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xuchiya · 3 days ago

Note

ANGST arranged marriage San please 😖 like so angsty my heart drops but also please like allude to comfort at the end otherwise my heart might stop

the contract husband || choi san || request

| genre: angst with comfort. husband! choi san. | mentions: marriage of convience. mean san but he will be soft soon. mention of san has a lover before he got married.

word count: 5.7k

The rain didn’t stop the day you married Choi San.

It didn’t drizzle or soften into something romantic—it poured, relentlessly, as though the sky itself was mourning. The clouds had wept from morning until now, thick and heavy sheets hammering the earth like sobs no one dared to speak aloud. The wedding bells rang, but their sound—meant to symbolize joy and new beginnings—was hollow, clanging like distant echoes in a tunnel you couldn’t escape. What was supposed to flutter your heart only worsened the pounding in your head.

This wedding wasn’t a celebration. It was a performance.

The reception had long begun, though you felt like a guest in your own life. You wore a second dress—something lighter, shinier, stitched with elegance—but no amount of fabric could hide how stiff your smile felt. Your cheeks ached from holding it up, a porcelain doll carved into place. You wanted to peel the day off your skin like a costume that clung too tight.

Weddings were supposed to be unforgettable—a core memory carved into the heart. But this one, you knew, would haunt you instead. A memory that would replay in your mind like a scratched record—over and over again, even when you begged for silence.

Outside, guests huddled under umbrellas, their hems soaked and shoes squelching against the marbled floors. They filed in one by one, murmuring polite congratulations with smiles more rehearsed than heartfelt. These weren’t your friends. These weren’t even strangers. They were your father’s loyal employees—people who bowed more to power than to people.

You remembered standing at the altar, the garden outside drowned in grey, the flowers you chose weeks before now beaten down by rain. You had looked out at that storm and thought, “How fitting.” The heavens cried louder than either of you could.

You glance down now at the ring on your finger—a thin gold band that shone with cruel clarity under the reception lights. It gleamed like a joke. A promise without a heart behind it. Your happily ever after had been reduced to ink on a contract. San’s signature, your signature. Two strokes of a pen and a lifetime of pretending.

This wasn’t love. It was logistics.

A union not of souls but of stocks and legacy. It had always been this way—your life negotiated by others, your future traded like currency for someone else’s security. You were the daughter. The heir. The bargaining chip.

You sighed, quickly catching it and smoothing your features again as another guest approached. A man with a wrinkled smile and distant eyes—the type of man who shook hands with your father in boardrooms, not the kind who remembered your name. You nodded, playing the part. You always did.

But then—amidst the blur of suits and champagne flutes—you heard a voice that pulled you back to something real, “I last remember you—you still had pigtails and two broken teeth.”

You turned, and there she was. Your old neighbor. The woman who used to exchange fruits with your mother over the fence, who slipped you candies and told you fairy tales with wrinkled hands and kind eyes. The only one who ever showed up without asking for something in return.

She didn’t know the full story—didn’t need to. She could feel it. The falseness of this day. The absence of the groom. The ache behind your smile.

She sat beside you, settling quietly in the chair where San should have been. You didn’t even flinch. The word husband still didn’t sit right on your tongue. Not when the boy you once adored had become a man you barely recognized—distant, unreadable, hollowed out by expectation just like you.

Your grandmother figure patted your arm gently, her touch warm and grounding, “Happy endings don’t always wait at the end,” she said softly.

You looked down, brows drawn, the corners of your lips tight. Your voice cracked beneath the weight of everything you weren’t allowed to say, “I won’t even have that… not even in my other lives.”

She only chuckled softly, a knowing warmth in her weathered eyes, “Oh, dear… it’ll just be today. But I promise you—it will get better. Look…” Her wrinkled fingers lifted, pointing across the ballroom. You followed the direction of her gesture and your gaze landed on a small group of men.

Choi San. Your contract husband.

He looked unfairly perfect today. That tailored gray vest hugged his torso like it had been sewn by the gods themselves—crisp lines, subtle sheen, every button carefully done except for the rolled-up sleeves of his striped shirt, betraying a casual arrogance that somehow made him even more irresistible. The pale blue stripes added this quiet, intellectual edge, and don’t even get me started on that black tie—slim, elegant, like he was trying to behave but kept forgetting he was a trouble incarnate.

And those glasses? Please. Wire-thin, perfectly perched on his nose, making his sharp jawline and dark hair look even more devastating. He was talking with his colleagues so easily, tilting his head with that little smirk that said he knew exactly how good he looked, voice low and teasing, like silk over gravel.

He wasn’t just handsome. He was composed, magnetic, impossible to ignore. The kind of man who made you forget what you were saying mid-sentence. The kind of man who could make the whole room feel smaller just by glancing in your direction. And the worst part? You were in love and he doesn’t.

And the pain of one-sided love didn’t begin on your wedding day. No, it started long before—when you first learned who your contract husband would be.

Choi San. A name you hadn’t uttered in years, but one that had never truly left your heart. You’d buried those feelings six years ago during your college days, back when love was just a passing ache and not the lifeline you clung to now.

He had been a friend of a friend. You only met him a handful of times, usually when Seonghwa brought you along to small gatherings, campus events, late-night dinners. But even then—just from those few brief moments—you knew. It was love at first sight, or something terrifyingly close to it. You’d find your thoughts drifting back to him for days after, replaying the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, how his laughter seemed to echo louder than the rest.

He had been warm then. Kind. Effortlessly charming. The kind of person who made you want to believe in timing and fate.

And when the announcement came—when you were told you were to be married for the sake of your family’s legacy—you hadn’t expected it to be him. But the universe, in its twisted irony, had chosen San. You had stood there, stunned, the name echoing in your ears like a whisper from the past. But when you turned to face him, he didn’t even flinch.

There was no surprise in his eyes. No softness. It was just silence, the mere thought of bringing up about your bond back then would only increase the emotions swirling inside his chest, so you kept it to yourself and be more vigilant on your choice of words.

It was as if every memory you’d clung to—every soft smile, every shared laugh—had been erased from his heart. Like they had meant nothing. His features were composed, unreadable. But his eyes were different now—hard, cold, as if they'd forgotten how to look at you the way they once had. From that moment on, he became someone else. A stranger draped in the skin of someone you used to know. The warm boy you fell for was gone. In his place stood a man who kept his distance, who answered with clipped words and silent glances. He was polite when necessary, detached when possible. Cold—almost deliberately so.

And still, you loved him.

A quiet, stubborn kind of love—the kind that didn’t make sense to anyone but you. Those who knew would only shake their heads, whisper behind closed doors about how naive you were. Gullible. Foolish. Blind to the way he treated you. They said you clung to a fantasy, to a man who barely looked at you, who left you with silence and half-hearted gestures.

And maybe they were right. But even so, you stayed. You hoped. You held onto the fragile belief that one day—someday—your feelings would be returned. That beneath all his cold distance, there might still be a part of him waiting to love you back.

When the day of the wedding came, the venue was everything out of a fairytale. Floral arches, soft lights, strings of pearls, and an aisle meant for dreams. A little girl’s fantasy—but a bride’s quiet nightmare.

Because not everything magical is meant to feel real. San stood at the altar like a statue—stone-faced, still. He didn’t turn when you approached. Didn’t smile. He didn’t reach for your hand until the officiant gestured for it, and even then, his touch was mechanical—gentle, but empty. When he slid the ring onto your finger, his jaw was locked tight, his shoulders strained beneath his perfectly tailored suit.

There was no love in his eyes. No pride nor hesitation. Only duty, an obligation he has to fulfil. A role he was forced to play.

And when it came time for the ceremonial kiss, his lips merely brushed your cheek—a formality more than a gesture. Fleeting. Hollow. A ghost of affection that never quite arrived. Then, later that night, he sealed your fate with a single line. “Don’t wait up for me,” he said coolly, loosening his tie with practiced indifference. “This room is yours. I’ll stay in the study.”

And that was three months ago. Three months of pretending. Three months of cold dinners and colder silences. Three months of separate rooms, separate lives, and separate hearts. And yet, somehow, your love for him still lingered—quiet and uninvited, like the echo of a dream you couldn’t forget.

The mansion was too big for silence—and yet, somehow, it echoed with it.

Every footstep felt like it traveled forever, swallowed by the polished floors and tall, hollow ceilings. Even the ticking of the antique clocks seemed louder than your own voice. The halls were pristine, untouched, like a museum of a life that wasn’t being lived. The air was cold, not from the weather, but from absence. It was a house built for grandeur—yet all you could feel in it was emptiness. The loneliness didn’t scream. It settled quietly into your bones.

You passed like ghosts—brushing past each other in the mornings, shoulders nearly grazing, eyes barely meeting. Sometimes you wondered if he even saw you at all. Breakfasts shared in silence. Evenings spent in opposite corners of the same room. You lived parallel lives that never intersected—like two actors stuck in different plays, sharing a single stage. You shared a last name, but not a life. A bed in title only. A love story that never started.

It wasn’t hatred. Not exactly. Hatred, at least, was loud. Hatred burned. This was something colder, something quieter—like fog that never lifted and the clouds of gray stayed still, covering what is left of the blue sky. It wasn’t even indifference, because sometimes he looked at you like he wanted to say something but swallowed it instead.

And that was worse. Because it meant there was something there, something unspoken. But never enough.

When his eyes met yours, there was always a flicker—something sharp and unreachable. Was it guilt? Regret? A memory he didn’t want to hold? Or worse, did he blame you? Did he see you as the lock on the door he never wanted to enter? Every time you searched his face for something—anything—you found only that wall. Cold stone, smooth and impassable.

But you tried. God, you tried—over and over again—to make things lighter, softer, bearable for the both of you. You smiled when he didn’t. You spoke when the silence stretched too long. You left the door open, just in case he ever decided to walk through it.

But every time you took a step forward, he took three back. And nothing echoes louder than the silence of a breaking heart.

Still, you stayed. Still, you hoped. Because you were stubborn—foolishly, fiercely so. Because love, real love, doesn’t die easily. Not when it began so softly. Not when it bloomed from something innocent, untainted by bitterness. Not even when it was one-sided.

Not even when it hurts.

And you were determined to make a change.

You knew you weren’t the strongest emotionally. You weren’t made of steel, and you never pretended to be. But this—this—was where you drew the line. Where you faced the very thing you’d always struggled with: fighting for what you wanted. For what you deserved.

You had loved Choi San since your senior year of college—quietly, patiently, from the sidelines. And though your love had never been loud, never demanding, it had lasted. And now, for the first time, you were ready to try. Not for validation. Not for approval.

But for him.

You were reaching out. You made breakfast once—his favorite, remembered from years ago. You had gotten up before the sun, the mansion still draped in blue shadows. The kitchen light flickered softly above you, casting a golden glow on your quiet effort. Eggs, rice, and seaweed soup. Just like he liked it back in college—when things were simpler, lighter, when the distance between you hadn’t yet turned into a wall. The kitchen smells like comfort food—but it’s not comforting at all. It’s heavy, oppressive. The steam clings to the walls like it’s trying to fill the silence between you, but the silence is too wide. Too cold.

He comes in without a word. Doesn’t even glance your way.

The door clicks softly behind him, and he walks like he’s already miles ahead—his hair still damp, swept back neatly, accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw, the resolute cut of his cheekbones. He looks every bit the Grand Duke—polished, powerful, untouchable. His vest is pressed, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal expensive cufflinks. The suit jacket slung over his arm completes the picture. Ready for meetings. Strategy. A future that doesn’t seem to include you.

You hear your own heartbeat before your voice even comes out.

“San-ssi… wait.” It’s barely a whisper, but it’s enough to make him stop—just long enough to glance over his shoulder. A flicker of acknowledgment. That brief second is all you need, and yet it still takes effort to pull the next words from your throat.

“Please…” You swallow. “Please have breakfast before you go.” The silence stretches between you like a taut thread. His gaze shifts—finally—not to you, but to the table. You’ve laid everything out: a warm soup still steaming, fried eggs arranged neatly, fresh rice, a small plate of pickled radish, even a slice of orange peeled just the way he used to like it. Like muscle memory.

He turns his back to you, “I don’t eat breakfast.” He starts toward the door again, and your fingers twitch—instinctively reaching out, though you don’t move.

“At least,” you say softly, “have the soup. Just a few bites. It’s… it’s cold outside. Your stomach will hurt if it’s empty.”

You curse yourself for the way your voice shakes at the end. You didn’t mean to push. You know better—this is a contract marriage, just ink on paper. Expectations were never part of the deal. But still… you couldn’t help it. You didn’t want to be strangers under the same roof.

There’s a pause—heavy, uncertain. Then, a slow exhale, “…Fine.” He turns and walks toward the table. Shrugs off his coat and drapes it neatly over the chair before sliding into the seat. You hold your breath as he picks up the spoon and lifts it to his lips. A faint puff of steam. One sip. Another. And then… he stops. His hand lowers.

“Now stop pestering me.” The spoon clinks against the bowl as he places it down with surgical precision. He rises to his feet, collects his coat without looking at you, and walks out. No thank you. No acknowledgment. Not even a glance. Only the sound of the front door slamming shut behind him, loud enough to jar the silence he left behind.

You stand there, rooted to the floor. “Take care…” you whisper. You try to smile—try to be the version of yourself who could pretend—but your lips won’t cooperate. The corners tremble. The effort tastes like iron.

You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to press the ache back into place. The room is still warm from the soup, but you’re freezing from the inside out. It feels like frost coats your ribs with every shallow breath you take. You don’t know what hurts more: the sting behind your eyes or the hollow in your chest that grows heavier with every morning like this. All you wanted was for him to look at you—really look—and remember who you were to him once. Friends. A bond forged before title and duty and distance hardened his heart.

But now there’s only a shadow in his eyes.

And you’re left standing alone in your own kitchen, holding your heartbreak like something fragile you don’t know how to set down. Loving a ghost who doesn’t know you’re haunting him too. The room is so quiet you can hear it—your own heart breaking. And somehow, you wonder if he hears it too.

If he does… would he even care?

The second time you both shared the same space and time was during a thunderstorm—the kind that blanketed the sky in slate gray and rolled thunder deep enough to rattle the floorboards. Rain lashed against the windows like it had something to say. The power had already flickered twice, the fireplace barely holding its glow. A single book lamp clipped to the spine of your novel cast a soft halo of light onto the page, the only other source of warmth in the room besides the slow-breathing embers.

You were curled on one end of the couch, lost in the unfinished book you bought a few days ago. Words blurred and sharpened between each flash of lightning. Across from you, he sat with his laptop open, glasses slipping down his nose, eyes flicking between email replies and graphs you didn’t pretend to understand. The storm hummed between you—constant and low, a pressure in the air that made your skin buzz.

A bolt of lightning tore through the sky so violently it lit the entire living room like a snapshot—bright and blinding. A second later, the thunder cracked. Sharp. Immediate.

The power cut out. Silence rushed in.

Your breath caught, and instinct took over. You reached out, without thinking—just a small touch, the barest brush of your fingers against his. Not even a full gesture. Just… closeness. Humans. Unspoken. Comfort in the dark. But he flinched. Hard. Pulled away so fast it startled you more than the thunder. It wasn’t loud—but it felt loud. Like something inside you had been exposed and immediately dismissed.

Like your touch had burned. You stayed frozen, hand still halfway between you. The air felt colder somehow, heavier. The rejection sat between your ribs, thudding louder than the storm itself. He didn’t say anything—no apology, no look back.

“I’ll check the fuse box,” San murmur before standing up and disappearing down the hallway, laptop still humming faintly with its battery light.

And you sat there. Alone again. The storm outside felt smaller compared to the one brewing quietly in your chest. You let your hand drop into your lap, your fingertips tingling from a touch that hadn’t even happened. You told yourself it was nothing. You told yourself you were being dramatic. But the thing about loneliness is that it feels louder in the dark.

The last words you heard — so simple, so unintended — were what finally shattered whatever fragile thread had been holding you together.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way. It was just dinner. His birthday. You had spent the entire afternoon trying to make it feel special, to soften the growing distance that settled like a wall of glass between you. You told yourself it didn’t need to be perfect — just enough to remind him that you were still here, still trying, even when it felt like he wasn’t.

So you climbed the stairs to his study with every step, you rehearsed your lines: something light, something kind. Maybe he'd smile. Maybe he'd look at you the way he used to. Or maybe consider being acquainted instead of being completely strangers.

But right as you reached the door, knuckles hovering mid-air, his voice bled through the wood — low, muffled, but unmistakably his.

“I didn’t want this.”

You froze. At first, your heart knocked louder than your fist ever could. Then silence fell heavy in your chest, as if your ribs had caved in to keep it from breaking. You didn’t mean to eavesdrop. You never wanted to know like this. But curiosity, or maybe desperation, kept your feet nailed to the floor. Your hand dropped limply to your side as you leaned in, barely breathing.

“I didn’t want any of this,” he said again, voice rough and frayed, like someone who had been holding something in for far too long. There was a tremble in it — not from anger, but from exhaustion. Like he’d been carrying too much for too long, and now it was spilling out in a room where you weren’t meant to hear.

“I didn’t choose this marriage.” The words fall like a blade, slicing through the quiet — and through you. There’s a pause, one that stretches too long, too heavy. Your eyes flick around the hallway as if looking for something to hold on to, anything to make this moment less real. But nothing comes. And when the next words land, it’s like your heart tears straight from your chest.

“Every time I look at her, I think of what I gave up — what I lost. I lost her because of this marriage. She told me to focus on my wife, but I know she’s hurting because of this!”

The breath stutters out of your lungs. Not like a gasp. Not like a cry. But like something breaking — something vital that doesn’t come back. You don’t wait to hear more. You can’t. Not when the silence that follows feels like it’s cracking open your ribcage, spilling everything you were holding onto.

Who was she? The one he gave up for this marriage?

The thought alone sends a sick, twisting feeling through your gut. Did she come before you? Was she someone he still held in his heart during the vows, the dinners, the nights you tried so hard to believe were real?

You thought you had time. You thought, maybe, love would come eventually.

But now it all feels like a lie wrapped in routine. Your throat tightens. Your vision begins to swim, and your legs start to move — more from instinct than thought. You stumble backward, the hallway suddenly too narrow, the walls too close, like they’re closing in on your every breath.

You don’t know how you make it to the bedroom — or if you even make it fully inside. Maybe you collapse just past the doorframe. Maybe your knees give way the moment your fingers curl around the doorknob. But you hear the soft click of the door shutting behind you, and then—

Your body caves in like it’s been waiting for this moment to fall apart.

And then the tears came. Not in sobs—no. You gasp, like you’re drowning on dry land. Each breath feels like a battle. Each cry, a jagged thing caught in your throat. It’s the kind of heartbreak that makes you fold in on yourself, arms around your ribs as if you could somehow hold the pieces together. The kind of pain that feels physical, like grief itself is clawing its way through your chest, trying to tear something loose.

You loved him.

God, you loved him. Quietly. Stubbornly. Painfully. For years.

You cradled that love like it was sacred, something worth waiting for. Something that might finally bloom if you just held on long enough. You memorized the shape of his silence, learned how to live in the shadows of his indifference. You reached for him a hundred times with trembling hands, never once asking for more than he was willing to give—and yet, you kept reaching.

Maybe that’s the cruelest part of all. That even now—even after hearing him say he didn’t want this, after realizing he had never truly seen you as someone worth choosing—some part of you still held on. Some part of you still hoped. You cry until your throat is raw, until your body feels hollow, until there’s nothing left but the eerie quiet that follows a storm. And in that silence, the truth settles in like dust on a forgotten shelf.

It all makes sense now.

The early mornings. The late nights. The way he barely looked at you across the dinner table, the way he seemed to flinch when your fingers brushed. It was never you. It was never going to be you. Maybe there was respect—some shred of duty he tried to honor. But love?

No. That had always belonged to someone else. And the worst part isn’t just that he loved another. It’s that while you were trying, giving, hoping—he had already been comforted in someone else’s arms. And that made you sick as your attempts were probably making him uncomfortable while he is still with someone.

And in that moment, you wished — God, you wished — you had stayed downstairs. Stayed safe in ignorance. Because now you know. This day… this birthday, it wasn’t a celebration. It was either your release — the final sign to let go of whatever love you were still foolish enough to hold — or a curse, proof that no matter what you did, no matter how much you gave, Choi San would never choose you.

And you were alone and a fool this whole time.

When the moon was high and the tears had finally run dry, you found yourself turning toward the window, where pale moonlight spilled across the floor like a silent witness to your grief. Your heart no longer ached—it simply felt... numb. Hollowed out. Every breath you took now came with a subtle stagger, the kind that lingered in the chest long after the sobs had stopped.

You wanted to stay. God knows you did.

But the thought of him loving someone else—being devoted to someone else—settled into your bones like frost. And suddenly, staying felt more like cruelty than courage.

After all, this was never a love story. Just a contract signed in convenience, not affection.

You closed your eyes, took one last breath, and stood.

Your gaze drifted toward the top shelf of the closet, where your luggage waited—untouched, collecting dust like the parts of yourself you had set aside for him. With a heavy heart and steadier hands than you expected, you pulled it down and began to pack. Quietly. Carefully. One piece of clothing at a time, as if folding away the life you never got to fully live.

By the time the first traces of dawn kissed the sky, your feet were already moving—carrying you down the grand hallways of the mansion you once shared. The silence echoed around you like farewell.

Outside, the air was cool. Crisp. Still unfamiliar.

You glanced up toward the bedroom window one last time, heart tightening—but not breaking. Not anymore.

A sigh escaped your lips as your driver hoisted your luggage into the trunk. You apologized softly for waking him up so early. He only offered a tired smile, “It’s my duty to give you proper service.”

You were gone before San ever stirred from bed. Not that he’d notice. Not that he ever truly had.

Three days passed. Not a single word from San. No calls, no messages, not even the faintest sign of worry or regret. The silence on his end said more than any explanation could, and it solidified the truth you had been avoiding: there was no space left in his heart for you. Whatever hope you had clung to was now nothing more than a delusion, one that withered the moment you realized someone else had already claimed what you had been quietly, desperately fighting for.

The only person who showed any concern was Seonghwa, the only friend who had always tried to stay neutral in the middle of your fragile marriage. He stopped by your apartment once, gently asking if you were okay before leaving behind a bag of groceries and a look of quiet sympathy. His presence felt like closure—a soft but firm reminder that you no longer belonged in the world you once shared with San.

That evening, you returned from the convenience store dressed in baggy sweatpants and an oversized sweater, the soft cotton doing little to warm the cold that settled deep in your bones. In your hand was a black plastic bag filled with snacks and two bottles of soju you planned to finish before the night was over. It was a far cry from the delicate dresses and soft perfumes you used to wear around the mansion. There, you adorned yourself with hope, with effort, with the constant wish that maybe, just maybe, he would notice. Here, alone, you wore exhaustion—both emotional and physical.

As you climbed the narrow stairs toward your apartment, your heart jumped when you spotted a sleek, familiar car parked near the curb. It looked just like his—same model, same color, same quiet presence. For a moment, your breath caught in your throat. But just as quickly, you forced yourself to exhale and shook your head in bitter self-mockery.

"Not every car with the same brand is his, stupid," you murmured to yourself, pushing down the flicker of foolish hope that rose uninvited.

You punched in your code, stepped inside, and were met with the dim hum of the apartment light flickering on. The space around you was quiet, almost painfully so. It wasn’t home, but at least it didn’t lie. You took off your shoes, dropped your bag on the floor, and settled onto the carpet, unpacking your snacks one by one with the heavy detachment of someone just trying to pass time.

Scrolling through Netflix, you chose the first series that didn’t remind you of him. You weren’t watching to enjoy anything—you just needed noise to fill the silence. But before the opening credits could even begin, a soft knock interrupted the quiet hum of the TV. You frowned, eyes darting toward the security screen, which had lit up automatically at the sound. You stood up, walking towards the small screen attached to the wall next to the dining area. And there he was.

San.

Soaked from the rain, hair clinging to his forehead, breath uneven, eyes shadowed with something unreadable. For a heartbeat, you stared, trying to convince yourself that maybe it was a glitch. Maybe he had the wrong apartment. Maybe—God help you—he had come here by mistake, looking for her.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You were ready to turn away, to let the unanswered knock echo into the silence, when his voice came through the speaker, soft and raw.

"I'm sorry..." You froze. Your heart clenched painfully in your chest as you stood in the middle of your apartment, unsure whether to stay or ignore. "I just..." he exhaled, voice barely holding together, "I was in love before we got married. And I lost her. Not because of you—just... time. Life."

You are listening now intrigued with the sudden confession—not just hearing, "I resented everything after that,” he continued, his voice shaking. “Especially the things I couldn’t choose. The things I couldn’t control.”

He paused, and the silence that followed carried more weight than all the words that came before, you saw how his eyes shook as if they were looking for your eyes or if you were , listening the whole time, "But I never meant to hurt you."

You move silently towards the door, your heart had taken control of your moves after hearing his side, your fingers twisting the knob as you pushed it slightly open for him to catch a sight of you— out of your normal dresses. You ignore the way his eyes shine, your voice was quiet, not accusing—just tired. “Why now?”

“Why come here now?”

He swallowed thickly, stepped closer, and though he made no move to reach for you, there was something unsteady in his posture, like even standing there cost him more than he’d admit, “Because for the first time, whenever you weren’t in the house,” he whispered. “And it was unbearable.”

Your heart squeezed. It was cruel, how much you still wanted to believe him. But the wounds were still fresh, and your trust was buried somewhere beneath the debris of all the days he chose silence over you, “That doesn’t mean anything,” you said, voice quivering. “You told me you never wanted this.”

He looked down, rain still dripping from his lashes. “I didn’t choose the marriage,” he admitted. “But... I’m choosing you now.”

There was no grandeur in his words. No desperation. Just quiet truth, spoken by someone who finally understood what it meant to lose something they didn’t take the time to see.

His gaze to yours was soft and honest, and this time, there was no wall between you—only the weight of everything left unsaid, “I’m not saying this because I feel guilty. Or because I think I deserve anything from you,” he said slowly. “I came here because somewhere along the way, you became a part of me. And if you’ll let me… I want to stay. This time, for real.”

You didn’t run into his arms. Not tonight. Not yet. The ache inside you hadn’t magically vanished, and the rain outside hadn’t fully stopped. Quietly. Carefully. You opened the door—not all the way, just enough. Enough to let him in from the rain. And in that small moment, something shifted between you. The silence didn’t disappear, but it softened. The space between you didn’t close entirely, but it no longer felt impossible to cross.

The rain stopped not long after.

And this time, as San stepped over the threshold, he wasn’t here because of a contract. He was here because he finally chose to be your husband.

i'm so so sorry, my loves if it's late!!

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petitsdieu · 4 months ago

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This Harkonnen-bred beast!, the brothers think. This worser offence so ostentatiously rattled on display — Feyd, smug and grime, wrings out the humor in Luras with a single clean shot.

Abandonment of the people's doctrine commonly include shunning, forced marriages, and death — The easier digestible thing to do was wed her without permission. To transfuse himself before it is grounds to slaughter on its own. The fate of Feyd has an easy preference in the heir-brother and Hara's? A complicated thought on first thread.

Luras chews on it. His justification, his arrogance, his birthrights, his creepy inlaid obsessions. His possession lens.

"Unless her blood is in you, you've ruined her."

❛ Brother, he'd ruin her regardless. His blood is menial waste. ❜

Emerton disagrees on prestige — like his father and his father's father, they acknowledge the value of Harkonnen bloodline. But it is Emerton's blade that dives forward not Luras'.

Graaace.

He doesn't need a fleck of grace, not from the filth-stained hands that hold it. Permittance in the peripheral: who denies him? Feyd wishes for Luras' hand to graze against that milky, shineless blade just once. Just once.

"You heard about the engagement but nothing else?"

He's amused when he rises, a slow encroachment, mess of black-in-black-in-black fabrics. Giedi's pulse point thrums steadily up the back of his calves, black starshine carving sharper angles than it grows. Wolves prowl, serpents lie in wait. A na-Baron stops just short, three plunges of a knife, of the brothers.

"My blood lives in her veins."

That spliiit smile, rolling up a sleeve to flaunt the hints of blue-into-purple at the apex of his vein. Purer than any uttered vow.

"And you didn't bring any wedding gifts. Inconsiderate."

#deficd #* filed under — ( verse ) ( galaxie )#* filed under — ( verse ) ( interactions ) ( galaxie )#* filed under — ( guest star ) ( heir brother luras ora )#up to you if you want emerton to get a swipe on ur boy

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mochitaekookie · 4 months ago

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Yan Billionaire!Heir Jungkook

I want him in real life 😫

Billionaire heir!Jungkook comes from a family of wealth, thanks to his great-grandfather and grandfather who started with just a restaurant in a town, now turned into a vast industry.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook who is a spoiled brat and an absolute mannerless man.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook whose father regrets not reprimanding him back when he started being reckless. He and his wife blamed it on puberty, but no, he was just plain rude.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook, whose recklessness finally pushed his parents to the limit. They love him, but they refuse to watch their family’s hard-earned legacy be ruined by his irresponsibility.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook who is majorly pissed off but has to comply or else his gaming setup will be confiscated

Billionaire heir!Jungkook who works under the company's senior accountant, the only man he tolerates respects in that damn company.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook who starts getting his life together. Gone were the days he wore jackets and hoodies, now replaced with classy attire.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook who one day sees you, the senior accountant's daughter and can't seem to get you out of his mind. Why? Because you totally ignored him the entire time he was there.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook who from then on, completely clings to your father, hoping to get some updates from you.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook who finds which college you go to and surprisingly, he has errands to run around in that area.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook who finds out you are in your last year of bachelor's program and majoring in accounts.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook who gets your class time table from your college website and now he knows when and what time to see you. Accidently ofcourse.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook who hears your father mentioning that you are looking for internships to get practical knowledge in your field.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook who brings up that why not intern in their company? After all, your father and he would be able to keep an eye on you.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook who by now isn't the same mannerless douchebag he used to be and now is a responsible man and people do take him seriously. So, his father had no problem agreeing for you to work with them.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook who makes sure to look extra good the day you were supposed to join, after all, impressions matter.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook, who dresses even sharper on your first day, expecting you to finally acknowledge him. But you don’t. Instead, you brush past him like he’s just another employee. He tries to talk to you while you are working but you just give him one word answers.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook, who corners you in the break room, leaning against the counter with a smirk. “Do you always ignore people this much, or am I just special?”

You glance at him, unfazed. “I just don’t like unnecessary distractions when I’m working.”

Distraction? Is that what he is to you?

Billionaire heir!Jungkook who wants to speak more but then your father interrupts and takes you away to have lunch.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook who gets your number from the employees files, and texts you that night, pouting that you didn't see his messages (you did, you just pretended you didn't). The next day he asks you if you received his text. You feign ignorance and tell him that due to college there are already too many texts and that you may have missed his.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook who finally has the chance to take you out to lunch without your father interfering, since he took a sick leave. He was having the time of his life, the way you both gossiped and laughed as you had been friends for decades. He liked that you were opening up to him. His nerves calmed when you told him that it was weird for you to interact with him since you have been to an all-girls school and haven't dated anyone before. So talking with men was a bit overwhelming for you and you weren't great with interacting with people either.

So that’s why you ignore him. You’re shy

Billionaire heir!Jungkook wanted to speak to you more, but since lunch time ended you both had to go back.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook who texts you again the same day and is jumping in joy when you reply hours later (what? His relationship with you is progressing okay?)

Billionaire heir!Jungkook, who knows he’s in love with you. You’re everything he needs—hardworking, focused, someone he can rely on after marriage.

Marriage.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook, who casually asks, “Have you ever thought of getting married?”

“If I find the right person,” you reply, sipping your cold coffee. “But I’m only 21. I want to be financially independent first.”

Financial independence? Why? Whatever he has belongs to you. If you asked, he’d transfer his entire company’s shares to your name.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook, who starts working even harder, impressing his father to the point of tears. His son is finally proving himself—not just a spoiled heir but a true successor.

Because when Jungkook asks for your hand in marriage, there must be zero objections.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook, who spirals into five stages of grief when your internship ends. But it’s fine—he knows where to find you.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook whose obsession with you grows day by day, his mind being uneasy with the fact that you aren't his already.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook, who spots you sitting outside your college, looking desperate to escape the conversation you’re in. And there he is—dressed in full business attire, standing like an untouchable force. The people talking to you shrink under his gaze.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook who notices you aren't alone but your cousin is with you as well, and he doesn't like the way she looks at him. Only you are supposed to look at him like that.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook, who decides he needs you. No more waiting. No more wasting time.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook, who asks his father to talk to yours about marriage.

Your father refuses at first. You’re too young. You have a future to focus on. But Jungkook is relentless. Persistent. Desperate.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook, Who ensures that every road leads back to him. Who quietly eliminates every potential suitor before they can even think of approaching you.

Your father has no choice but to agree, he can't let anymore people's lives be ruined because of Jungkook's madness.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook, whose father approves of you, while his mother trusts her husband’s judgment.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook, who spoils you without limit, sending designer dresses to your home, buying out entire stores when you mention something in passing.

Billionaire heir!Jungkook, who finally, finally gets what he wants—you, standing beside him, a ring on your finger, and his last name attached to yours.

Not proofread.

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devosin · 5 months ago

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000. "butchering the crime scene"

— THE CONCUBINE GAME !! Y/N L/N, the newly crowned Emperor takes the court by storm—after dethroning their father, who at the end of his reign almost led his empire to a downfall—Now, Y/n must deal with the after affects of their father's reign and stabilize the Empire . . starting by . . taking in Concubine's? . . stay tuned to see what this new Emperor has planned!!

♡. Spotify playlist | Updates, twice a month !! — twst cast x reader | 1.01k words . .

The floorboards creaked under his weight, the potent stench of raw flesh filled the room as the red stain of blood covered the wood, seeping into the cracks.

You let out a sigh, as you stared up at the ceiling, no one was in the room . . No one even questioned you as you entered the throne-room minutes prior, it was empty except for your father's presence. You let your sword fall, clattering to the floor, as your shoulders gave out, you held your breath and closed your eyes, preventing any tears you may have had from falling.

You give yourself a minute or two, to calm yourself down; most of the ministers had long since given up on your father, you had too.

None of your siblings wanted the throne, it was too much of a risk after your father's reign and cruelty, in finer words . . too much effort. Up until a few days ago, a few of your siblings were still up to the task of becoming the heir, and then your father made another shitty declaration, this one worse than the others, which led to a fast and well efficient revolt . . Which led to your incompetent siblings fleeing the Empire . . and now you’re here, standing in front of your father’s corpse.

The once lively throne room, you remember from your childhood, was now dark, a shadow of its former glory, a fitting setting for his death.

You tried not to look down at his body, reaching up to pinch the bridge of your nose, so you didn't smell the stench anymore.

You looked up, and the throne came into view, the gold encrusted chair that seemed to drown the entire room, it was huge . . overbearing, everything ruling an Empire should be. . . You wrote an essay on it once, the metaphor of the throne for one of your teachers when you were younger . . . Trien was it?, really not the time to be thinking about something so meaningless, but your mind was racing for a change of subject, a reason to dissociate.

You moved back, and froze once you heard a familiar voice, two in fact, "Y/n?", Yuuka approached you first, not minding the blood, coming in to check on you, you felt warm hands cup your cheeks, knocking you out of your stupor, you blinked, processing her presence, before you replied softly, “I’m fine”, you sounded so small . . so out of it . . was your throat always this dry? . .

"God what are you doin—Oh my GOD", Yuuken drops his files in shock once the corpse comes into view, “That’s the emperor”, he points out the obvious, his jaw open in shock and you swear his face went three shades lighter upon the sight, . . he’s acting like he’s never seen a corpse before . . you thought to yourself.

You forced a smile, “was.” you corrected smoothly, as Yuuka squished your cheeks, “Are you alright?”, she asked in that gentle tone that honestly made you feel like a child acting out, your eyes met her wary gaze . . she looked worried, but there was something else, something akin to pity . . it made your stomach churn, “I’m fine.”, you repeated the words from before.

Yuuken approached you both, lifting his pants, as he carefully avoided the blood, “Most of the people who say that, usually aren’t fine.” Yuuken countered your words, which Yuuka quickly followed “Exactly”.

“I swear I’m fine, just . . Tired”, you responded back in turn, “can one of you get me some water . . ?” . . Yuuka looked at Yuuken, and he sighed, “give me a minute”, he responded back, lifting his pants once more, as he walked passed the blood once more, he looked like a princess lifting her gown trying to go up the stairs, the scene almost made you laugh, the corners of your lips lifted into a small smile, which disappeared slightly as Yuuka let go of your face . . her hands were warm.

She approached the Corpse lying limb in the middle of the room, she examined the wound, "You're horrible at this", "Excuse me?", you ask, trying not to sound offended.

“You suck ass at killing, you butchered the wounds, I’d hate to die at your hands, a six year old could probably do better”, she commented, as she got up and stretched her arms, you didn’t say anything in response, not wanting to be insulted further for your bad killing skills, because apparently there's a proper way to murder . . Shocker!

You walk beside her, “do you even know how to clean a corpse?”, she asks, and you shake your head, “Seriously?”, she sighs, and looks at the body again, “We have a lot of work today, your highness—or is it your majesty now?”, Yuuken walks in right at this moment with a glass of water, “I don’t think now is the appropriate time to joke around—Y/n is overtaken by grieve”

“I’m—”, you try and protest, “Your overtaken by grieve, that’s the news that will be relayed by tomorrow morning as we prepare everything else, so look as sad as you fucking can—drink your water—because we have a lot to do”, Yuuken stops mid-rant to hand you the glass of water, shoving it in your hands.

“Since most of your siblings have either resigned or fled, you need to prepare to take over”, he said sternly, and he sounded almost as annoying as your teachers back when you still had tutors, “I thought that was a given”, “and I thought you knew better then spontaneous murder”, “It was planned”, you respond back in protest, “it . . . doesn’t look planned.”, he responds back in que as he turns to glance at the corpse momentarily then right back at your.

“C’mon it’s not that bad”, you look at the corpse, trying to avoid making contact with your fathers eyes, which were wide open . . “Okay yeah . . I suck at this”, you admit reluctantly.

“At the risk of sounding disrespectful . . why exactly did he die like that?”, Yuuka asks curiously, “he looks weird with his eyes like that”, Yuuken nods softly in agreement, “probably shocked”, he responds . .

— taglist ♡ ; @ravenlking , @oogly-oogly , @corvids-treasure-box , @queerlordsimon , @syl-lithy , @vamprel , @sarah22447 , @nerdy-simp-7120 , @islander-posts , @the-dumber-scaramouche , @lunavixia , @senpaiofotome , @sophiethewitch1 , @voasprofile , @dotster001 , @eriislost , @twst-writer , @the-fox-of-the-eclipse , @achy-boo , @despairingy-obsessed , @mirai-in-the-headspace , @novaloptr , @silvery-stars-above , @shionin , @shan-jia-mo-li , @phiikichi , @xmoogx , @celestisnothere , @fluffimemes , @sketchy-owl , @mscarterakaviola98 , @batknot , @lemonmoonmochi , @thespiderinyourroom , @gl00muraaii , @probablynoposts , @a-z-rie-l , @kyxmlii , @warcelia , @leifsclubroom , @entropyensues , @rhyzoma , @ghostlysyntaxed , @busy-dadzawa-fish , @iris-arcadia ,

♡ . Ask to be tagged...

I feel like Y/n with mainly just defense training under their belt, wouldn't have the knowledge to carry out a clean kill yk . . ? Like it would be half-assed, and Yuuka is a knight, she's been a knight for years, so she's probably seen murders and has killed before, so she can probably judge a kill well.

Yuuken, works directly in the court, and climbed up the ranks to work directly for the emperor, he mainly does paperwork and documents, but is really familiar with the inner-workings of the court and well the dirty grime underneath.

Yuuka & Yuuken grew up with y/n.

Trying to combine comedy with serious and emo-ness is not for the weak actually, I felt high writing this (I've never drunk or did weed).

masterlist | next chapter | discord server (for spoilers & updates)

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akemi2003 · 4 months ago

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Fic prompt #12

Dpxdc

Danny’s obsession was helping people

He thought it was cool, it was a good thing and even his parents, if they knew about Phantom would have been proud of him for having an obsession so nice, unlike other ghosts that used their obsession like an excuse to cause chaos

No one ever told him that obsessions could evolve

First it was helping people, then it became being a hero and from there it becomes HEROES

He wanted to know everything about everyone of them

Why were they doing it? Where they get that ability/power/knowledge? What inspired their costume?

Before he knew it he had abused his power and the fact that nobody believed in ghosts, for obtaining his information

He knew everything, their secret identities, their backgrounds, powers, circle of friends….

He had files at the beginning but he realized fast enough that he don’t needed it, he couldn’t literally forget them

At the beginning he felt kind of bad about abusing his powers and invading the privacy of the heroes, but that feeling faded kinda quickly when he discovered that many citizens of Amity at the beginning of the ghosts attack had tried contacting the Justice League just to be blacklisted because “Ghost don’t exist “

At this point he considered the info, like a paycheck, a totally deserved one

He even ended up using the knowledge to improve his fighting style so at the end of his school years he had that situation under control.

He even became the heir to the throne of the Infinite Realm, so he didn’t even need to find a job

He didn’t account for his obsession to evolve another time. He should have known better…

But who can blame him? Red Robin was just his type!!!

He was even being sacrificed to him! It was destiny!!!!!!

Unfortunately he still had his morals intact so he would have to let him go, but who said that it was a simple affair?

The justice league knows nothing about the realms, him, Amity Park or ghosts..

It would be very simple to trick them into believing that Tim was now bound to him and that it was irreversible

Just until he can get him to love him, and marry him and maybe to create a family

Who was he kidding? There was no way he was ever letting him go. He would just giving the illusion of a choice, after all this was also part of his paycheck

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andypantsx3 · 1 year ago

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˖˚˳⊹ — pretty boy summer masterlist

this is the masterlist for the pretty boy summer collab, a collection of shouto-centric x reader fics! warnings for nsfw and potential dark content; minors please dni! links to each will be added as the fics are published. if you're interested in joining, check out the collab post for guidelines—sign ups are open until june 15, 2024!

heliotrope @auraxins

as the son of the town mayor, you have certain duties to uphold. one must find a wife, sire an heir, and prepare to inherit your father's legacy. you most certainly are not supposed to fall in love with a travelling cowboy; but how can you resist a face as pretty as his? — content: male!reader, wild west au, nsft, period-typical bigotry, star-crossed lovers, hurt/comfort, trauma bonding (more tbd)

#HEARTBURN @shibaraki

who knew your run-ins with the suspiciously accident prone pro-hero shouto would capture the hearts of the general public—or that a bit of harmless flirting could have such inconvenient consequences? — content: afab reader, meet-cute, social media + shipping, strangers to friends to lovers, fluff + humour

lights, camera, chaos @pikatsum

You and Shouto are forced to make your first televised appearance as a couple. What starts as an embarrassing invasion of privacy completely upends itself once you realize just how cutthroat the world of reality TV can get. “You should know,” said Shouto, “this isn’t a genuine case. The “criminals” are all actors and my team has informed me the situation was drafted in a writing room. You will be perfectly safe.” Somewhere, you imagined that harried production assistant was hissing into her mic, ‘We can cut that, right?’ “Oh.” you said, still feeling a bit lightheaded as you flipped through the “case file,” sucking down a depressingly-bland smoothie of blended greens, protein powder, and the barest hint of strawberry, “That’s… good.” — content: Reader uses she/her pronouns, Quirkless Reader & Pro-Hero Shouto

the sun glares @bkgpackets

As a college student, you’re always looking for some quick cash to last you the semester. Luckily for you, pro hero Shouto is in desperate need for a temporary personal assistant for a few months. Your initial plan of keeping your head down is knocked off course when he begins to request stranger and stranger items, like takeout with your company? You’re persistent but keeping to yourself proves to be difficult when his eyes take you in like a moth to an open flame, you’d run any light in the city to answer his calls. — content: pro hero shouto x college student/personal assistant reader, shouto is a menace, fluff, angst, hurt/no comfort

rank em up @whatisreggieshortfor

Ashido and Uraraka just want to play a silly lil game with you. Who says they can’t have ulterior motives? — content: what's ranking among friends, established relationship/not-so-secret relationship, chat fic, sfw

Under the Festival Lights @kimkaelyn

After a mission finishes earlier than expected, you and Shouto take advantage of the sudden free time to enjoy the local festival. Unbeknownst to you, it is a lover's festival and you happen to be harboring feelings for your dual-haired companion. — content: pro hero au, pro hero fem reader

Nightswimming @threadbaresweater

Every summer, your family visits the same lakeside resort. It's a nice way to unwind after a busy year of college classes and part-time work, not to mention indulge in your love of swimming alone while the rest of the world is fast asleep. You're pleasantly surprised when an old friend from your childhood shows up one evening, and you find that nighttime in the water is more magical than you've ever dreamed. — content: shouto x f!reader, summer romance vibes, no quirks au, most likely sfw + extra heavy petting

one night (fruit) stand @mangostarjam

You wake up from a one night stand with the most gorgeous guy in the world and leave thinking you'll never see him again. So why does he keep showing up at your farmer's market stall? — content: pro heroes, aged up, fluff, misunderstandings, Just Some Guy/quirkless reader, misunderstandings, more tags tba

Best Intentions @knightofwands-upright

You know him like the back of your hand, only something is off about your relationship. Shouto has never taken you on a public date, posted to social media about you, or let you meet his family. How could you be so far apart but so close at the same time? Are you content with being a secret? — content: mature rating, nsft elements, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending

three-part honesty @seiwas

honesty, you've realized, is shouto’s most cunning trait—a quality that's endeared you over the years now rendering you into a stuttering, fumbling mess like never before. — content: sfw, f!reader in mind but can be read as gn!reader, post-canon, aged-up pro-hero!shouto and assistant!reader, reader wears a dress, workplace romance, development of feelings, confessions, boss/assistant dynamics, co-workers to lovers (ish), fluff.

lady of land and sea @characterovercharm

With nothing but your hand in marriage to offer up for the protection of House Yagi, you agree to marry King Enji Todoriki's son and heir. You arrive at court with your wits sharp, tongue honeyed, and head held high. You are even prepared to use what small claim you have to the Earth Principle of Smash if you must, to carve a place for yourself. Not even being forced to keep company with your father's bastard will stop you. You are prepared for a cesspool. What you find yourself in, however, is an inferno. — content: Medieval fantasy, Romance, Family-drama, strangers to lovers, Prince Shouto/Lady YN, arranged marriage, canon-level violence, period-typical misogyny,Quirks exist as something else, Bullying Midoriya (we get better, promise), Enji being a terrible dad

swapped! @lees-chaotic-brain

after you get hit with a strange quirk, you swap bodies with your long time crush and hero partner todoroki shouto. somehow, every single thing that could possibly go wrong goes wrong and chaos ensues — content: afab reader, suggestive, periods, mentions of blood, swearing, fluff, crack, todoroki is a little shit (when is he not)

One Moment of Forever @birinboom

When Shouto is forced to take a break from work due to a quirk injury, the two of you decide to go on a camping trip to your favorite lakeside spot. — content: fluff, established relationships, camping, nature therapy, pet names (love)

title tbd @bluebird-in-the-breeze

summary pending... — content: tags pending...

that night @harbingerofchaosposts

To celebrate the end of finals, Mina Ashido drags you to her boyfriend's house party. You went to appease her, but as you stay you get overwhelmed. When you go to leave, she notices you staring at one Shouto Todoroki and takes it upon herself to act as your wingman. Shenanigans ensue. — content: college au, songfic, ashido mina is good friend, ashido mina is a little shit, wingman ashido mina, kirishima eijirou is a ray of sunshine, alcohol

Accidental Touches and Bad Things @foxboot

While training together during class Shouto accidentally grabs your chest. Later when he comes to apologise, he catches you at the wrong time, only to then be interrupted while apologising (twice) — content: aged up, training during class, accidentally grabbing your chest, walking in on you, accidental flashing, smut, oral and squirting, getting caught, dry humping, reader has a quirk, Shouto is fascinated with your body, female reader, reader has to stand outside in a towel at one point, implied first times for both reader and Shouto

A Fateful Hue @sillylilreader

In a world of soulmates, where you experience color upon finding your soulmate, you discover yourself entangled with a certain dual toned employee after a rather amicable breakup. — content: angst, fast paced, alcohol, breakup, not a happy ending

Cherry Syrup Kisses @arestorationofbalance

The summer months bring many things to yours and Shouto’s relationship–warmer weather, poolside drinks, beach days, public scrutiny. See, summer in Japan is the slow season for pro-heroes, meaning it’s also slow for the media that follows them. How do they fill this gap? By reporting on pro-heroes’ relationships or lack thereof, of course! Understandably, you’re self-conscious about some things, but Shouto’s there to prove you wrong. — content: GN!reader, established relationship, fluff, “hurt/comfort”

file updated: falling in love @the-travelling-witch

In a world where androids have been established in everyday life, it should not come as a surprise to find one setting up shop next to you. shouto, however, seems to have a mind of his own, especially when he does things you are sure are not part of his programming. it begs the question, is there a line where programming ends and humanity starts? — content: fluff/ slice of life; android! shouto x florist! reader (gn), assault (not described in graphic detail), no beta readers (this isn’t the omegaverse)

right place for you @tomurasangel

summary pending... — content: tags pending...

walking with you @zanykingmentality

The last person you expected to see in the conference room that day was Pro Hero Todoroki Shouto. — content: falling in love, mental health issues, mutual pining, aged-up character(s), quirkless reader, guitarist!reader, explicit language, mentioned past parent death, found family, (sort of) strangers to lovers, angst & humor

title tbd @kingtomura

summary pending... — content: tags pending...

loads of fun @andypantsx3

After moving into your first apartment together, Shouto seems more amorous than ever. You're not sure why—but when he comes home to you doing a load of laundry, more than your clothes are about to get tumbled. — content: nsfw, pro hero au, domesticity kink, gn + afab reader, established relationship, fluff, emotional sex, table sex, cunnilingus, 18+ mdni!

#shouto x reader #todoroki x reader #todoroki shouto x reader #bnha x reader #todoroki x you #shoto x reader #shoto x y/n #shoto x you

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sugurusgurl · 27 days ago

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Love, Eventually (Part 1)

☾𖤓 Synopsis. She marries Satoru Gojo for the money—enough to keep her brother alive. He marries her to shut his clan up—no love, no strings, just a deal. But living together makes it harder to remember what’s fake… and what’s starting to feel real.

☾𖤓 Pairing. AFAB!Reader x Gojo Satoru. ☾𖤓 Warnings. Hurt/Comfort, Fake marriage, emotional suppression, slow burn, unrequited feelings, mentions of critical illness (sick sibling), power imbalance.

“You’re acting like I’m torturing you,” Satoru says flatly. “Relax—it’s barely even a real date.”

He didn’t ask you so much as hire you. You’re being paid to pose as his future wife. The whole thing’s just a performance—an easy fix to get his clan off his back about settling down. He has zero emotional investment in it. All he needs is to parade you around, keep the elders happy, then stage a clean breakup. No complications. No feelings. Just business.

“You’re not torturing me,” you say with a small smile, tucking your hands into your lap. “I’ve had worse company.”

You glance at him, amused. “Though you do talk a lot for someone who claims this isn’t a real date.” He grins, but you don't let him derail the moment.

“Look… I said yes because you needed someone, and I—” you pause, eyes drifting to the skyline behind him, “—needed the money. That’s all. I’m not expecting candlelight or grand gestures.” Your voice stays soft, steady. “Just clarity.”

You turn back to him with a gentle kind of humor. “So don’t worry. I’m not secretly in love with you or hoping you’ll fall for me during dessert.” A beat. “I’m just here to play my part... and maybe get through this without embarrassing either of us.”

You smile again, quiet and genuine this time.

“But I do appreciate the view. Even if it comes with a side of sarcasm and sunglasses indoors.”

Gojo leans back in his chair, lips quirking into a smirk. “Wow. So polite. So composed. And yet—somehow—that still felt like a read.”

He taps his fingers against his glass, eyes never leaving yours. “I offer you luxury dining and the honor of my stunning presence, and all I get is ‘thanks for the view.’ Brutal.”

But there’s no real sting in it. Just amusement.

Then—something shifts. His voice lowers, just a touch, like he’s actually paying attention now.

“You’re different, y’know. Most people either try to impress me, flatter me... or avoid me like the plague.” He leans in a little. “You’re doing none of that. Which makes me wonder what your story is.”

He doesn’t push, though. Just shrugs, looking away for a beat. “Anyway. Money or not, you showed up. That already makes you better than half my clan.”

He smiles again—this time a little more genuine. “So I guess I owe you... dessert?”

The laughter and city lights from the restaurant fade as the two of you step out onto the quiet rooftop terrace. It’s colder here, wind brushing against your arms. You hug yourself lightly. Gojo slips his hands into his pockets, then glances sideways at you. The teasing in his voice is gone. He’s serious now—well, Gojo-serious.

"Alright, Y/N," he starts, tone smooth but grounded, "it’s time I stop dragging this out and tell you what you’re really signing up for."

You meet his eyes. Calm. Waiting.

"You’ll move in with me. Officially. The clan needs to see you under the same roof. They’re old-fashioned like that—marriage only counts if it looks the part."

You blink, once. Not surprised, just taking it in.

"We’ll get married. Legally. It doesn’t mean anything," he adds quickly, waving a hand. "It’s a show. A performance. And when the elders finally give up on the heir obsession—or if I find someone I actually want to marry—we’ll file for divorce."

His voice doesn’t waver. Not once.

"You’ll be paid. Generously. Monthly allowance, full coverage for whatever your quiet little secret is," he adds, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s inviting you to confirm but won’t ask out loud. "And when it’s all over, you walk away with enough to start over. Clean."

You’re silent. Processing. He knows you’re smart enough not to answer too fast.

Then, finally, "There’s one rule, though." His gaze sharpens. "No falling in love. With me, obviously. This isn’t some fairy tale. We’re not friends, we’re not soulmates. We’re partners in a business deal. You hold up your end, I hold up mine." He lets the quiet settle, his face unreadable now. "So—do we have a deal, Y/N?" You don’t answer right away. The wind pulls gently at your hair, and for a moment, you just watch the city below—distant, alive, and far removed from the strange little arrangement that’s about to shape your life. You breathe in. Then out. “Okay,” you say softly. No dramatics. No bargaining. Just that.

Gojo studies you, like he’s waiting for a catch. A reason. A flinch. You give him none. “If those are the terms... then yes.” Your voice is steady, polite. Professional. But your eyes don’t meet his for long.

He opens his mouth, maybe to ask something—but you step away from the railing and straighten your coat.

“Just send the paperwork.” You don’t wait for his reply. You’re already walking back inside. And Gojo, for once, doesn’t follow right away.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The door swings open with a soft click. Gojo doesn’t bother to help with the bags.

“You can take the guest room upstairs. First door on the right,” he says without looking back, already halfway into the penthouse.

His place is exactly what you’d expect—open floor plan, expensive without being flashy, clean in a way that feels… unused. Like no one really lives here. You nod, not expecting a warmer welcome. You pick up your things and head up. He doesn’t offer to show you around. Doesn’t ask if you’ve eaten. Doesn’t make conversation.

By the time you come back downstairs—suitcase tucked neatly away, shoes lined by the door—he’s sprawled on the couch, a pair of sunglasses still on despite the dim light from the windows.

“We’ll have dinner with the clan on Friday,” he says, scrolling through his phone. “Formal. You’ll be briefed beforehand.”

You nod again. Quiet. Steady. He glances at you just once.

“You don’t have to hover. We’re not roommates.” His voice is light, but the implication is clear: don’t make yourself too comfortable.

You give a small smile—not offended. Just... unsurprised.

“Noted.”

You turn and disappear into the kitchen, silently opening cabinets, learning where things are without asking. Gojo doesn’t ask what you’re doing. Doesn’t say thanks when you place a cup of tea beside him ten minutes later. He doesn’t even look at it. He only speaks again as you’re walking away.

“Oh—and if anyone asks, we’re disgustingly in love.” There’s a smirk in his voice, but he doesn’t look up. You pause in the hallway, just for a breath. Then keep walking.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The guest room is tidy. Spacious. More than enough for one person—but not warm. Not lived in. Like the rest of the place, it feels like a backdrop for something performative. Temporary.

You sit on the edge of the bed, coat still on, your bag at your feet. For a long while, you don’t move. Then, slowly, you reach for the zipper and begin to unpack—neatly, efficiently. One folded shirt after another. A worn sweater. Travel-sized toiletries in a pouch you’ve clearly used a hundred times. It’s not much. You didn’t bring much. You slide open the drawer of the nightstand and tuck something inside—a small framed photo. It’s turned face-down before the drawer closes. Next, your phone. You check it. A message sits unread, and you hesitate before opening it.

From: Nurse He had a bad night. Still stable now, but the fever hasn’t gone down. Let us know when the next transfer can be made.

Your fingers hover over the screen. Then you type:

I'll send it before Friday. Please tell him I’m okay.

You stare at the words for a beat too long before hitting send.

When the message is gone, you set the phone on the nightstand, face down beside the drawer that holds your reason.

And you exhale. Not shakily. Not dramatically. Just tired. You lie back, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. Letting the quiet press down. You knew what this would be. Cold arrangements. Polished lies. No space for real things. But that’s fine.

It has to be.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Three days later.

The morning sun filters through the penthouse windows, too bright for how little sleep you’ve gotten. You’re already seated at the long kitchen island when Gojo finally walks in—coffee in one hand, his phone in the other.

He doesn’t say good morning.

“We’ll leave at six. Dinner starts at seven sharp. Don’t be late.” His voice is clipped, matter-of-fact, like this is a meeting, not a marriage.

You nod. “What do I need to know?”

He slides a folder across the counter toward you. You open it: photos, names, brief descriptions—members of the Gojo clan. Their roles. Their expectations. The alliances they’re trying to broker through him. You skim silently, taking mental notes.

“They’ll be watching everything,” he adds, sipping his coffee. “How you dress, how you speak, how you look at me.” His tone turns slightly mocking. “So try not to look too bored. Or terrified.”

You don’t react. Just turn the page.

“Pretend we’re disgustingly in love, right?” you say mildly, recalling his words from the other night.

That earns a glance from him. Brief. Amused. “Exactly. Light touches, soft looks, subtle affection. They eat that stuff up.” A beat. “You can act, right?”

You give him a soft smile, the kind that could pass as adoring if someone didn’t look too closely.

“I agreed to this, didn’t I?”

He doesn’t respond. Just moves on. “My father will do most of the talking. Don’t interrupt him. Ever. If anyone asks how we met, we keep it simple: a chance encounter, turned whirlwind romance.” He says it like it’s a joke, but there’s no humor behind it.

“And if someone corners me privately?” you ask.

Gojo raises a brow. “Say something vague. Gaze longingly in my direction. Maybe brush my arm on your way out of the conversation. I’ll take it from there.”

You nod again, silent as you absorb every word. You don’t write anything down. You don’t have to.

Finally, he stands.

“There’s a dress in your room. Picked it out yesterday. Should fit.” He starts to walk away, then pauses, glancing over his shoulder.

“You’re good at this. The calm, collected act. Makes my job easier.”

You smile faintly. “It’s not an act.”

He doesn’t respond. Just disappears down the hall.

And you’re left alone again, fingers resting on the folder full of strangers—people you’ll need to fool into believing you belong in a life that isn’t yours.

You close it.

And get to work.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

You stand in front of the mirror, smoothing the fabric of the dress he left for you.

It fits perfectly. Of course it does.

You’ve done your hair the way the clan profile suggested would “photograph well.” Your makeup is soft, elegant. Nothing too loud. Everything about you tonight is meant to look effortless, like you were made to stand beside him.

Like you belong beside him.

The door to your room creaks open slightly—Gojo doesn’t knock.

He leans against the frame, dressed in a tailored black suit that makes him look even more untouchable than usual.

He whistles low.

“Not bad,” he says. “They’re going to eat you alive.” You smile faintly, then turn away from the mirror. “Good. That’s what you’re paying me for.” He watches you for a second longer, unreadable. Then—

“One more thing.” His voice shifts—lower, quieter.

You pause. Waiting.

He walks into the room and reaches into his jacket pocket. When he pulls his hand out, he holds something small, metallic. A simple gold band.

A wedding ring.

“Put it on,” he says. “From this moment on—you're my wife.”

You take it without a word, sliding it onto your finger. The metal is cool. Heavier than it looks. He watches the way your eyes linger on it just a moment too long. And then, softly, like it’s nothing, “Just don’t forget it’s all fake.”

You meet his eyes, steady. “I won’t.”

#satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #jjk gojo #jujutsu kaisen #satoru gojo x reader

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ceruark · 3 months ago

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I love your entwined au! Nothing like political intrigue with a dash of yandere, simply scrumptious. Your phainonposting has me curious on how you would incorporate the amphoreus cast into the au.

anon when i tell you this ask literally got me out of bed this morning… like i was laying down scrolling through tumblr and then i saw this and got a rush of adrenaline…

thank you so much for your kind compliments! i have certainly been thinking about it. i haven’t written anything formal because i haven’t yet played through most of amphoreus, but things have been happening upstairs. oh the wheels have been turning.

allow me to indulge you a bit ;)

cw: yandere themes - obsessive, possessive behavior. "ensnared" - original entwined au post | entwined au masterlist

disclaimer: obviously, tribbie is meant to be totally platonic here. aglaea, anaxa, castorice, mydei, and phainon are meant to be the usual par-for-the-course yanderes.

The palace descends into chaos the moment you get the letter.

Nothing is known about Amphoreus beyond the singular fact that it is a kingdom whose size and power rivals that of the IPC’s vast empire. They’d been under isolationist policy until the recent ascension of one King Mydeimos to the throne, who outlined his wishes in his letter to your kingdom of wanting to connect with other kingdoms and discuss trade agreements and alliances.

You and the rest of your court spend weeks discussing his letter and how best to proceed. There’s a healthy amount of distrust in all of you given that, to your knowledge, you’re the only kingdom to have been contacted by them, and there is absolutely no information on this empire.

Veritas and Himeko are the most hesitant, cautioning against being the first to make contact with Amphoreus when there’s nothing to be said about their policies, motivations, or military prowess. Too many unknown factors creates far too great of a risk to justify any potential gains to be had from blindly rushing into an alliance.

Welt and Dan Heng, on the other hand, are more open to the idea. They both bring up the fact that your kingdom’s reputation is maintained by your amiable image, and turning away King Mydeimos now could tarnish that and have ruinous implications down the line, especially since your kingdom’s decisions usually set the tone for how others will respond. You’re a cornerstone of the world, and with exceptions such as Penacony and the IPC Empire, many others look to you for how to respond to global relations. Amphoreus may not take kindly to you shutting them out if everyone else follows suit, and you’re still not certain how much of a threat they might be.

March, brilliant young woman that she is, suggests acting as a middleman before making a definitive decision; who doesn’t like a party? You can host a ball in the palace where the rulers of Amphoreus can formally introduce themselves to the world, and any first impressions and negotiations can happen on everyone’s own terms, without all the pressure being on your shoulders.

After working out the details, you draft a response with your proposition of hosting a ball for Amphoreus in honor of King Mydeimos’s ascension and send it off to the distant, mysterious kingdom. The response is signed by “Heir Tribios,” who eagerly agrees to the event and sends their many thanks and behalf of all the “Chrysos Heirs.”

It’s information Veritas dutifully files away for later. He and Dan Heng have spent hours picking apart every last word of both letters you’ve received, gathering whatever meaning they could in an attempt to know what to expect come September, in three months, when the ball will occur.

You invite every ruler you believe is important enough to be present, and that you are on at least civil terms with: Emperor Diamond and all of his advisors; Queen Fu Xuan, Generals Jing Yuan and Feixiao, Lord Yanqing, and Lady Yunli; Lady Kafka and her equally notorious court; Prince Gepard and General Bronya; Queen Herta; Queen Ruan Mei; and—after swallowing your pride—Prince Sunday and Princess Robin.

You wouldn’t admit to it even if you were held at swordpoint, but somehow, Sunday’s presence would make you feel more comfortable that night; despite everything that’s happened between you two, you’ve always recognized how good of a leader he is, and just this once, you’ll appreciate his rather manipulative, cunning nature when it comes to assessing Amphoreus and their “Chrysos Heirs.”

To absolutely no one’s surprise, the IPC is the first to confirm their attendance, and for the first time, your palace will be seeing the rare honor of having all ten of Emperor Diamond’s advisors present at his side. The Xianzhou Alliance is next to confirm the attendance of the rulers of the Luofu and Yaoqing, shortly followed by both Queen Herta and Queen Ruan Mei’s attendance. The rulers of Belobog accept your invitation soon after that. You don’t hear from Lady Kafka, but she never formally responds to any invite, anyway. She always chooses to just show up when she feels like it, and you have a gut feeling that she wouldn’t miss something like this.

Penacony’s acceptance is penned by Sunday himself—you’d be able to recognize his flawless script anywhere. At first glance, his letter seems cordial and polite, but you know Sunday, so you’re able to read between the lines; he holds the same reservations you do, subtly responding to the doubts that you, too, had expertly hidden into the verbiage of the invite you sent him, one that had differed slightly from everyone else’s.

Something bitter twists deep inside you at the thought of how easy it is to slip back into working seamlessly with him as you did so frequently as children and early adolescents, how even after putting so much effort into distancing yourself from him, you still end up relying on him in some way, because he’s familiar, and you two know each other as well as you know yourselves.

The taste of iron sits heavy in your mouth as you file his confirmation away with the rest.

When the day of the ball finally comes, you are surprised—one, to find out there are so many Heirs (and these are just the ones that have agreed to be here, there are still more in Amphoreus), and two, because they’re actually… nice?

Well, most of them are. At the very least, none of them seem to be outright threatening, like Lady Kafka. The first one you meet is a spry child with bright red hair and a blinding smile who introduces themself as Heir Tribios, but insists on being called Tribbie. Their manner of referring to themself in plurality is a bit… odd, but you don’t dwell on it too much—you’re certain Veritas and Dan Heng are already doing that for you.

Tribbie then introduces you to a well-built man decorated in countless battle scars and a warrior’s regalia. You’re a bit pleased to find out that this is King Mydeimos; you have a high level of respect for leaders who have actually fought to protect their empire. Though he’s the sitting ruler of Amphoreus, you come to learn quickly that he doesn’t consider himself higher than the other Heirs, and governs the kingdom equally with them.

You find yourself quite taken with all of the Chrysos Heirs. After getting past her initial wall of wariness (that you can’t really blame her for, given your own hesitance), Aglaea proves to be a warm, comforting presence whose honesty is refreshing and appreciated by someone in your position. Anaxagoras can hold a conversation with you of such high caliber that you haven’t experienced with almost anyone before, perhaps not even Veritas. Castorice’s sweet nature comes through to you even with the distance she insists upon keeping, and you find yourself smiling to yourself every time she eagerly approaches one of the many animals kept on the palace grounds. You also somehow always get dragged into Mydei and Phainon’s banter, finding yourself laughing yourself breathless at the two’s antics, which you end up wrapped up in when they argue around you, refusing to budge from their places at either side of you, for some reason.

They’re the center of your attention throughout the entire ball—so much so that you don’t even notice Aventurine’s arrival, or perhaps, even more egregious, you don’t notice Sunday’s arrival.

Perhaps, if there weren’t so many of them bombarding you, you would be able to take a step back and realize that the opposite is true: you’re the center of their attention. They seem to be switching between occupying your focus, leaving you oblivious to the way Aglaea and Anaxa speak in hushed whispers to each other behind your back, a dark cunning revealing itself in their eyes, or the way Phainon and Mydei stand just a bit too close to you, closer than any other ruler present in the room who’s been familiar with you for years would dare to stand. With her distance, you don’t notice the way Castorice wards off anyone else at the ball who tries to approach you, or the way Tribbie distracts onlookers by eagerly introducing themself and answering questions about the vast kingdom of Amphoreus.

But you do notice Veritas standing in a secluded corner of the ballroom, willingly conversing with Sunday and Aventurine.

Terror is a frigid, biting thing as it courses through your veins—but you hardly have time to process it when Phainon is already placing a hand on the small of your back, inquiring about the palace’s grand gardens that he’s heard so much about and guiding you away from Aglaea and Anaxa before the words “fated one” can reach your ears.

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knotfodder · 2 years ago

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thecharacterchronicler · 1 year ago

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Perform || Coriolanus Snow x Reader || Smut

Outline: You get married to Coriolanus Snow, a powerful man that you don’t even know, and try to adjust to your new life as his wife.

Word count: 3’500

Warnings: Arranged marriage, explicit smut and probably a few mistakes here and there because English isn’t my first language.

Author’s note: This may or may not be a prequel to There Will Come A Ruler. I’m not sure it fits all the details as it wasn’t planned but inspiration suddenly struck me so here it is.

The room went dead silent as soon as you passed the threshold, numerous pairs of eyes turning to stare at you. There wasn’t a single familiar face among the men standing around the large desk, previously hunched over a pile of papers. You knew that they would never be able to tell how intimidated you felt under their severe gazes, you knew how to fake confidence better than anyone… However, two pale blue eyes seemed to be staring right into your soul, as if he knew.

“Great timing, we just finalized the contract.” One of the older man in a suit said, seemingly wanting to break the cold silence that weighted heavily on your shoulders. You nodded without a word, approaching the desk, coming to a stop next to the youngest man, the one with the unsettling eyes.

You turned your head to look at him more closely and his eyes darted away instantly, landing on a distant object at the opposite side of the office. He stood straight, his head held high and his arms crossed behind his back, impassible.

When you entered the room, he seemed to be radiating with light in the darkness of the office, surrounded by men in boring black suits while his was made out of an immaculate white fabric. Combined with the paleness of his skin and his carefully combed back blond curls, he resembled the image of an angel you had seen on a very ancient painting once. But his indifference towards you, and the icy stare he gave you, made it clear that you wouldn’t find solace in him.

“I reviewed the contract at your family’s request and made sure everything is in your best interest.” The man who had spoken to you already said again, handing you the very last page of the pile of documents on the table and an elegant pen to sign it with.

You didn’t doubt that the lawyer your family had hired was competent and probably too scared by them to dare make a mistake while establishing a contract in your name with an army of other lawyers in the room but you still felt compelled to take a look at the full file in front of you, ignoring the pen he was still holding for you to take.

Maybe it was a desperate attempt to gain time on your part more than a necessity to double check the terms and conditions of the agreement you were meant to sign but, as you glanced towards the man in white, you were pretty sure you saw the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, although he was still determined to not look at you directly.

Some clauses written on the paper seemed reasonable, others were more restrictive and some downright affected your freedom and free will but you knew you wouldn’t be able to negotiate anything better. You wouldn’t dare try anyway, everyone had been telling you what a privilege it was for you and what an honor it was for your family to be offered such an opportunity. Even in the high society of the Capitol, it didn’t happen often for a girl who had just graduated from the Academy to secure such an interesting match. It was even more rare that such a match didn’t require to be seduced in order to arrange a marriage...

“Everything seems in order.” You finally said, after taking your time to read each paragraph of the contract, ignoring the lawyers’ growing frustration and impatience around you.

“I can attest that it is.” The one lawyer meant to be on your side confirmed and, even if you felt the urge to tell him that he could have done better - or at least come to an agreement that wouldn’t force you to produce heirs in a few years - you quietly nodded, taking the pen he was offering you and writing your name at the bottom of the last page.

You paused for a moment, admiring your handwriting in black ink, a small gesture that sealed your future.

It was a privilege. An honor. One that you couldn’t refuse.

You took a step back and turned to the man in white, handing him the pen. He took it without looking at you, hunching his tall frame over the desk to sign his name next to yours in elegant calligraphied letters.

Coriolanus Snow.

You managed to take a deep but silent breath, the implications of the contract you had both signed downing on you. Your life was about to change forever, you’d have to leave your home, your family, everything and start a whole new life, with a man you didn’t even know. He was a complete stranger to you, all you knew about him was that he was the youngest head game maker for the Hunger Games in history, the protégé of Doctor Gaul herself and that, as if it wasn’t enough already, he had announced that he’d be campaigning to become the next president of Panem.

“Well, I hope you’ll be satisfied with the agreement, Mrs Snow.” Your lawyer said, but you didn’t realize right away that you were the one he was addressing, your new last name sounding foreign.

You forced a smile at him, watching as all the men slowly walked out of the office, leaving you on your own with your new husband. A shiver ran down your spine as the door closed behind them, a cold breeze caressing your skin. Coriolanus finally turned to face you, his icy eyes staring into your soul once again.

“I’ll meet you at the altar in three days.” He declared, emotionless. You quietly nodded, too intimidated to say a word. You knew that - much like the official documents you had signed already making you his wife - your wedding ceremony would be nothing like you envisioned it to be.

Time flew by after that. You had spent it feeling mostly overwhelmed by the amount of things you were expected to do before the ceremony. You had to pack your belongings, decide what you’d take with you to your husband’s manor and what could be left behind, attend various appointments meant to get you to beauty base zero before your very public wedding and - even if you didn’t have a say in the preparations - you still had to make sure everything would look flawless on the big day, including yourself.

Your family’s chauffeur drove you to the venue early in the morning where a team of people were ready to take care of your hair, nails and makeup and would help you get into the gorgeous white dress that was selected for you by your new husband and his own team. You watched as your reflection kept changing in the mirror in front of you, making you look like a glamorous bride… The only thing missing to such a perfect portrait was a genuine glint of happiness in your eyes.

Once you were ready to face the crowd of onlookers, news reporters and photographers posted outside the venue - hoping to catch a glimpse of the newlyweds on their way out after the ceremony - the people who had prepared you left, leaving you on your own in the luxurious suit, barely recognizing the person facing you in the mirror.

The short hour before the ceremony felt like agony, your hands shaking in fear of not being good enough to live up to everyone’s expectations and your chest constricted with anxiety. You couldn’t help but wonder what people would think of you when they’ll see you in your bridal attire. Would they think you were a good match for a man as important as Coriolanus Snow ? See you as worthy to potentially become the First Lady of Panem ? Would they think you were a cute couple, or see you as an ill match ? And what about him ? Would he find you beautiful when you’ll walk down the aisle to him ?

A firm knock on the door saved you from drowning in your anxious thoughts. You were expecting your family’s lawyer to come by and give you a few advices on how to live your new life without inadvertently breaking some of the terms of the contract you had signed. You also knew the wedding organizer would show up to give you a few pointers for the ceremony and your public appearance after it…

But, when you opened the door, a surprised gasp escaped your lips. Coriolanus was devastingly handsome in a tailored white suit, more fitting and luxurious than the one he wore when you had met him three days earlier. There wasn’t a single strand of his blond hair out of place, not a trace of dark circles under his blue eyes while your team had spent almost an entire hour trying to conceal yours after the sleepless nights you had had.

He smiled at you in a way you weren’t certain was genuine and held up a huge bouquet of white roses, tied together by a blood red satin ribbon. You understood it was yours to walk down the aisle with, the flowers matching the one pinned to the lapel of his jacket.

“Thank you.” You said, as you took the flowers. He was looking at you without any hint of admiration in his gaze, as if the hours your team had spent on your hair and makeup and the expensive wedding gown you were wearing didn’t affect him at all. As if he still couldn’t care less about you… “I’ve heard it’s bad luck to see the bride before the ceremony.”

He huffed a mocking laughter at your words.

“Good thing we’re already legally married then.” He countered, the reminder adding to the panic in the pit of your stomach. “This ceremony is just meant to give them a good show.”

You knew that, of course. It was your duty - as his wife - to publicly appear by his side and pretend that you were overjoyed about it all. You were meant to help him build a flawless reputation so that he may eventually become president one day and you knew that his popularity was determined by how much the people could relate to him, or at least feel included in parts of his life. Soon, you’d be introduced to them as Mrs Snow and you couldn’t afford to mess up.

You turned around to place the beautiful - but surprisingly heavy - bouquet of roses on the vanity, hearing the door closing behind your back. When you looked over your shoulder, he was standing behind you, clearly expecting something from you although you weren’t sure what.

It was the first time you were fully alone with him, in such proximity to each other, and his intimidating posture added to the way his eyes darkened when they met yours made you feel quite weary, as if you were suddenly in some kind of imminent danger.

“Now turn around so I can make sure you’re ready.” He demanded, his voice slightly lower than usual.

You obeyed without a word, slowly spinning around twice as you felt the weight of his analyzing stare on you, making your body tingle with an odd electric sensation. Once you were face to face with him again, you couldn’t tell if he was satisfied or not by the way you looked, his expression serious and unreadable. A heavy silence lingered between you as you desperately hoped to hear a few words of affirmation to boost your confidence a bit… He didn’t say any but he took a step closer, his face closer to yours than what would be deemed acceptable between two strangers. He pushed a strand of hair away from your forehead, his eyes briefly plunging into yours before his hand traveled down to your mouth. He traced your lips with his thumb, fading out your lipstick slightly.

“I hope you paid attention to the wedding night clause on our contract.” He spoke, almost in a whisper. “Because as soon as we’ll be done performing for the crowd, I’m going to make you mine.”

Your body shuddered in response, and you weren’t quite sure if it was because it made you nervous or if because such a promise actually excited you somehow. You didn’t have time to think about it anyway, another knock on the door forcing you apart. The wedding organizer announced that the ceremony was about to start, forcing Coriolanus out of your suite, visibly oblivious to the tension that tainted the atmosphere between you. You took a deep breath to compose yourself, grabbed your bouquet and folllwed them out, ready to perform.

You spent the whole ceremony in a daze, not quite realizing what was happening or what anyone was saying. But you still managed to say the one thing everyone expected of you; I do. You smiled as the crowd erupted in cheers, made sure to keep your eyes open despite the blinding flashing lights of the cameras on you and took the time to greet everyone of importance that was in attendance that day. When your new husband had to kiss you in front of hundred of curious faces staring at both of you, he did it softly and chastely which almost felt a bit disappointing considering the authority and confidence he had spoken with earlier. But it sure was a cute picture for the tabloids.

You returned to the mansion he owned in the most expensive and luxurious area of the Capitol and were showed to your new bedroom by a maid, noting how your belongings had already been unpacked and organized to make you feel at home. It was only after she helped you out of your wedding gown and into a more practical and relaxed dress that you realized that this bedroom was yours and yours only. There wasn’t a single item that looked like it could belong to your new husband, none of his clothes in the dressing room, none of the products he put on his hair to keep them perfectly combed back throughout the day in the bathroom. And, even though this man was still a complete stranger to you, you still felt a hint of disappointment at the realization that he wasn’t planning on spending any of his time with you if none of his potential supporters could witness it.

He still had been thoughtful enough to ask another one of his employees to deliver a black box to your bedroom, an unexpected wedding present. You opened it as soon as you were all alone and your eyes widened in shock, discovering some lingerie made out of the thinnest and softest lace you ever touched. It was a gorgeous set that complimented your skin tone so well, it almost looked like it had been made specifically for you.

You tried the pieces on, surprised to see how each of them fitted you perfectly and comfortably. However, even if you felt pretty good in your new lingerie, you felt too awkward to go find your husband with nothing else on, so you pulled your dress back over the lace, hiding everything from view, before you walked out of your bedroom, determined to find Coriolanus in the huge mansion you now shared with him.

You easily found him downstairs, sitting on a teal sofa in front of a modern chimney. He was reading with his ankle resting on top of his knee. He looked up to you as soon as you stepped into the living room, immediately folding his newspaper to give you his full attention.

“Is your new bedroom at your convenience ?” He asked, politely.

“Absolutely.” You replied, nervously fidgeting with your hands as you stood in front of him. “And thank you for the wedding present.”

“Does it fit you ?”

“Yes, perfectly.”

“Take off your clothes then.” He demanded, and you wondered how he managed to sound so intimidating despite sitting down and you, towering over him.

“Here ? Now ?” You exclaimed, looking around for house employees.

“I think I’ve waited long enough.” He declared, unwavering. “So take them off or I will.”

You did as he requested, nervously removing your casual dress so that you stood in nothing but your new lingerie in front of him. His icy gaze roamed your body from head to toe, his expression still too closed off to tell if he liked what he saw or not.

He stood up, bringing his hand to your chest and tracing the outline of the lace over your breast with a finger. Goosebumps rose on your skin in reaction, your heart beating faster so close to where he was touching you.

“Turn.” He commanded and you obeyed, feeling slightly more confident in this perfectly fitting set than you did in your wedding dress. You felt his hands on your body again, tugging the lower part of the ensemble down your thighs agonizingly slowly. Did it mean he didn’t like it ? Or was he simply curious to see what was underneath the thin lace fabric ? “Lie down.”

He gestured to the couch he was sitting on a minute ago. You followed his command, your head resting on a soft satin pillow and your knees pulled back to you to leave him enough room to join you. He sat down, fully removing the piece of underwear around your thighs and you shivered when he pushed your knees apart, once again analyzing your body with a critical gaze.

He leaned forward and you gasped when you felt the warmth and wetness of his tongue between your folds, tracing a few circles around your clit before moving down to your entrance. He sat back straight, an amused grin on his face as he licked his glistening lips and took in the shocked expression on your face.

“I needed to know how my wife tastes.” He explained, your body tingling with excitement. He opened up his trousers, pulling his long and hard erection out. Your eyes widened, taking in his size, which seemed to amuse him yet again. “You can take it.”

He sounded pretty confident about that but you weren’t so sure. You didn’t get the chance to protest though, because he immediately moved to align himself up with your entrance and pushed his tip through it without hesitation.

You gasped at the burning sensation, your fingers tightening around the edges of the couch. A satisfied groan rumbled in his throat as he kept pushing himself in, inch by inch until he was fully buried inside you and you couldn’t remember how to breathe correctly.

It wasn’t as pleasant to you as it seemed to be to him at first, your walls still stretching to accommodate his girth and length while he took advantage of the tighteness ensnaring him to push himself as deeply as he could.

It was too much. Way too much. But, just as you considered asking him to pause, suddenly your body stopped resisting him, welcoming him instead, allowing his cock to slide back and forth in rythym with the way he rolled his hips against you, causing a warm and tingly sensation to bubble up deep in your core.

You looked at him, holding himself above you with his strong arms on each side of the couch, his muscles carved under his pale skin. A blond lock of hair bouncing against his forehead in synch with his movements and his eyes were glued to yours, attentive to how your traits changed each time he modified the pace of his thrusts.

Soon, it felt like too much again, but in a good way. You felt close to imploding from how good it felt to have him hitting inside you at a relentless rythym.

You turned your head to the side, hoping the pillow would help silence your moans, worried that every employee in the mansion might hear the uncontrollable sounds of pleasure that kept resonating inside the living room.

“Look at me.” He immediately ordered, not waiting for you to obey as his hand flew to your face, turning your head so that you’d face him again. His fingers then dropped lower, wrapping around your neck, causing the whimpers escaping from your mouth to sound a lot more desperate. “I want to see what you’ll look like when you’ll come as I’ll fill you up.”

A few more thrusts of his hips, his tip hitting the perfect spot inside of you and you felt your whole body contracting intensely, your core tightening around him as you cried out in pleasure, closing your eyes and your mouth dropping open in shock at the intensity of the wave of sheer bliss that ran through your whole body.

“So beautiful.” He commented, his eyes fixed on you in genuine admiration this time. His labored breaths got louder and he climaxed, his erection throbbing as it spurt out a load of hot cum deep inside you.

♡ - (( Tip Jar )) - ♡

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airybcby · 2 months ago

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જ⁀♡⊹｡° consumed with what's just transpired

( reo mikage x fem! reader )

♡ a/n — part 4 to my series: The Garden of You ( masterlist )

♡ word count — 1.1k

♡ content — all characters are 18+ (prob like 22-25ish), Reo is a pro soccer player, business woman! reader, enemies to lovers, workplace banter, nepo baby! reo lowkey, explicit themes mentioned (nothing described though), she falls first, he falls harder

♡ synopsis — reo mikage has never had anything outside of soccer that he couldn't buy, and he hasn't really wanted to. until he meets you.

── .❀ the kiddie like play has people watching

The worst thing about working at Mikage Corporation wasn't the suffocating suits or the 6 a.m. calls.

It wasn’t the boardroom full of overpaid executives or the exhausting scramble to appear competent in a room full of sharks.

No.

It was Reo Mikage.

Golden boy.

Soccer star.

Heir to the empire.

And your new direct counterpart.

You weren’t just some intern fumbling files—no, you’d climbed here on merit.

Worked your way through the ranks with sleepless nights and smart decisions.

And then Reo walked in—straight from the field, sun-kissed and smug, all dazzling smile and signature violet hair—and decided he was going to “help out” around the company.

His father’s idea, apparently. A grooming period before he eventually took over the Mikage legacy.

He wasn’t even in a tie. Just sauntered into your meeting, three buttons undone, skin still glowing from training, and plopped down beside you like he owned the seat.

“Didn’t know this was bring-your-prodigal-son-to-work day,” you had muttered under your breath.

He smirked. “Nice to see you too, sweetheart.”

You should’ve known right then that this was war.

Meetings were the worst.

You swore he lived to disagree with you.

No matter what you said—numbers, projections, marketing ideas—Reo would have something to add. Something better.

And the worst part? Sometimes, it actually was.

But it didn’t make you like him more. In fact, it made you want to throw your pen across the table.

Today was no different.

“This entire campaign is built around data that’s nearly six months old,” you snapped, flipping the file shut. “It’s irrelevant now.”

Reo leaned back in his chair like he had all the time in the world. “And yet, it’s outperforming every other campaign in its bracket. Weird how that works.”

You could feel your pulse in your jaw. Across the table, three other executives stayed deathly silent, watching the two of you go at it for the fourth time this week.

“I’m saying we can do better.”

“And I’m saying we are doing better. Just not your version of it.” The man that you swore was the human embodiment of a fly kicked his feet up on the table, leaning back.

You shot him a glare sharp enough to kill a man.

He smiled like it tasted sweet.

“You’ve got to stop doing that,” you hissed as the meeting ended, gathering your things.

“Doing what?” He followed you out of the room like a damn shadow.

“Undermining me. You only argue to get under my skin.”

He raised a brow. “Maybe I just like the way you look when you're mad.”

You whirled around. “Do you even care about this company?”

His mouth opened, but the hallway was too quiet, too narrow, too full of something that wasn’t hate.

And Reo? He suddenly wasn’t smirking anymore.

“I care,” he said, softer than expected. “Just not the way you think.”

The breaking point came one Friday night.

You were both stuck working late—again—finalizing investor materials.

It was nearly 11 p.m., the office long since emptied, and you were dangerously close to chucking the company laptop out the window.

“You can’t just rewrite my entire proposal, Mikage!”

He stood up. “And you can’t keep acting like you’re the only one who gives a crap how our stocks look!”

“You think you’re the only one under pressure? You think just because you play soccer and have a trust fund that this—this company—is yours to coast through?!”

You were close now. Too close.

And Reo wasn’t laughing anymore.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” he said, voice low. “The company, the name. But I’m here. I show up. And maybe I didn’t come in the same way you did, but I’m not trying to take it from you.”

You stared at him, breath caught.

And then something snapped.

Your mouth opened—maybe to yell, maybe to push back—but instead, Reo kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative.

It was a mess of pent-up frustration and late nights, of power plays and quickened pulses and too many stolen glances across boardroom tables.

You grabbed his tie—not out of affection, but because you needed something to hold on to.

And Reo? He held you like he'd been dying to.

The days after were a blur of confusion and avoidance.

You didn’t know what to say, and Reo—he didn’t know how to stop wanting to do it again.

What scared him most wasn’t that he liked you.

It was that he didn’t know when he started.

All he knew was that now, he noticed everything.

The way your nose scrunched when you disagreed with a figure.

The coffee order you always messed up.

The tired look in your eyes when no one else noticed how hard you worked.

He noticed the way his chest hurt when he made you laugh.

He noticed the way your chair creaked just before you spoke up in meetings.

He noticed you, and he couldn’t un-notice it anymore.

Then one night, it boiled over again.

You were in the elevator, alone together.

“You’ve been weird,” you said, not even looking at him.

“Says the girl who kissed me.”

Your head snapped toward him. “You kissed me.” You shoved your finger into his chest.

Reo ran a hand through his hair—God, why did he do that so much? It made him look almost nervous. Vulnerable.

“Look,” he said, “I don’t care if this is stupid. Or if we fight again tomorrow. But I’ve never wanted something I can’t just buy before.”

He paused.

“And I want you.”

You blinked, finger falling from his chest as you took a step away from him.

He let out a breath like he’d been holding it for days.

“When I saw you sit across from me… it made me want to earn something for the first time in my life. On my own.”

Yes, he had soccer. Yes, he had built himself up from nobody to a world renowned player, but that wasn’t enough.

You win with a team in soccer, for once in his life, Reo wanted to win something by himself.

Silence stretched between you like an exhale.

And you took one step closer.

“You’re still annoying,” you muttered.

He grinned. “You love it.”

You kissed him this time.

It didn’t feel like tension anymore.

It felt like fire.

Like you were both finally letting go of the control and diving into the burn.

Later, as you lay tangled together on the couch in the Mikage penthouse—documents scattered, wine forgotten, Reo’s head on your shoulder—he whispered, almost without thinking:

“You remind me of sunflowers.”

You snorted. “What?”

“Always facing the light. Wanting to go up. Even when you hate everything around you.”

You turned to him, eyes searching. “You’ve got a weird way of complimenting someone.”

He smirked, lazy and soft. “And I adore you.”

And for the first time in years, Reo Mikage felt like this—this messy, brilliant, chaotic you—was something he could never put a price on.

And he didn’t want to.

first post back and i don't think this is my best work but oh well!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

❀ tags: ❀ @kenyuukissme ❀ @irethepotato ❀ @kiyy0mei ❀ @x3nafix ❀ @sugacor3 ❀ @ohagiyoo ❀ @reigensuperstar ❀ @nevvynevnev ❀ join the taglist here !

#★ · airybcbyy #mikage reo x reader #reo mikage x reader #reo mikage #reo #bllk reo #blue lock reo #bllk reo mikage #blue lock reo mikage #airy posts #bllk #blue lock #bllk x reader #blue lock x reader #reo x reader #airy's series!#airys series: the garden of you

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berrydoodleoo · 16 days ago

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I created these costumes for the last render and wanted to show them off a bit more, as I'm pretty happy with how they turned out. Some notes under the cut:

Of course, I could have just kept them in their original outfits, but I wanted them to have real expedition uniforms to highlight their 'innocence', for lack of a better word.

Verso

Verso was the easiest: I just removed some bits that seemed like they might have been added over the years, like his waist-wrap, gauntlet, the wooden rune pieces, and so on. I added the backpack, and if it looks familiar it's because it's from FFXIV. :) I just recolored it a bit.

I'm not sure why I added the backpack, other than I felt like I needed something to show the length of their journey, and because (as I was thinking about the backstory of Expedition Zero a lot while working on this image) I suspected that Verso was taking on more responsibilities as the expedition proceeded. When it started, Clea was still the heir and he was still the spare, and I'm sure he was fully expecting find his indomitable big sister and to step back neatly into her shadow. By the time they were close to the Monolith, however, he would have abandoned that hope, and Renoir would have begun to drag as his injuries and refusal to prioritize himself accumulated. So he took on more and more, in attempt to live up to his father's example and to continue protecting Alicia.

Of course, he doesn't have his white hair or scars yet. He looks quite different without them. Younger and more handsome, a bit smarmy. I can definitely see Verso being a bit of a playboy, in the literary tradition of second sons. Overshadowed by Clea, spending his days sleeping, his nights gambling and dancing, but carrying a secret love for the piano, a secret hero-worship for his big sister, and a secret desire to support her and protect the family. But he was overlooked because he was not needed ... until his life was tragically cut short, and the family was rocked by the size and shape of their unexpected loss.

Alicia

Alicia's uniform was also pretty simple. I toyed with the idea of using some pieces from Sciel and Lune's original uniforms from the early concept art, but although the meshes are still in the game they aren't textured, and that was too much work. So her top half is the standard Female Expeditioner outfit, and her bottom half is from Sciel's uniform.

Her boots are the same ones she wears later in the game. It's not always easy to see, but there are subtle silver and gold runes etched on her usual clothes, similar to the gold marbling that shows up for other members of the Dessendre family. So I got rid of them but kept the boots, because I think they're really cool looking. The other thing I used was the scarf -- it was originally Lucien's scarf, judging by the names of the files (a character who didn't make it to the final draft) so that seemed fitting. I imagine that she would often hide her face behind it, as a kind of precursor to the mask she ends up wearing later.

I decided to use her real colors instead of the grayscale skin/hair that she uses in the game. I also have some headcanons/ideas about how that came about, but maybe I'll save that for later. I'm leaning towards the idea that she was supposed to stay behind in Lumiere, but stowed away with the Expedition and didn't reveal herself until it was too late.

Renoir

Renoir's uniform was the most work. His vest and shirt are Real Renoir's, just recolored. The coat and pants are from an early version of Verso's outfit, which was still in the game files (it seemed fitting). The original coat was clearly stitched together from multiple past coats, so I made them all the same color to try to make it seem newer (obviously they were going for a battered and many-times-repaired look for Verso, but this was at the beginning of their journey). The boots are Verso's. It makes sense that they would have the same boots in their uniforms, right?

I also gave him some pieces from Verso's final outfit, like the fur hood and the sling. I originally toyed with giving him a cape, like the one Verso wears in-game, but Verso's cape is too destroyed (and has the same gold/silver runes as Alicia's outfit) and I couldn't get anything else working in time. In my mind, Verso adopted those pieces of his uniform later, in imitation (conscious or unconscious) of his beloved Papa. With Renoir, I wanted to make him broader and beefier than the others, very much an old veteran and a solid bulwark against any harm (I see Renoir as the tank, Alicia as the healer, and Verso as the DPS).

I also headcanon that Renoir died before they reached the Monolith, leaving Verso and Alicia to carry on alone. He has a strange line in-game about whether Verso knows what it's like to cease to exist, so I think he stayed behind to hold off some enemy (maybe Duelliste?) and laid down his life to give his children the opportunity to flee. I suspect that when Clea was encountered outside the Monolith, she was also helping to hold Aline captive or something similar, so Aline was unaware of what was happening to her Painted Family and unable to protect them the way she does in-game. That would also explain how Painted Clea's fate remained such a mystery. Once Aline was freed and told them the truth (or some version of it) she resurrected Renoir, made the Mirror Family immortal, and froze them in time.

Armbands

The final thing was creating the Expedition Zero armbands, as well as the 100 for the Monolith. The 100 was from a screenshot from Maelle's nightmare, with some tweaking. The armbands were pieced together from the Expedition Zero and Expedition 33 armbands in the game. They're kind of twisted oddly on their arms because I wanted to make sure they were visible in the final render. :D

It might be silly, but the armbands felt weirdly momentous. It signified for me that they were among the first batch of expeditioners. They struck out for answers and to protect their city and their world. And after all they saw and all they learned, all three did their best to stick to that mission, although they came to interpret it in different ways....

#clair obscur: expedition 33 #spoilers #renoir dessendre #alicia dessendre #verso dessendre #expedition zero

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seongwars · 30 days ago

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intermission: deluge (preview)

Pairing: heir!Park Seonghwa x photographer!Reader AU: non-idol | strangers by nature universe Genre: angst, some humor, mystery Rating: T (mentions of m*rder, swearing) Summary: Bound to a future he didn’t choose and an engagement he doesn’t want, Seonghwa has buried every trace of who he used to be. But when an old camera sends him hurtling back ten years into his 21-year-old body, he's given a second chance to confront the choices that changed everything.

a/n: I'm not sure when Seonghwa's next appearance is going to be in SBN so he gets his own little spinoff 🤭 this will be a LONG one shot and is my version of lovely runner and a reverse version of 13 going on 30 and a 3K preview

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The boardroom buzzed as people began collecting their laptops and belongings, finally escaping the stuffy meeting room and into the sun. Seonghwa stood, perfectly composed in his tailored navy suit, and bowed at the departing executives.

“Your numbers on Q3 projections were sharp,” murmured one of the directors.

“They’re always sharp,” someone else replied under their breath.

From the far end of the table, his father stood last, adjusting the gold cufflink on his sleeve.

“Don’t forget dinner with the Hongs tonight—”

“6:30 P.M. at Hala Haus,” Seonghwa echoed, sliding his pen into the fold of his leather planner. As if this wasn’t the fifth time today his parents had reminded him. As if he hadn’t already received the calendar invite, the follow-up text from his mother, and a phone call from his father’s secretary.

His father gave him a once-over, unreadable. “Jini's parents are expecting sincerity.”

Seonghwa could only roll his eyes. He felt bad for the poor woman who was probably just as trapped in her family’s schemes as he was.

“You don’t get to live for whims and impulse anymore.”

“No,” Seonghwa said, gathering his papers. “I live for legacy now. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

His father straightened, fixing his tie in the reflection of the conference window, watching his son in the corner of his eye as he made his own departure.

Seonghwa didn’t head straight to the executive elevator. He never did.

Instead, he took the long route through the east and south wings, checking in with the admin office, nodding at the new hire sorting intake files, passing on a foundation memo at maternity, and signing off on pharmacy renovations. These detours weren’t required of him. But someone had to keep the place from falling apart under its own weight.

Doctors and staff alike found it odd how involved Seonghwa was, how he remembered names, department codes, and whose vending machine was always broken. He wasn’t warm, exactly. But he was present. Attentive. Impossibly composed.

Some chalked it up to control issues. Others called it dedication. Either way, it was what made him likeable, even among board members.

Being Hospital Director wasn’t just numbers and donor reports. It required foresight, stamina, and unfortunately, people skills, which occasionally meant stepping in before someone launched into a tirade in the lobby.

He spotted them outside the outpatient pharmacy before anyone else did: Ahri, voice sharp and unrelenting, cornering Mingi in a tone that was quickly drawing too much attention.

“Ms. Jeong,” Seonghwa said smoothly, approaching the small crowd of spectators.

“I suggest you leave before you embarrass yourself any further.”

Ahri whirled on him. “Stay out of this, Park Seonghwa! This has nothing to do with you!”

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “You’re causing a disturbance in my hospital. That makes it my problem.”

Her chest rose and fell with sharp, angry breaths, but Seonghwa remained unfazed.

“You’re humiliating yourself. If you don’t leave, I’ll have security escort you out.”

Ahri’s lips parted, her eyes darting between Seonghwa and Mingi, as if searching for a foothold. But Mingi had already turned away, walking toward the parking lot...toward someone else entirely.

He figured Mingi’s wife had been waiting for him. An heiress by birth, she was a bit of an outsider to the rest of high society, especially in the way she spoke so freely without pretense. There was something about her that drew him in, but the feeling was more haunting than comforting.

Frankly, she was too good for Mingi. But then again, most people were too good for the men they loved.

He checked his watch, adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, and continued down the hall.

All in a day’s work.

By the time he arrived at his penthouse, the late afternoon sunlight had dimmed into something softer, casting long lines against the marble floors.

And immediately, he noticed something was off.

The first thing he noticed was the noise. the faint sound of furniture being shifted, followed by the strong scent of nauseating florals.

One of the housekeepers was finishing up in the living room, fluffing throw pillows that hadn’t existed yesterday. Beside her, two decorators were holding up curtain samples near the balcony window, murmuring about "light tones to soften the space."

His penthouse was being dismantled piece by piece.

“Director Park,” one of the housekeepers startled. She bowed quickly.

“We didn’t expect you back so early. Mrs. Hong sent the items over this morning, she thought Miss Jini might want to start envisioning the space.”

He didn’t say anything but the housekeeper sensed the tension simmering under his cool demeanor.

“O-Of course, we’ll revert things if you prefer.”

“No need,” he said. “Let them see what they want to see.”

The decorators offered tight smiles and gathered their swatches. One of them adjusted the newly added vase of artificial peonies on the dining table.

He walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge, then closed it again without taking anything. The place felt like a cage, a version of domesticity designed for someone else's future.

His future fiancée, apparently.

He leaned a hip against the counter, eyes trailing over the reorganized shelves and piles of boxes, all while trying to breathe through the tightness in his chest.

Dinner with the Hongs was in twenty minutes.

He could still make it. Change, show up, and play the part. Shake hands, smile politely, pretend like everything wasn’t being hollowed out from the inside.

Instead, he turned on his heel and walked toward the back room, where a handful of old boxes had been pulled out of storage stacked neatly, ready to be discarded “make room.”

He opened the top box, filled with his childhood belongings. A soft stuffed bear with one eye missing, a stack of old composition notebooks in crooked handwriting, a faded photo of him in swim goggles, clutching his first gold medal with both hands.

The next box held his middle school memories. Science fair plaques and newspaper clippings from the local paper about a swim competition.

“Rising Star in Competitive Swimming: Park Seonghwa.”

He remembered the day that article was published. He’d rushed home, clutching the paper like it meant everything. But his father hadn’t even looked up from his emails.

The last box brought him back to college. Inside were fragments of a life he barely recognized anymore: his team hoodie, a warped Polaroid from some party he barely remembered, a campus newspaper lay folded in half: “Park Withdraws from Nationals.”

He pushed the paper aside as his hand drifted farther down through the mess of until it bumped against something solid.

He pulled it free. A black film camera, slightly dented near the shutter, but the leather strap was still soft and surprisingly well-conditioned. Probably better than he was, honestly.

It didn’t even look like it worked anymore—the viewfinder was dented, the lens scratched, and there probably wasn’t any film loaded. Still, he lifted it to eye level and pressed the shutter out of curiosity.

Click.

A blinding flash exploded directly into his face. He flinched back with a curse, nearly dropping it.

“Shit—”

The camera dangled from the strap around his wrist as he rubbed his eyes, blinking furiously.

“Park Seonghwa, are you still asleep?”

The voice was muffled, followed by a loud knock at the door. His eyes snapped open. Except…hadn’t they already been open?

He was no longer in his penthouse. Instead, he was in a dorm room. Books were neatly stacked on built-in shelves. His desk was cluttered with swim goggles, a planner, a pack of protein bars, a half-finished water bottle. His swim team hoodie was draped over the back of his desk chair.

“Bro, seriously, get up! Practice starts in thirty!” another voice shouted through the door, more annoyed this time.

“If you’re late again, Coach’ll make you do wall sprints until you puke!”

Footsteps retreated down the hall as Seonghwa sat up too fast and struggled to center himself. Coach? Sprints?

He scrambled off the mattress, nearly tripping over a pair of sneakers. His hand slammed into the desk, knocking a protein bar to the floor. He scanned the room like it might be rigged with hidden cameras like some elaborate setup by his parents or the Hongs to test him.

Then his eyes landed on the phone charging by the desk and snatched it up. But there was no Face ID or lock screen. Instead he jammed the home button.

March 30. 5:55 A.M.

He stared. His heart dropped into his stomach as he stumbled toward the mirror, bracing a hand against the wall.

A younger version of himself blinked back.

“No. No, no, no, this can't be,” he muttered, waving a hand in front of his own face.

He turned in a full circle, eyes wide, pacing the length of the dorm like a caged animal.

“Why am I in my old dorm? I don’t swim anymore! I haven’t eaten instant ramen in years!”

Another knock from the hallway.

“Seonghwa, seriously! Coach is gonna skin you alive!”

He let out a strangled sound, something between a gasp and a feral scream, and sank down into the desk chair, gripping the edge like the room might spin off its axis.

He was twenty one again.

And absolutely losing his mind.

⋆˙⟡

Seonghwa dragged himself to morning practice, his body aching in places he’d forgotten existed. Coach Lee narrowed his eyes at him but gave a curt nod, and Seonghwa was quietly grateful to have made it by the skin of his teeth.

As he slipped into the water, muscle memory took over. Stroke. Breathe. Turn. The rhythm was there, like his body still remembered the boy who used to crave the stillness found only underwater.

He was grateful for it. Grateful that his limbs knew what to do even when his mind didn’t. That some things, at least, hadn’t changed.

Until he saw you.

He didn’t realize he’d stopped swimming until Coach barked his name. You were by the edge of the pool again, crouched with your camera, hidden behind the lens like always. His lungs burned from the cold water, but it was nothing compared to the ache creeping into his chest.

You’d met during his sophomore year at a regional swim meet. He was halfway through his dive, and somehow, you’d caught the shot perfectly. The photo made its way into the school paper, then into his locker, his phone’s lock screen, laptop wallpaper, and then into a frame at his desk.

He’d tracked you down after the meet, awkward and curious about your photography skills. “Do you always shoot like that?”

“Only when someone’s worth the shot.”

After that, he started hovering by the bleachers during practice, his towel slung over his shoulders like he wasn’t waiting for anything in particular. But he always managed to catch you just as you were packing up your gear.

At first, it was questions. Like, “what makes a photo good?”

“Why do you shoot on film instead of digital?”

“What’s the difference between f/1.8 and f/2.2 again?”

He borrowed your spare camera once and nearly dropped it. You teased him relentlessly after that, telling everyone on the team he held it like it might bite.

“Only because it looks like it will,” he pouted.

You were opposites. He was golden, gifted, always surrounded by noise. You were quieter, someone who saw things through a lens before you spoke. But somehow, you both clicked.

You caught photos of him when he was the most vulnerable. Some shots included stretching on the bleachers, laughing too hard at something dumb his teammate said, or staring into the water like he was trying to predict his future. He said no one had ever seen him like that before. You thought maybe that was the point.

Sometimes, he'd walk you home from late practices. Sometimes, you'd bring him snacks when he forgot to eat between meets and lab hours. It was a friendship that Seonghwa valued because for once he got to be himself. Not the heir to the Park Medical Group.

But everything changed the night of his birthday.

You stayed off to the side at the club, watching him work up the courage to do something you didn’t think he’d do. He was flushed with nerves, jacket sleeves wrinkled from fidgeting. He kept scanning the crowd for Mira while you were off to the side rooting for him.

You told yourself you were happy for him. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything that your heart had started racing too.

And then you heard her voice.

“Wait, you’re asking me out? I thought you and Y/N were together?”

“What? No,” he said, brushing it off with a wave of his hand. “She’s just—Hell, no. We’re just friends.”

Mira’s smile faltered. “Okay… it’s just, I don’t know, you guys seem close. Still, you probably shouldn’t talk about her like that. She clearly cares about you.”

Seonghwa laughed, loud enough for everyone in your section to hear. Loud enough for you to hear.

It hit like a punch to the gut. The music didn’t stop, but the world felt quieter, like someone had muted everything except the roaring in your ears. You caught one girl whispering behind her drink to one of Seonghwa’s teammates. Suddenly, the package in your purse felt unbearably heavy.

“She’ll get over it,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “She always does.”

Mira’s brows knit, but she didn’t press him. Just looked at him like she suddenly saw him a little differently.

And maybe that was what did it. The laugh died in his throat, and for a moment, he looked lost and unsure of himself.

“I—I need some air,” he mumbled, already stepping back.

Before anyone could stop him, he turned and pushed through the crowd, heading for the exit without another word.

You slipped out the door and found him standing beneath a street lamp, his dark hair and shoulders damp with drizzle. He tensed and turned at the sound of your footsteps, like he’d been bracing for a fight he couldn’t afford to lose.

“What the fuck was that?” you shouted, stalking toward him.

“Why are people saying we’re together? Did you tell them that?” he shot back.

Your jaw dropped. “What? No! Why would you even think that?”

“Because everyone thinks it,” he snapped. “And I didn’t say it, so who the hell did?”

“You’re serious?” Angry tears pooled at the corner of your eyes. “You really think I’m going around spreading rumors about us because Mira rejected you?”

“Don’t make this about her—”

“It is about her! She thought we were together, and instead of telling her we're just friends, you acted like I planted the idea in everyone’s head.”

“Maybe you did! Maybe you just wanted attention and to feel special because you’re a charity case!”

For a moment, you searched his eyes, looking for the person you thought you knew. But all you found was the stranger who’d broken you.

“I never asked for your pity or your money. I thought you were my friend because you wanted to be. Not because you needed someone to use as a punching bag when things went wrong. But that's probably because you've never owned up to anything in your life."

Your hands shook as you reached into your bag. The ribbon had come undone on the walk over, and the rain had soaked through the wrapping paper. Still, it didn’t matter. You hurled the box at his feet, watching it bounce off the pavement.

“I saved up for that,” you said flatly. “Took weeks of shooting extra matches. Happy fucking birthday.”

You didn’t wait for him to pick it up as you stormed off. Seonghwa stood there, frozen under the streetlamp, watching you disappear. He told himself he’d fix it and give you space. Show up the next day with a breakfast sandwich and some kind of apology, and everything would find its way back to the way it used to be.

But by morning, it was already too late.

He woke up nauseous, unsure if it was from the fight or the hangover that followed, from wallowing in humiliation. Either way, the feeling clung to him as he headed to practice.

The moment he reached the pool, everything changed. Yellow tape stretched across the doors, police cars lined the curb, and Coach stood pale faced, giving a statement to an officer. The rest of the team huddled behind the barricade and their phones buzzed nonstop with notifications about the incident.

Seonghwa pushed forward.

Then he saw it.

Your body floated just beneath the surface, suspended in the still water of the deep end. Your skin was pallid, eyes closed, as dark hair bloomed around you like an inkblot. There were angry bruises around your neck, like someone had meant to hurt you. Like someone had wanted to take the light away from you.

He staggered back as bile swam up his throat and a high pitched ringing filled his ears. His chest seized, as if his lungs had forgotten how to work. When he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ground himself, all he could see was your lifeless body floating before him.

That summer, Seonghwa withdrew his name from the national roster and quietly left the team. Weeks later, headlines announced his decision to step away from competition and fully embrace his role as heir to the Park Medical Group.

#park seonghwa #ateez seonghwa #cromernet #seonghwa x reader #ateez #fantasy au #seonghwa x y/n #ateez fic #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #seonghwa x you

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ell0ra-br3kk3r-writes · 16 days ago

Text

Fifth Light

pairing: nikolai lantsov x fem!wife!reader

genre: angst/fluff

requested? yes

el's thoughts: dad!nikolai x mom!reader <3

nikolai lantsov masterlist

Four children under ten made for a loud palace. But that noise — laughter echoing down gilded halls, the scrape of tiny boots on tile, the shout of “Mama!” every five minutes — was the music of Y/N Lantsov’s life.

She and Nikolai had carved out something real from a kingdom that once nearly broke them. They had their heirs, their war-scarred peace, and — miraculously — each other.

But even peace had politics.

So when her old friends from the Wandering Isle appeared at a Ravkan spring ball, dressed like they owned the room and smelling faintly of sea salt and rum, she hadn't expected the night to change everything.

They weren’t pirates anymore — not technically. They were ambassadors now, bearing both flair and opportunity. What they offered was simple: joint naval production in exchange for Ravkan steel and Grisha-designed weaponry. It was bold. Dangerous, even. But it could reshape the future.

Nikolai had been skeptical.

“You trust them because you played dice with them at seventeen,” he muttered into her ear after too many speeches. “They could still slit throats when the lights go out.”

“And you trust no one,” she said sweetly. “Except me.”

That had shut him up. Because it was true.

Two weeks later, she boarded their ship to negotiate in the Wandering Isle, kissing four small foreheads and one furrowed blond brow before sailing off with a wave and a grin.

Nikolai regretted letting her go the moment the sails vanished over the horizon.

“She’s with pirates,” he snapped at the Triumvirate, pacing like a caged animal. “Former pirates. Allegedly.”

David sighed. “They filed official paperwork. They’re an independent maritime state now.”

“They drink out of skulls, David.”

But it wasn’t just paranoia.

It was the nightmares.

The ones he never told her about — of betrayal, of enemies in their own bed. Whispers that had haunted him as a boy: Kings are betrayed by those closest. Your mother. Your guards. Your wife, someday. He hated that he remembered them now.

Then came the meeting that broke the dam.

A standard war council. Tense, routine — until Nikolai slammed his hand on the table after a minor disagreement with Zoya.

“This is a waste of time!” he barked. “She’s gone and we’re sitting here bickering about routes—”

“She’s pregnant, Nikolai,” Genya said, her voice sharp with frustration. “Do you really think she'd be reckless right now?”

Silence fell like a guillotine.

“…What?”

Genya blinked. “You didn’t know?”

“No,” he said hoarsely. “She didn’t tell me.”

And with that, his world collapsed inward.

He didn’t sleep that night. He remembered how pale she’d been before she left. How she’d paused when packing, hand to her stomach. He thought it was nerves.

Now, he wondered if it had been guilt.

By the time her ship returned, Nikolai hadn’t spoken to her in two full days.

The children noticed. Of course they did.

“Mama,” whispered their eldest, a thoughtful boy with her eyes and his temper. “Did you and Papa have a fight?”

“No,” Y/N said gently, brushing his curls back. “But I think we might be misunderstanding each other.”

Her youngest — a curly-haired girl of four — wrapped her arms around Y/N’s belly. “I missed you so much, Mama.”

“I missed you more,” she whispered, kissing her daughter's cheek. “Now go find your father, alright? Tell him Mama wants to talk.”

She found Nikolai in the observatory. Hands clasped behind his back. Staring out over the sea.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

He didn’t turn around.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

“About what?” she asked, folding her arms.

He turned, eyes cold and glassy. “That you’re pregnant.”

Her jaw dropped. “I—what? No. I’m not. That’s—who told you that?”

“Genya.”

“She must’ve assumed—”

“You left, Y/N,” he snapped. “You left with people you used to drink with and disappear with, and now you come back and—how do I know?”

Her chest twisted. “You think I would cheat on you.”

“I don’t know what to think!” he shouted. “You didn’t say anything! You just left!”

“And you let me!”

Their voices rose. Fury, heartbreak, exhaustion.

“You think I could do that to you?” she said, breath shaking. “After everything we’ve survived? After four children and ten years?”

“I don’t know what I think anymore,” Nikolai said softly. “Except that I’m afraid.”

A knock came at the door, and before either of them could shout again, Tolya and Tamar stepped in. Uninvited. Grim-faced.

“She didn’t cheat,” Tamar said bluntly.

“We were with her the whole time,” Tolya added. “She didn’t know she was pregnant. We think Genya noticed symptoms before even she did.”

Y/N stared. “Wait—what? I’m actually pregnant?”

“You fainted on the third day,” Tamar said, smirking. “I almost sent a pigeon myself, but you said it was just the heat.”

“Oh.”

Nikolai sat down hard on the nearest chair.

Y/N blinked. “I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

“I didn’t mean to think the worst of you,” he whispered. “I just—this fear—it’s old. And loud. And I’m sorry.”

She crossed the room and knelt in front of him. “Next time, ask me before you crown me with your worst fear, Nikolai.”

He cupped her cheek, thumb trembling. “Next time, don’t leave while pregnant.”

“I didn’t know!” she laughed through tears. “Apparently I pass out before I get suspicious.”

They pulled each other close — no fancy titles, no throne between them — just two people, exhausted and in love.

Later that evening, they called the children into the drawing room.

“We have some news,” Nikolai said, one hand around Y/N’s waist.

The second youngest wrinkled her nose. “Are you done being mad?”

“Yes,” Y/N said gently. “Papa and I are done being mad.”

Their eldest tilted his head. “Are you having another baby?”

Nikolai blinked. “How did you—?”

“You always have that face when you find out.”

Y/N laughed as all four kids piled on top of her.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered into their hair. “We’re all okay. And this little one is lucky to be joining such a loud, wonderful family.”

Nikolai knelt beside them, resting his forehead against hers. “Fifth child,” he murmured. “Fifth light.”

“Fifth chance to keep choosing each other,” she whispered.

And they would — every time.

#nikolai lantsov #nikolai lantsov x reader #nikolai lantsov x y/n #nikolai lantsov x you #shadow and bone #nikolai lantsov imagines #shadow and bone imagine #shadow and bone x reader #ellora.writes

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