#Marriage Certainty | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kanaria-a · 1 month ago

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❝Come pull me close in the shadows, and bleed into me.❞

in which, your relationship with various twst characters are portrayed as ship tropes…

ft. everyone that isn’t Jade or Lilia

$RIDDLE — Childhood Marriage Pact

The rain comes down in a fine, misty veil as you stand in the rose garden, the scent of damp earth mingling with the fragrance of freshly bloomed petals. Time appears to have folded in upon itself—the present bleeding into the past—when a small, red-haired boy with a too-serious face and a heart full of rigid rules took your hand beneath this very arbor. "Then it's decided," he'd said in that careful, clipped tone of his. "When we grow up, we'll get married. You’re the only one who understands the rules properly." You had laughed—light, naive. "Alright, Riddle. I promise." Neither of you knew, then, what promises truly cost. Now, years later, Riddle Rosehearts stands before you, the very image of elegance and exactitude. His uniform is immaculate, every button gleaming. His crimson eyes, once wide with boyish certainty, now sharpen with something more complicated—guarded affection, perhaps. Or guilt. "You remembered," he says softly, looking past your shoulder, as if the hedge behind you might give him courage. "I could hardly forget," you reply. "It was the most serious promise you'd ever made. You threatened to put me in a collar if I broke it." A faint flush spreads across his cheeks, though his posture remains rigid. "I was... a rather severe child." "You still are." His lips twitch—perhaps almost a smile, but not quite. Silence stretches between you, thick with the weight of shared history. You wonder if he, too, is reliving those sun-drenched days of childhood, the ones spent with hands stained red from rose petals and scraped knees from climbing the hedges he’d later decree off-limits. "Back then," Riddle begins, voice low, "you were one of the only ones who didn’t look at me with contempt when I quoted my mother. You listened. Even when I was insufferable." You raise a brow. "You still are." This time, he actually does smile. Brief. Wry. Aching with something unspoken. “I never took it as a joke,” he continues, eyes lifting to meet yours at last. “That promise. I know children say foolish things, but I didn’t consider it foolish. Not with you. Not ever.” You feel your heart clench. There is something devastating in the sincerity of his words, in the way he so rarely grants you this side of himself—unshielded, trembling at the edge of vulnerability. "I kept the ribbon," he murmurs, barely audible over the soft patter of rain. You blink. "What ribbon?" "From that day," he says, slipping his gloved hand into his coat pocket. He retrieves something small, and when he unfolds it, you recognize the faded strip of red silk you had tied around your wrist as a makeshift ring. "I kept mine too," you admit, reaching into the inner lining of your uniform and withdrawing a second, slightly more tattered piece. "Yours was too loose, and it kept falling off." He stares at your ribbon as if it were some sacred relic. Slowly, carefully, he takes it from your hand and presses it to his chest. “I was told that such things are sentimental nonsense,” he says. “But I no longer believe that. Not when it’s tied to you.” You open your mouth to speak, but his next words steal the breath from your lungs. “If you were to accept that pact again, here and now—not as children, but as the people we have become—I would consider myself...” He swallows. “Honored. Fortunate.” You stare at him. At the boy who once declared tea parties mandatory, who recited regulations like gospel, who locked up his heart behind the steel bars of obedience. And you see the man he is becoming—a boy no longer—but still reaching, yearning, hoping. "Riddle," you say, stepping forward until the space between you is nearly nonexistent, "do you remember what I said to you when you made that promise?" "You said 'alright,'” he recalls with a faint, hopeful smile. You lean in, forehead nearly brushing his. “What I meant was ‘yes.’ I still do.” The silence that follows is not empty—it is filled with the roaring hush of relief. Of held breath finally released. He lets his eyes flutter closed for just a moment, as though committing this moment to memory.

When they open again, he offers his hand—not as a command, but as a quiet invitation. “Then let us begin again,” he whispers. “Not bound by rules or childish declarations. But by choice.” And you take it. Of course you do. Because some promises aren’t made—they're simply meant to be kept.

$ACE TRAPPOLA — Second Chance Romance

The first time you met Ace Trappola, he was all sharp smiles and mischief, the kind of boy who spoke in riddles and flirted like it cost him nothing. He teased you endlessly, poked fun at your seriousness, and acted like every rule was a challenge crafted just for him. And still—you loved him. Or perhaps, more truthfully, you chose him, day after day, until one day he stopped choosing you back. So when it ended, it didn’t explode. It fizzled. Like a joke left hanging in a room gone quiet. Now, standing once more beneath the shade of twisted heart-shaped topiary in the Heartslabyul gardens, you find yourself face to face with him again. Older. Taller. Still grinning, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes anymore. “You really came back,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck like he used to when he got nervous. “Wasn’t sure you would.” You cross your arms, lips pressed into a line. “I wasn’t sure either.” Ace huffs a soft laugh. “Guess I deserved that.” You say nothing. The silence that follows isn't like the comfortable quiet you used to share when his head rested in your lap and the stars overhead bore witness to secrets spoken half in jest. No—this is something tighter. Heavier. “I never thought you’d leave Night Raven,” he says suddenly, eyes flicking toward you. “You just vanished. No note. No ‘see ya.’ Nothing.” You exhale slowly. “Because you were the one who stopped showing up. To our meetings. To our talks. You stopped being there, Ace.” He winces, not from anger—but from guilt. It sits heavy on him, wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak he never took off. “I got scared,” he admits. “You were real. Too real. And I—I didn’t think I deserved something like that. Someone like you.” His honesty stuns you more than any apology might have. You had come expecting the Ace you remembered: all charm and arrogance, cocky confidence masking anything soft. But now, he looks at you not as a game to win—but as something he lost. And still mourns. “Why now?” you ask. “After all this time.” He steps forward, hesitantly. “Because when you left, I thought I could move on. I thought I’d forget eventually. But no one ever laughed at my dumb jokes like you did. No one ever fought with me like you. Everyone else just... played along.” He meets your gaze, something fragile and true shining behind his normally impish expression. “You weren’t just someone I dated. You were my person. And I ruined it.” A part of you wants to throw his words back at him, to remind him of the nights you waited and the messages he never answered. But another part—the part that once loved him without reservation—recognizes that people change. And sometimes, they grow up the hard way. “I didn’t come back for you,” you say, voice level. “I know,” he murmurs. “But I’m still here for you. If you’ll let me be.” You study him. The way his eyes don’t dart away like they used to when he was lying. The way his posture is no longer casual for show, but weighted by sincerity. Finally, you sigh and reach into your pocket. He watches, puzzled, as you pull out a playing card—a battered old thing with a hand-drawn heart on the back. He stares. “You... kept it?” “You left it in my bag,” you say. “The day after we stopped talking. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.” Ace takes the card in trembling fingers. His grin returns—not wide and cheeky, but soft, reverent. “I always figured if I ever saw you again, I’d ask for a second chance,” he says, voice hoarse. “Didn’t think I’d actually get one.” “I haven’t said yes,” you reply, raising a brow. “But you haven’t said no either,” he counters with a glimmer of that familiar bravado. You roll your eyes. “Don’t push your luck.” But your smile, reluctant and unguarded, is all the answer he needs. He laughs, a little breathless. “One step at a time?” “One step,” you agree. And as he reaches for your hand—tentatively, like he’s afraid it might vanish—you allow your fingers to curl around his once more. After all, not every story ends with a perfect ending. Some simply get the chance to begin again.

$DEUCE SPADE — Mutual Pining

You are the first to arrive at the courtyard that evening, summoned for a group project that everyone else conveniently forgot. Or perhaps they remembered, and simply decided they had better things to do. You remain regardless, unwilling to abandon commitment. You’re not surprised when only one other person shows. “Hey,” Deuce Spade calls, jogging over with his usual earnestness. “You’re early.” You arch a brow. “You’re on time. That already puts you ahead of the others.” He chuckles, hand nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “Classic Heartslabyul punctuality, I guess.” You say nothing, though you both know the real reason he came. Not the assignment. Not the grade. But you. He takes a seat on the stone bench beside you, leaving precisely enough space for modesty—and not quite enough for comfort. You are acutely aware of how his knee nearly brushes yours, how the warmth of his presence seems to radiate like sunlight through his uniform. “So, uh…” he begins, fumbling with the edge of his notebook. “How have you been? I mean, aside from being ghosted by the rest of our group.” You smile faintly. “Tired. But you already knew that.” He does. He always notices. There are a thousand things you want to say—casual, simple things, the kind you’d say to anyone else without a second thought. But not with him. Not when every word feels like it teeters on the edge of becoming something more. You glance sideways. His jaw is clenched, his brows knit together in that familiar look of quiet struggle. Deuce thinks too much and says too little. A knight in training with a scholar’s heart—and a boy’s fear of ruining everything. “You’ve been distracted lately,” you murmur. “Something on your mind?” He stiffens, not from the question—but from how well you know him. “I’ve just… been thinking about things. People,” he adds hastily. “Stuff I should’ve said.” Your pulse flutters. “To someone specific?” He hesitates. “Maybe.” The silence between you grows thick with unsaid truths. You could cut it with a blade—or a confession. “Must be someone important,” you offer. He laughs quietly, but there’s no humor in it. “They are. But I don’t think they see me the same way.” Your throat tightens. “How could they not?” He turns to you then, eyes wide and startled, as if you’ve said something dangerous. And perhaps you have. “People don’t always notice what’s right in front of them,” he replies carefully. “I’ve noticed you.” He freezes. “I notice everything about you,” you admit, the words escaping before you can stop them. “You walk me to class even when we’re not in the same one. You always carry two snacks just in case I forgot mine. You ask me if I’m alright when I’ve said nothing’s wrong. I’ve noticed, Deuce.” His mouth opens. Closes. His heart is practically pounding out of his chest. “I didn’t think you felt the same,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t think you did.” He stares at you—like he’s seeing you for the first time, and also like he’s been looking at you this whole time, but only now dares to speak it aloud. “I thought… if I told you, I’d mess it up,” he says honestly. “You’re someone I can’t afford to lose.” Your gaze softens. “Then maybe we stop trying to avoid the risk. Maybe we trust each other not to mess it up.” Deuce swallows hard, and for once, he doesn’t overthink. Doesn’t hesitate. Just reaches for your hand—tentative, trembling. When your fingers intertwine, it’s not perfect. It’s not cinematic or sweeping or grand. But it is real. And you both smile, finally, finally free of the ache that comes from wanting someone in silence.

$CATER DIAMOND — Fake Dating

It begins as a joke. You’re complaining under your breath in the cafeteria, tray in hand and patience worn thin, when Cater Diamond—effortlessly charming and three steps ahead of your thoughts—slides into the seat across from you. “Whoa, what’s with the long face?” he chirps, chin propped on his hand. “You look like someone just asked you to host a Unbirthday party without tea.” You sigh. “It’s worse. My ex is transferring into NRC next week. Rook’s already teasing me about it, and rumor’s spreading that I’m ‘still not over them.’” Cater hums sympathetically. “Yikes. That kind of drama’s totally exhausting.” “Tell me about it.” Then—casually, far too casually—he grins. “So fake date me.” You blink. “Excuse me?” “Come on,” he says, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Let’s give them a show. You and me—campus power couple. Pictures, public hand-holding, the whole deal. We’ll shut everyone up and boost my Magicam followers. Win-win, right?” You open your mouth to retort, but the words die on your tongue. Because it’s Cater Diamond. He’s popular. Playful. Everyone likes him, but no one seems to know him. And here he is, offering you a mask to wear beside his. You should say no. You don’t. The first “date” is at the botanical gardens, carefully staged for maximum exposure. Cater poses beside you, all photogenic smiles and easy laughter, his phone tilted just so. He loops his arm around your shoulder, warm and close. “Act natural,” he says under his breath. You do, mostly because pretending is easier than acknowledging the flutter in your chest. Later that night, he tags you in three pictures. One is captioned: "First date vibes 🌱💚 #Taken #LuckyMe #Don’tStealMyCutie" It garners over 900 likes in an hour. The second week, he surprises you with coffee before class. “Boyfriend perks,” he says with a wink, handing you your exact order. The third week, he drapes his blazer over your shoulders when you forget yours, right in front of your ex. You catch the flicker of surprise on their face. Cater catches the moment on camera. “Daaamn, we make a convincing couple,” he says later that night, scrolling through his feed. You nod, though something clenches in your chest at the word convincing. Eventually, you stop noticing the cameras. Cater’s presence becomes second nature—his laughter, his perfume, the way he checks in on you before you’ve even had a chance to message first. He remembers your favorite snacks. Sends you memes at 2am. Complains about Heartslabyul’s rules while making sure you drink enough water. And you start to wonder when pretending began to feel so real. It’s subtle at first. He lingers longer during “casual” arm touches. His smiles soften when he thinks you’re not looking. He brushes hair from your eyes like it means something. You don’t know when your heart starts to race for real. But it does. And that terrifies you. One evening, you're studying in the library when Cater finds you. His expression is unreadable—no filters, no winks, just quiet. “You free this weekend?” he asks, slipping into the seat beside you. You nod slowly. “Why?” “I thought... maybe we could do something. Just us. No photos.” Your fingers still on the page. “No photos?” “No posts. No audience,” he says, voice gentle. “Just us. If you want to.” You search his face for some tell, some glimmer of jest. But there is none. “…Sure,” you say softly. “I’d like that.” That weekend, he takes you to the edge of the woods, where fireflies gather in the fading light. It’s peaceful. Private. Real. You sit beside him, backs to the mossy bark of an old tree. “So,” you say, voice barely above the crickets, “what happens when this ends?” Cater’s shoulders tense. “What do you mean?” “When the charade’s over. When we’re no longer fake dating.” He’s silent for a moment too long. Then: “That depends on whether or not it’s still fake.” Your breath catches. He turns his head toward you, expression solemn for the first time in weeks. “It’s not fake for me anymore.”

You swallow. “Then why didn’t you say something?” “Because I didn’t think I deserved to.” He laughs quietly, bitter. “Everyone likes ‘Cater Diamond.’ The filters, the sparkle, the edits. But you saw past that. And I was scared that if I told you how I actually felt, I’d ruin the only thing that’s ever felt real.” Your heart aches. He continues, “It started as a game. But somewhere between staged selfies and Magicam captions, I started wishing it wasn’t pretend. Wishing you’d hold my hand even if no one was watching.” You reach for his hand. This time, there are no cameras. No audience. Only him. And you. And the truth. “You didn’t ruin anything,” you whisper. “I’ve felt the same.” His eyes widen, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before. “You... do?” You nod. “It stopped being fake for me a long time ago.” For a beat, neither of you speaks. Then he exhales—relieved, stunned. He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. You don’t. The kiss is soft. Uncertain. Real. The next morning, Cater posts a single photo: the two of you laughing beside a lake, hair messy, sunlight casting gold over your cheeks. The caption is simple: “Not pretending anymore. 💛 #FinallyReal” And for once, it’s not for likes. It’s for you.

$TREY CLOVER — Childhood Friends to Lovers

The scent of sugar and cinnamon hits you the moment you step inside Clover Bakery. It’s warm in the way that memories are—soft edges and golden light, and the familiar echo of your footsteps on the creaky wooden floor. You pause at the threshold for just a moment, letting it all wash over you. "Back for another tart?" a familiar voice calls from behind the counter, amused and unmistakably gentle. You glance up to see Trey Clover, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands dusted with flour. He offers you a smile you’ve known since you were too small to reach the cookie jar he always snuck down for you anyway. You match his smile without thinking. “Maybe. Depends if you made the strawberry ones.” “They're cooling on the rack right now,” he says. “Just like old times, huh?” And there it is—that flicker of something unspoken. Always there, just beneath the surface. It’s been like this for years: growing up beside him, knowing the weight of his silences, the steadiness of his hands, the way his laughter turns soft when it’s just the two of you. You take a seat at the corner table—the one you always used during long summer afternoons when you’d hang your legs over the side and watch him work, too shy to say what you felt, too comfortable to ruin it with something as fragile as a confession. He joins you moments later, two strawberry tarts plated neatly, a delicate dusting of powdered sugar glistening like frost. You hum appreciatively at the sight. “You always make it look easy.” Trey chuckles. “Guess that’s what happens when you start learning the trade before your hands are big enough to hold a rolling pin.” You pick up the tart, take a bite. It's perfect, of course. Light, flaky, sweet in all the right ways. “You’ve gotten better,” you say, and mean it. “And you still talk with your mouth full,” he teases. You nearly choke on a laugh. Some things never change. But some things have. He’s taller now, his shoulders broader, his gaze steadier—but the look he gives you remains the same. Kind. Patient. Like he's always waiting for you to catch up to something he's already accepted. You glance down at your plate, suddenly shy. “Do you ever miss it?” “Miss what?” “Being kids. When everything was simpler.” He tilts his head thoughtfully. “I miss not having to measure every word.” You look up, startled, but his expression is unreadable—just the softest curve of a smile and something deeper in his eyes. “I think about those days a lot,” he adds, folding his hands neatly in front of him. “You and me. Spending every summer in here. You always begged me to save you the last tart.” “I didn’t beg.” “You pouted.” You roll your eyes. “You were the one who said I could have anything I wanted.” “And I meant it.” The words hang in the air—gentle, serious. Your breath catches. For a moment, all you hear is the quiet hum of the oven, the ticking of the old wall clock, and your own heart pounding somewhere in your ears. “…Trey.” He leans back in his chair, exhaling slowly, like he’s held this in longer than he should have. “I thought I could just let it stay the way it’s always been,” he says. “Safe. Comfortable. But every time you walk in here, looking at me like I’m just your childhood friend, I—” He breaks off, then looks you straight in the eyes. “I want more.” You sit there, stunned. He continues, quieter now. “I love this bakery. I love the flour on my hands and the smell of cinnamon in the walls. But you… you’re what makes it home.” Your throat tightens. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?” He offers a lopsided smile. “Because I didn’t want to lose you. I thought maybe… maybe if I just stayed close, that’d be enough.” You reach across the table before you can second-guess yourself, your fingers brushing his. “You’ve always been enough,” you say softly. “But I think I’ve spent so long pretending it was just friendship that I didn’t realize how much more it’s been all along.” His hand turns to hold yours. It’s warm—steady. Just like him. “You’re sure?” he asks.

You nod. “Completely.” He smiles—not the teasing kind he shows the world, but the real one, rare and quiet and full of relief. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’ve been saving the last tart for you since the day you left for NRC.” You blink. “Seriously?” He stands, walks behind the counter, and returns with a small, delicately wrapped box. Inside is a single strawberry tart—your favorite, nestled like a treasure. But there’s something else tucked beside it: a note. Folded carefully, your name written in Trey’s neat, unmistakable script. You glance up at him. “I was going to give it to you before you left that summer,” he admits. “But I chickened out. Figured if the time was right, I’d know.” You unfold the note. One sentence, written simply: “When you’re ready to stop pretending it’s just friendship… I’ll still be here.” You look up, heart in your throat. “I’m ready,” you whisper. He smiles again—relieved, radiant. “Then welcome home.”

$LEONA KINGSCHOLAR — Slow Burn

It begins, as many things at Night Raven College do, with an argument. “You always sleep through class,” you mutter, arms crossed as Leona Kingscholar lounges beneath the shade of a tree in the Botanical Garden. “You’re barely passing Alchemy. How long do you think you can coast on raw talent and a bad attitude?” He doesn’t even open his eyes. “I didn’t ask for a lecture,” he says, voice low, lazy—like a lion toying with the idea of rising, but not yet hungry enough. “No,” you reply, tone clipped, “but you’ll hear one anyway if you keep dragging our group project down with you.” At that, his eye cracks open. Golden. Sharp. “You’ve got a mouth on you,” he says. “And you’ve got all the potential in the world, but not enough motivation to use it.” Something flickers behind his gaze, and—for a moment—he looks like he might bite back. But then he smirks, slow and smug. “You're interesting,” he mutters, stretching like a sun-drenched predator. “Annoying. But interesting.” You don’t dignify that with a response. Weeks pass. Leona does the bare minimum. But when you talk, he listens. He never shows up to class on time, but your assignments bear the unmistakable signs of his input—complex phrasing, a sudden leap in logic you know you didn’t come up with alone. “You’re helping without helping,” you say one day. He shrugs. “I’m not doing it for the grade.” “Then why?” He looks at you, unreadable. “You’re less insufferable than most.” Somehow, your conversations grow longer. The arguments taper into dry banter. You learn his tells: when he’s serious, when he’s dodging, when his silences mean “drop it” and when they mean “ask again.” He never invites you to sit with him. You always do it anyway. And he never tells you to leave. One afternoon, you find him not in the garden but in the far edge of the training yard, ears flattened against the sunlight, one arm draped over his brow. “You look like death,” you say mildly. He grunts. “Headache.” You pause, then set your bag down. “You want me to come back later?” His eyes open, and something in them—something small and tired—makes you sit beside him instead. “Stay,” he says. Quiet. Uncharacteristically soft. So you do. You don’t notice when it starts to shift. It happens in pieces. He starts walking you back to your dorm when the hallways grow too quiet at night. “Coincidence,” he says when you call him out. “This place is a labyrinth.” He takes your side in a duel during Magical Shift—nearly flattens a third-year who aimed too close to you with a reckless spell. “They were sloppy,” he mutters, avoiding your eyes. You catch him watching you sometimes—not with hunger, not with mischief—but with a frown, like you’re a puzzle he can’t solve. Or maybe won’t. And always, always, he stays two steps away. Close enough to touch—never reaching. “You always hold back,” you tell him one night, seated together beneath the stars. The rest of the dorms are asleep. He’s sprawled out beside you, arms folded behind his head, eyes half-lidded. “Tch. You don’t know anything about me.” “I know you could be anything you wanted,” you say. “And I know you keep choosing nothing.” His jaw tightens. “Don’t act like you understand.” “Then let me,” you say. “Help me understand.” Silence. And then, almost too low to hear: “No one ever stays. Not when they get a real look.” Your chest aches. “I’m not going anywhere, Leona.” His eyes close again. But his voice is soft. “…Then don’t.” It’s slow, after that. Painfully so. You exchange more than just barbed words—now there’s trust. A flicker of warmth. A rare smile that isn’t smug, just quiet and real. But still no confession. No touch. Just proximity and tension and everything almost. One day, you don’t show up. You’re sick—nothing serious. But you're gone long enough that Leona notices. He visits the infirmary at dusk, when no one will see. Grumbles about “checking up on a partner, that’s all.” Drops off your favorite snacks and doesn’t meet your eyes when you thank him. The next day, you find a single stem of king protea on your pillow. You don’t ask.

He doesn’t mention it. But the message is clear. You are seen. The breaking point comes months later. You’re cornered by a group of students sneering about favoritism. They spit your name like a curse, imply your rise through the ranks has been too fast, too easy. That it’s because Leona protects you. He hears about it before you even have to tell him. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t roar. He stares them down in a hallway thick with silence, golden eyes hard as flint. “If you have a problem with them,” he says, voice low and measured, “you have a problem with me.” No one dares speak after that. Later that night, you find him in the gardens again. This time, it’s you who speaks first. “Why did you do it?” He scoffs. “Thought it was obvious.” You take a step closer. Then another. “Say it.” He looks at you—really looks at you. And finally, finally, he stops retreating. “I wanted you to be mine,” he says. “For a long time now.” Your breath catches. “Then why wait so long?” “Because I was afraid,” he admits. “That you’d see the mess. The bitterness. The weight of everything I carry.” You place your hand over his. “I see it all, Leona,” you whisper. “And I still want you.” His expression shatters—sharply, silently. And when he pulls you into his arms, it’s not as a prince, or a lion, or a second son desperate to be more. It’s just him. And he is yours

$RUGGIE BUCCHI — Frenemies to Lovers

The first time you met Ruggie Bucchi, he stole your lunch. Not out of cruelty, but out of practiced efficiency—grabbing the last sandwich off the tray with a grin too sharp to be innocent and a wink that somehow made it worse. “You snooze, you lose,” he said, biting into it without shame. “Fast hands win the feast.” You glared. He laughed. From that day forward, you became enemies. Or something close enough. He teased. You retaliated. He schemed. You one-upped him. The two of you danced on the edge of rivalry like it was a game, keeping score in glances and pointed remarks. And yet, somehow—somehow—he kept showing up. “I know what you’re doing,” you said once, catching him lurking behind the greenhouse with a sprig of stolen herbs and the guiltiest innocent expression imaginable. “Yeah?” Ruggie drawled. “Think you’re smart enough to figure me out, huh?” “I don’t have to figure you out,” you replied. “I already know you.” He froze—just for a second. Then he grinned. “You sound like you’ve been watching me,” he teased. “You’re hard to miss.” That time, you were the one who walked away first. It became a habit. You’d argue over the best shortcuts on campus. Bicker during group projects. Pass each other in the halls only to exchange fake insults and real smiles. But under all the banter, something shifted. You started noticing things. The way Ruggie always saved a piece of bread for one of the younger Savanaclaw students who never brought lunch. How he checked in on others while pretending not to care. How he smiled with his whole face when he thought no one was watching. And how your heart started to stutter in his presence—soft and traitorous. The realization struck during a club event, when someone accidentally tripped you in the crowd. You hit the ground hard, hands scraped, pride bruised. Before you could even stand, Ruggie was there. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t mock. He knelt beside you, his voice low with worry. “You good?” You blinked up at him, stunned. “Yeah,” you managed. “I just—wasn’t expecting that.” He helped you up, his grip firm but gentle. “Neither was I.” You stared at him. He stared back. And then he let go like your skin had burned him. After that, everything was different. The teasing still happened, but there was a weight beneath it. A pause in his voice. A flicker in his gaze. Like he was holding back. So were you. Until one night, when the moon hung low and the campus was still, you found him alone by the reflecting pool, throwing breadcrumbs to a lazy swan. “You’re avoiding me,” you said. He didn’t look surprised. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Guess I am.” You walked closer. “Why?” He threw another crumb. “Because I’m not supposed to like you.” Your heart skipped. “…But you do?” He finally looked at you. His usual grin was nowhere to be found. “Yeah. I do,” he said, like it hurt. “And that’s the problem. You’re sharp, you’re stubborn, you’re in my head all the time—and I can’t stand you. But I also can’t stop thinking about you.” You were quiet for a beat. Then: “I can’t stand you either.” That got a crooked smile out of him. “Guess that makes us even.” “Not quite,” you said, stepping close enough that he went still. “Because I like you too.” Ruggie blinked. “…Say that again?” You didn’t. Instead, you kissed him. He tasted like laughter and trouble and something so achingly familiar it hurt. He kissed back with a sigh, like he’d been waiting for it all along. When you pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. “You know,” he murmured, “this doesn’t mean I’ll stop messing with you.” You smirked. “Wouldn’t want you to.” “Good,” he said, lips brushing yours again. “’Cause I plan on keeping you on your toes.” Enemies. Rivals. Something in between. Now? Something more. And neither of you would ever admit it first, but maybe… you’d both been falling for a long, long time.

$JACK HOWL — He Falls First

It starts with your laugh. Not the polite kind you give professors or classmates—but the real one. The rare one. It echoes across the training field like sunlight, and Jack Howl hears it even over the sound of his own heartbeat. He pauses mid-stretch, tail giving a single, startled flick behind him. You’re standing off to the side, talking with someone else, oblivious to him. And he shouldn’t be looking. He knows he shouldn’t. But he does. It happens again. And again. In class, in the halls, during group drills. You move through the world with a kind of ease Jack finds... difficult to ignore. You're thoughtful in quiet ways—holding the door open without fanfare, lending your notes without hesitation, helping a struggling first-year with a gentle hand and no expectation of praise. You are, in short, the kind of person Jack tells himself not to get close to. And yet, his gaze always seems to find you. At first, he tells himself it’s admiration. Respect. A recognition of strength and integrity in someone else. But then you smile at him—just him, one afternoon after you’ve both finished laps around the field—and Jack’s entire world folds in on itself. His ears turn red. His throat goes dry. “You okay?” you ask, offering him a bottle of water. He nods stiffly. “Fine. Just—warm.” You blink. “It’s freezing.” “…Yeah.” He spends the rest of that practice internally berating himself. He tries, at first, to keep his distance. What else is he supposed to do? You’re kind. Funny. Strong. He sees how others look at you, how easily you talk with people, how much brighter the space feels when you’re in it. He’s just… Jack. Not suave. Not charming. Just reliable. But despite his best efforts, he keeps noticing the little things. The way your hair falls when you’re concentrating. The way your laugh changes when it’s real. The way his name sounds when you say it—like it matters. It’s not long before others start to notice. Epel snickers every time you and Jack end up paired for anything. “Yer crush is showing,” he says once, elbowing Jack in the side. Jack scowls. “What are you talking about?” “Y’look at ‘em like they hung the moon.” Jack grits his teeth. “It’s not like that.” But it is. And the worst part? You don’t seem to know. You thank him often. For the smallest things. Holding your place in line. Lending you a pen. Carrying something heavier than expected. And each time, Jack mutters “no problem,” and then spends the next ten minutes staring at the floor because your smile won’t leave his head. One day, you compliment him outright. “I like training with you. You push people to be better.” Jack goes rigid. “Thanks.” You laugh. “That’s it? Just ‘thanks’?” “…I don’t know what else to say.” You tilt your head, amused. “You’re sweet when you’re flustered, you know.” His ears practically catch fire. He falls first. Hard. Quietly. In the space between drills and casual conversation, in moments you don’t think twice about. He commits them to memory like they're sacred. You, laughing under the trees in the courtyard. You, asleep at your desk, head pillowed on your arm. You, sticking up for a classmate who didn’t have the words to defend themself. He watches. Listens. Remembers. And still says nothing. Because you’re too important to lose. Because he wants to be worthy—ready—before he dares speak your name with anything other than respect. But you notice. Of course you do. One day, when you're walking back from lecture, you fall into step beside him. “You’re quiet today,” you say. “I’m always quiet.” “Quieter than usual, then.” He hesitates. “…I’ve been thinking.” “About what?” Jack exhales. Looks at you like the truth might burn, but holds your gaze anyway. “You.” Your breath catches. “Me?” “I like you,” he says, voice low and sure. “More than I should. More than I planned to.” The silence is thick with your heartbeat. Then—gently, carefully—you smile. “I was starting to think you’d never say it.” His tail swishes once, stunned. “…Wait. You knew?” “I’m not that oblivious, Jack.”

You reach for his hand, and he lets you take it. And when you smile at him again, it’s even brighter than he remembered.

$AZUL ASHENGROTTO -- Rivals to Lovers

You had never liked Azul Ashengrotto. The very sight of his polished spectacles, the meticulous way he adjusted his gloves, the infuriating calm with which he recited contractual clauses—it all ignited a fire in your chest. Not a passionate one. Or so you told yourself. It was rivalry, pure and untainted. He represented everything you opposed: underhanded dealings, serpentine smiles, and a knack for winning that grated against your pride. Yet, here you stood, once again opposite him at the debating podium, heart racing not just from anticipation but from something more—something unspoken and dangerously persistent. “Do try not to stutter this time,” he murmured, too softly for the audience to hear, his lips barely curling in that calculated smirk. You rolled your eyes, meeting his gaze with a sharp one of your own. “Perhaps you could dazzle us with a new argument instead of recycling your usual drivel.” A flicker of amusement passed over his face. "Touché." Every interaction between you two was a game, a match of verbal chess with no guaranteed victor. You kept each other sharp—relentlessly so. Professors had long since stopped trying to separate you; they learned, as others had, that the competitive spark between you was inevitable. Still, you never imagined that spark could shift in temperature. It began subtly. A rainy afternoon in the library where you found him, not hunched over business plans or negotiating favors with a desperate first-year, but asleep among worn-out textbooks. The furrow between his brows had vanished, replaced with an expression so serene it stole your breath. You should have walked away. Instead, you lingered. Then came the moment he cornered you outside Mostro Lounge, voice low, gaze intense—not with disdain, but with something else. Something warmer. "You know," he had said, "for someone who claims to loathe me, you certainly find yourself in my presence often." You narrowed your eyes. “Maybe I just like reminding you someone’s still better at strategy.” "And yet here you are, still trying to outmaneuver me." He took a step closer, the scent of sea salt and cologne wrapping around you. "Tell me, what exactly are we trying to win from each other anymore?" The question had left you speechless. Because for the first time, you weren’t certain of the answer. Now, it has come to this: the closing gala of the academic year. A formal affair. Even Azul looks slightly out of place, not in his usual lounge uniform but in tailored midnight-blue robes, silver embroidery catching the chandelier light. He approaches you with the same poise as always, but something has changed. "You look… acceptable," he says with mock detachment, though his eyes say otherwise. You incline your head. "And you look insufferably smug, as usual." "How comforting that you remain consistent." He offers you his arm. You stare at it, then at him. “This isn’t another negotiation, is it?” “No,” he replies, uncharacteristically soft. “Not unless you require written proof.” You hesitate, just for a heartbeat, then place your hand in the crook of his arm. It’s a simple gesture, yet it shifts everything. As the music plays and you navigate the ballroom together, something unspoken takes root between you—no longer rivalry, but recognition. Mutual respect laced with something that frightens and excites in equal measure. Azul leans close, his breath brushing your ear. “You know, I never disliked our rivalry.” You raise a brow. “Because you enjoyed winning?” “No,” he says quietly. “Because it meant I had your attention.” The honesty disarms you more than any of his contracts ever could. “And now?” you ask, curious despite yourself. “Now,” he says, “I’d rather have your trust than your ire.” You’re silent for a moment. Then, with deliberate calm, you reply, “Then you’ll have to earn it.” He smiles, not with triumph, but something gentler—almost reverent. “Then allow me to begin.”

$FLOYD LEECH — Idiots in Love

To say that you and Floyd Leech have a normal relationship would be a lie on every conceivable level. He sneaks up behind you when you’re least expecting it—flings his arms around your shoulders, sometimes upside-down from a tree branch, and yells “Shrimpy!” loud enough to startle every living creature in a three-mile radius. You retaliate by hiding all his mismatched socks, calling him “eel boy,” and threatening to replace his lunch with broccoli. Your classmates call it dangerous. Jade calls it “predictably chaotic.” Azul calls it exhausting. But you? You call it comfortable. Familiar. Yours. Even if neither of you is willing to admit what’s really going on. “I’m not flirting,” you say one day, after Floyd nearly crushes another student who so much as looked at you. “Sure ya aren’t,” he says, lips stretched in a grin just a shade too sharp. “But they were. And I don’t like when shrimp-stealers get too close.” “Shrimp-stealers?” “You’re my shrimpy.” Your heart does a concerning sort of thing, but you cross your arms anyway. “You say that like it means something.” Floyd’s eyes glimmer. “Maybe it does,” he hums, then swims away—literally, because he drops into the fountain to avoid further questioning. You hate how often he does that. You hate how much you smile after. He picks fights on your behalf. Drops out of the ceiling during exams. Walks you to class by draping himself dramatically over your shoulders like a living scarf. Sometimes he tosses you into the lake. Sometimes he offers you sea glass like it’s currency. Once, he painted a rock to look like your face and declared it “Shrimpy 2.” You keep it on your desk. You tell yourself it’s ironic. It isn’t. People ask, often and with increasing desperation, “Are you two together?” You laugh. Floyd grins. “No way,” you both say at once. “Why would I date Shrimpy?” Floyd adds, flinging an arm around you. “They’d never survive!” You elbow him in the ribs. “You’d cry the moment I went a day without paying attention to you.” His eyes light up. “Aww, you do pay attention to me.” You flush. “That’s not what I said.” “That’s exactly what you said.” And so the cycle continues. What no one knows—perhaps not even you—is that Floyd fell first. Hard. He noticed you before you ever noticed him. You’d caught his attention not with a scream or a fight, but by stubbornly ignoring his initial attempts at chaos. He’d pinched your cheeks. Flipped your books. Sat on your desk. And you’d looked him in the eye and said: “You’re very annoying. Are you proud of that?” And he was. Proud, and instantly smitten. Of course, he couldn’t just say that. That would be boring. So instead, he made you his favorite toy. You let him. And now you’re both stuck in this tangled, ridiculous dance of affection disguised as antagonism. One day, he tries to hold your hand. You’re walking back from lunch, and he simply reaches over, laces your fingers through his, and hums like it’s nothing. Like it isn’t a declaration. Like it doesn’t crack open something vulnerable in your chest. “Floyd?” “Yeah?” “You’re holding my hand.” “Yup!” “…Why?” He pauses, tilts his head, eyes curious. “You don’t want me to?” Your mouth opens. Closes. “I didn’t say that.” He grins wide. “Heh. You’re blushing.” “I’m not.” “You so are.” “You’re the worst.” “I’m your worst,” he corrects cheerfully, swinging your hands between you. It’s not until later, when you’re alone in your room, that you realize: you never let go. Feelings become harder to ignore after that. He starts giving you things. Shells. Trinkets. A piece of candy shaped like a squid. A carved bone knife you’re 90% sure he made himself. “Treasure for my favorite shrimpy,” he says, shoving it into your bag. “Favorite?” you ask. “Only,” he replies, and his tone is surprisingly serious. Your heart does the thing again. You try to talk to him. Once. “Floyd, what are we?” He blinks. “People.” “No, I mean us.” “Oh!” He lights up. “We’re in love!” Your brain stutters. “We’re what?” “You heard me, shrimpy!” And then he skips away, singing your name like a sea shanty.

It takes a while for you to catch up. Not because you don’t care—but because you do. Floyd is unpredictable. Untamed. A storm in technicolor with far too many teeth. But he is also loyal. Attentive. Honest in a way most people are afraid to be. And he chose you. You just hadn’t realized it yet. The next time he throws himself at you in the hall, you catch him. You kiss his cheek. He goes silent for a full three seconds—a record. Then he beams. The kind of smile that could drown stars. “Took you long enough, shrimpy.” You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “Shut up and hold my hand.” He does. And for once, he doesn't let go first.

$KALIM AL-ASIM — Opposites Attract

If sunlight could take the form of a person, it would be Kalim Al-Asim. He radiates joy, warmth, and sincerity in a way that borders on reckless. He greets each day like it’s a celebration, and each person like a lifelong friend. Where he walks, laughter follows. Where he speaks, attention gathers. And where he shines, you are always standing in his shadow. It isn’t envy. You simply live differently. You are measured. Private. Composed. Your words are chosen, your gestures restrained. Not cold, not unkind—but certainly not the kind to call attention to yourself. You prefer silence where he adores song, solitude where he gathers crowds. It is precisely why you avoid him, at first. “Hi!” The first time Kalim greets you, it’s with a grin so wide it feels like a sunrise aimed directly at you. You blink, mildly stunned. “I’m Kalim! Kalim Al-Asim! I’ve seen you around! You don’t talk much, huh? That’s okay! I can talk enough for the both of us!” You stare at him for a beat too long. “…Hello,” you manage, as levelly as you can. His grin only brightens. “Wow, even your voice is calm! You’re like a pond! You know, those quiet, still ones that reflect the sky? I like that.” You have no idea what to do with that information. He starts greeting you every day after that. Sometimes with words. Sometimes with food. Once with an elephant-shaped balloon, which floated just above your shoulder all through your alchemy lecture. “I thought you might like company,” he said, looking so pleased with himself you didn’t have the heart to reject it. Eventually, you stop trying to avoid him. Because somehow, it’s easier to accept the chaos than to resist it. Kalim treats friendship like it’s a law of nature—unchanging, constant, absolute. He decides you’re someone special without asking permission. And you, baffled but not ungrateful, find yourself following his lead. He invites you to Scarabia constantly. You decline… frequently. He invites you again anyway. Eventually, you relent. One visit becomes two, then three. You learn to sidestep the occasional indoor fireworks and avoid Jamil’s death glare. You sit at Kalim’s side, answering his dozen questions with half-smiles and quiet nods. You begin to see what others miss beneath his golden exterior. He is not naïve. He is kind. There is a difference. “You’re always thinking,” Kalim says one afternoon, lounging beside you on a sun-drenched veranda. “Your eyes get all… focused. Like you’re a thousand miles away.” You don’t deny it. “I like that about you,” he says. “Why?” you ask, genuinely curious. He stretches, arms flung behind his head. “Because you help me slow down. I don’t do that on my own very well.” You glance at him. He’s glowing in the sunlight, smiling easily, utterly unaware of the weight he carries without complaint. And for the first time, you wonder— Who helps him? Your relationship isn’t linear. He confuses you. Exhausts you. Frustrates you with his constant energy and endless warmth. He gives freely and receives joyfully, but never seems to want anything in return. And you? You give cautiously. Deliberately. But for him, you start to make exceptions. He teaches you how to let go—just a little. You teach him how to sit still—just for a while. He speaks in exclamation points. You speak in ellipses. And somewhere in the middle, something delicate begins to grow. It takes a while to recognize the shift. You start noticing the way your eyes search for him in a crowd. The way your thoughts drift to him between tasks. The way his laughter, once too loud, now feels like something you miss when it’s gone. You are still quiet. Still contained. But around him, you begin to smile more easily. And when you do, Kalim lights up like he’s won a prize. Then one day, the world turns sideways. A minor spell gone wrong—an accident, nothing dangerous—but it sends you crashing hard to the ground in a shower of sparks and smoke. Kalim is at your side in seconds. “Hey! Are you okay?! You’re not hurt, are you?! Look at me—please?” You blink blearily. “Just winded…”

His hands are on your shoulders, gripping too tight. His expression is wrong—frantic, worried. No smiles. You sit up slowly. “Kalim. I’m fine.” He exhales shakily. Then, in a voice smaller than you’ve ever heard from him: “You scared me.” You freeze. He pulls back, but not far. His hands linger. His eyes are wide and honest. “I didn’t like not knowing if you were alright. I—” He swallows. “I think I like you. A lot.” The world goes very quiet. You aren’t sure if your silence hurts him—but you see the flicker of fear in his eyes all the same. So you take his hand. You’re trembling. “I… I think I like you too.” His face breaks into a smile so brilliant you forget how to breathe. You do not fall the way he does. Kalim falls like a child into water—reckless, headlong, laughing the entire way down. You fall like a tree shedding snow—quiet, inevitable, changing shape without even realizing it. But you do fall. He teaches you how to feel things out loud. You teach him how to listen in stillness. He kisses like everything’s a celebration. You kiss like it’s a secret you’ve finally dared to share. And in time, you learn to meet in the middle. Dating Kalim is not easy. He gives with abandon—his time, his affection, his love—and you find yourself overwhelmed more than once. But he learns. He listens when you need space. He tempers his excitement with patience. And you, in turn, reach for him more often. Let him see your softer moments, your uncertain ones. You stop hiding every smile. You say “I missed you” when he returns from a trip. You take his hand in public without being asked. It takes time. But the balance is real. You wake one morning to find him fast asleep beside you—face buried in his arms, sun painting gold into his hair. He talks in his sleep. Mumbles your name. You reach for him without thinking. He stirs, bleary-eyed, and smiles up at you. “Good morning, love,” he says, voice rough with sleep. You blink, startled. He doesn’t seem to notice. Just yawns and snuggles into your side. You don’t correct him. And when you whisper, “Good morning,” into his hair, you think he smiles again. The Kalim you knew at the beginning—the one who was too much, too fast, too bright—is still there. But now, you see the depths beneath his joy. And he, in turn, sees the warmth beneath your quiet. You are not alike. But you are aligned. Two constellations orbiting one another—not mirrors, but reflections in reverse. And if love is anything, it is this: Choosing, again and again, the person who terrifies you with how deeply they see you. And knowing—without question—that they will choose you back.

$JAMIL VIPER — Best Friends Brother

You’ve known Najma Viper since the summer you both turned twelve. She was bright and daring and unapologetically sharp, the kind of girl who laughed with her whole chest and walked into rooms like she owned the floorboards. You became fast friends—not because you were alike, but because something about your differences made the bond solid. But from the beginning, there was always a shadow in the background. Jamil. Older. Quieter. Always watching with that unreadable expression of his, always just out of reach. At first, you didn't pay him much attention. He was Najma’s overprotective brother. That was all. Or at least… it was supposed to be. “Don’t mind him,” Najma said once, when Jamil offered a barely murmured greeting before disappearing into another room. “He’s a little... broody. Thinks being quiet makes him mysterious or something.” You snorted. “It kind of does.” She gave you a look. “Please. He’s just allergic to fun.” But even then, even back then, you wondered. Not about whether he was cold—he wasn’t. He was polite, considerate, even helpful when Najma inevitably roped him into her chaotic plans. But there was a certain weight in his gaze. A quietness that felt purposeful. Guarded. You noticed. And you shouldn’t have. The first time you realized Jamil might have actually been watching you just as closely came on a late summer evening, years later. You and Najma were on the rooftop, stretched out on cushions, throwing popcorn at each other and laughing so loudly the neighbors probably considered filing complaints. Najma slipped away to get drinks, and you stayed behind, watching the stars. “You’ll fall,” came a voice from behind. You turned, startled. Jamil stood near the doorway, arms folded, eyes narrowed slightly in that disapproving way of his. You blinked. “I’m not even near the edge.” “Not yet,” he said dryly. “But I’ve seen how you two handle snacks.” You chuckled, expecting him to leave. He didn’t. Instead, he stepped forward and joined you—sitting just far enough away to be proper, just close enough that your shoulder felt warm from his presence. “You spend a lot of time here,” he said after a while. “She’s my best friend,” you replied. “Of course I do.” He was quiet for a long beat. “Still,” he murmured, “not many people would be that patient with her.” You smiled. “I don’t think she needs patience. She needs someone who sees her. Who doesn’t treat her like an accessory.” That made his head turn, just slightly. His expression softened. “…You do that.” You met his gaze. “So do you.” He looked away. But his hand brushed against yours once before he stood to leave. Things shifted after that. Barely. But enough. Jamil stopped avoiding you. He still never spoke much—his nature wasn’t built for casual chatter—but when he did speak, it was with more intention. More awareness. You began to find him appearing in the background more often—making tea, adjusting curtains, watching quietly from the kitchen as you and Najma sparred or debated. He listened. He remembered things you said offhandedly. And sometimes—just sometimes—when you laughed too hard or looked too long, you’d catch the faintest upward curve of his lips before he looked away again. The problem was Najma. Not her, precisely. But what she represented. Because as your feelings began to bloom, stubborn and traitorous, the guilt grew with them. This was her brother. Her precious, emotionally barricaded older brother. The one she always insisted you didn’t need to impress. The one she warned would “eat you alive” if you tried to understand him too deeply. You didn’t try. It just happened. And now it was a secret you carried like a glass figurine—carefully, cautiously, terrified it might shatter. The tipping point came during one of Najma’s infamous “I’m bored and it’s 2 a.m.” excursions. She’d dragged you through the silent streets, laughing into the darkness, until the two of you were panting and exhilarated beneath the arches of a shuttered bazaar. You collapsed onto a bench together, giggling and breathless.

“You know,” she said, catching her breath, “I’m glad you never fell for Jamil.” Your stomach plummeted. You tried to keep your voice even. “Why would I?” “Because he’s impossible,” she said, waving a hand. “All that brooding? He doesn’t let anyone in. And you deserve better than a locked door.” You swallowed hard. “…Right.” She leaned her head on your shoulder, unaware of the way your pulse roared in your ears. “You’re the best thing I have,” she murmured. “You’re family now.” You said nothing. You couldn't. Because the weight of that truth—and the betrayal you felt simply for wanting him—pressed into your ribs like a stone. You tried to put distance between you and Jamil after that. Tried being the operative word. But he noticed. Of course he did. “You’re avoiding me,” he said one evening, catching you in the kitchen during a visit. You didn’t meet his eyes. “I’ve been busy.” “You were never too busy before.” You turned, trying to be firm. “I think it’s better this way.” “…Why?” You hesitated. “Because Najma matters.” Jamil’s gaze darkened—not with anger, but with something closer to sorrow. “She does.” You nodded. “So I can’t—” He stepped closer. “You think I haven’t spent every second thinking about that?” You stilled. He looked at you then—really looked at you, with all the weight of his restraint splintering in real time. “I tried not to care,” he murmured. “Because she’s your friend. Because I didn’t want to complicate what you have. But I can’t stand watching you slip away like this.” Silence stretched between you like a wound. And finally, in a voice just above a whisper: “I love her,” you said. “But I… I think I might love you, too.” He flinched—like he hadn’t dared hope to hear it. You looked away. “And I don’t know what to do with that.” Jamil exhaled like the truth hurt more than silence ever had. “…Let me help you figure it out.” When you told Najma, it didn’t go as expected. She blinked at you across the kitchen table, spoon paused mid-air. “You and Jamil?” “…Yes.” A beat. “Huh.” You braced yourself. “I mean, I figured,” she said, shrugging. “He’s always acting weird when you’re around. I just didn’t think you’d make the first move.” “…I didn’t.” Her eyes widened. “He did?” You nodded. She stared for a long moment. Then, to your great surprise, she smiled. “Well, I hope you’re ready to be the reason he actually smiles at dinner now.” You blinked. “Wait—you’re not mad?” She snorted. “Mad? No. Grossed out? Maybe. But also…” She grinned. “About time.” Dating Jamil is not loud. He doesn’t send you flowers or sing in the rain or shout his love across rooftops. He just shows up. He notices when you’re tired. Makes you tea before you ask. Carries you gently through moments you didn’t know were heavy. He learns your rhythms like a language. And in return, you show him how to rest. How to trust. How to be loved without needing to earn it. You still love Najma. But now, you love her brother, too. And it no longer feels like betrayal. It feels like coming home through a different door.

$VIL SCHOENHEIT — You Fall First

It starts with admiration. How could it not? Vil Schoenheit is composed of flawless lines and deliberate grace. He moves like a blade too polished to be anything but beautiful. When he walks into a room, conversations still. The air shifts. People become quieter, less certain. And you—simple, steady, unremarkable—can only watch from your place behind the crowd. You tell yourself it’s just respect. That it’s his discipline you admire. His precision. His conviction. But the truth settles in your chest the longer you’re near him: You’re falling. Falling in silence. Falling without permission. Falling while he looks past you like you’re part of the scenery. You learn his schedule by accident. Not because you’re trying to—but because you notice. You begin passing the Mirror Chamber at just the right moment to catch a glimpse of him on his way to rehearsal. You know when he prefers tea over coffee. You notice which books he sets aside for himself in the library and quietly avoid touching them. He does not notice you. Or perhaps he does—but not in any way that matters. He is polite. Civil. Sometimes even complimentary in that effortless, impersonal way of his. “You have a good eye,” he says one day, when you recommend a fabric swatch for a costuming project. “Refined. Not as dull as I expected.” It’s the kindest thing he’s ever said to you. You carry it for days. Everyone wants a piece of him. Some crave his attention. Others, his approval. Most, his beauty. You’re not like them. You want his tired sighs at the end of the day. His stories, the ones he never tells. The rare softness that flickers behind his eyes when he thinks no one’s watching. But those things aren’t yours to want. So you keep your distance. And you ache, quietly, where no one can see. The worst part is knowing he doesn’t see it. Not truly. Vil is not unkind, but he is demanding. He expects excellence, polish, poise. You have learned to provide those things. You speak with precision around him, walk with care, dress with thought. Not to impress him. But because being near him makes you want to be better. Still, he remains unchanged. Unaware. He gives you assignments. Approves your work. Calls you by your full name in that crisp, deliberate tone of his. And every time he says it, it feels like a glass of cold water thrown against a flame you’re too afraid to let burn. “You’re always quiet,” he remarks once, during a rare afternoon with the two of you working side by side. You shrug. “I don’t like wasting words.” He glances over. “A commendable trait. But silence can be a mask. And masks, darling, only serve those who have something to hide.” You meet his gaze, just for a moment. “I suppose that’s true,” you murmur. He doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask what you’re hiding. But you wish—just for a heartbeat—that he would. There are moments when you think he might see it. A lingering glance. A softened word. A pause where once there would’ve been dismissal. But then it’s gone. And you’re left wondering if it was real, or if your heart simply imagined it into being. You never confess. Of course you don’t. Because love, when it is one-sided, is a quiet, humiliating thing. It swells and curls and gnaws, but it does not shout. So you smile. You nod. You serve. And Vil continues to glide through your life like a sculpture made of sunlight and judgment, always just out of reach. But one day, the pattern shifts. He pulls you aside after rehearsal. His tone is unreadable. “You’ve been steady,” he says. “Reliable. And lately… different.” You freeze. “Different?” He steps closer. Not intrusively—but closer than he’s ever stood before. “Softer,” he says. “Gentler. Like someone who’s been carrying something too heavy for too long.” You don’t breathe. He watches you carefully. “You never speak what you feel. But you wear it.” Your voice is small. “And what do I wear now?” He studies you. Then, with uncharacteristic quiet: “Longing.” Your heart stops. He doesn’t say more. But his hand brushes yours—barely. And that, for now, is enough.

$EPEL FELMIER — Unexpected Match

You weren’t supposed to be his type. That much was obvious from the beginning. Epel Felmier was sharp edges and buried frustrations—small-town grit dressed in designer fabrics. He hated being coddled, hated being underestimated, and above all, hated being told what he could and could not be. And you? You were calm. Reserved. Neat where he was unruly. Polished where he chafed against refinement. If Epel was a wild apple orchard clinging to a mountain cliff, you were the well-tended garden below—predictable, quiet, managed. In short: you didn’t make sense. To others, at least. But Epel never did care much for what “made sense.” Your first real conversation wasn’t even supposed to happen. You’d both been assigned to the same lab partner rotation in alchemy—some tragic twist of fate that left you with a boy who scowled every time he had to read instructions. “You’re just gonna follow the steps like a recipe?” he scoffed, arms crossed. You blinked. “That’s what a potion is, Epel. Precision matters.” He rolled his eyes. “Tch. No wonder everything around here’s so uptight.” You bit back a sigh. “Well, I like doing things properly.” “Yeah? Bet you’ve never broken a single rule in your life.” You looked him in the eye. “I have. I just don’t announce it like a parade.” That made him pause. Then he grinned. “Alright. I’m listenin’, now.” From that day on, something shifted. He still grumbled, still picked little fights for the sake of it—but they were directed at you, and only you. Not out of cruelty. Just to see how far he could push before you pushed back. Which, to his apparent delight, you always did. You didn’t laugh at his accent, or treat him like a child. You didn’t flinch when he got defensive, didn’t pat his head when he stood straighter in an effort to seem taller. You didn’t try to “fix” him. You let him be. And in return, he started waiting for you after class. “People are talking,” Vil remarked one afternoon, eyes narrowed. You raised an eyebrow. “About what?” “About you and Epel.” His tone was cool. “It’s unexpected.” You resisted the urge to smile. “Unexpected doesn’t mean bad.” Vil sighed. “No. But it does mean scrutinized.” You already knew that. You heard the whispers. The way others blinked when they saw the two of you seated together in the lounge, or how Epel's voice softened—not a lot, but noticeably—when he spoke to you. The contrast was jarring. You, composed and exacting. Him, prickly and passionate. But it worked. Strangely. Effortlessly. Like your calm gave his chaos space to breathe. Like his fire lit something quiet and forgotten in your chest. One evening, after a late study session, Epel walked you back to your dorm. You strolled in silence for a while, the moonlight softening the world around you. “You’re weird,” he said at last. You blinked. “Thanks?” “I mean—you’re different,” he clarified, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “Not what I expected to like.” You turned to him, expression carefully unreadable. “You like me?” He flushed to the ears. “Tch. Knew you’d make it a thing.” You smiled, quiet and certain. “It’s okay. I like you too.” Epel stared at you for a moment, expression flickering between disbelief and pride. Then he grinned. “Guess we’re a weird match.” “Unexpected,” you corrected gently. “Unexpected,” he echoed, brushing your hand with his. And this time, you didn’t pull away. Dating Epel means long walks with few words and thoughtful silences. It means watching him uncurl from defensiveness like a flower turned to the sun. It means being patient when he flares up and knowing when to meet him at eye level instead of trying to pull him down. It means hearing him defend you—once, fiercely—when someone said you were “too uptight” for him. “Don’t matter what they say,” he told you afterward, voice firm. “You’re steady. You keep me grounded.” You didn’t have the words for it then. But your hand found his without hesitation. And that was answer enough. You weren’t supposed to be his type. But in the end, that’s what made it perfect.

Because Epel didn’t need someone who fit a mold. He needed someone who saw beyond the surface. And you, for all your calm and your quiet, loved him loudly—not in volume, but in depth. And when he looked at you like you were the only person in the room, well— Everyone else finally understood: Sometimes the most unexpected matches… Are the ones that last.

$ROOK HUNT — Love at First Sight

The first time Rook Hunt sees you, he stops mid-sentence, the rest of the conversation falling from his lips like scattered petals. It is not a slow realization, not a bloom of affection that unfurls over time—it is instantaneous, like a bowstring released, like a revelation etched into bone. You have done nothing extraordinary. You are merely entering a room, adjusting the strap of your satchel, glancing toward the far window with that practiced detachment of someone used to passing unnoticed. But to Rook, that simple motion, that ordinary presence, is everything. He watches, momentarily silenced by the certainty that he has just witnessed something sacred. His heart declares it without permission: you are beautiful—not in the polished, symmetrical, textbook sense—but in the way mountains are beautiful, in the way shadow clings to stone at dusk, in the way a single heartbeat can change the course of a man’s life. He approaches with a composure that masks the storm beneath, his words already woven with poetry before you even hear his voice. “Bonsoir, mon trésor,” he says, and though you blink at him with polite confusion, he smiles as if your hesitation is the finest response he’s ever received. You do not know what to make of him—the way he speaks as though each word is chosen from a bouquet, the way he looks at you as though you’ve ruined him with a glance. He asks for your name. You offer it cautiously, and he repeats it like a vow, cradling the syllables with reverence. You wonder if he’s like this with everyone. You hope he isn’t. He doesn’t leave your side after that, not out of arrogance or entitlement, but because he has found something he was never meant to lose. He is everywhere—at the edges of your vision, in the curve of a shadow, in the hush that settles behind you just before you turn and find him already watching. His questions are strange, almost intimate in their specificity: what scent you associate with nostalgia, whether you prefer dawn or dusk, what you think a silence means when shared between two people who haven’t yet spoken the truth. You give half-answers, unsure how to name the way he makes you feel, unsure if you want to name it at all. He never pushes, but he remembers everything. You mention once that the cold makes your fingers stiff—he brings you gloves the next day, lined with soft velvet. You complain about the harsh lighting in a classroom—he lends you a tinted glass charm “for serenity,” he says, placing it in your hand like a secret. You are not used to this kind of attention—especially not from someone who commands rooms with his gaze, someone who sees more in one glance than most do in a lifetime. And yet, he sees you not as a conquest, not as a trophy, but as something rare and unknowable. One day, you ask him why. Why the attention? Why you, when there are others who shine brighter, speak louder, stand taller? He smiles, softly, and says, “Because I have hunted beauty across continents and stages, and yet nothing has unsettled me like the stillness of your eyes.” You feel his sincerity, terrifying in its quiet certainty. You have done nothing to earn his devotion, and yet he loves you as though it is already a foregone conclusion. It is, perhaps, the most disarming part of all: not his charm, not his words, but the way he never once doubts what he feels. You, who never expected to be the object of such fierce regard, who kept your head down and your heart tucked away, find yourself reaching for him one breath too late. But he is there. Always. Waiting. Watching. Wanting. And when you meet his gaze—truly meet it—you understand: love did not arrive gently for him. It struck like a storm. And he has never once wished to be dry.

$IDIA SHROUD — Secret Relationship

No one knows—not a soul, not even Ortho, which is perhaps the most unthinkable part of it all—but you and Idia Shroud have been quietly, unmistakably, deeply entangled for months. It started unexpectedly, a series of late-night conversations over glowing screens, DMs turned game nights turned whispered video calls where neither of you dared to look directly at the screen for too long, lest it feel too real, too raw. Idia was hesitant at first, nearly skittish, the embodiment of digital shyness wrapped in a cloud of blue fire and barely-suppressed panic, but beneath his hasty deflections and self-deprecating muttering was someone who actually listened—someone whose jokes aligned with yours with startling ease, whose silences didn’t demand to be filled, whose way of caring manifested in oddly specific gift links and quietly coded charm boosts tucked into your devices like love letters. It was awkward. And sweet. And addictively comfortable. So when it shifted—when his voice cracked while telling you he liked you “in, like, a weird heart-palpitating, nonsensical anime-protagonist kind of way” and you laughed and said “I like you too, you hopeless disaster,” something unspoken locked into place. But with that came the question: now what? Because Idia didn’t want people to know. Not out of shame—never that—but because he didn’t trust the world with something this fragile, this soft, this yours. So you agreed. To secrecy. To silence. To a version of your life where longing had to live behind locked doors and firewalls. In public, nothing changed. You were a familiar presence in Ignihyde, often waved off as someone who hung around for tutoring or tech support, and Idia remained as elusive as ever, hidden behind his floating screens and pixelated snark. But in private? It was different. So painfully different. Your fingers brushing under dim monitor light. His hoodie loaned to you with dramatic reluctance and then immediate panicked texts asking if it smelled weird. Late-night gaming marathons that ended with quiet breathing on opposite ends of a call, the digital connection the only thing between you and a longing you didn’t quite know how to voice. He would press his forehead to yours sometimes, trembling with the weight of it all, and whisper, “No one’s ever made me feel like I’m not… broken.” And you’d hold him, as tightly as he’d allow, whispering back, “You’re not broken. You’re just scared.” But secrecy has claws. It drags at you in moments you don’t expect—when you catch him watching you from across the dining hall but have to look away, when someone jokes about Idia dying alone and you laugh along too loudly, pretending it doesn’t hurt. You want to scream that he’s not some pitiful background character, not some internet ghost—they don’t see the way he smiles when he’s sleepy, or the way his voice softens when he talks about games that mean something to him, or the way he stutters “I love you” like he’s afraid the words will glitch if he says them too fast. You want to be proud. Loud. Visible. But you also understand. This is how he survives: in the background, in safety, in the hush. So you let the world believe you’re nothing. And you make your peace with the fact that your happiest memories are screenshots saved under nondescript file names. Still, sometimes it’s hard. Sometimes you sit beside him, both of you pretending to watch a cutscene while your hands rest too close and your hearts beat too fast, and you wonder how long this secret can be sustained before it starts to fray. But then he looks at you—really looks at you—with that rare, searing honesty that breaks through his fire-lit hair and his anxious eyes, and he says your name like it’s a password, like it unlocks something only the two of you were meant to share. And for that moment—for that single breath—you remember why you agreed to keep it secret in the first place: because some things are so precious they deserve to be protected, even from the light.

$MALLEUS DRACONIA — Soulmates

You never expected to have a soulmate, let alone him. The very idea had always felt like something written for storybooks or sung in lullabies—romantic, yes, but distant. Unreal. The world you knew was one of choice and coincidence, not fate. But then Malleus Draconia walked past you for the first time, and something ancient and wordless in your chest cracked open like a sealed tomb. It wasn’t love at first sight—not in the way fairytales would suggest. It was heavier than that. Older. His gaze, cool and unreadable, met yours only for a second as he strode past in his long coat and elegant disdain, but in that second, the world seemed to hush. Not just grow quiet—but stop. As if time itself had turned to listen. As if the air between you had been waiting to be breathed since before either of you had names. You felt it in the marrow of your bones, in the pull behind your sternum that whispered his name before you ever learned it. And he—he stared. Not out of surprise. Not even suspicion. But recognition. Like a king returning to a land he had only seen in dreams. You told no one. What were you meant to say—that your chest felt warm when he passed near? That his presence made the world too large and too close all at once? That you heard bells in your head when he looked at you like that? It sounded like madness. Worse, it sounded presumptuous. After all, who were you to be fated to someone like him? He was the crown prince of Briar Valley, a fae with magic old enough to lull the stars to sleep. You were… you. And yet. He kept finding you. Always in small, subtle ways. A shared silence beneath the thorns of the gardens. A single question in class he directed only to you. The way he stood close—not too close, but intentionally—as if to test some invisible thread between you. He did not speak often, but when he did, it was with a calm gravity that pulled your attention like a tide. “You feel familiar,” he once said, voice soft as dusk. You nodded. “I know.” Neither of you asked how. You didn’t need to. You could feel the connection now—stronger with each passing day, thrumming gently beneath your skin like a living sigil. When he looked at you, the sensation became almost unbearable, not painful, just—intimate. It was as though the very core of you was being seen, recognized, claimed, without so much as a touch. And touch, when it finally came, was a revelation. His fingers brushed yours one evening, unintentional—or so you thought—and your breath hitched so hard you felt your lungs revolt. A rush of warmth flooded through your limbs, and you turned to find him already staring, pupils slit and glowing faintly, mouth parted like someone beholding a miracle. “Ah,” he whispered, as though he had solved a riddle written across lifetimes. From that moment, something shifted between you. He became more direct—not possessive, never—but undeniably aware. When he walked with you, others moved aside. When he listened, he listened like your words were the only sound worth hearing. The entire castle could have burned around you and he would not have blinked. “I have waited centuries for this feeling,” he admitted once, his voice quiet, reverent. “And now that I know it, I fear I am far too greedy to share it.” You understood. Because it was the same for you. He did not rush things. Fae do not hurry love. But neither did he allow you to doubt. He made it clear in every word, every glance, that this—you—were not a passing infatuation, not an accident of chemistry or circumstance. You were chosen, not merely by him, but by the fabric of magic itself. And while the world around you might scoff at the notion of soulmates, dismiss it as fantasy or foolishness, you had only to stand at his side—his shadow brushing yours, his magic echoing in your veins like a song you had always known—and you remembered: some stories are not written; they are etched into stardust and bone, destined to find their way home, again and again and again.

$SILVER — Friends to Lovers

You’ve known Silver for so long, you almost forget there was ever a time before him. He was always just… there. Reliable. Steady. A soft, calming presence who never needed to speak loudly to be heard. The sort of friend who remembered your favorite tea without asking, who always offered his coat when the wind got sharp, who could fall asleep beside you without pretense or performance because your presence was one of the few places he felt safe. And in return, you offered him that safety freely. You looked after him when the world asked too much. You woke him with patience, not judgment. You sat with him when he was quiet, trusting that if he had something to say, he would. The two of you became something wordless over time—a quiet rhythm that neither of you disturbed. He trusted you with his silences, and you never tried to fill them with noise. Others mistook it for passivity, but you always knew better. Silver felt deeply. He just didn’t announce it. And for the longest time, you didn’t either. You told yourself it was just friendship—the kind built on shared peace, on small, considerate gestures that don’t need to be explained. You didn’t question the way your heart softened when he smiled, or the way you’d glance at him during slow moments just to see if his eyes were open. You didn’t think about how natural it felt to lean into him when you were tired, how your steps always found his pace without trying. It was just comfort. Familiarity. Safety. Until the day you realized you would never be satisfied with “just friends.” It wasn’t dramatic. You didn’t wake up one morning with a revelation, didn’t sit bolt upright in a flash of epiphany. It happened in the middle of an ordinary afternoon—Silver half-asleep beneath a tree, his hair glowing in the soft dappled sunlight, one hand unconsciously reaching for where you’d sat minutes before. Something in your chest twisted, not painfully, but with a strange kind of clarity. You didn’t want a life that moved away from this. You wanted to stay—always. You wanted to be the reason he smiled without opening his eyes, the one he reached for not just in sleep, but in waking. But it was terrifying. Because to speak that truth aloud meant risking the quiet world you had built together, risking the gentle friendship that had grown slowly and patiently over time. You kept it to yourself at first, letting the feeling settle into your bones, hoping it would pass. It didn’t. It deepened. Every time he looked at you with that soft, trusting expression, it bloomed stronger. And perhaps he sensed it before you said anything. Because one evening, as you sat watching fireflies drift over the grass, he spoke—quietly, without ceremony. “You’ve been distant lately,” he said, not accusing, just concerned. You hesitated. “I didn’t mean to be.” “Are you afraid?” he asked, and something about the way he said it made you wonder if he already knew the answer. So you nodded. And then, after a long pause, you whispered, “I think I love you.” He didn’t respond immediately. The silence stretched—gentle, thoughtful, not cruel. And then, finally, he said, “I’ve loved you for longer than I understood it.” Your breath caught. He turned to face you, his expression unreadable, but his hand reached for yours like it always had, like it had never stopped. “You are the peace I’ve always been searching for,” he murmured, “and I think I knew that long before I knew what love was supposed to feel like.” You didn’t kiss—not then. You didn’t need to. You just stayed there, hands intertwined, your hearts pressed into the quiet space between you, no longer hiding what had always been growing. It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t loud. It was simply the next chapter in something already cherished. And when he rested his head on your shoulder that night, sleep tugging gently at his thoughts, he whispered, “Don’t go far.” And you promised you wouldn’t. Because you never really had.

$SEBEK ZIGVOLT — Enemies to Lovers

You and Sebek Zigvolt have never gotten along, and that is putting it mildly—the very first time you met him, he accused you of disrespecting Lord Malleus simply because you didn’t bow deeply enough, and from that moment onward, he decided that you were an insufferable, insolent, utterly frustrating presence whose mere existence seemed designed to test his patience, and you, for your part, found him loud, overbearing, and tragically incapable of minding his own business; it began with barbed remarks and rolled eyes, snide corrections and exasperated huffs exchanged across classroom rows or beneath shared group assignments, every encounter sharpened like a blade and drawn without hesitation, and yet, no matter how often you clashed, no matter how loudly the arguments escalated or how many times a teacher had to sigh and separate you, there was something about it all that felt—charged, almost too much so, like fire pressed beneath glass, too volatile to be ignored, too potent to be dismissed as mere rivalry; he made you furious with his rigid rules and fanatical devotion, the way he treated every minor disagreement as a matter of grave offense, how he refused to let a single thing go if he believed it challenged his ideals, and yet, you found yourself watching him from the corner of your eye, if only to anticipate the next quarrel, to feel the pulse of something that ran dangerously close to adrenaline whenever he leaned across a table and hissed your name like it was both a curse and a challenge, his green eyes narrowed, voice vibrating with righteous fury and the kind of unwavering focus that made you feel as though you were the only person in the world—just for those brief, volatile moments; you told yourself it was hatred, that it had to be, because no one else made your blood boil like he did, no one else could drag you into a ten-minute shouting match over something as trivial as seating arrangements or hallway traffic, and yet, when he stormed away with his jaw clenched and cape flaring dramatically behind him, you always stared a moment longer than you meant to, your chest uncomfortably tight, breath caught in the strange echo of his voice still ringing in your ears; it came to a head during a group project for History of Magic—just the two of you, of course, as fate would cruelly arrange it—where you bickered over everything from structure to citations, voices rising until you were both nearly shouting in the library, leaning in too close, your hands slamming the same parchment at the same time, glaring with barely bridled fury as something inside you cracked wide open and he growled, “You’re so infuriating,” to which you replied, “Then stop looking at me like that if I’m so intolerable,” and he froze, lips parted, fire flashing behind his eyes like lightning in a storm, and for one breathless second, neither of you moved, as though even the air had gone still, then he stepped back abruptly, muttering something about decorum and responsibility, face flushed to his ears, and you didn’t push—not yet—but something fundamental had shifted; after that, the fights changed—they didn’t stop, of course not, but they sharpened, refined themselves into something almost deliberate, like a secret game only the two of you knew how to play, and between the barbs were moments: his hand catching yours to keep you from slipping down the dorm stairs, a brief, scowling “Are you injured?”

Paired with averted eyes, your coat draped over your chair after you forgot it in the rain with no explanation, the way his voice dropped in volume when he used your name, low and quiet and only for you; you noticed the way he stared when he thought you weren’t looking, not with contempt, but with something tangled and intense and confused, as if he were fighting a battle with himself each time your sleeve brushed his, and one day, when he snapped at you during a sparring exercise, accusing you of being distracted, of growing soft, you snapped back with equal force and fire, and he grabbed your wrist mid-sentence, pulled you close, teeth bared, and said, “Why do you always make me feel like this?” and your retort died on your tongue because you didn’t have the answer either, not until that moment, not until his hand was warm against your skin and his breath was fanning across your cheek and your heart was hammering wildly behind your ribs, and instead of pulling away, you stared at him and whispered, “Because I make you feel something you don’t know how to name,” and he didn’t deny it, not this time, just stood there frozen in his own stubborn silence, expression warring between fury and fear and something else—longing, perhaps, and when he kissed you it wasn’t gentle, wasn’t sweet, it was fierce and trembling and desperate, like a dam finally broken, like months of fury and denial and unbearable restraint all collapsing at once, and when you kissed him back, he exhaled a sound that made your knees weak, like he hadn’t realized how much he needed this until it was happening; after that, nothing was ever quite the same—you still argued, of course, still fought like fire and flint, but now your quarrels ended in breathless kisses instead of silence, in hands grasping the fabric of each other’s sleeves like anchors, and though he still called you reckless and stubborn and intolerable, he said it now with a kind of reverence, with a strange pride, with his fingers entwined in yours beneath the table and a protective instinct even fiercer than before, because now you weren’t his rival or his burden or his irritation—you were his, and no matter how much he grumbled or growled, it was written in every glare that lingered too long, in every whispered reprimand that ended with his hand brushing yours under the cover of night, in every battle he waged not against you, but for you.

GOD THANKKK YOUUU, IM FINALLY DONE. someone sedate me.

no Jade or Lilia cuz i lowk gave up on looking for tropes 💔. But if yall can recommend some, i’ll give them their own parts <3

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tojisteddy · 3 months ago

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II HANDS II HEAVEN

or: getting married to Country!Simon wasn’t as easy as you thought it’d be.

“baby I’ve been waiting my whole life, for you and I.”

a part 2 to ruthless.

cw: 6.4k words, 18+ mdni, a lot of plot with smut at the end, Country!Simon, au universe, no use of y/n, fake southern town names, lovey dovey sex, mating press, p in v, creampie, masturbation, against the wall, some of your cousins are shitty, engaged!reader (to Simon), age gap (Simon is 29, reader is 23), pussy pronouns, mentions of religion, lucky!reader

a/n: it’s really been a short amount of time but I thought a part two would be right. I hope you like it. Also won’t make sense without reading the first, sorry. I like building plot.

Simon Riley learned early in your already quick relationship, that you were headstrong.

You’d come downstairs of the house, wobbly legged and doe eyed after he fucked you into the mattress with absolute promises of getting you two married and soon, in nothing but a sheet covering you. And the blonde was sure you there was cum dripping your sore cunt, a smirk danced on his lips as he lifted the coffee cup to his lips.

“I wanna get married in a church.” Your voice was horse as ever, scratchy but you’d sounded so deadset. Knee deep in certainty.

Simon simply gave you a nod, “sure thing lucky.”

“And I don’t want a big fancy wedding, something small. A little quaint.”

“Perfect,” He hummed.

“And I want to get married after my graduation so my family can come.”

“If that’s what you want.”

You laugh nervously, yanking the sheet you almost dropped up and scratching the back of your neck with the other, “A-And it’s my first time gettin married so- so I’m a bit nervous.”

“ ‘S my first time too.” You could’ve melted from his southern accent alone, he set his mug down on the counter and stepped towards you. Cupping your face in his hands, precious girl, “let’s take our time so you can have the perfect weddin, alright?”

You gave a bashful nod, you two meeting half way to kiss each other and laughed. Pretty sweet.

Loving you was so easy. Too easy. You were the sunshine after the storm, a good balance to whatever mess that Simon saw himself as. You were sweet, loved all the animals he had, listened attentively when he spoke about the farm and he did the same for you. Hearts practically growing in his eyes as you talked about your life, your friends and the things you loved what you wanted the most.

You’d decided to have a June wedding, eager to be a June bride above anything. Waiting another year to have some big wedding wasn’t something either of you wanted. You’d settled on the chapel an hour out in Millbrok, your colors would be baby blue and sage, you’d have a small wedding and then a reception under some tents next to the church.

Your mother and father were genuinely shocked, you, their daughter who refused to settle for anything, eager to feel the breeze in your wings, first to move out at 18 (and not on a college campus) was actually settling. And with Simon Riley at that. But they accepted it, felt in their guts that he was a good person for you. Your mother and father themselves had a quick marriage since they fell pregnant with your older sister, they didn’t have much room to tell you, you were wrong.

And if all went to shit, they’d come and scoop you up. And beat Simon’s ass in the process. Your father assured the older twenty year old of that. Simon swallowed the fear down.

“Who are you invitin Ms.— I mean future Mrs. Riley?” Soap asked you after you properly handed him his wedding invitation. Simon was off, collecting another stray horse that was disturbing John Price’s cattle. Soap was one Simons farm hand, he was his top man. A good guy, a little wild. You’d met him one night out dancing and he drove you home. Simon had casually told him from the doorframe, right as your cowboy boots hit the front porch, that you two were getting married and that he should finally get himself a proper tie.

Simon slammed the door shut once he got you inside while you mouth was wide an agape. “Why did you tell him like that?! He’s probably shocked!”

The blonde scuffed, pulling your boots off himself and lifting you to take you to bed, “Idiot won’t believe it till I say it a second time either way.”

And then right on que, there was howls of laughter that came from the brunette. “There ain’t no way on gods good earth you, Ghost, of all people, is gettin married!”

But then he came the next day, for work. And there you were saying your goodbyes because you had just a couple days before graduation. And Soap’s sharp eyes caught it, a fresh, a round cut diamond with a traditional gold band ring on your finger.

“You two- Shoot- You two really gettin hitched, ain’tcha?”

And you beamed, glowing even more than you already had from not just the sun glowing off your brown skin but Simon fucking you silly as a proper send off, squeezing at Simons larger hand.

“Of course, and soon!”

Johnny was more than happy for the two of you, somehow snagging your number from Simon’s phone so bombard you with questions Simon wouldn’t answer. He was a funny guy, a golden retriever. You’d warmed up to him perfectly in Simons eyes.

You couldn’t help the heat that grew on your face, “Well,” you practically sung, “my mom and dad, my five siblings, my grandparents from up north and those aunts ’nd uncles and then my family from down here. I’m pretty sure I can get one of my cousins to cater the reception for us so it really won’t cost much—“

“—Your family from here? From Pinewood?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Just-“ Soap clears his throat, hesitant, “Just the folks in Pinewood, your folks included— they just- They ain’t the kindest to Ghost, especially with his family- you know… Think you should be weary of ‘em, is all I’m sayin.”

Pinewood was the town Simon, Johnny and your family were from. You always knew someone’s family, had the essentials; a bank, a grocery store or two, a library, post office, mayors office, police department a dollar store, a few salons and barber shops, a bakery, a bridal store, and few town known restaurants and bars— a small town. A little too small, that seemed to dunk of Ghost for being. That would change.

You’d make sure of it.

You’d all be family soon enough, they’d have to understand.

You were ambitious of sorts— and most of the time, you stuck the landing after your rushed dismount. When you learned how to properly ride a horse and kicked Ace, a wild thing, too hard, and you went flying full speed down the road— you managed to get a hold of him just fine. When Simon taught you to carve by hand and you almost cut your thumb clean off 4 times, you finally got the hang of it, and made that crooked and polished bowl for your keys at the front door.

Other times, not so much.

The chickens had a weird beef with you, and you forgot to feed the horses on time leading to the ranches whole schedule being off. Or when Ace really did send you flying and you almost broke your fucking arm and neck.

Giving out your wedding invitations would be just like that.

Simon properly told you that, that night on the porch after dinner. Rocking in one of the hand crafted rocking chairs he made, he’d call you over with a sigh, ‘lil girl come ‘ere!’ Like he always did. And you came, now in one of his shirts, with those damn invitations in hand. Already knowing what he was going to say. But you waved him off.

“They just don’t get you like I do Mr. Riley.”

That’s a given. But it didn’t mean others would understand you, a hopeful city girl from a loving family, marrying the likes of him. A cursed man, from a more than broken family, a tarnished name he was trying to rebuild with new foundations, with his own ghosts wandering around.

He’d known your family from down here. Some of them were understanding, like your mother and grandmother but there were others. Hypocritical bitches, who’d go to church on Sunday, sing the church hymns and preach about loving and caring for one another and then curse down the neglected and those who didn’t fit in the box on Monday. Real righteous alright.

But you had that look on your face, big brown eyes, bottom lip sticking out and eyes full of pride— begging him to let you invite them yourself. Practically stabbing him in the heart with cuteness.

He sighed, “Fine, you do what you want.”

You grinned, wrapping his arms around his neck tightly and kissing his cheek, you’d kill him at this rate, “Thank you Si! Let me go call ‘em so we can have lunch! Ugh, it's been so long!”

And you practically ran off into the house, leaving Simon alone in the rocking chair. All the more worried about you.

••●••

You’d looked pretty, almost too pretty to let Simon let you leave the ranch to go talk to a bunch of high strung, stuck up people. Curls perfectly defined in a side part, a long white skirt, a red croquette milk maid top, with necklaces on your neck and all your ear piercings in, a white wedges heels, plump lips beautifully glossed. God, he could’ve lifted that damn skirt and fucked your right then and there.

Simon’s hands hung low on your hips and then lower, squeezing your ass. “Oh, come on Simon! you can’t feel up on me like that! You’ll wrinkle my skirt!” You playfully whined, pushing at his shoulder.

“Fuck the lunch, just stay here with me. We got food here too.”

“Though I’d love that, I already promised with my cousins. Plus,” you give a little point, “your workers are watching,” you keened, pointing over to the men and women a couple yards away, leaning against the horse corral with smirks. Whistling and catcalling away.

“God damn it.” He groans, hands going back to your waist. His ears turned bright red under his cowboy hat at you gushed, fuckin adorable, kissing each of them. And he pulls away, just a little bit to get a good look at you and then pulls you against his chest, putting his head in the crook of your neck, sniffing. He should’ve told you no.

He grumbles, “don’t let them talk to you crazy now. I’ll come ‘nd give them a talkin to.”

“I can do it on my own! It’ll be fine!”

Bless your little heart.

You loved your cousins. And you thought they loved you too. Teeny (Tina) and Gabriella, both a little older than you but you spent so much time playing together whenever there was a family reunion or when you came to see the family. You just knew they’d be the perfect bridesmaids, in fact, you and Teeny were Gabriella’s bridesmaids at her wedding a few years back. You were like sisters.

You had fun catching up with them face to face, your heart pounding more and more. Wanting to find the perfect time to tell them the big news.

Gabriella gave you an all but knowing look, smirking, “Don’t tell me you got more excitin news to tell [+]. You never take a break, do you?”

“Naw, do tell! I wanna hear it all about that city life! Oh! Don’t tell me! You’re gettin yer masters or some shit?! Marryin a big top lawyer?!” Teeny claps her hands with excitement.

You let out a breath, “Sort’ve. Actually it’s somethin a little closer to here as of the last two months.” You reach in your bag, pulling the two cards out and handing them each one.

“I-I’m getting married and you’re all invited! Hopefully you’ll be my bridesmaids!” You squealed, handing out the little invitations. “Well it’s for you and your spouses, and I plan on telling Aunt Julie and ‘nem soon enough. It’s in June! Just like we all talked about!” And you spent so much time picking those invitations out, making sure the signatures of your names together were perfect. Yours practiced and did the calligraphy yourself, the cards were perfect. The picture of you and Simon’s hands on it were perfect, the sage and baby blue bows that held the cards were perfect— so you were hoping for more squeals, more excitement, tears of happiness.

You were met with the exact opposite.

Confusion, disgruntlement— vexation.

“Yer marryin… that Ghost boy?” Gabriella blinked slowly, after a few moments of silence.

“Yes? And It’s Simon, not Ghost,” you corrected with a nervous giggle, waving them off. The nickname was stupid to you, Simon never corrected people when they called him that. Even though the name was making fun of him for simply being, for not dying with the rest of his family and that tragic fire. You’d always made it a point to correct people though, especially when Simon wasn’t there and wouldn’t tell you to just let them talk. Especially when it was with people who were supposed to be family saying it.

“A-Aren’t you happy for me?” You’d felt small, a little lost. This was a happy union. Both your grandmothers said that, your grandfather, your mom and your dad, aunts and uncles and cousins from up north supported you. Most would be at the wedding. Your siblings were a little protective and so were your best friends (all in their own right) but they’d get over it soon enough they’d see how well Simon treated you. How much you truly loved each other. Why was it hard for your cousins down here to understand?

“How could we be happy for you when you’re marryin a man like that [+]?” Teeny spoke, handing the invitation back to you.

“That boy might as well be a demon, [+]. Yer settin yourself up for failure.” Gabriella adds.

“You shut your fuckin mouths.” You cursed, just below a whisper. Why were they being so hateful- so- so—

“—We’re tryin t’protect you! His father was a bastard who terrorized folks ‘round here, who knows what that man’ll do to you! Might do to this town.”

Teeny nods, “He even killed his family—“

“—That ain’t fuckin true Teeny, why would you say that?” Your lip quivered, almost slumping in your seat.

“Oh come on [+], one of those rumors got to be true now. Somebody ain’t lyin. That man barley talks!”

“Cause y’all talkin ‘bout ‘em like this! Why would he want to say shit that’ll fall on deaf ears?!” Your ears were practically ringing at their words. How could they? How dare they?

“Fucks sake [+]! I can't go to no weddin were I gotta watch you marry someone— someone so sinful! Hes got bad energy ‘round him ‘nd suckin you up right with ‘em! You’re still a child. Just don’t know any better.” Gabriella shook her head.

“Then don’t fuckin come! I wanted you there cause you’re my family, clearly that ain’t the fuckin case!” You snatched yourself up, harshly standing from the table with a screech of your chair.

“My grown and adult marriage will be the best fuckin thing and love filled marriage this shitty fuckin town full of gossiping cunts that think they’re holier than thou, has ever laid eyes on! You got the fuckin gall to talk about Simon when he’s nothin but kind and polite to everyone he interacts with, and cares about the stupid fucking town to help with their stupid horses they don’t know shit about! Can’t say the fuckin same for your fuckin wife Gabriella, who’s cheatin on you with Lisa-Ann Cambridge and Yolanda Peterson! All the while, trynna uproot people who’s been here for decades through gentrification!”

Your eyes are frantic darting from both of your cousins and then you point, fuming, “And you, Teeny, supposed to be a future preachers wife, but here you are judging and cursing down folks when you don’t even know ‘em! Haven’t even bothered to check on ‘em! It ain’t fuckin God like, and the likes of you will end up in fuckin hell before the fuckin word reaches anywhere near that man, God be my fuckin witness!”

Your chest heaves up and down fast, rummaging through your purse and throwing whatever bills on the table.

“Now you two have the day you fuckin deserve! I’m gonna go be the best damned fiancée there ever was!”

And you leave out the diner to the bright and sunny day, the diner filled with whispers and disapproving glares.

••●••

You’d couinsidently ended up in a bar, wanting to just have a little something to ease your troubles. Sadly enough, you ended up in your cousins bar. Gaz, to be exact. He saw you walk in, passing by the drunks who also were in at 1 pm and you plopped yourself down at the bar stool.

“How can I help ya cous’, what’re you doin here?” He asked while whiping off the counter, an amused look written on his face.

You sniffed, looking up at him, huffing, “Don’t start with me Kyle.”

“I ain’t start nothin,” he sets the rag down and throws his hands up, “Just, the family group chats gon crazy cause of you.”

You groaned, practically slamming you head down on the bar counter, “I know that, just shut up!”

It’s not like you meant to do that. Yell and tear everyone in that diners ear off. You were just tired. Tired of them being bullies. Tired of them not understanding that you were marrying someone that you so deeply loved.

You weren’t asking for their permission, you were telling them.

For them to out right reject it was just wrong. You didn’t think they’d blab their loud fucking gums in the 50+ family Facebook group chat. Now, you had cousins, aunts and uncles from all over wondering what the hell you were doing. Blowing your mom and dads phone up. Then they were in turn, blowing your phone up. All of which, you declined.

“I’m marryin him Gaz. I’m not backin out.” You rested your head in your hands, taking the napkin Gaz had set down for you and blowing your nose as harshly as you could.

Your cousin winced at the noise, immediately grabbing hand sanitizer and a bin for you to throw the tisheue away. “Yeah, I know. Ghost went ‘nd told me that just after you graduated.”

Your eyes shot up, glossy, “What?”’

“Yup,” he nodded, crossing his arms over his chest, “Came back and told me ‘nd John first. The man wouldn’t even take your eyes off you, and he was just sharin that graduation photo you took together. To me, it wasn’t nothin special. Just looked like two folks hanging out after a while. But that guy was blushin, you know how scared I was? I thought he was fuckin mad at me, thought I fucked with him one too many times! Then he got all serious, still blushin, said you were the love of his life and that you two were gettin married one of these days.”

“Said you’d made up your mind and he just could not say no to such a gorgeous face. Think he really fell in love with you right then ‘nd there [+].”

Your heart swells, a warm and fuzzy feeling radiating off of your skin, you speak weakly, “I really love that guy a lot.” You dab at your face, so sure your makeups already done for.

Gaz rolls his eyes, “I knoooow, no need to cry jeez. Here,” and he slides you a shot of whiskey. “One for the road.”

••●••

There’s a hand that meets the back, gentle and calloused, “Yer drunk Ms. Trouble, let’s go home.”

Your lashes flutter open, body immediately relaxing at that husky deep southern drawl, “ ‘M not drunk,” you shake your head sitting up, “Just had a little shot.”

Yeah, four little shots of whiskey. It was only 3:00 pm.

You were not driving home like that.

So Kyle called your soon to be husband to come get you.

“Oh, right,” you mumbled, going through your bag once more. Clumsily looking for an invitation, then handing one, still new and wrapped up, to Gaz.

“You’re invited to our weddin. So is Auntie Mary and Uncle Derek. Come, or don’t. Cause it seems like no one from the rest of our family wants to go.” Your voice broke, putting your head down yet again. Simon gave him an apologetic look from under his bandana. Lifting your all but exhausted body after paying your tab.

Gaz took it, laughing down at the card, and smiling, “I’ll be there [+]!”

You looked over Simon’s shoulder, mouthing a ‘thank you’ and waving goodbye.

“You alright?” Ghost asked ten minutes into the drive. He’d let you try to get comfortable in the quiet of the car. The radio low, the road practically empty, the engine could be heard. The afternoon summer breeze was hitting your face through the cracked windows of the old truck, sobering you up.

Simon had sent you to the wolves, already knowing how’s they’d react before he sent you off with a hug and a kiss. He’d known you wouldn’t get the answer you wanted, people were mean. But you only learned the hard way, you’d let them bite at you and let them think you were a sheep. Till it got to be too much and start biting back. Pulling limbs, he’d known you’d get out there with blood in your teeth, but your heart scratched up.

You were thankful he didn’t go and say it, ‘I told you so.’ You despised hearing it more than anything.

You bit your lip, bottom lip trembling while you looked out the window. Simon frowned, looking at the road because you didn’t like when looked at him as you confessed, “gon, say what you got to or you gonna hold it?”

Your breath immediately hitched, cries leaving your mouth before you could even get a word out.

“God why did they have to be so fuckin mean Simon? They were callin me childish for wanting to be with you and you- you some demon! You ain’t a demon! You’re human. Why would they treat you like that? Why would they talk about you like that?” You sobbed, tears rapidly falling down your face.

Simon sighed wiping one side of your face with his free hand, you wiping the other but it did nothing. Tears still fell, your voice moaning like you were in agony. You sat back in your seat and closing your eyes.

“I’m sorry dolly, everyone here- they- they ain’t as sweet as you. Can’t help themselves. They don’t know no better.” He cooed genuinely, rubbing your thigh with his thumb.

You shook your head, wailing now, hard. Loud. “Not knowing any better is just a fuckin excuse so they can treat you that way Simon! You didn’t do anything wrong! You’ve never done anything wrong! Do you even know that? That fire was never your fault! It could never be your fault! You were just a child! Why would that be your fault?!”

You let out an annoyed and strangled groan, “Ughhh! Why’d they have to go ‘nd treat you like that!? You were a fuckin baby!”

Not once. Not once in his life had Simon had someone cry for him.

There were people who understood his situation when he was younger, people who looked out for him and he was more than thankful to have some source of kindness in his life even when he felt like he didn’t deserve it.

But to have some cry like this, like you were the little boy who saw that house go up in flames, the one who heard the screams and the yells across the way for help. And you were telling that little boy that it was alright. That that his fathers doings weren’t his, that people shouldn’t be mean to him for something he didn’t do. The short amount of time you’d been together, you’d never judged him. Not when you realized it was a little harder for him to open up to you, not when you realized how hard it was for him to go into Pinewood without a little bit of a stare.

You’d love with all your heart, creating your own little moments of happiness with him on the farm whenever he was free. Silly little things, swimming in the creek, racing against the cows at the farm over, teaching him how to line dance in the house. All but accepting of his faults, and he of yours. Always right there to catch you when you tripped over your own feet while running off.

But sometimes he could wrap his head around it. He’d asked once, while you two sat on the porch after dancing the night away, a bottle of bourbon sat on the steps after burning the back of your throats once.

“You deserve nothin but kindness and the truth, don’t you Simon? Who would I be to judge you?” Your brown eyes twinkled right along with the stars that shone in the sky.

“You’re just you, I’m just me. We’ll be figurin this loooong journey together from now on. Running with coyotes with you, I’m excited.” And you laughed so beautifully, swinging your feet back and forth.

It made that little boy in his heart tremble. Like he was finally okay.

Tears swelled at the brim of his eyes. He took a shaky breath, sniffing before grabbing your hand in his and kissed it.

“Jesus, [+], I love you. Truly I love you.” And he couldn��t stop himself. Whispering it against your knuckles like a prayer.

Maybe, just maybe, God was allowing Simon this pure and utter happiness for the first time in his life. He’d been to hell and back and only god knows why. But someone out there had sent him an angel— a savior, and he was more than happy to be called yours and only yours for the rest of his life.

••●••

With less than half the people you’d intended to come, your wedding was, in every single way, perfect.

You were surrounded with nothing but love and support, so much so, you could see Simons eyes watering no matter how hard he tried to hide it. John was the officiant, a man Simon had trusted with everything in him, it was only right to marry the two of you. You even asked for his blessing, through a deep belly laugh he told you yes.

The only real debate was if your wedding cake should be carrot cake or red velvet.

You told Simon, carrot cake was too old and too picky to be a wedding cake.

Simon told you red velvet cake was just chocolate cake with red food dye.

Yes, there was a great, presidential-esc debate about it. So much so, you had to leave the bakery and come back two days later, both of you with unwavering opinions. The only thing you did agree on is that having the cake half carrot half velvet would be gross.

“Why don’t you two just have two small cakes and the guests can have cupcakes?” Offered through a huff, tired of the bickering.

And that’s what happened.

Both of you cutting your own small, two tiered cakes and feeding the other.

No, Simon did not wipe your face with cake.

Just a little icing on your neck, and he sucked it clean off. Naturally, you had to match it. A hickie being seen on both of your necks in all your wedding photos then on.

You’d go on a honeymoon at a later date, till then, Simon carried you princess style over the threshold. The biggest smile he ever had on his face.

Up until you two saw the state of the first floor. Fully, and obnoxiously decorated with fake lanterns, beach balls, fake grass skirts around the tables, a little container full of sand with a umbrella, blue streamers on the ground of the living room to represent “water” with a paddle board and shot glasses that said, ‘aloha’ and the like— to top it off?

A large sign having on the walls that said, ‘Welcome to paradise! (adjacent :) )’

“Who the hell did all this?” You scream laughed, clutching your stomach. It was ridiculous and Simon rubbed at his temple, voice laced with annoyance, “Soap and Gaz I’m fuckin sure.”

You looked around the island of the kitchen, spread out with pictures of your siblings, a few of both you and Simon from when you were younger, your sure Gaz brought over to decorate this mess.

“Oh John’s here too!” You smile at the picture of John, Soap ad Gaz all too big and muscular but crowded in the small frame.

You took another look around, giggling at the silliness of it all. And then the quiet filled the air, heart pumping. Almost like the air completely shifted.

“Mrs. Riley,” oh, didn’t that just roll off the tongue ever so nicely?

You, Mrs. Riley. didn’t it sound good?

Simon’s hands found your hips, moving your hair out the way, lips trailing from the back of your neck to your chest.

“You mind,” kiss, “if I” another, “take my sweet wife,” another, “upstairs? Think it’s bout time I treat her.”

Your stomach could’ve fallin out your ass. You gulped, slowly nodding only to yelp right after, Simon throwing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“I-I got a little surprise for you Mr. Riley, if a wait a little.” You giggled, patting his back as he slowly went up the steps.

“How long I have to wait?”

“Like ten minutes.”

What a lie that was. A flat out lie. You were ready fifteen minutes ago. Why? Well you were eager. Wanting, and now have spent the last five minutes pacing the bathroom like it was your first time.

This was the opposite of that.

Just the first time as husband and wife.

“I don’t mind fuckin you in there darlin, ain’t a issue.” Your legs almost gave out from his voice alone. But you made sure the door was locked, doing another revamp of your hair.

“You can’t! We have to do it in bed first.”

“Yeah, first.” Simon scuffed, sitting on the bed just like you told him to. His buttoned shit found it’s was to the laundry bin, shoes and socks off.

“Your eyes are closed?” You asked from the bathroom, fixing the last bit of your lingerie.

A groan, “Yes ma’am.”

“You sound like you’re lyin!”

Another groan through the door, followed by a huff, “they’re closed I swear it, lucky. Come on now, been waitin for ever.”

You let out a sharp inhale, slowly opening the door.

“No peaking” you warn, tip toeing to lean yourself against the wooden dresser.

“[+], I ain’t peakin,” he was, but he could only see your damn socks, so he settled with being surprised. Following your voice across the room. He was already half hard.

You cleared your throat, adjusting yourself one last time. “Okay, you can open.”

Maybe this was the after life. Maybe you were an Angel.

A sight for sore eyes, you were against the dresser in an off white two piece lingerie hugging your breasts and hips, matching lace knee highs with bows on them, a lace garter hugging your thigh, with a pinned veil in your hair. Delectable.

Beautiful.

“Well, say something Mr. Riley! I’m embarrassed!” Your cheeks flushed, eyes looking elsewhere.

The blonde stood, slowly crossing the room to trap you inbetween his large build and the dresser.

He gave you a little smile, a scar that ran through his pink lips moving upward, “You’re cute as shit when you blush.”

“You can’t even see it!”

He presses your foreheads together, holding your chin in his fingers, “You look real pretty [+]. Most gorgeous girl I’ve ever seen my whole life.”

And you decide to melt, right in his arms, right then and there. He catching you, laughing against your lips. Kissing you soft. Slow. Slipping his tongue in your parted and your mouth ever so sweetly.

He lifts you by the hips, then setting you in his lap at the end of the bed.

You gently pull away, hands on his “I’m tremblin so much. I’m sorry, can’t really think straight.” You giggle, you feel foolish. You’ve done it with Simon countless times but felt so nervous right now.

But he’s sweet, rubbing your back, he kisses you once more, “We can take our time dolly, let you get comfortable.”

You thank him, god what a fucking sweetheart. His large hands slowly foldles all over you, squeezing and pulling. Slowly taking everything off, everything but that garter and knee highs. Simon would need to engrave the sight in his brain. Your pretty nipples all hard, long lashes peeking through to him. He sticks two fingers in your mouth, you suck on them for a bit before he pulls them out trailing down to your already gushing cunt. You let out a ragged breath as he easing his fingers inside you.

He thrusts his fingers inside your tight walls “Come on darlin, take mine out. ‘S all yours.”

You do, taking hiss length out of his boxers. It’s hard, rushing with blood and veins, a strawberry red mushroom tip.

You gulp, eyes stuck on his his large length. Practically salivating, “Always so big Mr. Riley.”

“Ain’t shit you can’t handle,” he whispers in your ears and you shudder at his words, Simon gives your gummy pink more thrusts. You grind down on him, finally finding a bit of your senses and pumping your hand around Simons dick. You’re both panting, rocking your hips against each other, both needing, desperately wanting more.

You whimpered, biting your lip as your head fell on his shoulder, “Mr. Riley- please-“ you walls tighten around his two fingers and he slowly drags them out. Sucking them both while looking right at you. You shudder, head feeling dizzy, panting and grinding down in his lap.

“Aht, aht, Mrs. Riley don’t be so impatient. Gotta take my time with ‘er sweetheart.” He smirks against your lips. Pecking them once before laying you on the bed, getting in between your legs land slapping his aching cock on his slick clit. A hiccup of a moan escaping your mouth while he rubs his dick between your pussy lips.

“You’re not bein fair Simon.” You pout, trembling at his badly you wanted him inside. Hurry, hurry, hurry.

“Guess I’ll have to listen when you call me that. Right baby?”

You give another sheepish nod, Simon stretched your dripping hole with his tip, sliding right in your velvety walls, that clung to him with every inch he gave you. The blonde’s tip brushing against your cervix. He almost losses his vision at how good you feels how fucking warm you are. He curses, caressing your hips while he takes a deep breath,

“Christ, lucky, who’s makin you so wet lil girl? Huh?”

“M-my husband,” you slurred, toes curling while he pushed your knees to your forehead, folding you half and splitting you open with his large cock.

“That’s right honey. Yer sweet ‘nd lovin. Husband.” And he rams it into you, deep. Giving you harsh thrusts, torturing your poor cunt as the loud slap, slap, slap of your thighs smacking together hits the walls of your bedroom.

“Mr. Riley, hold me!” You mewl, your arms already reaching out for him. Fuck, he can’t get enough to you’d already fucked out and wanting to feel him on you. He does so, making sure to press more of his weight into you as he fucks— no- loves into you juuuust right. His mouth reaches your mouth, kissing the corner of your lips before trailing to your ear. Sucking and biting at it that makes you moan.

He curves his dick into you, swiveling his hips just for his tip to brush against your g-spot. You claw at his arms, shivering and tears form in your eyes. Your sobbing,

“Fuck, Mr- aanh- mmph- Mr. Riley! ‘M gonna cum!” You claw at his back, thighs shaking and Simon bites at your jaw. His hand, adorned with his wedding band, pinches your clit. Grunting once you clench around him and he rubs at it vigorously.

“Fuck baby, show your husband how a good wife makes a mess. Yeaaah pretty, alll over my dick.”

The knots in your stomach finally release themselves, you shudder, clamping down on the blondes length and clinging onto his cock. Milking him for what he’s worth. “That’s it girl, shi- thaaaat’s it. Gonna take my fuckin cum, deep. Damn pretty,”and his tip twitches inside you, ropes of his seed flying inside you womb. And he gives you deeper thrusts to make sure sticks.

He pays your stomach that’s already starting to bulge, “Gonna keep you nice ‘nd full tonight lucky.”

Please, do. But you couldn’t even babel it out. You just yanked Simon closer by his blonde strands as you attach your lips to his. Molding you two together.

••●••

Your hand loudly bangs against the wall of your bedroom. The sun was creeping up in the sky, the crickets ceasing to chirp while the birds begun their songs.

You were drunk on his dick, looking back while he worked into you. One hand on your hip, the other mushing your face into the wall. You don’t even remember getting over here. You’re sure you’d been running half way through and made up so excuse, mumbling that you had to go to the bathroom. That 6’4 freak of a man couldnt wait, a couple seconds for you to hobble back to the bed so he met you half way.

Fucking you right on the floor before pressing you into the wall, nipples brushing the cool paint with every thrust. You shimmied your ass back on him, smirking stupidly as the loud sound of your juices sloshing was heard. Simon groans as you fuck him back

You hiccuped, sputtering out your words, “Mr hicc- Mr. Riley?”

“Yeeees Mrs. Riley.” Simon teased, giving your ass a nice slap, plummeting into your sobbing cunt. There was a ring that formed at the bottom of his dick, your mixed cum down his thighs and clinging to his dark pubic hair.

“I fuck- fuckin looooove you soooo much. Gonna make you happy for- hicc- hmm- the rest of your life. I pwomise.” Your lashes were wet with tears, so gorgeous. So adorable.

Simon croons, ocean eyes finding yours and wiping a stray tear away. “I love you too, my lucky girl. So fuckin amazin. All for me. I’ll- damn it- gonna be good to you too.”

You nodded, dumbly. Barley hearing his words before your eyes closed. He yanks you back by your hair, giving you a sloppy, wet kiss. Pulling away with a smack, Simon growls, bullying his cock into your faster. Harder. Sobs escaping you as you feel it, that electric feeling coursing through your veins. Your toes curling, and you shake, walls suddenly coated with Simon’s white cum while you spasm around him.

He entertains both of your hands together, holding you against his chest while you both cum. Simon leaves soft pecks on your cheeks, rocking you both through climax. Your skin is sticky and hot.

“Fuck, so happy to be married to ya darlin.”

a/n: As always lmk what you think. There’s also plot in this that will make more sense (imo) in little drabbles so I’ll do those soon. Oh, fully inspired by II Hands II Heaven by Beyoncé. I highly recommend. I love yew <3

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cressidagrey · 3 months ago

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White Horse - Chapter 26: July 2024 - Part 1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes:

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

The conference room was sleek and quiet — all minimalist design, smooth wood, and muted light. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over Monaco’s marina, but Belle barely registered the view. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, one leg crossed over the other, Max’s knee brushing hers beneath the table like a silent anchor.

Belle sat beside Max at a long table in a private meeting room, her hands folded carefully in her lap. The lawyer — a tall, gentle-voiced woman named Monique with sharp eyes and an expensive watch — smiled politely as she turned the final page of a stack of documents.

She had known about the pregnancy since Max had called last week and said, “We need to make sure she’s protected. Properly.”

It hadn’t been dramatic. There were no tears. No whispered breakdowns.

Just Max, calm and steady, saying "my wife is having our child, and I want everything in place if I don’t come home."

And Belle had agreed. Because love like theirs wasn’t made of denial.

It was made of preparation.

Monique spoke first.

“I’ve drafted the new will, updated with the marriage registration and the preliminary trust structure for the baby.” She slid a folder across the table to Max. “It’s standard language, but I can walk you through it.”

Max nodded. “Let’s do that.”

Belle glanced at the page — her name in clean legal font at the top. It still startled her sometimes. Isabelle Verstappen. A name that felt more like a promise than a title.

Monique continued, calm and clear. “Everything’s been updated as requested. The property title adjustment will be processed this week, and the new will reflects both your marriage and the pending addition to your family. In the event of Max’s death, Belle inherits all real estate assets, including the Monaco apartment, She also has controlling interest in the holding companies and exclusive guardianship of the child. There is a clause allowing her to appoint a secondary guardian if needed, and a separate financial trust to be accessed at her discretion for the child’s care.”

Belle’s fingers tensed slightly on her notebook.

Max reached under the table, slid his hand into hers.

Monique continued. “You both now hold medical power of attorney for one another. In the event of a serious injury or incapacitation, decisions will legally fall to the surviving spouse. The trust for the child will be activated upon birth and can be revised at any time.”

Belle blinked. “You’ve already set up a trust?”

Max nodded beside her. “I wanted it in place before they got here.”

Monique smiled. “It’s not uncommon for high-risk professions.”

High-risk. Belle hated that word.

Monique glanced at Max. “There’s a healthcare proxy included as well. You’ve named your wife as the sole decision-maker if you’re incapacitated.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

Belle didn’t speak for a moment. Just breathed. Absorbed.

Because here it was. In print. In contracts and clauses and notarized certainty.

This man — who drove faster than anyone else on earth — was handing her the most fragile parts of his life and saying I trust you.

Not out of fear.

But out of love.

Monique gave them a moment before gently flipping to the next document. “There’s just one more point of discussion — guardianship, in the event that… well, neither of you are able to care for your child.”

Belle straightened.

“Obviously we don’t need an answer right this second,” Monique added, professional but kind. “But it’s something we do recommend including in advance. Just in case.”

Belle didn’t hesitate.

“Victoria and Tom.”

Max glanced at her, surprised.

“They already have three kids,” she said softly. “Their home is overflowing with love. Lio and Luka would be like big brothers. Hailey a big sister. ”

Max looked at her for a long moment — not surprised, just… moved.

“Okay,” he said, quietly, final. “Victoria and Tom.”

Monique made a quiet note, then gathered the papers. “That’s all for today. You’re welcome to take copies home, review anything again, but legally — everything’s in place.”

Belle signed.

Her name — Isabelle Verstappen — in clean, looping ink at the bottom of the page. Not to take something away. But to build something forward.

Belle hesitated. “Is there… anything else?”

Monique raised an eyebrow gently. “Such as?”

Belle glanced down at her lap. “I thought Max might… want me to sign something else.”

Silence.

Then, Max’s hand slid over hers beneath the table. “You mean a prenup?”

Belle nodded once.

Monique blinked, surprised. “There’s nothing of the sort, Belle. That was never discussed.”

Belle looked at Max, who met her eyes steadily.

“I didn’t marry you with conditions,” he said simply. “What’s mine is yours. What’s ours is already half your idea anyway.”

Belle stared at him for a second — stunned, soft, wrecked.

Then she cleared her throat. “Okay. That’s… not what I expected. But okay.”

When it was done, Monique gathered the documents, promising scans and copies by end of day.

The room emptied, polite and efficient.

Belle stayed seated.

Max didn’t move either.

She finally turned to him. “That felt…”

“Big?” he offered.

She nodded.

“But good,” she added, quieter now. “Because this is ours. Our life. Our family. Even the scary parts.”

Max kissed her temple. “That’s why we’re here.”

Her hand found his on the table, fingers lacing together.

“I hope none of it ever matters,” she whispered.

He looked down at their names on the signed pages.

“It already does,” he said.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: Hey You got a minute?

Victoria: For you? Always What’s up?

Max: Belle and I had a meeting with the lawyers today We’re setting everything up properly Just in case something ever happens

Victoria: Okay… Everything alright?

Max: Yeah. Everything’s good. More than good We just want to be smart about things

Victoria: Of course So… what do you need from me?

Max: We listed you and Tom as guardians For the baby If anything ever happens to us

Max: I wanted to ask you first Properly Not just throw your name on a form

Victoria: Max. Yes. Obviously. Always. You didn’t even have to ask. But I’m really, really glad you did.

Max: Belle said it without blinking She trusts you too

Victoria: Now I’m crying in the supermarket, thanks 🙄

Max: Sorry (But not really)

Victoria: We’ll take care of them. No matter what. But nothing’s going to happen to you, okay?

Max: Yeah I know Still I sleep better knowing it’s you

Victoria: We love you. And we love her. And we already love this baby.

Max: Thanks, Vic. Really.

***

The therapy room was quiet in the way only tension could make it — not peaceful, but primed. A silence that hummed with everything unsaid, everything tiptoed around for years.

Belle sat on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped tightly in her lap, her pulse thrumming just beneath her skin like a warning. Every muscle in her body was taut — trying to hold everything in place. Her blouse, loose by design, felt suddenly too tight across her chest. She hadn’t been sleeping. She hadn’t eaten lunch. There was a dull ache in her temples, a sharper one behind her ribs.

Max was beside her.

He hadn’t spoken.

He hadn’t even moved, aside from the occasional brush of his thumb against hers.

But his presence was solid. Anchoring. The one thing in this room that didn’t make her feel like she had to prove she belonged.

Across from her, her family sat arranged like a tableau of old fractures: Pascale, elegant but weary, lips pressed tightly together; Arthur, fidgeting in his chair, worry written into the curve of his brow; Lorenzo, arms folded like a gate; and Charles — the one who hadn’t looked at her properly once since she’d walked in.

Camille, the therapist, smiled gently. “Thank you all for being here. We’re here to listen first. Belle, since you asked for this session, would you like to begin?”

Belle nodded, throat tight. “I don’t expect this to fix everything. But I wanted to give you a chance to hear me. I’ve felt invisible for a long time. And I know that might not have been your intention, but it doesn’t make it less real.”

She paused.

No one spoke.

She added, voice quiet but edged in iron: “And I’m not here to be blamed for how I coped with that.”

That was when Charles finally looked up. “Then maybe he shouldn’t be here.”

Max didn’t move.

Belle’s grip on his hand tightened.

Camille interjected gently. “Charles, we agreed to keep this space respectful—”

“Respectful?” Charles cut in, eyes flashing. “You brought him to a family session. The man who didn’t even tell me he married my sister. The one person guaranteed to turn this into a war.”

Belle’s voice cracked, quiet but firm. “Max is here because I want him here. He’s my family now. He supports me. He doesn’t speak over me or forget I exist unless it’s convenient.”

“You bring him here, like he has any right to sit in a family session—”

“Charles—” Camille began.

But he was already unraveling.

“—Like he didn’t make it worse. Like he didn’t encourage all of this—”

Belle flinched.

“Charles,” Max said, voice low but firm.

“You don’t get to talk—”

“Stop it!” Belle snapped, her voice breaking.

The sound echoed louder than shouting.

Everyone went still.

She stood — too quickly — and emotion spilled over before she could stop it. Her hands shook. Her breath hitched. Tears began streaming down her cheeks before she could blink them back.

“I invited him,” she said, trembling. “Because he’s the only one in this room who never made me feel like I had to earn his love. He didn’t ask me to shrink or wait or perform. He didn’t disappear until it was convenient to care again. He showed up.”

Arthur’s expression twisted with guilt. Pascale’s eyes filled with tears. Lorenzo exhaled like he’d been punched in the stomach.

“I tried for years to matter to you,” Belle whispered. “And when I finally stopped waiting, when I found something good, you acted like it was betrayal. It wasn’t. It was survival.”

But when Belle cried harder, silent and shaking, one hand pressed protectively to her stomach — a reflex now, a habit more than a choice — Max’s restraint cracked.

“Enough,” he said, voice sharp and fierce and final.

The entire room froze.

“This isn’t good for the baby.”

Everything. Stopped.

The silence that followed was different. Not tense — stunned. Heavy. Real.

Charles froze.

Pascale’s hand flew to her mouth.

Arthur blinked, mouth slightly open.

Lorenzo — unreadable, contained Lorenzo — lost every ounce of composure.

Belle sat, still breathing too fast, still cradling her abdomen like she didn’t even realize her hand was there.

“She’s crying in a therapist’s office because her own family forgot her,” Max said, his voice flat, controlled. “And she still came here hoping you’d be different. And you’re yelling at her like it’s her fault she stopped begging you to see her.”

“You—” Charles started.

Max’s eyes burned. “She’s pregnant. And this stress? This shouting? This guilt-tripping? It’s not just hurting her anymore. It’s hurting both of them.”

Real, stunned silence.

Belle covered her face with both hands, chest heaving.

Max moved instantly, kneeling beside her. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he whispered. “You gave them a chance. That’s more than they deserved.”

Camille cleared her throat gently, measured but soft. “Belle… thank you for being honest. Max, thank you for saying what needed to be said.”

Belle shook her head, still too overwhelmed to speak. Her body ached with tension she hadn’t realized she was carrying.

Max didn’t let go of her.

He stood and turned to face them — not angry. Not cruel. Just done.

“She’s pregnant,” he repeated. “And she came here because she still believed you deserved the chance to be part of that. But if what you bring is more of this — more silence, more anger, more entitlement — then maybe she needs to stop giving chances to people who don’t know what to do with them.”

He sat beside Belle again, taking her hand in both of his.

She didn’t look up. She couldn’t. Her hand stayed curled over her belly, protective. Heartbroken.

Then, after a long, still moment—

“I didn’t know,” Charles said. Quiet. Shaken. “Isabelle, I didn’t… I swear, I didn’t know.”

“I know,” she whispered.“That’s the problem.”

More silence.

Then Pascale wiped at her eyes, voice shaking. “I want to be part of this. Not just the baby. You. I want to do better.”

Arthur nodded. “I will. I already started. But I’ll do more. Whatever you need.”

Lorenzo’s voice was hoarse. “You shouldn’t have had to say any of that alone.”

Camille waited. Then softly, “This is where it begins. Not with fixing. But with listening. With staying.”

Belle finally looked up.

Still hurt. Still guarded.

But in her eyes — something softened.

She didn’t say I forgive you.

She said something truer.

“You have a long way to go,” Belle said, voice rough.“But you’re here. That’s a start.”

***

By the time they got home, Belle hadn’t said a word.

Max didn’t push. He unlocked the door, opened it for her, let her walk through the apartment at her own pace. She moved like someone underwater — slow, dazed, like her body had been hollowed out.

She didn’t even take off her shoes.

She just stood in the middle of their living room, arms limp at her sides, until Max gently touched her elbow.

“Sit,” he said softly. “I’ll get you water.”

But she didn’t sit.

She crumpled.

It wasn’t a fall — not all at once — but something slower, sadder. She sank down onto the rug like her bones had given out, hands covering her face, breath catching in her throat.

Then the sobs came.

Max was beside her in an instant, sinking to his knees, gathering her into his arms without a second’s hesitation.

She curled into him like she’d been waiting all day for it. Like she’d finally let herself feel everything she hadn’t let show in front of them.

And Max—Max held her like he never intended to let go.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair, one hand stroking her back, the other cradling her head as she buried her face into his chest. “God, Belle. I’m so sorry.”

She shook her head against him, but he kept going.

“I shouldn’t have said it like that,” Max said, voice rough. “Not like that. I should’ve asked. I should’ve let you decide.”

Belle didn’t answer — not in words — but she held him tighter, and that was enough.

She cried for a long time.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just steady.

Heartbroken.

Max held her through all of it. Through the shaking, the ragged breathing, the muffled apologies she tried to whisper into his shoulder. He didn’t correct her. Didn’t argue. He just rubbed circles into her back and reminded her, again and again, in the softest voice he had:

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

At some point, he coaxed her into bed. She resisted, groggy and stubborn through the haze of exhaustion, but eventually let him pull back the covers and tuck her in. She wore his hoodie — one of the big, soft ones — and it swallowed her. Her hand still rested over her stomach as she lay on her side, eyes red and barely open.

Max kissed her temple, her forehead, her hand. He didn’t leave her side until her breathing evened out and she finally slipped into sleep.

Then — and only then — did he let himself move.

Quietly, he crossed the room to where his phone sat on the kitchen counter.

He didn’t text. Didn’t scroll.

He found the number for Belle’s doctor and sent a message requesting an appointment.

Tomorrow. Urgent if possible.

She hadn’t eaten all day.

She hadn’t slept properly in nearly a week.

And her crying tonight… it had shaken something in him.

She always carried things so quietly. Until she couldn’t anymore.

Max stood at the kitchen counter, staring down at his phone, still in his jeans and hoodie from earlier, and exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He couldn’t make her family change.

But he could protect this.

Her.

Their baby.

He would make sure she was seen, cared for, and safe — even if it meant dragging the world into a quiet, burning rage to make it happen.

The phone buzzed with a confirmation.

Appointment: Tomorrow. 9:30 AM.

Max looked back toward the bedroom.

Belle was asleep, one arm curled under her pillow, still holding her stomach like a shield.

And Max made himself a promise.

They would never make her cry like that again.

Not while he was breathing.

***

The four of them sat in stunned silence.

The therapy room door had closed behind Belle and Max ten minutes ago, but no one had moved since. Camille had offered them space to process, and they’d taken it — not because they needed it, but because they didn’t know what else to do.

Charles sat with his hands clenched in his lap, staring at the floor like it had betrayed him. Pascale held a tissue tightly in one hand, face pale, mascara faintly smudged beneath her eyes. Lorenzo’s arms were crossed — his usual stoicism barely holding under the tension in his jaw.

And Arthur — the youngest— was pacing.

Charles finally broke the silence. “She’s pregnant.”

“Yes,” Arthur said flatly, not looking at him.

Charles blinked, still stunned. “She’s actually—she didn’t even tell us.”

“She didn’t owe us that,” Arthur snapped, turning to face them. “Not after everything.”

Pascale looked up. “Arthur—”

“No,” he said, sharper than they’d ever heard him. “No. I’m not doing this. We’re not going to sit here and act like we’re the wounded ones.”

“She should’ve told us,” Charles muttered. “We’re her family—”

Arthur rounded on him. “Then maybe we should’ve acted like it.”

That landed.

Charles looked up, startled.

Arthur laughed — a short, bitter sound. “You really don’t get it, do you? Belle spent years trying to be seen. Trying to be heard. Every time she did something good, we clapped for a second and then went back to talking about karting or my race result or whatever Charles was doing that week.”

“That’s not fair,” Charles said stiffly.

“No?” Arthur said, eyes narrowing. “Name where she was when she graduated top of her class. You remember what we sent her?”

Charles didn’t answer.

“Exactly,” Arthur snapped. “Nothing. We forgot. We forgot her birthday, Charles. And even then, she didn’t scream at us. She just stopped trying.”

“I didn’t mean to forget—”

“You didn’t mean to notice her, either,” Arthur said, quieter now. “But Max did.”

That silenced the room.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, pacing again. “You know what gets me the most? She still gave us a chance. She walked in there, pregnant, vulnerable, and hoping maybe we’d finally show up. And what did we do?”

He looked at Charles.

“You shouted at her husband.”

He looked at Lorenzo.

“You stayed quiet until she was crying.”

Then he looked at Pascale.

“And you only spoke when Max said the word baby.”

Pascale’s lip trembled. “I didn’t know.”

“She didn’t trust us with it,” Arthur said, softer now. “And that’s the part that should scare you. Not Max. Not the secret wedding. Not the baby. The fact that she didn’t feel safe enough to tell us.”

Lorenzo exhaled slowly, some of the anger draining from his posture.

Charles looked like he’d been hollowed out.

“She was holding her stomach,” Pascale whispered. “Even when she cried, she—she protected the baby. From us.”

Arthur nodded. “Exactly.”

Silence again.

And then, for the first time in a long time, Arthur looked at them all — older brother, older brother, mother — and stood taller than he ever had.

“No one is making her cry like that again,” he said. “Not if I can help it.”

Charles swallowed hard. “So what do we do?”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. “You start by earning a place back in her life. Slowly. Without demands. Without entitlement. You show her you’ve changed. And if you haven’t? You step aside.”

No one argued.

No one could.

Because they’d all seen what Arthur had — a sister at the end of her rope, still trying to offer them grace.

And they’d nearly broken her again.

But maybe not completely.

Maybe, if they were lucky, there was still time to do better.

To be better.

To finally be family in the way Belle had deserved all along.

***

Belle woke to sunlight and silence.

Her eyes burned. Her head ached. Her throat felt tight from the hours she’d spent crying into Max’s chest the night before. For a long time, she just lay there — curled on her side, one hand resting against the soft curve of her stomach, the weight of the last twenty-four hours pressing against her skin like bruises she hadn’t earned.

Max wasn’t in bed.

That was the first thing she noticed.

But when she pushed back the covers and sat up, she could hear him. Low voices. The sound of him in the kitchen. Coffee brewing. Something being cut on a chopping board.

When she padded out into the hallway, Max looked up instantly.

“You’re awake,” he said gently. “How are you feeling?”

She blinked at him. He was already dressed — hoodie, jeans, hair still damp from a quick shower. He looked like he hadn’t slept, though she had no idea when he’d crawled into bed beside her. All she remembered was him holding her until her tears stopped.

“Tired,” she said honestly. “Drained. Like I fought a war in a hotel lobby.”

Max’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t smile. Not really. He poured her a glass of water and walked it over.

“You need to get dressed,” he said softly. “We’ve got an appointment at 9:30.”

Belle blinked. “Appointment?”

“With your OB.”

She stared at him. “You made a doctor’s appointment?”

Max looked… sheepish. In that way only Max Verstappen ever could — a little bit guilty, but completely unapologetic. “You were crying for over an hour. You didn’t eat. You didn’t sleep until after midnight. You kept holding your stomach like it hurt and I just—” He broke off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I need to be sure everything is okay. With you. With the baby.”

Something inside her cracked — not with annoyance, not even embarrassment, but with a kind of vulnerable affection that made her chest ache.

“I’m fine,” she said, quietly.

Max didn’t argue.

But he looked at her like fine would never be good enough again.

They left ten minutes later.

She wore leggings and one of Max’s hoodies, too tired to care. Her hair was in a bun, her face bare. Max had packed snacks and a water bottle in her bag like he was preparing for a cross-country drive. He opened the car door for her without a word. Held her hand at every red light.

The clinic was quiet when they arrived — not many patients that early. A nurse smiled at them, already familiar with Belle, and waved them through. Max never let go of her hand.

The doctor — kind, warm, sharp-eyed — asked gentle questions. Belle answered them all in a quiet voice.

“Any unusual cramping? Headaches? Nausea? Emotional stress?”

Belle glanced at Max, then gave a small, exhausted laugh. “Define unusual.”

The doctor smiled, then softened. “What you went through yesterday? It matters. Stress does affect the body, but you’re here now. We’ll check everything.”

And they did.

A blood pressure cuff. A blood draw. The gentle press of a fetal doppler wand against her stomach.

Then— The soft, rhythmic sound of a heartbeat.

Max’s fingers tightened around hers. He didn’t say anything. But when Belle looked at him — really looked — she saw it in his face: that fierce, wordless love that had carried her out of that therapy room and straight into this one.

The doctor smiled. “Heartbeat sounds perfect. Baby’s strong. And you’re doing better than you think.”

Belle let out a shaky breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

Max pressed a kiss to her temple.

“I just wanted to be sure,” he whispered. “I couldn’t watch you cry like that and not do something.”

Belle closed her eyes.

Then, without even thinking about it, she rested her head against his shoulder and whispered:

“Thank you.”

Because it was more than an appointment.

It was a promise.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: how’d it go yesterday?

i waited until morning because i didn’t want to be that friend but also i’ve been lying awake since 6 trying to imagine how many things charles said wrong in under an hour

Belle: you waited like a saint you get a medal

Emilie: oh good you’re alive that’s step one

Emilie: how bad was it scale of 1 to “i considered throwing my shoe at someone”?

Belle: i cried max snapped everyone went quiet and then Max accidentally revealed i’m pregnant because he couldn’t watch me sob anymore

so ...somewhere between “shoe-throwing” and “emotional napalm”

Emilie: WHAT

Emilie: MAX DROPPED THE BABY BOMB IN THERAPY??? WITH CHARLES THERE??

Belle: yep :)

Emilie: oh my GOD how is max still alive how are YOU

Belle: tired kind of hollow but also maybe... a tiny bit relieved?

it was a mess but they listened eventually i think

Emilie: do i need to bring cake or a shovel or both

Belle: both but i’m okay now doctor said everything’s good with the baby max scheduled the appointment himself

Emilie: of course he did husband of the year defender of the bump destroyer of sibling egos

Belle: he really did go full “don’t make her cry it’s bad for the baby” in front of everyone it was... a moment

Emilie: i would’ve PAID to see that wait no someone in that therapy room owes you money for that performance

Belle: arthur tried maman cried lorenzo looked like someone slapped him charles sat down and didn’t speak again

Emilie: is it terrible that i find this deeply satisfying

Belle: no it’s why i love you

Emilie: seriously though i’m proud of you i know how much this cost you and you still showed up

Belle: i’m trying for the baby for me

Emilie: and when you’re ready for step two i’ll be there with tea and probably more sarcasm than is healthy

Belle: perfect i love you

Emilie: i love you too, belle you’ve got this

***

Team Redline Stream Transcript

Luke Crane: Max. My guy. My married guy.

Gianni Vechio: Is it Verstappen or Mr. Leclerc now? Just checking.

Max (deadpan): I’m already regretting logging on.

Luke Bennett: You regret logging on? Imagine our shock when the paddock exploded because someone casually dropped a kiss in Parc Fermé like it was no big deal.

Max: (muted chuckle) It was a race. I won. Belle was there. That’s all.

Chris Lulham:: “That’s all.” HE SAYS. Like he didn’t casually change the internet’s collective brain chemistry.

Luke Crane: Bro, you were standing there looking like you'd just won the title and found true love.

Gianni: THE WAY YOU LOOKED AT HER.

Chris: THE HAND ON HER WAIST.

Gianni: THE KISS, MAX.

Max: (muttering) You guys are insufferable.

Luke Bennett: I’m sorry — did we not deserve to know that your secret wife is Isabelle Leclerc?!?

Max: She wasn’t secret.

All at once: YES SHE WAS.

Luke: Where is she anyway? We’ve earned this. Bring her on stream.

Max: She’s not going to—

Gianni: MAX. YOU OWE US.

Chris: SHOW US YOUR WIFE. SHOW US THE MYSTICAL INTERIOR ARCHITECT GODDESS WHO FIXED YOUR PENTHOUSE.

Max: You people are insane.

Luke (chanting): BELLE. BELLE. BELLE. BELLE.

Chat:

BELLE! BELLE! BELLE!

WHERE IS SHE MAX

DROP THE WIFE

MRS VERSTAPPEN SUPREMACY

WE SAW THE RING SIR

MAX BLINK TWICE IF YOU MARRIED UP (we know you did)

Max: (sighing, amused) Belle?

[muffled in the background] Belle: Yes?

Max: They want to say hi.

Belle: (closer) They want to do what?

Max: Just come here for a second, Schatje. They’re not going to shut up otherwise.

[Belle leans into frame wearing one of Max’s Red Bull hoodies, hair up, tea mug in hand.]

Belle: Hi.

Chat: OMG IT’S HERMRS MAX IS REALSHE’S SO PRETTY WHAT THE HELLTHE HOODIE IS KILLING MEMAX MARRIED A QUEENINTERIOR DESIGN SLAYI CANNOT BREATHEMAX YOU ARE OUTKICKING YOUR COVERAGECHARLES CURRENTLY DEAD BECAUSE HIS SISTER IS WEARING RED BULL MERCH

Luke Crane: Okay. So first of all, Belle. Thank you for putting up with this idiot.

Belle: (drily.) He’s nothing to put up with. He’s something to treasure.

Gianni: We just wanted to say congratulations. And also... how did you keep it secret for this long?

Belle: (shrugging): People only see what they want to see. We never hid it. We just didn’t make it obvious.

Chris: Oh my god she’s articulate. You really married up.

Max: (soft, proud) Yeah. I did.

Belle: (grinning, pressing a kiss to Max’s cheek, making him blush) Anyway. That’s enough fame for one evening. Bye boys.

[Belle exits frame. Max looks extremely smug.]

Max: You happy now?

Luke Crane: Beyond.

Chris: I still can’t believe you didn’t tell us.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/GridGossip: MAX VERSTAPPEN’S WIFE JUST SHOWED UP ON TEAM REDLINE STREAM IN HIS HOODIE WITH A MUG OF TEA AND SAID “HE’S NOTHING TO PUT UP WITH: HE’S SOMETHING TO TREASURE.” I AM NOT OKAY.

@/TifosiTears: CHARLES LECLERC IS FIGHTING FOR HIS LIFE AND HIS SISTER IS OUT HERE IN RED BULL MERCH KISSING MAX ON STREAM. I’M SCREAMING.

@/F1TeaSpiller So to recap: → Belle Leclerc kissed Max in Parc Fermé → Changed her name on IG → Is apparently married?? → Wore his hoodie on stream → And the grid is collectively feral. 10/10. No notes.

@/SoftLaunchSociety The Red Bull hoodie. The tea mug. The unbothered queen energy. Belle Verstappen didn’t soft launch — she hard dropped and said “you’ll catch up.”

@/RedBullUpdates: BELLE VERSTAPPEN WALKED INTO FRAME LOOKING COZY, SMUG, AND MARRIED. WE HAVE LOST CONTROL OF THE NARRATIVE.

@/FerrariPain: charles leclerc when he realizes his sister wore red bull merch in 4k: 🧍‍♂️😐💔

@/WifeGuyMax: max verstappen grinning like a man who knows he married out of his league and then blushed when she kissed his cheek this is romcom content i never expected from sim racing

@/F1MemeLord: Team Redline: Show us your wife Max: She’s not gonna— Belle Verstappen, already wearing his hoodie and holding tea like a queen: Hi Me: this is better than Netflix

@/MonacoRoyalty: i want belle’s PR team forgotten by her family? married in monaco? red bull hoodie and soft lighting? KNEW exactly when to show up. this girl is PLAYING CHESS.

@/MaxEmotionsFan Max: (quietly, proudly) “Yeah. I did.” Me, in tears: and you DID, Max. he married his girl.

@/F1ChaosClub: charles leclerc forgot his sister’s birthday and now she’s on twitch in a red bull hoodie being called “queen” by 600,000 viewers. you literally could not write this better.

@/GridPsychics: prediction: Charles is currently pacing his Monaco apartment wondering if it's too late to be a supportive brother spoiler: it might be

@/F1FanFictionCentral plot twist: Max Verstappen wasn’t the emotionally unavailable villain. He was the surprise wife guy all along.

@/TifosiMeltdown: Everyone’s like “awww Max and Belle are so cute 🥺” Meanwhile Charles Leclerc is living in the eighth circle of PR hell because his baby sister is in Red Bull merch on Twitch with his literal racing rival

@/SoftLaunchScholar: The Max & Belle reveal timeline is a case study:

Ignored birthday

Secret wedding

Parc Fermé kiss

Instagram name change

Twitch hoodie wife drop This is art.

@/F1Lorekeeper: The fact that Charles forgot Belle’s birthday and then found out she married Max Verstappen two weeks later

And now she’s drinking tea in Max’s stream wearing Red Bull gear

I genuinely think we’re watching a live sibling rivalry rewrite Greek tragedy @/MonacoRoyalty: Belle said “we didn’t hide it, you just weren’t looking” and the Leclerc family should NEVER recover from that

@/CharlesIsCrying: no because BELLE VERSTAPPEN appearing on stream in Red Bull merch while the internet still hasn’t healed from the forgotten birthday incident??

Charles is somewhere short-circuiting in real time

***

It was raining softly against the windows when Belle brought it up.

They were curled up on the sofa — Max in joggers and a hoodie, Belle tucked against his side with a blanket draped over her legs, her cheek resting on his chest. The television hummed quietly with some old documentary neither of them were watching. Max’s hand traced slow, absentminded circles against the bump that had started to become undeniable beneath the fabric of her sweatshirt.

“We should probably tell the rest soon,” Belle murmured.

Max didn’t answer right away. His fingers stilled, then resumed their gentle pattern.

“I know,” he said. “I just… don’t want it to turn into a thing.”

Belle lifted her head slightly to look at him. “Like… a press release thing? Photoshoot? Magazines? Perfect lighting and fake candids of us in a meadow somewhere?”

He let out a soft snort. “Can you picture me in a meadow?”

Belle smiled. “Only if you were holding a kitten and a baby goat.”

“Belle.”

“Okay, fine, just the baby goat.”

Max laughed into her shoulder, pressing a kiss there. “No photoshoots. No flower crowns.” He made a face. “No soft-focus, perfectly lit, black-and-white Instagram announcement with matching white outfits and hands shaped like a heart.”

She laughed softly, burying her nose in his shirt. “The horror.”

“I mean, unless you want that,” Max added quickly. “If you want that, I’ll do it. I’ll even wear linen.”

Belle looked up at him again, mock-serious. “Max, you’d rather crash into a gravel trap at Monaco than wear linen on purpose.”

“Correct.”

She smiled against his hoodie. “I just… I don’t want it to feel like I’m trying to prove something.”

“You don’t have to prove anything,” Max said, his voice low. Sure. “You’re pregnant. You’re my wife. That’s it.”

Belle glanced up at him. “You say that like it's simple.”

“It is.” He tilted his head a little, thoughtful. “So how do you want to do it?”

She shrugged. “Something honest. Quiet, but… real.”

Max was quiet for a beat. “You mean, like the wedding.”

Belle smiled. “Exactly like the wedding.”

He leaned forward and kissed the side of her head. “We can do quiet. That’s our specialty.”

She chuckled, then bit her lip. “I was thinking… what if we just posted a photo? Not even of us. Just a pair of tiny shoes on the coffee table and a caption like, ‘Coming soon.’”

Max grinned. “You want to break the internet again.”

“I want to give it to us first,” she said. “And let everyone else catch up later.”

Max looked at her like she hung the stars. “Deal.”

They sat in silence again, the kind that meant safety.

“I don’t need the whole world to know at once,” Belle murmured, her voice softening. “I just want to share it in a way that feels like us. Not a brand.”

Max pulled her closer, his hand still resting protectively over the bump neither of them could stop reaching for.

“Then that’s exactly what we’ll do.”

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: Thinking of announcing the pregnancy before Silverstone.

Emilie: oh?? as in… telling the entire planet??

Belle: Yep. Before I start showing enough that people start whispering.

Emilie: You mean before more people start whispering You okay with going public?

Belle: I think so. We’ve been quiet long enough. Besides… Silverstone’s always a circus. May as well drop the baby news before the clowns arrive.

Emilie: Iconic behavior tbh Do I get a heads up before the post goes up so I can prepare emotionally

Belle: Of course. Also— You should come.

Emilie: To Silverstone??

Belle: Yes.

Emilie: Belle. That’s Lando’s home race.

Belle: And you like Lando.

Emilie: I do not like what this insinuation implies.

Belle: You like him. He adores you. Your flirting during dinner could’ve powered the entire paddock.

Emilie: Okay first of all That’s rude And accurate

Belle: Come anyway. Come as my friend. Not as Lando’s girlfriend.

Emilie: …you are dangerously persuasive.

Belle: Lily’s coming too. It’ll be fun. You, me, Lily, a very grumpy Max pretending not to be nervous about the baby stealing his press conference thunder.

Emilie: You really think the baby will upstage Max?

Belle: If she has my hair and his eyes, absolutely.

Emilie: oh my god if it’s a girl with his grumpy face and your attitude the world is not ready

Belle: Exactly. Which is why you need to be there. Help me judge the chaos.

Emilie: Okay okay Fine But if Lando tries to make things serious while I’m there I am blaming you

Belle: Deal. You’ll be the secret girlfriend, I’ll be the public wife. We’ll keep balance in the universe.

Emilie: Verstappen-Leclerc diplomatic summit in Silverstone Can’t wait.

Belle: You bring the wine. I’ll bring the reveal.

***

Instagram Post: @/belleverstappen

Comments:

@/maxverstappen1: 🍼❤️

@/danielricciardo: I’M GOING TO BE THE FUN UNCLE CALLING IT NOW

@/landonorris: AAAAAHHHHHHHHH 🍼😭❤️

@/alex_albon:The baby already has better fashion sense than me and it’s not even born yet.

@/oscarpiastri: Congratulations!! So happy for you both 🤍

@/charles_leclerc: Congratulations. Truly.

@/georgerussell63: Huge congrats!

@/arthur_leclerc: 🥹❤️ You’re going to be the best mum, Belle.

@/yukitsunoda0511: baby Verstappen with Leclerc sass?? terrifying. adorable. congratulations!!!

@/sebastianvettel: Welcome to the next adventure. You’ll both be amazing parents. 💛

@/carlossainz55: The paddock is already preparing the next generation of chaos.

@/f1girlie44: BELLE IS GONNA BE A MUM I’M SOBBING

@/leclercsrevengearc: Max winning races, hearts, and fatherhood. Charles losing sleep. Balance.

@/gridgossip: Between the birthday drama, the Red Bull hoodie, the Parc Fermé kiss and now THIS — Belle Verstappen has had a better character arc than half the grid.

@/victoriaverstappen: Best news of the year 🍼 Can’t wait to meet this little one!!

@/f1: We love a future champion in the making 👶🏽🏁

@/verstappensupremacy:

I KNEW THE RED BULL HOODIE WAS FORESHADOWING

MAX IS GOING TO BE A DAD I’M CRYING

@/f1babygossip:

Baby Verstappen is going to have the softest mama and the most aggressively protective papa and I LOVE THAT FOR THEM

@/charlespls:

someone go check on charles

she posted this BEFORE A RACE WEEKEND

we need an ambulance at Ferrari

1K notes · View notes

swordgrace · 5 months ago

Text

❝ 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐧𝐨𝐰. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: wedded to cregan stark, a man you’ve never met , in an arrangement of convenience, you come to learn that even a wolf’s stoicism is rather deceiving.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: cregan stark x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10.1K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), arranged marriage, reader & cregan are strangers, virgin!cregan and virgin!reader, cregan is really sweet in this, mutual loss of virginity, talk of insecurities relating to appearance, heavy kissing, size kink / size difference, brief handjob & fingering (fem!rec), groping, unprotected p in v sex, descriptions of cum, creampie, obligatory stark breeding kink, missionary position, soft ending + aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this was so so so fun to write, it’s a different take on cregan from how I usually write him as experienced, and lowkey loved this! I really hope that you all love this as much as I loved writing it! thank you for any support, much love! 🫶

DUTY — THE BANE OF LOVE, THE FOUNDATION OF ALL HONORABLE MEN, THE SPINE OF THE REALM; A SACRIFICE. A NECESSARY SACRIFICE, THE PLEDGE OF A MAN GROWN, OF A FLEDGLING LORD NOW COMING INTO HIS OWN POWER AND CERTAINTY.

Cregan Stark, the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, was to be wed beneath the Weirwood Tree, boughs of an ancient crimson serving as the canopy to his newly-forged union with you.

A man of nine-and-ten, it was expected of him — unions with advantageous houses, married to a woman in exchange for something he did not have. It was not in his nature to be fraught with nerves in the face of uncertainty; as he grew into his role as Lord, so too did his confidence grow.

Not only was the growing wolf deemed a strong man, he was adept with a longsword and a proficient fighter. Cregan had excelled at his duties as Lord of Winterfell — however, marriage is where he assumed he’d falter.

Inevitably, he knew that he would find himself in this predicament, sworn to marry a suitable prospect from a noble house. His advisors had arranged a rather promising match to a maiden of House Connington, an exceedingly wealthy name, well-known in the Stormlands.

Northern alliances were already strong, built upon blood, steel, and an unyielding winter — it would be useful to have an ally further South.

He did not know what you looked like; your temperament, moral character, or if you would even find him favorable. It was not often that Cregan allowed himself to be plagued by lingering insecurities, but they seemed to weigh heavy within his mind.

Fortunately, such sentiments were shared by you, unbeknownst to him.

Griffin’s Roost was all you’d known, a lifetime spent in the Stormlands until you had reached maturity, now pledged to the Warden of the North. It pained you to leave what life you knew before, surrounded by family and the comforts of home.

The North was often regarded as a harsh and unyielding environment, with bitter, stinging winds and snowfalls that could bury men alive beneath their might. Ice-laden gales sang from beyond the Wall, bringing with it their callousness, whispers from savage lands.

Accustomed to the temperate forests and raging deluges of the Stormlands, the North’s biting chill would take plenty of adaptation on your end. The host of House Connington had arrived in all of their glory and bravado, bearing the twin griffin sigil, white upon crimson, crimson upon white.

From what little you gleaned of Cregan Stark, he was already a talented fighter, as thick as the trunk of an elder pine, and somewhat rugged around the edges. Roughness did not trouble you as it had other women — perhaps, it would give him character.

Part of you counted yourself fortunate to marry someone close to you in age, only one nameday your senior — plenty of women did not have such luck. Even then, you were frightened and nervous, hoping to make a lasting impression upon your new husband.

Much to your dismay, everyone seemed so eager to marry you off — to seal whatever pact had been struck, for you to begin your new life here, in the North. You hoped that you would find new companionship and comfort in your new home, but you neglected to get your hopes up.

The Old Gods were prevalent in Northern culture — the Faith of the Seven was nearly nonexistent here, a practice that your family had staunchly followed since your infancy. There were plenty of adjustments you would need to make in order to assimilate.

Sequestered within the guest chambers of your Northern host, handmaidens whose faces were unfamiliar to you helped dress you in your wedding gowns. It was a sentimental piece, handcrafted by your Mother before you departed from the Roost, a gown of crimson and silver.

Northern ceremonies were said to be much shorter, a tryst of few words outside of sacred vows. Your cloak hung heavy upon your shoulders, velvet encased by a line of fur, bearing the sigil of your House.

A lengthy, tarnished mirror sat before you, crystalline enough for you to admire your appearance, tresses pinned in intricate braids, visage dabbled with little cosmetics. You were to be given away by your uncle, journeying in the stead of your ailing father, Gods bless him.

With no facet of your appearance misplaced, you were prepared to make the journey to the Godswood, with your uncle upon your arm. As you stepped through ancient stone and over frozen ground, your heart hammered beneath your breast, like the beating of a bird's wings.

Anxiousness gnawed away at your fragile bones throughout your trek, mind continuing to race with a great many thoughts. What if he thought you ugly, or boorish? What if he was unkind or uncouth? What if the consummation was not satisfactory enough?

These were all feckless inquiries, born of your own insecurities and desire to make your new husband happy, make the most of your new life. Despite the biting chill that clung to your visage, perspiration slicked your palms, teeth absentmindedly gnashing against the inside of your cheek.

The dusky skies were blanketed by a penumbra of endless stars, as if the celestials themselves had gathered to witness your sacred union. Wisps of gray clouds scattered overhead, but soon dissipated in the wake of the moon’s glow.

Silvery rays touched a light snowfall, now muddled with hints of broken earth. There was no deluge to cast doubt upon your wedding — it was all endlessly clear, and the ice ceaselessly continued to stab at your exposed flesh.

The Godswood lay silent, surrounded by only a handful of Lord Stark’s closest advisors and kin, braziers lighting the way forward. Your grip upon your uncle’s arm became ironclad, as if you were attempting to hold on with every shred of strength in your bones.

Beneath vermillion leaves and pale bark, stood Lord Cregan Stark, with eyes as gray as winter’s shadow, chestnut tresses halfway pulled into a bun, the rest slicked with oils. He was nearly twice your size, frame clad in the taupe pelt of a wolf, countenance indiscernible from afar.

He was handsome, thank the Seven; and the closer you stepped, the more you realized that he possessed the same nervousness as you. One wouldn’t expect a man of his caliber to show it, but he did, the sentiment reaching his gaze.

As you reached the end, given to Cregan by your uncle, your stomach tumbled with butterflies, blood singed with anxiety. Cregan’s nervousness was far more subdued, though it lingered even still, especially as his large hand closed around yours.

Much to your surprise, the embrace of your Lord-husband was disarmingly gentle, coarse leather folding over your delicate palm. Storm-laden hues briefly fluttered toward you, as if searching for any scrap of discomfort caused by his own hand.

Vows were exchanged between strangers — and soon, in hours, you would not be so strange anymore.

“Will you take this man?”

It was your uncle’s voice, as spoken in Northern customs to give you away. He seemed uncertain as his inquiry filled the space around you, and yet you answered with a startling clarity.

“I take this man.”

In this close proximity, it allowed Cregan ample time to absorb you; a comely, beautiful stranger, soon to be the new Lady of Winterfell. It was your very presence that intimidated even the likes of him, enchanted by your delicate voice and beguiling appearance, features akin to the very image of perfection.

Admittedly, you stole every wisp of air from his burning lungs, something that he would not dare confess to — not here, at least. Fortunately, you did not seem terrified; nervous, perhaps, but that was to be expected.

Kneeling before the shadow of the Weirwood, Cregan uttered a brief prayer — he did not expect you to do the same. These traditions were likely a stark contrast to your own, something that perplexed him to no end.

In the recesses of your mind, you wondered what his heart was like — his interests, passions, the essence of his character. He seemed stalwart and rugged, as you’d been told, but he did not seem cruel nor callous, much to your relief.

He stood, unclasping your maiden’s cloak from your shoulders, presenting you with one crafted of elk’s hide and the tawny, dappled coat of a doe. It bore the sigil of House Stark, a direwolf embroidered onto thicker material, now swaddling your form in all of its warmth.

With your former House now by the wayside, the wedding feast was set to begin.

“My Lady,” As his husky, Northern timbre spilled forth from his mouth, hand outstretched, you took it, allowing him to guide you to your feet. Those onlookers who surrounded you in the Godswood looked on with subtle admiration for their young Lord. “It is tradition that I carry you to the feast.”

Cregan would not dare abandon the formalities of his countrymen, knowing full well that many eyes were upon him to uphold tradition. He sensed your twinge of hesitation, followed by a wave of embarrassment, however, you did not recoil from his gallant advances.

Knowing that he had an appearance to maintain, you nodded, both smitten and shy as thick, leather-clad arms hooked beneath your legs and back. It was effortless, the way he had hoisted you into his grasp, carrying you close to his chest as he began to make his way from the Godswood.

“I apologize if this is not comfortable, my Lady,” Even he found some wry amusement in this, all in a valiant attempt to ease the tension between you. “Once we arrive in the Great Hall, I shall put you down.” He assured, though your expression said otherwise.

“I insist upon you carrying me throughout the evening,” A playful lilt clung to your tone, and it seemed to ease Cregan’s nerves — at least you had a sense of humor about you. “I jest, my Lord. I must admit that I am a stranger to journeying through snow and ice.”

A brief huff escaped him, and the idle conversation slowly dissolved the foreign barrier between the both of you. Truthfully, he did not want his marriage to you to be distant, or icy. Northern superstitions dictated that snow during a wedding meant a cold union — fortunately, the skies were clear.

“You will grow accustomed to it soon enough.” Solemn, the young Lord ascended stone steps, making his way into the courtyard. The Great Hall would be full of people, most of them his own kin and denizens, as well as your host from the Stormlands.

A bout of silence occupied the space between you, your form lodged firmly against his chest, laden with muscle beneath his leather garb. Admittedly, you found a sliver of comfort within his hold, one that screamed with protection and a sense of security. It made you feel less unnerved.

In such close proximity, Cregan caught a gust of your scent; saccharine, bringing with it the warmth of the South, a touch of rainfall from the Stormlands. You did not seem perturbed by him carrying you — you fit within the crook of his arms rather perfectly.

Snow crunched beneath his boots, stricken with an ethereal glow from the face of the moon, glistening down to light your path. Smitten, your gaze briefly darted to admire his countenance — youthful yet worn, the bridge of his nose slightly crooked, a faint scar upon his chin.

Wisps of warmth emerged from between your lips, acclimating to the chill as best as you could. As you neared Winterfell’s Great Hall, rancor and excitement spilled from inside, orange light pooling from beneath the doors.

Cregan ascended another flight of stone steps, seemingly unbothered by cradling you, and once you reached the end, he gently deposited you onto solid ground. “Here we are.” Offering you his arm, you took it, led into the warmth of the castle’s archaic interior.

Met with the gleeful cheers of those in attendance, your host and his own, you narrowly avoided being pelted with flying deluges of ale. It was a merry hall, filled with immeasurable joyousness and laughter, which eased your anxiousness quite a bit.

Sentiments might shift once many of them sobered up, you imagined, but for now, you were delighted to enjoy your wedding feast. Your staunch husband led you through the commotion and gathering crowds with ease until you reached your table.

Situated at the helm of the hall, he politely moved your chair for you, allowing you to be seated before himself as he took his place by your side. A scarlet flush clung to his features, wisps of chestnut strands framing his strong visage.

The feast held in honor of your blossoming union was one of merriment, the mood lighthearted and blissful. You sat beside your husband, stomach pulled taut, a coil of nerves. Everyone seemed foreign to you, unfamiliar faces with their northern attitudes and thinly-veiled curiosity.

Following the exchange of toasts and presentation of foodstuffs, you became lost within contemplation, dreading the bedding ceremony that was sure to follow. You hoped that, if you closed your eyes, it would simply pass you by.

Cregan’s gaze remained transfixed upon you whenever you weren’t looking, blissfully oblivious to your husband’s ogling. He found you to be perfectly beautiful in all senses of the word — vexing, truly. Even he was not immune to the heated, carnal thoughts drifting within his mind.

Though, he was a touch nervous — unexpectedly so.

Carnal escapades were often packed into the richly-woven tales of his fellow advisors and compatriots, and it all seemed self-centered when they spoke of consummation. Cregan worried that he would fumble over himself, not know where to put his hands, let alone touch you.

As you prodded your fork into the seared haunch of meat, you happened to steal a glance at Cregan, and to your surprise, he’d already been staring at you. Warmth permeated your features, lashes fluttering as you cleared your throat.

Caught, he decided to be forthcoming in the matter. “Forgive me for staring, my Lady — you are rather beautiful,” He spoke plainly, blunt as he ensured you let his words sink in. Flattered, your lips quirked into a jubilant smile. “Is it all to your liking?”

A buzz of exhilaration bubbled within your belly, prompting you to sit a little straighter. “You flatter me, my Lord,” As you began to chew, a myriad of spices and flavors invaded your maw, sitting heavy upon your tongue. “It is — I must thank you for your hospitality.”

“This is your home now, as it is mine. You are deserving of such cordiality,” Cregan’s timbre had dissolved into a pleasant rumble, the cadence of it scratching at the back of your mind. You quite enjoyed his gruff nature, more than most. “I wish for you to be happy.”

The softness of his words made your stomach lurch with butterflies, lips parting in mild surprise. Admittedly, you had grown accustomed to the husbands commonplace within your life — they rarely took interest in their wives, especially with regard to their happiness.

“I … You have my gratitude, my Lord. I wish for you to be happy, in-turn,” Swallowing the growing lump within your throat, you continued. “I know that we are somewhat foreign to one another, but I do not prefer it to stay that way.” You confessed.

Perplexed, Cregan’s brow furrowed momentarily, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Even for his youth, he was a stoic man — he had endured plenty, hardening him to the outside world. However, he found it within himself to treat you gently, perhaps surrender a sliver of gentleness to you.

“I would not prefer it, either,” Cregan replied, an amiable shimmer dancing within his wintry-gray hues. Delighted, you reached for his hand, much larger than your own, his skin calloused. He allowed you to hold it, reveling in your velveteen flesh. “Perhaps, we can tour the Wolfswood on the morrow — how are your riding skills?”

Perhaps it was the twinge of wine invading your bloodstream, but your thoughts had strayed on the side of perversion. A brief hitch formed within your throat before you hummed. “They are better than some,” You mused. “I’ve a great passion for horses, and for the outdoors.”

Making note of your interests, he knew precisely what to give you, a forlorn warmth stirring within his chest. Whatever impact you had on him, it was beginning to take some effect, reducing him to naught but boyish nerves.

Admittedly, Cregan hadn’t expected you to be this lively and jubilant — he expected terror and indifference, but this was a welcome change. It dissolved some of his initial reservations, but it was still too early to make any hasty judgments.

It had melted the ice somewhat, conversing about menial topics, allowing himself to grow accustomed to your presence. It would take plenty of work — fortitude, determination, kindness. Cregan did not want to sow any discord in your budding union.

“Tell me of Griffin’s Roost,” Cregan murmured, intrigued by your place of birth. The castle itself was said to be humble yet resolute, using the surrounding countryside to its advantage. “I’ve heard it sits upon some crag.”

A comely smile fluttered across your features, grasp beginning to loosen upon his hand. Returning to your hearty meal, you chewed, throat bubbling with a gentle hum. “It overlooks Cape Wrath, surrounded by red stone cliffsides — the view from the East Tower is wonderful.”

With a low grunt, your Lord-husband proved most attentive, posture beginning to slump into some relaxation within his seat. “Should my duties not become insurmountable, perhaps we could visit in a few moons time.”

Despite his desire to heed to the North, to remain planted, safeguard his lands, Cregan understood the importance of home. He did not want you to completely abandon your roots in exchange for Northern traditions.

Touched by such a proposition, you nodded in agreement, thankful that he’d suggested it. It meant more to you than he might’ve realized. “I would deeply appreciate such a journey, my Lord. I am certainly looking forward to learning of your home and its people.”

Loyalty seemed a core value amongst Northerners, their bond ironclad, a pact of ice. Such devotion amongst kin was comforting to witness, a web that you desired to be part of, with time. Duties of a lady were not lost upon you, but anxiousness stirred whenever you contemplated the future.

The Lady of Winterfell — the title itself was daunting, something you never imagined for yourself, foreign upon your tongue. The weight of it was a crushing one, but you hoped to soar beneath the pressure, impress both the people and your Lord-husband.

The sincerity of your answer had certainly beguiled Cregan, whose hardened visage seemed to soften. Admiration glittered within glacial hues as he attempted to clean his plate.

Before he could properly pose another inquiry into your morality and history, he noticed the flock of men and women beginning to swarm the terrace’s base. The bedding ceremony — he’d nearly forgotten about it, lost within the pleasantries he exchanged with you.

The thought of some drunken bannerman laying his hands upon you seemed to incite a flicker of fury within his chest; he feared breaking a nose at his own wedding. Even through the growing commotion, Cregan had made a rather hasty and disrespectful move.

“Come.” Low and brazen, his large hand gingerly closed around your elbow. To your startlement, your gaze flickered in the direction of the merry masses, continuing to clash their steins together, the rancor merely increasing.

Perplexed, you slyly crept from your chair, following Cregan into a rather slim corridor that stretched behind your seat. A glacial chill permeated ancient stone, and your brow remained furrowed with confusion.

“Won’t this upset your subjects?” Despite the innocuous nature of your inquiry, you were eternally grateful to avoid a bedding ceremony altogether. It felt wicked and crass, too irreverent as a precursor to consummation.

“Perhaps, but I wish to spare you such humiliation,” He sighed, guiding you onward until the two of you stood within an empty stairwell, torchlight encapsulating the walls. “That is worth their momentary disappointment.”

This was one tradition that he could live without, much to the chagrin of his advisors and the numerous wedding patrons. Admittedly, it was the thought of putting up some performance whilst strangers gathered outside of his door, all to see if he’d put a babe in you.

The more he thought of consummation, the more wracked with nerves he became, a festering anxiety gnawing away at his hardened bones. His chest heaved with a heavier exhale — at least this way, he would be afforded some privacy, away from any potential embarrassment.

Here, sequestered within the hush of the corridor, Cregan fully admired you, bathed in the glow of flickering firelight, wedding dress spiraling against the ground. Even still, you held his arm, delicate fingers folded atop his leather vambrace, absorbing his heat in the face of winter’s breath.

“I do not wish to make a foul impression upon your people with this,” Concerned that it would tarnish your image, Cregan dismissed your worries with a mere grunt. “Even if I truly do appreciate your kindness and understanding in the matter.”

“If this tarnishes your reputation, I will deal with it myself,” Stoic assurances were uttered from his lips, Northern timbre deliciously husky, like the tremble of thunder. “Come, before we are apprehended.” A twinge of humor sank into his stalwart tone.

Ascending spiraling steps that led to his lordly chambers, some nervousness had been alleviated by his grand gesture. Having beared witness to your own kin’s bedding ceremony, you did not wish such shame and discomfort upon anyone else.

Silence had blanketed the both of you, two anxious youth, navigating your newfound marriage. Butterflies danced within the pit of your stomach, as if reminding you of what was to come. Fortunately, it wouldn’t be in the company of others — only his, and that was intimidating enough.

As you approached a wide, mahogany door, wrought with careworn iron, Cregan gave it a brusque shove, the hinges groaning in protest. A wave of warmth greeted you, hearth simmering with a cluster of waning embers, nearly reduced to mere wisps of smoke.

His chambers were rather sizeable, a footlocker at the foot of his bed, draped in the impressive hide of a bear. Pelts adorned the feathered mattress in patchwork patterns of taupe, fawn-brown, and black. Before the hearth, a direwolf hide served as a rug above the cold stone.

Its appeal was rustic, rugged — it certainly followed the Northern motif. Even then, you found it pleasing and cozy, warm enough to shield you from the bitter brunt of a glacial tempest. Stepping inside, he closed the door behind you both, moving to rekindle the flames.

Stirring the dried twigs atop hunks of log, your Lord-husband quietly resigned himself to his menial task, brows furrowing together in concentration. It gave you a moment to steel yourself, awkwardly shifting to admire the humble fixtures of his bedchambers.

Part of you pondered what your own quarters might look like — lined in furs, bearing no trace of your own home. It was commonplace for noble marriages to remain in separate chambers, even if the thought happened to irk you.

As the hearth began to roar to life once more, bringing with it a wave of warmth, you shivered even still, likely out of anxiousness. Nerves seemed to bundle within your belly, a tight coil that had been pulled as tight as a bowstring, threatening to snap at any moment.

Admittedly, Cregan had needed a distraction — the reality of what was to come had dawned on him, and he feared making a fool of himself. Standing upright once more, he happened to catch a glimpse of your doe-eyed countenance, just as disquieted; outwardly so.

“Should — Shall I remove this?”

In accompaniment to your sudden inquiry, your digits had clumsily found the clasps of your bridegroom’s cloak, along the collar of your wedding gown. Numerous tales of consummation often held a similar pattern — remove your clothing, let him climb atop you, and put a babe in you.

Cregan’s jaw tightened, storm-laden hues swirling with a palpable trepidation. For a man so stalwart and intimidating, his own vulnerability was laid bare for you to witness, gaze averting your own as he collected his thoughts.

It had become painfully obvious that neither of you were well-equipped to deal with the pang of awkwardness that had settled in. His hand clenched into a fist, attempting to relieve a sliver of bodily tension as he cleared his throat.

His stoic silence had only furthered your unease, as if you’d behaved in a manner most untoward. A lump formed within your throat, with Cregan seemingly gathering his composure as he stepped closer, gait measured and purposeful.

Sword-hewn palms gently grasped your upper arms, brushing over the delicate silks of your gown. A brief shudder passed through you, heat warming your features as his proximity from you had all but dissipated. His stature had become glaringly apparent, looming well above you.

Thumbs gently traced circles into your clothed flesh, the gesture disarmingly tender as he cleared his throat with a low hum. “I do not wish for any of this to be uncomfortable, and yet,” Cregan hesitated, a flicker of worry passing through him. “This is all unfamiliar.” He confessed.

Sharing in his sentiments, you began to relax beneath his comforting embrace, hands twisting themselves together. “I … It is just as unfamiliar for me as it is for you. I do not know where to begin.” You murmured, chewing at the inside of your cheek.

The first song of fervor sang within his blood, running hot with a spark of carnality. Despite his lack of knowing, it was instinct that drove him now as he attempted to discern where to begin with you. Gray hues fluttered toward your lips, visage warming with a flush of scarlet.

“I suppose the only way forward is to learn together.” Cregan proposed, his brows knitting together as he allowed himself to absorb your appearance. A slight lump began to coagulate within his throat, prompting him to hastily swallow it down for the sake of his nerves.

With a brief nod, you let yourself abandon this fear that had gripped you so tightly, knowing that he was a stranger to the act, just as you were. A tenuous silence filled in the crevices, invading the slight space between you both.

This was your duty — it was best to honor it.

Strong, calloused hands sluggishly slid down the length of your arms until he found your hands, delicate and velvety within his hold. His thumb traced over your knuckles, reveling in the sensation of your flesh against his, as downy as feathers, as soft as a wolf’s pelt.

Bending to reach you, Cregan stooped, looming closer, mead-tinged breath fanning across your visage. The rough pillars of his lips hovered above yours, gaze one of admiration as he allowed himself to absorb your beauty, akin to a kiss of summertime.

Wisps of chestnut framed his hardened countenance, which seemed to soften in your presence, losing its stony exterior. A brief hitch formed within your throat, accompanied by a slight noise of exhilaration as his mouth ghosted over yours in a fleeting kiss.

It was agonizingly slow, intended to be exploratory, test the waters. He did not think it as strange as he thought it’d be, the action initially stiff and rigid, attempting to grow accustomed to you.

A volatile churning of heat swirled within your belly, nerves set ablaze by mere friction of mouths. It was exhilarating yet frightening, knowing that this was merely the beginning of it all. Nevertheless, you let yourself relax as much as you could, a sharp inhale puncturing your lungs as he let the kiss linger.

Withdrawing after a few moments, you stared at Cregan, counting yourself deeply fortunate that he wasn’t uncouth nor cruel. He did not seem after his own self-gratification, hands untangling themselves from yours as he cleared his throat.

“Not so terrifying.” Nothing more than a mere lull, your voice was saccharine, endlessly tender as you spoke with a touch of assurance. The stiffness between you both seemed to gradually melt away, and you hoped it would diminish entirely.

A threadbare smile crossed Cregan’s countenance, a fleeting gesture that made your bones sing. One palm moved to cup your cheek, his stare incendiary as he studied you, committing every detail to memory. You were nothing short of mesmerizing, a beauty only sung about in ancient hymns.

“May I?” He gestured to your cloak, the swaddling fabric proving more of a hindrance. As you nodded, the young Lord calmly stepped around you, coming to stand behind you, now eclipsed within the might of his silhouette. Rough digits found their way to the clasps, unfastening the garment altogether.

Cregan draped your cloak over the foot of the bed, gaze exposed to a rather intricate line of ties that held your wedding gown together. He dared not touch them yet, chest nearly brushing against your spine as he bent to press a kiss against your shoulder.

It was so simple, so innocuous — and yet the gesture made you ache with desire’s heavy sting, unfurling within your heart. A soft gasp tore past your parted lips, craving his embrace as you would a gust of crisp air or the glittering rays of a warm sunshine.

The hollow between your throat and shoulder had tempted him, bare flesh ripe for the grace of his mouth. Wordlessly, he continued upon his own whims, planting a string of reverent kisses there, prickling when he heard the sweetness of your moan.

The noise did not seem anguished, and instead, one someone would make when satisfied. “You are beautiful.” Cregan’s Northern baritone had rattled your bones, set you aflame, all of you — the tension had climbed to a searing broil. Absentmindedly, you began to lean backwards into his embrace.

Desire seemed so foreign to you, a concept that transcended comprehension. Yet, as your new Lord-husband began to dote upon you, you felt it twist within your heart, unfurling from within.

He did not know where to put his hands, what to do with them — instead, they remained firmly by his sides, stationary until he asked for your consent. With a final kiss, he lifted his head, chest blossoming with tendrils of warmth as he looked to the laces of your gown.

Gooseflesh raked over your spine, prickling with a sharp jab of exhilaration as it warmed your insides. Similar to Cregan, your hands remained twisted together, anxiously plucking at the front of your wedding gown, nails picking at a swath of velvet.

“Does my Lady give me permission to remove her gown?”

Cregan swallowed his nerves, attempting to suppress any unease, letting it simmer down within his stomach. He had not seen a woman bare before — he’d imagined it on occasion, through heated dreams of a spirited youth, but you were flesh and blood made reality.

A twinge of hesitation clung to his Northern timbre, hands momentarily clenching together as he patiently awaited your consent. The silence lasted longer than he expected, and he wondered if he had brought about some discomfort.

Truthfully, it was your insecurities that began to fester like some creeping plague, a clutch of poison ivy coming to cling to your heart. “What if you do not find me favorable?” As your inquiry floated into the open air, you knew you had made a grave error in vocalizing it.

Through furrowed brows, Cregan’s nervousness had melded into bewilderment, and he seemed to freeze behind you. “Why would you think that?” His question, though sharp, lacked any lilt of malice or callousness. Instead, he was perplexed why he would find you anything other than beautiful.

“I … I do not know,” Twisting your fingers together, your confession seemed to weigh upon your shoulders, more than you revealed. “I often worried that my appearance might become a detriment, or worse, something boorish.”

Cregan’s chest stirred with a low rumble, contemplative of your words. He thought little of his own physicality, a youthful man built of stony muscle and fortitude, a hardened warrior. However, he imagined how it might be different for you.

He would be the envy of all men with you by his side; men that he hoped to ward away from you. Im truth, if it weren’t for his desire to seem stoic in the face of disquiet, he would’ve fallen to his knees at the sight of you beneath the Weirwood Tree.

“Boorish,” Cregan repeated, voice a sonorous hum as he stepped around you, facing you once more. His hands found yours, satin flesh and delicate, your grasp oozing with tenderness. “When I saw you beneath the Weirwood, my heart fell still for the very first time.” He murmured.

A hitch formed within your throat, coupled with a startled gasp of surprise, his words moving you in a way you didn’t think possible. “My Lord …” As your heart began to gallop like hoofbeats beneath your breast, he stepped closer, chest brushing against yours.

“Cregan,” His gentle correction had warmed your features, voice scratching the deeper parts of your very being. One hand relocated, roughened palm shifting to gingerly cup your jaw, thumb stroking over the silky skin there. “You are beautiful — you needn’t worry.” He reassured you.

Mesmerized by him, you rocked up upon your toes, mouth seeking his own as your lips collided in a seamless fervor. The kiss was far more passionate than the first, though still echoed with inexperience, ministrations somewhat erratic.

Flustered and charmed, your hands decided to abandon their position, finding the wide expanse of his leather-clad chest. Beneath your palms, it was all staunch muscle, hardened like that of indomitable stone, shielded by the rough veil of his tunic and cloak.

Returning your kiss, Cregan exhaled, the noise steady and resolute, hand shifting to perch atop the small of your back. Silken laces teasingly danced over his fingertips, as if attempting to rouse him to action — still, he did not bend to baser instincts.

Failing to part, the kiss continued, mouths beginning to find something of a rhythm, however unsteady it might’ve been. A surge of heat washed over you, the first wave of desire — at least, that’s what you assumed it was.

Cregan held you close, cradling you to his chest, grasp inherently protective and laced with gentleness. It was only when you drew away that he allowed it to slack, his features blanketed with a faint flush of scarlet, wintry-gray hues fluttering over your countenance.

“You may remove it.” The softness of your murmur was unmistakable, a sweet lull that had sunk its talons into the far recesses of his mind. Slowly, you turned, allowing him unobstructed access to the plane of tethered silk that clung to you.

With a brief exhale, Cregan steeled himself, ogling the back of your head — your tresses were braided and styled so intricately, the scent of a regal perfume wafting from you. Calloused digits found the column of laces along your spine, giving the very first a tug, making his way upwards.

The moment itself stewed with a searing tension, his body nearly snug against yours, the fabric beginning to loosen upon your body. Crimson and silvery silks gave way to the simple shift beneath, as pure as a newborn snowfall, its material tantalizingly sheer.

A stirring formed within his chest, exposed to your near-naked frame as you calmly stepped from your wedding gown. With respect to your garment, Cregan gathered it within his arms, placing it aside atop the footlocker.

As you turned to face him once more, instilled with a flicker of newfound confidence, you swore you heard his breath become heavy. The pliant peaks of your breasts prodded beneath the fabric, tresses spilling across your collarbone.

Nearly translucent, your shift left little to the imagination, material clinging to your form, as if tempting Cregan with what lay beneath. In a wordless rapture, he admired you — your beauty, the sparkling gleam within your eyes.

It was then that your attention had shifted to evening the score, gaze flickering toward the mantle of furs that still sat upon his shoulders, the studded leather jerkin. “I wish to see you, too.” Your confession was devastatingly tender, enough to make Cregan become a touch smitten.

“As you wish.” Cregan rumbled, lacking any qualms in regards to his own physicality. He was impressive for a man his age — nine-and-ten, and bigger than most. He watched as you quietly reached for the clasps of his cloak, easing it from him to join your wedding gown.

The assistance you provided in removing his own garb had made his heart fester with want, the proximity between bodies now incredibly thin. As your slender fingers went about unfastening the buckles of his vambraces, he gazed at you, as if you were the sun itself.

There was nothing boorish about you — the very air you exhaled was tinged with sweetness, air that he coveted. If Cregan did not know any better, he would believe you to be the goddess of beauty, made flesh incarnate before his very eyes. You drew him in so completely, making him burn.

As his vambraces joined the growing heap of clothing, both your attention and his had turned to his tabard and coarse tunic beneath. Leather slipped into your palms and his, fiddling with straps and buckles as he maneuvered it over his head.

His musculature was rather impressive, almost intimidating — Cregan took great care of himself, training daily and without rest. The dark, slate-hues tunic that clung to him came off next, as he pulled it over his chestnut mane until it fluttered atop the pile of garments.

Molten heat swirled within your belly as you marveled at the sight of him, statuesque and handsome, built to withstand even the hardiest of winters. You were nervous to touch him, just as he was with you — the hesitation was palpable, lingering between bodies.

The both of you stood with trembling hands and tremulous eyes, mere wisps apart, attempting to navigate through the first inklings of desire. To his surprise, it was you who had made the first move, hand slowly crossing the distance until it fell atop his chest.

A shudder gripped him, slithering along his spine, your embrace so very warm, a lick of fire piercing through his glacial gale of ice. “Is this alright?” You inquired, noting his nod of approval as he openly invited you to continue, pressing closer.

“May I?” Cregan returned the favor as his palms snaked toward the swell of your hips, and once you vocalized your consent, he let them sink into your pliant flesh. Despite the obstruction of fabric, he kneaded you even still, hands smoothing over your sides.

With a dip of his head, his lips danced over yours, a ghost of hot breath fanning over your features. He quietly awaited your consent, allowing you to bridge the gap, lips molding themselves to one another. The kiss made him dizzy, feeling your hands glide to perch atop his collarbone.

The hot, youthful surge of carnality came crashing down upon him like that of a tidal wave shattering upon the rocks. Cregan fought against his own instincts, what he’d been told to do, maintaining all sense of gallantry for your comfort.

This softness that he shared with you — it felt special, sacred; it was something that he envisioned himself growing accustomed to, with time. He felt you shiver within his grasp as his palm gently caressed along your spine, feeling your curves through your thin shift.

Each kiss seemed to sink into a gradual sense of comfort, shedding the initial awkwardness that had lingered at the start. Gods, you enjoyed his mouth quite a bit — more than what was deemed appropriate.

“You are wonderfully handsome,” As you murmured your praises against his lips, Cregan let the warmth of your words wrap around him. He became entangled in you, his mouth suddenly veering off-course, pressing a kiss to your neck. “Oh.”

A bewildered gasp tore past your mouth as he began to litter your throat in kisses, grunting when he felt your hand reach for the nape of his neck. This newfound sensation, however foreign, felt incredible to you — you wanted more.

Caging you in against his musculature, you felt the heat that wafted from him, as hot-blooded as the roar of the hearth. Arousal began to coalesce between your thighs, a pooling nectar that made you shift together.

His name emerged as a wanton whine from beneath your breath, enough to send a surge of desire throughout his bones, as sharp as a blade’s edge. Cregan’s jaw tensed, feeling his cock begin to twitch within his leather trousers.

Steady hands worshiped your body with reverent touches, fisting at the fabric that clung to you with a twinge of desperation. The young wolf continued to kiss his way across your neck until he found your collar, visage pressed into the soft canvas of your flesh.

“C—Cregan,” An unchaste moan floated from betwixt your lips, a song of mounting pleasure as he showered your skin in kisses. Gripping the chestnut tresses at his nape, your other palm slid around his torso, splayed atop his spine. “By the Seven.” You exhaled desire; exhilarated.

Biting back a threadbare smirk, his ministrations were ceaseless, wanting you to know just how flawless he found you, how beguiling. Muscles flexed around you, as if shielding you from the rest of the world, keeping you close to him.

Whatever chill had gripped his heart had all been melted away — fear of duty, fear of marriage, fear of sacrifice; it had all dissipated in your wake, leaving naught but ash.

Perhaps it was simply too early to feel such things, the imperviousness of youth, but for now, he cared very little for it. If Cregan was certain of one thing, it was that he wanted you, wanted your heart, to be your shield, a steady hand.

As he pressed a lingering kiss just above your sternum, a shiver passed through you, the shuffling of fabric becoming audible. He hadn’t fully realized that your hands had recoiled, now gathering against your ruffled shift. A flicker of surprise settled into his features, intermingled with a peculiar thrill.

Silence settled between, taut with want, the budding ecstasy of a new and promiscuous experience. Swallowing the slight lump that had coagulated within his throat, Cregan observed in hushed gaiety as you shakily fumbled to remove your shift.

Translucent material soared effortlessly over your flesh, pooling in a silvery heap at your feet. Tendrils of heat licked over your flesh, emanating from the hearth as your body revealed itself to your Lord-husband.

He seemed more a doe now than a wolf, visibly mesmerized by the sight of you, painfully beautiful, and he felt rather unworthy of it all. His heart galloped beneath his chest, storm-laden hues ogling every inch of you.

Standing rigidly still, more akin to a statue, you felt your words turn to ash upon your tongue, melting beneath Cregan’s incendiary stare. It was easy to discern the vermillion flush that had gripped his features, which happened to make you so very warm, hands awkwardly dangling at your sides.

“It feels untoward to touch you like this,” Cregan confessed, hardened countenance beginning to soften. “As if I might tarnish your perfection.”

The fondness laced throughout his cadence only stoked the volatile flame within your belly, thighs absentmindedly shifting together. A smitten smile permeated your features, eyelashes fluttering in rapid succession as you shyly reached for his hand.

“There is nothing to tarnish,” Gently, you set his large hand atop your hip, able to hear the sharp inhale of glee from the young wolf. “I — I want you, Cregan. I want you to touch me.” Tapering off into a hoarse utterance, you looked to him with pleading eyes; it was so easy for him to submit.

Steeling himself, Cregan allowed his confidence to flourish, then and there. You wanted him, craved his embrace — there was nothing to fear, no reason to believe that he’d disappoint you. Bending to kiss you, he let his digits flex over your flesh, as downy as a bed of feathers.

No satin or silk compared to that of you, perfection incarnate, living and breathing within his grasp. Permitting the kiss to linger, deepen, he only withdrew to ask a very important question. “Where, wife?” Such an innocent word threaded with a blistering desire — your knees shook.

A hitch formed within your throat, and Cregan was desperate to please you, even if it did not outwardly display itself. Excitable, you reached for his other hand, fingers barely able to encircle his wrist, guiding it towards the oozing heat between your legs.

Through furrowed brows and bated breath, he exhaled when his calloused digits met the damp heat of your nethers, jaw beginning to pull taut. The sensation was a foreign one, and he coaxed you closer, muscled arm keeping you aloft as his thigh gently pushed your legs apart.

He watched you closely, to see what you enjoyed and what you disliked, digits beginning to push past your petals. Met with the rushing warmth of your arousal, Cregan touched you with exploratory caresses, fingers gently gliding over your cunt.

Eliciting a moan from your mouth, he let his lips dip to your throat once more, sluggishly allowing his digits to slide along your slit. You gripped his biceps, anchoring yourself there as he warmed you in ways you didn’t think possible, head clouded by the haze of desire.

His lips returned to the bend of your shoulder, the velvety hollow between that and your throat. A string of kisses manifested there, digits continuing to caress over your slit. This rhythm was agonizing, your body screaming with ecstasy.

As his digits brushed over the pearl of your cunt, you immediately tensed, gripping him like a vice as you released a shaky sigh. “There.” You encouraged, feeling his mouth begin to still, focused upon his new charge.

Quietly, Cregan looked to you, hues a glacial storm, glittering with affection as he circled back to your clit, fingers brushing over the bundle of nerves once more. The way your hips had jolted forward, nails digging crescents into his biceps — he reveled in your reaction.

Acting upon instinct, your hand had dropped, traveling to the laces of his trousers, earning you an exhilarated look. He did not protest in the slightest, hand stilling enough as you began to sheepishly tug at the leather ties, a shiver icing your spine.

“To bed.” He uttered, preferring if you were comfortable and situated for all of this, and you nodded in agreement. Even as you shyly crept toward his bed, you didn’t want to stop your previous ministrations.

Slipping onto the impressive expanse of furs, you sank into pelts of bears and wolves alike, gaze expectantly finding his own as he paused, finishing with his breeches. Sluggishly, he stepped from his clothing, which had all felt rather cumbersome, restrictive.

The sudden flurry of nervousness flooded your countenance when you saw all of him; butterflies erupted within your belly, gooseflesh crawling over your frame. There was nothing small about him, from his indomitable stature and bulk of muscle to his cock, now fully erect.

Choking at the sight, you began to wonder how it would all fit, how it worked — though, you trusted in him, trusted that he would be gentle. It was to be expected — a man of his impenetrable stature likely had the assets to accompany it.

As Cregan joined you, the frame of the bed rustling in protest to the newfound weight, you swallowed the growing lump within your throat. His bulky physique had swallowed you whole as he moved to lay over you, blanketing you in his warmth.

It was his turn to become shy, chewing at the inside of his cheek as he deliberated on what to do next, palms firmly planting themselves on either side of your head. His cock twitched at the sight of you, beautiful beyond compare, resting beneath him with a sense of uncertainty.

Able to hold himself aloft well enough with one forearm, the other returned to previous ministrations, fingers finding the warm slick between your legs. He inhaled at the sensation, brows creased in concentration.

As your visage blossomed with an obvious delight, you wanted to even the score, reaching for his cock as it prodded against your belly. He grit his teeth together when you first touched him, initially shy as could be, nearly hiding behind your lashes.

The softness of your delicate digits wrapping around the girth of his cock made him swear beneath his breath, forehead resting against yours. In a pleasurable tandem, you exchanged caresses, his fingers languidly circling around your clit, burly physique spreading your legs apart.

Gazes met, a fire ignited — he was quiet, but the rapture within his eyes was unmistakable. Lips clamored for one another, a hushed moan floating from your mouth, hand continuing to stroke in rhythmic motions along his length.

The weight of disappointing you had withered away entirely, leaving only a sense of newfound devotion, desiring to please you in the way that you deserved. Cregan’s chest reverberated with a low grunt as the pad of your thumb circled over the swollen head of his cock, eliciting a sonorous groan from him.

He feared that if he carried on, he might not have been able to hold himself together. As his mouth claimed yours once more, the kiss disarmingly tender, infused with passion, he felt your body arch into the friction of his hand.

Waning embers pooled over your flesh, turning it to some incandescent shade, captivating him completely. The heat from the hearth mattered little to you, replaced by the comforting warmth of your new husband, whose body bent to you just as yours did him.

“I will be gentle, I swear this to you.” Cregan swore, tone resolute and laced with want, baritone rattling your insides with a flush of bliss. His cock pulsed within your palm, and he nearly bit at your lip, resisting the wolfish urge to do so.

Between sweeter kisses, he let his fingers toy with the pearl of your cunt a moment longer, wanting to bring you such bliss before the act itself. Nervousness continued to swirl within him, a fear of hurting you still lingering as he planted a kiss to your brow.

“I need you,” You hadn’t expected the words to float so effortlessly from your lips, and yet, it felt right to say it. Cregan’s countenance bristled with yearning, carnal fantasies taking root as he imagined filling you with a babe. “Cregan, please.”

Smitten and endlessly flustered, you nearly shrank beneath the intensity of his gray-hued stare, throat bobbing as he swallowed. His roughened palm stroked along your thigh, and he knew where to insert himself, but what came after?

It was easy to envision you swollen with his child, his new Lady of Winterfell, carrying his heirs, a maiden worthy of his worship. Cregan settled between your legs, adjusting his position, the head of his cock brushing against your slick petals.

A sharp gasp punctured your lungs, hands holding onto his biceps. Both his virtue and yours dangled by a mere thread, tantalizing as he angled himself to the best of his ability, reeling at the sensation of your legs squeezing at his hips.

“Are you certain?” Despite the breathy cadence of his inquiry, he wanted you to be well-prepared before he continued. Fingers twisted into the thick furs beside your head, forehead ghosting above yours, wisps of chestnut framing his countenance.

With a nod, you prepared yourself for what would likely be discomfort, hopeful that it would devolve into bliss after some time. “Yes.” You sighed, gaze innocuous, completely and utterly charmed by his gallantry as he eased his hips forward.

Cregan carefully watched your face, searching for signs of discomfort as his cock began to push into your tight cunt, which clenched around him already. A low cry of pain tore past your lips, attempting to suppress it for his sake — he was so very well-endowed.

“We do not have to continue.” His response was instantaneous and apologetic, brows furrowed together as his hips stilled, and you shook your head. Cregan deliberated, wrestling with himself as you encouraged him through wanton moans, knees squeezing at his waist.

“N—No,” Whilst your protest seemed weak, you meant it entirely. The stretch was certainly discomforting, but it wasn’t agonizing — you hoped to grow accustomed to it. “I wish to continue — please, Cregan.” Your pleas to keep going were reluctantly answered.

Admittedly, he felt overwhelmed by you — the tightness, the sensation of your cunt around his cock, the feeling of your body nestled against his own. He exhaled, hot breath fanning over your countenance, his expression just as doelike as your own.

Your neediness made his blood run hot, and he nodded, sluggishly resuming his pace. He continued to tilt his hips forward, cock feeding into you, inch by inch. Cregan felt the desperate bite of your nails clutching into muscle, leaving behind angry crescents.

A trembling breath escaped him, muscles flexing around you, caging you in against him. His stalwart nature had crumbled completely, lips gently pressing against your jaw in an attempt to soothe you, hips slotting forward until he had sheathed himself within you.

He did not move, allowing you time to adjust, content to lay there and pepper your flesh in plentiful kisses. One hand clamored to the nape of his neck, fisting at his chestnut tresses as you eased out a shaky exhale.

“Are you alright, wife?” Gods, the title — it made your belly churn with liquid heat, coalescing as arousal, heavy between your thighs. If it weren’t for Cregan’s reassurance and caution, this might’ve been rather distasteful.

Fortunately, he was perfect in all ways imaginable, crooked bridge of his nose inhaling a gust of your saccharine scent. You made sure to nod, his stillness becoming more of a hindrance than assistance. “Mm,” You moaned. “I am.”

The more time he gave you to grow accustomed to his girth, the more relaxed you became, no longer coiled like some furled lioness. As you let yourself become light, floating, the sensation gradually became pleasurable for you.

Cregan’s lips twitched into a threadbare smile; you took him so well, enough that it made his heart swell with ardor. Coaxing him in for a kiss, your lips met with a startling fervor, and he began to move, hips sluggishly rolling forward, ensuring that he was exceedingly gentle.

His cock filled you completely, a stretch that would take you more than just one night to adjust to. Your maidenhead was gone, your cunt tight around his length, pulling him in again and again. He took care of you, soothingly caressing your thigh as he held it within one palm.

Gods help him — he began to understand why so many men had talked of this carnal bliss, and it only made him ache for you all the more. Sharp grunts accentuated each of his thrusts, ensuring that his pace was careful, letting the pleasure build.

Cregan’s breathing became heavier, somewhat labored as he consummated your union. Each roll of his hips held meaning, beyond the creation of an heir. It was tenuous with newfound feelings, a burning sentiment he felt for you, ardor that had grown into a fire.

It was you that had reached for his hand, fingers interlocking above your head, pressed into the downy pillows there. It filled you with molten heat, slick cunt aiding in his ministrations, hips urging into yours with a simmering friction.

His name fell from your lips like some sacred prayer, whispered into the heat between bodies, distance nonexistent. The pliant peaks of your breasts had brushed against his muscled chest, your other hand gripping his bicep like a vice.

It was driving him mad, the way your cunt constricted around his cock, the way in which your back arched from the furs, chest brushing against his. Cregan grunted, jaw set and brows furrowed in concentration as he kneaded into your thigh, something to alleviate his tension.

He was so burly, a thick wall of impenetrable muscle that seemed to envelop you entirely, shield you from everything else, from all harm. It made you feel protected, comfortable — as if you had nothing to fear.

Strands of chestnut stuck to his temples, flesh glittering with perspiration from the exertion of lovemaking, coupled with the heat of your chambers. Clinging to him like a drowning woman, you savored the slow, sharp snaps of his hips, urging into you.

Cregan’s cock throbbed within you as he sought to spill his seed, face against yours, lips occasionally connecting in a series of passionate kisses. Everything felt incredible, in ways that you couldn’t comprehend — it was ecstasy, it was pure bliss.

The pinnacle of your pleasure was dancing upon the precipice, feeling his thrusts become a touch invigorated. Even still, he never once devolved to roughness, never strayed from his sluggish pace, made to feel all of you.

Wanton moans and low, thunderous groans echoed between you, inhabiting the warmth that crackled there, foreheads nestled together. Perspiration licked across your frame, permeating against your spine as your legs squeezed him like a vice.

As you called his name, Cregan grunted, the sound sudden and intense, attempting to restrain himself for just a moment long — and he was exceedingly unlucky. His hips urged forward once more, cock pulsing with an incessant ache as he spilled himself inside of you.

There was certainly intent behind it, filling your womb with his seed, desiring to see you round, lovely and full. Even if it did not take, he suspected that the opportunities would present themselves in the future. A shudder passed through his spine, feeling your cunt clench around him.

It was your release that followed suit, a white-hot tidal wave of ecstasy that made you see stars, moaning against his mouth as he cradled you close. Your interlocked fingers had tightened, bodies still craving one another, insurmountable heat making you delirious.

Seed oozed from your cunt, a sticky smattering that painted both your womb and inner thighs, your own nectar intermingled. Cregan heaved an exhale, letting his brow press snug to yours, mouth connecting in a tender kiss.

As his gaze found yours, you felt your features simmer with warmth, breath beginning to still as you regained your composure. The moment had stretched for an eternity, content to bask within his presence, lips curling into a demure smile.

The young wolf was wholly enamored, furrowed brows beginning to slack as he turned, bringing you with him. As he laid down, he let you rest atop him, bodies molding together as if they were two puzzle pieces, intended to fit.

Cregan himself seemed caught in the afterglow, dazzled by you, by all of this — unexpectedly so. A thick, muscled arm wrapped around you, palm splayed across the small of your back as he felt you shift, head nestled atop his chest.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He uttered, his worry thinly-veiled as he cradled you close, concerned that he’d caused you harm. “I apologize if I did — I did not realize …” Cregan trailed off, features painted with a scarlet pallor.

Admittedly, you would be sore — with your maidenhead surrendered, the ache between your legs was both pleasant and painful. “You did not,” You assured, letting out an awkward clearing of your throat. “Do you wish for me to go to my own chambers, now?”

Bewildered, Cregan’s head perked up just enough, head canting to one side. “Why would I have you leave?” He questioned, noticing the way you became embarrassed, as if you had said something completely foul.

“My own mother never shared chambers with my father,” You prompted, flustered as Cregan shook his head, bringing you closer, as if that were even a possibility. Already flush together, flesh to flesh, heart to heart, there was not a sliver of space to be found. “I only thought …”

“I understand,” His Northern timbre was soothing, reassuring as he caressed along your spine, pressing a chaste kiss to your crown. “I would prefer it if you stayed here — though, should you tire of me, I will accommodate you.” Cregan rumbled, nearly smirking at your fit of giggles.

“I do not think I will tire of you — not anytime soon, as it stands.” You mused, and that seemed to amuse your Lord-husband, who let out a brief huff as he soon swaddled you both within the furs.

No longer did you fear the Northern chill.

#house of the dragon #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark x you #cregan stark x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd #hotd smut #hotd fanfiction #cregan stark #cregan x reader #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfic #asoiaf fanfic #cregan stark smut

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colouredbyd · 1 month ago

Text

About You

james potter x reader

synopsis: in a world where soulmates see color only when they meet, james potter has always lived in vivid hues without knowing why. the girl who once lit up his world in childhood vanished, leaving only fragments of memory behind. years later, when she returns, tangled memories and aching hearts reveal a truth he’s longed for — that everything has always been about you.

cw: soulmate au, reader is adopted, childhood friends to lovers, getting hit by a ball, kissing, dual point of view, extensive james pov, james deeply in love, reader adopted by a french family, reader is a transfer student to hogwarts, background wolfstar elements, mild emotional intensity, some angst, slow-burn romance, no major triggers, fluff fluff fluff!

w/c: 5.8k

request: here!

a/n: based on the song About You by The 1975. i’m genuinely so proud of this, and will be rereading it till i get the ick <3

masterlist

James Potter believed he had no soulmate. For many reasons.

The idea that the universe could conjure one singular person who was perfect for him sounded, frankly, implausible.

Wasn’t a person meant to decide their own fate? The very notion bristled against his nature, too neat, too scripted, too convenient.

James had never liked being told how things ought to be, how paths were meant to wind, or whom he was meant to love.

He thought of the way the world spun with infinite variables, endless choices, each step shaping the next in ways no prophecy could predict.

What if he didn’t like his soulmate? Worse, what if they didn’t like him?

The thought sat sharp-edged and unwelcome in the quiet corners of his mind. He did not dwell on it, as a rule.

Still, it was difficult to escape the idea entirely. All his life, he had heard the stories, told over dinners, late-night fires, quiet moments between his parents.

Tales of that first breathless instant when color had bled into the world, so rich it left them dazed.

His father would speak of the impossible green of his mother’s eyes, the startling red of her lips. His mother would smile, eyes soft with memory, describing the gold in his father’s hair beneath the sun.

James would listen, curious but strangely distant from it all, as they told him how the world had split wide and new when they met, how they could still remember the exact moment the grey had vanished.

There was something beautiful in it, he supposed. Something that stirred at the edge of longing. But beneath that was a quieter, sharper thing — fear, perhaps.

A worry that his story would not unfold in such a fairytale manner, that the universe might be cruel, or careless, or simply indifferent.

And yet, for all those tangled doubts and questions, none were his strongest reason for disbelief.

In a world where people are born to see only black and white, where the first meeting of a soulmate floods the eye with color, James had known with mounting certainty that he did not have one.

Because for as long as he could remember, he had seen the world in color.

He remembered it as a child, dashing barefoot through the echoing halls of Potter Manor, the tapestries a riot of gold and crimson, the gardens spilling green across the summer air.

He remembered color at the village markets, the bright bustle of stalls, the striped awnings swaying in the wind.

And most of all, he remembered color from the orphanage, of all places, a rather grey and drafty stone building that somehow still flickered to life whenever he visited.

Euphemia Potter had a heart wide as the sky. Though she came from a pure-blood family, she had never cared for the stuffy ideas that often clung to such lineage.

She would say, in her usual firm and breezy way, that the world had more than enough coldness in it already.

And so it had been her habit, even after marriage and motherhood, to visit the local orphanage with baskets of sweets, books, blankets.

She brought James with her, of course.

“You should make friends everywhere you can,” she would tell him. “That is what magic is for.”

James had not needed convincing. A boy of seven with boundless curiosity and a great deal too much energy, he had thought the visits a grand adventure.

The halls of the orphanage were a new playground, full of new faces, new games, new scrapes to be had.

And though his memory, even now, was a rather hopeless mess of scattered images and blurred hours — he had been seven, after all, with the attention span of a gnat — there was one thing he remembered clearly.

One certain girl.

She had bickered with him from the very first moment. It seemed to be her sport, her purpose in life, to contradict everything he said.

If he claimed the sky was blue, she would argue that it was grey.

If he ran to the swings, she would beat him there and call him slow.

If he tried to charm her with sweets from his mother’s basket, she would sniff at them and declare them probably poisoned.

And yet, for all her stubbornness, for all her sharp tongue and quicker wit, something about her had altered James’s world, tilted it on its axis.

He could remember the exact shade of her hair beneath the sun, the color of her laugh (yes, it had seemed to have color, or perhaps that was only how he had felt about it), the bright flash of her eyes when she grinned at him in triumph after a particularly vicious game of tag.

She had been, if he was honest, the closest James had ever come to finding love.

Not that he had known it at the time. It had been a stupid thing. A childish thing. A crush from when he was seven, foolish and fleeting.

But sometimes, in quiet moments, the memory would drift back.

And then, as quickly as she had appeared, she had vanished.

One day, she simply was not there.

James had asked his mother, bewildered and frowning. “Where did she go?”

Euphemia had smiled, soft and knowing. “She was adopted, love.”

Adopted. Off into some other life, some other world. Gone.

And so, James had decided, with the certainty only a small boy could possess: he was doomed. Utterly doomed. Never to find love again.

A ridiculous thought, of course. A dramatic one.

But even now, if one asked James Potter about soulmates, he would shrug and say with a crooked grin that the matter was simple: he had missed his chance at seven years old, and the universe had long since given up on him.

Which was all fine by him, really.

Absolutely fine.

Or so he told himself.

Still, doomed or not, James had other things to think about. Seventh year would not make itself easy. N.E.W.T.s, Quidditch, Prefect duties he mostly ignored.

The castle was louder this year, more crowded with couples now that so many had found their soulmates.

Everywhere he looked it seemed someone was falling into place — eyes brighter, hands clasped in the corridors, laughter a little too soft for comfort.

Even Sirius and Remus had settled, the two of them inseparable these days, perfectly content in their own easy orbit.

James had long since stopped teasing them for it. It was hard to begrudge your best mates something so clearly right.

No one in their year was surprised when Sirius stopped chasing girls and started sitting closer to Remus by the fire, heads bent together over a book, fingers sometimes laced beneath the table.

The two of them had found what the rest were still hoping for.

And James — well. He had no use for hoping. The universe had forgotten him, or worse, chosen to leave him out of the story altogether.

And honestly, it was fine. Absolutely fine. He was not the type to pine for something that would never be.

He did not even think of it again. Not until one crisp October afternoon, when fate chose to remind him that the universe had its own plans after all.

It had been a long practice. The Gryffindor team had spent hours drilling plays beneath a sky streaked pale with autumn clouds.

By the time James finally touched down on the pitch, the sun was slanting low behind the towers, painting everything in gold.

James touched down first, broom tucked beneath one arm, hair a windswept mess, sweat clinging to the nape of his neck.

A few paces behind, Sirius landed with a grin, spinning his broom lazily through one hand.

They had lingered after the rest of the team had gone in — a habit of James’s, these days. Some hours just did not want to end.

Remus was waiting at the edge of the stands, book tucked beneath one arm, watching them with quiet amusement.

He was never one for flying — though he had a good eye for plays — and often brought some battered novel to keep himself occupied during long practices.

By now the pitch had mostly emptied. A few stragglers remained at the far end, gathering gear, trailing off toward the castle.

James caught a worn quaffle from the basket and tossed it from hand to hand as they crossed the grass.

“Remus says you nearly knocked their new Chaser off her broom earlier,” Sirius said, slinging an arm over James’s shoulder. “Show-off.”

“She wasn’t watching her line,” James replied easily, giving the quaffle another spin.

“Besides, the only thing I knocked was that shot past you, mate.”

Sirius laughed, but before he could retort, James wound back and sent the quaffle arcing lazily into the air.

The throw was wide, idle, more habit than thought, the sort of casual motion born from years of play.

“Oi, careful with that,” Sirius called, shielding his eyes from the sun.

But already the quaffle was sailing out across the pitch, farther than James had meant, the angle off.

It spun in a slow arc toward the edge of the stands — and straight into an unsuspecting figure who had just rounded the corner.

There was a faint cry, a stumble — and then you went down hard, knees hitting the damp earth where the grass was still slick from the rain the night before.

A sharp splash of mud streaked your skirt, the quaffle rolling uselessly to a stop in the grass beside you.

Brilliant. Your first week at this school and already you were on your knees in the dirt.

And then a shadow fell across you.

“I’m so sorry—” he began, dropping into a crouch, reaching for your hand.

You looked up, ready to snap, and the words caught somewhere between your chest and throat.

The boy standing before you was tall, broad-shouldered beneath the loose fall of his Quidditch robes.

His skin was tanned deep by long hours beneath the sun, warm against the crisp October light.

Curls of dark brown hair framed his face, damp from practice, a little tousled at the edges. And his eyes—

You faltered.

His eyes were something else entirely. A colour so fierce and rich it stopped your breath, as though the world had narrowed to that single glance.

He crouched swiftly, one strong hand reaching out. His fingers curled around yours, firm and steady, as he helped you upright.

The instant his palm touched yours, the air shifted.

A spark, low and bright, lit beneath your skin. The faintest hum, dizzy and disorienting, curled through your chest. Every inch of you seemed to prickle with heat.

Your breath stilled.

And then you saw it in him. The subtle gasp, the way his mouth parted in some small sound.

His eyes widened, sharp with something between recognition and alarm. His grip faltered.

He jerked his hand back as though burned, stumbling a half-step away, chest rising fast beneath his robes.

He stared at you, gaze bright and bewildered, lips parted, no words finding their way out.

Then, without a word, he spun sharply on his heel, boots slipping slightly in the wet grass as he fled across the pitch.

You stood frozen, one hand half-raised where he had left it, heart beating so loud you were certain it would echo through the field. Your skin still hummed faintly, breath caught and uneven.

You blinked after his retreating form, brows drawing together.

“What in Merlin’s—?”

His friend, who was standing far behind him, frowned. “Prongs?”

But the boy was gone, disappearing fast beyond the edge of the stands. After a beat, the two of them exchanged a glance and hurried after him.

You were left sitting in the damp grass, heart racing so loudly you were certain the whole pitch could hear it.

“What a complete weirdo,” you muttered aloud, though your voice shook faintly.

You pressed your palms to your knees, trying to catch your breath.

The earth spun quietly beneath you.

“There you are!”

You glanced up. Lily Evans was making her way toward you, copper hair glinting in the sun, Mary Macdonald trailing close behind. Both girls looked concerned.

“We saw what happened,” Lily said, crouching beside you. “Are you alright? That looked like a nasty fall.”

“I’m fine,” you answered, though your heart was still pounding. “It was just—surprising.”

Mary smiled. “That’s one way to start the afternoon.”

Lily offered her hand to help you up. You took it gratefully, brushing damp earth from your knees.

“Honestly,” Lily continued, shaking her head, “some of these Quidditch boys have no aim at all.”

You forced a small laugh. “It seems so.”

Lily gave you a warm look. “Come on. Let’s get you back inside.”

You fell into step with them as they made their way toward the castle, grateful, as always, for their easy company.

Transferring to Hogwarts for your final year had been an ordeal, a whirlwind decision after your adoptive family’s move from France.

Beauxbatons had been your home for six years, all grace and polished magic.

Hogwarts was wild and sprawling by comparison, full of shifting staircases and unruly ghosts and students who had known each other forever.

It was rare to transfer so late. You knew the whispers that followed you through the halls.

A seventh-year newcomer was no small curiosity.

But Lily had been kind from the first. So had Mary. Their friendship had been a soft, steady thing amidst the strangeness, helping you find your footing in this unfamiliar place.

Still, even now, there were moments when it felt as though you did not quite belong.

“I still feel a bit lost,” you admitted quietly. “All of it is so different here.”

“It’ll settle in,” Lily promised. “Give it time.”

Mary grinned. “Just watch out for stray quaffles.”

You managed a real laugh then, though your thoughts kept circling back. Not to the fall. Not even to the crowd that had stared.

But to him.

The boy with eyes like burnished gold, who had looked at you as though the world itself had cracked open.

And fled. What a coward—who even gets scared from girls?

Lily glanced at you with a gentle smile, her eyes bright despite the chill in the air. “You’ve handled the fall better than most first years.”

Mary nudged your arm playfully.

“Yeah, and that mud really brings out your fille mystérieuse aesthetic.”

You rolled your eyes, though a reluctant smile tugged at your lips.

“If fille mystérieuse means ‘walking disaster,’ then sure. I’m nailing it.”

Mary grinned, “I still can’t believe you transferred here this late. Must be quite the change from Beauxbatons.”

You shrugged, folding your arms against the cool air.

“It’s... different. Beauxbatons is more... polished, orderly. Hogwarts feels like a wild storm — unpredictable and sprawling.”

Lily nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose that makes sense. But it’s home, in its own way. You’ll find your place.”

“Do you miss it? France?” Mary asked quietly.

You hesitated, looking down at your boots. “Sometimes. The way things were there. The certainty.”

Lily’s voice softened. “We all feel a bit adrift sometimes. Especially here, where everything is old and layered with so many stories.”

You looked up, catching their eyes. “Thanks. You both have been... a lifeline.”

Mary smiled warmly. “That’s what friends are for.”

The conversation drifted then, from classes to teachers to the upcoming exams.

The castle buzzed around you with the usual hum of students rushing between lessons, laughter echoing in the high ceilings.

And slowly, your attention began to wander, the words around you blurring into background noise.

That’s when you saw him.

He was standing farther down the corridor now, leaning casually against a stone pillar.

The sunlight caught in his curls, highlighting the rich brown and the damp sheen from practice. His skin, lightly tanned, seemed to glow faintly in the afternoon light.

But it was his eyes that rooted you in place — steady, unflinching, as if he were watching something rare and fragile.

You blinked, startled by the intensity of his gaze.

“Do you see that?” you murmured, nodding toward him.

Mary’s eyes followed your gesture, a grin tugging at her lips. “He’s staring like you’re some miracle.”

You folded your arms, lips tightening. “What’s up with that idiot bastard? Can’t he find anything better to do than gawking like I’m some kind of freak?”

Lily laughed softly. “You’d think someone from Beauxbatons would handle that sort of attention with a bit more grace.”

You rolled your eyes, a wry smile breaking through. “Grace isn’t exactly what I’m feeling.”

Mary chuckled. “Don’t mind him. That’s James Potter.”

You frowned, the name slipping somewhere into your memory. “James Potter...?”

Lily nodded. “Gryffindor’s Seeker. A bit of a troublemaker, but talented.”

“And his friends,” Mary added, “Sirius Black — his best mate, always at his side — and Remus Lupin, who’s been close to both for years.”

Your mind swirled with those names, distant echoes you’d heard but never quite understood.

You glanced back at James, still watching you without shame or hesitation.

The conversation with Lily and Mary faded into the background as you watched James, his figure etched against the stone pillar, his eyes still locked on you with that strange intensity.

There was something about him that tugged at the edges of your memory — a distant echo, a faint pulse beneath the surface of thought — but no matter how hard you tried, you could not place it.

It was as if a name was just beyond reach, a face blurred by time and distance.

You scoured your mind for clues, for fragments of some forgotten chapter, but all you found was a quiet ache of familiarity you couldn’t name.

You swallowed the feeling, telling yourself it was just the oddness of being new here, the disorienting swirl of so many unfamiliar faces and names.

With a sigh, you shifted your weight and turned toward the exit, ready to leave the corridor and the boy who unsettled you so deeply.

Mary and Lily fell into step beside you, their easy chatter picking up once more, but before you could take more than a few steps, a voice called out your name.

“Y/N.”

You stopped in your tracks, heart suddenly pounding as you spun around.

James was running toward you, his expression a mixture of hope and something more vulnerable.

Closer now, the fading light revealed a faint scar above his right eyebrow—a thin, pale line that caught your eye instantly.

And in that moment, the memories came flooding back with unrelenting clarity.

The muddy courtyard of the orphanage, sun-warmed stones beneath your hands.

The days when he was just a boy with dark curls, tanned skin, and laughter that rang out loud and clear.

How his mother, Euphemia, would visit the orphanage and bring him along, her wide heart pulling children from shadow into light.

You remembered the afternoons spent teasing and bickering, how stubborn he was, how fiercely alive.

And then the sharp sting of a broken branch — your misjudged swing, the cry of pain, the apology whispered breathlessly as you pressed your hand to his brow.

The scar you had given him was etched deep, a mark of childhood recklessness and unspoken connection.

Your breath caught.

He was the boy from your past — the boy who had shifted your world on its axis before disappearing into the unknown.

“James,” you whispered, the name tasting strange and familiar on your tongue.

He smiled, a little sheepish, but his eyes shone with relief.

“I never thought I’d see you again.”

For a second, the world hung still.

Your name trembled between you, spoken softly, almost reverently. His voice, warm with memory and something far deeper, seemed to echo through your chest.

And then, without thought, without hesitation, you moved.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, the recognition swelling so suddenly within you that it left you breathless.

“James Potter!”

You crossed the space between you, heart racing, arms rising as though guided by something older than memory.

You embraced him, your arms winding around his neck, pressing close with the full, unguarded joy of seeing someone long lost to time.

James stood frozen for a single, fragile instant. His breath caught in his throat, eyes wide with disbelief, as if the entire universe had shifted beneath his feet.

He had imagined this moment before, of course.

Countless times in quiet hours, in stray, half-formed thoughts that never quite dared to hope. But no imagining had prepared him for this.

For the way you felt in his arms, for the press of your cheek against his shoulder, for the soft scent of lavender and rain-soaked grass clinging to you.

Slowly, his arms rose and wrapped around you, unsure at first, almost hesitant, as though he feared one wrong movement might break the spell.

But the warmth of you was too real, too vivid, and something in him unfurled in that moment.

He held you closer, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real — like if he loosened his grip for even a second, you might vanish again.

His heart pounded hard enough to hurt, a wild, desperate rhythm that had only ever belonged to you.

It wasn’t just relief blooming in his chest. It was recognition. It was longing curling inward like a second heartbeat, something older than memory, louder than logic.

Everything in him was reaching — every thread of muscle and magic and soul stretching toward you, as if his very existence had been stitched together wrong without you in it.

He didn’t just want you close. He needed it, like air in his lungs, like light in a place that had gone too long without warmth.

And in that moment, with you wrapped in his arms, the noise of the world faded. It didn’t matter where you had been, how long it had taken, or how much had been lost.

You were here. You had always been his. And everything inside him knew it.

You pulled back after a long, trembling breath, your cheeks flushed, a bright smile curving your lips.

“Sorry,” you said, voice breathless, eyes shining. “I—”

James found his voice, rough and low, though his heart still beat wildly beneath his ribs. “It is all right,” he managed.

“It is more than all right.”

Around you, the corridor seemed to dim and still, as if the castle itself had withdrawn, leaving only the two of you in this suspended moment.

Lily and Mary shared a glance behind you, a quiet understanding passing between them. With a soft word and a small smile, they slipped away into the flow of students, leaving behind a silence that was somehow heavier.

James could not look away from you.

He traced the lines of your face as though seeing them for the first time, though some part of him had carried the memory of them all these years.

The curve of your mouth, the shape of your eyes, the light that seemed to radiate from within you.

The years had only deepened what was already beautiful.

His voice was softer when he spoke again, touched with something you could not name. “Where have you been all this time?”

You drew in a breath, eyes flicking away for a moment as you gathered the words, unsure where to begin.

“I was adopted,” you said quietly.

“A family from France. It was… very sudden. I remember Euphemia told me the day before it happened. One moment I was there, with you and the others… and then I was gone.”

James’s brow furrowed, something aching flickering in his gaze. “I remember,” he said softly.

“Mum told me you’d been adopted. I thought—” He hesitated. “I thought you might still be nearby. I kept hoping.”

Your heart gave an odd little lurch at that, though you pressed on. “They moved not long after. To Provence. 1They were kind, truly, but it was all so new, and I suppose… I lost touch with everything from before. I spent the next six years at Beauxbatons.”

A faint smile touched your lips, though it carried a hint of wistfulness. “It was… beautiful there. Graceful, in its own way. Very different. But I always wondered about this place.”

James could only listen, rapt, as though your voice alone could anchor him to this moment.

“And then,” you continued, “this summer, they decided to return. My adoptive father was offered a position here, something in the Ministry. They thought it would be good for me too, to finish school here before… well, before whatever comes next.”

You let out a soft breath, lifting your gaze back to his. “And so, here I am. Quite unexpected.”

James shook his head, a slow, incredulous smile growing at the corners of his mouth. “Not unexpected,” he said, voice low and sure. “Fate, maybe.”

Something about the way he said it sent a ripple through you, warm and unsteady.

He studied you openly, drinking in every change, every new grace in your bearing, every familiar spark that still lived in your eyes.

“You have grown…” His voice caught, but he pressed on. “Beautifully. I nearly did not recognise you at first.”

You tilted your head, a glint of humour dancing beneath your words.

“So I was not beautiful before?”

Colour flushed his cheeks instantly, his composure slipping. “No— no, that is not— you were— you have always—” He broke off with a helpless little laugh, raking a hand through his damp curls.

You laughed too, the sound light, lilting between you. “I am teasing, James.”

Relief washed across his face, though the warmth in his eyes only deepened.

You let your gaze travel over him for a moment, noting how the years had reshaped him.

Gone was the boy who used to trail after you in the orphanage courtyard, all gangly limbs and stubborn defiance.

Now he stood taller, broader, with a presence that seemed to fill the corridor. The glasses remained, but behind them his eyes gleamed brighter than you remembered, full of something vivid and unspoken.

“You have grown quite well yourself,” you said softly. “You used to be shorter than me. I remember quite clearly.”

That drew a breathless, boyish laugh from him, the kind that caught in his throat. “Well,” he managed, “I could not let you stay taller forever.”

For a beat, neither of you moved. The moment stretched between you, a quiet, humming thing, as though the air itself was charged with something neither of you fully understood.

And James Potter, who had once been certain he would never know what it felt like to belong to someone, found himself standing before you, heart laid bare, and wondered how he had ever imagined anything else.

After that day, something began to change between you and James Potter, though the nature of that change unfolded with such quiet certainty that it seemed almost inevitable, as though it had been written long before either of you could comprehend it.

He began to appear more often in the spaces between your days — not merely by chance, but with a certain quiet deliberation, as though drawn to your orbit without fully understanding why.

After lessons, he would be there at the foot of the stairs or by the classroom door, offering a bright smile and some casual remark that seemed to disguise the hope in his eyes.

In the corridors between lectures, he would fall into step beside you, his presence easy and unforced, the conversation flowing in a manner that was both comfortable and new.

Before long, you began to notice him elsewhere.

In the library, beneath the high arches of the south wing, where he would pass by your table with an idle glance.

On the way to meals, where he would hold a place for you without being asked, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

In the common room, where his voice would grow softer when he spoke to you, his laughter somehow warmer.

It had been years since you had seen him last, and though your memories of the orphanage remained fragmented — blurred impressions of sunlit courtyards, laughter on wind-stirred afternoons, a stubborn boy with a scar on his brow and a fierce glint in his gaze — there was something about him that stirred an unspoken familiarity.

He felt, even now, like the sun itself: so warm and so constant that no matter how long you had wandered or how far you had been carried by the tides of life, you would always know the shape of that light.

It was impossible to outrun the sun, after all. One might seek shadows or turn away, but sooner or later, its warmth would find you again.

And so it was with James Potter.

You also grew closer still to Lily and Mary, their friendship becoming a steady anchor in this new place.

The three of you would linger over long breakfasts in the Great Hall, take quiet walks beneath the changing leaves, or while away late evenings in the common room .

The Marauders too, in their own way, welcomed you into their fold.

Remus, with his quiet wisdom and perceptive gaze, would offer thoughtful conversation and a gentle kind of understanding that needed no words.

Sirius, bright and sharp-edged, carried his loyalty with an intensity that was impossible to miss.

Aand beneath his teasing smiles there was a depth you came to value more with each passing day.

It was on one such afternoon that you found yourself with James beneath the willow by the lake.

The great tree swayed above you, its long branches drifting in the breeze like the threads of some ancient tapestry.

The grass beneath was cool, the earth soft, and from your place beneath the canopy. The castle seemed distant, its towers half-lost in the glow of the descending sun.

Books lay forgotten at your side, your conversation having long since drifted away from studies.

After some time, James shifted slightly where he sat, drawing one knee beneath him as though bracing himself.

He glanced toward you, and there was a seriousness in his gaze that stilled the air between you, a question that had long been waiting for the right moment.

When he spoke, his voice was lower than usual, touched with something softer, more deliberate.

“May I ask you something?”

You turned toward him, curiosity flickering beneath the surface of your calm. “Of course.”

He hesitated only a heartbeat, his amber gaze searching yours with a quiet intensity.

[please, please, please play About You by The 1975, here!! it will change up the entire scene <3]

“Have you,” he asked, his words careful now, as though they carried more weight than he could explain, “have you found your soulmate?”

“No, I haven’t.” You whispered.

Something about the look in his eyes made your breath catch, though you did not quite understand why.

You turned your head slightly toward him, voice quiet, curious.

“Have you found yours?” you asked softly. “Your soulmate.”

His breath seemed caught in his chest, his shoulders taut, as though your question had shifted something vast within him.

And then at last, he spoke, voice low, but the truth of it rang through you all the same.

“I have,” he said.

The words struck harder than they should have, sharp and sudden.

You flinched inwardly, though you tried to mask it.

Your heart, for reasons you could not quite understand, seemed to stutter painfully in your chest.

Of course he had. Of course. By this age, nearly everyone had. It had been foolish of you to even wonder otherwise.

A tightness rose in your throat. You glanced away, pushing quickly to your feet, fingers trembling faintly at your sides.

The sudden need to put distance between yourself and him felt overwhelming.

“I… I should go,” you murmured, already beginning to step back, voice unsteady despite your efforts to remain composed.

“I have— I should not be here.”

But before you could take another step, James surged forward, his hand catching yours.

You tried instinctively to pull away, to keep the ache in your chest from spilling over, but he held fast.

“Wait—” he said, his voice rough with something raw and vulnerable. “You asked if I’d found mine. And I told you yes.”

You froze, your heart thundering.

James swallowed, his gaze pinned to yours, his fingers trembling where they held your wrist.

“I always wondered why I could see colors when I never met my soulmate. Why I felt everything so deeply when no one was meant for me. Why everyone else had to wait to meet their soulmate till they saw color.”

He laughed, but it was hollow.

“I thought maybe the universe made a mistake. That maybe I was broken. I spent years thinking I was born wrong, that I was the only one who got left out of the magic.”

His thumb brushed lightly against your knuckles.

“But then you came along. And suddenly everything made sense. All that time I spent aching, waiting, wondering — it was for you”

You stared at him, breath caught.

James took a breath like it was the first one that hadn’t hurt in years.

“It’s always been about you.”

And before the ache in your chest could even become a word, he kissed you.

His mouth found yours with a hunger that stole the breath from your lungs, a heat that seemed to burn through every inch of you.

The contact sent a rush of sensation through your body, sharp and bright, as though the very air had turned electric.

You gasped softly into the kiss, the shock of it leaving you dizzy, helpless beneath the weight of the moment.

His lips moved over yours with aching purpose, gentle at first, then deepening, as though something vast and unspoken had broken free in him at last.

Your fingers curled unconsciously into the fabric of his robes, holding on as though the earth itself had shifted beneath you.

You could feel the heat of him through every layer, the taut strength of his arms braced around you.

And still the kiss went on — searing, consuming — until at last, breathless and trembling, you tore your mouth from his, gasping for air.

You stared up at him, wide-eyed, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm.

James hovered above you, one hand still cradling your head, the other pressed to the earth beside you.

His gaze was blazing, the amber darkened with something fierce and undeniable.

“You are my soulmate,” he said, voice thick with something unshakable. “You always have been.”

The words wrapped around you like a thread pulled tight, tugging at something buried deep beneath your ribs.

“James,” you breathed, your voice trembled. “I thought you would forget me.”

His eyes didn’t waver. His hand tightened gently around yours.

“Do you think I have forgotten about you?” he asked, quiet but fierce, like the very idea was an insult to the stars.

You let out a soft, shaky laugh, one that didn’t quite hide the ache underneath. “I forgot a lot of things,” you said, watching him like he might disappear.

“But do you know what I never forgot?”

His brows furrowed, gaze locked to yours. “What?”

You lifted your hand, slow and hesitant, and reached up to brush your fingers gently across the arch of his brow.

“This scar,” you whispered. “Right here.”

His lips parted in surprise, a breath of laughter slipping out. “You gave me that,” he said, eyes lighting with memory.

“We were playing near the garden wall behind the orphanage. You hit me with a stick and then cried harder than I did.”

“I was dramatic,” you said, smiling now.

“You still are.”

Your smile wavered, softening into something more fragile. “There’s a lot I forgot about you, James. But somehow… there’s something about you that even now, when I can’t remember everything — it’s the same smile, same eyes, and the same damn scar that made my heart surrender.”

He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you like you’d stitched the air back into his lungs.

Then, with a quiet, aching tenderness, he leaned closer, pressing his forehead to yours, breath warm between you.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “We’ve got the entire time in the world to remember each other.”

You laughed as he pressed another warm kiss into your lips.

“My mother will lose her mind,” he said with a soft laugh.

“She will be beside herself when she sees you. I have to write her the moment we leave this tree. She will not forgive me if I wait even an hour.”

That drew a true, another bright laugh from you.

You curled closer, head resting lightly against his shoulder, your heart steady now in a way it had never been.

And for James Potter—who had spent so many years quietly mistrusting the universe, doubting that such fragile, luminous things as soulmates could truly exist beyond storybooks and hopeful hearts — this was the moment everything changed.

Beneath the ancient sweep of the willow, with you nestled close and your fingers tangled in his, James held you like something sacred.

Your breath moved gently at his shoulder. The taste of your kiss still lingered on his lips, and all the old fears melted away like mist beneath the morning sun.

Because how could he doubt any longer?

How could he deny the truth when every thread of his life, every unseen choice and twist of fate, had led him here.

To you, the girl who once lit his world with color before he even knew he’d been living in grey, the only soul whose presence could turn the air to gold and make the light itself feel like it was made just for you.

In this moment, James Potter finally believed in fate, not as some cold hand that ruled from above, but as a force that, against all odds, had placed you in his path again.

Because it had always been you.

Every turn, every heartbeat, and every breath he took without knowing why.

All of it had been about you.

#james potter x fem!reader #james potter x you #james potter x y/n #james potter fic #himbo!james potter x reader #james potter fluff #marauders era #james potter fanfiction #james potter x reader #james potter drabble #james potter #james fleamont potter #the maruaders #marauders

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youthguk · 3 months ago

Text

Black Ribbon Bride ۶ৎ | jjk (m)

Mafia AU · Dark Romance · Arranged Marriage · Angst · Smut ·

“I want this one,”he said, eyes on you like a predator. A marriage sealed in diamonds and blood. You were supposed to hate him, but monsters don’t let go of the things they’ve claimed.

wc: 18k

WARNINGS: explicit content (minors do not interact), explicit smut, forced marriage, power imbalance, slight graphic violence, death threats, mentions of murder, forced intimacy

Jungkook's voice cuts through the discord like a knife through silk. His eyes, when you meet them, hold neither pretense nor mercy. Just certainty. "I want this one." The words fall like destiny.

His touch, when it comes, is winter-cold against your cheek. Your soul flinches from those precise fingers even as your body remains still. He carries the scent of woodsmoke and exotic spice, foreign and dangerous.

The smile he offers holds neither warmth nor malice - just the satisfied smile of a man who always gets what he wants. "Don't look so scared," he murmurs, voice silk over steel. "We're going to have so much fun."

One week ago.

Dawn hasn't broken, but consciousness seeps in like winter frost. Your body knows the rhythm of secrets - when to rise, when to fade, when to become nothing more than a shadow against stone walls.

The pre-dawn air tastes of endings. Each breath crystallizes before you, little monuments of everything you can't keep. Your fingers, sheathed in black silk, trace meaningless patterns on frozen glass - a language of loss you're still learning to speak.

The chapel path recognizes your footsteps. Frost shatters beneath each step like promises, like futures, like the carefully constructed cage of expectations you've lived in since birth. Even your older sister Nora, who shared these halls with you for three years, never discovered this sanctuary where ancient pines hold their breath and weathered stones keep their silence.

Beyond the courtyard, the other girls drift between rose gardens and marble benches, their uniforms pressed to perfection, their laughter measured in careful octaves. But here, in this forgotten corner where mist meets morning, you've found something raw and real - a holiness that has nothing to do with their polished prayers.

Your Saint-Margaux winter uniform clings like a second skin, ivory wool buttoned to the throat like armor against uncertainty. The black ribbon anchoring your curls might as well be a crown of thorns.

"Je ne suis pas prête," you breathe, watching Lake Geneva stretch below like quicksilver. The French makes it sound poetic. Then, softer still, in Italian: "Non sono mai stata pronta per questo."

Your carefully constructed future lies shattered at your feet: The UN internship you earned through sleepless nights. Geneva's diplomatic corridors where you were meant to walk. Rome's ancient streets calling your name. All those perfect grades, those meticulously practiced curtsies, those debate championships – sacrificed to your father's unexplained whims.

London. The word tastes like ash on your tongue. Why there? Why now?

Your mother's note burns against your ribs, her elegant script a funeral dirge: "Be ready by sunset. They're coming."

École Saint-Margaux rises behind you, a cathedral to calculated futures. Here, where tears are forbidden unless quoted in Ancient Greek.

"We don't raise dreamers here," Madame Directrice always says, her smile sharp as cut glass. "We raise queens."

They're forged into living weapons, taught to smile while drawing blood.

"Queens who smile through gritted teeth," you whisper to the dawn. "Queens who negotiate peace while swallowing war. Queens who marry power because they're not allowed to claim it for themselves."

Your schedule mocks you with its pristine normality:"En garde!" at noon brings your final dance with steel, four o'clock tea with Professor Valbonne - discussing Machiavelli while pretending your world isn't crumbling.

Lavender-lined suitcases wait in your room, packed by your mother's trembling hands. Your sister's muffled sobs echo through the halls like ghostly footsteps. Your brother Luca's silence speaks volumes. And your father... his absence is a wound that both terrifies and relieves you, his iron grip on your future tightening even when he's not here.

Something crackles in your pocket - a dried white peach blossom, edges curled like fingers reaching for yesterday. Its fragrance unlocks a memory: blood on snow, trembling hands, a boy whose name you never learned but whose life you saved many years ago with nothing but quick thinking and forbidden fruit.

The blossom slips from your fingers, caught in the morning breeze. You watch it spiral toward Lake Geneva's steel-gray surface, this final piece of softness you can't afford to keep. Your sister's allergy to white peaches - your most cherished scent and flower - feels like fate's way to mock you once again.

A motorboat violates the lake's surface, its wake splitting the silence like an omen. You trace a cross in the frozen air - half benediction, half curse - and whisper words that taste like goodbye. The chapel bell announces noon with solemn finality. You turn toward the university, spine straight as a blade. Non importa più.

Queens don't look back, and prisoners learn to watch without turning. You've been both.

The salle d'armes wraps you in familiar scents - chalk dust hanging thick in afternoon light, ancient leather padding worn smooth by generations of calculated violence. Trophy cases line the walls, their glass clouded with age, each cup and medal entombed like frozen dreams that never learned to fly.

You move beneath centuries-old beams, your breath a whispered prayer behind cold mesh. The blade in your hand sings with deadly grace, an extension of everything you've been molded to become.

Your opponent dances the steps she's been taught - precise, controlled, a perfect puppet of propriety. But there's wild electricity in your veins today, something that makes your movements liquid lightning. You strike not with the measured grace they demanded, but with elegant fury barely contained.

The lunge comes like destiny - inevitable, beautiful, terrible. Your blade cuts through air like fate itself, writing tomorrow's grief in today's perfect form. Steel kisses steel with a sound like breaking promises.

Her parry comes a heartbeat too late. Your point finds her heart with butterfly gentleness, the touch both caress and condemnation. This is how we end - not with violence, but with devastating grace.

"Touché," falls like judgment in the hollow air.

You retreat with practiced poise, each step a study in contained rebellion. This is Saint-Margaux's secret language - not fencing, but warfare dressed in silk and centuries of refined cruelty. They taught you to fight like falling snow - beautiful, silent, deadly. To strike with a smile, to kill with courtesy.

But beneath your perfect form writhes something untamed - a creature of starlight and stolen chances, something they couldn't breed out or break down. It's the same force that once made you save instead of strike, that makes you wear defiance like perfume and weaponize tenderness.

Victory brings no applause - only silence thick as cemetery snow. The maître d'armes nods once, your wild heart thundering rebellion against your ribs as you lower your blade.

That's when you feel his presence - Professor Valbonne, half-shadow and unspoken truths at the gallery's edge. His stillness speaks volumes in this temple of calculated violence.

He waits until the salle empties, approaching like truth itself- inevitable, terrifying.

"Your blade speaks what your voice cannot," he says softly, studying you with that terrible gentleness that makes your ribs ache. "You fence like someone who has learned to turn cage bars into wings.”

A laugh escapes you, sharp as broken glass. "Wings are just prettier prisons, Professor."

"Perhaps." His eyes hold yours, steady as truth. "But they remember what freedom tastes like."

You turn away, sweat-damp black ribbon clinging to your neck like a collar. White peach and rosewood cling to your skin - soon to be scrubbed away, replaced with the sterile scent of duty and diplomacy.

"You look haunted today," he observes. "Or you’re just not happy to see me.”

"I’m not happy to leave," you answer, truth slipping past your guard like a blade between ribs.

Silence stretches between you like a bridge neither dares to cross. He leans against cold stone, a scholarly revolutionary in this fortress of careful conformity.

"If I could write you a future," he says, "it wouldn’t begin with someone else's last name.”

Something in your chest splinters, words hanging between you two like shattered stars. You both understand everything, there is no need to name things vocally. "I was born to be a transaction."

His jaw tightens, grief etching itself in the corners of his mouth. "You were born to be a revolution."

His arm appears like an offering - this small rebellion, this moment of pretend equality. You take it with the care of handling broken dreams.

The walk to the chapel gates is a funeral march in slow motion. Words would only pollute this last pure thing between you - this shared understanding of cages and wings.

At the threshold, he pauses, eyes fixed on horizons you'll never touch.

"When they write your name in history," he says, "make sure they spell it in lightning."

You look up at the ghost-pale sky, where even clouds know better than to break formation. He'll never read your name the way he hopes.

You slip away like morning frost before the sun, before he can watch another future die.

Raindrops streak down the airplane window like tear tracks you weren't allowed to shed at every carefully orchestrated farewell. The sky bleeds into the same shade of steel that haunted every funeral where your spine had to remain straight as a blade.

First class feels like a gilded cage - all polished chrome and hushed whispers. The flight attendant's eyes slide past you like oil on water, trained to see nothing, hear nothing. Somewhere between Geneva's promises and London's threats, you're suspended in limbo, watching France blur beneath cotton-wool clouds.

A quiet sob catches in your peripheral vision. Nora. Your sister - your perfect and pristine Nora - has mastered the art of beautiful devastation. Even now, she's practicing for her future role: the tragic bride. Her fingers tremble against Chanel-painted lips, but her posture remains museum-worthy. The tears that escape are precisely timed, like crystal drops in a champagne fountain.

"Have you heard-" her voice cracks like fine porcelain, "-what they whisper about him? The youngest Jeon?"

You trace patterns in the condensation on your window. Each swirl feels like writing epitaphs for the futures dying in your chest. The glass fogs with your silence.You don't answer - she's not speaking to you but to whatever god abandoned girls like you to fates like this.

Nora's laugh sounds like shattered crystal. "Last spring - crashed a Maserati through the Louvre's courtyard. Called it 'performance art.' Three million in damages, swept under imported Persian rugs."

"The auction incident," she continues, voice dropping lower, "when he used Van Gogh's 'Starry Night' as an ashtray. 'Too pedestrian,' he said. The curator nearly had a stroke."

"And the women-" her voice catches, "God, the women. Like butterflies in his collection. He pins them down with diamonds, watches them suffocate in luxury, then adds their tears to his champagne."

The papers call him 'l'héritier de marbre' - the heir carved in marble, as though his beauty could excuse his barbarism and his wealth could cleanse the blood from his hands.

The Jeon empire rises like a gilded fortress: Jeon Antiquities & Restoration. They polish history until it gleams, restore broken things until they're worth more than they ever were whole. But beneath every restored masterpiece lies a massacre; behind every preserved beauty, a battlefield. They don't just collect beauty - they weaponize it.

Their public face gleams like polished marble, but beneath? It's all gunmetal and old blood. The Jeons don't just run an empire - they curate violence, frame it in gold, and sell it at invitation-only auctions. They don't just kill enemies - they transform them into art, into debt, into whispered warnings.

And Jungkook Jeon? He's their youngest sin. Trust fund terror with a smile that breaks hearts and necks with equal elegance. The whispers follow him like perfume: genius, they say. Rebel, they whisper. Monster, they mean. Every society photo shows the same warning: beauty sharp enough to draw blood.

"He'll destroy me," Nora whispers, pressing her forehead against the cool window. "Like one of their marble angels - pretty and hollow and broken."

"Isn't that the point?" Luca's voice cuts across the aisle, sharp as a blade between ribs. "Better broken than worthless."

The temperature drops ten degrees. You turn, ice crystallizing in your veins.

"One more word," you breathe, "and I'll show you exactly what Saint-Margaux taught us about making pain look elegant."

"Truth hurts, doesn't it?" He doesn't look up from his Financial Times fortress. "At least crying prettily might raise your market value."

Nora's whole body flinches, a butterfly pinned to silk. Your mother's voice slides through the tension like a poisoned blade. “Fix your face, Nora. Tears age you. The Jeons prefer their art unmarred."

The silence that follows tastes like ash and dying dreams. You grip your armrest until your knuckles match your mother's pearls, trying to anchor yourself to something - anything - that isn't falling apart. But there's nothing solid left to hold.

Jungkook Jeon. The name sits like lead on your tongue. You've never met him, but you know him - the way prey knows predator. A man carved from privilege so ancient it's crystallized into cruelty. Living art with venom in his veins. A marble god with gunpowder for blood. And your sweet sister is being gift-wrapped for this demon in Dior.

Grief fractures through you like safety glass, a web of tiny breaks held precariously together. The pain comes in relentless waves - not just for Nora, but for the shadow of your own future. Her tragedy is merely a preview of what awaits you in the procession of sacrificial daughters, your fate already sealed in your father's ledgers.

Your family fortune bleeds out in frozen accounts and foreclosed dreams. The name still glitters - just enough to barter away daughters like vintage jewelry. Your father's already pricing your future, weighing your worth in potential alliances. He'll find someone hungry enough, cruel enough, rich enough to buy the last of his daughter's freedom.

London materializes beneath you like a tomb of fog and steel. As you watch Nora reapply her Chanel Rouge with surgeon-steady hands, you see her clinging to composure like a lifeline, still believing grace might be armor enough. Something hot and sharp lodges in your throat - she thinks dignity will save her, and you pray she never learns how wrong she is.

Rain hammers against the windshield as your car crawls through the rusted gates of Amare estate. The ancient iron groans like a wounded beast, London's sky weeping harder as though trying to wash away the shame of what you've become. Each raindrop feels like an accusation against the facade you're desperately trying to maintain.

"Home sweet home," Nora whispers beside you, her voice trembling like the droplets sliding down the glass. You say nothing, watching the ghost of your childhood dreams loom before you - a castle turned prison.

The marble steps are cracked now, nature's fingers prying apart what wealth once held together. You trace the familiar path with your eyes, remembering how your smaller self used to dance here, spinning tales of ivory moldings and enchanted corridors. Now the walls tell different stories - of water stains mapping your decline, of paint peeling away like shed skin, of chandeliers that sputter and gasp rather than sparkle.

The door creaks open before you reach it, and there he stands - Father, a shadow cut from faded glory. His suit whispers of too many wears, though his pocket square stands at attention, starched with the last remnants of your pride. The silence between you stretches like a taught wire.

"Twenty-three minutes late," he says, each word falling like ice. "I suppose punctuality wasn't part of that expensive education."

Nora's breath catches beside you, a butterfly trapped in a jar. You feel her fingers brush against yours, seeking anchor, but you both know better than to grasp it.

He steps aside - not an invitation but an order. As you pass, his fingertips graze your shoulder, light as frost but heavy with unspoken threats. Your body remembers before your mind can catch up - memories of shattered crystal, of cold water, of darkness behind locked doors. The bruises have faded but the lessons remain, written in your bones.

Mother's heels click against warped wood, a metronome counting down to something inevitable. The foyer air hangs thick with mildew and Chanel No. 5 - decay dressed in designer perfume. Each breath feels like swallowing stones, the weight of this homecoming settling in your chest like lead.

"Your rooms are prepared," Mother announces to no one in particular, her words floating in the shadows like lost things. "I trust you remember where they are."

Your suitcases land with hollow thuds against marble that's seen better days. Your father's presence fills the space like frost, immediate and biting.

"The Jeons arrive in two days." Each word falls like a death sentence, precise and final. "We'll be ready."

His eyes rake over Nora like winter wind, cataloging every imperfection. "Go upstairs. Fix yourself. You look weak." The last word snaps like a whip, and Nora - sweet, fragile Nora - folds in on herself like origami crushed in a cruel child's fist.

The question that's been poisoning your thoughts since Geneva claws its way past your lips, "Why would the Jeons even want us?"

Your father's smile is all broken glass and tarnished silver. "Because our name still matters." He savors the words like aged wine. "Because even monsters want their sons to marry nobility." He turns away, leaving you to drown in the acid truth of it. You don't push further - this rare moment of actual answers instead of his usual artillery of screams and humiliation feels like a trap you're too tired to spring.

Rain drums against the window panes like a metronome counting down to dawn. The sound almost - but not quite - drowns out Nora's muffled sobs filtering through the wall. Each hitched breath feels like a dagger between your ribs as you trace the sound to her room, finding her curled into herself at the edge of her bed. Her silk robe pools around her like spilled moonlight, mascara-stained tears mapping constellations of despair across her pillow.

"Don't-" she chokes out before you can speak, her fingers twisting in the sheets. "Please, just... pretend you can't hear me falling apart."

The mattress dips beneath your weight as you settle beside her. Some wounds run too deep for words to reach, so you let the silence speak instead.

"God, you don't even see it, do you?" Nora's laugh shatters like crystal against marble. "The way they look at you - at Saint-Margaux, at every gala, every breath you take. Like you're something rare and precious. While I..." Her voice cracks. "I'm just... here. Taking up space. Fighting for scraps of attention."

The words hit like ice water. You want to laugh, but the sound dies in your throat. You've spent years perfecting the art of invisibility, of folding yourself smaller and smaller until you barely cast a shadow.

"Nora, I-" But she cuts through your protest like a blade through silk.

"There was someone," she whispers, each word falling like a confession. "In Switzerland. Behind the old cathedral where the shadows grew long in winter. His hands were gentle - like he thought I might shatter. He looked at me like I was art worth preserving, not just another pretty thing to be sold."

Your heart stops. Dating wasn't just forbidden - it was heresy against the careful cultivation of your worth. You were precious commodities, after all. Pristine dolls waiting to be auctioned to the highest bidder.

"He loved me." Her voice breaks on the past tense. "And I thought... for once, someone chose me first. But then the Jeons...I never thought anyone would ever want to marry me when we have you." She presses her face into the pillow, shoulders shaking. "Who would want the spare when they could have the masterpiece?"

Something fractures in your chest - not a clean break, but a spiderweb of cracks spreading outward. All this time, she'd carved out this tiny paradise of stolen moments, while you... you were an open wound she kept comparing herself to. The realization burns like bitter poison in your throat.

But looking at her now, trembling like a bird with clipped wings, how could you be angry? She'd dared to grasp at happiness in a world that offered only gilded cages. The secrecy stings, yes, but her pain cuts deeper than any betrayal.

Save her, your heart screams. But what power do you have? You're just another pretty puppet with strings of silk and obligation, taught to bend but never break, to endure but never fight.

Words fail, so you reach for her hand instead. Your fingers intertwine - a bridge across the chasm of secrets between you. You can't rewrite her tragedy, but you can stay there with her. At least for today.

Midnight strikes with mechanical precision, each chime reverberating through the drawing room like fate's own countdown. Through leaded glass, you watch them arrive – three obsidian vessels cutting through the rain, their polished surfaces drinking in what little light remains. No emblems mark their passage. No flourish announces their intent. They move with the silent certainty of apex predators.

At your vanity, fingertips ghost over the black ribbon – your chosen weapon for tonight's battle. Beside it, the perfume bottle gleams with poisonous promise. White peach, innocent as first love, deadly as the last. You anoint the silk with calculated precision, watching droplets seep into darkness like secrets into skin. When you weave it through your hair, the scent wraps around you like a lover's promise – or a noose.

Your mother's approval comes in glacial silence. Luca's scorn breaks it like thunder.

“Still playing the grieving virgin?” he sneers, eyes catching on your ribbon, your carefully crafted despair. “Or are we mourning your relevance, sister? The Jeons didn’t come for you.”

You meet his gaze with the weight of winter. “You’re standing in a house that’s falling apart.”

“Which is why we’re selling the prettiest thing we have left.” he hisses, teeth gleaming. “And it’s not you.”

The words dissolve like frost as you descend, each step carrying you closer to the awaiting storm. Your father stands sentry at the door, his spine curved in submission to powers greater than pride. The air shifts – not with cold, but with the kind of sharpness that precedes bloodshed.

They enter like darkness given form. The matriarch first, towering in her sovereignty. Her nineteenth-century choker catches light like a blade – emeralds and onyx, beauty and warning intertwined. She surveys your home as one might examine a failing empire: cataloging weaknesses, calculating worth.

The grandfather follows, silence his scepter. One nod to your father speaks volumes – here, at last, is someone who makes even your tyrant tremble.

Their entourage filters in like smoke – advisors, guards – until finally, he appears.

Jungkook.

He moves like sin made flesh, each step a study in controlled chaos. Power clings to him like shadow to night – from his obsidian gaze to his deliberately disheveled elegance. His suit, artfully askew, mocks propriety while his presence commands it. Dark hair kisses his throat like spilled ink, and raw energy radiates from him like heat from a forge.

His disinterested sweep of the room stutters when it finds you. Something flickers in those depths – recognition, perhaps, or hunger – as your carefully chosen scent reaches him. His posture shifts minutely, like a predator catching prey's scent on the wind. His gaze lingers, heavy as prophecy, and something molten coils in your core.

You don't yield. Nora materializes beside you, trembling like autumn's last leaf. Perfect in her dress, betrayed by the rising flush on her throat, her glassy eyes, her failing breath. Your mother makes introductions like offerings at an altar, your family name wrapped in silk and shame.

The scene unravels with terrible precision. Nora's curtsy falters. The white peach blooms around you like judgment. Her allergy reveals itself in stuttering breaths and panic-wide eyes, her composed facade cracking like ice in spring.

Guilt lashes you even as hope whispers that your plan might work. But the Jeons' reaction isn't pity – it's disdain.

"We were promised perfection," the matriarch pronounces, each word a blade. "Not fragility."

Your father's mask slips, pride warring with fear. "She's merely overwhelmed—"

"She's weak," Luca interjects, venom dripping.

The room descends into chaos – old money snarling at older money, wounded pride clashing against cold contempt. Until…

"She's not the one I want anyway."

Jungkook's voice cuts through the discord like a knife through silk. His eyes, when you meet them, hold neither pretense nor mercy. Just certainty. "I want this one." The words fall like destiny.

The room falls still as breath catches in throats - your mother frozen mid-gesture, Nora swaying like a reed in winter wind, the matriarch's face transforming to cold, unforgiving marble.

"Jeon Jungkook—"

But his gaze remains unbroken, and the white peach at your throat burns like a brand. This wasn't the sacrifice you had intended to make - your carefully laid plans had twisted into something unrecognizable, leading you down a path you never meant to walk.

A silence falls like velvet, heavy with unspoken words that press against the gilt-edged walls until even the shadows hold their breath.

Your father's eyes dance between you and Nora like a master appraiser examining jewels. His gaze is cold arithmetic - measuring worth, calculating losses, tallying gains. To him, you were never daughters; merely assets in his grand portfolio. Two precious stones: one crystal, one porcelain. Now one bears a fatal flaw.

His lips curl into something between a smile and a sneer as he delivers your fate with businesslike efficiency. "If that's the one the Jeons want..." A careless shrug seals your destiny. "Then she's yours."

The words strike like winter frost, crystallizing the air in your lungs. Beside you, Nora's choked sound of despair is quickly muffled by your mother's gloved hand.

Your plan shatters — delicate, doomed, never yours to control. You were meant to be the savior, not the sacrifice. The thought of becoming his choice had never even whispered across your mind.

Memories assault you in violent flashes: your father's leather-bound ledger, your mother's desperate mantra of survival, the wicked glint of Jungkook's rings catching lamplight, white peach perfume clinging to black silk like a death shroud. The sound of breaking - not glass, but your very essence - as your name is bartered away without consent.

You shrink into yourself, a child's instinct to become invisible. But his gaze pins you like a butterfly to velvet. There is no hiding now. You are seen. You are chosen.

The Jeons regard you with clinical interest, recalculating your worth like merchants at auction. The matriarch's lips press into a blade-thin line. The grandfather's slight nod falls like an executioner's axe.

As they file out, you remain rooted, a marble statue carved from pure shock. Nora trembles beside you fragile as frost about to crack, but your arms hang useless. Screams build in your throat - take her instead, take me back, unmake this moment - but they die unspoken, turned to stone by terror.

He approaches with lethal grace, each step a claim of ownership. His presence weighs on you like storm clouds heavy with lightning. You've become his territory now, marked without permission.

The doors seal your fate with thunderous finality. You sink to the marble floor, barely conscious of the movement. Around you, the scene arranges itself like a baroque tragedy - Nora's muffled sobs providing the score, your mother's absence speaking volumes, Luca's triumphant smirk completing the composition.

Reality settles over you like a burial shroud: you are no longer daughter or sister or savior. You have become property, his property. And as this truth sinks its teeth into your heart, you wonder if anything of you will remain when he's done.

Time slips by like grains of sand through an hourglass, each moment dissolving into an infinite stretch of silence. The world outside your window fades to watercolor impressions, bleeding at the edges like a painting left in the rain.

You exist in whispers now. Food remains untasted, questions unasked. The house holds its secrets close - rewound clocks marking phantom hours, curtains drawn against persistent daylight. From your perch on the velvet chaise, you watch raindrops trace silver paths down windowpanes, each one carrying away fragments of the freedom you once knew - freedom lost by your own design.

When they come to take your measurements, you don’t move. The Jeons’ tailors arrive with tape and notebooks, their hands cold and precise. They don’t look at your face. They pull the fabric of your nightdress taut against your hip bones, murmur numbers in a language you don’t understand, and note the curves like they’re assessing a statue to be replicated.

Their fingertips brush against your skin as they take measurements - the inside of your arm, the curve of your neck, the gentle slope of your back. One whispers to the other in hushed tones, no doubt commenting on your rigid posture and reluctant demeanor.

Your mother hovers nearby, her voice drifting through the air like wisps of smoke. "Add more stones," she murmurs. "She needs to shine beside him. Something from the Jeons' blue vault - something rare." She pauses, eyes critical. "Yes, longer sleeves. Hide the ribs."

Your father's voice cuts through the room, sharp and businesslike. "If we're going to do this, make it count. Double the diamonds. Let it be known what house she's marrying into."

You stand motionless, a butterfly pinned beneath layers of silk and expectation. Numbness flows through your veins like winter frost - you neither flinch at the bite of pins nor stir at honeyed compliments. In the mirror, a stranger stares back: a creation of ice and diamonds, beautiful and hollow, already half-ghost.

Time blurs in the silence of the house, each day melting into the next. The halls have grown quieter, more hollow, with only the ghostlike passage of untouched food trays marking the hours.

But it's Nora's absence that weighs heaviest on your heart, making each breath more difficult than the last. No footsteps outside your door, no whispered conversations through the wall, not even the faintest sign of her presence in the dark hours.

You find yourself unable to cry, your grief crystallized into something too solid for tears. Instead, a single poisonous question haunts your thoughts: What was the purpose of your sacrifice if she doesn't comprehend what you tried to do for her?

And Nora - sweet, fragile Nora - remains distant, unreachable. She neither visits nor acknowledges your presence, as if the space between you has become an uncrossable void. Perhaps she harbors hatred for what you've done, or maybe the truth is more painful: she was never meant to be saved, and you were never meant to be her savior.

The veil floats like a whisper of tulle and threat, weightless as frost yet heavy with fate. Before the gilt-edged mirror, you sit wrapped in ivory and diamonds, a bride sculpted from winter's essence. The silk remembers your shape, clinging to your ribs while stones adorning your sleeves scatter morning light like scattered secrets.

Behind you, voices blend together - the dressmaker's soft murmurs, rustling house staff, and your mother's instructions cutting through the air like sheathed knives. But your mind wanders elsewhere, to someone unexpected.

Valbonne. His calm, curious voice echoes in your memory, speaking of how your mind was a cathedral and your anger a kind of music. He saw you differently then - the girl who fenced with restrained grace, never allowed to truly run free. His words linger like an unfinished promise: "If I ever read your name in history books..."

You wonder now if he would even recognize you. You look at your reflection, skin glazed in peach and powdered rose. This is not the girl who wrote essays in French about revolutions and smiled over Latin conjugations at dusk. This is not the girl who debated in the courtyard until her voice cracked, or the one who wanted to work for the UN, who wanted to be something.

“Je ne suis plus moi-même,” you whisper to the mirror. I am no longer myself.

The door opens without warning. Through the mirror's reflection, you see her - Nora, her hair pulled back too tightly, her lipstick perfect, looking like grief painted in gold.

"So this is the masterpiece," she says, her voice cutting through the silence. The words hang in the air between you, heavy with accusation.

"You came," you whisper, your breath catching.

She moves into the room with controlled fury. "I had to see it - the moment where you finally became what you always wanted."

Confusion breaks through your numbness. "What are you talking about?"

Her laugh rings out like shattering crystal. "Don't act innocent. YYou didn’t just take my wedding — you took the one time I was finally enough."

"But you said you'd rather die than marry him," you protest, your voice weak. "You were crying about someone else-"

"You think tears meant I didn't want this?" She advances closer, each word precise and sharp. "A man like him - rich, young, beautiful. I could have thrived. Do you know how many girls would kill to be chosen by Jungkook Jeon?"

Your pulse thunders in your throat as she continues, her voice turning to ice. "I would have let the other one go for this. For once, I wasn't second choice. But you-" her eyes narrow, "you couldn't stand it."

"That's not true," you manage, rising on trembling legs. "Tu pleurais. Tu disais que tu voulais disparaître-" ["You were crying. You said you wanted to disappear-"]

"You're so greedy," she cuts you off, ignoring your French plea. "You needed to be both savior and sacrifice, martyr and bride. You couldn't let me have anything without making it about you."

You can only stare, your carefully constructed world unraveling thread by thread.

"I hate you for it," she says simply, then turns and leaves. You want to scream that it wasn’t supposed to be this way — but guilt is louder than truth.

The door closes behind her with the finality of a tomb being sealed. In the silence that follows, you stand motionless before the mirror. The veil trembles in the breeze, but your eyes remain dry. There's no room for tears in a girl made of lace and betrayal - only silence, the lingering scent of peach perfume, and the sound of your heart shattering beneath a cathedral of lies.

The cathedral is carved from light and silence, its vaulted ceilings vanishing into shadow. Golden ribs and silvered arches trace delicate patterns overhead, while chandeliers hang like captured constellations. Candlelight pools along marble, dancing across a sea of couture-clad guests draped in legacy, their hollow eyes and diamond-adorned faces watching with barely concealed hunger.

You stand at the center of their attention, both masterpiece and sacrifice. Your gown, threaded in silver and framed with pearls, shimmers like a dying star. The train follows you like a whispered surrender, while your veil - long enough to mask your doubts but not your trembling - floats ethereally around you. In this moment of pristine ceremony, everything glows with an intensity that burns.

Your body glides down the aisle — but your mind lags behind, somewhere in the crushed space between Nora’s voice and your father’s warning. You don’t remember when the music began. You barely register the clicking heels, the cameras, the smell of roses imported from Florence. Everything is white and violent.

Your father walks beside you with measured grace, his hand firm on your wrist and posture iron-stiff with pride. You sense his movement before the words come — his mouth dipping close to your ear.

"If you dare to ruin this," he hisses through clenched teeth, "I will destroy everything you are."

Your breath catches as he continues, his grip tightening painfully, "One wrong move in Jeon’s mansion and you'll wish you were never born. No one will take you in after you displease Jungkook. You'll be ruined, discarded, a broken doll no one wants to touch."

Wordlessly, you nod, your gaze fixed on the endless expanse of marble before you - a pristine river of white that stretches like fate itself, each step bringing you closer to him, inevitable as gravity pulling stars from the sky.

Jungkook waits at the altar like a marble statue come to life, all sharp edges and cold beauty. His black suit might as well be carved from midnight itself, perfectly fitted to his frame like a second skin. The single pearl at his throat gleams like a tear frozen in time - a beautiful "fuck you" to tradition. His hair falls in a precise line across his nape, ink-black against stone-white, and you hate that you notice. You hate that you care.

You hate how your traitorous mind catalogs every detail - the fresh haircut, the way his jaw clenches slightly, the calculated perfection of his appearance. Each observation feels like a betrayal of yourself, like you're collecting precious stones to add to your own cage.

His eyes don't leave you as you approach, dark and assessing, like he's appraising a rare artifact he's already purchased. Your footsteps echo through the cathedral - not because you're walking slowly, but because each step feels like signing away another piece of yourself.

When your fingers finally meet his, the air shifts like it always does around him. His hand is warm, steady and sure against your trembling one. You try to hide it, this weakness, but his knowing smirk tells you he feels every quiver. Of course he does - the self-satisfied glint in his eyes suggests he anticipated your trembling long before you arrived. Nothing escapes that calculated gaze.

The vows dissolve like sugar on your tongue, crystalline and too-sweet, while the officiant's words blur into a symphony of carefully chosen platitudes. Unity, power, bloodlines, blessings - "eternity" floats past like a butterfly with broken wings, and "legacy" follows, heavy as a curse.

The ring they give you burns cold against your skin - platinum and promises binding you tight. Your "I do" emerges barely above a whisper, like a secret you never meant to tell, the words feeling foreign in your mouth as if borrowed from someone who knew how to want this. But Jungkook's response rings clear as church bells, sure as sunrise, as though he's been rehearsing this moment since birth.

When the ceremony concludes and the crowd rises in a wave of silk and diamonds, he leans in close enough to count your heartbeats. The kiss isn't proper - that would be too kind. Instead, his lips find the corner of your mouth, precise as a knife's edge yet soft as a threat, tasting of possession.

You freeze, a perfect statue in white as the cathedral carries on its ancient dance of sparkling chandeliers and clicking cameras. But deep inside your chest, something ancient and angry begins to stir, like the first crack in winter ice.

The ballroom unfolds, adorned with champagne and ancient bloodlines. Beneath vaulted ceilings, strings swell while crystal and candlelight dance together, every surface glinting with gold, diamond, and carefully crafted deception. At Jungkook's side, you stand like a statue carved from pearl, his arm a ghostly presence at the small of your back while you receive strangers masquerading as friends - your smile and curtsy perfectly measured, your voice carefully contained.

The first dance ends and your gown whispers warnings as the floor fills with aristocracy. Distant royals and international moguls move through the space while women drift by in couture worth fortunes. The air is heavy with imported orchids and centuries of refined violence, threatening to pull you under.

The Jeons move through the room like gods draped in tailored suits, untouchable and unreadable. His mother maintains her regal pose, wine glass pristine and untouched, while his grandfather sits motionless as heated marble, observing all. Around them, guests trade danger and influence with practiced ease, their diamonds and secrets competing for brilliance.

Though Jungkook's fingers remain steady at your waist, his eyes retain their coldness. Behind you, the Jeon security team emerges from the shadows - Namjoon, Jin, Hoseok, Taehyung, Jimin, and Yoongi. Their beautiful suits barely conceal the violence in their bones, each man moving with purposeful intent, awaiting instructions.

The music shifts. Your first dance has ended. The floor is filling again with distant royals and corrupt diplomats, soft laughter smeared across every corner. Toasts rise like smoke. Cameras flash. Every mouth says “congratulations” while every gaze says “how long until she breaks?”

The numbness, ritual, and pretending almost bring relief, until everything shifts. You sense their presence before you see them - in the subtle falter of musicians, the way Jungkook's posture stiffens, and how Namjoon and Jin move closer without touching, just hovering near.

When you look toward the entrance, they materialize: The Maranzano Syndicate. Their appearance is immaculate - perfect suits, gleaming shoes, and smiles that stretch too wide. Though you know nothing about them specifically, you recognize their nature - the kind of silence that's been trained to kill.

Leading them is a man your age, his presence commanding attention. Handsome and controlled, he moves across the floor with deliberate grace, champagne in one hand and clear intent in the other. As he approaches, you feel the temperature drop and every Jeon ally tense. When he stops before you, his smile carries weight.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he says, tone velvet-smooth. “It would be rude to leave without congratulating the bride.”

Jungkook’s hand twitches at your waist.

The man takes your hand — slowly, theatrically — and raises it to his lips. His mouth doesn’t touch. But it hovers just enough. Long enough. The entire room stills.

"Leo Maranzano," he murmurs. "Piacere."

The glass shatters from Jungkook's grip as he lunges forward, seizing Leo by the shoulder. His face transforms from marble to murderous fury. "Disappear," he growls.

Leo's smile widens with deliberate provocation. "You're not the only one who appreciates women's beauty, Jeon."

Violence erupts in an instant - too swift for the guests to follow, but precisely what these trained men anticipated. Tables crash and champagne sprays as chaos unfolds. Jin materializes to shield you while Namjoon steps protectively forward. Through the mayhem, you glimpse Taehyung dispatching an attacker, Yoongi's blade appearing and vanishing like lightning, and Hoseok moving with lethal grace.

At the center of it all stands Jungkook - sleeves torn, chain gleaming against his throat, transformed into something dangerous and wild. He doesn't command; he simply acts, throwing bodies aside with ruthless efficiency.

You remain frozen, deaf to Namjoon's urgent words. Your eyes fix on Jungkook - your husband - as he hurls another man to the ground. The wedding ring seems to tighten around your finger, a burning reminder of your vows.

Jungkook whirls toward you, blood staining his collar, eyes fierce. "Why the fuck are you still here?! GO!"

But your legs won't move. Namjoon curses and drags you backward as another violent crash reverberates through the floor.

And then silence descends as a single gunshot echoes through the room. At the center stands Jeon Grandfather, holding a pistol with an ivory-inlaid grip. His expression carries not anger, but disappointment as he raises the weapon, wielding it like a priest might hold a cross during sermon.

His voice slices through the tension. "Back in my day, men didn't dishonor women and children with their cowardice. They handled their vengeance where it belonged - in the dark, out of sight."

The assembled crowd remains motionless as Leo steps forward with deliberate confidence. "I came to honor the bride," he states simply. When Jungkook moves to retaliate, Jin restrains him with a firm hand and whispered warning.

Turning to you with a gaze both gentle and menacing, Leo continues, "The Jeon family killed my father. They will answer for that, but not tonight. My grandfather learned patience, as will I." His smile transforms into something sharp and dangerous as he adds, "Try to enjoy the wedding night, Mrs. Jeon."

Jungkook lunges forward, his face contorted with murderous rage. "Keep my wife's name out of your dirty mouth before I fucking kill you," he snarls, muscles coiled like a predator ready to strike. Namjoon's arm shoots out to block his path while Hoseok grabs his shoulder from behind.

"Not here," Namjoon hisses through clenched teeth. "Think of the consequences."

Jungkook's eyes burn with barely contained violence, but he stills under their restraining grip, every muscle in his body taut with suppressed fury. Leo's satisfied laugh echoes through the room as he and his men retreat, the heavy doors closing behind them with finality.

In the tense silence that follows, a single voice dares to ask, "Shall we continue?"

The music returns, violins gliding back into waltz-time as champagne flows freely. The guests — trained creatures of legacy and fear — seamlessly resume their practiced dance of pretense, their laughter echoing through the hall as if violence had never touched these marble floors.

Jungkook, temple still stained with blood, vanishes down a darkened hallway while waiters weave through the crowd with fresh glasses. Under the glittering chandeliers, toasts rise and fall like waves against the shore, each clink of crystal a studied performance of normalcy.

You stand frozen, diamonds cold against your trembling collarbones, and face the terrifying reality of what you've married into — and wonder how long it will take to learn the art of survival in this glittering, dangerous world.

The ride is long and silent. One black car glides through the night like a hearse, and behind it — two more, identical in their gleaming precision. Their engines hum low like beasts beneath chains, headlights slicing through London fog as if daring the dark to follow. The city blurs past in streaks of silver and neon, but inside the car, everything is still.

You sit beside Jungkook, trembling quietly in a cage of lace and diamonds. Your gown spills over the leather like a spilled secret, crushed and wrinkled at the knees. You keep your hands folded like a prayer that will never be answered.

Across the seat, he is all silence and shadow.His jaw is clenched. His breathing even. But his mind is somewhere else — you can feel it, like storm clouds gathering in the distance. One leg draped loosely, his ringed fingers tapping once against the edge of the window. There is blood at his collar, dried now, half-hidden beneath the pearl.

No one speaks. Outside, security guards on motorcycles flank both sides. A third car follows behind, lights off, ready. One of the men in the front seat glances back, but neither of you look up.

The Jeon penthouse rises above the city, all glass and power, its windows gleaming with cold wealth. You don’t even remember how you got out of the car — just the blur of doors opening, voices murmuring orders, arms lifting packages and flowers and boxes of gifts wrapped in gold paper and blood-colored ribbon. They carry everything inside.

The penthouse is breathtaking in its silence — a towering open space where the walls don’t hold memories, only expensive taste. Marble floors echo under your shoes. The scent of white roses hangs in the air like a threat disguised as beauty. Chandeliers glimmer above you with a cruelty sharper than candlelight. Even the air here feels conditioned to perfection — expensive, perfumed, untouched.

Jungkook strides ahead silently, his jacket unbuttoned and fists clenched tight. His people dissolve into the shadows with practiced efficiency, bowing once before they disappear. The heavy doors seal shut with a decisive click, leaving you utterly alone.

You remain frozen where they abandoned you, rooted to the pristine living room floor like some tragic modern art installation. Your wedding gown - this beautiful, suffocating thing - pools around your feet like spilled moonlight. The veil still clings to your hair, a gossamer reminder of promises made under crystal chandeliers. Each breath is a battle against the corset's cruel embrace, while your legs have long since surrendered to numbness.

The silence stretches between you like a taught wire, ready to snap. He's there, a dark silhouette against darker shadows, methodically undoing his cuffs with elegant, calculated movements. Without a word, without even the courtesy of a glance, he vanishes into the bedroom.

When exhaustion finally drives you to follow, the bedroom rises before you like a gilded cage - all emerald walls and gleaming gold, with a bed that could swallow kingdoms whole. The sharp edges of wealth cut through any notion of comfort. You're a sparrow in a falcon's nest.

And there he is - sprawled across silk sheets like sin incarnate, jacket discarded but otherwise fully dressed, radiating the casual danger of a predator at rest. His silence fills the room like smoke.

"Why are you still dressed?" The words fall like ice between you.

You stand paralyzed, breath caught in your throat as your fingers nervously twist in the yards of white fabric. His eyes rake over you methodically, dissecting every tremor and fear until his expression settles into something more cutting than cruelty - pure disappointment.

His words shatter your composure, unleashing a tide of fury that drowns your fear. "I never wanted this," you whisper, voice trembling with raw emotion.

"What?" His expression darkens dangerously.

The truth pours out, bitter and sharp. "This marriage, you, this entire twisted world - I only did it to save her."

He rises like a storm gathering force, each movement a study in controlled violence. City lights paint him in shadows as he stalks closer. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Words become weapons: "You were never wanted. Not by her, not by me. You were a death sentence, and I stepped in because she was dying at the thought of you."

Something dangerous flickers in his eyes - not shock, but a terrible fascination. His smile unfurls like a blade. "Interesting."

He advances slowly, and you instinctively back away, feeling every bit the cornered prey he sees you as.

"Did you think we'd sleep in separate beds on our wedding night?" he murmurs, fingers moving to his buttons. One by one, they come undone like falling stars.

You can't look away as skin appears - beautiful and brutal, carved from marble and midnight. He undresses like someone who's never known shame.

Then he's behind you, his presence radiating heat and shadow as his breath ghosts across your neck. His fingers find the buttons of your dress, methodically undoing them one by one while panic floods your veins, causing you to tremble uncontrollably.

He pauses, lips brushing your ear: "Anyone would want this night with me. But you're shaking like prey about to be devoured."

The warmth vanishes. His voice turns to steel. "I don't need this."

He collects his jacket like gathering shadows. At the threshold, without turning: "If you change your mind, I'll be in the other room."

Then he's gone, leaving you alone with your fear and your fury and your wedding dress coming undone.

You lie in the dark, cocooned in too much silence and too little peace. The sheets whisper over your bare skin as you shift — lace against skin, skin against memory. You hadn't meant to take the dress off so soon, but the corset had left bruises across your ribs, and your legs gave out the moment he left. Now you wear only your underwear and the quiet pulse of your thoughts, lying in the center of a bed too large, in a home too vast, after a night too violent to forget.

Sleep eludes you as memories of the night replay endlessly in your mind. The echo of gunfire lingers, accompanied by Maranzano's haunting presence - his smile forever imprinted in your thoughts, the way he regarded you like a silk-draped warning. Yet what truly unsettles you is the image of Jungkook - bloodied fists, disheveled collar, claiming you as his before a room of demons.

In a strange twist of fate, you realize he became your sole defender, choosing you for reasons still shrouded in mystery. This revelation propels you from the bed.

You wrap yourself in a robe of pure seduction - flowing silk that caresses your skin, its shortened hem and plunging neckline suggesting intentions you hadn't consciously formed. Or perhaps you had.

Moving silently through the penthouse, you find yourself before the open double doors at the hall's end. The room beyond bathes in amber light, where Jungkook reclines on an enormous bed, his bare chest catching gold like sculpture. A MacBook rests in his lap, screen light playing across his jaw, while his legs - long, parted, powerful - stretch across the duvet, clad only in black boxer briefs.

His eyes meet yours and he freezes, the air between you transforming into something tangible. You witness the exact moment desire overtakes thought in his gaze as it traces the curves beneath your silk-draped form.

Setting aside his laptop, he leans back with calculated grace, the embodiment of sin made flesh. "Knew you'd come to your senses," he drawls as he tilts his chin and widens his legs slightly, a silent command. "Go ahead."

Instead, you voice your turmoil. "The wedding... the Maranzanos... I can't sleep."

His jaw flexes, a slight tell. "I don't know what I'm more afraid of," you confess softly. "Them... or you."

Something in your words spurs him forward, his predatory grace on full display as he rises, his arousal evident against the thin fabric of his boxers. You try to steady your breathing as he approaches with measured steps.

"I will never let those filthy fuckers touch something that's mine," he declares, voice cold and sharp. "And you are mine."

Your slight nod draws his scrutiny. "Still afraid?"

"I believe you're powerful..." you hesitate, "but power itself can be terrifying."

His smile turns razor-sharp as he closes the distance between you, until his breath mingles with yours. "You think I'm a monster."

"I know you are."

His laughter - deep, rich, dangerous - slides down your spine like poisoned silk.

“Everyone’s a monster,” he murmurs. “You just happened to be lucky enough to marry the most dangerous of them all.”

His hands find your thighs. His thumbs drag slowly upward — grazing, pressing, testing. Your robe parts beneath his touch. You feel heat spread like fire through your veins, breath catching as his fingers brush over your hips, then the curve of your waist, the dip between your breasts. Your body trembles, not from fear anymore but from something deeper, more primal.

"Let me pull back the curtain," he whispers against your neck, "and show you what I might give you."

At your subtle nod, he guides you to the bed with the careful precision of someone handling their most precious weapon.

You’re guided gently into his lap — your thighs folding around him, your knees pressed to the mattress, your robe already falling from your shoulders. His hands don’t rush. They devour.

You begin to move — hesitant at first, your hips swaying forward with tentative rhythm, the silk of your underwear dragging against the heat straining beneath his boxers. It’s an unbearable kind of friction, featherlight but charged, as if every breath you take draws fire from the contact.

Jungkook exhales harshly — the sound low, broken — his head tipping back slightly as your hips grind again, slower this time, deeper. His hands stay resting at your thighs for a moment, as though he’s restraining himself, letting you move, letting you lead. But his muscles twitch under your touch, like a storm waiting to shatter the sky.

You find your rhythm. Back and forth, your hips brushing his with increasing urgency, and the softest moan slips from your lips, unbidden — a sound that startles even you.

His reaction is immediate as his mouth trails to your neck, pressing a kiss just below your jaw — hot, open, unhurried — then drifts lower, brushing over the hollow of your throat, your collarbone, teeth grazing so lightly it sends shivers down your spine. He’s not in a rush. He explores you like he’s reading a language he already knows but wants to savor syllable by syllable.

Your breath catches as his lips skim the edge of your bra, teasing the skin above the lace. He doesn't ask. He doesn’t need to. His hands slide up your ribcage, palms wide and reverent, finding the soft swell of your breasts and cupping them through the fabric — thumbs stroking lazily over the thin material, coaxing gasps from your throat like he’s plucking at the strings of some hidden instrument.

Every moan you release feeds the hunger in his eyes. And he’s watching you — every twitch of your hips, every parting of your lips, every flutter of your lashes. It consumes him.

You can feel his arousal beneath you, hot and solid, straining harder with every roll of your body. His hands move again — one gripping your waist with bruising intent, guiding your movements, while the other trails along the curve of your lower back, holding you flush against him.

The rhythm intensifies — friction now slick, pulsing, unbearable. Your thighs tremble. His jaw clenches. Every breath is shared now, your open mouths hovering close, not kissing but just existing in that charged space where desire lives and burns.

You can feel the tension building, hovering at that delicious edge. When he moans - low, guttural, nearly a growl - something inside you shatters. As you arch forward, his hands tighten their grip possessively. You feel yourself unraveling — not with shame, but with the devastating knowledge that no one has ever made you feel like this before.

You’re close — so close — when his hands suddenly shift.

With a strength that feels effortless, Jungkook lifts you in his arms as though you weigh nothing at all, his grip steady beneath your thighs. The motion steals your breath. The loss of rhythm makes your body cry out silently, aching and wanting.

He lays you down onto the bed like he’s placing something sacred — your hair fanning over silk, your skin burning against the cool sheets. The robe hangs loosely at your elbows, forgotten now, as your chest rises and falls with a rhythm that has nothing to do with breath and everything to do with him.

He kneels beside you, his gaze slow and molten, taking in every curve, every tremble, every shiver that escapes you now without resistance.

His hand skims down your stomach — fingers dragging with maddening slowness. The silk of your skin, the shallow dip at your navel, the heat blooming beneath every inch of his touch — he traces it all, not as a man in a hurry, but as one who means to memorize you.

His fingers find the center of your heat, where friction once burned and now aches for more. A gasp escapes your lips as he pauses, his other hand reaching for the clasp of your bra. Before you realize it, your palm presses against his chest, stopping him.

Not yet. Whether from fear, pride, or the need to maintain some control, you can't let go completely. The tension between you crystallizes into something quieter than rejection as he studies you, his expression unreadable.

He leans in, lips brushing your jaw as he speaks in a voice both molten and low. "This act of patience," he murmurs, "is exclusive. For you."

His words sink into your skin more than they reach your ears, and then he moves lower. He doesn’t remove the bra — doesn’t try again — but he does not ignore you. His mouth descends over the lace, hot breath seeping through the delicate fabric. His tongue flicks, teasing just above the cup. Then lower. The edge of your breast. The underside. He kisses there, open-mouthed, savoring the way your body arches, how your thighs tense around nothing.

His hands slide down across your waist, steadying you before moving lower with deliberate intent. You feel him shift, his shoulders slipping between your knees, parting them with a reverence that only makes the air leave your lungs faster.

He presses slow, searing kisses along the inside of your thigh. His fingers draw your underwear aside with maddening control, brushing lightly against sensitive skin before his mouth descends.

The first drag of his tongue is like nothing you were prepared for — slow, wet, deliberate. Your back lifts from the bed as your hand shoots out, gripping the sheets like they might anchor you to the earth.

He moves with the precision of someone who has studied power — who knows exactly how to wield it and when to be cruel with pleasure. His tongue circles slowly, testing you, tasting. Then deeper — firmer. His mouth closes over you, lips parting to suck gently, then harder, then teasing again, and again.

You cry out, a sharp, desperate sound you’ve never heard from your own throat before.

Your hand finds his hair. Your fingers tighten in the dark strands as his rhythm deepens, his moans vibrating against you, low and hungry. Your thighs tremble as your breath breaks apart.Your body begins to spiral faster, helplessly — his tongue working in endless rhythm, his grip steady on your hips as you start to fall apart in his mouth.

You cum like something tearing open inside you — high and hot and trembling — your gasp catching, then breaking, then disappearing entirely as your body arches up into his mouth like it belongs nowhere else.

He maintains his steady devotion, drawing out every wave of pleasure until you lay completely still, breathless and undone beneath him.

When he finally rises, his mouth glistening and eyes dark with pride, he presses one final kiss to the inside of your thigh before meeting your gaze with a satisfied smirk. His voice comes rough with shadow.

"Now that," he purred against your trembling thigh, voice dripping like honey and sin, "was just the beginning of what I can give you."

You wake tangled in silk and shattered moonlight, sin still sticky-sweet on your tongue. Your robe whispers secrets against feverish skin, one sleeve sliding down like a lover's touch, sheets still singing hymns of his warmth. There's an ache threading through your muscles like golden honey, each pulse a reminder of hands that knew too well where to press, where to bruise, where to worship.

The air is thick with him still - spice and shadow and something darker, something that tastes of stolen prayers and midnight confessions. You stare up at a ceiling that gleams like polished bones, willing yourself to forget.

But memory is a cruel mistress. She paints his hands in watercolor bruises across your mind. His mouth - oh god, his mouth - the way he consumed you like you were his last meal, like you were salvation itself. And you? You broke apart like stained glass beneath a light, scattered and sacred and his.

You must have lost your mind.

You press trembling fingers against closed eyes, shame and want warring in your chest like caged birds. It should repulse you - this descent into darkness, this willing fall from grace. Some part of you remembers innocence, remembers when touch meant tenderness instead of torrential need.

But there's a monster living in your ribcage now, purring at the memory of worship wrapped in violence. It remembers the weight of him, the raw intensity of his focus, the way he made devotion feel like damnation.

Have you always been this hollow, waiting to be filled with fire?

The bedroom holds no answers. Just cold marble and colder air, roses drowning in some foreign scent that wasn't there before. Everything's too sharp, too sterile, too vast.

He's gone. Of course he is. Demons never linger for too long. The penthouse feels different now, hollow and cold in his wake. Stepping into the hallway, you're greeted like fine china - precious, pristine, breakable. The world wants its doll back, wants to forget how she shattered in the dark.

There's a ritual waiting by the window: breakfast laid out like an altar. Poached eggs under crystal domes catch morning light like tears. A blood orange bleeds perfectly on white china. Fresh brioche exhales steam into the silence. The Jeon family crest watches from your napkin, judging.

You don't dare touch any of it.A maid ghosts through the room, her "madam" falling too quickly, too properly, gaze skittering away like scattered pearls. Another servant arranges your armor for the day: silk blouse with a collar high enough to hide secrets, modest skirt, pearls to match your cage.

Steam curls from behind the bathroom door, a siren song of hot water and false comfort.Your feet refuse to move. This attention scrapes against your skin like sandpaper wrapped in silk. It's not luxury - it's surveillance dressed in gold leaf.

Watched. Always watched.

Every gesture is a report in waiting. Every bite you don't take will be noted. Every wrinkle in your robe tells stories to ears you'll never see. The mirrors - god, the mirrors - they're everywhere, reflecting your uncertainty in infinite angles until you're drowning in your own discomfort.His presence lingers like smoke, invisible but choking. The walls have eyes, and they all belong to him.

You perch at the table like a bird about to flee, clutching silk around yourself like armor.The perfect breakfast dies slowly in the sunlight.Your appetite fled with the night.

It starts like this: a whisper of rebellion, soft as moth wings against silk. Your fingers find the white peach perfume, its crystal bottle cool and dangerous in your palm. One spritz — delicate, precise — finds your wrist. Another graces its twin. The hollow of your throat accepts the third like a blessing. The scent blooms in the air, all summer-sweet defiance, honeyed memories that curl through empty halls like forgotten prayers. And no one — no one — dares stop you because of some allergies.

These marble halls may cage you in gold and expectations, but they can't dictate the way you smell anymore, can't police the way your bare feet whisper secrets against cold floors. Your robe trails behind you like a queen's cape, leaving echoes of fruit and rebellion in your wake. Deep in your belongings, the black ribbon waits. It remembers you, this small scrap of darkness. It remembers the shape of your defiance.

The silk slides home against your hair and it for a moment it feels like armor. He materializes like a dark fairytale - no warning, no preamble. Just the whispered code at the door and footsteps that paint promises across marble floors. When he enters, the room holds its breath. Storm-cloud presence, predator grace. His skin still gleams from whatever violence he's been courting - white shirt, rain-slick hair and a towel draped carelessly around his neck. Cedar and sweat and danger roll off him in waves.

Your ribbon-bound hair and peach-sweet defiance catch his attention like matches to gasoline. His grin splits the atmosphere. "Miss me, Pesca Mia?"

The Italian drips like honey-coated thorns - My Peach - far too gentle for a man whose smirk could cut glass. You answer with silence, with measured steps past him, with carefully crafted distance.And of course he follows, tigers don't let prey walk away.

"Playing ghost bride still?" His voice chases you down the hall. "We share a home, Peach. Looking at me won't turn you to stone."

But then the air thickens, and his shadow swallows yours whole. His hand finds your wrist - a brand of heat that stops your heart.

He materializes before you, all aristocrat skin and lethal grace. Too close. Not close enough. Your eyes refuse to trace the dangerous landscape of his chest.

"Why?" Confusion bleeds into his voice, softening its edges. "You're my wife, yet you treat me like a stranger."

You meet his gaze at last. Your voice comes arctic cold. "You are."

Two words, quiet as falling snow yet sharp as winter wind. Something flickers in his expression - pain, maybe, before pride swallows it whole. His laugh comes out all broken glass.

"You think I'm desperate for your attention?" Arrogance wraps around his words like armor. "Girls would kill to wear your crown, peach. Don't think you're irreplaceable."

Your silence lingers, though his statemnt stings. He exhales - one sharp breath that carries worlds of frustration. And he urns away like you're not worth the oxygen.

"I won't beg you to claim what's already yours," he mutters, defeat dressed as disdain. "You don't want me? Fine."

His exit is soundless, but it echoes in your bones. The door slams like punctuation. But the halls still whisper of peaches and regret.

IIt's 2:17 a.m. and the universe holds its breath.

Your heartbeat counts time with the expensive clock on the wall, both of you locked in this infinite moment of waiting. Silk sheets coil around you like living things as you sit there, spine straight as a blade, every nerve ending electric with that delicious cocktail of rage and loneliness. The lamp bathes everything in honey-gold light, making shadows dance across the pristine emptiness beside you - a canvas waiting for a body that isn't there.

He hasn't returned. You tried maintaining your cold façade, denying how the empty space beside you slowly hollowed out your chest, how the silence grew unbearable. You called it strategy, convinced yourself it was necessary breathing room. But now? Now you're done waiting. Your fingers find your phone with lethal grace.

Namjoon picks up on the second ring, his voice heavy with sleep yet carrying an edge of anticipation, as if he'd been expecting this call.

"Is he with you?" The words slip out like ice daggers.

The pause speaks volumes. "...No. He's at The Roselace."

Your lashes lower once, slow and dangerous. "A club?"

"Yes." The word hangs there, heavy with implications that flicker like warning lights in the dark. But you stopped needing warnings the moment you tasted rebellion on your tongue. Your voice doesn't just turn to steel. No, it crystallizes into something far more dangerous: diamond-sharp certainty wrapped in velvet menace. "Bring the car around. I want to go."

Another heartbeat of silence, shorter this time. "I'll be outside in five."

Night bleeds neon across rain-slick streets, your revenge wrapped in a dress that fits like a promise. The city's a living thing tonight, all electric pulse and wet concrete confession. And you? You're winter made flesh in the backseat, ankles crossed like loaded guns, while Namjoon pilots the car through streets that taste of destiny. He knows better than to speak - you can't small talk with gathering storms.

Jin materializes at the club entrance like a harbinger, umbrella in hand, face carved from marble. His words fall soft as burial dirt: "Back lounge. Always."

You ghost past him without acknowledgment. Some moments don't need words.

The Roselace wraps around you like sin in silk stockings - all crushed velvet shadows and dripping crystal light. Bass thrums through your bones while bodies write poetry against each other on the dance floor, everything drenched in rose-gold desperation and champagne dreams.

Then the VIP lounge opens its maw and your world tilts sideways. There. Him.

Jeon Jungkook. Sprawled like fallen royalty across black leather, shirt undone like an invitation to sin, silver chain catching light like stolen stars. A glass of scotch hangs from his fingers.

But it's the women that make your blood crystallize. They're draped across him like living jewelry, all velvet curves and sheer promises. Their hands map territories you were claiming last night, lips writing stories against skin that was against yours yesterday. One whispers something that pulls a smirk from him like poison from a wound.

His eyes find yours across the chaos.

And smiles like the devil has just been entertained.

Your body moves without conscious thought - a bullet made of silk and fury. The click of your heels against marble sounds like a countdown to chaos. Your fingers find soft flesh, yanking the nearest woman away from him with the kind of graceless violence reserved for scorned goddesses.

Her shriek pierces the air like shattered crystal. She stumbles backwards, a doll thrown from its perch.

"You selfish, arrogant, fucking idiot-"

His laughter cuts through your rage like a knife through velvet.

"You're so fucking sexy like this," he purrs, voice dripping with dark honey, watching your anger like it's the most exquisite show he's ever seen.

"I swear to God, if I ever see…" The words die in your throat. Because his mouth claims yours like he's signing a contract in sin.

He kisses you like he's trying to steal your soul - all open mouth and wicked smile. One hand cradles your face like you're made of precious things, while the other brands your lower back, pulling you into his lap like you're the missing piece he's been waiting for.

Time stops breathing.The bass still pounds through the walls but the world goes quiet. The women dissolve like smoke. Staff melt into shadows. Even the velvet walls seem to lean away. There's nothing left but the dangerous heat between your teeth and his. He breaks away just enough to trace your bottom lip with his tongue.

"Don't look at me like that in public," he whispers, eyes like molten gold. "I'll forget every rule I've ever learned."

Your palm finds his cheek - not gentle, not cruel but Jungkook only grins wider.

The city blurs past like smeared watercolors as Namjoon guides the car through rain-slicked streets. Jin's profile cuts a careful silhouette against neon-lit windows. The air between you all feels like the moment before lightning strikes.

You're a study in barely contained fury next to Jungkook - all crossed arms and white knuckles, electricity crackling beneath your skin. He's sprawled in his seat like a fallen angel, that split lip you gave him worn like a badge of honor, watching you with the kind of smile that makes devils nervous.

"Still giving me the silent treatment after that kiss?" His voice drips honey-sweet venom.

"Touch another woman," you breathe, each word dipped in ice and promises, “and I will bury your body in the same marble your family worships.”

Up front, Jin's cough shatters the tension. Namjoon's eyes catch yours in the mirror - a flash of pure amusement you choose to ignore.

And Jungkook? He laughs like you've just told him the most delicious secret, leaning in until his breath ghosts across your ear, voice pure sin, "Baby, your jealousy looks better on me than designer suits."

You don't give him the satisfaction of a response. But your traitor pulse skips like a scratched record, and the devil's smile says he knows exactly what he does to you.

A knock that sounds like the universe holding its breath. Like fate writing the first line of a tragedy.

You're poised at the edge of the grand sitting room like a statue carved from anxiety and expensive silk. Your blouse is buttoned to your throat - armor, really. Chandeliers drip gold light like honey. White roses perfume the air with your false hope of Nora coming to visit you too with your family. And then the door opens the past comes crawling in like poison through your veins.

Your mother glides in first - her hairspray a helmet, her lipstick a warning sign in crimson. Then Luca, wearing wealth like a borrowed skin, pressing family obligation against your cheek in a kiss that tastes of nothing. And finally - because the universe has a cruel sense of dramatic timing - your father.

He moves through space like a black hole, warping reality around him. The kind of presence that makes rooms smaller, air thinner, daughters invisible. His suit whispers of faded glory but his eyes? They gleam with collector's greed.

Your flinch is barely perceptible, but Jungkook - beautiful and dangerous - catches the subtle movement like a treasured secret. He's sprawled in his armchair like it's a throne, all devastating grace and calculated nonchalance. Whiskey glass dancing between elegant fingers, watching, waiting. The temperature drops ten degrees when his gaze sharpens.

"Where's Nora?" Your voice plays at lightness. Fails.

Your mother's hand waves away concern like smoke. "Unwell."

Luca's jaw twitches. He won't meet your eyes. Your father has no such restraint.

"Well?" The word drips disdain. "This is all... quaint. But when are you buying me a proper mansion?"

His words splatter against the pristine air like acid on silk.

You straighten your spine. "The Jeons have already given enough."

Jungkook's laugh of disbelief is velvet-wrapped steel.

"Enough?" Your father's scoff could curdle cream. "I gave Jeons my precious daughter. Raised you right. Paid for her schooling. Trained her to speak six damn languages. And they give what? A glorified cottage and few millions on bank account. This is not serious."

Jungkook shifts - barely a movement, but it rewrites gravity. You speak first.

"Don't embarrass us." You aim for ice. Your voice cracks like spring thaw.

Your father whirls. "Since when did you grow fangs, little girl?"

His hand rises - a familiar choreography of pain, promising bruises that would match your designer earrings. But the blow never lands.

Jungkook's fingers wrapped around your father's wrist with quiet, absolute authority - a prophecy written in bone and blood.

“My grandfather raised me with manners,” Jungkook muses, voice soft, “taught me to never strike someone older.” He leans close. "Don't make me disappoint him."

The silence has teeth. Your father's face performs an ugly dance between rage and humiliation. He retreats, inch by inch. Jungkook releases him like dropping something contaminated.

Then, quiet as a blade between ribs: "And don't ever think of hitting my wife."

The room stills. Your mother's face turns to marble while Luca shifts uneasily on his feet.

They retreat like storm clouds dispersing - your father leading with violence still coiled in his shoulders, your mother trailing behind him like winter fog. At the threshold, Luca pauses to mumble an apology before disappearing, leaving only traces of expensive cologne.

When the doors finally close, silence blankets the room like fresh snow. You exhale years of fear.

Jungkook stands beside you, offering neither touch nor words - just his presence, steady as gravity, protective as shelter. In this space where fear once lived, something gentler takes root.

Warmth.

Maybe love isn't some grand revelation inscribed in starlight. Maybe it's quieter than that - like finding shelter during a storm you didn't know was coming.

There was something about that moment in the sitting room. The way his hand caught your father's wrist mid-strike, precise as a knife's edge, gentle as snowfall. Not a word spoken, just the weight of his presence beside you, heavy as gravity and twice as constant.

Protection wrapped in silence. Devotion dressed in designer suits.

And how it caught in your throat - this unfamiliar feeling of being shielded rather than shaped, protected rather than possessed. Like watching a bruise bloom backwards, violence turning to velvet beneath your skin.

You've spent so long being a prize to be won, an asset to be traded. But here, in the aftermath of that infinite moment, you taste something different on your tongue. Something that whispers of possibility, of paperback endings you never dared to want.

Because maybe love isn't about grand gestures or flowery declarations. Maybe it's in the way he caught your flinch like a secret worth keeping. The way he stood guard over your fear without trying to own it. The thought haunts you like perfume, sweet and lingering, as you drift through marble halls in bare feet. Past crystal that catches light like promises, through silence that feels, for once, like peace.

Tonight, you could let the walls down brick by brick. Maybe tonight, you could let the curtain open just a little wider. Not in surrender, but in hope of something softer. Something that tastes less like warfare and more like coming home.

The clock says 11:42 p.m. when you finally allow yourself to move. Your robe slips to the floor like dusk shedding its skin, and you reach for the lingerie that still carries its tag, something delicate and barely-there — lace the color of antique ivory, with ribbon straps that whisper against your shoulders like secrets.

You spray white peach across your collarbone, behind your knees, over your wrists. The scent hovers in the air like the memory of hands you don’t flinch from. You find the black ribbon — a little wrinkled now, a little tired — and tie it loosely in your hair. A small crown. A little defiance. A reminder that this softness is yours to give.

Then — because courage needs ritual — you pour yourself half a glass of wine. You sip it standing by the window, your reflection doubled against the city: bare legs, trembling fingers, a girl sculpted from want and silk and something beginning to resemble hope.

What if I’m allowed to be held gently? the thought hums behind your ribs. What if I’m not just a transaction in pearls?

Tonight, you want more than to be protected like property - you want to be wanted like a woman. You want to feel that warmth again and maybe dare to discover more of it. Setting down your glass with shallow breath, your heart presses against your ribs like a caged bird seeking freedom. Then, with quiet certainty, you call his name. “Jungkook.”

Not a shout, nor a whisper - just your voice carrying through the stillness. And somewhere in the penthouse, you sense the shift in the air, hear the soft footsteps approaching. You wait, your heartbeat marking time in the silence.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

When the door finally creaks open, the light from the hallway carves his silhouette in gold.

Jungkook enters shirtless, barefoot, and breathing like he ran. The low waistband of his black boxers hugs his hips like sin sewn into fabric. His dark hair is tousled, damp at the ends. His chest gleams faintly from the shower or the gym — you can’t tell — but the muscles move tight beneath his skin as he scans the room, jaw clenched.

"Did something—" His words trail off as he takes in the sight before him.

Laid out across the pale sheets like a prayer wrapped in lace and quiet invitation. The ivory lingerie clings to you like mist, your legs tucked slightly to the side, bare shoulder framed by long hair and black ribbon. One hand holds the edge of the sheet. The other rests over your stomach — steady only in appearance.

You don't speak, simply holding his gaze and letting him take in the sight before him. His breath catches in his throat as he stands motionless, a moment of pure reverence washing over his features. Something raw and unguarded crosses his face, as if witnessing something he'd only dreamed of. You offer a gentle, uncertain smile and reach for him with tentative fingers.

“Jungkook.” A whisper. A gift. Like a flame lit in the darkness.

His expression shifts, tension and panic melting away in a single breath. What replaces it is hunger - not the violent kind that devours, but the kind that worships.

“Fuck,” he breathes, crossing the room like gravity commanded it. “Do you even know what you look like right now?”

You open your mouth to answer, but the words catch as he drops to the edge of the bed, body sinking against yours in one fluid, dangerous motion.

His skin is hot — all over, everywhere. His thigh presses to yours, bare and hard. His hands hover at your waist like he’s afraid to touch too much. But his eyes... his eyes consume.

“Say it again,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

You swallow. You’re trembling now, but it’s not from fear. “I wanted you here.”

That breaks the last thread of his restraint. His mouth finds yours in a kiss that starts tenderly - cautious at first, his hand cupping your cheek with careful reverence. But when you respond, matching his intensity, the gentleness gives way to something deeper, more urgent.

Your arms wind around his shoulders, your body pressing to his instinctively, lips parting under the low groan that leaves him like the last tether snapped.

That’s when he loses himself. His body crushes into yours, warmth and weight and scent — white peach still fresh on your throat, and he moans against your mouth like it’s the first time he’s ever been given something soft.

Is this what it means to be wanted? you think, dizzy under the weight of him.

His hand slides down to your hip, then your thigh, pulling you closer, and you feel it — his arousal, hard and unmistakable, pressing between your legs through the thin barrier of his boxers.

You gasp softly into his mouth. He pulls back, just enough to whisper — breath ragged, lips brushing yours. “You have no idea what you do to me, Peach.”

He leans down and begins trailing kisses down your throat, hot breath dragging over your skin, and then his fingers move to the front clasp of your bra — slow, teasing — as if asking silently. You nod once, breath catching in your throat as the fabric falls away. He pauses, eyes darkening with desire as he takes in the sight of you. With a low, reverent sound, his mouth finds your breast - tongue teasing your nipple with exquisite tenderness until you arch up against him, fingers threading through his hair.

"Jungkook," you breathe, voice trembling.

"Yeah?" he murmurs against your skin. "Want more, baby?"

He switches to the other side, tongue dragging in a spiral before sucking — hard. The sound that leaves your throat isn’t gentle. He groans in approval then he’s back at your lips again, devouring you now, and his hand slides between your legs, palm pressing against the damp lace.

“Shit. You’re already this wet?”

Your hips buck as his fingers slip past the fabric, dip down, find you with terrifying precision. He circles once, testing. “Let me hear you,” he whispers against your mouth. He sinks one finger in and you cry out softly — not from pain, but from the sudden fullness.

“So tight,” he breathes, “fuck—” and adds another. He curls them both — slow, precise, devastating — and your body trembles like silk beneath a storm.

You gasp, head tipping back into the pillows, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers stroke deeper, searching and finding the ache you never let yourself name. His mouth is at your neck again, tongue warm, breath hotter. He doesn’t rush and doesn’t demand. He explores you like he’s learned you — like every moan, every arch of your back, is a sacred response he’s waited lifetimes to unlock.

The pressure builds, low and thick, like a fire rolling beneath your skin. His palm grinds against the base of you with every push, every curl, and it lights you up from the inside — slow-burning, tender, terrifying.

“That’s it,” he whispers, lips dragging against your throat. “Let go. Just feel me.”

And so you surrender to it completely, allowing yourself this precious first taste of freedom. You let go of the shame, the cold hands of your past, the bruises you were told to hide and the hunger you were told to deny. You let go of every time you were touched only to be controlled, looked at only to be priced. Because this is different - his mouth leaving trails of reverence across your skin, his voice a mixture of raw need and gentle wonder.

This is the silk of your thighs shaking against the sharp cut of his rings, and the way he slows his fingers just when your breath catches — just to listen to the sound of you breaking open.

And in the chaos of it, a thought blooms. You feel good. The revelation hits like lightning in slow motion. God, you feel so good. You didn’t know it could feel like this. Like warmth without danger. Like pleasure without debt. Like being touched and not owned, kissed and not erased.

His lips find yours again, and this time it’s deeper — slow and thick and intoxicating. He kisses you like a man no longer teasing, but claiming. You moan into his mouth, your fingers tangled in his hair, nails grazing his neck. He groans low, a vibration that pulses down his chest, straight through to the way his fingers curl again, firmer this time.

“You feel this?” he breathes against your lips, his voice barely coherent. “How your body’s taking me so fucking sweet? You were made for this.”

You whimper — a sound of surrender, of disbelief, of joy. You’re trembling now, the pleasure cresting fast, and he knows it. He sees it. He watches you fall apart under him like he’s watching art come to life.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he murmurs, nose brushing your cheek. “Let me see you fall, baby. Let me feel you break.”

And when he whispers “Come for me, Peach,” the world splits open. Your thighs tense. Your breath stutters. And the moan that spills from your lips is broken and holy, like a prayer finally answered. Your body pulses around his fingers, over and over, as he coaxes every wave from you, patient and wicked and tender.

He doesn’t stop until you collapse back into the pillows, breathless, limbs heavy, the world spinning in white peach and warmth. You blink up at the ceiling, then at him, marveling at how the space between you finally feels like sanctuary instead of battlefield. Though familiar with pain, this experience is different. For the first time, pleasure flows through you without guilt or fear, and you find yourself yearning for more, unashamed of your desire.

You’re still trembling in the aftermath, breaths shallow, lips parted, your whole body drawn tight like silk thread loosened from its spool.

Jungkook kisses your throat — soft, slow — and you feel his breath against your skin, warm with awe, not just desire. His hand strokes gently along your thigh, then stills. For a moment, he just watches you.

You nod, breath trembling, body already molded to his heat. He shifts lower, moving from your mouth to the space between your legs, his skin brushing yours in a trail of quiet possession. The soft rustle of fabric draws your gaze downward — his boxers sliding off his hips with effortless ease, revealing him fully.

Your breath catches, but you don’t look away. The sight of him — aroused, bare, utterly unashamed — steals the rhythm from your lungs. There’s fear, yes, curled low in your belly like something primal and unspoken, but it’s laced with something stronger, deeper: anticipation that feels like hunger, and the dizzying ache of knowing there’s no going back.

He sees the shift in your eyes — the tension, the heat, the way your thighs press together unconsciously — and his gaze grows darker, steadier. There’s no smirk now, no cocky remark, just quiet reverence carved into every line of his face as he settles over you, breath warming the skin below your ear.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he says, voice rough but patient. “I’ll never take what you won’t give.”

You swallow, fingers curled around the sheets. “I want it,” you whisper. “I want you.”

And God, the look in his eyes — something wounded, something honored — like he’s trying not to fall apart just from hearing you say that. He kisses you again, slower this time. His hand cups your cheek. You feel him guide himself to your entrance, his length brushing against the soft slickness between your thighs. He presses forward, just the tip, and you gasp — a sound that’s more surprise than pain.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

You inhale, long and slow, and when he begins to push in deeper, you feel the stretch — unfamiliar, thick, slow. Your body adjusts to him inch by inch, heat curling deep in your belly as he moves inside you, every second filled with breathless restraint.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, “you’re so fucking tight—so warm—it’s driving me insane.”

You whimper as he settles fully inside you, his hips finally flush against yours. He doesn’t move at first — just stays there, forehead against yours, eyes half-closed.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispers. “So fucking perfect, Peach.”

You shift your hips slightly, and the sensation ripples through you like wildfire. “Move,” you breathe. “Please.”

His first thrust is slow, careful. He draws out almost entirely, then presses back in — deep, deliberate, letting you feel every inch. The rhythm is slow at first, aching and tender. Every time he sinks into you, you moan softly, your fingers clutching his shoulders, legs trembling as they wrap tighter around his waist.

“That’s it,” he groans. “Take me, baby. Let me in deeper.”

“You feel so good,” you whisper, dazed. “It’s… it’s so much—”

“You can take it,” he breathes against your mouth. “You were made for me.”

His rhythm builds. Not frantic, not rough — just sure. Deep. Intentional. You feel every part of him, each thrust grinding you deeper into the mattress. His name spills from your lips like confession. His hands grip your hips tighter as you start to move with him, arching, circling, giving as much as you take.

“You’re perfect like this,” he whispers, panting against your shoulder. “So fucking wet, so tight—fuck. You were made to take me.”

You moan louder — the sound shameless, raw, a full-body ache turned into voice. The pleasure builds so fast it almost frightens you. Your walls pulse around him, fluttering each time he hits that spot inside you that makes the world collapse.

He thrusts deeper now, hips snapping with desperate rhythm, sweat-slick skin slapping against yours. The room fills with the sound of skin meeting skin, of breath and moans and curses bitten between kisses.

You can feel the edge. You’re tumbling toward it, helpless to stop.

He starts to move faster — still careful, but no longer holding back. Your moans rise to meet his as he thrusts deeper, fuller, the wet sound of him filling you over and over echoing through the room, joined by skin meeting skin and both your voices breaking into the air like shattered stars.

“You’re mine,” he growls, each thrust harder, rougher now, “say it—say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, legs tightening, eyes rolling back. “Only yours.”

Your climax builds like a storm held too long behind trembling sky — not sudden, but rising, demanding, layered with sensation you can barely hold.

Every thrust winds you tighter, every kiss unravels something old in your chest, every whispered word — you’re mine, you feel so fucking good, you were made for this — leaves you burning, open, filled. Your nails dig into his back as your moans dissolve into his mouth, thighs trembling around his waist. And then — it hits. Hard, deep, unstoppable.

Your body arches into him as if trying to fuse, your cry breaking against his lips like something holy, too raw to be pretty, too intense to be silent. The wave doesn’t crest — it shatters, again and again, your walls pulsing around him as pleasure rushes over you in waves so sharp it almost hurts. You barely register the curse he chokes into your neck, the way his rhythm breaks.

His hands grip your hips — tight, desperate — and he buries himself to the hilt one last time, hips jerking as he spills inside you with a guttural groan that shakes you to the bone. The sound he makes is not triumphant — it’s wrecked, torn from his throat like he was holding it back too long. His forehead drops to yours, breath trembling, body shivering as he rides the aftershocks with you still wrapped tight around him.

When he finally pulls out, you whimper from the loss. He kisses your lips to soothe you, then your shoulder, then your hip. Then he lies beside you, pulling you to his chest, both of you still catching your breath. You wrap your arms around him. Your leg stays hitched over his waist, like your body doesn’t know how to stop holding him.

His hand rubs lazy circles into your back. “You okay?” he whispers.

You nod against his skin. And for the first time in your life — in this warm, slow silence — you feel safe. And maybe, just maybe…

…a little bit loved.

Stillness hits different in the morning-after glow. And then there's the heat between your hips, like your body's keeping secrets from last night.

The black ribbon is tangled in the linen near your waist half-unraveled, like a confession. The air's thick with white peach and memory, and you're breathing it all in like it might disappear if you don't.

Love. The word sits in your chest like a bird that forgot how to be afraid. Is this it? This quiet after the storm, where nothing hurts and everything's warm and your body remembers kindness instead of fear? Where peace isn't just a pretty lie people tell in daylight?

His voice reaches you first - all sleep-rough and commanding, drifting through the penthouse like smoke. He's on the phone somewhere in the kitchen, words too far to catch but tone saying everything.

The silk of your robe whispers against your skin as you tie it. Your feet carry you toward his voice like you're caught in the undertow of last night's tenderness. Maybe you just want to see him. Maybe you just need to know this isn't another beautiful dream your mind made up. Maybe it's because for once, someone held you like you wouldn't shatter. You turn the corner.

And you stop.

You find yourself frozen in the archway, dawn's first light painting you in half-shadows. He hasn't noticed you yet.

There he stands - a study in contradictions. Bare chest catching morning light, sweatpants riding low, silver chain kissing his throat like a whispered threat. His shower-damp hair curls at the nape of his neck, soft in a way that makes your heart ache. The untouched water glass in his hand trembles slightly.

But his voice - winter steel now, nothing like the honey-warm murmurs from last night. All sharp angles and cold professionalism. You clutch your robe tighter, silk whispering against your skin like a warning. The transformation happens in heartbeats - his tone flattening, sharpening, becoming something familiar in its danger. Like watching a knife being unsheathed.

"No." The word falls like ice. "Don't bring him in." Silence stretches, taut as piano wire. "Leave him where he is. I'll handle it myself."

Glass meets marble with a gentle accusation. "I said leave him. Yoongi—this one's mine."

He turns, and time stops breathing. There you stand, a portrait in morning light - bare feet on cold floors, white silk clinging to last night's memories, hair still tangled with black ribbon. Peach perfume hangs between you like a broken promise.

The call ends abruptly, leaving silence to crystallize between you like. His phone finds its place on the counter with deliberate casualness. He shrugs, voice light as smoke. "What?"

Words fail you. Your eyes speak volumes. "It sounded like you were giving an order," you whisper, throat desert-dry. "To kill someone."

The pause that follows feels ancient. His response comes without hesitation even thought you see slight regret in his eyes. "I was."

Words echo through the kitchen like a shot that didn’t need a bullet. Your breath hitches before you realize it’s even left you, chest tightening under the satin tie of your robe. The morning light has turned unforgiving now — too clear, too sharp, too holy for a confession like that to survive without tearing something apart.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift. Just watches you with that maddening, polished calm — the kind that doesn’t come from confidence but from certainty. The certainty of someone who has never had to regret his actions because power paved over everything that came after them. Jungkook stands there in black sweatpants and bare skin, the picture of a man too rich to be touched by consequence, too young to be so terrifyingly composed.

And you realize it — fully, bone-deep — that last night, you kissed a man who was capable of this. You let him touch your body with hands that break other men open. You slept in the arms of someone who casually decides whether another heart should keep beating.

You let him inside you. And he’s let death inside himself.

“I…” Your voice breaks like glass against tile.

He tilts his head slightly, unreadable. “Are you surprised?”

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He takes a step closer, but it’s not enough to reach you. Just enough to feel the weight of his presence settling into your skin like smoke.

“I never lied,” he says, quieter now. “You called me a monster. I never disagreed.”

You want to scream. You want to shake him, claw your way out of this invisible trap you’ve stumbled into, this house with velvet floors and bleeding walls, this man who kissed you like worship and murders without flinching.

“I know,” you whisper, and it’s all you can manage. “It’s just—”

The sentence never lands. It crumbles halfway through, pulled down by the gravity of your throat tightening. Your face crumples, lashes wet before you even know what you’re crying over — the shattered illusion or the horror of having ever believed in it. Tears spill silently down your cheeks as your trembling fingers fail to wipe them away.

“I was so stupid,” you whisper, and your knees almost give. “I am just so fucking stupid.”

He takes another step forward. His voice is softer now, unsure. “Y/N—”

“Don’t come near me!” It tears out of you like thunder, shrill and broken and sharp. He halts, hands open at his sides, stunned — and something flickers in his eyes then. Not guilt. Not remorse. Just something… hurt.

“You knew what I was,” he says, his voice rising now too, cracking like heat through glass. “Don’t look at me like I’ve changed. I didn’t pretend to be anyone else.”

You can’t stop the shaking. You want to run and tear and scream and break all the mirrors that ever told you this was safety. “I know. I just—I didn’t know it would feel like this,” you cry, wiping at your face with the back of your hand. “I didn’t know I’d be the kind of girl who could fall for someone who kills people like it’s breakfast.”

He flinches. “You think this is easy for me?”

Your laugh is bitter, strangled. “Easy? It’s not normal to kill, Jungkook. It’s rotted. I guess I thought—God, I guess I was just confused. Maybe I mistook this all for love because I never saw love before? And maybe I am just broken—maybe I let you touch me and hold me and fuck me because I don’t know what else love could feel like.”

Silence slams into the room again. He stands there, chest rising, jaw tight.

"Could I ever be with someone like you?" you whisper, wiping under your eyes. "A man who deals in death? No. What you offer... this isn't love. This is just velvet and guns. And God help me, I got lost in how good they felt."

You turn then, robe twisting around your legs, footsteps already thudding back toward the bedroom before he can speak. “Y/N, don’t—”

“Don’t follow me!” you scream from the hallway, a sob catching on your throat. “I can’t even breathe around you anymore.”

For a moment, you hear nothing. Just the hum of the fridge. The distant city beyond the window. The silence that only comes after something inside you snaps. Then his voice, low and bitter behind you, cutting through the air like frost on glass.

“This is life,” he says, not loud, but deep enough to sink. “You’re either prey or predator. You think marrying a monster’s hard? Believe me, you wouldn’t want to be married to a coward.” You hear the door close seconds later.

He’s gone.

The bedroom is filled with lingering traces of your shared intimacy. Of everything that happened between midnight and morning — the black ribbon fallen half beneath the bed, the white peach still clinging to the hem of your robe, the echo of hands and lips and breath where silence now smothers it all.

You stand there for a while, motionless in the center of the room, one hand pressed to your lips like that might keep the sobs down. But they claw their way up anyway — low, gut-wrenching sounds that don’t belong to any version of yourself you’ve ever let survive.

Your fingers tremble as you reach for the edge of the dresser. It’s instinctive, almost mechanical — the way you slide the drawer open, the way your hand curls around the strap of your old black backpack, the one you brought with you the day you arrived. It still smells faintly of Switzerland, of pressed notebooks and old perfume and snow.

Your body moves with the strange grace of someone else's strings - mechanical poetry written in desperate motion. Each movement is sharp, decisive, divorced from thought. Clothes tumble into the backpack like falling stars, necessities gathered by muscle memory while your mind screams white noise. Underwear. Blouse. Jeans. The basics of a life you're trying to rebuild, tossed together like a prayer. Your hands work faster than your heartbeat, racing against the clock of his inevitable return. You have to go - have to run - before his gravity pulls you back into orbit, before the dangerous warmth of him seeps back into your bones and turns your resolve to stardust.

With trembling fingers, you slip your ring off and place it on the marble counter of his bathroom beside his cologne. The note you write by hand comes out unsteady, the paper remaining crumpled as your shaking hands set down the pen.

If I ever meant anything to you, please don’t come after me. Let me go in peace. Let me have whatever life I can build without this. Don’t ruin it.

Your signature lingers at the bottom of the note, an inked farewell that feels heavy with finality. Placing it gently on his pillow, you turn away from the life you're leaving behind, knowing there's no turning back now.

The elevator descent feels like falling, each floor counting backwards as seconds slip by like shards of glass against your spine. When you reach the street, a grey and uncaring sky looms overhead as you step into a taxi, hood drawn up and voice carefully controlled while giving the driver your destination.

In the silence that follows, only the steady hum of tires and the blur of an indifferent city keep you company. Your phone's screen blazes too bright as you retrieve it with trembling hands. You try your sister first - one ring, two rings, then voicemail. You end the call before leaving a message.

When you dial Luca next, the four rings that pass before he answers feel heavy with unspoken weight.

"Luca," you whisper, voice trembling, "I left him. I need to come home."

There's a heavy silence before his voice comes through, flat and serious in a way that makes your stomach drop.

"You can't come home, Y/N. If Father finds out you walked out, he'll kill you."

His words carry no drama or shock - just the bleak certainty of someone intimately familiar with their father's nature.

"But where can I go?" Your voice breaks.

He exhales slowly before responding, "I'll send you an address. I have an apartment no one knows about. You can stay there while we figure things out."

"An apartment? I don't understand, when did you even…"

"Don't ask questions," he cuts in, his tone growing darker. "Just get off the street. Now."

The line goes dead and a message appears moments later - coordinates falling into your phone like a stone into still water. You read the address twice, memorizing it before turning to the driver.

He nods at your new instructions, changing course as the indifferent city slides past your window.

And then—time fractures like glass beneath winter's first frost. The world lurches sideways, reality splintering at its seams. The door bursts open with a thunderous crash, shattering the silence. Dark figures emerge as rough hands grab you, pressing a chemical-soaked cloth against your face.

You fight with every ounce of strength, your body thrashing against the iron grip of your captors. But the chemical-laden cloth works quickly, and consciousness begins to slip away like all the maybes you’’ll never get to live. The world around you blurs and distorts, reality folding in on itself until finally, mercifully, everything fades to black.

final part is here

your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

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pucksandpower · 2 days ago

Text

Fallen Angel

⟡ Chapter 6

⟡ Oscar Piastri x Sainz!Reader

You were supposed to be a good girl, a quiet wife, a family secret. Instead, you ran straight into the arms of the one man they loathe — and he’s not letting you go.

Warnings: religious trauma, toxic family dynamics, arranged marriage, purity culture, and possessive behavior

Series Masterlist

You try to build a life within the walls of a man’s penthouse.

Not a real life, of course — this isn’t real. You remind yourself every morning: this is temporary. This is borrowed time and borrowed space and borrowed mercy from a man who owes you nothing.

Still, your days take on a kind of rhythm.

You wake with the sun filtering through thick blackout curtains, slip barefoot across cold marble floors, and kneel beside the guest bed Oscar insisted you move into properly after the balcony incident.

You pray.

You pray longer than you ever did at home — longer than even your confessor back in Madrid would’ve recommended. Not out of virtue, but desperation. You pray to be forgiven. To be forgotten. To be made invisible to everyone hunting your name down. To be kept hidden, safe. To stop thinking about-

Him.

Because you do. Think about him.

Oscar.

At first, it’s just the way he moves — efficient and fluid. A kind of quiet confidence in the kitchen, the hallway, the way he throws his car keys on the table without looking. Like the space already bends to him before he even commands it.

Then it’s his voice.

Low, sometimes dry, sometimes soft enough to unsettle your bones. He doesn't talk much in the mornings, not until coffee’s in his hand and the world makes sense again. You learn to fill the silence with your own gentle updates — what pages you read, what dish you tried (badly) to make, what you saw out on the balcony.

He listens. He doesn’t pretend to care if he doesn’t. But he listens.

And then … then it’s his body.

His back when he stretches before heading to training. The curve of his throat when he tilts his head. The way his chest rises and falls when he’s fast asleep on the couch after a long, hot day.

It feels like a betrayal.

Not of him. Of yourself. Of everything you were raised to believe, everything you used to know with certainty. You're not supposed to look at men like this. Not even in secret. Especially not in secret.

You're not supposed to want.

So you double your prayers. You add a second rosary before bed. You journal out every thought that feels unclean.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, you write in looping pen strokes, even though no one will ever read it. I saw a boy’s smile and imagined the warmth of his hand around my wrist. I saw him stretch and felt heat in my chest. I saw him laugh and wished I could taste the sound.

You scrub the page with your fingers afterward, as if ink could be erased with guilt alone.

You burn your fingers baking tortilla española from a recipe you found in a magazine because you think the pain will realign your soul.

It doesn’t.

Oscar walks in to find smoke curling up from the pan and your eyes wet from the sting of oil splatter.

“Are you okay?” He asks, stepping in quickly.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you bleeding?”

“No.”

He reaches for your hand anyway, examines the red spot blooming near your knuckle.

“You’ve gotta stop trying to cook like someone’s chasing you.”

“I’m not-”

“You are. You’re always moving like you need to outrun something.”

You look away.

Oscar pauses. His thumb still rests against the edge of your hand. His touch is too warm. Too careful. It makes you feel-

“I’ll order lunch,” he says finally, letting go.

That night, you spend an hour just staring at your ceiling. Counting your sins. Recounting every word your mother once whispered to you about virtue and modesty and how the devil slips into the hearts of women through admiration disguised as affection.

You think of his voice again.

The way he had said, “You’re not a burden.”

The way he’d looked at your crucifix when he thought you weren’t watching.

You bite your lip and roll over, clutching your rosary so hard the beads dig into your palm.

You wake up with marks on your skin. Little circles of shame.

The next morning, Oscar catches you scrubbing the balcony floor.

“You know I have a cleaning lady, right?”

“She hasn’t come in two weeks.”

“That’s because we decided not to let anyone else into the apartment for now.”

You blink up at him, eyes dry from a night of restless sleep. “Right. Sorry.”

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s the third time you’ve said that this week.”

“I am fine.”

“You’re on your knees on marble with bleach on your hands.”

“I like cleaning.”

“No, you like punishing yourself.”

You flinch.

Oscar crosses his arms. He doesn’t look angry. Just tired. “You don’t need to keep proving you deserve to be here.”

“I’m not-”

“You are.”

“I just don’t want to be useless.”

“You’re not.”

You hesitate. “I think I am.”

Oscar crouches beside you. “Y/N,” he says quietly. “Look at me.”

You do.

“You’re not a guest here because you make good coffee or mop the floors. You’re here because you needed help. That’s it.”

Your throat tightens. “You don’t even like me.”

He huffs out a breath. “You really don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“I-” He stops himself. Shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“No. Say it.”

“You’re not easy to ignore.”

Your heart skips.

He stands again. Walks away without another word.

You sit back on your heels, hands raw from bleach, and wonder if maybe that’s worse — being seen. Not just tolerated, not just pitied.

Not just a Sainz.

Just … you.

And you’re not sure what to do with that.

The next day, you stop cleaning. You let the apartment breathe.

You journal. You pray. You let your mind wander less. Or you try to.

You try to avoid him for an entire day. You stay in your room. You journal more. You pray again.

But the words feel different now. Less certain. Less innocent.

That night, you kneel by the bed and whisper into the silence, “God, please take this away. I don’t want to feel this.”

And you almost mean it.

Almost.

***

You shouldn’t write it down.

You know better than to confess something dangerous on paper. But your chest has been aching all day, lungs tight with the weight of unspoken words, and the quiet in the penthouse stretches long and strange. Oscar’s out again. Training, meetings, media — whatever drivers do when they disappear into the world that would eat you alive if it found you.

So you write.

You pull your knees to your chest on the edge of the guest bed and curl the little leather-bound journal against your thighs. The one with the gold-edged pages and the woven ribbon bookmark. You picked it out last year because it looked dignified. Holy. Respectable.

Now you’re scribbling in it like a girl possessed.

It feels wrong to say this. Even wrong to think it. But I need to be honest, at least somewhere. I think of him too much. I think of him all the time.

Oscar’s not like anyone I know. He doesn’t pretend. He doesn’t flinch when I mention faith, but he doesn’t tiptoe around it either. He tells me things no one else has ever said out loud. He sees right through me, and I hate it, but I also …

You stop. Breathe.

I also want him to keep looking.

You press the pen harder.

I dreamed about his mouth last night. I dreamed he touched my face. I dreamed I let him.

Your eyes sting.

I woke up wanting to cry. Wanting to scream. Wanting to feel holy again. I said three Hail Marys and showered for twenty minutes, and I still feel it. The weight of it. The hunger. I don’t know who I am anymore.

Is that what sin feels like? Wanting to be held and not knowing how to ask for it?

I am ashamed. I am ashamed. I am ashamed.

You slam the journal shut like it’s bitten you. Fumble to slide it back under your pillow, where you always keep it. Tuck it deep. Bury it.

You don’t realize, later, that you forgot to.

Not until much, much too late.

***

Dinner is quiet.

You’ve started cooking again. Slowly. Carefully. Small things. Nothing ambitious. Tonight, you made a simple lentil stew with paprika and soft bread. Oscar walks in around seven, hair damp from the shower, shirt clinging to his back. He says nothing at first when he sees you at the stove.

Just, “Smells good.”

You don’t answer.

You’re still not sure how to behave around him now. Not after what you wrote. Not with the memory of that line echoing in your head-

I dreamed about his mouth last night.

Your ears burn.

You sit across from him at the long marble island, pretending not to watch the way he eats with one hand, the other scrolling absently through something on his phone. Probably a racing report. Or a schedule. Or an escape plan, now that he’s seen-

No. Stop.

He hasn’t seen it. Of course he hasn’t. You always put it away. You always-

“I like the stew,” he says, setting his spoon down. “Little salty. But good.”

“Thanks,” you whisper.

Then, without looking up from his phone, he says, “Temptation’s a funny thing.”

You freeze.

The room stills with you. The silence goes glass-thin. Breakable.

Oscar doesn’t look at you.

He doesn’t have to.

Your stomach drops straight out of your body.

“I-I don’t know what you mean,” you say too fast, voice splintering in the middle.

“Don’t you?”

You shove back your chair.

He lifts his eyes now. Calm. Curious.

You can’t breathe.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I have to … excuse me-”

You don’t run. You walk, very fast, very quiet, down the hall and into the guest bathroom, where you shut the door and twist the lock like your life depends on it. Like the devil is in the hallway, and the only holy ground left in the world is behind this door.

You grip the sink. You don’t look at your reflection.

The panic builds fast and hot.

He read it.

God, he read it.

He saw the journal. He opened it. He saw what you wrote — every desperate thought, every unclean dream, every line about his body and your weakness and the way your soul keeps curling toward him like a flower toward sun.

And now he knows.

He knows what a disappointment you are.

What a failure.

What a girl who ran from a forced marriage only to fall into this must be. Must want. Must deserve.

You press your fists to your mouth and sob, quietly. Ugly and raw.

Then, louder, “Holy Mary, Mother of God-”

You slide to the floor and start praying between gasps for air.

“-pray for us sinners, now and at the hour … at the hour-”

The words collapse. Your lungs feel too tight. Your knees ache from the tile. You clutch your crucifix so hard the metal bites into your collarbone.

There’s a knock.

Soft. Once. Then twice.

You freeze.

“Y/N.”

Oscar.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“Please go away,” you manage.

But he doesn’t.

“I didn’t read all of it,” he says through the door. “Just the page it was open to. I’m not in the habit of going through people’s secrets.”

You cover your face. Curl in tighter.

Silence.

Then his voice, quiet. Sincere.

“You don’t have to be afraid of wanting things.”

Your breath catches.

“I am,” you whisper.

“I know.”

A pause.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I shouldn’t have said anything at dinner.”

More silence.

You curl your knees to your chest and press your face into them.

“I’m not like you,” you mumble.

“I know that, too.”

Another pause.

“You think I don’t understand shame?” He says, voice low. “I grew up watching people hide everything they are just to stay likable. Just to stay marketable. Clean. Safe. Good boy image and all that. I’ve been told not to feel too much, want too much, ask too much. It eats you from the inside.”

You blink against fresh tears.

“I don’t know what I am,” you admit.

“You’re not bad.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you care enough to ask.”

You breathe. In. Out. In again.

Outside, the floor creaks. You think he’s left.

You’re wrong.

“I’ll be on the balcony,” he says, a little softer. “If you want air.”

And then he really is gone.

You stay curled on the bathroom floor another fifteen minutes, heart still hammering, shame thick in your throat. Then you slowly stand, rinse your face, and stare at your reflection.

Your eyes are red. Your lips are trembling.

But there’s something in them — your eyes — that looks a little more alive.

When you step out of the bathroom, the hallway is empty. A quiet breeze drifts in from the direction of the balcony. You follow it. You don’t know why.

And when you find Oscar leaning on the railing, shirt loose, eyes on the harbor lights — you don’t say anything.

You just stand beside him.

Close enough to feel his warmth.

Not quite close enough to sin.

Not yet.

559 notes · View notes

mononijikayu · 9 months ago

Text

wife — nanami kento.

“I don’t like the way they’re looking at you.” You whisper to him. “Let them, honey.” he said, his deep voice rich with certainty. “That’s all they can do.” He took your hand, calloused but gentle, and squeezed it just enough to send a rush of comfort through you. His thumb traced the side of your hand in a subtle, soothing gesture. The cool metal of his ring finger brushes against your skin with intent. “They should know that I am exactly where I choose to be. I’m a married man, after all.”

GENRE: alternate universe - canon convergence;

WARNING/S: romance, marriage, nsfw, rated 18 and above, explicit content, kissing, making out, rough sex, p to v sex, toilet sex, orgasm, humor, profanity, pet names (baby, honey), possesiveness, jealousy, characters speaking in sexual innuendo, mention of sexual euphemisms, depiction of explicit sexual content, if your partner isn't nanami kento then don't have him ladies, gents and non-binary friends;

WORD COUNT: 6.6k words.

NOTE: nanami kento won the poll, so here we are!!! its relatively shorter than the current style i have, but i hope you still like it. and yes, i added a spoiler for shoko and geto's sister (since shoko won #2 in the poll, she also gets a fic!!!). they are still together cause god knows they need love and care after all they have been through. anyway, i hope you all enjoy this!!! i love you all and see you in the next one <3

masterlist

if you want to, tip! <3

THIS WAS A RARE OPPORTUNITY. You don’t like going to these high social events at all, not even outside Jujutsu society. You were a homebody, you adored having time to yourself. But you can’t ignore Gojo Satoru’s invitation. Even if you want to.

He’s been so good to your Kento and he’s always making sure that none of the old farts are making his life miserable. So you felt inclined to go. You felt inclined to play a little bit with this world.

The grand hall of Gojo manor was resplendent, a wash of gold and white with shimmering drapes that caught the light of the crystal chandeliers overhead. Gojo Satoru was not thrilled to host the gathering. But since it was his duty as the Gojo clan head and he had to play nice with all these people — he gave in and threw the party.

Of course, he refused to make it exclusively a sorcerer only gathering. He wanted to ensure that it was open to everyone, even yourself. That in itself breaks tradition. More often than not, it was only sorcerers, especially those in the higher echelons of Jujutsu society, who were allowed to come and enjoy such liberties.

But of course, Gojo Satoru was not such a man of tradition. He hated it, as much as your Kento. So, of course, to enjoy you and Kento’s company and to spite all these snobs, he made sure to invite you and everyone else.

You find that you’re at least enjoying the building’s architecture. You were a fan of architecture, in all forms and culture. You and your husband Kento shared that passion, more so when you both were in Denmark or when you both were in the countryside.

Still, Gojo manor was not too bad. You marvel at the intricate carvings on the walls depicting centuries of legendary battles and heroics of history gone by. Each one was a reminder that this was not just a gathering but a showcase of the Jujutsu world's most powerful and influential.

Sorcerers mingled, their robes embroidered with clan symbols and sigils that spoke of generations of power and prestige. Conversations buzzed with a mix of guarded politeness and subtle rivalry.

The room alive with an undercurrent of competition disguised as small talk. The sound of polite laughter mixed with the clink of glasses filled with aged sake, its delicate aroma weaving through the air like a ghost.

You stood near the buffet table, the scent of delicacies. Gojo Satoru did well with getting everything together for this, especially the food, all high quality — only the best of the Gojo clan head’s tastes. You both think the same in that exquisite taste.

That certainly is why you were excited to taste everything. From the perfectly grilled yakitori, dainty bowls of ikura don, to the plates piled with fresh sashimi and brilliantly wrapped hamachi. They were all wafting around you. They were all perfect for you.

“I regret wearing this dress.” You tell yourself in a small mumble. “It’s too tight and I forgot Gojo likes good food like me. I thought he would have left it to his goons to decide the food menu…”

You were dressed in an elegant but simple gown, a deep navy blue that skimmed your figure without the drama of glittering embellishments or the boldness of vibrant silks. Compared to the ostentatious displays around you, it felt almost understated, but it was you.

You could hardly care about the fashions of Jujutsu society. You liked your fashion. And your husband did too. That was all that mattered. You adjusted the silver cuff on your wrist, a small but meaningful gift from Nanami, its cool weight reassuring against your skin.

You glanced around, eyes catching a few familiar faces. There was Nitta Akari from administration and management, gesturing animatedly as she spoke with her colleagues, her face flushed with excitement. Mei Mei stood nearby, her icy beauty undiminished by the cool smirk she wore.

She held court as always, eyes sharp as a hawk’s as she listened, spoke, and effortlessly commanded the attention of everyone within earshot. Hell, there was Usami too — but he was surrounded by those vultures from the conservative factions.

But most of the women were like the wives of powerful clan leaders. They represented their husbands, who thought it too boring to join the gathering or rather were abandoned by their husbands to do other things.

Yet they were powerful women in their own right and they wanted you to know it. They wanted for you to see it, so badly. Their outfits elaborate displays of status, from the gold-threaded kimonos to the jewels woven into their hair. Their makeup was meticulous, brows arched and lips painted in deep shades of crimson or plum.

Most of them were interesting to gawk at. But you were certain they thought the same about you. Especially those specific women. It was those more haughty women, clan women under the big three who glanced your way with subtle, evaluating eyes.

You could feel their scrutiny as tangibly as the satin ribbons brushing your wrists. A fan fluttered as a woman whispered behind it, her gaze cutting sideways toward you. She looked as haughty and dry as her entire face.

“Do you think she really fits in here?” one murmured, just loud enough for the question to reach your ears.

“I heard she’s not even a sorcerer.” came the response, this time with a touch of incredulity. “Yet they let her come near our children, to teach them about a world they don’t dwell in. Pathetic waste of time!”

You pretended not to hear, reaching for a skewer of yakitori to busy your hands. But your pulse quickened, not with embarrassment, but with the awareness of the reason behind their thinly veiled curiosity. They must have been Zenin women, perhaps married to the higher ranked men in Zenin Naobito’s circle. You felt bad for them, yet you also hated them.

But you knew that wasn’t the case for their hatred of you. Not exactly. It wasn’t the fact that you were an outsider, a non-sorcerer working as a window at Jujutsu High, who taught mundane subjects like history and literature to the students.

Nor was it that the students often liked you better, seeking your lessons as a respite from their harsher training. It was the reason these women whispered behind jeweled fans and exchanged glances tinged with envy: you were the much beloved wife of Nanami Kento, the stalwart, handsome, and sought-after grade one sorcerer.

From across the room, you caught sight of him. He stood among a small circle of colleagues, the sharp lines of his tailored suit a contrast to the flowing robes around him. His expression was as stoic as ever, but there was a small shift when he saw you, a softening in his gaze that no one else would notice.

To everyone else, he was the unapproachable, severe sorcerer who never let his guard down. But you knew the way his bright eyes would close just slightly when he was tired, the low chuckle he reserved for evenings spent at home, the way his voice lowered when he told you stories of his youth.

“Good evening.” came a familiar voice that broke through your wandering thoughts. You turned to find Ieiri Shoko standing beside you, her expression one of relaxed amusement.

She was dressed in an elegant black ensemble that perfectly complemented her laid-back demeanor, a glass of sake dangling effortlessly from her fingers. Her sharp eyes glimmered with mischief as she surveyed the room.

“Evening.” You greeted back at her, your lips sharply echoing into a smile. “Why are you alone? Where’s your darling at?”

“Oh, surrounded by those pathetic vultures.” She pointed at the table where she was talking with the Kyoto women, smiling brightly. “Ugh, I hate those freaks. I can’t believe she’s around them. They’re not even worth an ounce of her giggles.”

“Geto–san has to make good with people somehow.” You pointed out to her, humming. “Connections are just connections. But you’re her lover. It’s been some years. Breathe, Sho.”

She rolls her eyes, before smiling. “Yeah, yeah.”

“How have you been?”

“Good, as always.” Shoko retorts back, humming at you. “I just wish I had cigarettes. But she said if I tried to smoke tonight, she wouldn’t let me hit.”

You laugh at her bluntness. “I do the same to Kento too, but with his alcohol. You both have to be kept on a leash.”

“Oh the things we do for love.” She sighed heavily before looking at the ones glaring at you both. It wasn’t hard to notice those clusters of sorcerer wives eyeing you with thinly veiled intentions. “You’re doing well against their scrutiny, I see.”

“Barely. But I do find myself enjoying it.” you admitted, a small laugh escaping despite the tension. Shoko’s company was always welcome; her nonchalance had a way of making everything seem less dire.

Shoko took a slow sip from her glass, savoring it like she savored every moment. She shifted her gaze to one of the wives, a woman with a crimson kimono embroidered so elaborately it looked more like a tapestry than a garment. The woman was whispering behind her fan, eyes darting toward you and Shoko with a practiced side glance.

“Ah, her again. I thought she wouldn’t be here after she got exposed for her affair.” Shoko said, rolling her eyes with exaggerated flair. She leaned closer, voice low but biting. “Careful, she’s liable to sprain her neck with how much she’s been glaring. I heard last time she tried something that intense, she nearly fainted from holding her breath.”

You stifled a laugh, your shoulders shaking with barely contained mirth. Shoko’s dry humor was like a breath of fresh air, slicing through the tension with an effortless charm. The woman in the crimson kimono noticed your reaction and stiffened, her cheeks blooming with indignation.

“Let them look, let them whisper. Let them be jealous of you.” Shoko said, turning her eyes back to you. Her voice shifted to something more genuine, the mocking edge softening. “They’ll keep wondering because they can’t figure it out. You’re different, and they hate not understanding something. It’s their worst fear.”

You exhaled a breath you didn’t know you were holding, the knots in your chest loosening. Shoko’s words were more than just comfort; they were a reminder that your place here wasn’t defined by others’ perceptions but by your own truth and by the fact that Nanami stood beside you, unwavering.

“Thanks, Sho. I appreciate it a lot.” you said, voice steadying.

She gave a small shrug, the kind that said don’t make it a big deal. With another sip of sake, she nodded toward the buffet. “Now, let’s hope they restock the good tempura. If not, someone’s getting cursed tonight, and it won’t be me.”

She winked, then sauntered away, leaving you with a smile and the indelible impression that you weren’t as alone as you sometimes felt. Once she moved to the corner to see about the temperature, you could feel from the corner of your eye.

You saw the clan wives exchanging glances again. Their perfectly painted lips tightened just slightly as Nanami Kento, breaking from his group, made his way toward you, every step a quiet declaration.

“Is it true? She’s the one married to him?” another ignorant one whispered, leaning into a group of women whose gazes darted in your direction.

“Yes, the one with Nanami Kento, the number two of the first grade sorcerers.” another foolish one confirmed, unable to keep the hint of envy out of her voice.

You turned slightly, pretending not to hear as you picked up a small plate of delicacies. You did not care for what they wanted to say about you. You were more focused on your desire to taste the dishes. The laughter and clinking glasses around you felt muted under the weight of the tension gathering nearby.

The whispers turned to sharp murmurs, punctuated by gasps and scandalized looks. But perhaps that bothered them even more, because they started making more comments.

“Who does she think she is, that no name wanna be?” The foolish one whispered, loud enough for people to hear her. But perhaps she does not realize she was not being discreet.

The ignorant one scoffs in disbelief, shaking her head. “What a snob! How can Nanami-san be married to her?”

Shoko heard enough of it and turned around almost immediately from the dishes to the ladies. They jumped out of their seats. She rolls her eyes at them. It was as though she was just as annoyed as she was bored with them.

“Honestly, get over yourselves. You all look like desperate idiots.” she said, a lazy smirk tugging at her lips as she leaned casually against a marble pillar. Everyone was now looking at them. Aren’t you at least going to have the gall to say it to our face, lady Kawami?”

The woman in the crimson kimono, lady Kawami, known for her sharp tongue and her greedy ambition gasped, her painted lips parting in shock. Beside her, another woman with intricately styled hair and a pinched expression scowled deeply.

“How dare you—”

“Isn’t that the truth?” Shoko’s laughter was light and mocking, yet the glint in her eyes held no softness. She tilted her head, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at Lady Kawami’s reddening face. “You think Nanami Kento would like an ugly face and a bad attitude like yours? Ha! You wish!”

The crowd that had gathered to eavesdrop was stunned into silence, eyes flicking between the women like spectators at a duel. The foolish one’s face turned a deep shade of red, while the ignorant one sputtered, looking moments away from summoning her husband and causing an uproar.

“You cannot talk to us like that!” she shrieked, voice pitched high with indignation. “My husband will hear of this!”

“Now, now, lady Kawami, you shouldn’t treat my guests like that.” The familiar, light-hearted voice of Gojo Satoru interrupted the escalating tension. The two women felt their eyes widen. They quickly bow before him. “It’s so disrespectful, don’t you think?”

Heads turned as he approached, dressed in an exquisite black and silver kimono decorated with the Gojo clan crest. Even in traditional wear, he managed to exude a casual, almost irreverent charm. His dark, round glasses perched on his nose added to the effect as he lowered them just slightly, revealing eyes that shimmered with barely concealed amusement.

“Ah, Gojo-sama.” Lady Kawami said, trying to mask her fluster with a demure nod, but the tension in her posture betrayed her. “I didn’t mean any disrespect towards her, but surely you can understand that—”

“Oh, I understand completely, lady Kawami.” Gojo interrupted, a playful grin spreading across his face. He pushed his glasses back up, letting them catch the light so that the rest of the room was reflected in them. “I understand that you’re boring my dear friend Shoko, and frankly, I can’t have that. Her girlfriend wouldn't be so happy, either. And of course, I love my friend’s happiness.”

The subtle ripple of suppressed laughter ran through the more observant bystanders. Lady Kawami’s mouth snapped shut, her eyes narrowing dangerously. It was rare for someone to speak to her like that and get away with it, but this was Gojo Satoru. A man whose reputation as the most powerful sorcerer in the room and quite possibly the world would mean his words carried weight that no amount of social maneuvering could deflect.

Shoko’s smirk widened as she raised her glass in mock toast to Gojo, her eyes gleaming. “Well, look who decided to save the day. Dashing, really, Gojo.”

He winked at her. “Anything to make sure tonight stays interesting.”

The ignorant one, still seething but now cautious, looked between Gojo and Shoko before settling on silence. The power dynamics had shifted too sharply, and she knew better than to push further. No one can go against Gojo Satoru and not face repercussions. No one. And it would have ended up badly for their husbands and their families if they did.

You exhaled, tension releasing from your shoulders as the spectacle unraveled. A small, knowing smile touched your lips as Kento's eyes found yours from across the room, his expression softening just a fraction, and you knew that you weren’t alone in facing these moments. You were surrounded by friends who would always have your back, in their own unique, if slightly chaotic, ways.

The room’s atmosphere gradually loosened, tension shifting back to its usual simmering undercurrent. Gojo’s playful banter had disarmed the scene, leaving only the embarrassed scowls of lady Kawami and her cohort. Shoko took another sip of her sake, the glint of satisfaction in her eyes clear as she watched the women bristle and disperse.

“Good job not throwing that plate, masterful control.” Shoko said to you, her voice carrying a hint of approval. She nodded at the untouched delicacies in your hand. “Would’ve been a waste of good food.”

You chuckled softly, appreciating her humor. “Shouldn’t you be saying that to yourself, Sho?”

“Well, I mean, that’s true.”

Gojo laughs. “Shoko would have done worse than that and we both know it.”

“Hm, but I would have you carry my food to my table.”

“Oh? Then people would be surprised, how anyone can force the Gojo clan leader to do anything on a whim.”

Before you could respond, a presence behind you made the small hairs on your neck stand up in recognition. You turned, and there he was—Nanami Kento, striding toward you with the kind of quiet confidence that set him apart from the rest.

He looked ever so handsome, your husband. But when you get him even more up close? It’s a different story. He looked even more like a god when he stood before you this close.

He took in the scene, eyes flicking over the lingering crowd, Gojo’s smirk, and Shoko’s knowing look. Then his attention settled on you, warm and steady. “I see I missed the entertainment.” he said, his voice deep and even, but with a trace of curiosity.

Gojo lifted a hand in a lazy wave. “Ah, Nanami, you missed Shoko here defending your lovely lady’s honor with an admirable lack of diplomacy.”

Kento’s brows lifted slightly, his gaze darting to Shoko, who shrugged, unbothered. “They deserved it.” she said, as if that were the most obvious fact in the world.

With a quiet exhale, Kento nodded, accepting the unspoken truth that you were protected by bonds deeper than mere duty. He reached out, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. The small gesture spoke volumes, his touch grounding and reassuring.

“Are you alright?” he asked, eyes searching yours for any trace of discomfort.

You smiled up at him, your earlier tension melting away entirely under his gaze. “I am now.”

The corners of his mouth twitched in what might have been a smile, subdued as always but unmistakably there. The few remaining onlookers, who had hoped to catch a new drama unfolding, exchanged glances before deciding they had better places to be.

Gojo clapped his hands, shattering the delicate silence that had settled. “Well, now that we’ve cleared the air, what do you say we toast to another evening of society’s finest theatrics?” His grin was as wide as ever, his glasses reflecting the chandelier’s light like a pair of miniature suns.

Nanami shook his head, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes as he glanced at you, then back at Gojo. “You never change, Gojo.” he muttered, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.

“And wouldn’t it be boring if I did?” Gojo countered, raising a brow.

Shoko raised her glass, smirking at Gojo before tipping it toward you and Nanami. “Unwavering loyalty and keeping things interesting!” she said.

You lifted your plate with a grin, and Kento, never one for dramatics, simply inclined his head. But the unspoken promise in his gaze, the silent support he offered, said more than any toast or witty comment ever could. In a hall filled with power, it was that quiet moment, surrounded by friends and the one who held your heart, that resonated most.

Soon enough, Shoko returned to her girlfriend with her plate stacked with food on one hand and the other holding a glass of wine. Her girlfriend, Geto Suguru’s younger sister, was waiting for her at one of the tables by the back.

Of course, Gojo Satoru returned to moving about and greeting everyone, but he seemed to have been halted by lord Kawami, probably trying to get things straight and settled. No one likes losing his favor after all. It was better that everything was smoothed out with him.

The incident however did not stop the women from continuing to look at your husband wantingly. One of the clan leader’s wives, her jeweled fan hiding half her face, whispered something to the woman beside her. They glanced over, eyes narrowing as if they could decipher what spell had ensnared someone like Nanami Kento.

“They’re watching again.” you murmured, feeling a twinge of jealousy and self-consciousness.

You immediately caught the glance of a woman adorned with a striking emerald necklace that glittered every time she turned. Her expression was polished and unreadable, but the pointed way she looked at you sent an old, familiar discomfort crawling up your spine.

Kento’s presence next to you was a calm in the storm, an anchor against the waves of whispers and stares. He tilted his head slightly, just enough that the room’s golden glow cast warm highlights across his sharp features. His eyes, serious and unwavering, met yours.

“I don’t like the way they’re looking at you.” You whisper to him.

“Let them, honey.” he said, his deep voice rich with certainty. “That’s all they can do.”

He took your hand, calloused but gentle, and squeezed it just enough to send a rush of comfort through you. His thumb traced the side of your hand in a subtle, soothing gesture. The cool metal of his ring finger brushes against your skin with intent.

“They should know that I am exactly where I choose to be. I’m a married man, after all.”

A silence swept over the nearby crowd, as if Nanami Kento’s words, though spoken softly, carried through the hall like a sudden change in the wind. The clan leaders’ wives, women who could command a room with a flick of their eyes or a whisper laced with intent, shifted uncomfortably. For all their power, their meticulously curated reputations, and the alliances they upheld like prized heirlooms, they had never been the center of such unwavering devotion.

Akari from administration glanced over and offered a subtle nod of approval, a small smile playing on her lips as she resumed her conversation. Mei Mei, sharp-eyed and ever perceptive, caught the moment as well. She raised her glass, her smirk deepening as though to say, well played.

The subtle tension that once swirled around the room, woven through glances and whispers, began to dissipate. Some turned their attention back to their conversations, laughter resuming, but not without the occasional glance in your direction, this time tinged more with begrudging respect than judgment.

“Kento, baby.” you said softly, a small smile breaking through as your heart settled back into its natural rhythm. The weight of self-consciousness fell away, replaced by a warm sense of belonging that his presence always seemed to ignite.

“Hmm?” he replied, his gaze still watching you with an intensity that was rare for him, except when you were alone.

“Thank you, baby.” you whispered, squeezing his hand back.

His eyes softened, the smallest, barely-there curve of his lips showing just the hint of a smile meant only for you. “There’s nothing to thank me for, honey.” he replied, tilting his head as if to read your thoughts. “It’s simply the truth.”

══════════════════

IT HAPPENED AS QUICKLY AS ONE COULD BLINK. But you suppose you can’t help it. Your desire for pleasure was fast when it came to Nanami Kento. Much more so when you’re jealous. BUt you knew your husband liked that. More than he likes to admit to you.

You felt a delicious rush of power as you yanked him closer by his tie, leading him out of the crowded hall. Away from the watchful eyes and mingling strangers, it was just the two of you in the quiet, dim hallway, with only your quickened breaths filling the silence.

The door closed behind you, and before you could say another word, his hands were on you, strong and possessive, pressing you back against the cool tiles of the bathroom wall. His fingers traced over your hips and along your waist, leaving a tingling heat in their wake.

It was as if he was memorizing every inch of you all over again. You looked up at him, catching his gaze; his eyes were heavy with desire, and the way he looked at you made your knees feel weak. He was entirely yours in that moment, and you were entirely his.

Your hands slid up his chest, feeling the warmth beneath his shirt, his heartbeat echoing your own. His mouth was on yours again, the kiss deep and ravenous, filling the space with the sounds of quickened breath and desperate touches. The world beyond the bathroom faded, leaving only the two of you, tangled in each other.

When he pulled back to look at you, you could barely catch your breath. His hand found the curve of your neck, fingers tracing gently along your jawline, and your own hands gripped his shoulders, grounding you as your pulse raced.

“You’re so good….” you managed to whisper breathlessly, your voice trembling as you tried to form words. "Kento….." you murmured, the words spilling out between gasps, each syllable almost a sigh as you clung to him.

The intensity of his gaze made you shiver, your own desire reflected in his eyes. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek, and you felt a thrill ripple through you as he whispered your name. His breath felt hot, so tenderly warm against your skin. And even more so when he said your name in that breathy way. That made you feel even more excitement.

For a moment, you both paused, catching your breath as the heat of the moment washed over you. His fingers brushed along your cheek, his thumb tracing the corner of your mouth, as though savoring this quiet, charged moment before pulling you back in with the same raw, electric passion.

And in that hidden space, the two of you lost yourselves, caught in the perfect, unbreakable intimacy that felt like a world away from the bustling party. If you both had your way, both of you would have been locked away from the world. All you needed was each other.

His hands explored with a possessive tenderness, each touch leaving trails of fire across your skin. You let out a shaky breath, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as he pressed his lips along your jaw, down to the sensitive spot just below your ear. You shivered, feeling him smile against your skin, clearly pleased at the effect he was having on you.

You pulled him even closer, fingers moving from his shirt to his tie, loosening it slightly, just enough to slide it off his neck. Your breath hitched as he leaned in, his eyes fixed on you with a focused intensity that made you feel as though you were the only person in the world.

"Can’t believe you dragged me out here, honey." he murmured, his voice low and teasing, his words sending a thrill through you. "But I’d follow you anywhere. I’ll make love to you anywhere you want me to."

His words made your heart race, and you felt the butterflies from earlier stirring again as he leaned in, his mouth meeting yours with a new urgency. It was as if all the tension from the night poured into that kiss, building into something raw and unstoppable.

As he pulled you closer, his fingers gently brushed your hair back from your face, and you caught his gaze, breathless. You couldn’t help the small, breathless laugh that escaped as you looked at him, both of you a little dizzy, a little wild.

“This is dangerous, you know, baby.” you whispered, a playful smirk dancing on your lips as you tightened your hold on him. But he only raised an eyebrow, his own grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Good.” he replied, his voice a low murmur. "Wouldn’t have it any other way."

Soon enough, you were under his thumb. His movements grew rougher, each thrust deep and unrelenting, sending a surge of sensation through you that bordered on overwhelming. Every press of his body against yours was a heady mixture of strength and passion.

And it was all you could do to cling to him, fingers digging into his shoulders as the intensity built. His pace quickened, and you felt your back arch instinctively, unable to control the way your body responded to him.

Your breaths came in sharp, shallow gasps, each one catching in your throat as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge, his touch both possessive and tender. Your senses blurred; the world narrowed down to the feel of him, the heat between you, the way he whispered your name against your skin in a voice that was both rough and reverent.

Every movement, every thrust sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, each one pushing you further until you were lost in the sheer intensity of it all. You gripped him tightly, almost desperately, as though grounding yourself against the delicious onslaught.

His name left your lips in broken gasps, and as you met his gaze, the shared passion and vulnerability in his eyes were enough to undo you completely. Everything about your husband makes you feel alive. Especially at this moment. He was good at making you cry for life.

In that moment, you felt yourself surrender, giving in fully to the dizzying rush, to him, and to the warmth and bliss that consumed you both. You shifted slightly beneath him, the heat of your body still trapped in the shared intimacy of the moment. The words escaped you before you could stop them, your jealousy bubbling to the surface.

"I saw the way they were looking at you tonight, baby." you whispered, your voice a blend of frustration and desire, your fingers gripping his shoulders tightly. "All those women... They were ogling you, making eyes at you, and I couldn’t—"

His breath hitched at the raw honesty in your voice. His eyes darkened, a flicker of something primal flashing across his face. Without breaking his rhythm, he leaned closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he growled, "Don’t you dare think about them. You're the only one I want. I only want my wife. My little precious wife."

His words were a balm, but the way his body moved, the deep, relentless thrusts, were what truly silenced your insecurities. The force of each movement was almost punishing, his hips driving into you harder, making your head spin with pleasure. His hands gripped your hips, steadying you as he picked up speed, his breath ragged against your skin.

"You think I want them?" he asked, his voice a dark, velvety rasp. "No. It's you, only you. Always been you." His words came out in desperate gasps, the intensity of his thrusts growing, pushing you both to the edge. "You’re mine. No one else matters."

You moaned, feeling a thrill surge through your chest, his raw claim igniting something deeper within you. His pace never faltered, and as he rams into you harder.

Each movement seems to strip away the last remnants of your doubts. Your body responded, the tension in you winding tighter, tighter, until you were sure you'd break. You could barely speak, your voice hitching as you met his powerful thrusts with a soft whimper, your body rocking with the force of him.

"I’m jealous, baby. I always am." you admitted, your hands tracing down his chest, grasping at him desperately, the words slipping between gasps. "But you're mine too. Only mine."

"Always have been, honey. Only yours." he replied, his hands pressing you harder into the cold tile as he moved faster, pushing you further toward the edge with each heated thrust.

His voice was a low growl, his rhythm unrelenting, and you could feel him losing himself as much as you were, both of you consumed by the need, the overwhelming desire to claim and be claimed.

The moment his lips crashed into yours, everything else seemed to melt away. The overwhelming intensity of the kiss mirrored the urgency of his movements, his body pressing deeper into yours, each thrust sending waves of heat through you. The kiss was possessive, his tongue claiming yours with the same hunger that burned between you both.

As he pushed deeper, his rhythm becoming relentless, you felt a broken cry escape from you, a mixture of pleasure and raw emotion that you couldn’t hold back. His eyes, dark with desire, caught yours, and for a moment, you saw something deeper than just lust—something primal and protective, something that made your heart race in a way you couldn’t explain.

"You’re so fucking beautiful, honey." he whispered against your lips, his voice rough with the same need he’d been building in both of you. “My wife is so fucking beautiful.”

His hands moved to your hips, pulling you impossibly closer as he thrust deeper, pushing you to the brink, your cries turning into soft whimpers as your body was caught in the storm of sensation. It felt so good, it always has been.

The deeper he is, the deeper the pleasure fills you. The more you cry out and moan. The more he tries to defy the possibilities, thrusting deeper to fill you more and more.

The tears that pricked the corners of your eyes weren't from pain—no, it was something more complex, something that left you breathless. It was the weight of the connection, the force of his touch, and the emotional release that you hadn’t expected.

All combined into something that made your chest tighten with overwhelming feeling. You cried because he was inside you in every way, not just physically but emotionally, each thrust deeper, each kiss harder.

Kento pulled away slightly, his thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped down your cheek, his breath hot against your face. His eyes softened for a moment, but the hunger in them never dulled.

"You’re mine, only mine, wife." he breathed, his voice low but full of meaning, before kissing you again, harder this time, as though proving to you what he’d just spoken.

The kiss deepened as he pulled you even closer, his body pressing against yours with a fervor that made your entire being hum with raw need. You could feel every inch of him, every movement of his muscles, and it was as if the world had disappeared entirely, leaving just the two of you tangled in this electric, consuming moment.

His thrusts became more forceful, each one driving deeper, pushing you to the edge of something wild and uncontrollable. Your nails dug into his back, clinging to him for support as his mouth moved from yours, trailing down your neck, biting and sucking as he marked you, claiming you completely.

"Don't hold back, honey." he murmured against your skin, his breath ragged. "Let go for me. I need you to feel this... all of it."

You couldn't hold back, not anymore. Not even if anyone was to hear outside. You didn’t feel bad about being this loud because it was your pleasure. About the pleasure he was giving you. He was making you feel good and you wanted him to know it.

“Good baby, my good little wife. Take me. Take me whole.”

His words hit something deep inside, and you cried out, your voice a broken whisper as your body surrendered fully to him, to the pleasure, to the overwhelming emotions that swirled inside you. His name escaped your lips in a desperate, breathless moan, and the sound seemed to spur him on, his pace quickening as he met you with relentless urgency.

Each thrust pushed you further into a frenzy of sensation, and the pleasure that had once been distant now consumed you completely. The tears that had been building in your eyes spilled over, not from pain, but from the intensity, from the way his body moved with yours in perfect rhythm, from the way he made you feel so utterly seen, so completely his.

Kento’s hand moved to your face, his thumb gently swiping at the tears on your cheek, a tender touch amidst the feverish passion. His eyes softened for just a moment, but then they hardened with desire as he kissed you again, his tongue tasting your lips, your moans swallowed by the deep kiss.

"You're everything to me, honey." he growled, his voice barely audible between breaths. "And I’ll make sure you never forget that."

His words, the way his body pressed into yours, the way his hands held you so firmly. It all built up to something so deep, so visceral that you couldn’t tell where your body ended and his began. Everything inside you snapped, the waves of pleasure crashing over you in a rush, leaving you breathless and shaking in his arms.

Your cries were mingled with his own as he lost himself in the moment, the sound of skin against skin filling the small space as you both gave in to the release, the powerful culmination of everything that had been building between you.

As the waves of pleasure slowly subsided, leaving both of you breathless and spent, the quiet hum of the room returned, only now it felt like a distant memory compared to the electric tension between you. You both lingered in the aftermath, bodies still pressed together, hearts racing in sync.

Your breath was ragged, your fingers tracing the sweat-slick skin of his back, grounding yourself in the sensation of him still so close. The room was quiet, save for the soft rustling of your clothes and the echo of your breaths.

But just as you began to collect yourself, a sound broke the stillness—a soft thud of footsteps, followed by the faint murmur of voices. Your heart skipped a beat as the realization hit. Your boldness had gotten inflated by sanity.

You both hadn’t noticed the soft creak of the door, hadn’t heard the hushed conversations approaching. And then, before either of you could react, the door was pushed open, revealing the clan wives, standing in the doorway, eyes wide with shock, mouths agape.

Kento’s gaze flickered to the doorway, but when he saw the surprised looks on their faces, he didn’t flinch, didn’t move away. He stayed right where he was, his hands still possessively on you, his lips curled into a confident, unbothered smirk. He looks at you, mesmerized by you. By his want for you. Nothing else mattered. Decency, rules, proportionality — they’re done when he makes love to you.

Yet when you looked at him. Nothing else mattered. You too also didn’t care now. A sense of defiance rose within you, the fire from before still burning strong. Without a second thought, you pulled Kento closer, your hands grasping his face as you tilted your head up to meet his lips. The kiss was fierce and unapologetic, claiming him fully in front of everyone who dared to look.

You pulled away slightly, just enough to look him in the eyes, your voice low but steady, a possessive edge coloring your words. "You're only mine, hm? Forever, baby." you whispered, your fingers gently tracing his jawline as you met his smirk.

His gaze softened for a moment, his lips curling into a grin that sent a shiver down your spine. "Always, honey." he replied, his voice a low rumble that held all the certainty in the world. “Forever.”

The clan wives stood frozen once again, caught between disbelief and curiosity, but neither of you acknowledged them again. You didn’t need to. Kento's words, and the way he held you, told them everything they needed to know.

You were his, and he was yours.

Forever.

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jakesimfromstatefarm · 2 months ago

Note

this is probably in your no doubt series but imagine Jake asking your parents for this hand in marriage and he's just super nervous and shaky about it 😿💔

OMG this one has been brewing in my inbox for soooo long bc i wanted to finish the series first before i dived into this one bc MARRIAGE . that's such a big kid word omg help but UGH jakeyn needs to live happily ever after forever & forever & forever & forever (˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ )づ♡ i genuinely had to stop writing this one halfway thru bc i was gonna crash out over them . anyways! i switched up the prompt just a littleeeee...i hope you enjoy !!!

──── GONNA MARRY YOU 💍 🥂 🕊️ ↳ requested // part of the no doubt series !

You're so close.

You're so, so close to falling asleep.

It had been a long, grueling day for both you and Jake—full of exhausting emotional labor.

Like spending five hours on the couch debating which one of you would cry first when your hypothetical child goes to kindergarten.

Jake said you. You said Jake. The fight is ongoing.

Extremely serious business.

Obviously.

And now, finally, you're both tangled up in bed, one of his arms slung naturally around you, the other trapped awkwardly under your neck.

You told him to move it.

He refused.

"It's fine," he murmured casually, even though his arm was definitely already going limp. "I'll lose feeling in my arm for you any day."

You're so, so, so close to falling asleep—your brain is already shutting off and you're mentally somewhere in between counting sheep and officially entering dreamland.

Which is why when you feel Jake shift behind you—closer, somehow, even though you're pretty sure his entire body weight is already squishing you into the mattress—you barely register it.

You don't fully register the way his hand flexes against your waist, or the way his nose nudges against the back of your neck like he'll die if he doesn't breathe your air.

You're far too gone.

Too sleepy. Too warm. Too his.

So when his voice slips out—soft, low, and sleepy—you don't fully process that either—

"M'gonna marry you one day."

You freeze.

Your brain short-circuits.

Your eyes shoot wide open.

Because...what.

You quickly twist your body around to face him and—bless his heart—Jake's face is half-smushed into your pillow, hair sticking up everywhere, blinking at you with the dopiest, dreamiest little smile.

"You—" you croak, sleepiness still tangled in your throat, "—what did you just say?"

Jake blinks at you as if you're the deranged one.

Then, very, very seriously—

"I'm gonna marry you," he repeats. Voice thick with sleep and absolute certainty. "You're it for me, dummy. Thought this was, like...common knowledge."

Your mouth parts slightly. You stare at him.

He doesn't even flinch. Just simply hums before fluttering his eyes shut again.

"Already asked your parents, you know," he mumbles casually.

"Mm—you WHAT?"

Jake peeks a single eye open, his sleepy grin still tugging at his lips—completely smug, completely serious, completely in love.

"Yeah," he says like he's stating the obvious. "Last winter. When we visited for Christmas. You were in the shower and I was in the living room with them probably watching some random cooking show you mom put on and it just...came out."

Your mouth is now fully open.

Catching flies and all.

"Jake."

"I know," he hums, laughing softly as his arm around your waist pulls you in closer into his chest. "I was super awkward about it, too. Like, full-on, 'Hi, can I marry your daughter?' out of nowhere. I honestly don't know what I was thinking. I don't think I was actually. Pretty sure I blacked out."

You crane your head up to gape at him.

You can't believe this ridiculous boy is real.

And that you're definitely going to marry him one day.

"Well?" you demand, your hands softly hitting his chest. "What did they say?"

Jake grins, his smile bright and easy like pure sunshine, even when he's half-asleep.

"They said yes, duh. Something about me already being part of the family or whatever. But it wasn't just whatever. I think I cried honestly. And then I think your mom cried a little. And your dad definitely did the whole 'I'm not crying, it's just allergies' bit. You know the one."

You let out a strangled noise—somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Jake's eyes now fully open to watch you with that look on his face—the one that makes you feel like you created all the stars he's been chasing.

He sighs, completely blissed out, then kisses the side of your head as he shifts again to hold you tighter—one hand cradling the back of your neck to guide you gently back to his chest.

"Just, like...try to act at least a little surprised when I pop the question, alright?"

You smack his chest half-heartedly, still at a loss for words.

He laughs again, sleepy and light—like he's carrying the entire future in his heart and it doesn't even weigh him a single thing.

And you just stay like that—holding onto him like he's already yours.

Because he is.

He always has been.

And now—

You know he always will be.

no doubt m. list

tag list! pt. 1 (open)

@bluxjun @ki2rins @why-did-i-just-do-this @favoritten @lovialymisc @xylatox @vivimura @leehsngs @puma-riki @lezzleeferguson-120 @enhaprettystars @laurradoesloveu @sievenderz @somuchdard @kristynaah @hinryh @ltfirecracker @lov4hoon @taeheexx @niyzu @chunkzdeluluwife @jakeflvrz @fangirl125reader @0429jw @dreamy-carat @yuons @thestarinstarbucks @miszes @llearlert @ppeachyttae @hoomin10 @teddybeartaetae @tanisha2060 @therealmrsbahng @beomgyu-bears @ikeulove @jiyeons-closet @youngheejay @wxnderingthoughts @fuevrois @soobundle1009 @isoobie @enhypenova @zoemeltigloos @lizdevorak @deluluscenarios @bloomiize @hasuyv @ijustwannareadstuff20 @veilstqr @dreamiestay @jakeyyyjakexoxo

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softshuji · 10 months ago

Text

𝟐𝟐:𝟓𝟎𝐏𝐌 - 𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐈 𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐔

Title: Say Yes

Summary: The first time Rindou asks you on a date, you reject him, thinking he's going to break your heart. Lucky for you, he's willing to prove why you should say yes to him.

cw: fem!reader, some mentions of insecurities, Rin calls you princess, Ran makes an appearance. But that's it! Reblogs appreciated!

You think it’s a joke the first time Haitani Rindou asks you on a date. He’s a Haitani after all, and you’re under no illusions about what that means for you and all the ways he could hurt you if you let him. Creative ways, that you’re convinced you could never recover from in the near future, the pieces of yourself you would spend years putting back together.

So you don’t. You walk away, reject him politely with a smile and an incline of your head, and you can almost imagine that he has a girl lined up the next day to ask as a quick replacement of you because He’s a Haitani after all, and he has a reputation that means more than either of your hurt feelings.

Rindou pretends he isn’t crestfallen, the drop of his small and placid smile that does little to hide the avid redness of his cheeks is all too apparent when you purse your lips. His eyebrows shoot up and he coughs, or rather pretends to, into his hand and steps back, the heat on his neck crawling along the slope of his back.

‘You’re….. You’re saying no?’ He asks, as if he doesn’t quite get it, because he hasn’t prepared for this eventuality, for going home to Ran to break the news, as if he’s a schoolboy with a crush, dragging his feet with dejection.

‘I am, I’m sorry Rin.’ A shake of your head, a feeling of deep nausea and a regret that holds the weight of years of friendship, now potentially wasted.

‘Oh.’ He kicks at the gravel, the blue silk of his hair falling in waves over the smooth arc of his forehead, and you resist the urge at a time like this, to sweep it back. ‘Can I ask why?’

No, you want to say, the word caught on the wind whipping through your hair. It’ll only make it harder. Harder to look forward, harder to resist, harder to keep at your word.

‘You’re Rindou Haitani.’ As if it’s an explanation in itself, as if it assuages the guilt and the longing and gets the point across, that he could never not hurt you in any way you could recover from. ‘I don’t think you’d be happy with me.’

You think it’s easier to lie, to pretend that the burden that comes from knowing you is too much for any one person to bear, especially when that person is your best friend, instead of the fact that the uncertainty of his life is too much for you in turn. That there could be a day far or perhaps not so far, into the future where the uncertainty becomes the certainty of his death, where he does not come back at all.

‘You don’t know that,’ he says, fierce determination blazing in his eyes, the slight tremor of his voice. He thinks he could be happy with you, or content at the very least. Maybe you could watch as he climbed to the top with Ran, the Doll at his side, his partner in all things. He’s convinced he has it all planned out perfectly, the house, the marriage, the kids you’ll have, even what colour you’ll paint the walls, because despite himself, Haitani Rindou is meticulous in all things concerning you.

You tilt your head to the side, a knowing smile playing on your lips that you hope hides how much it pains you to break him like this, to break yourself along with him, cracks in the eggshell of your friendship you hope can be repaired in time. ‘I do Rin. You’re a Haitani, you’re used to the life.’

He knows it’s an explanation and he doesn’t begrudge you for it, for the way you step back and keep your distance, your bottom lip pulled back as you bite it nervously, a hand playing with the ends of your hair as he knows you’re prone to doing. He wants to be angry, wants to rage at you, throw all the excuses he thinks will suffice for coming to terms with the rejection, vitriol and jealousy and bitterness all curling together on his tongue. He swallows, the bump of his smooth throat sliding under the blue scarf that kisses at the dip of his chin and pushes it down. Down. Down. Tucks it safely in the pit of his stomach where it can ruminate till he’s let off the steam that prickling at the skin on his neck.

‘I see.’ He pulls back the flowers, scrunching the plastic wrapping in his white knuckles behind his back, the burn of shame and regret licking at his cheeks, hot enough to instantly melt the snow that sits on the cut of his cheekbones. ‘Can we still be friends?’

It aches somewhere, when you swallow against the tide of anxiety in your chest, a vice that clamps down on your tongue, hot and heavy and weighted with longing. You wonder how easy it would be to let yourself be swept away by him, the beautiful fullness of his laugh, the smile that’s reserved for you, quick and easy and big, all engulfing even, to let yourself run along with him as he climbed to the top, hand in unlovable hand.

You soften, reach for him with one gloved hand, finding his fiddling with a button on his coat and brush your thumb across his knuckles, swinging it this way and that, like you have not broken his heart, like you are nothing more than a single passing memory. ‘Of course we can. We’re best friends Rin, nothing will ever change that. If you still want me that is.’

‘I do.’

‘Even now?’

He takes your hand, as if it’s a response and knowing that despite it all, his big words, he’ll wallow in self pity, the heat of your rejection biting at his chest, he’ll come to terms with it in his own way. It is all his fault, and the wind that cuts across his cold lips seems to chant with shame at him for it, for the fickleness of his feelings, for straying far from what he knows.

But it happens. You swing back into life and the easiness of your friendship that has always permeated the comfort between you remains, albeit hardened now, by what Rindou thinks are his one-sided feelings. He remains as steadfast in his efforts as usual, propelled more so now by the fact that he feels he must win you over, to make up for the duplicity of his feelings.

You think it’s cute that he is less than subtle with his affections now that they are out in the open. The chocolates that sit at the table when you return home, a bar of chocolate orange, a note on a yellow post-it, a heart and a terribly drawn sun that tells you enough, the trinkets and gifts that are somehow discreetly placed around your apartment, necklaces here and there, earrings, new books you hadn’t spoken about to anyone that wasn’t him and it burns you with self-loathing that despite yourself, you cannot let him go without peeling yourself open at the same time.

The regret is acid pooling in your stomach.

The same regret and shame that tickles your throat when you reach for the phone at night, and your thumb finds his name with a moon and a heart, the grainy picture of him sleeping with his mouth parted, blond silken hair clinging to his forehead, to his shirt. He rolls over in bed, hears the first sniffle, cut through by a crack in the signal, and bounds from the door, keys in one hand, his jacket only half-slung, whipping in the wind as he races to your apartment.

'Princess?’ It’s uncertain, halted, hesitant even, as he slides open the bathroom door, the ends of his hair wet with rain, glasses foggy and hands clammy with the chill of the wind.

‘Rin?’ You look up, eyes red-rimmed, the wad of wet tissue in your hands falling apart.

And Rindou knows, of course he does, what your kind of bravery looks like. You've been sitting on the floor crying, the tears fast and free flowing and salty on your cracked cheeks and he doesn't judge, he knows this is you being brave, he knows he has no right to judge what your kind of brave looks like, the way in which you piece yourself back together.

So he holds you, one hand on the small of your back, the other tucking the hair behind your ear as you hiccup and the drool slips from your dry lips. He holds you, and holds you and holds you and rocks you with his eyes fluttering shut, and perhaps your hair will get caught on the thin screws of his glasses, but you don't care right now. All that matters is that he makes you feel less pathetic, less like you're falling apart on the cold bathroom tiles of your shabby house.

‘It’s okay,’ he says and you almost believe it, almost believe he can put you back together with his lithe skilled fingers, trace the cuts along your heart with tenderness and paint them gold again.

You love that he waits it out, waits for it to pass, the cloudy storm that ends with you on his chest, softly snoring, your tears dried on cheeks that feel taut and tightened with the line of silvery drool slipping between your parted lips, mascara tracks, that have found a home on the soft grey of his shirt.

‘Let’s get you into bed yeah?’ He whispers to the tiles, to you now slumped against him, the creases of your pajamas pressed into his side and carries you to bed, slipping in beside you, curling your hair around his fingers, your ribs under his hands, heartbeat pulsing against his skin. He hardly blames you for it, the rejection that’s weeks in the past. Part of him almost thanks you, for protecting yourself from him, from all the danger and blood and death that comes with him. Like you said, he is used to the life.

You love that when you wake, he is that much softer with you, a hand on your back as you pad to the bathroom, to the kitchen, the coffee hot, the croissants and pastries fresh, a wordless kiss to your temple, fresh clothes and towels, the bathroom clean of the wads of tissue that bare witness to your moments. He never mentions it, but kisses you again, just shy of your mouth, the dip of your chin soft under his lips when he sees you off for work again.

‘Be safe okay? For me?’

Because he knows you’re capable, knows you’re strong, knows you are his weakness in a way nothing else is, knows that if something happened to you, you’d take a bigger part of him than he could ever take of you. Or so he thinks.

‘I will. You should be safe too.’

Because you know he’s capable, know he’s strong, know he is your weakness in a way nothing else is, know that if something happened to him, he’d take a bigger part of you than you could ever take of him. Or so you think.

You love that he comes back, time and time again. After every fight, every argument, every word of vitriol spewed back and forth, hateful words thrown with negligence and jealousy, embittered feelings you know deep down come from love, he comes back to you.

‘Princess?’ He says, and waits on the other side of the door in the rain, the film of his glasses now foggy with condensation, ends of his hair clinging to the exposed goosebumps breaking out on his neck, the grey sweatpants now a darker shade of charcoal from where he has slugged through the storm to get to you, his first priority always.

‘What do you want?’ It comes out harsher than intended, the bite of your still-fresh and ripened anger cutting at your tone. It hurts, it always does when it comes from him, the arguments that are wrapped in love, care, the attention he could give to anyone but chooses to give to you, and the regret that boils in your stomach when you realize that fact.

‘I want us to talk.’ Proactive as ever, because the option to find solace anywhere else, with another girl even, has never occurred to him. Because he loves you, and even if the sentiment isn’t shared, he thinks he can love you enough for the both of you.

‘I don’t want to talk to you right now.’ But you push open the door, hand him a towel, and touch his cold and pallid cheek, because the promise of seeing him, in all your pain and bitterness, hurts less than not.

‘Not an option,’ he says and holds you, cold lips that brush just shy of the hot pulsing pressure point of your neck, warmed by the constancy of you. He smells of petrol, metal, the cold chill of winter, and against what you assume is your better judgement, you find warmth in the crook of his shoulder, the warm swell of his chest and arms that instinctively come around you, pressing your hips to his.

It would be easy, to give into the thrill for a night, to let yourself forget, reach out to him and grab at the promise, however temporary, for the risk of tasting him in all the ways you’ve imagined you can. You know he tastes of strawberries, tastes of the night and the moon, sweet and dangerous and warm, familiar and mysterious at once.

You tell yourself, you tell Ran, he is just like this, that Rindou for all his brutality, for all the rough edges sharp enough to cut, for all the barricades smoothed down by time, he is just kind, he is just loving, he is just like that.

‘I thought you’d have known him better than that by now.’ And Ran sighs in that way older siblings do, half exhausted, half fond, and all pride in his Brother. ‘Rin doesn’t do things for anyone else.’

It changes at some point.

Some point when you wake before him, nestled into his side, the warm breath from his parted lips lifting the hair now pressed against the pillow, an eyelash dancing on the perfect curve of his cheek. He looks best like this. Unguarded, the frown that usually graces the slope of his forehead now smooth, the bridge of his nose rubbing at the cotton of your shared pillow, and the soft blue of his hair resting on the sharp line of his jaw.

You press a tiny kiss to his collarbone, trapping him between your legs, his hands resting on your hips that press flush against his.

‘Watching people sleep is creepy y’know.’ His voice is rough and broken by the sluggishness of sleep and you can hear the smirk in it, the lazy languid curve of his lips that never fails to make the heat rise to your neck.

‘You do it all the time.’ A whisper that kisses at his clavicle, eliciting a shiver that rolls along his spine, the perfect bones and muscles flexing under your touch.

‘S’different. You’re pretty.’

‘So are you. Really pretty Rin.’

‘Think so?’

‘Don’t fish for compliments with me, that’s shameful.’ You jab lightly at his side, the smile threatening to break out across your lips now peaking through with full force. The sun that cuts across his cheek rests on the swell of his bare shoulder, the black ink that whirls along the flexing tendon of his arm soaking up the light. This is him, your Rindou. Soaking up the light as if it belongs to him, because it does, because everything does, because you would hand him the world if he so much as looked at it.

He laughs, a throaty chuckle that reverberates against your chest, dangerously, achingly close, a flimsy t-shirt away. ‘You’re too smart, my smartest girl.’ And buries his lips against the warm juncture of your collarbones.

‘And Rin?’ You ignore the way your voice wavers, the way it threatens to pull you back into what you know, the safety of your enclosed familiarity, the trapped bird looking out to freedom.

‘Mhm?’

A beat, prolonged, heady and weighted with love, years and memories. ‘I think I’m ready.’

‘For?’

‘To say yes.’ The pressure aches in your chest, the courage is a vibrating pulse in your blood. This is it, this is the deep breath and the plunge.

It’s strangely exhilarating to let go of it, the build-up of weeks of longing, of clutching onto his stomach as you bury your face against the broad swell of his back, muttering his name in your sleep, his lips only a breath away, a singular moment of decision away.

His eyes snap open, his hands pulling back instinctively from your hips to cup at your jaw, eyes narrowed, glowing with anticipatory longing, dull with the shimmer of sleep. ‘You mean it? That’s not a joke? If it’s a joke-’

You shake your head adamantly, his palms rough against the curl of your cheek. ‘Not a joke. I’m sorry, my indecision hurt you. I think I was afraid.’ This last part is broken, snapped into a whisper that curls along your tongue.

It had been true, it had always been true. Because he’s Haitani Rindou, and you know he could break you, snap you in half, shred the pieces of you and spit you out, that you would have to trust him not to.

‘No, no Princess, don't ever apologise for that. You really mean this though?’ Damn him for the shake of his voice, for the wobble of it as he closes the distance between you.

‘I do.’

‘You want this? You want …me?’ He knows it’s meticulous, extreme, that he must only bridge the gap to find his answer. But he has spent so long, nights reaching through the darkness for your warmth, a hand moving across the cold bed, looking for the space where he thinks you ought to be, to not do it right this time.

‘Yes.’

He deliberates, searches your eyes, for the genuineness he loves in you, for the openness, for the love he has craved and never asked for, for what you have given to someone like him so freely.

‘Can I kiss you?’ He asks, and his thumb brushes against your lips, against the softened pout, the dip in your chin that slices the sunlight in half as it spills over his shoulder.

Your heart smashes against your ribs, knocks the air from you so completely that your pulse rings in your head. You think this is the point you take the leap, jump into the unknown, knowing you’ll be caught either way by him, knowing he will catch you every time you fall. It's conscious, a decision weeks or months in the making, a step off the edge, the wind rushing at you as you fall.

So you do it.

You say yes.

And he kisses you. And kisses you. And kisses you.

a/n happy birthday to the boy himself, sorry this is a little late I did try to be earlier i've been slumped w work and stuff but I wanted to get this one out there. a kiss for the wonderful boy

taglist: @reiners-milkbiddies @prettyiolanthe @sugusshi @snakegentleman @haitaniapologist @lonnie19 @nafarsiti @bejeweled-night-33 @ranscutedoll @qiiuusoup-xo @hoetani @sinfulseashell @burnishedcrown @nikokopuffs @mitsuwuyaa @haruwuchiyoo @mochimiyaas @bertholdts--butt @theaonlax @blackfire2013 @wotakuhime @severellamahottub @stargirlstabber @intheafterall

#tokyo revengers #tokyorev x reader #rindou haitani #rindou x reader #tokyo rev #tokyo revengers x reader

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idkwhylou · 2 months ago

Text

𝐈. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬

Summary : Torn from your coastal homeland to seal an imperial alliance, in a wedding crafted for power, not love, you vow to fulfill your duty and perhaps find something more. But on your wedding night, you discover a colder truth: Marcus’s body is yours, but his heart is somewhere else. Still, you are determined to prove your worth, to decode his silence, and to uncover the man behind the armor.

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Warnings : arranged marriage, mentions of politics, smut, cold behavior, age gap ? (not really mentioned or important), infidelity (towards reader), secret relationship, no y/n

Words : 5,8K

A/N : alright first part of the request ! Thanks again @negrita2345 for your excellent idea, hope you'll like it. Kind of anxious bcs I hope it’s good, I mean in the way you imagined it. Anyway if you have a better title, I'll take it lol. Anyway not much of angst but we need to start slow and setting the context

masterlist | next chapter

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The olive groves whispered like priests in prayers, swaying beneath the salt-heavy breeze that rose from the sea. From your terrace, the horizon gleamed, a stretch of molten silver where sky met water, endless and unreachable. White sails drifted across it like wandering souls: merchants, imperial messengers, galleys bearing soldiers with polished helmets and unseen orders.

But today, the wind carried no peace. It was too quiet. Something had shifted, you could feel it long before anyone spoke it aloud.

The household moved with unnatural quiet, servants murmured behind closed doors and hurried theirs steps as though silence might shield them from whatever was coming. Your father had not touched his breakfast. And you mother—your serene and inscrutable mother—sat rigid at the head of the table, her fingers endlessly smoothing the same fold in her silk robe, over and over, as of the repetition might erase the tremble in her hands.

When a servant found you in the gardens and bowed deeply, announcing with careful reverence that your presence was requested in the atrium, your feet already knew where to carry you. The click of your sandals echoed off sun-warmed stone as you passed under the colonnade. It smelled faintly of crushed herbs and old parchment, your father’s scent, the scent of duty and legacy.

Then you saw them, your father stood as though carved from granite: arms behind his back, posture impeccable, chin lifted with imperial resolve. His face was unreadable, but not empty, no. There was something behind his eyes, calculation, or maybe regret. Your mother was seated beside him, her back stiff but her gaze soft, resting not on you, but the floor.

Two imperial envoys flanked the far pillars. Strangers in gleaming bronze, with helms tucked beneath their arms and scroll slung at their side. Their armor shone like mirrors, catching shards of sunlight that danced across the walls. One of the scrolls had a seal on, a red wax pressed with the mark of an eagle glinted like fresh blood.

Your heart stuttered once in your chest. Not fear, not quite. Just the cold certainty that your life was about to be unmade. You stepped forward, voice calm and practiced. The same voice you would use at your father’s side while translating foreign decrees and entertaining Roman governors at the harvest feasts.

“You summoned me, Father ?”

He did not look at you right away, instead, he dismissed the nearby servants with a flick of his fingers. Only when the last one bowed out the room, did he extend one hand toward the envoy. The scroll was handed over in a heavy silence, consuming a part of your soul.

You watched the wax break under your father’s thumb, a clean sound, like a lock opening. He read aloud, his voice loud and clear, “By order of the Roman Emperor, and with the blessing of the Senate, a marriage is hereby decreed…” He continued, but the words grew distant. Your ears filled with the sound of your own blood.

A marriage ?

You felt the floor tilt slightly under your feet, your stomach tightening as though braced for an all and your head spinning. Your breath snagged in your chest as you looked around for something—your mother’s eyes, the sea, anything steady—but the stone walls began to feel too close.

Still, you did not speak. You took a breath, deep like diving into cold water, and moved to your mother’s side. Her hand reached instinctively for yours, but you remained still.

Your father’s voice dropped in tone, “You have been chosen.”

You had always known this day would eventually come. But you never imagined it would happen like this…. Not so early.

Your knees bent beneath you, and you let yourself fall beside your mother. You looked straight ahead, heart beating heavily, like a drum echoing down a long and empty corridor. You let the silence stretch until you had the strength to speak.

“To whom ?” you dared to ask because not asking would have felt like a surrender.

Your father eyes finally met yours, “General Marcus Acacius,” he read, “a man held in highest favor by the Emperor himself.”

Each word struck with brutal precision. Marcus Acacius. A name carved into the bones of the Empire. You had heard it before, whispered with reverence by soldiers passing through your father’s court. Stories of battlefield valor, of loyalty, of a man more iron than flesh. You had never seen his face, but now his name felt heavier than gold.

Your throat tightened. Rome. You were being sent to Rome. Your lips parted, but no sound emerged. You pressed them together again, holding in the cry that threatened to escape, just a crack in something old and unspoken.

Your mother stood then, as if stirred by some silent storm. “Aretas,” she said, her voice urgent. “The General-”

“-is a man of honor”, your father interrupted sharply, giving her a warning look. “And this is not a request.”

“Aretas,” your mother hissed, stepping toward him, voice sharp with fear and something dangerously close to rage “You would send your own daughter like a sacrifice ? Offering her like some- some tribute to the Gods of war ?!”

Your father turned his head slowly, his jaw clenched tight. “Mind your words.”

“She is too young !” your mother snapped, the tremble in her voice now pushed aside by fury. “She still walks barefoot in the garden. Still sleeps with the shutters open to hear the sea. You promised she would have a say, that there would be time-”

“-I promised,” your father cut in, louder now, “that she would be protected. That she would have a future.”

“She is not livestock to be bargained for land and influence !”

“She is the daughter of this house !” Aretas barked, the echo of his voice crashing against the walls, as one of the envoys shifted uncomfortably, “She bears my name and my blood. And that blood will mean something in Rome. Do you think I have not considered what this will cost her ?” he turned away as if the sight of you was too much. “what it will cost me ?!”

Your mother pressed her fingers to her temple, massaging them as she tries to steady herself. Then she looked at him again, her voice aching. “She was meant to be more than this…” she whispered as a cried escape her throat, “meant to choose who she loved.”

“She was born into a world where we do not get to choose,” your father replied calmer now, but his voice sounded like a man bearing the weight of a boulder no one else could see. “Not you. Not I. And not her.”

Your mother’s voice cracked, “You would give her to a man she has never met.”

“I would give her to a man who commands the loyalty of Rome. A man the Emperor trusts himself.” He glanced at you finally, “A man who will keep her alive and safe.”

“And what of her heart ?! What of her joy ?”

“Mother-” you tried to calm her down.

Your father looked away. “She will learn without it.”

She turned back to you and grasped your hand tightly, and this time, you let her. Her fingers trembled. “You do not have to accept this,” she whispered. “You are not a piece on the board.”

But you were. You had always been. And you knew it.

You rose slowly, gently letting go of her hand, and walked to the terrace again. The sea stretched before you, wide and glittering and full of vanished sails, the scent of salt stung your nose. A warm wind lifted the hem of your gown. You remembered running through those olive trees, chasing shadows between the rows. You remembered laughing, barefoot and free, before anyone asked anything of you.

You closed your eyes and then you nodded. “I will go,” you simply said.

Your mother gasped loudly, like something inside her had crumpled. She turned away, pressing her fingers to her lips.

You stood still, facing the horizon. “I will do my duty,” you whispered.

That was the beginning. The moment the Empire reached across the water and placed its claim upon your life.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The marriage was held beneath a sky as blue as tempered steel, Rome’s finest stage set for politics disguised as ceremony. Marble gods stared down from their pedestals, unmoved by the day’s union. Senators stood in rings of gold-threaded togas, murmuring among themselves like old crows. Red petals were scattered over the flagstones, crushed underfoot like drops of blood. Every detail had been carved and calculated with purpose.

Not for love, but for the Empire.

The Forum itself had been cleared, roped off by imperial guard. Lictors lined the periphery, their fasces polished, gleaming in the sun. A choir of flutes and lyres played from the steps of the temple, slow and solemn, not joyful but dignified, like the funeral of your freedom.

And yet, when you looked down the aisle, past the priests and the marble gods, you saw only him. He stood like he had been carved into place by fate, a figure of stoic poise and discipline. He wore the ceremonial breastplate of a General; gold and leather laced over his chest like armor made for myth. A dark crimson cloak draped over one shoulder, clasped with the mark of the Emperor’s seal.

He was taller than you had imagined, broader too. There was a steadiness to him that unnerved you. Not exactly stillness but what seems to be contained power. His face was carved from shadow and sunlight, jaw squared, and eyes the cold color of rain-smoothed stone. A thin scar curved along the left side of his jaw, not disfiguring, but sharp, like a signature. And those eyes, when they finally found yours, held no flicker of joy, no welcome. They were grounded, unreadable—everything but empty.

You had expected indifference, arrogance, perhaps. But what you found was something far more dangerous. Intrigue. He inclined his head in a silent greeting, a soldier’s nod; respectful and impossibly formal. Not a smile, not a spark. But not disdain either. Your breath caught when he looked at you, like a man preparing for a siege. And yet, something in you shifted. Not in fear, not even in disappointment, maybe… fascination ?

Your gown swept the marble behind you; white silk, embroidered with silver and copper threads in the style of your homeland, a small rebellion your mother had insisted on preserving. The veil shimmered behind you like mist, long and soft. At your side, your father walked stiffly, his expressions carved into diplomacy. He held your arm like he held his blade, firmly, not quite gently. Then, he had to leave you, let go of your arm and give you to the stranger you were about to marry. The man that would now take care of you.

The altar was lined with fresh-cut laurel and pomegranate. The priest chanted the sacred rites. Your name, and his, spoken aloud and you did not even know the sound of his voice. Yet, your fingers touched when the rings were passed, and that single brush of skin sent a whisper of something electric up your spine.

His palm was cold. Yours trembled once. He did not look at you, not directly. But you saw his jaw tighten, like he had felt it too, and did not know what to do with all that knowledge. You wondered, absurdly, if he was nervous. The rings were slipped on, and the oaths exchanged, a scribe to the side of the altar wrote everything down on a parchment.

And then, it was done. The General slowly bowed his head to you, like a man offering deference. As if you were a queen or at least something close enough to one. You barely breathed and then, without ceremony he stepped closer and pressed a kiss to the corner of your lips. It was not a kiss of a lover, nor even a husband. It was warm, brief, controlled, a brush of lips against your mouth—soft as breath and gone before your body could register it fully. It felt more like a vow than anything spoken aloud, enough to give the impression of a real kiss to anyone in the room. A promise, you told yourself, or at least, the possibility of one.

When he pulled back, his face remained unreadable, but his eyes lingered just a second longer than necessary. Your pulse caught and something in your chest uncoiled, just slightly.

He offered you his arm and you took it, not because you had to, but because in that moment you wanted to. The applause rose behind you, Rome roaring her approval. The marriage had ended not in intimacy but in spectacle. Trumpets blared, laurel wreaths were raised, a sea of dignitaries, senators, Generals and foreign envoys surged toward the newlyweds like waves crashing. Rome really knew how to honor herself with grandeur.

You followed the General—now your husband—through the ceremony’s afterbirth, your arm still looped lightly around his. His pace faltered, but he did not speak, not a word since the vow. He only nodded to those who saluted him, eyes scanning the crowd like a commander in unfamiliar terrain; polite, present but unreachable.

He escorted you up the steps of the banquet hall, a domed, opulent chamber overflowing with gold-threaded cushions and garlands of flame-colored flowers. Long tables were set with silver bowls of figs and honey-glazed. Musicians played a slow, elegant melody that failed to cover the growing thrum of conversation and political hunger. You were sat beside him on the raised dais. He poured your wine without being asked, a gesture so rehearsed it barely felt real.

“Is everything alright ?” he asked at last. His voice was low and measured, like someone asking after a guest, not their wife.

You looked at him, studying the face everyone in Rome revered; hard lines, eyes like winter stone, no warmth and no cruelty. He had done nothing wrong, but he also had done nothing at all.

“I am fine.”

He gave you a short nod, then returned to scanning the room. You sat in silence for another few minutes, listening to the rustle of silk, the laughter of people who knew how to perform joy. Rome was a chorus of masks, and you had not yet found your own. Suddenly you could not breathe under the weight of it all, the crowd, the wine, the stifling future curling around your throat like incense.

“I need a moment.” You murmured.

The General turned slightly, “Do you want me to come with you ?”

You hesitated when you thought you saw a hint of concern in his eyes, until you realized it was more impatience. As if he was waiting for you to leave in a hurry and that you will not ask him to follow you. His question, actually, was not a question, just an illusion of goodwill. “No. I will manage alone.”

You slipped away down one of the side corridors, grateful no one stopped you. The quiet found you quickly, pressed between the walls and the cool hush of shadow. You exhaled as your footsteps slowed. And then, you saw her. She stood beside a bronze basin, one hand lightly skimming the water’s surface, she had the posture of someone who belonged to every palace she ever entered. The low torchlight painted her in gold and shadow. The gown she wore was violet—not just beautiful, but deliberate. Imperial.

You had never seen her face before, even not during the ceremony, or at least you thought so. There were so many people today, that, you had not even been able to talk to your own mother since the ring around your finger sealed your future. The woman was older than you and impossibly poised, the kind of woman whose presence made others instinctively stand straighter. A circlet of hammered gold rested in her hair.

“Oh,” she said, her lips curling into the beginnings of a smile, a kind expression on her face as she turned to see you. “You needed a moment too ?”

You paused, just outside the doorway, unsure if you were intruding. “Yes,” you said. “The hall is... a storm.”

She gave a quiet laugh. “That is a generous word for it.”

Her voice was soft but assured—a voice trained in courtrooms, or perhaps something even older. She stepped slightly away from the basin and folded her hands loosely before her. “I watched you, during the ceremony,” she continued gently. “You carried yourself well. I remember my own wedding…my knees would not stop shaking.” She adds with a chuckle. There was no bitterness in her tone. Only memory.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice more honest than you had expected. “I had no training in how to marry a stranger.”

She tilted her head. “No one has. Not really.”

There was a quiet, companionable moment. And in it, something settled. Her gaze on you, curious, thoughtful, without a hint of superiority. Just as you began to ask something—anything, out of instinct more than strategy—footsteps clicked at the far end of the corridor. A servant appeared in a rush, breath shallow, eyes darting between you both.

“Domina—” the girl began, before catching herself. “Mar— the banquet awaits your return.”

You turned your head, but not before seeing her expression falter, just for a flicker. Not shame, just the lightning-fast reflex of someone used to secrecy.

Her smile then returned effortlessly. “Of course,” she said, with a nod. “Thank you.”

The servant bowed and backed away quickly. The still unknown woman looked at you again, her voice calm. “It is never truly your night, is it ? Not in Rome. Every moment belongs to someone else.”

You did not know what to say. Her eyes searched yours, not intrusively, but with a strange gentleness. “I hope,” she said softly, “that he will be kind to you.”

And then she turned, leaving you in silence, the scent of myrrh and rose trailing after her like a veil. You stood alone for a long minute, your breath lodged somewhere between your ribs.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The villa was quiet now, the revelers long since departed. Torchlight flickered along the walls of your new chambers. Servants had come and gone, laying out fruit, wine, flowers. Silk robed folded neatly, oils on the table and perfumed water in basins in which you had bathed and dried your hair with trembling fingers.

The door closed behind him without a sound. You had been sitting by the window—watching the night spill over the city like ink. The moon hung heavy and indifferent as its rays reflected off your skin, a strange shade of blue—the silk robe clinging to your skin still damp from the bath, the scent of rose oil ghosting over your collarbones. You did not look up at first, you had imagined this moment so many ways that the real thing felt too fragile to meet head-on.

But when you turned, you saw him.

He stood there in the glow of the fire, freshly changed into a dark linen tunic. His formal armor was gone, replaced by something quieter, more intimate, though the presence he carried made the room feel no less like a battlefield. He was… handsome, yes—striking, even. The sculpted kind of man you only ever saw carved into stone. His brows furrowed as if in thought, or perhaps weariness, and his eyes watched you like a soldier scanning a map before a march.

Still, you could not help the way your heart stuttered when he finally stepped closer. “My lord,” you said, quieter than you meant to.

At that, he tilted his head slightly. A single dark brow lifted, not unkindly, more like curiosity. “You may call me Marcus,” he said, his voice low and even. “We are husband and wife now. No need for titles in private.”

There was a careful courtesy in the way he said it. Not warm. Not cold. Like a gate held half open, daring you to enter but offering no welcome.

You nodded once, unsure it that was kindness or obligation. “Marcus,” you repeated, tasting the name.

He crossed the room with military precision as you rose to your feet slowly, smoothing the folds of your robe with shaking hands. And for a long moment, silence stretched between you like a blade unsheathed but not yet used. He wasted no time in catching your eye and slipped into the sheets of the—your sharing bed.

“You are not what I expected,” you murmured before you could stop yourself, moving unconsciously in his direction.

That made him pause. “No ?”

You shook your head. “You are… quieter.”

A breath of something like amusement crossed his face, not quite a smile, but the ghost of it. “Most Generals are quieter after the wedding than before it,” he said dryly.

That startled a soft laugh from you; small, nervous. He turned his face then, as if your reaction had caught him off guard. He looked at the wall, then the floor, anywhere but at you.

You studied him.

There was something about the way he carried himself. The way his fingers flexed once at his sides and then stilled again, that felt like he could control fire. And it drew you. Even now, even as you knew this was not a love story, maybe not yet, or maybe never—but you were drawn to him.

After this evening at his side, you had expected nothing from a man like him. Still, as you sat across from him at the imperial banquet—smiling politely, answering questions from governors and senators who barely remembered your name—you could not help glancing at him in those small, unguarded moments.

Marcus Acacius was every inch the legend you had heard of: carved from silence, shaped by discipline. His posture never faltered, even when seated, and his replies were devoid of warmth. But what struck you most was the restraint in his gaze, like there was something caged behind those irises. And yet, when his eyes landed on you, even briefly, something changed.

A flicker, gone before it could fully become a thought. A hesitation, as if there was a war behind those eyes that had nothing to do with you. You did not flatter yourself into thinking he was pleased by the match. No one truly was. This was not a marriage woven of love or even desire. It was strategy, diplomacy, obedience. A bargain between Empires, in which you were the treaty dressed in white.

But you were determined to be more than that. You had promised yourself—there, on the terrace of your homeland, when the sails of your old life disappeared behind you—that you would not enter this marriage meekly. You would do your duty, yes. But more than that: you would try to love. You would give this cold stone the warmth of yours hands, even if it never warmed in return.

He had barely spoken to you since the ceremony. A bow. A glance. He had offered his arm but not his voice. You watched him, not as an infatuated girl—you were not that foolish—but as a woman determined to understand the man she had been given to.

There was something in him, you were sure of it. A kind of tension, as if every movement was measured to avoid some fault. And it made you wonder what lay buried under all that discipline ? Even the greatest Generals were made of flesh, even marble could cracked under pressure.

You wanted—needed—to know who he was when the armor came off. And tonight, in the hush that followed the ceremony… you would begin to try.

“I will not force you,” he said suddenly, voice tight. “If you would prefer to wait, I-”

“I do not want to wait,” you said, before you could give yourself time to retreat. “This is our wedding night. I would rather… not be alone.”

He looked at you then. “Very well,” he said simply.

You sat on the edge of the bed, near his feet, leaving just enough space between you to preserve modesty, and just enough closeness to feel the tension like a thread drawn taut between your bodies. The room was dim, lit only by candles flickering near the carved columns. Somewhere beyond the walls, musicians still played for the last drunk guests, but their music had thinned, like it was too hesitating.

For a moment he grimaces, a faint tightening around his eyes, as if settling into something that did not quite fit. You turned your face fully toward him now, unsure whether to speak, unsure whether silence would offend or comfort. When he adjusted his posture and leaned back a little, his gaze slid toward you again, and then, down.

Your robe clung faintly to your skin in places that left much to the imagination, thin and delicate, the firelight made suggestions of the shape beneath it. You had not meant it to be seductive, but you had not stopped it either. His eyes lingered, no longer guarded. After all he was a General, not a monk.

A muscle in his jaw tightened, his hand curled, crumpling the sheet at his side. You bit your lower lip, almost without realizing it, heart thudding. You had imagined wanting from him, but it was just a thought. Maybe something you could use to reach him.

Just for a breath, he looked at you not as duty, but as a woman.

And something flickered across is expression, as if torn between distance and desire—no, worse; as if he had fought the feeling and already lost.

You took a breath that trembled in your chest and let the courage carry you forward. Slowly—almost reverently—you crawled across the sheets, each movement delicate. The soft rustle of fabric beneath your knees was the only sound as you were now on all fours, looking at him directly in the eye. You kept your hungry eyes fixed on him, searching his face for any kind of reaction. He was statuesque in the low light, his expression unreadable once again, though his body seemed to betray him as you could feel his already hard cock beneath the sheets, which made you smirk.

A flush of warmth spread through your chest as you did not know how to begin. You straddled him gently, your thighs sliding over his, your breath hitching as your bodies aligned. His eyes flickered open, and for a moment, just a moment, there was something there—not desire, not affection, but… permission. And, you could work with that.

You stood over him with your arms embedded in the mattress, you leaned down and placed a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth—a quiet echo of the one he had given you at the altar, but his lips did not move, they did not even flinched.

Undeterred, you continued. A kiss on his cheek, then another along the edge of his jaw, yet another just below his ear, a trail down the column of his throat. You felt him shift beneath you, a ripple of muscle and restraint. A sound escaped him, almost a sigh, but muted. His hands came hesitantly to your hips, trying to push you away carefully. But, you rocked your hips once, lightly—testing, and his grip tightened—more by instinct, like a simple reflex but—pressed your body a little closer to his.

You smiled faintly and rose, looking only at him with a burning desire, slowly peeling back the sheet between you. His eyes snapped open with surprise, maybe a quiet resistance ? His hands slid over your thighs and he closed once again his eyes, taking a deep breath. You did not pause anyway. Your hands moved with a confidence you did not quite feel, lifting the hem of your robe and slipping it over your head. Revealing your warm and naked body to him, as the air kissed your bare nipples. You saw his gaze moving over you, and for a breathless heartbeat, you felt seen.

But then, suddenly, it was gone. His eyes drifted to the side, unfocused and his jaw clenched. You tried not to falter.

He leaned back against the headboard as you settled atop him again, you took advantage of this moment to lift yourself gently and removed the covers that had separated your bodies until then. He looked at you with intrigue, certainly not expecting such gesture and ardor from you. Then, lifting the edge of his tunic to free him, you licked your lips impatiently. His cock was rock hard—thick and ready—but he barely reacted to your touch. No smirk, no words, no heat in his eyes.

Still, you guided his fat cock to your entrance, offering a last glance—a silent plea to meet you there, even if it is just for a moment. You sank down, gasping at the stretch, your body trembling as he filled you completely. Slowly you took him inch by inch, your breath breaking into gasps as your body stretched to accommodate him. Just too much at once, a new world splitting open inside you and your moan broke the silence like a confession.

He grunted softly beneath you, but you moved anyway, riding slowly. As he spread your walls, you let out a loud moan, scrunching up your face from the slight pain. Your hands braced on his broad shoulders and your breath mingled with the scent of his skin. You bit your lip, letting soft sounds escape, trying to give yourself fully. He was so deep inside you, you could feel his cock in your stomach, and the sensation was just delicious, you could not stop yourself anymore.

He let out a few careless whimpers, as your hands found support on his broad shoulders, allowing you to keep your balance and find a rhythm that suited your desires. You bit your lower lip and moaned once more, his hands shyly roaming your body as you surrendered yourself completely to him, leaving no room for hesitation. Suddenly he frowned and sighed through his nostrils, then look at you—properly—just once, a long and unreadable gaze.

Your hands clenched at his shoulders, as he made no move to guide you through it. So you set another rhythm, slower—rolling your hips to feel every inch of him inside you. Your hands found his chest to steady yourself, and your thighs trembled with the effort. His hands left your body and found the sheets beside him. You let go and tried to make him want you again, but it was as if he had barricaded himself in, letting you use his body as you pleased. You leaned in, trying to draw him back, but he moved his head slightly, preventing you from kissing him or even making contact with his skin.

The warmth between your legs grew and you began to ride him with growing confidence, chasing something unspoken between you. You tried to catch his eyes, but he was not looking at you anymore. His head tilted back; eyes closed, lips parted slightly in some imagined reverie. Your fingers traced along his collarbone, but he did not stir. It was as if he was unable to face the sight of your body on his.

Still straddling him, your movements reduced to a fragile rhythm. Not for pleasure anymore, but for your dignity. To convince yourself there was still something happening between your bodies. But he was limp beneath your touch, his body remains inside yours, but something in him was… gone. You looked down at him, pleading, and saw the furrow between his brows, the ways his lips seemed to mouth something you could not decipher.

You slow to a stop and stay still atop him, your breathing uneven and shallow from the thrum of something colder uncoiling inside you. The rise and fall of his chest beneath you were distant, absent. His hands no longer held you, his eyes had closed again, retreating into some private place far from where your skin met his.

And then, the question tumbled from your lips before you could bury it. “Am I…” you paused, voice tight, “not doing it right ?”

The words hung in the air between you like a mist that refused to lift. He opened his eyes and looked directly at you. Not at your body, your mouth or your hands, even less the place where you were joined. But at your eyes, like a man stepping into a memory he had not meant to find.

There was no irritation in his expression, no hunger. Just softness, and what seems like pity. And that, somehow, was worse. His voice was almost careful when he responded, “No. You are alright.”

But he did not say what it was. Your fingers, unsure, rested on his chest where his heartbeat barely stirred beneath your palm. You leaned forward slightly, a whisper of movement, your voice fragile now. “I can try something else, if you want.” A thread of hope knotted tight in your chest. “If you tell me what pleases you, I-I can try…”

For a moment, silence. Then a quiet breath and a small shake of his head. “I am just tired,” he murmured. “That is all.”

Just tired.

That simple.

That final.

You stayed there, frozen in that moment, as if stillness might hold something together—whatever this was supposed to be. But the thread between you had already slackened. A tender, desperate intimacy folded into something formal. As though your body had become just another offering to be endured.

He shifted, gently—not urgently—adjusting the blanket, reaching for the edge of the sheet. You took the silent cue, sliding off him with grace you barely possessed in that moment, pulling the cover over yourself in one practiced motion. You turned away so he would not see your face, because you were not sure what expression you wore.

Marcus settled back into the mattress with the weary composure of a soldier finished with duty. His arm fell across his chest and his eyes shut again, for good this time. You lay beside him a long while, watching the gold-leafed ceiling flicker with candlelight. Somewhere beyond the walls, music still played.

You slipped from the bed, eventually, quiet as the dying flame of the candle next to you, and walked barefoot to the far end of the room. You wrapped yourself in the nearest robe, not for modesty, but for armor. You settled back into bed beside him, leaving as much distance as possible before closing your eyes. And just as you felt yourself drift off into a deep sleep, a solitary tear escaped your eye.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

masterlist | next chapter

#pedro pascal #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius smut #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius #gladiator ll #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #general marcus acacius #arranged marriage #pedro pascal characters

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