s how Park Seonghwa -heir to the most feared crime family in South Korea, the man who could make grown adults weep with a single glance- found himself getting bandaged by a librarian who hummed softly while she worked and smelled like vanilla and old books.

“So,” you said, carefully cleaning the cut on his forehead, “what’s your name? For the incident report.”

“You’re filing a report?”

“Well, yes. Municipal property, potential liability issues, and I need to document the use of library supplies for non library purposes.” You paused. “Don’t worry, I’ll categorize it under ‘community outreach.’”

Seonghwa stared at you. “Park Seonghwa.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Park. I’m Y/N.” You applied a neat bandage and stepped back to admire your work. “There. You should see a proper doctor, though. I’m only certified in basic first aid and children’s story time management.”

====================================

Three weeks later, Seonghwa found himself back at the library. Not because he was injured -though he’d taken a concerning number of hits lately- or because he kept getting distracted thinking about proper grammar, thinking about proper grammar, but because he figured you probably needed a proper first aid kit after using the last one on him.

He found you exactly where he’d expected: behind the reference desk, sorting through a stack of returned books with the focused intensity of a surgeon.

“Mr. Park,” you said without looking up. “Your books are overdue.”

“My what?”

You held up a copy of “Advanced Accounting Principles” and “The Art of War.” “Checked out on your library card three weeks ago. That’ll be ₩6.500 in late fees.”

“I don’t have a library card.”

“You do now.” You slid a laminated card across the desk. “I took the liberty of signing you up when you bled on my steps. Emergency contact information was needed for the incident report.”

Seonghwa picked up the card, noting his name printed in neat block letters. “You listed yourself as my emergency contact.”

“Well, I don’t know your family, and you seem like the type who might not have many close friends. Occupational hazard of being mysterious and intimidating.” You finally looked up, adjusting your glasses. “Although you’re not very good at the intimidating part.”

“Excuse me?”

“You apologized when you bumped into the biography section. Twice. And you’ve been standing there for five minutes without saying anything threatening. Very un-menacing behavior.”

Seonghwa opened his mouth, then closed it. You were right. He was probably the least intimidating he’d ever been in his life inside this library.

“I brought you a first aid kit,” he said instead.

“Keep it. You seem like you might need it again.” You stamped a returned book with unnecessary force. “Besides, I ordered a new one. Much more efficient.”

That’s when Seonghwa noticed your desk. Every pen was in its designated holder, arranged by color and tip size. Your staplers (you had three) were lined up in ascending size order. Even your paper clips were sorted by color in a small divided container.

“You’re very…” he searched for the word.

“Organized? Yes. It’s a professional requirement. And a personal preference. And possibly a mild compulsion, according to my sister, but I prefer ‘thorough.’”

“I was going to say ‘perfect,’” Seonghwa said, then immediately looked horrified that he’d said it out loud.

You blinked owlishly at him. “Oh. That’s… thank you?”

For a moment, you both stood there in awkward silence, the air filled with the soft sounds of the library; pages turning, the distant hum of the air conditioning, someone typing on the ancient computer in the corner.

“Would you like me to show you how to properly return books?” you asked finally. “Since you’re apparently a cardholder now.”

“I should probably mention,” Seonghwa said, because he was apparently having some sort of crisis of conscience, “that I’m not exactly a law abiding citizen.”

“I assumed as much. People who follow the law don’t usually show up bleeding.” You walked around the desk. “What kind of not law abiding are we talking about? Tax evasion? Jaywalking? Running a criminal empire built on fear and violence?”

“More the last one.”

“Hmm.” You considered this. “Do you sell drugs to children?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Do you return your library books on time?”

“I… didn’t know I had library books until five minutes ago.”

“Well, we’ll work on that.” You smiled at him, the first real smile he’d seen from you, and Seonghwa felt something dangerous happen in his chest. “Everyone deserves access to literature, Mr. Park. Even morally ambiguous individuals with dramatic tendencies.”

====================================

The next few months fell into an unlikely routine. Seonghwa would show up at the library every Tuesday and Thursday, apparently to fill out his paperworks or browse the business section, but really to watch you work. You’d greet him with the same polite professionalism you showed everyone, but you’d also started leaving books you thought he’d like on the reserved shelf- biographies of famous strategists, novels about complicated anti heroes, and, memorably, a cookbook titled “Meals That Don’t Require Alibis.”

“That’s not a real cookbook title,” he’d said.

“I know. I made a custom cover. The actual book is ‘30 Minute Meals for Busy Professionals.’” You’d looked pleased with yourself. “I thought the joke was appropriate.”

It was things like that; your dry humor, your thoughtful book recommendations, the way you’d started keeping bandages at the reference desk “just in case” that made Seonghwa realize he was in serious trouble.

The kind of trouble that had nothing to do with rival families or federal investigations and everything to do with the way you’d started smiling when you saw him, like his presence was something pleasant rather than threatening.

The crisis came on a rainy Thursday in November.

Seonghwa had been having a particularly difficult week. A territorial dispute had required his… intervention, and he’d spent most of Tuesday in meetings that were really negotiations that were really threats wrapped in polite language. He was tired, on edge, and probably should have gone home instead of to the library.

But he’d promised to return “The Prince” (which you’d recommended with the note “thought you might relate to the moral complexity”), and Seonghwa had never broken a promise to you.

He found you at your desk, but something was wrong. Your usually perfect organization was in chaos. Papers scattered, books in wrong piles, your pen holder knocked over.

“Y/N?” He approached carefully. “Everything okay?”

You looked up, and he saw how your eyes became red and puffy. “Oh. Hi, Seonghwa. I’m fine, just… budget cuts. The city’s closing the library.”

“What?”

“Lack of funding. Apparently, we’re not cost effective.” You gestured at the mess. “I’m trying to organize the collection transfer, but some books will just be… disposed of. Forty years of carefully curated literature, and they’re treating it like garbage.”

Seonghwa had seen you handle rude patrons, broken printers, and his own dramatic appearances with unflappable calm. But the thought of losing your library, your kingdom of organized knowledge and quiet sanctuary, had you falling apart.

Something protective and fierce rose in his chest.

“No,” he said.

“I’m sorry?”

“No. That’s not happening.” Seonghwa pulled out his phone. “Hongjoong? I need you to look into the Crescent City municipal budget. Specifically, library funding.”

“Hey! Seonghwa, you can’t just-”

He held up a hand while listening to his brother’s response. “Yes, I know it’s weird. No, I’m not having a breakdown. Just… do it. And see what it would take to make a significant anonymous donation to keep it open.”

You stared at him. “You can’t buy a library.”

“Watch me.” He ended the call and looked at you seriously. “How much do you need?”

“I… this isn’t how municipal funding works. There are protocols, procedures, approval processes-”

“Y/N.” He stepped closer, and for the first time since you’d met, his voice carried the edge that made other people afraid. “How much do you need?”

You told him. He made another phone call.

“It’s handled,” he said afterward.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” He started helping you reorganize your scattered papers. “Though I should probably mention that you might want to be extra careful about following proper shelving procedures for the next few months. The donation is coming from a… let’s call it a ‘shell corporation,’ and we don’t want to attract unnecessary attention.”

You watched him sort your papers with unnecessary gentleness, and something clicked into place.

“You’re not just ‘not law-abiding,’” you said slowly. “You’re actually dangerous, aren’t you?”

Seonghwa’s hands stilled. “Yes.”

“Like, genuinely scary to most people.”

“Yes.”

“But you just saved my library because I was sad.”

“…Yes.”

You were quiet for a long moment, processing this. Then: “Your shell corporation has a grammatical error in its name.”

“What?”

“‘Mars Enterprises LLC.’ You can’t use ‘LLC’ with ‘Limited Liability Company’ because ‘LLC’ already stands for ‘Limited Liability Company.’ It’s redundant.” You pulled out a red pen. “Also, you’re missing a comma in your articles of incorporation, and your tax documentation is filed under the wrong fiscal year. I've seen the documents you've brought here.”

Seonghwa blinked. “You read my corporate filings?”

“I read everything you bring in here. Did you know you have 8 different shell companies, and all of them have minor clerical errors?” You started making neat corrections on the papers. “It’s like you’re trying to get audited.”

“I… no one’s ever mentioned that before.”

“Well, your accountant should be fired. This is sloppy work.” You handed him the corrected papers. “I took the liberty of fixing the most egregious errors, but you really should have someone detail oriented review your documentation process.”

Seonghwa looked at the papers, then at you, then back at the papers. Your corrections were neat, precise, and absolutely accurate. You’d identified problems that had somehow slipped past his very expensive legal team.

“Y/N,” he said carefully, “would you be interested in a consulting job?”

====================================

Which is how you found yourself, three weeks later, sitting in the back room of what was definitely a legitimate import/export business and absolutely not a front for organized crime, color coding financial documents while Park Seonghwa watched you with fascination.

“The red tabs are for quarterly reports, yellow for tax documents, and blue for… what did you call these? ‘Operational expenses’?” You held up a receipt. “Though I have to say, claiming a flamethrower as a business expense seems optimistic.”

“It was for a barbecue,” Seonghwa said.

“A barbecue that required a flamethrower?”

“It was a very large barbecue.”

You gave him a look that suggested you weren’t buying it, but you filed the receipt under blue anyway. “Your bookkeeping is atrocious, by the way. How have you not been arrested for tax evasion?”

“We have lawyers.”

“You need accountants. Possibly accountants who specialize in creative financial interpretation, but still.” You pulled out another stack of papers. “What’s this receipt for ‘duck food’? Fifty thousand dollars worth of duck food?”

“We own a duck pond.”

“Nobody owns a fifty thousand dollar duck pond, Seonghwa.”

“We have very expensive ducks.”

You stared at him. He stared back, his expression perfectly serious.

“I’m not going to ask,” you decided finally.

“Probably for the best.”

You went back to organizing, but Seonghwa noticed you were smiling. Somewhere in the past few weeks, you’d stopped being shocked by his world and started being amused by it. You treated his criminal empire like an especially chaotic library collection. Something that just needed proper organization and systematic management.

“Seonghwa,” you said suddenly.

“Yes?”

“This document says you’re the ‘Regional Manager of Intimidation Services.’”

“That’s… accurate.”

“It’s also the most ridiculous job title I’ve ever seen. What does that even mean in practical terms?”

Seonghwa considered this. “I make people afraid so they’ll do what we want.”

“And how do you do that?”

“Usually I just stand there and look menacing. Sometimes I have to break things. Occasionally I threaten people.”

“Hmm.” You made a note on your tablet. “What’s your success rate?”

“Pretty high. Most people find me intimidating.”

“I don’t.”

“I’ve noticed.”

You looked up from your organizing. “Does that bother you?”

Seonghwa thought about it. Six months ago, the fact that someone wasn’t afraid of him would have been a professional problem requiring immediate correction. Now, the thought of you being afraid of him made something twist uncomfortably in his stomach.

“No,” he said. “I like it.”

“Good. Because I have some suggestions for improving your operational efficiency, and they’re going to require you to be significantly less mysterious and dramatically brooding.”

“I don’t brood.”

“Seonghwa, you spent twenty minutes yesterday staring pensively out that window while wearing all black and looking like you were contemplating the weight of your sins.”

“I was watching for surveillance.”

“While brooding.”

“I don’t-”

“You definitely brood. It’s very atmospheric, but probably not great for productivity.” You pulled out a color coded chart. “I’ve analyzed your workflow, and I think we can streamline your intimidation process significantly.”

Seonghwa looked at the chart. You’d somehow turned his methods of frightening people into a neat, organized system complete with decision trees and efficiency metrics.

“You made me a flowchart.”

“I made you several flowcharts. This one’s for standard intimidation scenarios, but I also have specialized charts for ‘dramatic reveals,’ ‘threatening negotiations,’ and ‘ominous warnings.’” You looked proud of yourself. “I even included a section on proper dramatic timing. Did you know you pause for an average of 4.7 seconds too long during threatening monologues? It’s affecting your impact.”

Seonghwa stared at the charts, then at you, then back at the charts. “You’ve been timing my monologues?”

“I time everything. It’s a habit.” You flipped to another page. “I also noticed you tend to over complicate your threats. For example, instead of saying ‘Cross me and you’ll discover what happens when someone forgets that actions have consequences in a world where power determines the difference between mercy and justice,’ you could just say ‘Cross me and you’ll regret it.’ Same message, 73% fewer words.”

“But the first version is more intimidating.”

“Is it, though? Because based on my observations, people stop listening after about fifteen words. You’re burying your actual threat under unnecessary philosophical commentary.”

Seonghwa opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. You were probably right. You were usually right about these things.

“I’ve been doing this for ten years,” he said instead.

“And I’m sure you’re very good at it. But there’s always room for improvement.” You smiled at him, and Seonghwa felt that dangerous thing in his chest again. “Besides, think of how much more time you’ll have for other activities if you can resolve intimidation scenarios 23% faster.”

“What other activities?”

“Well, you still haven’t finished reading ‘Pride and Prejudice.’”

“That book is 400 pages long.”

“It’s a classic of English literature.”

“It’s a romance novel.”

“It’s a brilliant examination of social class, personal growth, and the dangers of first impressions.” You gave him a pointed look. “I thought you might relate to Mr. Darcy.”

“The brooding rich guy everyone thinks is an asshole?”

“The brooding rich guy who turns out to have a good heart under all the dramatic posturing.”

Seonghwa stared at you. “Are you saying I have a good heart?”

“I’m saying you saved my library and you bring me coffee every Tuesday and Thursday.” You went back to your filing. “Also, you alphabetized my emergency contact list without being asked.”

“It was bothering me that it wasn’t in order.”

“See? Good heart. It was bothering me too.”

They worked in comfortable silence for a while, you organizing and labeling while Seonghwa watched and tried to figure out when exactly his life had become something he didn’t recognize. When had he started looking forward to Tuesday afternoons in a back room, watching you turn his chaotic criminal enterprise into neat, color coded files? When had your approval become more important than his reputation?

When had he fallen completely, irrevocably in love with a librarian who corrected his grammar and wasn’t afraid of him?

“Y/N,” he said suddenly.

“Mmm?”

“Would you like to have dinner with me? Somewhere that’s not a library or a legitimate business establishment that definitely isn’t a front for organized crime?”

You looked up, a slight smile playing at the corners of your mouth. “Are you asking me on a date, Mr. Regional Manager of Intimidation Services?”

“Yes. I am.”

“Will there be proper grammar involved?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“And no dramatic brooding?”

“I make no promises about the brooding.”

You laughed, actually laughed, and Seonghwa felt something settle into place in his chest.

“Okay,” you said. “But I’m picking the restaurant. You have terrible taste in public venues.”

“How do you know that?”

“You chose a library for bleeding out in front of. A library, Seonghwa.”

“I didn't have lots of choices, and It worked out.”

“It worked out because I don’t intimidate easily and I have a thing for mysterious men with good bone structure and poor organizational skills.” You went back to your filing, but Seonghwa caught your smile. “Also, you’re paying. Saving libraries is expensive, and I assume your ‘duck food’ budget can handle dinner.”

“The ducks are very high maintenance,” Seonghwa said solemnly.

“I’m sure they are.”

And as he watched you organize his criminal empire with the same care and attention you gave to library books, Seonghwa realized that maybe being predictable wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe having someone who treated his dangerous world like a collection that just needed proper cataloging was exactly what he’d been missing.

Even if she did keep correcting his grammar.

Especially because she kept correcting his grammar.

THE END

====================================

BONUS PART:

“Seonghwa,” you called from the kitchen of his ridiculously secure apartment, “your tax documents came in, and I have concerns.”

“What kind of concerns?” he called back, not looking up from his laptop where he was reviewing what were definitely legitimate shipping manifests.

“The kind where you’ve apparently donated half a million dollars to ‘Literacy Programs for At Risk Youth’ and I’m wondering if that’s code for something illegal or if you’ve actually gone soft.”

Seonghwa smiled to himself. “Maybe I just think education is important.”

“Seonghwa Park, Regional Manager of Intimidation Services and secret supporter of childhood literacy programs.” You appeared in the doorway, wearing one of his shirts over your pajama pants and holding a cup of tea. “Who would have thought?”

“Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”

“Your reputation as what? The world’s most considerate criminal?” You settled next to him on the couch, automatically straightening the papers scattered across the coffee table. “Hongjoong called earlier, by the way. He wants to know why all your recent contracts include clauses about proper citation format.”

“You said it was important.”

“It is important. But I’m not sure your clients appreciate having their illegal agreements corrected for APA formatting.”

“They’ll learn to appreciate it.”

You laughed, and Seonghwa realized that this, you in his space, organizing his life and making everything make sense, was better than any reputation he’d ever had.

Even if you did still correct his grammar.

Especially, because you still corrected his grammar.

====================================

A/N: Reader has been copying and correcting Seonghwa's documents because she got annoyed and angry at all the stupid mistakes in it, so her heart dropped for a few seconds when she heard that they were illegal documents. Thank god our reader fears no one in this scenario and could finally get those documents in proper order.

[hanniehq]

happy 2nd birthday riize, will forever love you guys, thank you for staying strong with us🥹🧡

already two years!!! feels like its been such a short yet lengthy time😭 i hope they all grow to be a group and individuals more widely loved…im so proud of them all🥲

[hanniehq]

anton + cockwarming

you just wanted to try something.

walking over to anton who was completing some work from his lecture this morning, you give him a peck on the cheek from behind him.

he smiles at you while turning his head to you, reflecting back a warm reception.

“hey baby.”, he says, tiredness evident in his voice.

“hi my love. what are you doing?”, you ask, innocence tracing your tone.

“just starting the work my professor set us today.”, he replies, shaking his head slightly, “babe, today was so crazy. let me tell you about it.”

you take this opportunity to take a seat in his lap, so your legs are sideways to his torso.

startled, he lets out a nervous chuckle.

he’s so easily flustered by you.

“what are you doing?”, he asks, raising an eyebrow at you.

“you were about to tell me a story, no? i’m listening.”, you answer, wrapping your arms around him.

he lets out another nervous chuckle, though laced with a hint of suspicion.

“okay, sure.”, he says slowly.

anton begins to tell you about the day and how his professor shouted at someone for getting the answer wrong but they actually were right or something like that. you don’t know because you weren’t really listening. you couldn’t pay attention when his tender sweet pink lips were staring right at you. and his nose was looking bigger than ever, just how you like it.

and he couldn’t not pay attention to the way your ass was slowly grinding on his dick. the small circles you were making, the little shifts you were doing, all slowly sending him to spiral.

he’d be interrupted by small breaths he’d take when you grinded down just right, or maybe the eye contact you gave was too intense.

when, eventually, you realised it was harder for anton to speak and continue his story, you started your plan.

“anton, i want your dick in me. but i don’t want you to move. just do your work while you’re all the way in me.”, you state, eyes locked on his.

his eyes widened at the sudden honesty.

“i-mmph!”, he starts, then cut off by the sudden grind you give. he bites down on his bottom lip.

you’ve already started undoing his belt, the sounds of the metal clanking against each other spurring you on. your pussy had been aching for anton since he left for his lecture, cursing that today you were completely free, so nothing would take your mind off your insane level of horniness.

“b-babe wait—ahh! f-fuckkk”, he moans out, as you sink down on him. you turn your back to him, earning whimpers from your boyfriend, and leaning to the side of the table, so he’s able to do his work. you grab your phone next to you and start scrolling through instagram.

“continue your homework, my love.”, you call out, arms resting on the table to prop your head up.

confused, he goes along with it.

he starts going over his notes and trying to use them to help do his assignment. but with the way you’re subtly shifting every now and then, his concentration is completely lost.

“b-babe. how is this better than moving? i don’t think i can take much more.”, he whines, almost pouting his lips.

“just be grateful you’re in me at all, anton.”, you say lazily, still looking at your phone.

you shift again, this time clenching down purposefully.

“ngh! n-no, you know what you’re doing. cmon, you gotta move, my love. please, i’m fucking begging.”, he whimpers, hands gripping tightly on your waist to ground himself.

“i don’t have to do anything. you, however, have work to finish. get to it, babe.”, you chime, in a playful tone.

“i can’t! all i can think about is how your pussy’s clenching down on me, and your small movements are driving me insane. baby, i’m so hard for you. please just move.”

you’d be lying if you say you aren’t turned on, even more so because of his begging and whining. but some part of you just wants to be cruel to him.

“endure it, puppy.”, you say, bluntly.

you hear a groan mixed with a whimper behind you, and he goes back to looking at his notes. you attempt to hide the smirk plastered on your face.

anton was expecting you to give up and start riding him, but when you eventually get up, kiss him goodnight and enter your shared room, he’s left dumb founded and still hard. he’s also left with a text message from you saying “and don’t think about touching yourself. sleep well ;)”. thanks to you, he spends the rest of the evening thinking about grannies.

[hanniehq]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤanton as your tutor who is only doing it for the money because he thinks you are too dumb, just wasting your parents money and his time too, always whining and bitching, and whenever he asked you about the equations he taught you you just look at him with puppy dog eyes, as if that would give you good grades.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤit was no wonder you barely passed all your subjects and couldn’t do the easiest math calculations. you were a complete idiot.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤhe makes you repay him for all the countless hours he spent sitting at his desk lecturing you, making you wrap your hand around his aching cock, dragging your hand up and down his shaft in a sloppy rub, but anton eats it up.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤhe has his hips bucking involuntarily, soft grunts escaping him, watery pre-cum starting to leak from his slit and stain your knuckles with each brush of your fingers on his tip.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤa trail of saliva connected your cherry tongue to his swollen tip, you swirl your tongue around, sucking it into your mouth and feeling the bittersweet taste of his cum on your tongue. he watches your brows furrow as you take him deeper into your mouth, your head bobbing back and forth as your warm mouth coats his cock with saliva.

and he’s being so mean to you, forcing himself into your mouth as you grind pathetically against his shoe, your panties sticking to your wet folds, your teary eyes looking up at him through thick lashes with an expression that begs for praise.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤhe knows that if you didn't have your mouth full of his dick, you’d be asking him if you’re doing it right and looking at him like there wasn’t a single thought in your head.

[hanniehq]

text me

[hanniehq]

smut is great but do you know what’s better? heart wrenching, soul twisting angst that makes you want to cry (take my money)

[hanniehq]

PLS VOTE FOR DONGGYU RN ON MNET PLUS APP PLEASEPLEASEEEE

[hanniehq]

tilt

bully!eunseok pathetic!anton (riize) x fem bodied reader

warnings / tags - smut, unprotected sex, slight overstimulation, squirting, ‘bullying’ … let me know if i missed anything else

i had no idea how to start this properly so it starts abrupt.

anton’s hands trembled as gripped your hips, his breath hot against your shoulder. eunseok smirked watching the way anton cowered behind you.

‘look at him’ eunseok murmured pressing a kiss on your neck. ‘i bet he can’t even fuck you right’

anton whined his cock twitching inside you. ‘i…i can’ his hips jerked forward desperate needy trust. his teeth sank into your shoulder, like he was marking you as his.

you arched your back, deliberately pushing against eunseok’s chest. anton let out a pathetic whine grabbing your attention. ‘pay attention to me’ he begged, his voice thick with frustration and need. his fingers dug into your thighs, dragging you further into him.

every graze of eunseok’s lips on your skin made anton’s trust sloppier and erratic. ‘please’, he choked out. ‘tell me i’m good’ eunseok’s hand slid down your stomach, fingers finding your cunt. tracing circles around anton’s cock where you both met. making anton shudder.

‘he’s so sloppy’ eunseok taunted, his fingers pressing harder rubbing the sensitive skin just beneath your clit. ‘you feel that?’ anton groaned, his hips stuttering as pleasure and humiliation took over. his grip tightened even more, nails leaving marks as he fucked into you with rough, uneven snaps.

‘shut up’, he panted, voice cracking. ‘i can –fuck.. i can make her cum’

eunseok laughed, pushing two fingers inside you alongside anton’s cock. loving the stretch, you moaned. ‘prove it’

a broken whine comes from anton as he slammed into you harder. his rhythm dissolving into frantic, shallow trust. spit dripped from his lips onto your back, his teeth grazing your spine. ‘tell me’, he begged. ‘tell me i’m better’

you arched, gasping as eunseok’s thumb finally pressed against your clit. the stimulation from eunseok’s thumb and anton’s cock made your thighs shake. ‘you’re trying’, you teased, anton moaned from pure desperation.

eunseok’s free hand tangled into anton’s hair, yanking his head back. ‘listen to her’

‘she’s not even close because you’re too soft’ anton sobbed, his cock twitching inside you. eunseok’s fingers curled deeper making your vision blur. anton’s trust increased, hips snapping into a jagged rhythm. ‘i’ll show you’, the sound of wet skin filling the room.

anton’s hand slid around your throat, not tight but enough to cause you to gasp. his other hand clawed at your hip, dragging you back onto his cock. every pump caused his balls to slap against your soaked cunt. eunseok laughed, ‘pathetic’.

‘look at her… she’s taking you so easily like you’re nothing’ a strangled noise ripped from anton as he came but, he didn’t stop fucking you through it with sloppy strokes. desperate to prove himself even after he came.

eunseok’s fingers twist inside you, dragging against anton’s cock with every thrust, stretching you to the brink. ‘still not enough’, he taunted breath hot against your neck. suddenly, anton pulled out flipping you onto your back. your legs wrapped around him as he plunged into you again.

‘you like watching me break her?’ anton growled at eunseok, his fingers dug into your thighs spreading you even wider. the sound of your slick coating him with every snap of his hips. eunseok smirked, dragging his thumb through the mess where your bodies met.

‘taste yourself’, he ordered. eunseok pushed his thumb into your mouth, you moaned around it. eunseok leaned down biting your nipple causing you to cry out.

anton’s rhythm faltered with deep slow strokes. ‘fuck–fuck’, he choked out, his cock swelling again inside you. anton’s hips slammed into you, deep and uneven. making your thighs tremble. the pressure coiled tighter together, causing you to flutter around his cock until it finally snapped. a broken cry rips from your throat, your release soaking anton’s stomach and thighs.

eunseok lets out a laugh. ‘good boy’, he purred, dragging his fingers through the mess on anton’s stomach . he brought them to anton’s lips smearing your slick across them. ‘look how wrecked she is – you did that’

anton groaned, licking the taste of you off his mouth. he slowed his hips, cock still buried inside you twitching from the aftershocks. the weight of anton’s body pressed you into the mattress.

sweat, slick and spent.

eunseok smirked, stepping back. ‘that’s enough’ anton dragged in an uneven breath, then he pulled out, leaving you trembling between them.

[hanniehq]

seunghan…ab…reveal….lol…

[hanniehq]

sweetheart. | eunseok song.

synopsis: how your relationship with eunseok developed from a one-night stand, to friends-with-benefits, to more.

content warning: fem!reader, suggestive, swearing, and drinking

author's note: such a random short smau to post but i thought it was okay lol, enjoy!

© hrtfelt4u 2025

[hanniehq]

put down that c.ai thing and read y/n fics like god intended.

[hanniehq]

━━━IN HIS NAME 18+

♱ Pastor's Son!Lee Anton x Female!Reader

.ᐟwarnings/tags: slow burn, religious/sacrilegious themes, blasphemy, small town, pastor's son!anton, slight hard dom!anton, sub!reader, virgin!reader, childhood friends to lovers, soulmates, anton has god complex, reader is a softie, reader worships anton, dirty talk, fluff, oral (f & m receiving), fingering, love, possessive anton, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, p in v, choking, marking, crying, creampie, aftercare

♡ you came back home expecting a quiet summer—then saw anton again. the sweet, golden boy, and all yours behind closed doors…the only boy you’d ever worship.

.ᐟwc: 17.4k

disclaimer! this content might offend or disturb some people, so if you don’t like this type of content please ignore.

You left the town when you were fourteen. Back then, you swore you wouldn’t miss it—this little town that moved too slow and talked too loud. The heat stuck to your skin like syrup, the neighbors always had opinions they shouldn’t, and everyone showed up to church twice a week like it was salvation itself. You were a kid, and the world outside seemed so much bigger. Better. But now, years later, you’re back. Not for a visit. Not for a funeral or a holiday. For good. Your parents wanted to return, said it was time to come “home.” Whatever that means anymore. You didn’t fight it. You didn’t exactly agree either. You just packed your things, followed the motion of their decision, and watched your life in the city shrink behind you. Now you’re here. Sitting on the porch of the same old house you ran through barefoot every summer, the one with the creaky floorboards and the paint peeling off the shutters. The door still groans the same way when it opens. The porch swing still drifts lazily. Some things don’t change, apparently. You pull one leg up under you, sip your ice tea, and squint into the sun. It’s the kind of sticky late afternoon that smells like grass clippings and pavement, almost too hot to breathe. Everything’s still and quiet. Until you hear it. A low voice carries from next door—gentle, warm, vaguely amused. It’s faint, but enough to stir something in you. A ripple of familiarity you weren’t expecting.

You turn your head, and suddenly, everything inside you stops. He’s standing in the yard next door. Anton Lee. At first, you don’t believe it. Your eyes try to make sense of him, this version of him, the one time has molded into something…different. He’s talking to a pair of old women in wide sun hats and floral dresses, probably fresh out of a church committee meeting. He’s got one hand tucked into the pocket of his jeans, the other gesturing politely as he nods along to whatever they’re saying. You can’t hear the words. You’re not really trying to. You’re too busy staring. He looks…grown. Not in a “he got taller” kind of way—but in the way his shoulders fill out his faded t-shirt. In the sharp angle of his jawline, the curve of his neck, the slope of his nose, the way his hair curls slightly at the ends from the heat. Even from this far, you can tell—he’s beautiful. And he’s still Anton. Your neighbor. Your best friend. The boy who used to chase frogs with you until your mom called you in. Who used to pass you folded notes during service. Who once cried when your parents told you you were moving away.

You’d promised to stay in touch. You meant it. But you were fourteen, and life got loud, and somewhere along the way, the calls and texts stopped. Now here he is. Right there. You sit up straighter without meaning to. Your ice tea glass sweats in your hand. He hasn’t noticed you yet, still caught in conversation. You wonder if you look different—older, prettier, unfamiliar. Would he recognize you right away if he turned? You don’t wait to find out. Your nerves get the best of you. You stand, grabbing your empty glass, and head toward the door. You tell yourself you’re not avoiding him. You’re just hot. Tired. Not ready even. But just as your hand pushes the door open, something makes you glance back over your shoulder. And there he is—Staring right at you. The old women are gone now, vanished as quietly as they arrived. Anton’s standing alone in the yard, one hand shielding the sun from his eyes, the other still loosely in his pocket. His gaze is fixed on you. He looks confused. Not startled, but searching. Like he’s not sure what he’s looking at. Or like he is, and just can’t believe it. You don’t move. For a second, the world narrows down to that look, his eyes locked on yours, brows drawn just slightly, lips parted like he’s about to say your name. And then the door creaks open, and you step inside, heart pounding. You don’t look back again.

♱

The church hasn’t changed. Same tall stained-glass windows. Same dusty hymnals and creaky pews. The same low hum of whispers as the congregation filters in, dressed in their Sunday best. It smells like old wood and candle wax and someone’s too-strong perfume. You smooth down the dress your mom made you wear—soft blue, modest, snug around your waist—and slide into the pew beside her. She’s already smiling and waving at everyone like she never left. You, on the other hand, feel like an imposter. Like a ghost drifting back into a life that doesn’t quite fit anymore.

And then you see him. Anton. Standing at the front of the sanctuary, just off to the side of the pulpit, next to his father—Pastor Lee. His posture is perfect. His hands folded in front of him. His white button-down shirt is tucked in tight, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal his forearms. The warm light from the stained glass glows faintly against his skin, catching the edges of his cheekbones and the slope of his nose. He looks calm. Holy, even. But when his eyes find yours from across the room, he grins. Just slightly. It’s subtle. Private. Like a secret being passed from the altar to the back pew. You feel your lips pull into a shy smile before you even realize it. Your fingers twitch in your lap, and then, almost without thinking, you lift your hand and give a small wave.

He returns it. Barely a flick of his fingers. Then he glances away, face schooled back into quiet reverence. Your mom leans over and whispers, “Is that Anton? My goodness, he grew up so well.” You try not to show how warm your face suddenly feels. The final “Amen” echoes through the chapel, and the congregation begins to stir—hymnals closing, shoes scuffing, greetings starting before people even leave the pews. You trail behind your mom as she makes her way through the crowd, stopping to hug familiar faces and catch up with people she hasn’t seen in years. Everyone’s talking at once. You spot Anton near the front doors, his father deep in conversation with one of the deacons. Anton’s standing just off to the side again, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking toward you every few seconds. This time, you go to him. “Hey,” you say, voice soft, nerves bubbling in your chest like soda.

He turns fully, and when he sees you up close, his whole expression shifts—like he wasn’t prepared for it. Like he’s still piecing together the girl he used to know with the version of you standing in front of him now. “Wow,” he breathes, and then, quieter, “You came back.” You nod, feeling suddenly very aware of how close he’s standing. “We moved back. For good.” His eyes drag over your face slowly, like he’s trying to memorize every difference, every change. “You look…” He doesn’t finish. Just offers a crooked smile. “It’s good to see you.” You smile, heart pounding. “You too. You—uh. You look good.”

That makes him laugh under his breath, low and warm. “Yeah? Thanks.” But before either of you can say anything else—“Oh, Anton!” Your mom’s voice slices through the air like a knife, and both of you turn to her. She slips beside you with a bright smile and gently pats Anton’s arm. “It’s been so long! Look at you—such a handsome young man now. You’re the spitting image of your father.” Anton chuckles politely, hands still tucked in his pockets. “It’s really good to see you, Mrs. ___.” Your mom beams. “You’ll have to come over for dinner sometime! You and your family. How about tonight?” Your breath catches. Tonight? Anton’s brows lift slightly. “Uh—I mean, I’d love to. If my parents are free.” “I’ll ask your mother myself,” your mom chirps. “I’m sure she’d love the chance to catch up. You’ll come too, won’t you?” she adds, turning back to you with a wink, as if the two of you didn’t just meet like strangers five minutes ago. Anton looks at you. His voice is calm, but his eyes burn just a little too long on yours. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

♱

The evening sunlight filtered warm through the windows as your mother moved around the kitchen, humming a song under her breath. The table was already set, too neatly and too nervously. Everything felt like a performance. You sat on the edge of the couch, smoothing your dress for the fifth time, your heart fluttering even though you told yourself to stop. They were just neighbors. Old friends. Familiar faces. So why were your hands shaking? You heard the knock on the door, and your mom rushed to answer it, voice lifting in a cheery greeting. You stood slowly, swallowing the tight feeling in your throat as you peeked around the corner. And there he was. He looked like a dream. Soft, navy pullover, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly tousled like he hadn’t even tried, and still, somehow, he looked perfect. He smiled, all warmth and politeness, as your mother pulled him into a hug, then turned his eyes toward you. Something in his expression shifted for just a second when he saw you—something unreadable. His eyes dragged over you slow, then stopped at your face like he had to remind himself to keep it respectful. And then, that gentle smile again. “Hey,” he said softly, walking toward you. “Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.” Your lips parted, the sound caught in your throat. “Hi. Yeah, me neither.” He looked taller up close. Broader. And his voice had dropped since you were kids—low, smooth, just a little husky when he said your name.

The rest of his family trailed in behind him, greetings flying around the room. But all you could hear was the way his fingers brushed yours when he handed over the pie he brought. All you could feel was his gaze, lingering just a second too long when you sat beside him at the table. Dinner passed with polite conversation, church talk, your mom laughing too loudly at Pastor Lee’s stories. But beneath the table, your knees brushed every now and then. Barely. But you felt them. You felt him. And every time you got a little flustered—fumbling your fork, fixing your skirt—he noticed. Of course he noticed. At one point, when your mother stepped away to grab more wine and the conversation quieted, Anton leaned a little closer to you. His voice was low, just for you. “You look good tonight,” he murmured, eyes still trained politely ahead. Your breath caught, cheeks flushed immediately. “Oh…thanks. So do you.” He tilted his head just slightly, that same soft smile still on his face. “Yeah?” You nodded, biting your lip. He blinked slowly, eyes flicking over your face. Then you felt it—his hand brushing yours again under the table, fingers grazing your palm like a secret. And when dessert was served and your mom asked Anton if he could help you bring the dishes to the table, he stood right away, still perfectly polite and perfect.

The house was full of soft voices and clinking glasses. From the living room came the low hum of conversation, your mom and the Lees laughing about something from years ago, the kind of stories adults always went back to after dinner. But you weren’t in there. You were in the kitchen. Feet swinging gently from where you sat on the counter, hands resting at your sides, cool glass of water in your lap. Anton stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, hands submerged in soapy water as he quietly washed the dishes. The warm overhead light hit his profile just right—sharp jaw, lashes lowered, mouth set in focus. His back was broad beneath his shirt, shoulders flexing slightly with every quiet movement. He looked unfair like that. Domestic. Godly. You didn’t know how long you’d been watching him. He hadn’t said anything since he started washing, just passed you a small smile when you hopped up on the counter, like it was normal for you to sit there, legs bare and tucked beneath you, eyes trained shamelessly on him.

He rinsed the last plate, turning off the faucet. Flicked water off his hands before reaching for a towel. “You always watch people do chores,” he asked, drying his fingers, “or just me?” You smiled, letting your head tilt just a little. “Just you.” That made him laugh softly. It rumbled low, barely audible. He turned slightly to face you, still rubbing his hands with the towel. “You’ve changed,” he said, voice calm. “You’re…different.” Your heart thudded. You looked down at your glass. “Is that…bad?” “No,” he said. Then, quieter, “Not at all.” Another pause stretched between you. You didn’t move. Neither did he. Then, without thinking, you asked, “Do you wanna go on a walk?” His brow lifted slightly. “A walk?” You nodded, eyes meeting his. “Yeah. Just…around the neighbourhood. It’s still warm out.” He hesitated for a second. Not because he didn’t want to—but because it was too easy to say yes. And then he did. “Sure,” he said, smile slow. “Let me grab my shoes.”

The streets were quiet when the two of you slipped out the front door, the summer air thick with warmth and crickets. Porch lights flickered behind doors, and far-off wind chimes swayed lazily in the breeze. The town was asleep. You walked side by side in the dim orange glow of the streetlamps, arms brushing occasionally. Anton’s hands were in his pockets, his sleeves still rolled up to his elbows, his eyes scanning the sidewalk ahead as if he didn’t want to look at you too much. But he did. Every now and then, you caught him. “It’s so weird being back,” you murmured after a stretch of silence. “Everything’s the same. But not really.” He nodded, glancing over. “I know what you mean. I still expect to see you riding your bike down the road with that ridiculous blue helmet.” You laughed. “Hey, I loved that helmet.” I know,” he grinned. You walked like that for a while, laughter trailing into comfortable quiet. Eventually, you reached the edge of a small park—the same one you used to play in together when you were kids. The swingset was still there, creaking gently in the breeze. The old sandbox. The crooked bench. You tugged his arm gently. “Let’s sit for a while.” He didn’t hesitate. You both dropped into the cool grass near the trees, far from the streetlight. The ground was still warm from the day, but the night air had cooled enough to make the moment feel peaceful. You leaned back on your hands, head tilted to the sky. “The stars here are brighter,” you said quietly. “They always were,” he replied, watching you instead.

You talked. About church. About how weird it was being adults now. About the people who’d stayed, and the ones who left. And somehow the conversation slowed—turned softer and deeper. The kind of conversation that only happens when it’s late and quiet and you feel like the rest of the world isn’t real anymore. Anton sat cross-legged now, one arm draped over his knee. He looked relaxed, content. And you…felt brave. Your heart pounded as you turned toward him. His profile looked so serene in the moonlight, his lashes casting shadows, lips parted slightly, breath calm. And before you could stop yourself—You leaned in. A soft kiss. Just a quick, warm press of your lips to his cheek. Barely a breath. When you pulled back, his head turned to you instantly. You looked down at the hem of your dress, fingers nervously twisting the fabric in your lap. “What was that for?” he asked, a quiet laugh under his breath. “I-I don’t know, sorry—,” you mumbled, shoulders curling in a little. He didn’t say anything for a second. Then, he reached out. One hand cupped your jaw, soft and slow, his thumb brushing the edge of your cheek. He leaned in, tilting your face toward his. “Hey,” he said gently. “Look at me.” You did. Big, nervous eyes meeting his calm, unreadable ones. And then—He kissed you. Not rushed. Not messy. Just firm and real, lips warm and sure, like he’d wanted to do it for hours but waited until you asked first, without saying a word. When he pulled back, his voice was quieter than ever. “I missed you,” he murmured. Your heart felt like it could explode.

The kiss lingered on your lips long after it ended. You didn’t speak as he helped you up from the grass, his hand brushing yours gently—barely holding it, but not letting go either. The walk back was quiet, the kind of silence that says everything. The air between you was different now. Warmer. Buzzing. When you reached your front porch, the light was still on. The sound of laughter drifted faintly from the Lees’ house next door, your mom probably inside chatting with Anton’s parents. Anton stopped at the base of your steps. Hands in his pockets again. Looking up at you like he was still memorizing your face. “My parents went home already,” he said softly. “I should head back too.” You nodded, unsure what to say. Still dazed from the kiss. From him “Thanks for walking with me,” you said, trying not to sound too breathless. He stepped up onto the porch now, closer. Just enough to make your heart skip. “Thanks for the walk,” he said, voice even softer. “And the kiss.” Your cheeks burned. You looked down again, fidgeting with the hem of your dress like you had earlier. He didn’t tease you for it. Instead, he leaned in, one hand brushing lightly against your elbow as he tilted his head and kissed the top of yours. “Goodnight.” he murmured into your hair. Your chest ached. “Goodnight, Toni.” you whispered. He lingered for a beat, then gave you one last glance, turned, and stepped off the porch, disappearing into the quiet dark. And you just stood there, frozen in place, barely breathing, fingers clutching your dress. Still tasting the kiss from earlier and trying to make sense of the boy next door—the pastor’s golden son, all grown up and kissing you like that.

♱

Days passed, warm and slow. You kept seeing Anton. Not on purpose, but always like clockwork. He showed up one afternoon with a Tupperware of still-warm cookies, claiming his mom made too many again. The day after that, you bumped into him outside while taking out the trash, and he offered to help like it was nothing—shirt sleeves pushed up, forearms flexing, that same easy smile on his face. There were walks again, too. Small ones. Night air between you, your arms occasionally brushing. The conversation was light—never touching that night. The kiss. The way your heart pounded every time you looked at him too long. But Anton never pushed. Just walked beside you like he had all the time in the world. The church bells rang slow and sweet, echoing through the summer air.

You sat next to your mom like always, her hands clutching her small bag. The usual crowd filled the pews, faces you’d known since childhood, some changed by time, some exactly the same. The windows let in golden light, and the air smelled faintly of old wood and floral perfume. Anton sat beside his father at the front—eyes forward, posture perfect. Button-up crisp, sleeves rolled just once at the wrists. His hands were folded, resting neatly in his lap like some model of quiet discipline. But then he looked over. Just a flick of his eyes at first. But then he saw you, and the shift was subtle but real. The corner of his mouth lifted. You smiled too—small, hesitant. He raised two fingers in the tiniest of waves, the gesture hidden just beneath the edge of the pew. You returned it, heartbeat thrumming. When everyone bowed their heads to pray, you did too. Eyes closed. Hands together. But you could feel him watching you.

The usual bustle followed—hymns fading, churchgoers chatting, children running in the yard. Your mom was pulled into a conversation with some older women near the back, and you stepped out into the hallway for a breath of air. That’s when you heard footsteps behind you. “Hey.” You turned, and there he was, smiling softly. Holding a paper cup of lemonade. Hair slightly messier now that the formalities were over. “Hi,” you said, a little breathless. You hated that he could still do that to you.He looked at you quietly for a moment, then reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear—so gently it made your chest ache. “You look good today,” he said, voice low. “Really good.” Your breath caught. You tried to hide your smile by looking at the floor, mumbling, “You too.” He chuckled, head tilted. “You think?” “Mhm.”“Then maybe you should come over tonight.” Your eyes lifted slowly. “Tonight?”“Just for dinner. Hang out a bit. My parents will be out…for a while.” He gave you a look. One you felt deep in your stomach. You swallowed. Nodded. “Okay.” “Okay,” he echoed, and his smile softened. “I’ll text you.” Then he leaned a little closer—just enough to brush his fingers against your wrist as he passed.

You knocked once—lightly. The door opened almost immediately. Anton stood there in a soft gray t-shirt and jeans, white socks, hair a little messy like he’d been running his hand through it before you arrived. His eyes dropped to your dress, the short, soft one you hadn’t worn in forever. White with a little blue. You saw the flicker in his gaze before he blinked it away. “Hey,” he said, smiling. “Come in.” You stepped past him, blushing. His house smelled like warm food and clean linen. Familiar and still somehow brand new. You slipped off your shoes by the door, glancing around as he led you to the living room. “My parents are out. Church committee stuff.” He looked over his shoulder, voice easy. “You want to eat on the couch?” You nodded. “Sure.” The two of you sat with plates on your laps—chicken and mashed potatoes and something buttery his mom must’ve made. The TV was on low in the background, but neither of you were watching it. You talked about dumb things. Summer. Church gossip. What your moms were probably up to. “I still can’t believe you’re back,” he said suddenly, glancing at you as you licked a bit of sauce from your thumb. “It’s like…I blinked and you turned into a whole woman.” You almost choked on your drink, cheeks heating. “Anton—” “Sorry.” He smiled softly. “Just being honest.” You tucked your hair behind your ear, glancing down at your lap. The hem of your dress barely reached mid-thigh. His eyes kept flicking down, and then back up, every time. He cleared his throat, then stood. “Wanna see something?” “What?”“Old photos. Us.” You laughed, instantly standing. “You still have those?”

“Unfortunately.” He led you up the stairs, your heart thudding harder with every step. His room was at the end of the hall, same as you remembered, but different now. Cleaner. Calmer and more grown-up. He let you sit on his bed while he rummaged through a drawer. You crossed your legs and the dress shifted, rising slightly. Anton paused, back still toward you, but you saw the way his shoulders rose with a breath before he kept going. “Here,” he said, finally holding up a crinkled photo album. You leaned close as he sat beside you, the two of you shoulder to shoulder as you flipped through the pages. “Oh my god,” you whispered, pointing. “You look so cute!” “I was 10.” “And this one! The matching outfits?” “Our moms were insane,” he groaned, grinning. But every time you laughed, every time your thigh brushed his or your shoulder pressed into his arm, you could feel the shift in the air. It was slow, creeping in like heat. His smile softened. His gaze lingered longer. And when you turned your head toward him to say something, your breath caught. Because he was already looking at you. Not laughing. Not teasing. Just…looking. Eyes dark. Jaw tight. Like he was holding something back so tightly it hurt. “What?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. He shook his head a little, but didn’t look away.“You’re just…” He exhaled slowly. “You’re so fucking pretty.” Your breath hitched. “Anton…” He reached up, so slowly, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek. Your cheeks flushed instantly. You could feel the warmth spreading down your neck, across your chest, like your skin knew something was coming before your mind did. Anton’s thumb was still brushing your cheek, and your heart was hammering like it wanted to climb into his hand. “I—um…” Your voice came out breathless. Quiet. Embarrassed. Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your dress, twisting the hem like you didn’t know what to do with your hands.cAnton didn’t say anything at first. He just let the silence stretch—thick, humming, full of everything you weren’t saying. Then, softly, almost amused, “You always this quiet when someone tells you you’re beautiful?” You froze. Your breath hitched, lashes fluttering as you finally looked up again. His smile had softened, but his eyes hadn’t—they were still dark, focused, soaking in every little flinch, every blush. “It’s cute,” he murmured, voice dropping just slightly. “Makes me wanna see what else gets you like this.”You blinked. “Anton—” He moved before you could stop yourself. One hand slid to the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. Not rough, but not hesitant either. His thumb brushed along the side of your jaw, tilting your face up just slightly, just enough for your eyes to lock again. “Can I?” he asked. You swallowed, lips parted, the air between you tight as a thread. And then you nodded, looking up at him with big sparkly eyes. That’s all he needed.

His lips were on yours before you could blink, stealing the air right out of your lungs. His hand stayed firm behind your head, holding you in place like he was finally letting himself taste what he’d been craving since the second he saw you on that porch again. It wasn’t rushed. But it wasn’t soft either. It was deep, and hot, and meant. Like he’d already decided you were his, and this was the first time he let himself show it. You whimpered into his mouth, hands clinging to his shirt, and that was when he groaned—quiet, low, right against your lips. “I swear, you look at me like that and I can’t think straight.” Then he kissed you again, harder.

And for a second, just a second, you felt everything else—church, family, rules—slip away like it had never existed. Just you. Just him. His lips moved against yours with growing heat, still controlled, but barely. You could feel it in the way his fingers curled tighter at the back of your head, the way his breath hitched when your body pressed closer to his. Then you felt his hand slip down, slowly, gliding from your jaw to your waist, and lower. You gasped softly when his fingertips ghosted under the hem of your dress, meeting the bare skin of your thigh. He stilled for half a second, almost like he was asking permission without saying it out loud, but when you didn’t stop him, his touch grew firmer. His palm slid higher, his hand large and warm on the soft skin of your inner thigh.

The kiss deepened. His tongue slipped into your mouth, slow and steady, tasting you like he’d been imagining this forever. You melted into him completely, fingers tangled in the front of his shirt, thighs parting just a little more as he leaned into you. He groaned quietly when you did that. “Lie back,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and rough, like he was trying not to break. “Please.” You let him guide you down gently, back hitting the mattress, your dress shifting with the movement. He came with you, hovering, his knee slotting between your legs, hand still gripping your thigh as he kissed you again. You sighed into his mouth when his hand traveled up farther, fingers brushing the edge of your underwear, but stopping just short. “Fuck,” he whispered, lips moving against your jaw now. “You don’t get it…” his voice cracked. “I’m trying so hard to be good.” His hand squeezed your thigh, possessive, like he was grounding himself. “But you’re making it so fucking hard.” His mouth found yours again, open and hot, and all you could do was whimper into it, body arching into his like your whole skin was burning for more.

Your fingers slipped into his hair, soft and slow, and he let out the faintest breath, like even your touch could undo him. He was still kissing you like he didn’t want to take too much. Like he was holding himself back even though you could feel the tension in every part of him. And then you looked up at him. Sweetly. Eyes wide, lips parted, your gaze soft and honest like you didn’t even know what that look was doing to him.“Anton…” He pulled back slightly, breath shaky, brows drawn tight like he was trying to read you, trying to figure out if he could survive any more of this. Your thumbs brushed over his cheekbones. You leaned in, barely a whisper between your lips. “You don’t have to be good with me.” The second it left your mouth, you felt it happen. His breath stilled. His eyes darkened. “Don’t say that,” he muttered, voice thick and low, more like a warning to himself than to you. “You don’t know what you’re giving me.” But his hands were already moving, gripping your thighs, pushing your dress up slowly until it was bunched at your waist. You gasped as the night air met your bare skin, and he hovered there for a second, eyes dropping.The sight of you underneath him—flushed, breathing hard, in your pretty little panties and dress—did something to him.

His mouth found your neck first. But this time, he didn’t hold back. He sucked hard, right on the soft skin beneath your collarbone. Then again, higher this time, where he knew it would show tomorrow. A visible claim. You whimpered, fingers tightening in his hair. “Mine,” he whispered against your skin, almost too low to hear. “You’re mine.” His lips trailed down, wet, open-mouthed kisses across your chest, lower, down your stomach. Slow. Worshipful. Possessive. Then he knelt between your legs, hands caressing your thighs like he needed to memorize every inch. And then he saw them. Your panties—soft, soaked through, clinging to your folds just enough for him to make out the outline. He groaned, dragged his palm up your thigh and pressed it right over your center, fingers cupping you through the wet fabric. “Fuck…” His voice was ruined. “You’re already dripping, baby?” You couldn’t answer. Your hips lifted into his touch instinctively, a soft whimper breaking in your throat. He looked up at you, eyes wild now, barely able to stay soft anymore. “Want me to keep being good now?” he asked, thumb dragging along the dampest part of your panties. You shook your head no, and he smiled softly. You could barely breathe.

His thumb pressed gently over your soaked panties, circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your thighs twitch. His touch was slow, like he wasn’t in a hurry. Like he wanted to feel every little reaction you gave him. He kissed your inner thigh again, soft and wet, then moved his lips even closer, brushing just shy of where you needed him. “God, angel…” he murmured against your skin. “You’re soaked.” You whimpered, hands gripping the sheets beneath you. He kissed you again, higher this time, just at the edge of your underwear, and your hips lifted instinctively.He smiled softly. He liked that. You could tell. “You trust me?” You nodded, breathless. “Yes.” “Good.” His fingers hooked into the sides of your panties, slowly, teasingly, and began to pull them down. You lifted your hips for him without thinking, cheeks burning as the cool air kissed your skin. He dragged the fabric down your thighs, your knees, your ankles, then tossed them aside like he’d been waiting years to see you like this. And then he just stared for a moment. Silent. “So fuckin’ pretty…” he said, almost to himself. His hands slid back up your thighs, warm, slow and possessive, and when he reached your hips, he pressed a kiss right above your mound. Then lower. And lower. Until his mouth was right where you needed him most.

You barely had time to gasp before his tongue was on you. Hot. Slow. Unbelievably soft. Your hips jerked. Your back arched. And he groaned like he loved the way you tasted. You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging on instinct, and the sound it pulled from him, that low, needy groan, shot straight through your spine. He looked up at you, cheeks flushed, lips slick and red, hair a mess from your grip. And you almost came just from the sight. Golden boy Anton. Saintly, sweet, so polite Anton. On his knees, tongue deep between your thighs, looking up at you like you were heaven. “Anton—” you gasped, nearly overwhelmed. “You—fuck—” He didn’t stop. He didn’t even blink.

His tongue moved faster, more focused now, licking slow deliberate circles over your clit, and when you tugged his hair harder, his grip on your thighs tightened. His eyes never left yours. “You taste insane” he whispered, voice thick and ruined against you. He went right back in, and your thighs threatened to close around his head—your saint of a boy, face buried in your heat, moaning like he was being blessed by every sound you made. His tongue kept working you, steady and deep, your thighs trembling against his big hands. You were falling apart underneath him, whimpering, gasping, one hand clutching the sheets while the other tightened in his hair, holding on like you were about to float away. “Toni—nghh—please~” you cried out, voice broken, eyes fluttering. That name from your lips, so sweet, so needy, made him groan so deep it vibrated against your clit. Then, without warning, he slid two fingers into you. Slow. Deep. Filling. You gasped—head falling back, mouth parted in a breathless moan—as he began pumping them in and out, curling just right, dragging wet, lewd sounds from between your thighs. “That’s it,” he murmured against your skin, voice rough, breath warm. “You sound so pretty like this.”

You couldn’t even think, you could only feel.The stretch of his fingers. The way his palm pressed perfectly against your heat. How his mouth returned to your clit, licking and sucking hard while his fingers fucked into you. You were so close. So close. “Toni—Toni, please, I—” His mouth pulled back, breath warm on your soaked skin. But his fingers didn’t stop. They kept moving inside you, deep and curling upward with every pump, the slick sounds making your whole body burn. You reached for him, desperate, your hand grabbing the back of his head and pulling him up fast. And then you kissed him. Hard, messy and needy. Your lips crashed into his, tasting yourself on his tongue, moaning into his mouth as his fingers kept moving inside you relentlessly. Anton hummed into the kiss, hips pressing forward into the mattress like he couldn’t help it, like he was falling apart just from the way you kissed him back. His free hand grabbed your waist, pulling your body closer to his chest as the kiss deepened—his fingers still fucking you, perfectly in rhythm with the way your body rocked against his hand. Your whole body tensed—hips lifting, hands tangled tight in Anton’s hair, pulling him impossibly closer. And when his fingers hit just right, deep and curling, his mouth finding your clit again, you shattered. “T-Toni—! F-fuck—” You moaned into his mouth as he kissed you through it, swallowing every gasp, every broken cry, as your orgasm ripped through you like a wave. Your thighs clenched around his waist. Your fingers gripped his hair in both hands. Your body shook beneath him. Tears slipped from the corners of your eyes.

Even as your hips bucked and trembled, his fingers kept moving. Slowly drawing it out. Helping you ride it until your whole body gave out in his arms. And when you finally collapsed against the bed, gasping, boneless, lips parted, he pulled away slowly, breathless, mouth red and glistening, cheeks flushed like he’d just sinned and loved it. He looked at you like you were holy. He reached up and brushed his knuckles across your cheek, warm and gentle. “You okay?” he asked softly, his voice rough around the edges. You nodded, barely. Still breathless. He leaned in and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your cheek, then one just below your jaw. Then lower to your neck, where your pulse fluttered wildly beneath your skin. His lips stayed there a moment, like he wanted to memorize the feeling of you. His hands moved down, big and warm on your bare thighs. He caressed the soft skin gently, thumbs stroking where he’d held you open, his touch full of something that felt like quiet praise. Then, without saying a word, he reached for your panties on the floor and helped you slip them back on, careful and slow. Once they were in place, he leaned forward again, resting his forehead against yours for just a second, both of you breathing the same quiet air. Then he murmured, “I think my parents’ll be back soon.” Your heart jumped, reality creeping back in, but Anton’s hand was already smoothing over your thigh again, grounding you. He looked at you like he didn’t want you to leave. But he would let you. For now.

♱

The night air was cooler now, soft against your skin as you stepped out into the quiet, still pulling your cardigan around you. Anton walked beside you in silence, his hands in his pockets, close enough for your fingers to brush every few steps. Neither of you spoke much. You didn’t need to. You could still feel him—on your skin, in your breath, between your legs. And he could still feel you too. You saw it in the way he glanced at you when he thought you weren’t looking. That small curve of a smile he couldn’t quite hide. When you reached your front porch, you turned to face him, heart fluttering in your chest. He looked so soft in the dim porch light—hair a little messy, lips still a little pink, his eyes warm and unreadable. He stepped closer. “Thanks for coming over,” he murmured. “Thanks for…everything,” you whispered back, cheeks warming again, your hands behind your back. He chuckled quietly. Then he leaned in, hand gently cupping your waist, and kissed you. Soft and sweet. A stark contrast to the way he’d touched you earlier…but just as overwhelming. When he pulled back, he stayed close. His forehead nearly touching yours, his voice low, “See you tomorrow?”

You nodded. “Yeah…tomorrow.” He smiled, eyes flicking briefly down to your lips again, and then turned to walk back toward his house, hands tucked in his pockets, shoulders just a little looser than before. And you stood there a moment longer, fingers brushing your lips, your heart pounding so loud it felt like it echoed through the quiet street. You tried to blink it away, tried to smooth your face as you stepped inside your house, quietly closing the door behind you. The light from the kitchen was still on. “There you are,” your mom called from the table. “I was starting to think you fell asleep next door.” You let out a soft laugh, cheeks still warm as you stepped out of your shoes. “No… Just stayed a bit to talk.” “Mhm,” she hummed, sipping her tea. “Well, don’t forget—we’re helping set up for the charity event tomorrow after church. Anton will be there too.” Your heart skipped. “Right. I remember.” You turned toward the hallway, trying to keep your voice even. “G’night, Mom.” “Night, sweetheart.” You made it to your room, closed the door softly, and leaned back against it, chest rising and falling like you’d run a mile. Tomorrow. You’d see him again tomorrow. And the worst part? You were already aching for it.

♱

The church was warm with soft chatter and the scuff of shoes on tile. Long folding tables lined the walls, each draped with pale tablecloths and surrounded by open boxes of clothes and canned goods. It smelled like lemon cleaner and faint perfume and sunlight clinging to old wood. You stood at one end of a table, fingers smoothing out the cloth. Your eyes were focused, but your mind wasn’t. Not when he was this close. Anton stood just beside you, setting out trays and centerpieces like it was second nature. His sleeves were rolled up, veins in his forearms catching the light when he moved. He didn’t say much. Just worked quietly, side by side, like he was trying not to draw attention to the way his shoulder kept brushing yours. And then he leaned in. Not much. Just enough that his mouth was near your ear, his voice low, almost lazy. “You look beautiful.” It didn’t sound like a compliment. It sounded like a confession. Your breath caught. You froze for half a second, hands paused on the table, before you slowly looked at him. But he was already turning, lifting another box, acting like nothing happened. Like your heart wasn’t now hammering inside your chest. You swallowed. Lips parted. Eyes burning into the back of his neck.

The church was mostly quiet except for the gentle shuffling of boxes and folding chairs. It was just the two of you now. The sun had dipped hours ago, casting golden light through the stained glass before fading completely into night. Only the warm glow of the overhead lights remained, soft and holy. Anton was stacking donation boxes near the front pew while you tried to make sense of the tangled folding chairs at the back. You were humming softly to yourself—half from nerves, half from the way his presence always made you feel too warm lately. You reached for one of the metal chairs, too quick, and your foot caught on another folded leg. Your balance slipped. “Oh—!”But before you could hit the ground, Anton was there. His hands gripped your waist firmly, holding you upright, pulling you flush against his chest. Your breath hitched. His eyes scanned your face quickly, his hands still steady on your body. “You okay?” You nodded, your hands splayed against his chest now. His pullover was soft. Warm. And under it, he was solid. “Sorry,” you whispered, the tiniest laugh in your throat. Your smile was shy, your cheeks flushed.He didn’t laugh. Didn’t let go. Just looked at you. Like he was thinking something he shouldn’t. And then, his arms tightened slightly around your waist.

His mouth parted just a bit, and his voice came low, “You’re really not making it easy for me.” You blinked up at him. “What?” But he didn’t explain. Instead, he kissed you. Right there, in the middle of the church, surrounded by donation stuff and folding chairs. It was sudden, and deep, and so full of everything he’d been holding back. His lips moved over yours with a kind of hunger that felt like it had been waiting for an excuse. And you—pressed to his chest, hands still curled in his sweater—kissed him back like you’d been waiting too. His lips moved over yours with more urgency now, rougher and deeper. Your fingers curled in his hair as his hand slid around to your lower back, pressing you closer, closer, like he couldn’t get enough. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the quiet growl in the back of his throat every time your breath caught.

You gasped into his mouth, pulling away just enough to whisper, “Anton… we’re at church—” His mouth chased yours, voice low and hard, “I don’t fucking care.” He kissed you again, hungrier, and in one swift, effortless motion, his hands gripped your thighs and lifted you up. Your breath hitched as he placed you on the edge of the long wooden table behind you, the one you’d just been sorting donation envelopes on. Now, forgotten. You looked at him, heart racing.“What if someone sees us?” you breathed. His hands slid up your thighs, firm and possessive, as he stepped between them.“Let them.” His voice was rough, wrecked. A low growl right against your skin. And then his lips dropped to your neck.

He kissed over the faint marks he’d left days ago, soft at first, then deeper. His teeth grazed the skin just below your jaw, and you whined, hands gripping his shoulders. He kissed lower, leaving new marks with every pass of his mouth, like he was reclaiming territory only he could touch. “Toni…” you whispered, breath trembling. He groaned at the sound of his name on your lips—like that. Soft, whiny, his. His fingers pressed into your thighs, thumbs brushing under the hem of your skirt as his mouth dragged down your throat, slow and hot. His hands were everywhere—firm on your thighs, sliding under your skirt, curling around your waist like he couldn’t get you close enough.

You gasped when his hands gripped lower, squeezing your ass, pulling you forward on the table until you could feel the pressure of his hard-on between your legs. “Toni,” you whimpered, dizzy, your fingers tangled in the fabric of his sweater. “We can’t—God’s watching—” He froze for half a second. Just long enough to lift his head, eyes burning into yours. Then he said it—quiet, calm, but full of something dark and unshakable, “I am God.” Your lips parted, breath caught in your throat. You didn’t know if you were shocked or turned on. Maybe both. He watched your face as the words settled in, his eyes hooded, the corner of his mouth twitching up when he saw the heat rising in your cheeks. His voice dropped lower, curling into your chest like smoke. “Right now…I’m the only one you pray to.” And then his mouth was back on you—kissing your collarbones, biting softly where your strap had slipped just low enough.

One hand slipped up your back while the other gripped the underside of your thigh, holding you wide open for him. You whimpered, arching into him without meaning to. “Anton—“ “Say it again.” His voice was ragged now, mouth warm on your skin, dragging against the edge of your bra strap. You barely managed a breath, “Toni…” He groaned, low and deep, fingers digging into your skin. “Mm. Keep saying my name like that.” His breath hitched as he pulled back just slightly, eyes locked on yours. His jaw was clenched, brows tight, voice lower than you’d ever heard it.“Get on your knees.” You blinked. “What?” His hand slid to the back of your neck, gentle but firm, as he leaned in close, lips brushing your cheek. “On your knees, baby.” Your heart practically jumped out of your chest. Heat flooded your face, your stomach, your thighs. You hesitated only for a second, just long enough for your breath to stutter. But then, you slid off the table slowly. Down to your knees. The cold floor pressed against your skin as you settled in front of him. You tilted your head up, shy, lips parted, eyes doe like and innocent, and his entire body visibly tensed. His gaze was fixed on you, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like he was trying not to fall apart. “Fuck…” He reached down, threading his fingers into your hair. Not pulling, just petting. Slow, reverent strokes, like he was trying to memorize the feeling of you like this. His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, soft and possessive all at once. “Look at you,” he whispered. “So sweet for me.” You sighed, eyes never leaving his. He brushed his thumb over your bottom lip. “My pretty little angel…”

You stayed perfectly still on your knees, heart thudding so loud you were sure he could hear it. Anton’s thumb grazed your bottom lip slowly, and you parted your lips without even thinking. That’s when his smile shifted, something darker curling at the corners. He dragged his thumb down, then slid his index finger along your lip, tapping it once against your mouth. You let him push his finger past your lips—slow, deep—and your lashes fluttered as the pad of it pressed against your tongue. You wrapped your lips around it instinctively, and his breath stuttered. “Good girl…” His voice was a whisper, low and wrecked. Like just seeing you like this, on your knees, sucking his finger, eyes big and wet—was too much for him to handle. He watched you. Let you lick and suck gently, the corner of his lip twitching when you whimpered quietly around him. His other hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking along your skin like he was soothing you, even while you were on your knees, mouth full, obeying his every move. “So fucking perfect,” he murmured. And still, you held his gaze. Still, you sucked softly, cheeks warm and flushed, knees pressed to the cold church floor like you were praying to him. And maybe you were.

He pulled his finger slowly from your mouth, glistening and warm, a soft little pop echoing in the still air. Your lips were parted, your breath shaky, chest rising with every pulse of heat settling low in your core. And then, he took your hand. His fingers slid between yours, gentle but sure, and he guided it slowly downward. You followed instinctively until your palm landed against the front of his jeans—hot, hard, unmistakable beneath the fabric. Your eyes widened. “Toni—” He didn’t speak. He just pressed your hand more firmly to it, his breath hitching at the contact. And you could feel him. All of him. Thick. Heavy. Straining. A soft whimper escaped you before you could stop it. Your fingers twitched, and then you palmed him. Tentative at first. Just the softest pressure. He groaned. His head tipped forward, jaw clenched, eyes fluttering shut for just a second. “That’s it,” he whispered. “Don’t stop.” Your cheeks burned, but you obeyed, letting your hand move slow and shy over the thick line of his cock through his jeans. You squeezed gently, experimentally. He hissed through his teeth. “Fuck, baby…” One of his hands braced on the table behind you, the other still cradling your cheek, brushing over your temple like you were the softest thing he’d ever touched, even while you had your hand wrapped around the very thing he’d been trying to hide from you for days.

And then he looked down at you again. “Do you feel what you do to me?” he said softly. You swallowed, thighs clenching where you knelt, and nodded, dazed, completely lost in him. Your palm kept moving, slow, nervous strokes over the thick bulge, until his hips gave the tiniest roll into your hand. That low groan from his throat made your knees feel weak all over again. Then, still holding your gaze, he moved your hand to his waistband.“Go ahead,” he whispered. “Take it out, angel.” Your breath caught. You hesitated, cheeks already flushed deep pink. But your fingers moved anyway, slow and unsure, as they found the button of his jeans and undid it with a quiet pop. Then the zipper. Each slow tug of it felt impossibly loud in the silence of the church. Your hand shook just a little as you dragged the denim down his hips, revealing gray boxers. Tight, and so full. And then, finally, you let your fingers slide past the band. And when you lowered his boxers, his cock sprang free—thick, flushed, leaking already, and standing proud against his stomach. Your lips parted instantly. Your cheeks went bright red. You blinked like you couldn’t believe what you were seeing. He was just…so big. So pretty. Long, veiny, flushed at the tip and glistening already with need. And it was all because of you. Anton chuckled softly above you, low and rough. “You gonna keep staring, pretty girl?” Your breath hitched. You looked up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted and completely overwhelmed. He smiled. One hand slid into your hair, petting softly again. Thumb brushing your cheek.

Your breath shook as you gently wrapped both hands around the base of his dick, like you were afraid to grip too tight. He was so warm in your palms, heavy and twitching. You looked up at him. He was already staring down at you, jaw tight, breathing uneven, one hand resting on the back of your head. You leaned in slowly, lips parting as you brought your mouth to him. Your tongue flicked out, just the softest lick over the flushed head. He hissed through his teeth. “Fuck…” You licked again. Slow and careful, like you were testing something sacred. His precum hit your tongue, and your lashes fluttered, still looking at him. Big, wide, innocent eyes. Your hands shifted, stroking softly as you leaned forward to kiss the tip, lips plush and pink, leaving a warm breath against his skin. Then your tongue circled it once, barely touching, and he groaned, deep and wrecked, head tipping back for a second before his eyes found yours again. “Jesus, baby…” He looked completely undone. Red-cheeked, hair messy, chest heaving. His fingers threaded deeper into your hair now. “So fucking pretty on your knees.” he muttered, voice hoarse. You whimpered softly and kissed him again, lower. Letting your tongue trail down the underside of his cock, slow and reverent. Worshipping him like he was your god. And he was.

Your lips parted further as you took him deeper, just a little. Just enough to feel the stretch, the pressure, the way he twitched against your tongue. Your hands gripped his base tighter, keeping steady, and your breath fanned hot against his skin as you hollowed your cheeks around him. His fingers threaded deep, gripping at the roots, but still gentle. Still shaking a little. Like he was trying so hard to keep it together. “F-fuck, baby…” His hips rolled the tiniest bit, pushing just a touch deeper, and you moaned around him. Then, a soft whimper escaped him. Your thighs pressed together instinctively. That sound? From him? It was everything. His other hand found your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he looked down at you, breathless, eyes dark. “You take me so well,” he murmured, voice rougher now. “So fucking good for me.” You sucked a little harder in response, tongue teasing the underside of him as you took him just a bit deeper, and that’s when the shift happened. His voice dropped. No more shaky breath. No more awe. Just that low, possessive rasp, “Yeah… that’s it, angel. Keep going.” He started to guide your head now—slow, steady movements. You blinked up at him, breathless, cheeks flushed, spit clinging to the corners of your mouth—and pulled back just enough to speak. Your voice came out soft and whiny. Worshipful.“I’ll take anything from you, Toni…” His entire body tensed. His hand gripped your hair so tight it hurt. Possessive. His jaw clenched, barely holding himself together. “Fuck…”

His voice cracked, like you saying that, looking like that, was too much. “You mean that?” You nodded, lips still brushing against the tip of him, warm breath spilling down his length. You weren’t teasing anymore. You were giving yourself to him. And he felt it. “Yeah?” he said again, voice lower. “You’d let me do anything to you?” Your hands tightened around him, and you nodded once more, eager and desperate. His thumb brushed across your wet cheek, eyes scanning every inch of your face like he couldn’t believe it. “Jesus Christ…” he whispered. “Mine,” he muttered, half to himself. “Fucking mine. Made for me.” And then he pushed. Guiding your head lower, deeper. His hips rolled forward as his other hand braced the edge of the table behind you, his breath breaking in soft, strained groans. “Just like that, angel…fuck.”

You felt his control slipping. His soft-spoken calm replaced with something rougher, needier. He started moving his hips more deliberately, his cock slipping deeper into your mouth each time, and your hands gripped his thighs for balance. And through it all, he whimpered. Soft, broken sounds, raw from his throat. Frustrated moans. Curses. Praise. “Your mouth is perfect—mine—just for me—” He was unraveling. Desperate to cum. And when he did—his whole body shuddered. A high-pitched moan broke from his throat, his hand tightening just a second longer in your hair. When he finally stilled, breath ragged, he looked down. You blinked up at him, cheeks red, lips swollen, tongue out—clean. His eyes darkened. “Holy fuck.” Then, his hand slid from your hair to your throat. Firm. Possessive. He pulled you up in one swift movement, crashing his mouth against yours in a kiss that was nothing like before—messy, breathless, filthy.

His hand stayed on your throat, thumb under your jaw, holding you still as he kissed you like he didn’t care about anything else—not the church, not God, not anyone. Just you. You whimpered into his mouth, body flushed and weak, still kneeling slightly between his legs when—“Anton?” A voice echoed down the hallway. You both froze. It was his mom. Anton moved first—fast. He gently but quickly helped you to your feet, hands smoothing down your dress, brushing your hair from your face as your heart raced in your chest. He tugged up his jeans, zipped them shut in one motion, fingers trembling just slightly. You turned around, fixing your hair in the reflection of the dark window, smoothing the skirt of your dress down like it could erase the heat still buzzing across your thighs. “We’re here!” he called, voice clear, like he hadn’t just finished kissing you breathless with his hand wrapped around your throat. His mom stepped in a second later, holding a tray of cookies. “Sorry for interrupting,” she smiled. “Sweetheart, you can head home now, it’s getting late. I’ll stay and help Anton finish up.” You nodded quickly, heart still pounding. “O-okay. Goodnight, Mrs. Lee.” You started walking toward the exit, but as you passed Anton, he stepped closer. His hand slipped gently to your waist, and he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” His voice was softer than ever. Barely a breath. Still warm with what just happened. But sweet. You nodded slowly, biting your lip to hide the smile. “Mhm.” And then you walked out, heart pounding, legs shaky, feeling like nothing in the world could compare to the way Anton Lee touched you like he’d been waiting his whole life for it.

The charity event had gone very well. Laughter floated through the air like music, kids running across the grass with lemonade cups in hand, neighbors huddled near folding tables stacked with donation boxes and home-baked cookies. The sun was high and golden, casting soft shadows through the trees that lined the old church yard. You stood near the donation tent, helping a few older ladies gather envelopes and sort through sign-up sheets. You were smiling, polite, answering questions when asked—but your eyes kept flicking toward the side lot where Anton was helping carry chairs, sleeves pushed to his elbows, arms flexing, the edge of his shirt sticking slightly to his back from the heat. He looked like he belonged here. Everyone loved him. You were surprised they didn’t hand him a halo.

It wasn’t long before he drifted your way again. You didn’t hear his footsteps, you just felt it when he was near. “Hey,” he said, gently. “Everything’s pretty much wrapped up. I think we’re just waiting on my dad to lock up.” You looked up from the papers in your hand and gave a soft smile. “You did good,” you murmured, “It all turned out really nice.” He smiled back, but he wasn’t looking at the tables or the decorations. He was looking at you. “Yeah,” he said. “It did.”His voice was a little quiet when he added, “My mom said your family’s coming to ours for dinner tonight.” You blinked. “Oh…really?” He nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “She and your mom planned it earlier. You’ll come, right?” A hopeful tone in his voice. You nodded, a bit shy, heart fluttering in your chest. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I’ll come.” You glanced around—most of the others were busy chatting or packing up, distracted. Without thinking too hard, you stepped a little closer, rose onto your tiptoes, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He froze. And then, just as his eyes found yours again, you smiled. “Only for you.” Anton’s gaze lingered on your face for a second too long, and you could see it—he was gone for you.

♱

You couldn’t stop checking the mirror. Your room was filled with golden evening light—curtains swaying gently in the summer breeze, the soft hum of cicadas outside blending with the faint creak of your floorboards as you moved back and forth, barefoot on the rug. Your heart hadn’t stopped fluttering. You curled your hair carefully, setting the pieces with care as the warm scent of your favorite lotion floated around you. You wanted to look nice. Not too much. But still nice. The dress you chose was soft violet—just barely off the shoulder, with a gentle sway to the hem that brushed mid-thigh. You smoothed the fabric down your hips and whispered to your reflection, “Just dinner.” But your heart didn’t believe that. Not really. Your mom called for you from downstairs, and soon enough, the three of you—your mom, dad, and you—were walking the short path next door to the Lee house. You felt like your whole body was humming, warm and restless, as the familiar porch came into view. Your mom knocked cheerfully on the door, calling out, “We brought dessert!” A moment passed before the door opened, and there he was. He looked up, lips parting slightly as he caught sight of you behind your parents. His eyes did a slow sweep—hair curled, cheeks flushed, the soft violet fabric of your dress catching the light. And for a second, he didn’t say anything at all. Then he smiled. “Hey. Come in.” You stepped inside behind your parents, heart hammering. His house smelled like warm food. You slipped out of your shoes and followed the others toward the dining room. Anton walked beside you, close enough that your fingers nearly brushed.

“You look…” he started, voice soft so only you could hear. Then he smiled like he didn’t trust himself to finish it. “Really good.” You looked down, smiling nervously. “You too.” And even as the voices of your parents floated down the hallway, and dishes clinked gently in the kitchen, you could feel it building The air changed when it was just the two of you. The night hadn’t even started yet. And you already knew it wouldn’t end the way it was supposed to. Dinner was loud in the way family dinners always were—dishes passed hand to hand, voices overlapping, stories being told and retold like it was tradition. The Lees had made roasted chicken, herbed potatoes, and something creamy with mushrooms that melted in your mouth. Warm bread sat in the middle of the table, along with a pitcher of juice that never seemed to stay full. You sat beside Anton, of course—because your mom had said, “Oh, let the kids sit together. They probably have so much to catch up on.” And now your knees kept brushing under the table, soft and warm every time, making your heartbeat flutter in your throat. You could barely focus on your plate. He looked good. Too good. His shirt sleeves were rolled again, clinging to his muscles, and the way he kept glancing at you made it almost impossible to eat. “It’s so sweet,” Mrs. Lee said suddenly, gesturing between you and Anton. “Seeing you two back together again.” Your fork paused mid-air. “I know,” your mom chimed in. “You used to be inseparable. I have pictures, remember? Anton, you were always following her around with your little toy guitar—” “Mom,” he groaned, laughing but clearly flustered.

You hid your smile behind your glass. “Well,” Mrs. Lee went on, cheerful and far too pleased with herself, “if this keeps up, maybe we’ll be planning a wedding soon.” Your heart stopped. Your cheeks flushed so fast it almost hurt, and beside you, Anton choked on his drink. “M-Mom—” “What?” she teased. “I’m just saying. You’d be a beautiful couple.” The table laughed. You looked down at your plate, smiling helplessly into your mashed potatoes. And then you felt it—his hand, sliding gently under the table, brushing against yours. You let your fingers shift, brushing back. He curled his around yours slowly, deliberately, lacing them together like it was the easiest thing in the world. When you looked up at him, he was already watching you, eyes soft, cheeks faintly pink, thumb brushing gently across your knuckles. You smiled. And he smiled back.

The night passed slowly. The dining table behind you was still full of empty glasses and half-finished desserts. Your mom and Mrs. Lee had moved to the couch near the window, feet curled up and voices louder than usual, giggling over stories you couldn’t quite make out. Mr. Lee was laughing too, and the scent of red wine lingered faintly in the air, swirling with candle wax and roasted herbs. You and Anton sat on the smaller couch in the living room, just the two of you. A little apart from the rest. Not hidden, but not seen either. The lights were dim, just the soft glow from the lamp in the corner and the flicker of something playing quietly on the TV, long forgotten. Anton’s arm rested behind you on the cushion, fingertips brushing your shoulder every now and then, and your bare knees were pulled up gently beside you. You were supposed to be listening to his dad’s story, something about his youth group days, but all you could focus on was him. The warmth of his body beside yours. The way his lashes curled when he blinked. The tiny scrape of his thumb brushing the side of your arm. He looked at you then, like he felt your gaze. The corners of his mouth twitched, soft and knowing. You leaned in slowly. Your lips pressed to his cheek, quiet and careful. He froze for half a second. You felt him exhale through his nose, like he wasn’t expecting it, but loved that it happened. And then you whispered, sweet and barely above the hush of the room, “Do you wanna go to my house?” “It’ll be more quiet.” He looked at you for a moment, eyes flicking from yours to your lips, then back again. Then he nodded once. Slowly. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Let’s go.”

You both stood at almost the same time. Anton glanced at you like he was checking, making sure you hadn’t changed your mind, and you gave him the smallest nod. Your joined hands slipped apart gently, and he turned toward the adults still laughing behind you. “We’re gonna go for a walk,” he said casually, voice calm, steady. Your mom barely looked up, too caught in a story about a church retreat years ago. “Mhm—be back soon!” “Don’t stay out too late,” Mrs. Lee chimed in, waving a hand in your general direction, her words slightly slurred from too much wine. You and Anton both smiled politely before slipping toward the front door. His hand touched the small of your back as he opened it for you, barely there, but firm. Familiar. Protective. The summer night air wrapped around you the moment you stepped out, warm and soft, with the faint smell of pine and cut grass. The porch creaked beneath your feet as you walked down the steps together in silence, the sound of the door clicking shut behind you. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. Your house was just steps away, glowing faintly under the porch light. You glanced at him once before opening the door, and he followed you inside.

The house was quiet. The TV hummed softly in the corner, volume low enough that it barely registered. Dim lamplight washed the living room in warm gold, flickering gently across the couch where the two of you lay, curled up like you’d been there forever. You were draped over him, head resting on his chest, the soft swell of his heartbeat echoing in your ear. His fingers traced lazy, featherlight lines up and down your spine beneath your dress. You could feel his breath rising and falling under your cheek, steady and warm. The laughter from next door didn’t fade. Your parents probably still telling stories they’d told a hundred times.

But in here, it was just him. Just you. Just this silence that held everything neither of you had said. Your fingers curled gently into his shirt, holding onto the slow rhythm of his breathing. And then, finally, you tilted your face up to look at him. He was already looking down at you. And that’s when you kissed him. Soft. Warm. Just your lips pressed gently to his—like you were testing the way it felt to be that close. Like you already knew it would change everything.

He didn’t hesitate. His arms tightened around your waist the second your mouth touched his, pulling you closer until there wasn’t a single breath between your bodies. He kissed you back with heat and softness all at once, like it had been building in him for years. You whimpered into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, one hand pressing against the small of your back to keep you close. But then you pulled back slowly, cheeks burning, breath caught in your chest. Your lips brushed his jaw as you whispered, barely a sound, “Toni…I love you.” The words hung there. Heavy. Fragile. Sacred. You hadn’t meant to say them tonight. Not out loud. Not like that. But now that they were out, you felt the way your chest opened up with them, like it was relief to finally say what your body had already been telling him. His eyes locked onto yours. And something shifted in them. Not shock. Not hesitation. Just pure, undeniable devotion. He cupped your cheek, eyes warm and focused, and leaned in, forehead resting gently against yours. “Say it again,” he breathed. “Please.” You swallowed, voice trembling as you looked up at him. “I love you.” He kissed you again. Slow and deep. His hand curled at the nape of your neck, anchoring you there like he didn’t want to let you go—not now, not ever. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to hear that,” he whispered against your lips. “I love you too.”

His mouth moved over yours, deeper more sure. Like he wasn’t holding back anymore. His hands slid down your sides, pulling you tighter against him as the kiss grew hot, feverish. You moaned softly into his mouth, lips parting for his tongue, and the sound only seemed to make him hungrier. You shifted in his lap, straddling one of his thighs, and your hands gripped his shoulders, then slid up into his hair. “Let me…” you whispered between kisses, breathless. He leaned back just a little, eyes burning into yours, lips swollen. And you bent down, lips grazing along the line of his jaw, trailing lower. You kissed the soft skin just beneath his ear, your tongue flicking out gently, earning a low groan from his chest. You sucked a mark into the base of his neck. Visible. Yours. His hands gripped your hips tighter instantly. And then, his hand wrapped around your throat. His fingers splayed across your neck, tilting your face up toward him, his eyes locked on yours as his thumb brushed your jaw. “My sweet angel.” he whispered, before kissing you hard, tongue sliding into your mouth, claiming you all over again.

You gasped into him, fingers tugging at his shirt, your thighs clenching around his. In a swift, fluid motion, he shifted, flipping you beneath him on the couch, his body hovering over yours. His knee nudged between your legs, spreading them just enough. You let out a breathy whimper, arching into him, and he kissed down your jaw, down your throat, leaving hot, wet hickies in his path. Marking you his. “So pretty like this,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and wrecked. “So soft…all mine.” His hand slipped beneath your dress, slowly caressing your thighs—fingertips light and teasing, moving higher and higher, his mouth never leaving your skin.

You could barely breathe. And then, you felt his fingers slide under the waistband of your panties. His touch brushed your folds, gentle but sure. He exhaled slowly when he felt how wet you already were. His lips returned to your ear, voice rasped and low. “All this for me?” You nodded, biting your lip, eyes glazed. His fingers moved slowly between your folds, the heat of his hand making your back arch off the couch. His mouth stayed on yours, kissing you through every tiny gasp he pulled from your lips. You whimpered softly, hips shifting, and he groaned quietly against your mouth like he could feel everything you were feeling. Then, he pulled back slightly. He turned his head, eyes flicking toward the window behind the couch. The soft golden glow of the porch light still shone from next door, and through the sheer curtains, he could make out the faint shadows of your parents and his still hanging out. He looked back at you then, breath unsteady, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with a thumb that trembled just slightly. “Can we…” he swallowed, voice quieter now, like the question was heavy. Sacred. “Can we go to your room?” Your heart thudded loud in your chest. You nodded. Softly. Shyly. Eyes wide and warm as they met his.

And that was all he needed. He kissed you again softly, like a promise. Then you took his hand in yours, fingers weaving together, and gently led him off the couch, past the soft glow of the TV and toward the stairs, his hand held yours tight the whole way up. The door clicked shut behind you, the soft sound swallowed by the quiet of the house. The hallway light spilled in for just a second before Anton reached back and flicked it off, leaving the room bathed in the dim, golden glow of your bedside lamp. Your fingers were still laced with his. You turned to him, heart racing in your chest, and rose onto your tiptoes, giggling softly as you pushed him back against the door. “What are you doing?” he murmured, laughing breathlessly as his back hit the wood.

Your hands slid up his chest, tugging gently at the hem of his shirt, and you leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips. “Just wanted to kiss you first,” you smiled, lips brushing his. He looked at you like you were the most precious thing he’d ever seen, like he was overwhelmed that you were here, his, wanting this. “You’re dangerous when you smile like that,” he whispered, voice low. Then, suddenly, his hands gripped your waist tight, and he took over. He kissed you deeper now, stealing the breath right out of your lungs as he spun the two of you around and walked you back slowly, lips never leaving yours. Each step was careful. Controlled. Your knees bumped the edge of the bed, and his hands smoothed up your sides as he leaned down, guiding you onto the mattress. The soft fabric of your dress fluttered as you lay back against the pillows, looking up at him—eyes wide, chest rising and falling like you could barely contain the warmth inside you. Anton stood over you, breathing hard. His gaze roamed your body, drinking in the way your hair fanned across your pillow, the way your dress clung to you in the soft light. “You’re…breathtaking,” he murmured. Then he leaned down again, kissing you slow—taking his time now, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding up your thigh beneath your dress. His fingers trembled slightly at first. But then you whispered his name, soft and trusting, and that’s when everything inside him shifted.

Your hands slid up beneath the soft cotton of his shirt, fingertips grazing the warm skin of his stomach. You felt the slight tremble in his muscles, the way he inhaled sharply as your palms flattened against his chest. Then you tugged. He pulled back just enough to let you lift his shirt, and without a word, he raised his arms and let you peel it off. The moment it hit the floor, you paused. Your breath caught. His body was lean, toned, broad shoulders and sculpted arms—but what held your gaze was the small gold cross resting against his chest, just above his heart. The chain glinted faintly in the dim light, almost glowing against his skin. You reached up with a shy hand, brushing your fingers gently over the planes of his abs, trailing up toward the delicate charm. Anton’s breath hitched. “You’re staring,angel” he said softly, eyes watching yours. “I can’t help it…” you murmured. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your cheek, soft, reverent. His hands came to the hem of your dress, fingers curling into the fabric, voice low against your skin. “Can I take this off?” The question settled between you like a vow. Your heart thudded as you looked up at him, cheeks burning, chest fluttering. And you nodded. “Please.”

Anton’s fingers slipped under the hem of your dress, eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulled the fabric upward, inch by inch, until it lifted over your head and joined his shirt on the floor. His breath caught. You lay there beneath him, bare from the waist up, soft skin glowing in the golden light, your chest rising and falling with each nervous breath. The dainty lace of your panties and your frilly white socks were all you wore now, and his gaze swept down the length of you slowly, devouring. “Fuck…” he whispered, almost to himself. “You’re fucking divine.” He leaned in without waiting, he couldn’t hold back another second. His mouth found your collarbone first, open-mouthed kisses dragging heat along your skin. Then he kissed lower, just beneath your throat, then lower, lips and tongue marking you up until you were covered in soft, red blooms. You whimpered, hands threading through his hair, stroking gently, helpless to the way his mouth worshipped your chest. Then his lips closed around one of your nipples, sucking slowly. You gasped. His other hand moved to your other breast, massaging gently, thumb brushing your sensitive skin in slow circles as his tongue laved your peak. Every motion was slow. Meant. He wanted to make you feel it, all of it. “T-Toni…” you whispered, hips shifting beneath him, thighs brushing together.

He groaned softly against your chest, the sound vibrating through you. He kissed your breast once more, then moved to the other, treating it with just as much attention, hand still caressing and holding like you were something he’d been waiting his whole life to touch. Your fingers curled tighter in his hair, your soft breaths turning to quiet, broken whimpers. zhe kissed lower, lips trailing a hot, wet path down the center of your stomach. His hands smoothed over your sides as he went, fingers gentle but possessive, like he couldn’t believe you were letting him see you like this—bare, soft, trembling beneath him. When he reached your navel, he paused, pressing a soft kiss, then another, slower one just below. Your thighs shifted restlessly. He smiled against your skin. Then he leaned down and kissed over the delicate lace of your panties, a featherlight brush of his lips, more like worship than lust. “So fucking pretty…” he whispered. His hands hooked gently under the waistband, and he glanced up at you, eyes searching, voice tender. “Is this okay?”You nodded, lips parted, heart thudding so loud you swore he could hear it. “Yes…please.” He slowly tugged the fabric down your thighs, so slowly, like he was unwrapping a blessing, and dropped them to the floor, his hands smoothing along your skin as he did. And then he just looked. Like you were the most godly thing he’d ever seen. His hands wrapped around your thighs, pulling them apart just a little more. He bent down, leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of one thigh, then the other.

You whimpered, body arching slightly. Then he started to mark you, again and again. Soft hickies bloomed across your inner thighs, his teeth grazing gently, tongue soothing after each one, until your skin was dotted with faint red love bites, claiming you. “Can’t help it,” he murmured against your thigh. “Want everyone to know who you belong to…” His breath was warm against your skin as he kissed even lower, lips brushing just beside where you needed him most. He groaned softly at the sight of you, already glistening, already so wet for him.“So perfect.” he whispered, voice almost reverent. Then he slid his fingers between your folds—gentle, exploring, just enough pressure to drag your slick along your seam. You gasped, hips twitching as he moved slowly, fingers gliding up and down, barely grazing your clit with every pass. “T-Toni…” you whimpered, voice trembling. He didn’t respond with words. Instead, he lowered his head, mouth parting as he finally licked a slow, deliberate stripe through your heat. Your entire body arched. A cry slipped from your throat as your hands flew to his hair, tugging, desperate, overwhelmed. His tongue circled your clit, then closed around it with a soft suck, and you could feel him moan into you. One of his arms slipped up your body, reaching for your hand, and you instinctively laced your fingers with his, holding tight, grounding yourself.

The other hand curled firm around your thigh, gripping hard, holding you open. His fingers dug into your skin with quiet desperation, a bruise surely blooming beneath his touch. You looked down at him through heavy lashes—his face between your thighs, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and slick, hair messy from your hands. His eyes fluttered open just long enough to meet yours. And you swore—he looked at you like he just saw God. Anton’s mouth didn’t let up, slow licks, deeper pressure, his tongue working you with a rhythm that had your body trembling. You whimpered his name again, fingers buried in his hair, hips beginning to move without meaning to. Then he slid his hand from yours and brought it down between your thighs. You felt his fingers press to your entrance. And then he pushed them in—slow, steady, the stretch making your eyes flutter closed. You gasped as he began to pump them inside you, curling just right, dragging that tight, sweet spot with every thrust. All the while, his mouth never left your clit, sucking gently, tongue flicking and swirling, working in sync with his hand. Your legs trembled around him. “A-Anton—Toni—” you gasped, back arching. His fingers went deeper. His tongue moved faster. “Please—Toni, I’m—nghh—!”You couldn’t even finish your sentence. Your voice broke into high, breathy whimpers, thighs clenching tight around his head as your release hit you. Your whole body shook, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as you cried out, hips jerking, his name slipping from your lips over and over like a prayer. And still, he didn’t stop. He worked you through it, licking up every drop, soft and tender now, worshipful.

Anton kissed his way slowly back up your body—your inner thighs, the curve of your hip, the soft skin just under your ribs—until he reached your lips. His mouth met yours hungrily, and you could taste yourself on his tongue, still warm from where he ate you like he was starving. You cupped his jaw as he kissed you, soft whimpers still slipping from your throat, body trembling under his weight. He pressed one last kiss to your lips before pulling back slightly, his breath shaky. Then, slowly, he sat back on his knees between your legs. You watched through heavy lashes, still dazed from your high, as he reached for the button on his jeans. His hands moved with quiet purpose, slow and deliberate. You could see the way his fingers trembled a little as he undid them, and then he slid the denim down his hips. His boxers strained with how hard he was—his arousal obvious, heavy, and thick beneath the fabric. You swallowed softly as he hooked his fingers under the waistband, his eyes on yours the whole time. When he pulled them down, you gasped. So beautiful, just like last time. Your cheeks went hot instantly, your thighs instinctively pressing together, but Anton just reached forward again, gently parting them with his hands as his eyes dragged down your body like he couldn’t believe you were real. His hand wrapped around himself, pumping slowly, a soft hiss of breath leaving his lips as he did. You could see the flush rising on his cheeks, the flex of his forearms, the tension in his body like he was holding himself back—barely. Then he leaned forward again, his forehead pressing to yours, voice low and almost shaking, “Are you sure? Tell me to stop, and I will. I swear.”

You looked up at him, eyes wide and wet, lips parted, skin still tingling from the way he’d touched you and kissed you. One of your hands rose to brush along his jaw, fingertips gentle. And then, with a voice barely above a whisper, breathless, soft, completely surrendered, you whispered, “I’m at your mercy, Toni…” He froze. You saw it—the flicker in his eyes, the sharp inhale that hitched in his throat. Something in him cracked wide open. His lips parted, and for a moment he just stared at you, like he couldn’t believe what you’d just said. Then, without warning, he exhaled a low, broken groan and kissed you—hard. Rougher now. Deeper. His hands gripped your waist tight, possessive, pulling you flush against him as his hips rolled forward, his hard length brushing against your core.“You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered, voice lower now—gravelly, filled with something dark and desperate. “You say things like that…I can’t stop myself.” He kissed down your throat again, sucking harshly at your skin, teeth grazing, leaving deeper marks. His hands were everywhere—your waist, your hips, your thighs, sliding up and gripping firmly. One hand curled around your throat while the other moved between your legs again, fingers stroking along your slick seam. “Mine,” he muttered, like a prayer.

Anton’s body was tense above yours, muscles flexed as he hovered over you, face buried in the crook of your neck. His lips were soft on your skin—gentle kisses, a contrast to the grip of his hands on your thighs as he guided himself between them. He rocked his hips forward slowly, the weight of him settling against your heat. His length slid along your folds, hot, heavy, teasing, and your breath hitched as your hips twitched under his. “Shh, baby,” he murmured, kissing just below your ear. “Just breathe for me.” You whimpered, your fingers gripping his biceps, legs trembling around him. The warmth, the stretch, the pressure of him right there—it was too much and not enough all at once. Then, slowly, he pushed in, just the tip. You gasped, a soft cry slipping from your lips as your back arched and your nails dug into his skin. “Toni—” you whimpered. He stilled immediately, breathing ragged as he pressed kisses along your throat. “I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I promise. I’ve got you.” Slowly and carefully he began to move, easing in deeper, inch by inch. Your breath hitched, legs tightening around his hips as you clung to him, your heart pounding so loud you could hear it in your ears. He kissed your cheek, then your temple, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other squeezing your waist gently. “You’re doing so good,” he whispered, his voice tight with restraint. “Just a little more, okay?” You whimpered, a soft tear slipping down your cheek as the fullness settled in. He wiped it away instantly, thumb brushing under your eye. And then—he was fully inside you. All of him. He stayed still. Both of you breathing hard, wrapped in silence and heat, your bodies pressed together so close it was like you were one.

Your arms came up to circle his shoulders, holding him close. He rested his forehead against yours. “Are you okay?” he murmured, lips brushing yours. You nodded weakly, your voice nothing but a breath. “I just…need a second…” “Take all the time you need,” he whispered, kissing your cheek again. “I’m not going anywhere.”After a moment, when your breathing slowed and your hips shifted ever so slightly against him, he began to move. Slowly. Deeply. Carefully. Each stroke was patient, deliberate, letting you feel everything without rushing anything. Your cries were soft, your fingers tangled in his hair, your thighs tightening around him as you adjusted to the stretch and pressure of him inside you. “You feel like heaven,” he whispered, voice shaking as he moved. “You were made for me.” His movements started slow, every thrust deep and measured, his lips brushing your cheek, jaw, neck. But then, you shifted, hips tilting just slightly, and he slid in deeper. Your breath hitched. A soft, shaky moan left your lips. “T-Toni—”He froze. “Too much?” You shook your head, fingers digging into his shoulders as your eyes fluttered open to meet his. “N-no… it feels—” your voice cracked, breathless and trembling, “feels so good, Toni…” That was all he needed.

His jaw tightened as he exhaled shakily, one hand gripping your thigh tighter, the other braced by your head. He began to move again, faster now, the rhythm gaining confidence, deep, rolling thrusts that made your body shake. The pain was fading—replaced by a spreading heat, a pressure that built with every movement, making your back arch and your legs wrap tighter around him. “You take me so well,” he breathed against your skin, his voice now lower, rougher. “So perfect for me.” Your moans grew louder, your breathing faster, every stroke pulling another soft cry from your lips. His hips snapped harder now, a possessive edge creeping in. His control was slipping, and you could feel it, in the way he kissed you, the way he moved, the grip of his hands on your thighs like he was claiming every inch of you. His thrusts grew deeper, rougher now, his hand hooking under one of your legs—lifting it up, draping it over his shoulder. The angle changed everything.

Your back arched with a gasp, nails scratching down his back as he filled you even deeper. The rhythm was relentless, his breath ragged, your moans uncontrolled, bodies crashing together like waves. “T-Toni—ahh—” He kissed your calf where it rested on his shoulder, eyes locked on you, wild and reverent all at once. His hand gripped your waist, holding you right where he wanted you. “So fucking perfect for me.” You were crying out, fingers clinging to the sheets, your body trembling from the overwhelming pleasure. And then, eyes wide, lips trembling, you looked up at him with all the love you had burning in your chest and whispered, I’m yours, Toni,” you moaned again, breathless but his rhythm faltered. “All yours…you’re all I believe in.” He groaned, a deep, broken sound, like he couldn’t take it anymore, and leaned down to kiss you hard, your leg still high on his shoulder, his hands gripping your thighs so tight it left marks.

His hips snapped forward, thrusts rougher and deeper, angled just right, and when he hit that spot again, your whole body jolted.“T-Toni—! There—right there—” He grunted, burying himself to the hilt over and over, sweat-slicked skin pressed to yours, his lips dragging along your jaw, your cheek, your lips. “So tight—so fucking good for me.” he groaned, almost in disbelief. Your hands trembled on his back, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, and tears pricked the corners of your eyes. “Use me as you please, Toni,” you whimpered, voice broken and full of feeling. “I was made for you.” He stilled for half a second, breath catching in his throat. Then he completely lost it. “Fuck,” he moaned, burying his face in your neck. “Don’t say that—don’t fucking say that if you don’t mean it—” “I do,” you whispered through your tears, stroking his hair, your voice barely a breath. “I do, I do—I’m yours.” His hips drove into you harder, deeper, his rhythm desperate, like he was trying to fuse your bodies together—claim you, fill you, mark you forever. “You are.” he growled against your skin. “My sweet angel. My religion.”

Anton’s hand slid between your bodies,, finding the swollen bud at your core. He circled it with pressure, never stopping his deep, perfect rhythm. Your legs trembled around him, nails digging into his back as your body began to unravel beneath him.“That’s it,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Cum for me, angel.” Your breath hitched, high-pitched and broken, and then it hit you. A rush of heat, your whole body tightening, then shaking around him as you cried out his name, your release crashing through you. Anton groaned deep in his chest, kissing your temple and rubbing your clit gently as you rode it out, tears falling from the corners of your eyes. But he didn’t stop. He was still hard, still deep, and when you finally caught your breath, he leaned back to look at you. His gaze dark, reverent, full of hunger. “You can take one more for me, yeah baby?” he whispered, brushing your damp hair from your face. “Hm, angel? Just one more?” You nodded—quick, eager, breathless. “Yes…yes, Toni.” You clung to him for a second, chest heaving—and then you pulled back, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. “Can I…try something?” His brows lifted slightly, lips parted. “Anything.” You bit your lip, then gently pushed him to lie back. He let you, watching you with half-lidded eyes as you swung a leg over his hips and straddled him, your body still trembling. You guided him to your entrance, your hand shaking slightly as you positioned him, and then, with a deep breath and a soft whimper, you sank down slowly. Anton’s head fell back with a groan, his hands gripping your thighs hard.

“Fuck—baby…” You whimpered, your hands braced on his chest, taking your time as you adjusted to him again, so deep, so full, until he was seated completely inside you. “You’re unreal” he murmured, hands caressing up your sides. “So perfect like this…” You began to move, slowly at first, lifting your hips just enough before easing back down onto him. The stretch still made your breath catch, but the pleasure had bloomed so deeply now that it only made you want more. Anton’s hands gripped your thighs, sliding up to your waist, then down again to squeeze the soft curves of your ass, guiding you without saying a word. You leaned forward as your rhythm quickened, forehead pressed to his, arms wrapping around his shoulders. Your chest brushed his with every motion, soft moans leaving your lips as your body moved in sync with his. “That’s it, baby…” he whispered, voice strained. “You feel so good—so fucking good.” Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging gently, your other hand on his gold cross, and he groaned into your mouth when you kissed him again—hungry, deep, messy. You rocked against him harder, the wet sounds of your bodies meeting growing louder, more desperate. His hands slid up your back, holding you close like he couldn’t get enough. And then, your lips brushed his ear, voice barely above a breath, thick with emotion and need, “You’re my god, Toni…I worship you.”

The words barely left your lips before everything snapped. Anton let out a low, broken growl, his hands suddenly gripping your hips tight—so tight it might bruise, and before you could brace yourself, he started lifting you up and slamming you back down onto him, hard, over and over. Your gasp broke into a high, helpless whimper, the air knocked clean out of your lungs with each deep, punishing thrust.“Yes,” he rasped, voice low and desperate, lips right against your throat. “Yes, angel. I’m your god. Say it again—say it.” You could barely breathe, clinging to him, your body trembling in his hands as he used your body like you were made for him, because you were. “Y-you’re my god,” you sobbed, mouth against his ear, “I only pray to you.”His hips stuttered at that, a broken whimper leaving his lips as his hand snuck between your bodies again, rubbing fast, tight circles on your clit. “That’s right,” he whispered. “No one else. Just me.” Your body was shaking, your legs quivering as the tension built so fast it stole your voice. You clung to his back, burying your face in his neck, whimpering through your sobs of pleasure.“Toni—S-so close—!” “Me too, baby,” he groaned, holding you tighter, thrusts getting messier, rougher, deeper. “Give it to me…come on.” “In me, Toni—please—I want all of you…” You came with a cry, voice high and raw, as your body locked around him, pulsing so tightly he choked on his own moan. He only lasted a few more thrusts before he followed with a deep, guttural curse, spilling deep inside you, hot and thick, warmth dripping from where your bodies met, streaking down your thighs, pooling on his lower belly as he pressed into you one last time.

You lay there together for a moment, bodies still tangled, skin warm and damp, his heartbeat echoing against your chest as he held you. The only sound in the room was the low hum of your breathing slowly syncing back into rhythm. His hand stroked gently along your thigh, then up your side, then back down again, reverent, calming. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then another to your temple. “You okay?” he whispered, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. You nodded slowly, still dazed, a soft smile on your lips. “Mhm…never been better.” His eyes softened, his hand cupping your face fully now. “I love you,” he murmured, barely audible. “I’ve loved you since we were kids, I think.” Your eyes widened a little, heart skipping, but your answer was instant—quiet, but sure. “I love you too, Toni. So much…” The way he looked at you nearly made you cry again. He kissed your lips gently, slow and soft, then moved down your body, lifting your legs up to his lap. He reached for your panties from the floor, and you blushed, but let him guide them back up your legs, sliding them into place himself with a kiss on your inner thigh. Then he whispered, just for you, “Don’t let it spill, angel.” Your cheeks flushed, eyes wide and dazed, and he grinned softly at the look on your face—still his sweet girl, even after all that.

He helped you sit up slowly, then slipped your dress back over your head, straightening the straps for you and smoothing it down your thighs. He kissed your shoulder, then moved to dress himself, slipping his shirt back on, buttoning his jeans. When he turned back to you, you were sitting on the edge of the bed, hands tucked shyly in your lap, watching him with glassy eyes. “I should let you shower and rest,” he said softly, coming to kneel in front of you. “I’ll go check on our parents. Make sure they’re still alive.” You let out a breathy laugh, and he kissed your cheek once more before pulling you into a tight, grounding hug. His arms around you made everything feel safe again. Like he’d hold you through anything. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he murmured against your ear. “Okay.” One last kiss, and then he slipped out quietly, leaving your room.

♱

The sun was warm on your shoulders, the church bells quiet now after service had ended. The yard buzzed with familiar voices, congregants laughing, chatting, hugging goodbye. You stood off to the side, just near the corner of the building where the ivy grew thick along the old stone. Not hidden, but not exactly out in the open either. Anton was already waiting there, leaning casually against the wall, hands tucked into his slacks. His white button-down sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his black tie a little loosened from the heat. But when he saw you approaching, he stood straighter, the corners of his mouth lifting into that soft, private smile he only gave you. You looked around once, then slipped into the little pocket of space next to him.“Hi,” you said, quiet and breathless. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes on you like you were the only thing that mattered. “I missed you,” he murmured, voice low. You giggled, tucking your hair behind your ear. “I missed you too.” And then his hands gently found your waist, pulling you closer until your front pressed to his. His touch was light, his eyes flicking between yours. You barely had a second to catch your breath before he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your lips, sweet, tender, warm with everything you’d become to each other. You kissed him back, hands resting on his chest, heart thudding softly. But then—

“OH MY GOD!” You jumped and instantly pulled back, cheeks flushing. “You guys are TOGETHER?!” Anton’s arm dropped from your waist just as two very familiar voices came racing toward you from across the church yard. “I knew it!” your mom practically squealed. “I told your dad last week, didn’t I?” “I can’t believe it,” his mom gasped, all smiles and excitement. “I’m so happy!” “M-Mom!” you squeaked, face burning. Anton’s hand flew to the back of his neck, visibly flustered as he cleared his throat and tried to keep a straight face. “It’s, uh…new.” he said. “Not that new,” your mom grinned knowingly. “The way you two have been sneaking glances all month? Please.”Anton glanced at you, eyes twinkling, and despite your embarrassment, you couldn’t help but smile back. Your pinkies brushed, and he hooked his gently around yours.“Well,” his mom beamed. “I guess it’s time we start planning the wedding.” “MOM!” The four of you burst into laughter, joy bubbling like sunlight. And in that moment, in that ridiculous, love-filled chaos, you knew you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

a/n: yall i had to do research for this story bcs i don’t know anything abt catholic church terms in english LOL and also i hoped you liked this, personally this is my fav thing ive ever written but i know that it can come across as controversial

my other works ➵ masterlist

© guliexe

[hanniehq]

“i’m gonna fucking kill you, jung sungchan,” you mumbled under your breath, pacing the bathroom.

“hey - this was a team effort,” sungchan argued back, though the effect was ruined by the sight of him standing there with both girls balanced on his hip. one was gnawing on his shoulder, the other tugging on his shirt collar, both perfectly oblivious to the tension in the room.

you whipped your glare to him, then right back to the counter where the small plastic stick sat, face-down, taunting you as you waited for it to finish.

“team effort, my ass,” you snapped. “you’re not the one who’s gonna be pregnant.”

sungchan had the audacity to grin, bouncing the twins gently. “i mean … we’d manage. look at us, we’re already pros.”

“pros?!” you hissed, pointing at him. “you’ve got spit-up on your shirt and oatmeal in your hair. pros, my ass.”

one of the girls giggled at your tone, smacking her palm against sungchan’s chest like she was cheering him on. he kissed the top of her head, then glanced at the counter. “how much longer?”

you groaned, covering your face with your hands. “thirty seconds. maybe less. god, why is this taking forever?”

the room was silent except for the girls’ oblivious happy little noises. sungchan stepped closer, pressing his chin against your hair, careful not to jostle the babies. “whatever it says,” he murmured, softer now, “we’ll figure it out. just like we always do.”

you peeked through your fingers at the stick, your stomach twisting as the faint lines began to appear. you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, shoulders slumping the moment the single line came into focus. negative.

“oh, thank god,” you whispered, gripping the counter for balance.

sungchan leaned over your shoulder, peering at the test. “negative?”

“negative,” you confirmed, turning to face him with wide eyes. “no babies inside of me. just the two out here.” you dropped your head against sungchan’s chest with a groan. “i swear, if you ever even think about not pulling out again, i’ll bury you in the backyard.”

he snorted, pressing a kiss to your hair. “romantic.”

you tilted your head up, glaring. “i mean it, sungchan."

[hanniehq]

UGHHH EUNSEOK IS SO FIIINNNEEEEE

[hanniehq]

of silks and steel (pt 2)

pairing: duke/commander!seungcheol x daughter of duke!reader (arranged marriage au) wc: 12.4k warnings: fighting, drinking, p in v, lowk dubcon bc it's never really said outright, you losing your virginity, fingering probably i dont really remember... a/n: hi guyss!!! im so so so sorry for the delay in literally everything i swear i was actually busy and not just fucking around... i'll try to get to all your requests in at least 3 weeks... <3 much love

TAGLIST FORM HERE

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part 2 seungcheol 

The wind bites. 

It cuts through silk, through composure, through the thin veil of formality that has iced over you like frost since you crossed the last valley into the north. Into his north. 

Seungcheol watches you from the corner of his eye as the palanquin slows in front of the estate’s outer courtyard, the stone path slick with melting ice, the pines still crusted white despite the sun of early spring. 

The gates swing open with ceremony. Heavy wood, carved with the emblem of Choi line, something Seungcheol had never expected to inherit, parting with the groan of age and authority. A long line of attendants bows in silence. Robes dark and heads lowered. Past them, his countless hanoks stretch in neat formation, curved roofs dusted faintly in snowmelt. The daemun, tall and looming, stands wide open as though to swallow you both whole. 

Even now, years after he has inherited the very estate that felt like a prison his entire childhood, Seungcheol shuddered at the thought of stepping foot into the ancestral lands, so to speak. 

You step out after him.

Not of your own volition – you’re guided, led, half-carried down by a maid whose accent you probably already clocked as northern. You walk with your chin tilted up too high, spine straight, even as the wind lashes at the hem of your crimson hanbok, and your embroidered sleeves flutter like dying banners. 

Your fingers twitch in the cold, tips turning slowly bleeding white. 

He catches it – you, curling your hands tight into the folds of your skirt. He catches the tremble in your breath as it leaves in a puff of mist. He catches the way you glance, just once, at the faraway peaks crowned in snow like deadly knives, and how your mouth sets immediately afterward – like regret. Disappointment. Or revulsion. 

You hate it. 

He can see it. 

The cold, the mountain air, this place. 

Him.

He can see it clear in your eyes. 

Without thinking, like something possessed him, Seungcheol shrugs off his cloak. His shoulders bare to the wind, his raised and faded scars exposed to the spring’s cruelty, he crosses the distance to you. With firm (and trembling) hands, he deftly clasps the fur-lined garment around your narrow and shivering shoulders. 

Note to self: buy her thicker gowns and cloaks.

He doesn’t say a word. Just a firm grip over the buckle, leather clasp against silk hanbok, hands lingering for a half second longer than they should as he pretends to dust off the shoulder pads. 

You freeze so dramatically Seungcheol almost laughs. 

The servants around you pause mid-bow. Your chin tilts up ever-so-slightly, and your mouth curves again into that sharp-edged smile. The one you wear like jaded armor. The one that nags him – that you’d rather shiver and freeze to death in the cold than ask for warmth. 

Your delicate fingers go up to brush against the fur. Seungcheol racks his brain if he asked Minwoo to wash it before he wore it. He’s not too sure. Worry flashes through his mind at the thought of you possibly touching remnants of someone else’s blood. 

“...Thank you,” you finally say, voice clipped. 

He doesn’t answer. Just steps back, gloved hands falling to his sides, and nods stiffly. A soldier. A duke. A man carrying the weight of a woman he doesn’t have the slightest clue how to protect other than shower you with the things he wishes you had. 

He leads you forward, past the bowed servants, rock-still as his cloak trails on the ground as you walk elegantly just a pace behind him. He walks slightly ahead, like he’s shielding you, though he knows it’s useless. These people lining the great hall know what the Capital has sent him. They’ve seen the letters. The proclamations. The red ink of imperial parchment. 

A bride from the South. 

A war prized all bedazzled in silk. 

He hates the way they look at you: curious, careful, taunting. Like you might shatter if spoken to. Or break everything in return. 

The inner hanok is warm, at least, and lanterns flicker from the eaves. Incense curls through the openings of the doors. 

When he pushes open the sliding panel, there’s a man waiting. Seungcheol barely even remembers Jeonghan telling him about the officiator. 

“Just for the formalities, Cheol.” 

Grey-robed, ink-stained hands. He looks vaguely Northern, and is kneeling by a lacquered writing table with scrolls unfurled and a brush horizontal over the top of an ink tray. Seungcheol doesn’t need to read the characters on the scroll to know what it says. 

Apparently, neither do you because he swears your face pales at least a shade lighter at the sigh in front of you. 

You hesitate at the threshold. 

Seungcheol thinks it ironic that this is what stops you: the official stamp. The seal of marriage. 

Your fingers press to the fur at your throat. Not delicately. With restraint – almost as if enough force around your larynx would push your fingers in and you’d die on the spot. 

When you don’t move, staring wide at the room (and him), Seungcheol turns towards you. His voice comes low. Controlled. 

“This is only to legalize what they’ve already announced.” He’s not too sure if it’s supposed to sound like a relief but it’s the only thing he can say. 

You look at him, finally, eyes cool, steady. Almost frightening, the way they train unwaveringly on his. 

“And after?” you ask. 

He pauses. 

“After, I will escort you to your quarters.” 

A beat. 

“You will not be disturbed,” he adds, and there’s a light of pride in him that is almost immediately extinguished when you look more pained at his last statement than everything else thus far. 

Your brow twitches and you step inside. 

He follows, sliding the door shut behind you, trying not to flinch at how finalizing everything sounds. 

The officiator hands him the scroll first. The characters of his name written in half-dried ink are familiar – the war notices, the Imperial scrolls, the King’s edicts, over and over again. And then yours: dainty, clean-cut, pretty (just like you), characters lined up neatly as if they were made for you and for you only. 

As he signs his name, he doesn’t watch the ink dry. He watches you. 

He watches you as you sit across the table like someone carved from the old stone cliffs of Hanyang – proud, untouchable, wrapped in red silk like a war flag too red for actual war. You don’t belong in this cold, unused, unoccupied house. Hell, even he lives away from this estate if he can help it. You belong in a hall of mirrors and moonlight. Somewhere war, somewhere beautiful. Somewhere where someone can match the regality of you and where the things you touch will turn as breathtaking as you. 

Not here. 

Not in this house.

And not in his life. 

Yet, your hand flows over the parchment, signing the contract. Your hand trembles less than his did and your eyes don’t waver as you hand the scroll back to the clerk, who looks only ever-so-surprised at the fact that you gave him the scroll and not Seungcheol. 

But even the clerk doesn’t say a word. He simply bows and leaves, like this is any other duty. Like sealing your fate away to him was just another to-do task in a day’s worth of an officiator’s salary. 

When the door slides shut, there is a thickening silence that is almost choking. 

He sits with it. With you. 

The brazier flickers but the heat doesn’t reach and you still look awfully cold in your Southern silks. Seungcheol wishes he could bring the sun down closer. Or flip the Earth so that you were back where you belong – where incense and citrus curls around you like perfume. Here, in the North, everything is sharp – stone, pine, and frost. You hate it already, he’s sure of it. And there’s a part of him that hopes you do. 

Almost. 

To save you from your misery, he clears his throat, straightening. 

“You can have the west wing,” he says. It’s surprising, the way his voice is even. Distant, almost, like he’s speaking to a fellow officer. He wonders when he can ever allow himself the privilege of calling you his wife without guilt, remorse, regret. 

“I’ll keep to the east.” 

You look at him, head tilted. There’s a familiar glint behind your sharp lashes that he remembers from the Academy. 

“How generous,” you muse. “I’ll need a compass to see my husband.” Your pause is almost threatening. “Go figure.” 

Seungcheol has to bite his tongue to not say something stupid. He doesn’t take the bait. He never does – something he learned the hard way. You’re too good with words and he’s too clumsy with his own feelings for any dignified response to make any sense. 

“It’d do us both good to be left alone.” 

He means it, really. You deserve to be left alone. You deserve peace. Time away from him. 

And yet, when you rise too quickly, and you sway on your feet, something cold in his chest cracks wide open. Before he can even blink, his legs are straightening and he’s out of his seat before both of you realize. Arms encircle your waist, hands large and gentle against your figure. The silk under his rough, calloused palms is almost like water – flowing, soft, clear. 

You’re warm. 

You smell like the sea and the tea you didn’t drink. 

Seungcheol swears you still use the same perfume from your Academy days. 

You freeze. 

So does he. 

You turn in his grasp, eyes locking. And in them, he sees some sort of confusion and unspoken ache swirling around in your orbs, like the way panic shoots through his body and nestles in his eyes. He blinks to try to get rid of whatever’s in his eyes that he’s tried to bury under five years of blood and command. 

He drops his hands almost immediately, too quickly, like he touched something sacred – like he’s unworthy. He tries to ignore the emptiness in his arms when you straighten, brushing a piece of your hair behind your ears, fixing the folds of your skirt with surgical grace. 

The distance between you expands like helium to a balloon. 

“You shouldn’t dress heavy for people you don’t want to impress,” he mutters, voice lower, softer. Internally, Seungcheol cringes at how stuck-up and self-absorbed that sounds, eyes drifting to the wall behind your head. He can’t bear to look at you in your face. 

Mid-step, you turn, looking over your shoulder. Your smile is almost blood-cutting. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snipe, and then as an afterthought, you add, “Commander.” 

He flinches at the title. He’s not your commander (let alone the husband you deserve, now). His throat feels itchy with the words building up in his chest and as his brows furrow, he’s relieved, at least, that you didn’t call him “your grace” or something like that because that would’ve been far worse of a delegation. 

Staring at the back of your head, he wants to talk. There’s a deeply hidden part of his soul that wants to reach out to grasp your wrist, pull you backwards so that your back meets his chest and bury his nose in your hair and tell you how much he misses you. How he used to time his dueling practices to your afternoon tea sessions. How he used to walk through the Academy’s library with Jeonghan to pass the windows just as you crossed the courtyard for your drawing group by the lake. He wants to tell you how he wrote a letter once – before everything – and couldn’t ever send it. Instead, he took it with him to his first campaign and then burned it in the barracks firepit with tears trailing down his cheeks when the campaign turned bloody because he couldn’t ever keep the thought of you in the same place as hot, irony blood. He doesn’t tell you how Jeonghan used to make fun of him for calling out your name every time he went under any mild painkiller.

You move towards the door. 

He follows and tries to ignore how it doesn’t feel like a husband following his wife but a soldier escorting a far nobler guest. 

When the door opens, the wind cuts colder. Your arms reach for his cloak around your shoulders (he deludes himself into thinking instinctively) and he can see your shoulders tighten when you realize you’re touching the same fur that used to sit atop his shoulders. 

The servants outside the door bow low as he follows you – you, walking ahead, the hem of his cloak dragging behind. 

And it’s almost stupidly, painfully ironic the way he’s always one step behind. 

He’s supposed to be leading you, except it feels like you’re leading him through the silence of a long, lantern-lit corridor of the estate, servants flanking the two of you. Your steps are quiet beneath the heavy drag of his cloak, the fabric pooling around your ankles like an unwanted shadow. As he gently murmurs out the directions, you don’t ask questions. Not about the layout, the history, the route, and definitely not about him. What he’s been doing for the past eight years. The campaigns he’s been on. The thoughts he had. And, fair, he didn’t either. 

And it’s fine. He isn’t in the business of answering questions anymore anyways. 

At last, he stops you before a tall set of polished redwood doors. The servants gently lower their lanterns to light the pathway. The fires burn almost immediately, yellow light glowing from the rice paper panels, soft and warm. It’s a poor imitation of the southern sun but he still slides the doors open for you. 

And your new prison opens itself, wrapped in northern silk, cold to the touch. 

Your room is massive. He made sure to organize it that way. Ordered the servants to clear the west wing for his “future wife’s” use and told them to periodically heat the floors. And now, the air is warm with the heat of the ondol wood. A folding screen carved with cranes and flowering plums separates the main chamber from your sleeping quarters. There’s a plush floor couch against one wall, a lacquered chest near the doors, and an antique writing desk that seungcheol pulled from his stepmother’s old room placed precisely before the wide rice paper windows. In the spring, he hoped you would open the windows to look outside at the gardens. 

Another screen sits folded in the corner – to separate you from guests, should you wish to host any. 

It’s so quiet it unnerves him. You can hear the koi pond outside. Past the sliding doors, a long porch looks out over the private garden – pines and stones and plum trees in early frosty bloom. Snow still clings to the edges of the tiled roof. The moonlight makes the slow fish glow beneath the pond’s still surface. 

Past this hanok, fifteen more wait for you, all of them part of your dowry in name. Seungcheol wonders if it’ll be enough for you. 

He stands beside you in the doorway, arms folded behind his back. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t know what exactly to say. His jaw works slightly, and he catches your eyes when you glance up at him, your eyes just a little wide in surprise. 

He looks back at the room. 

When you still stare up at him, he clears his throat. 

“I’ll have someone sent up to light the braziers near the bath,” he says finally, voice rough. 

You turn to him slowly, expression blank.

“Why? You don’t think I’m capable of lighting a fire myself?” 

He lets the jab pass. Though it hurts that you’d think he thinks of you that low. 

“It’s tradition,” he sighs, “for the steward to tend to the bride’s quarters on the first night.” 

You scoff. “And here I thought we’d forgone any tradition when we legalized the marriage without a proper ceremony.” 

Your words are biting, your expression even more so. But your eyes flicker down with some emotion he can’t properly place: guilt, maybe. Regret. Maybe just anger. At him, the king, the world. You were always hot tempered. 

He steps back but not before muttering, “Didn’t know you wanted a ceremony,” under his breath. 

You catch it, obviously, and it earns him a nasty glare as you slip his cloak off your shoulders. 

“If there’s anything you need-” Seungcheol is cut off when you fold the cloak gently and then shove it into his chest (a little too harshly for comfort). In the lighting, your eyes seem red-rimmed, though he doesn’t know why. 

You avoid his searching gaze. “I’ll be sure to send someone across the courtyard to your wing, Commander,” you respond, turning, letting the cloak go in his hands. Your fingers don’t even graze. 

Seungcheol swallows, rooted in place. “Don’t call me that,” he musters. He wills for you to not see the way his fingers dig into the fabric he’s holding. 

You give him a look, brow raising mid stiff bow. “Call you what? Your title?” You cock your head like he’s a piece of jewelry you’re studying to auction off at one of your father’s summer charity feasts. You give him a smile. “Should we revert back to names, then, Seungcheol? Just like old times?” 

The words hurt more than the way your face drops. 

But his heart thuds in his chest when his name rolls off your tongue. 

He doesn’t know what to say. 

You stare at him for three seconds, no more, before turning back. Half-way back into your room, you stop. 

“Let’s keep us where we are. None of us wants this anyways.” 

And with some cruel finality, you slide the door shut with a loud BANG!

Seungcheol leads himself back to his own wing with a bitter smile, breathing in the still mountain air like it’ll stop his lungs from burning and smoking from the inside.

–

y/n Tuesday lunch. 

Of all the days to see your newly-wedded husband, it’s a fucking Tuesday. Not even a meaningful Tuesday – like the first of the month, or his name day, or some ancestral observance. Just…Tuesday. And not even at an elegant hour like noon, high sun. It’s closer to when the shadows begin to cross the courtyard stones. At fucking 2 PM. Who eats lunch at two in the afternoon? 

And, sure, maybe it’s all your fault for asking, once, days after arriving (“Should I prepare for any shared meals?”), but he had to have known that it was a formality. A formality. As a wedded couple. 

He was silent, the only sound being his pen scratching his papers before he said, “Tuesdays. Lunch.” without even looking you in your eyes. 

You hadn’t meant to ask it that way – like you expected him to allot time away for you. You meant to ask if he was going to be your husband. And if he wasn’t, if he was going to at least pretend to act like one. Or maybe you just wanted to know if he hated you. 

Instead, you got monotone words, a dismissive gaze, and Tuesday lunch. 

You arrive a minute early to the dining hall to find him already seated at the head of the long table on the plush floor couch. His porcelain cup is filled already and there is a slight scent of flowers from the opened wooden panel doors. You can hear the insects chirp and feel the cold air cool the stuffy room, the 2 pm sunlight illuminating the brass plates. 

The table is too long for you to sit at the other end.

At least that should be the case, yet there is a place mat set up at the other end of the table, utensils and porcelain cup set up perfectly. In the middle of the table, there is an arrangement of low flowers and burning incense. 

When Gareum, the maid assigned to you by Seungcheol, slides open the door, you see his hand still from flipping through a stack of scrolls. 

When you step in, he looks up, blinking like he doesn’t know why you’re here until it finally dawns on him like a lightning strike. 

Seungcheol doesn’t speak when you survey the room and dismiss Gareum with a gentle word. You pretend not to care that she doesn’t move from her position until Seungcheol nods, dismissing her after you dismissed her already. She leaves the room in a low bow and a small thud of the wooden doors. 

You swallow, nails digging into your palms. 

The third week and still the estate’s servants were delegating you below them. 

With an incline of his head and a silent gesture for you to sit opposite him, he sets aside the scrolls. 

As if he’s even going to talk to you. 

If anything, he would just brood in silence and then ask an awkward question when the silence gets too tense for him. 

But you sit. 

And when you do, skirts still too thin for the chilly spring air of the north, you want to squeeze your heart until it pops and explodes. Because when you sit across from him, something in you still jolts painfully at the sight of a scar curling along the edge of his jaw, pale even midst the natural pale of his face. And your heart thuds to know that it wasn’t one that was there eight years ago. 

The door slides open. 

Footsteps. 

Servants. 

Clinks as two people set platters of food before the two of you. Your portion is ridiculously too much. And you’re unsure whether to think of it as an insult or something else. 

When Seungcheol dismisses them, you see the hard callouses decorating his palm, the skin around his knuckles slightly bruised. 

You swallow, looking down at the heaping portion of steaming white rice. The grilled fish sitting on the brass plate with its eye staring dead towards the ceiling. 

You have an overwhelming urge to throw your flat chopsticks at him. 

Instead, you bring a hand to your cup, taking a sip of your tea. 

When Seungcheol lifts his chopsticks, the two servants come back in with a soft knock. They bow before kneeling, gently placing steamed tofu and scallion pancakes in front of the two of you. 

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip. 

They’re your favorite. 

And from the way Seungcheol looks mildly guilty and embarrassed, you can tell that he didn’t mean to remember. Or maybe he did and your own eyes are just fucking with you. 

So you don’t ask. 

And you don’t thank him either. 

You just try to convince yourself that this is the least he could do. As your husband. And you stare at your food as Seungcheol eats. 

A beat. 

“Do you think me large? Or malnourished? Underfed?” you suddenly say, head lifting. 

There is a small bubble of pride when Seungcheol chokes on his rice at your words, coughing and spluttering, chopsticks falling to his tray. 

A servant hurriedly brings him water. 

You cock your head, studying his reaction. 

His eyes are wide when he looks up at you, incredulous. “What?” 

You gesture vaguely to the tray set in front of you, pointing at each dish. “This entire tray can feed at least three of your soldiers,” you comment. 

And maybe you’re being unfair. Maybe he just wanted to give you a good lunch. But you’re feeling petty, so you continue on. 

Your arms cross as you sigh. “So?” 

Seungcheol blinks owlishly, lips parting before closing like he’s at a loss for words. His eyes dart to the ceiling like he’s saying a quick prayer before he clears his throat. “Uhm I assure you that your meal is not enough for even one of my soldiers.” 

And then he looks back down at his own food as if ready to eat again after your outburst. 

“Is that supposed to answer my question?” you say, hands folded in your lap again. You don’t know why you’re still talking, especially in front of the servants who are now whispering from behind the sliding doors. 

Seungcheol stifles a sigh. “Y/n, can we just eat?” He looks up at you with tired eyes and you try not to flinch at the way he says your name. “If the portion is too much for you, just eat as much as you can. I promise I didn’t mean anything by it.” 

Any words you were going to say die in your throat. Seungcheol’s words are almost cathartic in the sense that it quells whatever feelings in your brain to almost complete silence. Miffed, you just sniff and pick up your chopsticks.

When you take your first bite of the fish and the rice, along with some marinated herbs, you see Seungcheol visibly relax. Especially when you nod appreciatively. 

By the time the last course is served – persimmon slices dusted with ground pine nuts – the silence has thickened into something unbearable. You chew slowly, carefully, wondering if he’s avoiding your eyes on purpose. He probably is. 

Of course he is.

You watch the way he lifts his cup – steady and slow. The way he doesn’t take a single bite of dessert. The way he glances at the folded screen behind you but never meets your eyes. 

“Don’t pity me,” you say quietly, placing your chopsticks down. 

That gets his attention. But barely. A twitch in his brow. A quick glance at your idle hands. 

“I don’t,” is his response. 

You raise your chin. 

“Then stop treating me like I’m made out of glass. Or regret, guilt, whatever you think I am.” 

He stiffens. The shadows move slowly across the floorboards. Even the servants’ whispers have hushed. 

He opens his mouth to say something. And then closes it. 

“You’re free to explore the estate,” he says instead, eyes flickering over to the opened windows. “Ride the forest path, visit the observatory, walk the garden, whatever you want. My steward will answer anything.” 

You think he means it as kindness. As an offering of sorts, maybe. No, you know he means it nothing as a snipe from the way his fingers drum on the table. 

But it sounds like distance. Like avoidance. 

As: I don’t want to see you.

As: I never wanted this.

As (and this is the scariest out of all of your thoughts and what-ifs): be the ceremonial wife you were meant to be.

So you don’t answer. And you don’t touch the rest of your persimmons. Your small fork stays clean until all the dishes are cleared and the last of the servants leave the dining room. 

You rise to your knees. And then your feet. 

A low bow that makes Seungcheol uncomfortable. You know he sees the deep crescent marks on the backs of your hand and the way you bite the inside of your cheek. 

You don’t even have it in you to say anything as you leave. 

And he doesn’t even stop you. He does watch you, though. You feel it on your spine all the way down the hall. 

–

The west wing is beautiful – too beautiful. Untouched in its purity. It’s made of smooth hinoki wood and warm-toned tatami mats, low sloping rooftops and shaded porches that overlook private gardens. 

Fifteen hanoks. 

All for you. All yours. 

One is a bathing house, another a study, another a small private tea hall with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with a book collection that cannot be Seungcheol’s. Save your personal hanok, the other are so lavishly unused that they feel haunted by the ghosts of Seungcheol’s ancestors. 

Several of them are, ironically, bedrooms. 

If you and Seungcheol were still on the kind of terms you once were, you might’ve joked. About the sheer magnitude of his wedding gift. Of the empty hanoks. 

“Shall I prepare the empty rooms for lover auditions?” 

You would have said it with a smile. And he would have choked on his tea. Maybe said something with a stiff and awkward laugh. Or something stiff and jealous like, “Don’t tempt fate,” or “You think I can share?” 

And for a second, you have an urge to pull that shit again. Now. 

But you can’t. Because that was years ago. 

Now, if you said that, you’re certain he’d just look through you. Maybe blink and walk away. Or worse – he’d go stone cold, distant, detached like how he’s been since you arrived. 

Yuna, your one handmaid you were allowed to bring up from the South, keeps trying to cheer you up, walking beside you with her sleeves tucked into her hanbok skirts. She points out flowers in the gardens that you’ve never seen when the only gardens you cared to walk were in the south. She laughs louder as to force you to also laugh with her and offers you candied chestnuts like it’ll fix the thousand li between your hear tand this cold, dreary place. 

Yuna suddenly clear her throat, stopping. “My lady, you should avoid the east wing,” she says, glancing nervously at the carved wood and stone gate that marks the line between your wing and his. “The Commander’s men are everywhere. If one of them see you–”

You wave her off, stepping over the raised threshold without flinching. “Yuna,” you sigh, straightening you skirts, “what can they even tell me? To not step a foot in my husband’s home?” 

Yuna sighs like she agrees and follows you in, though nervously. “My lady, you know it’s not proper–”

“--Proper,” you interrupt, “has never brought me much peace anyways.” 

Yuna groans, long-suffering, and you’re glad that she isn’t facing you to see that it’s the first thing she does that pulls a real smile out of you. 

The moment you step foot onto the eastern courtyard, the energy shifts. Imperceptibly but still. Servants pause mid-sweep, mid-step, mid-conversation. You hear a tiktiktiiiiiiiiik of a broom falling to the stones placed into the ground. A group of laughing maids suddenly have their laughter stuck mid-throat and their heads drop. 

It’s like walking into sacred ground barefoot and dressed in night silk. 

They look at you like you don’t belong. Like you’ve taken the place of someone more deserving. 

A lone servant drops into an uncertain bow. 

So you ignore them – just like how you have ignored every and all insults thrown your way in the past. 

You step and step and step until you’re toeing off your shoes on the stone block, climbing three short steps to enter the main hall. 

And you come to a realization: the east wing is nothing like the west. 

Ironically (and unbelievably), it’s colder, less used. The smell of dew-crested wood is much more prevalent here, though you think that there are almost three times the number of servants stationed in the east wing than yours. Each wooden floorboard either creaks or bends with your weight and you can almost feel the oozing of generations from the ceiling beams. 

You find the library by accident. 

It’s a low, sprawling structure, half-covered in ivy and pine needles from the outside. The wooden doors are heavy and the sliding and hinging rice-paper windows are pushed open to let in the cool spring air. From the ceiling beams are hanging scent pouches that fill the wide room with the faint scent of lilac and lilies. 

Inside – really inside the library – it’s more austere than yours. There are countless towering shelves of ledgers, war records, tightly bound scrolls. There are books bound in leather and parchment, velvet and cotton, and scrolls sealed with imperial stamps. Right below a portrait of a man (presumably dead now), is an old ceremonial sword, maybe from three generations ago, perhaps used in battle. But you guess it was most likely given as an imperial gift. It rests on its holder, refracting rare beams of sunlight leaking in through the opened doors. 

Yuna worries over your shoulder, peaking every-so-often into the hallway. 

“My lady–” 

“-The halls are empty, Yuna. Come inside,” you sigh, padding over to a bookshelf filled with what looks like textbooks. 

Yuna mutters something to herself before finally following you inside, albeit reluctantly. 

You run your fingers across the spines, scanning the titles. And then you hear it – a dull, rhythmic impact. 

Thump.

Crack.

Pause. 

And then again. 

Your eyebrows scrunch together, scanning the room. 

Nothing. No one – save you and Yuna. 

So you cross to the far end of the room where a window overlooks the lower courtyard. 

And that’s where you see him. 

Seungcheol. 

He’s shirtless and his bare chest, muscles rippling, is slick with sweat. His hair is tied back and when he turns, back towards you, your hand goes to rest on the windowsill at the sight of his God-given back muscles. A blade slashes through the air and then it all comes into focus:

There are more than a thousand of soldiers in formation, slashing and parrying in formation drills across the courtyard. Training yard, probably. 

But his skin is gleaming, steam rising from his body as though even the cold air can’t even quite touch him. Now, he walks between his soldiers – and you try to quell your flushing cheeks at the way his brows furrow, arms cross, and then he says something low and imperceptible to a soldier. He moves like he’s training his half-shirtless men for another war. Like they’re playing with controlled fire, not some wooden sword. 

With each step he takes, it’s like he takes your breath away with him. 

Closer now, you can see his scars, worse than you imagined. 

One new slash marks his ribs, another on his lower back. You can count more than three on just his shoulder alone. The one on his jaw ripples with every clench of that muscle. 

And then he moves to the middle, soldiers parting around him. 

He unsheaths his sword, the metal gleaming in the afternoon light.

With the same sword, he thrusts the point at a soldier standing in the circle, hair pushed back with sweat, cheeks a little red, tan skin shining. 

The same soldier points at himself as if to ask Me?? And then steps forward with Seungcheol’s nod. 

Around him, the soldiers pair off into twos. 

And then he starts. 

A lunge, a parry, a yell in the general direction of his partner’s head, a side-step, and then a jab. 

The soldiers follow in synchrony. It looks more than just a drill – like an advancing force. 

Your hand tightens on the windowsill. 

Chaewon’s words ring in your head: Y/n, they send the Capital soldiers to his winter trainings. Apparently. 

You knew the Capital send their young officers north to train with him. You saw it, even, with the boys choosing the military path in the Imperial Academy being sent off in their final years to the north in your grade. You saw it when you danced before other men in the Capital, hearing complaints of young military officers at imperial feasts about the grueling winter trainings up north. 

You just didn’t realize what it meant. 

What kind of man the boy you had once known had become. 

There’s a small light of pride that flickers in your stomach, even through the pain you had buried it under. 

Your weight is now almost solely on your hands, body leaning out the window, basically. 

Yuna rushes beside you, eyes flickering down at what – or who – you were looking at. 

“My lady!” she gasps, hand lightly hitting your shoulder repeatedly. “We mustn’t! This isn’t-” 

But you barely hear her. 

Because just then, almost in slow motion, you see Seungcheol straighten, bark an order to the side, sheath his sword, and lift his head. 

And like something possesses him, he scans the courtyard before his gaze collides directly with yours. 

He freezes. 

Your eyes widen, body stuck half-outside of the opened window. 

Steam curls off of his shoulders, his chest heaves, and his brows furrow as if trying to decipher whether it is really you. 

You swallow. 

For a breathless moment, he does nothing. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t move. There is a small part of you that curls into yourself with fear – would he yell at you? Lecture you? Scold you for coming into his personal space? But his face twitches in confusion – like he had never expected you to ever be where he was. 

He stares at you like you’ve just walked straight into his pulse and punched his jugular. 

It’s almost cinematic – all the soldiers around him move in fluid precision, sweating bullets even in the chilly weather, yet he stands in the very middle, stock-still, eyes locked on yours. 

When the tan soldier drops his sword mid-parry, the clatter of the wood breaks the focus. 

Seungcheol blinks as if clarity washes over him. And without breaking eye contact, he bows. Not at his waist but with just his head. The same way he does when he passes a court official. 

You don’t know why your heart hurts when he does that. 

Only that it does – painfully. 

That and the fact that you can’t bring yourself to look away. 

When his gaze drops and he turns away, you stumble back from the window with a choked gasp, cheeks hot, breath uneven, fingers clenching the folds of your skirt. 

Stupid. 

Stop reacting like this. 

Why do his eyes still make you feel like you’re the only thing in the room he sees – even when you know he resents having to. Even though you can feel something else in his gaze that’s deeper than just guilt or regret or pity. 

Yuna hovers by the door, nervously glancing back towards the corridor. Her lips are straightened in a tight line as she wrings her hands. 

“My lady…” she trails off, glancing back at the corridor. 

You sigh, waving her off. “Go on,” you murmur, looking outside the window again. Soldiers are now on benches, laughing and playfully hitting each other, drinking water with desperate gulps. “I’ll be fine,” you mumble. 

Yuna gives you one last worried look before she listens to you, slowly padding out of the library backwards, bowing low to you before rushing down the hallway towards your wing. 

You stay. 

The library smells like cedar and ink and dried herbs. The windows still let in the spring air that’s edged with frost. You can still hear the soldiers’ laughter echoing from the courtyard as you run your fingers along the spines of the old textbooks. You drag your fingers along the shelf until you find a stack tucked half behind an old box of correspondences – thick books bound in dark leather. Some of them are cracked with age, the spine creased and bent. 

At the top of the stack is a record of old military formations. The second is a well-annotated copy of The Ethics of War with Seungcheol’s name scrawled in the top corner with his handwriting, strokes long and rushed. The third is a mess of loose sheets tied together with faded twine. Papers jut here and there, and most of them – at second glance, you realize – are half-written letters, receipts, doodles. 

Curious now, you pull one free. It’s a note – scribbled musings – with half-translated proverbs from old philosophy texts and quotes about destiny and desire. 

You go through the whole stack. Skimming through most of them, entirely reading through only a few pages. 

And then you find it. Near the middle – something different. 

It’s different from the rest, torn from what appears to be fine stationery. It’s slightly wrinkled like it had once been stuffed somewhere – like a pocket or a bag. You recognize the script almost instantly – his. His from when he was still nineteen and prideful and confused – maybe. 

The words written on top are what make you stop. 

Dearest Y/n. 

Y/n. 

You. 

It’s addressed to you. 

So you read it. 

Once. 

Twice. 

And then a third time. 

Dearest Yn, I don’t know what to say that won’t sound like pure cowardice, but I keep replaying what I said to you. It’s all I can think of. How you flinched, how I made you cry, how much I regret everything that left my mouth that day.  All I wanted, I think, was to be someone you would like to look at – to be worth something to a soul like you.  I keep hearing your voice when I’m supposed to be studying. Whenever someone says your name in the hallways, I’m turning like they’re calling for me. I see your eyes in my blade and your smile in the morning water. I see you even in my dreams.  And I know this isn’t anything. It’s too late and too much but if I don’t say it somewhere, I’ll forget how it felt to mean it.  Just know this: you are the only thing I ever wanted that didn’t feel like duty – that wasn’t forced onto me.  Yours always.  C.S.C.

Your hands shake and your eyes scan the words over and over again, so desperate to find more than just his words on paper. More than his past-tenses. 

And so you don’t hear him until it’s too late. 

Until he’s already slamming the library doors open, wind and heat following him like a storm. 

Choi Seungcheol – half-dressed, skin flushed and steaming from exertion, eyes sharp – sees you standing in between the shelves with the note in your trembling hands and papers scattered on the wooden floors. 

He sees the note. 

He sees you. 

And he’s across the room in seconds. 

His brows furrow as he snaps, “What the hell are you doing?” 

You swallow, slowly looking up, the half-written letter still between your fingers. “Reading. Obviously.” 

He scoffs. “That’s private.” 

“It has my name on it,” you counter, stepping back when he comes forward. 

He grabs for it but you pull back, just out of reach. It feels weirdly good to taunt him like this. 

“Why didn’t you send it? Because you thought I’d laugh at you?” you ask, voice too calm. 

His jaw ticks. “Give it to me.” He stretches out a hand at you. 

“Why?” you laugh, the paper of the letter crumpling. “You’ve kept it for years. Hidden it like everything else.” 

“Because it’s fucking mine,” he growls, step forward. “And you don’t get to read something just because it has your name on it that I wrote when I was nineteen and pissed off and–” 

“-and in love?” you jab, head tilting up to look at him in the eyes. 

You can see the way that lands like a blow. His mouth snaps shut. 

The silence between you pulses. Outside, the wind rattles in the paper doors. His scent is overwhelming. 

You hold up the letter, leaning back to read it properly. “You are the only thing that I ever wanted that didn’t feel like duty.” Your voice cracks as you laugh softly at the words. “Is that a joke now? Or just a lie?” 

“Don’t do that.” 

“Don’t do what, Seungcheol?” you scoff out. He flinches at the call of his name. “Quote you to yourself? Remind you that for one fucking second, maybe you felt something that was real? Or maybe that whatever you use to excuse yourself from feeling like a human being is leaking onto others?” 

“I said don’t, y/n.” His voice is louder now. Not a yell but it hits like one. His body basically has you trapped between him and the bookshelf behind you. 

So you lean forward, shoving the letter into his chest, hearing the paper crumple. “I never asked for this marriage,” you hiss, eyes sharp. “But I never asked to be treated like a stranger either.” 

He scoffs. “You think this is easy for me?” His laugh is bitter and humorless. “You think I wanted this?” 

“Then why keep that letter? Why write it at all?” 

“Because!” he barks. “‘Because I wanted something that I had no right to want. And I ruined everything.” 

You freeze, hand pressed against his chest through the letter, breath stuck in your throat. 

He breathes heavily, chest rising and falling under your palm like he’s still training. His fists are clenched and one hand rests on yours. 

He looks at you with pained eyes. 

You let out a mirthless laugh. “You still think I’m too good for you,” you whisper. 

He’s quiet. 

You step closer. He flinches. So you take another step. 

“Do you know what’s worse than being called a prize, Seungcheol?” you say, soft and shaking. “Being worshipped and then fucking abandoned. Like you’d rather turn to stone and kill yourself than admit you fucking loved me.” 

Your voice cracks and something flickers in his eyes. Pain maybe. Or regret. 

But he doesn’t reach for you. 

Instead, he gently pries your hand off of the letter, taking it off his chest and shoving it into his pocket, stepping away from you like you burn him. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispers. 

“Why? Do I make you uncomfortable? Full of emotions you can’t name?” 

He opens his mouth like he’s going to respond but then shuts it, turning on his heel and leaving. The door slams shut behind him. 

And you’re left standing pressed against the bookshelf, in the wreckage of words you should never have read and said. And the feeling that maybe he’ll never be brave enough to finish them in front of you. 

--

You’re barefoot. 

Yuna begged you not to wander, but your rooms feel like cages. Gilded cages that are too warm and filled with useless things you feel like you can’t touch. You need air – something you’ve been realizing more and more often as the hours pass by in this godforsaken estate. Silence. A reason to stop thinking. Anything. 

But you didn’t mean to end up in the north wing again. 

And yet…

Choi Seungcheol, in a black robe, hair damp from the storm that passed only minutes ago, stands before you beneath the overhang like something carved out of the dark. 

He hears you. You know he does. 

But when you step closer and closer, socks padding on the wooden floor, he stays silent, facing out towards the bonsai trees that were flung this way and that minutes prior. 

When you get close enough to smell the cologne on him, he sniffs. 

“The west wing not enough for you?” 

His voice is cool, detached. 

Your foot stops mid-air before coming back down. A scoff. 

“I was walking.” 

Seungcheol hums. “You’ve been doing a lot of that.” 

You don’t dignify him with a response. And the space between you two turns thick with rain and unsaid things. 

You sigh. “Why did you keep that letter?” 

He doesn’t answer immediately as his breath catches. Like he didn’t expect you to say what you said. 

“Because it was unfinished,” he mumbles. 

“You could’ve burned it. Or given it to me.” 

“There was no point.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because whatever I felt then, it doesn’t matter anymore.” 

You try your best to hide the way his words hurt. But either way, his words knife down your throat and you can feel traitorous tears well up in your eyes. 

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. 

Stupid for thinking you were over him. Stupid for thinking he wasn’t over you. Stupid for thousands of reasons but the stupidest for gaslighting yourself into believing that him not caring wouldn’t hurt. 

“So that’s it?” you murmur, scoffing. “You hate me.”

That finally gets a reaction out of him. From slightly behind him, you can see the way his jaw tightens, his brows drawing slightly closer. Like you had just slapped him. 

He rises to his feet. 

“You think this is about hate?” 

You bite the inside of your cheek. “You avoid me. You can’t look at me. You act like I’m some weight on your shoulders that you never asked for.” Your voice rises with every word you say. 

“Because you are!” he snaps. Just for a second, his own eyes blow wide at his words as your face twists into aghast. “This marriage wasn’t supposed to happen.” 

The words are sharper than any blade and you flinch at the volume of his voice. You feel the uncomfortable hotness behind your eyes as you try to calm yourself down. 

Your voice breaks before you can harden it again. 

“Then say it,” you whisper. You can’t quite clearly see him now from behind all of your tears that have invaded your space into your eyes. “Fucking say it. Say that you don’t want me here.” 

He looks down at you. Really looks at you – hair damp, robes wrinkled, trembling, tears coating your cheeks, standing barefoot in his world that you had surreptitiously barged in. 

And he says nothing. 

So you scoff, the backs of your hands brushing away the remaining tears from your eyes. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

You turn to leave, shoulders rigid, heart pounding so loud that you can’t hear anything else except for your own loud breaths. 

There’s a sudden tug on your shawl and you come to a stop as you feel a hand wrap around your shoulder. 

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he says, voice low. “You’ll get sick.” 

You wrench free from his grasp, shooting him a glare. “Don’t pretend to care now, Commander.” 

Your title for him is bitterness wrapped in audacity. It’s final and it hangs between you like a slammed door. 

Still, he reaches back for you, fingers grasping your wrist. 

“I never pretended,” he mutters. 

But then he does what he always does. He lets go too fast and step away like the distance could erase what just happened. 

You stand frozen, now facing his chest. 

You see him swallow. 

“Good night,” he says. It’s cold and distant like he can’t bring himself to say anything more. 

And with that, having said his last words, apparently, he walks away. 

You don’t have it in yourself to stop him. 

So, instead, you stare after him, eyes tracing the outline of his back and flowing robes. You stare after him with your heart thudding an irregular rhythm in your throat and your breath locked behind your ribs. 

His good night sounds like good bye. Like he’s reiterating the fact that you feel like he’s already gone. 

Like he wants to forget you ever came and try to convince you that you want the same. 

——

It’s Tuesday. 

The one day he promised. 

A useless little peace offering: a midday meal. To him, something to distract him from the incessant sweat pooling at his back from late-spring training. 

A midday meal. Nothing more. 

But for some reason, you clung to it. 

Stupid, maybe. But in a house built on so-called duty and ghosts of the dead, it was the only thing that felt close enough to a choice. 

So you get ready.

You wear a soft pink hanbok. You pin your hair with the comb your father bought for you in the Capital. The one with the cherry blossoms carved into the bone. You even fucking paint your lips. 

And you sit. 

And you wait. 

The foot comes. Steam curls from brass pots. Dishes lie in symmetry. Your place is set. His is empty. 

The doors stay silent, unmoving. 

Minutes pass. 

Then an hour. 

Yuna keeps glancing at you from the corner she’s standing in. You can feel the pity radiating off of her. 

You opt to say nothing. Just sit silently, staring at his empty seat, hands folded politely in your lap, knees aching from the way you kneel. 

By the second hour, you’re sure the tea has cooled. And you’ve stopped checking the clock. 

By the third, you don’t have enough rage in you to feel an ounce of humiliation. Only cold. Cold from his empty seat, from the opened window, and the long-gone echoing cries of the soldiers. 

Your voice is monotone as you murmur, “Clean it,” to the servants. “Throw it all out.” 

Yuna hesitates from her corner, stepping closer. “My lady, he may still–”

“-he won’t,” you snap, words final and flat. 

You don’t look back to confirm the shuffling of socked feet. Instead, you rise without a word and return to your chambers – a long walk back in the warming weather. 

You pass by soldiers and servants who avoid your gaze like they know something you don’t. Something your own fucking husband won’t tell you. And as your door slams shut behind you, you blink back the tears welling in your eyes. 

And until near midnight, you stay seated on your floor couch, brush firm in your hand and scratchy parchment beneath your palm. 

And then the murmur of low voices. Yuna’s is distinct. Something about you sleeping. 

Heavy footsteps. 

A knock. 

One. 

Two. 

Pause. 

You don’t bother answering. 

It’s him, anyways. 

You don’t move, just continue painting. 

You hear him sigh. 

“It’s me.”

His voice is muffled by the wooden door. 

He says that as if you wouldn’t know it’s him. As if you had anyone else in this godforsaken place who would come visit you at the dead of night. 

So you stay quiet, dotting stars on the parchment. 

“I forgot,” he mutters. 

You slowly turn your head when the door to your bedroom slowly slides open. He’s standing in the threshold, hair damp with sweat and dust marks on his socks. You wonder if he even went inside all day or if he simply buried himself in drills, patrols, punishments, and anything else that let him forget you existed. 

You scoff. “Three hours.” Your voice is quiet. Not angry. Just hollow. 

He looks down at the floor, hands behind his back. “I got pulled into-”

“-don’t give me your bullshit lies,” you snap. 

His head snaps up, eyes wide. Whether at your tone or at the curse word, you’re not too sure. 

You set your brush down. Your sleeves are streaked with ink. So are a couple of your fingers. You stare at your supposed husband like you’re instinctively trying to memorize how disappointment wears on his face. 

You purse your lips. “It wasn’t important to you. Just say that.” 

“It was.” 

You’re so sick of his lies. 

“You didn’t even send a message, Commander.” 

“Don’t call me that,” he mutters. 

You make a face. A laugh, soft and bitter. 

“You always do this,” you say. “You keep me at arm’s length and then expect me to read your fucking mind. As if I haven’t spent years trying to understand you already.” 

“Because it’s better if you don’t,” Seungcheol snaps. “If you knew how much of me is already ruined–” 

“-You’re assuming I don’t?” 

That shuts him up. 

“You think I don’t know what blood smells like, Seungcheol?” his name slips off your tongue by habit. “What men say when they think I can’t hear them? What it’s like to be passed from one noble hour to the next like a prized vase, only to end up in a horribly ironic marriage with a husband who can’t even look me in the eyes for more than three seconds?” 

A flicker of something crosses his face as he swallows hard. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” 

You shrug. “But you did.” 

A beat. 

When he doesn’t say anything, you let another pass. 

“God,” you mumble to yourself, fingers digging into the bridge of your nose. You lift your head back up with a strained smile. “Go,” you say quietly. “Or stay. But stop making me wait for you.” 

You turn back towards your screened window before you can see the guilt that cracks across his face. The way his hands flex like he wants to reach for you. Before you can feel yourself crack under the pressure of everything. Before you do something stupid (because as much as you don’t want to admit it, he looks handsome in the candle-lit lighting of your room. And because as much as you don’t want to tell him, the first thought that shot through your head in the welcome feast was relief – that he was unhurt – and then longing – for the relationship you once had.). 

He doesn’t leave.

You feel his presence — tense, breathing heavy — just behind you. 

One step. 

Two.

You don’t turn around.

“Don’t do this now,” you whisper.

“I missed it because I didn’t want to want it,” he says. The words come out rough. “I thought if I stayed away, it would be easier.”

You close your eyes.

It would be easier, you think, if he hated you. But he doesn’t. And somehow, that hurts more.

You wait for the sound of retreating footsteps.

But instead—you suddenly feel his hand, tentative, at your shoulder, brushing your silk.

It’s quiet. 

Just him behind you, watching as the moonlight pools over your lap like spilled milk. 

And then you hear the faint clink. 

In his hands: a bottle of sake. Not just any sake. The kind from your school days. Expensive, imported. Creamy label, a name you used to murmur like prayer when you'd scrape coins together for one stolen sip.

“I had them bring this up from the cellar,” he says quietly. “Was saving it for something else, but...” He trails off.

Of course he remembers.

You wish he hadn’t.

“Can I take a little of your time?” he asks.

You should say no.

But something in you — pride, ache, hunger — nods instead.

He pours. The sake is clear and cold, almost sharp. The kind that stings before it soothes. You lift the cup to your lips and drink before he even sits.

It burns beautifully.

“I thought I was the one who drank more,” he murmurs, watching you.

You shrug. Your second cup goes down quicker.

“Maybe I’m trying to forget.”

“Forget what?”

“Take your pick,” you say, looking away with a bitter smile. “The marriage I didn’t choose. The home I didn’t want. The husband who didn’t show.”

His shoulders tighten. He doesn’t answer. Just pours again, slower this time. His own cup barely full.

“You’re not drinking,” you say, quieter now.

“I don’t need to,” he says. “You’re right in front of me.”

You blink, cup halfway to your mouth. You don’t know if that’s meant to be sweet or cruel. Or maybe he’s just saying it because he knows you won’t remember it the next day – an excuse to be vulnerable, maybe. With him, it’s always hard to tell.

You drink again.

“Why are you here, Seungcheol?”

Ah, shit. His name again.

“To apologize.”

“You already said that.”

“Not properly.”

You scoff. “There’s a proper way to apologize for abandoning someone at lunch?”

“For abandoning you in general.”

That stops you.

Definitely because you’re drinking. He wouldn’t say that if you were sober.

He’s still looking at you. Not like you’re delicate. Not like you’re distant royalty. But like you’re something he's scared to break by reaching for too soon.

“You’ve changed,” he says.

“Everything has.”

“Not everything.”

“No,” you agree bitterly. “Just me. Just the life I wanted.”

He looks down.

“You’re angry,” he says, not as a question.

“Would you like me to smile instead?” you ask, pouring again. “Would that make it easier?”

He doesn’t flinch. But you can feel the words hitting their mark.

“They all treat me like a relic,” you say. “You. The court. The king. Something precious to be kept quiet and still. I’m a marriage. I’m a treaty. I’m a name on parchment. I’m not a person.”

“You’re a storm,” he says suddenly. “You always have been.”

You freeze. “What?”

He looks you in the eye.

“You talk like you’ve been silenced, but you’ve never been quiet a day in your life. You walk into a room and it stops. You fight for your place. You curse when you’re angry. You drank me under the table when we were nineteen and then beat me in archery the next morning. You laughed like you didn’t care who heard.” He swallows. “You are everything they don’t deserve.”

The silence after is deafening.

You wish you weren’t tipsy. You wish your heart didn’t betray you every time he says something like that.

“Does that statement apply to you too?”

He looks down, fiddling with the cup in his hands. “ I don’t know how to keep something – someone – that good,” he finally says. “Not after what I’ve done. Who I’ve become.”

Your breath catches.

And his eyes — dark and steady — don’t waver.

“I remember you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Before all of this. I remember the way you used to look at me. And I remember how it felt. Like I was worth something.”

Your hand trembles.

The ache in your throat swells until it nearly chokes you.

Because you remember too.

You remember the way you used to light up when he entered a room. How it felt to have your chest flutter just because he smiled. That long-ago version of yourself, soft and untouched, untouched by all of this.

But he doesn’t smile now. He stares like he wants to reach across the table and break every wall you've rebuilt since.

And you let him.

The kiss is hard. Messy. Open-mouthed and breathless and angry.

You taste the apology in his mouth, even though he hasn’t said it. You taste regret and guilt and sake and everything else that’s lingered between you for years.

It’s not a kiss of love.

It’s a kiss of devastation.

You tug him closer, fisting his collar like you're trying to wring the truth from his bones. He exhales roughly, hands braced on your waist, dragging you up and over the table like he can’t stand another second not touching you. The bottle tips, sake spilling, but neither of you care.

The futon behind the screen is a blur.

He lifts you with barely restrained urgency, arms hooked beneath your thighs. Your robe parts. The silk of it pools uselessly at your hips. The lamp flickers low, oil nearly out.

You feel the way he still holds back. His hands tremble just slightly as he kneels above you, letting you down onto your mattress like you’re something sacred.

But you’re not. Not to him. Not anymore.

“You don’t have to pretend,” you murmur bitterly.

“I’m not,” he says. His voice breaks somewhere in the middle. “I just—fuck. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Too late.” You say it too fast, too low.

But he hears it anyway.

And still, when he touches you again — fingers gentle where his mouth was not — you shiver like you want it, like you need it.

And maybe you do.

You part your legs for him. Just a little. Just enough.

His breath stutters, a hand tracing the inside of your thigh like a prayer.

“This isn't...” he begins.

But you shake your head. “Just do it.”

And so he does.

He pushes in slow — slower than his own body wants, slower than what the tension demands — but it's not slow enough.

You silently thank the blown-out candles.

You gasp — no, cry out — the burn tearing through your spine as your body stretches around him for the very first time. Your nails rake across his arms, grabbing at anything, everything, because the pain is white-hot and sudden, like you're being split apart from the inside out.

He freezes immediately.

“Shit,” he breathes, eyes wide, chest heaving. “You're—?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

Your trembling is enough. The way you screw your eyes shut. The way you turn your face into the pillow and try to muffle the sound of yourself.

“You should’ve told me,” he says, pained. Like he just committed some great sin.

“Would it have changed anything?” you bite out.

He doesn’t respond. But his hand cups the back of your neck, forehead pressed to yours like he’s sorry. Like it matters now.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Then move,” you hiss. “Make it count.”

He does.

Slowly, achingly, he rocks into you, each movement a push and pull of pain and something deeper. The burn dulls — slightly — into a throbbing ache, but it's still too much. Not enough. Everything.

You grip at his back, nails leaving red slashes, legs trembling, tears slipping down your cheeks before you can stop them.

And he sees. He feels it.

“I didn’t want this to happen like this,” he breathes.

But you only tighten your grip around him. “It was always going to happen like this.”

Because this isn’t love. Not the kind you dreamed about when you were younger and untouched and full of hope.

This is what it means to break.

And he’s the only one who ever had the power to do it.

He buries his face in your neck, lips pressing there as if to offer something gentler — not with words, but with presence. With skin. With weight. He thrusts deeper, slower, until the sting blends into something else, something that coils in your belly, something warm and unrelenting.

“You’re—fuck,” he gasps. “You’re still so—”

But you kiss him again, cutting him off, refusing to let him say anything that sounds like love.

He picks up the pace, just enough to make you whimper.

He groans into your mouth, the sound torn and guttural, and it makes your stomach twist. His pace picks up—shallow, urgent thrusts now—just enough to make your breath hitch, your thighs tremble, your fingers dig harder into his slick back.

His forehead presses against yours, sweat dripping from his temple as he murmurs your name like he’s praying, like he’s not supposed to say it this softly. Not in the dark, not in this hidden room, not while his hips keep driving into you like he’s trying to lose himself.

“Fuck—I'm close. Where—”

“—Wherever,” you breathe, eyes screwed shut.

And when it happens—when your body clenches around him, the heat of your orgasm cresting so violently that you cry out into his shoulder—he’s not far behind.

A rough moan tears from his throat, deep and raw, and he thrusts in once, twice, then holds you flush against him. He groans your name like a benediction and thrusts through his own release. His entire body shudders above you. You feel it—the exact moment he lets go, when he finally surrenders. His hips press down, burying himself inside you, and then he’s spilling into you with a low, broken sound.

You can feel him pulse deep within—warm and insistent—each wave of his release stretching the moment unbearably tender. His breath catches. His chest heaves.

You cry.

Not just from the overwhelming ache between your thighs, or the heat in your gut, or the soreness that tells you you'll feel him for days.

You cry because everything hurts.

Because his voice shakes as he breathes out your name again, over and over, like he’s clinging to it. To you.

Like he doesn’t want to let go.

And maybe, for the first time, he holds you like it’s allowed to. Even though you both know this won’t fix a thing.

Your thighs still tremble when he pulls out, and you hiss at the sting. The mattress shifts as he leans up, propping himself on an elbow. For a long moment, there’s only the sound of your ragged breathing and the weak flicker of the oil lamp as it sputters near its end.

You push your hair out of your face, damp with sweat. There’s a thickness in your throat that hasn’t gone away. Your hands curl in the sheets when he moves to sit up beside you.

“Don’t,” you say quietly, not looking at him. “You don’t have to.”

Seungcheol doesn’t respond. He shifts anyway, rising to his feet, and you hear the quiet rustle of him pulling his robe back over his bare skin. You sit up slowly, pulling the blanket over yourself with shaking hands. There’s soreness everywhere.

He disappears behind the screen for a second. You think maybe he’s going to leave — maybe it’s easier that way.

But then you hear the sound of water being poured into a basin.

He returns with a damp cloth. Kneels beside you without a word.

You try to flinch away when he touches your inner thigh.

“Don’t,” you repeat, this time sharper. “You don’t owe me anything.”

He still doesn’t speak. He just wipes away the mess between your legs with maddening gentleness — like you might break if he breathes too hard.

You clench your jaw, staring at the ceiling, eyes glassy.

“I can do it,” you murmur.

“Let me,” he says.

And you let him.

When he finishes, he rinses the cloth and sets it aside. Then he stands, but only to turn his back.

“I won’t look,” he says quietly.

You blink at him. “What?”

“You should change.”

You stare at the muscles of his back, the tension in his shoulders. He’s stiff, hands clenched at his sides like he’s still trying to contain himself. Maybe he is.

It takes effort, but you finally rise on wobbly legs and walk behind him. Slowly, awkwardly, you undo the ties of your hanbok and let the silks fall, then pull your nightgown over your head. The fabric scratches against your sore skin.

He doesn’t move until you clear your throat.

“I’m done,” you say.

He turns, steps close again. You think maybe he’s going to say something — maybe now is when he’ll give you some excuse, an explanation, an apology.

But he just guides you back to the bed, quietly tucks the blanket around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your heart stutters when he brushes your hair off your face.

“You can go,” you whisper, not looking at him. “You don’t need to stay.”

“I know,” he says. And sits down beside you anyway, back against the wall, knees up to his chest.

You close your eyes. You don’t want to feel this. You don’t want to want this — the warmth of someone staying. Him staying.

It shouldn’t matter. He made his choice, long ago. He always makes it.

But when your lips part on a tired breath, a single slurred thought escapes, barely audible: “You’ll leave anyway.”

You don’t think he hears you.

But he does.

He doesn’t say anything. Just remains seated beside you, quiet. Present. And when your breathing finally evens out into sleep, he brushes your knuckles once with his thumb.

Just once.

And stays until the lamp goes out.

—

You wake with a jolt.

The cold hits first — the blankets have shifted, and your skin prickles with chill. Then comes the ache. A deep, dull throb between your thighs, spreading through your hips and lower back. You shift slightly and flinch. It's not unbearable, but it’s raw — like you’ve been hollowed out.

The oil lamp is long extinguished. Moonlight filters through the rice paper windows. A breeze slips through the cracks, rustling the outer screens of your hanok.

And he’s gone.

You turn your head, half-expecting his silhouette beside you, maybe curled up at the edge of the mattress or sitting at your writing desk with that furrow in his brow he always wears when thinking too much.

But there's nothing.

Not a fold in the bedding. Not a sound.

Nothing from last night.

You sit up, slowly, hands trembling as you press your palm to the space he once occupied.

Still faintly warm.

You change in silence and sit by your vanity, brushing your hair without looking at your own reflection. Your hands are careful, but you can’t ignore the slight soreness in your body, the reminder of how deeply he’d taken you — the way your first time had been marked by his absence just as much as it had been by his presence.

By the time you make it to breakfast, it’s already closer to noon. The courtyard is quiet. The servants greet you with practiced warmth, but Yuna’s brow furrows when she sees your expression.

“Should I prepare the pavilion for your tea, my lady?” she asks softly.

You nod. “Yes. Thank you.”

Usually, around this time, you can hear Seungcheol. His voice carries through the east wing corridors — low, steady, sharp when he speaks to advisors. Sometimes you can catch pieces of military jargon, strategy talk, the clipped, disciplined edge of a man born for war.

But today — nothing.

No steps. No hushed conversations. No heavy door closing as he disappears into the war room. Not even the sound of him training in the courtyard.

You spend most of the day reading in the pavilion, stretched out on one of the cushioned benches, surrounded by a soft breeze and the sound of koi rippling through the pond. You almost want to fall asleep again, if only to forget the silence.

He doesn’t eat lunch, by the words of the kitchen staff you overheard.

Doesn’t come in by midafternoon.

You pace the veranda once, twice. You debate sending a servant, just to ask where he went — but the thought makes your pride clench like a fist in your chest.

He left. Again. Let him.

So you sit. Wait.

Something you’re getting good at doing, you’ve realized.

Evening comes and passes. The sun dips behind the western hills. Lanterns are lit one by one around the estate. And still, no sign of him.

Until—

Just past the ninth hour, as you’re seated once more in the pavilion with your tea gone cold, you hear the unmistakable sound of hooves on stone.

You don’t turn immediately.

But you hear the main gate — the daemun — creak open. The sounds that follow are quiet but certain: boots hitting the stone walkway, leather and steel rustling as someone passes the perimeter guards.

You lift your gaze.

And there he is.

Seungcheol, returning under the veil of night, half-shadowed by the flickering lanterns lining the eastern wall. His haori is undone at the neck, hair mussed, cheeks wind-bitten pink, dirt smudged along his sleeves, a scroll tucked under one arm, eyes locked forward.

Like nothing happened.

Like he hadn’t been inside you just hours ago.

You watch him pass through the courtyard without even glancing at your direction.

He doesn’t look for you.

Doesn’t even fucking pause.

You wonder if you were just another obligation. Another compromise.

You don’t say a word. Just sip the tea that’s long since gone bitter.

And feel the ache in your chest become worse than the one between your thighs.

: ̗̀➛ of silks and steel

@gyuguys ; @theidontknowmehn ; @gyuhao365 ; @heelariously ; @asyre ; @peachytokki ; @chisskaa ; @vnstennis ; @armycarat2612 ; @living0livia ; @hanniehq ; @minhui896 ; @Syluslittlecrows ; @reiofsuns2001 ; @madywoopz ; @sillygoosegoose ; @idubiluranghae ; @seniorbarbie ; @arshiyuh ; @denimtangerine ; @cherrymoonchild ; @jungkookisthetypeto; @dutchelfandkpoplover ; @nahyuckism ; @so-da-1

[hanniehq]

me bc i opened my seunghan albums and pulled seunghan

[hanniehq]

୭ೃ — ENTANGLED

CHAPTER 23 — GUILTY BY ASSOCIATION

SUMMARY!! confessing to your best friend seemed like a good idea, right!? well, spoiler alert: it wasn't. fast forward to 2 years later and now you two are attending the same college and wait ... his girlfriend is your roommate?

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