#they honestly hit so close to home and for what. for what

[tywrites]

heavy | mateo manta

pairing: mateo manta x gn!reader

word count: 1,360 (not proof-read)

warnings: reader is implied to have depression

a/n: okay so this is really bad since i haven't written in quite a long time but!! i love him and i Needed to write something abt him. i desperately need more mateo fics lmao. hope you enjoy <33

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You rolled over in your bed, the usually comforting plush of your mattress feeling awfully cold today. You sighed, closing your eyes and quietly hoping to just fall back to sleep. Things had been… difficult recently. Losing your job had definitely taken its toll on you – on your mental health in particular. Even when working from home, you still had to make the time to leave every so often and interact with the real world. But with everything that had happened recently with the dateviators, you hadn’t been able to leave at all.

Of course, you still had the objects. And they were great company! Most of them anyway. But it didn’t stop you from feeling a bit… alone sometimes. You sighed softly, finally accepting the fact that sleep wasn’t coming. You looked over to your end table at the dateviators. You had a lot to do. It was really overwhelming, honestly. You hadn’t even met all of the objects in the house yet, let alone made any progress towards realising any. You had made a lot of close friends through them though. And even one very special, different relationship…

Even just thinking of Mateo brought a slight smile to your face, cheering up your bleak mood ever so slightly. If you’d told yourself a few weeks ago that you’d soon be dating your blanket… well, considering your track record with love, it wouldn’t be all that surprising.

You bit your lip, reaching over to the dateviators. You popped them on, blinking at the warm, pink hue that enveloped your vision. You didn’t think you’d ever get used to this. In a second, Betty had materialised in front of you, perched on the edge of the bed – or uh, on the edge of herself. She gave you a soft smile.

“How’re you feeling today, gorgeous?”

You made a face. “Well for starters, I don’t feel very gorgeous,” you reply groggily, sitting up as you wiped a hand over your tired face.

She chuckled. “Sweetie, you’re always gorgeous to me. But what’s got you so down? You barely slept last night, or the night before… should I be offended?” She was clearly joking, but there was a definite tone of concern in her voice.

“Nah, it’s not you, it’s me,” you admit, looking down at the sheets. “I just… I don’t know. I feel so… heavy? I’m so tired, all the time. Which makes no sense, let’s be real, I’m doing nothing all day but..” You trail off, unsure of how to word it. “I just can’t sleep though. I can’t relax. I feel so tense all the time and I don’t see a way out of it. Easier to just lay in bed, I guess,”

She looks at you, worry in her eyes. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked. You try your best to force a smile.

“Not really. I think it’s just… something I have to deal with on my own,”

She frowned. “Honey, I don’t think-”

“I’ll see you tonight, Betty. Thanks for the talk,” you said quickly, standing up and heading to the bathroom, leaving Betty sitting on the bed, her face twisted in concern.

-------------

You’d spent most of the day dodging the other objects. Mateo especially. You just couldn’t bring yourself to talk to anyone right now. You left the dateviators on the table next to you, doom scrolling on your phone until the socially acceptable time to hit the hay. You were planning to go straight to bed, not call on anyone with the dateviators. The idea of bothering any of them, of forcing them to sit and listen to your silly problems was excruciating. But as you settled down into bed, trying in vain to close your eyes and let sleep come for you, there was only one thing on your mind.

You knew how upset Mateo would be if he knew you were avoiding him, especially if he knew it was because you weren’t feeling the greatest. Helping others is what drove him, it was the one thing he took pride in the most. He’d never let you wallow in your own self pity. You glanced at the glasses on your bedside table and sighed in defeat. You slid them on slowly.

You hadn’t even had them on for a few seconds before Mateo was materialising. You didn’t expect him to be right here, waiting for you. He was usually in the living room, caring for the inanimals. That man never took a break. When you saw the worried expression on his sweet face, you wanted to break down there and then.

“Ah mi vida, finally!” He said, sitting down onto the edge of the bed. “I’ve been waiting for you all day,”

You flushed in embarrassment. So he’d been watching your pathetic display of self-loathing, huh? “Sorry, Mateo… I’ve just been, um, tired,” you said, avoiding his eyes. If there was anything in this world that could make you immediately spill all your darkest secrets, it was Mateo’s big, brown eyes.

“I’ve noticed… my love, I’m worried about you. Betty came to me earlier and told me you haven’t been sleeping. Is that true?” He asked tactfully.

“Betty said that?” Betrayal, you thought.

“She was worried. Honestly, a lot of us have been worried. You haven’t been acting like yourself for a while now. If there’s anything I can do, anything at all, you know you just have to ask, right? I would do anything for you,” he said, a small blush rising to his cheeks. “I mean, I’d hope you’d know that…”

You finally look at him, truly seeing the concern on his features. His bedhead was especially messy today, as though he’d been running his hand through it every five seconds. His usual easy smile was replaced with a small frown and you realised something. In that moment, you would do anything to see that smile again. As you were preoccupied with gazing into his eyes, Mateo took this opportunity to place his hand over yours. His touch was feather soft as his thumb gently traced the back of your hand. You could almost feel your anxiety melting away.

You finally spoke.

“Mateo?”

“Yes, amor?”

“Could… could we cuddle?”

You ignore the burning in your cheeks and make your request, looking down at his hand still on yours. You focused on his touch. His touch seemed to make many things a whole lot easier.

At your words, a huge grin took over Mateo’s face. “You never even have to ask,” he said, bringing your hand up to his lips and placing a soft kiss onto the back of it.

You manoeuvred yourself so there would be room for Mateo beside you, turning so your back was towards him. He wasted no time in enveloping you in his arms, pulling you into the comforting warmth of his chest. His face snuggled into the crook of your neck and he took a deep breath in.

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed this. The inanimals have missed you too…”

An arrow of guilt hit you right in the heart.

“I’m really sorry, ‘Teo… I-”

“You have no reason to be sorry, amor. Look, I can tell you’re struggling right now. And there’s nothing wrong with that at all, you have nothing to be ashamed about. But you have people around you that can help share your load, okay? You taught me that when we first met. When you bottle it all inside, it’s just too heavy for one person to handle. I want to help you. Please let me,”

You could feel the tears welling up in your eyes. You sniffled, wiping them away as quick as you could but they just kept coming. Mateo brought up the sleeve of his plush duvet jacket, wiping away the tears as they trickled down your face. You both said nothing. You laid there, wrapped up in Mateo’s arms, feeling more safe and secure than you had in a very long time. If Mateo was there to help you hold it, maybe things could be a lot lighter from now on.

[dee-writes-anime]

A Sock, a Spoon, and Three Feathers

FEATURING Keigo 'Hawks' Takami x Reader

SUMMARY apparently his idea of “providing for you” is pre-cooked poultry and stealing all the spoons in your apartment.

CONTENT WARNINGS hawks is a bird I fear, fluff, slight angst at the end, but it ends in comfort, a dearly treasured spoon and a store bought rotisserie chicken, new relationship, nesting behavior, heat instincts, mild confusion, gift-giving, affectionate weirdness

AUTHORS NOTE god, someone get me a feral bird man. I fear I am desperate.

You’re not really sure when your apartment stopped looking like your apartment.

Maybe it was the third day in a row you found one of Keigo’s feathers tucked under your pillow. Or the moment you opened your silverware drawer and found it missing every spoon—except for one, singular, bent one—because, apparently, that was the “shiny one” he liked best.

You blink at the spoon now, lying sideways on your desk like it belongs there. You didn’t put it there.

There’s also a sock. Not yours.

“…Keigo?”

Your voice echoes down the hallway. You don’t get an answer right away, but you do hear a rustle from your bedroom, then the faint sound of a box being moved. When you poke your head in, you find him kneeling on the floor, surrounded by what might be your throw blankets, a hoodie you haven’t seen since March, and at least two of your favorite plushies.

And right in the middle of that chaotic pile: Hawks. Smiling. Nestled like a smug bird in a cloud of fleece.

“You’re home early,” he chirps, clearly pleased with himself. “Don’t worry—I cleaned off the table so we can still eat dinner like civilized people.”

You blink.

Then blink again.

“…What are you doing?”

Keigo looks around like the answer should be obvious. “Building a nest.”

There’s no irony in his voice. No teasing smirk. Just that bright-eyed, sunlit warmth that always makes your brain short-circuit a little.

You open your mouth. Then close it. “A… nest.”

“Yep.” He plucks something from beside him—a keychain you thought you lost—and holds it up. “Look! I even added your stuff, so it smells like you. That way I can feel safe.”

You’re silent for a long beat, staring at him.

Keigo tilts his head. “You okay, dove?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah, just… trying to figure out if this is, like, a bird thing or a Keigo thing.”

He laughs, but it’s a little too sharp, a little too strained. You watch his wings fluff up behind him, fidgeting with little shivers of motion.

That’s when it hits you—he’s been acting weird for days now. Clingy, but not in a bad way. Just… hovering. Twitchy. Bringing you little trinkets—some feathers, a shiny ring pop, a cool rock. He even gave you a piece of tinfoil once that was folded into a perfect triangle.

“Is this like… instinct?” you ask gently, stepping closer. “You’ve been doing this since Saturday.”

He hesitates. Then shifts, like he’s bracing for judgment.

“…I think I might be going into heat,” he mutters, voice muffled by the hoodie he pulls over his face. “It’s early this season. Thought I had another week.”

“Oh,” you say.

You’re not sure what the correct response is to my bird boyfriend is nesting in my bedroom because his instincts are telling him I’d be a good mate, but you settle for sitting down next to him in the pile of blankets. One of his feathers sticks to your shirt. You don’t brush it off.

“So, uh,” you say, “does the spoon have special meaning, or was that just your favorite?”

“Shiniest one you had,” Keigo says immediately.

You nod thoughtfully. “Fair.”

He peers at you from the corner of his eye. “You’re not freaked out?”

“I’m confused,” you say honestly. “But not, like, bad confused. Just… bird confused.”

He makes a helpless sound, flopping back dramatically into the pile. “God, you’re perfect.”

You reach over and pluck the feather off your sleeve. It’s a brilliant red and soft at the edges. You hold it up.

“This one’s mine now,” you say, tucking it into your hair like a headband.

Keigo freezes. His eyes go wide.

“…You’re killing me,” he whispers.

You grin. “Better make room in your nest then.”

He beams.

You wake up to the sound of wings flapping.

Not like—outside, bird-in-a-tree flapping. No. You’re talking full-blown helicopter-grade flapping right in your living room, paired with the unmistakable sound of your front door clicking shut.

You groggily sit up, blinking against the sunlight. Your nest—sorry, bed—still smells like Keigo. Not surprising, considering he’d spent the night wrapped around you like a living space heater. The blanket pile he started building last night has only grown, and you’re 90% sure he rearranged your throw pillows in the shape of a heart before you fell asleep.

There’s another rustle.

Then a thud.

Then—

“Babe!” Keigo’s voice, muffled. “Do you like rotisserie chicken?!”

You squint and shuffle out into the hallway. “…What?”

Keigo rounds the corner with three grocery bags, feathers ruffled and windswept like he flew full-speed across the city and dive-bombed the store. His hair is a mess, shirt slightly askew, one glove missing, and his expression so absurdly proud that your heart does a traitorous little flip.

“I brought food,” he says, holding out a warm, fragrant box with both hands like an offering to a queen. “Protein. Omega-3s. Bird-safe. Mate-safe.”

“Mate-safe?” you echo, because you cannot let that one slide.

Keigo hesitates. “…I said that out loud, huh.”

He does this thing where he laughs and coughs at the same time, like maybe he can distract you from the fact that his eyes are laser-focused on your face for any trace of disapproval.

You take the chicken.

You also take a moment to process that this man—this pro hero—is trying to prove his suitability as a mate with grocery store poultry.

“…You’re doing the bird thing again,” you murmur, trying not to smile.

“I know,” he says, completely unashamed now. “My heat’s in full swing. I’m lucky I can still think straight.”

You raise a brow. “Can you?”

Keigo shrugs. “Define straight.”

You throw a piece of bread at him. He dodges it effortlessly, like the bastard bird he is.

Usually, Keigo’s presence is… everywhere. Not in an overbearing way, just—felt. Like a breeze under your skin. Like laughter waiting in your throat.

But today?

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes your spine prick.

You pause mid-bite of your sandwich and glance down the hallway. The nest—the mess of blankets, stolen socks, and whatever he’s dragged in this week—is undisturbed. There’s no feather trail on the floor. No spoon migration. No commentary from the windowsill about pigeons “loitering” on the fire escape.

Just silence.

“…Keigo?” you call softly.

No answer.

You set your food down and move toward the bedroom, heart ticking up just a notch. The air feels heavy—like a storm waiting to break.

You find him in the corner, half-curled into the nest. His wings are drawn tight against his back, shivering faintly. His head’s tucked into the crook of his elbow like he’s trying to hide from something.

Your chest aches instantly.

“Hey,” you whisper, crouching beside him. “There you are.”

He doesn’t look up. His voice is quiet. Muffled.

“I’m sorry.”

You blink. “For what?”

He exhales shakily. “For being weird. For… hoarding your socks. For the chicken. For making your house smell like me. I just—my instincts are screaming and I can’t shut them up today and everything’s too loud—”

“Keigo.”

You reach out and gently touch his wing.

He stiffens for just a second—but then melts.

Collapses, really. Feathers slumping, breath hitching. He leans into your touch like it’s the first thing that’s made sense all day.

“I just wanted to be good,” he whispers. “Like—like a good mate. Someone who deserves to have you around. But now it just feels like I’m being too much. I’m not thinking clearly and it’s all heat and feathers and I—”

You shift closer, hands running slowly through the soft curve of his wings. “Hey. Breathe.”

He does. Because he listens to you. Always has.

“I like your feathers,” you murmur. “And your ridiculous spoon. And the stupid sparkly rock you left on my pillow.”

Keigo groans quietly. “That was a gift. From the heart.”

“I know. That’s why I kept it.”

He lifts his head just enough to glance at you, eyes glassy and golden, pupils blown wide with exhaustion and heat and instinct. You brush a bit of hair from his face.

“You don’t need to impress me, Keigo,” you say gently. “You already have me. Nest and all.”

He blinks.

Then suddenly, he’s curling into you. All warmth and feathers and barely-restrained shivers. He tucks his face into your shoulder and lets out a noise halfway between a sigh and a sob.

“I love you,” he mumbles, voice cracking, “like—a lot.”

You smile and kiss the top of his head. “I know.”

You settle there for a while—him buried in your side, wings twitching with aftershocks, your hand stroking gently through his hair. You hum something soft and tuneless, the way you do when he’s too deep in his own head.

Eventually, his breathing slows. His wings loosen. He starts mumbling nonsense again.

“…gonna build you a bigger nest,” he mumbles into your shirt.

“Oh yeah?” you ask, amused.

“Mmhm. For our future chicks.”

You pause.

“Keigo, we’re not even a month into dating.”

“I’m planning ahead,” he huffs, voice thick with sleep.

You laugh, long and soft. “You’re out of your mind.”

“I’m in heat,” he mumbles, pressing closer. “Let me bird in peace.”

You let him. Because the truth is, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be than right here—with your weird, soft, instinct-driven bird of a boyfriend curled up like the world only makes sense when you’re touching.

And honestly?

Maybe it does.

[n0t-evenhere]

Heeyyy✂✂✂

What if MC makes fun of Rays age just to get bullied back

What if MC wants to have sex during their period

What if MC has benadryl to get high

What if MC and ray has 3 kids and every day MC wakes up to their youngest in a frog dress and their heels just to yell "WHERE TF IS YOUR DADDY AT"

What if MC is a messy eaterWhat if MC has cheek tunnels

What if MC has a humping kink and humps rays pillows and even his leg, door pillow Teddy's etc

What if MC is scared of black coffee and other things like noodles, square pizza etc and tries to hit these different things out of his hand😼 with a NO!

Byeeee✂✂✂

Heyyyy frien :>

1. Honestly, just sounds like good old banter to me. Old man jokes in turn for teasing from him.

MC: “You are sooo old going out like that in high socks and candles with the buckle combo.”

Ray: “and you have no room to talk. Dressed up in that bubble bee black and yellow combo.”

MC: “…”

Ray: “…”

MC: “Touché”

2. I’m mean, I’m a bit torn between this one. Cause on one hand, he could because he loves you enough to do so. At the same time, I’m my head he is very neat and clean, not a heavy germaphobe but leaning. Either way, I think he’s still entertain the idea since factually it can help relive the pain because of the pressure and the stimulation and what not.

3. Similar to when drugs and weed was brought up, he can’t have that. You are irreplaceable, you arent super human. He needs you to be healthy, he doesn’t want you to be hurt in any way form or fashion. No less by your own hand. Forget it!

4. You look at Ray with tired a d annoyed eyes. Slaps him on the chest.

MC: “wake up.”

Ray: *groggy.* “ugh, what?”

MC: “did you hear what our kids just said?”

Ray: “no?”

MC: *leans in close.* “I told you not to cuss in from of the kids you dimwit.”

Ray: *Ray still trying to wake up.* “uhhh…sorry?”

5. Cheeks tunnels are interesting, but sometimes I wonder if Ray would have an option on them being negative because he was raised it a ‘no piercings’ policy. Even through he got them…it seem like Ray was talking about it as if it were a stupid teen rebellion thing. It makes me wonder because it’s probably nailed into his brain that what is deemed “excessive” piercings are unacceptable. 🤔 as for messy earring, if you get sauce on your shirt, or a little ranch on your lip. He’s good with it. However, do NOT. CHEW WITH YOUR MOUTH OPEN! Ray is as I see it, a decently well mannered man. Proper if you will. No he doesn’t want to “sea food.”

6. Hmm, I don’t know about this one chat. I think he may be more into thigh riding which may be in the same group. Idk.

7. Ray: *with a frown looking at the pizza he just made on the floor.* “I just made that for you…”

MC: “yuck, that’s nasty!” *a frown and pout on their face.*

Ray: *looks up at you.* “You’re not a fucking child. Get it together. I used home made ingredients for that.”

He’d def be salty about that, don’t insult this mans cooking. 😔

[theeio]

Livio angst.. imagine him crying and being comforted by WW :(

theyre both each other’s hurt/comfort anyway here another episode 7 moment that should’ve happened

[diceroulette]

i could write a whole autism-filled essay about Ai LAS being extensively BPD-coded but also i fear i'd get rocks thrown at me .

EDIT: ALSO TO BE CLEAR I HAVE BPD I HAVE BPD THIS IS WRITTEN BY A BPD HAVER I FORGOT TO FUCKING ADD THAT LMFAO

[chaosandwolves]

Just watched "Manchester by the sea" for the first time

And my gods

What a stunning piece of art!!!!

What an incredible movie

There was one dialogue ....One of the best things I've ever seen on screen

Writing and acting of this scene were absolutely mind-blowing

So fucking raw and real and just wow

The entire movie, the atmosphere is exactly my shit

THAT'S what I fucking love about film and TV

It's such an incredibly well done movie

No idea why I've never seen anyone talking about it

Wow that's def one that stays with you

[andresylupin]

i have around 60 pages left, i'm taking bets on whether or not there'll be a kiss

[tulpars-dead-pixel]

can i say i feel like people saying stuff like swansea would be republican or curly or daisuke would be casual dudebro misogynists or that jimmy is just insufferable to everyone constantly AND people who say daisuke or swansea would've killed jimmy if anya told them both kind of miss part of the point of the game being about a group of normal people who you would expect far better from in a stressful situation behaving in ways ranging from heart-breakingly disappointing to downright horrific

[bronx-aro]

I had a dream last time where i was Welsknight and i was on hermitcraft (not playing the game, the world *was* minecraft).

So i kept trying to help Joe Hills build his montain base with a statue on the outside wich opened up in ik a mountain face. There was this huge dungeon outside too. And i was SO exited to help and do things. But the other hermits kept getting more and more annoyed with me when i just wanted to have fun. At some point everyone was just walking around the builds (mostly still joe's base) and i felt so bad i was just lagging behind, purposefully phasing trough the ground spectator mode style (i was able to do that and flying all along, something that nobody else did but it's not that unusual for me to have some awarness in dreams and therefore more or less lucidly do things). I was hoping to hear them say nice things about me or even apologise so that i could reassure myself i wasnt hated. They didnt.

It all came to an end when we ended up at joe's base again, on a side of the dungeon that was opened up to the air near a river. And an hermit (i am pretty sure it was hypno; he was for sure one of the people that talked then) pointed at another hermit and sayed a small, nice descriptive about them. The hermit he sayed this too (i think it was stress, but i was a bit far because i didnt want to get close. Might have been another girl) started to do the same to someone.

At that point i was laying on the ground in the position i had gotten out of phasing moden and i realised it was only a matter of time before it came to me, or they noticed i was there if they hadnt before. But before i could phase back into the ground the person stress had pointed to had already taken two steps towards me, pointed at me and just said "Vile Friend".

VILE FRIEND.

And then i WOKE UP.

I am messed up right now HOLY SHIT. It took me a while to get myslef back together properly before i would leave my bed. When i saw my shelf with all my hermitcraft cards when getting up i was filled with as much anger and dread as when you look at some merch from a youtubeur that was cancelled. It's fine now but WOW.

ANYWAY hermitblr if someone wants to take that and make it into a hurt/no comfort fanfic feel free because holy shit. Actually no bonus points if you include Helsknight showing up and taking care of Wels while hating on the other hermits.

[boar-sjn]

watched the new hbomberguy you're telling me that ive been watching James Somerton for YEARS thinking he was actually a decent creator who was trying to do good only to find out that he plagiarized a good chunk of "his" work off of other creators... are you serious........

[musical-chick-13]

Like, I DO think people get too wound up over fictional constructs--that, very pointedly, are not real and whose actions are made up and do not actually affect any real people--doing horrible things in-story, but I also think it's fair for someone to say, "This action sits poorly with me even in a fictional setting, in such an intense way that I cannot move past that or find sympathy for it," and "People are saying this bad behavior isn't actually bad, in a way that is meant to be taken seriously and at face-value, and that makes me severely uncomfortable."

Granted, this all gets muddled very easily because that's not what people mean most of the time, they just want to over-moralize fiction and say, "If you like this pRoBLeMaTiC thing for any reason, you are a menace to society" for Superiority Points. (They also like to invent problems that don't actually exist to "prove" that they have the moral high ground in not liking something remember when people tried to say catra/adora was incest because they grew up together because I sure do.) But I feel like there is a split between people who use "[character] apologism" in the sense of "I will be okay with this character doing whatever fucked-up thing they want in the story because I like them" vs "If you find this character compelling or want them to succeed, you would one-to-one condone their actions irl" vs "I have seen people genuinely say, with no joking or irony, that this character never actually caused any type of harm to the other characters within the story, and I don't like that."

[ozymoron]

love watching or listening to media that reveals to you a part of your ocs story

[breadeads]

Made me ugly sob

Socialite!BatSis!Reader x Yandere!Bat Family

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

A/N: Hi! I don't know where the fuck this came from. But, it has plagued me for months. Inspired by Labour and the Fruits by Paris Palmoa, Please Don't Cry for Your Daughters Eve by Lydia the Bard, and Curses by the Crane Wives. This my attempt at being dark, so either this fucks you up or I fucked up. Apologies for both.

Warnings: Fem!Reader, Implied assault, neglect, yandere themes at the end

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

You got the Wayne looks, the Wayne charm, the Wayne name, but you’re fragile. Bruce would tell you. Damian would tell you. (Not so kindly.) Everyone in the manor would tell you.

But, charm and good looks still have their uses. And, everyone in the family despises all the galas they need to attend.

So, when Bruce offers to take you to one, you up the charm, you dress your best. You use your finest manners and all the proper ways your Momma raised you to your advantage. And, you flourish.

You can tell from the slight smile Bruce has on his face on the way home. The hint of pride in his eyes at your job well done.

You can’t help your family or Gotham as a Bat. But, you can help them as a Wayne.

The socialite. That’s your roll. Not a bird, not a bat. A little social butterfly. Drawing the public attention away from the things that go bump in the night.

You like your role. Sure, you're not bounding over the Gotham skyline saving people from muggers and insanely themed villains. But, you're helping your family, and that's what matters to you.

At least, that's how it starts.

It was special to you in the beginning. Going to charity gala's and events with your father, Bruce. No one else in the family enjoys going to these events. It was your own personal father and daughter bonding time, in a way.

But, as you got older the pressure started and the distance between you and the others grew.

You were a music box ballerina. Spinning in place to the same tune over and over again while sitting on a dusty shelf. And, Bruce would wind you up to dance every time he need his social butterfly to charm Gotham's public.

Soon you had a whole team of faceless people picking out your dresses, changing your style, cutting your hair. You couldn't be anything less than a vain air-headed heiress, because that was your role. Brucie needed someone to follow in his footsteps, not Batman.

The dresses got more expensive, the flashes got brighter. The diets got stricter.

And, the distance grew farther.

And, then Bruce stopped going with you to the galas.

You weren't upset the first time. Or, the second time. Or, even the third time.

It was the fourth time that things started to crack.

Sure, Batman was needed. Sure, there was Justice League business. Sure, there was a patrol that ran late. Sure, there was a breakout at Arkham.

But, the fourth time, when you found him and the rest of the family laughing in the cave, it really didn't feel like they were focusing on the good of Gotham while you were struggling to smile sweetly at men twice Bruce's age wanting to take you home.

Still, you powered on. Kept doing your part. You were making the family proud afterall.

Right?

It was the ninth time it happened that you broke.

The nineth time you had gone to a gala alone in an expensive dress you didn't pick, one that showed off way too much skin. One that seemed to tell everyone in that grand ballroom that you were up for the taking. One that just barely hid the bruises from their fingers and palms under the fabric.

You wore that placating smile and that dress all the way home. With a driver you didn't know at the wheel of the car Bruce sent for you. The backseat empty even if you sat on it.

When you got home, you walk in on something that made each cracked piece of you ache.

Apparently it was game night. Everyone that mattered was playing Mario cart of all things.

"Look at that Cinderella’s back from the ball." Jason was the first to notice you standing in the doorway of the room. And, his words burned.

Cinderella. Cinderella. Back from the Ball.

"Hey, glad you’re back. Hope you had fun." Dick didn't even glance at you as he spoke, took focused on beating Stephanie who had her tongue sticking out as she concentrated.

"God, those galas are so boring, I don’t know how you do it." Duke says in passing. It would be meaningful if he hadn't said the same thing the last six times you had come home.

Tim and Damian were also playing the game, with Tim occasionally nudging Damian to mess him up. Like typical siblings.

Barbara was in the room as well, a book on her lab to read. Only you could tell she hadn't read much, judging from where her book mark was located.

"Good job." Bruce says absentmindedly. You can't even tell if its directed at you or at the blueshell Damian just managed to hit Dick's racer with.

Words don't even leave your lips as you exit the doorway, pieces of you falling to the floor as you wobble to your room.

Cinderella. Cinderella.

The clock striking twelve in your mind as you feel the rotten pumpkin sinking in your gut and the magic wearing off.

You don't notice that Cassandra seems to hear it too as she watches you. Like she can hear the shards falling to the ground. And, she's unsure if she needs to warn the family that something just broke down the hall.

As you enter your room, taking in the fancy decor. It feels disgusting. The magic is gone. It's all rotten and you want it gone.

Cinderella. Cinder. Cinder.

Your tear the fabric of the dress as you take it off. Tears falling down your cheeks s you struggle against the fabric and clasp. Expensive gemstones falling to the floor as your finally rip it free.

There bruises under your dress. Finger prints on your bones. And, you're choking on air as the fabric rubs your skin as it falls to the floor. The fabric ripples like water and you hate it. You want the opposite of cool rippling water. Water drowns, and you need air.

Your skin feels to hot and each bruise burns.

Cinder. Cinder.

You're Cinderella and you crave ashes. You need air, but smoke will do instead.

Instead of letting it lay on the ground like it's dead, you throw open that grand window in your room and chuck it out the window. Watching as it flutters and falls to the grass in a heap, the breeze doing nothing to cool your anger on and underneath.

It’s not enough. Not enough. It's not going to be enough.

More. Cinderella. Give it more.

Your closet door was cracked when you left for the gala tonight. Now you break it the rest of the way and grab each hanger carrying a pretty dress in a bag and throw it over the ledge.

Still not enough. Needs more ash.

Cinderella. Cinderella.

You break you dresser as you rip out the drawers. The wood splintering as you throw it out the window and on to the pile of dresses on the night dew covered grass.

You want to throw more, but you chest is heaving and your hands are shaking. Instead you stumble out of your room with just the bruises on your skin and towards the kitchen. You don't even hear the pans and cabinets doors slamming as you search for the matches.

Before you can find your light, you find a bottle of fancy wine. One that reminded you of the smell of this night.

You grab it, not caring that another bottle falls and shatters by your feet. Drawing attention, but not yours, as you finally find the matches and wobble out the door towards your pile of soon to be ash.

Cinderella. Cinderella.

You're laughing as you shatter the bottle on to the fabric. Lighting up a single match and then throwing the entire box at it the pile.

It catches light quick and the air around you finally matches the heat under your skin.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” You can barely hear Bruce's voice from behind you as your laugh. Turing to face him and the rest of the family's horrified faces at the sight of you.

You can barely restrain the giggles.

“I’m Cinderella. Cinder fucking Ella.” You spin like the little figurine you are. Like the pretty paper ballerina before she burst into flame.

Bruce rushes towards you, words spilling from his lips as terrifying thoughts fill his head at the sight of the bruises illuminating your skin.

“What happened tonight?”

“You would know if you had been there. But, you weren't. You never are.”

“Listen, you said you liked the galas-“ Excuses, excuses. You made enough for him and the rest of them in your own head that you don't want to hear more spoken out loud.

“I did! I did! But, that was when I had my father there to keep me safe.” You mock, spinning out of reach and looking at the flames.

They don't last long. The wood from your broken dresser drawers the only thing keeping the fire going. The expensive fabric not lasting long at all. Pretty things rarely ever do.

“But, no. I’m just another little one of your pawns in this family. Only you didn’t fuckin’ train me on how to fight off wandering hands. You taught me that I just had to grin and bare it.” Bitterness trips from your lips as you wipe of that sweet tasting wine from the night off your mouth.

“What happened?” His voice almost shakes. Almost, but not quite. You were the fragile one. The paper ballerina. The little Cinderella of the family.

You weren't suppose to break under his care.

But, was there any care if he let you fall from the shelf after he so haphazardiously placed you on it between uses?

“I’m not a whore.” You whisper to yourself. Words that had been dying to say to the hands that touches to tonight. Words that you wanted to shove down the throats of the strangers that pinched your skin, that gripped you too tight and too close.

“I’M NOT A WHORE!” Instead you scream it at him. Uncaring if you don't look pretty and perfect while doing it. Uncaring if your voice cracks from the way the emotion bubbles from your chest.

Startling enough, Bruce wraps his arms around you. Like he was trying to shield you. Like he was trying to keep you safe. Like he should have done. It feels awkward and tight. Your arms pressed tightly to your chest at an awkward angle. Your legs giving out at you sob and scream at him.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t you touch me. Let me go— I don’t want you to touch me.”

“I’m sorry. I’m— I’m so sorry.” His whispers over into your hair as he clutches you close. So close that you feel more bruises forming on your skin.

Cinderella. Cinderella.

“I’m not—" Your voice breaking as you wail. Like the child you are in his arms.

Through your tears you watch Dick turn away, followed by the others. Cass lingering to brush your hair back as Bruce holds you tight.

You don't see his fist clench so tight his knuckles turn white.

You don't hear the silence in the cave as Jason changes out the bullets in his gun.

You don't feel the chill in the air as Damian scouts out the fancy house.

You don't feel the fear of God that Tim puts into grown men as that watch their wealthy drain to zero before their eyes on screens.

You don't watch as Barbara makes a few calls and plants evidence of crimes that can't be covered up.

You don't see Stephanie ripping out teeth.

You don't see Duke letting Gotham go dark as terror reigns for that one long night and day.

You just see Bruce, holding you close and apologize over and over again while Alfred puts out the flames behind you.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

A/N: Yeah, I love the thought of Reader being the one to be the Socialite Wayne while everyone does vigilante stuff. But, interacting with Gotham’s elite would suck so much and so many things could go wrong.

A/N: Apologies if I missed the mark with it or if it’s all over the place.

A/N: I just really loved the imagery of standing in front of a fire of expensive burning dresses while screaming at Bruce naked as the day you were born much to the rest of the family’s horror.

[madamechrissy]

Baby You're a Star

Art in the banner by Kerravi on x!

Summary- You meet Satoru Gojo at a wild Hollywood party, insanely out of place, waiting for your friend to show up. The two of you hit it off, spending time together, and share a kiss, but you're a good girl, and you just don't do this, but he is the top pornstar there is, and the top .01 % on OnlyFans. Once you find out, you know there's probably no match, as Satoru doesn't date, and you don't sleep around, but after meeting, you keep in touch- and soon Satoru can't get hard without thinking of you, and you get over curious, and join a livestream of the boy you like. Just how will that go for you both!?

Warnings- Toxic attraction, jealousy, arguments, very emotional, fighting and break ups, reader being depressed and emotional, Jenna being protective, Nanami giving no fucks, Satoru being contemplative and slightly less stupid, fingering, sexual tension, light choking, public play, squirting, reader is better at feelings finally, and A LOT more angst WC this chap- 11k

A/N- Taglist closed- this chap is ANGSTY you've been warned, please comment/rb if you enjoy <3

<<<Chapter Four - Masterlist- Playlist- Chapter Six>>> (coming soon)

Chapter Five

“Nanami, you didn’t have to…” Nanami Kento is at your front door with two coffees in hand, smiling that handsome smile, eyes behind his dark green glasses.

“No worries, love. I was passing by and remembered bringing you home, I realized it’s right here.”

“Thank you!” You lean forward and press a kiss on his cheek, the guilt eating at you slowly.

What if he knew you did a fucking porn shoot the other day?

He knows your situation, but what would he think of that, in fact what do you think of that? Of yourself, as Jenna said, changing for Satoru? He’s never pushed you into anything, and these things were all brought on by your own self interest - of wanting to be just everything for him so that he would not stray. It was selfish of you, knowing his career.

You knew he wasn’t interested in more, but let yourself live in the delusion, the thoughts that you could be enough to fill all of the voids there, when in fact he has made his own thoughts clear. He loves spending time with you, he loves fucking you, the two of you make excellent money - triple last time actually - so for Satoru, it’s clearly a convenient situation.

Nothing more.

Not having seen Satoru for a couple days, he texted you several times through- out the day, he called you before bed, it all felt too good, too natural, too perfect for his perceived friendship, the one that you were honestly ruining with how you are. You wish you could be normal about it all, that you could just enjoy whatever this was, but her words keep ringing in your mind.

Losing yourself.

Are you?

“This is my favorite,” you say as you take a sip, gesturing your head for him to come in then. “I just stress baked some muffins, want some?”

“Stress baked?” He asks, amused now, and you giggle a bit, sighing.

“Mmm, yes I do that.” He eyes the kitchen counter, with about thirty six muffins already on it, of different flavors. “Take some actually.”

“What do you do with all of these?” He grabs one and sets his coffee down on your counter then.

“I bring them to all of the neighbors, they love me.” He chuckles, the sound throaty and inviting, biting into one and moaning, shutting his eyes.

“They’re so good,” he’s licking a bit off his lower lip, and you smile, grabbing one and nibbling yourself. “You look like that, work hard and bake?”

“You’re giving me too much credit.” He bites again, raising a brow.

“Seems like quite a woman to me.”

“Nanami!” You playfully shove his chest a little, and he takes your hand, it feels so warm and good, swallowing your much smaller hand in his. You enjoy it, you just wish you felt something like you did with the elusive pornstar you’re hopeless for.

“Would you like to-” the doorbell rings, you smile as you drop your hand.

“Let me grab that,” he nods, sipping his coffee, when you open the door, and see Satoru leaning in the doorway, coffees in his hands. “Oh!”

“Got your favorite, sweets.” He steps in, leaning his tall self down to kiss your cheek, when he catches sight of Nanami in your kitchen.

Shit.

“You got company?” His tone is strained, and you wonder why - he clearly had been a little irritated about your date, but it’s not like he’s made a step for you all to go further. And you’re too fucking scared to bring it up and lose this.

“He stopped by to bring me coffee. Looks like I’ll be well caffeinated." You smile, but Satoru’s blue eyes are darting across your shoulder at the buff man leaning against your counter.

“Muffin?” Nanami’s words make Satoru unreasonably furious, how comfortable and at ease he looks in your kitchen.

“I’d love one.” He steps past you, you’re closing the door, the tension as Satoru steps in is far too palpable, it seems to amuse Nanami more.

Nanami hands Satoru one, and he yanks it from his hand, biting it and setting down his cup, moaning and shutting his eyes then. “Aren’t they yummy?”

“Fuck,” he moans again, looking at you now. “You bake this good?”

“Stress baking, that's all.” You smile a little, standing between the two men that just tower over you, Satoru is taller by a few inches, his head isn’t far from your ceiling actually, spiked up white hair precariously close to brushing against the textured white paint above you. “Nanami was in the neighborhood.”

“Was he?” He nibbles one again, smirking over at Nanami, who casually takes a bite.

“I thought I’d see her, ask her on another date.” Satoru’s jaw tenses, and you wonder if this is the moment he’ll finally say something.

“Oh, another date? Second date, huh?” His tone is feigning ease, but it’s so clearly not at ease at all.

“Mmhmm, maybe this weekend?” He brushes a lock of your hair back from your bare shoulder, and you smile. “Lunch?”

“I can have lunch.” It’s not like Satoru is gonna-

“I’m taking her to lunch tomorrow.”

“You are?” He glares at you.

“Yes, I was coming to ask you to come to lunch with me, actually.”

“Were you… well, what about Sunday?” Nanami asks, and you smile brightly up at him.

“Sunday works for me.”

“Perfect. I’ll leave you to hang with your friend,” his tone hints he knows exactly what type of friend Satoru is, but he’s clearly unbothered, kissing your cheek and leaning down. “Text you later?”

“Absolutely.” You walk him out then, feeling vivid blue eyes glaring fucking daggers in your back. You pause, locking the door, hearing the silence in your home, aside from the whirring of the old air conditioner cooling the home the best it can in the heat, and Satoru’s sigh.

“He’s awfully friendly.” He mumbles, and you turn to him now, hands behind your back as you walk slowly, feet padding along your tile.

“He’s very nice, yes. But it was also nice of you to bring me this. Thank you, Satoru.” You say softly, smiling up now, a hand on his arm, just for him to tug you  against his chest. You gasp at it.

“He’s too comfortable here, don’t you think?” His whisper is low, as he leans down, an arm on either side pressing you into the counter now, as his hard thigh slips between your softer ones.

“You’ve only been here once, and you’re comfortable too,” his brows lower, you gasp as your heat presses on his hard thigh now, he senses how good it feels to you, clearly, one hand slipping up your spine. “Satoru…”

“God I want you so bad, don’t you know?” He murmurs, kissing you then, it’s a harsher kiss than you’re used to, the hand slipping under your thin silk top, making you shiver while you soak his thigh, your hands slipping up his chest. “Look so fucking beautiful.”

“What are you doing here?” You ask softly, pulling back now to look up at him, feeling how tense he is.

“I need a reason? Did he?”

“Of course you don’t need a reason, but what’s he got to do with anything? Who I go out with, what’s it matter?”

“What’s it matter!?” He can hardly believe your words, in no world did Satoru Gojo see anyone else, so fucking blinded by you. Was it not the same?

“We’re not together, are we?” You’re silently begging for him to say something, but instead he pulls back, heart racing under the palm that drops now.

“I don’t want to see anyone but you, to fuck anyone but you, isn’t this… isn’t this something you want? Just with me?” He’s cupping your face, kissing you again, hungry, desperate, making your lips swell with his kisses. “Me fucking your pretty pussy till you pass out?”

You whine out, how can you not do so when he’s slipping a hand down, over your breast, making your nipple taut against his warm, hard palm, that’s gripping and squishing your breast. “Mnh but…”

“Don’t you want me to bury my face against that perfect cunt?” He’s touching you there, you can hardly breathe, it’s all Satoru, making you dizzy.

“I didn’t say I… mnh!”

“So wet, for me? All me?” He’s making your panties soaking wet with his long fingers, pulling back with glossy lips to watch your pretty eyes roll back. “Is that all for me?”

“You’re acting…” he’s got you trembling, soaking the cotton panties now, pressing your thighs together. “Satoru stop.”

He does immediately, pulling back in confusion. “What’s wrong? Did I kiss too rough? I'm sorry I…”

“No, just,” you cross your arms, hugging yourself, looking away. “Does it always have to be sexual?”

Satoru stands there, his own vermillion lips swollen from kissing you, his breaths coming hectic as he stares down at you. “What do you mean, always sexual?”

“That's all we do. Did you come here to fuck me?”

He laughs harshly, a sound you haven’t heard from him then. “I came to see you, just like the last time, you’re the one who said ‘let’s fuck’.” His words smack you with reality.

You had.

To try to save your fucking feelings, but all you did was fall deeper, deeper into him, the abyss that’s Satoru Gojo, the man you want all the time, but not just sexually. You want him near you, next to you, waking up in the morning and making him breakfast, and not just for him to leave to his penthouse after.

You want way too much.

“I did say that, but then we did have sex. So was I wrong?” His jaw tenses, he slips two fingers under your chin then, forcing your gaze on him.

“Do you want to be with him?” You glare at his ridiculous words now.

“I never said that, but would it matter? We are just ‘friends’ hmm?” Your words are harsh, way too harsh for the sweet girl he knows, and he feels it, the anger rising inside of him, making him so furious at the thought of someone with you.

“So, you’re gonna what, go fuck him?”

“Is that who you think I am!?” He gives a nasty little smirk, it’s a cruel one, something you’ve never seen on his face.

“You had no problem sleeping with me, not knowing me.” You step back, and the moment it spills from his lips, he knows he’s wrong, but he’s so fucking furious, he’s blinded to any good fucking reason. The hurt written on your pretty face is enough to make him feel like getting swallowed whole.

“I trusted you, I felt comfortable with you, the connection I…” you trail off, not wanting to make a bigger fool of yourself. “It wasn’t just random. You really think that’s what it was? A random hot guy I said - huh, let me call him and fuck him?” He tilts his head now, brows lowering.

“Isn’t that what it was, you saw my stream and wanted me? Now you think I’m making it all sexual?” You gasp, teeth clenched, almost unable to breathe you’re so fucking furious.

“You’re trying to fuck me because you’re jealous, so yes, that is making it all sexual. Surprised your phone’s not filming.” You shove at his chest and he grips your wrists, leaning low.

“So what, you got all the expertise you needed? Gonna go apply it to someone now?” Satoru’s words are so hurtful you can’t take it, you feel your heart pounding in your ears as you look at blue eyes gone cold.

“Excuse me, you think I used you for experience!?” He raises a brow then, while your hands clenched into fists at your sides as you drag them from his grip.

“You asked me for experience, remember? Weren’t you the one who started all of this, made it sexual? Asked me to show you things?”

His words resonate through your head until it spins, you have to sit down you feel so fucking sick then. Was he never even interested in you? Was this all you who caused it, who pushed it, when he never wanted it? The thoughts swirl through your mind quicker and quicker, nauseating, you shake your head and blink back tears then, looking up at him.

“I should never have pushed myself on you,” he blinks snowy lashes then, lips parting. “No, I shouldn’t have, you’re right.”

“I didn’t mean it that-”

“I am sorry I did, I’m sorry I asked for that. I was so pathetic.” You barely hold back a cry, and Satoru’s frozen, you have it so wrong, don’t you know his dick literally doesn’t work for anyone!? Don’t you know you’re all he can fucking think of, constantly, every waking moment?

“You never pushed yourself, ever,” he leans down, arms on either side of your chair. “Look at me.”

You do just that, and your tears break him. “What?”

“I didn’t mean it like I didn’t want you, I did. I just meant you crossed the line to make it sexual, that’s not to say I didn’t want to, but you were a good girl.”

“Were. Being the key word. Now I’m what, some pornstar fucking booty call?” You’re shaking your head, swiping at your cheeks, thinking of Jenna’s words. “And it’s all my own doing.”

You’ve lost yourself.

“Baby you’re still a good girl, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You’re right, you never would have hit me up for it, would you have?” Satoru pauses then, hands gripping the arms of your chair so tightly his knuckles whiten.

“I never said that!”

“Why would you, it’s Hollywood, you can have anyone, I just inconvenienced you, I should have never tried to join your world.” You’re standing now, brushing past him, he grips your wrist, his own emotions rising - especially one - panic.

He can’t lose you.

“It’s not what I meant,” he brushes his hand across your cheek, sticky already with your tears, feeling your body tremble as he holds you closer. “I shouldn’t have said it that way, I was just upset.”

“It’s true, don’t take it back now.”

“You think I don’t want you!?” He’s gripping your upper arms, shaking you gently, you’re sniffling, shaking your head as he stares at you in disbelief. “How can you think I don’t?”

“Maybe you felt sorry for me.” Satoru laughs then, before fucking glaring down at you.

“That’s the last thing I fucking feel,” he leans down until his lips are just a breath away from yours. “I want you so badly, constantly, why do you think I just showed up to your work, asked you out, begged to come over?”

“To film things.” He blinks like he’s been slapped.

“You think that’s it?”

“Some fun maybe, I think I am the one who took this seriously, when I started it from the beginning.”

It all hits - you are the one who asked him for more, and now you’re upset it’s just sexual, when you knew. You always knew. You knew your feelings, you knew you couldn’t handle this, but it was all you could have of him, and you were selfish, so selfish. And so in love.

“I wanted you that moment I met you, did you forget our kiss?” He whispers softly, fingers brushing your hair back, making you tremble.

“It’s only sex?” You ask hoarsely, he falters then.

“I enjoy you much more than that.”

“As a friend?” Satoru can’t speak then, he just stands there, staring down at you, swiping more of those tears from your cheeks, your lip is trembling. “Satoru, I feel like I don’t know myself anymore.”

“What do you mean? You’re so uniquely yourself. Nerdy, cute, adorable,” he’s smiling with those plump lips, as if that would cheer you up, avoiding the blatant question you gave him. “You are like no one I know.”

“I’m trying so hard to please you, that I’m forgetting.” He blinks again, so clearly confused, not seeing the numerous ways you have been bending yourself, molding yourself to fit him. Maybe he doesn’t see the change, maybe he just doesn’t know, but Jenna was so right, she was absolutely correct.

You don’t remember who you are, trying to be everything for Satoru, and he can’t even tell you if it’s more than a friendship.

The hurt tears its way into your chest, it’s unfair of you to ask him, to demand anything more of him, it’s not fair. You did all this, caused all this, you can’t be mad at him for being him, a pornstar. You’ve let your fear of not being enough make you do things you never would, and it’s all starting to sink in, everything you’ve done with him, like it’s not even you anymore.

You let being so selfish for him change you.

You’re sobbing now, and Satoru’s unsure of what to do, he doesn’t know your inner turmoil, but he does know seeing you cry makes him deeply emotional, it breaks his heart to see you hurt. He hugs you closely, as you cry against his suit jacket, sniffling and shaking, while he rubs a hand up and down your back.

“What is it? Is it what I said? I didn’t mean it that way, I’m sorry… I just…” You shake your head, sniffling and leaning back, looking up at a face you’ve fallen so deeply in love with.

“I’m losing myself.” You’re breaking down again, this time leaning back. “What you said was right.”

“It wasn’t, it was mean and… I’m sorry, please.” He feels his own emotions choking him, throat closing up as he struggles to take a breath, feeling the suffocation of his own mistake.

“I’ve acted that way.” He shakes his head, blinking back his own tears as you cover your face, breaking down right in front of him. “The fuck have I been doing, I called you.”

“I’m glad you called me-”

“I asked you.”

“I wanted you too. I was so fucking-”

“I fell in love like a fucking idiot, when you were honest from the beginning who you are.” Satoru pauses then, heart hammering as you turn away, but not before he glimpses how puffy your cheeks have gotten from your tears.

“You what?” He whispers, and you shake your head, swiping at your tears, shoulders shaking with the wracking sobs.

“I shouldn’t have tried to join your world, and then I was so dumb I got jealous,” he touches your shoulder feeling you tense.

“Jealous, you?” You laugh through your tears, truly fucking losing it, as you nod, looking back at him, and he sees the reddened eyes, the sticky drying tears, you bit your lip so hard it’s tearing the skin.

“Yes, very. I’m selfish and so dumb. It’s your career. I promised never to judge it either, and for what, you to judge me.” The anger sets back in, throwing his hand off and turning now. “You need to go.”

“I need to go!?” You nod, sniffling as you bite down harder, the motion jerky when he pulls you against him. “No, I am not leaving you like this.”

“I won’t be your pornstar anymore,” your words strike their chord, they hit him right in the stomach, as he barely processes your earlier words in the haze you have him in. “That’s all you want.”

“It’s not! You wanted that!”

“No, I just wanted to be enough.” At your last broken word, you can hardly face him, he tugs you against him and you’re stiff, unmoving.

“You’re more than enough for anyone,” his soft words end you, the sweet Satoru you met that night is there, but he’s hurt you so badly now, the sinking realization that you confessed your love and he hasn’t even acknowledged it. He’s stroking your back gently, letting you cry against him. “We never have to shoot, I told you that.”

“But you’ll fuck other women?” Your words are harsher than he’s used to from your sweet lips, he buries his face in your neck, swallowing.

“I don’t want anyone else, haven’t I made it clear?” He’s hoarse, his own tears falling along your neck.

“But you’ll go back to it, you’ll have to.” You grip the shirt he’s wearing, crumbling the expensive material. He swallows, sighing then.

“I won’t want them.”

“But you’ll have to.”

“It’s my career,” he pulls back, sighing as he watches your broken face. “You seemed to enjoy it, what’s changed so much?”

“I didn’t enjoy it, I enjoyed you. Now I don’t know what I think of myself.” You’re blinking the rapid tears, shaking your head again, as if to make them stop.

He never loved you, did he?

“Maybe you should be an actor, you made me believe there was more,” Satoru scowls at you now, tugging you against his chest, cupping your face with his other hand tightly. “Stop.”

“I do care so much, god you’re all I want. I literally can’t even fuck anyone else.”

“So your dick cares for me?”

“That’s not what I said! You wanted all of this, how are you going to be mad at me for giving it to you!?” You laugh again, the sound so hollow, as Satoru feels his heart breaking.

“I can’t just fuck you. Clearly. And I knew it, I knew I needed feelings, I knew I’d fall - I’m a fucking idiot.”

“You’re not!”

“I am. Satoru, I can never do this again, it’s breaking me apart,” you hold your stomach, as his blue eyes drip with tears, and you want nothing more than to be in his arms. “I can’t just have sex with you.”

“I don’t want anyone else, how fucking clear can I make it!?” You smack the hands that try to brush your tears, earning his glare, blue eyes a storming blue, so vivid it’s painful to look at. “I want you, I didn’t mean what I said. You’re just done with this because of some words?”

“I’m done because I can’t take this pain anymore.”

“Pain?” You take several breaths, hands shaking as you try and fail to stop the onslaught of tears. “What pain? I’ve done nothing but make you cum, like no one ever fucking will.”

“It’s sexual, see? Is that all shit is to you!? I’m not just a body.”

“It’s not just your body-”

“It seems that way. No, I won’t fuck Nanami, okay? If that’s your very weird fucking concern, considering after I swallowed your spit you did a gang bang, and after we fucked you fingered a girl on cam.” Satoru scowls deeper at you, as you finally let it all out, everything you’ve acted fine with.

“That’s my job! You fucking knew that!”

“I thought I meant something.” He pulls you by your wrists again, you jerk them out of his hold, hyperventilating.

“Calm down, fuck I didn’t mean it.”

“Your smirk… the way you… no, you meant it. You think that’s who I am? Then you never fucking knew me!”

“I don’t know you!?”

“You know my body, that’s not enough.” He’s kissing you again, and for a moment you falter, as he’s overtaking your lips.

“I want more than your body,” his words fall flat, you can’t believe him anymore, not after what he accused you of. “I want more. I enjoy you, fuck why can’t I keep enjoying you? Why are you overthinking everything!”

“Mmm, no.” You pull back again, shoving at his chest, he’s crying right with you, and you want to stop this, let him do anything he wants, but it hurts too fucking much, nothing should hurt this much. “I can’t have pieces of you.”

“I’m right here, use me, all of me.” He’s trying again to kiss you, but you’re pulling back, making him glare. “Now you’re done with whatever experiment you were fucking doing?”

You gasp. “I should ask you that!” You smack at his hand, making him grip your wrist again, both of your chests heaving. “Turning the nerdy good girl into a pornstar? That some twisted 90s rom com!?”

“The fuck, I didn’t make you do shit, it’s been your choice!”

“I regret it.”

The words are enough to make him step back, his eyes going cold. “What?”

“I regret filming it.” You do, and you hate that you do. You see him swallow, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, his own hands shaking. “I don’t regret you, I don’t regret the moments, aside from me pushing myself on you, for that I am sorry, but I do feel horrible about myself now.”

“I gave you the choice, you hit share.”

“To please you. To make you need me, want me, to keep you. Selfish, stupid,” you shake your head again, chest tight as you rub it, blood pressure through the fucking roof as it all comes out, everything you kept inside. “I don’t blame you, you always asked permission, consent, all of it. This is on me.”

“So we never do it again, I don’t need it to fuck you, I don’t care if you film it again-”

“It’s your career.”

“I want you.” The words should feel good, the way he cups your face and looks at you, it should mean more, but you’re far too deep in your feelings to be okay with him just wanting you.

You forgot who you were.

“This isn’t me,” you say softly, cupping his face then. He shuts his eyes, snowy lashes dripping with tears. “I can’t be this anymore, it’s not me.”

“People change, why regret what you enjoy? Why regret doing something that made you-”

“I feel awful that I did it.”

“Shit…” He takes a breath, feeling responsible for your broken words, as you stroke his cheek, trembling in front of him.

“You didn’t do it, it’s not your fault. I’m disappointed in myself, I should have known I couldn’t handle it all. You with other women,” you look down, hand falling. “It was selfish.”

Satoru doesn’t know what to say, what to do besides kiss your forehead, holding you close to him. “I feel like you’re fucking ending things.”

“I am.” He freezes now.

“We don’t have to film!?”

“I can’t. I can’t do this. It’s not fair to either of us,” he says your name, quietly, earning you looking at him as you step back. “I will never regret what we did, I just regret trying to make myself something I wasn’t.”

“Don’t do this, don’t end a good thing? For what?” He’s shaking your shoulders, as if trying to drag some sense into you.

“I caused it all.”

“You didn’t, I’m sorry I-”

“I need to be alone.”

Your next words break him, he stares at you with wide eyes. “What?”

“I need to be alone. I’m sorry.” You walk to the door, he is behind you then, hand on yours over that knob, hard body behind you, his other arm wrapping around your waist now. “Satoru…”

“Don’t kick me out of your life,” he’s pleading, he feels so pathetic then, standing behind you and resting his head on the cool door over your head, taking a breath. “I don’t want this to stop, to end. I wanted you from the moment I saw you at that damn party.”

“But now I’m not that girl,” you’re shaking, as his hand tightens over yours. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“You’re still her, what do you mean!?”

He doesn’t understand.

“I am glad I met you, Satoru Gojo. I have never met anyone like you, and I probably never will.”

“Don’t do this.”

“Thank you for being so thoughtful, so caring,” you’re choking on your sobs, looking behind your shoulder up at him as he cups your face. “Thank you for being so many of my firsts.”

“Don’t thank me,” his words are harsh, as he kisses you again, and you fall into them so sweetly, whining into his lips. “Don’t push me away.”

“I have to find myself again, and I can’t like this.”

“I just don’t understand.”

“I know.” It’s quiet, as he kisses you again, letting you go and shaking his head. “I’m sorry for all of this.”

He says nothing else, letting you turn the knob, rushing out without another word, as you turn and rest your back against the door, sliding down and collapsing on the fucking floor, devastated. It’s like your heart is ripped into pieces, sending the man you love away, when he fucking begged to stay.

You feel horrible, his crying eyes and the way he asked you not to, but how the fuck can you keep going like this!? Even then, he didn’t bring up being more, he didn’t say ‘I love you too’ as if wanting you physically was enough. But for him, that’s what this was, it was what you brought up, so enamored by your feelings, you thought you could have him sexually and it would be enough.

It would never be enough for you.

Curled into a ball on the floor, you don't move for hours, the sun setting through the blinds and casting its shadows across the floor as you hold your stomach and just sob. It's late when you finally pull yourself up, seeing the numerous calls from him, over and over, but you don't call him back, you can't anymore. Instead, you call your friend who's also called you a good five times.

“Jenna?”

“Baby what's wrong!?”

“Can you come over?”

*****

Jenna holds you that night as you keep apologizing, you were an awful fucking friend, damn near kicking her out in some hopes that she was so wrong, for Satoru to prove her right - only worse. Never once did Jenna herself think he would say what you sob to her then, she thought Satoru was a good person, just an industry standard, but never spiteful.

“Shit baby,” she murmurs, as you hiccup, hugging her tightly as you lay on your couch, take out and wine along your living room table. “I wish I wasn’t right.”

“He accused me of… wanting to use him!? I never… Jenna I never…”

“Shh.” She’s trying to calm you down, but you’re so fucking devastated, every time the phone rings and you want to answer it, she holds you tighter. “You can’t just give in and be treated like that.”

“I was slutty, going to him.”

“You were curious about your feelings.”

“I… yes…” You rub tissues on your sore nose, sipping your cheap wine and sighing, looking at your beautiful friend. “I loved him when I met him, Jenna.”

“I know,” she sips her own wine, frowning. “I wish I warned you more.”

“You didn’t know I would fall like this. It’s all my own doing.”

“Is it? He knew you were innocent.” You shake your head, sighing and leaning back against the couch, resting a hand on her thigh now.

“I was a bitch to you.”

“You were just hurt, fucked up on him. I forgive you.” She takes your hand, and tugs you into another hug. “He’s so good I almost fell fucking him.”

“Jenna!” You glare playfully, then laugh, for the first time since you had to send him away. She shrugs.

“It’s his pussy eating skills.”

“Jenna it’s so not that.”

“They gaslight you.” You playfully shove her then, laughing and standing up, grabbing both glasses.

“Will you stay tonight? Have more wine?”

“You know I will.” You smile and lean down, pecking a kiss on her cheek. “Don’t fall in love with another pornstar.”

“I’ve always loved one.” You tease, something feels relieving, despite the love in your fucking heart, to release all those feelings, to speak them out loud. “I’ll make us some popcorn on the stove.”

“I’ll find a movie!” As you walk out to the kitchen, your phone rings, Jenna fuck-you buttons it, glaring at the picture of Satoru.

She cannot stand that he hurt her best friend like that, and she’s not gonna be very fucking nice if she sees him again.

It keeps ringing, over and over, when she finally picks it up, walking out to your balcony. “Stop calling her,” Jenna’s voice is on the phone, Satoru laughs harshly, after being so excited to speak to you, it’s your protector. “I’m serious.”

“She’s a grown woman, not a little girl.” He says, and she scoffs.

“She sure is, but guess what? She was innocent, Satoru, innocent before you got her into this fucking world.”

“It was her decision!”

“Because she’s in love with you, fucking idiot!”

“She’s…” He trails off, he could swear at this point he imagined that confession in the middle of the argument, the ‘break up’. Where you broke his fucking heart in ways he didn’t know it could be.

“She did it to please you, she said she’d lose herself to be anything for you.” Jenna’s furious, quiet words break Satoru down. “You’re the experienced one, she was damn near a virgin.”

“She chose-”

“You shouldn’t have offered. You shouldn’t have changed her, she was perfect the way she was! Now she hates herself.”

“Jenna, I…”

She takes a breath, sighing. “I’m being too harsh, I’m sorry, okay? But as someone in this industry, why would you get a sweet, innocent girl into it? If you cared, you’d protect her, like I do.”

Satoru lets it all hit, slowly, her furious yet emotional words, a girl that clearly loves you, cares for you, and she was right. She was so right.

“Fuck…” Is all he can manage, as his mind whirls to a time when he was not too different from you.

He’d been a nerdy boy, even though his looks carried him far, he wasn’t very experienced, not until he fell in love with a girl in her early thirties, while he was in college. He’d pursued her, he’d begged for her, when he found she was a pornstar? He lost his virginity on set. It had been by far the most popular video there even had been at the time, it went viral.

That’s when they became the power couple.

But every time he saw her with anyone, it broke his fucking heart, he couldn’t stand seeing her on shoots, even when she’d coo at him that he was her favorite, even when he lived with her. He wondered if she liked other men better, he made sure to become perfect, the best there was, and soon she told him she didn’t recognize him any longer.

He says soon, but it was a four year relationship. One where they fought and fucked all the time, one where she was tired of the lifestyle and he was young and brand new. He let the fame get to his head, and she ultimately broke down and apologized for bringing him into this world, but he laughed, brushing it off.

He was happy she did, so happy.

His life was perfect, full of money and beautiful women.

Right?

“I told her you were a good person,” Jenna’s words over the phone bring his attention to the present, as he sinks into self loathing. “I feel I was wrong.”

“You’re not wrong, okay? I didn’t… I didn’t realize.” She sighs again, a long pause as he sits there, feeling the emotions catch in his throat.

“You’re not good for her, Gojo.”

Her words should make him fucking furious, but he’s not, he’s just so very sad now. She was right about it all, he was horrible for you, he made you not recognize yourself, regret your actions. Satoru never grew to regret his actions with his first, even though he was so enamored with the lifestyle at the time, perhaps he’s never fully digested it all.

He thought you’d love it, the attention, the money, that you’d feel so sexy and confident, that the two of you could be that couple. That he could have the best of both his worlds, keep his career and have the girl he desires more than anything right by his side through it all.

He was fucking selfish.

The girl that was in that damn party, nervous and giggling, fiddling with her long sleeves and blushing as he teased her? The girl who took a shotgun from him and got high from that, nervous as she kissed him? The girl who trusted him to show her things, who allowed him to do filthy fucking things without question, eager and open to anything he suggested.

The girl you were, who he changed unintentionally, would have never filmed any shoots of herself, wouldn’t have shown her body, no she just wasn’t that girl, and that was what drew him to you. His hands tighten on the phone as her words ring too fucking true, as they read him inside out.

“I didn’t mean to, Jenna. I really didn’t mean to.” His words seem to resonate with her.

“You saw it as some fun, I get it okay, but she’s not the girl you ‘have fun with’ she’s the one baking you cookies and taking care of you when you’re sick. She’s the shy one, who you have to drag to a damn party, the sweet one who makes sure you get home safe when you’re shitfaced. She’s a good girl, and now she’s devastated and stuck in her bed, feeling horrible.”

“Then let me talk to her-”

“She can’t get over this if you keep on.”

“Get over me?”

“She’s broken-hearted. I’ve never seen her in love like this, even with her ex it wasn’t even close, whatever you did, I need her to snap out of it, before she can’t get past this.”

“Jenna, I didn’t know she felt that way.”

“You don’t know a lot of things. Just stop calling her, I will help her.”

“Jenna-” She hangs up, and his next calls are sent immediately to voicemail, until he curses, throwing his fucking phone, then sobbing into his pillow that night, at the ultimate realization of what he’s done.

He changed you, the parts he fell for, so selfish he didn’t even notice a single sign that you did it all for him. And now he was supposed to just let you go?

How can he even move on without you?

*****

“Shut the blinds, ugh.” You cover your face with a comforter three weeks later, as Jenna is annoyingly there again, she comes over every day as you’ve taken two weeks off work as of the other day to rot in your bed.

“This is your vacation!? The fuck, get up.” She’s yanking the covers as you scowl at her, covered in sticky tears and hair all matted up. “You look like shit.”

“Who is there to look good for now? Let me wallow.” You yank the covers back until Jenna has dragged your ass off the bed, you hit the carpet and wince. “Jenna!”

“No, you’re taking a fucking shower. You are not letting him destroy you like this. Now.” She’s picking you up, you sigh then, just hugging her. “You stink.”

“Sorry,” you’re crying, it’s all you do. Cry and cry and cry over him. Over the man you love that you sent away, you could at least have him in your fucking bed, but no, this is all you have. “Why do you deal with me?”

“Because we’ve been through it all, you’ve dealt with how many of my manic fucking episodes?” You sigh, smiling through your tears.

“Don’t deserve you.”

“You do, and you deserve to move the fuck on. This shit happens, okay? We get up, get looking hot, and go out.”

“I can’t go out, I can’t have fun, I feel no joy without him.” The words are hard to get out of your throat, they’re the truth, but it’s a truth that’s hard to admit.

Without Satoru it was like there was no light in your life, sure Jenna was amazing, and sure you had people in your life you cared for, but Satoru haunts your every fucking though, dream, waking moment. If it was just sex, if it was just a fling, why are the dreams not just that? For every wet dream there were five of just holding his hand on a fucking beach somewhere.

You woke up with one of him holding you yesterday, only to be smacked with the realization that he will never again, touching the cold pillow and wrinkled sheets from your tossing and turning. You slept over and over, dreaming of him again, when he’s a phone call away, it was pure torture, a cruel fucking joke, that you fell in love with Satoru Gojo.

So close yet so impossibly far.

“What about the hottie from work? He keeps asking you out, and he’s fine as hell. Why not try?” You shake your head, sitting on your bed and sighing as she starts rummaging through your wardrobe. “Satoru isn’t the only man, baby.”

“He is the only one for me. Fuck was I too harsh to him-”

“No, he was a dick. You stood up for yourself like a good girl.”

“Don’t hit my praise kink, Jenna, I have a thing for pornstars,” she sticks out her tongue at you, grinning as you finally laugh a little, sniffling. “Nanami is sweet, and handsome, but I think he may want something serious. I don’t think I could give it to him.”

“You could if you tried to let this go. I know you fell, but he’s not going to change, so what good is any of it? Do you have anything slutty?”

“No, not really.” You stand up, going to the mirror and wincing. “I look like shit.”

“You really do.”

“Jenna!”

“Sorry,” she’s so not sorry, frowning as she digs up a lacy ass top, which is just lingerie. “Ooh this!”

“That’s not clothing, Jenna.”

“Sure is, bitch. I know you have some cute skirts…”

“Jenna I’m not gonna be any fucking fun. I’m too depressed.” You start brushing the rats' nest on your head, wincing as the memory hits.

Satoru brushing your hair, after the first time you’d come over, so sweet and caring as he ran it through, as he pulled you against him and smiled. The brush wavers in your hand, the ache in your chest growing again until you almost couldn’t breathe. You wonder if he feels anything close, if he ever did, or were you just something new for him to try?

His mean words melt with his sweet ones.

Done with your experiment?

Baby you are a star, already.

Gonna use it on someone else?

Best I’ve ever had.

You hate him for it, not for the accusations but for the fact that it showed he never knew you, and you thought Satoru truly just got you. But maybe the two of you never got to know each other, maybe it was something physical, some intense chemistry that you confused…

How can that be?

How can that be when what you miss most isn’t his body, isn’t the orgasms or pleasure, but the touches, the cuddles, the sweet smiles, the quiet moments in between where it felt perfect? No, you can’t explain it away, as easy as it would make it, this mix of love, longing, and hatred, is eating you alive, palpable and real as the physical manifestation of Satoru himself.

You’d always love him. But do you love you anymore?

“There’s a DJ I know at the EDM club… let’s go out and party babe, let’s let go and get free drinks and dance!” She’s yanking out a skirt that’s too tight on your waist and rides up your ass now. “This one!”

“An EDM club?” You sigh, shaking your head, but she’s got her mind set on it, shoving you to the bathroom now.

“Go shower, and scrub that hair twice, dear god.”

“Jenna…”

“No, you’re getting the fuck out tonight. Now.”

“Fine.”

You wish you weren’t just crying in the fucking shower, sitting there and hugging your knees, just missing him.

******

Satoru’s dancing in the middle of the EDM club that night, but it’s more physical, more going through the fucking motions, as the sounds reverberate, and women are giggling, dancing on him. He tries to have fun, to remember who he was before you, it’s been three weeks since your friend begged him not to call, and you’ve not reached out one time since.

He stalked your socials, not a single post, like you’ve ghosted everyone, not that you had much anyway, just a few pictures of your baking or cooking and those few blurry selfies. The selfies that make him ache, that make him miss you as he looks at them over and over.

Satoru took down both of your videos, he doesn’t feel right keeping them up after you said you regretted them, that made him feel so fucking horrible. You said it wasn’t his fault, but how can he not feel responsible for bringing it up in the first place? How can he not let your friend’s words sink in deep?

You were innocent, and instead of cherishing that, he saw the opportunity to make bank with you, to enjoy the only woman he wanted and keep his career, to just win and win and win. At the cost of you, of your self worth clearly, and your self esteem, all for what. For others to see you, what he wanted for himself, the thoughts made him fucking sick.

What is money, what are hollow comments, what is any of this when your eyes were full of tears, when he has to jerk it to the fucking memory of you, when he can’t make it to a shoot and just stares at your pictures. When he watches the videos of you two and instead of getting excited feels overwhelming guilt? You were a grown woman, but you were innocent, and he corrupted it, unintentional as it was.

He still was responsible.

He wants to fucking apologize, he wants to beg you to come back, he knows he’s horrible for you, he barely knows himself at twenty eight, and you younger than him seem to at least remember who you are. He missed all the signs of you changing to please him, but it all started falling together these past weeks of being alone, of avoiding his job, of avoiding everything.

He can’t avoid it forever, and he shouldn’t. You were gone.

He backs off the girl dancing on him now, tapping her shoulder. “I need a drink, sweets.”

“Sure Gojo!” She grins and dances with the other girl who was grinding on him, as he finds Suguru leaning against the bar, having a drink, along with a few other of the usual stars, including smirking Toji and Sukuna, who he can’t deal with right now.

“Make it a double,” Satoru murmurs to the bartender, who slips him her number with a little wink, he tips her well and smiles.

Did he really enjoy this?

He leans back, freezing then, when he thinks his fucking eyes are playing tricks on him - it can’t be.

You’re feeling the energy pulsing through every inch of your body, hands touching you everywhere, losing yourself in the strobing lights, the sweat dripping as you jump up and down, laughing again for the first time in so long. Jenna’s dancing with you, then other girls and guys, as the beat kicks up, and everyone throws their hands up in the air.

A girl kisses you, then Jenna, making you blush, covering your mouth as Jenna grins at you. “You’re so cute!”

“Hush!” You shove at her playfully as you both shout over the loud noise filling the intense room, internally feeling guilty for enjoying one night without him, without the man that has your whole fucking heart.

But it does feel good, to shut your eyes and feel blissful nothingness, the drinks simmering through your veins until you’re dizzy. You feel a man’s hands on you, gently pushing them off with a smile, thanking god you wore your contacts because you fear for your glasses with the amount of jumping people. You lift your arms up, back to Jenna again, as you two lose yourselves.

Satoru sees you, skin glistening with sweat in the middle of the dancefloor, jumping up and down with a grin on your face as Jenna jumps with you, bodies all surrounding you, making him glare as he sips his drink. He’s going through fucking torture without you, and you look so happy, so free.

Was he truly horrible for you?

Was he selfless enough to stay away?

“Satoru, maybe try to talk to her?” Suguru says in his ear, loudly over the blaring electronic music that has hundreds bouncing together, kissing on each other, touching  each other.

Satoru used to eat this up, all the music and energy, kissing women and having them feel all over him, especially when he was a little younger and partook in the party drugs, as many of them were on. But even now, he should enjoy it, the looks women give him, the way they touch his body, how they all dance all over him, he should enjoy the feeling.

He enjoys nothing, now, nothing but the memory of you gives him, what it leaves him with, the feel of you in his arms, against his skin, god the night he danced with you and you were so nervous. Clearly still awkward, Jenna is guiding your moves, when Satoru watches several men touching you, trying to rub and dance on you - it was normal in an EDM club, it’s what you did.

But you back off them, with a little polite smile, back to Jenna in moments, when your eyes finally catch his, and you stop moving like you were, your body slows, your eyes get fucking sad, he can see it clear as day. You walk away, and he curses softly, following you around until he catches sight of you walking in the bathroom, and he follows you right in.

“It’s a girls bathroom, Satoru.” You say then, splashing water on your face, when he comes right behind you, turning you quickly, the water drips down your face as you breasts heave up and down in an outfit so slutty he’s sure it’s not yours. “What do you want?”

“What do I want!? What do I want?” He’s blinking back his emotions now, laughing and shaking his head, cupping your face with his huge hands as the DJ shifts to another song, the bass vibrating your bodies, while your breaths come quicker and quicker.

You can hardly stand it, seeing him again, it’s like nothing even exists but him, but your love for him, a love you know ruins you, changes you for the worst. You rotted away for weeks and for one moment had fun, one moment thought you could let some of the pain go, to realize what this was.

But the moment you see his desperate, hungry eyes, taste the liquor on his breath as he leans down, you’re hopelessly lost. You swallow nervously, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, trying to gather yourself, the shots running through your body along with the headiness from the dancing, all mixing with him. With Satoru Gojo, whose hands feel far too good on your skin.

“I want you back, god I’ll fucking do anything,” he whispers, desperate and needy when you open your eyes again, two tears slipping from their corners. “I’ll let you do anything to me.”

“Don’t say that, god…” You take a shaky breath, pulling back, when he presses you against the black and gold counter of the fancy bathroom, his thigh right between yours, feeling your heat. Your hips roll before you can stop yourself, moaning softly as he sighs, his hand slipping down your body slowly.

“Anything to feel you again, please. Fuck I miss you,” you bite your lower lip, shaking your head. “I do, god I do.”

“Satoru…”

“I need you. I need you.” He’s kissing you, messy and desperate, licking the gloss and sweat off your lips with his long tongue, while pressing that thigh up. “Look too good to be out there, dressing this slutty?”

“Fuck you,” he moans, never expecting those words from your sweet lips, but all they do is make him needier, when you yank him by his dress shirt, hand crumpling the material. “I hate you.”

“You hate me, huh?” His whisper infuriates you, you’re crying as you nod, arching your hips up again.

“For making me fall for you, yes. I hate you, Satoru.” You pull back, turning away, only for him to drag you against his chest, making you look at your own reflection, dilated eyes, messy hair, your tits nearly falling out of your bustier.

“I could never hate you, sweetheart,” he grips a breast, yanking it out of your top then, making you whine, as your head falls back. “Look at your pretty fucking face.”

“No.” He grips your chin, forcing you to stare at him towering over you, his arms wrapping your body, one hand trailing down your nipple, tweaking it and making you whine out, rolling your hips. “Hate it.”

“You hate this?” You nod, sniffling back those tears, but your body responds to him violently, your cunt drenched when he brushes you over your panties, moaning as he fingers the slick, sticky cum. “Pretty pussy soaked, isn’t she?”

“From… dancing…” He scowls now, and you smile.

Good.

He changed you, the old you would never fucking say you hate him when you’re in love, the old you wouldn’t smirk at his anger. No, you were so sweet, so needy and pathetic for him, and you can’t let yourself slip again, not when you’re still not sure you’ve found yourself. Because you changed, irrevocably the moment you met Satoru Gojo.

“I know you’re lying, you know I’m the only man to ever make you cum,” you glare, but it’s cut off when he bends low, burying his head against your neck as he bends at the waist, your heels giving just enough height for him to slip your panties to the side. “Hold them.”

“No.”

“Hold. Them. To. The. Side.” His whisper almost ends you, the commanding tone you want to submit to.

“No.”

“Now.” He orders, in the only way he can, and you feel him slipping his fingers up and down an already messy cunt, tit slid out of your top, the other threatening to right in this club fucking bathroom, as his blue eyes look at yours int he mirror. “Now.”

“Fuck it,” you scowl as he smirks, doing just that, as the music reverberates and you bend down, pulling your lacy panties to the side, screaming out unwillingly when two fingers bury themselves. “Fuck!”

“Nasty mouth, bratty attitude, where’s my sweet, submissive girl huh?” He smirks as he slips those fingers deeper, pressing your spot with wicked precision, pressing that spongy spot as his other hand grips your breast rough in his huge grip. “Wanna squirt for me again, just me?”

“No, no I - mnh! There, shit, there,” your eyes roll back as his other hand wraps your throat, his desperate whines loud in your ear mixing with the loud squelching of your hungry cunt as he fucks you with his fingers. “Hate you.”

“Yeah, I know baby,” he’s so ready to watch you again, watch you fall apart, as he curls that spot you need, over and over, feels your gummy walls gripping and pulsing his finger with the beat of the goddamn music, watching your glittery skin and lips and eyes in the fucking mirror. “I’ll never hate you.”

“Shh,” you can’t take it, his fingers, his glistening eyes, those pouty lips parted while he moves his hand up and down inside your cunt until you’re about to cum, so intense again. “Stop, too much I’m gonna-”

“I feel it, let go, make a mess f’me, just me huh?” You can’t stop it then, his fingers fucking you just so, you feel all that pressure deep in your tummy, about to explode, making you scream out into his lips as he captures them, hand squeezing your throat as all the pressure builds.

He moans against your lips, messy kisses, saliva just dripping as he hits that spot that makes all the pressure release, and you feel yourself squirting all down his fingers, down your thighs, down the bathroom fucking tile. You scream out at it, as he makes more come out, torturing you as he pulls back and moans, looking at your face with those fucking eyes of his.

“That’s it, squirt everywhere, slutty pussy only does it f’me, say it,” you shake your head, whining and shaking as the mess gushes all over him, and he’s rock hard and thick against the small of your back, whining. “God I miss you, I need you, wanna drink you.”

“No, you can’t…” You’re drunk off him, lost in him, as he slips his fingers away from the mess you made, shoving them in your mouth, and you eagerly suck them up and down, looking at his reflection in the mirror with dilated eyes.

You’ll always want him.

You’re ready to fuck him then and there, ready to forget anything, to feel his cock stretch you out sure, but also to kiss him, to feel his energy, to feel so beautiful under him, around him. You’re shaking, thighs trembling and sticky when he turns you, lifting you and slipping his hands up your messy, sticky thighs, glistening and drenched all the way to your ankles.

“Look at your mess, sweetheart,” he taunts, bending down and licking a thigh desperately, moaning as he looks up at you, he’s too much, fuck he’s too much. “Missed your taste, can’t get it outta my fucking mind.”

“Satoru, please…” You don’t know what you’re asking, hands in his silvery locks, the texture you missed, as he presses hungry licks of his pink tongue on your skin.

“Didn’t miss me, right? Don’t want me now? Hate me?” He’s glaring, stopping his kisses to cup your face, his chin glistening from the arousal that he got pouring from your cunt, eyes locked with yours. “Do you hate me?”

“No,” you’re crying, chest heaving now. “I love you, and that is enough fucking torture.” He pauses, faltering then, as he brushes tears from your cheeks.

“Did you ever think that I-” the door opens, and the two of you quickly celebrate, you adjust yourself, thanking god the drunk girls don’t notice your undress, when you realize what you’ve done.

Let him have you a literal mess, let everything you’ve tried to get over for weeks get destroyed with his lips, his fingers. You confessed again, so pathetic, you can’t even face him, not when he is waiting for you out of the bathroom, you dart off, gripping your clutch tightly and hearing your name ring in your ears, along with the music and the sounds of cheers filling them.

He wants you, sure, but would he ever love you?

You quickly grab Jenna, desperate to run away, to try to compose yourself, how can you stand strong when all it takes is a look from his eyes and you’re ready to give him anything he wants again? It’s toxic, and you fucking know it, what he does to your body, your brain, your heart.

Has he done shoots?

Will he do them?

Why do you care when you’re not his!?

Will he be inside someone else, and you could have kept him if you went along with it all? The thoughts race as you and Jenna run out of the club, and you feel those blue eyes on you from somewhere in the dark club through the strobe lights making you dizzy. You can fucking feel Satoru, the man responsible for your soaked, sticky panties and thighs.

You could never hate him, but who are you without him anymore? It’s like you can’t recognize yourself, so consumed from his touches, from his empty words - miss you - what did he miss? Was it you, or your body? What did he think of the love confessions you were dumb enough to spill twice now?

“Baby you okay?” Jenna asks, as you two climb in the back of the ride, and you shake your head, bursting into tears.

She holds you, so confused, because you don’t say what happened.

You’ll never be okay without him, will you?

*****

Satoru can still feel it, you squirting and gushing in that fucking room, clinging to the memory he tries a month later to get hard on set, how long could he put it off, it’s been almost two months since that fight now. He hasn’t heard your voice since that night, he finally stopped calling again, realizing you were done with him, realizing the amount of times he fucked this all up.

He never told you how he felt, how could you know?

He doesn’t even know how to describe it, the void in his chest as he thinks of you, as he misses you, knowing you live an hour away, he keeps thinking of just showing up, telling you. That he’s never felt this way, that he’s never felt the need, the hunger, the all consuming desire for you as a human being, your laugh, your kisses, your grin.

Your silly jokes, the innocent way you moved against him, so shy at first, to the wildness of that night out, how you arched against him, how you said you hated him, how you said you loved him. And he almost said it back, he just needed one more moment to fucking say it, the words he hasn’t said since his ex fucked his brain up, made him so cold.

But he feels more for you in a short time than he ever did her.

He fell for you, just like you did, but he was so fucking stupid, all he could do was explain it away, to keep his lifestyle, his career- and what did any of it matter without you? What was anything without you in his life now, a life he thought was beautiful, was just a hollow shell since he met you.

Parties, drugs, women all over him, fame and money, what the fuck was a yacht party with beautiful women, when the girl he loves hates him? What was a trip to some rich fucker’s island, when the girl he loves is back in LA? Were you moved on, did you find a guy to treat you right, better than he had?

One that doesn’t make you cry?

“Ready, Gojo?” His pretty costar smiles at him, and he clears his throat, nodding with a fake smile.

Were all his smiles fake before you?

Was everything just a stage, waiting for you to enter his life, to change everything?

You changed so much for him, but he never changed for you.

Satoru’s flexing for the cameras, it’s what he did. You two were done before you ever became anything, weren’t you? You have not once reached out, why should he feel bad, there’s nothing there. He has to move on, like you apparently have, he has to have his career back, and maybe now he could, if he could just ignore the stabbing, gnawing ache in his soul.

Satoru’s slipping his fingers down her spine, smacking her ass and watching handprints form, while she’s whining and arching up for more, her hair falling back behind her shoulder blades. Satoru tries to remember that he once enjoyed this career, that he enjoys pleasing women. He tries to remember you want nothing to do with him anymore, that you ‘hate him’.

But your hate is sweeter than anything.

He could almost do it.

Her hair is the same as yours, as he pulls it gently, her ass arched up for him so pretty. Satoru could almost pretend it’s you, with that condom on, maybe he could shut his eyes and remember you instead. Maybe he could go through it, you two are done, you’ve made it so clear you want nothing to do with him now, and he couldn’t blame you for it.

He could almost slip his cock into her, he thinks, while he fingers her, feels how wet she is. He could almost imagine you, squirting and gushing and whining as he felt your tight, perfect cunt. He shuts his eyes, snowy lashes casting shadows along his high cheekbones, as she moans, this moan that’s not even close to the sounds you make.

He could almost do this, he’s going to have to move on, right?

“I need a career change.” He says suddenly, fingers inside his costar stilling, the set goes quiet. “Shit… um, sorry.”

He’s walking off, wiping his hands off when his manager comes to him.

“Satoru… what the fuck?”

“I can’t do this anymore.” He murmurs, remembering you in that club bathroom, the way you felt in his arms, the anger you held, your pretty little face, the way your lashes fluttered shut. The way you kissed him, how he’d licked that arousal off your thighs, but moreso your words.

You loved him.

And it all finally sinks in - he has no clue if you’ll ever even fucking talk to him again, he has no clue if you really hate him, but he knows he can’t do this life like this any longer. He can’t be with someone else in a world where you fucking exist - no, It was only you.

“I need a change of career.”

This chapter hurt my fucking feelings, my god they're dumb esp Satoru - BUT promise next chap will be a little less angsty <3

Taglist 1 - @juicu @kalulakunundrum @gojoswaterbottle @aldebrana @simp-plague @wedojustbevibin @lucciferr0 @officialholyagua @privthemis @coffee-and-geto @homesickes @msniks @emi311 @mai-505 @ren-ren23 @yihona-san06 @emochosoluvr @sylvermoon @bunheadusa @karvokr @starmapz @queenexplosonmurderr @musiclover2119 @saitamaswifey @reagan707 @midorissi @ghostskilledmyaddiction21 @itsinherited @maisiefrancesca @gyarubunny @theonlyhonoredone @chosslut @simperisksksk @xlilycoco @howlsdarling @femaholicc @maymaymarch @miseryyouth-99 @swoozleee @zeunys @cryingdevil @leafynightmares @princess-bblgm @gojosconsort @insomnicshello @joonunivrs @myahfig4 @silviscosplay @iluvjjkmennn @nutellajade

[satellites444]

sylus has a long day and he needs to eat you out.

simply because he's a giver, and he wants nothing more than to please you. that's his stress relief.

like, you're at home relaxing when you get a text from him, simply saying ‘need to see you’

so you unlock your front door for him and wait for him to arrive.

when he gets there you're on the couch in your comfiest sweatpants and your head perks up when he the door opens. you notice immediately the tension in his shoulders and the tired look on his face.

“how was your day?” you ask, your voice is curious. he meets your eyes as he walks towards where you're at on the couch, and he doesn't say anything he just drops to his knees in front of you.

“sylus?” you question as his fingers pull at the waistband of your pants. you let him take your sweats off, leaving you in just your underwear. he tosses the sweats somewhere in the living room and starts to leave a lazy trail of kisses from your knee to your inner thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake.

“long day,” he says between kisses, “just need this,” he mumbles into your leg.

who are you to deny him what he needs?

“whatever you need,” you say, running your fingers through his hair, watching his eyes flutter shut at the touch.

he pulls your underwear off, leaving you naked from the waist down. he spreads your legs, admires the sight for a moment and then he's diving in

your back arches off the couch, your jaw going slack. he normally likes to tease you, take his time, but right now he's not wasting any time.

“aahh, sylus,” you say, it comes out almost like a whimper. the pleasure hitting you so suddenly you feel like you can't breath properly.

he's just as vocal as you are, too. he's moaning as soon as he tastes you on his tongue, he's whispering, “fuck,” to himself before diving back in. he’s gripping your thighs to keep them open so he can devour you.

he knows what you like, he knows exactly how to move his tongue to get those noises he loves so much. he knows that if he sucks your clit in just the right way, your hips will buck and you’ll let out a breathy moan. that's what he does; he’s in heaven.

you're flooding his senses, the stress of the day melts away instantly. he doesn't even remember why he was so pissed, why he was so stressed before because he's in his favorite place.

he gets messier with it as he loses himself to the action. not caring that saliva and arousal are dropping down his chin, probably onto the couch—he’ll buy you a new one. “need you to cum for me, on my tongue, i need it,” he says, only breaking contact with your pussy to ramble out what he wants. he's drunk on it. slurping and licking at everything you have to offer him.

when you're close, you have tells and he knows them like the back of his hand. your breathing gets shallower, your moans grow in pitch and frequency, your fingers grip his hair tighter. he inserts two fingers because he wants to feel you clench around them when you cum.

ultimately that's what pushes you over the edge, too. the way he curls his fingers has you seeing stars and you come hard.

he cleans you up, though it's more for his enjoyment. he takes his time doing it, still relishing in the taste of you, the feeling of you on his tongue. he stays down there until you're pulling at his head.

he’s rock hard in his pants, but he doesn't ask you to return the favor because honestly, he got what he wanted. maybe later he’ll fuck you, or he’s going to touch himself to the image of eating you out but right now he's helping you put your clothes back on and ordering take out.

[arilevenatz]

Silent vows| K.Y.S

Pairing: Mafia!Yeosang x Reader

Genre: Arranged marriage, slight enemies to lovers, fluff

Word count: 22.4k

Warnings: forced marriage, emotional abuse, stalking, jealousy, implied violence, insecurity, yeosang is THE husband, we all want him

AN: Ok so happy belated birthday to my boy yeosang. The most prettiest, angelic mf I've ever seen. Like how can a man be so pretty and handsome at the same damn time. Also this was kinda like a prompt but I can't for the love of god find the comment. But you know who you are, thank you

Masterlist

“I’m not doing it.”

The words left your mouth before you could stop them, sharp and fast, cutting across the heavy air in the room like a blade. The study smelled like old leather and wood polish, the same way it always did when your father called you in for his lectures. But this wasn’t a lecture. This was something else. He sat behind that heavy desk, wearing the same expression he always wore when he made decisions for other people’s lives— calm, practiced, untouchable.

“This isn’t a request,” he answered, barely sparing you a glance. “It’s a responsibility.”

You could’ve laughed. Honestly, you almost did. Responsibility. That word sounded hilarious coming out of his mouth. What did he know about responsibility? The only thing he was responsible for was dragging this family name around town like it was some royal crest, acting like being respected by neighbors counted for anything real in the world.

“You don’t get to sell me off like I’m a—”

“Enough.”

Just that one word. Quiet. Heavy. And somehow louder than your shouting could ever be. Your mother was standing near the window, arms folded like she was cold even though the room was warm. She didn’t speak. She never did, not in front of him. Just stood there looking outside, twisting her rings like she could disappear into the carpet if she tried hard enough. You hated that you weren’t even surprised.

“This marriage will benefit this family,” your father continued, smoothing his sleeves like this was some business meeting. “We’ve built this name for generations. And you will protect it.”

You clenched your fists tighter, nails biting into your palms. “Your reputation doesn’t mean anything outside this stupid town.”

It slipped before you could stop it, but you didn’t regret it. You meant it. All these formal dinners, these family events, these endless talks about legacy— all of it felt empty. Like a dying empire pretending it was still a kingdom.

“This family has survived longer than you’ve been alive,” your father shot back, finally meeting your gaze with steel in his eyes. “And you’ll do your part to make sure it stays that way.”

You could feel the walls closing in. You could feel your freedom shrinking, curling in on itself, suffocating before you could even scream.

“Kang Yeosang.”

The name hit you like a slap. Sharp. Direct. Cold. You knew that name. Everyone did. Not because he was some loud, reckless criminal—no, worse than that. He was dangerous in a way that didn’t make noise. Dangerous in the way silent oceans are. You don’t notice how deep they are until you’re already halfway sunk.

“Why him?” you asked, throat dry.

Your father barely blinked. “Because his family’s name will keep ours alive.”

Alive. Like this was survival. Like marrying you off to someone you didn’t even know was a favor. Like it was a gift. You hated how calm he was about it. You hated how your mother still hadn’t said a single word. You hated how small you felt in that moment, standing in a house you used to believe was home.

“I’m not going to his house,” you muttered finally, stubbornness flaring even when your heart was hammering in your chest. “You can make me marry him, but I’m not moving in with some— some stranger.”

For a second, you thought maybe—just maybe—that would get a reaction. That something in him would soften, crack, break.

It didn’t.

Instead, he stood. Calm. Slow. Adjusting the cuffs of his shirt with careful precision, like he was bored of the conversation already. “You will,” he said softly. “You’ll go to his house, you’ll be his wife, and you’ll do what’s expected of you.” “And if I don’t?” you pushed, lifting your chin like you weren’t breaking inside.

His gaze sharpened just enough for the threat underneath to show, sharp and cold as glass. “Then I’ll handle it my way.”

You knew what his way meant. Not blood. Not mafia violence. But ruin. Reputation torn apart. Family turned against you. Friends pushed away. He knew how to break you the polite way, the respectable way. Quiet destruction in the form of shame.

You swallowed thick, hot air that didn’t want to go down.

“I hate you,” you breathed.

But your father was already walking away, steps quiet against the polished floor.

“I can live with that.”

Your throat burned with all the things you wanted to scream, but only one thing came out. “What about my studies?”

It sounded small. Weak. But it was the only lifeline you could grab onto in that moment. Something that was yours. The one thing you had left that wasn’t part of their family dinners, or reputation games, or polite handshakes pretending to be alliances.

University was supposed to be your escape. Not glamorous. Not perfect. But it was freedom in its own, small way—early mornings, long commutes, paper deadlines, friends who didn’t care about who your father was.

Your father barely reacted.

“You can continue after the wedding,” he answered flatly, as if you were asking if you could have dessert after dinner.

You stared at him. “After?”

“Yes. You’ll still attend.”

But you knew what that meant. You knew the weight behind those words. After the wedding. After moving into a stranger’s house. After taking his last name. After your life wasn’t yours anymore. Technically, sure—you could go back. Physically, you could sit in the same classrooms, scribble in the same notebooks. But it wouldn’t be the same. Not with whispers curling behind your back. Not with people watching you like you were an exhibit. “That’s her—the girl who married into them.”

It would hang on you like invisible chains. Dragging behind you everywhere you went.

And worst of all—you wouldn’t be able to come home. Not really. Not to this family. Not to your old life. You’d have a new last name, a new house, a new set of rules written by someone else’s hand.

The walls of the study felt like they were closing in.

“I don’t want this,” you said, quieter this time. No yelling. Just raw honesty, like a last ditch effort to claw your way out. “This isn’t my life.”

Your father looked at you the same way he looked at accounts on paper. Math. Numbers. Problems to solve, not feelings to fix.

“It is now.”

Simple. Unforgiving. Final.

You could almost feel the weight of your choices shrinking down to nothing. Every dream you used to picture folded neatly into a little box, pushed aside for family names and legacy dinners with strangers in pressed suits. Your stomach twisted. Hot. Cold. Rage and panic mixing together until you couldn’t tell which was worse.

You wanted to shout, wanted to break something, wanted to drag this perfect little empire down brick by brick just to prove you could—but you stood there frozen, fists clenched, staring at a man who would never, ever see you as anything but his tool first.

Come to the house.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Yeosang sighed, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “Alright. Be there in twenty.”

It wasn’t unusual—getting called over like this. His father didn’t waste words, didn’t waste visits. If he was calling, it meant something needed handling.

By the time he got to the mansion, the gates were already open like they always were when they expected him. The house was quiet, the same way expensive places are—grand, but not loud about it. Just old money tastefully sitting in every piece of polished wood.

His father was already in the study when Yeosang stepped inside, standing by the window, one hand in his pocket like it was muscle memory by now. Glass of whiskey in the other. Of course.

“You’re early,” his father said without turning around.

“You said now.”

His father finally looked over, gave him that familiar once-over like he was assessing a report. “Fair enough.”

There was a beat of silence. Not tense. Just quiet.

Then—

“There’s going to be a wedding.”

Yeosang blinked once. “Yours?”

His father gave him a flat look, one eyebrow raising the way it always did when Yeosang was being difficult on purpose. “Yours.”

Yeosang huffed a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, stepping further into the room. “That supposed to be funny?”

His father didn’t smile. “I’m serious.”

Yeosang stood still for a second, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Is that what you dragged me here for? Could’ve sent a text.”

“This isn’t a text conversation.”

“You’d be surprised what can be said over text these days.”

That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of his father’s mouth. Approval, maybe. Maybe not. Hard to tell with him.

“It’s arranged,” his father said, cutting through Yeosang’s deflection cleanly. “Her family’s name still matters in this town. Not rich, not influential in our way, but solid. Traditional. The kind of people who care about reputation more than their own comfort.”

Yeosang tilted his head slightly. “So… charity work?”

“Strategy,” his father corrected smoothly. “They need stability. We don’t need much from them, but it keeps everything clean.”

“Clean,” Yeosang repeated under his breath. He crossed his arms, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. “And I’m guessing I don’t get a vote?”

“You get an understanding. That’s enough.”

Yeosang didn’t argue. Not because he agreed, but because he knew there was no point. This was how it worked. Give and take. Favors. Names. Quiet deals behind closed doors.

He exhaled through his nose. “Who is she?”

“Y/L/N’s daughter.”

Yeosang’s brow ticked. “Didn’t know they had one.”

“Not surprising. They keep her out of sight. Books, classes, family dinners. But they need her to secure their name before it fades.”

Yeosang thought about that for a second. Reputation marriages were common enough. Boring, mostly. People shaking hands over other people’s futures like it was stock trading.

“You’ve met her?” he asked.

“Briefly. Enough to know she’s going to fight it.”

“Great.”

His father glanced at him then, sharp. “Not your job to like it. Just your job to make it work.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” Yeosang muttered, rolling his jaw. “I’m just saying… if she’s gonna be difficult, it’s gonna be annoying.”

His father’s gaze didn’t soften, but there was a certain understanding there. “You’ll handle it.”

Yeosang let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah,” he said, pushing off the doorframe. “Guess I will.”

As he turned to leave, his father added quietly, “This isn’t punishment.”

“I know.”

And he did. This was just how things worked. Fair or not—his life wasn’t completely his own anymore. Yeosang sat behind the wheel, thumb tapping against the steering wheel as he pulled out of the driveway. Headlights cutting clean lines through the dark street, smooth turns, muscle memory driving him home while his mind drifted elsewhere.

Marriage. Arranged.

He scoffed quietly to himself, shaking his head once. What was he supposed to do with someone else’s family name attached to his life?

Some sheltered daughter of a traditional family, probably the kind who spent too much money on handbags and complained when the AC wasn’t cold enough. He could already hear the whining. Could already see the way she’d expect to live in his place, treat it like a hotel, float through his routine like an expensive perfume he didn’t ask to wear.

No, that wasn’t happening.

Maybe he’d buy her an apartment somewhere else. Nothing fancy, but decent enough. They could do the whole photo ops thing, wear the rings, play nice for the public, then go back to separate lives. Paper marriage. Clean. Or worse—she could be one of those girls who latched on for money. Gold digger. Probably already imagining his credit cards with her initials on the back.

He pressed his tongue to his cheek in irritation. God, he hated gold diggers.

Maybe she’d show up to the first meeting with some designer bag acting shy, but batting lashes like she knew exactly how to play the game. All wide eyes and fake humility. Great. Just what he needed—another headache in heels.

And the name—YN.

It felt familiar. Couldn’t place it, but the reputation was old enough to echo through town. Traditional. Reputed. The type of family that prided themselves on manners but ate each other alive behind closed doors.

The kind that smiled with their teeth.

He drummed his fingers once more, sharp taps on the leather, jaw set.

Alright.

If he was going to be stuck with this arrangement, he might as well know what he was dealing with. And he wasn’t about to walk into it blind. He had resources. Skills. Connections that didn’t come from LinkedIn profiles or polite family dinners. If they thought he was going to just sit back and play along without checking her first, they clearly didn’t know him well enough.

Fine. If she was going to be part of his life, even on paper, he’d find out exactly who she was—before she even stepped in the same room as him.

He flicked his blinker, turning toward his penthouse, already thinking about who to call first.

Let’s see what Miss YN was hiding.

By the time Yeosang finished, he knew more about her than her own family probably did.

University—small, local, nothing flashy. Biology major. Not exactly the typical rich family trophy daughter. No branded handbags, no influencer lifestyle. Her socials were barely active. Private, even. Most of her posts were old, nothing more than the occasional picture of a sunset or food she cooked. No thirst traps. No fake aesthetic feeds.

She liked drawing. Had an old art account that hadn’t been touched in months—messy sketches of flowers and animals, all pencil or black ink. Crochet too. Random photos of half-finished scarves stuffed in a drawer. Cooking—simple recipes, home stuff, not the kind of thing you post to show off, just to remember.

Her friends? A few from university. Small group chats. Normal conversations. Mostly about classes, complaining about assignments, nothing interesting. No clubbing pictures. No vacation shots with secret boyfriends tagged under fake accounts.

The further he dug, the more it annoyed him—not because he found anything bad, but because he didn’t. No scandals, no secret plans to social climb, no hidden motives that screamed gold digger or spoiled brat.

She was just… boring.

Boring in the way people are when they’re not trying to be noticed. And for some reason, that irritated him more than if she had been a problem.

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, tossing his phone on the table. Elbow propped on the armrest, hand running through his hair, frustration curling at the edges of his jaw.

Great. Now he was stuck marrying some quiet, awkward, crochet-making biology nerd who probably spent more time reading textbooks than thinking about designer clothes. Not exactly the chaos he was expecting.

But that was fine.

Boring or not, it didn’t change the situation. Didn’t change the fact that she probably didn’t want this marriage any more than he did. Didn’t change the fact that, like it or not, she was about to become his problem.

The small cafe tucked between two old bookstores smelled like cinnamon and burnt espresso, the kind of place you’d miss unless you were looking for it. Y/N liked it that way—quiet, steady, familiar. No loud music, no influencers with tripods. Just people who liked good coffee and minding their own business.

She stepped up to the counter, eyes scanning the pastries before glancing at the girl behind the register. “I love your hair,” she said softly, a small smile pulling at her lips. “That color looks really good on you.” The girl blinked, caught off guard, then smiled wide. “Oh! Thank you—I just dyed it last week.”

Y/N nodded, pleased. Compliments were easy. They made people softer. And the girl was pretty, her pastel blue curls tucked behind her ear like she wasn’t sure yet if she liked them. Little things like that made the world feel less sharp.

She ordered her coffee, tucked herself into the corner seat like she always did, pulling her notebook out of her bag. Pages filled with messy diagrams, doodles in the margins, recipes scrawled sideways between molecular structures.

What she didn’t notice—what no one noticed—was the man sitting at the table near the window, fingers idly circling the rim of his untouched cup, black baseball cap low over his brow.

Yeosang watched all of it with that same steady, unreadable expression he always wore when he was thinking too much. He wasn’t even sure why he was there. Habit, maybe. Curiosity. Boredom. The fact that the more he found out about her, the more it didn’t add up with what he expected. Normal girls didn’t compliment strangers just because. Normal girls—especially daughters of families clawing for reputation—were supposed to be fake polite. Smile, nod, move on. But she meant it. He could tell. You didn’t fake that kind of tone.

He watched the way she curled into herself, scribbling in that notebook like the rest of the world didn’t exist, lips pressed into a soft frown of concentration.

Just a quiet girl who looked like she was holding herself together with coffee and stubbornness.

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee, jaw ticking once. This was going to be annoying in a completely different way. Y/N didn’t notice him when she left.

He watched her go, watched the way she shrugged her bag higher onto her shoulder, thumb absentmindedly rubbing at a little ink stain on her wrist from writing earlier. She moved like someone used to being unnoticed, like she liked it that way. The door chimed behind her, soft and forgettable.

Yeosang waited a beat, then stood, shoving his hands into his coat pockets as he stepped out onto the street. He wasn’t planning to follow her. Not really. That wasn’t his thing. He wasn’t the lurking type. But something about the whole thing felt unfinished—like he’d walked into a movie halfway through and now he needed to know how it ended, even if it was boring. Especially because it was boring.

She turned down one of the smaller streets, familiar paths clearly mapped in her head. She didn’t hesitate. Not once. Like she’d walked this way so many times her feet didn’t need permission anymore.

Normal. Predictable….Except for the part where, in a few weeks, her life wouldn’t be.

That was the thing gnawing at the edge of his mind. She didn’t know yet. Not fully. Probably knew about the arrangement, sure, but she didn’t know what marrying into his family meant. What marrying him meant. She looked like she still had hope things would be fine. Like she still thought she could negotiate her way out of it if she used the right tone with her father.

Cute.

He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t the type to tear down someone just because he could. But he wasn’t about to let someone walk into his life acting like it was optional.

This marriage was happening. She was going to be his. And the sooner she realized that, the easier it was going to be for both of them.

Yeosang sighed, pulling his cap lower as he turned the opposite direction, heading back toward his car. No point in being seen. Not yet. He’d play it properly, like he always did—let the introductions happen the way their fathers arranged, act like this was his first time seeing her. Civil. Normal.

For now, she could keep her quiet cafes and notebooks full of diagrams.

Soon enough, she’d be sitting across from him at a dinner table pretending she wasn’t thinking about escape routes.

And when that time came—

He’d enjoy watching the fight leave her eyes when she realized there weren’t any.

The dining room was too polished. Everything in it felt like it belonged in a magazine—heavy chairs, polished forks, crystal glasses that didn’t belong to people who used them often. It smelled faintly like expensive old wood and control.

Y/N sat straight, shoulders set, jaw locked like she’d been preparing for this her entire life. Polite daughter. Obedient. Chin slightly tilted up—not too much to look rude, just enough to show she wasn’t going to shatter on command.

Across the table, Yeosang sat with his elbow resting lazily on the armrest, fingers tapping slow against the tablecloth. His gaze was on her, not in the obvious way, not wide-eyed or curious—more like someone reading a file they already memorized but going over it again for fun.

“So,” his father started, formal tone sharp around the edges, “this is long overdue.”

Her father chuckled lightly, already halfway sunk into the leather chair like this was a golf meeting. “We’ve been meaning to sit down properly.”

Yeosang barely blinked. “Mm.”

Y/N didn’t look at him at first. Her eyes were trained on her plate, expression soft but unreadable, like she’d pulled politeness over herself like armor. When she finally did glance at him, it wasn’t shy—it was calculated. Brave. Probably spent the last week practicing it in the mirror.

Didn’t matter.

He knew everything already. Biology major. Draws on the side. Probably keeps her yarn stuffed in a drawer somewhere in that tiny bedroom of hers. Ordinary, and for some reason, that irritated him more than anything else could have.

Their parents carried the conversation like businessmen. Deals, family names, subtle remarks about strengthening ties. It wasn’t a dinner—it was a contract, disguised in roast chicken and overpriced wine.

Yeosang’s eyes didn’t leave her.

Y/N shifted her grip on the napkin under the table, folding it tighter in her palm. Eyes stayed low—not on purpose, not because she was scared—but because eye contact always felt like permission for people to ask more questions. And she wasn’t in the mood to explain herself to anyone at that table.

Yeosang sat across from her, speaking with her father like he wasn’t being sized up for marriage. Confident. Comfortable in a room full of expectations. His voice was steady, like someone used to being listened to, used to having the final word in a conversation. The kind of steady that didn’t need raising.

His father said something about ties between families. Her father hummed in agreement. Someone poured more wine. The edge of Yeosang’s gaze cut toward her briefly. He didn’t stare. Just checked. Like someone glancing at a watch to see how much longer they had to stay.

“So,” his voice finally reached her side of the table, low, smooth, without decoration, “biology.”

Her fork hovered, not quite raised, not quite lowered. “Yeah.”

He waited. No explanation followed. No polite rambling about how she got into it, what she wanted to do with it, how hard it was balancing studies with life. Just that quiet confirmation, like she wasn’t going to give him more than that unless dragged.

Something about that pulled a faint curve to the corner of his mouth—not a smile, not even close, just interest. Her fingers folded the napkin tighter.

“You gonna finish that?” he asked, eyes flicking to the untouched half of roasted potatoes on her plate.

Finally, her eyes met his. Not soft, not flirty—flat. Careful. “Do you want it?”

He shrugged once. “Didn’t think you were shy about eating.” “I’m not.”

He raised an eyebrow, mildly amused. “Good.”

Silence again, heavy but not uncomfortable. Just two people used to not needing to fill it. Her father started speaking about how she could continue studying after marriage, casual, like saying we’ll paint the guest room next week. She didn’t bother correcting him, though the heaviness in her chest said she wanted to. No way it would actually work that easily.

She didn’t say anything else for the rest of the meal. Yeosang didn’t, either.

He just watched her, like a lion watching something small—not because he wanted to pounce, but because he was curious if it was going to run. Neither of them moved first.

Yeosang watched the way her fingers kept folding the napkin tighter and tighter, like if she could just make it small enough, she could disappear into it. But her expression didn’t match the tension in her hands. She didn’t look flustered. Didn’t look desperate. Just… controlled. Like someone who’d been living with locked doors their whole life and knew better than to jiggle the handle too loud. Interesting.

“Do you usually not talk,” he murmured, cutting into the silence, “or is that just for me?”

The faintest breath of humor pulled at her nose before she could stop it. “Depends.”

“On?”

She let her gaze flick up—not to his eyes, just above them. “Whether or not the person across from me deserves it.” His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, and for a second, he almost laughed. Almost. This wasn’t what he expected. Spoiled daughters didn’t sit at tables folding napkins into perfect squares like they were holding knives in their laps.

And she didn’t look at him properly, not even once. Not because she was scared. Because she didn’t care. But she would.

Not in the way girls cared about him normally. Not wide-eyed or hopeful. No, she was going to care when she realized exactly how much of her life was about to be decided for her whether she folded napkins or full pages of essays. And the funny thing was—he didn’t want to break her. He just wanted to watch how long she could hold that line before she blinked first.

After the dinner dragged itself to its dull, polished conclusion, with the adults shaking hands over dessert like they’d just signed a treaty, Yeosang leaned back in his chair, elbow resting against the polished wood, fingertips brushing his jaw like he was thinking something over. And maybe he was. But the look in his eyes said this was calculated.

“So,” he said casually, but with the kind of weight that immediately drew the attention of both families, “how about next Thursday?”

The words dropped into the space between them with a deliberate softness, like a stone hitting still water. No one moved. His father raised a brow slightly, clearly pleased with the display of initiative. Her father smiled, the kind of smile fathers wear when they think their daughter’s life is finally falling in line. And Y/N—Y/N kept her fingers on the edge of her plate, eyes flickering up to Yeosang, finally, properly, but only for a second.

“Thursday?” she echoed, like she needed to make sure she heard him right, even though she absolutely had.

He nodded once, slow, composed. “Next week. You’ll be free, won’t you?”

It wasn’t a question. Not really. Not with the way every eye at that table turned toward her, expectant, waiting for her to be agreeable. Marriage was already settled like property; a casual dinner date wasn’t going to shake the foundation of that, but somehow, this felt worse.

Her jaw tensed before she could stop it, irritation curling hot under her ribs—not because she didn’t expect him to test her, but because he chose Thursday. Her only weekday off. Her only breathing space. Her only time where nobody expected her to be anything, say anything, do anything. She studied late on Thursdays, sometimes sat in the library doing nothing but scribbling messy notes on scrap paper that didn’t mean anything, just because she could. And now he was looking at her like he knew that. Like he’d planned that.

“I suppose,” she muttered, voice clipped, polite, lined with quiet annoyance that no one but him seemed sharp enough to hear. “Since you’ve already picked the day for me.”

Their fathers chuckled, pleased at the display of future marital bliss like they were in on some great joke. His father gave him that approving glance—the good, take responsibility look that was passed between powerful men in rooms like this. But Yeosang wasn’t watching anyone else. Just her. Measuring. Testing. Curious how far she could fold before snapping.

“You’ll like it,” he said simply. No tease. No apology. No smile.

She didn’t respond. Just folded the napkin in her lap one more time before setting it neatly on the table like she was handling something fragile. She didn’t look at him again, not because she was shy, but because she knew better. If she did, it’d feel like she was giving him something.

And right now, she wasn’t in the mood to give him anything. But she was curious now. Why Thursday?

Yeosang saw everything. He wasn’t sitting there with that calm posture and steady gaze for show—he was trained for this, raised on discipline sharper than any blade, molded under the expectation that one day he would carry the weight of something much heavier than family name. He was observant. Always. And while everyone at that table was busy patting each other’s backs over the success of an arranged marriage neither party asked for, Yeosang was watching her like a map he was learning by memory.

It was the way she folded the napkin—not once, not twice, but over and over. Each time, pressing it smaller, sharper, tucking corners like she wanted it neat but not too neat, controlled but never pristine. People who folded things that many times weren’t trying to fidget—they were trying to manage something they couldn’t put words to. He’d seen it in tense meetings, watched rival leaders smooth the edges of cufflinks or touch their watches repeatedly when they were hiding nerves or holding in words they couldn’t say aloud.

And she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

But that wasn’t the only thing. He caught the tiny shifts in her posture whenever her parents leaned too close, a subtle lean away—not disrespectful, not obvious, just barely enough to create distance like muscle memory. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t recoil. She managed it. As if that small separation was the only thing keeping her breathing steadily through this whole suffocating display of family pride.

Then there was her food. The careful way she pushed it around her plate, not because she was picky or entitled, but because eating under watchful eyes wasn’t the same as eating alone. Separating textures, shapes, colors, almost like categorizing parts of herself she wasn’t ready to share yet. It wasn’t disinterest—it was control. She was being studied, so she gave them nothing. Not even in the way she chewed.

Most people didn’t notice these things. Hell, most people didn’t even know they did them. But Yeosang saw it all like someone reading subtitles under a movie no one else could hear. And with every fold of that napkin, with every subtle lean of her shoulder, with every glance that never quite met anyone else’s fully, he knew one thing for certain—

She was no ordinary girl.

No spoiled daughter. No meek little thing waiting for a husband to save her from some sheltered life. There was something under that careful silence, something sharp, something waiting. Not the loud kind of defiance—but the quiet kind that made revolutions possible if left alone too long.

Yeosang didn’t know what that thing was yet. But he wanted to. Not to break her. Not to tame her. Not even to get under her skin. He just wanted to see what would happen if someone finally pressed back. And he was more than prepared to be that someone.

But he was no saint, either. Sure, Yeosang was observant. Sure, he was sharp, disciplined, raised on a steady diet of politics, violence, and strategy—but he was also his father’s son. And that bloodline came with one very particular curse: the chronic, unrelenting need to poke at things just to see what sound they made when they cracked. It wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t even personal. It was just in his bones.

And she—sitting there with her neat napkin folding and careful glances and that stubborn refusal to give him anything—was basically gift-wrapped for that exact kind of cruelty.

Admit it. He was intrigued by her, sure. But more than that, there was an itch under his skin when he looked at her, this annoying, bratty curiosity that made him want to press buttons just to see what she’d do. Not because he wanted to humiliate her. Not because he wanted to watch her fall apart. No, it was because she didn’t flinch. And that was interesting. Different. Everyone flinched eventually—but she just… adjusted.

And she looked cute annoyed.

Not the whiny, spoiled kind of cute. Not the bratty, helpless kind. The kind of cute that made him want to lean closer, just to see if her voice would crack the same way her napkin did under her fingers.

He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t even be here, technically, wasting brainpower on reading into a girl he was being forced to marry by family names he didn’t even particularly respect. But here he was, running mental diagnostics on someone’s napkin folding like it was part of a case file, and liking it more than he should.

And if he was going to be dragged into this circus of arranged happiness, he might as well have fun while he was at it.

Testing her? It wasn’t just strategy anymore. It was entertainment. Annoying her? That was just hereditary.

She really didn’t want to go.

Like—borderline, jump-off-the-balcony level of not wanting to go. Not because she thought it would fix anything, not because she was dramatic, but because the sheer dread of giving up the one day that belonged to her made her stomach twist. It was Thursday. Thursday was hers. Her one breath in a week full of held ones. Her one clean, unclaimed square of time where no one asked her to smile, or marry, or fold herself into something palatable.

But she didn’t jump, because that wasn’t how good girls act.

Her mother’s voice echoed in the bathroom as she brushed mascara through her lashes. ‘Be agreeable, Y/N. Don’t embarrass us. You’re not going to be one of those girls with tantrums and police reports. You’re better than that.’

Better. Whatever that meant.

So she got dressed. Pulled on clothes that said I didn’t try but I still look good because if she was going to be dragged into this, she was going to do it on her terms. She tied her shoes like she was tightening a tether around her own ankles. Did her makeup—not too much, not too little, just enough to look alive, to hide the exhaustion that simmered under polite nods and family dinners.

And when she finally looked at herself in the mirror, it wasn’t vanity staring back. It was survival. Thursday. Her Thursday. And now she was about to spend it across from him.

That annoying Yeosang with his sharp eyes and careful words, with his I’m watching you energy and the quiet smugness that didn’t need smiles or stupid flirting to make itself known. She could already hear his voice in her head, perfectly even, perfectly annoying.

And yet—she still tied her hair the way she liked it. Still put on her favorite necklace. Not for him. For herself. Because if she was going to war, she might as well wear armor.

She went down the stairs like muscle memory, footsteps light but steady, not really registering anything around her. Her parents said something—maybe a wish, maybe a warning, maybe one of those sugary “be good” reminders her mother loved so much. But it was all white noise, just the hum of life happening in the background of a mind that was already somewhere else entirely.

She didn’t ignore them on purpose. She was just zoned out. The kind of zoned out where you don’t even realize your keys are already in your hand, or that you locked the door behind you without thinking about it. Automatic. Like when you’re walking to class with music on and suddenly you’re already at the building, but you don’t remember crossing the street.

She didn’t remember leaving the front door. Didn’t remember if she’d even said goodbye, or if her mom had tried to fix the fold of her sleeve one last time like she always did. And she definitely didn’t see him until she stepped out onto the pavement and felt him.

There’s a specific kind of awareness that happens when someone’s eyes are already on you before you’ve noticed them. Like a silent tap on the shoulder. She glanced up—

—and there he was.

Leaning back comfortably in the driver’s seat of a sleek black car, windows down just enough to catch the breeze, one hand draped over the steering wheel like he had all the time in the world. Rap music playing in the background, not quiet but not obnoxiously loud. And that expression—not quite a smile, definitely not a grin, just that irritating curve of satisfaction people wore when they’d predicted something exactly right. Smug wasn’t even the word for it. It was too clean. Too Yeosang. Of course he was already here.

Of course he was watching her like he knew she wouldn’t have noticed him until now. She blinked once, slow, lips pressed in a thin line, and then kept walking. Didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t offer a greeting, just moved like she was late for something even though she wasn’t.

He leaned slightly forward as she approached, tapping his fingers once against the steering wheel, eyes glinting with that silent, irritating amusement.

You walked towards the car, your steps slower than usual, annoyance bubbling up at the sight of him sitting there, looking far too comfortable. You crossed your arms and leaned slightly against the door, giving him a flat look.

“I wasn’t aware you were picking me up,” you said, trying to keep your voice neutral. It came out a little sharper than intended, but you couldn't help it. This whole thing felt off, like you were being dragged into a game that you hadn’t agreed to play.

Yeosang just looked at you with that annoying, cocky expression, the one that always made your blood boil, and shrugged a shoulder. "Well, you should've been. It’s not like you had many options."

You felt a flicker of irritation, but it quickly settled into a calm mask. You weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of showing how much he got under your skin. Moving towards the backdoor, you reached for the handle, ready to slide in and get this over with.

Before you could even touch it, the car locked with a loud click.

You froze.

What the hell?

You looked up at him, surprised. He just sat there, still with that casual air, his eyes gleaming as if he was waiting for a reaction.

“Excuse me?” you said, narrowing your eyes.

Without missing a beat, he simply pointed to the passenger seat with an almost lazy gesture. "Sit there."

You blinked at him. You were about to say something—probably something rude—but you stopped yourself. There was no way you were going to let him mess with you like this. Still, you didn’t argue. You didn't have the energy to fight him over something so trivial. The car door opened with a quick swipe, and you slid in, your gaze still sharp but subdued.

Yeosang didn’t speak again as you buckled your seatbelt, his attention shifting to the road as he put the car in drive. The silence between you felt heavy, but you couldn’t bring yourself to break it. It was better this way. Better not to engage, better to keep things surface-level.

The ride was awkward. Well, for you, at least. Yeosang didn’t seem to feel it. His posture was relaxed, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear, like he was driving down to the beach with friends and not chauffeuring his future wife to some forced date neither of you wanted.

But you sat there, arms crossed, eyes out the window, chewing the inside of your cheek. And then it hit you. Wait. Is that Kendrick Lamar’s Reincarnated playing?

You blinked, eyes flickering toward the dashboard like you could confirm it with just a glance at the stereo. The beat was unmistakable, that heavy bass, sharp snare, and those layered vocals riding smooth over the instrumental. Of all the people to be playing Kendrick Lamar at full volume—it had to be him.

The irritation in your chest shifted slightly, replaced by something… warmer. Familiar. For a second—just a second—you forgot you were on your way to spend your Thursday afternoon with the most annoying man alive. You knew this song. Knew it.

Mentally, you started mouthing the lyrics in your head, matching every bar, every breath, every sharp flip of cadence like muscle memory. Word to word. Clean. Like second skin. It wasn’t loud in your expression, but your mind was in full concert mode, rapping like you’d been waiting for this exact song to save you from the awkwardness.

And for the first time since you sat in that car, you didn’t feel bored.

Without even realizing it, your fingers had started tapping against your thigh, following the beat with this natural kind of ease that only happens when something feels right. The awkwardness melted just slightly—not completely, but enough that you didn’t feel like throwing yourself out of the moving car anymore.

But then—

The song ended, and before you could even mourn the silence—another Kendrick song started playing. Different album. Same vibe. Same unmistakable energy. You frowned slightly, eyes flicking to the stereo now like it had betrayed you. Two Kendrick songs in a row? Coincidence?

You sat there for a second, staring ahead, lips pressing into a thin line as your brain worked overtime. Sure, it could’ve been a coincidence. Everyone liked Kendrick, right? But this felt… deliberate. Like someone had put it on a playlist. Was he doing it on purpose? Is he a fan too?

You glanced at him, cautious, like you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of catching you interested—but curiosity was starting to override irritation. He was just driving like usual, one hand lazily adjusting the volume like it was background noise to him. But something about how casual he looked felt rehearsed.

It didn’t sit right with you. Could’ve been random. Could’ve been a setup. Or… could’ve been both. But either way, you weren’t about to ask first. Nope. Not happening.

You just leaned back against the seat, eyes steady out the window, tapping your fingers again, this time not just because of the beat—but because you were thinking.

Yeosang was way too pleased with himself.

Not that he showed it outwardly—no smug grin, no teasing comments just yet—but inside? Yeah. He was damn near proud. Everything was going exactly how he wanted. Calculated. Controlled. Planned with the kind of precision that came from years of watching, learning, and frankly—being too damn good at reading people.

He knew everything he needed to know about you. Hell—he probably knew more about you than you did. He knew Thursday was your free day. Knew how you carved it out for yourself like it was holy ground. That’s exactly why he chose today to drag you out. Not because he wanted to ruin it. No—because it would be the one thing you couldn’t say no to. You’d either have to cancel your only peace of the week or face him—and he knew you’d pick facing him. Pride. Predictable.

He knew you didn’t like going out—not with family, not with friends, barely even by yourself. So, he came to you. Made it easy. Familiar car. Private. No excuses to back out last minute because “I didn’t feel like taking a cab” or “the bus was crowded”. Nah. He had you cornered, comfortably.

And the music? That wasn’t a coincidence, either. He’d seen the playlist. Hell, he’d memorized the damn playlist. Kendrick Lamar was your favorite in the rap genre, and it just so happened Kendrick was on his heavy rotation too, so it didn’t even feel forced. Just enough familiarity to make you settle in, just enough to make your fingers tap without realizing, to get you thinking maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought.

He didn’t need to ask you what you liked. He knew what you liked. Yeosang’s father didn’t raise fools—and Yeosang wasn’t about to start disappointing now.

He kept his eyes on the road, face clean of expression, like he didn’t know exactly what you were thinking. Like he hadn’t already played this scene out in his head a dozen times. You were stubborn, yeah—but he was patient. And precise.

He didn’t want to break you. Nah. That was boring. He wanted to watch. Watch how long you could act like you didn’t care. Watch how long you could pretend you weren’t curious. Watch how long it took before you realized—you weren’t the only one with sharp edges.

And yeah, he liked rap too. Lucky you.

The car rolled to a smooth stop, the hum of the engine cutting off and leaving behind the faint echo of Kendrick’s verse lingering in your head. You looked around, blinking slowly. Parking lot.

What kind of parking lot? You didn’t know. Big building, a few cars around, that slightly industrial vibe, but nothing familiar. You didn’t go out enough to tell which part of town this was, and frankly—you didn’t care. You just wanted to get this over with.

With a sigh, you reached for your seatbelt, pressing the button to unclip it…Nothing.

You pressed it again, harder this time, like maybe the extra force would convince it to listen to you. Nothing moved. “Oh, come on—” you muttered under your breath, tugging at the strap now with growing frustration. Typical. Typical. Of course this was happening. On today of all days. And the last thing you wanted to do—the very last—was ask him for help. But pride had limits, and you’d already used up most of yours agreeing to this disaster of a “date.”

You glanced at him reluctantly. “It’s stuck.”

He didn’t even pretend to be surprised. Didn’t flinch, didn’t chuckle—just leaned slightly toward you, unbothered, one hand moving with irritating ease to the buckle. The button clicked effortlessly under his fingers like it had just been waiting for him to do it.

“See?” he murmured, voice low, that smug little undertone threading beneath it. “I knew you’d need me eventually.”

Your jaw clenched, and you shot him a look that could’ve killed a weaker man on the spot. “It was broken.”

“Of course it was,” he replied, tone dripping with mock sympathy, before pushing his door open and stepping out like nothing just happened.

You sat there for a second, heat prickling at the back of your neck, wishing the ground would swallow you whole—but no such luck.

Fine. Whatever. You pushed your door open too, standing straight, brushing down your clothes like you hadn’t just been humiliated by a seatbelt. You wouldn’t let him have the last word. Not yet. Not ever.

You followed him, not knowing where you were going, but very aware of two things:

1. This was going to be a long day.

2. You hated how nice his stupid cologne smelled when he walked ahead of you.

But you had no intention of making this easy for him.

So, as soon as you both started walking, you slowed your pace—not obviously, not dramatically—just… enough. Enough to make it mildly irritating. Enough to make him notice. You weren’t even really doing it on purpose; he was just tall, and apparently, tall people had no concept of walking like normal humans. His strides were three of yours combined, and you refused—refused—to jog after him like some lost puppy.

If he wanted to drag you around, he was going to work for it. But the irritating thing? He didn’t say a word. Didn’t huff, didn’t throw a glance over his shoulder, didn’t tell you to hurry up like you half expected. He just walked, silent, hands in his pockets like this was the most casual thing in the world.

Until suddenly, about ten steps ahead, he stopped. Just stood there.

You narrowed your eyes, fully prepared for some passive-aggressive remark or maybe a sarcastic clap. You were ready for it. Bring it on. But instead—he just turned around and… held out his hand. You stared at it like it was something you didn’t understand.

The hell was that supposed to mean?

Your eyes flicked up to his face, searching for the usual sharp comment or hidden smirk—but nothing. He just stood there, hand out, expression unreadable but steady. “Grab on,” he said, like it was obvious. You blinked, caught between being offended and… genuinely confused. “What?”

“You’re slow,” he said simply, like he was pointing out the weather. “So grab on.”

You stared at his hand, then back at his face. “I’m not slow. You’re just fast.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he said under his breath. “Now grab on before I make you.”

You didn’t move for a second. Pride screamed no, but practicality… well, it was tired of jogging every five steps to keep up. And something about the way he said it—firm, low, steady—not mocking, not playful, just… expecting—it made that prickling nervousness crawl up your spine again. You hated that tone.

But your hand moved anyway, slipping into his, your fingers curling awkwardly, like you didn’t know what to do with yourself. His grip was steady, firm—but not crushing. Not controlling. Just… leading.

Without another word, he started walking again, pulling you gently but efficiently alongside him, adjusting his pace—not entirely slowing down, but enough that you didn’t have to scramble. You hated how… easy it felt. Hated it more that your hand stayed there.

The deeper you both walked, the clearer it got—it wasn’t just some random building or a casual cafe. It was a restaurant. A fancy one.

Not just white tablecloth fancy, but crystal glasses, piano music playing softly in the background, waiters dressed better than your uncles at weddings kind of fancy. And honestly? It was too much.

Your dad never took you to places like this. Never. Said restaurants were a scam, said home food was better, cheaper, cleaner—but you knew better. You’d seen the unpaid bills, the receipts stuffed into drawers, the phone calls with that low, desperate tone he didn’t think you could hear. Gambling debt didn’t leave room for filet mignon or imported wine. You’d spent your life quietly excusing it, brushing it off, pretending you didn’t want this kind of thing anyway.

But standing here now, in this giant pristine place with soft golden lighting and tables spaced way too far apart, you felt like an imposter. Like you were wearing someone else’s shoes in a room you didn’t belong in. It was overwhelming. Too bright. Too clean. Too silent. Everyone here looked like they belonged. And you—you didn’t even know which fork to use first.

You hadn’t realized it at first, but your body did. Instinctively, without even thinking, you found yourself scooting closer to him. Not dramatically—not enough to look weird—but just enough that the space between you narrowed. Like proximity alone could make you smaller, safer, less obvious. The worst part?

It felt natural.

You hated that. Hated that the man you were mentally arguing with for the past hour was now also the one person here who felt vaguely familiar.

Yeosang noticed, of course he did. The tension of your shoulder brushing barely against his arm, the shift of your body tilting slightly toward his—he clocked it instantly. But he didn’t comment. Didn’t give you that teasing remark you were bracing for. Instead, his fingers adjusted slightly around yours, like he was anchoring you there. Silent. Steady. Just a solid presence beside all the marble floors and velvet chairs.

He didn’t say a word. But you felt it anyway. ‘I got you.’

Some guy—manager, waiter, whatever—showed up then, all polite smiles and expensive cologne, greeting Yeosang like they were long-lost friends or something. Said something about the table being ready, offered some words you didn’t really catch because your brain was too busy buzzing with nerves.

You weren’t listening. Didn’t want to. Everything felt too sharp around the edges. Before you could even process it properly, Yeosang had your hand again, guiding you forward with that same casual grip, not giving you the chance to hesitate. It wasn’t forceful, just… confident. Like he already knew you’d follow.

And you did.

He led you through rows of softly murmuring people until you reached a table—not entirely private, but tucked into a little alcove, partly hidden by frosted glass panels and low plants. Enough separation that you didn’t feel like fish in a tank, but not so hidden that it felt awkward. It was nice. Comfortable in a way you hadn’t expected.

Yeosang didn’t miss a beat. He stepped around you and—of course—pulled out the chair. You hesitated for half a second, eyes flickering up at him. No teasing expression. No sharp remark waiting. Just a simple gesture, like this was routine.

You sat down, the chair gliding smoothly beneath you, and he pushed it in with practiced ease. For a brief second, you hated how nice that felt. Not because of him. But because no one had done that before. Not dates, not family, not anyone.

You adjusted your sleeves awkwardly, trying not to fidget, while he walked around and took his own seat, leaning back with that effortless comfort like this was his living room and not a restaurant with menus you probably couldn’t even afford to read.

He picked up the menu with one hand, flipping through it casually like this wasn’t his first time here—which, judging by how the staff greeted him, you were sure it wasn’t. His eyes scanned the pages, sharp and focused, while the other hand rested lazily on the edge of the table. After a moment, he looked up, right at you. “What do you want?”

It shouldn’t have been a complicated question. Normal people would just… answer. Say pasta, steak, whatever. But for some reason, your throat tightened. It wasn’t nerves—not exactly. Just… indecision.

All your life, someone had chosen for you. Your mom, mostly. Always ordering for you at restaurants—never asking, just assuming. Always brushing off your opinions as “It’s not good for you,” or “You won’t like it.” Somewhere along the line, you stopped bothering to decide. It felt easier that way.

So you did the only thing that felt natural, default almost. “Whatever you’re having.” Yeosang paused.

His jaw ticked slightly, almost like he was holding back a sigh—but not in frustration. More like… patience. “That’s not how this works,” he said, voice lower, steady, like someone reasoning with a kid who was trying to eat candy for breakfast. “You don’t just copy.”

You shrugged, defensive, staring at the polished wood of the table. “I don’t know what’s good.”

“It’s not that deep,” he finished for you, lips twitching slightly—but not in mockery, just amusement. “It’s just food. Pick what you want.”

The thing was… no one had ever given you choices like that. Not explained them patiently. Not acted like your opinion actually mattered, even in something as small as dinner. It made your chest feel weirdly tight. Like you wanted to be mad, but couldn’t quite find the reason.

Yeosang didn’t press further. Just leaned back again, waving over the waiter with a lazy flick of his fingers, like this was the most normal thing in the world. But you sat there with the menu still open in your hands, staring at it…

That’s when it hit you—the slow, creeping embarrassment settling in the pit of your stomach.

You didn’t know how to read menus.

Not like literally not knowing how to read, but… you didn’t know how to understand them. Fancy restaurant menus weren’t in normal language—they were in that rich people language. Words like confit, beurre blanc, something-something reduction—you didn’t even know if you were ordering food or furniture. The more you stared at it, the worse it got. Everything blurred together until it just looked like noise on paper.

Your hand twitched slightly on the edge of the menu, the corners of it curling under your fingertips. You didn’t even know how to begin. Finally, you gave up. Quietly. Awkwardly. You placed the menu down and looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time all evening. Gone was the irritation, the stubborn defiance. Instead, it was something softer. Not defeated, but pleading.

“Can you just… choose?” you asked, voice low, almost hoping he wouldn’t make a scene about it.

For a second, he just stared at you. No teasing, no smug smile—just studying you. Calculating. Then, instead of making a big deal about it, he nodded once, sharp, like this was all perfectly normal. “Alright,” he murmured. “But you’re still gonna have choices.”

And then, like it was muscle memory, he listed things off. Simple. No complicated words, no long-winded chef specials.

“Do you want red sauce or white?”

“Chicken or beef?”

“Want dessert or not?”

Just basic questions, no extra fluff. Like someone breaking down rocket science to math tables. By the time he was done, it actually sounded like a meal, not a puzzle.

And without realizing it, you’d started folding the cloth napkin again. Neatly. Sharply. Fold, unfold, fold, unfold. It was muscle memory at this point—your fingers always needed something to do. Something to control, even when nothing else made sense.

Somewhere along the way, he’d passed you his napkin too. You didn’t even notice it. Just that at some point, your hands had another one to work with. Your mind didn’t register it; your body just accepted it, thankful for the extra fabric to keep you grounded.

It was quiet. Subtle. No words, no glances, no gestures. And while you kept folding and unfolding that napkin like your life depended on it, he just sat there across from you, arms resting lazily on the table, ordering both your meals in that steady voice like this wasn’t even a thing.

He didn’t act like he was helping. And you didn’t notice you were being helped.

While you were busy poking at the carefully cut chicken on your plate—eating but not really tasting—Yeosang sat across from you, trying not to lose his mind.

Cuteness aggression. That was the only way to describe it. Like he wanted to bite something or hit the table—not out of anger, but because you were just too much.

It wasn’t just the way you’d quietly surrendered, letting him order for you like it was nothing. It wasn’t just the way your fingers kept working that napkin like you didn’t even know you were doing it. It was the whole picture—the you of it all. Sitting there, looking like the softest thing in the sharpest world.

And that cardigan you were wearing? Please. He could tell by the stitching it was handmade. Probably by you. The unevenness of the cuffs, the slightly imperfect patterns—no brand could fake that kind of charm. You didn’t even know how much that cardigan was giving you away, how much of you was stitched into every row.

It made something in his chest tighten, like he wanted to tuck you somewhere safe. His pocket. A drawer. Somewhere you couldn’t get overwhelmed by menus and loud places and useless fathers.

But he still played it cool, leaning back a little, eyes glinting as he ran his thumb along the edge of his fork like he wasn’t thinking borderline insane things about a girl he just met. He glanced at the cardigan, then back at you, voice dropping casual but knowing.

“You make that?”

You blinked, pausing mid-bite. “What?”

“That cardigan,” he said, tone light, like they were talking about the weather. “You made it?”

You hesitated. Not because you were embarrassed—more because no one really noticed that kind of thing. Definitely not guys like him. But… you nodded. “Yeah.”

A lazy grin, sharp but not mocking, pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Figured. Looks like you.”

That sentence alone made your stomach flip in ways you didn’t have the energy to process. You didn’t even know what that meant. Looked like you? Quiet? Crocheted? Awkwardly stitched together? You didn’t ask. You just looked back down at your plate, busying yourself with another bite, folding that second napkin again like it was holding the fabric of your nerves together.

Meanwhile, Yeosang sat there, feeling way too satisfied with himself. You were dangerously cute. And he was dangerously aware of it.

He dropped you off, making sure you got to your front door before pulling away. You didn’t say much—a quiet “thanks,” barely audible—but you didn’t run away either. Progress.

But by the time he pulled into his father’s estate, parked the car, and stepped into the over-polished marble entrance, he was losing it. Hand over his mouth. Jaw tight. Muscles flexing like he was holding in a scream or something equally embarrassing. What the hell was that?

That wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to be annoying. Spoiled. Bratty. Some daddy’s princess with acrylic nails and too much perfume. You were supposed to be the type he could dump in a nice apartment and visit once a month with gifts so you’d stay quiet about the whole arrangement.

But you weren’t. You were a mess. An organized, pretty, cardigan-wearing mess.

And worse, you didn’t even know you were cute. You weren’t even trying. You just sat there in that chair at that fancy-ass restaurant, folding napkins like they were some secret escape plan, wearing that handmade sweater like it wasn’t making him feel like an insane person.

And now? Forget that whole buying-another-place plan. That idea was dead the moment he saw how small you looked sitting across from him. No way. You were staying where he could see you. Reach you. Annoy you on purpose if he felt like it. Which he did.

He stood in the foyer of his father’s mansion, hand dragging down his face, pacing a little in his boots.

God. He felt like squealing. Like actually kicking something, or punching the air, or rolling on the expensive carpet like a twelve-year-old with a crush.

“This is insane,” he muttered to himself, like saying it out loud would make it make sense. It didn’t.

You were in his head. Neatly folded like that stupid napkin you kept twisting around your fingers. And for the first time in a long time, Kang Yeosang didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh, scream, or marry you right now.

The moment Yeosang stepped further into the house, hand dragging down his face, muttering like a lunatic, he heard it—the unmistakable voice of his old man echoing from the sitting room. “Why the hell do you look like a teenage girl who just got her first crush?”

Yeosang didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even stop pacing. Just waved his hand dismissively, as if to say don’t start. His father stood there in his usual crisp shirt, whiskey glass in hand like always, giving him that unimpressed look fathers reserve for sons who don’t follow in their exact footsteps.

“I’m serious,” his father huffed, stepping forward. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Why are you here anyway? Thought you liked hiding in that overpriced shoebox you call an apartment.”

Yeosang finally dropped his hand from his face, side-eyeing him, unimpressed. “Renovation,” he grumbled. “It’s getting fixed up. You want me to sleep on the street?” His father scoffed, taking a sip of his drink, shaking his head. “You could’ve stayed at one of the hotels we own.”

“Right. And let everyone think I’m homeless now. Good look for a mafia heir.” The older man narrowed his eyes, recognizing that tone. That annoying tone Yeosang always used when he was about to get smart-mouthed. “So why are you pacing around here like some lovesick idiot?”

Yeosang clicked his tongue, glaring at the floor like it personally offended him. “It’s your fault.”

“My fault?”

“You’re the one that set me up with her.”

His father’s brow lifted. “Did she bite?”

“She didn’t even blink.”

That made his father laugh. Really laugh. Like belly laugh, hand pressed to his chest, deep and loud in that expensive, echoey house.

“God,” Yeosang muttered under his breath. “You’re actually enjoying this.”

“Of course I am,” his father smirked. “Finally met someone who doesn’t fall apart under your pretty-boy nonsense. Good. You needed that.”

Yeosang rolled his jaw, annoyed beyond belief, but honestly? His dad wasn’t wrong. His father waved his glass toward him. “What’s the problem, then? I thought you were going to dump her in a penthouse and get on with life.”

“Yeah, that plan’s dead.”

“Why?”

Yeosang just stood there, defeated. “She’s too—”

“What? Petty? Weird? Mean?”

“…Soft.”

His father blinked, confused. “Soft?”

Yeosang didn’t elaborate. Didn’t have to. Soft in a way that made him want to ruin someone’s life if they made you cry. Soft in a way that made him want to drag you closer by the wrist when you got overwhelmed. Soft in a way that pissed him off because he liked it too much. His father just shook his head, amused, like he knew exactly what kind of hell Yeosang was walking into. “Good luck with that, Romeo.”

“Shut up.”

You did not expect this. A casual text? Fine. Him calling you just to “check in”? Annoying, but tolerable. Even him dragging you out on those stupid dates now and then—you could live with that. But this? Showing up to your university?

What the actual hell was wrong with him?

It wasn’t even subtle. Of course it wasn’t subtle. Not with that stupid black car of his parked right at the entrance, shining like a beacon of unwanted attention. Not with him leaning against the door like he was shooting a damn commercial, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses pushed into his hair, looking like every other man’s nightmare and every other woman’s distraction.

And people noticed. Oh, they noticed. Girls whispering, eyes widening, phones coming out to take sneaky pictures. A group of guys near the library basically breaking their necks trying to get a better look. And you?

You wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole. He had the audacity to wave at you. Like this was normal. Like this wasn’t blowing up the very careful life of low attention, quiet exits, don’t talk to me I’m just here to graduate you had built for yourself.

You speed-walked. Not even pretending anymore. Walked up to him so fast it looked like you were about to commit a crime. “What the hell are you doing?” you hissed under your breath, shoving at his shoulder, eyes darting around like you were being followed by paparazzi.

“Picking you up,” he said, casual as you liked, like this wasn’t the most embarrassing moment of your life unfolding in real time.

“Get in the car,” you snapped. “Now.”

And, the bastard, he laughed. Laughed like this was a game.

Still, he obeyed, sliding into the driver’s seat like he was doing you a favor. You yanked the passenger door open, practically diving inside, head ducked like you were avoiding a sniper.

The moment the door shut you rounded on him. “Are you insane?”

“I missed you,” he said, like that explained anything.

“You could’ve— texted me or something! I don’t need the whole uni thinking I’m with someone rich”

“You are with someone rich,” he corrected, one hand casually gripping the wheel, the other resting over the gear like this was a Sunday drive.

The car came to a stop in front of this sleek-looking storefront, all black glass and warm lighting, like one of those places you only see rich people walk into on TV shows. And because your life apparently wasn’t embarrassing enough, Yeosang parked like he owned the building.

You looked at the place, then at him. “What is this?”

“Jewelry,” he answered flatly, already stepping out of the car. Jewelry. Jewelry. As if that explained anything.

Before you could argue or even think, he came around, opened your door, and like a villain from a drama, dragged you inside by the wrist—not harsh, but determined. The cold from the street clung to your clothes, your boots crunching against the salted sidewalk, but the moment you stepped inside—it was warm. Not just warm, but that kind of luxury warm, where the air smells faintly of expensive perfume and everything feels soft, even though nothing should be.

And you? You immediately felt your whole body loosen, just a little. It wasn’t even intentional. The cold had been biting, sharp against your ears and the tip of your nose, and this? This was dangerous. Comforting. You could rot here, honestly. Just melt into one of the velvet chairs and stop existing.

Yeosang noticed.

Of course he noticed. He didn’t miss anything about you. The way your shoulders relaxed. The way you almost—almost—let your head drop forward like you could fall asleep standing there.

He wanted to bite you. No, seriously. Bite. His jaw clenched just thinking about it. You looked too cute. With your knitted cardigan, snow-dusted boots, fidgety fingers already tugging at the sleeves. It was criminal. Illegal. Someone should lock you up for being this dangerous in public.

But he was strong. Barely. Barely holding himself back from grabbing you by the face and just—squishing. Maybe even kissing that stupid annoyed expression off of you. Would’ve been worth it. You were too busy shaking the snow from your sleeves to notice him battling for his sanity two feet away.

An employee walked over, all smiles and professional greetings, asking what you both needed today. You blinked at her like a deer caught in headlights.

Yeosang spoke first. “Rings.”

You snapped your head to him. “What?”

“For the engagement,” he said calmly, like duh, obviously. Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “You dragged me here for that? You could’ve warned me—”

“And ruin the surprise of watching you panic in real-time? No thanks.” You glared daggers into his skull, wishing you could teleport out of your own skin. “You’re evil.”

“Mm,” he hummed, eyes lazily drifting over the display cases. “Yours?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Ring size.”

“I—I don’t know!”

His lips quirked—not a smirk, you banned those, but just that annoying, knowing twitch that told you he was enjoying this too much. “Figures. Guess we’ll find out together.” You honestly might combust right there on the jewelry shop floor.

Yeosang walked toward the counter with the same energy as someone about to close a business deal. Calm. Focused. Casual power.

You stayed frozen for a beat, still stunned at the whole situation, until your feet moved on their own. Before you realized it, you were right beside him, eyes locking onto the display.

And that’s when it hit you. The rings. They were gorgeous. Not just shiny-for-the-sake-of-shiny—but delicate, beautiful. Rings with elegant stones, simple but detailed bands, not the overdone flashy stuff but the kind that made you think: if I wore that, maybe I wouldn’t feel so small.

You leaned in without realizing, gaze scanning over each one like a kid at a candy store—but also a little sad. You never let yourself want things like that. What was the point? Your parents could never buy you things like this. You grew up being handed the practical, the necessary. Wanting was a waste of time.

But Yeosang saw it. All of it.

The way your fingers twitched at your sides like you wanted to reach out but didn’t. The slight glassiness in your stare—not tears, but that lost look people got when they wanted something badly but were too used to swallowing it down.

To him? Your eyes were sparkling. Bright, full of that light people only showed when they forgot to hide. He couldn’t stop looking at you. The whole room could’ve caught fire, and he wouldn’t have noticed.

He leaned closer, voice lower. “See something you like?”

You snapped out of it, blinking up at him like you’d just been caught stealing. “I—I was just looking,” you muttered, instantly defensive, shoving your hands into the sleeves of your cardigan. “Didn’t say I wanted anything.”

But Yeosang wasn’t even listening to the words coming out of your mouth. He was too busy cataloguing everything you didn’t say. The spark. The hesitation. The soft way your lip pressed against your teeth when you held back from speaking. You weren’t loud, weren’t clingy, weren’t bratty like he thought you might be—you were quiet. Observant. Someone who shrank herself just to survive.

Yeah, no. You weren’t leaving his sight ever again. “Good,” he said, nonchalantly signaling to the employee. “Because we’re not leaving until you try some on.” You shot him a glare. “What is this, Pretty Woman?” “More like Pretty Annoyed Fiancée.” His eyes flicked down to you, sharp and amused. “C’mon. Humor me.”

You stared at the rows and rows of rings like they were mocking you. Every shape, every color, every shine — how the hell were you supposed to pick one? Your fingers hovered over the glass, not touching, just hovering, like maybe the right one would start glowing or something. But nothing did.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like them. It was that you liked all of them, and also none of them, because your brain kept whispering, what if you pick the wrong one? What if you regret it? You didn’t get choices growing up, not real ones. Every decision was always someone else’s to make for you — your clothes, your food, even your damn hair. The few times you got to choose something, it was met with criticism or disappointment. No wonder your chest felt tight standing here.

“I can’t,” you muttered under your breath, frustrated. “They all look… I don’t know.” Yeosang watched, hands tucked in his pockets, silent. But not with judgment. More like studying. He could see it happening—the way you kept retreating into yourself, that familiar shrinking posture like you were bracing for someone to yell at you for being annoying or difficult.

He didn’t like that. Not one bit.

Without warning, he stepped closer, leaning down near your ear, voice lower, firmer. “We’re not doing that here.” You blinked up at him. “What—” “We’re not doing that thing where you act like you’re a burden for existing,” he continued, tone steady but not harsh. “You like something, you say it. You don’t like something, you say it. You don’t have to know what you want right now, but don’t stand here apologizing for breathing.”

Your throat went dry. No one’s ever talked to you like that before. Not mean. Not fake sweet. Just… steady. Like he meant it. Like he wasn’t going to move until you heard him. “I’m not apologizing,” you finally muttered, defensive. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re folding into yourself like someone’s about to slap your wrist.”

Your jaw tightened. “That’s just how I stand.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, not convinced for a second.

You wanted to shove him. You also wanted to crawl under the display case and disappear. But somewhere deep down, embarrassingly deep, you also wanted to grab his sleeve and lean into him like a tired stray cat. But instead, you just shoved your sleeves up higher and looked at the rings again. “Fine. I’ll try some.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, barely loud enough to catch, but you caught it. And you hated that you liked how it sounded.

You picked up one of the rings, delicate and shimmering with tiny embedded stones. It wasn’t flashy in the way rich people wear things—it was pretty. Simple. Something you could see yourself wearing every day.

But then it hit you like a slap. The price. What the hell were you doing? Just choosing whatever looked nice like you weren’t broke half your life? Like your mom didn’t yell at you for picking snacks that were ₹20 more expensive than the local brand?

You started searching the display, eyes darting, looking for price tags like a madwoman. But it was one of those places. No prices on anything. Which only meant one thing—if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.

Panic started tightening in your chest. You weren’t stupid. You knew this whole setup was expensive. Expensive coat racks, expensive chairs, expensive air. And here you were like some idiot playing dress-up, picking rings you couldn’t afford in three lifetimes. “Uh… what’s the price on these?” you asked quietly, almost hoping he didn’t hear you.

But of course he did.

Yeosang, standing beside you with his annoying posture of “I own everything I touch,” just glanced down at you, one brow raised. “Why?” You gave him a look. “What do you mean why? They’re probably… crazy expensive. I don’t wanna-” “You think I brought you here to worry about prices?” he interrupted, eyes sharp now.

You blinked. “Well, yeah? This isn’t a grocery store, I can’t just-” “Do I look like the kind of man who’s going to let you think about numbers right now?” His tone wasn’t harsh. But it wasn’t soft, either. It was just… Yeosang. Calm, slightly amused, slightly annoyed, fully in charge.

You hated how warm your ears felt.

“I don’t—”

“I said pick.”

His voice was low this time. Not rude. Not cold. Just that tone that slides down your spine and makes your stomach clench in the weirdest way. Firm. Dominant, even. But not because he was trying to be macho—it was just who he was. You stood there frozen for a second before whispering, “They don’t even have prices on them—”

“They don’t have prices,” he cut you off, leaning closer so only you could hear, “because the people who shop here don’t need to ask.”

You swore your knees nearly gave out.

“And right now,” he added, hand lightly brushing your lower back as if guiding you forward, “you’re with me. So that makes you one of those people. Pick.” You swallowed hard, looked down at the rings, then up at him.

His gaze didn’t waver. “Or,” he added, eyes glinting, “do you want me to choose for you again?”

God help you—you almost said yes.

The wedding was hectic.

Not in the “fun chaos” way you saw in movies—no, this was suffocating. Your cheeks hurt from fake smiling at people you didn’t even know. The scent of flowers was so strong it made you lightheaded. The jewelry was heavy, and the outfit? Beautiful, yeah, but you could barely breathe.

After the ceremony, when the music was loud and people were starting to eat, you sat in a corner. Just existing. You were chewing blandly on some sweet, not even tasting it. The small cushion under you was probably worth someone’s rent, but you sat like you were at some boring family reunion.

Yeosang did ask you last month if you wanted to invite your friends. You had been fixing your cardigan sleeve at the time and barely looked up. “Don’t really… have any.”

It wasn’t sad when you said it. Just a fact. You said it the way someone says, “Yeah, I don’t like tea,” or “I’ve never been to Goa.” Just plain. But you felt it sting more now, seeing his friends—8 of them—laughing on the other side of the venue like this was just some party.

Meanwhile, you sat with your cousin. The only one in your family who didn’t belittle you constantly or make subtle comments about you being “too old to be unmarried” or “too quiet for your own good.” He didn’t say much either. Probably didn’t even care. But you preferred that. Quiet company was better than company with sharp tongues.

Your eyes wandered across the room. Yeosang was standing with his friends, of course. One of them threw his arm around Yeosang’s shoulder, laughing about something. And then Yeosang glanced at you. It was brief—but he looked. And when his gaze met yours, it wasn’t pity, or amusement, or even awkwardness.

It was… knowing.

Like he knew you didn’t want to be there. Like he understood exactly what it felt like to be surrounded by noise and not feel like you belonged in it. And for a moment—just a second—you didn’t feel alone in that room. Of course, the moment passed when your cousin nudged you and asked if you were going to eat your chicken.

You gave it to him without a word, gaze still lingering on the man across the room who, apparently, now belonged to you.

The ride home was torture. Your jewelry felt like chains, the embroidery on your dress scratched at your skin with every small shift, and your hair—oh god, your scalp was screaming. You sat awkwardly, pressed up against the door, knees at an angle because the fabric wouldn’t let you sit properly.

And Yeosang? He just drove like it was a normal day. Relaxed hand on the steering wheel, other resting against his thigh, occasionally glancing your way. He didn’t say anything, but you knew he noticed you shifting every two minutes like you were sitting on needles.

By the time the car pulled up at the apartment complex, you were two seconds away from just tearing the sleeves off like some dramatic soap opera character.

It was late—too late for nosy neighbors or anyone else to be hanging around. The whole building was quiet except for the low hum of the elevators. You followed him silently, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. And when the elevator doors opened to his place—

Yeah. Pinterest board aesthetic.

It wasn’t over-the-top, but it was intentional. Clean lines, warm lighting—not those harsh white bulbs like your home had. The couch looked like it cost someone’s college tuition, blankets folded neatly on the armrest like it was straight out of a home decor photoshoot. Shelves with actual books. Art that wasn’t mass-produced prints. Little ceramic things on the side tables that you didn’t know the use of but looked expensive anyway.

It didn’t smell like dust or old carpet or fried onions like your house did after your mom cooked. It smelled like sandalwood and something slightly musky. Like him.

You just stood there by the entrance like a misplaced sticker on a clean page. He casually dropped his keys in a tray by the door and started undoing the buttons on his sleeves, rolling them up forearms first. “You wanna change?”

Did you wanna change? You were two seconds away from climbing out of your own skin. You nodded silently.

Without a word, he pointed to a hallway. “Third door. Closet’s in there. Pick whatever. Bathroom’s attached.” As if it was nothing to offer someone full access to his wardrobe. As if he hadn’t just brought his brand new wife into his home like someone bringing home takeout. You shuffled off like some fancy-dressed raccoon, already planning which oversized shirt you were gonna steal first.

You padded out of the bathroom, freshly freed from that suffocating dress, now wearing a soft oversized t-shirt that smelled like detergent and someone else’s cologne, paired with pajama pants that pooled a bit at your ankles. Your hair was a mess, makeup slightly smudged from your tired hands rubbing your face. But you couldn’t care less. Comfort first.

Yeosang was already lounging on the couch, changed into a black t-shirt that hugged his shoulders just right and grey sweatpants, one ankle lazily crossed over the other. Casual. Comfortable. Infuriatingly attractive. You stood there, awkward, arms crossed, twisting your fingers like you always did. “Where… where am I supposed to sleep?”

He didn’t even hesitate. Just pointed with two fingers toward the hallway. “Second room on the right.” You nodded and started walking, but something tugged at you. A gut feeling. Something wasn’t right. Second room…

Curiosity dragged you to peek, and when you opened the door, your stomach dropped. Black sheets. Black pillows. Black walls. Not pitch dark, but matte—sleek. Expensive. His room. You didn’t need to ask. That man screamed black-on-black energy. You stormed back into the living room, eyes narrowed. “That’s your room.”

He looked up from his phone slowly, mouth twitching—not into a smirk, just that faint amusement he always wore when he knew he was pushing your buttons. “Yeah. I know.” You stared at him, blinking. “Why did you point me there?” He set his phone down like this was about to be a full conversation. “We’re married now. Married people share a bed.”

You gawked at him. “That’s not a rule.”

“It is now.”

God, you hated that. That casual dominance. Not loud, not aggressive. Just matter of fact. Like he said it, so it’s law now.

“You’re annoying.”

“You married me.”

“We were arranged.”

“Same thing.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they almost got stuck, turning on your heel to storm back to the room. And yet… you didn’t really argue more, did you? Because deep down, under the irritation, you couldn’t help but feel that same stupid warmth creeping up your neck.

If he wanted to be cocky, fine. Two can play that game.

You marched back to his room like you owned the place, plopped yourself dead in the center of the king-sized bed, limbs spread like a starfish, sinking into the expensive sheets like you were born for this. If he wanted drama, you were going to give him cinema. Moments later, the door creaked open, and you heard his footsteps approaching. You didn’t look. You just knew from the way the air shifted, from the scent of his cologne mixing with the faint smell of fabric softener on the bedding.

Silence for a second. Then—“Really?”

You cracked an eye open. He was standing at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, the faintest curve on his lips—not quite a smile, not quite mockery. “You’re gonna starfish in my bed?”

You yawned, stretching even further like a cat on a sunny windowsill. “You said it was our bed,” you said pointedly, throwing his own words back at him with venom-laced sweetness. “I’m just following instructions.”

He looked at you for a beat longer. Then, very slowly, very annoyingly, grinned. “Fine,” he said, voice deep and lazy. “But if you stay like that, I’ll just sleep on top of you.” Your eyes snapped open fully, heart jolting so fast it almost echoed in your ears. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would.”

It wasn’t even a threat—it was a promise. That calm tone, that glint in his eyes—he meant it.

You groaned and scrambled to your side of the bed, flustered beyond measure, hating him more with every second and somehow hating yourself for feeling heat crawling up your neck. “You’re insane,” you muttered, adjusting the pillow aggressively.

Behind you, you could practically hear his satisfied smirk, even though you weren’t going to turn around to give him the satisfaction of seeing your face.

“Married life, sweetheart,” he murmured, climbing in on his side, making the mattress dip. “Welcome to it.”

You didn’t know what devil possessed you to say it, but the words just slipped out, dripping with faux innocence as you looked straight at him.

“I have weird sleeping habits,” you murmured casually, adjusting the blanket like it was the most normal conversation. “Like… I’ll keep rubbing my leg on yours until you put your leg on top of mine.”

Silence.

You didn’t dare look at him yet, but you could feel the way his posture stiffened beside you, like your words short-circuited something in that annoyingly sharp brain of his. Then—softly, almost too casual—came his voice, deep and quiet, “Is that a threat or a promise?”

You slowly turned your head to him, blinking, pretending to be confused. “What do you mean?” His jaw tensed slightly, like he was holding back a laugh—or something else. “I mean—” he leaned in just a bit, enough for his voice to drop that octave lower that made your stupid heart stutter, “—if you keep talking like that, I’m gonna start wondering if you want me to put my leg over yours.”

You hated that heat crawling up your skin, hated that he was good at this stupid game, hated that he was better at it than you, hated that you wanted to keep going anyway.

So you did.

“Why would I want that?” you shot back, voice steady, gaze sharp but your hands fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “It’s just a habit.”

“Right,” he said, laying his head on the pillow now, one arm tucked behind his head, looking absolutely unbothered. “Just a habit.”

You laid down too, facing the other way, stubborn. The tension between you two was thick, and you both knew it. Then, after a beat, you felt it—the slow weight of his leg draping lazily over yours. “I’m just helping with your habit,” he murmured, so close you felt the warmth of his breath by your ear.

“I’m serious,” you said, voice flat, not backing down. “It’s true. I can’t sleep unless someone’s leg is over mine. And I always hug something too. It’s like—comfort or whatever. Dunno. Been like that since forever.”

Honestly, you thought that would be the final straw. That he’d roll his eyes, scoff, maybe throw a pillow at you and head to the couch like any sane person would. Maybe you were hoping for that. Maybe you didn’t want to admit how weirdly safe this felt. Either way, you braced yourself for irritation, for that cocky remark, for something.

But nothing came.

Instead—you missed it—the way Yeosang stared at you like he was physically restraining himself. Like some internal monologue was yelling don’t say it, don’t call her cute, don’t ruin it, don’t scare her off. But how could he not? You? Looking like that? Saying stuff like that? In his bed? Wrapped in his blanket, in his shirt? Talking about hugging things like you weren’t already curled up like a goddamn kitten?

He was having a crisis.

“Okay,” he finally said, calm. Too calm. Suspiciously calm. You frowned, glancing back at him. “Okay?” “Yeah.” He adjusted slightly, the mattress dipping with his weight. “Leg’s already over yours. Go ahead. Hug something.”

You glared at him. “I don’t have anything to hug.” His lips quirked slightly at that. Barely. But you caught it.

“You’ve got two arms, don’t you?” You wanted to slap him. Genuinely. But also—not really.

Fine. FINE.

You stubbornly grabbed the pillow, hugging it tight to your chest and trying to sleep. Silent. Annoyed. Flustered. All of it. And Yeosang? He laid there, eyes on the ceiling, teeth sinking into his lip just to physically restrain himself from smiling like an idiot. If only you knew how close he was to dragging you into his chest just to see how flustered you’d get then.

Cute. Way too cute. He was so screwed.

You were out. Completely gone, knocked out like you hadn’t had proper sleep in weeks. Leg tucked neatly under his like you said you would, hugging his pillow like your life depended on it, your face mushed against the fabric, lips slightly parted in a soft pout you didn’t even know you had.

Yeosang was having a spiritual crisis. What was this? What was this feeling? Cuteness aggression? Probably. He felt like he could actually bite you. Not to hurt you—god no—but just to—argh—because how could one human look that cute doing absolutely nothing?

His jaw flexed, teeth grinding softly as he stared at you, eyes darting between the way your fingers curled into the pillow, to the little crease forming on your cheek from the way you were pressed against it.

It wasn’t fair. It shouldn’t be allowed. He felt like punching the wall just to let some of the weird, frustrated fondness out of his system. The urge to squeeze you like some plush toy was nearly overwhelming.

And the worst part?

You didn’t even know.

Didn’t know the way you’d completely tangled yourself around his leg without a second thought. Didn’t know how absolutely tiny you looked curled up in his bed. Didn’t know how soft your breathing sounded in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

Yeosang stared at the ceiling for a good minute, breathing slow, eyes closed, fighting the very cellular urge in his bones to scoop you up and just—keep you. Like, forever. Pocket you. Protect you. Instead, he carefully shifted, tucking the blanket around you a little tighter, letting your leg stay right where it was. He glanced at you one last time before shutting his own eyes.

Completely, utterly ruined by the universe. Absolutely smitten. And you? You just drooled a little on his pillow.

Perfect.

Morning light spilled through the sheer curtains, soft and annoyingly gentle. Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the brightness—and then it hit you.

You were holding something warm. Something that breathed. It wasn’t a pillow. It was him.

Your heart stopped for a solid second. Somewhere between falling asleep and now, the pillow had betrayed you—replaced by Yeosang. Your arm was across his torso, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his shirt. Worse, one of your legs had completely decided that boundaries were optional and had hooked over his, practically hugging him like some oversized teddy bear.

What the actual—

You moved so carefully, like one wrong twitch would make the earth explode. Slowly untangling yourself, your breath hitched when you saw his hand resting lazily over your arm, like he’d pulled you closer in his sleep. That just made it worse.

Finally, finally, you untangled yourself, slipping out of bed like a secret agent on a stealth mission. The floor was cold beneath your feet, but your entire body was flushed with embarrassment anyway. Without sparing him another glance, you practically ran into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you with a soft click.

The second you were alone, you let out a silent scream, face buried in your hands. God. Why. Why you. You turned the shower on, letting the sound of running water drown out your embarrassment. Maybe you could drown in it too while you were at it.

Meanwhile, back in the bedroom, Yeosang cracked one eye open, staring at the ceiling with the smallest ghost of a grin.

“Thought so,” he whispered to himself. That damn pillow never stood a chance.

Yeosang lay there, staring at the ceiling like it had all the answers to life’s greatest mysteries. His hand absentmindedly touched the part of his shirt where your hand had been curled into just moments ago. The warmth was gone, but the imprint of it — of you — stuck like some permanent tattoo on his chest.

What the hell was this feeling? No, seriously, what was this feeling?

He had always thought love was supposed to be a slow thing. Like aging whiskey. Like taking your sweet time to ruin someone in a chess game. But this? This felt like a truck hit him. A small, anxious kitten-shaped truck with pouty lips and messy hair in the morning.

It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. You were barely in his life for what? Few months? And yet here he was, already thinking like some washed-up romantic lead in a drama. It wasn’t even funny anymore.

He dragged a hand across his face and groaned softly, staring at the bathroom door where steam was now rolling from the gap under the frame. The thought of you in there — wearing that sleepy pout, probably muttering under your breath about your parents or about how annoying he was — it made his chest feel tight in the weirdest, most annoying way.

Was this how his dad felt about his mom? Cause that man always did dumb shit just to annoy her, but never went a day without holding her hand.

He was whipped. Fully, entirely, embarrassingly whipped. And he wasn’t even fighting it anymore. Hell, he was enjoying it. “I swear to god,” he muttered to himself, eyes shutting like he was trying to meditate through the emotional breakdown, “if she ever figures this out, I’m finished.” But knowing you? You wouldn’t. You were too busy folding napkins, avoiding eye contact, acting like you weren’t the most precious thing to ever annoy the hell out of him.

And god—he liked having a wife. A wife.

He let that word roll around in his head like a marble, both terrifying and oddly satisfying. If you stayed in that shower any longer, he might just combust. And honestly? He’d die smiling.

You came out of the bathroom with damp hair sticking slightly to the sides of your face, the oversized t-shirt hanging loose on your frame, sleeves falling a little off your shoulders, pajama pants riding up slightly at the ankles. You rubbed your hand against your face, trying to wipe off the last remnants of sleep, but honestly, your head was still foggy. You weren’t even fully functioning yet.

And there he was. Still in bed.

Liar. You could tell he wasn’t sleeping anymore. Before, he was on his back, legs spread out like some rich brat on vacation. Now? He was on his side, perfectly composed like he was acting asleep. And he was good at it. But not good enough for you.

With irritation bubbling up — mostly because you were up, and why should you be the only one awake suffering in awkward new-wife-land — you stomped over to the bed and stood over him with crossed arms. You stared at the messy strands of hair falling into his stupidly handsome face. His lashes were thick, unfairly so. And his lips slightly parted like he wasn’t living rent-free in your nerves already. He looked expensive even while pretending to be unconscious. Ugh.

Annoyed, you bent down and gave his shoulder a shove. “Wake up.”

No response. Another shove. Harder this time. “Wake up.” Finally, his eyes opened. Lazy, slow, like he was waking up from a peaceful dream of girls feeding him grapes or something. His voice was rough from sleep, deep in that way that made your brain short circuit for a second. “What?” he rasped, like you were disturbing his peace.

Your mouth opened, about to say something snarky, but then you paused. Why was he hot like this? Who gave him permission to be hot right after waking up? Hair a mess, voice low, sleep still hanging off his features like a silk sheet draped across expensive furniture. You forgot what you were gonna say for a second. Caught yourself blinking at him like an idiot.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. A smug little grin spread on his lips, lazy and cocky at the same time, like he was the main character in every stupid romance movie. You cleared your throat and stood up straight again, brushing invisible dust off your pants. “What… what do you want for breakfast?”

You hated how quiet you sounded. Like you were suddenly soft just because he was attractive. Which — you were soft, but he didn’t have to know that. He sat up properly now, running a hand through his hair like he was in a commercial. “You’re making breakfast?” he asked, raising a brow.

You shrugged. “What else am I supposed to do? I’m awake.” He leaned back on his arms, eyes not leaving you for a second. “I didn’t marry a housewife, you know.” Your jaw clenched. “I’m not—” you stopped yourself. “I’m just making breakfast because I’m hungry.”

“Yours?” he said suddenly, tilting his head.

You blinked. “What?”

“Breakfast. Yours or mine?”

You frowned. “...What’s the difference?”

He grinned, teeth showing this time. “Yours is probably, like, toast or boiled eggs or something. Mine’s pancakes, bacon, syrup. Fancy shit.”

You deadpanned. “Who the hell eats pancakes on a weekday?”

“I do,” he answered smoothly, without missing a beat. “I’m rich, remember?”

You rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your own brain. “Fine. Yours. Whatever. Pancakes.”

Yeosang stepped into the bathroom, the door creaking softly behind him as he entered the faint warmth she left behind. The mirror was still fogged at the corners, drops of condensation trailing down lazily like the room itself hadn’t quite woken up yet. The air smelled faintly of her—something floral, something sweet, and something unfamiliar but weirdly comforting.

He exhaled through his nose, steady and controlled, walking up to the sink. His eyes automatically landed on the toothbrush holder. His black toothbrush standing tall, firm, exactly where he always kept it.

And beside it… her pink one.

Smaller, softer looking, like it didn’t belong. But it did. It really did. He stared at them both for a second, lips slightly parted, eyebrows drawn faintly together—not confused, but thoughtful. Something about seeing them together in the same cup twisted something warm in his chest. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t fireworks or explosions or heartbeats racing so fast he couldn’t breathe. It was… steady. Fulfilling. Quiet in the most dangerous way.

He loved it.

Not the pink color or the softness of it. He loved what it meant. Her using his things like they were hers now. The shared space. The toothbrushes leaning like companions. It was stupid—something small, something everyday—but it was theirs. And for someone like him, someone who always knew how to calculate every move, who always knew how to observe and stay steps ahead, this feeling was something he couldn’t predict.

He picked up his own toothbrush, fingers brushing against the handle of hers. He stared at that pink brush for a second longer, a lazy grin curling on his lips before shaking his head at himself. Who the hell gets soft over a toothbrush?

Apparently, him.

He started brushing his teeth, leaning over the sink, letting the familiar minty sting wake him up properly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought—he could get used to this. He wanted to get used to this. Her hair clogging the drain, her random skincare bottles invading his shelves, her leaving the bathroom all steamy and warm like this every morning.

It was stupid. Domestic. And yet… it felt like power in the quietest, most dangerous form. And Yeosang was nothing if not addicted to power. Especially if it looked like her.

He came down wearing a black fitted turtleneck, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, paired with tailored dark slacks that hugged his waist just right. His silver watch gleamed faintly against his wrist, hair slightly messy from towel-drying but falling just perfectly like it was meant to. He didn’t put in effort—but somehow looked like he walked straight out of a photoshoot. Sharp jawline, long legs, expensive cologne that smelled like trouble and money.

And then—that smell hit him.

Pancakes. Sweet, buttery, thick in the air like a hug you didn’t know you needed. Warm vanilla mixed with something fruity. And then, there she was. (Do pancakes even have scents? Idk)

Hair tied up lazily, a few strands falling loose, wearing one of his black aprons that looked like it was made to fit her. Bare feet padding softly on the kitchen floor, navigating his sleek, modern, borderline cold kitchen like she’d been living there her whole life. She didn’t hesitate with the drawers, the utensils, even reaching up to grab plates from his overhead cabinets with a little difficulty like she knew where everything was. Like she belonged.

He leaned against the wall for a second, arms folded, watching her. His kitchen was matte black, sharp edges, minimalist design, way too clean for someone who actually lived here. It was the kind of kitchen that screamed money but not home. Until now.

Until her.

Now it felt warm, felt used. And for some reason, that domestic image made something stir in his chest. Not in a soft, sentimental way—no, Yeosang didn’t do sentimental. It was more like—possession. Admiration. Like—yeah, that’s mine. His quiet, irritating, soft-voiced girl, right there, using his kitchen like she owned it. And she didn’t even realize how good she looked like that. The apron tied at her waist, sleeves rolled up as she worked carefully over the stove, flipping pancakes with precision.

How the fuck did she even know where everything was? He barely cooked. Eating out was his thing. Restaurants. Friends. Loud tables. Fancy places. But this? This made him crave home-cooked meals in a way he didn’t know he could. Made him crave coming home to something like this. And the worst part? He didn’t know whether he wanted the pancakes more or her. Probably her.

Definitely her.

He didn’t even realize she’d caught him staring. Sharp reflexes, top of his class, trained to pick up on the tiniest shit—and yet here he was, caught like some lovesick loser at the doorway of his own damn kitchen. She didn’t make a big deal out of it though. Just glanced over her shoulder, flipping another pancake like it was routine. “Oh, you’re here. Sit down or something.”

He blinked for a second, caught between embarrassment and awe, and then muttered under his breath, “Yes, ma’am.” Low enough that she wouldn’t catch it. Good. His pride was intact. Barely.

When she finished, she casually served two plates—one in front of him, one in front of her. No big presentation, no waiting for him to start first like those rich girls he was used to. Just sat down, scooted her chair in, and started eating like it was another regular morning. Like they’d been doing this for years. God, why did that feel nice?

The pancakes were good. Like, scary good. Slightly crisp on the edges, soft in the middle, syrup on the side, not drowned in it like an amateur. She knew what she was doing. Each bite made him feel weirdly cared for, and he didn’t like that one bit. It felt… vulnerable. Exposed. He wasn’t used to this shit. Halfway through, she lifted her gaze to him. Not fully—just under her lashes, barely holding eye contact before glancing away again.

“I’ve been meaning to ask…” she said softly, cutting into her pancake with that annoying, neat little precision of hers. “What do you actually do? Like… all day?” He chewed slowly, buying time. No one ever asked him that. Not seriously. Everyone just knew who he was. Son of that family. Part of that business. It was understood. Expected. Even his friends didn’t bother asking.

But her? She didn’t care about any of that. She genuinely didn’t know—or maybe she did but wanted his version of it. Wanted to hear it from him, not just whispered behind closed doors or Googled with a headline next to his face. So, he swallowed, set his fork down carefully, leaned back slightly in the chair.

“What do I do?” he repeated, eyes glancing over her face like he was trying to decide how much of himself he wanted to give her. “I manage the boring rich guy stuff, apparently. Assets. Investments. Real estate. Help with family business bullshit.”

She hummed softly, almost dismissively. “Sounds annoying.” That caught him off guard. He huffed a laugh through his nose. “It is annoying.”

They sat in silence for a second, just the quiet sounds of cutlery scraping against plates.

Then she added, still not fully looking at him, “Sounds lonely too.”

That made something sharp twist in his chest. Annoyingly accurate. He stared at her, at the little crease between her brows as she focused on cutting another piece, at the way she subtly folded the napkin next to her hand without thinking about it. Always fidgeting, always folding.

She didn’t even mean it like that. It was supposed to be just a question. A throwaway thought while she was chewing, cutting another bite, syrup glistening against the fork like she was focused on literally anything else except him. Like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t going to completely rearrange the wires in his damn brain. “After I graduate… can I see your office or something?”

Just that. Simple. Plain. Like she was asking to borrow a pen.

But Yeosang? Yeosang heard that in HD. Dolby Atmos. Surround sound. Can I see your office echoed through his skull like she’d just proposed marriage again or something. Why was that affecting him so much? Why was his immediate internal response Yes. Yes, of course. Come sit on my lap in the stupid leather chair. Take over the entire desk, I don’t even like working, I’ll retire now, I’ll build you a whole new office, you can have my whole name—

He blinked. Dangerous thoughts. Dangerous. She didn’t even know what she’d done. But he couldn’t just say all that, obviously. He couldn’t wrap her up in a blanket and tell her she was the cutest thing alive for wanting to be in his space, in his world. He couldn’t tell her that no one—no one—had ever even bothered to ask about that part of his life. His office. His work. His real world outside of the titles and money.

So, he kept it cool. Cool and bored. Always the bored one. Mr. Nothing Affects Me.

“Sure,” he said, cutting another piece of pancake, stabbing it with his fork, stuffing it into his mouth like that would hide the feral urge he felt to grab her face and kiss the absolute life out of her. “Really?” she asked, finally glancing at him properly this time, eyes sharp and unreadable. “It’s not like a private office?”

Private office? Private office? Woman, you’re in my home. You cooked in my kitchen. You slept with your entire leg tangled around mine. And you’re asking about privacy?

He swallowed. “It’s my office. I decide what’s private.”

Another bite. Another casual shrug. Another act like he wasn’t two seconds from folding completely. Folding like the damn napkin she kept playing with next to her plate. “Sure,” he said again, this time softer. Almost like a promise. Almost like anything you ask me, ever—I’ll give it to you.

You both didn’t know one thing. You both were falling.

Maybe Yeosang knew it. Kinda. Somewhere in the background of his usually sharp, calculating mind — the same one trained to notice weaknesses in deals and flaws in contracts — there was this soft hum, like static turning into a love song. He knew something was happening. Maybe not fully, maybe not yet in words, but the pull toward you was starting to feel less like curiosity and more like instinct. Breathing. Natural. Familiar in a way nothing else had ever been.

But you? You didn’t know. You didn’t realize what was happening. You didn’t realise that while you sat here with syrup on your fork and pancake crumbs on your fingers, you were starting to heal something that he didn’t break.

Yeosang didn’t grow up with softness. His mother was the only person who offered that to him, that kind of gentle warmth that made a person feel safe, and when she left—so did that warmth. His father tried to raise him with ambition and success, not comfort. Not home. Yeosang had everything: wealth, education, sharp looks, friends who could buy out entire hotels on a dare—but not this. Not this thing he was starting to feel around you.

And you didn’t realize that you were going to get something you never thought possible, either. That here, you were healing too. Because all your life, you were raised in pieces. Your parents clipping parts of you before you could even grow. Told that your interests were silly. That your opinions didn’t matter because you were a girl. Always “too much” or “not enough.” They called it upbringing. Respect. But it wasn’t. It was shrinking. You adjusted. You bent around it like vines climbing a crumbling wall, finding space wherever you could, making a way even when there wasn’t one.

But here?

Here, no one was going to call you too much. Here, no one was going to shrink you down into something manageable. Here, no one was going to make you feel small for having hobbies or dreams or random thoughts that didn’t make sense. Here—you weren’t going to adjust anymore. You were going to thrive.

And you didn’t even know it yet.

Days blended into something that almost resembled normal life. Morning routines settled. Nights had their own rhythm. You handled your stuff—university lectures, deadlines, notes scribbled on the backs of receipts when you couldn’t find proper paper. He handled his—meetings, calls, those frustrating dinners where people tried to get on his good side for favors he never planned to give.

The two of you orbiting each other like satellites, not colliding, not quite distant either. Somewhere between strangers and something else you both refused to name yet.

But then there were nights like this.

Nights where assignments piled higher than your patience. Nights where caffeine felt like medicine, where eye bags were unavoidable, and sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with books spread around you felt like survival mode. The glow of your laptop screen threw harsh shadows across your face, highlighting the slight furrow between your brows, your bottom lip caught lightly between your teeth as you tried to figure out whatever academic nonsense your professor thought was appropriate for midnight.

Yeosang came home late that night. He had texted you. ‘Running late. Don’t wait up.’

He didn’t expect much. Maybe you’d already be in bed, curled up, hair a mess, hugging that ridiculous pillow you’d claimed as yours. Or maybe you’d be curled on the couch, knocked out with some random video playing softly in the background. But no.

He walked in, loosened his tie, and paused.

You were awake. Awake and working. Glasses slipping down your nose. Notebook covered in tiny handwriting, pages curling at the corners. For a split second, irritation sparked in him. Not at you—at himself. Why were you still up? He told you not to wait. And yet—

Then he saw it. The laptop open to some assignment, words scrolling by, academic jargon that even he didn’t have the mental energy to pretend to understand. You weren’t waiting for him. You were fighting a deadline.

Silently, he toed off his shoes, rolled up his sleeves, and went to the kitchen.

The machine hissed softly as the coffee brewed. The comforting, bitter scent filling the sharp black lines of his modern kitchen again. This time, coffee. Warm, grounding, familiar. He made it just the way you liked—two spoons of sugar, a splash of milk. Not too sweet, not too bitter. Balanced. Like you.

He poured one cup for you, one for himself, and padded back across the living room, setting the mug down next to your scattered pens and half-crumpled sticky notes.

You barely noticed at first, mumbling a quiet, “Thank you,” eyes still on the screen.

But Yeosang? He just stood there for a second, hand in his pocket, watching you. Watching how you stubbornly refused to give up, even with dark circles forming under your eyes, even with your knee bouncing from stress, even with your exhaustion creeping in like slow fog.

“Can I help?” His voice was soft, breaking through the quiet hum of the laptop fan and your messy thoughts. You blinked, finally tearing your eyes away from the screen to look at him properly.

Help? You weren’t used to that word being offered like that. Especially not for things like your work. No one really asked if they could help—you were always expected to figure it out yourself, get through it, push harder. Alone. You stared at him for a second, eyebrows furrowed slightly like you were trying to figure out if he was joking or being sarcastic. But he just sat there, leaning forward, coffee resting on his knee, expression neutral but serious. Waiting.

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want help. Just… it felt weird. Someone wanting to take on something with you instead of at you or despite you. But you were tired. And behind all your stubbornness, you knew you could use it.

“…You can help with a couple things,” you murmured, barely above your breath.

His lips twitched slightly at that—almost a smile, almost—but he didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. Just sat up straighter, pushed his coffee aside, and motioned for you to show him.

It wasn’t even difficult stuff. Mostly organization. Proofreading. Finding references. And Yeosang, for all his cocky behavior and sharp-tongue antics, was ridiculously smart. He picked up on things quickly, helping you untangle confusing parts, correcting small mistakes you didn’t even notice you were making in your sleepy haze.

With him there, the work didn’t feel like a mountain anymore. It felt doable. Manageable. Like he was one more set of steady hands holding up the mess before it could collapse.

You didn’t talk much. Just handed things to him, pointed at the screen when you needed help cross-checking something, let him scroll through research tabs while you typed furiously to finish the parts only you could write. By the time you reached the end, you realized it had gone faster than you expected.

And… it didn’t feel heavy anymore.

As you saved the file and finally let yourself lean back against the cushions, stretching your aching fingers, you glanced at him from the corner of your eye. His sleeves were still rolled up, tie loose, hair falling slightly over his forehead. He looked relaxed. Like this wasn’t a burden. Like he didn’t mind being here at all.

“Thanks,” you said finally, voice quieter than before.

He just hummed, reaching for his now slightly-cold coffee again. “Told you,” he muttered, taking a sip, “I’m not just here to look pretty.”

You rolled your eyes at that, a small breath of laughter escaping despite yourself. And for the first time in a while, the stress didn’t feel suffocating. For the first time, you didn’t feel like you were carrying everything alone.

But now you didn’t want to move. Not even a little. Your body felt like it weighed triple, bones filled with sand, limbs heavy from the hours of grinding through assignments, deadlines, typing until your knuckles hurt. The soft hum of the laptop fan was starting to blend with the background noise of the apartment—the occasional creak of the walls, the soft ticking of the clock. So you just laid down right there on the couch, curling slightly onto your side, pressing your cheek into the cushions like they could swallow you whole.

“You shouldn’t sleep here,” his voice broke through gently. Not nagging. Not demanding. Just a low, careful suggestion. “It’s bad for your back.”

“Yeah…” you mumbled. You knew. Of course you knew. But knowing and moving were two different things. The soft, tired sound of your own voice felt distant to you, like it was coming from somewhere underwater. “M’fine… Just…gimme a minute…”

And then, you felt it. Arms sliding under you, one beneath your knees, the other curling easily around your shoulders. The couch shifted beneath you as he moved, and suddenly, you were moving too. Your eyes snapped open halfway, heavy-lidded with exhaustion but sharp with shock. What the—

He picked you up. Like it was nothing. Like you weighed absolutely nothing. Effortless. Smooth. As if this was something he did on a daily basis, as if you weren’t dead weight with tangled limbs and messy hair and exhaustion practically dripping off your skin.

You knew he worked out. You’d seen his arms, the way his shirts sometimes hugged his shoulders, the way his forearms tensed slightly when he rolled up his sleeves or carried grocery bags with one hand like they were weightless.

But this? This was a whole new experience.

You blinked up at him, groggy but vaguely scandalized, too drained to fight him on it but still indignant enough to grumble, “I can walk, you know…”

“Doesn’t look like it,” he muttered back, voice lazy but steady, gaze fixed ahead as he carefully maneuvered you toward the bedroom. His jaw was set, clean lines of his face shadowed by the low lighting, and that stupid, faint grin on his lips—like he was enjoying this a little too much.

You were too tired to argue more, head lolling lightly against his shoulder, his cologne filling your nose. Clean, sharp, warm.

“Put me down,” you murmured weakly, only half meaning it.

“No.”

That’s all he said. Just no. Simple. Firm. No teasing this time. Just—no. Because you were tired, and because he wanted to carry you. Because whether you liked it or not, this was part of who he was now—your husband. And part of that role, apparently, included picking you up like a princess when you worked yourself to exhaustion doing university assignments at midnight.

You didn’t realize when your eyes slipped closed again, but the warmth of his hold and the soft shift of the apartment around you made it easier.

He set you down gently on the bed, the mattress dipping softly under your weight. The second you hit the covers, your whole body sighed in relief, muscles unraveling like thread, tension slipping out of your shoulders as your eyelids fluttered heavily.

You barely registered him leaving, the soft rustle of fabric as he changed, the faint clink of his watch being set down somewhere on the nightstand. The apartment was quiet except for those soft, everyday sounds—the kind that made a space feel lived in. Real. And then the bed dipped again, the warmth of him close, his scent following like gravity itself. Before you could fully register it, his arm snaked around your waist, firm but not rough, and he pulled you in.

Your eyes opened halfway, brows pinching lightly. “Yeosang…”

“No complaining,” he murmured, voice low, brushing near your ear. “I know you need it.”

That shut you up real quick—not because he was being cocky, but because… he was right. You did need it. And that annoyed you more than anything, how well he was starting to read you without effort. Like this connection was some secret language only he could pick up on while you were still figuring it out. You wanted to argue. Maybe just out of habit. Maybe because that independent part of you hated the idea of needing someone this badly. But… God, it felt good. It felt safe. Not like being trapped, not like obligation—but like comfort. Like warmth. Like someone saying, It’s okay. You don’t have to hold everything up alone tonight.

So you didn’t say anything after that. Just let yourself sink into the pull of his chest against your back, his hand splayed warm over your stomach, his steady breathing brushing against the back of your neck. Everything fit a little too perfectly, like puzzle pieces you didn’t even know belonged to the same set.

And that night… that night, you both slept better than you ever had since this whole marriage thing started. No weird dreams. No uncomfortable tossing and turning. No stress lingering sharp at the edges of your thoughts.

Just… sleep.

You didn’t know how it happened, but somehow, somewhere in the middle of the night, your body betrayed your stubbornness. You woke up curled against him, face pressed gently to his chest, his scent filling your lungs like something you’d been secretly addicted to. His arm—God, his arm—was draped around you, hand cupped protectively over the back of your head like instinct. Like he was shielding you, even in sleep. And it wasn’t awkward. That’s what surprised you most. It felt natural. Not forced, not weird, just… like safety.

You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek, hear the soft, even rhythm of his breathing. And as much as you hated to admit it… he looked pretty like this. No, scratch that—annoyingly pretty. Long lashes resting against sharp cheekbones, lips slightly parted, hair tousled from sleep in that effortless way guys pull off without even trying.

Gross. Beautiful. Disgusting. Infuriating.

You blinked a few times, brain slowly booting up for the day, before carefully untangling yourself like a thief in the night. His arm loosened its grip like he was reluctant even in his sleep, but eventually let you go. You got up, showered, got dressed, doing your whole morning routine as quietly as possible. University wasn’t going to wait for you to bask in your soft domestic crisis. And you definitely weren’t about to stand there and gawk at his stupidly handsome sleeping face for too long. Absolutely not.

By the time you were adjusting the strap of your bag, tying your hair properly, you heard movement from the bedroom. A few minutes later, Yeosang walked out, freshly showered, damp hair pushed back, wearing that clean, crisp button-up with the sleeves rolled just enough to make you want to scream into a pillow. Grey slacks, black watch, rings back on his fingers, that usual lazy confidence laced into his posture.

He looked at you, eyes dropping down briefly to your outfit, then meeting your gaze again like it was nothing.

“I’ll pick you up later,” he said, fixing one of his cuffs. “After uni.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“Date,” he said simply, like it was obvious. “We deserve one.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it, unsure of what reaction you were supposed to give. A part of you wanted to roll your eyes, say something sarcastic—but another part… another part felt weirdly happy about it. Happy in that annoying, fluttery kind of way you weren’t ready to admit yet. So you settled for a quiet, “Okay,” adjusting your bag again, looking at the floor to hide the small smile trying to creep up on your lips.

“Good,” he said, smirking now—but this time it wasn’t cocky. It was something softer, warmer. “I’ll see you later, then.” And as you left the apartment, the weight of the day felt lighter somehow. Like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t dreading things as much anymore.

Yeosang sat in the car, one hand lazily draped over the steering wheel, the other tapping faintly against his thigh. The sun was starting to dip, casting that golden hour glow over the edges of buildings, making everything look softer, warmer, like a scene out of some movie. But Yeosang wasn’t paying attention to the scenery. Not really.He’d had a day. Meetings that dragged. Calls that felt like someone was reading tax documents aloud just to torture him. Endless signatures, fake smiles, the whole act. All he wanted right now was peace. Quiet. A good meal. And you.

A proper date with his cute wife, nothing more, nothing less. Just you sitting across from him in that way you always did—half avoiding eye contact, sleeves of your cardigan slipping past your wrists, probably fidgeting with your napkin again. That was the peace he wanted. Not luxury. Not power. Just that.

But then…

His eyes narrowed. He saw you. And you weren’t alone. There was a guy. Some nobody. Same-age, maybe older, walking beside you, too close for Yeosang’s liking, talking like he knew you well. And you—God—you were smiling. Not the full kind, not the ones Yeosang secretly hoarded like precious stones, but still smiling. Like you were comfortable. Yeosang’s jaw tightened. His fingers, the ones tapping against his thigh, stopped moving. What pissed him off wasn’t just the guy talking. It was the way he was talking to you. That casual, easygoing posture, like he thought he was funny. Like he thought he was charming. Like he thought he deserved to be walking next to you, making you smile like that.

And maybe you didn’t even realize. Maybe you were just being polite. But Yeosang saw it all. The way the guy leaned slightly in when he spoke. The way his hands moved while explaining something, animated like he wanted your full attention on him.

Yeosang didn’t like it. Not one bit.

The expensive black car, polished to perfection, stood out like a punch to the face in front of the university gates. People kept throwing glances, some doing double-takes, whispering. Whose car is that? Who’s that guy? But Yeosang didn’t care. Let them look. Let them talk. His gaze stayed locked on you and that idiot next to you. Calm on the outside. A storm brewing underneath. You didn’t know it yet.

You spotted him the moment he stepped out of the car. Yeosang wasn’t the type to make a show of himself, but somehow—he did. Maybe it was the way he stood, sharp lines of his suit catching the light, hair pushed back neatly, expression unreadable. Maybe it was the car behind him, polished black, practically humming money and influence. Maybe it was just him. Either way, heads were turning, eyes flicking between him and you like something wasn’t adding up.

You swallowed, nerves prickling up your spine. Before you could react, before you could even introduce anyone properly, he was already moving. His hand found yours—firm, warm, possessive without being rough. It startled you. Not because of the touch—you were used to that by now—but because of the timing. Calculated. Precise. Like everything he did. “This your friend?” he said calmly, looking not at you, but directly at the guy.

Before you could speak, Yeosang gave the poor guy a small, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nice to meet you,” he said smoothly, tightening his grip on your hand just slightly. “I’m her husband.”

And then, for good measure, he added his name. Kang Yeosang.

You could see the shift instantly. The recognition behind the guy’s eyes. The flicker of panic mixed with surprise. Everyone in this city knew that name—or at least the ones who mattered did. Not just because of the wealth, but because of what that name meant in certain circles. Reputation. Power. Authority. Not just a businessman—something more. Something sharp underneath the polished surface.

“Oh,” was all the guy could manage, awkward, unsure of where to put his hands now, stepping back half a pace instinctively. “Yeah,” Yeosang finished softly, expression pleasant, dangerous in its restraint. “Good talk.”

Without another word, he guided you toward the passenger seat, opened the door like a gentleman, helped you in, and shut it carefully behind you before rounding the car and getting in himself. He didn’t look at you at first. Just started the engine, pulled out of the lot with practiced ease.

What you didn’t see, however, was the slight tilt of his head down as he flicked open his messages. His fingers moved swiftly, effortlessly, typing out the guy’s name, sending it to an unknown number. No emojis. No fluff. Just a clean instruction.

A name and a dot. That’s all it took.

Then the phone slipped back into his pocket like nothing happened.

He glanced at you finally, features softening just slightly now that the irritation had passed, hand casually resting on the gear shift..

"You ready?” he asked, like none of that had just happened. You didn’t answer immediately. Your heart was still somewhere between confused, flustered, and maybe—a little impressed. And Yeosang?

He was perfectly at ease. Because no one touches what’s his.

The date itself was simple, nothing extravagant—just the way you liked it. Dinner somewhere not too loud, warm lighting, food you could pronounce, chairs that didn’t make your back ache. He didn’t drag you to some elite chef’s private villa or a high-rise with twelve spoons and seven forks. Just… normal. Comfortable.

But of course, it wasn’t normal, not with him sitting across from you like that. Rolling up his sleeves just enough to show off the veins in his forearms, leaning forward slightly when you spoke, giving you that attention that made your stomach twist in a way you’d pretend was annoyance—but you knew better now. You were far too aware of his every move, his subtle glances at your lips when you talked, his faint smile whenever you fidgeted with the sleeves of your cardigan or neatly arranged your utensils.

And he was losing it.

Internally.

Watching you talk softly about nothing—ordering dessert, choosing between tea or coffee, or even just adjusting your bracelet—like it was the most adorable thing in the world. You didn’t even have to try. That’s what drove him crazy. You could breathe and he’d be on the verge of melting into his seat like some fool.

But what really started creeping under your skin wasn’t the food or the conversation or even the comfort of the evening.

It was after.

Back in university, you started noticing something odd. The guy—the one from the parking lot—gone. No hellos in the hallway, no passing glances, no awkward waves after that weird encounter with Yeosang. Vanished. Just… gone.

You weren’t naïve. You noticed patterns. You noticed behavior. You might’ve been quiet, but you weren’t stupid.

So, you asked him. One evening, after he’d made both of you coffee, when the room was quiet and warm, you just casually dropped it like spare change on a counter.

“By the way… that guy I was talking to last week? Haven’t seen him around.”

His reaction was instant, which already gave him away. That sharp, barely-there twitch of his lips. His fingers curling ever so slightly around the mug handle.

And then—he laughed.

That annoying, deep, pretty laugh that was all throat and no apologies.

“Don’t know,” he said with a shrug, voice lazy, too smooth to be true. “Weird, isn’t it?”

Liar. Absolute liar.

And that’s what did it. That’s what made you fall.

Not the expensive car. Not the handsome face. Not even the whole husband thing.

It was that. That dumb, cocky, lying laugh paired with the soft way he helped you out of your coat or refilled your water glass without saying anything. The combination of someone who could ruin a man’s whole life in one text but still remember that you liked your toast slightly burnt.

It wasn’t fair.

And maybe, just maybe, you found yourself falling.

Not all at once. Just—a little more.

Dangerous. Warm. Annoying.

Yours.

Taglist: @jujusreader @nkryuki @lover-ofallthingspretty

Dividers from @/cafekitsune