#(same with echo and fives actually)

[mrsnaildood]

Beanpole Brothers

[enhaflixer]

CHERRY TREES

arranged husband!Jungwon x trophy wife!reader - confronting cold arranged husband on your first anniversary.

ENHA HARD HOURS 18+ MDNI, Angst, fluff, a second chance, the smut is crazy im ngl to u but the angst is worse, he actually goes insane like insane he loses it.

-

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed five times, its deep resonance echoing through the marble corridors of your estate. Without opening your eyes, you knew Jungwon was already awake. The mattress dipped slightly as he carefully extracted himself from beneath the Egyptian cotton covers, his movements deliberately gentle to avoid disturbing you. You kept your breathing steady, maintaining the pretense of sleep as you had so many mornings before.

Through barely-parted lids, you watched his silhouette move through the predawn darkness. Jungwon's routine never varied—not on weekends, holidays, or even the morning after your anniversary celebration when he'd had perhaps one glass of Château Margaux too many. Five a.m. meant feet on the floor, regardless of circumstance.

He disappeared into the expansive en-suite bathroom, closing the door with practiced quietness before the shower began to run. You rolled over to face the floor-to-ceiling windows, abandoning the charade of sleep. Outside, the manicured gardens remained dark and still, mirroring the atmosphere that permeated your mansion despite its immaculate decoration and luxurious furnishings.

One year of marriage. Three hundred and sixty-five mornings of this same choreographed dance.

By the time Jungwon emerged from the bathroom, you had straightened your side of the bed and donned your silk robe. He nodded in acknowledgment, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

"Good morning," he said, voice pleasant but neutral. "Did I wake you? I'm sorry."

"No, I was already awake," you lied, the response automatic after months of repetition. "Will you be joining me for breakfast on the terrace today?"

He checked his watch—the elegant Patek Philippe you'd given him on your six-month anniversary. "I have an early meeting. I'll grab something at the office."

You nodded, expecting this answer. Despite your chef preparing an elaborate breakfast spread every morning, Jungwon rarely sat down to eat it. You'd long since stopped taking it personally, instead viewing it as simply another aspect of your peculiar marriage.

"Madame," came a soft voice from the doorway. Your personal maid stood waiting respectfully. "The blue gown has been pressed for tonight's charity auction, and Mrs. Yang called to confirm your appointment at the salon at two."

"Thank you. Please tell the chef I'll be down shortly."

Jungwon's expression softened momentarily with what might have been gratitude. "The blue gown is a good choice. It matches the sapphires."

The brief warmth in his eyes vanished so quickly you questioned whether you'd imagined it. He dressed efficiently, selecting the navy suit you'd suggested earlier in the week. You busied yourself reviewing the day's schedule on your tablet, giving him space while maintaining the illusion of comfortable domesticity.

"I'll send the car for you at six," he said, adjusting his tie in the mirror. Perfect Windsor knot, as always. "The auction starts at seven, but your mother-in-law suggested we arrive early to greet the host committee."

"I'll be ready," you assured him. "The blue complements the sapphires your family gifted me last Christmas—perfect for the society photographers."

He nodded approvingly. "Perfect. The Yangs must maintain appearances."

The phrase hung in the air between you, a reminder of what truly bound you together. Not love or passion or even friendship, but appearances. The Yang family name and reputation, upheld through generations and now entrusted to Jungwon—and by extension, to you.

Before leaving, he stopped at the bedroom door. "The new arrangement in the grand foyer—the one with the peonies and orchids. My mother asked for the name of your florist."

"I'd be happy to share their contact information," you replied, surprised that he'd noticed the flowers at all.

He hesitated, as if considering saying something more, then simply nodded and left. Moments later, you heard the soft purr of his car starting in the circular driveway below.

The suite fell silent, save for the continuing measured tick of the antique clock.

By eleven, you had completed your morning inspection of the household: reviewing the dinner menu with the chef, approving the landscaping plans for the east garden, and confirming that the linens for Friday's dinner party had been properly pressed. The mansion operated with clockwork precision under your supervision, a showcase of domestic perfection that visitors frequently praised.

Your phone chimed with a text message from Mrs. Yang—your mother-in-law.

The charity auction tonight is a perfect opportunity to connect with the Singhs. Their daughter returned from Oxford and has taken over their foundation. Jungwon could use their support for the new community project.

You typed a gracious reply, assuring her you would make the introduction. This was part of your unspoken role: social facilitator, network cultivator, the charming counterbalance to Jungwon's more reserved demeanor in public. Mrs. Yang had explicitly voiced her approval of your social graces during the marriage negotiations, though she'd phrased it more delicately at the time.

In the solarium, you sipped tea and reviewed correspondence on your tablet. The household staff moved efficiently around the estate, their presence indicated only by the occasional distant voice or the soft closing of a door. This cocoon of luxury and service had become your domain—a gilded cage, perhaps, but one you managed with impeccable skill.

The charity auction venue sparkled with crystal chandeliers and the gleam of expensive jewelry. You stood beside Jungwon, your hand resting lightly in the crook of his arm as he conversed with an important international investor. Your blue gown complemented the subtle blue in Jungwon's tie, a coordinated detail that Mrs. Yang had encouraged early in your marriage.

"And what do you think of the market's new direction?" the investor asked, unexpectedly turning to include you in the conversation.

Without missing a beat, you offered a thoughtful response based on fragments you'd gathered from Jungwon's rare comments about business. Your husband's arm tensed slightly beneath your hand—in surprise or approval, you couldn't tell.

"You've got yourself a perceptive wife, Yang," the man laughed, clearly impressed. "Better be careful or I'll recruit her for my advisory board."

Jungwon smiled, a genuine expression that transformed his handsome face. "I'm very fortunate," he agreed, turning to look at you with apparent pride.

For a moment—just a moment—the warmth in his eyes seemed real. Then a passing waiter offered champagne, and the connection broke as he reached for two glasses.

The evening continued in this manner: introductions, small talk, strategic conversations with selected guests, and the careful maintenance of the image you projected as a couple. Jungwon's hand occasionally rested at the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd with gentle pressure. To anyone watching, the gesture appeared intimate and caring.

"Your work with the children's literacy foundation has been inspirational," commented Ms. Singh as you were introduced. "My father is quite impressed."

You played your part flawlessly. Laughed at the right moments. Showed appropriate interest in business discussions. Made mental notes of important names and connections to record later in your planner. You orchestrated the introduction to the Singh family that appeared completely spontaneous, fulfilling your mother-in-law's request with such subtlety that even Jungwon seemed unaware of the manipulation.

During a lull in the event, you excused yourself to visit the ladies' room. Standing before the mirror, you studied your reflection: perfectly applied makeup, not a hair out of place, the picture of a successful young wife. Other women came and went, exchanging pleasantries, complimenting your gown or asking about upcoming social events.

"You and Jungwon always look so happy together," sighed a fellow socialite as she applied fresh lipstick. "My husband can barely remember which events are on our calendar, let alone coordinate his tie with my outfit."

You smiled politely. "Jungwon is very attentive to details."

When you returned to the main hall, you spotted your husband across the room, engaged in conversation with the Singh patriarch as you had arranged. His posture was relaxed, confident, his expression animated as he discussed something that clearly interested him. You rarely saw that expression at home.

As if sensing your gaze, he looked up and met your eyes across the crowded room. For a brief moment, something unreadable flickered across his face. He excused himself from the conversation and made his way to your side.

"Is everything alright?" he asked quietly.

"Of course," you assured him. "Mr. Singh seems interested in your project."

He nodded. "Yes, thank you for the introduction. He mentioned you'd spoken highly of the initiative."

"That's what wives do, isn't it?" you replied, the words emerging more wistfully than you'd intended.

Jungwon studied your face, his brow furrowing slightly. "Are you tired? We can leave if you'd like."

"No," you said quickly. "Your mother would be disappointed if we left before the final auction lot."

The mention of his mother was enough to settle the matter. Jungwon nodded and offered his arm again, leading you back into the social whirl. The rest of the evening passed in a blur of smiles and small talk, your practiced responses on autopilot while your mind drifted elsewhere.

The mansion was quiet when you returned just after midnight, though a few lights remained on for your arrival. The night butler opened the door as the car pulled up.

"Welcome home, Madame, Sir," he greeted with a respectful bow. "May I bring anything before you retire?"

"No thank you," Jungwon replied, loosening his tie. "That will be all for tonight."

As the butler disappeared, Jungwon turned to you in the grand foyer, its marble floors gleaming under the soft chandelier light. "Successful evening," he commented, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "The Singhs have invited us to their summer compound next month."

"That's wonderful," you replied, slipping off your heels with a small sigh of relief. "Your mother will be pleased."

He set down his keys and looked at you directly, something he rarely did at home. "You don't need to keep mentioning my mother. I'm capable of recognizing business opportunities on my own."

The unexpected sharpness in his tone surprised you. "I didn't mean to suggest otherwise."

He sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, disheveling it slightly. "I'm sorry. That came out wrong."

The apology hung awkwardly between you. Jungwon rarely expressed irritation, maintaining the same polite distance whether discussing dinner plans or household accounts.

"It's late," you said finally. "We're both tired."

He nodded, the momentary crack in his composure already repaired. "I have some work to finish. Don't wait up."

You watched him retreat to his home office, the door closing firmly behind him. In the kitchen, you found the chef had left a covered plate of small desserts and a pot of tea keeping warm. The thoughtful gesture—understanding your tendency to skip dinner at formal events—brought an unexpected lump to your throat.

The mansion was beautiful—spacious, elegantly decorated, with every luxury and convenience. The marriage looked perfect from the outside: handsome, successful husband; accomplished, supportive wife; respected families united through a beneficial alliance. You wanted for nothing material.

And yet.

Upstairs, your nightwear had already been laid out and the bed turned down. In the adjoining bathroom, you methodically removed your jewelry and makeup, the familiar routine requiring no thought. Your reflection stared back, younger without the carefully applied cosmetics but somehow sadder too.

When you finally slipped between the cool sheets, Jungwon's side of the bed remained empty. You knew from experience that he might not come upstairs for hours. Sometimes you woke briefly in the night to feel the mattress dip as he joined you, maintaining a careful distance even in sleep.

As exhaustion pulled you toward unconsciousness, you wondered—not for the first time—what thoughts occupied your husband's mind during his late-night work sessions. Whether he ever questioned the arrangement that had brought you together. Whether he ever wished for something more than this immaculate, empty performance you both maintained.

Outside, a gentle rain began to fall against the panoramic windows, drops catching the moonlight like silver tears against the darkness.

-

The first anniversary dinner had been your mother-in-law's idea.

"A small celebration," she'd said during your weekly tea. "Nothing extravagant, of course. Just family to commemorate the successful first year."

You'd nodded and smiled, playing your part. "I'll coordinate with the chef for a special menu."

A successful first year. The phrase echoed in your mind as you supervised the staff arranging peonies and orchids in the dining room���Jungwon's mother's favorites. The crystal gleamed under the chandelier light, the silver polished to mirror brightness, the napkins folded into perfect swans. Success measured in appearances, in business connections forged, in social obligations fulfilled.

Not in moments of genuine connection, in shared laughter, in the casual intimacy of a hand brushing hair from your face. Those metrics of success remained conspicuously absent from your marriage ledger.

"The wine selection has been brought up from the cellar, Madame," said the butler. "And the chef has prepared the appetizers exactly as you specified."

"Thank you," you replied, adjusting a place setting minutely. "Mr. Yang will be home by seven, and his parents will arrive at seven-thirty."

The butler nodded and withdrew, leaving you alone in the perfect dining room of your perfect mansion in your perfect marriage that was, somehow, entirely empty.

Jungwon arrived precisely at seven, as predictable as the sunrise. You heard the familiar sound of his car, followed by his measured footsteps in the foyer. When he appeared in the doorway of the dining room, he was already dressed in the suit you'd laid out—the charcoal gray Tom Ford that his mother once commented made him look distinguished.

"Everything looks lovely," he said, surveying the room with appreciative eyes. "You've outdone yourself."

"Thank you," you replied, accepting the compliment with practiced grace. "Your mother mentioned Mr. Kim might join them. I've set an extra place just in case."

Something flickered across Jungwon's face—annoyance, perhaps. "He wasn't mentioned to me."

"He's the family attorney. Perhaps there's business to discuss."

"On our anniversary dinner?" The edge in Jungwon's voice surprised you. "Some things should remain separate from business."

You studied your husband's face, wondering at this unusual display of emotion. "Would you prefer I call your mother and inquire?"

"No," he said, composure returning like a mask sliding back into place. "It doesn't matter."

But it did matter, and the tension in his shoulders told you so. This was new—this momentary crack in the facade. You wanted to press further, to understand what had triggered this response, but years of social conditioning held you back.

Instead, you said, "There's time for a drink before they arrive. Would you like something?"

He nodded, following you to the sitting room where the bar cart awaited. You poured him two fingers of the Macallan 25-year he preferred, your movements precise and practiced. When you handed him the crystal tumbler, your fingers brushed his—an accidental touch that shouldn't have felt significant but somehow did.

"One year," he said quietly, staring into the amber liquid.

"Yes," you agreed, pouring yourself a small measure of the same. "It's gone quickly."

The silence between you stretched, filled with all the words neither of you knew how to say. Jungwon seemed on the verge of speaking when the doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of his parents.

The moment, whatever it might have been, evaporated.

Dinner progressed with the same choreographed precision as every family gathering. Mrs. Yang complimented the decor, inquired about your recent charity work, and dominated the conversation with updates on various family connections. Mr. Yang, stern and reserved like his son, contributed occasional comments about business or politics. And Mr. Kim, who had indeed accompanied them, observed it all with the calculated interest of someone evaluating an investment.

"The first year is always the most challenging," Mrs. Yang declared over the entrée, smiling at you and Jungwon with evident satisfaction. "And you two have managed it beautifully."

"Indeed," agreed Mr. Kim, raising his wine glass in a small toast. "The Yang family's standing has only strengthened. Your partnership has proven most advantageous."

Partnership. Not marriage. The distinction wasn't lost on you.

"And the foundation gala last month," Mrs. Yang continued. "Several board members commented on how impressive you both were. The Choi family was particularly taken with you, dear." She directed this last comment at you. "Mrs. Choi mentioned how fortunate Jungwon is to have found such an accomplished wife."

"I am fortunate," Jungwon agreed smoothly, the response automatic. He didn't look at you as he said it.

"Now, about the expansion into renewable energy," Mr. Yang began, turning to his son. "The board is meeting next week to discuss the proposal."

Business at the anniversary dinner, just as you'd predicted. You caught Jungwon's eye across the table, a silent acknowledgment passing between you. For once, it felt like you were truly on the same side, united in your recognition of the situation's irony.

As the men discussed business, Mrs. Yang leaned closer to you. "You know, dear, I've been meaning to ask... it's been a year now. Any news you'd like to share? Any... expectations?"

The delicate emphasis made her meaning clear. You felt heat rise to your face, embarrassment mingling with a deeper discomfort.

"Not yet," you replied quietly, maintaining your composure despite the intrusive question.

"Well, there's still time," she said, patting your hand. "Though of course, an heir is important for the Yang legacy. My husband's grandmother used to say, 'A tree without new leaves withers.'"

You nodded politely, taking a sip of wine to avoid having to respond further. Across the table, you noticed Jungwon's shoulders tense, though he gave no other indication of having overheard.

The rest of the evening passed in a similar vein—discussions of business, thinly veiled inquiries about family planning, and reminiscences about the wedding that focused primarily on its beneficial outcomes for the Yang family interests.

Not once did anyone ask if you were happy.

After seeing his parents and Mr. Kim to the door, Jungwon returned to the sitting room where you were nursing a final glass of wine. The house felt unnaturally quiet after the departure of the guests, the air heavy with unspoken thoughts.

"My mother was pleased," he said, loosening his tie and pouring himself another whiskey. "She said the dinner was perfect."

"Of course she did," you replied, a hint of bitterness seeping into your voice despite your best efforts. "Everything about us is perfect on the surface."

Jungwon looked at you sharply. "What does that mean?"

The wine, the emotional strain of the evening, the accumulation of a year's worth of silences—something inside you finally cracked.

"It means this," you gestured between the two of you, "isn't a marriage. It's a business arrangement with living quarters."

His expression hardened. "That's unfair. I've given you everything you could want."

"Everything except yourself," you countered, your voice rising slightly. "We live in the same house, sleep in the same bed, but you might as well be a thousand miles away."

"I don't know what you expect," he said stiffly. "We both understood the nature of this marriage from the beginning."

"Did we? Because I didn't agree to a lifetime of politeness and distance. I didn't agree to be nothing more than the perfect hostess and social coordinator for your business connections."

Jungwon set down his glass with careful precision. "You've never complained before."

"When would I have complained, Jungwon? During the three minutes of conversation we have each morning? Or perhaps during our public performances where we pretend to be a loving couple?"

He ran a hand through his hair, disheveling its perfect arrangement. "I thought you were satisfied with our arrangement. You manage the household, attend the events, fulfill your responsibilities—"

"Responsibilities?" The word struck like a match against your accumulated frustration. "Is that all I am to you? A set of responsibilities to be fulfilled?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean? Please, enlighten me about my role in this arrangement, since clearly I've misunderstood."

His jaw tightened. "You're my wife."

"Your wife," you repeated, the word suddenly sounding hollow. "And what does that mean to you? Because from where I stand, I might as well be your assistant or your housekeeper for all the genuine connection between us."

"You're being dramatic," he said dismissively. "Perhaps you've had too much wine."

The condescension in his tone was the final straw. A year of suppressed emotions—loneliness, frustration, yearning—erupted like a volcano too long dormant.

"Don't you dare dismiss me," you snapped, rising to your feet. "I have spent a year of my life walking on eggshells, trying to be perfect, trying to please you and your family, and for what? A thank you when I select the right tie? A nod of approval when I make the right business connection?"

Jungwon stared at you, clearly taken aback by your outburst. "I don't understand where this is coming from."

"Of course you don't! You've never bothered to see me as anything more than a convenient addition to your perfectly ordered life. Wake up at five, ignore wife, go to work, come home, work more, sleep. Repeat until death."

"That's not fair," he protested, but his voice lacked conviction.

"Isn't it? When was the last time you asked me about my day? Or shared something personal about yours? When was the last time you looked at me—really looked at me—not as the 'Madame' of this house or as an accessory at a business function, but as a woman? As your wife?"

The color drained from Jungwon's face, but you were beyond stopping now. The floodgates had opened, and a year's worth of unspoken thoughts poured forth in a torrent.

"We haven't even consummated our marriage, Jungwon! One year, and you've never once reached for me in the night. Never once kissed me with anything resembling passion. Do you have any idea how that feels? To lie beside someone night after night, wanting to be touched, to be desired, and meeting nothing but polite distance?"

His eyes widened in shock at your bluntness. "I—I thought you preferred our current arrangement. You never indicated—"

"Indicated?" You laughed, the sound brittle. "Would it have mattered if I had? You barely look at me when we're alone together. You keep yourself locked in your office until I'm asleep. Tell me, Jungwon, are you repulsed by me? Is that it?"

"No!" The vehemence of his response surprised you both. "That's not it at all."

"Then what? What keeps you at arm's length? Because I can't live like this anymore—this half-life of appearances and politeness with nothing real beneath it."

You moved closer, anger giving you courage you'd never had before. "How do you satisfy your desires, Jungwon? Do you have someone else? Some mistress in an apartment downtown who gets to see the real you? Who gets to feel your touch, your passion?"

He looked genuinely shocked. "There's no one else. I would never—"

"Then what?" Your voice broke slightly. "Are you simply that cold? That disconnected from your own body, your own needs? Because I refuse to believe a healthy man in his prime feels nothing, wants nothing."

Jungwon's jaw tightened. "This conversation is inappropriate."

"Inappropriate?" You were nearly shouting now. "We're married! This is exactly the conversation we should have had months ago! Do you have any idea what it's like to wonder if there's something wrong with you? To lie awake wondering why your husband never reaches for you? To start believing that maybe you're fundamentally undesirable?"

"That's not—" he began, but you cut him off.

"I've started inventing stories in my head, Jungwon. Elaborate scenarios to explain why my husband treats me like a porcelain doll. Maybe you're secretly in love with someone from your past. Maybe you prefer men. Maybe you have some medical condition you're too embarrassed to discuss. I've considered everything because the alternative—that you simply feel nothing for me—is too painful to bear."

His face had gone pale. "It's none of those things."

"Then help me understand," you pleaded, anger giving way to raw vulnerability. "Because the silence is killing me. The wondering is killing me. Are you like this with everyone? This... removed? This contained? Or is it just me you can't bring yourself to touch?"

Jungwon paced away from you, his composure cracking visibly. For a moment, he looked like he might retreat to his office—his usual escape—but instead, he stopped at the window, staring out at the darkness.

"I live in my head," he said so quietly you almost missed it. "Always have. Physical... intimacy... doesn't come naturally to me."

"Have you ever let yourself feel something?" you asked, your tone softer now. "With anyone?"

He was silent for so long you thought he might not answer. When he did, his voice was strained. "There was someone in college. It ended badly. I lost control, became... emotional. My father said it was embarrassing. Unbecoming of a Yang."

The confession surprised you. This tiny glimpse into his past felt like more intimacy than you'd experienced in a year of marriage.

"And since then?"

"Since then I've learned to be careful. Controlled." He turned to face you. "I thought I was respecting your space. Your independence."

"Respecting my space?" You stared at him incredulously. "There's a difference between respect and indifference, Jungwon."

"I'm not indifferent to you," he said quietly.

"Then what are you? Because from my perspective, I might as well be living alone for all the emotional connection between us."

He turned away again, his shoulders rigid with tension. "I don't know how to do this."

"Do what?"

"This." He gestured vaguely. "Marriage. Intimacy. I wasn't raised for it."

"Neither was I," you countered. "But I'm trying. I've been trying for a year while you've been hiding behind work and politeness and duty."

You moved to stand beside him at the window, close but not touching. "Do you ever look at me and feel anything, Jungwon? Anything at all? Because sometimes I catch you watching me when you think I won't notice, and there's something in your eyes that disappears the moment I turn toward you."

He swallowed visibly. "I notice everything about you," he admitted, the words seeming to cost him. "The way you arrange flowers according to your mood. How you always leave the last bite of dessert. The small sigh you make when you're reading something that touches you."

The revelation stunned you. "Then why—"

"Because wanting leads to needing," he interrupted, his voice suddenly raw. "And needing makes you vulnerable. My father taught me that. The moment you need someone, you've given them the power to destroy you."

The silence stretched between you, heavy with the weight of truths finally spoken aloud. When Jungwon finally turned back to face you, his expression was uncharacteristically vulnerable.

"What do you want from me?" he asked, and for once, the question seemed genuine.

The simplicity of the question momentarily deflated your anger. What did you want? It was a question you'd asked yourself countless times during sleepless nights.

"I want a husband, not a housemate," you said finally. "I want to know the man behind the perfect facade. I want to feel wanted, desired, known. I want the possibility of love, even if it's not there yet."

Your voice cracked on the last words, and you felt tears threatening. "Sometimes I think if I sleep with you once and let you get me pregnant, at least I won't be so damn lonely. At least I'd have someone who needs me, truly needs me, not just for appearances or social connections."

"A child deserves better than to be born from desperation," Jungwon said softly, surprising you with his insight.

"And a wife deserves better than emotional abandonment," you countered. "I look at other couples sometimes—even the arranged marriages in our circle—and I see moments of genuine tenderness. A hand on a shoulder. A private smile. Small intimacies that say 'I see you, I choose you.' We have none of that, Jungwon."

He flinched as if struck. "Is that what you think? That I only see you as a means to an heir?"

"How would I know what you think?" you demanded. "You barely speak to me about anything that matters. For all I know, you've mapped out our entire future in that methodical mind of yours—the optimal time for children, their education, their role in continuing the Yang legacy—all without once considering what I might want, what I might need as a woman, as a person."

"That's not true," he protested, but his voice lacked conviction.

"When have you ever shared your fears with me, Jungwon? Your hopes? Your dreams beyond the next business deal or family obligation? When have you ever asked about mine?"

He had no answer, and his silence was damning.

"I can't do this anymore," you said, suddenly exhausted. "I can't keep pretending that this empty performance is enough. I need more than politeness and perfect appearances. I need connection. I need intimacy. I need to at least feel that there's the possibility of love someday."

"And if I can't give you that?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

The question hung in the air between you, a challenge and a plea at once. You met his gaze directly.

"Then this marriage is already over, regardless of what we show the world."

The words fell like stones into still water, ripples of consequence expanding outward. Jungwon's face paled, and something like genuine fear flickered in his eyes.

"You would leave?" he asked, the question revealing more vulnerability than he'd shown in a year of marriage.

"Not in body, perhaps," you replied. "The scandal would devastate both our families. But in spirit? I'm already halfway gone, Jungwon. Every day of polite distance pushes me further away."

He sank onto the sofa, looking suddenly lost. This wasn't the composed, controlled man you'd lived alongside for a year. This was someone else—someone real and raw and unsure.

"I don't know how to be what you need," he admitted finally.

"I'm not asking for perfection," you said, your anger giving way to a profound sadness. "I'm asking for effort. For honesty. For the chance to build something real together, even if it's difficult. Even if we don't know exactly how."

Jungwon stared at his hands, his wedding ring catching the light. For a long moment, he said nothing. When he finally looked up, his eyes held a complexity of emotion you'd never seen before.

"I need time," he said. "To think. To... process all of this."

The request was reasonable, but it still stung. Even now, faced with the potential collapse of your marriage, he couldn't give you an immediate response.

"Fine," you said, suddenly bone-weary. "Take your time. You know where to find me."

You turned to leave, your body heavy with emotional exhaustion, when his voice stopped you.

"Where are you going?"

"To the blue guest room," you replied without turning. "I think we both need space tonight."

He made no move to stop you as you left the sitting room, your anniversary dress rustling softly with each step. The grand staircase seemed longer than usual, each step an effort. Behind you, you heard the clink of glass—Jungwon pouring another drink, perhaps, or simply moving restlessly in the silent house.

The blue guest room was immaculate, as was every room in the mansion, but it felt cold and impersonal. You sat on the edge of the bed, still in your evening dress, too tired even to cry. The confrontation had drained you completely, leaving nothing but a hollow ache where hope had once resided.

From the nightstand, your phone chimed with a message. Mechanically, you reached for it, expecting perhaps your mother-in-law with some post-dinner comment.

Instead, it was Jungwon.

I do want you. I always have. That's what frightens me.

You stared at the screen, the words blurring slightly as you read them over and over. A text message—that was what it had taken to finally glimpse the man behind the mask. Not a conversation, not a touch, but characters on a screen.

Another message appeared below the first.

I'm sorry. I should have said this to your face.

I'll be in the study when you're ready to talk. No matter how late.

The formality, even now. The careful distance maintained even in apology. You placed the phone back on the nightstand without responding, a weariness settling over you that went beyond physical exhaustion.

For a moment, you sat motionless on the edge of the guest bed, the weight of the past year pressing down on your shoulders. The perfect house with its perfect furnishings suddenly felt suffocating—every object a reminder of the performance your life had become.

You rose and moved to the window, pressing your palm against the cool glass. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the night remained dark and close. The mansion grounds, usually so meticulously maintained, seemed oppressive in their perfection. Even the garden paths were laid out with mathematical precision, every plant and stone exactly where it should be.

Like you. Exactly where you should be. The proper wife in her proper place.

The realization came suddenly, with absolute clarity: you couldn't stay here tonight. Not in this guest room, not in this house, not with Jungwon waiting in his study for a conversation that would likely end with more careful words and measured promises.

You needed air. Space. A place where you could remember who you were before becoming Mrs. Yang.

With deliberate movements, you changed out of your evening dress and into simple clothes. Packed a small overnight bag with essentials. Found your personal credit card—the one not connected to the Yang family accounts.

You hesitated only when it came time to write a note. What could you possibly say that wouldn't be misinterpreted or dismissed? In the end, you kept it simple:

I need space to breathe. Please don't follow me. I'll contact you when I'm ready.

You left it on the bed, where it would surely be found when someone came looking for you. Then, silently, you made your way down the service stairs and through the side entrance—avoiding the main foyer where you might encounter Jungwon.

The night air hit your face as you stepped outside, cool and clean and startlingly fresh. You took a deep breath, perhaps the first real one in months, and felt something inside you loosen just slightly.

You didn't call for the driver. Instead, you walked down the long driveway and past the gates, your heartbeat quickening with each step that took you farther from the mansion. Only when you reached the main road did you order a rideshare, giving the address of an old friend—one who predated your marriage, who had no connection to the Yang family circle.

As the car pulled away, you glanced back at the house—a magnificent silhouette against the night sky, lights burning in the study window where Jungwon waited for a conversation that wouldn't happen tonight.

Tomorrow would bring complications, explanations, perhaps reconciliation. But tonight, for the first time in a year, you were choosing yourself.

Your phone buzzed with a message from Jungwon.

Are you coming down?

You turned off the notifications and watched the mansion recede in the distance, growing smaller until it disappeared from view entirely.

-

The city lights blurred through your tears as the car wound its way through the quiet streets. The driver, sensing your distress, maintained a respectful silence, occasionally glancing at you in the rearview mirror with concern. You kept your face turned toward the window, watching as elite neighborhoods gave way to more modest surroundings.

When the car finally pulled up outside Leah's apartment building, you sat motionless for a moment, suddenly uncertain. It was past midnight. What if she wasn't home? What if she had company? What if—

"We're here, ma'am," the driver said gently, interrupting your spiraling thoughts.

"Thank you," you managed, gathering your small bag and stepping out into the night.

Leah's building was nothing like the Yang mansion—a six-story pre-war structure with a faded charm that stood in stark contrast to the sleek modernity you'd grown accustomed to. You hesitated at the entrance, then pressed her apartment number on the intercom.

After a long moment, a sleepy voice answered. "Hello?"

"Leah," you said, your voice cracking slightly. "It's me. I'm sorry it's so late, but—"

"Oh my god!" The sleepiness vanished instantly. "Are you okay? I'm buzzing you up right now."

The door clicked open, and you made your way to the third floor, each step feeling heavier than the last. Before you could even knock, Leah's door swung open, revealing your oldest friend in mismatched pajamas, her curly hair wild around her face.

"What happened?" she demanded, then stopped as she took in your appearance—the elegant makeup now streaked with tears, the designer clothes hastily exchanged for whatever you'd grabbed, the overnight bag clutched in your trembling hand.

"Oh, honey," she said, simply opening her arms.

Something inside you broke. You stumbled forward into her embrace and the tears you'd been holding back for months—perhaps for the entire year of your marriage—finally erupted. Great, heaving sobs that shook your entire body, that made it impossible to speak or breathe or think.

Leah didn't ask questions. She simply guided you inside, closing the door behind you, and held you while you fell apart. Her apartment was cluttered and lived-in, books stacked on every surface, half-finished art projects leaning against walls—the complete opposite of your sterile perfection at the mansion.

"I can't—" you tried to speak, but the words dissolved into more tears.

"Shh," she soothed, leading you to her worn but comfortable couch. "Just breathe. That's all you need to do right now."

You don't know how long you cried—long enough for your eyes to swell, for your throat to grow raw, for Leah's shoulder to become damp with your tears. Eventually, the storm subsided enough for you to become aware of your surroundings again. Leah had wrapped a soft blanket around your shoulders and was pressing a mug of hot tea into your hands.

"Small sips," she instructed, settling beside you. "It has honey for your throat."

You obeyed, the warmth spreading through your chest, momentarily calming the chaos inside you.

"I left him," you said finally, your voice hoarse from crying.

Leah's eyebrows shot up. "Jungwon? You left Jungwon?"

"Just for tonight. Maybe a few days. I don't know." You shook your head, struggling to articulate the tangle of emotions. "I couldn't breathe there anymore, Leah. In that perfect house with its perfect things and its perfect emptiness."

"I always wondered," she said cautiously, "if you were really happy. You stopped talking about the real stuff after the wedding. It was all charity events and dinner parties, but never... you know. The actual marriage part."

"There was no marriage part," you confessed, fresh tears threatening. "That's the problem. We live side by side like strangers. Polite, distant strangers who happen to share the same address."

Leah reached for your hand, squeezing it gently. "Did something specific happen tonight?"

You nodded, the evening's confrontation flashing through your mind in painful fragments. "We had our anniversary dinner with his parents. And after they left, I just... broke. All the things I've been holding back for a year came pouring out."

"Good for you," Leah said firmly.

"Is it?" You looked at her, uncertain. "I said terrible things, Leah. I accused him of seeing me as nothing but a showpiece, a means to an heir. I asked if he was repulsed by me. If he was sleeping with someone else."

"And what did he say?"

"He was shocked, mostly. I don't think anyone's ever spoken to him like that before." You took another sip of tea, gathering your thoughts. "But then he said something about... about wanting me but being afraid of needing someone. Of being vulnerable."

Leah nodded thoughtfully. "That actually makes a strange kind of sense. Your husband always struck me as someone who keeps himself under tight control."

"You've met him twice," you pointed out with a watery smile.

"Twice was enough." She grinned briefly, then grew serious again. "So what happens now?"

You shook your head, feeling utterly lost. "I don't know. I just knew I had to get out of there tonight. To remember what it feels like to be... me. Not Mrs. Yang, not the society hostess, just me."

"Well, you came to the right place," Leah said, gesturing around her chaotic apartment. "Nothing perfect or polished here. Just real life in all its messy glory."

For the first time that night, you felt a small laugh bubble up. "I've missed this. I've missed you."

"I've been right here," she reminded you gently. "You're the one who got swept up into the Yang universe."

The observation stung because it contained truth. After the wedding, you had gradually withdrawn from your old friendships, immersing yourself in the role expected of Jungwon's wife. It hadn't been a conscious choice, but rather a slow submersion into a new identity that had eventually consumed the person you used to be.

"I don't know who I am anymore," you confessed, the realization dawning as you spoke it. "I've spent so long being what everyone else needed me to be that I've forgotten what I actually want."

"Then maybe that's what this time away is for," Leah suggested. "To remember."

You nodded, exhaustion suddenly washing over you. The emotional release had drained what little energy you had left after the confrontation with Jungwon.

"The guest room is a disaster area right now—art supplies everywhere," Leah said apologetically. 

"The couch is perfect," you assured her, overwhelmed.

"Shut up, you'll sleep next to me,"

-

Jungwon sat in his study, crystal tumbler of whiskey untouched beside him, as he stared at his phone screen. The message showed as delivered, but not yet read. He refreshed the screen again, a gesture he'd repeated dozens of times in the last hour.

Are you coming down?

The timestamp mocked him. It had been nearly two hours since he'd sent it, and still no response. Unease had gradually transformed into concern, then alarm when he'd finally ventured upstairs to find the blue guest room empty, save for a handwritten note on the perfectly made bed.

I need space to breathe. Please don't follow me. I'll contact you when I'm ready.

The words had hit him with physical force. He stood there staring at the note, reading it over and over as if the sparse sentences might reveal some hidden meaning. Space to breathe. Had he really been suffocating you all this time without realizing it?

Now, back in his study, Jungwon fought against his instinct to act—to call security, to track your phone, to send drivers searching the city. You had asked for space. Following you would only prove that he couldn't respect your wishes, your independence. The very thing he'd convinced himself he'd been protecting all this time.

The irony wasn't lost on him.

Jungwon picked up his phone again, debating whether to try calling. His thumb hovered over your contact information before he set the device down with a sigh of frustration. What would he even say if you answered? The right words had eluded him for an entire year of marriage; they weren't likely to materialize now, in the middle of the night, after the worst fight of your relationship.

A relationship. Was that even the right word for what you had? You had called it a "business arrangement with living quarters," and the brutal accuracy of the description had left him speechless.

Jungwon ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it completely. The careful composure he maintained at all times had crumbled the moment he'd found your note. Now, alone in his study, there was no one to witness his distress, his uncertainty, his fear.

Fear. That was the emotion he'd denied for so long, burying it beneath layers of control and duty. Fear of needing someone. Fear of being vulnerable. Fear of repeating his father's cold, loveless existence.

And in trying to avoid his father's mistakes, he had made his own. Different in method, perhaps, but identical in result: a wife who felt unseen, unwanted.

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed two in the morning. Jungwon hadn't slept, had barely moved from his position at the desk. The silence of the mansion pressed in around him, no longer the peaceful quiet he'd always preferred, but an emptiness that echoed your absence.

On impulse, he rose and left the study, walking through the darkened house toward the master suite. Inside the bedroom, everything remained exactly as you'd both left it hours earlier—your perfume bottle on the vanity, your book on the nightstand, your robe draped over a chair. He moved to your side of the bed, sitting down carefully on the edge, and picked up the book you'd been reading.

A collection of poetry. Jungwon hadn't even known you liked poetry.

What else didn't he know about the woman he'd married? What interests, dreams, fears had you kept hidden—or worse, had tried to share only to be met with his characteristic reserve?

He opened the book to where a silk bookmark held your place. The poem was circled lightly in pencil:

Between what is said and not meant, And what is meant and not said, Most of love is lost.

The simple lines struck him with unexpected force. Jungwon stared at the words, wondering how many times you had tried to tell him what you needed, how many signals he had missed or misinterpreted.

From his pocket, his phone buzzed with an incoming call. His heart leapt as he fumbled to answer, but the caller ID showed his father's name, not yours.

"Father," he answered, struggling to keep his voice even. "It's very late."

"Where is your wife?" Mr. Yang's voice was sharp, cutting through the pretense of pleasantries.

Jungwon tensed. "How did you—"

"Mrs. Park saw her getting into a taxi. Alone. After midnight. She naturally called your mother with concerns."

Of course. The gossip network never slept. "She's visiting a friend," he said carefully.

"In the middle of the night? Without you?" His father's skepticism was palpable. "Do you take me for a fool, Jungwon? What's going on?"

A familiar pattern attempted to reassert itself—the urge to placate his father, to maintain appearances, to ensure the Yang family reputation remained unsullied. For a moment, he almost slipped into the expected response.

But the circled poem caught his eye again. Most of love is lost. He couldn't lose any more.

"We had a disagreement," Jungwon said finally, the admission feeling like ripping off a bandage. "She needed some space."

"A disagreement?" His father's tone grew icier. "Serious enough for her to leave the house? To risk being seen by others, creating speculation? What were you thinking, allowing this?"

The word "allowing" ignited something in him—a flicker of the same defiance he'd felt when his father had demanded he end his college relationship.

"I wasn't 'allowing' anything, Father. She's my wife, not my subordinate. She made a choice, and I'm respecting it."

The silence on the other end of the line was deafening. Never in his adult life had Jungwon spoken to his father with such open opposition.

"This is unacceptable," Mr. Yang said finally. "You will resolve whatever childish spat has occurred and bring her home immediately. The gala next week—"

"Is not as important as my marriage," Jungwon interrupted, surprising himself with the firmness in his voice.

"Your marriage? Suddenly you care about your marriage?" His father's laugh was without humor. "For a year you've treated it exactly as I advised—as a beneficial arrangement. Now you're telling me you've developed feelings? Become sentimental?"

The contempt in the older man's voice was unmistakable, but instead of cowering as he might have in the past, Jungwon felt a strange calm settle over him.

"Yes," he said simply. "I have feelings for my wife. I always have. And I've been wrong to hide them."

"This is disappointing, Jungwon. I expected better from you."

"I'm beginning to think your expectations are precisely the problem, Father." Jungwon took a deep breath. "I need to go now. It's late, and I have some thinking to do."

"Don't you dare hang up on—"

Jungwon ended the call, staring at the phone in mild disbelief at his own actions. Then, with deliberate movements, he silenced the device and set it aside.

Returning to the poetry book, he carefully noted the page number of the circled poem, then moved through the house to your closet. There, among the designer clothes and accessories, he searched for some clue to the woman behind the perfect facade—the woman he'd married but never truly allowed himself to know.

In the back of a drawer, he found a small wooden box, simple and clearly personal. For a moment, his ingrained respect for privacy warred with his desperate need to understand you. Privacy won—he couldn't begin rebuilding trust by violating it—but the box's existence gave him hope. There were parts of yourself you'd kept separate from your arranged life, a core identity preserved despite the pressures of being Mrs. Yang.

Jungwon returned to the study, his earlier paralysis replaced by a growing resolve. He wouldn't chase you—you'd asked for space, and he would respect that. But he could prepare for your return, could begin the work of becoming someone worthy of a second chance.

The task seemed monumentally difficult, decades of conditioning standing in opposition to what he now knew he needed to do. He had no model for the kind of husband he wanted to become, no example of vulnerability balanced with strength.

But for the first time since you'd walked out, Jungwon felt something like hope. If you gave him the chance, he would find a way to be better. To be real. To tear down the walls he'd built over a lifetime of emotional suppression.

Dawn was breaking outside the study windows when he finally drafted a message, simple and without expectation:

I understand you need space, and I respect that. I'll be here when you're ready to talk—whether that's tomorrow or next week. I'm sorry for a year of silence. I'm listening now.

He sent it before he could second-guess himself, then set the phone down and moved to the window. Outside, the gardens were beginning to emerge from darkness, the first light revealing dew on the perfectly manicured lawns.

For once, Jungwon didn't see the perfection. Instead, he noticed how the morning light caught in a spider's web between two branches, transforming the fragile structure into something beautiful and strong. Perhaps there was a lesson there, in vulnerability's unexpected resilience.

As the mansion gradually woke around him—staff arriving, coffee brewing, the day's preparations beginning—Jungwon remained at the window, watching the light change and wondering if you, wherever you were, might be watching the same sunrise.

-

The mansion felt impossibly silent as Jungwon moved through the darkened hallways, your poetry book clutched in his hand like a lifeline. Sleep had become not just elusive but impossible, the vast emptiness of your shared bed a physical manifestation of what had been missing between you for a year. The sheets still carried your scent—a subtle perfume that he'd never properly acknowledged until now, when its absence made the fabric seem cold and lifeless.

He couldn't bear to remain in that room, surrounded by the ghosts of a thousand nights spent in careful distance. Instead, he found himself back in his study, the room that had been his refuge from intimacy for so long. Now it felt like a prison of his own making, walls lined with business achievements that suddenly seemed hollow.

With trembling hands, he placed your book on his desk and opened it once more to the marked page, the one with the circled verse that had first pierced his carefully constructed armor:

Between what is said and not meant,

And what is meant and not said,

Most of love is lost.

His fingers traced your handwriting in the margin—small, delicate notes that revealed more about your inner thoughts than a year of careful conversation had. Next to this poem, you'd written simply: Us? with the question mark trailing off like a fading hope.

One word, followed by a question mark. So much longing contained in those three small letters. Had you written this recently, or months ago? Had you been silently questioning the emptiness between you while he maintained his facade of contentment?

Jungwon turned the page, discovering more of your markings. Some poems had stars beside them, others had entire stanzas underlined. Some had exclamation points, others question marks. It was like finding a secret language, a code he should have deciphered long ago.

A poem about two rivers running parallel without ever meeting carried your annotation: This is what marriage feels like. So close yet never touching.

His breath caught. When had you written that? While lying beside him in bed, bodies carefully not touching? While sitting across from him at breakfast, exchanging polite comments about the day ahead?

He continued reading, unable to stop himself now. Each page revealed more of your hidden inner life. A poem about seasonal changes had reminds me of childhood summers before expectations written in the margin. Another about distant mountains carried the note wish we could travel together somewhere without his family or business associates.

Each annotation was a window into desires you'd never expressed, dreams you'd kept hidden. Why had he never asked what you wanted? Where you longed to go? What made you happy?

The night deepened around him, but Jungwon barely noticed. He was falling into your world, glimpsing for the first time the woman behind the perfect wife he'd taken for granted.

Then he found a page with the corner folded down, a poem about physical love:

I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

Your handwriting beside it was more hurried, almost feverish: too much to hope for? would he ever lose control enough?

Jungwon's throat tightened painfully. All those nights lying beside you, maintaining a careful distance, while you marked poems about passion and wrote desperate questions no one would see. How many nights had you lain awake, wanting him to reach for you? How many times had you considered reaching for him, only to retreat in fear of rejection?

He turned more pages, finding increasingly intimate selections. Next to Pablo Neruda's words:

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, the sovereign nose of your arrogant face, I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes

You'd written: I dream of his mouth on my skin. Would he be disgusted by such thoughts?

The pain that shot through him was physical. Disgusted? How could you think that? But then, what else could you think when he'd maintained such careful distance, when he'd retreated to his study each night rather than face the vulnerability of desire?

Another poem, this one about hands tracing the geography of a lover's body, carried your note: I've memorized the shape of his hands during dinner parties, imagined them on me instead of on his wine glass.

Jungwon looked down at his own hands, remembering all the times they'd almost touched you—passing dishes at dinner, handing you into the car, the brief contact when giving you a gift—and how he'd always pulled back just slightly too soon. What would have happened if he'd let his fingers linger? If he'd given in to the urge to trace the line of your jaw, to feel the softness of your skin?

Hours passed as he lost himself in your secret thoughts. Some poems had tear stains, barely perceptible wrinkles in the paper where droplets had fallen and dried. Those broke him most of all—the tangible evidence of your solitary tears, shed perhaps just feet away from where he sat working, oblivious to your pain.

One poem about loneliness had simply: I am disappearing inside this house, inside this marriage, becoming nothing but "Mrs. Yang" scrawled across the bottom in handwriting that shook with emotion.

Dawn found him still at his desk, eyes burning from reading and from tears he hadn't realized he was shedding. The morning staff moved quietly through the house, shocked to see him disheveled and unshaven, the immaculate Yang heir looking like a man undone.

He ignored their concerned glances, your poetry book still open before him. But it wasn't enough. One book couldn't contain all of you. He needed more.

"Sir," the housekeeper approached hesitantly as Jungwon emerged from his study, still in yesterday's clothes, "would you like your breakfast now?"

"No," he replied, his voice hoarse from a night without sleep. "I need to see all of Madame's books. Every book in this house that she's ever touched."

The housekeeper exchanged a worried glance with the butler. "All of them, sir?"

"Every single one. Novels, poetry, anything with her handwriting in it. Bring them to the library."

He moved with feverish purpose to the library, pulling books from shelves himself—any that showed signs of your touch. Dog-eared pages, bookmarks, the slight cracking of spines that indicated frequent opening to favorite passages.

Throughout the day, the staff delivered more and more books—novels from your nightstand, reference books from the sunroom shelves, journals from your writing desk. Jungwon created careful piles around him, transforming the library floor into a map of your mind.

He found a travel book about Greece with dozens of Post-it notes marking specific locations. The private cove where no one would expect Mrs. Yang to swim naked read one note that made his heart race. Another, beside a picture of a small village: No social obligations, no family expectations—heaven.

You'd been dreaming of escape. From the mansion, from the Yang name, from him? The thought was unbearable.

In your copy of Jane Eyre, he found your underlining of Rochester's passionate declaration: "I have for the first time found what I can truly love–I have found you." Beside it, your handwriting: To be truly SEEN by someone. What would that feel like?

"Oh god," he whispered, the words escaping involuntarily. "You've never felt seen."

How could he have failed so completely? He, who prided himself on his attention to detail in business, had missed everything that mattered about the woman who shared his home, his name, his bed.

As afternoon turned to evening, Jungwon discovered a small leather journal tucked between larger books on a bottom shelf. He hesitated, knowing this was crossing a line from reading your notes to reading your private thoughts. But his need to know you, to understand what he'd missed, overrode his sense of propriety.

The journal wasn't a diary but a collection of poems you'd written yourself, clumsy in places but raw with emotion:

I practice conversations with you in my head

Witty things I might say that would make you look at me

Really look at me

But when you enter the room

My words evaporate like morning dew

And we speak of dinner parties and business associates

Never of stars or dreams or why your eyes

Sometimes follow me when you think I don't notice

Jungwon felt his careful composure—the mask he'd worn his entire adult life—shatter completely. You had seen him watching you. Had known there was something beneath his polite facade. But he'd never given you enough to be sure, had never been brave enough to let you see his wanting.

Another poem, dated just two months ago:

Your fingers brushed mine as you handed me a glass

Accidental touch that burned through my skin

I wonder if you felt it too

That current between us, electric and dangerous

Or if I imagined it, desperate for connection

For any sign that beneath your perfect suit

Beats a heart that could want me

As much as I want you

He had felt it. Every accidental touch, every brush of your hand, every moment when you stood close enough that he could smell your perfume. He had felt everything and denied it all, retreating into work and duty and the expectations drilled into him since childhood.

The worst entry was the most recent, written just days before your anniversary:

One year of marriage

Three hundred sixty-five nights of lying beside him

Listening to his breathing

Wondering if he's awake

Wondering if he ever thinks of touching me

Of breaking through the invisible wall between us

One year of perfect Mrs. Yang While the woman inside me slowly suffocates

Sometimes I think if I just reached for him once

If I was brave enough to cross that divide

But what if his rejection destroyed the last piece of me

That still believes I'm worthy of being

Wanted.

Jungwon closed the journal, his vision blurred with tears. You had been silently begging for him to reach across the divide while he had been congratulating himself on respecting your independence. The magnitude of his failure crushed him.

He didn't eat that day. Didn't change clothes. Didn't acknowledge the increasingly concerned staff who hovered at the library's periphery. Instead, he immersed himself in your hidden world, learning you through the books you'd loved, the passages you'd marked, the words you'd written when you thought no one would see.

Dawn arrived, but Jungwon had lost all sense of time. The library floor was covered with open books, each one containing fragments of your soul. He had read himself into a state of emotional exhaustion, discovering more and more evidence of your loneliness, your desire, your gradual loss of hope.

A desperate energy seized him. Reading wasn't enough. He needed to act, to change, to create physical evidence of his awakening before you returned—if you returned.

He summoned the head gardener, ignoring the man's shocked expression at his disheveled appearance.

"I need every peony on the estate moved to the front garden," he announced, his voice rough from disuse. "Every single one. From all the gardens, the greenhouse, everywhere."

"Sir, that would be hundreds of plants," the gardener protested. "And the formal design—"

"I don't care about the design," Jungwon interrupted, thinking of a note he'd found beside a picture of a wild garden: Why must everything be so ordered? So perfect? I long for beautiful chaos. "I want them arranged naturally. The way they would grow if they chose their own placement."

"But sir, your mother's landscape plan—"

"Is no longer relevant." Jungwon's eyes flashed with an intensity that made the gardener step back. "The peonies were always her choice, not my wife's. I want a garden that reflects what she loves."

"This will take all day, possibly longer," the gardener warned.

"Then start immediately. And I need something else. The bookshelves from the east parlor—bring them to the east garden. All of them."

The staff exchanged alarmed glances, but Jungwon was beyond caring about their concerns. He continued issuing instructions, driven by the need to transform the mansion—to break the perfect mold that had trapped you both.

"Sir," the butler ventured cautiously when the others had gone to carry out these strange orders, "perhaps you should rest. You haven't slept or eaten—"

"How can I rest?" Jungwon's voice broke with emotion. "Do you know what I've discovered? She's been living here for a year, lonely and unfulfilled, while I congratulated myself on being a proper husband. I've failed her completely."

The butler, who had served the Yang family for decades, had never seen the young master in such a state. "Sir, if I may... it's never too late to change course."

Jungwon looked at him sharply. "Have you seen her? Has she contacted anyone?"

"No, sir. But knowing Madame, she's not one to leave matters unresolved."

With renewed determination, Jungwon returned to the library. He selected dozens of books containing your most revealing notes and had them brought to the east garden. As the shelves were positioned on the grass, he began arranging the books, creating a physical testament to what he'd learned.

The gardeners worked throughout the day, transplanting hundreds of peonies to the front garden in a naturalistic arrangement that would horrify his mother but, he hoped, would speak to you. The once-formal approach to the house transformed into an explosion of your favorite flowers, arranged with the organic randomness of nature rather than the rigid precision of Yang tradition.

By late afternoon, Jungwon had created an outdoor library in the east garden—the private corner of the grounds where you often walked alone. He placed books on the shelves and opened others on the grass around him, creating a circle of revelations.

He had sent the staff away, needing to be alone with the evidence of his awakening. His phone buzzed repeatedly—his father, his mother, business associates all demanding attention. He ignored them all.

Instead, he picked up your poetry journal again, reading and rereading your most vulnerable confessions. The precise handwriting becoming more jagged with emotion. The careful Mrs. Yang breaking through to the woman beneath.

As sunset painted the sky in shades of pink and gold, Jungwon sat amidst the books, surrounded by the fragments of you he'd collected, feeling more alive and more terrified than he had ever been. What if it was too late? What if you had already decided that the year of emotional solitude was too high a price for the Yang name and fortune?

He wouldn't blame you. How could he? He had offered you everything except himself.

Night fell, and still he remained in the garden, under stars you had once described in a margin note as witnesses to all our silent longings. He read your words by the light of lanterns the staff had silently provided, losing himself in the labyrinth of your unspoken desires.

In the faint light, he reread the poem that had started his journey—the one about love lost between what is said and not meant, what is meant and not said. He traced your question mark with his finger, feeling the slight indentation in the paper where you had pressed the pen, perhaps harder than you intended, the physical evidence of your frustration.

"I see you now," he whispered to the empty garden, to the books that held pieces of your soul. "I see you, and I'm terrified it's too late."

The night deepened around him, but Jungwon remained among the books, keeping vigil, waiting, hoping you would come home—and fearing you would not.

-

Five days since you'd left. Five days of freedom from the perfect imprisonment that had become your life. Five days to remember who you were before becoming Mrs. Yang.

On the morning of the sixth day, as you sat on Leah's small balcony with a chipped mug of coffee, your phone lit up with a text from Jungwon's personal assistant.

Mr. Yang has canceled all appointments for the foreseeable future. The household staff reports concerning behavior. If you could contact them, they would be grateful.

You stared at the message, rereading it several times. Jungwon never canceled appointments. Even when he'd had the flu last winter, he'd conducted meetings by video rather than reschedule. His schedule was sacred, immovable.

"What's wrong?" Leah asked, noticing your expression.

You handed her the phone. She read the message and raised her eyebrows.

"Sounds like someone's having a breakdown."

"Jungwon doesn't have breakdowns," you said automatically, then paused. The man you'd confronted before leaving—the one who'd admitted his fear of vulnerability, who'd texted you his feelings rather than say them aloud—perhaps that man did have breakdowns after all.

"Are you going to go check on him?" Leah asked.

You sighed, setting down your coffee. "I have to, don't I? At the very least, I need to get more of my things." You'd left with only a small overnight bag, having no plan beyond escape.

"Want me to come with you?"

"No," you said, more decisively than you felt. "This is something I need to do alone."

As you showered and dressed, you tried to prepare yourself for what awaited. Would Jungwon be coldly angry, his moment of vulnerability already locked away? Would he have summoned his parents, ready for a united front to convince you of your duties? Or would he simply be absent, buried in work as a shield against emotion?

In the rideshare on the way to the mansion, you rehearsed what to say. You would be calm but firm. This wasn't about blame anymore but about whether a real marriage was possible between you. You needed honesty, vulnerability, true partnership—not just the performance of marriage you'd endured for a year.

But as the car approached the gates of the estate, your carefully prepared speech evaporated. The formal gardens that had always greeted visitors with mathematical precision had been transformed. Instead of the orderly rows of seasonal blooms, there was a riot of peonies—your favorite flower—planted in natural, wild groupings that looked almost as if they had grown there spontaneously.

"Wait here," you told the driver. "I may not be staying."

As you walked up the long driveway, your heart hammered against your ribs. The front door opened before you reached it, the butler appearing with an expression of profound relief.

"Madame," he said, bowing slightly. "Thank goodness you've returned."

"I'm not staying necessarily," you clarified, stepping into the foyer. "I just came to—" You stopped, noticing more changes. The formal floral arrangements that always occupied the entryway tables had been replaced with wild, exuberant bouquets of peonies and wildflowers. "What's happening here?"

"Mr. Yang has been... making adjustments to the household," the butler replied diplomatically. "He's in the east garden. He's been there nearly two days now."

Two days? "Is he... is he all right?"

The butler hesitated. "I believe he's waiting for you, Madame."

You made your way through the house, noting more changes as you went. Books that had always been perfectly arranged on shelves now sat in haphazard stacks on tables, many open to specific pages. Your books, you realized, from your private collection.

When you reached the doors leading to the east garden—your favorite part of the grounds, where you often walked alone—you paused, gathering your courage.

Nothing could have prepared you for what you found.

The garden had been transformed into an outdoor library. Bookshelves stood on the grass in a semicircle, filled with books—your books—many open to display specific pages. And in the center, sitting cross-legged on the ground surrounded by open volumes, was Jungwon.

You'd never seen him like this. His usually immaculate appearance was completely undone—hair disheveled, several days' stubble on his jaw, clothes rumpled as if he'd slept in them. He was reading intently from what you recognized as your private poetry journal, his expression a mixture of pain and wonder.

He looked up as your shadow fell across the page, and the naked hope and fear in his eyes made your breath catch.

"You came back," he said, his voice rough as if from disuse.

"What is all this?" you asked, gesturing to the surreal scene around you.

Jungwon carefully closed your journal and set it aside. He rose slowly to his feet, a man moving carefully so as not to shatter something fragile.

"I've been trying to find you," he said. "The real you. The one I should have been looking for all along."

You stepped closer, picking up one of the books from the grass. It was your copy of Neruda's love sonnets, open to a page where you'd scribbled Would he ever touch me like this? in the margin.

Heat rose to your face. "You've been reading my private notes?"

"Yes." Jungwon didn't try to justify or excuse it. "I needed to understand what I'd missed, what I'd ignored. I needed to see you—really see you."

You should have been angry at the invasion of privacy, but something in his broken expression stopped your protest. This wasn't the controlled, perfect Jungwon Yang you'd married. This was someone else entirely—raw, desperate, real.

"Do you have any idea," he continued, taking a step toward you, "how much you've wanted? How much you've needed? All these books, all these words you've underlined, notes you've written—they're full of longing I never acknowledged."

You remained silent, unsure what to say as he moved closer, stopping just short of touching you.

"I found your poem about lying beside me at night, wondering if I was awake, wondering if I ever thought about touching you." His voice broke slightly. "I did. Every night. I lay there wanting you, terrified of reaching for you, convinced that maintaining distance was the same as showing respect."

Your heart pounded so hard you were sure he must hear it. "Why are you telling me this now?"

"Because I almost lost you." The simple truth hung in the air between you. "Because I realized that the thing I feared most—vulnerability, need, the possibility of rejection—was nothing compared to the emptiness of letting you walk away without ever knowing how much I want you. How much I've always wanted you."

To your shock, Jungwon suddenly dropped to his knees before you, looking up with eyes that held none of his usual composure.

"I don't deserve another chance," he said, his voice raw with emotion. "I've been a coward, hiding behind duty and family expectations. But if you're willing—if there's any part of you that believes we could start again—I swear I will spend every day trying to be worthy of you."

You stood frozen, overwhelmed by his declaration, by the sight of Jungwon Yang—heir to an empire, always in perfect control—on his knees before you, walls finally shattered.

"I want to build a life with you," he continued, the words spilling out as if he couldn't contain them any longer. "A real life, not this performance we've been trapped in. I want mornings where we don't pretend to sleep through each other's routines. I want to hear about your day and tell you about mine. I want to take you to that cove in Greece where no one would expect Mrs. Yang to swim naked."

Your cheeks flamed at the reference to your private note in the travel book.

"I've read every word you've written in the margins," he confessed, his voice dropping lower. "I've memorized your poetry. The ones you circled, the ones you starred. Neruda's words—'I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees'—I understand them now. I feel them in my veins."

His eyes locked with yours, their intensity almost unbearable.

"I dream of you. Of being inside you. Of knowing nothing but the depth of your eyes when you look at me. Of drowning in your skin until my mind forgets every lesson in restraint I've ever learned." His voice shook slightly. "All those nights I lay beside you, rigid with control, while you wrote of desire in book margins—it was never indifference. It was fear. Fear of how completely I would surrender to you if I allowed myself a single touch."

You couldn't breathe, couldn't speak as he continued, years of suppressed desire breaking through the dam of his composure.

"I found where you wrote 'would he ever lose control enough?' The answer is yes. God, yes. Every moment of every day I've wanted to lose myself in you. To press you against walls, to taste every inch of your skin, to hear my name in your voice when I'm buried so deep inside you that we can't tell where I end and you begin."

He trembled visibly now, hands clenched at his sides to keep from reaching for you.

"I want children who know their father can feel, can love," he went on, his voice breaking. "I want to be the man you deserve—not the perfect Yang heir, but a husband who sees you, hears you, wants you exactly as you are."

Tears welled in your eyes, but you blinked them back. This was what you'd wanted—wasn't it? The real man beneath the perfect facade. But now that he was here, raw and vulnerable, you found yourself terrified of your own power to hurt him, to be hurt again.

"I don't know if I can trust this," you admitted softly. "What happens when your father calls? When your mother visits? When business demands return? Will you retreat back behind those walls you've built over a lifetime?"

Jungwon nodded, acknowledging the fairness of your question. "I already told my father I won't be controlled by his expectations anymore. I hung up on him—" He gave a small, disbelieving laugh. "I actually hung up on him when he tried to order me to bring you back for appearances' sake."

Your eyes widened. In the Yang family hierarchy, defying the patriarch was unthinkable.

"I can't promise I'll never struggle," Jungwon continued. "A lifetime of conditioning doesn't disappear in a week. But I can promise to try. To talk instead of withdraw. To let you see me—all of me, even the parts I was taught to hide." He swallowed hard. "And I can promise that no business meeting, no family obligation, nothing will ever be more important to me than you are."

The morning sunlight filtered through the garden trees, casting dappled light across his face, highlighting the exhaustion in his eyes, the vulnerability in his expression. In that moment, all the trappings of wealth and status fell away, leaving just a man asking a woman for another chance.

"I love you," he said quietly, the words clearly strange on his tongue. "I think I have from the beginning, but I didn't know how to show it, how to say it, how to let myself feel it without fear."

Your carefully constructed walls began to crumble. The honesty in his eyes, the tremor in his voice—this wasn't another performance. This was real in a way nothing between you had been before.

You took a deep breath, making a decision that would change everything.

"Stand up," you said softly.

Jungwon rose slowly, uncertainty in every line of his body. He stood before you, not touching, waiting.

"I need time," you said finally. "Not away from you—I think we've had enough distance. But time here, together, building something real. Day by day. No quick fixes, no grand gestures, just... honest effort."

Relief washed over his face. "Anything. Whatever you need."

You reached out slowly, your hand trembling slightly as you placed it against his cheek. The stubble was rough under your palm—a tangible sign of his unraveling, his transformation.

"We start again," you said. "As equals. As partners. As two people choosing each other every day, not just fulfilling an arrangement."

Jungwon covered your hand with his own, his eyes never leaving yours. "Yes," he agreed simply. "That's all I want. The chance to choose you, and to be chosen by you, every day."

You stood there in the garden surrounded by the evidence of his awakening—the books, the wildflowers, the breaking of perfect order that had defined your lives together. Nothing was resolved yet, not really. The real work of building a marriage would take time, patience, courage from both of you.

But as Jungwon's fingers tentatively interlaced with yours, you felt something you hadn't experienced in a very long time: hope.

Not the desperate hope that had led you to mark passages in poetry books, dreaming of connection. But a quieter, stronger hope built on the foundation of truth finally spoken, of walls finally breached.

A beginning, at last, after a year of beautiful emptiness.

-

The transformation didn't happen overnight. Real change never does. But it began with small, deliberate steps—each one a silent promise, a brick in the foundation of what you both hoped would become something genuine and lasting.

The first week was tentative, both of you navigating an unfamiliar landscape of honesty. You moved back into the master bedroom, but Jungwon slept on the chaise lounge across the room, respecting your need for physical space while closing the emotional distance. Each night, you talked—sometimes for hours—about everything and nothing. Your childhoods. Your dreams. The books that had shaped you. The places you longed to visit.

"I never knew you wanted to see Greece so badly," Jungwon said one evening, sitting cross-legged on the chaise, looking younger and more relaxed than you'd ever seen him. "We could go. Whenever you want."

"It's not just about going," you explained, hugging your knees to your chest as you sat against the headboard. "It's about going somewhere simply because we want to, not because it's expected or beneficial to the family business."

He nodded, understanding dawning in his eyes. "A trip just for us. No schedules, no business meetings disguised as vacations..."

"Exactly."

Two days later, you found a travel guide to the Greek islands on your pillow, with a note in Jungwon's precise handwriting: Pick the places that call to you. No expectations. No time limit. Just us.

-

The second week brought the first real test. Mrs. Yang arrived unannounced, sweeping into the foyer with the authority of someone who had never been denied entry.

"I've heard disturbing reports," she announced, eyeing the wildflower arrangements with thinly veiled distaste. "The garden completely rearranged. Appointments canceled. Your father says you're not taking his calls. And now this..." She gestured to the informality of the house, the books scattered on surfaces, the general disruption of the perfect order she'd helped establish.

In the past, Jungwon would have immediately adjusted his behavior to appease her. You braced yourself for his retreat back into the perfect son role.

Instead, he surprised you.

"Mother," he said calmly, "we're in the middle of some changes here. I should have called to tell you it's not a good time for a visit."

Her eyes widened. "Not a good time? Since when do I need an appointment to visit my own son's home?"

"Since now," Jungwon replied, his voice gentle but firm. "We're working on our marriage, and we need space to do that properly."

Mrs. Yang turned to you, expecting you to be the reasonable one, to smooth over this unprecedented friction. "Surely you understand that family obligations—"

"Are important," you finished for her, "but not more important than our relationship. Jungwon and I are learning to put each other first."

Her mouth opened and closed, momentarily speechless. "This is your influence," she finally said to you, her voice sharp. "My son has never been so disrespectful."

You felt Jungwon tense beside you, but before he could speak, you placed your hand on his arm. A silent communication—I've got this.

"It's not disrespect to establish healthy boundaries," you said, maintaining a respectful tone despite the accusation. "We both value you and Mr. Yang, but we're building something here that needs protection and care."

Mrs. Yang looked between the two of you, noting the united front, the way Jungwon stood slightly closer to you than necessary, the casual intimacy of your hand on his arm. Something in her calculation shifted.

"I see," she said finally. "Well. Call when you're ready to rejoin society. The foundation gala is in three weeks, and people will talk if you're absent."

"Let them talk," Jungwon said simply.

After she left, you turned to Jungwon, studying his face for signs of regret or anger. Instead, you found him looking almost relieved.

"That was the first time I've ever said no to her," he confessed with a shaky laugh. "It feels... terrifying. And right."

You squeezed his hand. "You were perfect."

"Not perfect," he corrected. "Real. There's a difference."

-

By the third week, physical barriers began to dissolve. Jungwon moved from the chaise to the bed, though always maintaining a careful distance. But one night, half-asleep and cold from the air conditioning, you instinctively shifted closer to his warmth. Without fully waking, he draped an arm over you, pulling you against him with a contented sigh.

You froze, suddenly wide awake, your heart racing at the casual intimacy. His breathing remained deep and even, clearly still asleep. Slowly, you relaxed into the embrace, allowing yourself to feel the solidity of him, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the warmth that radiated through his thin t-shirt.

It was the first time you'd slept in each other's arms. In the morning, when you both woke to find yourselves entangled, there was a moment of awkward uncertainty before Jungwon smiled—a genuine, unguarded smile that transformed his face.

"Good morning," he said softly, making no move to pull away.

"Good morning," you replied, marveling at how natural it felt to be here, in this moment, with him.

That day, the staff noticed the shift between you—the lingering glances, the casual touches as you passed each other, the private smiles. The mansion seemed to exhale, as if the building itself had been holding its breath, waiting for life to finally fill its rooms.

-

A month after your return, Jungwon came to you with a proposal.

"I've been thinking about the house," he said over breakfast, which you now took together every morning before he left for work. His schedule had been completely reorganized, with strict boundaries between work and home time. "It's beautiful, but it's never felt like ours. It's been my family's vision of what our home should be."

You nodded, understanding immediately. "It's always felt like living in a museum."

"Exactly." He pushed a folder across the table. "What would you think about this?"

Inside were architectural plans for a new house—smaller, more intimate, designed around shared spaces and natural light.

"You want to move?" you asked, surprised.

"I want us to build something that belongs to us," he clarified. "Something that reflects who we are together, not who everyone expects us to be."

You studied the plans more carefully, noting the library with two desks facing each other, the open kitchen designed for cooking together, the master bedroom with windows that would catch the sunrise.

"There's room for a nursery," you observed quietly, looking up to gauge his reaction.

His eyes softened. "I thought... someday... if we decided..." He took a deep breath, steadying himself. "I want children with you. Not for the Yang legacy, but because I can't imagine anything more beautiful than creating a family with you. But only when we're ready. Only when our foundation is solid."

You reached across the table, taking his hand. "I'd like that. Someday."

He squeezed your fingers, a simple gesture that had become precious in its newfound ease. "So, the house?"

"Yes," you decided. "Let's build something that's truly ours."

-

Two months into your new beginning, you attended your first social event as a changed couple. The charity auction—ironically, the same type of event where you'd played your roles so convincingly before—now became the stage for your authentic selves.

When you entered on Jungwon's arm, the subtle changes were immediately apparent to the careful observers of high society. The way his hand rested at the small of your back—not for show, but because he liked the connection to you. How he kept you within his sight even during separate conversations. The private smiles you exchanged across the room, small moments of complicity in the public setting.

Mrs. Singh approached you during a lull in the evening. "There's something different about you two," she observed shrewdly. "You seem... happier."

You smiled, watching Jungwon across the room. He was engaged in conversation but looked up at that exact moment, as if sensing your gaze, and smiled back with undisguised affection.

"We are," you replied simply.

Later, when the dancing began, Jungwon led you to the floor. Unlike the choreographed movements you'd performed at countless events before, this time he held you closer, his cheek occasionally brushing against your temple, his hand warm and secure against yours.

"Everyone's watching us," you murmured, feeling the weight of curious eyes.

"Let them," he replied, his lips close to your ear. "Maybe they'll learn something."

The evening continued, but unlike before, you weren't simply playing a part. The genuine connection between you was unmistakable, and as the night progressed, you felt something shift in the atmosphere around you. The calculated social maneuvering gave way to something more genuine, as if your authenticity had granted others permission to drop their own facades, if only slightly.

When you returned home that night, the tension that had always accompanied these performances was absent. Instead, there was a shared sense of accomplishment, of having navigated the social waters together without losing yourselves in the process.

"That wasn't so bad," Jungwon admitted as you both prepared for bed. "Being real in public."

"It was actually nice," you agreed, sitting at your vanity to remove your jewelry. "Though I think your mother nearly fainted when you declined the board seat Mr. Lee offered."

Jungwon laughed, the sound still new enough to delight you. "The old me would have accepted immediately, even though we both know it would have meant even less time at home." He moved behind you, meeting your eyes in the mirror. "I have different priorities now."

He reached for the clasp of your necklace, his fingers brushing against your skin as he helped you remove it. The simple intimacy of the gesture—one that might have seemed ordinary in most marriages but was revolutionary in yours—made your breath catch.

When he finished, his hands remained on your shoulders, thumbs gently caressing the exposed skin above your dress. Your eyes met in the mirror, and the desire you saw there—no longer hidden or denied—sent heat cascading through you.

"May I kiss you?" he asked softly.

It wasn't your first kiss since the reconciliation—there had been gentle pecks, cautious explorations—but something about this moment felt different. More significant.

You turned to face him, rising from the vanity bench. "Yes."

He cupped your face with reverent hands, studying you as if committing every detail to memory, before leaning in slowly. The kiss began gentle but deepened as months of carefully banked desire kindled between you. His arms encircled your waist, drawing you closer until you could feel the rapid beating of his heart against yours.

When you finally separated, both breathless, Jungwon rested his forehead against yours. "I love you," he whispered, the words no longer strange or difficult but natural, necessary.

"I love you too," you replied, the truth of it filling every part of you.

That night, for the first time, you truly became husband and wife—not through social obligation or family expectation, but through choice. Through desire. Through love that had fought its way past barriers of conditioning and fear to find expression at last.

-

Six months after your confrontation, the new house was completed. It stood on a hillside overlooking the city, modern in design but warm in execution, with natural materials and spaces designed for living rather than showcasing wealth.

The move was symbolic in more ways than one—leaving behind the mansion with its rigid expectations and cold perfection, stepping into a home created specifically for the life you were building together.

On your first night there, after the movers had gone and the essentials were unpacked, Jungwon opened a bottle of champagne, pouring two glasses as you both stood in the expansive living room, floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the city lights spread below.

"To new beginnings," he said, raising his glass.

"To us," you added, clinking your glass against his.

After you both drank, he set his glass aside and reached for your hand, his expression turning serious.

"I want to ask you something," he said, leading you to the sofa. When you were both seated, he took both your hands in his. "This past year—these six months especially—have been the most transformative of my life. I feel like I'm finally becoming the person I was meant to be, not the perfect heir my father designed."

You squeezed his hands encouragingly. "I'm proud of you. The changes you've made, the boundaries you've set—none of it has been easy."

"It's been worth it," he said simply. "And I want to keep growing, keep becoming better. With you." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. "Which is why I want to ask you to marry me. Again. For real this time."

He opened the box to reveal a ring nothing like the elaborate diamond he'd given you during your engagement. This one was simpler, more personal—a band of intertwined gold and platinum with a small sapphire that matched the color of your favorite flowers.

"Our first marriage was arranged for us," he continued. "I want this one to be chosen by us. No families planning, no strategic alliances, just two people who love each other deciding to build a life together."

Tears filled your eyes, but unlike the lonely tears you'd shed in that first year, these were born of joy, of wonder at how far you'd both come.

"Yes," you whispered, watching as he slipped the ring onto your finger, alongside the formal engagement diamond you still wore. The contrast between them—one chosen for appearance, one chosen for meaning—perfectly symbolized your journey.

"I thought we could have a small ceremony," Jungwon said, pulling you close. "Just us and a few people who truly care about our happiness. On that Greek island you've been reading about."

You laughed through your tears. "Your mother would never forgive us."

"She'll survive," he said with a smile. "This isn't about the Yang family or social connections or business advantages. It's about you and me, choosing each other. Every day. For the rest of our lives."

As you kissed to seal this new promise, you marveled at the journey that had brought you here—from empty performance to authentic partnership, from silent longing to expressed love, from arranged marriage to chosen commitment.

The road hadn't been smooth. There had been setbacks, moments when old patterns threatened to reassert themselves. There would be more challenges ahead, more work to maintain the vulnerability and honesty you'd fought so hard to establish.

But looking into Jungwon's eyes—eyes that now held nothing back from you—you knew with absolute certainty that the difficult path was worth it. That true connection, once found, was worth fighting for. That love, real love, could grow even from the most barren beginnings, if only given the chance to breathe.

-

The most shocking transformation in your renewed marriage wasn’t the tenderness.

It was the hunger.

Jungwon, who used to sleep with a polite space between your bodies, now touched you like he couldn’t bear even a millimeter of distance.

The man who once bowed his head before kissing your hand now dropped to his knees and begged to taste you.

It was as if years of restraint had finally snapped—like some tight, internal knot had come undone—and he was feral from the release.

The first night you truly became intimate, you realized just how much he’d been suppressing.

His hands, once always tucked in his lap, now gripped your thighs like a lifeline, dragged you down onto the sheets with a growl. He shook when he touched you, but not from nerves—from sheer fucking relief.

His mouth, which had always only spoken in formal tones and quiet dinner conversation, now whispered against your skin—

“I’ve dreamed of spreading your legs and living between them.”

You gasped. He kissed lower. His breath hot between your thighs.

“Every night beside you, pretending I didn’t hear how you breathed heavier when I got too close. I wanted to fuck you so bad I used to take cold showers just to stop myself from humping the fucking mattress.”

You were already soaked, trembling.

You cupped his face, forced him to look up. “You don’t have to hold back anymore.”

His pupils were blown wide. He licked his lips, nodding.

“I don’t think I could if I tried.”

He broke.

He devoured your pussy like it owed him rent. Like it was his first and last meal.

No teasing. No patience. Just his tongue, buried deep, moaning into you like your taste was the only thing that ever made him lose his composure.

You came once on his mouth—fast and loud—and he didn’t even let up.

“Again,” he groaned, “fuck, again, I want to feel you fall apart.”

And when he finally hovered over you, flushed and trembling and naked between your legs?

“Tell me,” he whispered, cock dragging through your soaked folds, “tell me what you want. What you’ve been aching for. Let me ruin you the way I’ve dreamed about.”

So you did.

You told him all of it. The fantasies. The positions. The filthy little things you’d only ever written down in notebook margins when he was still cold and distant.

And Jungwon?

Did. Not. Flinch.

He nodded, breath shaking, and said—

“You want to be face down? Crying? Begging? I’ll give it to you. Just know when I start, I won’t stop until you’re fucked stupid.”

And he meant it.

He took you face down on the mattress, hips locked in place by his grip, his cock slamming into you so deep you saw stars. He growled things you’d never imagined him saying—

“This pussy’s mine. All fucking mine. You think I don’t know how wet you get when I talk like this?”

“Look at you—slutty little wife, dripping down your thighs like you’ve been waiting to be treated like a whore.”

“How many times you make yourself cum thinking about me breaking like this, huh?”

You choked on your moans. You were sobbing by the time he made you cum again, legs shaking, jaw slack, vision blurry.

He kissed your spine afterward. Slowly. Tenderly. Like he hadn’t just rearranged your insides.

Pulled you into his arms and whispered, “I used to leave the room when I got too hard just looking at you. I thought wanting you like this made me weak. My father always said a Yang man should control his urges.”

He paused. Smiled against your neck.

“I’ve never been so happy to disappoint him.”

-

In the weeks that followed your first night together, the shift between you became impossible to ignore. And impossible to contain.

Jungwon couldn’t stop touching you.

He didn’t even try. His hand found yours under the breakfast table.

His palm slid across your lower back when you walked past him in the hallway—lingering there, possessive.

He stole kisses while you were brushing your teeth, while you answered the door, while you loaded the washing machine.

It was as if his body was always reaching, always chasing, making up for a year of self-denial all at once.

You gave in to him every time.

One afternoon, he came home early from the office to find you kneeling in the garden, soil smudged on your knees, digging holes for the last peony bush you’d saved from the mansion.

You didn’t hear him approach.

But you felt it—the change in the air. The heat behind you. The sound of breath catching.

Hands on your waist. A sharp inhale. And a low, devastating voice.

“That’s what I come home to?”

You turned your head, startled—and then flushed under the weight of his gaze.

He was already unbuttoning his sleeves.

Already breathing too hard.

“Jungwon—”

He hauled you to your feet. Didn’t flinch at the dirt. Didn’t care about the sunlight.

Just gripped your waist, pulled you close, and kissed you like you’d been killing him in his dreams. You gasped against his mouth, hands braced on his chest, heart pounding.

“What was that for?”

His eyes were black with need. He didn’t let you go.

“Because I can,” he said. “Because I spent a year not touching you. Not letting myself want you. Not letting myself want to bend you over every surface in our house.”

You trembled.

He pulled you closer.

“I refuse to waste another fucking day.”

The peonies were forgotten.

He dragged you inside, dirt on your hands, sweat beading on your spine—and kissed you again against the door.

His jacket hit the floor first. Then yours.

Then his belt, as he backed you into the living room like a man possessed.

When your knees hit the rug, he dropped with you.

Didn’t even bother removing your clothes properly—just shoved your dress up and pulled your underwear down like it offended him.

“Here,” he growled, palming your ass as he pressed you forward onto all fours. “Here on the floor, where I can see every inch of you. Where I can fuck you raw and you can scream for me.”

You moaned, breath hitched.

“God, I wanted to do this the first night I married you. I wanted to wreck you. I wanted to see what sounds you’d make with my cock in you.”

You were dripping by the time he pushed inside.

No teasing. No patience. Just one smooth thrust that made you cry out, already clenching.

“So fucking tight,” he hissed. “So wet and hot and mine.”

He fucked you hard, fast, hips slapping against your ass as your moans echoed through the empty house.

You didn’t care. You let him take everything.

He gripped your hips, pulled you back onto him harder, chasing your high like he’d been dying for it. You came shaking on him, and he groaned, low and broken, before following with a curse buried into your shoulder.

You collapsed to the rug in a tangled heap, both of you breathless, glowing in the afternoon sun. Later, still half-naked, your cheek resting on the rug, he lay beside you—head on your stomach, smiling like a teenager.

“My father would be appalled,” he murmured. “The Yang heir behaving like this. Desperate. Loud. Fucking his wife on the floor.”

You laughed, running your fingers through his sweat-damp hair.

“And what do you think?”

He tilted his head. Kissed your bare hip, then lower.

Then smiled.

“I think we should do it again in the kitchen.”

A pause.

“Then the stairs. Then the study. Then maybe the floor again.”

You didn’t even get a chance to answer. Because his hand was already sliding between your legs again.

-

What amazed you most was his attentiveness. Jungwon, who had once seemed completely disconnected from physical needs, now anticipated yours with an almost uncanny perception. He noticed when tension gathered in your shoulders and appeared with warm hands to massage it away. He registered which touches made your breath catch and revisited them with deliberate intent. He cataloged every sensitive spot, every preference, every response with the same meticulous attention he'd once reserved for business reports.

"How did you know?" you asked one evening when he drew you a bath exactly when you needed it, complete with the lavender oil you preferred when tired.

"Your left eyebrow tenses slightly when you're exhausted," he explained, kneeling beside the tub to wash your back with gentle hands. "And you roll your shoulders every few minutes. Plus, you've been on your feet all day with the interior decorator."

The fact that he noticed such small details—that he paid such close attention to your physical comfort—moved you deeply. This wasn't just passion; it was care, consideration, genuine desire for your wellbeing.

One night, as you lay tangled together in the afterglow of particularly intense lovemaking, Jungwon traced patterns on your back with his fingertips, his expression thoughtful.

"I used to think that needing someone physically was a weakness," he confessed. "That it gave them power over you. My father warned me about it—how desire could cloud judgment, make a man vulnerable."

"And now?" you prompted, propping yourself up to look at him.

A slow smile spread across his face, transforming his features in a way that still took your breath away. "Now I think vulnerability is its own kind of strength. The courage to need someone, to show them exactly how much you want them..." He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I've never felt stronger than when I'm completely undone in your arms."

-

The physical transformation in your marriage rippled outward, affecting every aspect of your lives together. Jungwon, once rigid in his schedules and plans, now embraced spontaneity. He would cancel meetings to spend the day in bed with you, laughing as you expressed shock at his newfound willingness to prioritize pleasure over work.

"The company won't collapse if I take a day off," he said, pulling you back under the covers when you suggested he shouldn't neglect his responsibilities. "And this—" he kissed you deeply "—is a responsibility too. To us. To what we're building."

Even in public, the change was evident to anyone with eyes to see. Though still mindful of appropriate boundaries, Jungwon couldn't seem to stop himself from small touches—his hand at the small of your back, his fingers laced with yours, the way he would occasionally lean down to whisper something in your ear that made heat rise to your cheeks.

At a corporate gala, Mrs. Yang cornered you by the refreshment table, her eyes narrowed in disapproval. "Your husband's behavior has become rather... demonstrative lately," she observed acidly. "It's unseemly for a man of his position to be so openly affectionate."

You smiled, watching Jungwon across the room as he spoke with investors. Even engaged in business conversation, his eyes sought you out regularly, as if making sure you were still there, still his.

"I disagree," you replied calmly. "I think it shows remarkable strength for a man to be secure enough in himself to express his feelings openly."

Your mother-in-law's lips thinned, but before she could respond, Jungwon appeared at your side, his hand automatically finding yours.

"Mother," he greeted her with polite warmth. "I see you've found my wife. I hope you'll excuse us—this is our song."

There was no song playing that held any special meaning, but Mrs. Yang couldn't know that. With a small bow, Jungwon led you to the dance floor, pulling you closer than was strictly proper for such a formal event.

"Rescued you," he murmured against your ear, his breath sending delicious shivers down your spine.

"My hero," you teased, relaxing into his embrace. "Though your mother might never recover from the shock of seeing the Yang heir so besotted with his own wife."

"Let her adjust," he replied, his hand splayed possessively against your lower back. "This is who I am now. Who we are together."

Later that night, he touched you like he’d been holding it in all day—like the hours of careful, public restraint had coiled inside him, pressing tight under his skin, begging for release.

Now, with you spread beneath him in your shared bed, every breath he took seemed heavy with need.

His thrusts were deep, deliberate, dragging moans from your throat with each slow roll of his hips.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t look away. He studied you.

His dark eyes locked onto yours, watching every flicker of expression, every twitch, every gasp, like he wanted to memorize the exact second you shattered.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, voice low, tight, lips brushing the corner of your mouth.

You blinked up at him, dazed, overwhelmed. “That I hardly recognize you sometimes.”

His rhythm stuttered—hips faltering, jaw tensing.

His brows drew together. “Is that… disappointing?”

You couldn’t help the breathless laugh that escaped you. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist and pulled him closer, arching up to meet him.

“No. Quite the opposite.”

Your fingers slid into his hair, your voice thick with wonder and arousal.

“I’m amazed that all of this—”

Your hands trailed down his chest, to where your bodies met, to the heat and slick and stretch between your legs,

“—was hidden inside that perfect, restrained man.”

Relief washed over his face, followed by a crooked, mischievous smile—so at odds with the version of him you’d once known that it sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through you.

“I have years of self-control to make up for,” he said, lowering his mouth to your throat, his voice a warm rasp against your skin. “You don’t think I’ve imagined this? Every night. Every day. Watching you walk around like you didn’t know how badly I wanted to fuck you into the mattress?”

You whimpered, breath catching.

“You think I didn’t notice how soft your thighs looked in those dresses? Or how your voice changed when you said my name?”

His tongue flicked over a sensitive spot just below your ear, and your back arched without thinking.

“I used to jerk off in the shower,” he whispered, filthy now, “biting my lip so you wouldn’t hear. Palming my cock like a coward while I imagined you moaning for me just like this.”

You gasped as he pinned your wrists above your head, not rough, just firm—controlling, possessive. His other hand slid between your bodies, fingers circling your clit with devastating precision.

“You’re mine now,” he said against your collarbone. “I don’t have to hide it anymore. Don’t have to pretend I don’t want you crying and shaking under me every night.”

The need in his voice made your toes curl.

“I don’t think anyone could be prepared for this version of you,” you managed to gasp, hips bucking as his thumb pressed harder.

He chuckled darkly. “Good. I like catching you off guard.”

Then his lips ghosted over your pulse, and he murmured:

“I like knowing no one else gets to see you like this. Just me. The mess. The begging. The way you moan when I hit you right there.”

His hips snapped, and your whole body trembled.

“I like owning this version of you. The version that melts under me. That asks for more even when I’m already inside.”

The sheer possessiveness in his voice—raw and reverent—nearly undid you.

Your whole body clenched, eyes wide, breath gone. “Only you,” you whispered, completely wrecked. “Always you.”

He kissed you then. Deep. Unrelenting.

And when you came again, shaking apart in his arms, you knew:

You’d never seen the real Jungwon before this.

Afterward, as you drifted toward sleep in his arms, you reflected on the journey that had brought you here. From polite strangers sharing a bed without touching, to lovers who couldn't bear even the smallest distance between them. From a marriage of appearance to a union of body, heart, and soul.

Jungwon's arm tightened around you, even in his sleep unwilling to let you go. The man who had once feared needing someone now embraced that need without reservation, transforming what he'd been taught was weakness into his greatest strength.

As you snuggled closer to his warmth, you silently thanked whatever courage had prompted you to finally break the silence between you, to demand more than the empty performance your marriage had been. The risk had been terrifying, but the reward—this man who loved you without restraint, who showed that love in every look and touch and whispered word—was beyond anything you could have imagined.

Epilogue: Aegean Dreams

The light breeze carried the scent of salt and wild herbs through the open French doors of your villa, perched on the cliffs of Santorini. Dawn had just begun to paint the horizon in shades of gold and rose, the Aegean Sea below reflecting the spectacle like a mirror. You stood on the private terrace, wrapped in a silk robe, drinking in the view that had once been nothing more than a wistful note in a travel book margin.

Warm arms encircled you from behind, and Jungwon's lips found the curve where your neck met your shoulder.

"I woke up and you were gone," he murmured against your skin. "For a second, I panicked."

You turned in his embrace, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his face. No product kept it in place here—just like no tailored suits or carefully crafted personas had made the journey to this small Greek paradise.

"Just wanted to see the sunrise," you explained, smiling at the vulnerability he no longer tried to hide. "Old habits. Though I'm not used to you noticing when I slip out of bed."

"I notice everything about you now," he said, tightening his hold. "Especially when your warmth disappears from beside me."

Two years had passed since that fateful anniversary night when everything had broken open between you. Two years of learning each other, rebuilding trust, discovering what it meant to truly choose one another every day. The small, intimate wedding you'd held on this very island six months ago had merely formalized what your hearts had already decided.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Jungwon asked, noticing your contemplative expression.

"I was just thinking about that travel book," you said, leaning into him. "The one where I marked all those Greek islands, never believing I'd actually see them."

"And now you've seen five of them in three weeks," he replied with a smile. "With three more to go before we have to think about heading back."

The itinerary for this trip had been deliberately open-ended—a luxury neither of you had ever permitted yourselves before. No business calls, no social obligations, not even a fixed return date. Just the two of you moving at your own pace through the islands you'd dreamed of.

"Remember that cove I mentioned in my notes?" you asked, a mischievous glint in your eye. "The one where 'no one would expect Mrs. Yang to swim naked'?"

"How could I forget?" Jungwon's voice dropped lower, his hands sliding down to your waist. "It's circled on the map in our bedroom. I've been wondering when you'd bring it up."

"The boat captain said he could take us there this afternoon. Completely private, accessible only by sea."

His eyes darkened with desire—a look that still thrilled you, even after months of uninhibited passion. "I'll tell him we'll double his fee if he drops us off and doesn't return until sunset."

You laughed, stretching up to kiss him. "Always the efficient businessman."

"Only when efficiency serves pleasure," he countered, deepening the kiss until you were both breathless.

When you finally pulled apart, the sun had fully crested the horizon, bathing the white-washed villa in golden light. Jungwon led you to the small table on the terrace where he'd already set up breakfast—fresh fruit, local yogurt, honey, and coffee prepared exactly the way you liked it.

"I have something for you," he said, reaching into the pocket of his linen pants as you both sat down.

He placed a small package wrapped in simple brown paper on the table between you. His expression held an endearing mix of anticipation and nervousness that reminded you how far he'd come from the controlled, emotionless man you'd married.

"What's this for?" you asked, picking up the package. "It's not my birthday or our anniversary."

"Do I need a reason to give my wife a gift?" he countered with a smile. "Open it."

You carefully unwrapped the paper to find a leather-bound journal, its cover soft and supple. When you opened it, you discovered it was filled with poems—some typed, others handwritten in Jungwon's precise script.

"I've been collecting them," he explained, watching your face closely. "Every poem that made me think of you. The ones that helped me understand what I was feeling when I didn't have the words myself."

You turned the pages, eyes widening as you recognized some of the poems you'd once secretly marked in your books, now preserved in this new collection. But there were others you didn't recognize—contemporary pieces, older classics, even what appeared to be original works.

"Did you... write some of these?" you asked, looking up in surprise.

A flush crept up his neck—the unguarded reaction still so different from the controlled man he'd once been. "I tried. They're probably terrible, but..." He shrugged, a gesture of vulnerability that would have been unthinkable in the old Jungwon. "I wanted to find a way to tell you what you mean to me that wasn't borrowed from someone else's words."

You found one of his original poems, dated from the early days of your reconciliation:

I lived behind walls so high

Even I forgot what lay inside

Until your voice broke through

And light flooded places

I had kept dark for so long

I had forgotten they could shine

Tears pricked your eyes as you continued reading. The progression of the poems—from hesitant early attempts to more recent, confident expressions—mirrored the journey of your relationship.

"This is the most beautiful gift anyone has ever given me," you said finally, closing the journal and holding it against your heart.

"There's one more thing," Jungwon said, reaching across the table to take your hand. "I've been thinking about what you said last week, about not being ready to go back to real life yet."

"I was just being silly," you assured him, though the thought of returning to schedules and obligations did fill you with a certain dread. "We can't stay on vacation forever."

"Why not?" He smiled at your startled expression. "Not forever, but... longer. I've been working on something." He pulled out his phone—rarely used during the trip except for taking photos—and showed you a property listing. "It's a small villa on Paros. Nothing extravagant, but it has a garden for you and a study for me with a decent internet connection."

"You want to buy a house here?" you asked, stunned.

"I want us to have a place that's just ours. Not tied to the Yang name or business or social expectations." His eyes held yours, serious despite his smile. "A place where we can come whenever we need to breathe. Where no one expects anything from us except being ourselves."

"But your work—"

"Can be managed remotely for extended periods," he interrupted gently. "I've been talking with the board about restructuring my role. Less day-to-day management, more strategic direction. It would mean fewer hours, more flexibility."

You stared at him, processing the magnitude of what he was suggesting. The old Jungwon would never have considered stepping back from his corporate responsibilities, would never have prioritized personal happiness over professional ambition.

"What about your father?" you asked, knowing that Mr. Yang would view such a move as a betrayal of family duty.

"He'll adapt," Jungwon said with surprising calm. "Or he won't. Either way, I'm not living my life to meet his expectations anymore." He squeezed your hand. "What do you think? Not about him—about the villa."

You looked out at the endless blue of the Aegean, then back at the man who had transformed himself for love of you—who continued to transform, to grow, to choose your shared happiness over prescribed obligation.

"I think," you said slowly, a smile spreading across your face, "that I'd like to plant bougainvillea along that terrace wall in the photos."

His answering smile was radiant. "Is that a yes?"

Instead of answering with words, you stood and moved around the table, settling onto his lap. His arms came around you automatically, holding you as if you were the most precious thing in his world—which, you knew now, you were.

"It's a 'you make me happier than I ever thought possible,'" you said, framing his face with your hands. "It's a 'I love the life we're building together.'"

"Even if it scandalizes my mother?" he asked, laughter in his eyes.

"Especially then," you replied, leaning in to kiss him as the Greek sun climbed higher in the sky, warming your skin, illuminating the future stretching before you—unplanned, unprescribed, and gloriously your own.

Behind you, the pages of the poetry journal fluttered in the sea breeze, open to the last entry, written in Jungwon's hand just days before:

Once I thought perfection meant control

Now I know it's the moment you laugh

Head thrown back, eyes dancing

Completely unguarded in my arms

The sound of your happiness echoing

Through rooms once filled with silence

This is the music I want to hear

For all my remaining days

fin.

-

TL: @addictedtohobi @azzy02 @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @zzhengyu @somuchdard @annybah @ddolleri @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @jakewonist

[incognit0slut]

Champagne Kisses

A night involving champagne gives you the perfect excuse to end up naked after weeks of harmless flirting. Spencer thinks one night isn’t enough.

category: smut, fluff word count: around 8k content: softdom!spencer, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v (but no creampie he’s testing his pull-out game), alcohol consumption, food play (more like drink play), and i wanna say spit kink but they’re using champagne instead so does that count? a/n: merry 2025 please tell me you remember me or else i might actually cry

You’re doing it again.

You’ve been clawing at his face for the past hour, stealing fleeting glances and looking away just as quickly, because every time you do, you find the same thing.

Brown eyes. Chocolate, marbled in hazel with tiny golden speckles. Pinning you in place. Dismantling you layer by layer. And somewhere in the quiet heat behind them, in the barely-there twitch of his jaw, you’re pretty sure he’s already mapping out the fastest way to get you out of your clothes.

It’s nerve-racking. Smart Spencer you can handle, awkward Spencer you can charm. But flirtatious Spencer? Flirtatious Spencer is dangerous.

Even more so when you’re squashed between Penelope and Luke at the overcrowded booth of O'Keefe's, who are mid-argument over something you can’t even muster the energy to care. Not when long legs stretch in front of you, and strips of neon lights slice across the table in a glow that crosses his form, curving around handsome features that make him look far too inviting.

Because that’s what your mind keeps drifting to. Taking him back to your place, where the only thing glowing would be the dim light of your bedroom.

Or maybe the pale light from the hallway.

Perhaps the soft flicker of the lamp in your living room.

Either way, your mind is already drawing images of him doing whatever it is he’s picturing in his own head. The location doesn’t matter.

“Don’t you agree?”

Your gaze fall over him once more before you force yourself to look away, catching Penelope staring at you expectantly. “Agree to what?”

“That margaritas are objectively the most fun drink and clearly better than boring beer.”

This is the argument they’ve been debating for the last five minutes?

Luke scoffs from your left. He doesn’t look angry though, his expression is more amused than irritated, lips formed in a cheeky smirk. “I can tolerate margaritas if we’re on a beach. But beers are solid all year round, pop a cap and you're good to go."

“You’re such a guy."

“I'm telling you, you don't need fancy ingredients or a blender. No little umbrellas."

“Literally proving my point. Beer has no personality.”

“Are you saying I have no personality?”

Bright pink-framed glasses shift as Penelope tips her head. “If the shoe fits.”

You’re at the point where you’re no longer surprised by their arguments. Loud and pointless, is how you'd describe them. You suspect Luke does it to get a reaction, and normally you’d add fuel to the fire, because Penelope is a pretty fire-cracker when her nostrils flare in absolute indignation. But your attention is elsewhere tonight.

Knees brushing yours under the table. A small smile curled at the corner of his lips. Deep set of eyes dragging over your face, your neck, the spot between your collarbone and shoulder where the pulse of your heartbeat seems to echo louder each second.

You slide with your back against the chair, thighs clamping shut. 

You feel him imprinted on you, heated gaze traveling beneath your skin. You wonder if he realizes what he’s doing, if he’s even aware of the effect all the time his eyes fall on you. Since the moment he walked in the room, since he took that seat directly across from you, and if you’re being completely honest, that glint in his eyes has been there probably for weeks now. The when of it all is a bit fuzzy.

Tonight feels adamantly different though, and you feel like you might just need a little extra something to quiet the nervous hum beneath your ribs.

But you’re not entirely sure whether it’s nerves or something far more indulgent that has your mind secretly leading you to a very unholy place. A place where you wonder if the rough, scruffy drag of his jaw feels the same below his navel.

You’re a hundred percent certain that it does.

“You know what’s a better drink?” your voice cracks, desperately needing that extra little something. “Champagne.”

Penelope’s head whips toward you. “Champagne? Here?”

You glance around the bar and raise a hand, trying to flag down the bartender.

The wood-paneled walls are covered with vintage beer advertisements, and the sticky floor is dotted with peanut shells from the complimentary bowls on every table. It’s the kind of place where the closest thing to champagne is probably prosecco poured into a plastic flute for a wedding after-party.

“What’s wrong with champagne? It’s a classic drink, great for celebration.” You order a bottle and four tall glasses before fixing her with a look. “It’s the New Year.”

She snorts. “We’re already halfway through January.”

“Penelope, we had to work on Christmas and New Year’s. We finally have this night to breathe, let me have this.”

There’s a beat of silence before she sighs dramatically. “Fine. But it still feels weird drinking champagne in a bar where the most sophisticated cocktail is a rum and coke.”

“Which is exactly why we’re elevating the night,” you reply, watching as the bartender sets the bottle down with (thank god) proper crystal flutes. You pour the first glass, the golden bubbles racing upward like tiny fireworks as you pass it to her.

Luke accepts the next glass without the same hesitation, but when you offer one to Spencer, the curly-haired man shakes his head.

“Right. I forgot you don’t really drink alcohol.”

The faintest smile tugs at his lips. “I don’t have anything against alcohol, just not in large amounts.” His gaze shifts to the bottle on the table. “I also happen not to like champagne.”

Penelope looks mildly offended. “Why not?”

“Because the carbonation overpowers the flavor. It’s hard to enjoy a drink when it’s constantly popping on your tongue.” You stifle a laugh before you can stop yourself. He looks at you. “What?”

“I think you’re overthinking it,” you reply with a grin. “Here, maybe this will change your mind.”

You pour him a glass and nudge it toward him. He simply looks from the glass to you.

“Come on,” you coax. “We’re celebrating the New Year.”

“Seventeen days late."

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes.

"Do not ruin the fun. We’re still celebrating, and you can’t toast with water. That’s practically begging for bad luck.”

He exhales sharply, lips twitching in what might be defeat or mild amusement, before reaching across the table. Everyone raises their glasses. The instant the bubbles hit his tongue, his nose scrunches in subtle distaste, and the sound of your laughter flies through the small space.

“It’s not that bad,” you insist.

“I still don’t understand the appeal.”

Champagne isn’t exactly your first choice either. You’ve always been more of a wine person. A good wine. A rich Burgundy that makes you close your eyes on the first sip to taste the faint of autumn in a glass. But champagne feels right for the occasion.

This taste blooms on your tongue, crisp and bright with hints of green apple and citrus and that faint yeasty richness at back of your throat. They dance across your palate, leaving a lingering sweetness through your veins that doesn’t soothe your nerves so much as ignite something beneath them, something warmer, deeper, curling into your bloodstream.

It makes you very bold.

Bold enough to hold his gaze without flinching. Bold enough to let your tongue flick across your lips. Bold enough to let your foot glide slowly up the length of his long, long leg.

You’ll have him taste his own medicine.

You, too, can play with fire.

“Maybe you’re drinking it wrong,” you hum, feeling him tense for the briefest, tiniest moment before he relaxes. “There’s another way to make champagne better.”

He grips the stem of his glass. “Something tells me you have a suggestion.”

“I do.”

He tilts his head. The din of conversation around you slowly fades into a muffled hum, the clinking of glasses and Penelope’s laughter barely registering as you notice the curve of his smile, the question lingering in his eyes.

Will you show me?

And that’s how you find yourself naked between his thighs two hours later.

It started innocently enough—or at least that’s the lie you fed yourself when you watched Penelope and Luke stumble their way to the dance floor, giggling as they poured yet another round of sparkling wine. But the champagne didn’t keep your attention for long. A few more stolen glances later, you found your hand wrapping around his arm, the other clutching a half-full bottle of champagne like some reckless lifeline.

It is reckless. Even you can’t deny that. You’ve always been cautious when it comes to bringing a man home. But this isn’t just anyone. This is Spencer. Someone who already knows too many pieces of you, someone who doesn’t need to be deciphered or explained.

And maybe that’s why you couldn’t stop yourself from dragging him out of the bar.

The ride in the stuffy cab felt like an eternity and a blink at the same time that the moment your apartment door clicked shut behind you, his mouth was already on yours. You barely had time to process how surprisingly good he tasted before your clothes started to disappear.

It’s a dizzying rush of hands and heat, and you’re now standing over him, knees brushing his as he sinks into your couch.

Yes, your couch. The soft, slate-blue one you’ve spent countless evenings curled up on, legs tucked under a blanket, flipping through books or half-watching shows you never finish. But now it cradles a completely different weight—the heavy heat of him radiating with tension-laced curiosity and a barely contained lust that seems to bleed right into the fabric.

“I can’t believe I’m kissing you,” he mutters dazedly, trailing his lips along your jaw with a hand resting on your naked back.

“I can’t believe you can unhook my bra that fast.”

He catches the sheer black fabric now hanging haphazardly over your lamp where he’d tossed it aside moments ago. “It wasn’t that hard.”

“Should I be concerned about how much practice you’ve had?”

“Not really. I’m a fast learner.”

That, you believe. But you’re not entirely sure if it’s his innate skill or the way your body seems to respond to him so effortlessly that leaves your lungs feeling like they’ve forgotten how to work. Breathing is no longer instinctive now. It’s a function you have to remind yourself to do as his tongue dances along the curve of your breast, and by the time he takes the achingly hard tip into his mouth, your chest tightens.

You suck in a desperate need of oxygen while he sucks the last thread of composure from you.

“Sweet.”

“Huh?”

“You—” He pulls back just enough to let his teeth graze the delicate skin before soothing it with a slow drag of his tongue, “taste sweet.”

Your hand slides to the back of his neck with a sigh. “You’re exaggerating.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bodies don’t taste like anything, it’s skin.”

Spencer shakes his head as he cups the weight of your other breast with the same care you’ve come to expect from him. Taut nipple rolls under his thumb. “How do you explain this then?”

You don’t respond. Not with words, anyway. Your body speaks first as you arch into his touch, chasing the warmth of his hands before you can form any thoughts.

“How do you explain,” he continues, his lips trailing down the slope of your stomach, “why I can’t get enough of how sweet you taste?”

Your mind finally catches up, and the words settle over you like honey itself.

“You think so?”

“It’s not a thought, it’s a fact.” He presses a kiss to the soft skin just below your navel. “I don’t know how you can taste better than this.”

Your laugh is breathless, barely steady enough to be called one. “You’re laying it on thick now.”

“I’m just being honest.”

It’s cute how he says it with such conviction, like it’s the simplest truth in the world and not a line that’s turning your legs to liquid. Your knees threaten to buckle as you step away, reaching for the half-empty champagne bottle perched on the coffee table. The glass feels cool against your overheated skin as you twist the cork free.

“What are you doing?”

“Considering your words.” You hold up the bottle, the champagne fizzing invitingly at its neck. “What do you say we make this even sweeter?”

His eyes light up with interest. “Is this where you show me the right way to drink champagne?”

You nod and sink back between his thighs. “I know you’re not big on sharing food, but I think you’re gonna like this.”

“You do realize I’ll share anything with you.”

Your lips curl into a soft smile. You’ve already learned that kissing Spencer feels deliciously messy. It’s sloppy in the way passion tends to be when control is the last thing on either of your minds, with tongues and teeth colliding in an unpolished rhythm that’s as raw as it is consuming. Adding champagne to the equation doesn’t feel like much of a stretch.

You step forward at the same time his hands fall to your hips. “There’s a trick to drinking champagne.”

“I’m listening.”

The bottle’s rim grazes your lips as you take in his appearance. His shirt is wrinkled, hanging just a little more loosely around his chest with two buttons undone. He’s the very definition of disheveled that’s entirely your doing. He looks absolutely irresistible.

“You need to linger on the taste,” you start, your voice dipping into something softer as your eyes meet his again. “Be patient. Let it sit and overwhelm your senses before you swallow.”

“You mean marinate it in my mouth?”

A giggle burst out of you. “Exactly. The longer you let it linger, the more it softens, and the sweeter it gets.”

You tilt the bottle to your lips. The sweetness starts to bloom on your tongue, subtle at first, but then richer, fuller against the roof of your mouth. There's a flicker of recognition in his eyes when you pull him closer by the nape of his neck, the exact moment he realizes what you’re about to do.

Your lips meld seamlessly with his as the Champagne slips from your mouth.

His lashes flutter briefly. There’s a soft flush spreading across his pale cheeks, and you feel the faint hum of pleasure, vibrating against the delicate curve of his skin as a liquid thread drips down your chin.

And then you’re kissing him. Or he’s kissing you. It’s hard to tell who moved first, but it doesn’t matter. His lips part further, and you swear you can taste every nuance of the champagne in a way you've never experienced before. Sharp citrus, a whisper of honeyed sweetness, and beneath it all, something clean and cool that reminds you of first snowfalls.

His lips are swollen and wet and perfectly shiny when you finally pull back.

“What do you think?”

“I think we should drink champagne every day.”

Your hand drifts to the side of his neck with a smile, thumb brushing lightly against his pulse. “Even when we’re working?”

“Especially when we’re working,” he counters, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, tasting what’s left of you. His gaze flickers to the bottle in your hand. “Can I try it?”

You pass it to him, your eyes fixed on the way he tilts it to his mouth. You’re sure the bubbles in your system aren’t the reason your pulse races as he sets the bottle aside and rises to his feet. You’re also sure that no amount of champagne is responsible for the way your lips part eagerly when his hands cradle your cheeks.

There it is again—that sweetness. It hits you the moment his mouth captures yours, but it fully overwhelms you when he tilts his head and gently coaxes the champagne from his lips to yours.

You’re not surprised at how quickly he picks this up. It’s common knowledge that he’s a very diligent person, but it’s still a bit astonishing how he’s taken to playing with a drink he supposedly doesn’t even like. This is nothing like solving cases or flexing his impossibly sharp brain, nor the crosswords you’re used to seeing him hunched over at his desk at lunch.

This requires a different kind of finesse that involves his lips and tongue rather than a pen and paper.

It also seems like he might be enjoying this even more. He leans back just enough to let his tongue sweep across the seam of your lips, collecting the last trace of sweetness clinging to you.

A thumb swipes over the wet trail under chin. “I could get used to this.”

“Champagne or me?”

“Both.”

Satisfied with his answer, your fingers trail down to undo the last few buttons of his shirt. “Do you wanna try something else?”

He quirks an eyebrow as you push down the fabric down his shoulders. You don’t say anything all the while you start to unbuckle his belt, peeling every layer of his clothing until you’ve stripped him completely bare—and would you look at that? The faint trail of hair down his belly matches the scruff shadowing his jaw.

There’s a brief pause as your eyes travel down his body, lingering on his surprisingly impressive size, and a comment sits at the edge of your tongue. You decide to let your actions speak for you.

Your delicate fingers wrap around his delicious thickness. You swipe the first signs of precum glistening over his tip with your thumb, and a low sound of pleasure rumbles in his chest.

“Is this what you had in mind?”

He sounds like he’s in pain, and you shake your head with a playful smile curling at your lips. “Sit back on the couch.”

Spencer sinks into the cushion.

“This might get a little messy.”

His brow furrows slightly, and for a moment, he looks genuinely intrigued. What he doesn’t expect is the way you slowly pour the remaining liquid down your chest. His mouth parts in surprise, and then his gaze follows every single drop like it’s gravity itself pulling him in.

You’re mesmerizing. Always have been, actually. There is no doubt in Spencer’s mind that you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever met in his life. Your mind is brilliant. Your heart is kind. But watching the champagne mix with the sheen of sweat on your skin, you’re something else entirely. You look lethal. A different kind of captivating.

He’s already pulling you by the waist, and you’re a mass of giggles as you twist out of his grip to set the bottle safely aside. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Can you blame me?”

Honestly, you can’t. If the roles were reversed, you’d probably look at him the same way.

When his hands finally find your hips again, there’s no point in pretending you don’t want to be caught. You bend your knees and shift on the couch. He helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap.

Desperate is a good enough word to depict for him because as soon as you're close enough, he’s tasting you all over again. His tongue drags slow over the curve of your shoulder, across the hollow of your throat, and down to the soft swell of your breasts. Goosebumps ripple across your skin with every pass, every flick of his tongue, his touch leaving a trail of heat that you swear you can feel seeping into your bones.

You don’t even realize when you start to move until you feel the slow, unintentional rock of your hips into him. His cock fits snugly between your folds that you start grinding as the words fall from your lips without much thought, “What do you think of sex without a condom?”

His pupils dilated, lips parting, but no sound comes out right away.

"Spence?"

His gaze flickers to where your wet bodies are pressed together. Damp moisture from his tip smeared erotically between puffy lips, clear liquid coating his hard length.

“I think… it’s very intimate."

“Too intimate?”

"No." His fingers trail along your skin before his thumb settles just under your breast, in the delicate curve where your rib meets, and finally looks at you. "Is that what you want?"

You're bobbing your head up and down.

“Then I'd really, really like that.”

You shift your weight on your knees. “So you trust me?"

"More than anyone."

“I trust you too,” you say, your voice dipping low as your fingers wrap around his cock, guiding him to your entrance. “Can I request something, though?"

"Anything."

You pause just long enough for your words to land. “I don’t want you to come inside me.”

He exhales a soft laugh. “That can be arranged.”

His answer makes your lips twitch, but as you start to sink down, your body seems to have other ideas. There’s a resistance you didn’t expect, a sudden tautness that refuses to give.

Your eyes widen in surprise.

Oh my.

“What’s wrong?”

When you first wrapped your hand around him and took in the full reality of his size, you’d been impressed. Now you wonder if maybe you underestimated just how much he has to offer.

You bite the insides of your cheeks and try again.

“It’s been a while,” you confess quietly. You can’t even recall the last time you were this intimate with someone that the hesitation feels foreign, like a hiccup in a moment you’ve been eagerly anticipating.

And you are eager. Maybe a little too much. It feels almost ironic, considering how much you’ve thought about this, how your imagination has filled in the blanks a hundred times over. Now that it’s real, your body seems to be having second thoughts your mind absolutely isn’t entertaining.

You shift your hips, determination flaring as you take a slow breath. Left, right, up, down. But then a sharp sting shoots through you. Your face quickly twists into a grimace.

"Hey,” he calls gently, thumbs brushing gentle circles against your hip. “We can stop. You don’t have to push yourself.”

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? You want him to push past whatever invisible barrier your body is putting up. The idea of stopping now feels more unbearable than the sting itself.

Your lips press into a stubborn frown. “No,” you say firmly. “We are not stopping.”

"Are you sure?"

"Mhm. I think my body's just being weird. I'm sorry."

His brows knits together almost immediately. “I should be the one apologizing.”

Frustration suddenly wells up in your chest, and this time your teeth sinks into your lip, unsure whether it’s the tension in the muscles between your legs or the ache of wanting him that feels stronger.

And you want him. So fucking bad.

“You need to relax,” he soothes, running his hands up your waist, past your ribs, across your back.

“I am relaxed,” you huff.

“I don’t think you’re relaxed enough.”

Before you can respond, he carefully lifts you from his lap and settles you back onto the couch. The cushions dips under your weight, and you barely have time to process the change before he gracefully drops to the floor.

“Should we move to your bed?”

He grips one of your ankles, his thumb brushing along the soft curve of your bone before he leans down, pressing warm lips to the skin above it.

“After this,” you reply, glancing at the sticky champagne trail still glistening faintly on your skin. “Don’t want my sheets getting sticky.”

There’s a flicker of amusement on his handsome face. “After this?”

“Did you think we’d be stopping after one round?”

His laughter vibrates against your calf. “How many times are we talking then?”

“Until I can’t feel my legs.”

The smile he gives you is slow and warm. It curves one corner of his mouth first, almost shy, before spreading fully, lighting up his face in a way that steals the breath right from your lungs.

“You’d let me have my way with you all night?”

“I’d probably let you have me anytime you want.”

His grin is almost blinding that you can’t help but give him a pleased smile of your own.

“Let’s focus on tonight first.” He moves to your other the leg. Delicate bone and tendon brushes against his lips. “I need to get you ready for me. Would you let me do that?"

Words fail you as his mouth moves closer, and the heat of his breath against your skin makes your entire body tense in anticipation. He presses another open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

"You're still tense."

Kiss. Kiss.

“Really need you to relax.”

You try, but then again, it's impossible when his lips are so close, yet still not where you need them the most.

His name slips in a desperate whisper.

"Hm?"

"Stop teasing."

His lips quirk in response, but he doesn't argue.

He dips his head and finally— finally! —drags his tongue along your achingly wet folds. Your eyes almost roll to the back of your head.

"Better?"

The question is entirely rhetorical.

You don’t bother answering. Words seem sparse when his actions are spelling out everything you need to know in bold, underlined strokes. His touch is distinctly different from the playful, champagne-dampened kisses he had gifted your skin.

Now he’s utterly focused. He’s researching, and it appears his diligence isn’t confined to his academic when the same focus he applies to his studies is translated so flawlessly into reading your body like a favorite book. One he’s intent on memorizing every line of, delighting in every pause and whisper between the chapters of your sighs.

It’s this thought that tickles the back of your mind when he slips a finger in. He’s always been about comprehensive understanding, and well, you’re all about empirical evidence. Right now is proof of a hypothesis you’re too pleased to confirm that Spencer Reid might just be a genius in more ways than one.

Especially in how his steady thrust of his finger syncs perfectly with the hot, wet pull of his mouth, scratching such a carnal itch that it resonates deep in your brain. You sigh in pleasure when he adds another finger, and he lifts his head then, lips shiny and pink from his ministration.

"Do you think you can take a third?"

Your heart gives a few extra thuds in your chest cavity. “Please, please.”

Look at you, reducing yourself into begging, but really, how could you resist? Who could withstand the intensity of his gaze, the way his voice dips low like velvet wrapping around your senses?

Your head tips back against the couch, a soft whimper lashing out as he adds that third finger. The stretch is almost overwhelming but oh so good.

"Does it hurt?"

You let out a loud exhale. "No."

"Tell me if it hurts."

"Feels good." Your legs fall apart even further. "Don't stop."

He smiles, and then he's doing things to your body that have you questioning how you're even still breathing. The wet, sticky slosh of your arousal fills the room, a sound so explicit it should mortify you. But then three knuckles press deeper, stroking against that rougher patch of nerves and all rational thought dissolves.

A sound you didn't even know you could make escapes your throat. You're gasping, moaning, a little bit squealing as his free hand slides up your plush thigh before finding your puffy clit. And dear god, you’re choking on the breath that lodges in your throat. You're so close it's almost unbearable. A hand shoots out, and you’re gripping his forearm with a desperation you can't even pretend to hide.

You need him inside you.

“I'm ready," you gasp harshly, your lips parting in quick, desperate puffs. "I'm ready. I’m ready.”

He has the audacity to shake his head.

"I'll decide when you're ready."

Your breath stutters even more.

Why does that sound so hot? Why does that simple, infuriatingly calm statement make your thighs clench, your pulse race, and a fresh wave of heat roll through your body?

Before you know it, he’s coaxing your orgasm from you with just the right pressure, and every movement feels like it’s designed to bring you right to the edge. You’re not surprised by how wet you are, you’ve been dripping for what feels like hours. But what does surprise you is just how much your body can take. The intensity that doesn’t wane, that keeps pushing you higher, drawing out gasp after gasp until hot syrup gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his fingers, down to the couch.

It’s endless, relentless, and you can’t even tell where one orgasm ends and the next begins. Your hand claw at his wrist.

“Spencer,” you whine, your voice breaking on the syllables. “Sensitive.”

He stops immediately, his fingers still inside you, his other hand slipping from your clit to rest on your thigh. “Too much?”

“A little,” you smile breathlessly. “C’mere.”

He crawls towards you as you lay on your back, relaxing your thighs.

His eyes trail over you, scanning your sweat-slicked skin, lingering on your perky breasts, moving down to where your legs are fallen apart, waiting for him. The sight is so overwhelmingly enticing that he finds himself wrapping a hand around his cock, muttering a low praise under his breath, “I don’t think I’ve told you how beautiful you are.”

Your eyes flick downward, and a spark of confidence—or maybe pure desperation—pushes your reply out without hesitation.

“Tell me again while you fuck me.”

You’re so blunt and shameless that a part of you might have blushed if you weren’t so far gone. Spencer doesn’t seem fazed, though. If anything, his eyes flash with a knowing sparkle that only deepens as he presses his bulbous head right at the shy of your entrance.

“I think I’m going to enjoy telling you,” he muses.

And Spencer is one to keep his promises.

He thinks you’re devastatingly pretty when he’s sinking into you. There’s a dazed look in your glossy eyes, and the sweetest sound coming from your lips as he stretches you in a way that leaves no part of you untouched.

He sings praises under his breath when the heavy weight of him finally settles deep inside your body. He patiently waits as your walls flutter around him, all the while his lips brushes the delicate curve of your collarbone, between low, broken whispers of how perfect you are.

Although perfection might not even capture the essence of what he sees in you at this moment. You’re a breathtaking array of contradictions. Powerful and vulnerable, fierce yet tender. You’re nothing short of divine as he gives another smooth, long thrust that pulls a sound from your lips that he knows will echo in his mind long after.

The heat of you surrounds him completely, and he swears he feels every pulse of your body welcoming him deeper. You’re slathering his entire cock with your slippery slick, and the dampness imprinting against his pelvis only seems to spur him on. He moves in steady, languid strokes, and your toes curl at the sensation burning in your belly.

He’s hitting you so good your ankles find themselves running down his back.

“Spence,” your voice is raspy and wet. “Fuck me harder.”

His quiet groan harmonizes with the rhythm of your heart. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t—”

You stop, and he looks through the mist of bliss you've shrouded him in. Your face twists, eyes going wide, lips parted to take in sharp breaths. He panics for a moment.

“You’re in pain,” he decides, reading the way your brows knit together, the way your breath stutters in your chest. It seems the most logical conclusion—until he realizes how wrong he is.

Because you’re writhing under his weight when he pushes in deeper, and your mouth trembles, not with discomfort, but with something devastatingly good.

“Oh,” he exhales. His smile is uncharacteristically smug. “It’s not pain, is it?”

You shake your head.

“You want it rough.”

It’s more of a statement than it is a question, but you’re nodding vigorously.

His restraint snaps like a frayed thread.

The next thrust is sharper, it pounds into you with enough force to shift your body slightly back against the cushions. Your lips mouth around another shaky breath he drinks dry with a wet kiss.

Still. Not. Enough.

“Harder,” you slur against his tongue.

What’s a hot-blooded man to do when asked so sweetly? He answers in the only way he can.

A hand curls around the back of your knee to pull you open just enough for him to drive deeper. The angle makes you feel impossibly full, how the folds of your vulva hugs around his shaft greedily, letting him claim all the space you didn’t even know existed. You can even feel the wet drag of his cock against your swollen clit with each hard thrust, a sensation so piercing it rips a gasp from your throat and a plethora of groans wailing from the couch.

“Like this?”

The relentless thwack-thwack-thwack of skins colliding is making you delirious.

“Yes,” you cry out. “Fuck—Yes. Yes.”

Your vision blurs as you blink, and—god, you think you might actually cry. And honestly, with how full you feel, with how every nerve is sparking to life under his loud rhythm, it wouldn’t even surprise you.

Your lashes feel wet as you squeeze your eyes shut, but you force them back open, unwilling to miss the way he looks above you. Jaw tight, sweat beading at his temples, eyes locked on you like nothing else exists.

Nothing probably does, not when he moves with a rhythm that feels both gentle and crude, like he’s savoring every second so sweetly while simultaneously chasing the most carnal kind of pleasure known to mankind.

Pleasure that has you melting, pleasure that has your body fully acclimating to his size. And now you’re teetering on the edge of another intense orgasm that begins its ascent from the tips of your toes and fingertips, spiraling a tingling rush up through your legs and arms, gathering force at the pit of your stomach, and exploding into the point where you’re intimately connected.

It happens all at once.

You’re trembling.

You’re shattering.

You’re pathetically whining.

Euphoria floods every inch of your body until you’re drowning in it. A liquid fire in your veins. Your cunt clenches around him, so tight you swear you feel every ridge and vein of his cock as keeps pressing you into the couch. Again and again and again, until you’re nothing but an incoherent mess, your words blabbered in a breathless rush of pleasure-induced nonsense.

One heartbeat stretches into two, then the muscles in his arms flexes as his pace falters. He’s shaking now, his pelvis moving in hurried, shallow thrusts as though he’s chasing something he can’t quite reach before the heat of him presses into you one last time.

He abruptly pulls out, his cock visibly pulsing in his hand and strokes himself with a stuttering groan as thick, pearly ropes splutters across your stomach. His fingers dig deeper into the back of your thigh while he continues to paint your skin in messy streaks, and you watch in fascination the moment his head tilts back in pure, unfiltered pleasure.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him quite this beautiful.

His brows pinches in concentration for a few more seconds before his gaze slowly meets yours again, and a faint, blissful pink colors his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly, looking a little out of breath. Devastatingly handsome and sweaty. Flustered in the best way.

You brush the damp hair sticking to his skin with a small, satisfied smile. “Are you kidding? That was extremely hot.”

His laughter fills every corner in the room. Then his hand drift down a comforting path down your thigh as he leans to capture the giggle tumbling from your lips with his own. It’s then you realize that kissing Spencer isn’t just enjoyable, it’s downright addictive.

You’re beginning to think he’s just as addicted to you too, because when he pulls away, it’s reluctant, his lips leaving yours with a faint, wet sound that lingers as sweetly as the kiss itself.

“Will you really let me have my way with you all night?” he asks gently, and you can’t help but wonder why he even feels the need to ask.

“Was I not obvious enough?”

You feel his smile before you see it. “Bedroom now?”

To tangle your naked limbs with his again sounds pretty close to heaven. Absolute, indulgent heaven, except for the distinct stickiness of champagne, sweat, and a cocktail of other body fluids clinging to your skin. The thought of sinking into cool clean sheets in this state makes your nose scrunch.

“We need to make a stop to the bathroom first,” you say, running a hand up his arm to squeeze his bicep. “Have you ever tried shower sex?”

“Can’t say that I have,” he admits truthfully.

You make a sound of disapproval.

“We definitely need to change that.”

-

Spencer realizes a lot of things can change in one night.

He also discovers how much he’s capable of learning in such a short period of time. Granted, he’s always been a quick study, but this is different. The hours between midnight and sunrise completely upend his understanding of things he’d only ever read about—sex, intimacy, the intricacies of how touch can feel as much like a language as words.

But beyond the newfound knowledge (and let’s face it, an entirely new appreciation for his muscles), there’s something else. Something that surprises him even more.

He likes waking up with another warm body beside him. More than likes it. There’s a strange kind of peace in the way your leg drapes over his, your hair a tousled mess against the pillow. Peace that makes him wonder if this, too, is something he could get used to.

Even if you’re hogging the blanket. He can feel the cool air on his back while you’re wrapped in most of the covers, leaving him to soak up whatever body heat he can steal by staying pressed against you. Not that he’s complaining. He’d happily stay like this for hours, but the sun is already creeping higher through your window, and your phone has been vibrating nonstop ever since he opened his eyes.

The sheets rustle as he shifts closer, mouth puffing warmly on your cheek with a breath of your name folding into your skin. You blink through heavy eyelids, and Spencer thinks you look adorable all wrapped up like a cocoon in the tangled linens.

“Hey," you croak, then clear your throat. “Morning.”

The soft rasp of your voice is even as endearing as the sight of you.

“I think we’ve already passed morning,” he says, slipping a hand under the covers, finding the goosebumps prickling on your upper arm.

“We slept in?”

“My guess is it’s almost noon.” There’s another buzz vibrating from the bedside table that stops him from pressing you against his chest. “Someone keeps calling you.”

He wonders if you can sense the slight annoyance in his voice. He wonders if he even has the right to be annoyed. It's Saturday. You clearly have plans—or at least someone thinks you do based on how persistent they've been.

If you catch the flicker of irritation in his voice, you don’t acknowledge it. You stretch lazily for your phone instead, and his attention is momentarily snagged by the way the sheet slips down your shoulder, revealing the constellation of freckles and moles he’s spent the entire night memorizing with his lips.

"Nobody’s calling.” Your thumb scrolls through the notifications. "Penelope just doesn't understand the concept of personal space when she texts."

Spencer feels the tightness in his shoulders ease, though he doesn't miss the way your eyes narrow into sleepy slits at the screen.

"Oh."

That one syllable is enough to set his mind buzzing.

"What?"

"Um."

It’s the subtle crack in your voice that hooks him. He’s never been good at sitting with unanswered questions, especially not when your expression shifts just enough to make him wonder what could possibly warrant that little noise.

He finally curls an arm around your waist, and the faint trace of your scent fills his lungs as he gently draws you back against his chest. A relentless stream of messages glares up at him over your shoulder.

Penelope [Sent 23:37]: Where are you?? Penelope [Sent 23:45]: Is reid with you? Penelope [Sent 00:05]: Did you leave? WITH HIM?? Penelope [Sent 00:17]: You did, didn't you? Penelope [Sent 00:33]: You can’t just vanish like this, you know I have questions!!!

Spencer barely registers the way his hand drifts down to rest against your stomach. He pulls you in unconsciously as his eyes scan over the flood of texts that started piling up this morning.

Penelope [Sent 09:19]: Good morning. Penelope [Sent 09:25]: Answer me. Penelope [Sent 10:24]: Seriously, are you alive? Penelope [Sent 10:39]: YOU OWE ME DETAILS. Penelope [Sent 10:48]: Last chance. Calling you in ten.

"I think she's onto us."

It’s not so much a matter of thought as it is a fact. Your words are less a theory and more a confirmation of reality, as undeniable as the relentless stream of texts lighting up your phone.

"What should I tell her?"

Spencer leans in closer. The soft scent of your shampoo drifts up, clean and faintly sweet, wrapping itself around him in a way that makes his chest ache, though he’s not sure why. He’s inhaling everything—your warmth, the curve of your shoulder brushing his chest, the way your voice carries an edge of hesitation that feels so out of place for someone like you.

And that’s what truly catches him off guard. Not the fact that Penelope is practically banging on a metaphorical door with her texts, but that you’re hesitating. You, who rarely second-guess yourself, now unsure about sharing the details of last night with one of closest people in your life.

Or maybe the surprise lies closer to home. How easily the words form in his own mind, bypassing the overthinking that usually rules him.

He has ten minutes to think before Penelope supposedly calls, but he doesn’t need ten minutes, or even ten seconds, because the answer is already there, so obvious it practically tumbles out of him.

"The truth," he hums against the crown of your hair. "You should tell her the truth."

You’re quiet for a while.

“Are you sure?"

For someone who invited him into your home, who let him press you into the couch cushions, spread you out on the cool tiles of the bathroom, and pull every sound he wanted from you on the soft give of your mattress—on your back, your front, even sideways—you seem awfully uncertain now. Very out of character.

So what’s changed this morning? Is it the stale morning breath he’s sure he hasn’t fixed yet? The mess of his curls sticking up in every direction from a night spent pressed into your pillows?

Or is it something much deeper that he hasn’t quite put his finger on?

The thought clings to him as his thumb brushes your stomach. "I’m sure," he says. "Are you?"

You hesitate for a beat too long, and that tiny pause lands heavy on his chest.

"This is going to change everything," you finally say, sounding somewhat like a warning.

He frowns. "Didn’t you want it to?"

"I did. I do." You pull in a breath that shakes on the way out. "Maybe we should discuss this before we say anything to anyone."

Your phone slips quietly onto the bed as you twist in his arms. Face to face.

"Do you like me?"

What kind of question is that?

"Did I seem not to like you last night?"

"No, Spencer, I need to hear it. Do you like me?"

He studies the delicate fold between your brows. He watches the quiver on your parted lips. And your eyes—watery and glossy and wide. Soft lashes framing the quiet expanse of irises that shimmer like glass.

He knows what you need. Spencer has spent most of his entire life reading people, pulling truths out of their silences and decoding what they can’t (or won’t) say. And even though he hates applying that skill to you, he knows this isn’t just about reassurance. You’re not only questioning what happened between you last night. You’re questioning what comes next.

The time glares from your phone over your shoulder: six minutes. That’s all he has to convince you that his feelings go far beyond fleeting lust or the heady haze of alcohol. Six minutes before Penelope inevitably interrupts.

But he’s not the greatest with words, is he?

Sure, he’s read more books than most people will touch in a lifetime. He can recite Edgar Allan Poe by heart and dissect layers of meaning in Dostoevsky’s prose like it’s second nature. But his own feelings don’t come wrapped in poetic declarations. That’s not who he is.

What he can do, though, is tell you the truth.

“You know how you told me I could have you anytime I want?”

A strand of hair brushes against your cheek as you nod.

“You’ve already had me from the very beginning.”

Your gaze softens, then you sigh sweetly, and he knows without a doubt that the truth is exactly what you need. “Before all the sex?”

“Before we even kissed.”

The distance between you slowly becomes nonexistent. You slot your knee between his thighs, a lick of smile curling at the corner of your lips.

“So… when I ran my foot up your leg?”

His lopsided smile is no different from yours. “No.”

“Last week when I wore your cardigan because the AC got too cold?”

“You looked really pretty in it, but no.”

“Last month?”

“Even before that.”

You click your tongue. “Give me a clue. A hint.”

But you don’t need clues. Clues are for puzzles, for cases that demand solving. This has never been a mystery. He’s known it for longer than he cares to admit, and he wonders if you’re asking because you genuinely don’t see it or because you just want to hear him say it.

Either way, he’ll happily say the truth as plainly as it exists in his mind.

“From the moment you joined the team.” You pause for just a heartbeat, and he reaches out to brush away the stray of hair slipping down into your eyes. “You probably didn't notice, but I couldn't stop staring at you.”

“You’re lying,” you accuse softly.

“I’m a terrible liar.”

He watches as you mull over his words. He knows you’re trying to decide whether to believe him, though he doesn’t think it’s really a question of if. You already know he’s telling the truth.

Your voice is awfully quiet that he has to perk his ears for it.

“What took you so long then?”

Because while he’s a terrible liar, he’s always been painfully good at keeping his heart to himself. Years of compartmentalizing, of burying emotions under layers of logic and detachment, have made it almost second nature. And maybe that’s why it took him so long.

That, and bad timing.

Countless abductions.

A never-ending chase after unsubs.

Death of a team mate.

And prison.

God, prison.

He wonders if these are valid reasons or just excuses. Had there ever been a perfect moment? Or had he let his fears and the chaotic nature of his job push his personal happiness to the sidelines too often?

The words knot in his throat, and in the end, all he can muster is an apology.

“I’m sorry.”

For waiting so long.

For not saying this sooner.

For only finding the courage to make a move under the guise of flirtation and champagne.

He’s selfish. He is. Because he's reaching for you based on his time, his terms, waiting until he was ready to fit you neatly into his schedule. But you simply shake your head. Because that's what you are, isn't it?

You’re selfless, and so profoundly lovely that you offered yourself to him last night without reservation. And now you’re even more radiant, wrapped in the soft light of vulnerability, tinged with doubt, yet always so giving. Pulling him closer to your chest with a hand on his back. Fingers splay across his skin, nails dragging idly along his spine.

“Don’t be,” you reply, feeling his body expand and deflate under your palm when he breathes. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

See? Selfless. The least he can do now is give you back the words you need to hear, the assurance you deserve to hear. Your foreheads press together, and he reverently lays his hand on your cheek, spreading lean fingers into your hair.

“If you must know, I do like you.”

But the word feels so inadequate for what he’s finally trying to tell you. Like doesn't even scratch the surface of how much space you take up in his mind.

"I more than like you,” he decides to add.

It doesn’t take long before you kiss him. Soft petals bloom warmly against his mouth, puffing humid breath he tastes on his tongue. A blissful moan he swallows greedily, lets it settle deep in his chest, his bones, his veins, filling every corner of him with the sweetest weight of you.

A flutter of lashes skims against his cheekbone when you tilt your head, pulling back by the barest inch. “You’ve made a huge mistake, by the way.”

The pad of his fingers presses gently on your scalp. “Why?”

“You’re never getting rid of me now.”

His thumb moves against your hairline as he takes in your words. For a moment, all he can do is absorb them, replay them, savor them. Then his eyes soften, the corners crinkling with genuine delight, and he lets out a soft huff of laughter that melts right into the narrow space between you.

He scoots impossibly closer, hoping your skin will somehow mold with his. Because after all the surprisingly creative positions he discovered with you last night, it’s the only conclusion he can come to: you fit into him. Perfectly. Soft curves finding their place against the lines of his frame, every piece of you adhering like glue to his skin.

Chest to chest, nose to nose, and lips so maddeningly close to yours that he can still taste the warmth of your breath, sweet and intoxicating in its nearness. It’s enough to drive him a little insane, though he’d argue he’s always been slightly off-center where you’re concerned.

His fingers twitch, ready to close that infinitesimal gap when the sharp buzz of your phone suddenly slices through the moment.

Six minutes.

That’s all the time the universe has granted him, and it’s woefully too short.

"Might need to block her number," you mutter under your breath as you shift slightly to reach for your phone. He watches the way your fingers fly over the screen rapidly before placing the device back on the side table.

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth." Then you drop on him like a dead weight, limbs tangling in the most inconvenient ways until your head is tucked in the crook of his neck. "Also sent her an eggplant and water emoji.”

A crease forms between his brows. “What does that mean?”

You fail to keep in your laughter. “You don’t want to know.”

He’s fairly certain he does want to know. In fact, he’s starting to realize he wants to know everything about you now that you’ve given him the chance. Beyond the pull of bodies and the way they slot together so seamlessly, beyond the electricity of skin against skin.

Though he can’t deny his curiosity at one precise moment, the way you’d slightly gasped when his fingers accidentally brush around the base of your throat. He wouldn’t mind knowing what that meant for you, and, surprisingly, what that even implied for himself.

But as intriguing as that is, it’s not what lingers the most. It’s the subtleties he wants to unravel, the pieces of you he hadn’t even realized he’d been aching to explore.

Your wit, your thoughts, your mind—that lovely, intricate thing he’s admired for so long. Full of nuances and depths he hadn’t even realized he’d only been skimming the surface of. He’s sure there’s something far greater than even his endless mind could have imagined that ties to the beautiful shape of you.

And you’re so beautiful. He’s known that for years, but mere hours ago, he learned it in an entirely new language. Even when he understands seven different ways the world chooses to communicate and speaks four fluently, yours is his favorite.

Yours doesn’t need words or perfect pronunciation. It’s instinctive and warm, written in every sigh, every glance, every unspoken verse that linger in the subtle shift of your body. In every nuance of your taste.

God, your taste.

He knows you’re right, skin can’t be sweet. The dichotomy isn’t lost in him. Yet it doesn’t matter, because not even the crisp, effervescent bite of champagne compares to the warmth of you. Not even sugar, and he basically lives on sugar. In chocolate-sprinkled donuts that he grabs on the way to work, in the endless cups of coffee that fuel his day.

You’re something else entirely, beyond comprehension.

And if one night was enough to saccharine his senses with you, he can only imagine what forever could do.

[alinathinkstoomuch]

A HELLO AND A KISS

pairing: aaron hotchner x lawyer!reader summary: aaron hotchner survives serial killers and endless paperwork—but apparently not you breezing past him without a hello, based on this request. (im so sorry, i got carried away and did not include the part of r meeting the team!!! pls dont hate me) warnings | an: jealous hotch, protective hotch, simp hotch, hotch is just down bad for his girl, one bj joke word count: 2.4k

✧ masterlist

You hadn’t come home last night.

Aaron had simply received a brief text: Don’t wait up. A case fell into my lap last minute. It wasn’t unusual—not in your line of work, and certainly not in his. You’d both sent that message before, more times than either of you could count. It came with the territory.

You and Aaron had always kept your professional lives separate. A clean, white, necessary line in the sand. It helped keep the bloodstained parts from crossing over and kept your dinner conversations from becoming post-mortems or courtroom recaps. After all, it was easier not to talk about the men Aaron arrested when you were the one prosecuting them.

He didn’t put it together right away.

But all five of his senses were attuned to you. Honestly? his sixth sense was you. He didn’t need to see you to know you were there—he could feel you, hear you, even smell you before he ever caught a glimpse.  It didn’t take much. Sometimes, it was just the sound of heels—your heels—that gave you away.

It was that click-clack rhythm that he had grown accustomed to over the months, filtering through early mornings when you forgot your keys, then your case notes, then your coffee. It trailed after you in the hallway, embedded in every corner where you’d left pieces of yourself scattered around his home.

And now, that same sound echoed from behind him, followed by the heavy thud of the courtroom door swinging shut.

“Can’t believe he’s actually trying to weasel out of this,” Prentiss muttered under her breath, just as you swept past their row.

The unsub’s public defender had filed a not-guilty plea days earlier—citing supposed evidence mishandling, mistaken identity, even floating some half-baked theory about a setup. It was desperate. Flimsy. But just credible enough to stall the trial, to buy time he didn’t deserve.

You didn’t look Aaron’s way. Didn’t slow your pace. You gave no reaction at all, just glided by, slipping into the prosecution’s chair like it was your usual seat at the office.

“New face,” Prentiss noted, leaning toward Hotch. “She wasn’t at the prelims was she?”

Hotch finally cleared his throat. “No.”

He meant to say more—something neutral, something about new counsel, something properly professional, something more him—but the words got stuck somewhere behind his ribs. Especially when the most him thing in the world was sitting right there, only meters away from a man he’d gladly kill with his bare hands if he so much as looked at you the wrong way.

Though, truthfully, he knew you’d get to him quicker with words, with strategy, with that cool, calculated tone that could cut deeper than any punch Hotch could throw.

You still hadn’t looked at him. Fully locked into that little world of yours, where the second you stepped into a courtroom, you grew fins and dermal denticles, transforming into a shark in couture and four-inch heels.

It stung. Just a little. But he knew why you were doing it. He just couldn’t begin to imagine what it must feel like to sit in a room and watch you give someone like that—worst of the worst—your full, undivided attention.

He’d only had the pleasure (and slight terror) of watching you in court twice before—neither case connected to the BAU and already, he was starting to sweat. Just a little. Maybe.

Aaron clamped his jaw tight, trying to keep his expression neutral, but the effort must’ve been visible because he caught Rossi huffing a laugh under his breath.

Of course Rossi knew. Rossi was the only one who’d actually met you off-duty. And the last thing Hotch needed was Rossi even hinting at the tiny, minuscule, barely-worth-mentioning fact that you wore Aaron’s old college t-shirt to bed, or that just a few hours ago, he’d been ogling your bare legs as you stumbled out of the shower, mumbling at him to go back to sleep.

Because as soon as Prentiss or Morgan—who already looked half-asleep in his seat—caught wind of it, it wouldn’t be a murder trial they were interested in anymore. No, it would turn into entertainment, something far more exciting than sitting at their desks, pretending to work through paperwork they never submitted on time anyway.

He shifted in his seat. No engagement was the best engagement, he figured.

Instead, he forced his eyes off you and onto the defendant, who was fiddling with his tie like that would suddenly make him more credible. Like anyone in the room would forget what he’d done just because he shaved and tucked in his damn shirt.

But the second you stood, rising slowly from your chair, Aaron’s gaze snapped right back to you, so fast it nearly gave him whiplash. Still, you didn’t look his way. Of course you didn’t. You were here to do a job. And right now, that job was dismantling a man with nothing but your voice.

He swallowed hard.

Yeah. He was definitely sweating now.

By the time the trial hit the halfway mark, he could tell your energy had changed—or was about to—with the unsub being called to the stand.

Hotch sat stiffly, watching you shuffle your notes with little effort. Morgan had finally roused enough to start paying attention, and Prentiss was scribbling away in the margins of her legal pad—none of which, Hotch would bet good money, had anything to do with the actual trial.

You stood once more, brushing that stubborn piece of hair away from your face—the one that always seemed to fall whenever you were reading something from above. He wished he could push it away for you, wished he could pull you out of this courtroom entirely, shield you from every ugly, broken thing the world could throw at you.

But then your voice cut through the room, reminding him that this was your job.

"Alright," you began, voice crisp but bored, like you were already three steps ahead. That’s what anyone else might think. But Aaron knew you were ahead five.

"Let’s go back to March 5th," you said, pausing just for a second. "You said you didn’t know Jessica Harlan."

"I didn’t," Tanner snapped back, so fast it almost made Hotch smile.

That kind of panic was never a good sign—and he knew it was one of your favourite tells. The second someone cracked like that, it was like flipping a switch, like flashing a green light across the battlefield. Go get him.

"Right," you hummed, nodding like you were humouring a stubborn child throwing a tantrum. "Right."

Another pause.

You were good at that—giving the poor soul on the receiving end (victim, really) of your arguing capabilities enough time to think. To second-guess themselves. Hotch had picked up on it early on, and when he’d once asked you about it, you gave him a dry, matter-of-fact answer: it gave people enough time to realise how stupid they sounded.

"And yet, a witness places your car parked across the street from her apartment two nights in a row. Same make, same model, same license plate."

Tanner shifted in the witness chair, but you didn’t rush him. You stood there, cool and composed, giving him just enough rope to hang himself.

“I –”

"Parked there?" you cut in, tilting your head like you were offering him an easy out. The trap was already set.

You reached for the remote, clicking the TV monitor on.

"Okay, that’s completely understandable," you considered with a polite nod toward the jury. "Though I’m not quite sure what your explanation is for getting out of the vehicle on the second night and standing in front of Jessica Harlan’s apartment for—" you glanced down at your watch, "—thirty-seven minutes."

You glanced back up, eyebrows raised just enough to look curious but not confrontational. Just a lawyer looking for answers.

Tanner opened his mouth, closed it, then looked down at his hands like maybe they’d have a better explanation than he did.

Aaron recognised the footage immediately, thanks to Garcia’s handiwork. The screen showed Tanner stepping out of his car, glancing around, and then just…standing there. Across the street from Jessica’s apartment building.

Doing absolutely nothing.

For thirty-seven minutes.

The same number of stab wounds Jessica and every other victim had endured.

You didn’t even glance at the screen. Your focus stayed fixed on Tanner like a blade against his throat.

“Maybe you were just out getting some fresh air. Though I’m not sure stalking is generally recommended for cardio.”

"Objection, Your Honour—" the defence attorney barked, already on his feet.

You raised a hand, before the judge even had time to respond. “Withdrawn.”

"I wasn’t watching her,” Tanner argued, drawing the attention back to himself.

"No?” you echoed, cocking your head to the side. “Then what were you doing, Mr Tanner? Practicing your standing endurance?"

He huffed out a weak laugh with no real humour behind it. It was the kind that people made when they realised they were cornered and didn’t have the tools to dig their way out.

“I just... needed some air,” he repeated, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

"I get it, I do," you agreed in faux sweetness. "We all need fresh air. Though it’s odd, don’t you think?"

“I’m sorry?”

“Jessica Harlan was stabbed thirty-seven times…" You took a step closer to Tanner, and Aaron had to physically stop himself from moving. Remind himself that you knew exactly what you were doing. That this was all part of the strategy. Even if, deep down, he wanted nothing more than to stand between you and every monster you faced.

"Which," you continued, "happens to be the exact number of minutes you spent outside her apartment."

Tanner swallowed, but that didn’t seem to faze you.

"Just like you spent thirty-seven minutes outside Eliza Horne’s place of work," you listed off, each word tightening the noose around Tanner’s neck. "Thirty-seven minutes outside the gym where Marissa Cole trained. Thirty-seven minutes at the café Danielle Ruiz visited every Thursday—”

Aaron felt Prentiss lean in beside him. “She’s good.”

He didn’t look away from you long enough to answer.

Good didn’t even begin to cover it.

You were extraordinary. And somehow—somehow—you were his.

He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve you, what twist of fate had put you in his path, but he would be grateful for it for the rest of his life.

Grateful that you had let him in.

Grateful that he got to see you whole.

Whether it was in a courtroom, where you left your smile and affection at the door to tear the truth out of some of the worst people, or in the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed—the way you teased him for how he pronounced pecan—he had seen it all. And he wouldn’t trade a second of it.

A nudge from Rossi pulled Aaron out of what felt like a permanent trance—the one you had managed to put him in with no effort whatsoever.

“Everything okay?”

He nodded, absently rubbing a hand over his jaw.

"Got you reminiscing about your prosecutor days?"

Aaron let out a breath that almost passed for a laugh. "I think if I’d stayed," he said, glancing back toward you, "she would’ve put me to shame."

"Would’ve been one hell of a show,” Rossi murmured. “Don’t let her get away.”

Aaron’s mouth tipped into the barest hint of a smile. He wasn’t planning on it. Hell would have to freeze over before he let even the smallest possibility of that happen.

His eyes found you again—right where they belonged—just as you finished with Tanner.

The day wound down eventually, and Aaron doubted the trial would drag on much longer, not after what you’d done to Tanner and his defence team. There wasn’t much left of them by the time you were finished.

He lingered just outside the courtroom, waiting. He’d managed to come up with a half-convincing excuse to stay behind, though neither Morgan nor Prentiss seemed to question it. They were too busy arguing over whether they could convince Penelope to hack into your trial schedule just so they could sit in on another one.

Not that Aaron could blame them.

The courthouse entrance doors swung open again, and you finally stepped through, files tucked under your arm, eyes fixed on your phone as you breezed past.

You didn’t even glance his way.

Again.

Aaron blinked. Really?

"So I don't even get a hello?" he asked, stepping lightly into your path with a raised brow. “Twice in one day. Must be losing my edge.”

You looked up, startled for half a second before your entire face lit up at the sight of him.

"I’m so sorry!" you blurted, already smiling. "You know how much I hate it when things fall into my lap last minute. I've been running around all day just trying to catch up—”

"No, no," he interjected, keeping his face painfully neutral, though the corners of his mouth twitched, just a little. "It’s fine. I’m obviously not that memorable."

"And I thought I was the needy one." You shook your head, still laughing under your breath as you tucked your phone away and shifted your files into one arm.

“Come here,” you cooed, hooking two fingers into the front of Aaron’s jacket, tugging him down.

He went willingly—no surprise there.

You pressed a kiss to his cheek first, soft and easy, before leaning in for a slower one on his lips. The kind that made him forget you were still technically in public.

"Better?" you asked, pulling back just enough to see the answer written all over his face.

"Only a little," he murmured, and before you could so much as blink, he reached out and took the files and your briefcase from your arms like it was second nature, like he’d been carrying your things for years.

“You carrying my stuff now, too?”

“Maybe I’m just trying to earn my next hello.”

You laughed, the sound unwinding every knot in Aaron’s chest, loosening him in ways only you ever could.

“Keep this up and you’ll have my mouth doing a lot more than just saying hello.”

Yeah.

He was completely gone.

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley

[mrs-kmikaelson]

Your Five Truths

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader Summary: You have five simple truths. But when your relationship and your life are put on the line, you start to question what you believe in anymore. Warnings: reader is a bau tech analyst, serious angst, aaron is being mean, big argument, mentions of haley's death, references to foyet arc, home invasion, graphic descriptions of violence Words: 3.5K

Masterlist

a/n: there will be a part 2.

1. Aaron doesn't yell at you. 

If all else was unsure, then this was one of the five things you knew for certain. You weren't sure if he yelled at all. Maybe at work with criminals, but never with you.

This was still true.

Right now, he wasn't yelling at you. He was speaking in an even tone, but you knew him well enough to notice the difference. His voice was as cold as his rigid stance, like ice ran through his veins. His arms were crossed, and so, even if you weren't a criminal—even if you knew you were his fiancé—you sure as hell felt like one.

Standing on the other side of the kitchen island, you were in opposition of each other in every sense of the word.

You took a deep breath before speaking. "Aaron—"

He cut you off before the words could even leave your mouth. "We've had this conversation before. I've already told you how I feel about it."

You repressed the urge to take another breath, knowing he was a profiler. Knowing he could profile the discomfort all over you, regardless. But you picked up a few profiling tricks, too.

You could see the way he was staring at you. Like you were an idiot.

Maybe you agreed on that.

Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot— 

You took the breath, anyway. "Aaron, I said I'm sorry."

You tried to step closer to him, and he didn't move away. But he didn't usher you into his arms, either.

And despite the fact that Aaron doesn't yell at you, you could tell he really wanted to.

"And I'm saying you shouldn't have to say sorry. We shouldn't be having this conversation because you shouldn't have done it," he scolded.

You took another step closer, rounding the counter like your body was trying to get him to physically understand, to remind him that you were on the same side.

"What was I supposed to do?" Your voice was desparate now, almost like you actually wanted him to answer. "You were working. I had to work. You weren't picking up the phone—"

"That's right," he cut you off again. This time, he stepped closer to you. "I was working. You weren't."

2. You have an equal relationship.

The second truth was what had you tilting your head. You were already flushed from the heat of the argument, but now you could feel yourself getting a little angry.

"What do you mean I wasn't working?" you questioned. "Yes, I was. Garcia said you called everyone in; you said to get there stat."

He was quick. "I meant everyone that was necessary. You aren't."

You could feel the cut immediately, etched deep into your skin. It didn't matter how he said it, frivolous or not—the words were sharp enough to cut you effortlessly.

You aren't necessary.

The words echoed through your head. Words you'd heard before, but never from him. Never from the man who swore to be better than everyone else who ever hurt you.

Yet, no matter how much you'd been hurt in the past, it hurt a thousand times more to come from him.

You waited for him to say something else, waiting for any sign of regret to cross his face.

Nothing did.

There were many times when you wished you had Aaron's poker face, but right now, you didn't have to try. The sadness flooding your body remained internal; the only thing that showed on your face was rage.

Your eyes narrowed. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Hotch doubled down, staring you right in the eye. "It means your job is an accessory. Garcia does the same job as you—you aren't needed."

That was a lie so blatant it made you scoff. You were a technical analyst for the BAU, and you'd proven yourself time and time again. Hotch was the one that hired you—he's the one that said he saw something in you.

Apparently not.

"I'm not needed," you echoed, sarcasm lacing your voice. "Right. So when an alert comes out that there is an active hostage situation and a potential terrorist threat, what do you expect me to do? Not come into work?" 

"Yes," he deadpanned. "Not when you're picking up my son."

You ran a hand through your hair, stuck in disbelief. "You can't be serious—"

"When you're picking up my son, what I expect is for you to take him home."

You spoke over him, countering, "I brought him to a place where I knew he'd be out of harm's way. You weren't picking up the phone. I did what I thought was best—"

"You brought him to Jessica—"

"I brought him to his aunt—"

For the first time since the conversation started, Aaron raised his voice just enough for it to stop you dead in your tracks. "You don't get to bring him to his aunt. You are not his mother!"

3. You are not Jack's mother.

You knew that. God, you knew that. You were there to see the carnage in the Hotchner household after Haley's death. The blood that splattered the walls. The boy who was too young to spell the word devastation but still felt it in his bones.

You knew you were not Jack's mother. You lived in a house with her pictures on the wall. Jack was a mirror image of her; he was her son, and you knew that. It was one of the truths you held the most conviction in.

It was the truth.

But you still recoiled, almost like Aaron had slapped you. A part of you thought maybe that would've hurt less.

All the fire you had was extinguished. You didn't have a rebuttal for that. What could you say? It didn't matter if you loved Jack like he was your own—that didn't change the fact that he wasn't.

You avoided Aaron's gaze, choosing to stare at the pattern of his tie instead and trying not to succumb to the sting in your eyes. You liked this tie; it was one of your favourites. You were close enough to him to see all its beautiful details.

But, at the same time, you'd never been further away from him.

Aaron still hadn't said anything, and out of fear that the dam would break if the silence continued, you spoke up. "I—" your voice cracked. "I know I'm not Jack's mother, and I'm not trying to be." You paused. "I was just doing what I thought was best."

You left it there, not knowing if the right words to say the right thing even existed. Saying the right thing was always Aaron's thing, not yours.

But whatever words he was going to say were cut off by the shrill pinging of a cellphone. Two cellphones.

Aaron picked up his first, sighing immediately. You didn't have to guess what it said. "We have another case." The heat in his voice was gone; he sounded like himself.

That didn't mean you felt any less burned.

"Okay, um—" you couldn't stop yourself from sniffling even if you tried. "I'll stay here and watch Jack. You go."

Another sigh left him. "Y/N—"

The sound of your name leaving his mouth almost made you cry, but you persisted, "No, you can go, it's fine." You chuckled if not just to make light of it for yourself. "I'm not needed there, anyway."

"Y/N."

"Aaron." You fingally looked up at him, and you saw it. Remorse swirling in his brown eyes. The same eyes that crinkled at the sides when you said you'd marry him. Somehow, that made it worse, knowing that it was the same person who said both of those things. Who built you up from scratch just to bring you right back to the bottom. 

You repeated yourself, "Go." The team needs you, you wanted to say. The only reason you didn't say it was because he'd already accused you of trying to be his past wife; you didn't need to prove him right.

You could practically hear the churning of his inner turmoil, torn between staying and leaving. It was pointless; you both knew what his decision would be.

When he reached for his go-bag, it was final. And in some ways, he was leaving more than just the house.

As if he could sense that, he turned around. "We'll finish this discussion when I'm back," he said. That was an anchor: telling you something about the present by talking about the future. When I'm back meant that he'd be back. Discussion meant you had something to talk about, a two-sided activity. We meant you were still one unit; you were still a we.

Maybe that's what he meant by it. If you scoured through his words and read between the lines, maybe you'd find the beginnings of an apology—in his own way, at least. But he wasn't sorry, not for what he said. If anything, he was only sorry that he said it.

You wouldn't profile him and ascribe meaning to words that didn't mean anything. We'll finish this discussion when I'm back meant you'd finish the discussion when he was back. 

When you replied, that was what you were replying to. "Okay."

You weren't okay.

This wasn't okay.

Aaron cast one last look at you before he crossed the threshold. You looked away.

And then he was out the door, leaving you in a house that no longer felt like your own.

—

"Y/N, my love, I thought I'd die without you!"

Penelope was on you as soon as you walked into the bat cave, shooting up from her chair and hugging you so tightly that you would've thought you'd been gone for ages. Really, you were only gone for a night.

You told Aaron that you wouldn't be coming in, and you were holding true to that, but you weren't gonna make Garcia work alone if she had to, even if she was perfectly capable of it.

You knew you weren't needed. Hotch was right: this ship could sail just fine without you. But you could help.

You'd just dropped Jack off at school, so now you were here, ready to work until you had to pick him up again.

You forced yourself to laugh at her words, causing her to hit your back. "No, I'm being serious! You're my oxygen—I can't live without you."

At that, you snorted. "Okay, Penelope."

She pulled back, resting her hands on your shoulders. "Seriously, though." She looked deep into your eyes, seeming to be looking for something. "Are... are you okay? I don't even think you've taken a sick day since... since forever."

You smiled at her exaggeration, even if it didn't really reach your eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine, P. I just have to leave early to go get Jack, and um... I'm gonna stay off camera today. And off the phones." You shifted your weight. "Not like it matters or anything, but I just don't really want Hotch knowing I'm here. I just want to stay in the background today, if that's okay?"

Her brows raised, but she quickly affirmed, "Yes, that's okay! Totally okay. We'll keep this 100% incognito."

It was in Garcia's nature to ask questions, so you knew she had them, but she didn't voice a single one.

You talked about work, and new bureau technology, and your next girls night, and everything but what you asked of her.

You'd never been more grateful.

—

It'd been two days since the team left, two days of bouncing back and forth between the office and back home with Jack. The son that wasn't really yours. The son that felt like yours, anyway.

If you were doing as good as you thought you were, then nobody knew you were even there. Garcia was telling the rest of them that you were sick. Your phone had been flooded with get well soon messages from everyone except the one person you really wanted one from.

Aaron hadn't spoken to you since he left. You wished it didn't hurt as badly as it did.

"Okay, Jackers! I think it's time we head to bed."

"What?" You held back a laugh at the incredulity in his voice, knowing that—for an 8 year old—this was a very serious matter. He looked at you with traces of shock, somehow looking everything and nothing like his father at the same time. "But it's only ten o'clock!"

"Ah, and yet it is still past your bed time. Mine, too."

Jack frowned—and there it was. There was that bit of Aaron you were looking for. "You say that, but you're just going to stay up after I go to sleep."

You couldn't suppress the smile on your face any longer. "No, Jack. I promise you I'm so tired, I'll be out as soon as my head hits the pillow." You ruffled his hair, your smile becoming a grin as he groaned. "Now go brush your teeth, little man."

Jack got up from the table, his little feet pitter-pattering across the floor as he made his way to the stairs. It didn't sound much like a pitter-patter anymore now that he was getting older, but he would always be the same little boy to you. So, "pitter-patter" it was.

Until suddenly, you heard a different noise.

Not pitter-patter.

The door.

Your eyes darted to Jack as he stopped in his tracks, then they darted to the door. The knob, turning lightly, gold glinting in the light. The sound of your own heart beating was just as loud as the turning. The person got impatient, the knob turning faster now, like someone was trying to pry it open.

Fuck. Fuck.

Your mind ran a mile a minute. That wasn't Hotch. You weren't expecting anyone, and whoever was at the door certainly wasn't asking for an invite in.

They were trying to force their way in.

Somebody was breaking in to the house.

With that realization, you were moving. "Jack." You caught his attention easily, spotting the fear on his face right away. More than fear. 

Familiarity.

He went through his before. Oh, your Jack. He'd been through this before, and he would know what to do. You did.

Conversations with Aaron flashed through your head, just-in-case scenarios, if then statements. Emergencies.

You knew what to do, too.

You just never thought you'd have to.

You grabbed onto Jack's shoulder, immediately feeling how his body was trembling. "Jack, I need you to listen to me." The knob got louder. You lowered your voice. "I need you to work the case, okay? Like with your dad. Do you understand me?"

His eyes went wide. "Wait, Y/N. What about you—"

"Jack. Do you understand me?" He went quiet, and then he nodded, making you sigh in relief. "Okay, take my phone. Call 911, but don't make a sound." You handed him the phone, and then you let go of him. "I love you." Your throat closed up. "Now go."

Jack ran up the stairs, and you were up automatically, trusting he'd do as you said.

It was like someone else was in your body, telling you what to do. You opened the pantry, looking where you'd never looked and typing numbers into a keypad you'd never touched.

Why do we need a safe in the kitchen? you had laughed at the time.

In case of an emergency, Aaron had said. You thanked his forward thinking.

The only way you knew that you were still there was by the violent shaking of your hands as the cool metal touched your skin. You'd only ever operated a gun once or twice. Did you even remember how to load it?

The door banged, making you jolt. You had to remember now. Come on, Y/N. Load the fucking gun. 

You thrusted the magazine into the well and then pulled back the slide. Another bang. You turned the safety off.

Hold the gun with both hands.

God, Hotch, when will I ever need to do this?

Well, I hope you never have to. But we can never be too safe.

Another bang hit the door, this time more forceful. We can never too safe. Tears flooded your eyes, and you promptly blinked them away.

Then. There was another bang, and this time, the door hit the wall.

You intook a sharp breath, hearing footsteps thump against the floor. You closed your eyes, focusing on the noise. One set of footsteps. 

Aaron's voice echoed throughout your head. Are you sure?

You screwed your eyes shut tighter, straining your ears. Yes. One person. Loud. Heavy. Male.

Okay, that's good. What else do you know?

You knew they spent a long time fiddling with the door knob before busting the door open. That could either mean they lacked physical strength or they were trying to taunt you. The second option. You knew this was a low-risk neighbourhood. You knew your car was out front. This wasn't about money. This was personal. Intentional.

You knew this was an FBI agent's house. You knew—

Wait. You strained your ears more, following the footsteps. They weren't heading for your direction. No. No, no, no, no.

Jack was upstairs.

You couldn't let this man go up there.

4. You love Jack Hotchner unconditionally.

Knowing number four makes you act fast with a determination you'd never felt before. The pantry door swung open as you left the enclosed space, instantly raising the gun in the air like it was weightless. 

You pointed it at your stairwell where a masked man stood, motionless. 

"You better stop right there, you son of a bitch," you threatened, cocking the gun like it was second nature to you.

The man raised his hands into the air slowly. He tilted his head at you as if he was trying to mock you.

And then he smiled.

Before you could even realize what was happening, he was running at you. Your eyes widened, pulling the trigger. You barely got to see if your shot made it before he was tackling you to the ground, knocking the gun out of your hands.

The back of your head hit the ground, making a sickening crack. You gasped for air, and then you were wheezing as the man's hands wrapped around your neck, squeezing tightly.

You looked up into his demented eyes, hearing not the sound of your own voice but Hotch's. Use what you see. Frantically, your eyes flew all over the unsub's body until you saw red staining black, right at his shoulder. 

Without thinking about it, you stuck your finger into the wound, hearing him scream. He was stunned enough that he loosened his grip, giving you the chance to kick him off of you.

You scrambled to your feet, searching for the gun and finding it in the middle of the living room floor. You dove for it right as he got back up, getting to you before you could try shooting again.

His hands wrapped around yours, trying to wrestle the gun from your hands. You held on like your life depended on it because it did. Your life depended on it— Jack's life depended on it. 

You fired a shot into the ground and then another into the wall as he fought you, knocking a picture frame off the mantle. You couldn't see where the gun was pointing anymore, but then, suddenly, pain radiated throughout your lower abdomen, and you knew it was pointed at you.

You gasped, looking down and seeing blood spreading through the white of your tank top.

You looked back up, seeing the asshole smile at you with his teeth. They were pearly white. So clean for a man so dirty.

You sought to make them red, too.

In a surge of energy, you twisted the gun out of his grasp and didn't think before pointing it at his head and firing.

You watched the bullet penetrate his skull before he fell to the ground. Like a domino, you followed, crumpling against the couch.

The gun slipped out of your hands and they immediately went to your wound, making you hiss in pain. You pressed down on it, feeling blood flow between your fingers like a river. 

Keep swimming. Keep your eyes open.

The fatigue hit you like a train. You blinked, trying to keep your eyes open, but they felt so heavy.

Jack. Jack was upstairs. He called the police.

He was okay.

You heard sirens in the distance. The police were coming.

You could sleep now.

And so, as you remembered your fifth truth, your eyes started to flutter closed.

5. You love Aaron Hotchner. And he loves you.

You let yourself fall into a dreamless sleep, hoping that somehow, on some plane of consciousness, he could hear you say I love you one last time.

You loved Aaron Hotchner. You knew that for certain.

You just hoped he still loved you.

[axetivev]

— Summary: After your performance and fan meetup, a guy asked you out on a date. Though, your manager wanted to refuse. You, being a solo musician with nothing much better to do decided to accept his date. You thought he might be a random fan that paid a lot to go on a date with you. Little did you know, he was a popular idol!

— Warnings/Tags: Smut + Fluff, Oral sex (oc!receiving), Ridding, Ass slapping, Porn with Plot, Photography, Obsessive Oc, Taking Pictures without Consent, Hair pulling, Overstimulation.

— Words: 4.8k (God...)

— A/N: okay... ill do three ocs for now. i actually had many ideas for creating another oc. but this is enough for now. at least, since i had my own desires to write other characters. that's all really. also... there's parts of this fic that's inspired by @sooniebby. (hope you don't mind, heh) as my usual. I hope you enjoyed this fic !!

— Pairing: Oc!Sato Hiroshi x Male!Reader

The sound of music echoed through the empty studio, you stood there alone, companied by a violin over your shoulder as your dominant hand gliding the bow to the strings—your other hand, your fingers moved gently as you played Canon in D. You closed your eyes—letting the music consumed you for a moment, until you stopped.

“[Name],” a voice of a woman entered the room. Her tag in her suit was clear as day—Yamada Haruka. Your manager. “The agency is going to do held a huge performance next month! Are you in?”

Haruka was the woman who was like an actual mother to you. Unlike your actual mother—you first met her after a few weeks you dropped out medic school for wanting to be a violist, your mother never supported that idea in the slightest. Not to mention that she barely even supported you other then being a doctor. Kicking you out and cutting all contact.

You found yourself playing with the same violin you loved since high school—the last thing from your father remains. Even though life was rough, you played music endlessly with an open heart. Money slowly coming and after five months of you solo and having some experience, you found Haruka in a cemetery looking down at a grave—two of them. Actually, you stop mid track. Your heart wanted to approach her, but your mind said something so absurd like it was came from a cartoon; “What if she was a ghost? Capturing it’s pray by acting someone grieving?”

But you ignored that thought, even it felt weird to comfort a stranger. You stood beside her, placing your hand over your shoulder as you read both names that are carved on those stones.

Yamada Sakura — Yamada Fuuji

You look down at the woman who’s still kneeling down as she wiped her tears. Her business suit was messy, she pulled out a handkerchief as she tried to wipe her tears, her make up was messed up her tears. You didn’t want to ask—well, you just wanted to comfort her. But it ended up snowballing into her asking you to join the music company she was in—“you had potential!” was all she said. That alone, you never obtained from your mother.

Back to the present day. You sat across Haruka, she pulled out her phone, showing it to you. The poster of your agency from Instagram—that you and a popular female idol group had a show in Tokyo—with some other idol groups that had a possibility of preforming. That group had a big name. Like, 30 million worth big—your eyes slowly flickered over that group, Twilight, from the agency Hymnn.

Even though Hymnn is a big agency, most of their assets come from their male idol group—Twilight, which was filled by five members. But you sometimes questioned yourself, how could they get such good looking men? You remembered that time, somehow. Haruka allowed you to go out with your old friends, which was spend to watch Twilight’s performance. The screams of their fans was enough to make you go deaf, if not thanks for you forgetting to pulled out your earbuds.

“Again…?” You pouted, you look at Haruka with your classic puppy eyes—which Haruka replied with a pinch on your cheek. “Ha—ru—kaaaa!!”

“Kiddo, you’ve skipped your show for three times in a row. Everyone is practically coping over your posts with grave yards!” Haruka slightly pulled your cheek before releasing your skin, making you whine as you straighten up.

You suddenly remembered the last time your preformed was eight months ago, your agency’s both Instagram and Twitter accounts that had your last performance was filled by your fans spamming grave yard emojis and dead roses. You didn’t expect your fans could be so desperate for your comeback, it’s laughable but also sad at the same time.

Haruka leaned back against the navy couch, her right hand moved to take the glass of water over the table. The silence stretched for a moment, you just stared at your manager’s phone in your hand. Mindlessly scrolling to the pages of your agency, when you stopped at the last post of yours, your eyes slowly read on who liked your post.

Liked by TwiHiroshii.

“TwiHiroshii…?” You muttered under your breath. You gave Haruka’s phone back, back to the original topic of you preforming. You nodded your head. “Okay then, guess I’ll perform on the show.”

Haruka’s face slightly lighted up as she straighten up. “Well then! I’ll informed you about everything about the event later on, I’m going in a meeting. Food is in the counter, don’t forget to practice. See ya kiddo!”

Haruka practically ran out of the studio, you sighed while shaking your head amusingly. Even though she was in her mid 40s, she’s sometimes like a teen like you do even at your 20s. Well, since Haruka isn’t here. Procrastinating sounds like a great idea…

You opened your Instagram, you barely opened your socials. Which sounds unrealistic but hey, at least you had a life. You checked your notifications, your eyes slightly widened when that same account liked all of your posts. You stood up from the couch and moved you way to the counter as you scrolled on your fyp, there’s already a plate of curry that’s still hot. You took a chair and sit down.

You clicked on the TwiHiroshii account, you aren’t really surprised that it was Sato Hiroshi, the member of Twilight. But why does he liked your posts? You thought it might be a mistake, but what mistake that made him liked all of your posts?

Some fans of Twilight reached out to your account. And you finally checked your followers, you titled your head. Since when your followers was 940k? The last time you checked or even remembered, you only had 500k-ish. You slowly looked through your posts, your most popular post was of you in the stage of your last performance. Holding your violin—your face was stoic, unlike the actual you behind the face of many. You looked at the comments, which was somewhat concerning.

_Shar. 3w

HIROSHI LIKED [NAME]’S POSTS!?

acheron’swife 2w

i’m going to make a fic out of them…

ㅤㅤ@ acheron’swife 1w

DID IT!!!!! HERE’S MY AO3 !! *****

Hiroshifann!! 1w

Hiroshi love men ! ? I mean…. If it’s [Name]… They matched hello!?

HiroLennisthebest!1! 2d

Hiroshi x [Name] suck… but cool ig

—Starlight!— 2w

CARNIVALVIOLIN IS DEFINITELY THEIR SHIPNAME!1!1! 🎡🎻

[Name]’sbutth0l3 5d

Hiroshi tops. I saw everything.

Your spoon fall into the plate, just in time as the door opened wide—you jolted to see Haruka crossing her arms to her chest as she leaned to the door frame, there’s one thing in her face; she doesn’t looked amused at all. Your face turned red—fast.

“SORRY—!”

When the day of your performance. You were behind stage, your performance was placed last. You heard from people were screaming and singing the lyrics of the female idol group who preformed before you. Their fans’ screams was loud. Full of energy.

“Violin tuned?” Haruka came up from the blinds, her face was weary. You nodded to her question, a weary smile formed between her lips. “Get ready, your time to shine…”

You nodded your head, as Haruka gave you a thumbs up, the female idols already off the stage. You slowly emerged, your eyes slightly widened seeing the many people sitting there screaming your name. their eyes were practically beaming at your figure—holding a violin on your left hand and the bow at the right. You bow down in front of your fans as you get into position.

You poured your heart to your violin; specially with the song your original song. Your fingers gliding beautifully to the strings like when you were in the studio. You closed your eyes and held your breath—the bow was dancing with the strings. The slow rhyme was calming—until you paused your bow, doing the killer move. You exhale, your hand instinctually moved where your bow met with the A and E strings—even with the AC of the stage was at it’s lowest, you still feel yourself sweating. You can’t mess this up. You can do it, [Name]!

As you ended up your song by holding the bow that still pressed with the strings. You felt your fingers and hands sweaty as you opened your eyes, your eyes met with the crowd. They all shout.

It's not like her shouting… it’s genuinely people shouting and screaming at your name like gold. Cheering at your name.

You bow down, giving everyone a smile that could probably blinded people. Your eyes still scanned around the crowd. Your fans were in a mixed of man and woman, but your eyes landed on someone.

You aren’t sure, but you suspected it was a guy. He swears a black hat from NY Yankees, he wears a black mask. But you saw his hair was ash blonde—maybe it was dyed, covering his identity, and he was holding a paper banner.

“ 好き, [Name] !!! ”

— SaHi

A moment you stared at that specific figure. Who’s even SaHi? But thanks to Haruka’s voice coming from your earbuds, you suddenly snapped and rushed to the back stage. Meeting Haruka and a black haired man talking to each other.

“I’m sorry, I got a little distracted. Yamada-san.” You bowed—trying to act like a professional. “Is there something in the matter?”

Haruka slowly moved your attention to you, she smiled as she shook her head. “It’s nothing! However, I forgot to mention that you’ll had a fan meet-up!”

You honestly wanted to whine, but seeing Haruka’s face? You can’t let down your mom—manager! You put down your violin to the closes table as you rolled your shoulders, damn. Sure playing one of the hardest instruments is sure painful. You put on your smile, Haruka seemed hesitant for a moment. But you nodded your head, you still see it however. Her worried expression.

“Alright then!” Haruka declared, clasping her hands to each other. “[Name], the idol group is still having their meet-up. I suppose you can wait here.” She said, as she gave you a bottle of water.

“Will it took a while?” You asked, talking the water from Haruka as you drank. She shook her head. “Maybe 15 more minutes. Are you… okay with it?”

Ah, maybe that’s why. She’s just worried that you actually don’t want to… but you don’t want to see her sad! You nodded your head. Giving her a thumbs up.

Seems like she was relieved…

Fan meet-ups. You usually don’t like socializing, but fan meet-ups is actually fun…

You just sit there, comfortably with fans coming to you and praising you—some, even. Give you gifts! Who doesn’t love free goodies? Not to mentioned the artists that drew you, their arts are always good no matter what.

And seemed like your fan meet-up this time never changed. Well, many more because of your fans increasing. Some of your fans gave you snacks, candies, chips you name it. Hats? Everything! Even somehow free clothing. The line was kinda long until you met the same guy before. He doesn’t change in any way too. But the audacity that he didn’t bring you gifts… such an insult!

“You—uh… [L.Name]-san?” He spoke, his voice was rather deep. Sounded a bit… familiar. But, where?

You looked behind him—no one was there. You looked around and found most of your fans were already gone, you were slightly confused by how fast they were gone. But what can you do about it? It’s their choice. You then bring back your attention to him—a smile formed kn your lips.

But before you could say something—he cuts you off. “Let’s go on a date.”

Well that was sudden.

Haruka, who was suddenly behind you glared at the guy, her left arm was covering you. As if she protected you from a beast. “Sorry, young man. But I should apologize that [Name]’s schedule is—”

“Hell yeah. Let’s go then!” Haruka’s head immediately turned to you. You can see her visibility get angry at you, you smirked, pulling your puppy eyes. “Haruka!! Please…?”

“I won’t procrastinate during training for a week I swear!”

“Two months.” Haruka said sharply.

“But—”

“Two months.”

“I—fine…. two months….” You grumbled, crossing your arms over your chest. You saw Haruka and that hat guy having a conversation, you’re honestly too tired to care. You took a KitKat bar from a female fan earlier menacingly bite the middle part.

You took your phone that was beside the cat plushie your fan gave, you sighed as you opened Twitter. Scrolling for a moment, a post—a very recent one opened. The post is from the Twilight account, basically stating that their comeback will be delayed because of “personal” reasons. You tapped on the Twilight’s Twitter, the first thing you saw was their banner concluding their five members.

Kaguya Mizukii, Sato Hiroshi, Yamato Lenn, Furukawa Tenma, Furukawa Junn. You believe, is from the oldest to youngest member.

Mizukii was the oldest—well, from his appearance. He looked like he was 26, and the leader of Twilight. Sato Hiroshi, well you suspected to be two years older then you, he was known to be the most popular member, but was known to be somewhat rebellious. Lenn was known to be the quiet one in the group, with the title joke; “the quiet kid”. From his appearance? Maybe… a year younger then you.

Furukawa Tenma and Junn were siblings, the seconds most popular. They weren’t twins, and fans sometimes fight over who shall take the second most favorite, which. Took crown by two of them.

While you were distracted on your own world, just staring at Sato Hiroshi. You heard a loud slam—stacks of Yen was in front of your eyes, you don’t know exactly how much. But you knew it was stacks of ¥10,000, your eyes beamed, but then you heard Haruka cursed under her breath. “…Deal.”

“Great!” That hat guy smiled under his mask, his hand grabbed your wrist as you shamelessly took the money. He practically dashed out from the fan meetup, you still had money in hand and wearing your dress suit.

How much money does this guy pay to go on a date with you?

You theorized it’s actually more, perhaps. Before those stacks of ¥10,000, he already payed Haruka before but she still refused. But he still insisted of trying. Well, you don’t know much about the outside of music… music and music.

Sitting on a random guy’s car sure is something… sure—he rides a Honda. Nothing very expensive or whatever, maybe he doesn’t want to flex his money. Sitting on the left, your eyes scanning around the front. Looks… too clean.

“No offense but…” As that guy stared the car, you awkwardly rubbed your nape. “What’s your name?”

The guy stared at you for moment—before he let out a laugh, hitting his knees. You didn’t seemed to be amused, just stared at him… dumbly.

“Call me Hi…Kazuki!” Kazuki smirked under his mask, starts his car, and moved at the speed of light—atleast, I thought he drove his car in the speed of light.

First date, on a carnival….

It’s not bad or anything, but going to a carnival isn’t really in your list to go on dates. But seems like Kazuki liked carnivals, you can’t lie, honestly. You felt excited yourself since you never really been to events. Twilight’s concert was honestly your first.

The sun already turned to the beautiful moon—the colorful lights lighting the grass. And many people running around and some going on dates, your eyes scanned around you. You swore your younger self would be jumping to go on somewhere like this, even though. You sometime hated the outside world. Kazuki then came out from the car—still using his clothes from your concert earlier.

“Eh? First time?” Kazuki grinned as he slipped his arm over your waist. You slowly nodded to his question as you then mentality thanked yourself that thought you’re popular, you’re not extremely. “Something caught your eye, babe?”

You’re face slowly reddened—but you fake a cough as you slowly looked around, the games here looked so modern… “How about that one?” You pointed at a game, with ducks in a something like bowl.

When the two of you were near the game—there’s the huge sign on top of the stripped red and white. “DUCK POND!”. Kazuki looked at the owner, a quick talk and you were then given a stick with a hooked end, Kazuki slowly pushed you forward. “Do I need to explain this to you?”

“…I can do it myself.” You pouted at his words, with trembling hands. You barely even took a single duck. Even some people around you looked at you with a lot of questions in their minds.

You were inexperienced for this! You pulled out your tongue, trying to focus. Which was broke when a flash from a phone flickered, you turned your head. Kazuki looked at you, he pulled out his index and thumb like a gun and pointed at you. Where was the light came from…

“I give up.” You sighed defeated, giving the stick to Kazuki.

Kazuki smirked, rubbing his covered nose with his mask. “Watch, and learn. Pretty boy.”

You mostly tried to ignore his last words. But he lean to your ears. Whispering in a low tone that was enough to make you shiver; “Don’t blink.”

Thankfully, you didn’t. But your jaw nearly dropped seeing… 7 ducks at once in the hook. Kazuki looked at it—rolling his eyes, muttering about only getting 7 ducks. The owner’s face isn’t far behind like yours—is this actually humanly possible? But the both of you can’t really answer.

“Here ya go, old man!” Kazuki gave the stick at the owner. He gulped nervously as he nodded, he immediately gave you a teddy bear—not too big nor small. You haven’t get anytime to say thank you—but Kazuki already dragged out away to the next stop.

After many games later. You sat tiredly on the bench near by where Kazuki played an game of shooting, you looked at the ash blonde guy—he doesn’t look tired at all!? He sat next to you, dango in hand and other prices from his winnings. You were about to take it with your hand, but he was insisted that he feed you. So you just allowed him.

The dango was sweet—but not overpowering. Like a typical dango, Kazuki looked at you, you slightly took a peek over his eyes—raven. Kazuki titled his head, he played a smile under his mask.

“Is there something wrong with my… face?” He pointed a finger out at himself. You shook your head. “Nothing…”

“I just… noticed you have raven eyes.” You look at his eyes, you swore you saw his cheeks flushed. But you smiled sweetly—at least, that’s what Kazuki sees. “It looks good on you.”

Kazuki slightly shifted from his seat. His hands trembled, you don’t know what he was going to do. Does people flustered like this or is it just Kazuki? You tried to reached your hand at him, but he froze on spot.

The wind blew behind you, it was harsh. Perhaps, there would be rain sooner or later. The wind blowing your hair and Kazuki’s hat, his hair is indeed ash blonde… but somehow, his mask also from the second harsh wind that blew from Kazuki’s back—wait.

Sato Hiroshi—!?

“IS THAT SATO HIROSHI FROM TWILIGHT!?” There’s a girl screaming from a distance, you look at Kazuki—no. Hiroshi. He immediately grabbed your wrist, speeding at the speed of light. You then hear some phone clicking—and people shouting “CARNIVALVIOLIN IS REAL!?”

You were seated in the middle by Hiroshi, he didn’t even think twice once to start his car and drove off—in the middle seat, you were praying for ATLEAST, he didn’t break any traffic rules. Because it would most definitely be a nightmare…

You honestly had so so so many questions. Well, you understand that why Hiroshi lied about his name, he’s famous. But from many questions, why does he wants you!? You swore you were average, but guess people have their own opinions…

Hiroshi carried you, to what you thought might be an apartment—with so much staff that was staring at you. Even some, trying to talk to Hiroshi but he brushed them off, he practically rushed to the elevator and ran to his room—and make you flop on his bed. As much as you want to put a serious face, it failed miserably by how much his room has you. From your albums and merch, basically everything.

For a moment he just stare—his eyes were blank. The awkward silence stretched, just your eyes and his raven eyes staring at each other. The silence wouldn’t be broke if you didn’t say something that’s kind of stupid; “Did you bring the stuff from the carnival?”

Your lips then straighten, Hiroshi just stared at you for a good couple minutes, he let out a chuckle, shaking his head amusingly.

“Of course,” he said, sitting next to you. Hiroshi then turned his gaze to the wall in front of him, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh, sorry. I panicked earlier.”

Hiroshi stared at the floor, his eyes slowly flickered when you sat up next to him. He was mostly silent, he just watched your movements. You hesitantly grabbed his hand, intertwining them with yours, your similar smile formed on your lips that made Hiroshi giddy in his heart.

“Being an idol is a nightmare for you, huh?” You leaned forward, Hiroshi’s nose and your met. “Don’t worry about it, though—we are popularity different. I understand what you’re going through.”

“Sometimes, idol’s life can be more heavy then a violinist, therefore; please… warn me next time.”

Hiroshi stared at you, his smirk was gone—non insight. You weren’t sure what’s going on in that mind of his, but you just smiled at him. Hiroshi looked from the top of your head and knees, his face just reddened even more as he closed his hips.

He huffed—sounded annoyed. But you can’t really find any sense of that, he gripped your wrist. “I—I don’t need this bullshit anymore—!” With a single hand, he grabbed both of your wrists and crossing them. He leaned forward to pressed his lips against yours—it felt rough. You thought it would at least be soft, guess you’re wrong.

When yours lips parted, Hiroshi grabbed your shoulders—with force that’s enough to not actually hurt you, he placed you down on to the floor. Putting you on your knees, you look straight—a huge tent was in sight. How big is even this is..?

You felt Hiroshi’s hand moved to the back of your head, slightly making you leaned forward. You gulped, slowly yet hesitantly, your hands slowly unzipped his pants, Hiroshi’s cock was in front of your face, it’s shadow hovering over your head. You gulped nervously, but Hiroshi was impatient.

“C’mon, use your mouth. Don’t you know how to give someone a blowjob?” He huffed, he pulled your forward, the veins of Hiroshi’s cock was touching your nose.

You let out a quiet sigh, you place your over Hiroshi’s hips. You opened your mouth, Hiroshi looked down the moment your mouth was wrapping around his glans, slowly moving your way down to take his dick shamelessly. He pulled out his phone when you slightly gagged by his cock, thankfully, his phone isn’t in flash like earlier in the carnival.

“Use your fingers to open yourself.” Hiroshi command, he put down his phone and with his right hand—he pulled your hair as his cock was hitting at the back of your throat.

You can deny him… but you were horny, using your left hand, you swiftly opened the button of your pants. Your fingers slipped under your boxers, inserting your index and middle finger. You choked out a moan, sucking Hiroshi and opening yourself up is weird, well. You’ve opened yourself up before. But doing this both at the same time is weird.

Weird but you liked it.

Hiroshi then pulled your mouth from his cock, precums slowly coming from the slit of his glans as he used his thumb and index, he gently pulled your tongue out. There were some of his precums in your mouth, your face was red—Hiroshi ‘s eyes narrowed at your mouth. “Stood up.”

Hiroshi looked at you the moment you stood—his arms wrapped around your waist as he pulled you over his lap, his cock was in front of your clothed stomach, Hiroshi then pulled down your pants and throwing them to the floor. With your lower now bare, he ripped the dress shirt—the buttons scattering everywhere. Your hand grabbed his wrists but your chest is now bare. It’s unfair… he’s still using his jacket!

A smirk played on Hiroshi’s lips as his hands moved over your hips, lifting you up. He moved you where your hole and his dick brushed over each other, you shivered by that. Hiroshi slowly pushed you down over his cock, his glans were inside of you—it stretched you out so much. You didn’t measure it would stretched you this much, but thanks to his precums, at least. It doesn’t hurt.

Hiroshi’s hand grabbed your ass and squeezed your flesh, before he landed aloud smack that made you whined. You swore it would leave a mark, so Hiroshi gently soothed the sting with his hand. He whispered sweet nothings, he thrust his hips upwards—making you whimpered.

His cock was big, thick and enough to rubbed over your prostate. Your mind was fuzzy, his hands were all over you too… his lips kept pressing to your neck with his unforgiving pace, his fingers traced your body like it was a hidden treasure. Your own dick twitched, moans you struggled to keep down kept spilling from your lips.

And Hiroshi knew, he looked at your cockdumb face, he hummed softly next to your ear as he rested his chin over your shoulder. He stopped his face, Hiroshi’s free hand slapped your ass—a finger entered your hole, you hissed as you moved at your own pace since, well. He isn’t moving and you were desperate to cum.

Hiroshi’s finger was next to his cock, your hands gripped to his jacket when you finally—come undone. A loud moan that you didn’t expect came from your lips, you were a whimpering—whining mess. You stained Hiroshi’s jacket you knew was expensive as fuck. But you’re too tired, at least. For now.

You tried to shifted—trying to get a comfy position when you felt warmth filling your hole, you twitched as Hiroshi pulled out his cock from your puffy hole. You let out a silent whine, Hiroshi looked down. Damn, he sure made a mess out of you, he was about to apologize when he saw you already sleeping in his hold, he fisted his hand, trying not to go horny.

“Good… good night.”

The morning from the window of Hiroshi’s room was annoying for you, do all idols woke up so early in the morning?

You sat up, your body was sore as fuck. Hiroshi was sleeping beside you, hair messy and his arms wrapping around your waist. You tried to pray him off—which ended with a tightened grip. Well, that was useless.

You turned your head over your phone that was charged on the nightstand, you suspected who do it was Hiroshi, but you just shrugged, thinking about it later. You opened your phone, the amount of notifications?

Haruka (mom, lmao) 10 hours ago

Missed Called

Haruka (mom, lmao) 10 hours ago

Missed Called

Haruka (mom, lmao) 10 hours ago

Missed Called

You forgot about Haruka. Shit—! You slightly panicked, Hiroshi groaned when you squirm, his arms tightened once more—making you nearly unable to breath.

“Hiros—Sato-san! Please, get of me. My manager—” Hiroshi leaned forward to placed a kiss over your lips, silencing enough as he pulled the kiss. Pressing his finger over your lips.

“…Just Hiroshi. Please,” he begged, his voice was deep. Maybe from his sleep, Hiroshi sat next to you, giving you his jacket as he stood up. “Get ready then, I’ll bring you to Yamada-san.”

You sat there dumbfounded as Hiroshi then walked away to his kitchen, opening his fridge calmly, like he didn’t do anything lewd last night with you.

Hiroshi fun facts — !

🎡 — Hiroshi canonically fly to the Philippines, because he heard in a fast-food restaurant that shall be unnamed were having a collab with you, and actually paid the restaurant to buy the cutouts of you.

🎡 — Hiroshi, being the horny and creepy man that he was, goon to your pics. And, unfortunately for Tenma, he saw him and Hiroshi just... shrugged. Continuing his lewd act.

🎭 — taglist : @onementally-unstabel-kid @starrykie @carnalcrows (lmao you didn't specify so both tagged it is)

[trivia-yandere]

I just found Family Matters and aaaaarghh cmon, you are alwaysssss alwaysss so telented, their chemistry!

Is ... maybe a part 2 on the way, tried to look for one but did not find it soooo i am here... just curious 👀 

Take care sweetie!

i actually like yoongi and mc in family matters - fuck it another part!!

family matters (2)

somehow, you find yourself back at yoongi's home after an uneventful five months of pregnancy.

word count: 6.000

warning: kissing, affair/cheating, dirty talking, unprotected sex, pregnant sex, fluff lmao,smut, praising, fingering, nipple sucking, impregnation kink,

part one

Nerves are flowing through you rapidly. Your palms are sweaty as you sit on the toilet, lid down, and you wait for the results.

You were more than positive that you were pregnant. You missed your period already and - in all actuality - there couldn’t be a way around it. Not with the amount of sex you and Yoongi had.

Yoongi.

Your mind wanders to the younger Min brother. His kind smile he had given you, reassuring that he would be the best uncle he could be; it was heart-wrenching when only you and he knew the truth of it all.

Yoongi wasn’t going to allow you to leave without taking the check with you. After the first week when he hadn’t noticed the money taken out, he had reached out to you. That same week, you had done what he asked. It was enough money to last years, not including interest. How were you going to explain such a large amount of money to Yo-han without him growing suspicious?

Or you can just tell the truth - if it came to that - right? Tell Yo-han that his brother thought about his future niece or nephew and gave them a hefty savings for when they were of age?

It was easier said than done, especially with how arrogant Yo-han was. Everything was a competition about being better, the first, the favorite or the overall top.

Your alarm sounds loudly in the bathroom, echoing off of the walls and startling you entirely. You shut it off, your hands immediately grasping the white and blue test on the bathroom sink and sighing when you see the words displayed on it.

Pregnant - yet you knew this much. Every once in a while your brain forces you to replay the scenes of you and Yoongi entangled together in his bed. Each and every time, you felt even worse of a wife.

You supposed you made it up by attempting to be better for You-han. You assured you cooked his meals right on time with him coming home from work. You occupied your time with cleaning and organizing - and when he was in the mood, you told yourself you were, too.

Yo-han and you were eating in silence when you cleared your throat. His dark eyes glances up at you, one brow slowly raising.

“How was your day?” you question, lifting a glass of water and taking a sip.

“Alright.” Yo-han responds. “I still have to close in on a deal but I’m sure I have it settled.”

You nod your head, though you couldn’t pretend to care about Yo-han and his work life. If you’d allow him, he’d go on and on about the company and his arrogance would often show. It would turn to his younger brother and his mood would sour instantly - over nothing.“I have something to tell you.” you lick your lips. You weren’t hungry anymore. Your stomach is bubbling with nerves already.

“Do you?” Yo-han offers you his full attention.

You nod your head. You take a deep breath. How would he react? Yo-han rarely mentions wanting children, even if his mother insisted on it. He always told you “not now” or “it’s too soon”. But when? You weren’t getting any younger and you were lonely in such a big home while Yo-han worked. Your friends were occupied with their own families and you were far away from your own - was it selfish in wanting a child of your own to have to love?

“I’m pregnant.”

Yo-han was never a man of grand emotions. The Min family were just like that. However, you weren’t expecting Yo-han to stare at you blankly for longer than a few moments. You contemplated repeating yourself if you weren’t already positive that he heard you loud and clear. There wasn’t any other sound in the home besides the ones you and him made.

Yo-han, without removing his eyes from you, lifts his wine glass and downs the rest. For a moment, he and Yoongi look so much alike that it causes your stomach to sink.

“How?”

Your lips form a thin line at Yo-han’s question.

“We’re always careful.” Yo-han continues.

“Condoms aren’t always effective-”

“They have been this entire time, haven’t they?” Yo-han scoffs. 

This is what you knew was going to happen. It was always a possibility that Yo-han was going to react in such a way that made you regret doing this. But it was a risk you took - deciding that it’s what you wanted. 

“I don’t even think we’re ready for a baby right now, Y/N.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to calm your emotions.

“What are you trying to say, Yo-han?” your voice is low when you ask. “There’s no going back.” you scoff.

Yo-han swallows. He pushes his seat back and lets out a low sigh. He slowly begins to unbutton his shirt, glancing away for a moment.

“Of course there is.” Yo-han murmurs through gritted teeth. He doesn’t want to say it - to sound as selfish as he always is. “I’m not in the right space for a baby right now, Y/N. And neither are you-”

“How can you tell me when I’m ready?” you hiss. You never raise your voice at Yo-han and the action causes him to stop and look at you. “How many more years are you planning on getting higher and higher? How high can you even go in a company you own?”

You lift yourself from the table and grasp your plate and cup. You turn on the sink and pour the rest of your water down the drain before throwing out the remainder of your dinner. You take several deep breaths, attempting to calm yourself down.

“Y/N,”

Yo-han leans against the island opposite of you. He doesn’t want to have this conversation now, it’s obvious. But he doesn’t want to hesitate and wait until it’s too late.

“Baby let’s think about this.”

“I did.” you tell him. You pick up your sponge and coat it with soap before you begin to wash your dish. “And I’m keeping it. I have an appointment tomorrow to see how far along I am.” Yet, you know already.

Yo-han’s foot begins to tap against the marble floor.

“You’re only doing this because you’re bored.” Yo-han scoffs. “Why don’t you pick up a hobby? Book club? Pilates or…I don’t know what women do these days.”

You place your plate onto the dryer rack, deciding that it was best to ignore Yo-han.

“Once a baby is in the picture things change. Marriages change. It’s all about the baby-”

“You’re barely here, Yo-han. Your life will remain the same.” you retort with a roll of your eyes. “You’ll come and go as you please, right? What’s wrong with me…” you stop yourself. It was sounding a bit more obvious why you wanted a baby, and it was more selfish than intended.

Yo-han rubs his temples. It was only day 1 but stress was already eating him alive. 

“Did you tell anyone, yet?” Yo-han questions after a few silent minutes. You had since turned off the water and began drying your hands.

“No.” you murmur.

Straightening his shoulders, Yo-han responds, “How about we think about this before you do?” he suggests. “If this is what you truly want…”

“How about this?”

Your mother in law is holding up two onesies - one a light pink and the other a soft, baby-blue onesie with white cursive lettering that says “oh baby”  at the center of it. You blink a few times to come back to reality.

Upon telling your mother in law that you were pregnant, she was far more ecstatic than your husband was - that was obvious. You had called her after telling Yo-han that you’d think about it. He had gone to shower while you went to call her - because if she knew, that meant that there was nothing your husband could force you to do.

Five months later, Yo-han and you weren’t close in the slightest. He worked longer hours - his excuse being he had to work for the child. He allowed you to go baby shopping alone. If you needed any help building, he would pay for it. He wasn’t interested and deep down, you couldn’t blame him. You forced this baby - one that wasn’t his - in his life because you hoped he would come around.

Yo-han never did - not yet at least; yet you’re positive he won’t.

“They’re cute.” you murmur, forcing a smile to your lips that don’t reach your eyes.

She knows her son and your mother in law understands that Yo-han isn’t as ecstatic with being a father as she would like him to be. This is why she would often accompany you to whatever appointments you had or would visit you whenever she was free.

Her company was wanted and warm, but it wasn’t the same as going to bed with a warm body at night. But you made your bed and you were going to lie in it.

“Has my son come around?”

She lowers the onesie and lets out a disappointed sigh. No matter how many times she calls her son to demand he act differently, she is left with more useless excuses. Her words fall on deaf ears.

“Yo-han’s been very busy with work-”

“Don’t defend him, Y/N.” she cuts you off. “This is his first child.”

She shakes her head. Very rarely has she been disappointed with her eldest son, but he was disappointing her in ways he’s never had before.

“I got a cake.” your mother in law begins to smile. You notice her feminine features are more potent in Yoongi than they are in Yo-han. “For you and Yo-han…”

You raise your eyebrows. “A cake?”

She nods her head. “I know you said you didn’t want a party.” she says. “Gender reveal parties are all the crave now, right?”

You laugh. You had told her you weren’t in a mood for a large party or even a small get together. Your pregnancy wasn’t one that left you content unless you were around her. Yo-han was always gone and you aren’t even sure he would attend if it did happen. You didn’t want to have to explain to your friends why your husband couldn’t take one day off of work to be there for you and your unborn child.

It was easier to pretend.

“My niece said a gender reveal cake is more intimate for you and Yo-han.” your mother in law appears entirely too happy. “I gave the baker the envelope and she said she’ll put the color into the cake.”

You inhale through your nose. You aren’t sure you wanted to know the gender yet. Your mother wanted a girl - obviously having two boys - and your father in law wanted a boy. Yo-han hasn’t stated anything and you…

You just wanted a baby..

“I have it in the car.” your mother in law continues. She wants you to be happy - to enjoy your pregnancy with or without her son.

“I’ll take it home.” you nod reassuringly. “Yo-han should be home tonight.”

You’re lying. Yo-han told you he wouldn’t be home until the weekend, but you didn’t want any of her pity. You would pretend you were going home to find the gender of your baby with your loving husband.

However, that’s not what happened. You found yourself outside an entirely different home.

Yoongi opens the door, his eyes immediately softening when he looks at you outside. You appear shy and uncertain and before you can speak, he’s inviting you in.

You kick off your shoes and follow Yoongi to his kitchen where you place the cake onto the island. 

You turn to face him nervously. “I shouldn’t be here.” you murmur.

Though you haven’t seen Yoongi in months in person, you and he had spoken. You talk on the phone and sometimes you and he text. He checks in on you at times, asking if you’re craving something new or different. 

You had shown pictures of your ultrasound to Yoongi, confused on how doctors and nurses could tell what the black and white blob on the screen was.

He would tell you random facts - like now you’re the size of a papaya - and you would always laugh at how cute he sounded.

How excited.

Unlike your husband.

“Your mother…got me a cake.” you begin. “To find out the gender and…Yo-han isn’t home.”

Yo-han isn’t interested is more like it, but what’s understood between the both of you didn’t need to be said.

“And I thought you wanted to…” your heart is pounding so loud. Your cheeks are warm. “...I don’t know if this is inappropriate or not. I think it is. I didn’t even think before coming here and-”

Yoongi’s hands, large and warm, place themselves onto your cheeks. You immediately silent yourself, eyes blinking at him.

“Calm down.” Yoongi murmurs. His thumb rubs along your lips for a moment. “I would love to find out the gender with you.”

You nod your head slowly. Your palms are sweaty when Yoongi removes his hands from your cheeks and smiles. 

Yoongi wasn’t expecting to have you here, but he would be lying if he said it didn’t brighten his evening. He knows just what his brother is putting you through and though he doesn’t agree, he was expecting this. Yo-han was a selfish person. He had his entire life planned out and a baby wasn’t a part of it yet. You had caused him to have to re-write his own life plan and he was pissed about it.

“Your belly is growing.” Yoongi notes, taking a step back. There’s an obvious bump in your stomach. You haven’t gotten maternity shirts yet so a part of your stomach hangs out a bit from your tank top - the only acceptable piece of clothing you could managed at the moment.

You look down to your stomach and laugh, nodding your head. “Yeah. Yeah it has.” you agree. You place a hand onto your stomach. “Sometimes I feel it moving. The doctor says around this time there should be some kicking and moving.”

“Really?” Yoongi asks. His hand twitches to touch you, but he doesn’t. He has to remember there was a boundary between you and him. 

“Really.” you nod. Without thinking, you grab Yoongi’s hand and place it onto the side of your stomach. “I don’t think you can feel anything now but..” you gently poke your stomach in an attempt to get the fetus to do something.

Yoongi marvels at the feel of your stomach. He’s highly intrigued with how round it is - with how a baby could form inside of you in just under a year. “The baby will be the size of a grapefruit next week,” he says, eyes intrigued.

You couldn’t help but laugh at yet another random fact; a laugh that Yoongi joins in on. It’s a bittersweet moment, you think. You smiled more now with Yoongi than you ever did with Yo-han the last few months, your body feeling warm.

Yoongi’s eyes glances up at yours and for a moment, it’s a sweet moment. From the outside looking in, you and Yoongi are experiencing a sweet moment together and it was just that.

Yet anyone that knew the both of you would see this as weird. Yoongi wasn’t your husband - and he wasn’t supposed to be this happy just as an “uncle” to feel your stomach.

Yoongi removes his hands as if he’s thinking the same thing you are. He takes a few steps back, his warm presence going right along with him.

“Let’s find out.” you jump to change the subject in an attempt to make things less awkward. You gulp, hands lifting towards the small white box to open it.

“So we’re just supposed to cut the cake or…?” Yoongi watches. 

When you open the box, Yoongi’s interested in how simple yet effected it looks. It’s an all white cake with “baby boy or girl” written in the middle of it, patterned in blue and pink.

“We can. I’ve seen different ways.”

You turn to Yoongi and raise your brows.

“What ways?” Yoongi smiles. He can tell that you’re a bit excited and jittery.

“Do you have any champagne glasses?”

Yoongi nods his head, taking a step away to go towards his cabinets. “I don’t really use them as often,” he states. He grabs two and returns, placing them onto the island.

“So,” you take a hold of both of them and lift one up to Yoongi for him to take. 

“So.” Yoongi grins as you face him and away from the cake. 

“We’re going to sink the champagne glass into the cake”

“Okay-”

“Don’t look!” you hiss, but you aren’t upset. You giggle immediately when Yoongi’s head snaps towards you. “We’re supposed to look together.”

“Okay.” Yoongi nods. He chuckles a bit, gummy smile causing your heart to jolt.

“Okay, so we’re just going to sink it in now…”

Yoongi’s eyes remain on yours as he tries his best to do what you’re asking of him. His own heart is beating with nerves that he feels that shouldn’t be there. He feels honored to be a part of this moment with you, but it wasn’t going to last. Eventually, you’d have to return home where you lived with Yo-han and he would have to go back to just being Yoongi.

“Do you have cake?” you ask.

Yoongi nods his head. “I should.”

“Okay.” you murmur. “Now lift.”

Yoongi does, hoping that none of the cake drops from his champagne glass and makes a mess. He has to admit the entire ordeal was possibly meant to be messy, but he’s far from annoyed.

“Do we do a countdown?” Yoongi murmurs. His foot taps against the floor with nerves, his eyes watching you for the next step.

You nod. “Yeah…” you murmur. “3…”

“…2…” Yoongi adds, just for the suspense. He laughs at the look on your face that possibly mirrors your own.

“...1.” 

Your head snaps along with his to the champagne glass. Your eyes widen, as do Yoongi’s, at the blue sponge cake in the glass. 

You never thought about the gender of your child. You told yourself you would be happy with whatever gender just as long as they were healthy. 

But now that your eyes witness the blue tint, your heart warms and you cannot help but be excited. You squeal, eyes widening when you turn to Yoongi. Your excitement is contagious, and he cannot help but let out a laugh. 

You’re unsure why it happened - maybe you were far too excited for once in your pregnancy, and Yoongi's demeanor is just as excited as you. Your lips clash onto Yoongi’s and you push yourself away before he has the chance to.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

Yoongi presses his lips onto yours in response, a hand tugging you closer to him. The kiss doesn’t last long, but it was enough of a response in assuring you that he wasn’t upset about the kiss.

When Yoongi lifts his lips from yours, his forehead is lightly pressed against your own, eyes fluttering open. He is silent, as are you. You weren’t supposed to be in this position at all, nor were you supposed to be in Yoongi’s home. This cake was for you and Yo-han, yet here you are experiencing a moment with someone else entirely.

A position you put yourself in time and time again.

“I’m making things more complicated.” you murmur, breath warm against his lips. 

“The decision we made wasn’t as simple either.” Yoongi retorts. “It’s difficult for both of us.”

You rarely thought about how Yoongi might feel in this situation about being a father. You thought maybe it was easier  for him as he wasn’t the one that had to be around. Yet here you are, celebrating the fact that his first child was a son - and it was with his brother’s wife.

You take a deep breath, closing your eyes.

“You can stay for tonight.” Yoongi suggests, a pleading undertone in his voice. His hand gently squeezes your waist.

“I shouldn’t.” you sigh, but your own hand touches Yoongi’s chest. You make no attempt to move away and neither does Yoongi.

“You shouldn’t.” Yoongi agrees with a curt nod. 

You both stand in silence, too close for in-laws to be. Yoongi’s presence was so warm and welcoming that leaving here - like you should be - and going back to a quiet, cold and lonely home didn’t feel right. Even if you were the reason for it.

What you and Yoongi were doing was wrong. You shouldn’t be in his bed, lips pressed firmly against one another. His hands shouldn’t be pulling your pants down nor should your hands be tugging at his shirt.

You and Yoongi had one agreement - five months ago. You would go against your marriage and get pregnant by your brother in law and have the family your husband wasn’t ready to have. That agreement didn’t mean returning to your brother in law when things got tough - when you were sad and lonely while at home. But here you are - and here Yoongi was allowing it.

“You’re so beautiful, Y/N.” Yoongi grunts against your lips. One hand dips between your legs to touch your clothed clit.

“You don’t have to lie and flatter me, Yoongi. I look a mess.” you snicker, but you had to admit his words flatter you.

Yoongi doesn’t blink nor is he amused by your attempting to joke. “My brother doesn’t compliment you enough.” he states low.

Yoongi connects his lips back to yours, slowly molding it against his. His fingers work their way between your panties until they feel your wet clit. He groans against your lips, but he doesn’t break the kiss. 

You’re wet - wetter than you have been in months. Yo-han and you had stopped having sex once your bump formed. And even then, the sex wasn’t the same. It felt like a chore for the both of you instead of passionate sex between husband and wife.

Yoongi’s fingers glides between your folds, feeling such arousal that he’s missed for months now - arousal that he couldn’t get his mind off of. No matter whatever one night stand he attempted to use to occupy his time, it never lived up to you.

Maybe you were different because he knew you personally. You and him had ties; he would always have to see you.

Or it was possibly the adrenaline rush in knowing that you were forbidden to him; completely off limits. 

Whatever it was, Yoongi could only hope that one day you would return to him, and you had. A part of him feels shitty for having you here now when it was obvious that you were hurting - you were lonely and had experienced less affection from your husband as the days went on. But he cannot help but want to feel you again.

You’re first to break the kiss to let out a strangled gasp when Yoongi’s fingers begin to pump into you without warning. Your right hand tangles into his hair - it’s soft to the touch. Your pussy squeezes around him greedily. 

“Feels good?” Yoongi questions, though he knows the answer. He leans back enough so he can see the way two of his fingers pump in and out of you. Your arousal is shiny against his palm and all he can do is chuckle. “You missed me?”

Maybe it was an arrogant question - but Yoongi was an arrogant man. Especially when it came to his brother. He didn’t live his life wanting to be better than Yo-han - that was no way to live. But he got great satisfaction in knowing that you were here with him right now instead of waiting for his brother to return home. Even if he couldn’t brag about it aloud, just living it was enough.

“I missed you so much.” you bite your lip to suppress another moan, your grip on Yoongi’s hair only tightening.

Yoongi himself groans. His eyes lift to yours for a moment, before he glances down to your breast. They’ve grown a bit since the last time he saw you - as they would with pregnancy.  His free hand goes to pull your tank top down just enough so your breast can pop out. His mouth is already salivating at how perky your nipples were already. The tip of his tongue swirls it teasingly, enjoying the way your back arches a bit.

With Yoongi’s pumping fingers and his warm tongue suckling onto your nipple, you were seeing stars. You’re not fighting off your moans any longer, nor are your fingers letting go of Yoongi’s hair.

It all feels so scandalous like it did the first time. Only now, you were returning to the same man who impregnated you in the first place. It’s all fucked up, truly, but it’s nothing either of you could do now.

“Want you to cum all over my fingers.” Yoongi pops your nipple from his mouth long enough to speak. He captures the other one, suckling with the same amount of need. His eyes are full of lust as they glance up at you.

The way your pussy is squeezing his fingers, Yoongi knows just how well his fingers are fucking you. His palm rubs against your swollen clit for added pleasuring and it causes your thighs to shake. 

“Y-Yoongi…” your back arches a bit more, allowing Yoongi more access to your breast. He nearly has half of it in his mouth, groaning as his fingers have their way with you. Your eyes close tightly as that familiar churning in your stomach appears.

“Your pussy’s so wet, baby.” Yoongi grumbles, his mouth wet with saliva and your nipple nearly swollen. “You’re gonna cum for me?”

You nod hastily, your thighs closing when it comes. But Yoongi only pumps quicker, moaning along with you. You were insanely attractive this way - it had to be the pregnancy glow.

“Wanna feel your cock in me.” you murmur, wrapping both arms around him now. “Want you to cum in me.”

Yoongi swallows, eyes slightly widening. “Yeah?” he hums, his already hardened cock twitching. It wants to be let out and plunged inside of you already.

“Please.”

Fuck - how could Yoongi resist you? He fumbles with his pants for a moment before his cock springs out when he drops them along with his underwear.

You’re not too far along where being in this position is uncomfortable, so you widen your legs. You’ve wanted Yoongi’s cock in you for far too long to want to wait any longer.

Yoongi wraps a palm around his cock and slaps it against your wet clit before rubbing it between your  folds. He shudders at the feeling, having missed your pussy wrapped around his.

“You’re so tight.” Yoongi grunts as he enters you. “He hasn’t been fucking you good, has he?”

Both of Yoongi’s hands settle onto your hips as he slowly pumps inside of you. His head falls limp backwards for a moment as he takes a few soft moments to savor just how wet and tight you are.

Your own hands sink into the sheets, your pussy clenching and unclenching around his cock. This was passionate - something you haven’t received in so long. When Yo-han and you were active, it didn’t feel like passionate sex, more like a chore.

Yoongi’s hips pick up the pace. His cock pumps in and out of you, going deeper and deeper. Your walls were so heavenly, wrapping around him and milking him entirely. You were already pregnant, but he wishes he could experience impregnating you over and over again.

“You’re fucking me so good.” you shudder.

Yoongi opens his eyes to look at you. 

A mistake.

Your breasts are bouncing with each thrust, causing him to pump more eagerly. Your pussy is wet, a creamy ring soaked around his cock.

But it was your stomach that caused Yoongi's hands to tighten around your frame. He never had sex with someone that was pregnant before - not until now. Someone he impregnated. Was it weird that it turned him on even more? It shouldn't be (right?).

But it did. Yoongi’s hips snap deeper inside of you, his eyes dancing between your bump to your breast, then to your face.

“You’re so pretty pregnant.” Yoongi blurts out with a soft gasp. His right hand rubs at your bump for a moment, shaking his head to get rid of these intrusive thoughts. “So, so pretty.”

Your cheeks warm at the compliment. Yoongi hadn’t stopped complimenting you yet and it was a new experience. You ponder if Yo-han didn’t find you as pretty as he did before, but you also find that you don’t care at the moment. Not while you’re with Yoongi.

“Of course you think so. You’re the one that did this to me.”

“I would do it again.”

Yoongi shouldn’t speak so lustfully, but he cannot help it. Your pussy feels too good and it’s clouding his best judgment. But he was a man and any man enjoyed the thought of impregnating a woman - even if it was just bedroom talk.

Anyone but Yo-han that was. But fuck Yo-han.

“You’d want another baby, wouldn’t you?” Yoongi leans down a bit closer, his hands lifting from your stomach to place on both sides of you. He places his hands onto yours, tangling your fingers together. “Our son needs someone to play with.”

This was wrong - it all was fucked up. Yoongi shouldn’t sound so possessive of the child he couldn’t be there to raise as his own, but he is. And you are just as excited at the sound of “our son” coming from Yoongi’s lips, his tone so deep and husky that it sends shivers up your spine.

“Y-Yeah,” you moan with a short nod of your head. Your stomach churns - it was far too soon for you to be cumming again, but here you were. “‘want you to get me pregnant again after this.”

Yoongi hisses, his hips snapping sloppily into you. This was your fault that he was this way - you were only entertaining him further with things that couldn’t happen again. Yet, you told yourself that you wouldn’t allow Yoongi to fuck you again and here you and he were.

“You’re such a good girl, Y/N, letting me fuck you raw again.” Yoongi’s lips graze yours. “You don’t have to wait so long next time. You don’t have to force yourself to fuck your husband, either.”

You bite your lip at the pressuring building up deep within your core.

“I’ll fuck you whenver you want, baby.” Yoongi feels his cock swell, ready to release right inside of you. He knew he wasn’t going to last long - not when it came to you. If he was lucky, you wouldn’t leave and he would get to pump even more cum into you throughout the night. 

“I’m cumming..!” you gasp out, your thighs twitching automatically. You’re clenching around Yoongi so hard that you’re forcing him to cum right along with you, an action he isn’t upset about.

“Everything alright?”

Yoongi blinks a few times, his eyes dancing around the dinner table until they land on his mother. She’s looking straight at him with the same feline-like eyes that matches his own. She’s staring a hole right through him.

“Yes.” Yoongi nods his head. He lifts his wine glass up and brings it to his lips. “Dinner is good.”

“I’m actually surprised you showed up.”

And then there was that voice that caused Yoongi’s mood to immediately sour.

Yo-han appears that he wish he could be anywhere else but here. He isn’t seated next to his wife, no, you’re right across from him and right next to his mother. He is forced to be next to Yo-han, but both brothers' chairs are pushed to the furthest away from one another.

“As am I.” Yoongi retorts. “I’ve been busy.”

“With music?” Yo-han sounds as if he wants to laugh, but refrains. “How hard could it be to talk on a track?”

“As hard as it can be to be away from your wife for weeks on end.” Yoongi rebuttals with another sip of wine. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. After all, he isn’t supposed to know.

Yo-han’s eyes glances from Yoongi to you. Immediately, you advert them.

“I see my wife has been pillow talking with my brother.”

“What Yoongi means,” his mother speaks up this time. “Is that he has been the one to help Y/N. Do you expect her to build the furniture for the baby?”

“No, of course not.” Yo-han grits his teeth. “I expect the help I hired. Not him.”

“I’ve been told I was good with my hands, brother.” Yoongi responds, bored. He looks right at you this time, a look that his mother doesn’t miss. 

“Yoongi.”

Yoongi’s eyes advert to his mother. She’s reading him, tilting her head. She did this often in their youth.

“Be sure to not provoke your brother.” his mother says, though there’s something she’s holding back. The obvious (yet not so obvious to Yo-han) elephant in the room. “Yo-han…Yoongi is just helping. That’s what uncles do.”

Yoongi drops his wine glass onto the table with a clank. It startles your nervous eyes upwards to look at him. Yoongi pushes his chair back. “I’ll make my leave now. Mother,” Yoongi bows his head. “Y/N…” he murmurs. He doesn’t want to meet your eyes, but he does. “...let me know if you need anything from me.”

Yo-han snickers, but doesn’t respond.

Yoongi can feel his mother’s eyes on the back of his head as he strolls down the hall. He attempts to keep his posture relaxed, but there’s a deep despair in his stomach. An uncertain feeling of being caught red-handed.

@lula-mei @lover-bts-fairy @pp0810 @slutoru1207 @tokkihalo @kkuniki1816 @ @thelilbutifulthings @avawants2havefun @dream-lover200 @haru-jiminn @investedreader @darkuni63

explicit-tae/trivia-yandere: idk i feel like we can end this here with such suspense :3

[singmyaubade]

Good Luck Babe

poly!marauders x nerd!female!reader

summary: after being a wallflower throughout your first five years at hogwarts, you always thought that you could be invisible. but when you hear the marauders talking cruelly about you and proceeding to ask for your forgiveness after, well good luck babe.

warnings: eventual smut! 18+ heavy angst, cursing, reader wants to kill the marauders , swearing, unprotected sex, praise, oral (male receiving), jealousy

a/n: i've been completely MIA, sorry.. i saw this in my drafts, and i was like, let me just continue it. this ended off kind of weird, but there will be smut in the next part! i'm gonna attempt to finish every series.. hopefully. i haven't written in a bit, so i apologize if you hate it. see u next time!

Peter flushed tomato red when the bottle landed on him, and Evan smiled at him in a very seductive way. As long as you've known him, Evan did have a lot of charm—nearly as much as Sirius.

Evan was a close second, though perhaps not Sirius, given his overwhelming appeal.

'Whoops' and applause echoed around the circle as Evan gently crept toward Peter, crawling on his hands and knees.

Peter gulped, sitting still in his seat as Evan rose above him and whispered something in his ear, causing Peter to gasp.

Evan took this opportunity to kiss him slowly and gently, his hands on either side of Peter's face.

You looked around to see everyone's reactions but everyone was either egging it on or talking to each other. You couldn't believe this was the same group you had been 'friends' with last school year.

After what felt like years, Evan finally broke away from Peter, leaving him a swift peck on the cheek as Peter closed his legs together and blushed from the teasing of Dorcas and Marlene.

Your eyes landed on the bottle as Sirius began to grab it for his turn. His eyes were on the bottle as they lifted up to wink at you which made you swallow.

He spun it and it landed on the person next to him, Remus. You honestly expected Remus to have the same reaction as Peter but he actually looked bored at the fact that it was Sirius.

Even Sirius noticed it, "Aw, not excited to kiss me love?" He asked, faking a pout.

Remus smirked, "You think you deserve a kiss after the shit you pulled today?" He asked, using his hands as stands to keep him up as he faced Sirius.

Sirius's pout quickly turned into a matching smirk with Remus, "Have I been bad?" He asked, inching towards him.

You felt butterflies, or maybe a little below your stomach. Were they actually flirting?

"Enough with the foreplay!" Marlene whined, "Get the kiss over with!"

"Yeah," James said with a smile as he sipped his fire whiskey, "Nothing you haven't done before."

Your eyes widened at that as Sirius shrugged and went in for the kiss with Remus. Remus had a hand on his cheek while Sirius intensely grabbed Remus's hair, growing deeper into the kiss.

Sirius was almost climbing into Remus's lap as a moan erupted from Remus's mouth and you felt a tightening in your stomach.

There was no way this was actually happening.

You saw Sirius smile into the kiss as he pulled away, wiping his mouth, "Still bored?" He asked as Remus waved him off with a flushed look his face.

"As much as I don't want to give Sirius another ego boost, that was extremely hot," Mary admitted, sipping her drink.

"Everything's hot about me baby," Sirius replied, winking at Mary as she scowled.

Sirius took a look at you as you quickly avoided his eye contact which was clearly a mistake.

He spoke, "I actually think our dear Y/N should go," He announced, "She seems like she's never played before," He tsked.

Steam almost flew out of your ears as you spoke, "Actually, I think the whole point is to go around in a circle, Black," You spat as Sirius only smiled.

"Oh," His voice dripping in mockery, "I'm sorry, Y/N, if you're feeling a bit scared, you don't have to go," He spoke as your fists clenched.

"Yeah Y/N," Lily gave you a genuine smile, "You don't have to go yet if you don't want to," She hummed as several people in the circle agreed, acting as if Sirius was being genuine.

This only made your face warm up as you sat up, annoyance all over your face, "Actually Lily, I do think I should go to be fair, I'm actually feeling a bit brave," You sent a mocking smile to Sirius as you dragged the bottle back in the circle and spun it.

As it spun, you nervously bit your lip.

Since the girls were sweet and you could probably get away with just given them a peck, you wouldn't mind if it were any of them.

Or perhaps even Evan, who you liked because he certainly wasn't ugly and genuinely seemed kind.

Even Peter, he would most likely be as nervous as you and you probably wouldn't have to kiss for long.

Just anybody—aside from the three arrogant, blithering, shitheads—

James looked like a deer in headlights as the bottle fell straight onto him. He looked at you, and your expression was exactly the same.

"Well come on lovebirds!" You stood motionless in nervousness as Evan cheered.

You swallowed as James moved towards you slowly, your eyes tracing his every move. His eyes were locked onto you like you were the only person in the room.

Your gaze shifted to Sirius, and his arrogant demeanor had softened; he was now observing you and James differently.

You had never seen Sirius become stiff in his life, but it seemed as though his eyes had darkened and his entire demeanor had shifted.

Remus had almost the same expression when you turned to face him, but he seemed more anxious than anything else, as though he was unsure of what to anticipate.

"Y/N," James said as your gaze returned to him. "I've wanted to do this since last school year," he said softly, in a whisper.

As he leaned in and gave you a gentle peck on the cheek, your expression shifted to one of disbelief.

All outside cheers and hollering had been muffled, making it seem as though you two were the only people in the room. It felt like you could feel every sense ten times more than normal.

After giving you another glance, he moved in and kissed you, feeling his soft, plump lips as his hands gently gripped the sides of your face.

At first, the kiss was tender, with him giving you a deep, meaningful kiss. After that, it began to feel like the stress, the rage, and the words from that evening. His tongue invaded your mouth unexpectedly as a moan escaped from your mouth.

Your mouth fought against his as you both deepened into the kiss, your hands running through his soft curls.

He abruptly pulled away from you, staring at you while you both gasped and caught your breath. You were certain that he couldn't read your expression, but you couldn't read him either.

James was flushed, his chest heaving as he looked at you in astonishment.

You always knew that James was beautiful but in this state he was ethereal.

You were certain that while your state was comparable to his, it was probably not as lovely.

Marlene was the first to speak, "That was more steamy than I thought it would be," while taking a drag from her cigarette.

You were snapped out of your thoughts, "I actually have to be in bed, huge reading to catch up on,"  You said hurried to your feet. You started to hurry away and excused yourself.

Lily said, "Oh, I see. See you tomorrow!" She waved you away, looking a little perplexed and anxious.

--

You gently closed the door, careful to not wake up your roommates as you changed out of your school clothes and into your nightwear.

There were multiple feelings racing through you,

"I've wanted to do this since last school year."

It confused you.

James had been nothing but horrid to you.

All the things he had said about you and how much of a loser you basically were. Now he had wanted to kiss you since last school year? It didn't make sense to you.

And the kiss.

You didn't feel disgusted with it, in fact, you enjoyed it.

Your body was happy in ways you hadn't experienced in a long time, even if your conscious mind wasn't.

But James was a jerk and a boy you had hated all summer, so you couldn't feel that way about him.

In fact, you had promised yourself you wouldn't.

One night couldn't change what you had worked so hard for. You couldn't let them take your self-respect again.

It wasn't worth it.

As you lay in bed, you closed your eyes and wished that the tingles in your body and the restless thoughts in your head would stop.

Hoping to leave this night into some intense nightmare.

"Y/N," When you moaned and shook them off, the voice said, "Don't be a twat right now, I am already about to be late as is, wake up!" You let out a loud grunt and opened your eyes to discover a displeased Penelope staring at you as the loudness of the voice increased.

"Shit, what time is it?" You asked, your eyes widening.

"Time to get to bloody class, have you lost your mind?" As you hurriedly sat up and searched through your cupboard for clothing, she said in an increasingly anxious tone.

With frustration, you groaned, "There's no way I slept in again."

"Um, there is a way," Penelope chuckled. "I've been telling you to fix that janky alarm clock since last school year or to even enchant one but no, you stick with it," She huffed, eyeing said alarm clock with intense hatred.

She crossed her arms and looked at you. "I don't even understand why I wake you up, I should've just gone to class," she said, crossing her arms.

"Because you are a good housemate and friend and you sincerely love me," You replied as she struggled to contain the ghost of a smile. "But as much as you love me, get to class!" You urged, "I'll meet you there."

She looked at you hesitantly, "Are you sure?"

"Go!" You rushed her off as she shrugged, grabbing her bag.

"Don't be late," She winked, leaving and closing the door.

Rolling your tights up your legs before your skirt, you rolled your eyes. Even though you looked like a complete disaster when you looked in the mirror, it was sufficient for the day. You hurriedly put on your shoes, picked up your bag, and left the room.

You practically ran down the hallways in order to get to your class, being warned several times by Professors around you to slow down, you always murmuring an apology before continuing a speed walk.

You finally made it in front of the Charms room, and you slowed down your breathing as you entered. You avoided gazes from the entire class as you started walking to find your seat.

"Oh nice to see you Ms. L/N!" Professor Flitwick happily said, "Please sit next to Mr. Lupin," He instructed before giving you a nod and continuing his lesson.

You weren't surprised that Flitwick wasn't mad at you, he had always been extremely nice to you since you had met him.

Your jaw tensed as Remus watched your movements as you sat next to him.

Remus had eyed you multiple times since you sat down throughout the lesson, his eyes glazing over you every two minutes.

You sighed, "What is it, Lupin?" You asked, your eyes still focused on the front.

He looked shocked that you had spoken to him, "Sorry, what?" He asked, staring at you.

You looked at him, "Well, you have been glancing over at me for about every two minutes now, so I'm assuming you have something to say." You said, his mouth gaping, that you had actually said that to him.

"I just wanna talk about what you overheard last year," He started as your eyes went back to the front.

"I don't want to speak about it," You murmured.

Remus frowned, "I just don't want you to think we meant something we didn't." He said as you scoffed.

"So you didn't mean that I was basically a sad case and that you felt bad for me, you all practically mocked me," You countered.

He fiddled with his fingers, "I know what it sounded like, but I swear-" He began.

Professor Flitwick bellowed, "And for this project, you will work with the pairs behind you." Everyone turned behind them as he spoke.

The idea of working with Lupin made your stomach turn, but you were relieved that others would be working with both of you rather than just him.

However, when you turned to look behind you, your gaze met Sirius, the most annoyingly charming person you couldn't seem to forget.

And James, his accomplice.

You gasped in shock, swearing they had never been there before, and then suddenly they were.

"Oh great love, we are gonna be partners!" Sirius grinned as you instantly got up to persuade Flitwick to change and make up some nonsense justification.

Sirius pouted, "Oh love, I wouldn't do that, you don't want Flitwick thinking you're difficult to work with." You rolled your eyes at him, not falling for it. "He might just not write your recommendation for you to be an Auror," He remarked firmly as your eyes widened.

How could he possibly know what?

You sat back down carefully and glared at him, but all he offered you was a smug smirk. You looked away from the boys before you and crossed your arms.

James cleared his throat. He responded, "Well, I say we work in our dorm tonight," and the boys nodded, showing their agreement.

You scoffed, "Why not the library?" You asked, annoyed.

"Because Madam Pince insists on continuing to convince us that she will forever have a stick up her bum," Sirius said in a hushed tone.

"Well, maybe you should learn to shut your mouth once in a while," You spat, giving him a stern look.

He grinned and said, "I love it when you talk dirty to me." He leaned in closer with a whisper, "And I think you would love my mouth."

Your face contorted to disgust as Remus spoke and glared at Sirius, "We will be on our best behavior, and we will even do the most work." He tried to make the situation better.

"I'm not a charity case, I don't need your help," You remarked.

"Trust me love, we know," He replied with a laugh, "But it's the least we can do,"

You sighed, "Fine, but not too late, I don't want Filch to have his knickers in a twist if I'm coming to my dorms at eleven."

"We'll have you in bed by nine," James said, winking,

You rolled your eyes as you began writing something down in your journal. You felt eyes on you as you looked at all of them, "Problem?" You asked.

They all looked away, and you just gave them a strange look as you continued to write.

They had been extremely more weird than last year.

You shrugged the thought off as you tried to cram in as much of your part of the assignment as you could before having to work with them.

The bell chimed, and you instantly started packing up your quills and papers, shoving them into your bag in hopes of escaping this horrible situation as soon as possible.

"Don't be late tonight," Sirius whispered, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

You scowled at him, "Just hope I show up at all, Black." You said as you stood from your seat.

"Oh, trust me," He whispered as he locked eyes with you, "You will."

You swallowed, quickly trying to exit the classroom. You were starting to believe that this school year was a bizarre dream.

You must've been racing out of the room, considering the out-of-breath voice you heard rushing after you, "Y/N!" You looked to see Lily racing after you as you stopped.

She caught up to you as she tried catching her breath, "Merlin, you walk extremely fast," She huffed, throwing a quick laugh.

"How can I help you, Evans?" You asked, clearly not in the right mood for this conversation.

Her face straightened. "I was just hoping that we could talk about everything." She spoke hopefully.

You sighed, "Lily, now is not the best time." You replied, already starting to turn around.

"But!" Lily moved in front of you, "I just don't want you to think that I never cared about our friendship or forgot about you," She said regretfully.

You scoffed, "Lily, we can both be honest with ourselves." You folded your arms. "We were never friends, and you only pretended we were because you pitied me." You said blankly. Lily's eyes saddened as you continued, "But I'm not saying this to make you feel bad, you are a good and kind person, Lily, but we aren't friends."

Lily paused, "Do you actually believe that?" She asked, fiddling with her fingers.

"I'm surprised you don't." You replied as Lily looked down, "Don't get down on yourself, Lily, it wasn't only you." You laughed lightly.

She mustered up a smile, "Thank you for talking to me." She said before exiting the hall.

You hadn't meant to make Lily feel bad but she couldn't have possibly believed that you guys were friends.

Especially after what you had heard.

You were honestly starting to wish it was Winter break already.

This group project was probably one of the most dreadful things that you have had to do in your life.

But your plan was to finish the rest of your part and go back to your dorm, leaving the Marauders and any chance of communicating with them in that room.

Considering that, you were dressed in just your tank top and sleep shorts, wearing a silk coverall.

You knew it wasn't the most appropriate thing in the world, but there was no way the Marauders would ever see you in that way.

You took a deep breath before trying to knock on the door, but before you could, it swung open. Your eyes widened in surprise as James was looking at you with a flustered look as he eyed you up and down.

You looked at him confused, "Uh hi," You uttered.

He gulped, "Hey." He scratched the back of his head as you clicked your teeth.

"Are you gonna invite me in or just stare at me awkwardly?" You asked.

"Oh, sorry," He spoke quietly, widening the door for you.

You came in with your books pressed to your chest as you spotted Remus already at his desk while Sirius lay on his bed, looking at a magazine.

He looked away from the magazine to you, "Well, isn't this a sight?" He hummed, setting it aside on his dresser.

He stood, coming near you with a smug smile as he stared into your eyes.

"I've come here to actually work on the project, Black." You said sternly, ignoring the butterflies in your stomach.

"We can't do pleasantries, dollface?" He asked, coming so close that you could smell his signature scent of Ash and a mix of dark chocolate and mint. You looked up at him, almost feeling his breath fanning your face, "Or maybe we can skip them."

You nervously looked into his eyes, the air growing thick.

"Sirius." Remus warned.

You swallowed as Sirius only smirked, moving near Remus. "I'm only joking, Moony, I'm just trying to make dear Y/N feel more welcome." He sat on the leg of Remus's chair.

You exhaled as James spoke, "You can sit on my bed." He smiled, urging you towards it.

"Thanks." You muttered, sitting on his bed.

You were actually surprised by how soft the mattress was, yours felt like a rock compared.

As if he read your mind, James said, "It took fifty bloody spells to figure out how to break in that mattress." He laughed as you gave a slight nod in response.

"Where do you guys want to start?" You asked, "I've already done most of my writing portion and-"

Remus cut you off, "Maybe we could talk first."

You gave him a confused look, "All due respect, I would rather complete the assignment." You replied, opening your book.

It disappeared in your hand as you spotted Sirius with his wand, giving you a shake of his head.

You huffed, "I came here to work on this project, and if we aren't, I would prefer to be elsewhere." You glared at the boys, beginning to stand.

James stopped you, "Once chance, dove." He pleaded as you crossed your arms, "Just one." He spoke softly

You sat back down as you looked at the boys, "I'm listening." You exhaled.

"We know you overheard us that night.

[lieslab]

This is a place where I feel at home

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Og8 X gn reader

Summary: After dance practice, you collapse with a seizure.

Genre: 9th member AU

Word Count: 3K

A/N: Requestee, you specifically asked for this. I know seizures can look different and vary from person-to-person, based upon the type of seizures and diagnosis, so I just did a general overview. I hope I managed to write something, that's difficult irl for you, and create something that can make you smile <3 (actually, I hope it makes you laugh)

_ _ _

Sweat seeped out of every pore. In the center of the group, all nine of you became a single entity. Breathing, moving, and creating movements that rippled through time. You were soaked in your own sweat. The collar of your shirt clung damply to your neck. It stuck between your armpits, but there wasn’t time to pull it away from your skin. 

Stomps echoed and the swell of music caused your fingers to stretch in front of you. You grabbed the open air before jerking your body back and fitting between an open pocket of empty space. Between Han and Seungmin, your lungs heaved for air, but none of you stopped. There wasn’t any time. 

You spun and rocked your weight from one foot to the other in a hop motion. Another twirl, bigger arm movements, and the facial expressions didn’t matter yet. You lost count of how many times you’d gone through all these motions. Another dance practice, another day spent losing yourself in the music. Your lungs ached, but you didn’t complain. 

You lived for this. All the sweat didn’t matter. You caught glimpses of everyone in the mirror. You still didn’t understand how one choreographer taught all nine of you the dance moves. Over and over again, she went over the moves and helped you turn your body on time. Each movement translated to the beat and you flew again. 

“Come on! You’re nearly finished! Keep up the energy!” 

Behind you, she stood in the corner watching your formation. Her eyes swayed from person-to-person, trying to make sure nothing seemed amiss. It all ran perfectly, just like she imagined it to go. Everyone moved like she wanted them to. 

When the song came to an end, loud claps came from the same corner. “Great job everyone! You did so well!” 

Han was the first to sink to his knees. Muscular arms stretched outward in his sleeveless black top. “Oh, god. My arms are on fire, I think I’m going to die.” 

The muscles in your arms felt the same way. No matter how much you danced, you weren’t sure if you’d ever get used to the burning sensation from swinging your arms around so much. You chuckled at his antics, shook your head, and went to your bag to grab your water.

Changbin’s laughter cut through the air. He pointed at Hyunjin, making fun of him. “Look at you, you’re practically drowning in your own sweat.” 

“I don’t have the energy to fight you right now.” 

“Looking good as per usual, hyung,” Felix teased. 

A hand ran through Hyunjin’s hair. Sweaty strands jerked back and fell right back into his face. He huffed and collapsed beside Han. “Ugh, I wanna go home, but I think I need to take five. Just a few minutes to catch my breath.” 

You’d been with the guys for so long, the scent of combined sweat didn’t bother you anymore. You’d gone nose blind to it, but you could feel the warmth of the room. The heat that built from moving bodies, flying limbs, and the stuffy contained feeling that caused your skin to itch. 

“Hey.” A finger reached out and poked you in the back of your shoulder blade. You turned around to find Minho staring at you. “Am I taking you home today, or are you going with one of the other guys?” 

“I wanted to go with you, if that’s okay. Chan, Changbin, and Han are all staying over. I don’t know what the rest of the guys are doing.” 

Minho spun around to face everyone else and his voice raised. “Who needs a ride back to the dorms?” 

Felix and Seungmin’s arms shot up. Jeongin glanced up from digging in his backpack. “Wait! Don’t make me drive back alone! Yongbok, be my passenger princess.” 

“Sounds good to me.” 

“I guess that means I’m with the cat and dog,” you mumbled beneath your breath. 

“What was that?” Minho asked. 

“Nothing.” 

He blinked multiple times and shook his head. “Alright, Seungmin, let’s go.” He walked beside the leather couch, grabbed his bag, and headed towards the door. 

You barely had time to grab your bag and follow him. Seungmin rushed after both of you. He waved to the guys, promised Felix he’d see him back home, and hurried into the hall. You and Minho were already halfway down it. From the practice room, Hyunjin grumbled, insisting that nobody loved him because nobody wanted to ride home with him. It didn’t take long for Changbin to straddle his back and confess his love. 

In the air conditioned hall, you grabbed your water bottle and slowly sipped, relishing the cool water. The insulated bottle kept your ice water cold. When it came to days like this, you were always thankful for it. You spent a pretty penny on it, but it came from the recommendation of Chan. He used the same brand and always liked having cold water at his disposal, no matter the day. 

“Can you two slow down?” Seungmin called out. “You’re acting like race horses and we have nowhere to be right now.” 

“I have a place to be, it’s called the shower. I don’t know about you, but it’s calling my name.” Minho rushed down the stairs. “I’m in a hurry to get there because, unlike you, I don’t try to attract people to me via my scent.” 

“Oh, shut up.” 

You chuckled at their antics and took your time going down the stairs. In the lobby, a group of trainees was being addressed by their own manager. When the group spotted the three seniors, they ducked into a respectful bow. You smiled and waved at them. Blushes and shy eyes looked away. Seungmin greeted them back and Minho dropped a respectable nod. 

All three of you knew what it was like meeting senior groups. The butterflies and nerves came fluttering back. It’d been years ago, but you remembered it like it was yesterday. As you walked past them, nostalgia hit you hard. 

Minho held the door open for you and you thanked him. When it came to Seungmin, he let the door go before he walked through the exit. The door started to retract and bumped into Seungmin as he left the building. “Real mature. Thanks a lot, hyung.” 

“Yeah, you’re welcome.” 

“I’m getting the passenger’s seat.” 

“No, you’re not.” 

“I’m calling dibs.” 

“Overruled. It’s my car and I pick the assigned seats.” Minho glanced back at you. “You can have the passenger’s seat.” 

Your head shook. “No, that’s okay. Seungmin can have it if he wants it.” 

“Did you not hear me? I said I pick the assigned seats. You’re up front with me.” 

“Yeah, okay. Seungmin?” You spun around. “Give me your bag and I’ll put it in the trunk.” He tossed his duffle bag in your direction, you caught it with a grunt. 

Minho pressed a button on his key fob and the back of his trunk retracted. Without complaint, you headed over and placed your bags in his trunk. Seungmin threw open the back door and slipped inside. Just as he was about to buckle, Minho tossed his bag between the driver and passenger’s seat, causing it to slam into Seungmin’s chest. “Hold that.” 

“Are you fucking serious?” 

“Did I stutter? Can you hear?” His eyes narrowed. “Should we take you to a doctor and get your ears cleaned out? They’re probably full of wax. No wonder why you don’t listen to what you’re told.”

“Real mature.” 

You shut the trunk and looked over. Afternoon slipped into an early evening. The tangerine sky laid with highlights of soft pink. Supple streaky white clouds rolled warmth into your heart. It’d been a while since you’d been out of work early enough to catch the sunset before it faded into darkness.  

Seungmin huffed and pushed Minho’s bag to his side. It stayed upright on the leather seats. Minho looked in the rearview mirror and glared. “Hey, I said hold onto that.” 

“I’m not holding your bag the entire drive home.” 

“You have no respect for your elders.” 

“And the only thing you’re good at is bossing today’s youth around. I’m sorry you're bitter because your joints creak and your back aches. Don’t take it out on me, take it up with your geriatrician and try some fish oil pills.” 

“What the hell did you just say to me, punk?” He unbuckled his seatbelt and jerked around in his seat. “Say it again and see what happens.” 

“I said take it up with the doctor that specializes in old people!” 

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” 

“Do you kiss anyone at all?” 

Minho lunged back, trying to smack the back of Seungmin’s head, but Seungmin ducked down, just narrowly avoiding it. “Missed me, asshole.” 

“Come here!” 

Meanwhile, your hand expanded outwards and you reached out for the side of the car. You mumbled Minho’s name, but he couldn’t hear it as he argued with Seungmin. It became a sixth sense, an inkling that you were on the verge of something happening. You tried again, softly calling out for Seungmin, but it didn’t work. 

Light fractured and your body caved in. Knees buckled and you tried to stay upright, but your fingers caught nothing, only the smooth black paint of Minho’s car. A loud thud and a sharp pain filled your head. The sharp colors of the sky blended into a watercolor painting. An empty static and then the eerie silence of nothingness. 

The moment a loud bang came from the back of the vehicle, Minho stopped reaching for Seungmin and glanced out the trunk window. “Hey, where’d they go?” 

“Weren’t they just putting the bags in the trunk?” 

“Yeah, but they did and– ah, shit.” 

Seungmin’s eyes widened and he jerked his car door open. It wasn’t always, but you did have seizures every so often. Usually, the guys tried to keep an eye on you, but their actions were limited. You couldn’t spend your whole life being watched twenty-four-seven. He slammed his car door shut and rushed around the car. 

Minho cursed and dropped down beside your shaking body. Every muscle in your body tensed and you jerked unconsciously. A faint noise left your throat. Unaware of it all, there was nothing you could do to stop your brain from firing in all the wrong ways. Muscles spasmed and your fingers twitched.  

“Help me get them onto their side!” Minho barked. 

Seungmin dropped down on your other side. Together, they worked to shift you onto your left side. One of your shoes dug into the cement and scraped across the pavement in the process. He popped up over your body, opened the truck, and quickly unzipped his bag. Minho glanced up in confusion. 

“Here, use this to stabilize their head.” He pulled out a hoodie and folded it into a square. 

Minho grabbed it and gently worked it beneath your head. “There you go. It’s okay, we’ve got you.” 

Seungmin’s hand reached out and grabbed your top ankle. He tried to be cautious, but also stop you from jerking back onto your back. The recovery position, laying on your side, is important when a seizure is active. Minho’s hand hovered above your shoulder. If you jerked back, he gently steadied you. 

“Should we call for an ambulance?” 

“Not unless it doesn’t stop. We’ve been over this, remember?” 

“I know, but I still worry.” 

“We have to trust that they know their own body.” 

For so long, you’d dealt with seizures. Your doctor tried medicine to stabilize you, but sometimes your brain had a mind of its own. You just had to wait for them to pass on their own. 

When it finally stopped, you didn’t know if you were still in your own body. Dance practice already made you sore, but a seizure and aggressive tensing muscles made it so much worse. You sucked in a sharp breath and your eyes fluttered open. 

Minho uttered your name and carefully cupped your face. You groggily looked up, but it sounded like you were beneath water. Whatever he said, you couldn’t understand it fully. Seungmin’s worried face appeared next to his. Your eyes shut. 

“What’s happening?” Seungmin whispered. 

“Exhaustion. Their body totally just freaked out on them. It’s not easy to handle.” Minho called your name again. This time, you could finally understand what he said. 

“Hmm?” 

“I’m going to pick you up and take you back inside, okay? We’re just going to make sure you’re stable before we put you in a moving car and take you home. Do you need anything?” 

“My water.” 

“Let’s get you inside and you can have some. This concrete can’t be comfortable. Seungmin, get the water. Is your head okay? There’s a red spot on your forehead. I think you slammed the bumper of my car when you fell.” 

You shrugged, still feeling a little out of it. Minho’s strong arms slipped beneath your body. He stood up, scooped you into his chest, and slowly walked back to the company building. “If you need something, just let me know.” 

“Okay.” 

You were quiet all the way back upstairs. The pair chose the elevator and Minho instructed Seungmin to press all the buttons. Chan, Changbin, and Han were all in one of the recording studios. When Minho arrived with you in tow, the three of them glanced over. 

“What happened?” Chan asked. 

“Seizure in the parking lot.”

They were up within seconds, worrying about you. You wanted to be embarrassed, but you couldn’t be. Your head felt so fuzzy and you were tired. Minho gently placed you onto the couch. Your eyes reopened. 

“Are you okay?” Changbin approached you first. “Do you need anything?” 

“My water.” 

Seungmin handed it to Changbin. He helped you sit up and watched as you took a few sips of the cool water. Multiple pairs of eyes fell on you, but you tried to ignore it. You didn’t like being the center of attention, but in times like this, you didn’t get a choice. 

Han finally appeared and slowly slipped behind your legs. “You’re sure you’re okay?” 

“Yeah, just tired.” 

“Do you want to stay here for a bit? Chan, Changbin, and I were just about to rearrange our next song. It’s a ballad, so it shouldn’t cause your head to ache.” 

“Or I can take you back home,” Minho added. “With Seungmin, it’s up to you.”

“Can I stay here? I just wanna rest.” 

“Of course. Seungmin, let’s head out and give them some space. We can’t have you stenching up the place with your wet dog scent.” 

“Excuse me?” 

Minho waved him to the door. He rolled his eyes, placed your bag beside the couch, and headed away. “Whatever. Take care, you know where to find us if you need us.” 

“If they make it home without murdering each other,” Chan joked. 

“Yeah, we’ll see about that.” 

Your eyes shut, but you listened to the bickering with amusement. Their taunts would never get old. Changbin glanced at you once more before heading back to one of the chairs in front of the recording booth. 

Han gently patted your legs. “I’m going to stay right here beside you. Maybe if I’m here, I can keep the seizures away. Like a mosquito repellant, but for seizures.” 

“You think so?” You asked.

“I hope so.” 

Chan shut the door and sighed. “I guess it could be worse. The other three went home earlier.” He headed back to the spot beside Changbin. “Maybe it’s better they’re not here because-” 

The door jerked open and Hyunjin rushed in, nearly tripping over himself. He called your name with worry and dropped in front of the couch. “Are you alive? Are you a ghost? Tell me you can still see me! How many fingers am I holding up?” 

“Hyung, Minho said not to bother them and let them rest.” Jeongin entered the room with crossed arms. “You’re going to stress them out more.”

“Am I not allowed to worry? How many fingers? You’re not responding!” 

“Probably because their eyes are shut.” 

Your eyes reopened at the sound of Felix’s voice. He placed an arm around Jeongin’s shoulder and waved at you. “Hey, we heard what happened from Minho. We just came to see if you’re okay.” 

“I thought the three of you went home?” Chan uttered from his spot. 

“Oh, yeah, we were going to, but-” 

“I don’t want to drive home alone!” Hyunjin whined. “It’s like nobody in this group loves me. I stole Jeongin’s car keys and he keeps chasing me and trying to get them back.” He called your name. “Tell Innie that he can’t drive home with Lix. I need a passenger princess, too.” 

The worry from your seizure melted away a little. Your seizures were serious and always would be, but with the antics of the guys, you couldn’t worry for long. Before you could speak, Minho appeared. “Hwang Hyunjin, I’m about to roast your ass in the airfryer. Get over here!” 

“I had to make sure they were still alive!” 

“I’m about to make ferret kabobs in the next five seconds if you don’t leave.” 

“But hyung!” 

Chan groaned and rubbed his face. “I can’t believe I picked all of you and have to put up with all of this years later.” 

“Who wants to try a wolf kabob next?” Minho asked. 

Every single hand went up, including yours.

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[cherienymphe]

Caged Bird

Carmine Falcone x Reader

Warnings: NON-CON/DUB-CON, kidnapping, mentions of murder, drugging, reproductive abuse

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | ➥ divider by @whimsicalrogers

summary: A golden cage is still just a cage.

⭑

You felt…ashamed.

It seemed like an odd thing to feel at the moment—surrounded by more men than necessary and being held onto like a wild animal—but it was all you felt. Shame. Shame that it took you so long, shame that you lied to yourself for so long, and shame that you failed to actually make it out.

You swiped your tongue between your lips as you were led back into the Falcone Mansion, the imposing building making your throat tighten as you stared up at it. To think that you’d once viewed it like the answer to all of your problems, and you shuddered to think of how trusting you’d been then. Naive, some would say. Stupid, others might correct.

You found yourself feeling grateful that at the very least, it was the middle of the night and your embarrassing plight wouldn’t bear any witnesses of consequence—only the men that served as extensions of the man himself who could hardly be considered people. It seemed like every light in the house was on, and you were proven right when you were forced past the threshold, blinking at the fast transition, your eyes taking a moment to adjust.

All that could be heard were the footsteps of your captors and yourself.

It unnerved you.

The silence of the rest of the house unnerved you.

His silence unnerved you.

When his office doors—always shut so tight—finally came into your view, only then did the reality of your night and your current predicament seem to settle in. You suddenly felt so cold and so scared and—as a coping mechanism as of late—you rested your hand on your rounded stomach. It didn’t calm you like it did before, but reminding yourself of the baby growing inside of you made you feel less alone.

It reminded you that you weren’t alone.

A solitary knock and someone was opening the doors, guiding you inside for all of three steps before you were let go and abandoned. One minute at least five men were around you and then in the blink of an eye you were left with only one. You flinched when the doors slammed shut behind you, the wood rattling just a bit before all was silent once again.

He wasn’t facing you, and that made you both angry and sad for the same reason; you weren't a threat. Not even a little bit and especially not to the point where he felt like he couldn’t turn his back on you whenever he wanted. It brought angry and hurtful tears to your eyes, and you looked away just as he shifted. 

You didn’t need to look at him to know that he was taking a sip of some brown drink he liked to keep on rotation, the occasion always calling for one no matter the mood. Neither of you said anything—he nursing his drink seemingly without a care in the world while there was hardly anything you wanted to say to him. Your gaze found the floor just as he moved again, and this time you knew that he was facing you. His gaze was always so hot and oppressive and to think that you’d once mistaken it for anything less.

He stared at you, and you stared at the floor, refusing to give him what he wanted.

You should’ve known that this silent battle wouldn’t last long, and you could only close your eyes as you heard his footsteps, the echo of them sounding like gunshots in the otherwise empty room. You kept your eyes closed, wishing you were anywhere but here, and the closer he got, the more you had the urge to just…run.

…but it was too late.

His hand was on your chin—so gentle—and your head was being lifted. You stared at the back of your lids as his thumb grazed your skin, and against your will, a few tears slipped out, betraying just how scared you were. Your lips started to temple just as he shushed you, and you felt him lean in.

“Why are you crying?”

The question was simple, and under any other circumstance, it could’ve been misconstrued as caring, but nothing about his tone felt caring. The question came out like a demand, almost rhetorical, like he knew exactly why you were crying and was wondering why you’d put yourself in this predicament to begin with if you were just going to cry about it.

When you didn’t answer him, his grip tightened on your chin.

“Open your eyes and answer me,” he softly told you. “I won’t ask you again.”

Knowing how much he hated to repeat himself, you slowly did as he said.

Your shaky gaze connected with an equally strong one as you stared into the eyes of Carmine Falcone.

You had hoped that you’d never look into those eyes again, certain that if you did, it would be one of the last things you ever did. The stony expression on his face actually softened just a tad as he looked between your eyes, and you felt your heart skip a beat, quickly reminding yourself that this man could kill you and get away with it…as he’d done before.

“Why are you crying?”

The question came out much softer this time, repeating himself despite his proclamation that he wouldn’t, and it reminded you of the times he did a lot of things that he said he wouldn’t for you. It made more tears spill over, and despite how much you wanted to look away from him, you told yourself that was a very risky thing to do, right now.

“Do you think I’m going to hurt you? Is that it?”

You hesitated, and then you nodded, and your husband sighed.

He let your face go, and you reached up to brush your fingers over your jaw just as he straightened. You watched him as he stepped away from you, taking a sip from the glass in his hand as if you two were having a regular conversation on a regular night. He was half turned to you when he looked down into his drink before lifting his gaze to meet yours again.

“...and why do you think that?”

You didn’t answer him right away, and he made a noise in the back of his throat.

“Come on, sweetheart, you’ve got to talk to me.”

“...because that’s what you do,” you finally answered. “You hurt people.”

Another swig of his drink.

“...but you knew that when you married me,” was his response, and you felt your face crumble.

“That was when I thought you hurt bad people.”

There was a beat of silence, and when you slowly lifted your gaze again, he was still staring at you. His expression was unreadable, but he was giving you his full attention as he lifted his hand to take a sip of his drink, never breaking eye contact.

“I do,” he finally replied. “...only hurt bad people.”

He was treating you like you were stupid, and you shook your head, gaze tearful.

“Carmine…”

He turned away from you to set his drink on his desk, and you wrapped your arms around yourself as he approached you again. You swallowed when he rested his hands on your shoulders, standing so close and leaning in so much that you couldn’t help but to lean away a bit. The scent of his cologne—something that used to bring you so much comfort—made your stomach turn, and you rested your hand on your stomach again.

“You did a stupid thing tonight, a very dangerous and stupid thing…”

You reached for one of his hands, but he tightened his hold.

“Were you anyone else, were you anything less than what you are, we’d be having an entirely different conversation.”

“Carmine–.”

“You’re pregnant, and the baby and the hormones are messing with your head…”

You shook your head. 

“...making you entertain all of these…silly thoughts,” he said, waving his hand around. “You’re not yourself, and that’s why I’m not angry with you.”

“No, do not do this! Do not make it seem like I’m crazy…”

“Anything could have happened to you and the baby, and I know you’d never want that.”

He finally let you go, and his office doors were open once again. You looked over your shoulder for a second before a different set of strong hands were wrapping around your wrists and your arms. You felt Carmine’s fingers on your face, and you turned to him just in time to feel his lips brush over the corner of your mouth.

“Things are going to be a bit different around here until you feel like yourself again.”

“Carmine, please.”

“Were you in your right mind, you’d never try and leave like that…”

The way he said it almost sounded like a threat, like he wanted to believe it because the alternative would produce a very different kind of night for you both.

“You would never abandon Sofia and Alberto like that, not after how much they’ve grown to love you. Never.”

He pulled away slightly, and while the use of his children’s names was meant to inspire some guilt within you, some part of you also knew he wasn’t just talking about them. It went unsaid, but the look in his eyes told you what he really wanted to say in front of all these men.

You would never abandon him like that.

“I don’t like these pills,” you heard yourself say, feeling as if you were on the outside watching yourself reach along the table to place your hand on Carmine’s.

The dark-haired man didn’t acknowledge you right away, but when he did, he sent you a smile that you were sure was meant to be comforting. He shifted his hand, taking yours into his and brushing his thumb over your skin. When he brought it up to his lips, you let out a small hum despite how almost…numb you felt.

“They’re new, and you’re just not used to it. The doctor said they’re perfectly safe and will help you regulate your emotions.”

You blinked at him, noting in the back of your mind that it was just fancy speak for keeping you compliant. You hardly felt anything most of the time these days, floating on a calm air of nothing and lacking so much energy that you were agreeable to pretty much anything. You didn’t think you liked the feeling, recalling that every time you woke up, but the doctor was always there so early, and Carmine was always close by as you were handed the pills, two sets of eyes on you as you reluctantly swallowed them each morning.

All of this was so wrong…but at the moment, you couldn’t find it in you to care.

“Okay,” was your only response, and your husband kissed your hand again.

“You’re still attending Sofia’s recital with me tonight, aren’t you?”

Even if it was something you wanted to forget, it was impossible to. Even now, you could hear the little girl pressing her fingers to the keys so beautifully in another room, and you smiled. 

“Of course,” you told him. “She’s been so excited for months, and I know she’d be devastated if I missed it.”

Carmine smiled at you—or what one would consider a smile from him—and it produced an unsettling feeling in your stomach.

“...and to think, you almost did.”

You slowly blinked at him, humming to yourself as he reminded you of that night. You thought about it often, telling yourself that it couldn’t be your only attempt, but then you’d wonder what would happen should you get caught again? You were currently the calmest you’d ever been in your life, not a care in the world, but you were only calm in body. The pills forced a disconnect between your brain and everything else, and while you had no energy other than anything that wasn’t a smile, your mind was still telling you that none of this was right.

“They love you so much, and I can’t even imagine how I would have gone about explaining to them that they lost another mom should anything have happened to you.”

Your husband said it so casually, with just enough concern in his voice to be believable, but something in you wondered if he’d been anticipating something happening to you out there or in here. The story was that your hormones had you all out of whack, but only he and you knew the truth, and sometimes you wondered if Carmine would have just chosen to be done with you if it weren’t for the fact that he’d chased you down to the ends of the earth to have you…and you were currently pregnant with his child.

You recalled the way you’d been dragged out of his office that night and coming face to face with a man you’d never seen before. You were entirely still as you remembered how he and Carmine talked over you and about you as if you weren’t there. Before the pills, it was a syringe that night, and you would never forget the sight of Carmine coming towards you with the ring you’d left behind just as the doctor stuck a needle in your arm.

It was a scene that sometimes haunted you, waking you up in the middle of the night. A light sheen of sweat would be clinging to your skin, and your chest would be heaving. By this time, the pills you’d been forced to take in the morning would have worn off, and you’d just be left with raw emotions. Sometimes you cried silently, sitting back against the headboard as you stared into darkness with wet cheeks, and sometimes your nightmares would wake Carmine before they’d wake you.

“Take another one,” he’d say to you after turning on the light. “The stress isn’t good for the baby.”

You’d look at him like he was the crazy one, unsure if you wanted to laugh at the irony or not. Carmine—your husband—was the source of the stress, and one could argue that would mean he wasn’t good for the baby. Even still, you’d stare down at the pills in his hand, contemplating your chances if you just knocked them out of his hand and made a run for it…but then you’d remember why you ran in the first place. You’d remember that he wasn’t just a man who hurt bad people, but the good ones too. That he hurt those who did nothing at all, nothing to him, and that one of them was very probably the wife who came before you.

With trembling hands, you’d take the pills, and you’d let him guide a glass of water to your lips.

“Good girl,” he’d murmur in your ear and sometimes you’d find yourself laying back down, erratic heartbeat finally slowing.

Other times though, you’d feel Carmine pressing his face into your hair, hand rubbing circles into your back as it took a little longer for you to calm down this time. You’d both feel and hear him deeply inhale, and you knew what was coming, unsurprised when he’d turn your face to meet his in a kiss. You were good and showing, but that never meant anything when he wanted you, and the pills would finally start to calm you a bit just as he laid you down. 

He could never stop touching your stomach when he fucked you, fingers trailing over your protruding belly as he pushed his cock into you. He did it a lot even when you weren’t pregnant, and there were moments when you thought back on those days and wondered if he’d been imagining the day when you finally were. You used to think that Carmine Falcone chased you down because he wanted to be with you, but now you knew that it was because he wanted to have you.

It was wholly different.

“They know you’re mine. They’ll do as I say,” was something he often said in the beginning whenever you voiced your concerns about the family accepting you.

Those words used to make you giddy, butterflies fluttering in your stomach at that intense gaze just before he’d press his lips to yours. You’d take the words completely different from how he meant them. You’d had no idea then that he genuinely saw you as his. His property, that is. Something that belonged to him to do whatever and treat however he pleased regardless of how you felt about it.

Despite how much he told you that he’d never hurt you, he had to know that he already did.

When the baby was born, Carmine was in the room, and had you been more lucid, you would’ve been bothered by his fingers in your hair and on your face and anywhere near you. Carmine held him first, and when you finally got him into your arms, you didn’t like the way your husband pressed his lips to your forehead, keeping them there and refusing to leave your side. Under any other circumstances, it would’ve been normal, desired even, but you were not under any other circumstances.

Now that you were no longer sustaining a whole other human being in your body, the atmosphere was shifting. You didn’t imagine the uptick in security within and around the mansion nor the way Carmine was almost always just there. The first morning you refused the pils, it had almost turned into a brawl.

“I’m not pregnant anymore–!”

“You’re still dealing with significant hormone and mood changes that can and will affect how you not only interact with yourself but the baby as well,” the doctor had told you, his voice so calm that you wouldn’t even think he was bearing witness to you being held down like some Arkham patient.

You’d looked between him and Carmine with tears in your eyes, realizing that your husband came to the same conclusion you did but only much sooner. With no baby growing inside of you, now, it would be much easier for you to simply walk out of that door and never come back. It would be so much easier to abandon everything, to abandon him.

“Carmine,” you’d cried, fighting against the hands holding you down. “Carmine, please.”

Like that very first night, a needle was preferred over the pills, and you didn’t take your eyes off of Carmine once. He didn’t look the least bit bothered by the sight before him, and any shred of hope you had that some part of him saw you as more than just a prize he’d gotten his hands on was long gone.

The drugs did their job and kept you sedated, and now that you could be given a higher dosage without the worry of hurting the baby, they kept you so sedated that you couldn’t even fight back when Carmine decided it was time to trap you again. You never refused his advances, but it wasn’t like you were exactly in a position to.

You didn’t exactly want his lips on yours, but there wasn’t much you could do to refuse him. When your son was asleep and the pills had long kicked in, Carmine pinned you between his sturdy frame and the plush bed beneath you. You couldn’t tell if he was hungry for you, the desire to see you pregnant and trapped once again, or both. Maybe it was a bit of both.

He had no qualms about spending hours curving his hips into yours and grazing his teeth over your skin. It was reminiscent of how he preferred to spend the early days of your relationship and especially the early days of your marriage. Carmine was insatiable for a lot of things, but above all else, he was insatiable for power.

Once upon a time, you’d thought that was solely reserved for power in Gotham, power in the family. You’d never considered that included power over you too. It made him feel powerful to have you underneath him when you both knew you didn’t want to be. It gave him a different kind of high–one Gotham could never give him–to feel your nails dragging down his back and your legs around his waist as he filled you up in the hopes of conceiving baby number 2.

When you weren’t coming around his cock, you were nursing, and when you weren’t nursing, you were sleeping. In between, you ate, but the cycle repeated, and in those brief moments where you weren’t doped up on pills meant to suppress your every emotion and energy, you were fighting to get your mind right and decipher up from down so that you could escape this prison.

“Don’t I give you everything you could ever want?” he’d quietly asked you one day, knelt before you as you curled yourself into a corner. “Hmm?”

Your husband actually expected an answer, and you couldn’t give him one that he’d like.

“You live in such a nice house,” he gestured around. “...and a million women would kill for that ring on your finger, and you’ve got three children who think the world of you.”

Those dark shades he liked to wear were covering his eyes, and you found that the inability to look him in the eye was more unnerving than that cold stare he liked to fix you with. You sniffed, chest tight as he reached out to brush his fingers down the side of your face.

“You want to leave all this?” he eventually wondered. “You want to leave me?”

Those words had you freezing, and the more you tried to see into his eyes–read his face–it was like the harder it became. You hadn’t missed the way his voice dropped as he asked if you wanted to leave him, and the room was completely silent now as you held in your sobs. It was remarkable how fast you’d gone from miserable to terrified.

“Carmine,” you’d finally whispered. “I’m not…happy.”

You watched the dark-haired man take a deep breath, and you shuddered when he rested his hands on your arms, pulling you with him as he stood to his feet. Your shoulder was pressed against him as he walked, his arm around you, and you felt the vibration fill you as he hummed.

“I’m sure we can work something out, find a way to cheer you up,” he proposed, depositing you on the bed and kneeling before you.

His hands rested on your knees as he looked you over, and you felt a few tears escape as the pills wore off more and more. 

“Maybe we can all go on a nice vacation once the baby’s big enough to travel…”

You bit your lip.

“...or is that it? Do you want another baby?”

You stared at each other, and you swallowed down what you wanted to say, completely aware that Carmine had been trying for another for months, now. He gently massaged your knees, slowly exhaling.

“We have to come up with something sweetheart, because I can guarantee you that leaving me won’t make you happy.”

The words themselves weren’t threatening, but the way he said them and the way he stared you down as he said them told you everything you needed to know. More tears spilled over without your consent.

“Do you understand?” he asked after some time.

You closed your eyes and gave him a reluctant nod.

“Tell me what you understand.”

His voice was calmer, now, and you sniffed, taking a deep breath.

“That if I leave you…” you opened your eyes. “I won’t be happy.”

Carmine reached for your face, and he pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth before standing, guiding you to lean your head against his stomach.

“...and you want to be happy, don’t you?”

You closed your eyes again, focusing on the feeling of his fingers tracing circles into your scalp. You gave a shaky nod, faintly recognizing the sound of your son waking up, desperately trying to ignore the way the touch of his father made your skin crawl.

[dixons-sunshine]

Early Mornings | Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Summary: Dating Joel Miller came with a lot of things, both good and not so good. However, to your initial surprise, it came with a tiny bit of clinginess, especially in the morning, and Joel decided that this particular morning, he wouldn’t let you leave his bed.

Genre: Fluff

Era: Pre/no outbreak.

Warnings: No use of y/n, sleepy Joel, no actual warnings.

Word count: 811

A/N: So...guess who watched The Last Of Us...and fell in love with yet another apocalypse man...Me lol. I fully blame (thank) @dixonsdarkelf for this. She’s the one who said I would enjoy it, and she was right. Also, massive thanks to @daryltwdixon for being my Joel source and giving this the okay to post (aka seeing that I didn’t completely mess up his character) and to @/dixonsdarkelf for being my personal hype woman when I expressed being nervous as hell to post this. Anyways, TL;DR: I hope y’all like this!

When you first met Joel Miller, there was no denying that he wasn’t the friendliest of people. He wasn’t rude by any means, just not the most open with people he didn’t trust or care for. He kept to himself, kept his answers short and to the point, and didn’t go out of his way to please others. However, there was something about him that had you intrigued, that lured you in, and by sticking it out, by getting to know him slowly but surely, that stoic facade chipped away piece by piece. Soon, one thing led to another, and the two of you went on a date…and another, and another, until you both finally made it official.

You became Joel Miller’s girl.

When the two of you put a label on your relationship, it was as if a switch flipped in Joel’s mind. You got to see parts of him that most others didn’t, got to experience the soft side of him, see him be vulnerable and open with you, and it was beautiful. You felt honoured that he trusted you enough to share that piece of him with you.

What you had not expected, however, was how clingy he could be on occasion, especially in the morning.

“Joel,” you started with a soft laugh, attempting to pry yourself from his arms for the tenth time in a span of five minutes, but Joel’s grip only tightened in response. “Joel, I gotta get up.”

“No.” His voice was gruff and laced with sleep, with a sense of determined defiance there as well.

His response only made you laugh again. “Babe, I’m serious. I gotta get up. I can’t be late for work.”

“Call in sick or somethin’,” he grumbled tiredly, his arms tightening around your waist and pulling you even closer, if that was humanly possible. “Ain’t lettin’ you go. It’s too early.”

Carefully manoeuvering yourself to turn around and face him, you silently admired the beauty of the man you got to call yours. His face, usually sporting a slight frown, was soft and relaxed. His mouth was slightly parted, his eyes still shut, with his hair a mess and covering his forehead. He was supposed to go get it cut later that same day.

Slowly bringing your hand up to cup his cheek, you rubbed soft, soothing circles against his skin, his stubble pricking against your hand. You smiled when he subconsciously nuzzled into your touch. “Just call in sick. That simple, huh?”

“That simple,” he echoed. He opened an eye to peer at you, his dark, chocolate-like iris trailing over your features. A small, barely noticeable smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Want me to do it for you?”

Chuckling, you shook your head. “Aren’t you supposed to go to work today, too?”

Joel nodded. “Yeah, but I can be persuaded to call in sick if you do the same.”

“Is that so?” you asked rhetorically, raising your eyebrows at him.

“Mhm.” Without any warning, Joel pulled you into his chest, smiling at the sound of your sweet, angelic laughter. “We’re sick today. Practically on our death beds.”

Despite the logical part of your brain telling you that you needed to be firm, to get out of bed and haul your ass into the shower, you found yourself melting into his embrace. You lay your head down to rest on his chest, wrapping an arm around his bare torso.

“Five more minutes,” you offered as a compromise, shutting your eyes and humming in content when Joel’s nails gently raked over your back.

“Yeah, sure,” he chuckled, closing his eyes as well. He knew damn well that those ‘five minutes’ wouldn’t just be five minutes. And when you reached over to grab your phone ten minutes later, entering your boss’ number, he chuckled victoriously. “So we’re on our death beds today?” he inquired, his voice oozing playful cockiness.

You rolled your eyes in faux annoyance, but your smile gave you away and showed that you were, indeed, anything but annoyed. “We’re on our death beds today.”

“Damn straight.” He barely gave you any time at all before he was embracing you again, hearing the faint ringing being from your phone, which was pressed against your ear. He placed sweet, tender kisses against the skin below your ear, smiling at the sound of your giggles.

“Joel,” you drawled warningly, stiffling your giggles and sitting upright when your boss answered. “Good morning, sir.”

“I win,” he whispered playfully, chuckling when you rolled your eyes at him again.

“I hate you,” you mouthed to him, shaking your head and quietly scoff-laughing to yourself.

“Love you too, Darlin’,” he mouthed back with a quiet chuckle, making himself comfortable against his pillows, simply enjoying your presence as he waited for you to finish your phonecall and settle down once again.

[mocchiixxx]

Unexpected Muse

(Woozi x Reader) Genre: Fluff, Humor, Accidental Genius AU

Summary: Woozi is struggling to compose a song, so he steps out for a break—only to return and find his girlfriend messing with his studio setup. What starts as harmless button-pressing turns into an accidental masterpiece, solving the problem he spent hours trying to fix. Now, he’s forced to admit that his completely untrained girlfriend might just be his greatest muse.

Woozi sighed as he stepped out of his studio, running a hand through his hair. He had been staring at the same melody for hours, tweaking every note, yet nothing sounded right. His usual creative spark felt dimmer than usual, so he decided to take a break— maybe a short walk would help clear his mind.

Meanwhile, you arrived at his studio, excited to surprise him with some snacks and moral support. However, when you walked in, the room was empty.

"Huh… where’d he go?" you mumbled, setting the food down on a nearby table.

Your eyes drifted to the massive setup in front of you— the soundboard, the computer, the keyboard, and… so many buttons.

Curiosity got the best of you.

Cautiously, you sat down in his chair, your fingers hovering over the controls. What is he working on? you wondered, pressing a random key. A low synth sound echoed through the room.

"Ooooh," you grinned. "This is fun."

One button turned into two. Two turned into five. Before you knew it, you were layering beats, adjusting volume levels, and even adding a random melody just because it sounded nice.

Was it good? Who knew.

Was it fun? Absolutely.

You bobbed your head to your accidental track, completely unaware of time passing—until a very familiar voice cut through your focus.

"...What are you doing?"

You froze.

Turning your head slowly, you found Woozi standing by the door, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. His usual unreadable expression was on full display, but his eyes were flickering with something unreadable.

"Uh…" You gulped. "Surprise?"

Woozi sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "Please tell me you didn’t touch anything important."

"Define important," you said weakly.

He exhaled and walked over, taking your spot in the chair. His fingers moved quickly, clicking around the software. You braced yourself for a lecture, but then…

He stopped.

Frowned.

Replayed what you had done.

Again.

And again.

"...Wait." He leaned in closer to the screen, adjusting the headphones around his neck. His brows furrowed in deep concentration as he listened to your masterpiece for the fifth time.

You shifted awkwardly. "Sooo… is it bad?"

Woozi didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulled out his keyboard and started playing along with your accidental melody. He added a few tweaks here and there, adjusting the tempo.

Then, out of nowhere, he grinned.

A real grin.

The kind he only got when inspiration struck.

"You just solved my problem," he muttered in disbelief, eyes locked onto the screen.

You blinked. "I—what?"

Woozi turned to you, his smile still lingering. "This. What you just made. It’s actually good."

Your jaw dropped. "Liar."

"I'm serious!" He laughed, shaking his head. "How did you even do this?"

You scratched your head sheepishly. "Uh… I just pressed buttons until it sounded nice?"

Woozi stared at you for a moment before letting out a deep sigh, amusement flickering in his eyes. "So, you’re telling me… I struggled for hours—and you, someone who has zero experience, just walked in and accidentally made something usable?"

You grinned. "Pretty much."

Woozi groaned, slumping in his chair. "I hate that this actually helps."

You leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. "Guess that means I’m your muse now, huh?"

He shot you a side glance, lips twitching into a small smirk. "You’ve always been."

Your heart did a little flip.

"Okay, producer-nim," you teased. "Let’s finish this masterpiece together."

Woozi chuckled, shaking his head before pulling you into his lap, handing you a pair of headphones. "Just… don’t touch anything without telling me first."

"No promises."

"You’re going to be the death of me."

"Yet you love me."

He sighed dramatically, but his smile gave him away. "Unfortunately."

You grinned. "Fortunately."

A/N: Woozi would absolutely be both impressed and so done if his girlfriend accidentally made a hit song. My mind just keep flooding with ideas so I have to craft them down.

[glamourscat]

SUMMER NIGHTS | TIMESKIP! KENMA X READER

Kenma never confessed in high school, but five years later, one summer night and ten seconds might finally be enough i wrote this at like 2am after seeing the new loonyz fanart lmao. Sorry for any grammar mistakes and confusion I didn’t proofread:(

Kenma has a problem and that problem is you. It’s been exactly five years since high school ended. He’s twenty-two years old, owner of the Bouncing Ball company, a stock trader and a YouTuber, in the midst of all things. And yet, his mind is still so crowded with thoughts of you.

You, the ex-Karasuno team manager. You, who managed to be strict when needed and quite frankly, scared most of the players with your poker face. And yet, you’ve always been kind, altruistic and in his eyes, the most beautiful ray of light.

For Kenma, you are what early spring feels like for a bird. Rejuvenating. Refreshing. Bright. Cold to some, and yet, if they only took the time to actually wait, they would realise that your rays are warm enough to melt even the coldest, harsh, snow of mid March.

You who have become such an important part of his life. His friend, his confidant, and most of all, the girl he’s been utterly and stupidly in love with since he was seventeen.

Falling in love wasn’t exactly one of Kenma’s plans. It happened randomly on a hot summer night five years ago. He doesn’t remember much about that night besides how your body felt pressed beside his. Or the way you looked, out of this world, as the stars shined bright on you. But most of all he remembers the way his heart was about to burst out at any moment. The way he couldn’t help but look at you. All of you.

And despite the sweetness of the memory, he can’t help but cringe at the sour undertones of it. That crippling, hidden feeling that he utterly despises. Regret. He regrets not confessing earlier. Too afraid to let his mouth say the words he longed for. Too stunned by fear. But no more.

Tonight, tonight is the night.

And that’s how he finds himself, along side you, Bokuto, Akaashi, Kuroo and some of the ex members Karasuno team, all together again for the Hanabi Taikai, a summer fireworks festival, on a grassy hillside overlooking the bay.

You’re sitting next to him on a soft picnic blanket, legs folded. You reach into the small popcorn bag, offering some to him. “Want some?”

He nods, muttering a soft, “Thanks,” as he takes a handful of popcorns. His fingers brush against yours. And everything slows down.

Your eyes meet, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. Just the brush of skin and the way the world seems a little too quiet. Then both of you look away at the same time, stifling laughter, cheeks flushed. And for a moment, it’s just the two of you. The rest of the world fades out. There’s something soft here. Familiar. Fragile. Real. Something he refuses to let it slip again. 

And then the moment is partially broken as in the distance Bokuto’s voice echoes.

“ALRIGHT EVERYONE!” Bokuto’s says in his usual 120 tone. “TEN MINUTES TO FIREWORKS! COUNTDOWN STARTS IN TEN! TENNNNN—!!”

Kenma groans under his breath, but then he glances at you. You’re already looking at him. There’s something in your eyes. A glint. A question. Maybe even hope.

Now or never.

Your thoughts begin to race.

He’s looking at me like he wants to say something. Is this it? No… I shouldn’t assume. But… maybe? He hasn’t looked away. Oh god, is my heart always this loud?

Kenma’s heart beats louder.

Say it. Just say it. Do something. Anything. She’s right here. She’s looking at you. Her hand is still close to yours. Don’t be a coward. Please, not again.

“NINE!”

Is he gonna do something? Should I say something first?

She looks nervous. Why is she nervous? Is she feeling the same thing? Could it possibly be—

“EIGHT!”

I should just tell him. Just… say it. What’s the worst that could happen? We’ve known each other for years... but omg does he feel the same? 

“SEVEN!”

I can’t let this go again.

“SIX!”

This is it.

“FIVE!”

Do it.

“FOUR!”

Please, please don’t chicken out.

“THREE!”

Kenma shifts closer.

“TWO!”

Your heart is beating so loudly you can hear it in your ears.

“ONE!”

He leans in, hands trembling slightly and then his lips are on yours.

It’s soft. Hesitant at first. But real. Real and warm and everything both of you have been holding back for way, way too long.

When the kiss breaks, your foreheads are touching, and both of you are blushing so deeply it’s almost comical.

You let out a breathy laugh. “I’ve always loved you, you know. I just… thought you weren’t interested.”

His eyes go wide like a spooked cat. “What? No. I—God, I’ve been in love with you since I was seventeen.”

You laugh again, and he can’t help but laugh with you, stunned by the dizziness of the moment and with happiness rushing through his veins. And just as he was about to lean in again, to savour those lips for a second time, noses touching and lips so damned closed… the moment is shattered by your friends in the background.

“WOOOOO!! FINALLYYY!” Bokuto’s voice explodes in the background, followed by Hinata’s high pitched shouting and Kuroo surprised, but amused grin, “Took you long enough!”

Someone (probably Tsukishima) mutters a dry, “About damn time.”

And just like that, you’re both swarmed in teasing and congratulations, flustered beyond belief but unable to stop smiling.Because finally it’s real. And your friends teasing, all of the noise, don’t matter.

Kenma barely hears the noise. All he feels is your hand brushing his again, not by accident this time and the warmth of your breath near his ear as you lean in to whisper something meant only for him.

He doesn’t even catch the words. Not really. All he knows is that he wants to hear you say them again. Closer. Quieter. Maybe with your lips pressed against his neck next time around. 

And maybe that’s greedy. Maybe that’s the summer heat talking. Or the hormones… maybe both. 

But with the fireworks exploding above and your fingers now tangled with his, he thinks, finally, he can start being a little selfish with you.

Just a little.

[beneathsilverstars]

i think if you’re doing mirabelle’s rpg. you have to put isat right in the middle. i think it should go like… she goes through vaugarde collecting the orbs and noticing all these mysteries about her companions and mourning all the frozen towns, and she wants to get to know her friends better, and figure out what’s bothering them and help with it, and go do fun touristy things with them, etc etc, but they have a country to save. there’s no time, and everything is frozen. if that wasn’t the case, they wouldn’t even be traveling together at all! and the whole time mirabelle’s struggling with anxiety and imposter syndrome and the weight of being The Savior. she has to fix things but she can’t, she wants to help her friends but she can’t, she has to change but she doesn’t want to. she’s getting a bad grade in rpg protagonist!!!

but then we hit isat. and you expect it to be the culmination of mirabelle’s arc, but she’s not ready for that yet, just like she’s felt unprepared and unworthy all game, stuck in this role, under the weight of everyone’s expectations — of course doing the thing everyone wants her to do can’t be mirabelle’s defining moment, no matter how much she also believes in the importance of the quest. when she vanquishes the king, it doesn’t actually fix any of her personal problems. it wasn’t even really about her.

instead, the focus of this event is on siffrin, since it turns out the unchanging king was his foil all along, not mirabelle’s. mysteries are answered about both siffrin and the king, but more importantly — this is the turning point for everyone. the result of the most seemingly-stand-offish character’s arc is the key to making progress in everyone else’s: the party admits they care about each other and decides to keep traveling together.

the second half of the game, then, is going backwards through vaugarde, visiting all the same places again. and now that they’re not on their blessed quest in the name of change, they DO have time and they ARE all officially friends. everyone gets a little arc, echoing the five orbs, starting with isat as siffrin’s. they’re still clearing out sadnesses — and there’s some really strong ones as everyone takes stock of how much time has passed and how much damage has been done — but they don’t respawn anymore. people are starting to recover! and instead of dungeon puzzles, there’s fetch quests and mini games as the party helps vaugarde rebuild. a lot of the quests relate to things they saw while frozen, a bunch of mysteries and tragedies that they can finally DO something about. and in the same way, the family can finally get closer and talk about important things and meet each other’s friends/family and share their interests etc etc, all these old mysteries and maybe-some-days getting resolved!

and then, finally. mirabelle has been doing work that she CHOSE, helping vaugarde rebuild. and sometimes people use the opportunity to rebuild differently, but sometimes people just want the same familiar things back, and that’s not actually bad, it’s nothing like being frozen. you can keep living in the same house but making new memories, fixing things as needed, both different and the same. and mirabelle realizes that she doesn’t need to change. she realizes she has changed, and she will keep changing, but she can stay the same the whole time too. she doesn’t need to be what people expect, not the perfect housemaiden or the rpg protagonist savior. she can just strive to be the best version of herself!!

and that’s the end of the game, bc mirabelle isn’t trying to figure out how to do everything right to win the game anymore. she’s just living ^^

[obeymeluv]

Random Moments with Malleus [Malleus x Reader]

Random moments with Malleus Draconia (five parts)

I - Showing Support

He never expected the magicless human to be so bold as to approach him as the last class ended. But, then again, you weren't like all the other people in Twisted Wonderland. Savanaclaw and Octavinelle avoided him like the plague; his reputation preceded him across species and habitats. Those in Heartslabyul uttered his name with the same quiver and baited breath as their own housewarden!

And yet, here you stood, staring up at him with a squint to your eyes that he found both enchanting and amusing. "We fae are enrapturing, aren't we?" he teased, meeting your gaze in a polite bow. He resisted the urge to blow a piece of hair from his eyes.

"Ever so," you snorted as your grin widened. "But in all seriousness, don't you have somewhere to be?"

"Oh, that's right!" Lilia perked up beside him. "There's a--"

THE HOUSEWARDEN MEETING! his mind roared, eyes frantic and glittering. For ONCE he would be PRESENT! Deaf to the energy already swirling around him, the magic sparking betwixt his midnight strands and horns, Malleus disappeared in a plume of smoke.

"Good talk," you coughed, batting away the smoke. Lilia disappeared in similar fashion, bemoaning that Malleus would go straight to the meeting instead of grabbing his official robes. Sebek took off to stand guard outside said meeting as Silver apologized on behalf of all three.

"He really appreciates it," Silver swore, "he always wants to be included."

II - Giving Aid

Malleus doesn't know what stopped him but he felt his muscles coil at the last second and snatch your wrist as daintily as possible. He glared at you, eyes like hard-cut emeralds. "I will only say this once," he hissed, hunched over to avoid suspicion and keep himself quiet, "do not eat anything he offers!"

"Isn't it rude to deny the generosity of the fae?" you tried to wrestle your wrist back. Malleus readjusted his fingers subconsciously, keeping his long nails away from the delicate skin of your wrist. He, Lilia, and Sebek were doing their best to school you on the ways of the fae since you were now a resident of Twisted Wonderland and gifts and etiquette were top priority.

"Only when their cooking won't kill you!" "Heed Master Malleus!" Sebek rounded the corner sharply, growling quietly. You don't know if his sudden presence startled you or if it was the fact he was actually being quiet. "He speaks from experience!" "I beseech you, Child of Man," Malleus begins again as Sebek is summoned to finish setting the table with Silver. "Do not--"

"Dinner's ready! Come and get it!" Lilia's voice echoes in the stone walls of Diasomnia.

You'd heard stories but clearly these were childish exaggerations. Besides, Silver grew up fine and strong! Your confidence in Lilia dwindled rapidly as you looked at a bowl of purple...something...with bits of carrot and some kind of cream drizzled in. Whatever it was, it smelled sweet and smoky and you were concerned.

"A hearty soup!" Lilia smiled as he handed out rolls for said...soup...and talked about how it was a good choice for such abysmal weather outside. Silver steeled himself and relaxed his face as he slid the first spoonful in his mouth.

No help there, you thought as you looked for any hint of what it tasted like before you met your fate. Sebek's method seemed to be eating it too fast to care, much to Lilia's ire. The green-haired freshman ignored the lecture on his manners. You swallowed dryly and looked at anything else besides the soup and Lilia as the first spoonful slid down your throat.

Not too bad. Looks were deceiving! It tasted like purple yam and...coconut milk? The soup was silky and you didn't see what the problem was until you were a few bites in. That next spoonful seemed to breach a layer of shredded carrot and what you hoped was celery as a rush of bitter, bitter, bitter exploded on your tongue.

You don't know how you didn't gag. Silver noticed the flinch in your posture and started talking very loudly about his next training session. Sebek nearly deafened poor Silver as he begged for Lilia to tell you an old story. The old story would keep him occupied far longer than training pointers and regimens.

Should you blot the taste with rolls? They look normal! Or should you just eat it really fast and be done with it? The horrors of the soup deepened as you ate--tiny mushrooms were caught in something winding and kelp-like that hadn't been cut up properly. Something toasted and leaf-like crunched amidst another clump of carrot.

That was your last bite! Whatever that crunch was you were done! You wiped your mouth quietly, sweat beading on your brow as you tore into a roll to settle your stomach. You weren't sure how much time had passed but it was enough to eat two more rolls. The way your insides were dancing, you were sure you'd eaten an alchemy project instead of food.

The bitterness of the soup swarmed you, your guts writhing as you stood calmly. Don't talk! If you talk you're going to puke! you told yourself as you pushed in the chair. Your distress was like smoke on the wind to Malleus. "I shall walk you home, come Child of Man!" Malleus practically dragged you to the front door of Diasomnia. He made the jump to Ramshackle in a burst of green and you puked so hard you almost fell into the brush.

"I have you, Child of Man. It's alright," Malleus cooed, holding you by the waist. You begged him to take you to the tiny bathroom upstairs and he complied, holding your hair as you knelt in misery. "I have you," he assured as you painted the toilet purple.

III - Domesticity

Something in Malleus was riled and rigid when he realized he hadn't seen you all day. His forehead itched as more scales threatened to break the facade of human skin. It was most unusual not to see his Child of Man! Where could they be? Had something gone amiss? Were you injured and in need?

"Something on your mind?" Lilia winced against the building winds as clouds loomed overhead, dark and dreary. Their casual walk from Diasomnia to the main campus ended at the door of Ramshackle. His respectful knocks went unanswered and Malleus didn't know if he was more disappointed or worried.

"Not at all," Malleus lied with a straight face, holding his head high despite his dejection. A light drizzle began as he waited morosely under the shelter of your feeble porch.

"Are you sure?" Lilia put his hands on his hips and peered up at the stubborn prince, brow quirked. The rain drummed harder.

"I--" "Hurry, guys! We have to get it inside!"

The piercing reply died on Malleus' lips as three figures lit up the rain like watercolors bleeding across a canvas. You were running up the steps with your arms full of groceries, Ace and Deuce not far behind. Keys jingling and slipping in your hands, Malleus stepped aside as you, Ace, and Deuce all but tripped over each other to escape the weather.

Had you even seen him? Malleus stood nervously in the doorway, almost feeling like he was intruding on a moment. He forgot that humans traveled in packs for convenience and safety. Something clutched in his chest nauseatingly at the thought of Ace and Deuce caring for you.

He was glad they cared for you and ran errands with you, undoubtedly, but something made him sick all the same. "Offer to help!" Lilia gave him a shove, "Don't be a shadow in the doorway!"

Malleus swung his tail at the fae--not hard, just the end--but it was no use. Lilia was gone, bits of green magic snuffed out by the rain. He cleared his throat, three heads poking up and pooling together to assess the sudden intrusion.

You relaxed much quicker than the other two and he was pleased. Malleus smiled at you. Deuce and Ace excused themselves, something about drying off and changing into spare clothes as you began to root through the grocery bags. "May I?" Malleus drew up beside you, peeking curiously at the eggs and other sustenance you chose for yourself.

"Please!" you smiled so brightly for someone so small and wet. It was quiet adorable! He marveled at the quiet domestic bliss, the simplicity of putting away groceries. It was a novel experience for him since he grew up in a castle with kitchen help. You taught him how to cradle--not crush--the eggs and began to promptly fry up some meat when he accidentally sliced the package with a claw trying to put it in the fridge drawer.

You flipped the meat and motioned for him to sit as you tossed some bread in the nearby toaster. Malleus straightened his posture and nestled into a chair. Or would have, had he not touched something icy. The chair groaned and scratched the floor as he shoved it away with his tail, the appendage tangled around the legs.

"Oh! Hold on!" even if it was an old piece of furniture, you wanted to save it. You didn't have much to begin with. A lone bag clattered to the floor. "I forgot about those!" you laughed to yourself as you snatched up the plastic handle and fished out the item in one swing.

"Ice cream?" Malleus couldn't help but laugh, hand coming up to shield his fangs as he did so. Grandmother always said it was rude to bear your fangs in any situation but a mating ritual or war.

"For when you come to visit," you shook the box of pre-wrapped ice cream cones before putting them in the freezer. You rushed back to your pan with a hurried squawk as you tried to save the burning meat.

"I am most honored," Malleus chuckled as you turned to present him with two plates of toast and slightly burnt meat.

IV - Gentle Nights

He would like to say he used decades of cunning to arrange the wonderful and well-deserved sight in front of him but that would be a lie. It was almost laughably easy to be alone with you. Rare, yes, but easy enough. Lilia was enthralled in his online ventures, Silver was at the mercy of his drowsiness, and Sebek simply honored the wish of his dear future king to be alone with his beloved.

Malleus' heart hammered wildly in his chest at the sight of you. So soft, so smooth, so glorious and ethereal in a matching silk set. If you asked him, he was lounging and mustering all his fae wiles to beckon you into his embrace. If he was honest, the lounging was more being smitten and in awe of you and helplessly begging for a kiss with his eyes because his voice was nothing around you.

"Are you going to get under the covers or just lie there looking all pretty?" you leaned over him, the dragon falling readily onto his back as the heat of your body tickled his side. Your hair framed your face and he reached up to caress your cheek. Oblivious to the gentle tugs underneath him, Malleus snapped to attention when your cold foot snaked under his top. The hiss was ungodly and definitely fae; he recoiled with wounded eyes as you giggled and slipped under the bit of sheet you dislodged.

"Fiend!" he grumbled, throwing the tasseled shawl over you and tying it up. The fae grinned smugly, the two of you nose to nose.

"I'm trapped!" you gasped dramatically, arms encircling his neck. Kisses feathered against his cheek and started a winding path around his face. He slipped under the covers and fluffed them as he tucked them around you.

"Mine forever!" Malleus rubbed his chin against your forehead as he guided you down under his neck to protect you from his horns. His tail beat a steady rhythm into the bed as he kissed the crown of your head.

"Always." you kissed his fingertips, then his knuckles, as you laced your hands with his.

V - Beautiful Mornings

Being fae, he didn't need as much sleep as a human. Malleus relished in the moments of early dawn where the cocktail of oranges and yellows gave you the most beguiling glow as it diffused against the curtains in his room. He rolled carefully to his side to observe you, his happy gurgle low like a gentle rolling brook. Having another set of vocal chords could be quite damning and inconvenient sometimes but he couldn't even hate the way he loved you or how you inspired his draconic body to show it. The housewarden batted an errant strand from the curve of your face, freezing as you twitched.

His heart stilled, falling into a gentle bloom of adoration when you relaxed into his sheets. The smell of you and him in the morning was truly intoxicating. Malleus' pointed ears flexed as the slow shuffle of movement sounded nearby.

Lilia was waking up.

He had only a few minutes more to indulge in this mesmerizing sight before he was accosted. Your hand had wedged itself under his pillow, searching for him even in your sleep. Malleus freed it gently, kissing your palm before folding it against your body and straightening his side as carefully as possible. Tip-toeing to his vanity, Malleus settled carefully in the chair and tipped his hair back for the enchanted brush. Yawning softly into his hand, Malleus flicked a finger to the polishing cloth nearby and pointed to his right horn.

Malleus knew better than to do anything with eyeliner or mascara first thing in the morning. Lilia had a radar for such things and getting stabbed in the eye with a wand grew old long ago. He stared with bleary contentment at his own reflection, at the suggestion of you behind him, as Lilia cracked the door open.

I had suspicions the youngling stayed over! Lilia's eyes flicked from you to him, growing more stern as they did. His brows furrowed. What have I told you about this?

No eggs before marriage, Malleus smirked, eyes and brain waking up and beginning to shine with fae playfulness.

Besides that! Lilia rolled his eyes, I know I've told you--

We've done nothing uncouth, Lilia, Malleus looked away as the lipstick bobbed and pointed at the elder fae threateningly. Or with emphasis. It was hard for Lilia to tell. I just wanted to spend some time with them, Malleus rolled his head slightly as the cloth worked on his other horn, and if you wake them I shall fry all of your technology until it looks like the pheasant you turned to cinders last month.

Lilia turned up his nose at the youngster. Just see that your presentable and downstairs, young man!

In due time, Lilia, Malleus promised. He lined his eyes and fixed his lashes. The young prince was powdering his face when you hugged him sleepily. Malleus squeezed your hand against his chest affectionately as you grabbed the floating brush with the other and tended gingerly to his hair. "Good morning, beloved."

"Good morning, sweetheart." you kissed the scale on his forehead, fixing his bangs like he liked.

"You spoil me," he mused as you cradled his face in your palm and did your best to apply his lipstick. It was hard with him grinning like the fool he was for you.

"I try," you shrugged, now sitting in his lap to get his bottom lip.

"And you succeed." Malleus tipped your chin up and pressed a long kiss to your lips.

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

can i request cregan stark modern au, with jaces younger or twin sister and maybe they like hide the relationship and its like fluffy and maybe smutty

Request: five times cregan and jace’s sister almost get caught and one time jace does find out about their relationship. I don’t think he would be too mad. He knows cregan is a good guy and would treat you well. 

I usually dislike body hair (personal preference) and beards, but Cregan has a short beard in this one (as he does in all of my fics for him) because I said so, and because he’s a Stark. I think it is mandatory and missing for his character — manifesting for a beard in season 3.  Also, this is 6.6k words...idk how that happened

p.s. You can find this fic on AO3 under the title Who are we to fight the alchemy

Warnings: 18+, smut, oral (f receiving), mention of a fight and blood, short appearance of Larys Strong (he needs his own warning),

—

When you started college and moved in with Jace, he had warned his teammates that his sister was off limits and that if he caught any of them looking at you, he would not be afraid to throw hands. He may be smaller than a lot of his teammates, but Jace was very protective of you. 

They were good guys, brothers to Jace, but he also knew their history with girls. He knew the dirty secrets; the dramas, who they had sex with, where, and details that he wished he could forget about. They were not boyfriend material — at all. 

You were not going to lie, Jace’s teammates were hot hockey players. It was tempting to turn your life into a cliché book trope and hook up with one of them, but you refrained from doing so. They were not worth being another name on their list. 

Until one of them changed your mind. 

It was a Tuesday night. You were in your room, reading on your bed while Jace had friends over playing video games. You could hear them shout at the TV and each other. After a few chapters, you wandered to the kitchen to get a cookie from the cookie jar, but found its content empty. 

‘’Jace,’’ you said under your breath. 

Living with your brother had a certain strange familiarity to it, a comforting echo of home despite the newness of being on your own. But some things hadn’t changed. Like how Jace never mentioned when he emptied something. Like that one time you wanted to make spaghetti, only to discover he had left an empty pasta box in the cupboard. Or when he used your shower towel because his was in the laundry. These moments made you miss your mom's presence — she’d always been there to keep the peace and enforce some order.

As you stared at the empty jar with frustration, one of Jace’s friends walked in behind you, his eyes immediately landing on the same spot. You could not see who it was, but his tall shadow was towering over you and you could smell a faint woodsy cologne. 

‘’If you’re looking for a cookie, Jace ate them all,’’ you said, throwing your brother under the bus.

‘’That was me, actually,’’ admitted a deep voice with a northern accent from behind you. You turned to see Cregan standing there, his expression sheepish. ‘’Jace said to get anything I wanted. Sorry.’’

You forced a smile, the irritation fading as your eyes met his gray ones. ‘’It’s fine. I’ll get something else.’’ 

Cregan watched as you moved to the freezer above the fridge to get the ice cream out. You opened the lid and saw that it was almost empty, so there was no need to put it in a bowl. 

‘’Did you make them?’’ he asked as you reached for a spoon in the cutlery drawer.

‘’I did,’’ you answered with a smile. 

‘’They were really good.’’ 

‘’Thank you. If Jace baked them himself, they would have turned out like hockey pucks: black and hard,’’ you joked.

Cregan offered a light chuckle as he stepped towards the counter, his gray eyes studying the details of your face. He hadn’t really looked at you until now, respecting Jace’s warning, but now he was struggling to look away and go back to the living room. 

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・° 

Two months later, you found yourself making out with the Wolves’ captain in his big jeep. His hair was damp and he smelled strongly of soap and deodorant, having showered twenty minutes ago after practice. 

The windows were beginning to fog as you were kissing, your hands all over Cregan's shoulders and chest. His tongue slipped into your mouth, causing you to grip his shirt when it grazed yours. You could drown in his kisses. 

Getting frustrated by the gear shift separating you, you attempt to climb over it and fumbled your way to the driver seat onto Cregan’s lap without breaking contact with his lips. You bumped your head and legs along the way, and let out a little curse. Cregan laughed, pulling back his seat as far as it would go so the steering wheel would not press in your back. 

From his new angle, you could feel the warmth of Cregan’s body against yours. It wasn’t as effective as cuddling in bed, but Jace would get home soon and Cregan’s small dorm bed was not made for two. He barely fitted himself. 

He slipped his large hands under your shirt, his thumbs inching up and up your sides, feeling your soft and warm skin while his mouth locked itself to your jaw. ‘’Your brother would kill me if he knew about us,'' he said as his mouth trailed down your neck, leaving wet kisses up to your collarbone.

You rolled your hips to meet his, the friction causing Cregan’s breath to stutter. His hands were still in your shirt, large and warm, leaving trails of fire over your back. He felt like he was sixteen and in high school all again, not twenty-one and in college. 

‘’Gods, you’re going to kill me if your hand keeps going rubbing against me like that.’’ 

You smirked and tipped your head back to give him more room. ‘’Jace is not the boss of my relationships. I can see whoever I please,’’ you replied, raking your hand through his hair and grazing the side of his short beard.

Cregan scoffed against your neck. ‘’Then what are we doing in my car instead of your bed?’’ 

He was only teasing, but it still made you sigh. You didn’t think living with Jace would put a wrench in your dating life. He meant well, but gods was it frustrating. 

Not waiting for your response, Cregan continued to shower your neck with kisses, his teeth nipping at the skin before his lips soothed it. You didn’t think kisses would make you feel like this, but this man had an effect on your body that you could not explain. You pulled at his hair when he bit at the sensitive flesh there, leaving a small mark you will have to conceal later. 

You wished you didn’t have to hide your relationship. You wished you could kiss him whenever you desired, go to his games and wear his jersey and cheer for him loudly when he scored a goal, cuddle with him on the couch without looking at the door every five minutes to check if Jace was coming home. 

Cregan pulled back suddenly, looking up at you with his gray eyes. ‘’I should go, Jace is gonna come home soon. Walking from campus to here takes less than thirty minutes,’’ he said in a hushed tone, his breath coming in short puffs. 

‘’Just a few minutes more,’’ you bargained, stealing a few kisses from his lips, not yet ready to part. ‘’I have a class at 8pm tomorrow and you leave for your away game Saturday morning. I won’t be seeing you until Sunday or Monday.’’ 

He let out a sigh, also dreading the moment he’ll leave you, and held you for a moment, his hands gently running up and down your back. You drinked in his scent and warmth, winding your arms around his neck and pressing your head in his neck. 

The moment was ruined as you shifted and accidentally hit the horn with your ass, the loud sound echoing  in the parking lot. 

Startled, you jumped and then burst into laughter, but Cregan didn’t join in. His expression was stone serious as he stared intently at something in the distance. Confused, you followed his gaze and spotted Jace standing by the doors of your apartment building, his gym bag slung over his shoulder. He was scanning the parking lot, clearly trying to figure out which car had honked, but with the lights off and the evening darkness, there was no way for him to tell which one it was.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・° 

The second time you almost got caught together was before a hockey game. The team the Wolves were playing against was strong and Cregan texted you to come outside the locker room and give him a good luck kiss.  

You smiled at the text and sent a quick ‘coming’ to your boyfriend. ‘’I’m gonna get something to drink,’’ you told your friends. 

You snaked your way through the students and families waiting in the entrance to get to their seats and quickly made your way down to the locker room. You knew where it was from bringing over Jace’s skates last Saturday at practice. They were essential for getting on the ice, how could he forget them? 

Family, friends — and girlfriends — were not allowed in that area of the arena, so you kept an eye out for anyone from staff. You could always play the ‘I was looking for the bathroom’ card, but it would add another lie on top of the others you and Cregan were piling up since the beginning of your relationship. 

You found him leaning against the wall, waiting. He was in his compression pants and an old Wolves tee shirt, looking like a complete snack. You could see everything in those tight pants. And the way his hair was tied at the back made him look sexier. 

He looked up when he heard someone approach and a soft smile curled on his lips. ‘’There you are,’’ Cregan said, his voice low and gravelly as he stepped to you and pulled you to his chest. You fit against him perfectly, like a missing piece snapping into place. 

He leaned down and pulled you into a kiss, his hand cupping your face gently. It was supposed to just be a quick kiss — a quick ‘good luck’ smooch, not anything too serious. But the moment your mouth met his, you both got carried away. 

Cregan grabbed you with ease by your thigh, lifting you up, and you winded yours around his neck, almost forgetting that he had a game to play in twenty minutes.  

‘’Okay, that’s enough,’’ you decided, breaking the kiss. ‘’You’re gonna be late for pre-game talk.’’

Cregan sighed but gently lowered you back down. Your boots hit the floor, but he didn’t let you go without stealing one last kiss. You smiled into it, then stepped back just as Jace came barreling down the hallway, clearly in a rush.

He came to a stop, frowning when seeing you. ‘’What are you doing here?’’ His gaze shifted to Cregan, suspicion creeping into his voice. ‘’And why are you talking to my sister?’’

Cregan didn’t miss a beat. ‘’She was looking for you, actually,’’ he lied smoothly. ‘’Baela asked her to tell you she wouldn’t make it to the game tonight. She and Rhaena drove home for the weekend for their dad’s birthday.’’

You made a mental note to thank him later for the quick thinking. Baela had mentioned her trip, and Jace had been sulking and pouting ever since, upset that his girlfriend would miss a big game. 

Jace nodded, still catching his breath. ‘’Yeah, I know. She already told me.’’ 

‘’Oh?’’ you played along effortlessly. ‘’She must have forgotten that she already told you. She has a lot on her mind right now, you know.’’ 

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°  

Your breathy 'ah's and whimpers were bouncing off the walls as Cregan's strong hands gripped your thighs and held you in place while he lapped at your pussy like a starved man. The intensity of pleasure forced you to grip the headboard. The scruff of his beard was rubbing against your sensitive skin, chafing, but you kind of like it. 

It was your first time having the apartment to yourself for more than two hours, and you were going to make the most out of it. Jace was at a bar in the city with some guys from the team. He won't be back until at least 1am...or even later. 

When you heard about the night out at the bar, you texted your man and let him know so he could come over after Jace leaves. His teammates were disappointed that he was not joining, but Cregan told them to have fun for him. 

He’ll have his own fun with you in the sheets.

The moment he crossed the door, your mouth was on his and you were unbuttoning your shirt, eager to feel his hands on your tits. 

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, mewling at the way he was suckling on your clit. No one ever made you feel this good before. Not that you had a lot of experience to compare with.

His sweet assault on your pussy continued, the sounds you were making making him rock hard. He loved it — pleasing his girl. 

''I'm gonna— I'm gonna come soon,'' you whined, feeling your core tighten and rocking you body forward in the same rhythm, fucking yourself on Cregan's tongue.  

The hockey player let out a low grunt below you, encouraging you to use him how you wished. He let go of one of your thighs to run the back of his hand up your stomach and grab your breast the way you liked, his calloused thumb and finger capturing your peaked nipple, rubbing it as he flicked your clit again. 

Your orgasm hit and you made circular jerks of her hips, pushing down on Cregan’s tongue and chin, drenching both. His name fell from your lips and you continued on like this for a moment, toes curling and legs tensing. Until you had nothing else to give.

He pressed a last kiss to your sensitive clit, then helped you clamber off him. ‘’You remember when I said the cookies you made were really good?’’

You hummed, although confused where he was going with this. 

‘’This is better.’’ 

Your face flamed up at his words, not expecting such a vulgar thing to come out. ‘’Shut up.’’ You smacked his chest, his laugh rumbling under your palm. 

The sheepishness he sported in the kitchen that day had disappeared, revealing a dirty sense of humor you never expected from him.

You thought you would get a breather, a moment to catch your breath between your last orgasm and the next, but Cregan — insatiable — had other plans. He rolled onto his side, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and began kissing your body with a slow, deliberate intensity. His lips trailed all over your chest, down to your breasts, and then to your stomach, each touch igniting your desires all over again. You arched into his touch, the warmth of his mouth and the gentleness of his caresses melting away any resistance.

Under his tall and broad stature, Cregan Stark was a teddy bear. A Costco sized teddy bear. On the ice, he was known for his strength and leadership, but off it, he was all heart. He was kind, caring, and protective. His caresses were gentle, and his kisses tender and loving. It was impossible to not feel his love.

Speaking of feeling his love, you felt his hardness twitching and poking at your thigh through his tight boxers. You reached down to slip your hand inside, jerking him slowly. In response, Cregan squeezed your hip and let out a low groan.

‘’I need you,’’ you gasped, feeling him suck at the skin under your left breast. 

It was one of your rules: no leaving visible marks that could raise suspicions. 

He gave one last swipe of his tongue over your nipple and peeled off his boxers, his delicious cock springing up immediately. Your pussy was weeping at the sight. 

You spread your legs to accommodate him, offering yourself to him. He teased at your entrance, his movements deliberate as he bumped against your clit, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through you that made you whine. His amused chuckle filled the room, clearly tempted to draw out your anticipation even more, but as you shot him a warning glare, silently urging him to stop teasing. 

Cregan shushed you, rubbing your thigh, and just as he was about to breach your walls, you heard the door of the apartment open and Jace’s voice echoing. 

You froze, eyes widening in panic, and Cregan cursed under his breath, realizing that Jace was back much earlier than expected. ‘’Shit. That’s Jace.’’ 

He called your name again and you quickly slipped on a shirt and got out of bed, answering your brother's calls of your name. You couldn't risk him coming into your bedroom and catching his best friend in your bed in his birthday suit…with with a raging hard-on and your juices all over his beard.  

‘’You’re home early,’’ you pointed out, coming down the hallway. 

You studied him as he grabbed a bag of chips from the pantry, trying to guess his state of inebriety. He seemed barely tipsy. 

‘’Drama at the bar. Ben got into a fight with some guy over a girl — which he did not know was someone's girlfriend — and we all got kicked out,’’ Jace explained, rummaging through the bag of chips and taking a handful to pop into his mouth before leaning against the counter. 

You shook your head with a sigh. ‘’Typical Ben. He really needs to stop going after girls that are taken. Has he not learned his lesson?''

Your brother laughed, taking more chips. “Whose shirt is that?” he asked, his eyes narrowing as he glanced down at the large shirt you were wearing, then back up at you.

You followed his gaze and saw that you had grabbed Cregan’s tee shirt instead of your sleep shirt…

‘’Dad’s,’’ you blurted out quickly.

Jace frowned, not remembering your dad ever wearing that shirt, but let it go. ‘’What were you up to? I thought you would invite the girls over.''

‘’Eh, no. I...I was having fun by myself,'' you stammered, clenching your thighs and hoping your face was not too flushed. 

It wasn't entirely a lie, but it wasn’t true either. You were having fun, just not by yourself. 

His face twisted in disgust. ‘’Ew, that’s gross! I did not need to know about that.''

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°  

Unlike Ben, Cregan wasn’t the type to get into fights — especially on the ice. He thought it was stupid and pointless, a quick way to end up injured or benched for a few games. As the father figure of the team, he was usually the one stepping in to break up the scuffles, keeping cooler heads prevailing. But sometimes, no matter how careful you are, you get caught in the crossfire and take a punch that wasn’t meant for you.

You shot up from your seat immediately, your heart sinking to your stomach as Jason Lannister’s gloveless fist accidently connected to Cregan’s face. It was aimed at Ben — unsurprisingly —, who had played a foul, unnoticed by the referee, and got his brother Tyland in the penalty box.

Chaos erupted on the ice. The referees were shouting and blowing their whistle, trying to break up the fight. Seeing Ben implicated, Cregan had rushed over, taking it on himself to pull him back, but that's when Jason punched him. 

More players skated over, helping the referees. One grabbed Jason, and another went for Ben. He was lean but feisty, a scrappy fighter who never backed down. He shot a taunting grin at his opponent and spat blood on the ice, right at his feet. Jason tried to free himself, but the closest referee put his hand on his chest, shaking his head. Enough.

Cregan turned to Ben and wiped the blood off his nose, glaring at darkly.  

You didn’t see him until Sunday afternoon. You were coming back from the laundry room, arms full with a basket of freshly cleaned clothes, and forgot how to breathe when you saw Cregan sitting on the couch across from Jace. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a hoodie, and his pretty face was decorated with a bruise close to his nose. 

Your feet froze, unable to take another step. You wanted to fucking punch Jason Lannister.

‘’Hey, you’re back,’’ Jace noticed, turning his head towards you.

You nodded, trying to regain your composure. ‘’Yeah. I was doing laundry,’’ you explained, lifting the basket slightly as if to prove your point.

‘’Can you do mine next time? I’ll pay you ten dollars,’’ Jace offered with a grin.

You scoffed, shaking your head. What did he take you for, a housemaid? ‘’Ten dollars to wash your dirty underwear and smelly socks? Never.’’ 

‘’Fifteen,’’ he countered, still hopeful. ‘’My clothes smell better when you do it. It’s like when Mom used to do it.’’

‘’That’s because I use fabric softener,’’ you replied, rolling your eyes.

Jace frowned, clearly puzzled. ‘’What’s that?’’ 

Before you could explain it to him, his phone beeped with a notification. He paused the game and checked his screen. ‘’Food is here. I’ll go get it,’’ he said to Cregan.

The taller one nodded, waiting for Jace to be out the door to glance at you. Without saying anything, you set the basket of clothes down on the beanbag chair that had seen better days and went straight to Cregan, cupping his face gently. His eyes softened at your touch, seeing your look of concern. He reached up with one hand to lightly hold onto your wrist as you examined the bruise on his face.

Cregan gave you a soft smile. He could see that you were worried about him. ‘’I’m fine,’’ he said, yet you couldn’t help but notice a hint of stiffness in his expression. ‘’I’m fine. I promise.’’ He kissed the inside of your hand. 

‘’I’ll fetch you some ice.’’ 

He tried to protest, saying that it wasn’t necessary, but you were resolute. You hadn't been able to take care of him after the game, so you’ll do it now. 

You put some ice cubes that you used for your iced coffees in a plastic bag and brought it to the living room, gently pressing it to the bruise. ‘’Here.’’ 

Cregan winced at the cold, his face sensitive. ‘’Thanks, love.’’ He reached out and put a hand on your hip, tugging you closer, but retracted it as the door opened and Jace returned with the food. 

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・° 

During the course of your relationship, you found yourself in a lot of risky situations, but letting Cregan sleep over was playing with fire. 

You didn't mean to. It was an accident. 

The two of you were watching a movie in your bed while Jace was on a date with Baela, and he fell asleep forty minutes in. You should have woken him when your phone showed close to 11pm, but you didn't have the heart to. You locked your door, turned off your laptop and cuddled against him. 

When you woke up to pee at 1am, you saw that your brother was back and was asleep on the couch with his phone in his hand, the TV playing some older kids cartoons and his leg off the couch. Jace was a light sleeper, it would be too risky to sneak Cregan out.

Morning came and you woke up alone. A sad pout graced your lips. It was your first time spending the night together and you didn’t even get to have morning cuddles or hear his sleepy voice. 

You grabbed your phone, checking if he left any messages, but there was nothing. Just a text from your mom asking if you were coming home for your dad’s birthday this coming weekend. You rolled over, breathing in the sheets where Cregan slept in last night, and left her on read and got up. 

Your morning coffee was calling your name.

Running a hand through your hair, you walked down the hallway, looking forward to that first sip of coffee, and grinned when you found Cregan in the small kitchen, standing in his tight boxers and a tee shirt and drinking black coffee from a Disney mug. It looked Polly Pocket sized in his hands. 

You wrapped your arms around him from the back, your body flush against his. You pressed your face into his back, and the warmth of your body against his made his shoulders relax. 

He smiled to himself, covering your hands with his free one. ‘’Good morning,’’ he said in a groggy voice.

‘’I thought you had left. What of Jace? If my brother sees you in your underwear in his kitchen he’s gonna flip.’’ 

Cregan set his coffee down and turned, his gaze soft as his eyes met yours. The bruise on his face had significantly faded, barely there. ‘’He’s not here. I heard him leave.’’ 

His strong arms wrapped around your waist, drawing you close, and you let yourself relax against him. The warmth of his body seeped through his tee shirt, and you could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. Cregan's hand slowly traced down your back, his fingers rubbing gentle circles at the base of your spine.  

‘’Don’t you have classes?’’ you asked, glancing up at him with a small smile.

He hummed softly. ‘’Not until later. My 10am class got canceled. I thought I’d hit the gym instead...but there’s no rush.’’

‘’I’ve gotta leave in one hour,’’ you sighed, wishing you could linger in this moment longer.

Cregan’s grip tightened slightly, as if to keep you close for as long as he could. ‘’I can drop you off,’’ he offered. ‘’That way we’ll have more time together.’’

You nodded, pressing a kiss over Cregan’s sternum in thanks. ‘’I’ll make us breakfast...in five minutes.’’ 

To ruin the moment, you heard the loud buzz and a voice coming from the intercom. 

‘’Are you up? Please be awake. I tried texting you and calling but you didn’t respond so I’m taking a chance here.’’ Jace called your name again, louder. 

You groaned in annoyance and went to the door to press the intercom button. ‘’What do you want?’’ 

‘’Yes! You’re awake! Eh, I left my laptop on the counter, and I also forgot my keys...’’

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・° 

When Jace left for college, your parents didn’t see the use of getting a car when everything was close to campus and within walking distance. What they didn’t think through would be the possibility of the bus riding home being full and not being able to make it for your dad’s birthday. 

Jace: Pack your bag. We’re leaving at 4pm. I already told Mom

You: You found us bus tickets? 

Jace: No. I found a ✨chauffeur✨

You: Please tell me it’s not some random person you found on a co-driving forum. I don’t want to spend two hours in some creep’s car 💀

Jace: He’s not

You should have known it would be him. 

Jace called shotgun, forcing you to take the backseat. You didn’t mind. In fact, you preferred it. If you had sat at the front, you were scared your hand would have slipped and revealed your relationship. Or that Jace would have noticed the familiarity between you. You were supposed to be his best friend’s little sister, not someone he knew like the palm of his hand.

Although it was only two hours, the drive felt never-ending. Your back ached from sitting in class all day and your stomach was impatient to be filled with your mother’s cooking. Every now and then, Cregan would sneak glances at you through the rearview mirror, and each time you couldn’t hide your smile. Your brother didn’t see, too busy on his phone or switching the music. 

This weekend was looking to be long and difficult. 

Your mom was more than happy to have another guest over. Cregan was as polite and charming, easily winning her heart when he complimented her infamous lasagna and asked for a second serving. 

''Of course! Help yourself,'' Rhaenyra said, smiling warmly. She glanced between Cregan and Jace, who both emptied their plates quickly. ''It's like they don't feed you at college.'' 

''I live in a dorm,'' Cregan explained in defense. ''It's hard to cook when the only appliances allowed are a mini fridge and a coffee pot.''

Your mother turned to Jace with raised eyebrows, clearly waiting for his excuse. ''And you? What do you have to say for yourself?'' 

Jace grinned sheepishly, swallowing his last bite. ''Can I take the leftover back to college?'' 

At the head of the table, your father let out a hearty laugh, shaking his head.  

When you were seven, you used to sneak out of your bedroom at night to eat a bowl of cereal. It took your parents several months to figure it out. At eighteen, you were sneaking to join your boyfriend in the guest room. 

You waited for everyone to be fast asleep, and avoided the creaking floorboards in the hallway. It was dark inside as you closed and locked the door behind, but you made it to the bed without stubbing your toe on any furniture. 

Cregan stirred when you pulled the covers and slipped in, feeling your cold feet on his calves. ''What are you doing?'' he asked, half-asleep and eyes still closed. He didn't need to see you to know it was you. He simply knew. 

You said nothing and cuddled against him, sighing happily when he reciprocated. 

Morning came faster, the early rays of sun peeking through the curtains. You cursed at yourself, having once again slept longer than planned. You checked both sides of the hallway, and once you deemed it safe, you exited. What you didn’t see was Luke leaving the bathroom, his hair unruly and barely awake. 

‘’I…’’ you stammered, not knowing what to say. 

He was fifteen, you could not trick him like Joffrey. He knew what you were doing in the guest bedroom. 

So you bolted to your own, praying he would keep his tongue.

‘’Luke knows,’’ you blurted out as you descended the stairs for breakfast, the weight of the confession lingering in the air.

Downstairs, your mother had gone all out, setting up a massive brunch spread — eggs, bacon, hashbrowns, and even pancakes. Grandfather Lyonel would be coming over...along with your uncle Larys. The thought of him made your stomach twist; you had never been at ease in his presence, but he was your father’s half-brother, and that meant you had to force a smile and be nice. 

Cregan furrowed his brows, concern creeping across his face. ''How?''

You quickly recounted the incident, watching as Cregan ran a hand through his dark hair, his expression growing tense. ‘’You think he’s gonna tell Jace?'' he asked, his voice dropping. ''Or worse...your dad? We got along well last night, but when he’ll find out—’’

‘’My dad is not the one we need to worry about,'' you interrupted softly, trying to ease his anxiety. ''Sure, he’s protective of us, and he might look like the kind of guy who could knock someone out with one punch, but he’d never do that to someone I care about. Not unless he had a damn good reason.''

As you reached the bottom of the stairs, Joffrey got down from his chair and dashed over to you, his small face lighting up with excitement. ‘’Mommy made pancakes!’’ he announced, his big brown eyes practically glowing. ‘’There’s blueberry ones, your favorites.’’ He grabbed both your hand and Cregan's, tugging insistently, messing up your plan to arrive separately.

At the table, Luke was talking — bragging — to grandfather Lyonel about school while Jace was helping your mom bring all the food to the table. And of course, Uncle Larys was just sitting there, observing everything with his usual quiet, unsettling presence.

At Joffrey’s urging, Cregan took a seat next to him. The little one had taken a strong liking to the hockey player, and you couldn’t help but hope that this budding friendship might work in your favor when it would all blow up. 

‘’Careful, it's hot!'' Rhaenyra called out, entering with a plate full of bacon. ''Jace, can you bring the orange juice? Oh, and a small fork for Joffrey?'' 

You interrupted Luke and made your way to Grandfather Lyonel, wrapping him in a warm hug like you always did. ‘’Where’s Dad?’’ you asked, noticing his absence.

The burly man looked around for his son, not knowing either. 

‘’I'm here, I'm here,'' Harwin’s familiar voice rang out from the sliding door as he entered, carrying a bowl of freshly picked strawberries. On top of his head was a handmade birthday crown, obviously crafted by Joffrey. ‘’Your mother forgot the strawberries. I had to fetch some from the garden.'' 

You grinned, stepping up to greet him. ‘’Happy birthday, Dad,’’ you said, kissing his cheek as you wrapped him in a hug. 

Everyone sat around the table, and began filling their plates with food. 

You mostly took blueberry pancakes, and some fruits from the garden. You had a sweet tooth this morning. From the corner of your eyes, you could see Joffrey talking a mile a minute between bites of pancakes and bacon. Cregan was trying his best to listen to your little brother — what he could make out of his words, anyway — but his attention was completely focused on you.

Two seats down from you, Luke was watching. You could feel his gaze on Cregan, and there was an unsettling tension beneath the surface. He knew something. He could let it slip at any moment and throw the whole breakfast into chaos. But, for now, he stayed silent.

‘’So,’’ Grandfather Lyonel began casually as he sipped his coffee, ‘’how's your first year of college treating you? Found yourself a boyfriend yet?''

The word 'boyfriend' had your bite of pancakes catching in your throat. Grabbing your coffee, you took a long gulp to wash it down, buying yourself a moment.

You shook your head, managing a calm smile. ‘’Not really. I’m keeping my focus on my academics,’’ you replied, briefly raising your eyes at Cregan, who was focussing on eating the content in his plate. The last time he had a home-made breakfast was with you. 

You thought you were being discreet, but your grandfather noticed the short glance, as did your father who was right next to you. 

Joffrey, oblivious to the tension, piped up, ‘’Jace has a girlfriend. Her name is Bella.’’

‘’Baela,’’ Jace corrected with a fond smile, shaking his head at the enthusiastic six-year-old.

Grandfather Lyonel smiled, happy for his grandson. ‘’That’s a lovely name.’’ He then turned to Cregan. ‘’And you, Cregan? Got a girlfriend? A handsome, well-mannered lad like you cannot be single.’’ 

Before he could answer, Joffrey piped up with the bluntness only a child could muster. ‘’I think you should date my sister,’’ he declared.  

Jace’s head shot up, eyes wide. 

Before him, Cregan chuckled uncomfortably, clutching his fork. ‘’Why is that, little one?’’

‘’Because you look at her like papa looks at mommy.’’ He said it so pure and innocently, yet it was true. 

The silence that followed was so loud it didn’t take long for Jace to connect the dots. The truth hung in the air, undeniable and clear. Cregan shifted awkwardly in his seat, and you felt your heart pound in your chest.

Jace glanced between you and the one he called his best friend. His nostrils were flared, shock and outrage painted across his face.  ‘’How long has this been going on?’’ His brown eyes glared daggers at Cregan, waiting for an answer. ‘’How long have you been keeping this from me?’’

‘’Jace,’’ your father’s voice cut through the tension, firm but gentle, an attempt to stop the situation from spiraling any further.

But Jace wasn’t listening, angry at his friend’s betrayal. ‘’How can you betray me like that? I would have expected it from Robb or Theon, not from you. You pride yourself to be loyal and honorable, but where is your loyalty in this? Where is the honor in disregarding my one and only rule?’’  

He was allowed to be upset that you and Cregan spent the last two months seeing each other behind his back. It’s a reaction that was expected. But you hated that he was painting his best friend as the villain. Cregan never used you, it was never his intention. He knew what he was risking when he kissed you back that rainy afternoon in his car. Yet, he couldn’t ignore his feelings — and neither could you. 

‘’How can you make this all about you?’’ you asked, shaking your head in disbelief. ‘’Can’t you see past your own selfish feelings that maybe Cregan does love me for me and not just to piss you off? This is exactly why we didn’t tell you anything.’’ You gestured around the room.

Cregan, who had remained silent until now, took a deep breath before speaking, his voice calm but firm. ‘’You know I don’t play around with girls. I would never use your sister the way you think I am. Come on, Jace. You know me.’’ There was a pause, allowing Jace to absorb his words, then he continued. ‘’I’m truly sorry for keeping this from you, but can you blame me? Put yourself in our shoes. You think I wanted to sneak around and lie to everyone about the girl I love? It might look cool in movies, but it’s not in real life. It’s just stress and pain.’’  

The room was so quiet you could almost hear a pin drop. No one dared speaking around the table. It was only silent glances. 

What a way to ruin your father’s birthday…

A few hours later, you found yourself sitting outside, your heart heavy. The house had grown quiet after the earlier commotion, the celebratory mood from the family gathering long gone. Grandfather Lyonel and uncle Larys had left. The former had apologized for starting the conflict, but you told him it was not his fault. It was bound to happen anyway. 

You apologized to your father — and mother — for ruining his birthday. It was his turn to shake his head and pull you in his arms. 

The air had gotten colder as it neared sundown, but you didn’t want to go inside. You liked the soft stillness of the open air. It was a calming contrast to the fight from this morning.

The drive back to college was going to be tense tomorrow. You already dreaded it. 

Unbeknownst to you, Jace was watching you through the glass of the sliding doors. He stood there for a moment, observing you and Cregan sitting quietly together on the patio furniture. Your head was leaned on his shoulder, curled up at his side, and his left arm wrapped around you. He recognized the Wolves hoodie on your back, Cregan’s number and name on it. 

It wasn't until he saw Cregan kiss the top of your head and the soft smile that instantly bloomed on your face that Jace realized that maybe Cregan was good for you.

—

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