#matching en mirroring

[trancekracht]

Rapport opbouwen: Hoe je sneller verbinding kunt maken met anderen

In communicatie draait het niet alleen om wat je zegt, maar vooral om hoe je het zegt en hoe de ander zich daarbij voelt. Rapport is een essentieel concept binnen Neuro-Linguïstisch Programmeren (NLP) en verwijst naar de mate van verbinding, vertrouwen en begrip tussen mensen. Wanneer je rapport met iemand opbouwt, creëer je een gevoel van wederzijdse afstemming, waardoor communicatie soepeler…

[stormyrainyday]

the hyoma and reiji battle bladers fight remains one of my favorites in the show it had no reason to go that hard it makes me sick to my stomach

[enhaflixer]

CHERRY TREES

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is everything alright?" he asked quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The moment, whatever it might have been, evaporated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not once did anyone ask if you were happy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's not what I meant."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And since then?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Do what?"

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

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

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

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

The revelation stunned you. "Then why—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had no answer, and his silence was damning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where are you going?"

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

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

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

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

Instead, it was Jungwon.

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

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

Another message appeared below the first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your phone buzzed with a message from Jungwon.

Are you coming down?

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good for you," Leah said firmly.

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

"And what did he say?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

Are you coming down?

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

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

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

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

The irony wasn't lost on him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jungwon tensed. "How did you—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't you dare hang up on—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

Between what is said and not meant,

And what is meant and not said,

Most of love is lost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I practice conversations with you in my head

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

Really look at me

But when you enter the room

My words evaporate like morning dew

And we speak of dinner parties and business associates

Never of stars or dreams or why your eyes

Sometimes follow me when you think I don't notice

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

Another poem, dated just two months ago:

Your fingers brushed mine as you handed me a glass

Accidental touch that burned through my skin

I wonder if you felt it too

That current between us, electric and dangerous

Or if I imagined it, desperate for connection

For any sign that beneath your perfect suit

Beats a heart that could want me

As much as I want you

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

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

One year of marriage

Three hundred sixty-five nights of lying beside him

Listening to his breathing

Wondering if he's awake

Wondering if he ever thinks of touching me

Of breaking through the invisible wall between us

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

Sometimes I think if I just reached for him once

If I was brave enough to cross that divide

But what if his rejection destroyed the last piece of me

That still believes I'm worthy of being

Wanted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sounds like someone's having a breakdown."

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

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

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

"Want me to come with you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing could have prepared you for what you found.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes locked with yours, their intensity almost unbearable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Stand up," you said softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

"Exactly."

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

-

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

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

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

Instead, he surprised you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Let them talk," Jungwon said simply.

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

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

You squeezed his hand. "You were perfect."

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

"We are," you replied simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"May I kiss you?" he asked softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

It was the hunger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were already soaked, trembling.

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

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

“I don’t think I could if I tried.”

He broke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you did.

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

And Jungwon?

Did. Not. Flinch.

He nodded, breath shaking, and said—

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

And he meant it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He paused. Smiled against your neck.

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

-

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

Jungwon couldn’t stop touching you.

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

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

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

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

You gave in to him every time.

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

You didn’t hear him approach.

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

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

“That’s what I come home to?”

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

He was already unbuttoning his sleeves.

Already breathing too hard.

“Jungwon—”

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

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

“What was that for?”

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

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

You trembled.

He pulled you closer.

“I refuse to waste another fucking day.”

The peonies were forgotten.

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

His jacket hit the floor first. Then yours.

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

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

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

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

You moaned, breath hitched.

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

You were dripping by the time he pushed inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what do you think?”

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

Then smiled.

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

A pause.

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His rhythm stuttered—hips faltering, jaw tensing.

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

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

“No. Quite the opposite.”

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

“I’m amazed that all of this—”

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

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

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

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

You whimpered, breath catching.

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

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

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

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

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

The need in his voice made your toes curl.

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

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

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

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

His hips snapped, and your whole body trembled.

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

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

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

He kissed you then. Deep. Unrelenting.

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

You’d never seen the real Jungwon before this.

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

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

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

Epilogue: Aegean Dreams

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I lived behind walls so high

Even I forgot what lay inside

Until your voice broke through

And light flooded places

I had kept dark for so long

I had forgotten they could shine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But your work—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once I thought perfection meant control

Now I know it's the moment you laugh

Head thrown back, eyes dancing

Completely unguarded in my arms

The sound of your happiness echoing

Through rooms once filled with silence

This is the music I want to hear

For all my remaining days

fin.

-

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

[highdramas]

it had to be you | dr. jack abbot

pairing: jack abbot x f!attending!reader warnings: language, age gap (unspecified, but reader is late 20s/early 30s and jack is mid/late 40s), references to sex but nothing explicit, sweet sweet fluff <3 word count: 3k summary: it is the first year you're attending PTMC's annual gala as an attending. it's also your first year with a date. notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with my work or this fic. GALA FIC GALA FIC GALA FIC <3 this is a part of the ring of fire interconnected series, but it’s not necessary to read the prior parts to understand this fic. if you would like to, though, you can find the masterlist here <3 not proofread so apologies for any errors!

“i don’t know…” you hands trail down your torso, looking at yourself and your dress in the mirror. “i think it’s too much. do you think it’s too much? is the red giving, like…” you chuckle a little bit to yourself. “i dunno, blood?”

jack rounds the corner from the en suite bathroom, leaning in the doorway with his hands in the pockets of his immaculate dress pants. pressed, tailored, and fitting his legs perfectly– you know if he turned around, you’d find that it fit his ass perfectly, too. not fair, you think to yourself. simply not fair for him to look like that.

his eyes find yours in the mirror, but not before you watch him take in the sight of you from behind. his chest rises with a big inhale, blowing it out through his mouth. “i don’t know how to say this nicely,” he takes a step closer to you. “or gentlemanly. but here goes: if someone saw you in that and their first thought is blood, they might be certifiably fucking insane.” his hands settle onto your hips and he pulls you back into him, back to front, a kiss being placed onto your shoulder. “wear it. it’s perfect.”

“i don’t want to be the gala harlot.”

the vibration of his laughter hits the spot between your shoulder blades and you practically keel over. “it’s perfect.” his hand smacks his favorite spot– your ass. “besides, i found this, and i thought i’d wear it. match you.”

you turn in his arms and he reveals a signet ring, resting on his pinky– a beautiful, flat ruby settled into it. it’s almost a perfect color match. “i didn’t want to go full prom, red tie, but this…” he shrugs his shoulders and looks at you with one perfectly arched brow. “what do you think?”

both of your hands take his and you bring his palm up to your mouth, kissing it. “it’s perfect.”

that look dawns on him. the look that tells you that he has plans that are so far away from any gala, hospital fundraiser, or anywhere in between. you point at him. “don’t.” he leans in and presses your hair back with a delicately precise motion. capable hands. god, you love his hands. “jack. we’ll be late.”

“don’t care.”

“i do,” you rub at his arms, where they encircle your waist and tug you ever-closer, until you’re practically one body instead of two. you feel like that most days, anyway.

you’ve found your rhythm. going from not-official to very-official wasn’t as jarring as you thought it might be, and definitely not as jarring for jack. it was, largely, simple. it was all of the other stuff that wasn’t simple.

it was the fact that now, when you entered work together, you got smirks from tired day crew folks. it was the fact that now, when you have one of your little spats– never disrespectful, always passionate– from across each other, trying to determine the best course of care for a patient, someone else in the room has to determine it a lovers quarrel.

when it was just the two of you, holed up in jack’s apartment after a long shift… it was quieter. you missed that, sometimes.

but jack loving you out loud is worth the stares and the remarks. because you love the way that his gaze lingers on you, freely, wherever you are. you love that he comes by and slides a granola bar into your pocket when he has watched you go nonstop for hours, barely even coming up for air. you love that he’s your boyfriend, but he’s still your attending, too. he’s still your teacher. you love when he guides you through an insane procedure that he hasn’t performed since he was overseas. you love when it works.

even when it doesn’t work. when you work side by side and for as good as you are together, for all of the lives that you save together and apart, you can’t save everyone. and when you find that familiar feeling of despair, and shame, and like maybe this isn’t what you’re built for, jack still finds your eyes. finds your heart, your fear, your anguish. and he walks through it with you. god, he’s good at walking through it with you.

you hope that he feels you’re as good to him as he is to you. it’s the only goal you’re ever trying to achieve, the one way that you want to measure up.

“this is my first time going to this thing as an attending,” you say, not without significant nerves. “now i have to talk to donors and it means something.”

“i’ll be there,” jack says easily, squeezing your arms. he kisses your shoulder again, open mouthed and hot, and it makes your head fall forward, leaning against his shoulder. “you think i’m gonna leave your side tonight, with you looking like that? i’ll be following you like a lost dog.”

a chuckle bubbles out of you and you meet his eyes through your eyelashes. he looks diabolically handsome– he kept his stubble, which you love, obviously– to the untrained eye, he looks polished. but there’s still that roguish glint to him, the thing that no amount of suits or shiny dress shoes could wipe away. “i’ll put you on a leash,” you joke.

“you could do anything you want to me, kid.”

the two of you watch each other thoughtfully. there’s no need to fill the space with words, when silence is this comfortable. it’s a byproduct of years of mentoring, knowing, loving. “you’ll really stay with me?” you ask, your insecurities scratching at your heels.

“you know i will,” he says. “i’ve gone to this thing for a million years. big donors want to know the same three things– tell me about the most impactful case you’ve worked on recently. how do you do it all. can you tell me that my money goes to those who need it. simple.” he can tell that you’re not convinced. “we could always smoke a little.”

you gape at him. “i am not smoking before work.”

“come on– you’re not intubating anyone! we’re gonna be talking with suits!” he laughs at your reaction. “alright, suit yourself. i smoke before it every year.”

within ten minutes, a roach is stubbed out in his ashtray, your lipgloss clinging to the filter.

–

“look at you two!” dana gives you and jack big hugs outside of the ballroom where the gala was taking place, squeezing you against her tightly. “you two look sharp.”

you’re feeling light from the weed, nerves settled like sand at the bottom of the ocean. you look over at jack and pick a strand of your hair off of his suit jacket. he looks at you and shrugs his shoulders. “she laid out my outfit last night,” he jokes, and it makes you groan and roll your eyes.

you shove him a bit and dana laughs. “oh, yeah? been together what, six months, already acting as mama?”

you scrunch your nose up and give her a sideways glance. “hell no.” you laugh and jack has that smug smile on his face. “he’s a big boy. he took care of himself long before i came into the picture.”

dana winks at you. “smart girl. abbot, she’s your lady, not a maid, alright? i don’t peg you as the type, but–”

“yes, ma’am.”

dana laughs. “alright. i’ll see you in there.”

you suck in a big breath. by your side, jack does the same. “are you nervous?” you ask.

“nah. my leg.” he shifts his weight slightly, and your mouth goes into a straight line, suddenly as serious as a heart attack. “don’t look at me like that, doctor. i’m good.”

“okay, but if it’s too much–”

“i know. i’ll sit down and take a break.” he rubs his hand up and down on your lower back. “we should get in there, huh?”

“you’re just trying to get me to stop being all doctor on you.”

he pats your ass one time, with no eyes to take it in. “dunno what you’re talking about.” he says it with that deadpan expression that he loves to wear, but you see the mirth in his eyes.

jack takes your hand and leads you in. the ballroom is immaculate– you’ve never seen anything so… frivolous. it’s the only word that you can think of. there’s waitstaff flitting about with trays of hors d'oeuvres, flute glasses filled with sparkling champagne.

when you look over at jack, he wears a similar, thinly veiled expression of mild disgust. you make eye contact. each of you rolls your eyes at one another, and you slide your arm through his and lean in with a smile. “we could probably give every nurse a significant raise with the money that it took to throw this,” you say under your breath.

“why do you think i need to smoke before i step foot in here,” jack responds.

he guides you towards your place setting– a big circular table, with spots for each attending physician. you gulp when you see your name plate– your name with the appropriate prefix. you pick it up and examine it with a slightly amused smile. you show it to jack who doesn’t say anything, but you can feel pride radiate off of him in little ripples in the way that he puts his hand on the back of your neck and squeezes.

the remarks are kicked off by gloria, and you take a seat. jack tugs your chair so that he can put a dangled arm, draped across the back of it, his fingers brushing your shoulder. you maintain enough self control to not put your hand on his knee. every once and awhile his index finger will trail the back of your neck, the sensitive place between your shoulder blades. you shoot him daggers. he winks.

you finally relent and put that hand on his knee of his right leg.

as you continue to sit, you watch jack shift. in that way that he does when his hip is starting to ache– and you’re tuned in to him and his needs, instantly. you squeeze his knee to get his attention while gloria continues to drone on… and on… and on. “you okay?” you mouth the two words, concern written in the way that your brows furrow.

he gives a noncommittal sound and he gestures for your purse. you fish the little orange bottle out that you always carry for him, and hand him the proper dosage for when phantom pain comes for him.

if it weren’t your partner that were experiencing it, you would find the concept of phantom pain… fascinating, medically. the brain is a powerful, sometimes too powerful, organ. but because it’s jack, and because you can see the set in his jaw and the way that he shifts again in his chair, you don’t care what the brain is capable of. all you care is that his brain stop.

he knocks the pill back and hands the bottle back to you. the slight rattle gets whitaker looking over in your direction, and you make a motion with your finger that says turn around before i make you. he complies with a quickness, and you settle once more with your hand to jack’s leg. you squeeze, gently, only half focused on the words that gloria says.

jack’s hand goes back to its favorite place: the back of your neck. it’s where you carry the majority of the tension in your body. you think jack likes being able to alleviate that, even if just for a moment. you also think he simply likes the way that your eyes roll back, the way that you’ll sometimes steady yourself with a hand that brushes his knee, or waist. you think he likes knowing that he can melt you with one touch in an instant.

now is no different. your eyes flutter shut, and when they open, jack is staring at you with a look of satisfaction that’s only brought out from making you feel good.

“you’re a dog,” you say under your breath.

“you told me you’d get a leash.”

keeping your laughter inside, gloria wraps up her remarks, and encourages everyone in the room to mingle, drink, eat, and dance. you and jack stand, hand in hand, and look at each other with an identical expression that reads, thank god. he leads you to the bar without another word.

that watchful eye stays upon him, and as you wait for your drinks– his whiskey, your martini– he rubs your back and adds, “meds are working.”

“good.”

“you don’t need to watch me like a hawk.”

this gets you to scowl. the drinks are slid in your direction and you take yours, gently clinking your glass to his. “have you ever thought,” you lean in. “maybe i just like looking at you tonight?”

you don’t know if it’s scientifically possible for an eye color to darken in a split second. but if it can, jack’s do. he knocks the contents in his cup back and holds his hand out for you. “dance with me.”

“your leg–”

“if my leg hurts from dancing with you, then so be it. well worth it.” he pauses. “what’s the murakami quote… pain is inevitable, suffering is optional.”

you’re unconvinced, but moved regardless. “you are dramatic.”

“yes i am,” jack flexes his hand. “are you really gonna turn me down in front of our peers? that’s just rude.”

you roll your eyes at him, but your smile is wide and it’s bright and it’s the smile that you get on your face because of jack, and jack alone. you set your drink to the side and take jack’s hand and let him lead you to the dance floor.

people know that you and jack are together, yes, but it’s rare they see you so free with your affection. javadi’s eyes are as big as saucers as the two of you pass by her and mateo. you wink. your arms and hands settle into place: jack’s on your waist. your arms dangled on his shoulders.

it had to be you plays over the speaker system as the two of you take the floor– the harry connick jr. version, the one in when harry met sally. a little bit more flirtatious than the original, the two of you sway in time.

“remember when we watched this movie? way early on?” you reminisce with a big smile on your face.

“oh, i remember. the scene in the diner… you blushed when that came on,” he snickers and his hands tighten on your body. “i don’t think we’d even kissed yet.”

“i didn’t know if you were…” you shrug your shoulders. “i dunno. i think, at that point, i still kind of thought it was all just up in my head. yeah, it’s one thing to smoke weed and watch a movie with your mentor. it’s another to want to have sex with him.” you peer up at him through your lashes. “and i wanted to do all three.”

“ah, kid, you always were an overachiever.”

you laugh, leaning forward. his hand comes up to cup the back of your head as you rest your cheek against his chest, eyes closing, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. his hand slips under your hair and continues to rub at your neck. you sigh. it feels like everything is at right in the world.

“you know,” he starts, his cheek resting on the top of your head. “i could do this forever.”

“dance?”

he chuckles. “no.” your head lifts up and you’re face to face. he takes your hand, puts it on the spot where you just listened to his heart. “just… this.”

the gravity of his words click into place. “oh.”

“yeah.”

there’s a gentleness to his eyes and his words. almost vulnerable– but trusting, too. “i could too,” you affirm without another thought required. you lean forward, your lips at his ear. “as long as you’ll have me, dr. abbot.”

if there was any distance left between the two of you, jack abandons it, pulling you in. he presses a kiss against your cheek.

as he does, a throat clears. you both look over, slightly misty-eyed and fully in love, to see gloria with a pleasantly manufactured smile plastered across her face. “oh, you two. adorable.” she looks at her watch. “patricia miller is here. just lost of her husband. big donor– big romantic, too. i would like you two to get to talking with her before she leaves. don’t forget to share you’re together. that’ll do wonders on her.” she tilts her head to the side. “enjoy your evening. don’t forget to take home a goodie bag.”

gloria saunters off. you look over to jack.

the two of you laugh, loudly, drawing eyes in your direction. robby and collins share a glance, trying to figure out what on earth could possibly be so funny. whitaker checks his shirt to make sure he doesn’t have a stain.

“man,” jack says. “duty calls, right?”

“guess so.” you run your hand up the back of jack’s head, through his silver curls. you feel him shiver as you rake your nails down. there’s a moment where you hesitate, but you don’t find yourself in the business of holding back where jack is concerned, so you say it anyway: “what are they gonna do when there’s two dr. abbot’s? they might combust from donation possibility. nothing sells like a love story.”

jack’s eyes flash. if before wasn’t enough… you think this might just be the confirmation he needs. he doesn’t say anything at first. he leans and he kisses you, taking you somewhere far, far away from this ballroom. “i think i’ll be the one combusting first.”

[luxurychristmaspudding]

Una Noche En Medellín | Javier Pena x f!Reader

summary: a long day playing pretend at a wedding leads to... exactly what you'd expect.

pairing: javier pena x f!reader

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. javi smoking, mention of a fictional pregnancy, ONE motherfucking BED BABY! mention of previous p in v, fingering, brief f!oral. this is pretty tame, y'all. reader has hair.

wc: 2.4k

an: this is my entry for the summer lovin' challenge thought up by the wonderful @pedgito, @chaotic-mystery and @amanitacowboy <3 i can literally only apologise for this being so late. i scheduled it in the wee hours and got my dates SO wrong.

my brief was a wedding, javi, and the moodboard you can see in the header. this was so much fun, and my first time posting for our fav dea agent - i hope you enjoy!

divider from @saradika-graphics

The fabric of your dress clings uncomfortably to your skin, sweat glistening under the warm lights of the hotel as you step into the elevator. Hair damp at the nape of your neck, thighs chafing a little as you shift on aching feet, you turn from your tired reflection in the mirror back to the closing doors. 

You watch, drowsy, as Javi presses the button to the tenth floor, one thick finger lighting up the numbers. The same hands that have been on you all evening, long into the night. Squeezing, holding, twirling. He stands with his back to you now, shoulders tense and squared. If you didn’t know better, you’d think you’d pissed him off.

You slump a little against the mirror behind you as the elevator swoops and glides upwards, watching as he pinches the bridge of his nose. 

Neither of you had thought it’d be easy. But neither had you thought it would be so exhausting. 

Exhausting to remember the details of your cover, to explain that the reason you weren’t drinking was because you’d recently discovered you were expecting your first child. Exhausting to navigate the knowing looks and slaps on the back, the hands on your non-existent bump, trying to make it look convincing. Following Javier around the room, his hand in yours; whispers pressed into the conch of your ear, your hairline - intel exchanged, wrapped in the pretence of humour and affection. Bodies pressed together in a way that should have been unprofessional, but not in a way that was unfamiliar.

The mission had been a success. 

Under fairy lights and between bubbles of champagne, blanketed by the heady heat of Medellín, you’d wound your web. Dancing and talking, sharing cooing compliments with the other guests, letting people watch and believe as you’d kept each other close, the proximity of Javi coming so easy with the thump of bass and threat of danger. Recognising the faces taped and pinned to corkboards in the office, matching voices to crackled radio frequencies, red string to red crosses.

Never standing in one place for too long, never speaking English, never looking surprised, always looking so in love. Draped across his lap with one hand on your hip and the other splayed against the small of your back. Your face tucked into his neck as you relayed information against his jawbone. His kisses to your shoulder as he told you Steve and Carillo were already on their way to the targets’ addresses. Not out of each other’s sight for more than a minute. 

It had been so easy it was almost laughable.

The cartel’s informant would be on his way to his hotel, and his impending arrest, now. The rest of the guests, the family and friends, would soon catch wind and begin to disappear, to turn on each other. And it would be like you and Javi were never there. Blending with the disco lights, melting into the shadows. 

For now, all you need is some rest.

The elevator bell dings for the tenth floor, and you watch as the doors slide open with a quiet hum. Javi turns his face, barely, to make sure you’re still with him, hand twitching at his side as though he wishes to reach for yours. 

It’s hard to turn the performance off. 

Instead, he runs a hand through his hair, wedding band glinting in the light, as he steps out into the hallway. You follow, reaching into your purse for the key card, watching the slump of his broad shoulders stride up the hall, the sweat-curled hair at the nape of his neck. You’d been running your fingers through it twenty minutes ago, cooing something about wanting to take him to bed that had only been a half-lie. He’s been warm and firm against you all night, always within reach. There’s not a scrap of your dress or an inch of your skin that doesn’t smell like his aftershave. And you’re not too proud to admit how much that turns you on.

He leans against the doorframe with one arm when you reach your room, lips lifting in a smirk.

You pull a face at him as you swipe the key card and open the door.

‘What?’

He shrugs as he watches you step into the darkness, waiting only a moment before following and flicking on the light.

‘Just - didn’t think you had it in you, cariño. Never thought you could dance like that.’

You scoff at him as he closes the door, leaning against the coolness of the wall to unclasp and take off your heels.

‘Surprises are part of the job, Peña,’ you grin, ‘Didn’t think you’d be so good at pretending to enjoy a wedding reception.’

‘I’ve had practice.’ He quips, unbuttoning another two of his shirt buttons, white linen against the gold of his skin, sweat gathered at the hollow of his throat. Something burns in your chest - wanton and willing.

He flips on another light as you throw your heels to the side, pausing in the mouth of the room before it opens to the sleeping quarters. You press a palm to his warm back, trying to urge him forwards before he speaks.

‘You’ve gotta be kidding me.’

You step from behind him to stand at his side.

Illuminated, glowing in the bedside light before its backdrop of glimmering city lights, is a single, king-size bed; crisp white sheets neatly tucked beneath the mattress.

You bite your cheek, looking at Javi. His stormy brow, his clenched jaw. 

‘This was supposed to be a suite.’ You murmur.

You want to be angry. Want this to be the thing that ruins an otherwise successful day. But you’re so warm, so tired. You only want a shower and a place to sleep. And you’ve had many worse places than this to do exactly that. 

‘We could call the front desk,’ Javi says, as a yawn pulls at your jaw, ‘See if they can switch us to a room with two beds.’

You shake your head, and he glances at you, surprised.

‘It’s late, and bad for our cover. We can share.’ A small frown teases between his dark eyes. You raise an eyebrow at him. ‘We’re fake married, remember?’

You step past him, smoothing the sheets with your hand. Cool. Soft. You could lie down now and die happy.

There’s the distinctive shnick-whoosh of a lighter behind you, and when you turn, Javi’s face is lit by the soft glow of a cigarette.

‘How could I forget,’ he says, breathing out a rush of blue smoke, ‘When mi esposa has been the life of the party all evening.’

You purse your lips playfully.

‘I thought you enjoyed being my husband, Alejandro.’

A sultry smile softens his features.

‘Sure, cariño.’

You wink at him as he brushes past you, linen against silk. He smells so good. Clean and masculine, something so Javi cutting through it that you can feel that burning move from your chest to pool between your legs.

He breezes through the curtains shrouding the balcony, and you turn into the bathroom, inspecting the array of toiletries, and the towels, fresh and white, waiting for you. You turn the shower on, setting the water to cool before reaching for the zip at the back of your dress. You twist fruitlessly for minutes, but the heat, the dampness of your skin makes the fabric hard to adjust, the zip impossible to catch. A well of frustration rises up your throat, and you clench your jaw.

Hands pressed against the porcelain of the sink, you look into your own eyes in the mirror. Tired, hot. Not too proud to ask for help.

Javi is stood on the balcony, forearms resting against the railing, smoke curling around his strong silhouette. He turns at the sound of the curtains moving behind you, and you smile as he leans back to watch you approach.

His appraising look is appreciative. Sexy.

You turn your back to him, to those eyes.

‘Unzip me?’

You wait for what feels like an eternity. Rocking slightly where you stand, breath catching in your lungs. Every muscle in your body tightened in anticipation.

Goosebumps break out over the small of your back as his fingers trace the line of the zip, up, up to your shoulders. They skim the fabric there, catching your bare skin before settling at the slider. He pulls, slowly. So close you can feel his breath on your neck. Pulls it all the way down so that the dress falls loose at your chest, so it would take only the smallest movement for the garment to drop to the floor. 

His palms slip beneath the silk, curving around your waist. On instinct, yours follow, catching and holding them in place as you sigh at the feeling of his nose tracing your neck. His thumbs stroke the contours of your back.

‘Que linda, bebita.’ He breathes, and you fight the moan surging up from your belly. You hum, leaning into him even as you whisper,

‘I didn’t say undress me.’

A short burst of air at your shoulder, a barely noticeable kiss against your hot skin to disguise his amusement.

‘Wasn’t going to.’

It’s your turn to huff a laugh.

‘We can be professional for a night.’

‘We can.’ He murmurs, and the heat of his body behind yours is lost almost immediately. You sway a little, a smile on your lips as you step back towards the bathroom. You know Javi is watching.

He always is.

He told you. That night in Bogotá, bodies pressed against, pressed into each other. Your legs wrapped around his waist, claw marks red-raw up his back as you’d moaned and cried for him. The wet squelch of your cunt as he worked you open, as he fucked you, as he crooned into your mouth how you’d been all he’d thought about since you stepped into the bullpen. So fucking smart, so capable, so sexy. How you’d been driving him crazy - lips crushed against your temple as you clenched around his cock.

That whole night, how good it had been, how heady. No one had ever made you come like that.

You’d not called the next day, having slunk out of Javi’s room some time in the early hours of the next morning. He’d never asked you why you hadn’t stayed. You’d never spoken of it again.

It was stress relief. Never anything more than two people blowing off steam. Never anything more than two people giving into an obvious attraction.

But that night doesn’t seem so far away as you wash away the sweat and soap from your body, as you rinse the shampoo from your hair. Doesn't erase how you feel him watching, how close he feels, even separated by the door.

And though the shower is cool, your blood still runs hot. Pumping and burning with want in your veins, arousal so strong it makes you giddy as you wrap a towel around yourself, leaving the bathroom in a cloud of steam.

Javi is sat on the edge of the bed, naked save only for his boxers. The sight of him takes your breath away.

He's so broad, hard and soft in all the places he needs to be. And he's so pretty. Perfect little pouty mouth, deep, dangerous eyes. There’s no cigarette dangling from his lips, nothing in his hands as he clasps them between his spread knees. You think about sinking down between them, pressing your cheek against the bulge outlined below the smattering of hair at his navel.

You step towards him, and he watches with blown, hungry eyes.

You stop in front of him, still wrapped in the towel. He reads your mind like he always does. In the bullpen, the offices, the field. With a gun or a cigarette or a pen in his hand, Javier Peña knows what you need. He parts the towel, sliding his palms across your naked hips, holding you before him. You can’t breathe, can’t speak. It’s too hot in the room, in your body. You can feel slick sliding against the tops of your thighs, spread right up to your clit. So wet it should be criminal. 

Javi clicks his tongue, moving his hands so he can spread you open with his thumbs. He pouts at you, small tilt of his head. 

‘Pobrecita.’

You'd roll your eyes if it were any less true, if he weren't swiping one thumb through your wetness, over your clit. You suck a breath in before moaning brokenly. He grins, wolfish, up at you. 

‘What were you thinking about in that shower, cariño?’

You smile down at him, eyes half-closed. 

‘You.’

He hums, moving his thumb again. You shudder, knees giving a little. His hand at your hip tightens. 

‘Good girl.’ He coos. 

Your hand flies to his shoulder with a garbled cry as he presses tighter, moving the digit faster. He knows how to work you, knew before he'd even touched you. You're on fire, pussy tightening as your hand travels up his neck, before tangling with the curls at his nape.

That's it.

You can hear how wet you are. The only sounds in the room are the buzz of the city below, your fast breathing, and the movement of Javi’s fingers. He’s building you up to it, astoundingly fast. The sight of him, sat on the edge of the bed, spellbound by what he’s doing to you, the noises you’re making, the sight of you bared to him. Makes you want to touch him, too.

Does that feel good, bebita?

So good, Javi.

But just as it seems so close, as you can feel yourself start to clench and pulse and twitch, he slows. Slows the rhythm of his thumb right down to deep, languid circles, keeping you right on the edge as he loosens the towel and lets it drop to the floor, as he leans forward to reverently press his forehead to your belly. He breathes in deeply, and you flex your hips towards him. He nips at your skin, and you whine as he laughs.

‘I think about it,’ he breathes, voice deep and thick, nuzzling into the crease of your thigh, ‘That night in Bogotá. Tell me you think about it, too.’

You hiccup, nodding. Fisting his short hair.

‘All the time,’ you gasp, ‘All the time, Javi.’

He groans, moving to lick a hot, wet stripe through your folds, right up to your clit. It’s like fire, electricity. Your body jolts against him, every nerve ending bending towards him, flinching into this sweet torture.

His lips are shining with your arousal when he pulls away to look you in your eyes.

‘Let me have it. One more night, in Medellín. Let me have you.’

[etheraltides]

Safe in His Arms

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Pogue!Reader

Summary: After a grueling day at the Country Club filled with rude costumers and endless stress, you find yourself breaking down in your boyfriend’s bed.

Warning(s): emotional distress, workplace mistreatment and a bit of verbal harassment.

A/N: Can you tell I’ve had a rough day at work..?

The familiar weight of the day bore down on you as you trudged up the long driveway to Tannyhill, your work uniform damp with rain you faced after you lost the buss and the residual humiliation of serving yet another parade of insufferable customers at the Country Club. Your back ached, your feet throbbed, and a lump had been stuck in your throat since your shift began. It had been one of those days – the kind that leaves you questioning if it’s even worth the paycheck.

When you stepped into Rafe Cameron’s big house, the stillness was suffocating. It was late enough that most of the house staff had gone home, leaving the place eerily quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioning. You kicked off your shoes and set your bag down by the door, barely able to summon the energy to call out for him.

“Rafe?” you said, your voice cracking.

No response. You figured he was still locked away in his office, likely losing track of time over something work-related or more of his dad’s expectations. A glance toward the kitchen clock confirmed it was nearing 10 PM. You shouldn’t have picked today for a double shift.

Your body moved on autopilot as you headed upstairs to his room, the ache in your chest growing heavier with each step. You bypassed the vanity mirror, not wanting to see the tired, blotchy version of yourself. Instead, you headed straight for the en suite bathroom, needing to wash off the grime of the day – physically and emotionally.

The water was scalding, but you didn’t care. The sting against your skin almost matched the burn of the angry tears threatening to spill. Your customers’ snide remarks replayed in your mind on a loop:

“Are all the staff this incompetent?”

“Can you just get the order right for once?”

“I’d like to speak to someone more qualified.”

“You damn pogues aren’t even good enough to clean tables. No wonder why your kind gets nowhere in life.”

By the time you stepped out of the shower, you were trembling. Not from the cold, but from sheer exhaustion. You grabbed one of Rafe’s oversized T-shirts, pulling it over your damp body before collapsing onto his bed. His scent still lingered in the sheets – a mix of his cologne and something inherently him.

You buried your face into the pillow, clutching the covers tightly around yourself as the dam finally broke. Sobs wracked your body, and you curled into a ball, feeling utterly spent.

Rafe was on his third read-through of the same email when the buzz of his phone distracted him. He glanced at the screen – it was just a notification for some pointless app. The house was too quiet for his liking, and it occurred to him that you hadn’t come to find him yet.

He checked his watch, guilt prickling at the edges of his thoughts. He’d told you this morning that he’d be free to spend the evening with you, but work had a way of spiraling out of control.

Shutting his laptop with a sigh, Rafe pushed his chair back and headed upstairs. The sight that greeted him when he opened the bedroom door made his stomach twist.

There you were, curled up on his side of the bed, his comforter wrapped around you like armor. Your shoulders were shaking, and muffled sniffles reached his ears.

“Hey” he said softly, crossing the room in a few long strides. “Baby, what’s going on?”

You startled, quickly wiping your face with the back of your hand as if that could hide the tears. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

Rafe frowned, crouching down beside the bed so he was level with you. “Don’t do that. Don’t lie to me.” His voice was gentle, but there was his usual firm edge to it.

“It’s stupid.” you whispered, avoiding his gaze.

“Stupid doesn’t make you cry like this.” he countered, reaching out to brush a strand of wet hair from your face. “Talk to me.”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat refusing to go away. “Work sucked today.” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “The customers were awful. They treated me like I was nothing, like I wasn’t even human. I tried to keep it together, but—” Your voice broke, and fresh tears spilled over.

Rafe’s jaw tightened, and his eyes darkened – not with anger at you, but with protective fury for you. “They said something to you?” he asked, his voice dangerously low.

“Just the usual stuff.” you said, trying to downplay it. “But today it just… it felt worse. I couldn’t shake it off.”

His hand came up to cradle your face, his thumb gently wiping away a tear. “You’re not nothing, baby.” he said firmly. “You hear me? Those people? They’re assholes. They don’t know shit about you.”

You sniffled, leaning into his touch despite yourself. “I just hate that it gets to me.”

Rafe shook his head. “It’s not on you to be unbothered by assholes. You’re allowed to feel things, okay?” He stood up and climbed onto the bed, pulling you into his lap despite the fact that he wasn’t much of a hugger. You didn’t resist, burying your face in his chest as his arms wrapped around you securely.

“You didn’t deserve any of that,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “None of it. You’re too good for them. Too good for this damn place.”

You let out a shaky breath, his words starting to chip away at the weight in your chest. His hands moved in slow, soothing circles on your back, grounding you in a way only he could.

“I’m sorry.” you mumbled into his chest. “I know you’ve had a long day too.”

Rafe tilted your chin up to look at him, his expression a mix of concern and frustration. “Don’t apologize for this. For needing me, alright?” He sighed, his voice softening. “I know I’m not… great at this stuff. But when it comes to you? I’ll figure it out.”

You gave a weak laugh. “You’re doing fine, Rafe.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” you said, the weight in your chest easing a little more.

He leaned back against the headboard, keeping you close as he ran a hand through your hair. “Next time something like this happens, you tell me, okay? I don’t care what time it is or what I’m doing. You call me.”

You nodded, resting your head against his shoulder. “I’ll try.”

“No, baby. You do more than try.” he insisted. “You promise.”

You smiled faintly, the corners of your lips twitching despite the tears. “Okay. I promise.”

For the first time all day, you felt a glimmer of peace. Wrapped in Rafe’s arms, with his warmth and steady presence surrounding you, the world felt a little less harsh.

“Good.” he said, his voice low and soothing. “Now just stay here. Let me hold you. No one’s gonna hurt you while I’m around.”

His words were like a balm to your soul, and as he pressed another kiss to your head, you felt your eyes grow heavy. The exhaustion of the day, coupled with the safety of his embrace, lulled you to sleep.

Rafe stayed awake, though, his mind racing with plans to make sure you never felt this way again. Whatever it took – whether it was him storming into the Country Club or just being here for you when you needed him – he wasn’t going to let the world break you.

You were his girl, after all. And he’d do anything to protect you.

There was no doubt in his mind that tomorrow he’d be talking to the club’s manager though.

[screwitbaby]

naive

hamzahthefantastic x reader (fic)

day 4/7

[part 5]

summary: part 4 of my short story naive! the four of you go to the club and while the couple are still fighting, you and hamzah act on your feelings a lil more. but it can only go so well for so long…

contains: SFW content, some kissing and touchy touchy ;)

w/c: 2.5k-ish

a/n: i couldn’t let you guys go into the new year without updating this story. im the worst but tysm for the support yall are so sweet i could cry xxxx enjoy!!!<3 read the a/n at the end if u care to know more

~

The couple's bad mood was not simply slept off and it's ruining your vibe.

You and Mandy are getting ready in their en suite bathroom while Hamzah and Martin speak in hushed tones in the bedroom. The bathroom door is open, and every so often you look at the space over your shoulder in the mirror and make eye contact with Martin from the bed. He looks away immediately, not at all subtle. It's like a game at this point, seeing how many times you can catch him in the act.

"Is he gonna do this all night," you mumble, applying your mascara after yet another match of eye-tag.

"We could just close the door," Mandy offers. She pays no mind to the childish behavior behind you, straightening her hair without sparing him a single glance.

"You're so right," you say and get up to shut it yourself.

Once your makeup is pretty much done, you decide to start getting dressed. You turn the music on her speaker up and give yourself a once-over in the mirror, holding different outfits beside your body to see what you want to wear for the night.

"I don't know what to wear. Wanna match?" you ask, placing your chin on top of her head to stop her movements. She nearly clamps your neck with the straightener. "Hey!"

"Sure," she laughs. "Grab my suitcase, please."

You put your clothes back down and step out of the bathroom to bring her suitcase in. You shimmy it out of its place by the TV stand, not missing the way the boys go completely silent until you're gone.

"Top zipper, the satin blue dress," Mandy instructs.

You hand it to her and sit by your own bag of clothes to rummage through it. You find a top and skirt set in a similar baby blue color then hold it up for her to see.

"Yes, no, yes?"

"Yes, definitely."

You apply your lip combo and take a few silly photos in the mirror with Mandy, your made up faces clashing with your baggy tees. One of the better photos are posted on your Instagram story for fun. When you finally get changed—you guys had a dance break to some y2k club classics—you put your heels on and realize you need a little pregame.

When you walk into the bedroom this time, the boys are leaned against the headboard and on their phones, mindlessly scrolling. You go by Martin's side of the bed and poke him repeatedly until he looks up.

"Do you happen to have the penjamin on you?"

"That depends," he says, putting his hand in his pocket. "What's the magic word?"

You roll your eyes. "Please?"

He pulls the little device out of his pocket and presents it to you in his palm. When you go to grab it, he makes a fist and holds it above his head.

"Please who?"

"I'm not calling you Daddy," you scoff, prying his fingers open and snatching the pen from his grasp. He barely puts up a fight. "That's Hamzah's job."

At the mention of his name, Hamzah looks up and seems like he's about to say something to retaliate but freezes. His gaze drags down your figure and you blush.

"Maybe it's not his job," Martin says smugly, "since you made him speechless."

Hamzah snaps out of it and elbows his friend in the side.

“It would be your girlfriend's job if you weren't being petty right now."

You wince at the sullen expression that washes over Martin's face.

"Right."

All you can do is watch as he clambers off the bed and walks out of the room. You lean against the wall and slide the balcony door open with a sigh.

"He can't seriously be that mad," Hamzah says. "I was kidding."

"He can dish it, but he can't take it," you say, too used to his behavior. "And he's extra sensitive right now, so."

"Well, they better not ruin our night with that stuff." Hamzah crosses his arms.

"I won't let them."

"Yeah?" Hamzah snorts. "What're you gonna do about it?"

"Um." You take a hit and blow the smoke outside. "I'll think of something if I need to step in."

Hamzah laughs at your empty threat and you smile. You take another hit before offering the dab pen to him.

"I have a feeling I should be sober for tonight."

"Boring," you sing out. "It'll be fine. C'mon, feel my peer pressure."

You wiggle your fingers at him and he shakes his head, laughing lightly. When he silently puts his hand out a few seconds later, you cheer. The room fills with the loud music from Mandy's speaker as he takes his first hit.

"So," you begin, already feeling slightly heady. "What were you guys whispering about earlier?"

"I shouldn't say."

"Really?"

He nods. "It was partly about their fight. Partly the trip. And you."

"Me?" You point at yourself with raised eyebrows.

"Yeah." He shrugs. "I can't divulge the details."

"That's bullshit."

"I never ask what you guys say about me."

"Hey—I don't—what?" you stutter, unable to come up with a defense.

"C'mon," he says, tilting his head. "I'm not that oblivious."

Your eyes narrow. You've never once considered that this cupid thing Martin was pulling on you could have gone both ways. You don't know if you're relieved for him stepping in to push his friend closer to you, or annoyed that he's even meddling in this whole thing. It makes you wonder if Martin knows what happened by the time he and Mandy returned to the beach last night.

"Speaking of details." You clear your throat. "Do you even know what club we're going to?"

Your attempt at changing the topic is weak, but as per usual, Hamzah rolls with it to save you any embarrassment.

"No clue. Martin keeps his trip itinerary locked in his notes."

The conversation devolves into a bunch of what if's about the night and jokes that are only funny because you guys are high. When Mandy finally comes to join and sees the state of you two, you offer her a hit.

"What? No drinks?" She frowns.

"Hotel alcohol is like twenty bucks a pop! This is the next best thing."

"Ugh, fine. Give it."

With the three of you thoroughly blitzed, you collect Martin from the living room couch and make your way out of the hotel. He doesn't speak for a majority of the walk, and you think that's the longest you've ever heard him be quiet in a group setting.

Despite it being nearly 10 P.M., the air is pretty humid and forgiving on your exposed skin. The other thing about it being so late already, is that the club is absolutely chock-full of people when you enter. The dance floor of strangers are nearly toe to toe in proximity, and you wrap your arm with Mandy's to avoid getting separated in the crowd. The boys immediately beeline to the bar for drinks, but you don't let that stop your journey. You maneuver your way to the front of the stage and only let go of each other once you've found a bit of space to dance in.

The DJ nods at the two of you and you turn to raise your eyebrows suggestively at Mandy, who pushes your shoulder and continues dancing. You get lost in the beat, swaying and bouncing with the vibrations traveling through your limbs. The strobe lights illuminate your sweaty skin and you swear the energy in the room has you feeling higher. You begin grinding on each other and throw your heads back to laugh, trying to catch your breaths in between a multitude of bodies.

"Hey!" Mandy places her arms around your shoulders to catch your attention and you take it as a sign to grind on her. "I'm going to grab drinks.”

"No!" You turn and put your hands over hers. "Don't go!"

"I'll be right back!" She grins and squeezes you before letting go to disappear into the crowd.

Alone, you turn back to the stage and throw your hands in the air. You close your eyes for a moment, the pounding beats making a home in your brain. You're sure your ears will be ringing when you leave.

You wonder if Martin's drunk himself into a coma yet and knowing him, you know how easy that could be. You only hope this outing tonight doesn't make him do anything he regrets. Then you remember he’s a twenty-five year old man and you’re worrying about him while you’re supposed to be having fun. So, you shut your brain off and let the beat carry you.

When Mandy's back, she has two drinks in hand and Hamzah in tow. She hands you a cocktail and you graciously sip from your first alcoholic drink of the night.

"Where's Martin?" you ask.

"Bar!" she shouts over the music.

You shake your head. "Make up and make out already!"

She jabs your side and you giggle, swatting her hand away. Hamzah's doing something reminiscent of a frat flick, looking slightly out of it. You assume he's already done some shots and is way more intoxicated. So, being an empath, you finish your drink to get closer to his level. When you're done, you hand the empty cup to Mandy and wink at her. Your hand envelops Hamzah's and you pull him deeper in the crowd so you can dance together.

"I don't—I can't dance," he complains, nearly tripping over his own feet.

"C'mon, it's easy!"

You begin by swaying your hips, raising his hand in yours to guide him into a rhythm. He tries to follow along, shuffling around like a newborn deer. It's a funny sight, but you don't want him to stop if you tease him, so you bite back your amused smile. He slowly gets less self-conscious and continues on in his own way with the flow of the music, even twirling you around once or twice, laughing all the way as you narrowly avoid knocking into people. His eyes never leave you, like he's constantly thinking of his next move to impress you.

After letting him freestyle some more, you pull him close and wrap your arms around his shoulders. He falters at the change in pace and his hands fall at your hips. Your hands rest at the nape of his neck and he shivers at the way your fingertips grace his skin. The rapid strobe lights nearly blind you, but you hold eye contact.

"Was that so bad?" you ask, tilting your head to the side.

"Yes," he says sarcastically. "I hate dancing."

"But I like your dancing."

You sway with him, careful not to step on his toes in your heels. Close up, you can nearly feel his breath on your face. You take a moment to admire his eyelashes and the way his eyes are slightly bloodshot, willing him to break the eye contact. He leans in closer.

"I like your dancing more."

You can't help but grin. His expression mimics yours.

"Yeah, well," you start, bringing your thumb up to trace the side of his jaw, "I like you."

He ducks down and captures your lips in a kiss. It takes you by surprise. You hadn't spoken a word about your kiss since last night, and you were beginning to think you made a mistake by acting on your impulses. Evidently, he doesn't seem to mind it as much as you'd worried.

The tip of his nose presses against your cheek as he shifts his head to deepen the kiss. Though the room is warm, this makes you hotter than any amount of dancing could've done. His palms squeeze your hips and your fingers rise to play with his curls. They're soft to the touch, just as you suspected. You tug lightly as the kiss gets more insatiable.

"Ouch," he mumbles against your lips, barely loud enough to hear. You snicker and tug it again, making him pull away. "I said ouch."

"I know," you laugh out. "Sorry."

"That funny?" he questions. You nod, grinning at his playful irritation. "See how you like it."

His hand trails up your back until his fingers are at your scalp and he gently pulls on your roots. Your head moves back with his action and your lips part, exhaling a shaky breath. His eyes widen. He does it again. You reach up to kiss him again.

It's hotter this time, in both senses of the word. Your skin goes alight with a blaze even the coldest shower couldn't reduce. You drape your wrists over his shoulders, your beaded bracelet pressing into him the same way his is imprinting into the sliver of bare skin below your top.

Realizing you’re standing in place in the midst of a lively dance floor, you break from the kiss and turn so your back is against his front. You pull his arms around your shoulders and sway, deliberately pressing yourself against him. You enjoy hearing the way his breath hitches next to your ear, always needing to find a new way to tease him. You know if you could have it your way without seeming too desperate too soon, you’d be doing more than just dancing.

“I like you, too,” he says, clutching you closer to him. “I forgot to say.”

You turn your head and nearly kiss his cheek because of how cute he is. “Thanks for clearing that up.”

“And I really like your dancing.”

His suggestive words spur you into grinding on him more, anything to get a reaction out of him, and it works every time. The two of you keep going this way until your thighs are burning and you’re out of breath. If it weren’t for the visual reminder, you would’ve forgotten that you came here with other people.

A couple feet away, you spot two familiar heads weeding through the crowd and slowly drawing nearer. You step away from Hamzah, who looks at you with an unreadable expression on his face. Before you can explain yourself, you come face-to-face with Mandy. Martin stops a bit away.

“Can we leave?” she rushes out.

Her mascara is running and her nose is red. Martin looks disgruntled, his eyes never staying in one place as he scans through the crowd. You grab her hand and nod. The four of you spot the nearest exit and leave promptly.

“What happened?” you ask once you’re out in the open. “Are you okay?”

“Can I stay in your room tonight?” Her eyes stay on the ground.

Your heart drops. “Of course.”

The walk back to the hotel is uneasy and fast-paced. The boys walk behind the two of you and you can hear Martin’s one word answers to everything Hamzah says to him. Your heels click and clack, barely providing a distraction from the hundreds of questions swarming your mind.

~

a/n: ooo we’re getting angsty. im so sorry this took so long and if u feel that it wasn’t worth the wait, the truth is ive been so sick recently like never before in my life and i haven’t felt a lick of motivation to write. ive had to rewrite these chapters so many times that its actually affecting me mentally because i wanna make u guys happy while actually enjoying writing. i promise u won’t have to wait this long ever again, but doing this story is making me realize i prefer writing short form stuff way more than stories like this because it’s simply less stress and fits my writing style more. thanks again for all the support and kind words, u guys have really warmed my heart and i hope u know that even tho this is fanfiction and it may seem silly, it’s really a labor of love and im so grateful that u actually like what i put out there. im so so so touched and i rlly love u guys, even if i don’t know u. parasocial virtual hugs to u all xoxoxo tysm. <3

[celestiaras]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ a shot of lust ]❜

ft. claude clawmark x f! reader — ttt, nijisanji en

╰₊✧ while testing out potions, you take an experimental sip gone wrong & your friend isn’t half as innocent as he seems┊2.2k words

contains: smut!! dom reader & sub claude┊slight dubcon, reader is mean but claude is into that, unintentional (high-key nonconsensual) drugging with an aphrodisiac, kinda unrequited feelings but requited lust, making out, marking & biting, slight masochist claude, spit as lube, degradation, unprotected piv on a chair (because you guys are nasty like that), implied multiple rounds

➤ author's note: oh my god, i’ve been starving you guys again, i’m so sorry, i’ve been hit full force with squid game brainrot. this isn’t my best work, but i’m slowly getting back into niji because it’s my first vtuber family and i miss them :( 

potion-making is a refined art that is desirable to all with its effectiveness in battle or healing properties yet mastered by few with how dangerous or explosive results could be with something simple as an extra drop of dragon’s blood becoming fatal. personally, you’re willing to take the risk of the deadly consequences when it comes to elixirs of speed to slay your opponents before they could even blink.

for these very reasons, you study the craft under your fellow adventurer and close confidant claude clawmark. admittedly, he wasn’t your first choice regarding mentors with his messy workspace and questionable habits, but he was willing to teach you for free so you agreed. even victoria and kunai were unsure of your decision but figured that if anyone could handle the eccentric cleric, it would be you. even though this was something you took upon yourself to learn, you really didn’t like being cooped up in his shop all day while taking orders from customers and spending all day mixing strange components. you miss going out and looting dungeons with your guildmates, but learning through experience would certainly be worth it in the amount of gold you could save by making your own potions (people really pay for the expertise of a professional rather than the collected common loot dropped to make them).

the wooden table in the center of the room had a batch of roughly fifteen glass vials filled with strength potions for a customer, a finished half of the order while working on producing the other half of invisibility. you placed a sealed jar of fermented spider eyes on the table for your partner to brew and went to go grab some night vision potions for the base, but you noticed an odd bottle filled with a shimmering pink liquid that stood out among the batch of dully-colored royal blue potions on the self. it clearly wasn’t organized on the right shelf, but it didn’t have a label nor did its appearance match any of the others. “hey claude, do you remember what this is supposed to be?”

he turned his head to examine it for a second before continuing his work, “eh, i’m not actually sure. maybe you should test it out.”

oh yeah, another thing about potions is that if you aren’t sure what it is, you have to try it out yourself. there are tons of healing medicines all over the place in case someone got poisoned, so you drank it without hesitation like you’ve done plenty of times before. it tasted artificially of strawberries and cream, not an uncommon flavor to mask the usual strange medley of ingredients, but it left a weird aftertaste of bittersweetness on your tongue. you didn’t feel any different nor see any change looking in the mirror so perhaps it was simply a base potion that didn’t have any magic added yet, leaving you to go on with your day after placing the empty glass into the sink.

it didn’t hit you full-force as soon as you swallowed it, but the effects were slowly but surely taking hold of you. it started with you feeling warm, taking off your jacket and touching your face, wondering if there was a sudden change in room temperature for some reason. your breathing steadily became more labored even though you weren’t moving around much, trying to take deep breaths through your mouth in a futile attempt to clear your fogged mind and soaking a towel in water to pat away the perspiration beginning to form on your forehead.

were you ill and coming down with a fever? it didn’t feel like any virus you’ve ever had, felt more like… it was definitely from that unlabeled potion you drank earlier, but why would he leave such a thing lying around if it was really what you thought? this was really why you were warned to get a proper tutor instead of a cleric known for fumbling his belongings. the sun had begun to set and the shop would close in about fifteen minutes anyway, so you decided to wait it out even though it felt borderline unbearable. leaning back on the table, you think there must be an antidote or something somewhere to counter it, but you were interrupted before you could get up and look for it.

“are you okay? you look sick,” claude mentioned, taking off his tool belt equipped with various gadgets and moving away from his station to check in on you. “do you… need help with anything?” he took off his glove to gently press his hand against your forehead followed by your cheek to test your temperature, suddenly feeling conscious of his presence with the proximity and feeling his breath on your skin as he stared intently at your face.

you never paid too much attention to his looks, but you suddenly found yourself studying his appearance now that he was so much closer to you: his long opalescent locks that were neatly tied in a ponytail tossed over his shoulder, his sleepy eyes that shifted from magenta to aquamarine, how built he actually was with his broad shoulders that well defined his frame— was he always so handsome?

“hey… claude…” you felt like a living furnace with lit coals that were bursting at the seams, fire burning into desire at your core and could only be quenched by the man standing in front of you. vivi and kunai aren’t the best at keeping secrets (especially when it’s past midnight at a sleepover), you knew he had a crush on you or at the very least found you attractive. either way, he wouldn’t reject you at the moment unless he considers the friendship on the line, and you were willing to bet everything on that.

his eyes met yours, staring deeply into them while waiting for you to finish your sentence. the tension was so palpable that it could be cut with a knife and you sighed, closing your eyes and leaning forward to break it with a kiss. you couldn’t see his reaction, but he didn’t flinch nor did he pull back, instead reciprocating it once he seemed to process it.

it took some of the edge off, but you still felt insatiable and starved for more of him. slipping your hand to the back of his head and intertwining it with his hair, you deepened the kiss and began to dart your tongue out to ask him to part his lips. you had no way to know what he was really thinking, but he seemed to be understandably confused about the whole thing and yet he didn’t deny you or offer an ounce of resistance. he obediently followed your motions and let you take the lead, just how you liked it, even whimpering slightly when your tongue gently brushed against his and felt the cool titanium pierced through it.

oh, when you heard that sound escape his lips, something feral awakened within you. “fuck…” you placed your hands on her shoulder and swung him around, roughly shoving him down onto a nearby chair and splitting his legs apart with a knee in the middle while continuing to kiss him roughly. fiddling with the hem of his clothing, “is this okay?”

he blushed a deep red as if the gravity of the situation was only hitting him now that you were requesting for content, “y-yes! of course! totally!” he mentally cringed, his ass did not just say ‘totally’ when his crush of over a year was asking if it was okay to fuck him.

thankfully for him, you didn’t seem to mind in the least bit and fervently began to strip him of his clothing, pulling his black top over his arms and tossing it haphazardly on the floor. his strapping frame was even more evident with his bare chest exposed to you, pretty unblemished ivory skin that was just begging to get marked up and bruised. you were quick to leave one last kiss on his lips before lowering your head to suck on his neck, watching a dark purple-red hickey bloom on the spot. you repeated this process a few times before outright sinking your teeth into his tender flesh, finding yourself unable to refrain from behaving like a wild animal even though you were trying your hardest to hold yourself back. 

meanwhile, claude felt like he was dreaming and was almost light-headed by your touch. he allowed you to use his body as you pleased, like a doll for you to play with and abuse. the pain didn’t even register as such to him, feeling more like ecstasy shooting through his veins wherever your mouth found itself as his eyes rolled back like the pathetic fool he was.

“fuck, i feel like i’m going crazy,” you groaned, adjusting your position to sit on his lap and pulling back his pristine white pants to reveal his leaking cock before holding out your palm. “spit.” he complied, taking a moment to gather saliva in his mouth before spitting a clear glob into your open hand which you smeared all over his dick to act as makeshift lube.

the heat was really beginning to get to you like the wrath of a thousand suns, prickling at your skin and causing you to pause your actions to remove your own clothing. you didn’t notice until you were fully nude the way he was staring at you like he had just witnessed the unfiltered beauty of a goddess for the first time. maybe if it was another day under different circumstances, you would have felt soft at his obvious affection and admiration towards you, but unfortunately, you were feeling nothing but irritation due to the effects of the drug.

you extended an arm to push him back so he was sitting properly against the chair instead of slouching, moving to straddle him and finally, finally, lined up his angry red tip with your entrance before sinking into it. claude gasped as he buried his face into your chest, unable to rut into you as he so desired with your purposefully straining your weight on him. 

despite not being able to think straight, your dominance over him was made clear as you set your own pace, ignoring the strain beginning to form in your thighs as you worked your way up and down his length. his size was perfect, not too difficult to take, and also able to hit all of the right spots.

despite not being allowed to put in any work, claude’s heart was hammering in his chest like he was running a marathon with strands of hair sticking to his face thanks to the beads of sweat that formed on his forehead. he struggled to find a place to put his hands with your hips moving too fast for him to grip and the little groan you would let out in the precipice of pleasure and disdain each time he tried to touch you elsewhere led to him simply gripping the sides of the wooden chair he was seated on, basically hold on for dear life while chasing an orgasm to snap you out it. 

“you did this on purpose, didn’t you, you little freak?”

“h-huh?”

“you wanted me to drink that potion, didn’t you? so that you would get fucked like a whore, just how desperate are you?”

he opened his mouth to deny the accusation but found himself unable to and let out a pathetic whimper instead. how could he deny it when it was completely true? he didn’t think you would actually drink it, only planted it on the table and allowed for chance to take the reins, but he didn’t think anything was actually going to happen.

still, there wasn’t a single ounce of regret in his body, even if you were being a little mean to him. he didn’t mind how your sharp words cut into him, it made him dizzy if anything. 

you began to slow down as the ache of constant bouncing was catching up to you, moving your hand to circle your clit and crying out when you felt yourself unravel at the contact. feeling your velvety walls pulse around him had him following shortly after when you lifted yourself off of him, causing him to finish on your lower stomach in pretty white splatters.

both of you were exhausted at the exhibition of energy on top of the long day before this situation occurred, breathing heavily as you got off the chair in favor of leaning against the table with your shaky legs. 

he couldn’t read your reaction, if the gravity of what just happened had sunk in yet or if you were still basking in the satisfaction of your climax. it made you glow in a way, making him dumbfounded and unable to meet your eyes. “i-i should go…” in a matter of minutes thanks to his stupidity, he just went from a good friend to a lowly slut in your eyes all because you were able to see right through him like glass.

however, you grabbed his wrist and pulled him back towards you, nude bodies pressed flushed against each other, kissing him fervently again with a slightly crazy edge to your actions. “yeah, no, you aren’t going anywhere. you started this mess, you’re going to help me out until the potion wears off or until we both pass out.”

[keeryhours]

the needle and the damage done - chapter four

Older! Rockstar! Eddie Munson x female! reader

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Eddie Munson Masterlist

Summary:

Eddie graduates from rehab and comes home.

Warnings:

(18+), smut, unprotected p in v, Eddie has a breeding kink, pregnancy, detailed depictions of drug use/abuse, childhood trauma, description of an overdose

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N:

This is a heavy one y’all. I hope you enjoy the chapter <3

Things went downhill fast.

It started with a pill snuck here or there, just when the cravings got especially bad. That was easier to hide. No one suspected anything, it just gave him a slight high, enough to get through his days. Rehab was boring, after all. He missed you. He missed his girls.

At least he had his guitar. He wrote songs all day, songs about heroin that sounded more like love songs than anything else. God, how he missed it.

But the past week, things had escalated. Jake was sneaking him heroin, and Eddie was shooting up in his en suite bathroom again.

When Eddie graduated from his rehab program, he had been back on drugs for weeks. He had no idea how no one noticed, but he wasn’t complaining or pushing the subject.

He felt like the biggest loser in the world, and he had no idea how he was supposed to face you and the band now.

You and the guys, who had been so proud of him. The girls, who were eagerly awaiting their dad’s return. That was the worst part - the knowledge that he had let his girls down. He couldn’t live with it, and it only pushed him towards the drugs even more.

He figured he could hide it a little longer - maybe he could go home and keep using, as long as he was careful. He could keep sneaking away to get high in the bathroom, acting as normal as possible when around you and the girls or the band. He could do this - he could go home and live his life and have the drugs, too.

Right?

Eddie looked at himself in the mirror. He didn’t look as good as he had at the last visit, that was certain. He had lost weight again, the dark circles under his eyes had come back. Fuck, you would know there was something up for sure.

He wore a dress shirt and slacks, his hair combed and facial hair neatly trimmed. It was his rehab graduation ceremony, a day he should have been proud of. Instead, he felt like a fraud.

Eddie slipped into his bathroom, attempting to calm himself before the ceremony began. He couldn’t exactly shoot up before going out there and seeing you all, but he could have a little something to take the edge off, right? He popped open his mini “first aid kit” and took 2 Oxys, placing them right on his tongue. There.

It didn’t take too long for the pills to kick in. By the time he was ready to go, he was feeling pretty damn good, blissed out and relaxed. A couple nurses, including Jake, escorted him down the hall towards the room where the ceremony would be held. He wondered if they had any idea how fucked up he was right now. Well, Jake might have had a pretty good idea.

In the room his eyes went to you first, smiling and giving him a small wave. You wore a dress that accentuated your growing bump, now 22 weeks. You’d had the appointment to find out what you were having a couple of weeks ago, but had the results in an envelope for you and Eddie to experience together.

Evie, Rhiannon, and Ivy stood next to you, each in matching red dresses. They looked nervous, clutching each other’s hands. Roz stood on the other side of the girls, followed by Gareth, Jeff, and Grant. They all looked so proud of him, it made him sick.

He went through the graduation ceremony, pretending like he wasn’t currently high and hadn’t been for the past 6 weeks. He couldn’t even meet your eyes. Afterwards you wanted to take pictures, where he faked his smile and pretended he wasn’t the absolute scum of the earth.

Eddie was happy to be home. The girls were all over him, wanting him to play, but he covered up the fact he was too high by saying he was just tired. You believed him - “Come on girls, give Daddy a break.”

“Daddy, are you better?” Rhiannon asked. “You’re not sick anymore?”

Eddie felt sick. “I’m better, baby girl. Not sick anymore.”

After he’d been home for a few hours, you couldn’t take the anticipation anymore. You brought out a white box from the fridge, setting it on the counter. “Are we ready to find out if we’re getting a little brother or sister?”

“Yes!” The girls yelled in unison, skipping into the kitchen and jumping up and down with excitement as they waited. You opened the box, revealing a white cake. Eddie joined you, looking over it to see if there was a glimpse of what lay inside.

“How do we know?” Rhiannon asked, standing on her tippy toes to peer at the cake.

“If it’s blue inside it’s a boy,” you explained with a smile. “And if it’s pink, it’s a girl.”

“I want a girl!” Evie said, which made you laugh.

“You don’t have enough sisters?” You teased your oldest.

“Boys are gross,” she said, making a face. “I like having sisters.”

“I want a brother!” Rhiannon said. “Daddy’s outnumbered.”

Eddie laughed at that - it was woefully true. “I’m okay with it. I love my girls. Could be fun to have a boy, though.”

“What about you, Ivy?” You asked your 3 year old. “Do you want a little brother or a little sister?” You knew this was big for her, she wouldn’t be the baby anymore. She’d never gone through the new sibling thing before, unlike her older sisters. Evie was a pro at this point.

Ivy thought for a moment. “Sister,” she answered finally, a tiny shy grin on her face.

“Eddie?”

“A boy,” he answered. “But I’m happy with another girl, too.”

“Okay, is everyone ready?” You asked, grabbing a large knife from the block and holding it over the cake. Eddie placed his hand on the handle next to yours.

“Yes!” The chorus came from all three girls again.

You and Eddie cut into the cake, the anticipation buzzing in your stomach. You cut the slice and pulled it out - revealing blue filling. You, Eddie, and Rhiannon cheered, Evie letting out a groan.

“It’s a baby brother!” You announced, tears falling from your eyes. Eddie pulled you into a tight hug and you buried your face in his chest as he rubbed your back.

“Wow,” Eddie whispered, only loud enough for you to hear. “A son.”

That night Eddie climbed into bed with you, wrapping his arms around you. He kissed all along your back and shoulders, his hands roaming under your top.

“Baby,” he moaned against your skin, leaving sloppy kisses as he went. “I haven’t had sex in 8 weeks. I’m desperate for you.”

You could feel just how desperate he was pressed up against your ass, his cock painfully hard and throbbing. You wanted to help him, and you needed it, too. You turned over so you were facing him, reaching a hand between your bodies and stroking him over his boxers. He crashed his lips into yours, kissing you deeply.

“Do you want to be on top?” He asked you breathlessly as he pulled away. “I don’t know if you’re uncomfortable on your back yet, we can do it however-“

“I’ll be on top,” you answered him, straddling his lap as he laid flat on his back. His hands moved to your hips, rocking you against his erection. You had on one of his t-shirts and a pair of shorts, Eddie in only his boxers. He lifted your shirt up and off as you stood up on your knees, pulling his boxers down. Eddie hooked his fingers in your shorts and panties, pulling them down as much as he could before you had to help out. He put a hand on your belly to help keep your balance as you got them off.

You could feel his hard cock pressing insistently against your entrance, Eddie reached between you to line himself up properly. You slowly sunk down on his cock, both of you moaning as you took him inch by inch.

“Fuck, Eds,” you moaned, slowly starting to rock your hips on top of him. “It’s been so long. You feel so good.”

“Yeah, too fuckin’ long,” Eddie said gruffly, thrusting his hips up into you. “Feel so good, baby, you’re so tight and hot, gonna make me fill you up.”

You whined, bouncing a little faster on him. You could feel the tip of his cock pressed against your bundle of nerves deep inside, and when he began rubbing circles on your clit, you were even more lost in the pleasure. Your head was thrown back, body on full display for Eddie’s eyes as you rode him. He was in heaven.

“Fuck, yeah, so good baby, keep riding me like that. You’re taking my cock so good. Shit, if you weren’t already pregnant I’d put another baby in you.”

You laughed breathlessly at that. “I think we’ve got enough of those.”

“I can never knock you up enough times,” Eddie grunted, his hands roaming over your body. “Love filling you up with my cum. I love seeing you pregnant with my babies.”

“Yeah?” You moved faster. Eddie was falling apart beneath you, it had been so long since he’d gotten to fuck you, he wasn’t lasting long. You also weren’t aware that he was pretty damn high. “Wanna cum inside and fill me up, Eds?”

“God yes,” Eddie groaned. “I want you, baby. Need you to cum on this cock first, though.”

You whined, your orgasm close. Eddie kept up his movements on your clit - “Fuck, wish I could taste you-“ until you were seeing stars, pussy throbbing around his dick, moaning his name over and over again as you came. “Eddie! Eddie! Eddie!”

Eddie gripped your waist tightly in his hands as he fucked up into you hard a few times, until he was throwing his head back and groaning while he came inside of you. You raked your nails down his tattooed chest, driving him crazy.

You collapsed on the bed next to him and he wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your neck. “I love you so fuckin’ much, baby.”

“I love you too, Eddie.” You smiled to yourself - Eddie was home. Your family was together. Things were going to be okay.

Rhiannon had her big dance recital that weekend.

You got the other girls all dolled up, dressed in matching dresses. Eddie wore a suit, his curls smoothed and pulled back in a ponytail. He couldn’t help but notice the perfect roundness of your belly now beneath your red dress. He placed a hand on it, and you turned to him and smiled.

“How’s Ozzy?” He asked, rubbing the bump over the soft material of your dress.

“First of all, his name is not going to be Ozzy-“

“Hey, I still have 18 weeks to change your mind.” It was hard to disagree with him when he was giving you that gorgeous smile, the all encompassing one that spread across his whole face. It was moments like these that it struck you, you loved this man.

“And second,” you continued, “he’s laying directly on my bladder, so maybe ask your son if he could be a little more considerate.”

Eddie dropped to his knees in front of you. “Ozzy-“

“Not his name.”

“-I need you to be good for your mama, okay?” He rubbed your stomach, and your son moved beneath his hand, like he was acknowledging his father speaking to him. Eddie’s face lit up with another grin. “Stop giving her trouble, young man. She works hard, growing you into a fully-formed human.”

You giggled as Eddie stood back up. Somehow, the baby had moved out of his uncomfortable position.

“Mommy!” A frustrated voice came from the doorway. Rhiannon stood there, halfway stuck in her costume. “I need help.”

“Oh!” You hurried over to her, ushering her back into her room. You untangled her from her costume and got it on her properly, smoothing the skirt of her tutu. Next, you tied up her ballet flats. “There we go.”

“I’m ready to go!” She yelled, jumping around in circles and spinning her pirouettes. Eddie peered in the door, leaning against it and smiling at you both.

“Let’s hit the road, girls,” he said, twirling his car keys around his finger. “We’ve got a show to get to.”

Rhiannon danced her heart out. She had a real talent for ballet, and you could definitely see her sticking with it and becoming a real ballerina. She took it seriously, as she didn’t do much.

Eddie teared up as he watched her. He felt so proud. These were the things he’d been missing to get high instead. It hit him then, hard. You reached over and took his hand, giving it a squeeze and a small smile that he returned. He placed one hand on your belly and the other around Ivy on his lap. Evie leaned against his shoulder on his left.

He felt content.

Eddie was fine with just the pills for a while, but eventually they stopped doing it for him. He needed more. He wanted to shoot up again, his veins itched for it.

He really had intended to be a better man. He wanted to be. But he just wasn’t.

He was texting his dealer before he could think better of it. He couldn’t shake that sinking feeling of guilt in his stomach that had been there since the first time he dialed Jake’s number.

The next thing he knew, he was sitting in his dealer’s living room.

“I got this new shit,” Jeremy said as he weighed and divided his product into small baggies. Eddie watched closely, his body itching for the high.

“Yeah?” Eddie was bouncing his leg, his hands restlessly playing together. “It’s good?”

“Like nothing you’ve ever experienced, man,” Jeremy laughed. “How much you want?”

There was something about the fact that Jeremy didn’t even have to ask if he wanted some that made Eddie feel like an even bigger loser. “The usual.”

When Eddie left, the drugs in his pocket begging to be taken, he debated getting rid of them. He debated going through the withdrawals again, maybe going to a different rehab and doing it for real this time. But he made a different decision.

He drove home, the guilt eating him alive. He longed to get home and inject the drugs into his veins, to stop thinking, to stop feeling. He was relieved when he got home and the house was dark. It was past the girls’ bedtime and you’d been so tired from the pregnancy lately that you’d been going to bed at the same time.

Eddie snuck into the house quietly, slipping into the large bathroom attached to your bedroom. He sat on the floor, pulling out his kit and the drugs he’d gotten. He measured the same dose he always took - it had been a while, so he knew it would hit hard. He heated up the drugs in the spoon, placing the cotton in it then collected the shot in his syringe. He tied the tourniquet around his upper arm, finding his vein. It was getting harder to do, but he eventually found it, injecting the needle into his arm. He untied the tourniquet and pushed off, the euphoria washing over him in a wave.

He felt incredible. His limbs gave out, arms flopping down at his sides. He let the feeling take him, not a care in his mind - until it suddenly felt harder to breathe, and his eyes started to close. He fought it as panic rose in his chest, attempting to crawl to the door with the last bit of fight left in his body before he lost consciousness.

You weren’t surprised when you woke up for the 50th time that night having to pee. This was your life every time you were pregnant - interrupted sleep and a million trips to the bathroom. Eddie still wasn’t in bed, but it wasn’t that late yet.

You rubbed your eyes as you held your stomach, sleepily waddling to the en suite bathroom. The light was already on, which was strange. You opened the door slowly. “Ed?”

The sight before you had you screaming, nearly getting sick on the spot. Eddie was passed out on the floor, his skin pale, needle and supplies on the floor next to him. He looked dead. Tears immediately started falling and you panicked for only a moment before you turned and ran for your purse, grabbing your phone and the Narcan nasal spray you started carrying on you the first time you caught Eddie with hard drugs.

“Mommy?”

Your heart sunk as you heard Rhiannon’s terrified voice from the doorway. You turned to see your 6 year old, her wide eyes locked on her father’s lifeless body. “Is he dead?” Her voice came out as a squeak, and your heart broke.

“Rhi, go get your sisters and stay in Evie’s room, okay?” You told her, trying to calm your voice. “I’ll come get you.”

Rhiannon didn’t move. “Is he dead?” She asked again.

You clenched your eyes shut, big fat tears falling down your cheeks. Because you didn’t know how to answer her question. “Go get your sisters and stay in Evie’s room!”

Finally she moved, turning and sprinting down the hall. You dialed 911 as you ran into the bathroom, pulling the cap off the Narcan and spraying it in his nose.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“I think- My husband is overdosing.” Your voice shook, but you tried to keep it as steady as possible.

“What’s the address?”

You told her quickly, touching Eddie’s cold face, wondering if you’d ever see his smile again.

“An ambulance is on the way. Name and age?”

“Edward Munson, 37.”

“Do you know what he’s taken?”

“I…” You looked around, but you weren’t exactly knowledgeable about what you were looking at. “Heroin, probably. I gave him a dose of Narcan about a minute ago.”

“Is he breathing?”

You took a shuddering breath. “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like it.”

“Heartbeat?”

You placed two of your fingers on his neck. Your own heart stopped in your chest as you didn’t feel anything at first, but finally - a faint, slow thumping. “Yes, it’s soft and slow, but yes.”

There was a knocking at the front door before you heard it open. “In here!” You called, and a crew of paramedics hurried in and surrounded Eddie. You watched in horror as they quickly strapped him to a stretcher, the way they moved telling you that this was not good and filling you with the fear you may never see your husband again.

As they urgently took him away, some of the paramedics spoke to you, but all you could hear was the rushing in your own ears. Finally someone got through to you - “Do you want to follow us?”

“I…my girls…”

The paramedic nodded in understanding. “You figure out what you need to. Just come into the emergency department and they’ll bring you to him.”

You watched the body of your husband disappear, wondering if you’d ever see him alive again.

tag list

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[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

we can only imagine what cosmetic brands Vil uses🤭

(reference to the Malleus and Armani cosmetics post)

[Referencing this post!]

According to Vil’s official profile, his talent is making homebrew cosmetics. He even mentions making his own skincare in 5-29; we get a look at how Vil packages that homemade skincare too.

Vil infuses some of his homemade skincare with very benign charms to enhance the effects of its ingredients. Ortho comments on it after scanning the ingredients of skincare that Rook brought with him into S.T.Y.X. HQ in 6-39:

There's also the infamous Azul Ceremonial Robes vignettes, in which Vil makes a deal with Azul to obtain a toner that can make his skin even more moist and supple than his usual homemade one can. This toner, as we come to learn, is made by wringing slime from Floyd's merform.

Vil is so pleased with the results of Azul's toner that he volunteers to put Azul's next skincare product through the paces.

Vil has also repeatedly expressed that he favors Félicité Cosmetics (sometimes written as "Felicite" or "Felicity" in EN; it's really inconsistent), which is a world-class brand that sells perfume, room fragrances, makeup products, herbal oils, beauty accessories, and more, all made with what Vil calls "naturally-derived ingredients" and "the latest techniques". It’s actually been mentioned a fair few times in Twst! The brand has its own store in Fairest City, which sports several luxurious retailers; Vil seems to be acquainted with the employees here.

The brand has released a limited-edition makeup set collab with the Beautiful Queen live action remake, which Vil stars in. Neige has also acted in a commercial for them, advertising a sunblock. So Felicity Cosmetics works with other big names!

Vil places a lot of trust in the quality of Felicity Cosmetics products, particularly when it comes to the waterproof and long-lasting nature of them. When thinking about what makeup he should wear during the interdorm magical shift/spelldrive tournament of book 2 (in which he will be sweating a lot), Vil muses, "*Sigh* I just cannot decide how I want to do my makeup on tournament day! I'm thinking maybe that new foundation from Felicity Cosmetics?"

When picking up his reserved makeup collab from the physical store location, Vil makes a similar remark about how the eyeliner they make can last even in a downpour or a very long shoot. He says that he may even be able to recommend it to a merman like Azul, who is completely submerged in the water in his true form.

Vil chooses to wear Felicity for triumphant moments too. When Jade is able to acquire the elusive and coveted Ténèbres brand mirror heels for him, Vil says, “I'm thinking it would be good to change my makeup to match my shoes. The new lipstick from Felicite Cosmetics would be my first choice.”

Vil has recommended Felicity Cosmetics to others as well. He taught Rook about makeup and introduced him to this brand, which Rook has now become fond of. Rook even requests that Vil pick up a rouge for him while he’s in the Felicity Cosmetics store.

That’s what we know about what Vil slathers on his oh-so-famous face!

[delfiore]

—SAD TO BREATHE (THE AIR WHEN YOU'RE NOT THERE).

pairing: aitana bonmatí x uswnt!reader

synopsis: aitana leaves for the international break and you become a mopey little shit.

word count: 1.1k

a/n: something short and sweet to get me back into the writing groove. the final inspired me this. and yk what this was nice, writing fluff ... is nice (sometimes).

It was embarrassing, really, the way you moped.

Unapologetically, you pouted and rolled around on the couch, convulsing and whining the way a child would beg for more candy. You would be convulsing and whining standing up if you weren’t so hung over from all the alcohol and clubbing you had done the past two days (most of which was justified, most of it).

“Do you have to go?” You knew the answer to that. In your mind, you looked very convincing. You’d hoped Aitana would notice and take pity on you and spare you a glance amidst her running around the house to pack.

“Amor, I’ll be back in two weeks.” Then she switched to Catalan. “[Plus you’re going soon too anyway.]”

It was true that the USWNT camp would assemble tomorrow, but that was one more day you would have liked to spend with Aitana after all the chaos of the Champions League weekend. The whirlwind of Barcelona’s victory has left little time for you to be alone with her. As soon as the match was over, the celebrations began, and Carla and the media team deemed that most of it should be on record. You wanted to be with your girlfriend so badly, but with Aitana dutifully attending to Carla’s every PR need, you were left pouting and giving her sad puppy eyes long before this morning.

“But-but—” you groaned as another wave of the pounding headache hit you, and you lay back down on the cushions.

“You see, this is why you shouldn’t drink so much.” She said, standing in front of you for a second to check that you weren’t going to vomit everywhere on the new couch.

“I’m sleepy. Come cuddle, please.”

You watched her stuff another pair of pants into the suitcase that lay open in the middle of the living room. “I didn’t ask you to get up with me.” She didn’t look amused. Somehow, it spurred you on even more, to know that she was having none of your shit but still engaged.

“But I always notice when you’re not in bed with me,” you whined again. “Can’t sleep after that.”

Aitana shook her head, barely acknowledging your predicament, scanning her suitcase, then went back upstairs.

With Herculean willpower, you stood up and followed her up the stairs. You stopped at the door of your shared bedroom, watching her collect her things from the en-suite bathroom.

“It’s just, I’m gonna miss you,” you said pathetically, “a lot.”

You didn’t know why, but this particular stint between this upcoming international break and the last felt much longer than others. It might have had something to do with the many things that happened during it—the many trophies that, looking back, you thought the team must have been running on crack to have won all of them whilst keeping yourselves fit and sane. In the middle of all that, you had Aitana, and she had you. The spotlight wasn’t easy, but it was alright because you both had each other to return to at the end of the night.

Finally, your pout must have worked because Aitana set her toiletry bag down on the counter when she met your eyes in the mirror. “Oh, amor. Why are you acting like a child?”

You didn’t care that you were; you just wanted your girlfriend to hold you before duties take her away.

Resting your head on her shoulder, you let out a sigh of desperation when she put her arms around your waist.

“I’m gonna die here, all alone, all by myself, and you don’t even care.”

“You’re not going to die, Y/N,” Aitana scoffed, but she held you closer. “[I’m sorry we didn’t spend much time together after the match]. Winning is exhausting, sí?”

You blew a raspberry. “Can’t wait for this season to be over.”

“No, you don’t, because then it means we’re going to the Olympics.”

You groaned, and plopped yourself onto the bed. “I don’t like playing against you.”

Aitana giggled, the sound floating like music in your ears. “Why? Scared you’ll lose?”

“Excuse you!” You put your hands on your hips. “I’m calling it, you guys versus us in the final. Better start practicing those free kicks.” You grinned and pulled her close, bumping your nose against her stomach.

“We’ll see.” When she leaned down to kiss you, you were ready and puckered your lips, but Aitana had the audacity to evade you and pecked your forehead instead.

She grabbed your chin and finally bestowed on your lips the kiss that you had been yearning for.

It’s not ever easy to let down your defenses, but with Aitana it felt so easy to do so. You never thought you’d ever be this lucky, certainly not two years ago, when you first transferred to Barcelona and Aitana started consuming your every thought. From the moment you laid eyes upon that beautiful smile and her unstinting kindness, you knew you were gone.

The memory of your first meeting lingered in your mind as your girlfriend dragged her suitcase towards the front door.

“I’ll call you when I get to camp,” she said.

“You promise?”

“Yes, promise. Now come here.” Her hands found yours and tugged you forward as you grinned. How could you not smile when her face was so close to yours? “I love you.”

You cupped her face and kissed her softly. “T’estimo.”

“Don’t be too sad, okay? It will go by quickly.” At least she pitied you enough to reassure you.

As you watched her get into her Uber, you could only wish she was right.

Aitana kept her promise and FaceTimed you once she had settled at camp a few hours later. The conversation didn’t last long, as she had to go quickly after that.

“I’m sorry,” you remembered saying.

“For what, my love?”

“For being clingy,” you laughed and shrugged. “I don’t know . . .”

It was a surprise, then, after you had packed your things for your early flight back to the States that night, that she called you again before you went to bed.

“Babe, is everything alright?” You had feared the worst when she texted you.

Are you still awake? Can we talk?

Super cryptic.

“Yes, everything is good.” After a quick pause, she said, “I couldn’t sleep. I miss you.”

A large grin crept onto your lips. “Well well well, how the tables have turned.”

As you heard a groan on the other side of the phone, you laughed, and thanked your lucky star above that you had someone like Aitana to look forward to coming home to.

[elizabethsnuts]

I noticed that Hotch's toddler daughter always has a pink blankie... Can I request a Hotchniss baby being insistent that Hotch HAS to have a little more pink in his suits somehow and will absolutely not take no for an answer haha?

Pretty in Pink

Hotchniss x Daughter!Reader

Summary: You were watching your parents got ready for work when you demanded your dad wears more pink in his suits.

———

You always thought your dad's outfits were boring, black suit, red tie, too dull for your liking. Emily was the same, she wore black a lot too, though she was more flexible with her wardrobe.

You were sitting on your parent's bed, watching them get ready for work. This was usual with you since you wanted to spend as much time as you could before they’d leave. Your tiny fingers were running across the soft fabric of your pink blankie while you watched Aaron fix his tie.

“Daddy, need more pink.” You stated firmly, holding up your blankie as if trying to show him an example of the colour pink.

Aaron looked over his shoulder, away from the reflection of himself in the mirror. “I need more pink? Daddy can’t wear pink to work, sweetheart.”

You slid off the bed, your tiny feet stumbling as they reached the floor. You crossed your arms and shook your head. “Yes! Daddy wear pink!”

Aaron let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Daddy can’t, Y/N. He needs to be tough for work.”

Emily came out of the en suite, she had heard the little conversation while she was putting on her makeup. She couldn’t help but tease her husband, supporting your little demands. “Aw come on, just a little?”

You nodded in agreement, putting your blankie on your head like a wig. Frowning and stomping your foot, you huffed. “Yeah, Daddy! Just little.”

Aaron smirked and shook his head. “Daddy can’t wear pink when he works in the FBI.”

You raised an eyebrow and frowned “Aunty ‘Nelope wear pink. She FBI.”

Aaron let out a small hum, that was true. He looked at Emily who was giving him a look that said ‘She’s right you know’. He sighed and turned to you again. “Yes well, Aunty Penelope doesn’t leave her office.”

You gave Aaron an angry frown and a grumble. You weren’t going to let him leave with house with no pink on. “Daddy, wear pink now!”

Emily had to hold in a laugh at your demanding tone, it was too cute. She smirked and raised an eyebrow at her husband. “She’s not going to take no for an answer y’know.”

Aaron just continued to fix his tie, looking at himself in the mirror. He let out a quiet laugh as he saw your grumpy face from behind him. “No pink.”

You soon realised that your angry, strict act wasn’t working, so you came up with a different tactic. You looked up at Aaron, sticking out your bottom lip and giving him your best puppy dog eyes. “Daddy wear pink, ‘ease?”

Emily knelt down beside you, squishing your tiny cheeks together with her fingers. “How could you ever say no to this cute little face?”

Aaron was always a secret sucker to your puppy dog eyes, he pretended that he didn’t get affected by it but everyone knew he did. “Alright, alright. Only a little bit of pink.”

You giggled loudly and gave Emily a little high-five. “Daddy wear pink!”

Emily laughed and picked you up on her hip, peppering your little cheek is a bunch of kisses. “Daddy’s going to wear pink!”

You and Emily disappeared into the bathroom to go and pick something pink for Aaron to wear to work for the day, leaving him alone in the bedroom. He wondered how he got so soft that you, his little toddler had managed to get him to wear pink despite his serious demeanour.

Emily soon returned to the bedroom, you in tow. You were giggling loudly as you handed Aaron a little pink flower hair clip. “Here! On tie.”

Aaron chuckled and looked over the hair clip, slowly clipping it to his tie. “There we go. Happy?”

You squealed and clapped your hands, jumping up and down. “Pink pink pink!” You pointed to the matching flower clip on Emily’s blazer. “You match with Mama!”

Emily nodded and grinned. “Yes, me and Daddy are matching! You’re matching too with your blankie.”

You nodded excitedly, holding up your blankie. “Match! Blankie pink!”

Aaron nodded and gave you a small smile. “That’s right, we all have pink on.”

Aaron and Emily did go to work with the pink flower clips on, even if Aaron did get a couple of laughs from other agents. Penelope was so surprised that the next time she saw you she gave you a bunch of presents. It took one amazing little daughter to get The Aaron Hotchner to wear the colour pink to work, that daughter was you.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Who doesn't love a perfectly preserved time capsule? This 1968 beauty in Rockford, IL is like stepping back in time. 4bds, 4ba, $450K.

The small entrance has tiled flooring to protect the carpet that runs all through the house.

Why is it always green? This was a dramatic home when it was new- stone fireplace, sunken living room, and wrought iron railings were the height of fashion.

The living area is huge. Note the large stone bench matching the fireplace and the cornice boards that discreetly hide the unsightly curtain rods.

The fireplace stone continues and has a huge mirror. In the corner is shelving and 2 steps up to the dining room.

The dining room has dated curtains that the buyer will inherit. I love the kitty-corner table. That was a common placement in mid-century style.

Next comes the kitchen. Actually, they must've updated it b/c I don't think that 2-tone cabinets were a thing yet. But, the ditzy, small, busy print of the wallpaper with matching shades was definitely the style. Note the original avocado dishwasher and dust shelving above the upper cabinetry, that was later replaced by soffits.

Wait a minute, I'm seeing props here- there's a new dishwasher and new ovens, but they kept the old avocado ones. I wonder if they work or, if it's just nostalgia. There are also 2 cooktops. Wow, they really preserved everything.

Look at the green glass.

Large laundry room off the kitchen.

Oh, look, an avocado washer/dryer set. This is amazing. And, look at the old sink. I hope someone who loves it, buys it, b/c it was so lovingly cared for.

Nice large everyday dining area has a pony wall separating the family room. So much green everywhere. I wonder if this set came that way or if they painted it.

Another stone fireplace flanked by shelving. Knotty pine walls, and folding shutter doors- all fashions of the past. I can't believe that they have the Colonial furniture that was so popular at the time. Even though it was all the rage, you don't see it around anymore. According to the listing, there is going to be an estate sale, so this furniture will be available.

The primary bedroom is pretty big. Geez, there's carpeting everywhere and some of it is looking gnarly.

It has an en-suite, which is unusual. Look at that fancy cabinet. Green laminate counter, too.

This bedroom is also pretty big. Look at the consummate girl's white bedroom furniture of the mid-century.

The den has a big old map probably with countries that don' t even exist anymore.

More bedrooms on the 2nd fl.

Oh, look at that! A hope chest! They were popular for a teenage girl to receive as a gift. Then, she would put in blankets, etc., in the hopes of one day getting married and using them. I can't get over the historic furniture in this place.

And, then they've got a big family room up here. Wow, this house has so much furniture and tchotchkes.

Winter? No problem. Just set the lawn furniture up in the basement.

There's also a finished part of the basement. This is a craft room, and there is also a canning room.

Look at the antique freezer on the right. This place is a museum.

This part of the basement isn't finished even though it has a brick fireplace. No matter, they still used it as a family room, anyway.

According to the listing, this is a 2 car garage, called a "cottage garage," b/c I guess it looks like a residence.

This cool log cabin on the property is used as a playhouse, according to the listing.

Yeah, but look at it, it's really a residence.

There's a lot of land, 3.50 acres.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/6151-Newburg-Rd-Rockford-IL-61108/5537324_zpid/

[jam3sacaster]

“You have the body of a goddess.”

(Rivals) Rupert Campbell-Black x Reader

Suggestion by my sweet @nebulastarr 🫶🏽 / It’s yours and Rupert’s first time together and you can’t help but feel insecure. He proves to you that you shouldn’t be…

18+ FANFIC / Smut-ish & SOFT Rupert. BODY CHECKING & WEIGHT MENTION! Reader character aged at 21. As always, please leave any requests in my ask box for any character/scenario 💋🫶🏽

Standing in front of your bedroom mirror, you meticulously inspect your body, and the lingerie that clads it — an exquisite set of a white lace bra and pants, with matching white stockings held up with a suspender garter belt. Typically, you would feel beautiful, sexy, unstoppable. However, you couldn’t help but scrutinise every inch of yourself. What if he hates the pouch on my stomach, the odd spot of cellulite on my thighs? What if Rupert thinks my boobs are too small, or my arse is too big? You shake your head to rid yourself of these unwanted thoughts. Grabbing your black silk robe from the tall, oak coat stand, you wrap it around yourself and wait in your en-suite. He should be home soon, and he knows what you have planned. He’ll be expecting an incredible body, but you’re not sure you have that.

It seemed like a decade until you heard the lock twist in the front door downstairs. Forever and day, as you listened for him kicking his boots off and hanging up his coat. An eternity, as he trudged up the stairs and opened the bedroom door. “Angel?” Rupert called, already unbuttoning his pressed shirt. Creaking open the door and tip-toeing out, Rupert’s jaw audibly dropped, just at the sight of you wrapped in your robe. “Well, it seems as though you’ve been expecting me.” He purred, motioning for you to come towards him. You didn’t, and watched as he threw his shirt to the ground and got started on his trousers, unzipping them and kicking them from his ankles. The sight of his ripped, tanned body, held together only by a pair of tight white boxers, was most certainly a sight to behold. “Rupert, I think we should wait a bit longer. Just a few more weeks. I just want to tone up a bit first.” You sigh, scrunching your robe tighter to your body in an attempt to cover your figure.

“Good things seldom come to those who wait.” Your boyfriend remarked with a smirk. Despite your anxiety, you couldn’t help but chuckle along with him. He, somehow, always knew what to say. “I’m just nervous. I’m not entirely thin. I have stretch marks, and cellulite, and rounded edges and just-“ You begin to continue your frantic rant but Rupert ceased it with three firm shh’s. “Are you wearing lingerie?” He questions, furrowing his brow. You nod in response. “I assume it was paid for with my card?” The interrogation continues. Eyes darting around with a small grin, you nod once more. “So let me see.” He probes.

Following orders, you slip the silk robe from your body, revealing the magnificent lingerie you had on. Rupert gawps at you, jaws dropped and eyes widened. His thumping heart pulsated in his chest, and the bulge in his tight boxers expanded instantaneously. “Darling… You have the body of a goddess.” He breathlessly muttered, taking a few steps closer to you and running his hands over the entirety of your body. His thorough inspection left not an inch of skin untouched. “Look what you’ve done to me.” Rupert inched back slightly so you could observe his growing cock fighting for release from his boxers. “Show me what you’ll do to your goddess. Show me what you think of my body.” You mumble, crawling onto your shared bed and laying on your back. “Darling, I would kiss every square inch of your body for you to see, just for a moment, how magnificent you are.” Fell from his lips so smoothly.

That was enough for you. Drawing yourself to him, you kissed him softly at first. But your yearning for each other transformed it into a slow, passionate kiss, tongues fighting for dominance in each others mouths. Rupert moved his right hand to your waist, squeezing softly and making you twitch. “Are you okay?” He asked, pulling his tongue from your mouth. “Yes. I’m just… not used to it.” You mutter, still trying to relax yourself with him seeing you in your entirety. Sticking to his promise, he began to place soft kisses — from your shoulder blades to your ankles, across the width of your stomach to your thighs, your forearm to the tips of your fingers. “The smell of you sets off something carnal within me. I need you.” Rupert growls, kneeling above you and beginning to unclip your stockings.

‘But I don’t know what else that I would give than try to kiss the skin that crawls from you, then feel your weight in arms I’d never use.’ - Hozier

[ellatoone7]

❄︎ Trust in me ❄︎

Alexia's favourite girls series

Emilia has some concerns over her future

Emilia had known for a while that maybe football wasn’t her life. From her very first session when she was a lot younger, she always had more of a fascination with picking flowers and making daisy chains or doing cartwheels across the field instead of kicking the ball. She had started gymnastics a few years ago and had taken a very keen liking to it. 

However, as she got older, she wanted to prioritise gymnastics, but the guilt of quitting football was slowly creeping up on her. It didn’t help that her older sister absolutely thrived on the football field, Emilia couldn’t help but notice how her Mami’s eyes absolutely lit up with pride as she watched Issy playing football. The last thing Emilia wanted was to disappoint her Mami. Her Mami, who went above and beyond for her and always showed up no matter what. Her Mami, who had won so many different awards for just how good she was at playing football. Her Mami, who always made her feel safe and so incredibly loved. 

Emilia was always encouraged to communicate her feelings to her parents, something that was instilled into her since she was much younger. Now she was eight years old and for the first time ever she was a little bit scared to talk to her Mami. Emilia had been working up the courage to tell her Mami that she didn’t want to play football anymore, but it just so happened that Isabella had won a very important match and Mami was bringing them to get ice cream to celebrate. Mami was smiling so big, and Emilia didn’t want to be the reason her Mami got upset. 

It didn’t take a lot for Alexia to notice something was wrong with Emilia. The normally animated girl was unusually quiet as she shovelled some ice cream into her mouth. Isabella was on cloud nine as she conversed with her Mami on the tactics of the game and whether they should stick or change it up slightly. “…Tal vez deberíamos poner a Lola en la delantera el próximo Partido.” Emilia’s head dropped even lower as she listened to her Mami and sister converse. Alexia got increasingly more worried as it had been at least an hour with complete radio silence from Emilia. They were on their way home now, all packed into Alexia’s Cupra as she turned the volume of Rosalia’s new song down a little. 

Isabella was still mumbling away happily as she brushes a little bit of grass off her kit. Emilia was staring at her older sister, Mr Biggy clutched in her arms and Alexia thought that maybe Emilia was a little jealous over her sisters win. Completely misinterpreting the situation Alexia looks through the mirror with a small smile, “Hey Meels, you have a big match coming up too. I can’t wait to come watch you play.” Emilia’s heart clenched in her chest at the hopeful look in her Mami’s eyes and she forced a tight smile and a nod which seemed to placate an oblivious Alexia who had made the situation much worse.

Isabella smiled softly at her younger sister, “Meels, you can wear my green boots, the ones that you loved.” Emilia once again nodded before curling in on herself that little bit more. Emilia decides then and there that she wasn’t going to be selfish and just work harder at football. She didn’t want to make Isabella or Mami upset and maybe she would enjoy it. She loved watching Mami play when she used to play for Barcelona, and she loves going to Isabella’s games. 

Emilia’s mind raced with all her favourite people and most of them played football, all her Tia’s who raised her on a football field, and she was now just throwing it away. Before Emilia knew it her eyes were filling with tears as she tried to swallow around the lump in her throat. The blonde tried to breath and calm herself down, but she was all worked up now and she wanted some comfort from her Mami while she still could. “Mami, No me siento bien.” She sniffled as the tears started falling down her flushed cheeks. Alexia quickly found somewhere to poll over so she could give her daughter her full attention. 

Alexia unbuckled her seat belt and turned her body around to make sure Emilia hadn’t gotten sick. She was in full Mami mode, and it felt like her heart stopped beating as Emilia cried. Isabella held her little sisters’ hand with her own frown of concern and started gently rubbing her back in hopes to provide some comfort. “¿Qué pasa nena?” Alexia questioned as Emilia struggled to catch her breath until eventually, she reached out just like she used to when she was a little bit younger. Before she knew it her car door was open, and she was in her Mami’s arms. She buried her face into her Mami’s neck as she whimpered softly, clinging into her jumper as her Mami sways her gently. 

Alexia was distraught as she tried to calm her daughter who she hadn’t seen this upset in a very long time. Alexia wished you were here in hopes of getting Emilia to open up, but Daniela was way too little to leave the house yet, so you stayed at home with Val. Emilia whimpered again and Alexia needed to get her home and hold her until all her hurt went away. Isabella had also got out of the car to wrap her arms around both girls. “¿Se siente mal?” Emilia had a history of motion sickness and still had trouble with long car journeys, but she had never cried like this. The only response she got was a shrug as she sniffled softly, “Vale, mi princesa, we are nearly home just a few more minutes.” 

Alexia felt as if her heart was being ripped out of her chest as Emilia cried for her the minutes she put her back into her seat. Isabella tried to be a replacement, but Emilia wanted her Mami. Emilia was sobbing now completely overwhelmed by her big emotions as she squirmed in her seatbelt, whining for her Mami as she got into the front seat. Alexia tore of her jumper in hopes to calm Emilia down with her familiar smell, Isabella held it close to her sister as she gently stroked her hair. Not even Mr Biggy was comforting Emilia and she hated hat she couldn’t stop crying. 

Alexia had to drive slowly as her hands had started to shake slightly and she would never put her girls in risk. Alexia didn’t stop talking the whole way home, eyes frantically checking her mirror every time Emilia cried out her name. “Mami! I need you!” Isabella cooed pressing kisses to Emilia’s temple as Alexia pulled into your driveway. Alexia’s heart was absolutely shattered, her baby needed her and nothing in the world mattered more than getting her into her arms. 

“Estoy aquí mi bebé, estás a salvo. Estamos en casa y te tengo siempre mi princesa.” Isabella ran into the house bringing Alexia’s jumper and Mr Biggy as she made sure Emilia’s bed was nice a cozy. “Hey, Is, You’re home how did you get…?” You immediately noticed something was wrong when Isabella didn’t stop fidgeting with Emilia’s bed. “What’s wrong Issy?” You gently asked as you grabbed her hands, “Something’s wrong with Emilia Mama.” Isabella fell into you as she yearned for her own comfort, your mind raced with endless possibilities, but you remained calm and held your eldest close. “She wouldn’t stop crying and calling for Mami.” You shushed her gently as you focused on making her feel better. 

You slowly kneeled, still a bit sore from just giving birth a few weeks ago. ‘Look at me Issy, everything’s okay. Mami has Emilia and we will find out what’s wrong, there is nothing to worry about okay.” You felt Isabella relax in your hold as you placed kisses against her cheek, “You are the best big sister ever and I love you very much.” Isabella smiled feeling a lot better now that her thoughts had been reassured. With one last kiss and a promise to let her stay up a bit later tonight, Isabella was guided to go have a shower after her game. 

The minute you caught eyes with your wife you knew something was very wrong. Emilia had Alexia’s shirt in such a tight grip that you were worried her little hand was going to cramp. Alexia was walking slowly into the house as Emilia cried softly into her neck, you approached at the same pace, gently stroking her blonde hair and coaxing her out of her Mami’s shoulder. Emilia whimpered at the interruption but when she saw it was you, she cried out your name, your wife gently passed her on to you. She didn’t go far as her arms slithered around you and pulled you both into her body. 

You took some time to cradle Alexia’s head and press kisses to her temple, she looked heartbroken as she leaned further into you. “It’s all okay, we are right here Meelie. What hurts baby?” Emilia shakes her head as she looks around wildly, eyes swollen and red. “Do you want to go lie down?” Emilia nodded softly as you readjusted her with a slight wince. Alexia was on full alert mode and her hands hovered your body as you placed a reassuring kiss to her lips. “Can you check on Dani, I put her down about twenty minutes ago?” Alexia nodded as she sighed softly, “Everything is going to be fine Alé.” Alexia kisses you again and coaxes Emilia out of your neck so she could give her the most loving kiss as she smoothed out her hair. “Te amo tanto mi princesa, eres mi todo.”

To her relief Emilia smiled softly and kissed her Mami’s cheek. “I love you too.” It was sniffled but it brought some much-needed relief into the heart of the former athlete. You brought her up to the safety of her room before quickly cuddling up with her, Mr Biggy found refuge in her arms, and you helped her put on her Mami’s jumper. She had calmed down significantly as she grew tired from crying, now she just wanted to talk to her Mama about the situation. “What happened sweetheart?” You noticed her looking at you intently which normally meant she had something on her mind. 

“I’m scared.” Her small voice rang out as she cuddled closer to you. “Why are you scared Meels?” You guided her, knowing that she was ready to talk now. Emilia pouted as her eyes filled with tears again and you shushed her gently, rubbing her back until she calmed down. “You can tell me and Mami anything, you know that my baby.” Emilia nodded as her eyes shined from her tears. Her small fingers wrapped around Mr Biggy’s ear as she mumbled something you couldn’t understand. You pulled her impossibly closer, offering your left hand so she could play with your wedding ring something she always used to calm herself down. “I didn’t hear that Meels.” You gently told her as she took a deep breath.

“I don’t…want to play…football anymore.” She stuttered as the words tumbled out; you could see the tension leave her body as she finally told you, her problem. You were incredibly relieved that this is all it was, but you knew exactly what the problem was and why Emilia wanted her Mami so bad in the car. “Meels I know, your gymnastics is starting to clash with it. Mami had been talking to your football coach to prepare them for your leave.” Emilia sat up slowly as she processed the information she was just given. “Mami won’t be upset.” You giggle softly at the pout on her face, “Meels, Mami is going to be so relieved when she hears that this is why you were crying.” Emilia perked up, “Really? Promise?” You held out your pink as she beamed brightly, “Pinky promise.” 

You kissed her head, “Your Mami loves you so much not just for the things you do but for being you. Do you want to know a secret?” Emilia nodded with a curious head tilt, “Mami was the one who suggested you do Gymnastics when she saw your cartwheels.” Emilia nearly burst with joy as she clung onto you tightly. “I am so proud of you for telling me. Did you get very overwhelmed?” You asked trying to figure out how her emotions might have taken over so you can be more prepared next time.

“My thoughts made me worried. I didn’t want to upset Isabella or my Tia’s.” You kissed her again, as she cuddled Mr Biggy. “Your Tia’s love you so much Meels and Isabella will be delighted she gets to keep the goals all to herself.” Emilia giggled as you tickled her, “I want Mami.” You nodded knowing that your wife wanted Emilia right now too. It was as if Alexia knew her daughter was looking for her as there was a soft knock at the door. Alexia had calmed down a little bit now that she was home with her family, Daniela was so tiny, and Alexia softly rocked her as she snoozed. Alexia would be lying if she didn’t say she was walking considerably slower past Emilia’s door, but it was worth it when she heard her favourite sound, Emilia’s giggle. 

Emilia lit up at the sight of her and Alexia had to stop herself from running to the other side of the room to get to her. Alexia got under the covers as Emilia fell into her. Your eyes told Alexia all she needed to know; it wasn’t anything horrific. You let them have their cuddle before encouraging Emilia to tell your wife what was wrong. Emilia settled on top of her Mami before locking her fingers with hers, “Mami I don’t want to play football anymore.” There was no shift in Alexia’s smile as she stared up adoringly at her daughter, she sat up and cupped her face. “Te amo mucho mi princesa. I don’t care what you do as long as you are happy.”

Emilia smiles happily as she rests against her Mami’s chest. “You have a gymnastic competition next week and all you Tia’s want to come. Is that okay?” Emilia nodded tiredly as she cuddled Mr Biggy, “I would love that.” Alexia kissed her hair softly before lying down and bringing her to her chest. “I’m going to stay with her for a bit.” You nodded softly as you leaned down to kiss her. “You are the greatest mother Alexia Putellas, never forget that.” 

[corroded-hellfire]

Hi! I had this idea for the As you wish - series. What if reader finds her first grey hair or maybe spot the first lines on her face and panics because she thinks "Eddie was drawn to me because I was so young, what if he won't be drawn to me anymore?!"

Ah, the signs of aging. As someone who has had a line across her forehead for years now, I felt this lol. Despite what society tries to tell us though, aging is good! Never forget that.

Words: 2.1k

[As You Wish masterlist]

Waking up before your alarm clock used to be considered a sin to you. It’s not like you were always out partying all night in college when you were younger, it’s just the principle of the thing. How dare your body naturally wake you up just as the sun is making its first appearance over the horizon? The words “early morning” left a sour taste in your mouth, and you’d do whatever you could to get a few extra hours of sleep.

If growing up and becoming a productive member of society didn’t get your body accustomed to waking up earlier than in your teenage years, being a mom of three certainly did. 

The boys are both teenagers themselves now and won’t get up for school willingly, which means you’ve had to learn a few tricks over the years. But one of those tricks was seemingly fading as time ticked by as well. Eliza used to be up before the crack of dawn, her cries or laughter beating the rooster’s crow to the punch. Now that she’s pushing four years old, she often sleeps later than you or Eddie, which means she’s not readily available to bother her brothers into a wakened state. That still leaves Eddie though, and he considers it a joy to annoy his sons awake—payback for all the years they did it to him. 

But this morning you’re awake not only before your alarm, but before anyone else in the house as well. A few emerging beams of sunlight shine through the gaps in your blinds and warm the side of your face as you turn towards it. A content hum leaves your lips as you open your eyes, blinking away the bits of sleep still clinging to the corners. Your heavy head lolls to the other side and comes face to face with your sleeping husband. 

It’s impossible not to smile at his open jaw dotted with scruff, just a hint of drool pooling in the corner. Telling yourself to get up out of bed and not bury your face in his chest and cuddle back into the blankets feels like a Herculean task as you gaze at his handsome face. 

With a sigh, you push yourself up and stretch your arms up over your head. The bright side of being the first one up is that you can go through your morning routine in peace, you suppose. 

The plush carpet is warm on your toes as you slip from bed and pad over to the en suite bathroom. A fierce yawn erupts from your mouth as you turn on the faucet to wash your face. The back of your hands rubs against tired eyes as you wait for the water to heat to an acceptable temperature. The house is quiet and still around you, giving you a sense of calm that you’re sure won’t last once the kids are awake. 

A green washcloth hangs on a hook next to the mirror above your sink and you lather it with your apple blossom-scented soap before rubbing it over your face. The scratch of the cloth on your skin feels good, taking any remnants of the full night’s sleep off and preparing you for the new day. 

You let the wet swatch of fabric fall back down into the sink and grab the matching towel to pat your face dry. As you hang the towel back on the hook, you lean in towards the mirror above the sink and let your eyes roam over your features. Luckily, it seems like that small breakout you had last week has finally cleared up and your chin is blemish free. Your eyes trail farther up and once they get to your forehead your hands grip the side of the sink with enough force to crack the white porcelain in half.

There is a line across your forehead. 

Immediately, your hand goes up and tries to rub it away. Still there. Maybe it’s a smudge on the mirror. All your hand does is smear fingerprints across the glass surface, but the line on your face is still there. 

Gently, you rub the tips of your fingers over the crease in your skin. When you can feel the indent where it used to be firm, an involuntary whimper falls from your lips. Your forefinger traces the line back and forth from the left side of your face to the right. Tears gather in the corners of your eyes and your arms drop down to your sides.

You have a wrinkle. 

The ugly word has the tears spilling over your bottom lids and you squeeze your eyes shut. This is ridiculous, you try to tell yourself. It’s perfectly normal. Aging is a good thing. You force your eyes open and glare at the unwelcome addition to your face. But why does aging mean you’ll start to feel insecure about how your body changes? Wasn’t puberty enough of that bullshit?

A sharp inhale of breath and your hands fly to cover your mouth as a thought occurs to you. What is Eddie going to think? He was drawn to you because of your youth, so what now? Is he going to find this wrinkle gross? Will he find you unappealing now? Are younger, hotter girls going to turn his head?

The thoughts come on too quickly and you're flooded by a wave of panic and grief. Tears flow freely down your cheeks, and you make a conscious effort not to scrunch your face up, lest you get more wrinkles. 

A small sob wracks your body, and you tighten your hands over your mouth. Part of you knows this is an overreaction, that Eddie won’t care, but the irrational side of you has its claws too deep in you now to let go. 

“Babe?”

Eddie’s groggy voice calls out and his footsteps approach the bathroom door. As if it will keep him from seeing you, you press your back against the bathroom wall and keep your hands firmly clutched over your mouth.

A mop of frizzy bedhead pops in the doorway and Eddie looks in the other direction before swinging his gaze around and spotting you. Instantly, he’s more alert as he takes in your body language. He comes to stand in front of you and places his hands gently on your upper arms.

“Princess, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” he asks. 

Not trusting your voice, you shake your head, hands still covering your mouth.

“What?” Eddie asks. “You’re not okay?” Gently, he pries your fingers from your lips and holds them securely in his own hands. “Hey, come on. Please talk to me.”

Try as you might to find the right words to say, nothing comes to mind. Too much is rattling around your head and the only thing that comes out of your mouth are whines as your sobs pick up. Instinctively, you step in towards Eddie and bury your face in his neck. Strong arms wrap around you and hold you close to his warm, solid frame. 

“Hey…” Eddie coos as he rubs a large hand up and down your back. It’s a tone you’ve heard him use with Eliza a hundred times before when he’s trying to get her to take a breath and use her words. “Sweetheart, talk to me. Please?”

It takes a lot of your strength to pull back and wipe your eyes and nose off on your arm. The concern in Eddie’s eyes damn near sends you into another fit, but you manage to keep it together. 

“I-I…” I have a wrinkle is what you plan to say. “I’m s-scared.”

Your husband’s eyebrows pinch together as he studies your face. He’ll probably spot the problem on your face on his own if he keeps looking at you like this. 

“Scared? Baby, what are you scared of?”

At his question, a new round of tears does come. You try to ward them off though, shaking your head and wiping your eyes. I’m scared you’re not going to be attracted to me anymore. I’m scared you’re going to think I’m old. I’m scared I’m freaking out and don’t know how to stop it.

None of those words form on your tongue though, so with a shaky hand you reach up and point to the crease above your eyebrows. Eddie’s gaze drifts to where you’re pointing but this only seems to confuse him more.

“What is it? What am I supposed to be looking at?” he asks. When you jab repeatedly at your forehead with your finger, Eddie gently grabs your wrist and lowers your arm back down. “Angel, you’ve gotta talk to me.”

“A-A wrinkle,” you manage to squeak out just above a whisper. 

Eddie frowns and looks at your forehead again. He squints his eyes and shrugs his shoulders.

“I see a faint line. Why does that scare you?”

“Because it means I-I’m old.”

Laughter is the last thing you expect to hear from your husband. But when you look up at him there’s an amused look on his face as he shakes his head. 

“Babe, you’re twenty-nine. If you’re old, then I’m the damn crypt keeper.”

“M’not like when you met me,” you mumble, looking down in embarrassment. 

“No, you’re not,” Eddie says plainly. “And neither am I.” When you look up at him in confusion, Eddie sighs and gently tugs you closer to him. He takes a seat on the closed toilet lid and pulls you into his lap. “Pretty girl, we’ve known each other for about a decade now. Neither of us are the same. I’ve got gray in my beard now and these crow’s feet around my eyes.”

“They’re sexy,” you’re quick to inform him.

“What makes you think I don’t think your changes are sexy?” your husband asks with a raised eyebrow. 

“This isn’t sexy,” you say with a sigh as you rub your hand across your forehead. 

“Is to me,” Eddie says with a shrug. “I’ve got more tattoos now. You’ve given birth. Jesus hun, I’m in a different decade than I was back then. We’re not a couple in their twenties and thirties anymore—it’s twenties and forties.”

His fingers gently dig into your sides, making you squeak in laughter and squirm around in his lap. 

“Until I turn thirty in a few months,” you say. Words burn at the back of your throat, and you know you shouldn’t say them. But they need to come out and make themselves known. “You’ll still want me, right? When I’m thirty? With these lines starting?”

Eddie stares at you for a moment, his doe eyes scanning your face. You see the moment something clicks in his mind.

“Wait, don’t tell me that’s what you’re scared of?”

When you still avoid looking him in the eye and remain silent, Eddie lets out a long sigh. 

“There is no line or wrinkle that could make you anything less than the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Not a damn thing in this world could make me not want to be with you. I love you. Always have, always will. Wrinkles or not. Acne or not. Scars, gray hair, injuries, sickness, it doesn’t matter. You’re my girl and that’s all there is to it.”

Emotion swells within your chest and it’s difficult to keep it contained. Hoping to convey what your voice can’t, you lean forward and rest your forehead against Eddie’s. 

“Actually,” Eddie adds softly, “I think wrinkles and gray hair are pretty great things. Because it means we’re growing old with each other. No one else I’d want by my side, to go through this with.”

“I’m so lucky to be your girl,” you manage in a hoarse whisper, trying to quell the tears that build up—now for a different reason. 

A soft chuckle has Eddie’s breath ghosting across your lips.

“It’s absolutely me who is the lucky one, princess. I love you so goddamn much.” 

“I love you too—”

“Mama!”

Little hands beat on the wood of the closed bathroom door. You and your husband share a whispered laugh as you drop your head down to his shoulder. 

“What’s up, sweet pea?” Eddie calls back.

The banging stops and there’s a beat of silence before your daughter replies.

“I called for Mama.”

A snort of laughter leaps out of you at Eliza’s tone. Eddie shakes his head in amusement and lets out an overdramatic sigh.

“See?” He speaks softly to you. “None of us can live without you.” The banging starts up again, a little faster this time. Eddie winces and squeezes one eye shut. “Even for a second, apparently.”