#Sorry Im busy... Avoiding my responsibilities...

[enhaflixer]

CHERRY TREES

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is everything alright?" he asked quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The moment, whatever it might have been, evaporated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not once did anyone ask if you were happy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's not what I meant."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And since then?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Do what?"

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

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

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

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

The revelation stunned you. "Then why—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had no answer, and his silence was damning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where are you going?"

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

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

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

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

Instead, it was Jungwon.

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

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

Another message appeared below the first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your phone buzzed with a message from Jungwon.

Are you coming down?

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good for you," Leah said firmly.

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

"And what did he say?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

Are you coming down?

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

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

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

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

The irony wasn't lost on him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jungwon tensed. "How did you—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't you dare hang up on—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

Between what is said and not meant,

And what is meant and not said,

Most of love is lost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I practice conversations with you in my head

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

Really look at me

But when you enter the room

My words evaporate like morning dew

And we speak of dinner parties and business associates

Never of stars or dreams or why your eyes

Sometimes follow me when you think I don't notice

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

Another poem, dated just two months ago:

Your fingers brushed mine as you handed me a glass

Accidental touch that burned through my skin

I wonder if you felt it too

That current between us, electric and dangerous

Or if I imagined it, desperate for connection

For any sign that beneath your perfect suit

Beats a heart that could want me

As much as I want you

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

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

One year of marriage

Three hundred sixty-five nights of lying beside him

Listening to his breathing

Wondering if he's awake

Wondering if he ever thinks of touching me

Of breaking through the invisible wall between us

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

Sometimes I think if I just reached for him once

If I was brave enough to cross that divide

But what if his rejection destroyed the last piece of me

That still believes I'm worthy of being

Wanted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sounds like someone's having a breakdown."

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

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

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

"Want me to come with you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing could have prepared you for what you found.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes locked with yours, their intensity almost unbearable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Stand up," you said softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

"Exactly."

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

-

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

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

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

Instead, he surprised you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Let them talk," Jungwon said simply.

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

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

You squeezed his hand. "You were perfect."

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

"We are," you replied simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"May I kiss you?" he asked softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

It was the hunger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were already soaked, trembling.

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

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

“I don’t think I could if I tried.”

He broke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you did.

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

And Jungwon?

Did. Not. Flinch.

He nodded, breath shaking, and said—

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

And he meant it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He paused. Smiled against your neck.

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

-

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

Jungwon couldn’t stop touching you.

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

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

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

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

You gave in to him every time.

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

You didn’t hear him approach.

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

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

“That’s what I come home to?”

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

He was already unbuttoning his sleeves.

Already breathing too hard.

“Jungwon—”

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

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

“What was that for?”

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

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

You trembled.

He pulled you closer.

“I refuse to waste another fucking day.”

The peonies were forgotten.

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

His jacket hit the floor first. Then yours.

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

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

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

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

You moaned, breath hitched.

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

You were dripping by the time he pushed inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what do you think?”

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

Then smiled.

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

A pause.

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His rhythm stuttered—hips faltering, jaw tensing.

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

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

“No. Quite the opposite.”

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

“I’m amazed that all of this—”

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

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

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

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

You whimpered, breath catching.

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

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

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

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

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

The need in his voice made your toes curl.

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

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

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

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

His hips snapped, and your whole body trembled.

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

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

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

He kissed you then. Deep. Unrelenting.

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

You’d never seen the real Jungwon before this.

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

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

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

Epilogue: Aegean Dreams

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I lived behind walls so high

Even I forgot what lay inside

Until your voice broke through

And light flooded places

I had kept dark for so long

I had forgotten they could shine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But your work—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once I thought perfection meant control

Now I know it's the moment you laugh

Head thrown back, eyes dancing

Completely unguarded in my arms

The sound of your happiness echoing

Through rooms once filled with silence

This is the music I want to hear

For all my remaining days

fin.

-

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

[cheftsunoda]

Would you consider doing something with a quiet/ reserved reader. I love the idea of a reader who's an up and coming driver but isn't about the press or media at ALL. Like dodging cameras and running away from interviews, and maybe a boy (I don't mind who you pick) misunderstands and thinks that she's running away from them? Maybe add some drama from f1 update twt accounts escalating the situation and painting the reader in a negative light for being "rude" or "impolite".

Thx!! (Sorry for any confusion, English is not my first language but I hope you get what I mean)

miss misunderstood— op81

smau + blurbs

oscar piastri x !quiet/shy driver reader

yn has a lot of pressure on her shoulders— she is the only female driver in f1 and that leads to her consistently having to prove herself to not only her team, who took a chance on her, but the press who are constantly there hounding her. she has always been very shy and reserved— especially around people she does not know. when fans notice how she skips out on interviews and hides from big crowds, the hate pours in, especially after she is seen avoiding a conversation with the grids other most quiet individual— but he is persistent and wont give up on her.

(a/n) : such a cute idea anon! i understood you perfectly fine my love. i hope you enjoy this. i thought it would be fun to pair reader with someone who is also rather quiet and reserved.

fc : amna al qubaisi

—

f1gossipgirls

257,087 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Almost all of our favorite drivers have touched down in Barcelona for media day. Some of our first arrivals include YN LN, Charles Leclerc, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Lando Norris and George Russell.

—

view 32,057 other comments.

username0 : george not dressed properly for the weather pt 899

liked by f1gossipgirls

username10 : yn always looks like she doesn’t want to be there. why is she even in f1 if she hates to do the job??

username15 : everyone is smiling, waiving, talking to fans and press and then there is yn who immediately books it to the paddock and ignores everyone

username22 : ill say it once and i will say it again— f1 is not a silent film. she either needs to speak up and play the role or step aside. good driver or not. that job comes with more responsibilities than just driving around the track.

username5 : she gives off “im better than everyone else” energy and im sick of her.

username00 : every time i try and like her, she gives us absolutely nothing. cold and awkward isn’t a personality, babe.

↳ username9 : yet you guys eat it up when oscar does it. the double standard is insane.

liked by f1gossipgirls

username11 : its always the quiet ones y’all tear apart for not being loud enough. she’s there to drive. not entertain you.

liked by f1gossipgirls

username17 : you guys are extra hard on her because she is a female. and it is sick.

username101 : she minds her business, she’s fast, and she is unproblematic. you guys are just finding reasons to hate her. jealousy is a disease.

liked by f1gossipgirls

—

They say I’m cold. Unfriendly. Standoffish. Like I’m trying too hard to be mysterious or above it all. But they don’t know me. Not really. Because if they did, they’d know I used to be warm. I used to talk too much. Laugh too loud. Hug people without thinking twice. But that was before. Before the phone call. Before the hospital room. Before the person who knew me better than anyone else—who loved me without needing me to be anything but myself—was just… gone.

Losing a parent is something people talk about like it’s a passage. A sad inevitability. But they don’t talk about what it does to you when it’s sudden. When it’s brutal. When the last words you said were something stupid because you thought you had more time. My dad was my safe place. The only person I could fall apart around. He was the reason I started racing. The reason I believed I could do anything. And when I lost him, I didn’t just lose a person—I lost myself. I haven’t spoken about it. Not to anyone.

Not to my engineers. Not to my teammates. Not to the drivers who think I’m just “shy” or “quiet” or “moody.” Because once I say it out loud, it becomes real in a way I’m not ready for. It becomes the thing people pity me for instead of the thing I’ve survived. So I stay quiet. I keep the noise out. I protect the stillness inside me. People don’t understand it, and that’s fine. They think I’m emotionless when really, I’m overflowing and just trying not to drown. I hear what they say. The fans. The media. That I don’t engage. That I don’t give enough. But I didn’t come here to be their favorite. I came here to race. I came here to honor my father. To survive something else. To find moments of peace between the chaos and the grief that still sits like stone in my chest.

They’ll never understand why I am the way I am. Because they never saw me before. Before the silence felt safer than the world ever did. And I don’t owe them an explanation for that.

—

The air in Barcelona is thick with heat and noise—press cameras clicking, fans shouting driver names like spells, a thousand voices layered on top of each other. I keep my head down but offer a small smile, lifting my hand in a quiet wave. They cheer anyway. Some scream my name. Others don’t. Some just stare, waiting for me to trip or ignore them or give them proof I’m “as cold as they say.”

I smile again, even if it doesn’t reach my eyes. It’s not fake—it’s just not loud.

Security walks with me as I cross the paddock. My eyes flicker over the cameras stationed outside team motorhomes, the reporters already calling out names, hoping for a quote. I tighten my grip on the strap of my bag. Just a few more steps.

I keep walking. Fast, but not suspiciously fast. Just enough to dodge the press circling like hawks, waiting for a moment of weakness, a headline, a clipped quote that can be turned into whatever version of me they want to sell this week.

Finally, I step inside Red Bull. The air conditioning kisses my skin. The silence—relative silence—is heaven. I make it to my driver room, push the door shut with my shoulder, and lean against it for a second. Eyes closed. Deep breath. The chaos is muffled now, like a storm just beyond the walls. Then the door opens again without a knock.

“Nice escape,” Max says, completely unfazed. He shuts the door behind him like he owns the building. “You only almost ran over two photographers. New record?”

I huff out a laugh—quiet but real. “Felt like twenty.”

He drops into the chair across from me like he’s been doing this his whole life. Which, to be fair, he basically has.

Max studies me for a second, unreadable as always. “You look like you’re about to vomit. That your media day face?”

“Shut up,” I mutter, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.

He shrugs. “Just saying. You do realize they can’t eat you alive on camera, right? Legally.”

“I don’t know. I think one of the Sky guys has sharp enough teeth.”

He chuckles, dry and quiet. “You’ll be fine. Say as little as possible. Give one-word answers. Scowl a little. That’s what I do.”

“You give plenty of one-word answers.”

“Exactly,” he says, proud. “It’s an art.”

He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees, face softening just slightly.

“They don’t matter, you know. The journalists. The fans who think they know you. The Twitter freaks. You’re fast. That’s what counts. That’s what wins. Let them think you’re a robot or a villain or a Bond girl or whatever mood they’re in this week.”

I nod. A slow exhale.

“Thanks, Max.”

He shrugs again. “Just don’t cry on camera. I already have a reputation for being emotionally unavailable. Don’t need yours adding to the Verstappen Cold Front.”

This time, I laugh out loud. He grins. Mission accomplished.

“Go be scary,” he says, pushing himself up. “And if you panic, just pretend they’re all standing in front of your car at turn one.”

“I’d drive through them.”

“Exactly.”

He leaves without another word, and for the first time all morning, I feel like I can breathe.

—

I answer with the same even tone I always do. I deflect, redirect, smile where I’m supposed to. I’ve trained myself not to flinch. But it still chips away at me, a little at a time. I finally escape outside, tucked behind one of the Red Bull displays near the fan zone—close enough to be seen, far enough to feel like I’m not drowning. I sip from a water bottle, hoping the air might settle in my lungs again. That’s when I see her.

A girl, maybe twelve, in a handmade cap with my number scribbled on it in glitter glue. She’s holding a small notebook and a marker, standing with her dad and hesitating like she doesn’t want to bother me. I almost keep walking. I’m tired. Overheated. Ready to shut down for the rest of the day. But something in her eyes stops me. She doesn’t look like the others—she looks like she’s trying to be brave. So I walk over.

Her eyes go wide when I stop in front of her. “Hi,” I offer, voice soft.

She blinks. Then holds out the notebook with slightly trembling hands. “Um—sorry, I just—could you sign this? I know you don’t really like talking to people a lot, but you’re my favorite. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want.”

My chest tightens. Not in a bad way—in the way it does when something hits a nerve you didn’t know was still exposed. I take the notebook and sign it carefully.

“You know,” she says, voice quiet, “I get nervous talking to people too. But I think you’re really brave. I like that you don’t try to be loud just to fit in. You make me feel like that’s okay.”

I blink fast. It’s not the kind of compliment I get. It’s not about speed or podiums or stats. It’s about me. The parts I’ve always kept hidden because the world made me feel like they were wrong. I smile—genuinely this time—and crouch a little so we’re eye level.

“Thank you,” I say softly. “That means more than you know.”

Her face lights up like I just handed her a trophy. We take a photo. I sign her hat. She hugs me before I even have time to react—but I don’t mind. Not even a little. As I walk away, I feel lighter. Like the weight pressing on my shoulders loosened just a little. Maybe I’ll always be the quiet one. The misunderstood one. But to that one girl? I was seen. And that’s enough.

—

The moment I cross the line, the radio explodes.

“P1, YN! That’s P1! You did it! You absolutely nailed that last stint—what a drive!”

I don’t say much. I can’t. My throat is tight and my hands are shaking around the wheel. The pit wall is screaming, my engineer shouting through the static. The grandstands blur into one giant roar. I slow the car down and guide it into parc fermé, P1 board waiting. The marshals are waving, cameras already turned in my direction like hungry mouths. I sit still for a beat. The engine is off, the world is loud, but in my cockpit it’s just… quiet. Then I hear it—Max’s car pulling into P2.

“Let’s go,” I murmur to myself and start the slow climb out.

But my limbs feel heavy. Every emotion I’ve buried all year starts clawing its way to the surface, and I’m suddenly not sure if I’ll make it over the halo without falling flat on my face. And then—there’s a hand. Max, already out of his car, standing beside mine like it’s the most casual thing in the world. He holds his hand out without a word. Just a look that says, Yeah, I know. Take it. I take it. He helps me out of the car, firm but unshowy. As soon as I hit the ground, I sway a little, overwhelmed—but I don’t fall.

He leans in, dry as ever. “You know you’re supposed to breathe when you win, right?”

I huff out something between a laugh and a sob. “I’ll try next time.”

Our helmets clink together briefly as we hug—quick, tight, familiar—and then he nudges me toward my team. They’re already there—Red Bull crew surrounding me, cheering, hugging, spraying water. I let myself fall into it for a moment. I smile, genuinely. I hug back. One of the engineers lifts me off the ground and spins me, and I let them. Because this is theirs, too. Ours. But just as the broadcasters and press start pushing through the sea of mechanics, I slip away—ducking behind the barrier, walking briskly toward the cooldown room before they can catch me.

I hear a few voices behind me—“YN, one word for Sky? Just a few seconds?”

I keep walking. The cooldown room is blissfully empty. Cold, quiet, white walls and a table with water and towels. I sit, press the bottle to my forehead, and finally breathe. No cameras. No questions. No pretending. Just silence. Just peace. Just… me. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like enough.

—

The water bottle sweats in my hands, condensation dripping slowly onto my race suit. I haven’t said much since sitting down, and Max hasn’t asked me to. He’s lounging across from me on the other bench, head tilted back, eyes closed like he owns the room. His suit is halfway peeled down and his hair’s a sweaty mess, but he looks… content. Neither of us are fans of the overexposed post-race routine. The lights. The forced questions. The soundbites that get twisted a dozen ways before the sun even sets. So we sit here, in the eye of the storm, letting the world knock on the door without answering.

Max finally cracks an eye open. “You going to do the interviews?”

I lean my head back against the cool wall and sigh. “Eventually. Maybe. If they don’t forget I exist by then.”

He grins slightly. “You just won. They’ll send a SWAT team if you don’t come out soon.”

Before I can answer, the door opens — fast but tentative — and in walks Camille, my press secretary. She’s breathless. Her clipboard’s half tucked under her arm, and she looks like she’s been fighting off wolves outside.

“YN,” she starts, trying for calm but clearly begging on the inside, “I hate to interrupt, but they’re getting antsy. Sky, F1TV, everyone’s lining up. They want quotes, a soundbite—anything.”

I nod slowly. I expected this. It doesn’t make it any easier.

“I’m not doing the scrum,” I say. “Not the pen. Not the mixed zone.”

Camille looks like she wants to scream into a pillow. “Okay. Fine. What will you do?”

I glance at Max, who’s watching like it’s the most entertaining episode of Drive to Survive he’s seen all year.

“One interview,” I finally say. “That’s it.”

Camille’s already flipping through her mental rolodex. “Okay. Sky? F1TV? Maybe something for social? Martin Brundle is waiting and—”

“No,” I cut her off, gently but firm. “If I do one, it’s with Lissie. No one else.”

Camille blinks. “Lissie—Lissie Mackintosh from Sky?”

I nod.

“She’s the only one who doesn’t make me feel like I’m under a microscope,” I explain. “She’s kind. And she actually listens.”

Camille softens a little. “Okay. I can work with that. But they’ll push back.”

“Let them,” I shrug. “I don’t owe them anything else today.”

She studies me for a moment, then exhales and heads out, already dialing her phone as she goes.

The door shuts again, and I fall back into the silence like it’s a blanket.

Max raises a brow. “Lissie, huh?”

“She doesn’t try to make me a headline,” I reply.

Max gives a nod of respect. “Smart. Wish we all had a Lissie.”

I glance down at my fingers, still slightly trembling from adrenaline. “I just need someone who sees me.”

“You just won a damn Grand Prix,” Max says, standing and nudging my foot with his. “They’re gonna have to see you now, whether they like it or not.”

—

yn's post race interview with lissie mackintosh- barcelona

—

third person pov

YN steps down from the small stage, fingers tugging at the collar of her suit as if she’s trying to breathe easier now that the lights are off. She’s walking fast, already focused on making it back to the safety of the garage. She doesn’t see Oscar until she turns the corner, he is halfway through his own interview with a different outlet. He’s smiling—tired, but still upbeat—and when he spots her, his expression brightens like he’s been waiting for a chance to say something. Oscar turned to YN as she passed by.

“You should really be talking to the winner, huh?”

His voice is friendly. Joking. The kind of throwaway line that’s meant to show camaraderie, not pressure. YN pauses just for a second. She offers a small, polite smile—closed-lipped and barely there. No laugh. No response. Just a nod. And then she’s gone. Quiet steps, fast retreat.

Oscar watches her disappear down the corridor, his smile faltering slightly. His interviewer says something, but he doesn’t really register it.

“…Did I say something weird?”

He turns back to the camera, eyes a little more unsure. In the back of his mind, the question settles in— Does she just not like me? But the truth is simpler. And sadder. She doesn’t dislike him. She just doesn’t have room for warmth in the places where the world watches too closely.

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirls : Race Winner, YN LN, only gave 1 two minute interview with @/skysports Lissie Mackintosh. Oscar Piastri who was P3 today, was also doing an interview when LN happened to walk by and made a joke to which YN just walked off. He then asked the interviewer if he said something wrong. Thoughts?

view 120,004 comments.

username00 : imagine winning a race and still managing to have the personality of dry toast 😭 poor oscar was just being NICE

username22 : as someone who watched the full interview with Lissie — she was genuine and soft spoken. maybe what she needs is respect, not attention.

username08 : i love Oscar but this isn’t that deep. she clearly has boundaries and isn’t fake about it. that’s kind of refreshing.

username09 : she didn’t even thank the fans today. one interview and vanishes? okay ice queen 🧊

username17 : not her making Oscar second guess himself when he was literally just being sweet? i would NEVER recover.

username20 : this is why she’s boring. no charisma, no interviews, no interaction. i said what i said. 🥱

username30 : are y’all ignoring the interaction she had with a younger fan today?? she is such a sweetie, she is just camera shy.

—

ynfromredbull

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, redbullracing and 1,7005,002 others.

ynfromredbull : good shit.

—

view 74,032 other comments.

lissiemackintosh : Honored to have been the one to share part of this day with you. Congratulations again, YN! ✨

liked by ynfromredbull

username0 : i feel like max is the only one that understands her.

maxverstappen1 : good shit indeed.

liked by ynfromredbull and redbullracing

oscarpiastri : Insane drive today, YN. 💪🏻

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ username0 : oscar is much better than me bc id be a hater rn

alexalbon : can someone pls nerf the redbull team. i am tired.

liked by maxverstappen1, ynfromredbull and redbullracing

username10 : can y'all shut up now- she is literally taking pictures with fans.

↳ username0 : wowww one time in her whole career.

carlossainz55 : such a beast. congratulations yn

liked by ynfromredbull

—

I don’t like nights like this. Too many people. Too many lights. Too many eyes that don’t know me but swear they do. I don’t stop for cameras, I don’t pose, I don’t even slow down when someone calls my name. I just head straight inside the theater like I’m late for something, even though I’m not. I keep my eyes low, find the row I asked Max to save for me, and drop into the seat beside him with a quiet exhale. He glances at me, unimpressed but amused.

“Nice entrance. Scared three PR people on the way in.”

I almost smile. “Was aiming for five.”

He snorts, and just like that, I feel a little more human. Max has always understood the value of silence. He never pushes, never demands more than I can give. We talk a little—about the ridiculousness of the event, the car updates, the championship—but mostly, we just sit. It’s enough. Until I feel a shift. I don’t even have to look up. I can sense someone walking toward us with too much hesitation, like they’ve already decided I’m going to run. When I do glance up, I’m met with wide brown eyes and a nervous smile. Oscar.

“Hey. Sorry—YN? Can I talk to you for a second?”

Max raises a brow. I pause, heart twitching in my chest for reasons I don’t fully understand, and then I nod. I follow Oscar into the hallway, the noise of the event fading behind me like static. The lighting is dimmer here. Softer. Still too bright. He turns to face me, shifting on his feet like he’s rehearsed this five times already.

“I, um—did I do something to upset you?”

My stomach drops.

“What?”

“After the race. I made that joke and you just… walked off. And I get it if you’re not a fan of me or something, I just—” He laughs nervously. “I keep thinking I said something wrong.”

I blink. I want to laugh, but I don’t. Instead, I look down, ashamed.

“No. You didn’t do anything wrong.” My voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. “It’s not you. It’s just… me.”

He looks confused. Still gentle, though. Waiting. I don’t know why, but I want to explain—just a little.

“When I was younger, I lost someone. My dad. He was… my person. The one who made the noise of the world feel a little less loud. And after it happened, I kind of… shut off. I don’t like being watched. I don’t like being asked to smile when I don’t feel like it. I just… exist better in the quiet.”

Oscar doesn’t speak for a long moment. But his expression softens in a way that makes my chest ache.

“You don’t have to explain,” he says eventually. “But thank you for trusting me.”

I nod, throat tight. Then, a flicker of guilt. “And I’m sorry for walking off like that. You didn’t deserve it.”

He smiles, shy and genuine.

“So… you don’t hate me?”

That makes me laugh. Just once, but it’s real.

“No,” I say softly. “I don’t.”

There’s a pause, and for the first time since I got here, I feel something shift in my chest. A crack of light.

He nudges me lightly with his shoulder. “Cool. Friends, then?”

I think about it. About how hard it is to let people in. About how much it scares me.

Then I nod. “Yeah. Friends.”

—

3 month time skip

ynfromredbull

liked by oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1, lando & 2,409,001 others.

ynfromredbull : as my counterpart @/maxverstappen1 would say— these last few months have been simply lovely. 🏆💪🏻

—

view 127,002 other comments.

username0 : this caption is the most personality i’ve seen from her all season.

username14 : i can’t believe she is leading the wdc rn

maxverstappen1 : id sue for copyright infringement if i wasn’t so proud

liked by ynfromredbull

oscarpiastri : very artistic post yn

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ ynfromredbull : thank you mr. piastri

liked by oscarpiastri

↳ lando : OMG SHE SPEAKS

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ lando : yn i didn’t mean that in a bad way pls don’t drive me off the track

liked by ynfromredbull

georgerussell63 : it is against fia regulations to have a teddy bear in the car. RACE BAN (she is still destroying all of us— it would not help save the season)

liked by ynfromredbull

—

f1gossipgirls

428,023 likes.

f1gossipgirls : For the first time in her F1 career, YN LN has not walked into the paddock alone. She walked in with none other than Oscar Piastri himself. Not only did she walk in with him but the two stopped for the press multiple times and stopped to talk with fans. Many people say that this is the most they’ve seen her smile in her whole career. Thoughts?

—

view 15,539 other comments.

username00 : from Oscar “did I do something wrong?” to Oscar walking her in and making her smile… the arc is so insane

username15 : f1gossipgirls is finally being NICE about her. this is how powerful love is

username17 : i haven’t seen her this relaxed since she debuted. i’d cry if i wasn’t already crying.

username22 : this is NOT a drill. she SMILED. she TALKED. she STOOD STILL for the PRESS. what is happening

username0 : So now she wants the attention? Pick a side. Either be private or don’t.

username14 : she’s literally only tolerable when she’s standing next to a man. that’s so sad lol

username20 : i’m sorry but this whole “she’s just shy” thing got old last season. f1 drivers are public figures. she knew what she signed up for.

—

It happens slowly. Like sunlight through tinted glass — warm but filtered, creeping in without permission. Oscar’s been around a lot lately. Not just in the paddock, where we’re both supposed to be, but everywhere in between. Track walks, post-race debriefs, long flights, short layovers, dinners in quiet towns we don’t name on social media. He’s become part of the background noise of my life, and for once, that doesn’t scare me.

I notice it when we’re sitting side by side in the sim room, not speaking, just existing. The silence between us feels easy now. Familiar. Like I don’t have to earn my space — I just have it. I notice it when he hands me a coffee before I’ve even asked, the way he always remembers I take it black with a splash of oat milk, no sugar. Or when he throws a hoodie at me because I always forget I get cold before FP3.

I notice it most on the plane ride. He’s asleep beside me, his head tilted toward me, headphones slipping. I’m staring at the clouds and thinking about how close I am to the title. Closer than I’ve ever been. I should be terrified. But I’m not. Because he’s here. And for some reason, that grounds me.

He mumbles something in his sleep and leans slightly toward my shoulder. I freeze. Not because I’m uncomfortable — but because I’m suddenly too comfortable. My heart stutters. It’s a dangerous thing, comfort. I’ve avoided it for years, convinced it would disappear the moment I reached for it. But Oscar—he never asked me to reach. He just stayed.

Now I’m sitting in row 8F of some transatlantic flight with a soft-voiced Aussie curled up next to me and a World Championship lead in my lap — and all I can think is... God, I might actually be in love with him. And that’s scarier than any press conference I’ve ever dodged.

—

I could already feel the heat of the Monaco sun pressing down as we stepped out of the car. The walk to the paddock always felt long, even when it wasn’t. My palms were tucked into my jacket pockets, nerves dancing beneath my skin like they always did. But this time, I wasn’t alone.

Oscar walked beside me, chatting softly about absolutely nothing — the weather, the coffee at the hotel, the chaos of the Monte Carlo grid. I appreciated it. His voice was grounding. I didn’t have to say anything, and he didn’t expect me to.

I kept my eyes low, used to the flashes of phones and the buzz of people trying to get my attention. Normally, I’d keep walking. Fast. Direct. No room for error. But then I heard it.

“YN!”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t aggressive. Just… hopeful. I slowed down without thinking. Oscar noticed instantly and stilled beside me.

“You good?” he asked quietly.

I nodded. “Yeah. Just… give me a sec.”

I turned toward the barricade. A young fan was holding a poster of my car from Australia. I’d won that race. My name was scrawled across the sidepod in sharp lettering — a moment frozen in time I’d barely let myself process. I took the marker from their hand, signed it quickly but neatly.

“Thank you for today,” the fan said, eyes wide. “You’re… amazing. You’ve always been amazing.”

The words hit me somewhere in the chest I didn’t know was sore.

“…Thanks,” I said, almost too quietly. Then louder: “Thanks for saying that.”

They smiled like I’d handed them gold. I took one photo — just one. And then I stepped back beside Oscar, who gave me a subtle smile. Not too proud. Not too over-the-top. Just there. Solid. Steady. We weren’t even halfway through the paddock before a Sky Sports reporter called out.

“YN! Oscar! Over here?”

I froze.

Oscar looked at me. “Wanna skip it?”

I shook my head. “Just one.”

We walked over together. I didn’t say much — I never do — but I stood there. Present. Listening. And when they asked how I was feeling going into the weekend, the words came before I could edit them.

“Focused,” I said. Then, after a breath: “And a little less alone today.”

Oscar glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. There was a flicker of something soft there, something understanding. It felt… safe. When we finally reached the Red Bull garage, I exhaled for what felt like the first time in twenty minutes. I peeled off my jacket, tugged at the brim of my cap, and tried to disappear through the back. But Max was already leaning on the pit wall, headset half-on, watching me with that unreadable Verstappen face.

“You smiled,” he said, completely monotone. “Terrifying.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t start.”

He smirked just slightly. “I’m just saying… if you become media friendly, I’m going to have to be the difficult one now.”

“You already are,” I deadpanned.

Max laughed under his breath and tossed me a bottle of water. “You did good, LN.”

And for once, I let myself believe it.

—

The world was quiet around us. The kind of hush that only existed in moments like this — between heartbeats, between stares. Monaco’s lights flickered just beyond the windows, gold threads pulling through navy silk. I could hear the sea in the distance. Oscar lay beside me, legs stretched across my duvet like he belonged here. He wasn’t touching me, not yet, but he was close enough that I could feel every inch of space between us — and it made my chest ache.

“You’re quieter than usual,” he said softly, barely above a whisper.

I turned my head toward him. “That’s saying something.”

He smiled, tired and tender. “Fair. Still true.”

I didn’t answer. Because truthfully, I was scared. This was all new. The closeness. The comfort. The way he looked at me like I wasn’t hard to figure out. Then he said it — no fanfare, no buildup, just a simple truth.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

It should’ve terrified me. But it didn’t. Not really. It cracked something open.

I stared at him, eyes burning, heart folding in on itself. “I think I already have,” I breathed, voice barely there.

The silence that followed was thick — not heavy, not awkward. Just real. He reached over, his fingers grazing mine so gently it made my skin buzz. It wasn’t a grab. It was an invitation. And for once in my life, I accepted. I laced my fingers through his and sat up, pulling open the drawer next to my bed. There was only one thing inside — an envelope. Worn at the edges, the flap taped down three times because I’d opened and closed it more than I should have. I handed it to him. His brows furrowed as he opened it slowly. The photo slipped into his hand.

Me, at six. All tiny teeth and wild hair, grinning up like the sun had never set. Standing next to a man in a racing suit. His hand was on my shoulder. The same eyes. The same smirk. My father. Oscar looked between the photo and me, and I saw the shift happen in real time — confusion to understanding to quiet reverence.

“That’s… is that who I think it is?” His voice cracked just slightly.

I nodded, swallowing hard. “My dad.”

I didn’t say his name. I didn’t need to.

“He died when I was eight. It was… it was violent. Sudden. One second he was there, and then he wasn’t. He was my safest place. My everything. After that, I… broke. I stopped talking for months. And when I started again, it was never the same.”

He didn’t move. Just stared at me like I was something delicate, like if he breathed too loudly I might fold in on myself.

“I never told anyone,” I continued, voice barely holding. “I didn’t want pity. I didn’t want to be treated like some ghost of his shadow. I wanted to be me. Just me.”

Oscar’s fingers tightened around mine — not too much, just enough to remind me I wasn’t alone anymore.

“You are,” he whispered. “You’re everything.”

I looked at him then, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like hiding.

“I think he’d like you,” I said, smiling through the burn in my throat.

Oscar leaned in, resting his forehead against mine, and whispered back, “I like you more than I should.”

And in the soft glow of the Monaco skyline, wrapped in the quiet I used to fear, I finally let myself feel it all. Love. Safety. Peace. Him.

—

f1

liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing, ynfromredbull & 8,029,003 others.

f1 : Your 2025 World Champion, YN LN! Incredible drive this season, YN. This is well deserved.

tagged : ynfromredbull

—

view 239,492 other comments.

username00 : MY QUEEN! CONGRATULATIONS YN.

username15 : gonna be insufferable about this for the next 40 years ok????

susie_wolff : YN has made history. I am forever proud of her.

liked by ynfromredbull and f1

username30 : people doubted her, the press dragged her, and she STILL smoked them all. cold-blooded. we love a quiet assassin 💅

lissiemackintosh : I’ve seen your journey up close. You are everything this sport needs. Congratulations, champion. 💫

liked by ynfromredbull

oscarpiastri : No one more worthy. What a season, YN. 🏆🤍

liked by ynfromredbull

lando : MY GOATTTTTT LFGGGG

liked by ynfromredbull

lewishamilton : It’s been inspiring watching you come into your own. World Champion sounds good on you. 🔥

liked by ynfromredbull

maxverstappen1 : Couldn’t be more proud. YN deserved this more than anyone.

liked by ynfromredbull

—

ynfromredbull

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, lando and 12,037,024 others.

ynfromredbull : this is what it is all about. thank you all. it is an honor to be your 2025 world champ. i hope you grow to love me as much as i love all of you.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

We were far from everything — the noise, the cameras, the endless headlines. Just a small coastal town somewhere in Portugal, sun-drunk and slow, the kind of place where people didn’t care about championship points or last names. Oscar and I had spent the day walking through sleepy markets, eating too much gelato, and laughing at nothing. Now, the two of us lay tangled together on the bed in the little apartment we rented, the linen sheets kicked down to our ankles and the windows cracked open to let in the salt-kissed night air. His hand rested on my stomach, thumb drawing slow circles over the hem of my shirt. The world outside our window was quiet, but my mind wasn’t. Not tonight.

“I want to do it,” I said into the stillness.

He turned his head, his voice a low murmur against my temple. “Do what?”

I hesitated, even though I already knew he’d understand. He always did.

“The interview. I want to finally say it. Talk about… him. All of it.”

Oscar sat up slightly, enough to look at me properly. “You’re sure?”

I nodded, throat tight. “It’s time. I’ve hidden behind the silence for so long. And I don’t want to anymore.”

He searched my eyes, then gently tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “You don’t owe anyone your pain, you know. You don’t have to justify who you are.”

“I know,” I whispered. “But I want to tell the story. My story. People have made it for me for so long — all the gossip, the assumptions. I’ve let them believe I’m cold or arrogant or just awkward. But the truth is…” I swallowed. “The truth is, I’m just someone who lost the one person that made the world feel safe.”

Oscar’s hand found mine under the sheets, his fingers warm and steady.

“I think he’d be proud of you,” he said softly. “For everything. For surviving. For being brave enough to do this now.”

I blinked hard, staring up at the ceiling to stop the tears from spilling.

“I miss him so much, still. Every day. Sometimes I think that little girl in the paddock died with him — the one who used to talk to everyone, who smiled without thinking about it.”

He pulled me into his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “That girl’s still in there. I see her every time you light up after a race. Every time you laugh when you think no one’s listening. You’re still her. Just… grown, and stronger.”

I breathed him in — the cologne I’d come to associate with safety and something close to peace.

“Will you be there? When I do it?” I asked quietly. “When I finally say his name?”

“Every step,” he said without hesitation. “Always.”

And in that moment, with his arms around me and the stars blinking somewhere above the rooftops, I knew I wasn’t alone anymore.

Not in the silence. Not in the truth. Not ever again.

—

‘hey lissie— its yn. i want to do an exclusive interview with you. if you’re willing.’

’omg hey champ— obviously id be willing to. where do you need me?’

’my house. next week? i can send a plane your way.’

’ill be there. i am honored, yn. truly.’. 

—

world champion, yn, sharing her truths from her home in monaco with lissie mackintosh - 1/2/2026

—

ynsenna

liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing, oscarpiastri & 17,023,004 others.

ynsenna : i’ve spent most of my life trying to be quiet enough not to be noticed. not because i didn’t have anything to say—but because grief took the words from me before i ever had the chance to speak.

this season changed my life. not just because of the results, but because i finally stopped running from the part of me that hurt the most. my father was everything to me. and losing him the way i did shattered something i didn’t know how to rebuild—until recently. the truth is- i’m proud to be his daughter. but i’m also proud of the woman i’ve become, entirely on my own.

to those who’ve seen me when i couldn’t see myself—thank you. to the ones who stayed kind even when i stayed quiet—you mean more than you know.

and to the person who reminded me i’m allowed to be loved, messy and whole—i love you.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirl : YN just did an interview from her home with Lissie Mackintosh going into detail about her childhood and revealed that Ayrton Senna is in fact her father. She spoke about how her father’s tragic death left her emotionally shut her down for most of her life— and she chose silence as form of self protection. She led Lissie through a room in her house which held a large collection of her father’s helmets and trophy’s and she shared a few photos of them on her instagram today— which her new instagram handle is @/ynsenna. She also revealed in this interview that she is indeed dating Oscar Piastri. Oscar was behind the camera silently supporting her during the interview. Thoughts?

—

view 802,482 comments.

username0 : i’m crying real tears. she carried the weight of that legacy in complete silence. absolute warrior.

username14 : Oscar being behind the camera and just silently supporting her???? marriage. immediately.

username20 : now it all makes sense. the silence, the eyes that always looked a little sad. she’s been carrying so much. proud doesn’t even begin to cover it.

username15 : she didn’t win the championship for the world. she won it for her dad and for the little girl who lost her dad. i’m not okay.

username17 : everything about this interview was raw and honest. we don’t deserve her but god do we respect her.

username30 : the fact she said nothing for years and let people think the worst of her, just to protect herself?? she’s not cold. she’s human. and she deserves peace.

—

oscarpiastri

liked by ynsenna, maxverstappen1, lando & 10,273,005 others.

oscarpiastri : proud to know you. proud to love you. you are the strongest human i know. you made him proud, sweetheart.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

The interview with Lissie had gone live less than twelve hours ago. I’d barely blinked since then. I was curled up on my couch, hoodie three sizes too big, hair in a bun, face completely bare. Oscar sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, his back leaning against the couch between my legs. I absentmindedly ran my fingers through his hair while he scrolled through TikTok with the volume low. My phone buzzed every five seconds on the table, but I ignored it. Oscar didn’t ask questions. He just stayed. And he was quiet in that way that felt like peace.

The soft hum of city traffic below filled the silence until—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Someone was knocking on my door like it owed them money. Oscar and I both jolted.

“Are you expecting someone?” he asked, twisting to look at me.

“No—wait. Shhh. Listen.”

BANG BANG BANG.

Then—“YN! OPEN UP! YOU OWE US A DAMN EXPLANATION!”

That voice. That unhinged tone.

“Oh my god,” I whispered. “Is that—Max?”

Oscar looked up at me. “Should I get the bat?”

I was still laughing as I padded to the door, the sound of voices growing louder.

“Carlos, stop pressing the buzzer, it’s annoying.”

“She’s probably ignoring us—”

“She probably moved to Brazil, bro.”

“Shut up, George.”

“YN, IF YOU DON’T OPEN THIS DOOR I’M GETTING THE SPARE FROM CHRISTIAN!”

I opened the door. And immediately got hit with a wave of chaos. Max was at the front like the ringleader. Behind him stood Charles, Lando, Carlos, Pierre, Yuki, Lewis, George, and Alex, all staring at me like I’d just casually announced I was royalty.

“Hi,” I said blandly.

“‘Hi’?! That’s all we get?” George sputtered.

Max shouldered his way in first, eyes wide. “You—YOU—” He pointed at me. “Are Senna’s daughter and you didn’t tell anyone?!”

“I told Oscar,” I mumbled, leaning against the door frame.

“Yeah, okay, Oscar gets a free pass,” Lando said dramatically, waving a hand as he walked in. “Since he is the boyfriend.”

“I can’t believe you’re his,” Pierre said, mouth open as he stared around the apartment.

Yuki beelined for my kitchen. “Do you have snacks?”

Carlos gave me a look that was half stern, half soft. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Lewis stepped forward, eyes kind. “You didn’t have to. But… damn. That was powerful, YN.”

“Yeah,” Charles agreed, nodding slowly. “I cried, but that might’ve been the wine.”

The room was buzzing. Full of movement, questions, half-jokes, too much cologne, and disbelief so thick I could feel it crackling in the air like electricity. And yet, through it all, I just… Chuckled. I mean — this was my life now? Eight world-class athletes pacing my apartment like it was a race strategy debrief while Oscar, my boyfriend, my soulmate, looked like he wanted to protect me from the emotional onslaught with nothing but a throw pillow.

Max stared at me. “What’s funny?”

I smiled — wide and honest. “You guys are all losing your minds in my living room. Like I’m a unicorn or something.”

George raised a finger. “To be fair, you are. We just didn’t know it.”

Lando turned toward Oscar. “You knew. You absolute sneaky bastard.”

Oscar held up his hands, all innocence. “She told me. I didn’t say anything. Not even in the group chat.”

“I’m so proud of you, and also I hate you,” Pierre muttered, clapping Oscar’s shoulder.

And then — without warning — Max said, “Alright, that’s it. Everyone shut up.”

I blinked. “What—”

He lunged. Then Lando. Then Charles. Then George. Before I could even think to protest, I was being dragged into a ridiculous, suffocating, all-limbs, too-many-colognes, full team group hug. My face was squished between Max’s shoulder and Pierre’s head. Oscar laughed and wrapped his arms around all of us from the outside.

Someone yelled, “We’re proud of you!”

Someone else yelled, “She’s a Senna but she’s our YN!”

And I think it was Alex who shouted, “WE LOVE YOU, WORLD CHAMP!”

I couldn’t breathe. Not from the pressure of the hug — from the feeling of it all. Acceptance. Support. Love. After years of walls, of silence, of solitude, it all rushed in like the wave I didn’t know I’d been bracing for. And I let myself sink into it. Maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to carry the legacy alone anymore.

—

[takes1]

HOORAY I just read ur bokuto x reader p4 it was really cute :3 sorry havent updated in awhile i got busy with life… but i never forget to keep u in mind 🫶 love ur work as always, very memorable writer to me -🐈🐈‍⬛

[final] bokuto teaching inexperienced!reader

only fitting to respond to you for this last one. ughhh ilysm 🥹😭💕💕

warnings. heavy nsfw, minors DNI

details. fem!reader / first time / soft kissy missionary / safe sex / BIG praise kink!bokuto / himbo!bokuto / sweet, dumb!bokuto / inexperienced!reader / possessive!bokuto / f!rec oral / guided handjob / kuroo's sister!reader / 2.3k words / last installment

links. my masterlist. my ao3. more haikyuu. part one here. part two here. part three here. part four. request box

You tilted your head, eyes narrowed a little at the generous, clear bulge in his tiny shorts.

"Can I see it?"

He fisted the sheets in his excitement that you were thinking the same thing, biting his cheek so he didn't shout. Just by the obvious elation on his face, you could tell he was in the process of holding back a million bad responses.

Instead, he let his hands talk, lips crashing against yours all rough and thirsty as he pulled it out. You didn't want his kisses, though-- you grinned as you avoided what you could, so you could see.

Propped up on your elbows, you looked from his vigilant stare, trailing down his sculpted, smooth body down to his cock between your tummies.

It looked heavy.

You quickly learned that it was hot, too, as he guided your palm around it, and used your hand to pump himself. Your heart was racing- it was so weird, and you liked it so much, and he liked it even more.

Bokuto always stood by the idea that 'it always feels/tastes/sounds better when somebody else does it.' The kind of guy to only drink out of other peoples' cups, ask other people to read things out loud to him, massage a part of his shoulder he could get but won't.

While you didn't know what you were doing in the slightest, and he was controlling your pace, even the harsh grip, it still felt 40x better than all the jerking off he usually did.

His tongue got confident, and a bit curious, diving deeper past your teeth. He was just trying in whatever way he could to be inside of you. The weight of his body became more substantial.

You loved feeling his strength falter, his lust heightening, compelling him to get closer.

When he pulled away, he looked a little crazy- like he forgot to smile, or something. It was the nature of his eyes to not look very friendly, but it gave the impression that he was really holding himself back.

"Are- you okay?"

"Just-," He takes a sharp breath, eyes squeezing shut for a second, like he's recalibrating, "Feels really g-ood."

He wasn't prepared in the slightest for the smile you gave him. It was sweet, and prideful, and too cute with his cock in your hand.

That tortured look was back, briefly before he shoved his face in the nook of your shoulder.

"Fuck-! I need you s-o bad," He whined, pitiful, "Are- h-ahh, you ready yet?"

You could try.

With a question like that, asked so sweet, so sugary- you hummed against his hair, not quite understanding what 'ready' meant.

You hardly noticed how he plucked a condom from his shorts, somewhere in the mess of sheets to the left of you- and slid it on between clumsy kisses. Lots of practice must've made the process second nature.

It was difficult, to say the least, adjusting to him. His eagerness was already so spoken for, and you realized too late that you probably did need more time.

Bokuto could feel it too, though.

He could hear it in the thinly-veiled fear, making your voice waver, break, as you asked him to be gentle with you.

"Even if it takes all night," He kissed your nose while you couldn't move away, "I'll wait for ya."

Rough hands, so used to force and recklessness, practiced paying attention through running smooth lines across your skin.

Those hard kisses turned softer, slower, across your jaw and down your throat. He moved at a near imperceptible pace, just to get you accustomed to all of his size.

"Sooo pretty," He whispered to himself, forehead heavy on yours as he closed his eyes, "Fuck..."

The discomfort was just starting to be overshadowed with better, pleasurable, buzz. Your legs were slowly relaxing, a jelly-like feeling that spread from your thighs, squished comfy next to his hips, down to your toes.

Bokuto was capable of deliberate and soft sex. He wasn't always an animal, and he wasn't ignorant to somebody else's needs.

He was just excitable, and stupid. But all he needed was a whisper, a hint, or a reminder sometimes.

You kissed the tip of his nose, a way of telling him you were okay. Your fingers started to rake through his spiky hair, and the little smile on your face waited for him to he open his eyes.

"Shit--," He stole another few kisses from you, "Oh, you're so- mh- you're soo cute."

Between kisses, his tongue lagged, always proceeded by a sharp sigh. Almost like he was struggling to multitask. It made you curious when it started to get more frequent.

"Sh-it--h-ahh--," His curse broke into a shocked whine-- he stalled, deep.

Your higher, cuter sound at how good it felt did nothing to help to bring him down.

You watched him bite his own wrist, a small concern furrowing his brow.

Craving more, and only knowing one way to cheer him up, you rolled your hips up and locked your ankles around him with a squeeze.

"W-ait, waitwaitwait," He seethed, "Ahh- fuck-- stop moving babygirl- stop moving."

The person he looked down at was no longer a shy little nerd, incapable of handling his flirty second nature. Your mouth was curled into a coquettish grin, your pecks soft and affectionate and too much, scattered around his face.

He had to cum so bad that he felt sick. He had to look through you- draw blood to his palm, just to clear his filthy mind.

"Do I really feel that good?" You giggled- beyond flattered by his tortured expression.

There was no beat between the end of your sentence and his hushed response, "Yes."

You knew about vague stereotypes of guys with shitty endurance. You didn't have first-hand experience until you watched his expression shift, swirling, panic and euphoria taking one another over again and again.

He 'ruined' his orgasm by keeping your needs first. He knew you couldn't take what he wanted. His body was like iron, forced motionless, like a statue, except for the rapid, uneven rise and fall of his chest.

It looked like a delicious mix of pained and sexy as he came, almost perfectly still, so he didn't hurt you.

A kind of psychotic, intrusive desire made you tense-- the curious, hungry want to get rid of the condom between you. How much better would that have felt without it?

The sheets groaned, fabric snagging and snapping, under his grip. His body was all flexed up for you to watch. You knew he was trying to keep you in mind, so you didn't try anything too cute until he started relaxing, again.

"Hm-mmph--, fuck--," He groaned, a tremble in his arms as he slowly pulled out.

His exhaustion was short-lived, only manifested in a breathiness in his chuckle.

"Good thing I brought two."

This time you saw him take out a second one- but it wasn't just two. He had a whole row of condoms in his pocket this entire time.

You giggled at how he tore the second one off. What could he have possibly been thinking to bring seven along?

Bokuto harnessed some pornstar-like efficiency, tearing the outside open and pumping the latex onto himself with no waste of energy.

"Y'know," He cocked his head to the side, silly, despite his thumb sliding over your clit, "I've never cum that fast."

"Mmn-h-- Ah- that's- that's good--," You struggled.

A useful thing to know, sure, but it's not like you really cared- he never got soft. It was a non-issue because he was still clearly up for more.

He filled you back up so easy and slow, his thumb prodding stuttery waves of pleasure where there was once pain. He watched it with an air of pride about him. He sat up straighter, focused on where he disappeared into you. He soaked in all your twitching until he got his fill.

Only when he was satisfied did he lean down to his elbows to check on you.

Your had to fill your hands with his perfect muscles, all bouncy and twitchy at how overstimulated you got him. He was huffing, swallowing his groans so he didn't look uncool-- restrained or not, he would've looked just as cute.

He just wanted to fuck you good. For you to remember it well.

"Mmnh-! You're so big-,"

Those giant, fuck-me-harder eyes kept his shoulders tight. His hand was gripping your hip like a vice and bringing you down onto him.

His cock sank deep, a grumbly sound under his quiet, breathy whining-- your breath caught, and you had the brief revelation that you had been missing out on this for so long. How long had they been friends for? Years?

You wanted to make up for all the lost time. You locked your ankles around him for the second time, your hands pulling him back so you could put some hickeys all up and down his thick neck.

Though you had some vague idea that he loved when you hugged him close, you didn't understand the depth in which it turned him on.

It was one of those quick-affirming, sweet and wordless praises that resonated so hard with Bokuto's insatiable need to be validated.

He had to ask. He wanted more, he wanted to hear you.

"That feel good?" His hand cupped your entire jaw, forcing your eyes on his, ever so focused.

Your grip on his forearm was like an ant trying to push over a tree. It would never budge. And when it didn't, it took very little time to realize you actually liked it there. Your reflex did nothing to serve you, but you kept your hand still to prod at the muscle.

The breath you took to answer him was wasted on another moan.

"Ah-h--,"

"I want ya to tell me," His insistence was daunting, but filled with need.

"I--,"

Your nails were digging into his skin, and you were gasping, trying to tell him you were close- but none of it came out properly.

It was all just improper, uncontrollable, unmasked whining.

A bit late, he was witness to your adorable realization that you were cumming. He murmured a small, infatuated, "Aww..."

His lips pressed hard to your temple, and he let you pull him in, offering only the bulk of his shoulder as consolation for his deeper thrusts. It was a taste of what he could give you if only this wasn't your first, if you had been used to him from the start.

An orgasm had never felt so filled out, before. Like it was larger than you, stronger than anything you'd be able to craft on your own, from just your fingers. It was him. His cock, but moreso was his intensity and devotion to getting you there and fucking you all the way through it.

His hand was still cupping the bottom half of your face, but not covering your mouth. God, he wanted the entire world to know how good he made you feel. Especially Kuroo. Fuck that guy for keeping you a secret.

"Good girl, ohh- you did so good," He was slowing, still seeing those last, shallower, mellow waves through with dedication, "Sound sooo pretty."

Those eyes were softer, but still eating you up, savoring you while you were all messy for him.

Were you dating, now? It felt like you had been shot forward about ten years with this guy.

A light buzzing -the muted ring of a phone- was somewhere near you, interrupting your giggly, feel-good vibe. Again, and still just as surprising, Bokuto slowly pulled out of you and made quick work of that second condom.

He patted around the sheets for the source of the sound.

"Oh!"

He let the ringing continue- he had to get his idea out immediately: "That totally reminds me! I should get you a vibrator or something."

Jaw slack, you weren't given the opportunity to respond, before he answered. You lay there, a bit shivery and empty-feeling, as he hugged your thigh over his own.

"Hellooo?"

It was quiet. There was a faint, urgent, tone on the other side.

"Ummmm..."

His fingers tapped against your skin. He was lost in deep thought of how to respond. You were glad you couldn't hear the words being spoken, because you knew it was not going to be a pleasant earful.

"Yeah-... I mean, we were just talking... and... stuff."

Bokuto got droopier. He sank, sitting on his heels, still sitting butt-naked and hugging your thigh. You squeezed one of your blankets to your chest and frowned.

"It's nothing personal, man..."

He held the phone away from his ear as he was verbally berated, a pout making his whole face look cartoonishly sad. It was difficult, on your end, to understand that he could both be super into you and want to stay friends with Tetsurou.

"Would it make it any better iiiif I told you we were dating now?"

Bokuto winced and slid his free hand back and forth over your leg as consolation, for himself.

"Yeahyeahyeah, I gotchu, yeahyeah. Okay'bye," He hung up at the soonest crafted opportunity.

"Soooo," He sighed, distraught, instantly making up any distance between you. He dropped so much weight atop your sore body and covered you like a warm, weighted blanket, that you struggled to get air in your lungs.

"He's... not... happy."

The big dummy on top of you deflated with each word in a dismal decrescendo.

You had to wriggle around to find somewhere to breath from; room for your chest to expand at least a little.

"I thought you knew that?"

Bokuto made a high humming sound, feet kicking in the air, "Mmmmmmyeahhh, kinda, but..."

You freed one arm to wrap around him, so you could play with his hair, "He can't stay mad forever. He'll see that you're not- harmful- I guess, eventually."

He let his brow relax, shoved hard into your shoulder, and took in your new comforting scent.

Part of you couldn't blame your brother for assuming the worst. It took until incredibly recently for you to understand the full scale of Bokuto's fixation.

Despite all his sad body language, he couldn't have been that worried, because he was already back to sly, tongue-centered kisses on your neck.

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OH MY! congrats on the 400 followers!!! and for the event can't you write some angst with sylus x nonmc, please??? don't know if you have listened to WILDFLOWER by Billie eilish, but i really wanna see what would be born out of that??? not pressure tho! (also sorry for my english but im not a native speaker haha)

thank you!! this was an amazing request! it took me a while to write it, but i really like this. i hope you do too!

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The base hadn’t been quiet in months.

It was nice, you thought. A welcome change. In all your years at Onychinus there was always a tense silence. Always something that seemed to say this was an operation, not a home.

That all changed when Miss Hunter arrived, though.

Everything seemed warmer, splashes of color dotted around and a constant hum of chatter echoed through the space.

You’d never seen Sylus like this. Even when he was laughing and messing around with Luke and Kieran, he hadn’t allowed himself to be this happy. It seemed like there was something holding him back, something expectant.

Now the air was lighter, his shoulders lost their tension, his laughs came more freely. Things seemed to be looking up.

That made the newfound silence all the more jarring.

Miss Hunter had left just as quickly as she’d came. It wasn’t a huge ordeal. She hadn’t made a big deal out of it. There was just an conversation, spoken in quiet tones behind closed doors. Next thing you knew, she was gone in a mess of tears and broken promises.

You’d let Sylus alone for a time after that. Taken up the responsibilities of Onychinus in his stead, the role practically second nature ever since he’d promoted you to second-in-command a few years ago.

It was quiet again. You didn’t see much of the Boss, and you never expected to see Miss Hunter again.

But she’d shown up at your doorstep one night within the first week of their separation. Tear tracks on her cheeks and a heart-wrenching sob asking for someone to talk to.

You’d obliged, of course. How could you turn her away when she was like this? Pulling her into you, rubbing her back as she sobbed into your shoulder. She blubbered that she didn’t have anyone to talk to, that none of her friends really knew Sylus enough to cry about him to.

She explained that even if they weren’t together, she didn’t want to expose him and his identity like that.

You nodded, holding her close as she seemed to cry herself dry. She did most of the talking that night. Talking about how it had been a mutual decision, how they both felt like they just weren’t right for each other.

Miss Hunter had said she never expected falling out of love to hurt so bad.

The next morning, Sylus emerged from his room for the first time in four days. Silvery hair messy, eyes bloodshot, usually steady hands now trembling at his sides.

You sat with him. Wordlessly offered him a cup of coffee. He took it with a nod of thanks, holding it close instead of drinking it, like he was willing its burning warmth to thaw the cold that had taken over.

It became a routine. You’d sit with him, allow the quiet that had been uncomfortable, that had had something missing, to settle until it became something resembling understanding.

Sylus tried to distract himself with the work of Onychinus. You limited his access and told him he needed to sit with his grief and understand it before it consumed him entirely, not avoid it with gunfights and business deals.

Sylus never was able to fight you when you got like this.

He let you take care of him in a way no one had in a long time. It was gentle, quiet. A cup of tea here, a gentle reminder there. Never asking too many questions, never pushing for something more. He didn’t mention how much he appreciated it. He knew he didn’t have to.

You should have seen it coming, you thought. He was vulnerable. You were there. You should have expected it when the touches began to linger, when he began reaching for you.

You always thought of her when he did that.

Maybe you brushed it off because you thought you’d never compare to her. After all, what was the worry, when she was so bright and outgoing when you just seemed to fade into the background.

“No one knows me as well as you do,” Sylus muttered one night, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve always been there for me. I think— no, I know…”

Your breathing felt like it stopped. All you could think of, all you could see in the back of your mind was Miss Hunter. Should you feel this guilty? This hurt?

Were you just a replacement, something to fill the void, that fresh wound that kept bleeding?

“I love you,” Sylus whispered, low and reverent.

You didn’t move your hand from his. You didn’t say how all you could think about was how Miss Hunter must have felt.

Sylus didn’t mean to hurt you. You knew that.

Maybe being quiet was for the best.

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୨♡୧ part one / part two / part three / bonus ୨♡୧

pairing: beomgyu x fem!reader genre: fluff, strangers to friends to...? , college AU, slow burn (trying to). summary: you and beomgyu are partnered for a group project, the connection starts off as simple friendship. but as you share quiet moments, unspoken glances, and moments of vulnerability, the lines between friendship and something more begin to blur. w/c: ~3.7k warning: not entirely proofread, fluff (might be cringe), an attempt at humor. a/n: sorry for the late post! i've been busy and wasn't at home BUT i wasn't expecting the positive responses when i posted p1, you making my heart flutter. thankyouthankyouthankyou :)) . +honestly, im not completely satisfied with this one, maybe bc i put some texting in the story, which i try to avoid(reminds me of my old ff when i was 14) ٩(ఠ益ఠ)۶ anyways i hope you'll enjoy this one! yayaayya <3 taglist: for the cuties who wanted to be tagged in the next part! @thearcherbeomgyu | @jellyyjn

a crisp breeze swept through the campus, tugging at the hem of your coat and sending golden leaves spinning across the pavement.

"hold this," beomgyu said, already stuffing a warm can of coffee into your hands before you could protest.

"i didn't ask for this." you said, staring down at the can with confusion.

"don't be ungrateful," he replied, smug. "it's a token of affection."

you blinked. "a what now?"

"affection. like... friendship love," he added quickly, with a dramatic jazz hand gesture and a smile. "the platonic kind."

you narrowed your eyes. "you just wanted an excuse to buy two and not look like you were holding two cans of coffee for yourself."

he gasped. "how dare you accuse me of such intentions!"

"you literally have another one in your pocket." you said, nodding your head to the can that was slightly sticking out of his pocket.

"that's my emergency coffee."

you chuckled as he pulled the second can out and held it with both hands like it was sacred.

he grinned. "i'm just saying, if the world ends in the next hour, at least we'll be caffeinated and cozy together under a pile of dead leaves."

"romantic," you deadpanned.

"right?" he said, a voice light but his gaze lingered before he looked away, brushing it off with a loud slurp.

you were half-wiping down a table when the bell above the cafe door jingled.

beomgyu walked in like he owned the place, wearing the most ridiculous mustard-colored scarf wrapped five times around his neck.

though, you admitted to yourself. he did look a little cute, maybe a little bit.

you squinted. "you're a walking autumn leaf."

"and proud," he said, flinging the end of his scarf behind him dramatically. "i come bearing good news and your usual banana latte.”

"you bought them from us," you pointed out.

"it's the delivery that matters," he said, placing the paper bag on the counter. "and i added cinnamon—because i'm thoughtful and mysterious like that."

you gave him a look. "you mean you paid for the extra topping?"

"that too."

he perched on a stool near the counter, kicking his feet childishly. "when do you get off?"

"why?"

"no reason. just thinking about waiting nearby until then so we can walk together."

"you're like a clingy child." you said as you shook your head, chuckling softly.

soobin looked up from his spot on the couch, one eyebrow raised as the front door clicked open. beomgyu slipped in, trying—and failed—to be quiet as he kicked his shoes off with more force than necessary.

"you're home early," soobin said, glancing at the clock. "only eleven this time. is the world ending?"

beomgyu scoffed, shrugging out of his coat. "it's cold. i have nerve endings. let me live."

soobin smirked. "that's not why you're home early. you usually don't even bother showing up 'til two these days."

beomgyu paused mid-step, then wandered over and flopped onto the armchair, head tilted back dramatically.

"caught in the act," he muttered.

soobin set his phone down. "so... who is it?"

beomgyu blinked. "huh?"

"whoever you've been hanging out with. you disappear after class, you smell like cafe pastries half the time, and some days you don't even sleep at home." soobin leaned back, arms crossed. "i don't care if you're dating or not. i just want to know who's stealing you from me."

beomgyu made a sound between a laugh and a groan, dragging a pillow onto his lap. "we're not dating."

"that didn't answer the question."

he fiddled with the pillow's corner. "it's no one. just—someone i've been spending time with. she's cool, can be funny, mostly calls me out on my shit."

soobin gave him a look. "so... you like her?"

beomgyu didn't answer right away. he just stared up at the ceiling like it would give him the answers.

"i don't know," he finally said, a voice lower now. "it's not like that. it's just... easy. being around her. like i can breathe a little slower, say weird things and not feel dumb."

soobin nodded slowly, letting the silence settle between them.

"okay," he said. "that sounds dangerously like a crush."

beomgyu groaned again, muffling it into the pillow. "it's not. or maybe it is. but it's not that kind of crush."

"what kind of crush is it, then?" soobin asked, amused.

"i don't know... the kind where i get her drinks or sweets without asking because i know she likes it, but i also feel like if i go any further, i'd ruin it."

"ah. the classic self-sabotaging emotional repression kind."

beomgyu narrowed his eyes. "what—? you've been reading psychology blogs again."

soobin just shrugged with a grin. "just don't wait too long and regret it later."

beomgyu was quiet at that.

soobin didn't press.

the hum of the radiator filled the room, steady and warm.

"did she at least like the drink?" soobin asked after a moment.

beomgyu leaned back with a soft smile.

"she said i looked like a walking autumn leaf."

"so... yes?"

"yeah, i think so."

winter came softly, then all at once.

one morning you woke to find the world outside your window dusted in white, the kind of snow that clung to tree branches like powdered sugar.

your phone buzzed.

beomgyu: look outside

you rolled your eyes, already typing.

you: wow. snow. groundbreaking.

three dots appeared, then disappeared.

then appeared again.

beomgyu: meet me in 10 mins. wear something warm.

you frowned.

you: why?

beomgyu: because i said so. and i have hot chocolate.

you hesitated, then sighed, dragging yourself out of bed.

beomgyu was waiting at the park near your apartment, bundled in a thick coat, and that same ridiculous mustard scarf, now half-buried under the layer of snowflakes. he held two steaming cups in his mittened hands.

"you're late," he said, grinning as you trudged toward him.

"you're insane" you shot back, but accepted the cup he shoved into your hands. the warmth seeped through your gloves. "it's freezing. why are we here?"

he nodded toward the empty park bench, already dusted with snow. "first snow of the year. tradition says you have to make a wish."

you blinked. "since when is that a tradition?"

"since right now." he plopped onto the bench, ignoring the way the snow melted against his jeans. "come on," he patted on the bench, beside him. "humor me."

you sat beside him, shoulders brushing. the hot chocolate was too sweet, just the way you liked it.

"did you put extra marshmallows in mine?" you asked.

he sipped his own drink, avoiding your eyes. "maybe."

you nudged him with your elbow. "soft."

"shut up and make your wish."

you laughed, but closed your eyes anyway. the cold bit at your cheeks, the steam from your cup curling into the air.

when you opened them, beomgyu was watching you, his nose pink from the cold, his breath a faint cloud between you.

"did you make one?" you asked.

he held your gaze.

"yeah," he said softly. then, clearing his throat, he stood abruptly, knocking snow from his knees. "alright wish time over. now we have to go build a snowman."

you groaned. "you're impossible."

he tugged you up by the wrist, his grip warm even through layers of fabric.

"and yet, here you are."

the snowman was lopsided.

beomgyu insisted it was artistic. you insisted it looked like it was barely surviving.

he gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. "you're bullying my son."

"your son needs medical attention."

he laughed, bright and loud in the quiet morning, and something in your chest tightened.

the campus was nearly empty, most students already gone for winter break. frost glittered on the edges of the pavement, and you tucked your hands deeper into your coat pockets as you walked toward the library to return a book before leaving town.

you weren't paying attention when you turned around the corner—

"oh!"

—and collided straight into someone's chest.

a pair of hands steadied your shoulders before you could stumble back. "whoa, sorry about that."

you looked up to see a tall boy with soft features and an apologetic smile. when he smiled, his dimples appeared like magic.

"no, my bad," you said quickly, adjusting your bag strap. "i wasn't watching where i was going."

he chuckled, shaking his head. "campus is basically a ghost town now. i didn't expect to run into anyone either." he extended a hand. "soobin."

you introduced yourself, and he nodded politely. "you sticking around for break, or heading out soon?"

"leaving tomorrow actually," you said.

"lucky. i'm stuck here for another day because someone—" he cut himself off, eyes flickering over your shoulder. his lips curled into a smirk. "ah. speaking of."

you turned.

beomgyu was standing frozen a few feet away holding two takeout coffee cups, eyes darting between you and soobin like he'd just walked into an alternate dimension.

"uh," he said intelligently.

soobin raised an eyebrow. "you know each other?"

beomgyu's mouth opened, then closed.

you decided to put him out of his misery. "we have a class together."

"a class?" soobin repeated, voice dripping with skepticism. "right. that explains why you've been—"

"soobin," beomgyu practically lunged forward, shoving one of the coffee cups into soobin's hands. "here. drink this. stop talking."

soobin took the cup, amused. "wow. you remember i like mine with extra sugar. how thoughtful."

beomgyu scowled, his ears turning pink.

you bit back a smile. "you two know each other, i'm guessing?"

"unfortunately," beomgyu muttered.

"we're roommates," soobin supplied cheerfully. "which means i get to hear all about his very important study sessions that somehow always run past midnight."

beomgyu looked like he wanted to melt into the pavement. he shot you a panicked look. "ignore him. he's delusional."

"am i?" soobin sing-songed. "after all those nights you disappeared and came home smelling like sweet pastries and coffee?"

you raised your eyebrows in amusement and decided to twist the knife a little. "oh, really? what else does he say?"

"mostly just grumbling about how someone keeps stealing his hoodies," soobin said thoughtfully. "and something about cinnamon—"

"okay. we're leaving." beomgyu grabbed soobin's arm and started dragging him backward.

soobin let himself be pulled, grinning at you over his shoulder. "nice meeting you! good luck with your class!"

beomgyu shot you a desperate look over his shoulder—half pleading, half mortified—before they disappeared around the corner.

you stood there for a moment, snow dusting your shoulders, before pulling out your phone.

you: so that's your roommate you: should i apologize for the hoodie theft? or are we pretending that never happened

three dots appeared immediately.

beomgyu: i hate you beomgyu: also no beomgyu: keep it beomgyu: it looks better on you anyway

your family's living room was cluttered with leftover wrapping paper and half-empty mugs of cocoa. the tv played a holiday movie no one was watching, and your cousin was snoring softly under a blanket fort of gifts.

your phone lit up.

beomgyu: [photo attached]

you tapped the image—a lopsided snowman in what looked like a tiny backyard, wearing your borrowed frog pajama pants as a scarf. its stick arms were outstretched like it was begging for mercy.

beomgyu: emergency update: my snowman son is in critical condition. he's asking for u.

you pressed your lips together to stifle a laugh. your mom side-eyed you from across the room.

you: that's not a snowman. that's a snow crime you: also why is he wearing my pants.

beomgyu: he's cold. have some empathy beomgyu: also i miss them. they're comfy beomgyu: don't tell soobin i said that. he'll never let me live it down

you stared at the screen. the words "i miss them" echoed through your head, wondering if he meant the pants.

2:37 AM

you were sprawled on your childhood bed, scrolling through your camera roll—a dangerous game. there was a photo from last semester: beomgyu mid-laugh, his hair a mess, holding up a spoon like it was a microphone. you'd taken it during a study session when he'd been telling you about some argument that happened with soobin about some game.

your thumb hovered over the screen. not wanting to admit, you were missing him more than you thought you would.

a new message popped up.

beomgyu: u awake?

your heart did a stupid flip.

you: unfortunately you: why? did your laundry start talking back

beomgyu: no but my ceiling is looking at me funny beomgyu: also i found a choco ring under my couch. ate it. no regrets

you: you're disgusting

beomgyu: ur just jealous u weren't here to fight me for it.

you swallowed. the room felt too quiet.

unconsciously sending the message.

you: yeah. maybe i am

the typing bubbles appeared. disappeared. reappeared.

beomgyu: come back soon

three dots. then— 

beomgyu: my snowman melted and now the frog pants are sad and alone

you pressed your phone to your chest, as if that could smother the warmth spreading under your ribs.

the scent of laundry detergent and winter air filled your childhood bedroom as you folded the last sweater into your suitcase. outside, the morning sun glinted of the melting snow, turning the backyard into a shimmering mess of slush and half-dead grass.

your phone buzzed on the nightstand. again. for what had to be the tenth time that morning.

"you know," came a voice from the doorway, sweet as honey, "if you keep ignoring your packing to text that boy, you're going to forget something important."

you didn't even look up at your sister, sauntering into the room, her slippers scuffing against the hardwood. "i'm not ignoring anything," you muttered, though your fingers were already typing out a reply to beomgyu's latest message—something about his train being delayed.

your sister plopped down on your bed, sending a pair of socks tumbling to the floor.

"mhm," she hummed, plucking your phone from your hands before you could stop her. "and i suppose beomgyu is just... what? your academic advisor? your dentist?"

"give that back!" you lunged for it, but she held it just out of reach, her eyes scanning the screen with growing amusement.

"oh this is precious," she cooed, dodging your grabby hands. "'do you think snowmen have souls?' 'only the ones wearing stolen pajamas,'" she clutched her chest dramatically. "the romance! the poetry!"

you wrestled your phone back, face burning. "we're just friends."

you threw a pillow at her, but she caught it with a laugh, hugging it to her chest. "i'm just saying," she continued, her tone laced with amusement. "for someone who claims to be so annoyed by this boy, you sure do text him an awful lot. first thing in the morning, last thing at night."

"that's not—"

"and let's not forget the hot chocolate incident on christmas eve," she added, eyes twinkling.

you groaned. that had been a mistake—you'd been mid-sip when beomgyu sent a photo of himself attempting to make a snow angel, only to realize too late he'd done it in a mud puddle. the resulting spit-take had earned you endless ridicule from your family.

your sister leaned in, resting her chin on the pillow. "so," she said, her voice dropping to a low whisper, "when do i get to meet this mysterious snowman of yours?"

"you don't," you crumbled, shoving the last of your clothes into the suitcase with more force than necessary.

she sighed dramatically, flopping back onto your bed. "fine, keep your secrets. but just know..." she pointed a finger at you grinning. "i'm rooting for you two. anyone who can make you laugh like that deserves a chance."

you opened your mouth to protest, but the words died in your throat. because the truth was, you'd missed beomgyu's nonsense more than you wanted to admit. missed the way his texts could turn even the most boring day into something brighter.

as you zipped up your suitcase, you caught your sister watching you with a knowing smile. you threw another pillow at her for good measure, but your heart wasn't in it.

the new school year was starting—early march, campus was still shaking off winter's grip—slush piled in the walkways, buzzing with students reuniting after winter break. the air was crisp with lingering winter chill, but the sun was bright.

your eyes were traveling over campus, searching for the one who kept crossing your mind through your winter break. you spotted him from across the courtyard.

or—almost didn't spot him.

because beomgyu—the same idiot who once showed up to an 8 AM lecture wearing two different shoes, with the perpetually messy wolf cut, and constantly flipped his bangs out of his eyes like it was a personal vendetta—was gone.

in his place stood a boy with short hair.

short. hair.

gone were the shaggy layers that used to curtain his forehead. now his dark locks were neatly parted, styled just enough to look intentional but still soft, like he'd run his fingers through it one too many times.

and—oh. you could see his forehead. the sharp line of his brows, the way his eyes seemed brighter without the shadow of his bangs.

your stomach did something stupid. no. nope. absolutely not. this was fine, totally. people got haircuts all the time.

he hadn't noticed you yet. he was too busy wrestling with the vending machine, kicking it lightly while yelling something, unable for you to hear, when his snack got stuck.

some things never change.

you took a step forward. then another.

"need a hand?" you called out.

beomgyu spun around so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet. his eyes—wide, startled, then instantly crinkling with recognition—locked onto yours.

"you," he said, like it was an accusation. like he'd been waiting.

you grinned and crossed your arms. "missed me?"

he scoffed, straightening up. "like a toothache."

good. normal.

"your hair," you blurted before you could stop yourself.

his hand flew up self-consciously, ruffling the shorter strands. "oh. yeah. got sick of it."

then, he stepped closer—the haircut was even worse up close. it made his stupid jawline look sharper. "why? do you hate it?"

no. it was the opposite, actually. you hated how much you didn't hate it. how it made him look different, like someone who didn't just accidentally stumbled into your life, but belonged there.

pause.

you shrugged, fighting a smile. "it's... different."

"different bad?"

"different beomgyu."

he blinked. then, slowly his lips curled into that lazy, lopsided grin you'd missed more than you'd ever admit. "well," he said, stepping closer, "i brough you a welcome-back gift."

you eyes his empty hands. "let me guess. another existential snowman?"

"better." he reached into his pocket and pulled out—

a banana milk. slightly dented from the journey, but there.

"in case you forgot the taste, he said, pressing it into your hands. his fingers brushed yours, just for a second. just enough to make your pulse jump.

"it's lukewarm." you deadpanned.

"it's symbolic, and my pockets are warm." he said with a shrug.

you snorted, cracking it open anyway. "symbolic of what?"

he leaned in, grinning. "symbolic of my undying generosity."

the banter was... familiar. safe. you took a long swig of the banana milk.

beomgyu watched you, amused. "so?" he prompted. "do i get a review? on the—"

he gestured vaguely at his head,

"—new me?"

"it's hair. it'll grow back."

"devastating review. zero stars."

"you asked."

he sighed dramatically, but his eyes were laughing. "come on," he said, nudging your shoulder with his. "we're going to be late."

the knock on the apartment door was firmer than intended, and you immediately regretted not just texting beomgyu to meet you outside. but no, you had to return his stupid textbook in person—the one he'd left at your place weeks ago, the one you could've easily slipped into his bag during class.

the door swung open before you could overthink it further.

but it wasn't beomgyu.

soobin stood there, tall and unfairly composed, a low smirk spreading across his face as his eyes flicked from the book in your hands to your slightly startled expression.

"oh," he said, leaning against the doorframe like he'd been waiting for this moment. "you're the infamous hoodie thief."

you blinked. "i—what?"

he didn't answer. instead, he turned his head just slightly and called over his shoulder, voice dripping with amusement, "beomgyu! your crush is here!"

a loud crash sounded from somewhere inside the apartment—a thud, a hissed curse, the frantic scrambling of someone who had definitely just tripped over something.

then, beomgyu appeared, breathless, his hair sticking up in three different directions, his shirt inside-out. his eyes locked onto yours, wide and panicked, before he whipped his head toward soobin.

"i will end you."

soobin didn't budge. "you were literally just complaining that she hadn't texted you back yet," he said, gleeful.

beomgyu's head snapped toward soobin, "i was talking about— uh about something else."

"sure," soobin said, stepping aside, but not without adding. "he was moping, it was pathetic."

beomgyu looked like he was considering murder. "soobin."

his head turned to you. "—uh. hey." he said, his usual lazy grin plastered onto his face as his eyes met yours, yet you could notice his embarrassment through his facade.

soobin, entirely unbothered, leaned toward you and stage-whispered, "he spent twenty minutes trying to pick an outfit before you texted—yet failed."

beomgyu moved faster than you thought possible, lunging forward to hook an arm around soobin's neck, dragging him into a headlock, regardless of their height difference. "i regret ever introducing you to oxygen," he growled, ears noticeably pink—especially after his haircut.

you held out the textbook. beomgyu finally released soobin, who staggered away, cackling. his fingers swiftly touching yours, warm yet rough—from guitar strings.

the contrast sent a stupid traitorous shiver down your spine.

"thanks," beomgyu muttered, tucking the book under his arm. his gaze flicked over your face like he was searching for something.

silence stretched between you, thick and awkward.

soobin cleared his throat. "well, this is painful," he announced. "i'm getting coffee. beomgyu put on a shirt that isn't inside-out."

the door clicked shut behind him, leaving the two of you standing there, the air between you suddenly charged.

beomgyu exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "ignore him," he muttered. "he thinks he's funny."

you swallowed. "is he wrong?"

beomgyu stilled. his eyes met yours, dark and unreadable. "about what?"

"the moping, the outfit dilemma." you said, voice softer than you intended.

a second, just a second.

then beomgyu huffed a laugh, shaking his head, "you're worse than soobin," he said, but there was no bite to it. just something warm, something that curled low into your stomach.

he didn't deny it.

the cafe door jingled as you stepped inside, the familiar scent of espresso and vanilla wrapped around you like a worn-in sweater. you're fifteen minutes late—fashionably, you told yourself, though really, you spent too long staring at your phone, rereading beomgyu's last text.

beomgyu: you better show up. i stole the good table.

since mid winter break, your mind has been occupied—with beomgyu—even if you denied him in your head, he always came back, and on some days he never left.

soobin spotted you first, slouched on a stool at the counter, stirring iced coffee with a warm smile. "took you long enough. beomgyu's been sulking since noon."

your chest fluttered—something so trivial, moved your heart easily—he was sulking. he waited.

—but then you followed soobin's gaze to the corner booth. the one with the chipped table leg and the outlet that only works if you jiggle the cord just right. our usual table.

beomgyu wasn't alone.

୨♡୧ part one / part two / part three / bonus ୨♡୧

© bangtanbeom 2025

[bratzsturns]

again and again.

warnings; smut, angst, no happy ending. not proofread; lowercase intended.

part two of disregard.

the next week was absolute hell. your brother avoided you, acting as if you were completely fucking transparent every time he walked by you in the hallways of your shared home. that didn’t happen much anyway, you spent most of your time in your bedroom.

you sobbed into the sheets once shared with matt, holding onto the shirt that contained his lingering scent. you felt disgusted with yourself every time you heard matt’s words replay in your head. the worst part though? you didn’t hate him, god, no, you fucking missed him.

your memories on snapchat haunted you, filled with photos of you and matt. you two laughing at nate, watching movies together, or even just him sleeping on your bare chest before you woke him to leave so he didn’t get seen by nate. your gut twisted every time you opened your phone unaware to whatever heartbreak you would encounter today.

finally you were resting. your sleep schedule had been so fucked from all the nights you spent staring at the ceiling, wondering where you fucked up. you were woken up by a text message. the notification caught you off guard. as your eyes adjusted to the bright light of your screen, the contact name finally focused into view.

‘matt 💘.’

you checked the time: 3:25 am. the moonlight shining into your room as your brows furrowed while you clicked on the message. your heart pounded in your chest, what could he want?

‘u up?’

oh. could be worse. you typed back a response, nails clicking against the illuminated screen.

‘yea’

your reply was short and simple. as you finally started to wake up, your phone went off again. you couldn’t help the way you opened his message immediately, it was almost like it was instinct.

‘alr wyd’

was he serious? he completely destroyed you, and now he has the fucking nerve to ask what your doing? anger didn’t flood your body, instead feelings of confusion took over. you couldn’t hate matt, you didn’t have it in you. you knew you couldn’t stand on business, matt did too. he abused his power over you, using it to manipulate his way back into your life multiple times.

‘just woke up, hbu?’

the next few minutes are long, you sit at your phone waiting for a reply. you know he read the message, so why go MIA now? you sigh, setting your phone down and picking at your nails. after a while of staring up at the ceiling, your phone pings again. you fumble to pick it up, shocked when you see not a text from matt, but instead a video.

matt’s holding the camera at angle that allows you to see all the dirty details. his jaw lingers at the top of the screen while his hands fist his cock desperately at the bottom. his tips red, hand working at a speed you’ve never seen before. his groans filling up the sound of your room while you turn up your volume.

wetness pooled in your panties immediately. you felt filthy. you were broken away from that thought by matt’s voice. ‘f-fuck- miss you so much baby. can’t cum the same way i do when im with yo-you’ he whines out. you can feel your face go red as you keep yourself from reaching down into your soaked panties.

‘’m so- so sorry for everything sweetheart’ he cries out, biting his lip to contain his groans. ‘wanna show you how sorry i am, please’ his tones apologetic, but it’s covered by his need. matt’s jaw clenches whilst his thumb rubs over his tip.

‘shit- ‘m so close baby. can’t stop thinking about you—how pretty you are when you take me. can’t stop thinking about the way your eyes roll back while i eat that pussy; my pussy.’ the camera pans up a bit more, allowing you to see matt’s flushed expression.

‘just-‘ a whine escapes his lips ‘just kiss you, everything about you. ‘m gonna c-cum! fuck-‘ the video cuts. your soaked, thighs pressing together as your body begs for some sort of relief. you break, typing back a response as quickly as possible.

‘come over, i’ll let you in the back door’

read 3:37 am.

after 15 minutes pass, you receive a message from matt that he’s outside. you walk out your room, carefully sneaking down the steps and to the back door in your kitchen. outside the door stands matt, in just grey sweats and a baggy hoodie.

‘matt, i mi-‘ your cut off by matt’s lips on yours. he puts one hand on your cheek, using the other one to close the back door quietly. his kiss is hungry, tongue slipping into your mouth as you kiss back. his hands now travel to your waist.

he pulls away, tightening his grip on your waist. ‘jump’ he speaks, tone demanding. you listen, jumping up and wrapping your legs around his waist as he holds you against him tight. he kisses you again, leading you up the steps into your bedroom. he pushes your door open quietly, using his foot to close it.

he practically throws you onto the bed, throwing his hoodie over his head and onto the floor. he leans down and pulls up your small top, the way your tits bounce captivating him for a moment. ‘fuck, missed this so much’ he mumbles, placing kisses down your chest until he reaches your nipples. he pops the sensitive bud into his mouth, rolling his tongue over it.

your back arches off the soft sheets beneath you. ‘fuck- matt’ you tangle your hands into his hair and tug on it softly. he releases your nipple with a soft ‘pop’ sound, kissing his way down your stomach. ‘lemme show you how sorry i am, please sweetheart?’

you nod, working with matt to remove the small shorts you had on. your panties and shorts are discarded into the pile on the floor, matt kissing your inner thigh. you feel his stubble rubbing against you, the feeling only adding to your desire. ‘please’ you beg, legs already threatening to shut.

matt suddenly grips your thighs ‘keep your fuckin legs open.’ his grip is so tight your sure you’ll have his finger marks on you for the next 2 weeks. ‘’m sorry’ you whine, looking down at the blue eyed man between your thighs.

‘good girl’ he finishes kissing up your thighs, tongue coming into contact with where you desperately need him. soft whines slip past your lips as he works his muscle in between your wet folds. he groans out against you, the vibrations sending you to another dimension. ‘taste so sweet, missed this fuckin pussy’ his voice is muffled by your wet cunt, your juices already covering his mouth.

‘fuck- feels so good matt’ you mewl. you hated the way you missed his tongue, fuck you just hated the way you missed him. matt took your hand into his, intertwining your fingers. the action was small, but it made the moment feel much more gentle, and genuinely intimate.

as matt continued to work his tongue in your folds, your orgasm crept its way up. with a final flick of his tongue, the coil in your stomach snapped. your nails scratched against his scalp as a loud moan escaped your mouth. you couldn’t give two fucks about your brother who was only two rooms over.

matt came back up, his skin glistening with your arousal. he releases your hand to cup your face gently, pulling you into a kiss. your saliva intertwines with a mix of his and your own cum, the taste sitting on your tongue.

matt pulls back and fumbles with his sweatpants, not even bothering to take them off. he pulls out his cock, which still shocks you just as much as it did the first time. he takes his leaking tip and rubs it against your wet slit, using it to mix together his spit and your cum.

you gasp at the touch, body jolting with pleasure. ‘please matt, jus’ put it in’ you beg, voice barely above a whisper. matt lets out a low chuckle at your words. ‘speak up sweetheart, can’t hear you.’

you repeat yourself, this time louder ‘put it in i nee’you so bad.’ he smirks, ramming his length into you. you cry out, arching your back off the sheets. you reach up, digging your manicured nails into the soft skin of matt’s shoulders. you run your hands down his arms, leaving faint red marks along his biceps.

‘fuckin missed this—missed you baby’ he groans out, putting his head down beside yours to kiss your neck. matt continues pounding into you, leaving red marks on the soft skin of your neck. he inhales your scent, a mix of perfume and sex sitting on your skin. your perfume alone was enough to make him cum, but he held it— wanting to enjoy this moment for as long as possible.

‘’s too much! matt- fuck! ‘m sensitive’ you whine into matt’s ear, soft moans slipping past your lips. the room was silent, aside from the sounds of skin slapping together. matt’s hips pounded into you, making your brain go fuzzy.

it was all too much, the overwhelming sensations making you completely brain dead. the only thing you could focus on was the sounds of matt groaning in your ear. ‘sound so pretty, keep making those pretty noises baby- fuck’

your orgasm was approaching quickly. every thrust with matt’s tip kissing your cervix had you clawing at him. he held your hips in place with a firm, harsh grip. he didn’t care if it hurt you, he couldn’t have you running from him.

as matt continued to fuck into you, pulling up your ankle and placing it on his shoulder, he hit a new spot. you cried out, eyes rolling back as drool dripped down the side of your chin. your body began to tremble, thighs practically vibrating.

you felt an unfamiliar and unexpected sensation; almost like you needed to pee. you tried to claw your way out of matt’s grip, pushing back on his chest but his grip was just too tight. before you could warn him, a clear liquid gushed out of you.

‘holy shit- that’s fuckin right squirt f’me baby. such a good girl’ his voice sent shivers down your spine as he continued his thrusts. matt’s orgasm followed almost directly after yours—pumping you full of his cum.

filling you up another two times, matt pulled out. your ass was still in the air as his cum leaked out of your wet cunt. matt admired his work, spreading your folds to look at the mess he made. ‘shit- look at that. look how pretty this pussy is when i breed it.’

your face turned red as you sat up. you were spent, you don’t think you even had another orgasm in you. but matt? still rock hard. he noticed the way your eyes wandered down to his hard cock that was pressed flush against his stomach. ‘wanna suck me before i go baby? have me cum all on that pretty face?’

you shake your head, you had an even better idea in mind. you push your tits together, leaning down and pushing matt’s wet dick in between them. ‘what are you-‘ matt’s cut off as you start to move up and down, using your tits to get him off.

‘that’s it baby- fuck- look at me.’ he growls, grabbing a handful of your hair and making you look up at him through your eyelashes. there was something about the way your eyes looked so dazed, so fucked out, that drove matt insane. he stared down at you hungrily, thrusting his sensitive length to help him finish faster.

hot, thick ropes of cum shot out of matt’s cock, landing on your chest and your face. matt let out a long and desperate whine, continuing to fuck your tits through his orgasm. as he pulls back, he stands and grabs a towel from the corner of the room, wiping his cock off. he tosses it onto the bed while beginning to put his clothes back on.

‘i’ll let myself out’ his tone is cold, completely different from the honey-laced voice he had just a moment ago. ‘oh,’ you mumble ‘i missed you-‘ matt doesn’t even listen, walking out of your bedroom.

the nose of your bedroom door woke up your brother. nate wasn’t a light sleeper, but his body always naturally woke him up early. he rolled over, noticing the time on the clock; 6:25 am. he wondered why you’d be up so early. stretching, he stands up out his bed when he hears the front door shut.

nate’s room was almost directly above the front door, his window giving him a perfect view of the sidewalk in front of his house. he peeks out the blinds, noticing not you walking but his best friend. you’ve got to be fucking kidding him.

fuming, nate walks over to your door. he knocks to make sure you’re decent. you walk to the door, hair messy and back into your pjs from before ‘huh?’ you pretend to rub the sleep out your eyes. nate’s jaw is clenched and so are his fists. ‘who just left?’

you try to act confused, but your brother knows you better than anyone. ‘no one?’ you question, a look of mock confusion taking over your features. ‘don’t bullshit me kid, who just left?’

‘nate, you’re fucking crazy—no one was here’ you go to shut the door, but nate uses his foot to block it. ‘matt was here. i just watched him drive away, how are you gonna fuckin deny that?’ he raises his voice, his angry tone now showing.

‘he’s not shit—you know that right?’ nate scoffs in disbelief at you ‘he literally told you to your face you didn’t mean shit to him, and you just let him over? are you so fucking serious?’

‘you don’t understand shit nate, i love him and he loves me. you don’t have to like it, it just is what it is.’ you push nate’s foot and slam your door. you climb back into your bed, grabbing your phone to text matt.

‘nate saw u leave he’s pissed’

read 6:29 am.

‘i missed you so much’

read 6:29 am.

‘matt??’

read 6:29 am.

silence. you know he read the messages, why wasn’t he responding? you try to call him, hoping that’ll get you an answer.

(3) outgoing call; ‘matt 💘.’

6:30 am.

6:32 am.

6:45 am.

finally, a notification.

‘bro stop blowing my phone up. i don’t want you 😂’

part three here.

angel speaks 🪽; lowk might make this an au and a series idk

[justarkive]

TABLE 3 | JJK ch16

“For good service, and cute waitresses.”

pairing: pre!military jk x waitress/secret fuckbuddy!oc

overall warnings: smut, profanity, angst, humour, fluff, celebrity au, idol!jungkook , mentions of other kpop groups/idols, inner conflict, insecurity.

chapter contents: ANGST. like the whole thing is angst lol. jungkook cries for like 90% of this chapter. nari is SO fucking angry omg. oc breaks tf down. the chapter weve all been dreading is here </3 idk but its just like super angsty and sad im sorry lmfao

wc: not thattt long

this fic is not meant to represent the real jungkook or any other characters mentioned!

taglist: @jenniebyrubies @dreamersparacosm @darklove2020 @rayyrayy10 @elinaki92 @alana4610 @bjoriis @kaitieskidmore97 @cuntessaiii

a/n: rushed to get this out, and this is like prob the worst part of the story to rush. so im very very sorry if this didnt meet expectations cause it didnt really meet mine, but imma be busy for a bit. but ANYWAYS!! tysm for reading and ILY MWAHH. also pre warning to my smut lovers… there wont be much for a while. LMFAO.

masterlist, < prev | next >

“Jungkook, honey, when will you be enlisting?”

The question lands like a gunshot.

Jungkook tenses immediately. His brain spins.

He knew this was coming.

You see it happen—his grip on his chopsticks tightening, his whole body subtly stiffening, like he’s bracing himself. Like he’s debating whether to lie.

For a fleeting second, he considers lying. The words I haven’t decided yet are right there, waiting on his tongue—

But he can’t.

Not in front of your parents.

Not in front of you.

Before he can say anything, Nari—who has now fully given up on finishing the food your parents have shoved in front of her—speaks up, still looking a little sick.

“Oh, Auntie,” she pauses, tilting her head. “I swear idols don’t have to enlist? And Jungkook—well—he’s definitely more than just a damn idol.”

“Nari! Language!” your mom whisper-shouts.

“Sorry, sorry,” she mutters.

You snort, but then—

Your dad hums, turning to Jungkook with an easy grin. “You didn’t apply for exemption, did you? Too many idols these days are lazy, trying to avoid it.”

Jungkook’s head is ringing. His hands are clammy.

This was not how he wanted to tell you.

He tries to keep his composure, but his fingers twitch against his jeans as he stares down at his plate, trying—failing—to find the right response.

You tilt your head, and Jungkook exhales, thankful that you’re stalling unintentionally, but his heart aches at how oblivious you are for whats about to come. “Dad, I swear you didn’t enlist?”

Your dad gasps, hand over his heart. “What?! Honey, don’t expose me like that!”

You giggle.

But your dad cuts in. “Nari, honey, they can apply for exemption.” He smirks. “But Jungkook here doesn’t seem like the type, so I doubt he would.”

You let out a breathy chuckle at his tone—but Jungkook? doesn’t even react.

You glance over at him, confused.

And that’s when you notice, he’s staring down at his plate. Picking at his food. Shoulders tight.

Then, finally—

“Yeah…” His voice is quiet. “I didn’t apply.”

A weird, unsettling feeling starts creeping up your spine.

It’s fine, you think. You guess.

You try not to read into it.

Your mom beams. “Oh, how wonderful!”

Your dad nods approvingly. “Good son! It’s only right. Too many try to weasel their way out of it these days.” He claps Jungkook on the back, and Jungkook barely sways from the impact.

You don’t think too much of it at first.

But—

Why didn’t you know about this?

It’s not like you talk about the military all the time, but still. Something like this—you’d think he would have mentioned it.

So, you ask, all casual, assuming, “It’s not soon, right?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer.

The whole table listens in, but Nari—now more alert—watches him intently. Probably just as confused as you are. Your parents are still oblivious, still smiling, still talking, but Jungkook—

He’s pale.

Fidgety.

His hand curls into a tight fist on his thigh.

And then, “December 12th.”

That’s-

Three weeks.

Your mom gasps in admiration. “That’s so soon! You must be so prepared, Jungkook, honey!”

Your dad grins. “Oh this is great! We need more like you!”

They praise him. Clap him on the back. Smile and celebrate and talk about how proud they are of him.

But you—

You can’t hear any of it.

Your world has just—stopped.

December 12.

December 12.

That’s in—

Your stomach drops.

Your heartbeat slams in your ears.

Because he’s known. He’s known this entire time. And he never told you.

You feel Nari stiffen beside you.

You feel Jungkook’s eyes on you.

You feel the weight of every moment you’ve spent with him, every touch, every kiss, every look—

And suddenly, they all feel different.

Your mom is oblivious, still smiling.

Your eyes flick to Nari, who is already looking at Jungkook with pure anger.

Jungkook?

Jungkook doesn’t even try to meet your gaze anymore.

He looks down, fingers tightening around his jeans, jaw clenched, face tense.

And you?

You don’t look at him, either.

You can’t. Because if you do. If you let yourself feel—

This whole moment will collapse.

The realization. The pure fucking heartbreak. The slow, suffocating understanding that he’s known all along. That he’s been lying to you this entire time.

Your stomach churns. Your chest tightens. It feels like the room is spinning.

In the background—

Your dad is still praising him.

Your mom is smiling.

They don’t know.

They don’t know that you’re sitting here, staring at the man you’ve been falling for, realizing he let you fall knowing he was going to leave. And he didn’t tell you.

You don’t say anything. Because you can’t.

Because if you open your mouth, you’ll either scream or cry, and you don’t know which one is worse.

You sit there. Expression neutral. Heart in pieces. And for the rest of dinner, you pretend everything is fine.

Because what else can you do?

“Honey this is amazing!” your mom praises. “You should be so proud of yourself sweetheart. Not enough idols do this nowadays. They’re too lazy—but you! You’re different.”

Your dad grins. “Good for you, kid. That’s real responsibility.”

Jungkook forces a smile, nodding politely. “Thank you…”

But. You don’t say anything. You can’t. Because everything in you has just—stopped.

He’s not joking. He’s not lying.

And when you glance across the table. Nari is staring back at you, frozen. Expression blank.

Because she knows. She knows what this means.

You swallow thickly, blinking a few times before finally forcing yourself to react—plastering on a small, tight-lipped smile. Your mom notices. “Oh, honey, did you not know?”

You make the mistake of glancing at Jungkook.

And the second you do, your stomach twists, because he’s looking right at you. And there’s something in his expression—guilt, maybe?

You don’t know. You don’t want to know.

So you tear your gaze away, forcing out a quiet, “No.”Your smile is strained. “I didn’t.”

But your parents don’t notice anything wrong at all. They don’t notice how he’s broken your heart into a million pieces and thrown it onto the fucking plate.

“Oh, sweetheart, you should be proud of him,” your mom says, nudging your arm. “That’s real dedication.”

Your dad nods. “Yeah, not like these new idols. Always finding loopholes to get out of it.”

Jungkook laughs a little, though it’s barely there. “Right…”

You don’t look at him. You don’t dare. The conversation shifts.

Your parents are still chatting away, completely oblivious, but the air at the table has turned suffocating.

Jungkook is tense.

Nari is pissed, sending him quiet but absolutely lethal glares between sips of water she’s clearly no longer enjoying.

And you?

Your ears are ringing.

Every sound feels distant, like you’re underwater, like you’re not really here. Your mom’s voice is coming from somewhere—she’s asking you something, something about your job, your life, your well-being. You try to answer. You swear you try.

But everything in you is screaming to just—leave. Because the longer you sit here, the more you feel like you might snap.

Jungkook keeps trying to look at you. You can feel it, the weight of his gaze burning into the side of your face. But you don’t look back. You can’t.

Finally. After what feels like hours, your parents get up. Your mom claps her hands. “Alright, we should get going.”

Your dad nods. “Yeah, it’s getting late.”

You almost sag in relief.

But then, it’s time for goodbyes.

And your parents never leave quickly, your mother—God bless her—takes another ten minutes to actually leave.

They offer to help clean up. “No, Auntie, it’s okay,” Nari says so fast that it’s almost aggressive. She stands abruptly, already stacking plates, ushering them toward the door like a damn bouncer.

Your mom takes her sweet time hugging you, kissing your cheek, stroking your hair like you’re a child. “Take care of yourself, honey, okay?”

Your dad is just as bad, clapping Jungkook on the back, laughing at something he says.

And then—

Right before they leave—

For the first time all night—you look at him.

He stands frozen, stiff as a board, as your dad extends a hand. Jungkook hesitates. And then, slowly, he takes it.

It’s an easy handshake at first. But then your dad’s grip tightens, his free hand coming up to clasp Jungkook’s shoulder.

A grin. A squeeze.

And then, “Treat her right, son.”

Something snaps. Jungkook swallows so hard you hear it.

You almost break. Your vision blurs. Your chest tightens. For a split second, your heart begs you to stop. To not let this ruin everything.

Silence.

Jungkook stiffens beside you, but you don’t even glance at him.

You just—nod.

Then, finally—finally—the door swings shut.

And then—

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” Nari screams, running a hand through her hair. The sound shatters through the air, echoing off the walls, rattling your bones.

You flinch—because she’s loud, yes—but also because you feel it. All of it. All at once.

Your entire body crumbles.

Tears spill down your cheeks so fast, so violently, that your vision swims. Your breath catches—hitches—and then you’re gasping.

Jungkook is shocked.

Because this? this is worse than he imagined.

He expected you to yell. To curse him out. To demand answers. But this? This silent, broken kind of crying?

This hurts so much more.

And the worst part? He did this to you.

Jungkook barely breathes. You barely stand.

The weight of it all—the realization, the betrayal, the embarrassment—is crushing you.

Your chest tightens. Your throat burns.

And Nari? Nari is just getting started.

“When the fuck were you planning on telling her this?!” she shrieks, hands shaking, voice cracking. “Were you just gonna disappear one day? Huh? Just vanish without a goddamn word?”

Jungkook flinches.

But he doesn’t speak.

“How could you even come here today?” she hisses, stepping closer. “Meet her fucking parents? You embarrassed her, and I fucking hate you for it, Jungkook.”

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t fight back.

Because what could he even say? He just—stands there. Takes it.

But his eyes—his eyes never leave you. You, who hasn’t spoken a single word. You, who is just standing there—staring at the floor, trembling.

You, who looks like you’re about to collapse.

But Nari—she isn’t done.

“I actually thought you were good,” she spits, voice shaking with rage. “I actually thought—maybe, just maybe—you weren’t like the rest of them. But this? This is worse.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenches. His hands shake.

“Did you plan this all along?” she demands.

“No,” he whispers.

It’s all he can say.

Because anything else would be a lie.

“That’s it?!” Nari’s voice shatters. “That’s all you have to fucking say?!”

And then—

Jungkook moves. Takes a step toward you. Reaches out.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes.

You flinch. Like his touch would burn you. Like he’s something you need to get away from.

Jungkook freezes.

His heart shatters more than it already has. But before he can even process it—

“DON’T FUCKING TOUCH HER!” Nari screams. “SORRY WON’T FUCKING FIX THIS!”

And then— You break.

“Get out.” Your voice rips from your throat, raw, quiet, desperate.

Jungkook stares.

He saw this coming. He knew this was coming.

And yet. Somehow, he’s still surprised.

Because this—this is final.

This is you letting go.

And he can’t accept it.

“Wait,” he chokes, voice frantic, desperate. “Please—”

But you? You just—give up. Your knees buckle. Your body collapses. And suddenly—Nari snaps.

“You fucking heard her.”

And before Jungkook can even think, before he can even breathe, Nari shoves him back.

Pushes him toward the door.

“Go.”

Jungkook is begging.

“Please,” he gasps, trying to look at you, trying to reach for you. “Baby, please—”

But you—

You don’t look at him.

“Don’t fucking call-“ You turn away.

And then, the door slams shut.

The loudest sound in the room isn’t your sobs anymore—it’s the door clicking shut. His scent lingers, his touch still lingers, and the memory of his eyes when he begged you, his voice soft- begging as he called you “baby,” is burned into your mind.

Nari is beside you, her anger radiating, palpable in the air.

Outside

Jungkook doesn’t move. His forehead rests against the door, fingers curled into fists at his sides. His chest is heaving. His vision is blurring.

He’s begging.

Not out loud—no, because he knows that won’t work.

But in his head—inside his breaking, desperate heart— He’s begging.

“Please open the door.”

“Please say this was a joke.”

“Please tell me this isn’t real.”

He selfishly hopes you’ll open the door with that same smile on your face. Your eyes swollen from crying, your face puffy, but still, he imagines you pulling him in, kissing him like you always do, running your fingers through his hair the way you did earlier, and telling him, “I’m not mad at you, stupid. You’re such a dumbass, stop crying.”

But, he knows it’s real.

He knows he fucked up. Selfishly, he craves just one more minute, hoping somehow you’ll give in, even though he knows it’s impossible. He should’ve told you. He fucking knows it.

God, he just wants one more chance. Just one more minute to make things right. His breath is shaky, uneven as he tilts his head back against the wood, squeezing his eyes shut.

From inside—

He hears you.

And his whole world stops.

Inside

On the inside, you sit against the door, still sobbing, your mind racing through everything you two have shared. How fucking real it all felt. For him to just end it like that—it doesn’t make sense. You thought you had more time, that you could actually do this with him. But he fucked up. You can’t figure out what else to do, what to think.

Legs curled up, fingers clutching the fabric of your sweater, tears streaming down your face.

You shouldn’t be here.

You should be angry, should be yelling, should be hating him with everything in you.

But instead?

You’re waiting.

Waiting for him to knock.

Waiting for him to say it was all a prank, that he somehow set this up with your parents, that this isn’t really happening—

That he isn’t leaving.

But— He doesn’t.

And Nari? Nari sees it all.

“Oh my fucking God,” she snaps. “Y/N, get the fuck UP.”

You flinch.

But you don’t move. You can’t.

“Are you serious right now?” she demands. “Are you actually serious? After everything? After all of this? You’re still sitting there waiting for him like a fucking sad puppy?!”

Your fingers tighten around your sleeves.

Your breath shudders. Because she’s right.

You hate that she’s right. But it doesn’t stop you from wanting him anyway.

Outside

Jungkook can hear everything. The muffled sounds of Nari yelling.

The tiny, broken sounds of you crying.

And suddenly, he can’t breathe. His throat tightens. His fingers dig into his hair as his body shakes, as his mind races. “What the fuck did I do.”

It’s hitting him now. All of it.

The way you flinched from his touch. The way you collapsed the second he walked out the door. The way you haven’t opened it since.

The reality of it all. That he was always going to hurt you. That this was always going to end this way. That you—the one person who ever made him feel normal, made him feel safe, made him feel like just Jungkook and not fucking BTS Jungkook—

You’re gone. And he did it. He did this.

Inside

You wipe at your face, sniffing, eyes puffy, throat raw. But you don’t move from the door.

Even though you know he’s not coming back. Even though you know this is over. Even though you should hate him—

You don’t.

You still love him.

And that’s the worst part of all. Because even after all of this— Even after everything—

You still would have chosen him.

Outside

Jungkook isn’t crying anymore.

Not because it doesn’t hurt. Not because he isn’t breaking apart, piece by piece, on this very doorstep. But because— He feels numb.

Like his body has shut down entirely.Like his mind has accepted what his heart refuses to. Like he knows there’s nothing left to say.

But still. He doesn’t leave. Instead, he sits there. Back against the door. Knees drawn up. Eyes red. Ears straining.

Because he knows he shouldn’t, but he listens. Selfishly.

Desperately.

Pathetically clinging onto the last part of you he has left:

Your voice.

Inside

The silence is loud. It’s heavy.

It hangs over the room like thick smoke—like something toxic, something suffocating, something that lingers in your lungs long after the damage is done. You’re not crying anymore.

Neither is Nari screaming. But she’s still fuming. Still pacing. Still muttering under her breath, hands clenching at her sides, voice low and dangerous.

“He’s dead to me.”

You exhale.

And then—

“Nari, please stop.” Your voice is hoarse. Tired. Defeated. And just like that—

Nari softens. She hesitates for a moment, then sighs, sinking down next to you, knees brushing. Her anger is still there, simmering just beneath the surface.

But right now?

Right now, she’s more concerned about you.

You just laugh. A broken, breathless, manic little laugh, something that barely even sounds like you.

“I think I fell in love with him.” Unsteady. Blurted.

Like you’re just now realizing it yourself.

Like the words are only just now settling into your bones, taking root in your chest, hitting you with full force.

Nari exhales.

She looks at you, something soft behind her gaze.

“Wow,” she murmurs. “You’re just now realizing?”

You don’t answer. You just blink, staring blankly ahead, expression unreadable.

Outside

Jungkook breaks all over again. Because he hears it. Every word. Every breath. And he knows he has no right to. But still. He presses his forehead against the door. Shuts his eyes. And cries. Harder.

——

Jungkook stays longer than he should.

Longer than makes sense.

Longer than is reasonable, considering he’s not even sure if he’s breathing at this point, or if his body is just running on pure muscle memory—just existing on this doorstep like it’s the last place he’ll ever belong.

A door creaks.

A neighbor steps out, and old man who clearly isn’t happy about the commotion, barely sparing him a glance before walking back inside.

And then another.

And another.

And soon, Jungkook realizes, people are staring.

Of course they are.

Of course the guy hunched over on the doorstep, looking like he just got physically wrecked by the universe, is gonna get some attention.

Finally, he forces himself to move. To stand. To leave.

His legs feel like they’re made of lead.

His head is still spinning.

But he shoves his hands in his pockets, pulls his hoodie up over his face, and drags himself away—

From you. From everything.

And he doesn’t look back.

Not even once.

——

You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting there.

Time doesn’t feel real.

It feels like the air in the room is thick, like something heavy is pressing down on your chest, keeping you in place.

“Was it even…fucking real?” Your voice is sharp. Raw.

Loud enough that Nari actually flinches beside you, turning to face you with wide eyes. But you don’t stop. You can’t.

“Was this his fucking plan all along? Like, what was it? Was it all just—was it just—” You can’t even finish the sentence. You just shake your head, laughing bitterly, the sound more painful than anything else.

“Was any of it real?”

Nari stares at you.

And for the first time tonight—

She doesn’t have an immediate answer. Her lips part, like she wants to say something.

She exhales.

“I fucking hate him for this.”

Her voice is quieter now. Softer. Like the anger has dulled—like it’s settled into something else.

“But I know it was real.”

You freeze. You blink at her.

“What?”

“You’re blind, Y/N,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “Stop trying to make conclusions that aren’t there.”

Your chest tightens.

“Then—then why?” Your voice cracks.

And Nari exhales again, looking down.

“He was scared.” And the second the words leave her mouth, the second they sink in, you feel like the ground beneath you just— Collapses.

The room is unbearably quiet now.

Your tears have dried. Your breathing has evened out. Your body isn’t shaking anymore. But inside?

Inside, you still feel like you’ve been hollowed out and left to rot.

You stare at the ceiling, vision unfocused.

You can feel Nari beside you, sitting cross-legged on the couch which she’d dragged you to, scrolling through her phone like she isn’t still raging inside. Like she isn’t still thinking of all the ways she could actually kill Jungkook and make it look like an accident.

“Y/N.” Her voice is firm. You blink.

“Look at me.”

You do.

She sets her phone down, leveling you with a stare so serious that, for a second, you think she might actually be about to lecture you.

And, well—

You’re right.

“There is no way that shit was not fucking real.”

You exhale through your nose.

“Nari—”

“No, shut the fuck up, I’m talking.”

You blink at her.

“Jungkook did not spend all this time with you, did not look at you the way he did, did not literally put himself, his career at risk, just for it to be nothing,” she continues. “Do you hear yourself? Like, do you hear how insane you sound right now?”

You press your lips together.

“He was scared,” she says, softer now. “That’s it. That’s literally all there is to it. He was scared, and he was selfish, and he didn’t tell you because he didn’t want to deal with the fact that he had to fucking leave. That’s not an excuse, by the way, it’s just—” she exhales, shaking her head. “It’s just the truth.”

You don’t respond. You just stare at her.

“This was never just casual for him,” she mutters. “That’s not what you should be worried about.”

Your throat tightens.

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

Nari doesn’t have an answer. She stares at you. And then, “I don’t know.”

The two of you just—sit there.

Exhausted. Numb. Waiting for something—

Even though neither of you know what.

The silence lingers.

It settles into the room like dust—slow, heavy, inescapable.

Neither of you move for a long time.

You don’t cry anymore. Nari doesn’t rant anymore. The rage, the heartbreak, the tension—it’s all dulled into exhaustion, weighing down every inch of your body.

Eventually, though—

“Come on,” Nari murmurs.

You don’t react.

“Y/N.”

A hand nudges your arm.

“Let’s go to bed.”

You exhale.

Then, finally—finally—you move.

You don’t even bother freshening up. You don’t even turn on the lights. But— “No, bitch, you need to take off your makeup.”

You blink, disoriented, as Nari flicks on the bathroom light and drags you toward the sink. “You don’t wanna break out, do you?” she mutters, trying to act normal. Trying to lighten the mood.

You stare at your reflection, and you look…bad.

Your eyes are puffy. Your nose is red. Your lips are swollen from crying.

You just look tired.

Nari wets a cotton pad.

You don’t stop her as she presses it to your face, wiping away the remnants of your mascara.

You don’t say anything when she takes out your skincare, applying it carefully, murmuring little instructions like “Look up” and “This one says…hydration”—

Just like he did.

Your chest aches.

You pretend it’s him.

Pretend it’s his fingers against your skin. Pretend he’s standing in front of you, talking through every step, teasing you for not taking better care of your face.

Nari knows exactly what you’re doing.

But she doesn’t say anything.

She just keeps going.

And when she’s finished, she clicks off the light and pulls you into your room, not giving you the chance to be alone.

You don’t argue.

You just follow.

You both collapse onto your bed, and Nari doesn’t hesitate before wrapping her arms around you.

You cling to her tighter than you ever have before.

She doesn’t say anything about it.

Just lets you press your face into her shoulder, lets you shake against her, lets you hold on as if she’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

And even though Nari is always the first to knock out.

Tonight, she fights to stay awake.

She waits. She listens to your breathing slow, doesn’t move, doesn’t shift, doesn’t let go—

Not until she’s absolutely sure you’ve finally fallen asleep

[spencessocks]

bucky AND spencer??!!! are you my brain? my brain has a tumblr? but seriously im so happy you exist.

i was originally coming to say how in ‘through the silence’ the theme and the conversation could be the same (okay maybe just similar) with post prison spencer x reader and how he is trying to get back to reality and leave prison behind

love you xx

a/n: omfg what... im literally going to eat ur face... this sort of got a little longer than i intended and it took me a while because i was busy with work so im sorry!😭😭 but thank u so much omg i was reeling from this ask, ur so sweet and ilysm!!!

what remains

summary: after spencer returns from prison, the trauma he endured drives a wedge between him and the one person who loves him most.

pairing: postprison!spencer reid x reader

wordcount: 6.8k

warnings: sad spencer, sad reader, everyones sad, reader drinks like a sip of wine

the apartment is quiet when spencer walks in. it’s late—again. you don’t know where he goes, but he never offers, and you’ve stopped asking.

he drops his keys onto the counter with a dull clink, his shoulders heavy with exhaustion, and you watch from your place on the couch, heart aching at the sight of him. he looks different now. he's been home for months, but the man who walked through your door after prison isn’t the same one who left.

“hey,” you say gently, closing your book and setting it aside.

he glances at you but doesn’t hold your gaze for long. “hey.”

you swallow down the lump in your throat. “did you eat?”

“i'm not hungry.” his answer is clipped, automatic, the same response he’s given you almost every night since he’s been back.

you knew it wouldn’t be easy. that things would be different and he wouldn’t be the same. you had told yourself that over and over in the days leading up to his return, had braced yourself for the changes.

but you'd had hope—hope that, with time, things would settle. that he would come back to you—not just physically, but in the ways that mattered. that he would find his way back to the man he used to be, the man who used to curl up beside you on the couch, rambling about his latest case or a book he was reading. the man who used to laugh, used to smile, used to pull you into his arms like you were the safest place in the world.

but you had underestimated the impression this whole ordeal would leave on him.

it wasn't just in the way he carried himself, the way exhaustion clung to his frame or how the light in his eyes had dimmed. it was deeper than that. it was in the way he recoiled from touch when he used to seek it, in the way his voice lacked the excitement and curiosity it once held. in the distance that stretched between you, widening a little more each day, despite your best efforts to close it.

prison had carved something out of him, something you weren’t sure could ever be replaced. he had been home for months, but a harsh reality was starting to settle in you—that some wounds don’t heal the way you expect them to. some stay raw, lingering beneath the surface, invisible until they make themselves known in quiet moments—in the silence at the dinner table, in the way he avoids your gaze, in the way he flinches at your touch, in the walls he keeps building no matter how hard you try to tear them down.

he didn’t talk about what happened in there, and you didn’t press—even if sometimes curiosity clawed at you. but every laconic response, every empty stare, every night he disappeared without explanation told you more than words ever could. he was still there, trapped in a place you couldn’t seem to reach, and no matter how badly you wanted to, you weren’t sure you ever would.

you exhale slowly, measuring your words before speaking. "spencer, you know what i'm going to say." your voice is soft, careful, but it still makes him flinch, just barely.

"i'm fine," he mutters, turning away from you.

you hesitate, just for a moment, before the words slip out. a quiet, almost embarrassed whisper in the stillness of the room.

"will you at least sit with me for a little while?"

you regret the question the second it leaves your mouth, second-guessing yourself as soon as the vulnerability hits you. it sounds so small, so simple—sit with me, like it’s not asking for much, but in a way, it feels like you’re begging. you feel humiliation crawl up your neck.

"we don't have to talk," you add quickly, trying to soften the weight of your words. "we can just—"

"i'm tired," he interrupts, voice hollow. he’s already moving toward the bedroom, like he can't get away fast enough.

you stare blanky at him, his back already turned to you. you don't say anything. you can't. the words get stuck somewhere in your throat, tangled up with the shock and the sting of his dismissal. you just sit there, still as stone, the weight of his words settling over you like a thick, suffocating fog.

it shouldn't surprise you—this response, this distance, the way he shuts you out without a second thought. it’s been happening for weeks now, a slow unraveling of something that once felt unbreakable. and yet, it does surprise you.

because you still hoped—that he would just sit with you. that it couldn't possibly be that bad that your own husband couldn't sit on the the same goddamn couch as you.

you don’t know if your lack of response matters. maybe it does. maybe that’s why he hesitates in the doorway, fingers gripping the frame as if he's weighing his options. for a second, you think he might turn around, might give you something—anything. but then, just as quickly, he lets go and disappears into the darkness of the bedroom.

you sit there, motionless, as the door to the bedroom clicks shut behind him. the sound feels final, sharp.

the interaction plays in your head. "i'm tired."

the look on his face—or the lack of one. there’s nothing there. no fight, no frustration, not even the faintest trace of a desire to make things right.

you blink, once, twice, trying to shake the fog from your brain, but the shock is still there, thick in your chest. it’s like a pulse, steady and unrelenting, buzzing through your veins. you don’t know what to do with it. how to process it.

at this point, you can hardly recognize yourself. the person you used to be—before all this. you would have never let spencer walk away from that. you would’ve confronted him, spoken your truth, demanded that he listen. you were an opinionated person, it wasn't like you to let someone walk over you—spencer liked that about you. you would’ve never felt embarrassed by something so simple, so vulnerable, said to the man you loved.

the anger bubbles up, creeping through the shock like a slow poison, and suddenly, your skin feels tight. it feels wrong. how dare he? how can he just walk away, leave you in this empty room, in this awful, suffocating silence, after everything you’ve been through together?

surely, you wouldn't do this to him. that thought had crossed your mind before, only to be quickly pushed away by the reminder that you couldn't possibly know what he was going through—what he felt in that place.

but now, the thought clung to you, insistent, refusing to be ignored and with it came another. maybe he didn’t know how to let go of you—maybe he was too afraid to say the words, so instead, he kept hurting you without even realizing it. maybe he thought pulling away was easier than facing the truth. if the roles were reversed, you'd seek him out, wanting his comfort, his presence. so why wasn't he doing the same for you? why was he so unwilling to lean on you—when he had done it a million times before?

the pulse in your neck quickens, blood rushing, and you grip the edge of the couch, knuckles white. you don't even realize you're standing now, the instinct to do something, anything, pushing you forward. your breath comes quick and shallow as frustration and disbelief twist inside you like a knot that you can't untangle.

what are you supposed to do with this? what are you supposed to do when your own husband looks at you like you’re nothing—like you’re some kind of inconvenience he just can’t deal with tonight?

your body moves on its own, your legs carrying you to the door as if they have a will of their own—pyjamas and slippers be damned—the front door slams shut behind you with an almost violent finality. the apartment feels suffocating now, the weight of his absence, of his rejection, too much to bear. you need to leave.

you don’t bother to grab your phone. what would be the point? there’s nothing to say to him anymore—if he would even call. not when you’re standing on the edge of something you can’t even explain to yourself, a frustration and sadness mixing into something unrecognizable.

you walk fast, too fast, the cold air biting at your skin, and it helps. the briskness of the night, the sting of it, gives you a sense of purpose, something to focus on other than the gnawing emptiness inside you. you don’t want to sit in that silence any longer, don’t want to stew in your thoughts, trapped in that apartment where the echoes of your broken attempts at connection are suffocating.

jj’s place isn’t far—just a few blocks—but it might as well be a world away. the walk feels like an eternity, but it’s the only thing you can control right now. you don't have to think about spencer. you don’t have to think about him.

you find yourself at jj’s door, your breath coming out in white clouds, and for the first time tonight, you feel a brief flicker of something approaching relief. you knock twice, hard, before pulling back and pressing your forehead against the doorframe, closing your eyes, letting the coolness of it ground you. what the hell am i doing?

when she opens the door, her eyes widen at the sight of you, but she doesn’t ask. she doesn’t need to. she just steps aside, pulling you in with a soft, understanding smile.

“you okay?” she asks gently, though you know she already knows the answer.

you nod, but only because you don't trust your voice not to break if you speak. she doesn’t push, just closes the door behind you and leads you to the couch. you sit without a word, leaning back against the cushions, closing your eyes, and for the first time in what feels like months, you let yourself breathe.

jj moves toward the kitchen without a word, and you hear the familiar sound of glasses clinking, followed by the admittedly soothing pour of wine. she returns with a glass in each hand, her expression knowing. she hands you one and sits down beside you, settling into the cushions with the kind of ease that makes you wish you could do the same.

"talk to me,” she says, her voice quiet, but firm enough to break the silence that’s settled between you. it’s not a question, really—more like a gentle command, the kind that only someone who knows you can give.

you let out a breath, leaning back into the couch, staring at the ceiling for a moment, unsure where to even begin. everything feels like a mess. but her presence, her calm, makes you feel like you might find the strength to sort it out.

“spencer—" you stop yourself, the words catching in your throat. you shake your head, a laugh escaping your lips at the disbelief of your situation. "i don’t even know what to say anymore. i don’t know how we got here. it’s like i don’t even know who he is anymore.”

jj listens, her eyes steady, her hands wrapped around her own glass, but her gaze never wavers. she’s waiting. you know she won’t interrupt.

“i thought... i thought he’d come back to me, you know?” the words slip out before you can stop them, and the sadness that follows hits you harder than anything before. “i thought, with time, things would get better. that i could get him back, the way he was. but... it’s like he’s not even here anymore. i don’t know how to reach him. and when i try, it feels like he just shuts me out more.”

you swallow hard, feeling a sharp sting behind your eyes. it feels pathetic, but you can’t stop it now. you can’t stop the flood of everything that’s been building up, everything you’ve been trying to ignore.

“he’s gone, jj. and i don’t know how to be with someone who’s... not really here,” you say, your voice breaking on the last word.

jj doesn’t say anything at first, just lets you breathe, lets you sit with it for a moment. “i know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but he’s not gone. he’s just... changed. and change is hard. for both of you.”

you scoff softly, shaking your head. “i feel like i'm going crazy."

jj watches you carefully, her gaze unwavering as she processes your words. you feel exhausted—physically, emotionally—like the weight of the past few months has finally settled on your shoulders all at once.

jj studies you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. then, she exhales, setting her wine glass down on the coffee table. “you’re not crazy,” she says simply. “you’re grieving.”

that catches you off guard. you blink at her. “grieving?”

she nods. “yeah. you’re grieving the life you had before. the spencer you had before.” she pauses. “and maybe... the version of yourself that existed before all this.”

you open your mouth, but no words come out. you want to argue, to tell her it’s not that simple, that you’re not mourning spencer like he’s some lost cause, but—god—doesn’t it feel like that sometimes? doesn’t it feel like the person you knew, the person you loved, is slipping further and further away?

jj sighs, leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “i know what it’s like to watch someone you love disappear into themselves. to feel helpless while they struggle with something you can’t fix.” her voice is softer now, careful, like she’s walking a tightrope. “it’s terrifying.”

your fingers tighten around your wine glass. “so what do i do?” the question comes out more fragile than you want it to, barely above a whisper.

she’s quiet for a moment, thinking. “you—" her words are interrupted by an abrupt sound. jj’s phone is ringing, sharp and sudden in the quiet of the room. you flinch, your heart leaping into your throat before you even see the name on the screen. but you already know.

spencer.

panic grips you, fast and unrelenting, and before you can think, the words spill out. “don’t answer it.”

jj hesitates, glancing at the phone on the coffee table. the screen glows with his name, the sound vibrating between you like a living thing. “he’s your husband,” she says gently, but her fingers hover over the screen instead of answering.

“i don’t care,” you whisper, shaking your head. “please, jj. don’t.”

she studies you, eyes flicking over your face like she’s trying to gauge just how serious you are. if she picks up, you’ll have to hear him—his voice, his clipped tone, his inevitable question: where are you? and what then? you don’t have an answer.

jj sighs, silencing the call but not declining it. the ringing stops, but the silence that follows is almost worse.

“you know he’s worried,” she says carefully. “you left without your phone. you think he’s just going to let that go?”

you squeeze your eyes shut, gripping your glass like it’s the only thing tethering you to the moment. “i don’t know,” you admit. “i just—I can’t do this right now. fuck.”

jj shifts closer, her voice calm but firm. “running won’t fix this.”

you let out a short, bitter laugh. “staying hasn't."

she doesn’t have an answer for that.

jj watches you carefully, then sighs. “stay here as long as you need. but at some point, you have to decide—are you going home? or are you walking away?”

your arm is moving suddenly, the wine glass at your lips. her words settle over you like a weight. and for the first time, you realize—you don’t know.

jj's phone buzzes again, and you flinch at the sight of spencer’s name lighting up the screen. the call goes to voicemail, and for a few seconds, there’s nothing but silence.

the phone rings a second time. you can almost hear spencer’s voice in your head, the exact tone he always takes when he doesn’t know what to say.

“I’ll answer it,” jj says softly, but the words feel like a concession rather than a promise. she picks up the phone, and her thumb hovers over the screen.

you don’t stop her, but you wish you could. you wish you could shut everything down, turn it all off.

“spencer?” jj says, her voice calm, controlled.

you close your eyes, hearing his voice crackle through the speaker.

“jj... is she there?” spencer’s voice sounds worn, tight with something just beneath the surface. you can hear the familiar threads of guilt and concern tangled in his words. “i—i don’t know where she went. she just… she left without saying anything.”

jj looks at you, her expression unreadable. you can feel the heat of her stare on you.

“yeah, she's here.” jj finally responds, her words careful. “but she's not ready to talk to you right now, spencer.”

a long pause follows. you can hear spencer’s breath, shallow, like he’s holding something back.

“i just... i just need to know she's okay,” he says, the frustration and desperation clear in his voice. “please.”

you wince at the pleading in his words. it cuts through you in a way you hadn’t expected.

jj looks at you, her expression unreadable, before she glances down at the phone again. you can feel the heat of her stare on you.

“she’s fine,” jj says, with a note of finality. “but I think you need to give her some time. she’s been through a lot, spencer. you both have.”

“time?” Spencer’s voice cracks. “jj, i don’t—“

but she cuts him off. “i’m not getting in the middle of this. just... take care of yourself for now, okay? you’ll talk when she’s ready. she’ll come back when she’s ready.”

the phone goes silent for a moment, and then the faint click of the line disconnecting. jj pulls the phone away from her ear and sets it down on the coffee table with a soft sigh.

jj sits back, her gaze still trained on you, like she’s waiting for something.

the silence in the room feels heavier now. It presses against your chest, and the weight of it makes your thoughts swirl faster than they should. spencer’s voice still echoes in your mind—i just need to know she's okay. you don’t want to admit it, but the desperation in his words cuts deeper than you anticipated. you don’t want to feel guilty. but it settles over you, thick and unavoidable, as you sit on jj’s couch, the comfort of her presence fading into the background.

“he sounded worried,” you murmur, more to yourself than to jj.

she nods, watching you carefully. “of course he’s worried.”

you press your lips together, exhaling slowly. “i didn’t think he’d care that much.” the words taste bitter on your tongue, because the truth is, you had wanted him to care. you had wanted him to call, to ask where you were, to prove—at least to himself—that there was still something left between you worth saving.

and he did.

he did.

but now, sitting here, away from him, away from that apartment, the weight of your actions starts creeping in, cold and insidious.

you left.

you walked out without a word.

you knew what it was like to feel abandoned, to reach for someone and find nothing but empty space. and now you’ve done the same to him.

the realization makes your chest tighten, and suddenly, the fight, the frustration, the resentment—it all feels distant, overshadowed by something heavier. something closer to shame.

jj shifts beside you, her voice quiet but knowing. “you’re thinking about going back.”

you shake your head quickly. “i don’t know.” but it’s a lie. you do know.

you inhale sharply, pressing your palm to your forehead, trying to ground yourself. “god, what am I doing, jj?”

“you’re allowed to feel this, you know,” she says simply. “you’re allowed to be angry. to be hurt. to need space.”

you swallow hard, blinking down at your hands. they feel foreign to you, like they belong to someone else. “i just—” you hesitate, voice cracking slightly. “i just got so mad. he was so dismissive of me, and i couldn't be there anymore.”

“i know.”

you stare down at your lap, your fingers tightening around the fabric of your sweater.

you shake your head, guilt curling in your chest. “but that’s not me, jj. that’s not who I am. i don’t just… walk away. i got angry and i overreacted.”

she sighs. “one moment doesn't define you. things are different now. you've never been in a situation like this before,” she pauses. “sometimes you have to walk away, to get your thoughts in order."

"it would've been worse if you blew up at him." she added.

"i think i still might." you said with a dry laugh.

jj smiled slightly, her gaze softening as she leaned back, “you’ve always been the one to hold things together,” she said, her voice gentle but firm, as if trying to remind you that it was okay to break sometimes. “but you can’t hold it all in forever. and sometimes… sometimes you need space to breathe, to think. you don’t always have to be the strong one.”

you let out a breath, unsure of what to say next. jj was always good at cutting through the noise, but the guilt still sat heavily in your chest. you couldn’t escape the feeling that walking away—no matter how much you needed to—had been the wrong choice.

jj watches you for a moment, then leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “listen, i know it feels like you did something wrong by leaving, but you didn’t. you needed space. that’s not the same as giving up.”

you nod slowly, staring down at your hands, but you don’t respond.

jj sighs, then reaches over and squeezes your arm. "look, if there’s anyone who understands why you did what you did, it’s spencer. he has spent his life studying human behavior—figuring out how they think and why they do what they do. spencer knows exactly why you walked out, even if he won't admit it. he knows it was about needing space, about trying to make sense of everything that’s been building up between you.”

she pauses, giving you a reassuring look. “this isn’t the end. this is just a bump in the road—you'll go back when you're ready, and you'll start working through it all."

spencer knows why you left.

the thought lingers, easing the guilt that’s been clawing at you since you walked out. maybe that’s why he didn’t come after you. maybe, in his own way, he understood that you needed this moment to step back, to breathe, to process.

you hope—no, you need—to believe that he’s coming to his own realization. that in the quiet of your absence, in the stillness of an apartment that no longer holds your presence, he’s starting to understand. that maybe, just maybe, he’s replaying every word, every moment, and seeing where it all went wrong.

you want him to recognize that pushing you away was a mistake. that shutting you out, closing himself off instead of letting you in, only built more distance between you. and most of all, you hope he understands now—truly understands—that love isn’t about shutting doors, but about keeping them open, even when it’s hard.

the irony of the situation dawns on you. sitting here, hoping he comes to the right conclusion on his own, won’t change anything. no matter how hurt or frustrated you are, you know one thing for certain—you aren’t going to push him away the way he did to you.

you glance at jj, her eyes soft with understanding, and suddenly, you don’t feel as lost as you did before.

“i have to go back,” you murmur, the words feeling right the moment they leave your lips.

jj studies you for a moment before nodding. “yeah, i figured.” there’s no judgment in her voice, only quiet support.

you stand, but before you can say anything, jj speaks again. “i’m driving you.”

you blink at her. “jj, i can—”

"it’s late, and it’s cold,” she interrupts, crossing her arms. “and i know you. you’ll spend the entire walk overthinking, or worse, you’ll turn around and come right back here.”

you open your mouth to argue, but she raises an eyebrow, daring you to fight her on this. you sigh, giving in. “fine. i'll still overthink in the car though.”

jj smirks as she grabs her keys. "yeah, but at least this way, you’ll be overthinking with heated seats and no risk of getting hit by a rogue cyclist."

you roll your eyes, but there's a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "alright, alright. guess I’ll overthink in comfort then." you step outside, the weight of everything that’s about to unfold on your back.

the ride back is quiet, the streets nearly empty as jj navigates the familiar roads. you stare out the window, your finger spinning your wedding band, mind racing with all the possibilities of what comes next.

you wonder how it will be when you walk through that door. will he be surprised to see you? will he be angry? will he apologize? the questions swirl in your mind, but you push them aside—you'll find out in a few minutes either way.

jj pulls up in front of the apartment building and turns to you, her expression gentle. “you don’t have to fix everything tonight,” she reminds you. “just… put all your cards on the table. don't sugarcoat anything.”

you nod, feeling a mix of gratitude and nervous anticipation. "thank you, jj," you say softly, giving her a small smile. "i don’t know what i would’ve done without you tonight."

she smiles back, her eyes warm with understanding. "you’ll be fine. just be honest, that’s all you can do."

with a final nod, you push the door open, the cold air immediately hitting you as you step out onto the sidewalk. your heart is pounding in your chest, each step towards the apartment feeling heavier than the last.

you twist the handle, it's unlocked, but you hesitate before pushing the door open, gathering your courage in the silent hallway. when you finally step inside, the apartment is quiet—but not empty. a single lamp illuminates the living room, casting long shadows across the walls.

and there's spencer, sitting on the couch hunched over with his elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

he looks up at the sound of the door, and for a brief moment, his face is completely unguarded. relief washes over his features, followed quickly by something that looks almost like fear. he stands immediately, his movements stiff and uncertain.

"you came back," he says, his voice hoarse.

you close the door behind you, still standing near the threshold. "i started feeling guilty." you sighed, jj's voice in the back of your head—just be honest.

spencer swallows, his gaze flickering to the floor for a moment before meeting yours again. "guilty?" he repeats, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

spencer exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “you shouldn't feel guilty," he murmurs, then shakes his head. "i mean, it makes sense,” he says quickly, his words picking up speed.

“studies show that guilt is often a response to perceived moral transgressions rather than actual wrongdoing. it’s the brain’s way of enforcing social cohesion—an evolutionary mechanism designed to maintain interpersonal relationships by making us feel responsible for potential harm, even when no actual harm has been inflicted.”

you couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of disbelief and amusement as he rambled on. it was as if, in the middle of all this, the man you once knew had momentarily resurfaced. even if what he was saying wasn’t at all what you needed to hear right now, a part of you couldn't help but recognize the familiarity in it—the way he always got lost in his thoughts, trying to explain things when he didn’t quite know how to connect.

he shifts on his feet, his words picking up speed. “and in this case, your reaction makes perfect sense. you removed yourself from a heightened emotional situation in order to regulate your response, which, psychologically speaking, is a far healthier alternative to reactive conflict. but then, the cognitive dissonance sets in—the part where your brain tells you that leaving contradicts your usual patterns of behavior, and that discrepancy triggers guilt, even if logically—”

“spencer,” you interrupt gently.

his mouth snaps shut, and for a second, there’s just silence. a flicker of something vulnerable crosses his face, and you realize—he’s rambling because he doesn’t know what else to say. because this is easier for him than actually talking about what matters.

you step forward, closing a bit of the distance between you. “i don’t need an analysis,” you tell him gently. "i just want you to tell me what's going on."

spencer’s gaze flickers for a moment, like he’s trying to find the words, trying to make sense of the situation. "i never wanted you to feel like you needed to leave," he says, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable. “but i didn’t exactly make it easy for you to stay.”

you lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, the weight of everything you haven’t said pressing heavily on your chest. "no, you didn’t," you admit, your voice just above a whisper.

his expression tightens, a flash of something—guilt, maybe—crossing his face before he looks away.

"i've been trying," he says quietly. "i have."

"have you?" the question comes out sharper than you intended, but you don't soften it. "because from where i'm standing, it feels like you've been doing everything possible to push me away."

spencer's gaze snaps back to you, a hint of defensiveness in his eyes. "that's not fair."

"isn't it?" you take another step forward, emboldened by the surge of emotions you've held back for too long. "you won't talk to me. you won't look at me. you won't even sit next to me on the couch. what am i supposed to think, spencer?"

he runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every movement. "it's not that simple," he says, his voice strained. "i want to be the person you remember, but i don't know if i can be that man anymore."

the admission hits you like a physical blow. "i'm not asking you to be exactly who you were before," you say softly. "i know that's not possible. i just... i need you to be present. to talk to me. to not shut me out completely."

spencer is quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on some point beyond you. when he finally speaks, his voice is barely audible. "i don't know how to explain what it was like in there."

your breath catches. this is the closest he's come to talking about prison since he's been home. you don't know if you should say something. you hold your breath, afraid that if you move or speak, he'll retreat again.

his eyes are distant, far away, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s even aware of how much you’re hanging on his every word. finally, he exhales slowly, his gaze dropping to the floor as if the weight of it all is too much to bear.

“being in there… it broke something inside of me,” he says, voice low and strained. “i kept thinking about what it would be like to come back, to be here, with you. and then i just—" he paused for a moment. "i had to do something really bad. i had to do things in there that… things i never thought i would do."

"i hate myself for it. every second of it." his voice breaks on the last word, he shakes his head, hands shaking slightly as he runs them through his hair, frustration and guilt radiating from him.

"i wasn't just a victim in there—i became someone i don't even recognize anymore. i did things that went against everything i ever believed in, everything i told myself i would never do."

he looks at you now, and you can see the turmoil in his eyes—the deep-rooted shame and the self-loathing that’s consumed him. "and now i’m back here, with you, and i don’t even know who i am anymore. i’ve become this person who did unforgivable things. you don't deserve someone like me, someone who’s capable of—of that." he gestures vaguely, as if trying to encompass everything that’s happened to him.

"is that why you've been pushing me away?" you ask softly. "because you think i won't love who you are now?"

he doesn't answer, but the way he avoids your gaze tells you everything.

"baby," you whisper, shifting closer to him. "nothing could change how I see you."

you take a slow, unsteady breath, searching for the right words—any words—but everything feels inadequate. how do you explain something that goes beyond language?

"god, spencer," you exhale, shaking your head. "i wish i was better at this. i wish i had the right words, i wish i was some kind of poet, and that i could say the right things to make you understand, but i'm not."

you finally close the gap between you two and take his hands, gripping them tightly, pressing them against your chest as if somehow, if he just feels the way your heart beats for him, he’ll finally understand.

"it’s frustrating," you continue, voice thick with emotion. "because what i feel for you—it’s bigger than me. it’s bigger than words. i can’t explain it, and i hate that, because i need you to know. i need you to understand that this isn’t something breakable, something you can ruin, something you can chase away just because you think you should."

he swallows hard, his fingers curling around yours, but he doesn’t speak. maybe he can’t.

"i swear, spencer, if there was a way to pull this feeling out of me and give it to you, i would. if i could make you see yourself the way i see you, make you understand that what you did—what you had to do—doesn’t make you unworthy of love, i would do it in a heartbeat." your voice breaks slightly, tears now lining your eyes. "because i don’t just love you. it’s not that simple. it’s not just some feeling, some thing i could ever put into words. it’s more. it doesn’t begin or end with what you’ve done, or what’s happened to you, or who you think you’ve become. it just is."

he lets out a shaky breath, his eye are now wet, shining under the dim apartment light, his lips parted slightly like he wants to argue but can’t find the strength to. because maybe, just maybe, for the first time—he’s starting to believe you.

"i just wish—i wish you could feel it," you murmur, voice breaking. "i wish you could step into my skin, into my heart, and know how much i love you."

you don’t realize you’re crying until he reaches up, hesitantly, brushing his fingers against your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he touches you. his hand is shaking, but he doesn’t pull away.

spencer’s expression falters, something breaking inside of him, and when he finally—finally—pulls you into his arms, it’s not desperate or frantic. his arms wrap around you slowly, almost reverently, as though he's trying to let the feeling of your love wash over him, to understand it the way you do.

at first, it’s just the slightest tremble in his shoulders, so faint you almost miss it. but then you feel it—the shaky exhale against your neck, the way his fingers clutch at the fabric of your shirt like he’s afraid to let go. and then, slowly, silently, he starts to break.

his breath hitches, and before he can stop it, a quiet sob escapes him, muffled against your shoulder. his body shakes, all the pain and guilt unraveling all at once, and all you can do is hold him through it. his hands grasp at you like you’re the only thing tethering him to the present, like if he lets go, he’ll disappear into everything he’s been trying so hard to contain.

you don’t say anything. you don’t tell him it’s okay, because you know he wouldn’t believe it. or maybe because it isn't. but it will be. you'll make sure of that.

your fingers thread through his hair, your lips press against his temple, and you whisper the same words over and over, a promise and a lifeline: "i love you. i love you. i love you."

you stay like that for a while, wrapped in each other, the weight of everything that’s happened still lingering in the air between you. but it’s different now. lighter, somehow. not because everything is fixed—there are still conversations to have, wounds to tend to, pieces of him he hasn’t shown you yet.

but for the first time in a long while, you feel like you’re on the same side again. you’re not standing in separate corners, silently blaming each other for things you can’t control.

the weight in your chest, the anxiety that has gnawed at you since that day you got the call about him being detained, begins to fade. you don’t need to fix everything tonight. you don’t need to have all the answers.

his breathing begins to steady, the tears slowing, but he doesn’t pull away. instead, he rests his forehead against yours, his voice a raw whisper as he says the only thing he can in this moment. “i’m sorry.”

you close your eyes for a moment, exhaling softly. “i know,” you whisper.

there's a beat of silence. "i've been having nightmares," he says, his voice so low you have to strain to hear him. "almost every night. that's where i go sometimes—i walk before going to bed. i walk so that i'm exhausted enough that my mind shuts down."

the sudden admission breaks your heart—but there's also a part of you that feels relief. relief that he wasn't turning to something worse or someone else to numb the pain.

"spencer, you could have told me." you said, fingers rubbings patterns into his back.

"i didn't want to burden you more than i already have," he says, shaking his head. "you've already been through so much because of me."

"that's not how this works," you say, squeezing his hand. "just forget all of that, okay? things will be different now. you not talking to me hurts more than that ever could."

he leans into you, his eyes closing for a brief moment. "i'm sorry," he whispers. "for pushing you away. for making you feel like you weren't enough. you've always been enough."

you lift a hand to his face, your thumb brushing against his cheek as you take in the exhaustion lining his features—the weight he’s been carrying alone for too long. slowly, carefully, you lean in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. just a warm, quiet reassurance that you’re here, that you’re staying.

when you finally pull away, his forehead rests against yours, and he lets out a quiet sigh, his breath warm against your skin. he looks at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of hope and uncertainty. "do you want to go to bed?" he asks, voice low.

you pause for a moment, you hadn’t realized just how exhausted you were until his mention of sleep. your shoulders feel heavy, and your body aches from the emotional toll it’s taken.

a deep, almost instinctual sigh escapes your lips, and you nod softly, “yeah."

spencer squeezes your hand gently and leads you toward the bedroom. the moment the covers are pulled back, you slip under the soft sheets, the cool fabric against your skin offering the smallest comfort after everything you've been through. spencer follows you in, his body warm and reassuring as he settles beside you.

he moves closer, carefully wrapping his arms around you, pulling you into him with a tenderness that makes your chest tighten. you rest your head on his chest, the steady beat of his heart grounding you. his presence, steady and constant, washes over you like a balm, soothing the frantic, scattered thoughts in your mind.

his hand moves slowly up and down your back, the rhythm soothing, and you realize just how much you've missed this—missed him.

you close your eyes, letting the weight of everything melt away as you drift closer to sleep. spencer’s voice is soft, a comforting murmur as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"i love you."

[jenzcoxg]

NCT DREAM (00 line): When you moan their name in your sleep

WARNINGS: All scenarios include smut.

Renjun

Renjun wouldn't really know what to do or what to say. He would be reading a book because he wasn't really as tired and you. The book is some spicy novel he bought the previous day, he thought he should get a book because he doesn't really read often. Earlier tonight, you and Renjun went to a party. The party was boring af but it seemed to wear you out. "Renjun" you moan. "Yes?" He asked. You didn't answer. all you said was "Renjun~" This time is sounded more like a whine then a moan. "You okay baby?" He asked then tapping your shoulder. Still no response. "Fuck right there!" You yelled. Renjun realizing what was happening, he groaned. "Renjun?" You ask, awake now that he accidentally elbowed you. "Babe~, you were dreaming of sex!" He said in a groan. "How do you know?" you ask. "You were moaning OUT LOUD!" "IM SORRY! I CANT HELP YOU LOOKED SO FINE AT THAT PARTY! I wanted to get your attention but you were to busy talking to your friend! So I went and talked to this random guy I found and danced with him to get you to pay attention to me!" You admit more of what you wanted to say. "Please don't be mad" you whine. "Oh your getting it now missy."

Jeno

Jeno was in the bathroom, brushing his teeth, washing his face. You know, basically his night routine. He put the towel back on the shelf, and that's when he heard it. "Oh my God, Jeno!" He thought you were hurt, so he ran into the bedroom. "Y/n! Baby! what happened?!" him yelling startled you. "AHH! WHAT THE FUCK JENO? I WAS TRYING TO SLEEP!" You yelled at him thinking he was schizophrenic. "Are you okay? I thought you were hurt!" He asks, putting his hand on your shoulder. "Jeno, I'm not hurt." "What?" "I think you heard something else..." You said with frown. "What are you talking about?" He asks. "I was-" you tried to say before he cut you off. "YOU WERE HAVING A WET DREAM?" "YES! Bro I can't help that you looked so good in those grey sweatpants!" You said to him, avoiding eye contact. "Oh! You could have just said you wanted me." "Fine! I want you!" He smirked "I want you too baby."

Haechan

Haechan is a light sleeper so the second he hears your voice he wakes up. "Haechan" His eyes open, he turns to you and looks the other direction before closing his eyes once more. He wasn't sure if it was you or a noise in the house that woke him. "Haechan" you moaned a bit louder this time. Again, Haechan"s eyes were wide open, he turned to you "Hm?" thinking you were awake, he hummed again, but louder, incase you didn't hear him, he was loud enough for you to hear him. "Haechan? Are you okay?" you ask, "Do you want something? You've said my name alot." Haechan said, adjusting his position to see you better. "Oh shit." "Wait a damn minute, did you just have a wet dream?" you cover your face in embarrassment. "You just did!" Haechan said while laughing. "Okay maybe I did. But, I bet it would be way better if the real Haechan was fucking me" Haechan smiled at your words "Bet."

Jaemin

Jaemin was playing his game. He was on a call with his friends as well. He was so close to getting a kill, when all the sudden, "Jaemin~" It sounded like a whisper, but Jaemin still heard it. It caused Jaemin to die in his game. It was really quiet in the room. All you could hear was Jaemins friends yelling at him through his headphones. "Yes, baby?" He didn't hear a response. "Baby-?" "Oh god, Jaemin!" He got cut off by you moaning once again. "Y/n? What's wrong, baby?" Jaemin lightly tapped your shoulder. He woke you up, causing you to groan. "What?" you asked, unhappy that he woke you up. "You were saying my name like, 200 times." Jaemin said, making you gasp. "Oops." You covered your mouth. Jaemin raised a brow at you. "What? Wait?" Jaemin sat down next to you. "You were dreaming about me!" Jaemin started to laugh. "Yes! Jaemin, I was gonna ask if you could fuck me but you were playing your game!" Jaemin got on top of you. "Well, what are you waiting for? Ask."

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

AUTHORS NOTE: Hi guys!!! Thank you for reading. I will try to post sometime again this month. Please ask anything!

- @jenzcoxg

[ccupidzbvnni]

ranch hand

summary: You struggle to shake your guilt about Ben. Despite a relaxing beach day, he interrupts, reminding you that he has a, quite literal, grip on your life. warnings: possessive ben!!!, language, just ben in general, petnames as always, religious themes once again word count: 2.6k authors note: okay, i modeled their ranch after the ranches near the beach where i live, i promise that the fact that reader lives on a ranch and can drive to the beach within 20 min is possible!!! also, i am so sorry, guys, james and reader are like weirdly intimate i modeled this after a friendship i had, i need some macho man tension later on in the story i am rubbing my hands together evilly

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

The next morning is beautiful: birds chirping, sun kissing your skin, warm and golden.

The peace doesn’t last long. Clara bursts through your door and jumps on top of you with incredible force. The groan that escapes you is anything but ladylike.

“How’s your hangover, babe?” she giggles, flopping down next to you and brushing your hair out of your face. You can only grunt in response, not even opening your eyes. “We do gotta get those teeth brushed though,” she adds, lying fully down with you.

“Later, sleep now,” you mumble. Before she can reply, your door swings open again. James and Nick stumble in, both looking like death warmed over.

“Move over,” James mutters, nudging your arm. You scoot over, pressing closer to the middle of the bed. Clara shifts, too, making room on the other side for Nick.

The four of you have been doing this for years, sharing beds, drinks, and food without a second thought. Sleep comes quickly, all of you tangled in warmth and familiarity.

You listen to their breathing, their heartbeats, and the occasional soft snore. But your breath won’t even out. Your heart won’t slow down. Ben’s voice swims through your head: ‘Ya gettin’ all soft on me now, little girl?’

You squeeze your eyes shut, like that’ll be enough to keep him out.

Hours later, your hangovers are gone enough for you to brush your teeth and prepare food. You avoid the mirror while you get ready. Your reflection feels too loud, too revealing, like it knows what you did last night.

When you make your way down to the kitchen with your friends, Clara catches your demeanor. “Y’okay?” she asks, rubbing your back while you sit on the counter. You nod, not trusting your voice, knowing your guilt will seep its way into your words.

“Thought y’all were gonna sleep forever!” Your dad’s booming voice fills the space. He walks up to you, hugging you while you kiss his cheek, “Mornin’ bug.”

The previous quiet chatter becomes loud, your friends passing food around and joking with your dad. The noise, the love, the food; they soften the sharp edge of your guilt. You take a bite, and it almost tastes normal.

“I know you need food after last night,” Nick had whispered to you when he handed you a plate with a soft smile.

You love your friends. What would you do without people who care so deeply for you, without having to beg?

“Ben’s fixin’ to do your chores for ya’ from now on, chickabiddy,” your dad calls out casually, tugging on his boots in the foyer.

Your smile drops, and you rush to him, ignoring your friends, “What? Why?”

“I reckon I ain't sure. Kept naggin’ me for it, and I figured you’d be grateful. Now you can just rise n’ shine, go about your business.”

You force a smile, but your stomach flips. Nagging?

“Don’t go forgettin’ yer’ manners. Best thank ‘im when ya’ see ‘im,” he says, pointing at you with a grin. “Alrighty, I'm headin' to the pastures. I love ya’, holler at me what yer fixin' to do today,” your dad adds, kissing your head before walking out the door.

Your heart drops. Ben’s making sure you can’t ignore him. Not now. Not anymore. The silence your dad leaves behind is louder than any noise before.

When you walk back into the kitchen, your friends are already mid-argument: lake day or beach day.

You chime in, voting for the latter, though you’re only half listening. With your approval, dishes get scraped and tossed, batter thrown in the trash. Your friends are already racing upstairs to change.

You follow behind, not in any real hurry.

Once in your room, you dig through your bathing suits. They all feel like too much, or maybe not enough.

With a quiet groan, you slip one on anyway, keeping your eyes off the mirror. The shame creeps in as your hands linger on your sides, your stomach. All the skin that’s suddenly too loud.

You throw on an oversized t-shirt, tugging the hem down too far, like it might cover more than just your body. Then you gather your things: sunglasses, hair ties, a brush, and shorts. Just the essentials.

James calls your name from one of the guest rooms. You follow the sound, trying to focus on his voice instead of your thoughts. When you knock, he opens the door and steps aside to let you in, shutting it quietly behind you.

“You okay?” he asks, more serious than before. His hand lands gently on your shoulder. “Like, actually okay?”

You blink, head tilted, like you don’t know what he means. Maybe you really don’t.

“C’mon,” he says, arms spreading. “You got wasted last night. And... I don’t think I’ve seen you wear your cross necklace in days.”

Your stomach tightens. You look away. “I just keep forgetting,” you mumble, shrugging like it’s nothing.

But it’s not nothing, and James knows it. He doesn’t press, just watches, like he can see inside your soul. “That’s not something you forget,” he says eventually. Not accusing, merely stating a fact.

You shrug, not looking up. “I just needed some space from… all of it.”

He furrows his brow, rubbing your arms, “From what?”

You open your mouth to respond, but the slam of a door and Clara yelling from downstairs cuts in: “You guys comin’ or what? Beach waits for no one!”

You exhale, not even realizing you were holding your breath.

“You good?” James asks again, quieter this time.

“Yeah,” you lie. “I’m good.”

He doesn’t believe you, but he nods anyway. On the way downstairs, James pauses at the linen closet, grabbing as many beach towels as he can carry; he knows you and Clara never use just one.

At the truck, you help James load the towels, bags, and snacks into the backseat.

Nick and Clara toss chairs and the tent into the bed while you step away, scanning the clearing for a cooler.

Knowing James, he probably isn’t drinking today. You’re not either.

When the trees break and the clearing comes into view, you see him.

Ben stands alone, trash bag in hand, cleaning up your mess.

You step into the clearing, studying him silently.

“Don’t gotta worry ‘bout them chores today,” he says casually, brushing dirt off his hands and glancing at you, like he could tell it was you. “Got ‘em covered.”

Your throat tightens, but you nod anyway. “Thanks.”

Ben cocks his head like he didn’t quite hear you. Or like he wants to hear it again.

“Thank you,” you repeat, forcing your voice steady. “For the chores.”

He hums, his cocky smirk growing, like he knows what he’s doing to you. Like he knows exactly what you’re going through. “No need to thank me yet,” he says, stepping closer. “I’m sure you’ll return the favor.”

The tension is immediate, pressing. He’s close enough now that you can see the freckles scattered across his cheekbones. “Yeah. Totally.”

You walk past him, grab the cooler, and start wheeling it back to the truck, his eyes burning into your back the whole way.

The truck comes into view, and it’s like a weight lifts off your shoulders.

“Ice over here!” Nick calls, grabbing your attention.

The smile that sneaks onto your face comes without effort, loosening something tight in your chest. For a second, you feel okay.

You pass the cooler off to Nick, who starts loading it with ice and drinks.

Clara pipes up, insisting that the rest of what she brought last night go in too, and Nick just nods, already used to her demands.

James climbs into the driver’s seat while you slide into the passenger side.

The truck’s engine rumbles to life, James adjusting the radio to find a station you all tolerate. Clara and Nick scramble into the back seat, already huffing and puffing about some argument between them.

You roll your window down, letting the wind steal your breath for a moment. You hope it’ll take your thoughts with it, too. It doesn’t.

Before James can pull out of the driveway, Ben materializes behind the truck and taps twice on the tailgate: one, two. Like he owns it.

He walks up to your open window, voice low and casual: “Have ya’ shared yer’ plans with yer’ daddy yet, little girl?”

You turn to meet his eyes, he stares just a second too long. “I’ll let him know.”

Ben chuckles, like that was the answer he expected. “Atta girl,” he murmurs, ruffling your hair before stepping back.

You stare straight ahead, heart pounding, willing James to peel out of your property. He glances at you, but doesn’t say anything. The truck rolls forward.

You sink into your seat, tugging your phone out of your bag.

‘we settled on beach’ you type. Then, instinctively: ‘leaving now, i love you!!’

Sent.

The twenty-minute drive to the beach is filled with laughter from your friends and whatever half-decent music James finds on the radio.

When you finally pull up, James parks directly on the sand, saying it’ll be easier to clean up that way.

The beach will always be your happy place, laughter and crashing waves filling your senses. The salt air sweeps in, filling your lungs, brushing the edges of everything you’ve been holding onto. Nick dives into the ocean without sunscreen: ‘Just wingin’ it,’ he’d shrugged. You and James argue about the tent and how he’s the one setting it up wrong. Clara lounges on her towel, laughing at both of you but still siding with you in the end. When the tent is set up, you join her, sitting on your towel, knees to your chest, and close your eyes. Everything is shining in the summer.

Later, you and James wade into the ocean, the cold a shock that hits you all at once. You trail behind him, the water pulling gently at your legs, welcoming you.

For the first time in days, you feel clean.

The sun is already low by the time you’re piling back into the truck. The drive home is quiet. Gentle snores fill the truck as you nestle into James’ side, his arm heavy and warm around your shoulders. His fingers weave into your hair without thinking, gentle and sure.

When he finally pulls onto the property, close to the house, Clara and Nick stretch out. They make their way inside, unloading the bed of the truck. While they’re gone, you and James stay in this position. It could’ve been minutes or hours. You don’t check. You just stay like that, ignoring the outside world.

No words are exchanged, just subtle breaths and glances.

Before either of you can move, the passenger door swings open. Ben leans against the open door. “Did ya’ have yerself a good time today, sweetheart?” he drawls, all false sweetness.

You flinch. “What are you doing up? It’s late.”

You rise from James’s side. He gives you a worried look. You offer him a small smile, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave, though you’re not sure which of them you mean.

“Had to make sure ya’ got home safe,” Ben says, gaze locked on you. “Ain’t too sure about this kid gettin’ ya here in one piece.”

He’s too smug. You want to scream. Or disappear.

Still, you scoot closer to him on the seat before you can stop yourself, like your body doesn't get the message your brain’s shouting.

And Ben? He just waits.

You turn to James, forcing a smile. “I’ll catch up with you inside.” The knot in your stomach tightens as you slide out of his truck. When you pass Ben, he rests a hand on your lower back. Like he’s already won.

James hesitates, not quite sure if he should leave you with the older man.

“It’s fine,” you say quietly, as if you could read his thoughts.

James nods, reluctantly, and disappears inside, leaving you and Ben waiting outside the truck.

“Let’s take a walk, yeah?” Ben murmurs, his hand still on your back as he nudges you forward.

You stumble, but walk away from the truck, toward the pastures.

“Ben, you don’t get to just… steal me away like this,” you say, arms crossed tight across your chest.

He chuckles, low and dismissive. “That kid ain't got a clue 'bout treatin’ ya right, baby.” Before you can respond, his hand wraps around the nape of your neck, fingers rough and familiar, tilting your face up to meet his eyes.

Your hand flies to his arm, trying to pull away. He tightens his grip in response, not hurting, just firm, keeping you in place.

“I cleaned up yer’ mess,” he says, voice low and almost gentle but edged with something sharp. “Told yer’ daddy I’d take care of ya’. And I did, didn’t I?”

Your jaw clenches. You don’t want to believe him. You swear you don’t. “Let me go,” you whisper, voice shaking, although not from fear or defiance.

Ben chuckles, amused. “I ain’t holdin’ ya’, baby. Yer’ right here all on yer’ own.” His hand trails from your neck to your jaw, squeezing hard enough for you to flinch.

“That boy think he gotta claim on ya’ now?” Ben asks, eyes narrowing. “Just ‘cause ya’ fell asleep on ‘im like a dog in the sun?”

You turn your head. “James is my friend,” you spit at him.

He laughs again, forcing your head back to meet his gaze. “I ain’t stupid, baby. That boy wants ya’, and he ain’t never gonna have ya’. Not as long as I’m here.”

He mutters the last part low, like speaking it into existence will make it true.

Your eyes sting; this is humiliating. You look away, the shame curling in your chest like smoke, thick and choking. You hadn’t meant to cry, not in front of him. But the tears come anyway, hot and quiet.

Ben’s gaze flickers, softening just enough to make it worse. Like he likes seeing this part of you, the cracked, exposed one. Like it justifies something.

You try to step back, wiping your face with the back of your hand, but he doesn’t let you go far.

He grabs the back of your head again, not roughly, but insistent, and pulls you into his chest. His other arm wraps tight around your shoulders like a net.

“None’a that, sweet girl,” he mutters into your hair, his breath warm against your scalp as your tears fall freely.

And you let him hold you.

You let him soothe you, even though you shouldn’t.

When you finally pull back, his hands move to your face, thumbs brushing away the tears like he has a right to them.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, Ben,” you admit, voice cracking on the exhale.

His smile is soft, too soft. “Ya’ ain't gotta know no more, baby. Ain't no need to think. Let me handle that for ya’.”

He kisses the top of your head like it’s a promise.

The porch light flickers on in the distance. Your head snaps toward it. Ben sighs, low, almost disappointed, but his eyes never leave you. His hands drop from your face, just for a moment.

“Get some rest, sweetheart,” he murmurs. Then his hand returns, cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with startling tenderness.

“Don’t forget who’s lookin’ out for ya,” he adds, voice just above a whisper. “Ain’t no one else gonna do it right,” he adds, like he owns you.

He lets go. And just like that, you’re left standing in the dark, conflicted.

ranch hand tag list @suckitands33 @classackles @jacklesluvr let me know if you want to be tagged when i post another chapter!!

[frombloodandfire]

Indigo

“I used to shine bright like gold, now I’m all indigo.”

A woman who tries to escape her past with no hope for the future, ends up on an unknown place playing childhood games to win. A man from her past happens to be there for the exact same reason. Will they escape their haunted pasts? Or they will end up dying in vain?

Just a pilot first chapter to see if you all like this series! It will be an oc x Cho Sang Woo, but I will try to not use her name much either (im avoiding y/n so I’m keeping it simple). Also English is my second language so forgive me for any mistakes and please correct me! Some things are left unknown for later chapters. <3

Warnings: blood, depression, heavy language etc.

She woke to the soft sound of rain tapping against the window. The night had been rough, and the day promised to be no easier. She was already late for a job interview, probably another one she'd never hear back from, just like all the others.

The phone rang, pulling her from her thoughts. She scrambled across the tiny room, pulling on her clothes as she went.

Who could it be at this hour?

"Can we talk?" came the voice on the other end, low and urgent.

"I'm late for something," she replied, trying to rush through the words.

"Meet me at seven tonight," the man said, cutting her off. "I finish work early."

Before she could respond, he hung up. Not that she wanted to, but she knew she’d go. But why would he want to meet on a random Thursday evening?

The interview had been a brief glimmer of hope "We’ll call you in the next few days.”they said to her. The school was only twenty minutes away from her apartment, a dream job. Maybe this was the universe’s way of throwing her a bone.

The rain had stopped by the time she arrived at the metro station, and she smiled, because maybe it was her lucky day finally after so many years. But as she waited for the next train, a tall man in a business suit, carrying a small case, approached her. She ignored him at first, assuming he'd ask for money or try to sell something, but then he spoke.

"Ma’am."

She glanced up, annoyed, then quickly turned away. She didn’t have time for this.

“Sorry, I’m busy…” she muttered, standing up and moving toward an empty seat.

But the man followed her. “I’d like to offer you a great opportunity.”

She paused, narrowing her eyes. "A great opportunity?" she repeated, confused. What was this some sort of scam? Was he a cult recruiter? Either way, she wasn’t interested.

“Want to play a game?” he asked, his voice smooth.

“A game?” She raised an eyebrow. What was he talking about?

Without waiting for her response, the man pulled out two small pieces of paper, one red, the other blue.

“I'm sure you've played ddakji before, right?”

She shook her head. "Not really..."

"It's simple," he explained, handing her the papers. "Try to flip the one on the ground, and you win."

“What do I win?” she asked skeptically.

He ignored her question entirely. "Pick a color."

Reluctantly, she chose the red paper, placing it on the ground and attempting to flip the blue one. It didn’t move.

"Yeah, not gonna happen..." she muttered, a bit embarrassed. The man, without a word, picked up the blue paper and flicked it with ease. It spun perfectly, landing on its edge.

“You have to pay now," he said.

“Pay? What do you mean, I have to pay?” Her heart skipped a beat.

She had a sinking feeling she was being played.

“How about you pay... with your body?”

“Wh—?” Before she could react, he slapped her hard. The force of the blow almost made her stumble, but she managed to steady herself. Rage bubbled up inside her.

“What the hell? That’s it. I’ve had enough.”

Without thinking, she grabbed the red paper, anger fueling her strength. To her surprise, it hit the blue one and it flicked.

“Ha! Take that!” she shouted, feeling a rush of triumph. “So, what do I win? I get to slap you back?” She was now laughing.

The man laughed, unfazed. Then, to her shock, he pulled out a stack of cash 100,000 won and handed it to her with a smile.

“Congratulations. You were great for a beginner!”

She froze, staring at the money. There was no way this was real. A stranger had just handed her cash for a childish game.

“Take this. There are other games you can make much more.” he said, before giving her a small card. It was marked with a triangle, a square, and a circle. When she flipped it over, a number was scribbled on the back.

What the hell? Should I call this? What does it mean?

By the time the evening arrived, she was standing outside his apartment, exactly at 7:00 PM. Three minutes passed. Then five. She hesitated, unsure if she should have come. Maybe she should’ve just gone home.

"Lyanna!" a voice called from the door.

She turned to see him rushing toward her, a sheepish grin on his face. "Sorry for the wait. Let’s get inside. My mom’s not home."

It had been so long since they'd seen each other.

“It’s been a while, Jun Ho. How are you?”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hard time at work, but... I’m doing okay. What about you? Did you find any job?”

“I can’t say things are great,” she admitted, feeling a lump rise in her throat. “But... I got a job. They accepted me today.”

He laughed, a sound full of relief. “Ah, finally. After all this time... That’s great news. What about the debt? Will you stay in Seoul now that you got the job?”

She hesitated. “The debt... it’s still there,” she said quietly, looking down at the floor. "But, yeah, I’ll stay in Seoul for now. Until I can make enough to get out of here.”

He studied her with concern. The silence that followed was heavy.

“I don’t know why you called, Jun Ho,” she said, breaking the stillness. “Maybe it’s better to forget the past.”

He reached for her arm, his grip tight. "I can’t. I need to find him, Lyanna. You’re my last hope. You’re the only one who can help me."

Her heart tightened. She wanted to help him, but the past... it was too much to carry. "I can’t help you, Jun Ho," she whispered. "I’m just trying to rebuild my own life. I want to find him too for my friend’s sake... but—"

“She would help if it was to find your husband.”

At the mention of her old best friend, a cold shiver ran down her spine. She thought about her every day, ever since she’d passed. The woman had been everything to her.

“This hurts still, you know? Even after all the years…” She said, her voice trembling. “Maybe one day we’ll find him. But I can’t right now, Jun Ho. I’m not in a place to help you. Not when I can’t even help myself.”

She stood up, her hands shaking slightly. “Give my best to your mother,” she said, turning toward the door. But then she stopped, looked him in the eye one last time. “Thank you for calling. I missed you. And I’m glad you’re doing well.”

“Wait!” Jun Ho called, rushing to her. He bent down, picking something off the floor. “You dropped this.”

Shit. The card. She’d dropped it without realizing.

“Oh no. Thank you! I’m such an idiot…” She smiled, forcing herself to laugh. “Stay safe, okay?”

With that, she stepped out the door, her heart heavy with uncertainty as she walked home.

If you wish to participate, please state your name and birthdate.

Lyanna Collet, 1986.

A/n: let me know if you are interested!! It would help me to express your opinion ❤️

[selenakitty]

Internalized Homophobia

ft. Victoria Chase (female!reader) 🪽

cw: angst w comfort, wlw, Victoria being an avoidant, weed usage etc.

You and Victoria. Paired up in a group in photography class. Alone. It should seem like a nightmare, being a quiet kid paired up with a popular kid, but it’s easy to forget the humiliation once seeing that striking face of Victoria.

So deep in thought, you didn’t even notice Victoria snapping her fingers to get you out of your daydream.

“Hello?! Are you even alive?”

“Oh.. I’m sorry.”

“Whatever. My dorm. 5pm. Be on time. I’m a busy woman.”

“Should I like.. bring anything..?”

“Oh, you know. Better clothes are always welcomed. But since we both know that’s not happening in your case, no. Just bring your camera and notebook and- whatthefuckever.”

You roll your eyes and leave.

5pm:

The project was to bring your partners hidden side out. The opposite of what they usually show. For example, Victoria had to get some confidence out of you in your photo shoot, meanwhile you had to bring that vulnerability out of her in her photos.

And if you’re honest, it was so much fun.

Victoria was so raw and fun. Not mean. Not even bitchy. She did make you dress up a lot for her liking in the photoshoot, sure. But it was worth the memories.

After that project, the two of you would hang out more.

She would use the excuse of you needing a tutor so her friends wouldn’t be confused on why someone like her was hanging out with someone like you.

After around 3 months, you began catching feelings. Victoria is a true sweetheart, even if she tries her best to hide it. She would take you to expensive restaurants, sightseeing and to small trips with her family sometimes, even if it’s just grocery shopping. Everything was great.

Until October hit. And around this time, you noticed Victoria becoming distant. She’d cancel plans, avoid teaming up with you in projects, not respond to messages. Not even the weekly sleepovers, the nightly calls or the 4pm yap sessions under the tree were acknowledged by her anymore. And this was probably the most miserable month ever. No Victoria, no fun.

One night, you were studying in your dorm. There was a huge party going on. Who cares. Honestly, you did have a bong break in your dorm just to forget about Victoria. The other way to forget her is drown her out with a large amount of paper work. The whole room was scattered with papers, books and study tests made by you and the shitty school printer.

So much infront of you but so much more in your mind.

You couldn’t focus, especially not while being high. So you do something dumb. I think.

You wait til the party is over. Then you knock on Victorias door.

No response. But you hear shuffling. It’s Victorias high heels, anyone would recognize that sound.

“Victoria?”

“No.”

“What ‘no?’”

“Is that you, Y/n?”

“Yea! I just.. wanna talk, yknow.”

Quiet.

“Listen, im not okay with the way you’ve been treating me lately.”

No response. So you just continue.

“I can’t believe all those months of friendship meant nothing for you. You just ignore me all of the sudden and it’s just.. not cool. Not cool at all. I can’t even focus on studying cause of you! So stop being a puss. It’s embarrassing.”

The door opens.

Victoria looks so gorgeous.. uhm, not important now, tho.

“And who said you’re allowed to talk to me like that?”

You scoff, “Excuse me, I have every right to talk to you like this! You obviously do not care about me anymore! I can’t believe you just threw me out and ignore me like I’m nothing!”

“Hey-“

“No, shut up!” you unintentionally begin tearing up, but you don’t notice. Victoria definitely does.

“This is just unfucking believable! Un-Chic! Immature! Every negative word that connects with the way you’ve been behaving. Are you embarrassed to be seen with me? That’s probably it, yeah. Cause I don’t wear those stupid stilettos like those girls you’re friends with and cause I don’t shit money like all your friends do!-“

“Enough!”

You quickly shut up.

“I can’t. You don’t know what’s been going on. You can’t just be behaving like the best thing alive and expect me to NOT catch feelings! I can’t accept my feelings and I thought if I would ignore you, the feelings would disappear with you. But no. They got worse. And you being here, all high and mad, obviously heartbroken over the way I’ve been treating you, is making everything fucking worse.”

“Whaaat?!”

“Shut up.”

You quickly wipe your tears away and hug Victoria.

She hugs back.

“I missed you.”

Victoria looks away.

And then she surprises you with a kiss, which you respond to with a kiss back. Once she pulls back, she says something quietly.

“I think I can learn to accept my love for you now.”

After hearing those words, you couldn’t stop sobbing and Victoria had to comfort you. The night ended with you in her dorm, wrapped up in her expensive cashmere sweater and her arms.

A/N: English isn’t my first language 😞

[jinxpantsu]

I want to know what it would be like if the MC for obey me was a sassy smart ass. Because if I got summoned without any warning to go to school what am I getting out of it? I'd be asking so many questions trying to get as many benefits out of it as possible. It'd be hard for me to just be compliant and go with everything how do you think that would go? How would the boys react to someone just kind of unafraid and done?

so.... what happens if they dropped any of us own the hole? yeah

cause i would crash tf out too lol like why am i here????? boooo!

this is another old ask and im sorry it took me YEARS to belt this one out. this is a part of he last bit of asks in my inbox before i move on to a new series <3

Lucifer is not amused. Not even in the slightest. This is a grand opportunity, why are you so mad? Sure they didn't ask for consent first but they're demons and that's the end all be all. Your attitude may not be as bad as Satan's on a good day and he's more than happy to punish you for your shite behavior but at some point something has to give. It sure as shit will not be him, and if it takes throwing you to his idiot brothers to soften you up a bit first then that's fine with him.

Mammon is just a touch sympathetic. He understands that you don't want to be here. All of his siblings understand that sentiment deep down, but they stood upon business and this is the consequences. Aside from his typical antics he would try to appease and lighten your mood, especially since he's been made your first guardian so he'd have to make sure you at least survive. Knowing him, trouble usually arises from his bad acts of thievery but he tries to keep the consequences from falling on you. Regardless though, you aren't responsible for him and you aren't too interested in helping him until it's at least beneficial to you.

Leviathan is bothered deeply by your behavior. At least after a year you get to leave. They're stuck down there for all of eternity. He avoids your mad moods as easily as he avoids everything else, and remains in his room for the most part, which is fine by you. It's one less thing he has to concern himself with when he can block the world out and stay in his room.

Satan on the other hand regards you with as much ire as he does everything else short of Lucifer. As in, as long as you don't piss him off things are smooth sailing. Your tone kind of pisses him off and in the good graces of everyone else's sake he doesn't comment on it often enough to make it an issue between the two of you but the friction is there regardless. It's mostly snide little remarks here and there and eventually Satan grows fond of his disliking of your attitude... however he can justify or make sense of it. It's at least nice to know someone else hates it here as much as he does, even if you two don't necessarily get along.

Asmodeus takes your bad attitude to be a bad omen. He tries. He really does try to lighten the load on you. His love language is centered around himself and it shows, because when you're stressed out so is he. And stress is bad for the skin! He seems to be the only positive so far in your forced trip to hell, and instead of biting the hand that feeds you, you are least give him a chance to make the most of this. Unknowingly, Lucifer is even more appreciative of Asmo now that you have one act of kindness in that little blackhole of a heart.

Beelzebub is unbothered. Purely because he thinks you're just hangry. Like oh? "You're grumpy right now too? Have a cheeseburger, that usually helps me." Like the rest, he means well, but when explaining to him how being hangry isn't why you're crashing out on everyone it seems like you're talking to a brick wall... that's steading consuming a mountain of food anyway. It's only when Beelzebub becomes hungry himself and starts breaking things and going on a rampage does your own angry truly get put into perspective. Clearly, you crashing out is nothing more than an angry rabbit stomping its foot. With Beelzebub actively throwing his weight around, and his brothers with it, it widdles down your iron hot irritation just a bit more. Feeding him and making sure he doesn't crash out harder than Leviathan when he plays his video games and forgets to save before a boss fight is NOT your job... but it makes surviving to the end goal much easier.

Then comes Belpheghor. And what a nightmare this lad was. From the moment you met him you were convinced he was lying to you. He looked nothing like a human you've ever seen... but perhaps you were just good with hair dye. But if you were trapped down here you would have looked worse for wear, no? You don't call him on his lie because maybe he has something this for you... but you keep him at arms reach the entire time. You genuinely don't see it coming when Belphie strangles you to death, and the second you come back it's like your emotions have reset. With how quickly time passes in the next 6 months until the end of the schools program you keep your distance from everyone. No one manages to creep in and break down your defenses here, and part of Belphie feels bad for it after hearing how you were just finally opening up. Lucifer is the least bit happy, but the second half is a lot less chaotic in the House of Lamentation now.

[seuonji]

HII!! i love your writing sm (seriously helps sm after a long day) and i was just asking if you had the time or were inspired could you do how svt would react if their introvert s/o is like socially exhausted sfw (ive had to go to important social events everyday for two weeks straight and i am absolutely exhausted). (If you cant do svt then maybe coups?) Again thank you so much for the content and if you cant do it its perfectly fine.(Idk whether youre taking requests rn, so if you arent im so super sorry for bothering you)

from aya: HII!! omg i’m so happy to hear that my writings make you feel better T^T <3 i hope your days get better!! it can be exhausting but im happy to know you have things to fall back on so that you can relax!! love lots, hope you enjoy this!

btw! so sorry this took so long i’ve been busy with the real world too hahah. i did the 95z so that there was a variety in scenarios but do let me know if you want another member!!<3

seungcheol. he doesn’t really need words to know how you feel, he’d be able to tell just by the look on your face but even then, he can’t help but feel his heart sink seeing you so tired.

so when you came home after a long day and you weren’t your usual self, he immediately noticed it when he greeted you at the front door.

“tiring day today?” he tilted his head as he reached for your body, pulling you close and compressing himself onto you. he hopes that the hug would be comforting to you and it was. it’s as if the warmth of his hug melted your heart and it brought your back to life.

“do you want to have some alone time?” he totally understands if you do, he gets it if that’s the only way you can recharge

you weren’t sure if you wanted to see seungcheol today but he was your comfort. he felt you shake your head into his chest answering a no to his question and he just brushed your hair. slowly, he parted from the hug and took the things you were holding, “want to eat or anything?” no matter what you plan on doing, after this you two would spend the night with a long cuddle session that recharges you from the draining day.

if you want him to, he’d definitely whisper encouragements or advice on how to not get drained too quickly. as a fellow introvert himself, he knows best.

“it’s tiring but you handled it so well! just keep doing the same you’ll get used to it but if it gets too much just call me and i’ll be there for you,” he whispered as he stroked your hair.

+

jeonghan probably teased you at first.

“ahh yn your face looks so dull today,” he gently caressed your face but as you gave a bitter reaction as a response, he realised that something was wrong and immediately apologised for making the joke. he quickly changed to listening mode, ready to listen to you but even if you don’t tell him, he’d just sit with you until you’re ready to speak.

as you open up, he’d offer some tricks to get away from the crowd even if they’re bizarre.

“if you get tired, just go into your car and drive home, to me,” he proudly smirked

“hanie…i have to be there.”

“okay then just go to the washroom and call me if you start feeling tired of socialising.”

“why would i call you if i’m tired of socialising.”

“well i didn’t think i make you feel tired of socialising,” he said in disbelief.

he means it all as a joke but he definitely has some good advice and suggestions hidden in there which really gets you through a day.

+

joshua was suspecting that you were going to feel this way even before you left the house. so when you came home with the expression that screamed ‘exhausted’ he could only greet you with a smile which hid his frown. he was upset knowing he couldn’t do much to avoid you from feeling that way but he knew he could provide you comfort so that’s what he did.

he greeted you home with a hug and asked if you wanted some alone time in case you wanted to recharge on your own.

there’s something that really brightens his day when you say you want to spend your time with him. he’d definitely spends the night pampering you and making you some comfort food while finding things you like to do like listening to music or reading a book together, whatever helps you recharge. the days definitely a lot more silent but you’re just comfortably in each others space.

in the bed before you two sleep, he holds you close. both your eyes are shut but he still whispers words from his heart.

“you did amazing today yn and you’ll do even better tomorrow. but remember you can tell me when it gets hard, okay? just tell me what you need.”

[rubberduckrobin]

hiyaa! Saw that you were taking requests and more specifically diavolo ones! So i have two and you can choose which you want to write. The first one is hurt to comfort where dia is stressed and angry and kind of takes it out on us and we obviously get hurt but he works to get back to our good graces (we love a girly who stands on business) or the second one where he shows how much we mean to him cuz we’re feeling a bit insecure! Those are my requests, i prefere the first one but im chill with both so write what your excited to write abt!

Hello!! Very, very sorry for the late response; I don't know if you saw my previous posts but I was on holiday then I got hit with a lot of work...

I had writers block (that luckily went away halfway through) but really liked the prompts so I did both ദ്ദി ( ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ )

First prompt: All I want is some time. (this post)

Second prompt: Stagnancy and motion.

𝗔𝗹𝗹 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲. - Diavolo x (G!) Reader

Fandom: Obey Me! (OG & NB)

Pairing: Diavolo x (G!)Reader

Genre/type: Hurt to comfort

Word count: Around 2k

Author’s note: R/N = reader's name because I want to avoid the vibe you get from Y/N, yk? nothing wrong with Y/N, I just feel it's read more as !fem and I want this to be open to everyone <3

Summary: 'dia is stressed and angry and kind of takes it out on us and we obviously get hurt but he works to get back to our good graces' - Anon! :D

TW: Nothing I can think of.

AO3 Link: Not yet...soon! I have to catch up with my work first, probably will be able to post it on AO3 in a week or so.

Through a sliver in the door, you see Diavolo, his face half caught in the haze of moonlight, the other in lamp and candlelight, his warmth seemingly half faded. The clock's ticking seems sluggish, or perhaps it’s his pen against the desk; everything smudges into one tense atmosphere. Something is wrong. 

“Dia, I brought you something to-”

“Please be quiet.”

A caged mouse, you retreat to a chair in the corner of the room, trapped by the surrounding darkness. The scratching of quill on paper attempts to heal the vacancy, but the silence is overbearing. You let him work for a while, for what feels around ten minutes or so. Looking at the clock, it’s only been five. 

The room is burdened with a heavier weight as his breath gets harsher and the restraint in his actions gets weaker. These days he’s seemed distant. You know he has a lot of work yet you can’t help but ask:

“Are you mad at me?”  

“No, I am not.”

In this dimly lit room, you now see the Demon King, the glint in his eye captured by shadows that reign over him, his posture hunched, his expression cold and lost. This is not the Diavolo you know, and the surprise of this leads you to believe that this is a version of him that he always hides behind enthusiasm and passion; the serious, harsh Demon King persona rooted deep in his core, fostered by his father. 

“Sorry. I’ll leave you to work.”

“Stay.”

Each light in the room seems to falter as he raises his head, and his voice. He looks at you, cutting shadows, with anger or…it’s a complicated expression. You take it as anger. Your heart sinks. Mimicking the candles you tremble slightly, caught in the headlights of a reality you never thought to face.

“Why?”

“I’m sorry. I need to finish my work. But-”

“I’m going.”

“I am the king. I order you to stay until I am done.” 

You can see his instant regret.

“I thought you were my boyfriend too.”

You leave before the words you see in his thoughts fall out of his poisoned mouth.

☾ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ ☾

Last night, you took refuge in the gardens and slept under the pergola, your face close to an overgrown rosebush. Knowing how the brothers would react to you coming home, no longer staying over with Diavolo, you’d decided that in that moment you’d much prefer birds to peck at you in your sleep than be fussed over by a bunch of demons. 

Under the shelter of the pergola shrouded by the dark Devildom sky, you cried. Silently. 

Now feeling awake after giving yourself time to sit up and watch the garden and its peace, you notice the feeling of your cheeks stained dry as though brushed with a handkerchief; the rosebush by your head is trimmed, and the scratch on your cheek has been plastered - quite unnecessary but undeniably thoughtful. You’ve been covered by a blanket. 

Down the pathway, you see someone approaching.

Barbatos, with a tray of tea. 

“The Young Master would like to apologise for his behaviour yesterday.” he says as he beside you with his legs tucked beneath him, holding the tray above his lap. He’s trying to communicate at eye level, but you avoid his attempts in embarrassment and exhaustion.

“And he does that through his butler?”

“He thought it best to speak through me, in case you were unwilling to see him in person. He’s putting your comfort first. As always, might I add...” he puts the tray down and pushes it towards you, “Here, a new blend. May it refresh you.” 

“Who did this? You?” You point out the new appearances. 

“The Young Master went out to find you. He visited the House of Lamentation, considered a search party, in which the brothers insisted to be a part of, of course. Then I found you here and contacted him. The search was called off.”

“So the blanket and plaster were you then?”

“No. The Young Master insisted that he saw to it himself.”

“And the tea?”

“And the tea. He also instructed me on exactly which tea to give you.”

“Knowing that I'd learn it was him and forgive him?”

“Possibly. Would you be willing to speak with him?”

It really hurt being treated as a royal subject, an obedient pet, rather than someone he’s confided in, someone he’s kissed tenderly more than a thousand times all over, someone who reciprocated; someone who saw the person before the demon, before the king, and put that person first.

“...no, not right now. I’m sorry that you’ve been dragged into this.”

“Although I serve the Young Master, I take pride in helping others, especially you. To see you suffer, also knowing that the Young Master will suffer with you…I will not let it happen. If I can help, I will do so."

“What will you do this evening, if you have no plans to speak to the Young Master?”

“I don’t know.”

You finally sip the tea served for you. Rose tea. 

☾ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ ☾

Back in the House of Lamentation, the brothers leave you alone, presumably threatened by Lucifer or Barbatos. 

After only a day, temptation distracts your exhaustion; each time you close your eyes to sleep, an image of the dark room torments you, though not as much as the memories of the room when it was lighter. 

His bedroom was your sanctuary, where you lay your distresses to rest and replaced them with a comfort found in the nook of his neck and his legs wrapped around yours. His arms a roof to an empty home, a wall to a spilling reservoir.

You’ve almost forgotten the sound of his distress and now crave warm whispers before sleep. You know, deep down, that it was just stress and everyone does the same. But…it hurts so much that you can’t face him, not yet.

Sleep pitifully catches up to you and serves as a cure to your overbearing mind. 

☾ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ ☾

You wake, arms wrapped around a pillow, red markings trailing your skin as evidence of restless sleep. Today, you’ve decided to focus only on work; you have little to no energy for anything else. The floor freezes your uncovered feet as you search for your slippers in a half daze, only to give up when you remember they are in Diavolo’s room. 

You feel empty, and when you reach for your keys, you realise that the reason you feel this way is because you’re missing the ring Diavolo got you for your birthday. The room feels even colder. 

Taking in the earthy damp scent of light rain, you exit from the garden in a fear that Diavolo would be at the entrance. Sweeps of rose petals travel in swirling pairs on the ground. How pretty; a distraction.  

Everything seems eerily normal when you enter your classroom, not that you anticipated anything but…

Asmodeus and Leviathan greet you with a great effort to seem natural, as expected. 

You notice a small gift on your desk, tied in a bow of your favourite colour. Ah.

“Has anyone dropped this?”

Asmodeus and Leviathan share a look.

“No, it’s yours.”

“Someone came and put it there.”

“Who?”

Awkward. 

“Never mind. I can guess.” midway through opening the lid you realise you don't have the energy for whatever is inside; you sigh, shutting it quickly and pocketing it

☾ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ ☾

“Please come with me.”

Barbatos is outside your classroom, and you can imagine what for.

“Why? Where?”

“I suggest you simply trust me.”

You follow him through the spills of the crowded halls as demons leave for the end of the day. He guides you by hand down the steps and into the car, to sit next to him at the front.

“I apologise for the sudden appearance.”

“It’s okay.”

As expected, not long after you arrive at the Demon Castle.

“Are you alright?” Barbatos asks, the engine coming to a slow stop. A silence follows.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah. Diavolo’s there, right? He’s going to apologise?”

“I can imagine so. I was only told to bring you here and instruct you to go to the gardens.” 

“Alright. I’ll go... I’m sorry you were dragged into this. I’ve made this all such a big mess.” 

“You haven’t done a thing, and I’m sure that's precisely what Diavolo will say too. Better him than me, so I urge you to see what he has to say.”

☾ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ ☾

In the dark of the night Devildom sky, the ground beneath you merges into a blackness. You squint, grasping at what you can in order to make it to the garden gate, which seems to be already open. From there, you can see a path of candles and you can’t help but feel…overwhelmed? You can’t tell whether it’s anticipation, or love coming back to you. 

Diavolo is under the pergola. As you approach, you see him wipe lightly illuminated beads of sweat off of his brow as he attempts a smile. You can see his worry through the deep look in his eyes. 

“Tell me if this isn’t okay.”

“It’s…it’s sweet.”

“Not too much?”

“No…not too much. Although, I think anything else would have been overkill.”

“Ah, yes.” 

Behind him you watch a flurry of colour, forming the shape of a bouquet, get thrown into a bush. 

“R/N… I am so, so, indescribably sorry for my behaviour.”

Unsure of what to say, you sit down. He follows your guidance. 

“I was so caught up in my responsibility that I failed to see what was truly important.”

He gestures towards your hands with open palms. With little hesitation you take the offer.

“You, of course.”

Your hands settle into the clammy, cosy warmth of his, and your anxiety melts away to be moulded and shaped into experience. Closeness comes with communication.

“Is there anything else I can do to make this up to you?”

“You’ve done quite a lot. That reminds me…”

You open the small box in your pocket. It’s the ring you lost.

“It must have fallen off in your sleep. I didn’t want to push it by sending flowers, so I-”

“Dia…” you signal your desire for a hug and within a fraction of a moment you’re already in his arms. 

“Mm…I know it’s only been a day but I missed this.”

“Me too.” 

“Again…I am so sorry. Is there anything at all you desire? I’ll do anything to prove to you that you are the… most important thing in my life.” he nods to affirm his words and pats your back; he then begins to stroke your head gently.

“All I really want is some more time with you.”

“Hm…how about a small date now?”

He guides you, his arm around your waist, to the grass. You both lay on your backs, connected by wrapped arms, forming a constellation of your bodies. The stars above watch you as you watch them.

“So pretty.”

“Yes, they are.”

Starlight caught in the reflection of his eyes…Diavolo is looking at you. Only you. 

☾ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ ☾

End author’s note: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!

Here's the second prompt

[lottiestudying]

You have GOT to share with us how you read so much. I’m so curious!!!

hey!!!


✨ how i read so quickly ✨

🌿 format: i read exclusively on apple iBooks, i find i read so much faster there then a physical book. i love physical books, but don’t like the texture of paper under my hands (im autistic and sensory sensitive)

🌼 fast reader: im a naturally fast reader. this obviously helps a ton. i have hyperlexia (opposite of dyslexia), and can get through books quite quickly (i can get through 400 pages in about 5 minutes)

🌈 learn to skim: my brain naturally skims over unimportant words or filler scenes sometimes. this helps as well. obviously this is controversial probably, but this is literally how my brain works

✨ get familiar with common themes/tropes in your favourite genres: it will make a new book easier to get through, as you’re already aware of what’s going on from previous history. no book is truly original

🍭 diversify your reading list: switch up genres to keep yourself entertained so you can read for longer

🌊 take breaks when you need it: don’t force yourself to read more. i probably average about 1.5 hours a day of reading, unless im insanely busy. but some days i do less, and you need breaks to avoid reading burnout. i have a lot of control over my routines, so im very privileged in this sense. i realise 1.5 hours is a lot

🐠 read shorter books (duh?): when i was getting back into reading / starting to read crazy amounts, i read lots of short books and that got me comfortable with literature. now i don’t even blink at the page length, unless if it’s over 600+ pages

🦚 track your reading: either on storygraph or goodreads. i find looking at reading stats (esp storygraph’s) so motivating to read. it doesn’t need to be 1,000 books, it can be 50 or 10. the most important thing is just having a goal to work towards

🍀 highlight as you go to help retain information whilst reading quickly

feel free to add me on storygraph - lottie1803. goodreads is in the pinned comment on my page

sorry this response is a little delayed, this week has been wild. if i think of anything more, ill add to this list. thanks for your question