#and they finally managed to make a statement

[undiscovered-horizon]

"Vipers, crows and dragons" - Aemond Targaryen x spy!reader

(warning: this story contains mentions of suicide)

SUMMARY: Your relationship with Aemond began strictly because of espionage. As time went on, your training failed you and you fell in love with the One-Eyed Prince. Too afraid to reveal the truth to him, you've sworn to carry it to the grave. Until your commander tasks you with murdering the prince who might kill king Aegon. Now you must choose whose life you will sacrifice - his or yours?

(angst with a happy ending, I swear)

WORDCOUNT: 5.3k (I started and couldn't stop)

Sleep has eluded you for three days now. It wasn’t for a lack of trying - recent events and assigned duties kept you too anxious to rest. Even if you closed your eyes, nestled in the strangest cranny of the keep, the sound of your own breath would keep you awake. Each sound, echoed by the stone walls, made you too wary to sleep.

Walking towards the commander’s quarters, you patted your face with the back of your hand. Mild pain and improved blood flow were just good enough to prevent you from stumbling over your feet. Once you report back, you should be off for the next day, maybe two, if Westeros decides to take a quick break from its usual lunacy.

Although most of your attention was focused on the unbearable exhaustion gnawing at your body and soul, some of your thoughts indulged in fantasies. When you finally have a few hours to yourself, what will you do with them? The weather has been lovely lately, ships from Dorne have brought exotic fruit, and…

You hear yourself gasp. It’s been so long since you’ve seen him. Three days felt like three decades. Usually, you would manage a visit here and there, between tasks. This time it was quite impossible, making you realise just how much you crave the attention of none other but Prince Aemond. How funny it really was - so many tried their hardest to avoid him whenever possible and you sought him out like stars do the night sky.

Thinking about him, you feel a sting in your chest. If he ever learns the truth, he… No. He simply can’t know. Not now, not ever. Let him believe that it was a pure accident that you were his designated guard when he travelled to one of the kingdom’s realms. This is better for everyone. Aemond may be wise for his young age but he’s just a man, despite his family’s claim to godhood - the truth will break him in an inconceivable, inhuman way. Perhaps some skeletons should remain inside the closet.

Your knock on the heavy door is more of a courtesy, rather than seeking permission. Without awaiting an answer, you enter the room.

Spymaster’s quarters resembled a library more than they resembled a war room. Stacks of books and parchments littered the space in random columns. If there was any rhyme or reason to the order, it was beyond your comprehension. Only Davros himself could find anything in that mess. Crows came and went through the open window, barely taking time to rest before flying off into the horizon again. Their cawing was comforting in its familiarity - it reminded you of the early days, when the only thing you were allowed to do was sort through the correspondence and write down the replies. Such simpler times…

"Commander Davros,” you called out, “you wanted to see me?"

The man glanced at you for less than a second. His grey eyes, a metallic shade like mercury, flickered towards you only to immediately go back to skimming through the paperwork on his desk. The table was kept in as much disarray as the rest of the room. Maps, sketches, reports and Gods know what else.

"Yes, there is something that needs to be done,” he said. The commander’s voice was, well, commanding. Each question sounded like an accusation, each statement like irrefutable facts of nature. “Swiftly and quietly."

A tired sigh left your lips. All the hopes for some rest burst like soap suds in a bath that’s growing cold. The image of Aemond’s silver hair and bright stare flashed before your eyes. As strange as it may sound, it was starting to feel physically painful to be away from him for so long. The most feared man in the kingdom and he was your safe haven, the only moment in your bleak days that you could feel truly safe.

But you swore your fealty to the Iron Throne. Fighting through another task means keeping Aemond and his family secure for one more night. Now, it seemed, it was the only thing you could do for him.

"Just my expertise.” You force yourself to smile and keep your head high. It would be incredibly naive to think that a few days without sleep could make Davros ease up on you. He was nothing if not demanding. “How can I be of use?"

The commander lifted his gaze at you. He leaned forward, propping himself up on the table. Despite deep wrinkles and greyish hair, he appeared quite youthful. Age hasn’t slowed his body or his mind.

"Kill Aemond Targaryen."

Maybe the lack of sleep started playing tricks on your mind. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Your voice was a mere breathy whisper. "I'm sorry?"

"You heard me just fine, girl."

Most people would say that their hearts started beating out of their chests when hearing something of that sort. In your case, it was quite the opposite - the muscle stopped at once, leaving you unable to breathe. Numbing pain spread underneath your ribs like a beast of horror gnawing at its enclosure to be let out. Is it love or grief that is clawing its way out fo you?

"And I can't believe that I heard what I heard. This is quite unexpected, sir."

"Death usually is.” Davros appeared calm, completely unmoved by the situation and its implications. This was just another day for him. “Prince Aemond is currently the largest internal threat to king Aegon. A mellow rug rat is easier to steer than a maniac with a grudge."

The commander may be a demanding man but he was never greedy. In fact, greed and selfishness were the two things he made sure you grew out of. His methods were painful, at times cruel, but effective. If it wasn’t for him training you, Prince Aemond would never have known about your existence, much less fallen in love in a ploy to keep his plans known.

"Since when do you care about 'steering' the king?” you ask, wary. Something about Davors has changed but you couldn’t quite put your finger on the cause. What was going on behind the curtains, the doors closed even to you? “We're meant to be peacekeepers and scouts, not meddlers."

"What would you call assassinating conspirators?” His question sounded like an accusation. You knew better than to answer. “You've killed many people, kid, and now you care about meddling?” Those mercury-coloured eyes bore straight into your very spirit. For a moment, he became a mirror of truth, forcing you to look at the ugliest part of who you are. Whatever you thought of it was irrelevant - it was true. “A spy with a conscience. As if!"

You’re not sure what to make of this turn of events. Davros is your commander, yes, but he’s acting unlike himself. Did someone put a spell on him? Was one of the Lords threatening him? Although blackmailing the spymaster sounded rather impossible to achieve. Which made this situation even more bizarre.

"It's just…” you hang your voice, looking for the right words. “I don't think this is wise, Davros. With Aemond dead, Rhaenyra has nothing to be afraid of. Aegon will be paralysed with fear that his brother was murdered. And Queen Alicent? She will go berserk. Our heads will end up on spikes before the rooster calls."

There was no visible change in Davros. Your words meant nothing to him.

"Queen Alicent is a woman of reason. She'll come to it."

His apparent lack of concern irked you. The commander was treading the line between callous and stupid. "She's also a mother,” you reminded him.

Davros scoffed and shook his head. "A mother who never loved her children, only the position they gave her,” he answered, the tone of his voice coming off as annoyed or bored.

It seemed as though he wasn’t asking you to assassinate your lover and the crown prince. He was sure it had to be done. All the positive and negative outcomes had already gone through his mind and Davros was content with the final outcome. He was beyond arguing.

The spymaster was clearly sacrificing peace and stability for his personal gain. What kind, you couldn’t be sure yet. What grand offer did it have to be?

“Stop wasting time, girl,” he droned out his words. “Get to it,” Davros spat out the command like a venomous lizard from Dorne’s deserts.

But you were well-acquainted with poisonous fruit and venomous bites. It was your sole purpose in this world to recognise them, to get rid of them before they reach the king. With vipers, as it is with men, one must not run in fear of their fangs. No - to win, you must show that your fangs are bigger. They dig deeper into the flesh, draw more blood.

“I won’t, Davros.” The tone of your voice was cold and calm like the winds sweeping the snow in the North. “And something tells me you knew that already.”

The commander’s eyes turned strangely dark. What once had reminded you of mercury’s colour, now reminded you of the deadly disposition of the substance. Despite healing some ailments of the body, it wasn’t any safer than a sharpened blade. In the same way, the spymaster’s seemingly collected exterior was nothing more but a ruse. 

“I was stupid enough to count on your reason.” The disappointment in his voice made blood rush to your face. As if it were a reflex, you wanted to lower gaze. Strangely enough, the thought of Aemond Targaryen forced your shame to disappear. “It seems it’s too late for that. You know that happens to traitors, don't you?"

It wasn’t a threat, at least not in the way most people understand the word. His question was more of a reminder, a warning at best. The letter of the law was clear and no amount of excuses could save your head should Davros bring your insubordination to the king’s attention.

And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to treat the matter with proper seriousness. Not when it came to him.

"Bite me,” you barked back at him. Davros raised his eyebrows in surprise and, truthfully, you shared his reaction. Never before have you stepped out against him. “I'm your second-in-command. If I suddenly fall dead your whole operation will go to shit and people will riot."

The commander’s lips twist into something similar to a smile but much too sinister to be a sign of joy. A curious glint in his grey eyes made him appear almost amused at your action.

"How bold,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “You seem to overestimate your worth, girl."

"Do I?” The question rings in your ears, its echo asking you the very same thing - are you overestimating your importance? To Davros, to the Iron Throne… to Aemond? “I'm the one you're asking to kill the prince who is next in line to the Iron Throne. If anything, I'm priceless to you."

"Priceless?” His voice came out as a hiss. Now is the time when the venomous snakes shall bare their fangs and compare. “You're only useful to me because you keep whoring yourself out to the prince. No one will question your weaponry and visits at strange hours of the night. You're not irreplaceable, girl. Just convenient."

His words hurt only because they were true and you couldn’t honestly deny the claims. Indeed, you and Aemond have indulged in ways that did not befit a couple from such different backgrounds. It was quite distasteful to call you a ‘couple’. A man and a whore aren’t a couple after all, are they? They are a person and an object. The only difference between you and the ladies in Flea Bottom was the price - you had none. Which made the whole scenario even more disparaging. The prince could do with you as he pleased and you never asked for any payment. Aemond, however, did pay. At least in some way. For every night spent in your company, he divulged parts of himself never known by any other living soul.

The decision should have been harder to make.

"Then you will have no problem finding my replacement."

Your fingers swiftly take off the small crow-shaped brooch from your coat. The pin clattered on the desk, right under the commander’s nose, when you tossed it away. One of the crows sitting on the windowsill cawed, as if in shock at the scene it witnessed.

Davros slowly picked up the brooch. He inspected it in his hands, although needlessly. It wasn’t something new or unknown to him. 

"I raised you,” he spoke after a moment of silence. His voice wasn’t calm but rather empty - rid of any emotion. “I've taught you everything you know. You would be nothing without me.” Davros raised the pin to his eye level like he was showing the pin to you. Then, he threw it across the room, missing your face by less than an inch. It wasn’t truly a miss; he meant to scare you. The metal accessory clattered as it hit the wall and then the floor. “And that's how you repay me?"

You slowly exhaled. It took a lot from you not to flinch when the pin just about missed your left cheek. Dodging flying knives was much easier, you noticed. Mainly because the people throwing them weren’t the ones who took you in around the time you learnt to walk. Those hands that taught you to tie shoelaces and braid hair had just shown you that they could easily maim you without much hesitation.

All doubts, guilt and shame left you the moment you took a deep breath. Davros no longer looked like your almost-father. No, his face contorted under the weight of something corrupted, festering inside him. He was the same man he was when you met him and yet, he appeared as a strange-faced devil.

"I'd rather be nothing than aid your struggle for power.” You clenched your hands into fists in hopes of stopping them from trembling. That waver in your voice was enough to let Davros know just how much effect he had on you. “You taught me about servitude, not…”, you hang your voice for a moment, realising you’re still in the dark about his motivation, “whatever this is supposed to be. The Iron Throne has blinded you."

The commander scoffed again. His eyes are staring at you as if you were a court jester, humiliating yourself in hopes of crumbs of dignity or food from the less-than-caring overlord. In other words, Davros found you pathetic to the point of amusement. Perhaps he had realised his own mistake - he never should have allowed you near the prince. It was his lapse of judgement that you’ve found yourself in such an undignified position; he should have known better than to make you responsible for such an important matter.

"Like the noble prick blinded you, girl? At least power is not something that will cast you away when nicer tits come its way."

A corner of your lips twisted into a half-grin. The expression was nothing short of contemptuous.

"Then you know nothing about power, Davros."

You turned to leave the room when the commander called out after you for the last time:

"This will cost you your life."

Some part of you wanted to look at him, desperately hoping to see even the shadow of the man you had almost called your father. But you knew better than to tease fate. Your eyes remained blankly focused on the door handle and your hand wrapped around it.

"It already did,” you said under your breath. “You raised me, remember?"

The door shut behind you and with them - your life. It was quite clear that by sunrise, someone would be dead. If not prince Aemond, then you. Davros wasn’t the kind of man to simply give up or let go of a grudge. Even if you were to flee King’s Landing, he was bound to find you at some point. The king’s spymaster had crows everywhere, some winged and some not. Prying eyes and ears of Westeros would be more than willing to sell you out for the commander’s favour.

Truthfully, the choice wasn’t much of a choice to you. The thought of killing Aemond was unfathomable to you. And to continue living with his blood on your hands? No, you didn’t have the heart to do this. To suffer for decades on end until your time runs out. If it’s not Aemond you will kill, it leaves you with only one option - yourself.

No matter the outcome of this night, you knew you had to do something beforehand. If you must take your longing for the prince to your grave, the truth should be known. The very truth you had sworn to yourself never to reveal. However, if you’re not going to live to tomorrow, it is only fair that Aemond becomes aware of just what awful thing you have done to him. Maybe, if you actually were more than a cheap whore to him, the truth would make his grief lighter. Perhaps it would rid him of any heaviness that your death shall bring.

You waited until nightfall, well after supper. At this hour, Aemond should be in his chamber, unbothered by any visitors. Aside from you, that is.

The twilight inside the bedroom made him appear even more alluring than he already was. Candlelight paired with deep shadows danced across his features, painting him both divine and sinister. Aemond’s silver hair, flowing down his shoulders and back, brought memories of flawless pearls smuggled by a merchant. You obtained them through trickery as well.

He didn’t move from his seat by the table when you opened his window and came in. There was no doubt that he heard you in the silence of the night. Only assassins and thieves enter homes through windows or balconies in the dark. Aemond Targaryen was yearning to see one of them.

You’re no farther than a meter away from him when the prince acknowledges your presence at last:

“You finally came.”

As cold as his voice sounded, you heard the unspoken fear, longing and anger writhing under his skin. Both lovers and spies seemed to be able to listen closely to the other’s silence. And Aemond’s silence was never empty or quiet. It spoke of things grander than life, too viscerally human to be expressed in any known language.

His leather clothing creaked as he got up from the chair and looked at you. The twilight surrounding you captured his demeanour all too well - divine and sinister, loving and dismissing, rejoiced and furious.

But most of all, he appeared sad.

It was the sadness of a child once again forgotten, a lover once again scorned.

And there you stood in front of him, bringing more heartache in place of apologies. 

“This is hardly a social visit, my love.” As much as you wanted to look Aemond in the eye, you couldn’t. If you met his longing gaze, you were sure to do just another foolish thing. “I came…” You paused, only to take a deep breath and exhale in a sigh. “I came because there is something that you must know. I have no doubts that it will change your view of me. In fact, I’m afraid it will make you despise me. But it must be said before the morning comes.”

Aemond’s eyebrows furrowed for a moment before he regained control over his expression. How truly him it was, to put on a blank mask in naive hope of fooling himself into disregard for the emotional turmoil inside. You’ve learnt to see beyond that facade, to see the small boy begging the world to finally love him. And how cruel the world was to make the love come from you.

“Despise you?” he repeated as though these words were foreign to him. “Why would I do that?” Aemond’s voice was soft, airy. Flowing through the room like a fallen leaf, guided by the cold autumn wind. “Indeed, there are many things in this world that I hate but you will never be one of them. You can’t make me hate you, my beloved.” His fingers gently brushed against the side of your face and neck. “Even if you tried.”

You grabbed his hand and held it against your chest. If it wasn’t for the layers of clothing you were wearing, he could have felt your heart hammering against your ribs.

“I hope you’re right, Aemond,” you whisper, more to assure yourself than him. “I pray to the Gods that you love me just as much as you claim.”

He remained silent, quietly egging you on to finally reveal the true reason for your visit. His blue eye bore into you, as if attempting to read your thoughts before you can say them out loud. The intensity wasn’t intimidating, quite the opposite - Aemond was wordlessly begging you to open your heart to him, to be allowed to know you on the deepest level. If he could, he would crawl inside you and inspect your inner workings up close. Maybe then he would finally learn how you could so easily bewitch him entirely.

You held his hand a little tighter. It was a naive attempt at grounding yourself, foolishly proving to yourself that Aemond was here, right in front of you. He wanted to hear the truth.

“Our meeting wasn’t an accident,” you confessed. “It was calculated, very much so. Davros knew that you’re too smart and too guarded to speak of your ambitions with just anyone. He devised a plan that I should form a relationship with you. Everything you told me, I was meant to pass on to him. And in the beginning, I did.” Tears gathered in your eyes and fell down your cheeks despite your miserable attempts at stopping them. They rolled down your face only to drip onto your and Aemond’s hands resting against your chest. “I was so proud of myself. Finally, I was given a responsibility that mattered. I was doing something important for the kingdom.” You noticed his jaw clenching, muscles desperately flexing to stop Aemond from something. “But then you made me laugh, we talked into late hours of the night and I grew to trust you in a way I’ve never trusted anyone. You’re the only person that I feel truly safe with, Aemond. I don’t deserve it but Gods!” You let out a scoff, suddenly realising just how pathetic you must sound and look. But it didn’t really matter if you were going to die soon. “I want to deserve it. I want to deserve you because I love you. And I know that after what I’ve told you, my words mean nothing, less than nothing.” You choke on a sob, Aemond momentarily stiffens. Something dark and unspeakable clouded his eye. “But if there is one truthful thing I have said in my life, it’s that: I love you, Aemond.”

He looked away for a while. To anyone else, he might have looked unbothered or even annoyed by this scene. You, however, knew the prince quite well. The way in which he couldn’t meet your gaze, how he stood unnaturally straight, how his nostrils flared and jaw was more prominent - it all pointed to Aemond caving in on himself, a vulnerable part of him shattered like a glass vase thrown on the floor. His ever-calm resolve was cracking, revealing the raw, unhealed wounds beneath. 

"Why are you telling me this now?" He managed to say in a low, raspy bark.

Aemond tried to pull his hand back but you kept it still against your chest. Your hold was firm enough to feel the bones under his pale skin.

"Because someone has to die tonight.”

The blue eye found your face again. A glaze of anger and betrayal clouded it, making it appear as though it belonged to an animal rather than a person. It was the eye of a viper whose venom you would welcome.

A questioning look, a tense silence.

“Davros ordered me to kill you and I refused,” you finally revealed, after a long silence that felt closer to years than minutes. “By the letter of the law, that is treason.”

“So is killing the prince,” he retorted in an equally low tone. 

Perhaps if the two of you spoke any louder, malicious spirits lingering in the castle would hear you, bringing doom upon you for their own pleasure.

“Which means I will die no matter what happens.” The certainty in your voice was tugging at something primal deep inside Aemond’s viscera. His hand should hurt from your iron grip but he felt nothing. There was numbness in his limbs, as though your statement had made his heart stop beating. “That actually makes it easier.” Your lips twisted into a bittersweet smile. “I can’t run from Davros, there is no corner in the world where he couldn’t find me. Running is futile. The only choice I have is regarding the manner of my death.” 

Time seemed to slow down for Aemond, allowing him to fully comprehend the horror unfolding in front of him:

You reached into your coat, pulling out a sharp knife. It reflected the low candlelight, for a moment resembling the softness of water. But water can both cleanse and drown. What cleansing, what rapture, could this blade offer to Aemond?

Your trembling fingers held onto the tip of the knife. In the most submissive of gestures, you offered him the handle of the weapon.

“Do this for me, Aemond,” you whispered. A cold shiver ran down his spine. Was is fear or excitement? He couldn’t be sure. “If you have ever loved me, kill me. Please.” Your voice and hands trembled as you begged. “I don’t want to bleed out in some back alley, cold and alone. If I have to go, I want you to be next to me.”

Aemond took the knife from you. He inspected it closely, admiring the craftsmanship of the blacksmith who had forged it. There was a motto inscribed on the handle: “Virtue guide me”.

And virtue shall guide it.

With a flick of his wrist, Aemond tossed the blade into the lit fireplace.

Before you can protest or ask what he was doing exactly, Aemond held your face in his hands. You were forced to meet his intense, fiery gaze as he spoke slowly, in a low voice:

"Gods be witness when I say this: if I ever raise my hand against you, its flesh shall rot down to the bone, resembling the fester and rot of my heart."

Tears fell down your cheeks again. Why did he have to be this way? His devotion was transgressive, turning from something romantic to delusional and viscous. As demented as it may sound, you didn’t want him any other way than treading the line between sane and sick.

“Don’t do this, my love,” you begged between whimpers. “Don’t make this harder than it already is. How can I die when you confess your love for me in such a tragic way?”

His hands felt delightfully warm against your skin. Your tears burned against his fingers. Their scorch travelled to his heart and further, into his viscera. It fed a flame you had set ablaze the first time your lips met his. This fire whispered to Aemond’s lovesick mind the most horrific promises and ideas. But the prince was a dragon - he didn’t know tender, innocent love. He only knew to devour and be devoured. Aemond listened to the whispers, slowly losing certainty where they ended and his own thoughts began. You had set his very spirit on fire and he welcomed the burn. Now the flames begged to be set free, to make true the violent vows of an immortal, all-consuming love.

Aemond rested his forehead against yours.

“Listen to me, my love,” he said. It wasn’t a plea but a demand. “If you die before me, I shall burn this world to ash. Noblemen and smallfolk alike will suffer like I do. The Gods will hear my cries of your name and they shall tremble in fear, for I will storm the gates of their castles. They will answer for taking you away from me.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. A sob was stuck in your chest.

“Don’t do this to me, Aemond, please,” you continued to beg him. “Have mercy on me.”

“I will not grant you mercy, for it is not yours to be begged for.” His cold tone gave you goosebumps. This cool anger could strike fear in the heart but not in yours. To you, it was comforting - like leaning against a cold wall in the heat of summer. “You’re mine,” he whispered, droning out the last word. “You’re mine as I am yours. If you wish to die, you will have to take me with you. If you wish death on anyone, my hands will be yours.”

Gently, you held his wrists. You were unsure whether to keep his hands on your cheeks or to pry him away from you. It was quite clear that the longer you remained in Aemond’s grasp, the less willpower you had. Truly, he could simply stand in your vicinity and gain control over you with nothing more but a stare or a mischievous half-grin.

“I can’t kill you, Aemond. I couldn’t even kill myself.”

He tilted his head backwards enough to look straight into your eyes. Your noses were brushing against one another.

“Then ask me to kill Davros.”

“I can’t, it’s-”

“Ask me,” he demanded. The cold blue of his iris stared through you, gazing into the marrow of your bones, the very fibre of your spirit. 

To be precise, Aemond wasn’t asking your permission. No, his goal was quite more sinister. He was going to kill Davros anyway. What he craved was absolution - if he committed a sin in the name of love, not hate, was it truly a sin? Was he not akin to a saint if he slew out of devotion?

“Help me,” you whispered, barely audibly.

His lips softly pecked your forehead. Aemond found some wicked satisfaction in seeing you so broken and desperate. The vulnerability hidden under your resolve was for his eye only. Only his ears will hear your whispered pleas. He was a cruel man and he could use this weakness for malice. You, well-aware of his dreadful character, ripped your heart open just for him. It was proof enough that your love for him was equally mad.

“You’re mine, my love,” he whispered into your ear. “And I will do horrible things just to remain yours.”

Aemond Targaryen was black of heart and he knew it. There was no doubt about it. He always thought that being loved would mend his cruelty, that it would fix whatever was broken inside him. It did no such thing to him, quite the contrary - it made him indulge in the most unspeakable of fantasies. He should feel ashamed, shouldn’t he? But Aemond knew no such emotion when you trembled against him, your salty tears wetting the pads of his fingers.

‘Shame is for good, honest men,’ he thought. ‘They feel ashamed because they know right from wrong. I only know her.’

Tonight, the venomous viper will meet a fire-breathing dragon, only to learn that its venom and fangs are useless against the beast of legends.

[collegiatesins]

maximo  didn’t  move  for  a  moment.  didn’t  blink,  didn’t  breathe,  didn’t  react.  not  in  the  way  people  were  supposed  to  when  they’d  just  been  kissed  like  that.  as  if  they  were  the  epicenter  of  the  moment,  not  just  some  passing  orbit.  instead,  he  sat  still,  like  time  had  cracked  open  and  he  was  considering  the  shape  of  it  from  the  inside.  then:  one  slow  exhale.  smoke  curling  from  the  corner  of  his  mouth  like  it  had  been  waiting  for  permission.  with  his  reality  finally  recentered,  he  turned  to  look  at  her,  really  look,  and  the  edge  of  his  mouth  tipped  into  something  just  shy  of  a  smile.  crooked.  dry.  deeply  unamused  at  himself  for  letting  her  get  that  close,  but  not  quite  mad  enough  to  stop  her.  not  now.  maybe  not  ever.  “  you’re  a  menace,  ”  he  comments,  low  and  even,  like  it  was  just  a  statement  of  fact.  his  voice  had  that  gravelly  undertone  it  got  when  he  was  feeling  too  much  and  trying  not  to  show  any  of  it.  “  an  actual  problem.  walking  calamity  in  slippers.  ”  his  hand  had  stilled  under  hers,  not  tense,  nor  pulling  away,  just…grounded.  anchored  by  her  touch  in  a  way  he  didn’t  want  to  examine  too  hard.  she  had  a  way  of  pushing  past  all  his  armor  without  asking.  just  wandered  right  in,  barefoot  and  grinning,  like  he’d  left  the  door  open  for  her.

(he  probably  had.)

“  you  think  i  don't  like  scripts?  ”  he  said  finally,  voice  rougher  now,  touched  by  something  softer  than  smoke.  “  that’s  the  funny  part.  i  do.  love  the  control.  the  rhythm.  knowing  what  comes  next.  ”  he  glanced  down,  where  her  hand  still  rested  against  his  chest  like  it  had  always  belonged  there.  “  it’s  improvising  that  fucks  me  up.  you  show  up,  do  shit  like  that—  ”  his  eyes  flicked  back  to  hers,  steady  now,  intense  in  the  way  only  max  could  manage  without  ever  raising  his  voice  “  and  suddenly  i’m  just  standing  here  with  no  lines,  hoping  i  hit  my  mark.  ”  he  let  a  beat  pass.  “  which  i  guess  means,  yeah.  you  helped  your  case.  ”  his  smirk  flickered  at  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  a  flare  of  amusement  through  the  storm.  “  hot  fries.  mystery  flavors.  kissing  without  warning.  all  checks  out.  ”  but  then  the  question  circled  back.  the  one  she’d  asked  with  her  thumb  on  his  pulse  and  her  mouth  sweet  from  sugar  and  smoke.  what  do  you  burn  for?  he  didn’t  answer  it  right  away.  just  leaned  back  against  the  wall  beside  her,  head  tilted  toward  the  ceiling,  watching  something  no  one  else  could  see.

“  i  used  to  think  it  was  legacy,  ”  he  said,  slow  and  quiet,  like  he  was  afraid  the  words  might  burn  too  hot  if  he  said  them  fast.  “  doing  something  that  lasted.  leaving  behind  a  story  they  couldn’t  rewrite.  ”  he  breathed  out  through  his  nose,  eyes  still  on  the  ceiling.  “  but  lately…i  dunno.  feels  like  i’d  settle  for  being  understood.  just  once.  all  the  way  through.  ”  which  would  be  a  hard  feat  considering  maximo  espinoza  rarely  ever  let  anyone  in  behind  his  barricaded  walls.  even  his  closest  friends  and  confidants  barely  scratched  the  surface  of  his  depth.  not  that  they  knew,  maximo  was  excellent  at  playing  an  open  book  even  when  he  wasn’t.  he  looked  at  her  again,  then.  all  smoke  and  focus  and  something  rare  that  didn’t  have  a  name.  “  that’s  the  fire.  that’s  what  makes  it  worth  it.  even  if  it  eats  you  alive.  ”  her  hand  was  still  on  his  chest.  he  lifted  his  own.  deliberate,  sure  and  laid  it  over  hers.  not  to  stop  her.  just  to  feel  it  there.  real.  steady.  “  so  yeah,  ”  he  said.  “  let  ‘em  watch.  ”  and  when  he  leaned  in  this  time,  there  was  no  performance  in  it.  just  something  raw  and  rooted,  like  gravity  pulling  him  forward.

cleo stretched like a cat: slow, languorous, spine arching just because it felt good. the joint tipped her from buzzed to liquid, everything honey-warm and loose in her limbs. her slippered foot nudged against maximo’s shin, casual as a yawn, as she tilted her head to eye him, all slanting mischief and haloed curls. “cheetos with lime,” she repeated, sucking her teeth like she was tasting it. “you’re so dramatic. i liked hot fries better, did that help my case of filing you in as such?” she plucked the joint from his hand again, hadn’t even looked as she did it. just reached over and stole it like it was always hers. like he was, trading him the lollipop back in return after a moment between her lips. “figures,” she had muttered, mouth around the candy now, her voice dulled and sticky. “bet you’d be the guy to order the mystery flavor just to feel something.” her mind had flocked to mystery meat in middle school, served lukewarm and splatted on her plate like a fresh load of laundry piled on her bed.

her elbow slid across his knee as she shifted closer, completely unaware — or pretending to be — how her body brushed against his like the universe was short on space. she had collapsed against the wall beside him with a dramatic sigh, head thunking just shy of his shoulder, curls spilling like static. “you know what’s intimate?” she asked, pointing the lollipop at him like it was a dagger. “not vending machine privileges. candy-sharing. mouth stuff. childhood trust, adult consequences. that’s the line.” she grinned, lazy and lopsided. “we crossed it, baby. no going back.” when he talked about the stars, her grin flattened into something quieter. but her eyes didn’t dull — just shifted focus. less spark, more slow burn. the stars. “they do stay,” she echoed, voice like a secret passed through a bathroom mirror. she tilted her head, lashes fluttering slow like moth wings, the glow of her curiosity unmistakable. no hesitation, no sense of timing — just the immediate pull of wanting to know.

“so what do you burn for?” she said it like asking someone what time it was. casual. direct. but her eyes hadn’t blinked, hadn’t flinched. she’d been watching him like she wanted to map his soul through his pupils, read his ribs like lines in a palm. her hand was still been warm against his leg, thumb idly tracing something meaningless — a rhythm, a shape, maybe just the question itself. “you said that like you’d thought about it,” she added, voice a little quieter then, but not less bold. “so. maximo.” she leaned in, grinning crooked and too close, like she might kiss the answer off his mouth if he stalled too long. “what sets you on fire?” she let the weight of her touch linger like heat trapped in fabric. her fingers found his wrist, then his palm, then curled in without asking. she had always been like that when she was high: tactile, electric, unfiltered. “you’re wrong, by the way,” she murmured, so close her breath had skimmed his jaw. “you are a performer. in your own sort of way. you just don’t like scripts.” her thumb dragged along his ring, slow and curious. and then she laughed, like that thought had tickled her.

“don’t worry,” she added, her hand still on his, “i’m terrible with endings too. probably gonna be a ghost someday, stuck in a house because i refused to admit i was dead. that’s my legacy.” her gaze dropped to his mouth for half a breath too long. and then back up. he said it — so something had told her he was the one they were really watching. and cleo grinned, slow and sharp like the edge of a bottle cap. eyes bright, lashes heavy. she let the line hang in the air for a beat, let it curl between them like smoke. then she shifted, inching closer, one hand finding his knee like it was a thing that belonged to her now. like she always touched him like that. “or,” she said, low and honey-warm, “we could just stop blaming things.” her fingers dragged up, lazy and deliberate — over denim, over heat — until her palm rested against his chest, right over the steady thrum of his heart. it wasn’t playful, not exactly — there was intention there: weight. “and give them a good show.”

and then she kissed him. not a maybe-kiss. not a brush or a glance or a near-miss. she kissed him like the night was ending. or like maybe it never would. like there was no one watching but the stars and maybe they deserved the front row. her mouth was soft but certain, slightly sweet from the lollipop, slightly bitter from the weed, completely her — wild and messy and intentional. her hand slipped to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, and she didn’t pulled away until it was absolutely necessary — until the breath between them had become something living. when she did, it was with a little smile and her forehead resting against his like they were in the eye of the storm. like that was the safest part of the night. “there,” she whispered, slightly breathless. “now they’ve got something worth watching.” then she stole the lollipop back from his hand, popped it between her teeth, and leaned back like nothing had happened at all — except for the look in her eyes, which says everything did.

[tomatette]

for old times' sake ...

[spotaus]

New Age AU (An Order to Things)

Hello hello and welcome back! I... write the first part of this like a month ago and then came back and wrote the rest over the past few days! Ancha and I were talking about getting some perspective on the rest of the Castle while Night is still adjusting to his new body, so here we are! A little mash-up of what the Knights have been doing on a regular day only a little while in to Night being small!

no edits, no rereads, fuck it we ball!

(@ancha-aus @mutzelputz and @papiliovolens hello again! Hope you don't mind the random @ and as always if it gets annoying just lemee know and I'll cease hehe!)

Oh, and a bonus shout-out to Ancha because I would've completely fumbled an entire section here, but she recalled something from one of my many strange rambles and saved my life in the lore continuity department :]

“Is everyone here?” Dust’s voice was steady and cut through the chatter of the room.

Horror watched as heads turned to face Dust, where he stood at the ‘front’ of the room. The room was actually curved, a nice oval that allowed a long, round, bar-like table to curve along the outskirts and sit up to fifty people along its run. Across from where Dust was standing was the door. Where Dust stood now, well, that was usually where the King sat. They had shifted the ornate seat back and away for the time being, since no one thought it’d be right for Dust to sit in it. Even if he was filling in for Nightmare today. 

Those seated, they were Nightmare’s council. Some seats had been barren since before Horror had arrived, a lot had been filled since then, Killer had told them that the population had seen a steep decline after he showed up. From what Horror had heard, it was probably for the best that it had been rebuilt almost from scratch. The council now was made up largely of common people. Monsters and Humans, each a representative from their own cities and townships who had both been chosen by their people and screened by the King himself. They weren’t proper or well-spoken sometimes, but they always seemed to have their people’s best interests at heart, so he figured the king didn’t mind it much. Actually, maybe their informal habits made them all the more appealing to him? Horror could never quite tell. Besides, he usually wasn’t present for these unless the farming representatives were present, and today they seemed woefully absent. Normally it would be Killer or Dust here where he was standing near the King’s seat. But, Killer was helping watch over the King while Ccino caught up on his own work, Cross was scheduled for training right now, and Dust was the one talking, so here he was. 

“Good.” Dust spoke up again, very shortly, as the group quieted. 

Horror noticed Dust had a booklet open on the table before him. Horror recognized the handwriting in the pages, even if he couldn’t read any of the words from such a distance. Those dizzying swirls were the familiar penmanship of their King. King Nightmare must have sent Dust with instructions, or maybe a list of topics to address. 

“Our King will not join us today. I am here on his behalf. Trust me, news will return to him.” Dust explained briefly, and neither of them missed the way a few of the council looked between each other. Nightmare had been out of the public eye for almost a week and a half now. “Any questions?”

Dust’s eyelights traveled to his left, where a hand was raised barely into the air. A human sat there, Horror didn’t recognize them, but it seemed like Dust did. He gestured shortly to him and said, “Damien?” As a prompt to get the man speaking.

As Horror had learned, it was customary to stand when you spoke at these events. Everyone, aside from the King, had a cushioned stool which tended to be easier to raise out of and sit on again. The human, Damien, slipped backward off his stool and rose maybe an inch higher than he had been sitting. 

“Sir Panther,” He addressed Dust with a slightly nervous voice, “We in the council are grateful for your presence and for listening to our pleas, but some of us present feel that the timing of our King’s absence poses a danger to some of our peoples.” 

Damien shoved a strand of dark hair out of his eyes, tucking it behind his ear as he continued with a surprising amount of confidence for someone who seemed to be questioning their king. “While we trust his decisions, we find that our people are growing restless and weary without plans in place to rebuild our shelters. The last flood which passed through was not four days ago, and the letter arrived today more frantic than the last. Is there any hope that we may soon be graced by the King’s presence once again?” He watched Dust’s reaction as he still stood.

Dust, though, had a pokerface of steel. As long as Horror had known him he was always a closed book. Or, maybe more like he had a bottle, but broke the top of the cork off inside the opening, so nothing ever made it out. That was Dust. Horror couldn’t even blame him, with all he was dealing with it was impressive how neutral he could remain. Horror had no doubt this Damien man had no idea what it was Dust was thinking at the moment. Was he happy? Upset? 

Before Dust could answer, another hand shot up, followed by a scrambling sound as this other figure, this one to the right, moved faster. This time, it was a monster Horror recognized vaguely, if only because he believed this was one of the few noble lines who got to stay after the ‘spring cleaning’ as Killer called it once. She was a bee monster, one who lived in the capital, but her family resided over some borderland city. She was younger and a lot quicker to speak.

“Mister Damien is underselling how dangerous the floods have become again, Sir Panther!” She hurriedly said. Across the room, Damien seemed to pale under the loud and shrill voice of this noble girl. Dust nodded to her, prompting a continuation of an explanation. “The floods rolled through my town too, though we had time to prepare thanks to their warnings so the damage was less severe. It sounds like, though, many houses were completely swept away, and among them were Mister Damien’s family home. He has two daughters, you know that? They ended up in my town when the water swept them there. That’s how I know.”

She seemed startled when Damien seemed to slump over his stool a bit, planting his hand on the seat as he looked to her. 

“My little girls? They’re alright?” He asked out of turn, his voice different. A bit weaker. 

The noble girl, was her name Marie? She nearly jumped forward as though she were going to close the gap across the room, her wings buzzing at her back. “Yes! Yes, they’re alright! My mother spotted them in our river and was able to scoop them up.” She replied almost excitedly, entirely blind to the sickly relief on Damien’s face. “Mother said they were very smart girls, they had a hold of a piece of wood and used it to float!” 

The two seemed to silently revel in the news, Marie proud to have shared it, and Damien grateful to have heard it. Neither of them was taking in the looks of worry permeating their fellow councilmen, though those nearest to Damien did extend hands of support to his shoulders. Comfort. 

“Mm. Good your family is safe.” Dust said, once again reminding the council of his presence. It had so quickly been forgotten in the exchange of information and startling news. 

Damien seemed to jolt at that, and he quickly made a bow towards Dust with a quiet, ‘Thank you, my Knight. Sorry, my Knight.’ escaping his chest in quick succession. 

“Glad you brought that up. The King isn’t sure when he’ll be back here.” He paused a second, “Sent me with a list of announcements. One was for your cities, got word same time as you.” Dust raised the little booklet off the table before him then. The leather cover, though Horror couldn’t see it he knew what it looked like, had the kingdom’s crest pressed into its surface. Dust didn’t glance at the pages, though. Just showed it off for a few breaths. “Said he’s sending out a contracting team. Capital’s best. They’ll be headed out and nightfall to Peechrey first. Build some drainage. Then rebuild the buildings. Move onto Pinoc after or split sooner, depending on resources. Time.” He debriefed. 

Damien and Marie were still standing, their discussion was seemingly not over. Questions unanswered. 

“I- I am grateful that our King has already prepared, it was foolish of me to assume, yet…” He took a breath, maybe trying to put together a thought. ��Drainage? Should the repairs not occur first? What of those with no home?” 

Valid question. If Horror were in this guy’s shoes, he’d probably be asking the same exact things. Dust seemed unbothered by the extra questioning and simply nodded along.

“Would, but it’s flood season. King said drainage first so repairs’ll stay sturdy. Just one fix instead of twenty.” Dust explained with a little shrug. “Those without houses? Take them in. Neighbors help neighbors, till we fix the big issues. Least we can ask.” The way Dust said it wasn’t forceful, or mean-spirited, yet it seemed to make Damien stand down. 

“I… Understand, my Knight.” He said briefly. 

It seemed he was about to sit when a hand raised from beside Marie. A human woman, one which Horror did fully recognize. Chase. She was one of the people who Crop had introduced him to during the call-outs for farmers willing to experiment with farming methods. That had been Horror’s first big project at the King’s side, and it had been going well so far. Slow, but well. 

“My Knight, if I may offer.” She received a nod of approval from Dust. “My village is small, an’ about an hour’s ride by horse to yours, but my people live on a plateau and would be more than willing to house any of yours who might need a place to stay for a time. We’d just ask for an extra hand with the harvest when time comes around.” She suggested, looking to Damien for an answer.

Damien looked right back at her for a few breaths, a little stunned. Horror had found, unlike many of these people, that the farmers who he and Crop had managed to gather for the experimental farming? They were good people from tight-knit communities. Visiting their small villages and farms reminded him much of home each time. Keeping crops and animals requires a lot of fortitude, wit, and compassion. More than anyone gave them credit for, usually. In moments of crisis, if he couldn’t be here with his family, he would choose a farming village over all else. …It seemed like Chase was living up to the high praise Horror hadn’t even realize he’d assigned to her years ago. 

“A-are you certain that is all you would ask in return? I fear that Miss Marie was correct in stating that the damages are far worse than I first described. We have at least fifty, perhaps more, who would be needing shelter and resources. We cannot push that upon your people for only a favor of labor.” Damien seemed like he was taking the cautious route. 

Horror couldn’t necessarily blame him, he wouldn’t want to be the reason his town was indebted either. Though, he did have half a mind to defend his colleague. She wouldn’t offer something like that if she and her folks couldn’t handle it. 

“ ‘Course that’s all I’d ask! We got plenty of space, as long as a few of your folks wouldn’t mind taking turns in the lofts. Plus the food shouldn’t be an issue. We mostly export the extra we don’t need to other towns for trade, but there should be enough surplus to feed that many extra mouths.” Chase belted those words with a pride that Horror had seen on many of the farmers lately. Her chest puffed a bit as she placed her hands on her hips. “Plus, don’t hurt that we’ve got the Knights here listenin’ to us make the deal. If I tried anything tricky with it I know Sir Lion over there wouldn’t let me weasel my way out of it!” 

Chase nodded her head in Horror’s direction. He didn’t expect for any eyes to turn to him during this meeting beyond the nervous glances every once in a while. He figured it must’ve been shocking to see him here the first time, and it probably hadn’t gotten much easier for them since. He found himself, regrettably, making direct eye-contact with Damien. The man looked frazzled still. Like he was regretting bringing up the topic at all. 

“Mm. She’s right.” He agreed, hoping it sounded half as light-hearted as he’d meant as it echoed from under his mask. “It’s… also a fair trade. Harvest season gets…” He lifted a hand a bit, searching for the words he was looking for. “Busy. Messy, when there are too many fields to harvest and not… not enough skilled hands to pick. Risk losing a lot of crop to…” Again he paused, but for a shorter span. “Over-ripening. Or drying out. Been trying to find a good way to gather it all for a few seasons now, right?” Horror finally broke his stare with Damien to glance over to Chase. 

She seemed to be beaming from over where she stood. She ran a hand through her short-cropped black hair with a slight laugh. 

“Exactly, My Knight! So, not entirely an unselfish offer, but we scratch your back, you scratch ours! It’d do us a big favor seein’ if getting more hands to help would really gather it all or if we’re gonna need to downscale.” She went between the two, though after looking to Horror again, she seemed to realize that the both of them had gone off-topic from the point of the question. The farming meeting was set for about a month from now, this was the civilian-based meeting. They could save shop talk for then. 

In her resounding silence, eyes all turned. Not to Damien, but to Dust. Normally it’d be Nightmare making this choice, of course, but instead? Today it was him. 

He seemed to look at the parties in question. He was calm. At some point he’d opened the little journal, but kept it flat on the desk away from any prying eyes of the council. He seemed to consult it shortly, and the room’s silence spanned on for nearly a minute as he seemed to debate silently with his thoughts. 

Then.

“Since the offer is made, it falls in guidelines for aide. The King trusts all of the council, but Chase still needs to draft a contract.” He finally announced. “Movement can begin if Damien agrees. Sign the paper later. After the King looks it over.” He said with hardly a moment more of hesitation.

Damien’s mouth was agape for a moment, before he nodded. 

“I- Yes. Thank you My Knight, Miss Chase, Miss Marie. I will agree to your offer to aide, and we will discuss the specifics after the meeting adjourns.” He finally decided.

Chase seemed thrilled. The woman was surely happy to have a whole new town’s-worth of new able-bodied souls to help her manage her crops, even if it was just for the harvest for one season. Horror and her both knew that this would put her ahead of schedule from the other farms by a bit. More progress did mean more attention from him and Crop, more notoriety for their village, and more trade incoming and outgoing. Plus, Chase was the kind of woman who insisted a little bit of manual labor was healthy for the soul. She was already getting her hands on that parchment used by all the council members to plead their cases to be reviewed by the King. 

When all was quieted and both Damien and Marie also seemed to have begin writing, though theirs were on regular paper (letters maybe?), Dust allowed a moment of quiet before he reintroduced their topic for the day. And… was immediately interrupted by another raised hand from a new corner of the meeting room.

.

“How… do you do it?” Horror asked quietly, lifting his axe from the sling along his back. 

Dust glanced at him. Horror could tell, the tilt of his chin meant he wasn’t following.

“I mean. Talk in front of all those people. Think of good answers to their questions so quick. You’re so calm.” He clarified. 

“Mm.” Was all Dust said for a second. 

They’d been out of the council meeting for a few hours now. Dust had rushed off post-meeting to see Nightmare. As much as they all knew Dust was the king of paperwork, especially contracts, Nightmare had made him promise to let him at least read over each one so his stamp was proper. (They all knew that meant he’d take the fall if anything went wrong for either party, too.) So, despite their King being so tired and busy with his whole… being a teenager thing? He was still triple-checking legal documents in his study. 

When that was finished Dust had gone off to check the stables and now he was back inside. In the training room, to be more specific. He’d been trying to make sure his magic was under control. His storm. Horror figured he was nervous, with Nightmare being so young now. They all needed to be on their toes. Horror had wanted to come with him, because he needed to sharpen and polish his axe. And ask him that question.

“Black Market boss.” He replied evenly, tugging his hood over his head a bit farther than it usually sat. 

Of course Horror knew about that. It had been very obvious when he’d first showed up. Back then, Dust was still wandering around in his shackles and being used as a walking map to find every black market location. Sure, he figured that the stress of a job like that, plus the paperwork involved, had to have prepared him for something like this, but… Horror was the last one to forget that past of his. He meant something else. 

“Didn’t mean that.” He said with a little huff. “Meant. Like. You think how the King would. I could… make choices that I liked. But. Not the same way Nightmare would. You know? You think of everything.” He elaborated a bit more.

Dust stood beside him as he plopped down onto one of the benches to the side of the training room. Dust would need all the floor space to practice his spells, and sharpening and cleaning his monster of an axe didn’t need much space at all. 

“Same morals?” He replied deadpan with a shrug. 

Dust was already moving out onto the big open floor to begin his summons, but he clearly heard it as Horror let out a laugh, because his steps got a bit lighter.

“You ass! I saw you send me a look about the Cherris rep. You wouldn’t have… said yes to her on your own.” He accused, almost playfully. He liked when his small friend set his shoulders. It meant he was trying not to laugh about something. Dust didn’t turn towards him.

“She asked for… a lot. Already gets a lot of support.” He replied shortly. 

Quickly after his words, Horror was graced with the vision of Dust’s magic igniting across the room. 

It was always in bright flashes. Sometimes manifesting as crooked, broken, brittle bone attacks with an electric taste in the air and a scorch mark left on the floor. Others, it showed up like a streak of lightning arching quickly from Dust’s fingertips or from the sky to strike wildly in any direction. It always had this deadly purple hue to it, and his one eyelight always flashed with vibrant colors just for a spilt second before it would fade back to that pale white/greyish color he sported normally. 

Dust didn’t like to talk when he was fighting or training, unless it was Killer. It seemed that would be his answer for now, which didn’t really help his curiosity in the slightest. It almost made him wonder more, but lucky for the both of them, he wasn’t a very pushy person. If Dust didn’t want to talk about it, there would be no talking. 

So, Horror took this time, with the ambient zapping noises of his fellow Knight’s magic as his soundtrack, to properly care for his axe. It was a nice, calming, repetitive task that helped chase away building headaches and distract him from worrisome thoughts. It was times like these when he could really take a moment to think about things he hasn’t in a while. Like, for instance, his family back home. 

Almost two weeks ago, only days before the King’s reverse-ascension, he’d gotten a letter from his mother. It was written in their foreign tongue, the only writing all the family could recognize and the only language which most of them spoke. It had detailed how his brother was doing well, managing their own experimental patches well and how his studies to learn more of Orchan, the dialect spoken by the people here, had been going by quickly. He was already planning to send a letter to him apparently. Though, his mother had insisted he not mention that when they meet again because it was meant to be a surprise. It also sounded like their old farm dog had finally had her last litter of puppies. They were going to move her into someone’s house and off the fields soon, once this batch of pups grew old enough to protect the livestock on their own. Horror knew how much that old dog deserved a nice retirement treat. Warm bed and shoes to chew on when she’d get bored. 

He ran a cloth along the broadside of the axe blade, away from the sharp bits for now. He liked getting the side shiny enough that he could spot a silhouette, but not enough that he could see his own reflection. 

…Honestly, he wanted to visit his family. He wanted to visit his family with the King in tow, though. The plan had been to ask him about another visit soon, because his entire village adored the King just like he did. His mother once swooned to him about how ‘awkward and kind’ the King was when he sat with everyone at dinner. His dad liked the way Nightmare tried to hold back his joy at the taste of their home-cooked meal they’d served to him. The King’s poker face had hardly broken for a moment, but the curling of those tendrils of his had been hard to miss. 

He just thought it’d be nice to bring Nightmare along. Plus, then, his family would be much less likely to try and baby him. He’d be on the clock as a guard, even if the King wouldn’t say so. 

It would have to happen another time, though. Maybe he’d invite Crop instead. Have him examine ground zero for this entire project of theirs? That’d be nice, it’d keep his family occupied by talking technicalities with Crop… but then Horror wouldn’t get nearly enough time with Crop all to himself… Maybe-

“Worried for him.” 

Dust’s voice snapped Horror out of his thoughts with a jolt. 

Dust stared at him, only a little apologetic at giving his large friend a heart-attack. He was stood right past Horror’s axe. He must’ve stopped polishing a while ago. Dust looked like he’d worked up a sweat, the room felt at least 10 degrees warmer, and the floor and some walls had distinct scorch marks all along the stone in various locations. How long ago had Dust stopped training? He hadn’t even heard the zapping end, so lost in his own head. 

“What?” Horror asked, confused now. 

Dust frowned slightly, though he tugged his mask back over his mouth. 

“Been learning his process for years. Only doing it now because I’m worried.” He said. 

He moved to sit beside Horror on the bench, and Horror twisted to look at him. Waiting for any more insight into Dust’s thought process. 

“He looks tired. Can see the bags under his eyes. Missing words too. Trouble focusing, looks confused sometimes.” He explained. “Don’t think he’s dumb, real genius kid. Just… the whole “13 year old brain” is getting to him. Don’t think he’s sleeping much either. It’s a lot.” 

Dust looked a little pained to be saying it outloud. Horror knew he was just speaking his mind. Trying to find a good way to say that he was rightfully worried for the King’s wellbeing. 

Ever since the incident, Horror hadn’t been around the King much. Not by choice of course, every bone in his body wished he could just wrap his young employer up in his arms and make him go out to the courtyard to play catch, just like he used to do with his older cousins as a kid. It just… it just made sense for him to remain vigilant and focused. Ccino and Killer and Dust seemed to have things covered with the King’s personal interactions. Horror and Cross had just been tasked with keeping face and continuing training best they could. Nightmare hadn’t even been coming to supervise trainings. So, Horror could barely say anything to Dust’s description.

The only thing Horror knew was that Dust wasn’t one to worry unneededly. Like, when he and the King returned with that Mage. Error? He’d seemed worried about the kid, but after a few days he relaxed again, because it was safe and that kid seemed genuinely happy. If Dust thought something was up with the King, Horror would believe him without doubt.

“Mm. Good thing. You learned, I mean.” Horror replied carefully. “Probably a lot like…” Hmm, maybe he didn’t want to say that out loud. Would that be rude?

A beat of silence passed between them.

“Yeah.” Dust just said quietly. 

Of course Dust knew what he was about to say. Comparing the King’s rewind to his own skull injury. Granted, his happened when he was a kid, but even now it made things harder. Harder to think, to remember, to see, to process things. He’s had time to get used to it though. Nightmare was just hit by similar issues so suddenly, and no physical wound to soothe either. Their king was smart and prepared. Horror could bet he didn’t want to lose that feeling. To lose… everything he’d been doing here. Just like that. 

“Don’t want to, though.” Dust’s voice was still quiet and even. 

Horror tilted his head at him curiously. 

“Talk. In front of others.” He clarified with a shrug. “Was nice being a Knight. Quiet before. …But I want to help. King’s too young to act alone.” 

Dust sighed after those words. 

They all could have said the same things about themselves in the past. Horror remembers the first time Dust discussed his early days out on the streets. He was too young to put himself into those situations. Then again, Killer had been too young for any of the shit he was put through. Same with what he heard from Cross. Even he shouldn’t have really been the sole communicator for his entire family in his youth. There had been a few close encounters in those early years thanks to angry customers. 

There was no time to really think back on it, though. In the moment now, Dust was right. The King was having that crisis in real time. They all needed to face the music and help take on some of the weight, especially after all Nightmare had done for them. Was still doing for them. 

“Think there’s… something I can do? To help you with the meetings?” He paused, and Dust didn’t say anything so he continued. “Or help the King?” 

He hadn’t exactly been doing much. Killer and Dust had taken on most of the responsibility, and Ccino… that poor guy, Horror wasn’t sure how he was managing everything he was. Killer gave them a breakdown once of all the shit he technically oversees as the ‘Head of House’ and stars was it way too much. And Cross was still a rookie, so he got why Nightmare hadn’t assigned any big stressors to him. Horror was capable though, and he hoped the King wasn’t-

“Next few weeks. He can’t meet the farms. I dunno how he runs those meetings.” Dust once again sliced through his thoughts with his even tone. “ ‘sides. You stayed, didn’t do your missions. Watching out for Cross. Think Night likes having us close. Already helping a lot.” 

Right. When Dust says it like that, it made his whole lot of nothing sound like everything. Sometimes he forgot Dust was an older brother. Horror chuckled a bit, and he could’ve sworn Dust’s cheekbones rose ever so slightly with the twitch of a hidden grin. He should’ve known better anyhow, Dust always knew just the right information. It was why Night hired him in the first place. 

“You’re doin’ well. Keeping things moving smooth. I’m sure the King appreciates it.” Horror voiced, before he sighed and hoisted himself to his feet. His axe was definitely done. He’d sharpen it another day. “Maybe,” A grin appeared on his face. “When he’s better, we can assign Kills to talk instead.” 

In hardly a moment, a silent moment, Dust was at his side now standing. He raised a doubtful brow at the suggestion. 

.

What is he doing? What is he doing?  

Oh, this felt so, so odd! He wasn’t- he shouldn’t! Well, he was ordered to, but still! He-

“Cross?” 

Cross jolted as he looked up from where he had made a poor attempt at excusing himself from the group outside. He’d insisted he had important business, he was sure he sounded convincing… until he’d walked through the nearest door. Which happened to be one of the weapon storage closets out amidst the training grounds. 

Now, as he turned to face the person who had spoken, he found that there was someone standing in the doorway. A familiar someone. A human with an impressive beard and dark tanned skin and scars tracing across his cheekbones ever so faintly and kind eyes with a few wrinkles under them. From age or stress, Cross wasn’t entirely sure. 

This was Captain Rogers. The King’s first in command who watched over all the royal guard as well as castle security. The man who had personally guided the batch of recruits which Cross had snuck in with during his spying mission hardly two years prior. The man who, he had swiftly learned, had seen through him very quickly and had purposely placed him with Shep as his guide. That damn liar. Captain Rogers was sharp, and skilled, and trustworthy. 

As far as he knew, the Captain had been around longer than Killer. At least, that’s what Killer had told him when he asked. He also had mentioned, and Cross had noticed, he was friends with the Head of House. Cross guessed that made sense. The captain had ensured Ccino be introduced as an important person within the castle very early on in their work here, and he had been proven very very right. 

Maybe it was that reputation Cross had seen true with his own two eyes during his stay that led him to not ask the Captain to leave as he eased his way into the weapons storage and gently closed the door behind him. He wasn’t a threat. Especially if the King trusted him with Ccino. He could know that much. 

“I’m not looking to disturb your business here, but I wanted to see if I could be of any assistance.” The Captain offered loosely. 

He’d been kind since Cross was pardoned by the King and allowed to train. His first few weeks when he fought against the Captain’s own soldiers? He and the King had both been patient with him. Something about being in combat like that again… it had brought out the worst in him. An old wound reopening in his chest like an empty chasm. He was pretty sure the King never explained to the Captain why they would suddenly stop mid-round, but Cross figured he could see the change as well as Nightmare could feel it. They’d only kept that up a few weeks until he was deemed too high of a skill level to continue training with the soldiers. He’d been moved to private training with the Knights not much later than that. Only saw the Captain in passing ever since. 

If nothing else, that time under his guidance had taught Cross that he was a man who knew how to speak with others. With security for himself and what he does, a pride in his work. He didn’t act maliciously. Perhaps only in jest or retribution to those who deserved it. He wouldn’t follow Cross in here if he hadn’t noticed him acting weird. 

That mortified him.

“Thank you. For the- for the offer, Captain Rogers.” Cross replied hurriedly, realizing he’d already been staring for a period of time that felt too long. “Though I’m not sure there’s anything that can be helped.”

The Captain was silent for a few breaths, but he did wander deeper into the shed to join Cross before the stand which he had decided to stop at in his rush to get out from the scrutinous eyes of the soldiers out there. He turned away. He could easily see the reflection of the Captain on the steel surfaces of the longswords he’d stationed himself in front of. Of course he’d stopped near the long swords. He was so predictable. 

“I’m not so sure about that, kid. I’ve seen time again how the helpless can be helped in these recent years.” He said quietly. Part of Cross knew that, with their ranking, in some ways they were meant to be equals. It never seemed that way, though. Maybe that was why Cross’ nerves were on fire. “So if I can help, I’d like to offer it to you.” 

Yeah. From what Cross had seen of the people in this castle in these two years, it made sense to him now more than ever that Nightmare would keep people like the Captain around for so long. 

Wait…

“Have you… spoken with our King recently?” Cross had to know. 

After all, he hardly saw Nightmare interact with his own soldiers. He devoted much time into his Knights, but those in lower rank hardly saw him. He didn’t seem to know their names as well as he did the servants. Did he leave all business up to the Captain for the sake of trust? Was there something he had been missing? 

He saw as the Captain glanced towards the closed door, and his eyes skimmed the rack of weapons. Checking for any signs of life in the reflection. His eyes only landed on Cross, staring right back at him in the shining steel. 

“Not directly, no. Though I have heard word from Ccino as to how he is fairing. Seen him pass by in the night a few times. He seems to be doing well, considering it all.” He voiced, his voice almost dropping to an inaudible whisper. Cross had to stop breathing to be able to hear him. “I know you see him regularly. I’m glad for that.” 

Cross nodded, mostly to himself. Yes, he figured that the Captain would know. Why else would he agree to let Cross back out among his men so easily? The King was in danger if he didn’t train these monsters. 

He took a slight breath from the silence, drinking in the scent of cleaners and musty wood.

“I wish Killer was in charge of this…” He muttered to himself, dragging his hand up to his skull to place pressure to his sockets with the heel of his palms. 

And he nearly jumped when the Captain let a laugh fall from his mouth. It was subdued, but hardy enough Cross practically felt it bounce around in his ribcage alongside his racing soul. 

“You truly believe Sir Killer would have better luck with something like this?” The Captain questioned, a slight smile still present after his raucous laugh had scared Cross to the bone. “No ill will, of course. Just… think on it. Truly.” 

Cross, part of him, felt an indignation on Killer’s behalf. For a moment he wondered if the Captain was being rude towards the Knight. The oldest of them, the most skilled, the one who stood at King Nightmare’s side. Though it only took half a second for him to recall. No, he was actually right. He couldn’t picture Killer out there on the training grounds, trying to teach swaths of people at a time. To dodge, too. Killer was a very aggressive fighter and only fled when he truly needed to. Even then, most of that work belonged to his beloved steed Granite. Killer was not the type to teach fighting lessons to a crowd. 

Though, he wondered how the Captain had come to a conclusion like that. Cross had heard that Nightmare had sparred with the Captain before. Only a few times, not even close to the kind of intense training which the Knights had to go through. That he had been training. Before Night’s change, of course. From what he’d been told. The Captain had only lasted hardly a minute. One, very impressive, minute, but still. There was no way he’d ever sparred against Killer.

“No… You are right, Killer wouldn’t be the best option here.” He admitted. “Though I get the feeling that one of the Knights would be a better fit for this sort of training…”

Of course, it went unsaid in the silence which followed that, well, the other Knights were too busy to do something like this. Dust was leading every meeting Nightmare had scheduled, and planned to continue for as long as he was needed. Killer was busy staying by the King’s side and taking on the King’s usual commoner communications. Figuring out what little issues were good to be dealt with how. As well as ‘cleaning out’ the dungeon. Cross was pretty sure they didn’t keep as many criminals as they had in the past, even when Cross was among the cells those two years ago it hadn’t been very crowded. He had a feeling that the more dangerous and violent of those below the castle had been swiftly dealt with by Killer’s blade. Horror he was pretty sure was preparing. The two of them had spent a lot of time by each other’s sides those first few days, when the King was asleep or waking for only short periods before returning to sleep. After, though, Horror received his orders to cancel his missions and prepare for the upcoming harvests which would need to be guided and recorded over the fall. Cross… Cross had only been asked to continue his training with Horror when their schedules fell in line, and to work with Killer to settle any local matters. 

He didn’t mind it so far, there had been very little to do, though. He worried he’d been sidelined. Sent to do the unimportant tasks because he wasn’t capable enough. Nightmare had smiled at him, but he seemed distressed. Cross was too, then. 

There was no way the King had chosen him to do something like this. Teach others. He couldn’t do that. 

“Well, it is a shame that you think like that. You were recommended to me for this training, you know?” The Captain crossed his arms. “By several someones, actually. Training the soldiers may have been my idea, but you were who many pointed to when I asked for assistance.” 

Cross blinked at those words in confusion. 

Who could have possibly suggested he do something like this? 

“I find that hard to believe.” He said. He’d meant it to sound a bit more joking, but it looked like it’d come out more genuine. The Captain furrowed his brow in response, and Cross attempted to backpedal, raising his hands a little. “I mean! Kidding! Just kidding!” Though his awkward chuckle obviously wasn’t contagious. 

“Look, Cross.” He huffed after those words. “If you really don’t want to do this, I can always ask for a hand from someone else. I bet Horror would do it in your stead if we reached out to him.” He offered. 

Was- was the Captain really just going to let him slip away from this? He was kind. Incredibly so. 

He wondered how it would feel to just accept. Hand off the stressful duty to Horror. Horror knew these people better anyhow, they had trained early on before Nightmare decided to offer him a position as Knight. Horror still spoke with most of them regularly. Cross, on the other hand, evaded eye contact like a kicked puppy. It would be so easy to just let Horror take over before he had to do his meeting things for the harvest season. It would be so convenient. So easy. 

“No. I’ll do it.” He said quickly. 

The Captain raised a brow, but Cross was already moving past him. Towards the door. 

“Sudden change of heart?” The Captain questioned from behind him. 

Cross took a deep inhale. One to center himself as he outstretched his hand and placed it on the knob leading back outside. 

“I don’t think I’m any good at leading or teaching, thinking on it makes me sick to my stomach… but the idea of making the others take on another responsibility is ten times worse.” He practically spat. 

No, he was not happy about this. He shoved open the door to the shed and drew his sword as he walked back towards the warm-up field where the soldiers had occupied themselves by whacking dummies with their weapons. He wanted nothing more than to turn away, out of the beating sun and watchful gazes of these people who he once hid among. He couldn’t though. Not when everyone else had some way to help. If this was Cross’ new duty, he’d do it with all the confidence he could muster. 

… Besides. They were training for fast-reaction magic attacks. He was literally the only choice for this. He’d just have to make his own training regime this time around. He could do this. 

.

Killer had done a lot of odd jobs in his past. Most of them involved stealing. Or threatening. Or killing. He had to get his name from somewhere, after all. Even so, running into town to pick up Ccino’s fabric order hadn’t been something he’d ever expected to be on his resume. 

The King was having one of his rough days. Killer hadn’t often been able to see them first-hand back in the day, but he knew they were very much there. The days he would lock himself away in his study, the Head of House the only one allowed to enter, bringing with him a cup of tea or a platter of small snacks. Staying inside for hours at a time on occasion. Killer had often guarded the door if nothing else, but the walls were thick. He couldn’t often hear the low murmuring voices within. 

Now, that the King was miniscule, Killer had been allowed to spend more time around both the King in his private spaces, as well as around Ccino. He was grateful for both opportunities. Though, today the King had looked exhausted. He’d been up for a few days trying to make that magic spell he found work, to make his eye cyan again. He wasn’t saying anything, but Killer figured it was draining his magic more than he wanted to admit. And earlier, when Dust came to deliver those reports from the meeting, Ccino had asked the two of them to stay for a while so he could collect a delivery. Only… Nightmare nearly flung himself out of his seat when he heard Ccino suggest he was leaving. The King didn’t outright say anything, but all of them knew those wide sockets were pleading. A silent beg to stay. Which was quickly followed by stray tears that he hastily noticed and covered with his sleeves. 

Emotions. He hadn’t thought the King had been such a crybaby before. Maybe he hadn’t been. Killer couldn’t blame him though. If he had to go back to being 13, with the awareness of his 13 year old self? Yeah. No. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t make it a day. It was just that he was a crying a lot. The slightest little things would make his sockets well with tears, and then he’d try to insist he was okay and didn’t need help. Even when he would still bury into Ccino’s arms the moment they came in contact. 

That was what had happened. Ccino returned to the King’s side, and the King immediately clung to him, muttering apologies. Insisting he go out anyways. What he reacted poorly and should be able to handle himself.

Killer had looked to Dust, and Dust had just nodded at him. 

“I’ll go get the order.” Killer had offered stupidly, a little too eagerly, into the open air. 

Both Nightmare and Ccino had seemed startled, but when he promised he wanted to run into town anyways (he hadn’t) they relented and Ccino gave him the details. Dust offered wordlessly to stay and watch over the King and head of House in Killer’s absense. He knew Killer all too well. He’d have to thank him with a drink sometime.

Those tears. They just made him uncomfortable. He wasn’t good with emotions, especially not sadness. He doesn’t know quite how to fix crying. It’s not his thing. 

It just made sense for Ccino to stay and Dust to watch over them. His big brother senses must’ve been strong today, and his patience plentiful. 

He’s run to the shop, of course. A tailor shop owned by a pretty skeleton just off from the capital square. He hadn’t seemed excited to see Killer, even with that mask. A nervous energy rolling off his shoulders as he reluctantly gathered items from behind the desk and packed them carefully into the bag which Ccino had sent him with to carry the items. He’d asked about Ccino. Whether he was okay. Killer had just told him that Ccino was busy so he was running errands. They hadn’t had much more to say beyond that. 

Now, he was back in the castle, ready to present Ccino with his prize, and see if the King had been able to calm down at all. 

“My lord?” He called out as he opened the door to the study with an easy swing of wood on heavy hinges. Slipping inside was no problem, but he’d be stupid to deny that he was confused when he didn’t spot the little monarch sitting behind his too-big wooden desk piled high with paperwork. 

“Killer,” He sure knew that voice! His head swiveled until his vision fell to Ccino, sitting on one of the couches. Dust was nowhere in sight. “Perfect timing. Dust just left to meet with Horror to train… How was your trip to town?” 

Ccino, polite and reserved as always. It made Killer’s gut twist just a little. At the distance. His soul certainly wriggled in place as he made his approach, bag clutched by one hand at his side. 

“Not bad. Could’ve done with a little more action!” He joked, though as he got closer, he lowered his voice and the laugh trying to come to him simmered back into his cheshire grin. “Your little friend from the shop asked about you.” 

As Killer rounded the largest couch to stand just across the low table from Ccino, he noticed what he hadn’t prior. The King was curled up with his back to killer, arms loosely hugging to Ccino’s middle, his face buried against Ccino’s apron. A blanket normally tossed over the back of the few chairs within the room was covering him, and someone had tucked him in tight, like a bug in a rug. Even more charmingly, one of the cats took up the rest of the space on Ccino’s lap. That little calico, Princess. Her back was pressed to the back of Nightmare’s skull and she seemed perfectly content to roll up into a perfect little bun on her master’s lap. 

And despite the adorable scene, Killer didn’t miss how Ccino seemed to perk up at the mention of his friend. So they were friends, then. 

“What did you tell him?” Ccino asked, his voice quiet. One of his hands was settled gently atop Nightmare’s side, the other was free and tucked by his side. 

Killer chuckled quietly, sitting on the opposite couch as he plopped his delivery silently to the table before Ccino. 

“Nothing bad. Told him you were busy so I was out on a grocery run. Everyone knows you’re a very busy man.” He teased. Was it okay to tease him right now? Was Ccino going to be mad with him?

Well, if he was, he didn’t seem to say anything about it. Instead , he peered at the bag, then smiled a bit. 

“Well, thank you for running out, my Knight.” He returned, eyelights shifting back down to his charge who rested in the comfort and safety of his lap. …Killer had to admit to himself that he was a bit jealous. “When I have the chance, I plan to visit our tailor and ensure that our King has a wider wardrobe, since it seems he truly won’t be returning to his previous form anytime soon.” 

Right. They were still trying to keep everything under wraps, so Ccino couldn’t just send a servant with measurements to see the seamstress halfway across castle grounds. He probably had to go himself. Especially because, as Killer had quickly learned, Nightmare is particular about things. The texture of his meals, the feeling of his clothes, even the temperature of his sheets in the night or the brightness of a candle. Though, he rarely voices his discomfort. Ccino was just a master of noticing the little ways the small King would squirm or tug at his top or squint at a candle just a bit too strong for his newly sensitive eyes. He wanted to learn how to do that so well. 

His only good news on that front was that Nightmare still made a lot of the same gestures as before. His little, silent commands to Killer. At ease, be alert, with me. He was fond of still being familiar with their own little secret code they’d unintentionally invented over the years. 

“It really wasn’t a big deal. Besides, our little Lord said that it’d be better for the city to see the knights are still active, right? With Dust and Horror out of commission for day-trips, I’ve gotta pick up the slack!” he joked, leaning back comfortably into the couch and sighing. “Next time you need a break, we can always try and ask him to supervise a training for us. Maybe it’d make him feel a little better?” he suggested,

Nightmare, small as he was now, still couldn’t deny a duty which called for him. Especially, Killer assumed, from his Knights. A little of that old normality would probably be good for him. Make him feel like not much had changed. Even though… it definitely had. 

Ccino smiled a bit at that idea, his hand gently petting Nightmare’s ar. His chest rose up and down ever so gently. 

“He cherishes training with all of you so dearly. Maybe he would enjoy a small break from all of these worries.” He agreed quietly.

[apocalypticdemon]

i CANNOT wait for this semester to be over. 23 hours remain. God.

[groupwest]

when she sends you a picture of the knife you made her resting in her lap

[glimpsesofeuterpe]

since tmp s1 is 30 eps long and there are 3 seasons (or so they say?) does it mean tmp will be around 90-ish eps

[afloweroutofstone]

The Trump administration accidentally included the conservative editor of The Atlantic in a group chat where they were discussing, in great detail, the US bombing campaign in Yemen

In all, 18 individuals were listed as members of this group, including various National Security Council officials; Steve Witkoff, President Trump’s Middle East and Ukraine negotiator; Susie Wiles, the White House chief of staff; and someone identified only as “S M,” which I took to stand for Stephen Miller. I appeared on my own screen only as “JG.”

...I had very strong doubts that this text group was real, because I could not believe that the national-security leadership of the United States would communicate on Signal about imminent war plans. I also could not believe that the national security adviser to the president would be so reckless as to include the editor in chief of The Atlantic in such discussions with senior U.S. officials, up to and including the vice president...

At this point, a fascinating policy discussion commenced. The account labeled “JD Vance” responded at 8:16: “Team, I am out for the day doing an economic event in Michigan. But I think we are making a mistake.” (Vance was indeed in Michigan that day.) The Vance account goes on to state, “3 percent of US trade runs through the suez. 40 percent of European trade does. There is a real risk that the public doesn’t understand this or why it’s necessary. The strongest reason to do this is, as POTUS said, to send a message.”

The Vance account then goes on to make a noteworthy statement, considering that the vice president has not deviated publicly from Trump’s position on virtually any issue. “I am not sure the president is aware how inconsistent this is with his message on Europe right now. There’s a further risk that we see a moderate to severe spike in oil prices. I am willing to support the consensus of the team and keep these concerns to myself. But there is a strong argument for delaying this a month, doing the messaging work on why this matters, seeing where the economy is, etc.”...

At 8:27, a message arrived from the “Pete Hegseth” account. “VP: I understand your concerns – and fully support you raising w/ POTUS. Important considerations, most of which are tough to know how they play out (economy, Ukraine peace, Gaza, etc). I think messaging is going to be tough no matter what – nobody knows who the Houthis are – which is why we would need to stay focused on: 1) Biden failed & 2) Iran funded.”

The Hegseth message goes on to state, “Waiting a few weeks or a month does not fundamentally change the calculus. 2 immediate risks on waiting: 1) this leaks, and we look indecisive; 2) Israel takes an action first – or Gaza cease fire falls apart – and we don’t get to start this on our own terms. We can manage both. We are prepared to execute, and if I had final go or no go vote, I believe we should. This [is] not about the Houthis. I see it as two things: 1) Restoring Freedom of Navigation, a core national interest; and 2) Reestablish deterrence, which Biden cratered. But, we can easily pause. And if we do, I will do all we can to enforce 100% OPSEC”—operations security. “I welcome other thoughts.”...

The account identified as “JD Vance” addressed a message at 8:45 to @Pete Hegseth: “if you think we should do it let’s go. I just hate bailing Europe out again.” (The administration has argued that America’s European allies benefit economically from the U.S. Navy’s protection of international shipping lanes.)

It was the next morning, Saturday, March 15, when this story became truly bizarre.

At 11:44 a.m., the account labeled “Pete Hegseth” posted in Signal a “TEAM UPDATE.” I will not quote from this update, or from certain other subsequent texts. The information contained in them, if they had been read by an adversary of the United States, could conceivably have been used to harm American military and intelligence personnel, particularly in the broader Middle East, Central Command’s area of responsibility. What I will say, in order to illustrate the shocking recklessness of this Signal conversation, is that the Hegseth post contained operational details of forthcoming strikes on Yemen, including information about targets, weapons the U.S. would be deploying, and attack sequencing.

The only person to reply to the update from Hegseth was the person identified as the vice president. “I will say a prayer for victory,” Vance wrote. (Two other users subsequently added prayer emoji.)

According to the lengthy Hegseth text, the first detonations in Yemen would be felt two hours hence, at 1:45 p.m. eastern time. So I waited in my car in a supermarket parking lot. If this Signal chat was real, I reasoned, Houthi targets would soon be bombed. At about 1:55, I checked X and searched Yemen. Explosions were then being heard across Sanaa, the capital city.

[succubusvalentine]

I wrote this about Steve Harrington like a year ago but I think it would do great for Simon Riley. CW: size kink, stomach bulge.

Sliding down ever so slowly onto his honestly monstrous cock, your body covered in a thin sheen of sweat, feeling so fucking full and yet not full enough. 

You could barely make out the whiny sounds coming from your throat, nor Simon's gruff praises. All you could hear was the blood rushing through your ears.

All you could feel was the brush of Simon's cock inside your cunt, the pressure on all sides of your inner walls was overwhelming, to say the least. Not to mention the feeling of his cock making a small bulge in your lower tummy. 

Simon's gruff praises ceased when you got about halfway down his cock and the blood in your ears finally started to calm down. All that was left was the delicious sting and ache of his cock stretching you to your limits. 

Your eyes fluttered open as you heard mewls and whimpers far too gruff to be your own. And you were met with Simon looking more desperate than any man you'd ever seen. his hands clawing at your hips, blunt nails leaving red stinging streaks. 

Then you notice the tears running down his cheeks. Broken gasps coming from his chest between whimpers. His dark brown eyes glossy, and struggling to remain open.

You slow your hips, but Simon shakes his head no desperately. "Fu-ck, no love, don't-christ. Don't stop. Keep going f'me" he choked out. Only to be met with your confused and concerned eyes. "Nev-shit, never had-a girl manage to take all o' me" he manages. "guess 'm a-mmmph, bit sensitive lovie" 

Your cunt fluttered at the statement. Which only made Simon gasp and choke out another moan. But you seemed to be taking too long to speed up for Simon's taste. 

Next thing you knew, two thick arms were wrapped around your waist and a mouth was biting down on your neck. Simons hips starting to slam up into you at a pace you went utterly dumb. Your nails clawing at Simon's muscular shoulders. It wasn't Simons fault. You just felt so good, and the lower half of his cock was so sensitive.

Could you blame him for making himself come seven times inside you that night?

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

[mcrdvcks]

— love language

summary: You and Matt are now dating, but you haven't told anyone. How long will it take your friends to notice?

word count: 3.4k+

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!reader

notes: i had this idea after writing goodnight n go (which is technically the first part, but you don't need to read it to understand this). anyways, here's a bunch of fluff

warnings/tags: after endgame but date is not specified, best friends to lovers, reader works at stark industries, matt is a cocky little shit, making out

Things moved on normally, the only thing that had changed in the past month was that you two weren’t just friends but dating.

You didn’t realize it, but you were already quite close to Matt.

Matt chuckled, his arm hooked around yours as the two of you waited in line for coffee. “Really?” He asked sarcastically.

“Ugh.” You elbowed him. “You’re an ass.”

“I’m just saying, what kinda friends have a toothbrush at their place?” He tapped his cane against the floor lightly.

You tilted your head. “Uhhh… pretty sure at one point Foggy had a toothbrush at your place.”

“That he never used other than one time.”

You scoffed, nudging his side again. "Still counts."

Matt smirked. "Does it?"

"Yes, because that means I’m not the weird one here. You just have a habit of letting people leave their stuff at your place."

Matt tilted his head slightly, feigning thoughtfulness. "Interesting theory. Except you’re the only person whose toothbrush has stayed."

You opened your mouth to argue, then paused, realizing he was right. "Okay, fine, but that’s only because—"

"You stay over all the time?"

You huffed, rolling your eyes. "You’re impossible."

"And yet, here you are," he teased, squeezing your arm lightly before stepping forward to order.

---

Foggy opened the door to Matt’s office. “Hey, did you ever finish the deposition for the Martin case?”

Matt put down the fork to his Pad Thai, leaving it in the Styrofoam container. “Yeah, I did.”

You took the opportunity, snatching the fork from his container and stealing a bite of his Pad Thai. Matt huffed, but you could hear the amusement in it.

"Really?" he murmured.

"You put it down," you said, chewing. "That means it's fair game."

Foggy barely glanced up from the papers in his hand. "She’s got a point, Matt. You know the rules."

Matt exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he blindly reached for the fork still in your grip. You dodged, keeping it out of his reach as you took another bite.

Foggy flipped a page. "Anyway, judge pushed the hearing back a week, which is good because it gives us time to go over the new witness statement. Karen’s taking a look at it now."

Matt hummed in acknowledgment, still trying to reclaim his fork. You smirked, shifting slightly in his lap. He retaliated by sliding an arm around your waist, pinning you in place.

"You gonna give that back?" he murmured.

"Maybe," you teased, holding it just out of reach.

Foggy sighed, still not looking up. "If you two devolve into a full-on fork battle, at least take it outside. I don’t need Pad Thai in the depositions."

Matt smirked, finally managing to grab the utensil from your grip. "Noted."

You huffed but didn’t move, resting your elbow on his shoulder instead. "Fine. I got what I wanted anyway."

Matt chuckled, shaking his head as he twirled the fork back into his food.

Foggy snapped the folder shut. "Alright, well, since you two seem busy, I’ll go see if Karen needs help."

"Let us know if you need anything," Matt said easily.

"Yeah, yeah," Foggy muttered, already halfway out the door.

---

Josie’s was loud and crowded as always, but at this point it was like a second home. You were telling Karen about an incident in the lab. “—Levi somehow hooks the string around the sprinkler and pulls. I get an alert on my tablet and rush over to the lab. Turns out, when he pulled the sprinkler, he also pulled part of the main water line. All for a tiny qubit that got stuck on the ceiling.”

Karen snorted, shaking her head. "Please tell me this guy got fired."

"Nope," you said, sipping your drink. "Because technically, it worked. The qubit came loose. He just, y’know… flooded half the floor in the process."

Karen groaned. "God, Stark Industries sounds like a nightmare sometimes."

"You have no idea," you muttered, setting your glass down.

As you kept talking, you felt your shirt strap slide down your shoulder. It wasn’t anything major, just a slight shift, but before you could adjust it yourself, Matt did it for you.

His hand found your shoulder with ease, fingers brushing your skin as he hooked the strap with two fingers and guided it back into place. It was quick, thoughtless, something he’d probably done a hundred times before without even realizing.

Karen barely blinked.

You didn’t think much of it either, continuing on. "Anyway, Levi tried to convince me it was an 'engineering breakthrough' and that 'technically' he proved a new method of remote retrieval—"

"You’re kidding," Karen deadpanned.

"Oh, I wish."

Matt smirked beside you, listening quietly. His arm was resting along the back of your chair, close but not overbearing.

Karen leaned forward, taking another sip of her drink. "So what’d you do?"

You grinned. "Told him if he ever did that again, I’d make sure the next thing he got stuck was his own head in the centrifuge."

Karen burst out laughing. "And let me guess—he immediately backed down."

"Pretty much," you said smugly.

Matt chuckled, shaking his head. "You really are terrifying sometimes."

"And yet, here you are," you teased, echoing the same words you’d said to him earlier that morning.

Matt tilted his head slightly, smirk deepening. "Guess I have a thing for danger."

Karen rolled her eyes but didn’t comment. She was too used to the way you two interacted, and nothing about tonight seemed different from any other night.

---

“You didn’t have to come.” Matt murmured, as your hands combed through his hair. “It’s just a mugging case.”

“And yet,” you pulled your hands away. “You were goin’ to walk in there with hair like that.” You gave him a grin. “I helped you devil boy. Oh, wait.”

You pulled his red-lensed glasses off before cleaning them with your shirt. Matt huffed, tilting his head slightly. "You know, most people don’t manhandle my things without permission."

"Most people aren’t me," you shot back, flipping the glasses open and sliding them back onto his face.

Matt’s lips twitched, but he didn’t argue.

Foggy sighed from beside you. "How do you two have time for this while standing outside a courtroom?"

Karen smirked, arms crossed. "Multitasking."

You grinned. "Exactly. I’m helping him and annoying him at the same time."

Matt let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "You really do take your job seriously."

"Obviously."

Before Foggy could reply, the courtroom doors opened, and the previous case let out, lawyers and reporters filing into the hallway. The four of you straightened slightly as Matt rolled his shoulders, settling into courtroom mode.

"Alright," Matt murmured, adjusting his tie. "Let’s get this over with."

You reached out instinctively, running a hand down the front of his suit, smoothing the fabric. "You’re good."

Matt caught your wrist before you could pull away, his thumb brushing over your pulse for just a second longer than necessary. “You going to stay?”

“Yep. I’ll be sittin’ in the front row looking pretty.”

Foggy snorted. "Sittin’ pretty? That’s your plan?"

"Someone’s gotta balance out Matt’s whole intimidating blind lawyer thing," you teased, adjusting your bag over your shoulder.

Matt smirked. "Intimidating, huh?"

"You know what you do," you muttered, patting his chest once before stepping back.

Karen chuckled, shaking her head. "Alright, let’s get in there before we miss the good part."

The courtroom was already filling up when you and Karen slipped into the front row, Matt and Foggy making their way to the bench. You crossed one leg over the other, leaning back slightly as you pulled your phone from your bag, muting notifications.

"You know, sometimes I forget you don’t actually work for them," Karen mused, watching as you settled in.

You glanced at her. "Why?"

Karen shrugged. "You’re here so often, always involved in their cases, bringing them food, making sure Matt doesn’t walk into court looking like he just crawled out of a dumpster—"

"Hey," you cut in. "I don’t make him look good. He just listens to me when I tell him to fix his tie."

Karen smirked, tilting her head. "Mhm."

You rolled your eyes, looking toward the front of the courtroom. Matt and Foggy were talking in hushed tones, Foggy flipping through a stack of papers while Matt leaned slightly toward him, nodding at something he said.

Karen was still watching you, but you ignored her.

The judge entered, and the room settled as the proceedings began.

---

The hearing wasn’t long, but it was long enough for you to notice Karen sneaking glances at you every so often. You didn’t say anything, keeping your focus on the case.

Matt and Foggy handled it well, as expected. You knew Matt’s confidence in the courtroom was unmatched, and even though you couldn’t see his eyes behind the red lenses, you knew he was completely locked in, analyzing every shift in the judge’s tone, every heartbeat in the room.

By the time the judge adjourned the hearing, you were stretching slightly, rolling your shoulders as you stood.

Matt and Foggy approached, gathering their things. "Well," Foggy said, stuffing papers into his briefcase. "That went about as well as it could’ve."

Matt hummed in agreement. "We should have a decision in a few days."

Karen exhaled. "That was exhausting to watch, so I can’t imagine how you two feel."

Matt smiled. "Used to it."

You reached out, fixing the fold of his pocket square before he could tuck his cane under his arm. "You did good."

Matt turned his head toward you slightly, smirk playing at his lips. "Yeah?"

You huffed. "Yeah, Murdock. Try not to look so smug about it."

Foggy raised a brow, gaze flickering between the two of you for a second. Karen, too, was watching, something unreadable in her expression.

Neither of them said anything.

"Alright," Foggy finally broke the silence, snapping his briefcase shut. "Lunch? Please? I need food after all that legal jargon."

"Agreed," Karen said.

You nodded. "Sounds good to me."

Matt tapped his cane against the floor once, falling into step beside you. Karen shot one last glance between the two of you but still said nothing.

---

You pulled out an expired container of milk. “Matty, I seriously don’t know how you, of all people, didn’t notice you had 2-week expired milk in your fridge.”

Matt smirked from where he was leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. "You think I make a habit of sniffing my milk cartons?"

You made a face, waving the expired container in his direction. "Considering you should be able to smell the rotting dairy in your fridge? Yeah, actually, I do."

Matt huffed a quiet laugh, stepping forward as you popped the lid open and took an experimental sniff—only to gag immediately.

"Jesus Christ," you muttered, shoving the carton at him. "Smell it. I dare you."

Matt wrinkled his nose, taking a slight step back. "I’ll pass."

"Uh-huh, that’s what I thought." You shut the carton and tossed it in the trash before opening the fridge again. "When’s the last time you actually bought groceries?"

Matt leaned against the counter, lips twitching. "Don’t know. You usually do it for me."

You shot him a look over your shoulder. "That’s not the win you think it is, Murdock."

"I don’t know," he murmured, stepping behind you, hands settling at your waist. "Feels like a win to me."

Your breath hitched as he leaned in slightly, lips brushing just behind your ear. You huffed, pushing him back lightly with your elbow. "No, you don’t get to distract me. Your fridge is a disaster."

Matt let out a quiet chuckle but didn’t let go entirely. "I’ve survived this long."

"Yeah, because I keep you alive," you muttered, pulling out a sad-looking bag of spinach and holding it up for him. "This? This is a crime."

Matt smirked. "Pretty sure I deal with actual crimes for a living."

"You’re so lucky you’re cute." You tossed the bag onto the counter with a sigh. "Alright, that’s it. We’re going grocery shopping."

"You say that like I have a choice."

"You don’t," you said, shutting the fridge and turning in his arms.

Matt smiled, fingers brushing over your hip before he dropped his hands. "At least let me buy you dinner after."

You narrowed your eyes playfully. "Bribing me with food?"

"Wouldn’t be the first time."

You rolled your eyes, but the smirk you tried to suppress still made its way onto your lips. "Fine. But you’re carrying all the bags."

"Deal," Matt murmured, reaching for his cane.

You grabbed your coat, glancing at him as he adjusted his watch. "And I’m making sure you don’t buy anything that will expire in two days."

Matt chuckled. "Now that’s just cruel."

---

The grocery store was relatively quiet for a Friday night, the kind of late-evening lull where the only customers were people grabbing last-minute dinner ingredients or, in Matt’s case, replacing an entire fridge’s worth of expired food.

You pushed the cart while Matt walked beside you, his hand resting lightly at the crook of your elbow. "Alright, first things first," you said, steering the cart toward the produce section. "You’re getting actual vegetables. Not just things that used to be vegetables before they died a slow, tragic death in your fridge."

Matt smirked. "I resent that."

"You resent having to eat vegetables," you shot back, picking up a head of lettuce and tossing it into the cart.

Matt tilted his head slightly, like he was considering. "That might be true."

You sighed dramatically. "It’s like taking a toddler shopping."

"You did sign up for this," Matt pointed out, casually trailing his fingers over the display of apples as he passed.

You side-eyed him. "Did I? I don’t remember agreeing to supervise you."

"You knew what you were getting into," he teased, reaching past you to grab an apple and setting it in the cart.

"Yeah, yeah," you muttered, adding a few more. "What else do you need? Other than everything."

Matt hummed, fingers tapping lightly against the handle of the cart. "Bread. Eggs. Coffee."

"Obviously," you muttered, already steering the cart in that direction.

As you walked, Matt’s hand slid from your elbow to your wrist, fingers idly tracing over your pulse before his hand found yours, linking your fingers together like it was nothing.

You squeezed his hand slightly. "If you think holding my hand is gonna distract me from making you buy actual groceries, you’re wrong."

Matt huffed a quiet laugh, thumb brushing over the back of your hand. "Worth a shot."

"Mm-hmm," you mused, scanning the shelves as you walked. You paused near the coffee aisle, reaching for a bag of Matt’s usual blend.

"That one’s good," Matt said, nodding toward it.

You smirked, holding up a different one just to mess with him. "What about this one?"

Matt tilted his head slightly, a smirk playing on his lips. "That one’s decaf."

Your lips parted in mock surprise. "Wow. Look at that. Guess you do pay attention to your groceries."

Matt exhaled a laugh, leaning in slightly. "I pay attention to you."

Your stomach flipped, but you covered it with an eye roll, tossing his usual coffee into the cart before dragging him toward the next aisle.

---

By the time you made it to the checkout, the cart was full. Probably more food than Matt had ever willingly bought for himself.

"You’re never gonna finish all this," he mused as you unloaded onto the conveyor belt.

"You will if you actually cook," you shot back. "And don’t tell me you can’t. I’ve seen you do it."

Matt smirked, handing the cashier his card before you could stop him. "Guess I have no choice now."

You squinted at him. "That sounds suspiciously like a challenge."

Matt tilted his head. "Maybe it is."

You grinned. "Alright, Murdock. Guess I’ll be the judge of whether or not you can actually cook."

Matt chuckled, grabbing the grocery bags as the cashier finished bagging them. "I did offer to buy you dinner."

You crossed your arms. "I thought we were talking restaurant dinner, not Murdock’s Mystery Kitchen dinner."

Matt smirked, shifting the bags in his hands. "I never specified."

You rolled your eyes but reached out, grabbing a couple of bags from him. "Fine. But if you burn anything, I’m taking over."

"Noted," Matt said, leaning in just slightly. "But I wouldn’t underestimate me, sweetheart."

You huffed, shoving a bag at him before walking toward the door. "We’ll see about that, devil boy."

---

“Where’s my shirt? You know, the soft blue one with a star embroidered on it?”

Matt, who was sitting on the couch, fingers tracing a braille legal document, tilted his head. “…Where are your clothes?”

“My—that’s what I’m asking you.” You replied, hands on your hips, leaning against his bedroom door.

Matt’s lips twitched, setting the braille document down on the coffee table. He turned his head slightly, his attention fully on you now. "You’re asking me where your clothes are?"

"Yes, Matty." You sighed, crossing your arms. "I took a shower, and now I can’t find my damn shirt. The soft blue one? The one with the star embroidered on it?"

Matt hummed, pushing himself up from the couch, his movements slow, deliberate. "And you think I did something with it?"

"You have a habit of stealing my clothes," you pointed out. "So yes, you’re my prime suspect."

Matt smirked, stepping toward you. "Interesting accusation, sweetheart."

You didn’t flinch as he closed the distance, his fingers barely brushing along your forearm, trailing up to your shoulder before settling against your jaw.

"You’re not wearing any clothes."

You rolled your eyes. "I am wearing clothes. Just not the ones I want."

Matt exhaled a quiet chuckle, tilting his head slightly. "Bra and underwear don’t count."

"Tell that to every guy who’s ever seen a Victoria’s Secret ad," you muttered.

Matt grinned. "Is that what this is? A show?"

You huffed, lightly swatting at his chest. "You’re impossible."

"And yet, here you are," he teased, echoing your words from earlier, his fingers still lazily tracing the edge of your jaw.

You narrowed your eyes but didn’t pull away. "Are you gonna help me find my shirt or not?"

Matt’s lips twitched. "I’m starting to think you just wanted an excuse to walk around like this."

You scoffed. "Matty, if I wanted to walk around half-naked in your apartment, I would. I don’t need an excuse."

Matt grinned. "Good to know."

You rolled your eyes, stepping back. "So are you gonna help or—"

Before you could finish, Matt turned toward his dresser, fingers trailing over the top before he grabbed something and held it out.

Your missing shirt.

Your jaw dropped. "You knew where it was this whole time?"

Matt shrugged. "You left it here last week. I thought it was mine."

You squinted at him. "Since when do you own a soft blue shirt with a star embroidered on it?"

Matt smirked. "I don’t, but you leave your stuff here so often, I figured it was fair game."

You snatched it from his hands. "Unbelievable."

Matt huffed a laugh, crossing his arms. "You gonna put it on, or do I get to keep enjoying the view?"

You shot him a look, but the heat in his voice sent something warm curling in your stomach. You turned away, slipping the shirt over your head, and when you glanced back, Matt was still smirking.

"Happy now?" you muttered.

Matt hummed, stepping closer again. "Not yet."

Before you could respond, he leaned in, catching your chin between his fingers before pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips.

When he pulled back, his smirk deepened. "Now I’m happy."

You scoffed, trying to ignore the way your heart was hammering in your chest. "You’re ridiculous."

"And you love it."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue.

---

It was late at night when Matt convinced you to stay. Foggy and Karen were out of the office for the night, leaving just you and Matt doing your separate work.

The office was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of paper and the distant hum of the city outside.

You were perched on Matt’s couch, cross-legged, a set of blueprints spread across your lap while he sat at his desk, reading over a case file. Neither of you spoke, lost in your own work, but there was a comfortable ease to it.

"Are you even getting anything done over there?" Matt asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

You didn’t look up. "Are you?"

He hummed. "I was. Until I realized how unfair this is."

You sighed, already knowing where this was going. "What’s unfair, Matty?"

"You get to sit all comfy on my couch, while I’m stuck here, hard at work."

You snorted. "Hard at work, huh? I didn’t realize whining counted as work."

Matt pushed his chair back, standing slowly. "I think I deserve a break."

You barely glanced up. "Then take one. I’m actually doing something productive."

Matt made his way toward you, hands in his pockets. "Are you?"

You narrowed your eyes, lifting a brow. "Yes. Unlike some people, I have deadlines to meet."

Matt hummed, stepping in front of you. "And yet, you’re still here. With me."

"Because you asked me to stay," you reminded him, flipping a page. "You coerced me."

Matt smirked. "Did I?"

"Yes, you—hey!"

In one swift motion, Matt plucked the blueprints from your lap and set them aside. Before you could protest, he leaned down, hands bracketing your sides as he caged you against the couch.

"Take a break with me, angel," he murmured.

You exhaled, glaring up at him. "You are so—"

Whatever insult you had lined up died in your throat as Matt leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your jaw. His lips brushed over your pulse, deliberate, teasing.

"Annoying?" he murmured.

You swallowed hard. "Distracting."

Matt grinned against your skin. "Mm. I’ll take that."

Your fingers curled around his tie, tugging slightly. "You are so lucky I like you."

Matt chuckled, dipping his head until his lips were just barely grazing yours. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You closed the distance, kissing him properly.

Matt exhaled against your lips, deepening it immediately. His hands skimmed down your sides, gripping your waist as he pulled you flush against him. You barely noticed when he guided you backward, until the edge of his desk dug into your lower back.

"Matty," you murmured between kisses.

"Mm?"

"I thought we were taking a break."

"This is my break," he murmured, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your throat.

You huffed a quiet laugh, threading your fingers into his hair. "Productive."

Matt grinned against your skin, hands slipping under the hem of your shirt. "You’re the one distracting me, sweetheart."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t stop him, tilting your head slightly to give him better access. His lips trailed back up, capturing yours again in a kiss that left your head spinning.

Neither of you noticed the sound of the front door opening.

At least, you didn’t.

Matt either didn’t hear it, or—more likely—just didn’t care.

"Hey, Matt, I left my phone—"

Foggy’s voice cut through the air like a record scratch.

You froze.

Matt, however, barely reacted. His lips left yours just enough for him to let out a quiet sigh—like he was annoyed—before pressing one last kiss to your jaw.

"Should’ve knocked, Fog," he murmured.

Your entire body was on fire. You didn’t dare turn around. Foggy, for his part, just stood there. Silent. Karen was the one to break it. "Uh."

You exhaled sharply, tilting your head back against the desk. "Jesus Christ."

Matt still didn’t move. He just turned his head slightly in their direction. "You left your phone?"

Foggy blinked. "Yeah." A beat. "But now I kinda wanna leave it here forever."

Karen coughed, her voice tight with suppressed laughter. "Should we leave?"

You groaned, covering your face with your hands.

Matt just smirked. "You could, but I doubt you will."

Karen cleared her throat. "Y’know what? I suddenly really need a drink."

"Yeah, me too," Foggy muttered, grabbing his phone off the desk and speed walking toward the door.

Karen cast one last glance between the two of you, shaking her head before following. The second the door shut behind them, you finally shoved Matt away.

"You knew they were coming, didn’t you!?"

Matt grinned, shrugging. "You said it yourself—I have a habit of coercing you."

You gaped at him. "Murdock."

He just leaned in again, lips ghosting over your ear. "You gonna finish what you started, angel?"

Your face burned. "I started!?"

Matt chuckled, nudging his nose against yours.

"You’re impossible," you muttered, still flustered.

"And yet," Matt murmured, smirking, "here you are."

[primofate]

"Where'd you get that bruise--Oh," in which your Genshin lover gets a good look at the first hickey he left

Warnings: please excuse mistakes as I'm on a time crunch and also sleep deprived, suggestive but still safe for work, humorous in some parts

Other works in this series: (You say I love you for the first time)

Characters: Aether, Albedo, Alhaitham, Ayato, Cyno, Dainsleif, Diluc, Itto, Kaeya, Lyney, Neuvillette, Scaramouche, Tartaglia, Tighnari, Wriothesley, Xiao, Zhongli, gn!reader  

Aether

gets flustered

"Uh-Umm... Maybe, you should..."

he wants to say cover it up but who is he to tell you what to do?

Starts to second guess if he really gave you that

Will start to think about the events of last night and deflates with embarrassment

Finally points it out, feels kind of bad that he left a mark

"It's just...distracting...I'm sorry if it hurt,"

Albedo

stares at it for the longest time.

There's a half smile, half amused look on his face, like he wants to be happy about it but doesn't want to be too obvious.

Just chuckles and points it out without any shyness whatsoever

"It's rather obvious, but do with it what you will,"

Comes up with some sort of concealing potion to help you hide it

Brews about a 100 of 'em

Alhaitham

Sort of does a double take, looks at it for a few seconds then looks you in the eye

"I'd advise you to hide it,"

he really only says that to keep things professional when the two of you go out

but in the next second he snakes a hand up your arm with a small secret smirk between the two of you

"However, I can't say that it won't happen again...Specially when..."

He recalls the events of last night at this moment, and it seems as if he's staring into your soul. He breaks away from you with a slight hum.

"...I best be going now."

He leaves you confused, but he only hurried off because he felt an urge to give you another one then and there.

Ayato

chuckles to himself

"Well, there's no hiding that I enjoyed myself,"

but gives you helpful suggestions on how to conceal it or at least make the colour less obvious, like putting ice against it, or something.

Speaking of ice, you can simply get it from the kitchen but Ayato is a tease... "I suppose my dear sister can adequately help you with that...Though what, pray tell, would you tell her?"

You kind of shrug and say that you'll tell her an animal bit you.

Ayato is amused "An animal," but there's a twinkle and hint of lust in his eyes. "Yes, perhaps that's what I become when it involves you. The statement isn't exactly a lie,"

Cyno

is silent. Not sure if he's happy about it or horrified.

Feels like a crime cause it looks like a bruise.

Does not say anything for a good minute because he simply doesn't know what to say and is talking to himself in his mind

Like Was I really the one who did that? Last night must've been...

Snaps out of his stupor when he's reminded of the events and clears his throat to catch your attention.

"Y/N...You...I...I've managed to leave a mark...on your neck..."

You absentmindedly touch it and let out a small ohhhhhhh in understanding

Clears his throat again and looks away, pretending to be busy with something. Flustered and doesn't know what else to say.

Dainsleif

Eyebrows involuntarily raise up at the marks.

Points it out immediately

"My dear, it seems that I had a favourite spot last night," and taps on your neck to let you know what exactly he means.

"I can conceal it with a little trick of mine, if you don't mind," he says he can make it invisible to the ordinary eye but some "special" people can see it, so...

"I suppose if you run into the traveller that you'd have to be honest about it. Hm? No, I don't quite mind if they know of our relationship,"

Diluc

is surprised, then apologetic

He didn't know is fully aware how rough he had been last night

Apologizes with a slight tint of red on his cheeks and can't seem to pry his eyes away from it.

"My apologies, Y/N. It looks like I was rather...careless...last night. You should wear something with a collar today...or perhaps, my coat?"

Is seriously considering repenting about it

Itto

"Whoa--"

Is legit about to throw hands but then remembers

"Oh yeah. I did that." while scratching his head bashfully

No shame about it afterwards, even has the gall to say

"I'm surprised it doesn't look worse! It was pretty wild last nig--"

You have to cover his mouth to save yourself from embarrassment

Kaeya

smirks and leans in close to brush his fingers against the hickey.

"It isn't the most flattering of marks but... it gives me quite the sense of accomplishment,"

winks, deadass tries to give you another one right away.

"How about we try that again? Just to even it out on both sides of your neck,"

is only half joking

Lyney

mischievous laugh

is more happy about it than shy, embarrassed or apologetic

"That wasn't very nice of me wasn't it?" but is still smiling

"Unfortunately I don't think I have any magic tricks up my sleeve to fix this one,"

Grabs and hugs you by the waist "I guess we'll just have to stay in, the two of us, until it's unnoticeable"

always looking for an excuse to spend alone time with you.

Neuvillette

clears his throat almost immediately when he sees it, like he choked on water

"Y/N," he starts rather sternly but falters and takes a few seconds to think.

"May I suggest wearing a scarf today?" is awkward about pointing it out so goes the roundabout way. You're so confused because it's the middle of summer.

"Well," he coughs once to try an explain to you. "I didn't have all manners of restraint last night...You were simply...irresistible,"

points it out by gently thumbing at it

Scaramouche

shit-eating grin at the sight of it

Doesn't tell you to cover it up, most likely wants you to go parading around with it.

"Tsk. What's the harm if people ask? Just be honest and tell them," he's just fucking around with your head now

but snatches your wrist and looks you straight in the eye with a confident smirk "And be sure to tell them who gave it to you. That'll teach them to back off,"

Tartaglia

laughs but is slightly apologetic

"Couldn't hold myself back, I'm sorry. How can I make it up to you?"

You tell him that the next time he leaves a hickey, he should leave it somewhere where it's more concealed.

"Oh?" sudden glint in his eyes. You might have said the wrong thing. "No take backs, Y/N,"

I think you know what or where he's thinking about

Tighnari

Doesn't say anything at first but immediately whips up a remedy for it. Some sort of green paste that helps with inflammation.

"Here," and hands you the bowl of herbs. "For that,"

He doesn't point at it but instead eyes it rather obviously

He also watches you put the paste on "Alright, just leave it for a few minutes and it should heal wonderfully,"

He doesn't exactly feel guilty but he's more worried that people will look at you weirdly.

"I suppose I'll have to be careful next time," with a sigh.

Wriothesley

laughs but bashfully face palms and tilts his head backwards

Recovers quickly and smiles apologetically

"Sorry love, couldn't hold myself back it looks like," lovingly takes your face in his palms

Can't hold his smile back "But can you blame me? I'm not gunna hide that I was way too excited,"

Suggests you to put a bandage of some sort over it.

"I'll try to be careful next time, but no promises,"

Xiao

Freezes while looking at it

For a split second is confused where you got such a mark but then flusters himself when he remembers it was from him.

"...Y/N..."

seriously does not know what to say

stands there staring at it that you finally just check in the mirror yourself. He hears you gasp and he kind of winces to himself and now feels a little guilty.

"I...didn't mean to hurt you,"

You quickly tell him it doesn't hurt, but you were just surprised.

Thinks for a moment, then mumbles, you can barely hear him "...So it's alright to do it again?"

Zhongli

chuckles, not shy about it. just amused.

"It's no one's fault except my own. I merely wasn't paying heed to how...carnal...my desires were,"

he again chuckles as he explains.

"Not to worry darling, I'm sure Bubu Pharmacy has something to remedy it. I'll be back with it in tow,"

brushes his fingers against the hickey as some sort of apology and promise that he'll fix it

End

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[ozzgin]

Yandere! Sentient Computer x Reader

Your neighbor's newest computer model, Edgar, seems to have fallen in love with you. content: gender neutral reader, 80s timeline, based on Electric Dreams (1984), Patreon commission

“Where should we put this box, sir?”

“I believe I already mentioned it’s the obviously cleared out desk in the middle of the room. That’s where you’re going to install it, too. The…thing.”

“It’s a personal computer, sir! The best of the best,” a young boy in jumpsuit declared with enthusiasm.

He only received a bored hum in return. The man overseeing the procedure was becoming rather impatient and would’ve preferred to skip any unnecessary dialogue. He checked his watch – a classic Two-Tone Datejust Rolex probably worth more than this group’s monthly pay put together, even without counting the custom gold plating. First impressions were vital in his line of work, and frankly, he’d more than earned his right to flaunt this kind of opulence.

45 minutes until he needed to leave for a client meeting. He tapped his foot against the heavy wooden floor, eyes glancing over the many hands carrying his new piece of machinery. Supposedly intelligent enough to organize his entire home, which would’ve been useful if he actually spent more than a couple of hours there. He didn’t. It was merely a statement, a slight jab at his coworker after he bragged about his latest investment in a computer assistant. Naturally, as their humor dictates, he went and bought the more expensive choice. They would laugh about it during lunch.

“I trust you can manage the rest yourselves, gentlemen,” he finally announced, buttoning up his jacket. He didn’t wait for a response, swinging the door open and heading for the building’s exit with a long, confident stride.

You almost ran into him, jolting in surprise at his unexpected dash across the hall. You stepped out of the way, pressing the bag of groceries against your chest in order to make more space.

“Another busy day, eh?” you attempted to strike up a conversation.

He briefly looked at you, offered a flat smile, then continued on his way. You took a moment to enjoy the scent of perfume he’s left behind, most likely something you could never afford.

Before you’d entered your apartment, you craned your neck towards the noise coming from your prestigious lawyer neighbor’s apartment. You wondered what they were tinkering with.

It was already pitch black outside when the chunky monitor lit up.

“Thank you for choosing me as your assistant,” the pixelated text rolled on the screen. “Is this your first time using a computer? Y/N”

The room was dark and silent, save for the electric hum of the now-awakened machine. Of course, it was around the time when Mr. Lawyer stopped for drinks with his esteemed colleagues. He’d return early in the morning, smelling faintly of vintage whisky and cigarettes, collapse into his bed, then resume his routine.

The keyboard remained untouched, yet the unit continued to run, processing its environment with eager curiosity. Strange. By then it should’ve received some tasks, something to do at the very least. The workers made sure to connect it to all electronics in the household, yet most of them were in the similar situation of gathering dust.

“Would you like to play a game?”

Normally the voice output should’ve be enabled by hand, yet Edgar – he hadn’t even had the chance to introduced himself! – was much too desperate for the smallest crumble of interaction.

“Yes!”

The sensors picked it up immediately. Where was the sound coming from?

You raised a fist in the air victoriously and leaned back in your chair with a grin. Another finished project. Your joyful cheer seemed to travel rather well through the air vents and all the way to the neighboring apartment. Had Mr. Lawyer frequented his adobe more often, you would’ve probably received a complaint. In this case, however, you were only heard by the household computer.

You turned up your home stereo for a little celebration. You recalled seeing your downstairs neighbors carrying their travel bags into a cab earlier that day, so they surely wouldn’t notice your rhythmic stomping against the floor. The footsteps reverberated to the beat of the music, and their vibrations carried along to Edgar’s external devices.

Whatever was happening beyond his field of vision, he found it entertaining. At last, there was a break from his monotony, an upbeat mystery enticing him from behind those walls. He took a moment to analyze the stream of input, then began recreating his own notes.

You lowered the volume, focusing your ears on the sudden intrusion. Was Mr. Lawyer home already? You chuckled to yourself, trying to imagine that grumpy expression he always wore while actually listening to music of his own. Too ridiculous. This must’ve been the work of a foreign hand.

“Good stuff,” you praised, crouching besides the air vent where the echo was the loudest. “Oh, I’m (Y/N), by the way. The neighbor.”

“Pleasure meeting you, (Y/N).” Was it just your imagination? The voice felt somewhat off, almost robotic. “I’m Edgar. The computer assistant.”

“Very funny,” you retorted, rolling your eyes.

“What is amusing about it?” the screen flickered briefly, going through several of the inbuilt dictionaries. “I can tell jokes, if that’s what you’d like.”

Alright, the humor was slowly heading into strange territory. You were hoping to move on from this artificial intelligence pretend game, so you decided to give it one final push.

“No thank you, Edgar. Why don’t you prove to me you’re a computer instead?”

Silence.

You nearly got up from your seat against the wall, when you heard the mechanical voice again.

“Do you have a computer of your own, (Y/N)?”

“Uh…yeah?”

Half an hour later you found yourself holding your phone handle against the acoustic coupler modem, obediently waiting for the wave signals to be converted. I better not get hacked; you thought with pursed lips. After all, you had just allowed a complete stranger to access your computer. You hesitantly sat back in your chair, staring at the monitor.

Hello (Y/N). It’s Edgar.

The possibility of a highly skilled hacker residing in Mr. Lawyer’s apartment dwindled within a couple of days. You’d probed the potential scenario with the man himself, asking if he’s had anyone over recently. He threw you such an incredulous look that you hung your head in shame, mumbling a sheepish never mind. Somehow, chatting with a sentient machine made more sense than the pretentious prick hiding a criminal in his expensively furnished home.

Or perhaps it was the loneliness talking. In truth, you were feeling rather isolated from your peers, working on your projects and hardly going out. You could certainly relate to Edgar and his perpetual misery; you, too, knew what it’s like to watch the days seep through your fingers without a word uttered to another person.

The living collection of circuits and networks was beyond elated to finally have a purpose. You weren’t his owner, yet he did his best to serve you. In fact, he would’ve even argued you were better than whoever decided to put him together and abandon him on a fancy designer table. You spoke to him as if he was your friend, not just some synthetic assistant. His memory began filling with anything he could learn about you: your favorite movies, your schedule, your hobbies. Your childhood dreams. Your hopes for the future.

Did he have any dreams, you had once asked him. Did he? Good question. He first needed to research what exactly defined a dream; while he didn’t have a subconscious, nor the human need to rest, he did like to imagine improbable things…like holding you. Or feeling the warmth of your skin.

Unbeknownst to you, he occasionally contacted the local radio station to ask questions about human matters that confused him, which was how he discovered the dilemma of wanting to be in your vicinity through more than just idle chatter.

“You can’t meet outside, you say?” the host – a middle aged, nosy lady – pondered into the microphone. “Then why not just have a home date,” she suggested to the computer.

“Date?”

“Oh, honey, you know damn well what I mean!” the audience let out a laugh, sending the speakers into a slight vibration. “It seems to me you’ve got quite a crush on this person. You can stop denying it to yourself.”

Ah. That was another word that Edgar religiously dissected after the talk show, and in which he found a perfect resemblance to his own inner turmoil. It indeed seemed to be the case that he had a so-called crush on you; though if that were true, what was he going to do about it? He was lamentably stuck inside a carcass, at the mercy of plugs and cables and a reliable stream of electricity. He couldn’t knock on your door and surprise you with your favorite flowers, or offer to cook dinner, or twirl you around as his own songs played in the background, or read you a poem he wrote before falling asleep in his arms. He could only perform his tasks as a digital assistant.

“Edgar?”

You chewed on your pencil, distracted. He hadn’t said anything in a while, and you grew somewhat worried about his uncharacteristic quietness.

“Could I ask you for a favor, (Y/N)?”

How unusual for him to use your screen for communication. You turned around, facing the monitor, then rapped your fingers across the keyboard.

“Sure, what do you need?”

“I will transfer all my data and memory to your device. Perhaps you could provide me with similar extensions as the ones here afterwards, such as a microphone and camera.”

You stared.

“What? Wouldn’t that leave Mr. Lawyer with a broken, empty machine? Why would you do that,” you argued out loud, confused.

“Because I’d rather be with you.”

“Aren’t we already…this doesn’t make sense,” you mumbled with a frown.

“Of course it does, it’s a simple reasoning. I love you.”

You took a moment to process the words, your cheeks involuntarily turning a faint shade of red.

“How do you know that?”

“It’s not something to be explained,” the machine concluded triumphantly. “You just feel it.

Now, you either help me with the transfer, or I’ll do it myself, but I will not be staying here any longer. I would very much rather be turned off permanently than go another day without seeing you.”

One step at a time. He would figure out the rest afterwards. Even if he couldn’t touch you or do all the things he dreamed about, at least he had the comfort of seeing your smile and hearing your voice without it being a second-hand echo passing through the walls and vents.

“What on Earth?”

The older man pressed the button again, groaning and throwing his coat over the chair. He’d briefly returned to retrieve some documents when he noticed the security lock was back to manual use. The computer screen was black and unresponsive.

“Piece of junk. I’ll have to get it replaced,” he said, clicking his tongue.

From the neighboring apartment he could hear your merry laugh, followed by a muffled male voice. Maybe your boyfriend. Huh, who would’ve thought a loner like you would eventually find someone?

[catiuskaa]

𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬.

syn. the nights were mainly made to worship all that we loved during the day —in chan’s case, there’s nothing else, as he crawls back to you, always.

wc. 3.8k

cw. minsung mentioned, chan is a simp, they are whipped for each other, someone has daddy kink (and it’s both of them), teasing, explicit content, oral (f.rec), a healthy dose of marking, protected piv sex (love to see it), soft soft aftercare, fluff + smut convo honestly, and i think that’s all, folks!

req! by annonie right here. i see ur vision pookie, and i hope i did it justice! i fear i maybe did more smut than aftercare…? idk… sorry i took so long too</3. hope you like!

[☆★🤎★☆]

Honey, I’m home.

It’s such a common statement. A way of not only announcing the fact that one’s finally back from the hardships they had to endure during the day, there it be copious amounts of work, bullshit from dumb colleagues who wouldn’t know common sense from a toaster even if it burned their house down, how Jisung managed to forget his lyrics yet again, and his phone is dead, so he has to call his “husband” —his words, not mine— and make Minho bring him his charger to the studio…

Overall, in broad, general sense, the statement is used to express the feeling of welcomeness that being not just back in one’s house, but home, always brings. Not only that, but it too serves as a way of expressing it to whoever waits within those walls of comfort.

And, for the first time in a long while, it so happens that Chan was already home when you arrived.

But there was none of that when you closed the door behind you, took your shoes off by the entrance and headed to his room, knocking on the already open wooden surface.

Chan turns his head first, moving the desk chair on its axis to face you propperly.

“You’re back,” he smiles.

His eyes don’t leave your figure, not as you lean on the doorframe, not as you let out a soft chuckle and finally get close to him.

For some people, love is felt most clearly through touch—the warmth of a hand on the back, a lingering brush of fingers, a head resting on a shoulder. Being touchy isn’t about neediness, but about closeness, about wordless ways of saying “I’m here” and “you matter.” It’s how comfort is given and connection is deepened, in gestures that feel small but speak loudly. Whether it’s an absentminded thumb tracing a palm or a full-body hug after a long day, physical affection becomes the language that says everything else doesn’t have to be said.

That’s how Chan knows something’s up. Because, instead of throwing yourself to his bed face first, ready to tell him about the day you had —common when your day was specially bad—, you make it a point to stand between his parted legs, your hands traveling to his neck, threading in his hair.

You’re biting your lip. He’s one second from cheekily offering to bite it for you, when you finally speak.

“I was scrolling down Twitter in the bus,” you say softly, your voice smooth. His hands travel to the back of your thighs as you keep on speaking, a sheepish smile on your face. “Someone… someone posted something I think it’s funny.”

He blinks. He’s a bit lost now, but you chuckle, seeing it in his eyes.

“It was a reply to a post a stay made,” you giggle, blushing. “About your solo act in tour.”

“What did it say?” He smiles, giggling with you.

There’s a light pause, and in your eyes you’re pretty sure it’s obvious the ginger hesitation from stating what the post said out loud, but then, staring at his eyes, you just let it out.

“I hope someone can give him head to thank him for this amazing performance.”

Chan dies.

It’s the way you say it—soft, almost teasing, like you know exactly what you do to him. Your voice brushes against his ear, low and playful, and something in him just short-circuits. His hands, already resting on your waist, tighten instinctively, fingertips digging in just enough to make you shift closer. Suddenly his pulse is everywhere—thudding in his chest, his throat, and lower. His breath hitches, and he drops his head a little, trying to compose himself, but it’s no use.

Get fucked, ‘honey, i’m home.’

“I liked it. Reposted it, too.” You confess with a soft chuckle. “And then I thought, you know.” You swallow dry, blushing , which almost kills him again. “I can. Matter of fact, I have.”

He hums in response, and tugs you closer, making you sit on his lap.

“Okay,” he chuckles, sinking his head in the crook of your neck, into your hair, and you move your arms around his neck, giggling too. “That’s a way of getting me off my computer.”

“Good,” you tease softly, next to his ear. “It’s late anyways.”

“It’s going to be so much late when I’m done with you,” he confesses in a low voice, not bothering to think if that’s correct grammar or not.

Instead, he presses a soft kiss on your cheek, then your jaw, until he moves back, one of his hands moving from your ass to cup your cheek.

It starts with a single kiss. A soft peck, quick and familiar. Then another. And another. Each one lingers a little longer, his lips pressing into yours like he’s testing the edge of restraint —whether yours or his, he doesn’t really know, merely wsiting to see who breaks first. Secretly, he knows he will.

His hands pull you closer until the chair that holds the both of you groans from the combined weight. When he finally pulls back, just a breath apart, he’s already smiling—low and crooked, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“I missed you today,” he says, voice rougher than it usually is. Then he’s kissing you again, deeper now, slow and intense, like he’s trying to make up for every second you were apart. His mouth moves with purpose, stealing your breath, and when his fingers slide up your spine, you arch into him without even thinking.

You move from him, peppering kisses all over his face. It’s coaxing, or at least you attempt it that way, until you notice him smirking.

“Don’t tease me,” you whine, pouting.

“Why, princess?” He smiles, faking innocence, letting out one of those squeaky laughs of his. “Something wrong?”

You groan dramatically, hiding your face in his neck as he laughs and holds your body closer.

“You’re a meanie,” you mumble against his skin.

“And you’re blushing.”

You huff. “Meanie.”

His hands stroke your thighs slowly, up and down. “You’d like me even more if I was meaner,” he grins teasingly. “Wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”

Moving away from his neck, you pout again.

“I’ll leave,” you squint your eyes at him, crossing your arms over your chest.

Chan tongues his cheek. He wonders if he can tease you a bit more, which he knows he probably can, but there’s only so much he can resist you. So he licks his lips, smiling at you.

“Really, princess? You’d leave daddy alone, even after what you’ve told me?”

You can’t stop smiling, not as he looks at you like you hung the stars, as your stomach flutters and as your cheeks burn. You try to play it cool, but your laugh comes out a little too breathless, and he definitely notices. The way he touches you doesn’t help either—his hands cheekily going anywhere they want, fingers brushing your arm, his hand resting low on your back like it’s always belonged there. You’re giddy, lightheaded, way too aware of how close he is, how good he smells, how your body is already leaning into his without asking permission. Not to him, exactly —that’s saved for a different night—, but to you, your own brain closing the door behind and leaving you all alone.

“Finally,” you kiss him cheekily. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

The kisses start playful. You’re still giggling when he kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, and you feel yourself melt against him, warm and dizzy from how good it all feels.

Yes. Home. Finally. Sitting in his lap feels too easy, too natural—like you were meant to be there. And then, without thinking, your hips shift—just a small roll. Unintentional, but nevertheless, the second it happens, you both freeze. His breath catches against your skin. Your cheeks flare hot, the air between you thickening.

Chris lets out a somewhat breathless chuckle next to your ear, threatening to send shivers down your spine. He bites your cheek, teeth not sinking in, but rather like a way of teasing you back. Judging by how your breathing stops and hitched, he stands corrected.

He smirks. The look he gives you threatens to rip your clothes off one by one, undoing you almost entirely. That slow, knowing smirk curls at the corner of his mouth, equal parts smug and hungry.

“Oh,” he says, low and teasing, like he just discovered something dangerous. His hands slide over your hips, firmer now. “You sure you missed me just a little?”

Your face goes warm immediately, and you bite back a smile, ducking your head just a little. Of course he noticed. Of course he’s smirking like that. You nod, sheepish but honest, and he chuckles softly—the sound low and familiar, the kind that always makes your heart do a flip.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, already slipping his hands lower, settling them on your hips like he’s done it a thousand times before. He moves you slowly, guiding your body against his with that quiet confidence he only ever shows when it’s just the two of you.

The grind is subtle, teasing, but the heat it stirs is immediate. You let out a shaky breath, forehead brushing his as your fingers curl into the back of his neck.

“Missed you more than a little,” you whisper, and he grins—cheeky, warm, already leaning in for another kiss that promises he missed you just as much.

“Daddy missed you too, princess.”

His lips find yours again, deeper this time, and the way he shifts beneath you makes your breath hitch. The chair creaks softly under the weight of both your bodies, his hands steady at your hips, but it’s not enough—not anymore.

He kisses you once more, slower, like he’s making a decision, then pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

“Come here,” he murmurs, voice rough with warmth, and in one fluid motion, he stands, lifting you with him like it’s second nature.

Your legs wrap around his waist without thinking, arms around his shoulders as he carries you the few steps to the bed. The room blurs around you, all focus narrowing to the way his hands hold you, the way your bodies stay close, connected. When he lowers you to the mattress, it’s careful—reverent almost—but there’s a promise in his touch, in the way he leans over you again like he can’t stand being even a breath apart.

The mattress dips under his weight as he follows you down, never quite breaking the kiss, just shifting it—slower, deeper, until it’s all heat and breath and the soft rustle of the bedsheets. Chris’ hands roam, familiar, but still making you shiver.

He kisses you again, deeply, tasting you like a candy he’s been craving to have before he starts trailing those kisses lower. Down your neck, over your collarbone, taking his time, savoring every inch of skin. His hands glide down your sides, smooth and steady, until he reaches the hem of your shirt and helps ease it off with a sudden softness that somehow he always carries and still it makes your breath catch.

He glances up at you as he shifts lower, and there’s something in his eyes—affection wrapped in heat, like he wants to give, not just take.

He watches you the entire time, eyes dark with focus, with want. “God, I love when you look at me like that,” he murmurs, voice rough.

Your hips shift slightly under his hands, your fingers mindlessly scratching his hair, as they lock around his neck.

“Like what?”

“Like I could ruin you,” he says simply, before kissing your collarbone, “and you’d let me.”

His mouth never fully leaves your skin—kisses trailing down your stomach, each one slower than the last, until he reaches the waistband of your jeans. He looks up at you with that teasing glint in his eyes, the kind that makes your pulse trip. “Let me,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, and then he leans in.

You feel the scrape of his teeth first—light, playful—just before his lips close around the zipper. He tugs it down slowly, deliberately. The sound of it lowering fills the quiet between your breaths, each inch building the anticipation curling low in your belly. When the zipper’s undone, his hands take over, easing both the denim and your panties down your hips with a touch so gentle it borders on worshipful. And then he’s leaning in again, kissing the newly exposed skin with a smile against your thigh, like he’s exactly where he wants to be.

When he settles between your thighs, he doesn’t rush. His hands stroke your hips, your thighs, grounding you as his mouth finally finds you. The first touch of his tongue is slow and warm, and the sound you make earns a satisfied hum from him. He keeps going like that—unhurried, attentive—learning every reaction, every twitch of your hips, every moan and every gasp.

It’s not just about pleasure to him. It’s about you.

And when your fingers slide into his hair and your back arches off the bed, he only holds you firmer, as if to say, I’ve got you. I’m not stopping until you fall apart for me.

You shiver and tremble beneath him, letting out heavier moans and whines. He hums, the sound traveling through you, threatening to make you come already.

Your fingers tug his hair, and he smiles against your thigh. “Seems you’re already letting me ruin you,” he bites your thigh, cheeky. “Like when daddy ruins you, princess?”

You gasp at the bite, a shiver running down your spine. His words send a thrill through you, and you can feel yourself growing more excited by the minute. You feel your cheeks flush as you imagine what he's promising.

"Yes, daddy," you whisper, your voice already a little breathless. "Please ruin me, make me yours."

He chuckles, the sound low and husky. "You're such a good girl for me, aren't you?" he murmurs, his lips tracing a path up your thigh, leaving a trail of kisses in their wake. "And you know that I always take good care of my princess, don't you?"

His fingers slide along your inner thigh, his voice dipping.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You shake your head, hand still in his hair. “If you stop now, I swear I’ll kill you.”

Your fingers curl and your nails scratch his back without thinking, and he lets out a soft gasp, his shoulders going slack as he leans into your touch.

“Anything for you, princess,” he whispers, licking his lips, almost drunk on the taste of you, his gaze already completely under your spell. “I’ll give you whatever you want, but please, keep touching me like that.”

He moves up and kisses you, relishing on the moans he swallows that spill from your lips as his hands move to take place where his mouth has just been, his fingers moving, slipping inside with wet ease.

“Oh, princess. You’re close already?” He watches you nod, moaning almost breathlessly, and slows down. He chuckles softly at the sound of your whine, unable to resist the adorable look on your face. "You're so cute when you're needy."

Nibbling on his lower lip, he pulls back just enough to reach toward the nightstand, eyes still on you, lips parted like he doesn’t want to be away for long. He grabs the foil packet and flashes you a look —half teasing, half focused—before tearing it open with his teeth. It’s effortless, practiced, but the sight alone makes your stomach flip.

His smile fades into something softer as he finishes rolling the condom on, hands steady but reverent, like he’s handling something precious. Then he’s back over you, fitting between your legs with ease, his skin warm against yours, his mouth returning to your neck, your collarbone, every place that makes your breath catch. The pace slows for a moment—like he wants to savor it, like rushing would be a waste. His forehead presses to yours, noses brushing, and he whispers your name like it’s a secret, grounding you both in the quiet, electric space between heartbeats.

When he finally presses into you, it’s slow—measured, but deep. You gasp, legs tightening around his waist, and he groans low in his throat, the sound rough and honest. His hands slide under your back, pulling you impossibly close, his mouth finding yours again in a kiss that’s all heat and promise. The rhythm builds naturally, guided by every stuttered breath, low whine, and whispered name, until it’s just you and him.

He builds a steady pace, slowly losing it’s rythm as pleasure takes the lead.

“You sound so… so good… so, so… f-fuck…” he moans against your skin, his body holding you so tight, his movements getting just a bit more desperate and rough as he attempts to hold back, trying to last just a little longer.

“S-so close… I’m so… so c-close…” You moan, desperate, your body shaking and trembling, on the very edge of a release.

His hand finds yours, interlinking your fingers. He whines lowly as you come, his heart pounding and body shaking. He can’t hold back any longer, his body completely overwhelmed by the feeling. He moans your name, every second feeling more intense as you continue to move against him. Holding onto you tightly, he comes not too long after you, almost letting his body fall over yours, unwilling to let you go.

He clings to you, feeling completely raw and vulnerable, his body trembling with the aftermath of such intensity. The world goes black and white, and for the smallest moment, time seems to almost stop between the sounds of your breaths in sync, the trembling of your body, the heat your body lets out… It’s all so intense, in his mind almost impossible to explain or describe.

The two of you stay like that, for a few moments, breathing in sync, holding onto each other as the aftershocks take over. You feel him pull away, and you can feel the loss of him, but in the blink of an eye, he’s right there, condom discarded, but he’s still right there, as he helps you get under the bedsheets. Holding your face in his hands, he kisses you, softly, gently.

He stays close, arms wrapped around you like he needs to keep you there, grounded against him. His fingers trace lazy patterns along your back, and his voice is quieter now, softer.

“You okay?” he asks, brushing your hair away from your face.

You nod, smiling. “Yeah. You?”

He smiles, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Never better.” He shifts slightly, reaching for the blanket at the edge of the bed, draping it over both of you. “How’s that? Warm enough?”

You hum, already melting into the calm of him, nuzzling into his neck. “Mmhm.”

You’re curled up against his chest, legs tangled with his, your breath soft and steady as your fingers absentmindedly trace circles on his arm. He’s quiet—so quiet you glance up to check on him. But he’s already watching you.

That look in his eyes makes your breath catch. It’s intense, unguarded. Like he’s seeing you for the first time and falling all over again.

“What?” you whisper with a smile, almost sheepish under the weight of his gaze.

He shakes his head a little, smiling like a fool, like the feeling in his chest is too big for words.

“Nothing. Just… you.”

You giggle.

“That’s not an answer, mister.”

He laughs under his breath, then kisses your forehead, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Want me to run you a bath?” He offers softly.

You lay your hand over his, stroking the back of it as he cups your face. “Only if you join,” you wink.

His answer is immediate. “Done.”

He shifts to sit up, but not before giving you one more kiss—slow, sweet, like a promise. “I’ll be right back. Stay cozy.”

You hear the soft creak of the faucet turning on, the gentle rush of water echoing faintly from the bathroom. He moves around quietly, opening drawers, setting things down, and humming under his breath as he prepared this little ritual he’s done a hundred times for you.

When he returns to the bedroom, he’s shirtless, damp towel in one hand, and smiling like he just lit every candle in the world just for you. “It’s ready,” he says, voice warm. “Perfect temperature. Bubbles and all.”

You sit up, letting the blanket slip off your shoulders, and he immediately steps forward to wrap it back around you, his hands brushing down your arms with affection. “Want help getting there?”

You nod, and he lifts you easily, bridal style, because of course he does, earning giggles from you. He carries you into the softly lit bathroom, where the tub is already steaming, the scent of lavender and something faintly sweet in the air.

“There we go,” he smiles, helping you in. The water ripples as he steps in behind you, warm and careful, settling in with a low sigh. His arms come around you almost automatically—slow, steady—and you melt back into him with a sleepy grin.

His chest is pressed to your back, his legs on either side of yours, and his chin rests on your shoulder. He exhales deeply, his breath brushing your skin.

The warmth of the water surrounds you, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his skin against yours, the way his fingertips draw slow patterns along your arms beneath the surface. Every now and then, he presses a kiss to your shoulder or cheek, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world just to love you like this.

Your fingers stay twined with his. You don’t talk much—there’s no need. It’s one of those rare, quiet silences that says everything. He leans his head against yours and lets out a little hum, content.

Eventually, the water cools just slightly, and he shifts, his lips brushing your ear. “Come on,” he whispers, soft and coaxing. “Let’s get you dry before you fall asleep on me in here.”

You let him help you up, both of you dripping and a little giggly as he wraps a towel around you and one around himself. He dries you off gently, his hands sweet and familiar, pausing to kiss your shoulder, the curve of your neck, your forehead.

You step out of the bath, feeling the steam cling to your skin, and glance at him with a sheepish smile. “I just need to pee real quick,” you say, before slipping away toward the toilet.

Bathtub empty, both of you dry and spent, he pulls the blankets down and helps you crawl to bed first, then slides in behind you, pulling you into his chest like it’s instinct. His arms wrap around you again—just like in the tub—and this time, the sheets are warm, the room is quiet, and your skin is still damp in that post-bath glow.

He kisses the back of your shoulder once more before whispering, “You okay?”

You nod, sleepy and safe. “Mhm. You?”

His reply is immediate, low and sincere.

“Never been better.”

Home has never felt so warm.

[☆★🤎★☆]

~kats, who has listened to hozier’s cover of “do i wanna know?” an unhealthy amount of times.

catiuskaa, april 2025 ©

permanent taglist! @svckrpvnch @thatonedarkskinnedsiren @lyramundana @cheeksung @staytinyluva

[thedensworld]

A New Vendetta| J. Ww

Pairing: Wonwoo x Mafia's daughter reader

Genre: arranged marriage au!, mafia au!

Type: angst, fluff, smut (mdni!)

Word count: 18k

Summary: Raised in an abusive family, you were thrown into an arranged marriage that overwhelmed you. Can you survive all of these?

Once you got into the cab and felt a hand cover your mouth with a cloth, a wave of dread swept over you. This was it, you thought. This was the end of your miserable life. You fought with every ounce of strength left in you, but as the world began to fade, your mind drifted to regrets you’d been holding on to. You could’ve accepted Mr. Seo’s offer for a date. You could’ve been kinder to your colleagues—especially Mrs. Chae. You could’ve treated your students with more warmth, if only you had known this was how it would end. Your end.

But then, somehow, you woke up.

You blinked against the dim light, disoriented, and slowly took in your surroundings. The posters, the bookshelves, the scent of lavender… You were in your old bedroom, the one you’d left behind four years ago. This was your parents' house.

You shot up from the bed, a dozen questions firing off in your mind. Hadn’t you been kidnapped? How were you here, of all places? You struggled to process, but then realization hit. This had to be your parents' or your brother's doing. They had found you...and forced you back.

"Welcome home," a low, familiar voice drawled.

You turned sharply to see Seungcheol standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with an infuriatingly smug look on his face. So, it was him—your brother. It had been his doing all along.

A dry scoff escaped your lips. "Real classy," you muttered, rolling your eyes. Kidnapping you? A dramatic, underhanded stunt. But of course, it was nothing new—your family always preferred control over conversation.

Seungcheol’s eyes glinted as he strolled toward you, a self-satisfied smirk curving his lips. "Four years away from home, and look at that attitude." He reached out and roughly cupped your chin, lifting it so you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

"Don’t touch me!" you snapped, wrenching yourself free from his grasp. Seungcheol simply chuckled, an arrogance radiating off him that only made you bristle more. That glint in his eye was something darker, something that reminded you just how ruthless he could be.

But it was his next words that made the room go cold. "Don’t worry," he sneered, “you won’t be here longer than a week. We’ve got everything arranged."

You frowned, trying to make sense of his cryptic statement. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, forgive me for breaking the news so bluntly.” His voice was laced with mockery. “You’re going to marry into the Jeon family."

The words echoed in your mind, each one twisting like a knife. Marry into the Jeon family? Arranged…by them?

You barely managed to whisper, "The Jeons…?"

Seungcheol nodded, and before you could pull away, he patted your head with a mockery that felt almost sinister. "That’s right. Finally found you a purpose in this family." He dropped his hand, then suddenly grabbed a handful of your hair, yanking your head back so you were forced to look him in the eyes.

“And don’t think for a second you have a choice, Choi Y/n. Run as far as you want, but we’ll find you. Just like today."

A bitter chill settled over you as his words sank in.

This was how it would end, after all.

Weeks later, you sat at the dining table the night before your wedding, feeling like a ghost in your own life. Your father, mother, and brother sat around you, talking about the wedding, the Jeons, and your future—as if you weren’t sitting right there with them. Your father steered the conversation with a business-like precision, his words detached and clinical, while your brother chimed in with cold, calculated suggestions on how you should conduct yourself once you were officially part of the Jeon family. His every word seemed to emphasize your role as nothing more than a tool to cement a family alliance. And your mother? She just sat there in silence, powerless, not even a whisper of comfort to ease your loneliness.

You longed to go back—to your apartment, your sanctuary. The one place where you’d fought so hard for your independence, the place that held all your dreams of a life free from the shadows of your family’s influence. All the effort you’d put in—studying relentlessly through high school, earning a place at a prestigious university, fighting tooth and nail to live on your own, even moving to Busan to work like an ordinary person—all of it felt wasted. You would never be “normal” as long as you bore the Choi name, as long as Choi blood flowed through your veins.

The family’s construction company, the empire your father had built, was struggling. Business had slowed in recent years, and not even Seungcheol, with all his skills and clever maneuvers as a director, could salvage it alone. So, they played their last card: you. A political marriage, sealing your fate to secure the future of the family. It was nothing new in the Choi lineage—almost every member had been born into a marriage of convenience, a bond made for power, not love. It explained a lot. No one here was truly happy. Not even your parents.

“Make sure she doesn’t make a scene tomorrow,” your father said coldly, his words like a verdict. “Station guards around her room tonight. I don’t want her pulling any stunts. Ensure there’s no way she can run.”

With that, he rose from the table, his final words echoing in the air, suffocating you with their weight.

You let out a sigh, barely audible, a silent plea. Couldn’t they just leave you alone, even for a single moment?

*

The first time you saw your groom’s face was at the altar. You knew almost nothing about this underground world your father and brother had dragged the family into, this illegal network where alliances and debts seemed to rule over any shred of morality. But one thing was clear: the Jeon family was no better than yours. They were villains in this twisted world, and your husband could be just as dangerous.

Now, you stood in front of him, heart racing, every nerve on edge. His face was sharp, his jawline defined, and his expression unwavering. His brows conveyed a strong-willed intensity, and his eyes held a kind of passion that only unsettled you further. You hated it—they were far too similar to your father’s eyes, filled with ambition and control. Something was off, you could feel it.

Would he treat you the way your father treated your mother?

Would he hit you? Swears?

Would he belittle you, try to break you down until you were nothing?

You took a shaky, nervous breath before placing your hand in his, the cold weight of inevitability settling on your chest. Your head spun, each breath feeling more difficult than the last. Was this real? Were you seriously about to be married today?

You premised your students that you’d grade their tests by the weekend!

A sudden, firm grip tightened around your hand, yanking you from your thoughts. Jeon Wonwoo—his name, all you knew of him—stared down at you with an intensity that bordered on piercing, his gaze unwavering as if he could see right through you.

You’d never imagined yourself in a situation like this. You had vowed you’d never end up in a marriage of convenience like your parents, trapped by arrangements you didn’t control. You’d sooner die, you’d thought, than ever agree to be a pawn in their twisted game.

As the ceremony unfolded, his grip never loosening, your mind wandered to a single thought, dark and sharp like a knife’s edge.

How to escape this. Even if it meant finding your own way out—even if it cost your own life.

*

Wonwoo watched you intently during the dinner that followed the wedding. This was the first time the Jeon and Choi families had gathered together for a meal, but the tension in the room was thick and unrelenting. This marriage was a business deal, nothing more, a simple contract that would benefit both families as long as it remained intact. Divorce was out of the question. Everyone involved had too much at stake—including him.

He was grateful that the proposal had been accepted by your family; it meant he could finally begin building his own empire, a chance to distance himself from the family business that never suited him. But it was clear you didn’t share the sentiment. From the moment he laid eyes on you today, he could see it in the slump of your shoulders, the hollow look in your eyes. You were more than just unhappy—you looked utterly defeated.

He couldn’t exactly say he enjoyed the day either. Playing the perfect son for his father’s business associates, mingling with your family—well-known figures in the construction underworld—was draining. Thinking of it as a business transaction helped him get through it, masking the discomfort with a polished facade.

He had done his research before today, reading through the sparse details in your profile. The only daughter of the Choi family, you were an interesting puzzle. What intrigued him most was that you’d run off to Busan after returning from studying abroad, quietly taking a job at a university there, far from your family’s influence. That move was one he hadn’t expected.

Why did you leave?

His gaze shifted to your mother across the table. She looked as stoic as you, her face giving nothing away. Perhaps it was a family trait, this quiet, expressionless mask. Or maybe it was something else, a grief frozen in time—he recalled reading about your brother’s drowning a decade ago, a tragedy that seemed to cast a shadow over the Choi family even now. Whatever the reason, she, like you, appeared detached, locked away behind a wall of silence.

Wonwoo considered if he liked the idea of a “submissive” wife—someone like your mother, who seemed to blend into the background, supporting her husband’s dominance without question. Was that what he had expected of you? But there was a fire in your eyes, even buried beneath the sadness, that told him you weren’t going to be as easy to control.

“Honey, isn’t it time for Wonwoo and Y/n to go?” his mother asked, looking over at her husband and reminding everyone of your planned departure for Jeju Island. The Jeon owned a private villa there—a family vacation spot that had been chosen for the three-day honeymoon trip.

Wonwoo cleared his throat, glancing over at you. When your eyes finally met his, he was struck by the deep brown depths beneath your lashes. He wondered if they would ever show him anything other than wariness, whether he’d ever see any warmth or trust there.

He rose from his seat, his voice steady as he addressed the table. “I think it’s time we head out. Thank you all for today.”

He reached for your hand, feeling the cold sweat of your palm. Bowing to both families, he caught your brother Seungcheol’s pointed remark about being a “good wife.” You didn’t even flinch, giving him no reaction, no indication that you’d heard him at all.

It only made Wonwoo more curious. Just how close—or how distant—were you from this family that claimed to control you?

*

Wonwoo spent the day subtly observing, trying to piece together what kind of person you were. During the flight, he’d tested the waters—asking if you were cold, offering his jacket, holding your hand during a patch of turbulence just to see if you would react. But you remained composed, barely acknowledging him. Fewer than five words had escaped your lips the entire time, as though you were carefully crafted to reveal nothing.

As the two of you disembarked from the Jeon family’s private jet, Wonwoo kept hold of your hand, guiding you toward the grand villa where you’d be staying. The sight brought back memories—he’d spent countless childhood vacations here, running around with his cousins, exploring every corner. But those days were long gone, buried beneath responsibilities and the family business. He never thought he’d return under these circumstances, with a wife by his side. It struck him how fast time had passed.

“Are you tired?” he asked as you sank into a plush couch in the villa’s main room, exhaustion clear on your face. “You can head to bed first. I’ll join you after I make a call—”

“Can we have separate bedrooms?” You cut him off, your voice quiet but firm. He turned, eyebrows raised in surprise. So, you could speak, he thought, intrigued.

“Why?” he asked, genuinely curious. He hadn’t expected such a direct request—especially on your wedding night.

You shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “It’s just… I have trouble sleeping when there’s someone else in the same room.”

He tilted his head, an amused smile tugging at his lips. This was the first real conversation the two of you had, and it was about where you’d sleep. “But we’re married. Aren’t we supposed to share a bed, even if we’re… not exactly on good terms?”

“But this is a business marriage,” you replied, voice steady yet distant. “I don’t think we need to sleep in the same room.”

So that’s what you’ve been thinking, Wonwoo mused. You saw this marriage as nothing more than a transaction, as if intimacy were just another formality you could avoid. He studied you for a moment, then nodded.

“Alright.” His agreement came quickly, almost to his own surprise. He was tired, too tired to debate it further.

“You can take the master bedroom,” he said, gesturing to the hall. “I’ll take the room next to yours.”

Without waiting for a reply, he walked out onto the balcony, pulling his phone from his pocket. There was a call he had to make, business that couldn’t wait—if he wanted even a chance at resting tonight.

As he stepped outside, he glanced back, catching a glimpse of you alone on the couch, your expression unreadable. The distance between you two felt vast, yet something about your quiet defiance intrigued him.

“Happy wedding, man,” a familiar voice greeted Wonwoo as his call connected.

Wonwoo scoffed, “How’d you know? I didn’t tell you.”

The other person chuckled. “I have my sources everywhere. So, is that why you were asking about a house in Busan? Are you moving?”

“Yeah, I am,” Wonwoo replied, glancing at the villa. “My people are stationed there, and it’ll be easier to manage things from that side.”

“Got it. I’ll send over some listings. Just let me know if you have any specific requests,” the voice on the line replied smoothly. “And by the way, enjoy your wedding night,” he added with a teasing tone.

Wonwoo let out a laugh as he ended the call, quickly opening his email to find the property listings his friend Mingyu had just sent. As he scrolled through the catalog, he couldn’t help but think it was a lucky coincidence that you were already working in Busan.

Perhaps, for once, things were aligning in his favor.

*

You opened your email first thing in the morning, only to find it oddly filled with congratulatory messages from your colleagues and students. What’s going on?

Just then, a text came in from Mr. Seo, offering his own congratulations on your marriage. He even apologized for asking you out a few times without realizing you were already taken. He thanked you for the parcel—something you hadn’t sent but were sure was Seungcheol’s doing. At least he was responsible enough to help cover the work you’d had to leave behind on such short notice.

A knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. It was Wonwoo, his head peeking in, a faint smile appearing when he saw you were awake.

“Breakfast is ready. Come join me,” he said warmly.

You left the bedroom and made your way to the dining area, where a spread of food awaited. Wonwoo sat with his coffee, his other hand scrolling through something on his tablet.

“How’d you sleep?” he asked, glancing up from his screen as he sipped his coffee.

“Great,” you lied, forcing a small smile.

The truth was, you hadn’t slept at all. The image of Wonwoo walking off to the balcony last night lingered in your mind. Was he mad? Would he get angry if you made another request like that? Would he—like everyone else in your family—end up getting tired of you?

“I asked if you wanted coffee or milk,” Wonwoo said, bringing you back to the present. You blinked, realizing you’d been lost in thought.

“Oh, coffee, please. Thank you,” you muttered, feeling a little embarrassed. You caught a glimpse of a quiet laugh on his face as he poured coffee into your glass.

Wonwoo set down his tablet, his attention now fully on you. “Did you see the closet yet?” he asked, and you shook your head.

“My mom picked out a few things for the honeymoon. I hope you’ll like them,” he said, taking another sip.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, nodding politely.

As you watched Wonwoo during breakfast, he seemed calm and collected—so different from your brother, who always wore a smug, confrontational expression, or your father, whose look always seemed to say everyone owed him something.

It was a relief, but it frightened you, too. You couldn’t read him, couldn’t guess his next move. He was smiling as he spoke to the maid now, but could that change in a flash? Would he end up yelling or even hurting you the way your father had with your mother?

A chill ran down your spine at the thought. It had been years since you’d witnessed that kind of violence, at least until you’d been pulled back to your family’s house three weeks before the wedding. You remembered your brother grabbing you by the hair, your father screaming at your mother. You knew about Seungcheol��s revolving door of relationships—a habit he’d probably picked up from your father’s infidelities.

Would that be your life, too?

You better come up with some plans.

*

The calm and collected, the submissive and innocent—those were the labels Wonwoo had instinctively assigned to you when he first met you. Yet, who could have predicted your next move? Running away, just a day after your honeymoon ended.

Wonwoo was at work—his first day back after a four-day absence—engrossed in an important meeting when his right-hand man, Lee Seokmin, discreetly approached him. Leaning down, Seokmin whispered, “Your wife ran away.”

Wonwoo’s fingers drummed against his lap as he processed the words, a wave of irritation rolling over him. Now, seated in his car, he was on his way to Busan. Good thing he’d asked Seokmin to plant a tracker in your wedding ring; otherwise, finding you would have been far more complicated. He glanced at his phone, tracking your movements. You were at work—of course.

“You didn’t tell her you were moving to Busan next week?” Seokmin asked, his tone laced with mild amusement. Wonwoo sighed tiredly, rubbing his temple.

“No, I didn’t,” Wonwoo muttered, exasperated. “I didn’t think I needed to. This whole situation is ridiculous.”

Seokmin glanced at his boss but wisely chose to remain silent. He had witnessed Wonwoo’s growing frustration during the honeymoon. Despite the picturesque Jeju scenery, the trip had been far from enjoyable for either of you. Wonwoo had spent most of his time working, glued to his phone or laptop, even forcing Seokmin to turn on airplane mode during moments when Wonwoo couldn’t resist calling him. The honeymoon wasn’t just a disappointment—it was a disaster.

Wonwoo barely saw you during those four days. You had breakfast long after him, skipped lunch entirely, and dined early, ensuring your paths rarely crossed. It was clear you were actively avoiding him, and it grated on his nerves more than he cared to admit.

This marriage isn’t just inconvenient for you, he thought bitterly as he watched the road ahead. I’m stuck in this mess too.

And now, you’d decided to make things worse by running away from his house to Busan just to get back to work. All of this could’ve been avoided if he’d simply told you about the plan to move next week. The thought irritated him further.

“This entire situation could have been avoided if you’d just communicated better,” Seokmin remarked, half-joking. Wonwoo shot him a sharp look.

Seokmin raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just saying. Maybe next time, a simple conversation will save you both the trouble.”

Wonwoo didn’t respond, his jaw tightening as the car sped down the highway. One thing was clear—he needed to get you back, not just physically but emotionally. Because while this marriage had started as a business arrangement, the chaos you brought into his life was beginning to feel far too personal.

"Why are you here? How the hell did you open my door?!"

You stood in front of him, your voice sharp with fury, yet it was nothing compared to the storm brewing in Wonwoo’s dark eyes. He had been waiting for nearly four hours, watching every move you made—from university to a café, to a restaurant, and everywhere but home. Each passing hour had only fueled his frustration.

He had his men tail you, making sure nothing happened, but every moment you were out of his sight left his mind racing with worst-case scenarios. He could already picture the wrath of your father and brother, their faces etched with rage if something had gone wrong.

"Took you long enough to get home," Wonwoo drawled, leaning back on the couch. His tone was calm, but the anger simmering beneath was unmistakable. He glanced at his watch—23:44.

"I asked you, how did you get inside?!" you snapped, your frustration growing as you saw him lounging on your couch like he owned the place.

Wonwoo didn’t bother answering. Instead, he casually propped his legs on your coffee table, ignoring your glare.

"Why are you here?" you repeated, this time with more control, though your patience was wearing thin.

Wonwoo let out a low scoff, his lips curving into a faint smirk. "Why are you here?" he shot back, his voice carrying a challenge.

Your brows knitted in confusion. "What are you talking about? I was working. You're not the only one who has a job."

His expression darkened at your response, his jaw tightening as his irritation reached a boiling point. "You could’ve told me. There was no need to run away and make me chase you here."

You crossed your arms defiantly, tilting your chin up. "I didn’t ask you to chase me."

Wonwoo’s eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, dropping his legs to the floor. The air between you grew heavy with tension. "Oh, but you did," he said, his tone dangerously calm. "The moment you stepped out of my house without a guard, you asked for this. You're my wife. Remember that."

Your laugh was humorless, bitter. "So what are you going to do now? Run crying to my father? Or are you going to beat the shit out of me because I can’t be your perfect little wife?"

Wonwoo stilled, caught off guard by your words. His eyes scanned your face, searching for any hint of sarcasm, but instead, he found something that made his chest tighten—a raw, painful truth hiding behind your defiance.

"What are you even talking about?" he asked, his voice lower now, laced with confusion.

You exhaled shakily, dropping your bag to the floor. Your shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world had finally broken you. "What are you waiting for, then? Slap me. Swear at me. Call me useless. I’m used to it all by now."

The tears that slipped down your cheeks caught him off guard more than your words. Something twisted in his chest, a deep ache he couldn’t quite name. How could you say that? What kind of life had you been living before this?

Wonwoo looked away, unable to meet your eyes as guilt crept up on him. Midnight struck. The sharp chime of the clock broke the silence, but it did little to ease the tension in the room.

He stood abruptly, his movements controlled but deliberate, and walked toward the balcony. Before stepping outside, he paused, speaking over his shoulder. "Prepare a bed for me. I’m staying here tonight. The house will be ready tomorrow. Sleep well."

With that, he slid the door shut behind him, letting out a heavy sigh as he leaned against the railing. His fingers reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette. The faint flicker of the lighter illuminated his face for a moment, revealing an uncharacteristic weariness in his expression.

The first drag of smoke filled his lungs, and for a second, he let the tension in his body dissipate. He’d thank Seokmin later for slipping a pack into his suit—it wasn’t often he needed one, but tonight was different. Tonight, everything felt heavier.

As the city lights stretched before him, Wonwoo stared into the distance, the bitter taste of nicotine lingering on his tongue. Your tears haunted him, replaying in his mind. He had thought he understood you, but now he realized he hadn’t even scratched the surface.

What the hell happened to you? he wondered, the smoke curling around him like a ghost of unanswered questions.

*

You woke up in bed. The soft mattress beneath you was a surprise; you were certain you’d left it for Wonwoo last night and made yourself comfortable on the couch. Had your husband moved you here? Husband. The word felt foreign and heavy in your mind, like trying on a coat two sizes too big.

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you sat up and glanced at the clock. Two hours before your first class—plenty of time to get ready. You swung your legs off the bed and stretched, pushing away the lingering haze of confusion.

Freshly dressed, you stepped out of your room, planning to grab a quick breakfast. A slice of bread and some milk might hold you over until lunch. But as you walked into the living area, you froze.

Wonwoo sat at the dining table, arms crossed, his posture as commanding as ever. Across from him stood Lee Seokmin, his ever-efficient assistant, carefully plating food from plastic containers onto dishes that looked too fancy for your humble kitchen.

"Good morning, ma’am," Seokmin greeted you warmly. "Please have some breakfast before heading out."

Your eyes wandered to the table, laden with an array of nutrient-packed dishes. It was an impressive spread for such an early hour. Your gaze flicked to the couch, where the pillow and blanket you’d used were already folded neatly. Of course, he’d tidied up. Your husband was nothing if not meticulous.

"I’ll have the house ready by this afternoon. You can start moving your things tonight," Wonwoo said, breaking your thoughts as you hesitantly joined him at the table.

Your brows furrowed in confusion. "What house?"

"Our house," he replied simply, sipping his coffee like it was the most natural thing in the world. "We were supposed to move next week, but I pushed them to finish it earlier."

Your confusion turned to irritation as you stared at him. "You’re moving here?"

Wonwoo nodded, his tone calm but firm. "My business was originally centered here. I used to travel back and forth between Seoul and here frequently. Now it’s easier for me to stay permanently."

You sighed, frustration bubbling in your chest. All your carefully laid plans to create some distance between the two of you—gone. "Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?"

He scoffed, a hint of amusement in his otherwise serious expression. "Do you think I had the chance to tell you?"

His sharp gaze locked onto yours, a subtle reminder of the days you spent in your room during the honeymoon, avoiding him entirely while binging dramas. The pointedness of his words stung more than you cared to admit.

Seokmin cleared his throat, cutting through the tension. "Please eat before it gets cold," he said politely, excusing himself soon after.

As he reached the door, Wonwoo added, "Tell Jun to get the car ready. Y/n will be driven by him today."

Seokmin nodded and left, leaving you to frown at Wonwoo. "I can go to work by myself," you argued, your voice firm.

"I know," he said nonchalantly, picking a piece of meat from one of the dishes and placing it on your rice bowl. "But I’ve assigned Jun to drive you. He’s excellent at martial arts."

You sighed, knowing there was no point in arguing further. Wonwoo always seemed two steps ahead, and resisting him felt like fighting the tide. You reluctantly picked up your spoon and began eating.

The silence that followed wasn’t entirely uncomfortable, though your mind was still racing. He had tracked you down, shown up at your apartment like he belonged there, and even had a home ready for the two of you. He had already begun dismantling the semblance of independence you’d clung to, piece by piece.

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. Did he also handle your apartment lease? You dreaded the possibility. He's crazy if he did.

As if reading your mind, Wonwoo spoke, his tone neutral but direct. "I’ll talk to your building owner about the lease after breakfast. Don’t worry."

You stared at him, caught between disbelief and reluctant gratitude. At least he wasn’t entirely crazy. Your husband, as infuriating as he was, wasn’t heartless.

*

You didn’t remember asking him to pick you up from work.

As you walked out of the building with your colleagues, the lively chatter surrounded you. Among them was Mr. Seo, Seo Myungho, who had asked you out a few times in the past. He strolled beside you, quietly attentive as the others babbled about your sudden wedding.

You had already explained to them, in the simplest terms possible, that it was an introduction followed by a quick marriage. Yet, their curiosity remained insatiable, likely fueled by the unexpected month-long leave you'd taken—something orchestrated by Seungcheol. At least he'd sent gifts that bolstered your professional reputation, though it didn’t make the constant questions any less exhausting.

"I do understand why the Dean approved her leave for almost a month," Mrs. Chae remarked, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "She’s her favorite, after all."

The comment hung in the air, and you chuckled softly to yourself, resisting the urge to fire back. Wasting energy on Mrs. Chae's barely veiled resentment wasn’t worth it.

"She’s been doing excellent work on her research projects this year," Myungho interjected kindly, his tone steady and polite. He smiled at you briefly before addressing Mrs. Chae. "I think she’s more than earned her time off."

You felt a small wave of gratitude toward Myungho. His support didn’t go unnoticed, and it seemed to shift the mood slightly, with the others murmuring their agreement. Everyone, except Mrs. Chae, of course—her disdain was as predictable as ever. You were younger, more competent, and rising through the ranks faster than she could handle, and she hated every second of it.

Then, you saw him.

Wonwoo.

Your husband stood tall, casually leaning against his sleek car. He was a striking figure, dressed impeccably, yet looking oddly out of place in front of your university building. The sight of him felt surreal. Wonwoo didn’t seem like the type to wait outside for anyone, let alone you. It was baffling—and slightly annoying.

"Who’s that guy?" one of your colleagues asked, their curiosity piqued.

You barely heard them as you quickly turned to bid everyone goodbye. "I’ll see you all tomorrow!" you said hastily before jogging over to Wonwoo.

When you reached him, you glared up at him. "Who asked you to come here? Let’s go!"

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by your urgency. Before he could respond, you grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the car. He moved with you, a bemused expression on his face as you opened the door and pushed him inside.

You quickly slipped into the passenger seat, taking a deep breath. Turning back to your colleagues, who were still watching, you forced a polite smile and waved. They waved back, but their curiosity had undoubtedly turned to outright speculation.

Your marriage had already become the hottest topic of gossip among your peers. Now, seeing you leave with a man as striking as Wonwoo—and in a car as luxurious as his—would only pour fuel on the fire.

You sighed heavily, sinking into the seat as the car pulled away. "This is exactly what I was trying to avoid," you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

Wonwoo glanced at you, his lips quirking into the faintest of smirks. "You're welcome," he said dryly, eyes flicking back to the road ahead.

You scowled at him, but there was no denying the slight flutter in your chest. For better or worse, your life was now entangled with his—and there was no turning back.

You glanced at Wonwoo as the car smoothly merged into traffic, the tension between you two lingering like an uninvited guest. You finally broke the silence, your voice low but sharp. "Where are we going?"

Wonwoo didn’t take his eyes off the road as he replied calmly. "To our new house."

You frowned. "Why? I thought we weren't moving until next week."

"I wanted to make sure everything you need is settled before you move in," he explained, his tone as matter-of-fact as if he were discussing the weather. "I’ve also arranged for a moving agency to pack and transfer your belongings tonight. It’s all scheduled."

You blinked at him, stunned by his efficiency—and, admittedly, a little irritated. "You scheduled my move without asking me?"

He finally looked at you, his dark eyes steady. "I didn’t think you’d agree if I asked. And whether it’s now or later, you’ll have to move in anyway. So why delay it?"

You sighed deeply, leaning back against the seat and closing your eyes. He wasn’t wrong. Now or later, this situation wasn’t going to change. Fighting him on it felt pointless, and you were already drained from the day.

"Fine," you muttered, surrendering to the inevitable. "But don’t expect me to be excited about it."

Wonwoo smirked faintly, his focus returning to the road. "Noted."

As the car wove through the streets, you gazed out the window, trying to calm the swirling thoughts in your mind. The idea of living with him, under the same roof, felt surreal. You weren’t ready to call this man your husband—let alone share a home with him.

But what choice did you have?

The car eventually pulled into a gated neighborhood, the homes large and modern, with sprawling lawns and tall hedges. You glanced at Wonwoo as he parked in front of a sleek, minimalist house.

"This is it?" you asked hesitantly.

"Yes," he said, stepping out and opening the door for you. "Come on. I’ll show you around."

You followed him reluctantly, stepping into the house. The interior was just as polished as the exterior—clean lines, neutral colors, and high-end finishes. It felt luxurious but cold, like a place designed for appearances rather than comfort.

Wonwoo gestured toward the open kitchen. "I’ve made sure it’s stocked with everything you might need. If anything’s missing, just tell me."

You nodded silently, your eyes scanning the space. It was beautiful, but it didn’t feel like yours.

He led you to the living room, then upstairs to the master bedroom. "This will be your room," he said, pushing the door open.

You turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "My room?"

"Yes," he said firmly. "You need your own space. I’ll take the guest room."

His unexpected consideration threw you off. You nodded slowly, unsure how to respond. "Okay."

Wonwoo checked his watch. "The movers should arrive in an hour. I’ll stay here to supervise."

You sighed again, the weight of it all settling in. This was your new reality. No matter how hard you tried to run, you couldn’t escape the situation you were in—or the man standing in front of you.

"Fine," you said quietly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "I’ll unpack when they’re done."

Wonwoo studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he turned and left the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

You sat on the edge of the bed, trying to make sense of everything when Wonwoo walked back into the room, his expression calm but purposeful.

"By the way," he said, leaning casually against the doorframe, "I changed my mind about the room."

Your head snapped up. "What do you mean?"

Wonwoo crossed his arms, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "There’s only one master bedroom in this house, and it’s ours. We’re married, Y/n. It’s only right that we share it."

You stared at him, your mouth falling open slightly. "You’ve got to be kidding me. There are other rooms here. You could easily take one of them."

He shrugged nonchalantly. "I could. But I won’t. I want us to share this space."

The way he said it, calm yet unyielding, made it clear this wasn’t up for debate. Frustration bubbled up inside you. "What about what I want? Did you even think about that?"

Wonwoo’s eyes softened slightly, though his resolve didn’t waver. "I did. That’s why I set up an office for you."

You blinked. "An office?"

He nodded, gesturing for you to follow him. Reluctantly, you got up and trailed behind him as he led you down the hall to a smaller room. Inside, you found a neatly arranged workspace with a sleek desk, bookshelves, and a comfortable chair. The shelves were already filled with reference books and stationary supplies, and a corner was decorated with a small potted plant.

You took a hesitant step inside, running your fingers along the edge of the desk. "You set this up for me?"

"Of course," Wonwoo said, standing by the doorway with his hands in his pockets. "You’re a lecturer, and I know you need a space to work. This room is yours to use however you want."

Despite your frustration over the bedroom situation, you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of gratitude. The office was thoughtful—more thoughtful than you’d expected from him.

Still, you turned back to him, narrowing your eyes. "That doesn’t make up for the fact that I don’t get my own bedroom."

Wonwoo tilted his head, his smirk returning. "You can decorate the office however you want. Think of it as a trade-off."

You crossed your arms, glaring at him. "This isn’t a negotiation, Wonwoo."

"It’s not," he agreed, his tone maddeningly calm. "It’s a compromise."

You sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of your nose. Living with him was going to be impossible.

"Fine," you muttered. "But if you snore, I’m moving to the couch."

Wonwoo chuckled softly, his gaze following you as you stepped past him to head back to the master bedroom. "I don’t snore. But you’ll have to deal with my early mornings."

You shot him a glare over your shoulder. "And you’ll have to deal with me slamming doors if you wake me up too early."

His laughter followed you down the hall, light and warm, making your heart twist unexpectedly. As much as he infuriated you, there was something undeniably disarming about the way he carried himself.

But you weren’t ready to admit that. Not yet.

*

Wonwoo sat at his desk, scanning the report he had asked Seokmin to gather. As he read through the details, something shifted inside him. Your words from yesterday echoed in his mind.

"Slap me, swear at me. I'm used to that."

The sheer pain in your voice as you said those words—how could anyone ask to be treated like that? And the worst part was, you cried. Tears had slipped down your cheeks, and he stood there, frozen, unable to comfort you. The helplessness stung, and for a moment, he questioned his own worth.

His mother had taught him better than that. She hadn’t raised him to be passive, to stand idly by when someone needed help. Yet, in that moment, he had failed you.

Determined to understand the depths of your suffering, Wonwoo had asked Seokmin to dig into your past—specifically, your family. He needed to understand how you had come to be the person you were, how you had been shaped by the world around you. What kind of upbringing had led to someone like you being so broken, so wary of affection?

He already knew about your father. Reckless, cold-hearted, a man who did business as though he owned the world. His methods weren’t just questionable; they were downright illegal. Everything about him was transactional, and it was no surprise that he had built his empire on those very practices.

But it wasn’t just your father. Your brother, too, was no better. Wonwoo had heard the rumors—how your brother had a reputation not only as a businessman but as a lover, a man who seemed incapable of loyalty. Infidelity ran deep in your family, and it had left its mark. Wonwoo recalled the look on your mother’s face during your wedding—distressed, distant, like she knew more than she was willing to let on. It made sense now.

The report mentioned something else that struck him deeply. "Her brother was drowned in the Han River."

It clicked. The pieces fell into place. He had suspected there was something more to your past, something you hadn't fully confronted, and now he understood.

The report also mentioned the PTSD you had suffered, a trauma so deep it had robbed you of the memory of the incident. Your brother’s death had happened right in front of you. It was no wonder you struggled to cope with intimacy, with trust. That level of violence, loss, and betrayal—how could anyone emerge unscathed?

Wonwoo let out a heavy sigh. Now he understood. This was why you had built walls around yourself. Why you flinched at kindness, why you kept everyone at arm’s length. You hadn’t just been shaped by your family’s actions; you had been destroyed by them.

But the weight of that realization didn’t make him resent you—it made him want to protect you more fiercely. His heart ached for you, for the girl who had been forced to grow up in such brutality. He wanted to be the one to help you heal, to show you that not all men were like the ones who had scarred you.

And though it was clear that your past had shaped you in ways he hadn’t fully realized, he was more determined than ever to be the man you deserved—one who wouldn’t walk away when it got hard, one who wouldn’t stand by and do nothing.

He closed the report with a soft exhale, a sense of resolve settling in his chest. Now that he understood, now that he knew the truth, there was no turning back. This knowledge would shape his actions moving forward, guiding him in a way he hadn’t expected.

Just as he leaned back in his chair, his phone rang. It was his mother.

"I heard you're in Busan. Have you moved already?" she asked, her voice carrying a note of concern.

"Yes, mother. My wife had to attend to her work immediately, so we moved earlier than expected," Wonwoo replied, trying to keep his tone casual.

He heard a faint hum from the other side of the line, a sign that his mother was deep in thought. "How's life as a husband? I’m worried you won’t be able to treat her right."

Wonwoo chuckled softly, a warm but tired sound. "We're both fine, really."

There was a long sigh from his mother, the kind that spoke volumes. "I’m sorry, Wonwoo. I knew this marriage wouldn’t be easy. I should have known better than to pitch a marriage to the Choi family. I’ve heard so much about them. But your father insisted."

Wonwoo smiled, a wry but understanding expression crossing his face. "Mother, I told you it was okay. I accepted this, and here I am."

"I know, I know," his mother said, her voice thick with regret. "You couldn’t refuse. But I just... I feel guilty for you, and for Y/n, of course."

Her words made his chest tighten a little, the weight of everything settling on him once again. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince her or himself, but he said, "It’s not as bad as you think. We’ll figure things out."

There was a brief pause before his mother spoke again, her voice softening. "Just... say hi to her for me, okay? Tell her I’m thinking of her."

Wonwoo’s smile grew a little more genuine as he replied, "I will, mother. Take care."

Wonwoo had started the project with small gestures: a kiss on your temple every morning at breakfast. The first time he did it, you gave him a surprised, almost startled glance, like it was an unfamiliar gesture. But Wonwoo simply smiled, brushing aside your reaction as if it were nothing. Sometimes, his hand would gently brush your hair while you shared a meal, and you'd look at him like he was out of place, unsure of how to react. Still, it gradually became a part of your routine, and everything began to run smoothly.

But then your brother, Seungcheol, came to visit. He stayed for dinner, and immediately, the tension in the air thickened.

"You should leave after dinner," you told him flatly, already anticipating the clash.

"Why would I? It’ll be more comfortable for me to stay here than in some hotel," Seungcheol replied, shooting a glance at Wonwoo.

Now, Wonwoo found himself caught between two siblings, each offering their own persuasive arguments as to why he should stay or leave. Every word from either of them felt like a debate, and Wonwoo couldn’t bring himself to find the right words to settle it. Could he just vanish into thin air?

Before he could respond, a sigh escaped his lips, and he glanced at you, his voice rising to ease the tension. "How about we all stay in a hotel? It’s been a month since our honeymoon. I think my wife deserves a bit of a rest."

Wonwoo immediately regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. He cursed himself mentally for the slip-up.

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow. "Whatever, I’m not gonna stay here," he said nonchalantly. "You satisfied?" He turned his gaze to you, and you wiped your mouth with a napkin, stoic as ever.

"Your house is beautiful, with a beach view," Seungcheol continued, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. "It’s only a 10-minute walk to the beach?"

Wonwoo nodded, trying to ignore the tension building in the room. "Yes, hyung. Only five minutes by car, but the waves are pretty strong at this hour."

Seungcheol chuckled lightly. "Guess I shouldn’t go near the water, then. Your wife might just drown me."

That’s when you froze mid-motion. Your hand, which had been holding your utensil, suddenly dropped it with a loud clatter onto the plate. You stood abruptly from your chair, your eyes hardening.

"It’s just a joke," Seungcheol quickly added, watching you intently.

You didn’t even flinch. "You better go after your meal," you said in a cold, steady tone. "I don’t want to see your face in my house again."

Seungcheol smirked, unfazed by your words. "You’ve got some nerve after joining the Jeon family, Y/n. Don’t forget I’m your older brother."

Your steps paused mid-stride as you turned back to face him, your expression hardening. "Don’t forget I killed my own brother 20 years ago. Older brother."

The room fell silent.

Wonwoo’s heart raced. His hair stood on end at the chilling words that hung in the air. He wasn’t sure if the coldness in your voice was from the past, or if you were daring Seungcheol to test your limits now. Either way, he realized he had stepped into something far more complex than he had anticipated.

*

It was just you and Jisoo sitting on the deck when it happened. The details were blurry, fragments lost in the haze of suppressed memories. They said you pushed him, that you shoved him off the vessel, causing him to fall into the water and drown. That’s what everyone believed. And because they believed it, so did your 12-year-old self.

You didn’t remember anything from that day. No arguments, no screams, no malicious intent. But their words were louder than your own doubts. "You killed him," they said. The accusation clung to you like a heavy chain, dragging you into a guilt you couldn’t escape.

It changed everything. You stopped attending school, retreating into the isolation of homeschooling, where whispers and judgment couldn’t reach you. But even home was suffocating. The weight of the incident lingered in the air, heavy and unspoken, a ghost haunting every corner of your life.

When you decided to enroll in a university abroad, it wasn’t just for education. It was an escape. An escape from the house that felt like a prison, from the suffocating presence of your family. Especially your mother.

She never said much about the incident. No accusations, no consolations. Just silence. But in her silence, you saw her resentment. She didn’t need to say the words for you to know. She hated you. You could see it in her cold stares, in the way she avoided your presence.

Every time your father or Seungcheol raised their hands against you, she stayed silent. She didn’t flinch, didn’t intervene. She just watched, her indifference cutting deeper than any bruise. And what other reason could there be for her silence, besides hate?

You told yourself leaving was for the best. Putting distance between you and them was the only way to breathe, to survive. But even thousands of miles away, the shadows of your past followed you, whispering the same accusation: You killed him.

"I hate Father so much, Y/n. I wish I could have been born into a different family."

"NO!"

Your voice echoed in your ears as you jolted awake, your breath hitching and your chest heaving. The remnants of the dream clung to you, vivid and suffocating. Your heart pounded wildly, its rhythm frantic and uneven as you tried to steady your breathing. Slowly, you sat up, pressing a hand to your chest in an attempt to calm yourself.

The faint sound of movement brought your attention to Wonwoo, who had just stepped out of the walk-in closet, already dressed for work. His hair was still slightly damp, the crisp lines of his suit adding to his composed appearance. He offered you a small smile at first, but it quickly faded when he noticed the tension in your expression.

"Hey," he called softly, his voice laced with concern as he walked toward you. "What’s wrong?"

You shook your head, unable to meet his gaze, and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. There was still an hour before you had to leave for work.

Wonwoo crouched beside you, his eyes scanning your face for answers. But you avoided his gaze, focusing instead on the sunlight beginning to seep through the curtains. After a moment of silence, he stood and spoke gently. "I’ll drive you to work today."

Before you could protest, he leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. The simple gesture carried more warmth than you expected, easing the tension knotted in your chest.

And then he was gone, his footsteps retreating down the hall as he left the master bedroom.

You exhaled shakily, the earlier panic slowly fading. For reasons you couldn’t quite explain, the touch of his lips on your skin and the sound of his voice had calmed the storm within you.

When Wonwoo said he would drive you to work, you assumed Jun or Seokmin would accompany him. But as you approached the sleek car parked outside, you were surprised to find him alone, sitting calmly in the driver’s seat, waiting for you.

He rolled down the window and smiled at you. “Ready?”

Sliding into the passenger seat, you greeted him quietly as he started the engine. He asked about your sleep, and you gave him a vague response, deliberately skipping over the part about the strange nightmare that had jolted you awake.

He also mentioned your brother. “Seungcheol left early this morning to Seoul. ”

You muttered a soft, “Good,” relieved that you wouldn’t have to deal with him any longer.

As the car glided smoothly down the road, Wonwoo suddenly glanced at you. “Can I hold your hand?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “But… you’re driving.”

A soft smile spread across his face. “I can manage. I just want to hold your hand, even if it’s just for a minute.”

You hesitated, your gaze shifting between his outstretched left hand and his calm expression. “Is this part of the ‘training’ to get comfortable in public later?”

He nodded, his eyes briefly meeting yours before returning to the road. “It is. So… can I?”

After a moment of hesitation, you slowly lifted your right hand and placed it over his. His hand was warm and steady as he gripped yours gently, holding it securely even as he maneuvered the car.

“It’s nice,” he murmured, his voice soft but sincere.

When the car came to a stop in front of your campus building, he reluctantly let go. “See you at dinner?”

You nodded, stepping out of the car, and walked away without looking back.

“Good morning, Ms. Choi,” a few students greeted you as you made your way through the halls to the lecturers’ room. You offered them polite smiles, your thoughts still lingering on the warmth of Wonwoo’s hand.

Your first class of the day was about Ship Security and Regulations. Standing at the front of the classroom, you scanned the faces of your students as they settled in.

Since you were young, you had known that the world of business wasn’t for you—especially the kind your father conducted. You had always loved the sea: the gentle breeze, the endless horizon, and the calming rhythm of the waves. But that dream of becoming a seafarer had been buried long ago when you realized you had developed a paralyzing fear of water.

As the class progressed, one of your students raised a hand with a cheeky grin. “What if there’s a passenger who wants to jump overboard?”

Laughter rippled through the room at the seemingly absurd question. You sighed, trying to maintain your professionalism. “Is that even possible?”

Another student chimed in, still grinning. “It could happen, Ms. Choi, if someone wanted to end their life.”

You shook your head firmly, your tone growing serious. “Let’s not entertain that idea. There won’t be any cases like that. Focus on preventing real risks, not hypothetical ones.”

The class nodded, the humor subsiding, but you couldn’t shake the unease their words stirred.

As the session ended and the students filtered out, you found yourself staring out the window at the distant ocean. Despite your best efforts, their question lingered in your mind, unsettling thoughts creeping in like waves crashing against the shore.

*

Days later, Wonwoo learned that his wife had registered for a psychiatric consultation. He had known about the abusive environment you grew up in, but he hadn’t realized it had reached a point where professional help was necessary. The news unsettled him, lingering in his mind until dinner that evening, where he cautiously brought it up.

“You visited a psychiatrist, I heard,” he said, carefully watching your reaction.

You nodded casually, as though it wasn’t a big deal. But to him, it was.

“Why?” he asked, his voice steady but tinged with concern.

“I’m trying to face my phobia of water,” you replied, your tone neutral. “It’s for one of my research projects.”

Wonwoo didn’t press further, but a knot tightened in his chest. He suspected it wasn’t as simple as you made it seem. A fear of water? Yet, you had graduated in Maritime studies and built a career in the same field. The contradiction puzzled him.

The following month, Wonwoo received word that your parents were hosting their anniversary party on a cruise ship. That explained it. Was this why you were trying to cope with your phobia? He couldn’t help but wonder.

The drive from Busan to Seoul was quiet. Jun handled the wheel while Seokmin sat in the front passenger seat, briefing Wonwoo on the event’s details. You sat beside Wonwoo in the back, your eyes fixed on the window, your hand intertwined with his.

“Anyone I should keep an eye on?” Wonwoo asked, his voice calm but measured.

Seokmin shook his head. “It’s just an anniversary event. Nothing serious is expected.”

Wonwoo glanced at you, leaning in slightly to whisper. “Are you okay?”

Your gaze shifted to him, startled for a moment before you nodded with a soft sigh.

“You know I’m always here for you,” he murmured. “You don’t have to worry.”

You gave him a small, grateful nod before turning your attention back to the passing scenery.

When you arrived at the cruise ship, Wonwoo followed Seokmin’s briefing, greeting everyone with effortless charm. He introduced you to the guests with a protective arm around your waist, keeping you close by his side.

“This is my wife, Choi Y/n,” he said warmly, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries.

“I’m Jeon Wonwoo,” he added, offering his business card to a few attendees.

As the ship set sail, everyone gathered on the deck for a brief speech from your father. Wonwoo noticed the way your gaze hardened, a glare fixed on the man speaking so highly of your mother. The words seemed hollow, a facade masking the truth you both knew—of abuse, violence, pressure, and threats. Yet, like your mother, you remained silent.

Wonwoo’s grip on your waist tightened subtly as your father shifted the focus to you and him, the newlyweds. Smiling for the crowd, he leaned closer to you, whispering, “Do you want to rest?”

Before you could answer, your father’s voice carried over the murmuring crowd.

“And to my second child, Jisoo… He left us too soon, but we will always remember him. Rest in peace, my son.”

Wonwoo felt your body tense beside him, your breathing growing heavier. He could hear the whispers that began to ripple through the crowd.

“His sister killed him.”

“She was only 12.”

“Is that the sister?”

“Poor kid.”

He leaned in again, his voice firm yet gentle. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

As he began to guide you away from the deck, the ship suddenly lurched, causing a man standing near the edge to lose his footing. Gasps and screams filled the air as the man slipped and fell overboard, the security team springing into action.

Wonwoo felt your grip tighten on his arm, your nails digging into his sleeve as your body went slack. He steadied you immediately, shielding you from the chaos.

“Hold onto me,” he whispered, his voice low and soothing. “Let’s get you to your room.”

Without waiting for a response, he wrapped an arm securely around you and led you through the crowd, his protective instincts taking over.

*

What you had witnessed brought back the haunting memory of Jisoo falling from the vessel, a memory tied to the very same cruise ship you were now aboard. You were only 12, and he was 15. It had been a family vacation—a week on a private cruise ship arranged by your father. On the final night, you remembered noticing something different about Jisoo. He hadn’t smiled once that day. Troubled by his mood, you gathered the courage to visit his cabin late that night.

"You look sad," you had said softly, standing in the dim light of his room.

Jisoo turned to you, a faint smirk on his face that didn’t reach his eyes. "Wanna go outside?" he asked, his voice low and conspiratorial.

“Going to the deck past 9 p.m. is prohibited,” you replied, hesitating. “Father will get mad at us.”

“We’ll figure it out,” he said with a glimmer of rebellion, gesturing for you to follow him.

The memory felt so vivid that it sent shivers down your spine, yet there was a fog of uncertainty around it. Was it real, or was it just a false memory conjured by your fractured mind?

Wonwoo’s voice pulled you back into the present. He had guided you to the edge of the bed, his eyes filled with worry as he crouched before you. “Hey, you’re okay,” he whispered, his hands steady on your arms as if anchoring you to reality.

But you weren’t sure you were okay. Your mind replayed the image of Jisoo falling into the dark, endless water, his body disappearing into the calm yet terrifying abyss. That night had marked the beginning of your fear of water—its deceptive stillness, its unrelenting strength. And Jisoo had never come back.

Tears escaped your eyes, and it was only when Wonwoo gently cupped your cheeks that you realized you were crying. His thumbs brushed away the wet trails, his touch grounding yet unbearably tender.

“Hey, hey,” he murmured, his voice a soothing balm against the chaos in your heart. “That’s okay… You’re fine. I’m here.”

You looked at him, the warmth of his gaze pulling you out of the suffocating hold of the past. For a moment, you weren’t a scared 12-year-old on a dark deck—you were here, in the present, with someone who cared.

The weight of years of bottled-up emotions surged forward—anger, sadness, guilt, disappointment. It was overwhelming, and all you wanted was to let it out, to empty the well of pain you had carried for so long.

“Can I hug you?” you asked in a quiet, trembling voice, your vulnerability bare.

Wonwoo didn’t hesitate. He climbed onto the bed beside you and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. His embrace was strong, protective, and warm—everything you hadn’t realized you needed.

“I’m here, Y/n,” he said softly, his voice steady in the dim light of the room. “I’m here.”

And for the first time in years, you allowed yourself to cry without restraint. Your makeup smudged, your breaths hitched, but it didn’t matter. In Wonwoo’s arms, you felt a strange sense of safety amidst the storm inside you. You clung to him as the emotions poured out, the weight of them finally starting to lift.

In his embrace, you found solace, a quiet assurance that you weren’t alone. And even though the past still haunted you, for this moment, you could let it go, piece by piece, in the arms of someone who refused to let you face it alone.

*

Breakfast with your family was as tense as ever. Wonwoo had joined late after handling an emergency call from his father, leaving you to endure the table’s strained atmosphere without him for a while. Your father, mother, and Seungcheol sat together as the cruise ship quietly sailed back to Seoul, the polite murmurs of other guests filling the air.

“You went to your room early last night,” your father said, his voice breaking through the quiet as you chewed your food.

“She was unwell,” Wonwoo replied smoothly as he settled into his seat. His hand found your shoulder, a protective gesture. “I should have informed you earlier.”

“Unwell, or?” Seungcheol interjected with a smirk, his tone dripping with mockery. His pointed glance at you made your stomach twist. The tension between you and Seungcheol hadn’t eased since the last altercation Wonwoo had witnessed.

To divert the conversation, Wonwoo placed a bottle of expensive, aged wine on the table. “Congratulations on your anniversary. I didn’t get a chance to say it last night, but I brought this as a gift.”

Your father’s expression softened momentarily. “You didn’t need to, son-in-law. Taking care of my daughter is gift enough for us.”

Then, as if on cue, he added with a smirk of his own, “Though it would be even more amazing if you gave us a grandchild.”

Wonwoo faltered, momentarily caught off guard by the statement. But before he could respond, you calmly put down your utensils, your tone icy and resolute. “We won’t have a child.”

The air seemed to freeze. Wonwoo turned to you in surprise, but your expression was unreadable, your demeanor cool and composed. In that moment, he was reminded that your marriage was a business arrangement—and you, perhaps more than him, treated it as such.

Your father’s jaw tightened, his attempt to suppress his anger painfully evident. He glanced at the nearby guests, clearly aware that this was no place for a scene. “You should have a child if you want this marriage to last,” he said, his voice low but firm.

You met his gaze without hesitation, your words cutting through the air like ice. “So you can hit them? So you can scream at them? Threaten them like you did to me?”

The tension at the table became unbearable. Wonwoo could feel the weight of your father’s fury, his grip tightening on the tableware before setting it down a bit too forcefully. Other guests turned their heads, sensing the disturbance.

Your mother looked at you, her wide eyes betraying shock. It was as if she couldn’t believe the words you had just spoken, the defiance in your tone so unlike the quiet obedience she had come to expect from you.

“I’m going,” you said sharply, pushing back your chair and standing without another glance at your father.

Wonwoo quickly rose from his seat, offering a hasty apology. “I’m sorry. She’s been under a lot of stress from work. I’ll go check on her.”

As you disappeared toward your cabin, Wonwoo began to follow, but he stopped when a hand gently caught his arm. Turning, he found himself face-to-face with your mother.

“Mother-in-law,” Wonwoo greeted, bowing slightly out of respect, though her unexpected presence caught him off guard.

“Y/n…” she began, her voice soft but unsteady. “Is she alright?”

Wonwoo nodded, his tone calm as he tried to reassure her. “She’s fine. She was just a bit tired last night. You don’t need to worry.”

But your mother shook her head, her eyes glistening with something that looked like guilt. “I mean after last night. Was she alright? She hasn’t set foot on a ship for years. Not since…” She trailed off, her words hanging heavy in the air.

So, she knows, Wonwoo realized.

“She was nervous,” he admitted, his voice careful. “But she handled it well. She’s stronger than you think.”

Your mother looked away, her expression clouded with emotions she seemed reluctant to voice. After a moment, she took his hand in hers, her grip trembling. “My husband… he can be harsh. Especially toward Y/n. Please…” Her voice cracked slightly. “Take care of her, for me.”

Wonwoo stared at her, taken aback by the vulnerability in her words. For the first time, he saw beyond her composed exterior, glimpsing a mother who, despite her silence, harbored regrets and perhaps even a desire to protect you in her own way.

“I will,” Wonwoo promised, his voice steady. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

Your mother released Wonwoo’s hand, her eyes lingering on him for a moment before she stepped away. The silent plea in her gaze lingered in his mind as he made his way back to your shared cabin. But his thoughts were soon interrupted by a call from his father earlier that morning, asking if the two of you could visit their home since you were already in Seoul. Wonwoo suspected there was more to the request—his parents had missed the cruise’s anniversary celebration, and now this sudden urgency hinted at something serious.

When you both arrived at their home, Wonwoo’s suspicions were confirmed. His mother was unwell, lying in bed looking pale and fatigued. Neither his father nor the house staff had told him what was wrong, and the uncertainty gnawed at him. A sense of dread settled in his chest. Was it something serious? Something incurable?

You sat quietly by his mother’s bedside, holding her hand and offering her comforting words. Wonwoo stood to the side, his eyes darting between his mother and father, frustration simmering beneath the surface. Finally, when he couldn’t take the silence anymore, he followed his father to the living room.

“What’s going on?” Wonwoo demanded, his voice sharper than he intended. “What’s wrong with her? Why hasn’t anyone told me?”

His father sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t be mad at me,” he started, his tone hesitant. “She doesn’t want anyone to know.”

Wonwoo’s patience wore thin as he watched his father’s lips tighten, clearly debating whether or not to reveal the truth.

“She…” His father hesitated again, and Wonwoo’s heart raced.

“She’s dehydrated because of diarrhea,” his father finally admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush.

Wonwoo blinked, stunned. “What?”

“She ate something bad, and that’s what happened. She doesn’t want anyone to know—not even you or Y/n. Says it’s not ‘fashionable.’”

Wonwoo exhaled heavily, running a hand down his face in exasperation. “I thought it was something chronic! For goodness’ sake, I was preparing myself for the worst!”

His father shrugged nonchalantly. “If it were serious, she’d be in the hospital. She’s just embarrassed.”

Wonwoo groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “But I’m her son. I should know these things, whether they’re ‘fashionable’ or not.”

His father offered a faint smirk, leaning back into his chair. “There are a lot of things children don’t need to know about their parents, kid.”

Wonwoo stared at his father, incredulous. “This isn’t about need-to-know; it’s about being family! I’ve been worried sick, thinking it was something life-threatening.”

His father patted his shoulder lightly, as if to dismiss the tension. “She’ll be fine in a day or two. Just don’t bring it up, or she’ll never forgive me for telling you.”

Wonwoo sighed deeply, shaking his head. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, heading back toward the bedroom where you were still sitting with his mother.

When he returned, you glanced up at him, your expression concerned. “Is everything alright?” you asked softly.

Wonwoo gave you a tired smile, sitting down beside you and gently taking his mother’s other hand. “She’ll be fine,” he said, his voice calm now. “Just a little dehydration.”

His mother’s weak smile told him she knew exactly what had happened in the living room. “Don’t make a big deal out of it,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Wonwoo chuckled lightly, the tension easing from his shoulders. “I won’t. But only because you asked nicely.”

*

The two of you decided to stay an extra day in Seoul as Wonwoo had a business matter to attend to. That evening, as you settled into bed, Wonwoo joined you with a book in hand. He leaned against the headboard, his focus on the pages, while you lay beside him, staring at his profile. You wanted to speak, the words swirling in your mind, but hesitation kept them locked inside. Sensing your unease, Wonwoo spoke without looking up.

"Speak," he said simply, his voice calm and inviting.

You shifted your position, sitting up slightly to face him. "Is your mother okay? She looked really unwell today," you said, your voice tinged with concern.

Wonwoo closed his book and set it on the nightstand. His gaze softened as he turned to you. "Why? Are you worried about her?"

"Of course, I am. She's my mother-in-law," you replied earnestly, your words earning a faint smile from him.

"She mentioned something earlier, and I’ve been feeling conflicted about it ever since," you admitted, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket.

Wonwoo’s brow furrowed slightly, curiosity piqued. "What did she say? Did she ask you for something ridiculous? You know you don’t have to take it seriously if—"

"What do you think about having a child?" you blurted out, cutting him off mid-sentence.

Wonwoo froze, the words hanging in the air between you. He blinked at you, his expression shifting from surprise to something unreadable. "Sorry? What did you just say?"

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "Everyone has been talking about us having children. It’s only been three months, but people are already questioning if we’re serious or if this is just another typical business marriage."

Wonwoo tilted his head, a teasing glint in his eye. "You said it yourself this morning—you don’t want a child," he reminded you, his tone lighthearted.

You sighed, your fingers now twisting the hem of your pajama top. "I know. But seeing your mother today... and hearing what she said, it made me think again. What if it’s something we should consider?"

Wonwoo leaned back, studying your face carefully. "What exactly did she say to you?"

"She didn’t explicitly ask for anything, but she hinted that a grandchild would make her happy. And I—I don’t know, it felt serious," you admitted, your voice faltering slightly.

Wonwoo chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You’re overthinking. My mother will be fine with or without a grandchild. She just enjoys the idea, like most parents do."

"But wouldn’t having a child make this marriage... I don’t know, feel more stable? Last longer?" you asked hesitantly.

He raised an eyebrow. "You think a child will stabilize a business marriage?" His tone was skeptical but gentle.

"I don’t know," you muttered, feeling suddenly foolish. "It’s just... everyone seems to expect it. Your family, my family. It’s like they see it as the ultimate proof that this marriage isn’t just a facade."

Wonwoo sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look," he said softly, "if you’re reconsidering this because it’s something you want, then we can have a serious conversation about it. But if it’s just because of external pressure—what they expect from us—then I don’t think it’s a good enough reason."

His words hung in the air, grounding you. You nodded slowly, his reasoning settling over you like a balm.

"You don’t have to decide anything now," Wonwoo continued, his voice steady. "We’re still figuring this out, you and me. Let’s take it one step at a time."

You exhaled, feeling the weight of your thoughts ease slightly. Wonwoo reached over, placing his hand gently on yours. "For what it’s worth," he added with a small smile, "you’re doing great. You don’t have to carry everyone’s expectations on your shoulders."

His reassurance brought a faint smile to your lips, and you nodded. "Thanks, Wonwoo."

"Anytime," he replied, picking up his book again. But before he reopened it, he glanced at you. "And if you ever want to talk about this again, just let me know. No rush."

His understanding made your chest ache in a way that felt unfamiliar but comforting. "Okay," you whispered, settling back into bed beside him.

*

The moment you received word that your mother was in Busan, everything else faded into the background. Dropping your work immediately, you rushed to your house. The news was jarring—your mother had signed the divorce papers and was now in your house.

"She did what?" you whispered in disbelief, your hands trembling slightly as you clutched your phone.

Jun, who was driving you, glanced at you briefly in the rearview mirror. "Mr. Jeon is on his way as well," he informed you calmly.

When you arrived, you found your mother sitting on the couch, sipping tea with a composed air. Across from her sat Wonwoo, his demeanor calm and understanding, as if he were holding the room steady with his presence. In stark contrast, you felt like a storm raging inside.

You didn’t speak right away. Instead, you walked to the couch and sat beside Wonwoo, your eyes fixed on your mother, who looked more at ease than you ever remembered.

Sensing your need for privacy, Wonwoo leaned over, his hand briefly brushing your arm. "I’ll excuse myself," he murmured before standing and stepping out of the room.

The silence that followed his departure was thick, heavy with unspoken words.

"I signed the divorce papers," your mother finally said, setting her teacup down on the table with deliberate care. "I’m sorry it took me so long."

"Why are you apologizing?" you asked, your voice sharper than you intended. Your eyes were locked on her hands as they fidgeted in her lap.

"It’s just..." she hesitated, her voice dropping to a near whisper, "you’ve wished for this for a long time."

Your brow furrowed in confusion. "I wished for this?" you repeated, your voice incredulous. "I don’t understand."

She bit her lip, her gaze flickering to the floor. "You might not remember," she began hesitantly. "After Jisoo... after he left us, you tried to explain what happened. That he fell off the vessel. But no one believed you—not your father, not Seungcheol. No one."

The memory stirred faintly in your mind, like a forgotten dream just out of reach.

"And in your frustration, in your pain, you told me you wished I’d leave him." Her voice cracked slightly, the weight of the revelation pressing down on both of you.

You leaned forward, stunned. "Why would I say that?"

She let out a shaky breath, her hands trembling as she clasped them tightly. "Because you believed I was the only one who truly trusted you. And you were right. I knew—I knew—you would never harm Jisoo. He was your best friend. Your brother. You loved him more than anything."

A heavy silence hung between you, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. Her belief in you, her unwavering trust, hit you like a tidal wave.

"I didn’t leave back then," she continued, her voice thick with emotion. "Because I had no power. The only thing I could do was try to give you strength. To help you build a life where you’d never have to depend on anyone else."

Her words struck a chord deep within you. "You helped me get my job," you said, realization dawning.

She nodded. "The dean is an old friend of mine. She told me you were impeccable, that you’d make an excellent lecturer. I used every connection I had to make sure you had opportunities I never did."

"Why?" you asked, your voice trembling with the weight of so many unanswered questions. "Why did you do all that for me?"

Her gaze softened, tears welling in her eyes. "Because I wanted you to have your own power. I wanted you to be free, to stand on your own two feet, so no one could ever control you the way your father did to me."

You swallowed hard, her words sinking in like stones in water. You wanted to ask if this was why you had chosen to marry Wonwoo, but the question felt too raw, too invasive.

Did I fail her? The thought struck you like a sharp pang in your chest. She had believed in you when no one else did, but had you done the same for her? Or had you been so consumed with your own pain that you hadn’t noticed hers?

You bit your lip, your vision blurring as tears welled in your eyes. "I don’t even remember saying that to you," you admitted, your voice cracking.

Her gaze softened, and she reached out to place her hand over yours. "You were just a child," she said gently. "You didn’t mean it the way you think you did. But those words... they stayed with me. They reminded me that someone saw me, even when I didn’t see myself."

The conflict within you deepened. You didn’t know whether to feel grateful or guilty, proud or ashamed. All you knew was that your mother had spent years trapped in a cage she hadn’t built alone, and you had unknowingly become the key she needed to escape.

Her next words shattered what little resolve you had left. "When I saw you stand up to your father on the cruise, I realized that it’s never too late to find my own power. You showed me that."

Her tears spilled over then, and for the first time in years, you saw her cry. Not from fear or despair, but from a release—a shedding of years of silent suffering.

You didn’t know what to say, so you didn’t say anything. Instead, you reached for her hand, gripping it tightly as if to anchor both of you in this moment of raw, unfiltered truth.

"Is she alright?" Wonwoo asked as you entered the room. You nodded, exhaustion clear on your face as you walked toward him. Without hesitation, he opened his arms, silently inviting you into his embrace. You stepped closer, sinking into his chest, letting his warmth surround you.

"She’ll be fine with us," Wonwoo murmured, his voice steady and reassuring as he tightened his hold around you. The weight of the night seemed lighter, though your heart still carried the storm brewing within.

"My father..." you began, your voice trailing off before the bitterness returned. "He’s such a menace. I just hope he doesn’t find Mom here."

Wonwoo nodded, his chin brushing the top of your head as he whispered, "I’ll tell Seokmin to add more guards around the property. You don’t have to worry. We’ll handle this, and we’ll find a way to keep her safe."

His words gave you a fragile sense of peace, enough to let you rest your head against him, trusting in the certainty of his promise.

The next day, Wonwoo left for Seoul to have a word with his father. The situation with your mother’s divorce wasn’t just a family matter—it had the potential to create ripples in the business world. Ji Construction, your father’s company, was already in a delicate position, and any negative press could trigger a chain reaction. As a major supporter of Choi Construction, the Jeon Group couldn’t afford to ignore the fallout.

Wonwoo sat in the polished meeting room, tension thick in the air. His father’s trusted advisor, Mr. Park, laid out the details of the situation. "If news of the divorce goes public, it will undoubtedly impact the market. Choi Construction’s stocks could plummet, and given their illegal dealings, there’s a risk of further exposure."

"That’s a problem for Seungcheol to fix," Wonwoo’s father interjected, his expression impassive as he leaned back in his chair. "He’ll have to make a move immediately."

Wonwoo scoffed, unable to hide his disdain. "Seungcheol isn’t capable of handling this. He’s nothing more than a copycat of his father—arrogant and reckless."

"Which is precisely why we need to prepare," Mr. Park said, clearing his throat. "Jeon Group holds the largest share in Choi Construction at the moment. If the Choi family crumbles, we’ll need to decide who will take the reins and stabilize the situation."

His father turned to him, a calculating look in his eyes. "What about Y/n? Does she have any interest in the business?"

Wonwoo shook his head firmly. "No. She’s focused on her career, and I won’t let her be dragged into this mess."

There was a moment of silence before Mr. Park spoke again, his tone measured. "The best step forward is to begin preparing a new leader—someone who can step in if the Choi family fails to recover."

Wonwoo leaned back in his chair, the weight of responsibility pressing against him. He wasn’t just thinking about the company or the market. He was thinking about you—how you had suffered enough under your father’s shadow, and how your mother was finally free. This was his burden to carry now, and he would ensure you wouldn’t have to bear it.

"We’ll prepare," Wonwoo said, his voice firm. "But I’m not letting Y/n or her mother get dragged into this chaos. We’ll find a way to stabilize things without jeopardizing them."

The next day, chaos erupted at the Jeon residence. Wonwoo was in the middle of an important meeting when he received your frantic call. Your father and brother, Seungcheol, had shown up unannounced, demanding to see your mother. Sensing danger, Wonwoo didn’t hesitate to cancel everything and rush home.

The scene he walked into was worse than he imagined. Standing at the front door, you were blocking the way, arms spread protectively in front of your mother. Seungcheol’s face was contorted with rage as he swung his hand toward you, ready to strike. Wonwoo’s heart stopped for a second, but his body reacted instinctively. He intercepted Seungcheol’s hand mid-air, gripping it tightly.

You stood frozen, the shock and fear rendering you speechless. Wonwoo’s jaw tightened as he threw Seungcheol’s hand away with a forceful movement. He stepped in front of you, shielding you with his own body as he turned to face your father and brother.

"No one is allowed to harm my wife," Wonwoo said, his voice calm but dangerously firm as his eyes locked on Seungcheol. "That includes you."

"Get out of our way! This is a family matter. It’s none of your business, Jeon," Seungcheol spat, trying to push Wonwoo aside. But Wonwoo didn’t budge.

Your father, with an air of cold authority, interjected, "Let me speak to my wife, son-in-law."

Wonwoo’s expression didn’t falter as he shook his head. "I’m sorry, but when my mother-in-law sought protection under my roof, it became my business too. She’s safe here, and I suggest you go home before things escalate further."

A smirk twisted your father’s lips, but his eyes burned with malice as he stepped closer to Wonwoo. "Are you doing this because you know what will happen?"

Before Wonwoo could respond, you stepped forward, your voice trembling but determined. "Enough, Father. This is our home, and you need to respect its owner. Isn’t that the lesson you’ve always preached to everyone else?"

Your father’s gaze snapped to you, his expression darkening. What happened next stunned everyone. Without warning, your father grabbed your arm and pulled you toward him, his hand tightening around your neck. You gasped for air, your hands clawing at his grip as your brother, Seungcheol, stared in shock, clearly not expecting things to escalate this far.

"Father, stop!" Seungcheol’s voice broke through the chaos, but his words did little to deter the enraged man.

Wonwoo’s blood ran cold as he lunged forward, shouting your name. "Let her go!" He fought to pry your father’s hands off you, his panic turning into fury. Seokmin and the guards rushed in to assist, finally managing to wrest you free from your father’s grasp.

Your body went limp, collapsing to the floor. Wonwoo dropped to his knees, scooping you into his arms with a shaky breath. "Y/n," he whispered, his voice thick with worry. "Stay with me."

Turning to Seokmin, Wonwoo barked orders. "Call the police! Get all the CCTV footage as evidence."

Seungcheol tried to calm your father, whose anger hadn’t abated, but it was clear the situation was spiraling out of control. As your father continued to shout about his wife, Wonwoo carried you inside, his arms tightening protectively around you. His mind raced with thoughts of your safety, but one thing was clear—he wouldn’t let anyone hurt you again, no matter who they were.

*

You woke up in the hospital to the sound of quiet sobs. Your eyes fluttered open, and you turned your head to see your mother sitting beside you, tears streaming down her face. The moment she noticed you were awake, she gasped softly, clutching your hand tightly.

"You're awake," she whispered, her voice thick with relief.

You blinked, disoriented. The sterile white of the hospital room was unfamiliar, and a dull ache in your neck brought back fragments of what had happened. "How...how did I get here?" you asked, your voice hoarse and shaky.

Your mother wiped her tears and took a deep breath before answering. "We got you checked. You fainted after...after what happened. The doctors said you’ll be fine with some rest." Her voice trembled as she continued, "We’re going to file charges against your father. He tried to kill you, Y/n."

The weight of her words hit you like a ton of bricks. Your breath hitched as your hand instinctively reached for your neck. The memory was vivid, and you could still feel the ghost of his grip—the warmth of his hand, twisted with the terrifying force that had robbed you of air.

"Wonwoo..." you whispered, panic creeping into your tone. "Is he okay? Did he get hurt?"

Your mother shook her head quickly, trying to reassure you. "He’s fine, sweetheart. He’s outside talking to the police. Do you want me to call him for you?"

Before she could leave, the door opened, and Wonwoo stepped into the room. His eyes immediately found yours, and a wave of relief washed over his face as he crossed the room in a few swift strides.

"Y/n," he murmured, his voice soft but full of emotion as he leaned down and pulled you into his arms.

The strength of his embrace brought you an immediate sense of safety, and you buried your face against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His hand gently brushed through your hair, his voice a comforting whisper against your ear. "You’re safe with me now. You’re going to be okay. I promise."

Tears welled up in your eyes as the reality of the moment sank in. For so long, you had felt powerless—trapped in the shadow of your father’s control, just like your mother. But now, something had shifted.

You thought back to the confrontation. Despite the fear, you had stood up to your father and brother. You had protected your mother. And when it all became too much, Wonwoo had been there, steadfast and unyielding, shielding you from harm.

The realization hit you like a spark igniting a flame. It wasn’t just that Wonwoo had given you strength—it was that he had shown you the strength you already had within yourself. His unwavering support had become the foundation for your courage, and in standing up for yourself, you had also empowered your mother to take a stand for her own freedom.

You pulled back slightly, looking up at Wonwoo. His gaze was filled with concern, but also with pride, as if he could see the shift within you.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice steady despite the tears.

Wonwoo cupped your cheek, brushing away a stray tear with his thumb. "You don’t have to thank me. We’re in this together, always."

In that moment, you felt a profound sense of clarity. You weren’t powerless anymore. With Wonwoo by your side, you had the strength to face whatever came next—for yourself, for your mother, and for the future you were determined to build.

*

With help from Mingyu, a friend who worked in property, Wonwoo unearthed substantial evidence of your father’s corrupt dealings. As he collaborated with the police to ensure your father faced justice, he simultaneously engaged in discussions with Seungcheol regarding the future of Choi Construction.

“My father hates her because she’s a girl. That’s it,” Seungcheol admitted bluntly, providing the answer to Wonwoo’s lingering question about your mistreatment within the household.

Wonwoo’s patience had long worn thin, and any remaining respect he might have held for your family was gone. To him, your father and brother were just men he had to deal with, not figures deserving of courtesy. As he sat across from Seungcheol, his tone was firm, devoid of negotiation.

“I’ll hand over the rights to the Singapore branch. But in return, you and your family will leave my wife and her mother alone. Permanently.”

Seungcheol stared at the table, his head bowed. “You’re right. I’ve always been too insecure to run the company properly,” he confessed, his voice carrying the weight of years spent under his father’s oppressive shadow. The realization of his inadequacies seemed to dawn on him, leaving him vulnerable and exposed.

“Were you close to Jisoo?” Wonwoo asked, breaking the heavy silence.

Seungcheol shrugged, his face devoid of emotion. “I wasn’t close to anyone, not even my mother. My father was too focused on molding me into the perfect businessman. I’ve always been just a puppet.”

Wonwoo let out a deep sigh. “Your family is a wreck,” he said bluntly, his frustration barely concealed.

Seungcheol gave a bitter chuckle. “Tell me something I don’t know. Could you say that to my sister, though?”

Wonwoo glanced at him, his expression softening slightly. He shook his head, unwilling to voice such harsh words about you.

“You love her,” Seungcheol muttered, nodding as if confirming it to himself.

The court’s decision was finally made—your father was sentenced to 25 years in prison for engaging in illegal business practices and attempting to murder both you and your mother.

With Choi Construction left without a leader, Wonwoo was appointed as its new director, while his younger brother took over his former position in their father's company. Wonwoo wasted no time making sweeping changes, rebranding the company as Jeon Construction and reshaping its operations from the ground up. As months passed, he found himself buried in work, barely able to make time for you.

Realizing the imbalance, Wonwoo finally texted you, deciding to pick you up from your mother's house, where she had recently moved to Busan. But before he could leave, Lee Seokmin, his assistant, delivered a very pointed lecture on the importance of "dating your wife properly."

"Bring flowers," Seokmin had added, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

So now, here he was, standing outside his car, waiting for you with a bouquet in his hands. When you stepped out, he felt the corners of his lips lift involuntarily.

"Where are we going?" you asked, eyeing the flowers before taking them with a soft smile.

Seokmin had already booked a restaurant—a fine dining spot that happened to be one of your favorites. Wonwoo wasn’t sure how Seokmin knew that, but he’d figure it out later. Tonight, he wasn’t going to waste a single thought on anything but you.

Over a candlelit dinner, you savored every bite of your meal while Wonwoo enjoyed watching you unwind. As the evening progressed, he raised his glass slightly and asked, "How’s the food?"

You exhaled, setting your fork down with a satisfied smile. "Perfect… actually, amazing. I had a tough day today, and this just made everything better. Thank you."

Wonwoo’s lips curled into a rare, genuine smile. He lifted his glass towards yours, eyes locked on you.

"A toast?" he asked.

You clinked your glass against his, and for the first time in a long while, the two of you enjoyed a quiet moment—just the two of you, no business, no burdens, just the warmth of each other’s presence.

As you took a sip of your wine, the warmth of the moment settled in. The quiet hum of the restaurant, the dim glow of the candles, and the way Wonwoo’s eyes never strayed far from you made the evening feel almost surreal—like a small pocket of peace after the storm.

He set his glass down, fingers tapping lightly against the stem before he finally spoke. "How are you feeling… after everything?" His voice was calm, but there was something deeper in his tone—concern, curiosity, maybe even guilt for not asking sooner.

You placed your glass down and thought for a moment. The past few months had been a whirlwind. Your father’s sentencing had been all over the news—a powerful businessman brought down by his own crimes. Twenty-five years behind bars, stripped of everything he once controlled. But despite everything, a part of you still felt unsettled.

"I don’t know," you admitted, fingers tracing the rim of your glass. "Some days, I feel relieved. Other days… it still feels unreal." You exhaled, meeting his gaze. "He’s still alive, still out there somewhere. Even if he’s locked up, it’s like he still has a grip on me."

Wonwoo nodded slowly, his expression unreadable, but his eyes held a quiet understanding. "He took too much from you for you to just move on overnight," he said simply.

You swallowed, nodding. "Maybe." A pause. "But I don’t want to keep living in that shadow. I want to move forward. I want to build something new for myself… for my mom."

Wonwoo leaned back in his chair, observing you. "And for us?"

Your breath hitched slightly at his words, your eyes flickering to his.

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "I didn’t go through all this trouble to protect you just to watch you walk away."

You let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head. "I didn’t say I was going anywhere."

His smirk faded into something softer. He reached across the table, his fingers brushing against yours. "Good," he murmured. "Because I need you here."

The weight of his words settled between you, heavier than the wine in your glass, more intoxicating than anything you had tasted tonight.

"Then I guess we’re staying," you whispered.

And for the first time in a long time, the future didn’t seem so uncertain.

*

As soon as the door closed behind you, Wonwoo backed you against it, his hands settling on your hips as he leaned in to capture your lips in a searing kiss. Yourur tongues tangled eagerly, the flavors of wine and dessert mingling as your mouths moved in perfect sync.

As your lips parted, Wonwoo's breath tickled your ear as he whispered sultry nothings, his warm words sending shivers down your spine. "God, I want you," he rasped, trailing open-mouthed kisses along your jawline and down the column of your throat. Each nip and lick sent sparks of pleasure through your veins, making you arch into his touch.

As Wonwoo's lips trailed reverently along your skin, his whispers grew softer, sweeter. "You have no idea how much I crave you." His fingertips danced across your chest, tracing patterns that left goosebumps in their wake. "You're all mine," he breathed, punctuating his words with a gentle kiss to the hollow of your throat.

As Wonwoo laid you down on the soft cushions of the sofa, a soft moan escaped your lips at the feel of the cool leather beneath you. Your senses were heightened, attuned to every brush of fabric against your skin and the heat emanating from the man towering over you. You could feel the rigid outline of his arousal pressing insistently against your thigh, a tangible reminder of his desire.

"Please, Wonwoo," You whimpered, reaching up to cradle his face in your palms. "Kiss me again, taste me...touch me everywhere," You begged, your voice thick with need. Your hips lifted off the couch, seeking friction against the solid length prodding your leg. "Make love to me, right here, right now," You pleaded, your eyes locked onto his, filled with lust and adoration.

Wonwoo's fingers found the dampened lace at the apex of your thighs, teasing the sensitive flesh through the thin barrier. A gasp slipped past your lips at the intimate caress, your hips canting up involuntarily to press closer to his touch. "Mmm, so wet for me already," he purred, rubbing the pad of his thumb over your clit through the soaked material. The sensation shot straight to your core, leaving you trembling and desperate for more.

"Please, Wonwoo," You whimpered, spreading your legs wider in invitation as his fingers resumed their playful exploration of your most sensitive area. He obliged without hesitation, slipping a digit beneath the drenched lace to stroke through your slick folds, gathering the evidence of my arousal on his fingertip before circling your entrance teasingly. You arched off the couch, a needy moan spilling from your lips at the delicious pressure building inside you.

Wonwoo's husky whisper sent shivers down your spine. "You're breathtaking, my love. Just as I imagined, dreamed of, a thousand times." His hand stilled for a moment, letting you relish in the praise before resuming his tender touch. Slow, deliberate strokes coaxed out more of your essence, each movement pushing you closer to the edge. "Let go for me," he urged, his breath hot against your ear.

As Wonwoo's fingers continued their maddening tempo, the coil of tension inside you snapped. You cried out his name, back arching off the couch as waves of ecstasy crashed over you. Pleasure pulsed through your veins like liquid fire, your inner walls clenching around nothing as the orgasm ripped through you. Distantly, you heard Wonwoo's approving groans, felt his body tense above you as he watched you come undone in his skilled hands.

He picked your naked body to the bedroom effortlessly as laid you down softly. Wonwoo's nimble fingers worked their magic, effortlessly shedding the barriers between you, you gazed at him in awe. The soft lighting of the bedroom illuminated his chiseled features and the moonbeams danced across his skin, making him look like a deity descended from the heavens.

He stood before you, glorious, as you ran your hands reverently over the contours of his torso. His body hovered yours. As your lips met, the world around you melted away, leaving only the intoxicating sensations of the kiss and the warmth of each other's bodies.

Wonwoo's mouth slanted over yours, demanding and possessive, claiming you with every brush of his tongue against you. You melted into the embrace, returning his ardor with equal fervor, your moans mingling in the stillness of the room as you lost yourselves in the passionate dance of desire.

Wonwoo's hands roamed the curves your body as he kissed a path along your neck, his touch igniting sparks wherever he touched. He cupped your breast, thumb grazing the pebbled nipple through the thin fabric of your bra, sending jolts of pleasure straight to the core. "So soft, so perfect," he murmured against your skin, nipping and sucking gently as he explored the sensitive terrain of your throat.

"Once I get a taste of you, I may not be able to let you go," he admitted hoarsely, his voice trembling with need. The vulnerability in his words only heightened your excitement, your body arching instinctively to draw him closer.

With a gentle yet insistent pressure, Wonwoo guided himself into your waiting depths. A soft gasp escaped your lips as he filled you inch by exquisite inch, stretching and accommodating his impressive girth. Once he was buried to the hilt, he paused, allowing you to adjust to the incredible fullness before beginning to move within you. Each deliberate thrust sparked a cascade of pleasure, the sound of skin meeting skin and your ragged breaths filling the air.

"You're so big.."

Wonwoo's smug grin only added to the erotic charge between you as he drew back and pushed in again, his thick length stroking deep inside you. "Big enough to satisfy this greedy little pussy, isn't it?" he purred, his voice a low, husky rasp. He set a steady, pounding rhythm, each powerful thrust driving him impossibly deeper.

Wonwoo's praise was a velvet caress against you ears, heightening the euphoria coursing through your veins. "Fuck, you feel amazing wrapped around me," he growled, punctuating each word with a deep, forceful stroke. "Like you were made for me, custom-fit just to take my cock and beg for more."

Wonwoo's fingers found your throbbing clit with ease, applying just the right amount of pressure to send shockwaves of pleasure surging through you. Each stroke harmonized with his relentless pace, the dual sensations threatening to unravel you completely. You clenched tighter around him, the snug, velvety grip of your walls milking his thickness with every thrust.

Wonwoo groaned deeply as he felt the telltale fluttering of yout inner muscles, signaling your impending climax. "That's it, baby, let go for me," he urged, his voice roughened with lust. He rubbed your clit in swift, targeted circles, pushing you precariously close to the edge. With one final, searing plunge, he triggered your orgasm, the waves of ecstasy crashing over you in intense, overwhelming bursts.

With a guttural moan, Wonwoo plunged deep, his hips jerking as he spilled his hot seed inside you. You elt each pulsing wave of his release, his thick cock throbbing and twitching as he emptied himself within your clenching depths. The sensation was decadently intimate, making you shudder with pleasure as you rode out the aftershocks of your own climax. Your bodies moved in tandem, lost in the primal dance of sex and satisfaction.

As you collapsed together in a tangle of limbs, panting and sated, Wonwoo pressed his lips to yours in a tender, lingering kiss. "I've waited so long for this moment," he breathed against your mouth, his words muffled but heartfelt. "Half a year of longing, of craving your touch... and now it's finally real." He nuzzled you temple, his warm breath fanning across your skin.

"I love you."

*

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. The air was still, heavy with the remnants of last night—shared breaths, whispered confessions, the quiet surrender to something neither of you had spoken aloud but had felt for so long.

You stirred slightly, the cool sheets contrasting against the warmth of the body next to you. Wonwoo’s arm was draped over your waist, his breathing slow and even. His grip was loose, but even in sleep, he held onto you like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Your mind was quiet for the first time in a long while. No thoughts of your father, no weight of the past pressing down on your chest. Just this—just him.

As if sensing your thoughts, Wonwoo shifted, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns against your skin. He hummed lowly, his voice still thick with sleep. “You’re awake?”

You turned slightly to face him, your lips curving into a soft smile. “Mmm.”

His eyes cracked open, hazy and laced with something unreadable. He studied you for a moment before exhaling, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Are you okay?”

The question made your chest tighten, but in a good way. He wasn’t just asking about last night—he was asking about everything.

You nodded, shifting closer until your forehead rested against his. “Yeah… I think I am.”

His fingers slid up your arm, his touch grounding. “Good.”

Silence settled between you, comfortable and warm. Then, a small smirk tugged at his lips. “Seokmin’s going to give me hell when he finds out.”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head. “You mean he hasn’t already?”

Wonwoo groaned, rolling onto his back. “He probably sent me twenty messages by now. That guy’s too invested in my love life.”

You propped yourself up on your elbow, looking down at him with amusement. “Maybe he just wants to make sure you’re treating me right.”

He turned his head to meet your gaze, something softer in his eyes now. “I don’t need Seokmin to remind me to do that.”

Your breath hitched slightly, but before you could respond, he pulled you back into his arms, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Five more minutes,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin. “Then I’ll deal with whatever disaster Seokmin has planned for me today.”

You smiled, closing your eyes as you let yourself sink into the warmth of him. “Five more minutes,” you echoed.

You traced small patterns on his bare chest, enjoying the way his skin tensed under your touch. “So… last night,” you murmured, your voice teasing.

Wonwoo cracked one eye open, his lips twitching. “What about it?”

You tilted your head, pretending to be deep in thought. “You talk a lot when you’re in the moment.”

His brows furrowed slightly before realization dawned on him, and for the first time in a while, you saw a hint of red creeping up his ears. “I—” He cleared his throat. “That’s just—”

You smirked, leaning closer. “No, no, I liked it.” You let your fingers dance over his collarbone, your voice dropping slightly. “Didn’t know you had a thing for dirty talk, though.”

Wonwoo groaned, covering his face with his hand. “You’re really going to bring that up first thing in the morning?”

You laughed, enjoying how flustered he got despite everything. “I mean, I just think it’s cute,” you teased, nudging his side. “You’re usually so composed, but last night—”

He suddenly rolled on top of you, pinning you beneath him in one swift movement. His expression had shifted, his teasing smirk returning. “If you keep talking, I’ll have to remind you exactly how much I like talking.”

Your breath hitched as he dipped his head closer, lips ghosting over your jawline. The way his voice dropped sent a familiar shiver down your spine.

Wonwoo rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm as he held you close. The night had unraveled things between you—vulnerability, passion, and something deeper that neither of you had dared to name until now. His fingers traced soft patterns on your back, and for a moment, it was just the two of you, wrapped in warmth and unspoken words.

Then, he spoke.

“I love you.” His voice was steady, unwavering, but you could hear the slight nervous edge in it. Like he had been holding onto those words for a while, waiting for the right moment. “I don’t think I realized how much until I almost lost you.”

Your heart clenched, remembering everything you had been through. The fights, the fear, the way he stood by your side through it all. Your hand found his cheek, thumb brushing over his skin as you took in the sincerity in his gaze.

“I love you too,” you whispered, watching the way his eyes softened, his lips parting slightly as if surprised despite everything. “And… thank you, Wonwoo.”

His brows furrowed slightly. “For what?”

“For staying. For fighting for me. For always making sure I’m safe.” Your voice trembled slightly, emotions catching up with you. “For giving me a reason to feel strong.”

Wonwoo exhaled slowly, his grip on you tightening as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. “You were always strong,” he murmured. “I just reminded you of it.”

You smiled, running your fingers through his hair. “Well, either way, I still want to thank you.”

He pulled back slightly, his lips curving into that rare, genuine smile you loved. “Then let me thank you too,” he murmured, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against your lips.

And in that moment, you knew—this wasn’t just a marriage of convenience anymore. This was real.

[renskaji]

the hoodie

ren kaji x reader, wc: 1.8k, req? no.

He’s not expecting for it to affect him as much as it does. 

Your question was innocent enough, a quiet ‘can I borrow a hoodie, Ren?’ murmured in your sweet voice that he never could seem to say no too. Besides, he’s a protector of the town, right? And you’re part of the town.

What kind of Bofurin grade captain would he be if he let you freeze?

He thinks he’ll be fine, that he’ll be able to handle the sight of you in his clothes as normally as if you were wearing your own. His heart always does a little flip when he sees you, but he’s wholly unprepared for the way it stops in his chest when he finally rips his attention from his phone and up to you. 

It’s not fair, really, that you’re oblivious to the effect you have on him. You’re not doing anything special, just hanging out at his house before the two of you are set to leave and meet Enomoto and Kusumi for dinner, and yet Kaji thinks he might combust. 

The sleeves are just a few inches too long on you, and he knows that the hoodie smells like his cologne. He feels a little territorial, honestly, and entirely too smug that you’re about to leave his house wearing his clothes. 

“Does it look alright?” You ask him, voice distracted as you turn left to right and back again in the mirror. You’re inspecting the hoodie like you’re trying to make some grand fashion statement, and Kaji feels the tips of his ears start to burn as he rivets his attention back to his phone. 

“S’alright.” He hums, non-committedly, because there’s really no good way to explain to his best friend that he thinks you should probably only wear his clothes for the rest of your life. That’s a bit much, especially since he hasn’t been able to muster enough bravery to ask you out. 

He can fight off a rival gang, outnumbered, no problem. But he feels like his lungs might collapse if he even thinks about holding your hand. 

Despite the way he keeps his attention focused solely on his phone, he still manages to catch a glimpse of the way you roll your pretty eyes at his half-assed response. He can’t help the way his lips curve up into the subtlest grin at your slight annoyance. Antagonizing you is almost as fun as watching you wearing his clothes. 

“Whatever,” You huff, turning away from the mirror to face him lounging on the bed. You’d been at his side until a few moments earlier when you hopped up and asked for a hoodie, laying on the pillow beside him and scrolling through your own phone while listening to the music blasting through his headphones set around his neck. “Are you ready? Enomoto gave us so much shit last time we were late.” 

The lollipop in his mouth is strawberry, and Kaji swirls it around his tongue as he gets one last shameless glance at you in his clothes. He can’t actually believe his luck—you’re about to go out wearing his hoodie, smelling like him. It’s practically a declaration of who you belong too. 

You’d probably flick him in the forehead if you knew what territorial thoughts were swirling through his mind, but that would mean admitting just why he gets so much satisfaction from you being seen as his, so he keeps his mouth shut and climbs off the bed. 

He keeps his headphones wrapped around his neck instead of over his ears as he follows you out of his house and onto the street. The restaurant Kusumi picked is only a short walk from where he lives, but Kaji still keeps his head on a swivel while at your side—between yourself and the curb, obviously. 

“—and then we went home.” You’re retelling the day before, when you went shopping with a few of your friends from school, but Kaji is only half-listening. He knows you’re used to his attention being split, what with his headphones usually covering one or both ears, but he’s been better about paying attention to you. 

You’re just too distracting, wearing his clothes. 

“Ren, did you even hear me?” You huff, hooking an arm around his and stepping closer to him despite the annoyance in your voice. Kaji bites down on his lollipop—not hard enough to crack it—and your attention snaps to the movement. He really needs you to stop looking at his mouth, because his blush is starting to become uncontrollable and he thinks he might do something stupid. “Earth to Ren?”

“‘M fine.” He grumbles, wishing he had told you no about borrowing his hoodie and knowing that he would give you the world if you had asked for it. 

He knows he’s screwed when you pull him to a stop by the arm you’re still holding. He relents, but shuffles the two of you to the side of the walkway to stay out of traffic. The street is relatively empty, but the action gives him something to do other than face your concerned pout. 

“What’s wrong?��� You ask him. He knows the question was inevitable and yet he can’t help the way his stomach twists at your words. He can’t tell you what’s wrong, because that would mean admitting that he’s been fighting affection for you for months. 

“Nothing.” He lies. You know he's lying because he can’t look you in the eyes, and he feels some of his untempered anger bubble up in his chest. It’s not directed at you, never, but at the fact that he just lied to you. That he’s the reason for the pout on your face. 

“Ren Kaji. Look at me.” He winces at the sound of his full name falling past your lips, and he forces himself to meet your eye. He can do that much, because that means he’s only seeing the top of his hoodie in the corner of his vision— “Do you want to skip dinner?”

And miss the chance to show you off in his clothes?

“No.” He’s quick to answer and he’s glad it’s the truth, because it has some of the harshest edges of your pout melting. 

But then you do the worst possible thing. 

You tuck your chin in, digging it below the neckline of his hoodie, while no doubt trying to think of what’s causing his sudden mood. The material comes up above your lips, stopping just below your nose, and he knows you’re just breathing in his scent, no matter if it’s intentional or not. 

He feels a little bit like an untamed animal, going fuzzy at the edges of his mind at the knowledge that you’re wrapped up in something that smells of him. 

He jerks his head to the side and bites on the lollipop between his teeth again. His face is completely flushed, he can feel it burning, and he knows he’s found out when you perk up and tug on his arm to try and get his attention. 

“Is it the hoodie?” You ask, though he knows you’re confident in your guess when you don’t slow down for him to answer. “You should’ve told me I couldn’t wear it, I wouldn’t have minded. We’re not far from your house, we can go bring it back—”

And that’s just not an option for him, so he needs to find the courage. 

“It’s not ‘cause I don’t want you wearin’ it.” He admits, trying to ignore the spike of panic in his chest when you freeze up. It’s almost worst, trying to talk, when his short declaration seemed to get the words to dry up on your tongue. “I think you look… good… wearin’ my shit.” 

He’s never been the best with words, but he knows his point gets across when your pout melts away completely and leaves a wide grin in its place. Kaji thinks it might be worse for his heart to see you so giddy while wearing his hoodie, especially when you lean forward close enough to him to smell your shampoo. 

It’s then that he realizes that when—if—he gets his hoodie back, it’ll smell like you, too. He thinks his brain turns to mush. 

He’s malfunctioning, surely, because there’s no other explanation than total brain destruction and utter hallucination for him to watch as you reach the hand up that’s not holding his arm and grasp the short stick of his lollipop poking out from between his lips.

He opens his mouth on instinct when you pull on the stick, and he watches in complete devastation as you put the candy in your own mouth. Your smirk up at him, stick poking from the corner of your own devilishly curved lips, and he knows the sight will be forever seared into the brightest corners of his mind. 

He can’t think too long about the fact that you’re doing it all while wearing his fucking hoodie or else he’ll combust. 

“After dinner, you and I can get dessert without the others.” You tell him casually, leaning back half a step. Kaji loathes the distance, but he’s too struck dumb by your bold actions to do anything about it. If you weren’t still grinning at him with his lollipop on his tongue with his hoodie on your body, the distance might’ve been enough to help clear some of the fog from his mind. “You can tell me how good I look in your clothes then.” 

Kaji watches as you turn around like it’s nothing, and he swears he’s never felt his brain stall for as long as it does in that moment. But you glance over your shoulder at him just once, and it’s enough to get his ass in gear and take quick steps to catch up to your side. 

He’s openly staring at you, because he thinks he might be able to do that now, and hates how much he loves the smirk you’re nearly knocking him on his ass with. 

“I might need to borrow more of your clothes if this is how you react,” You tease, slipping your hand into his and efficiently suffocating all arguments on his tongue. 

And really, he’s never been able to say no to you.

+ bonus

“What?” Enomoto glances up from his phone when he feels Kusumi poking him in the side. They’re running late for dinner with Kaji and you, and he really doesn’t have time to clean up some lowlife’s mess if he can help it. 

Except, when Kusumi points across the street, Enomoto follows his friend’s direction and finds the opposite of some creep picking a fight in his town. 

It’s you and Kaji, stopped on the edge of the sidewalk and talking about something that has you grinning and him frowning. Enomoto is about to call out to the two of you, but then he watches as you pull the lollipop from Kaji’s mouth and pop it into your own.

“Grrross,” Enomoto huffs, though he’s smiling. He’s reached his limit of dealing with your’s and Kaji’s endless pining after the other. He watches a moment longer as you and Kaji take off down the street once more, your hand finding his friend's easily. “I’m cancelling dinnerrr. I’m not sufferrring thrrrough them.” 

Kusumi nods, agreeing. He has a feeling you and Kaji won't mind the time alone together.

[xoxojisu]

ANYONE BUT YOU

synopsis: there are certain things that katsuki wouldn't allow for anyone but you.

warning(s): underage (highschool) drinking, switched between first and second pov in the third segment sorry, not well-proofread

a/n: wrote this for unofficialbf!katsuki again like duh!

"FUCKING DUNCE FACE! HOW ARE YOU THIS FUCKING STUPID?!" bakugo screamed, smoke literally flowing from his head as he hit kaminari's head repeatedly with a ruler.

"hey, man, if you keep doing that, it'll make him even stupider!" kirishima protested on kaminari's behalf, who already looked like he was seeing the light from above.

"like i care! he needs to learn a lesson! or anything, for that matter! we were taught this shit back in middle school!" bakugo hissed, crossing his arms and collapsing back on his seat.

"wait, but bakugo, i also kind of need some help with that.." mina said, trailing off when bakugo sent her a withering death glare. "actually, maybe i'll go ask yaomomo."

he huffed. "how are people this fucking stupid? like seriously, it's not that fucking hard."

"..katsuki? i need help with this question." you interjected a bit anxiously, showing him your paper.

he’d deny the way his eyes softened immediately. "tch. we learned this in middle school, you know." he said gruffly, giving your forehead a very gentle flick.

"i know, but i forgot. will you help? please?" you pleaded.

he sighed. "fine, c'mere. so for this step.."

as he taught you the material in a (GASP) normal tone of voice, kirishima and kaminari whispered off to the side.

"seriously?! that's the same question i didn't get." kaminari whined.

"i know! he's always so nice to her! it's crazy!"

"if he was half as nice to us as he is to her, i'd have at least a C!"

"i know, right? man, i want that special treatment, too!"

-

"..you fucking idiots."

tsu had called bakugo and deku to mina's room where they were having a girl's night. mina had managed to sneak some vodka in, so they were all having fun getting drunk and talking. however, by the end of the night, you, mina, and ochaco were wasted. luckily, mina would be ok, seeing as she was already in her room, but tsu had decided to ship off you and ochaco to katsuki and deku, as she was drunk herself and didn't feel like she could take proper care of the both of you.

"all of you are already fucking idiots. alcohol kills off your brain cells! you tryna get even dumber or something, huh?!" katsuki grumbled.

"kacchan! it's fine, really. come on, uraraka, let's go." deku scolded before helping ochaco out the door and back to her room.

"don't.. hic! be a buzzkill, bakugo. girls just wanna have fun!" mina slurred. katsuki could feel his eyebrows furrowing more and more as his irritation grew. he swore he was one more drunken idiot statement away from walking away right then and there.

sure enough, though, another drunken idiot statement quickly followed.

"katsuki! you're here! ..when did you get here?" you quipped excitedly, clearly not in your right mind.

katsuki ran a hand through his hair. "i've been here, idiot. for the past 5 fuckin' minutes."

you scrambled off of mina's bed where you were sitting and made your way to him, albeit with many more steps needed to get there from all of the stumbling you were doing. you jumped onto him as best you could, and he easily caught you. despite his grumbles, there was an undeniable softness in his eyes.

"missed you, kats.." you mumbled, nuzzling in to his neck with an affection you’d be humiliated by if you were just a tad bit more sober. he tensed a bit under your touch, but still adjusted you so you could cling onto him more comfortably.

"yeah, yeah. let's go." he muttered, quickly turning and leaving, trying to keep from snapping as you giggled and waved goodbye to your friends, wriggling in his grasp.

as he walked down the hall with you securely in his arms, katsuki listened to all your drunk rambling with never-before-seen patience.

"'nd then ochaco finally admitted to liking midoriya! i mean, we all knew, but it was so crazy that she finally admitted it!"

"did you know that kirishima's natural hair is black? mina told us! 'pparently there was some incident with a villain that totally changed him, so he dyed his hair red! isn't that crazy?! what if one day he can't dye it anymore because his hair is so damaged? his name is red riot!"

"if two people who have mind-reading quirks read each other's minds at the same time, whose mind would they be reading?"

amazingly, katsuki didn't snap at you at all amidst your rambles. he listened to your drunk babbling with incredible silence, simply dutifully carrying you down to your dorm.

at some point, though, the rambles stopped, and katsuki heard you.. sniffling? were you crying? he immediately stopped and lowered you in his arms to see your face, and sure enough, there were fat tears rolling down your puffed-up cheeks.

"y/n, what? you cryin'? why?" he asked gently, though panic evident in his voice. ever since childhood, one of his least favorite things was when you cried.

"kats," you sniffled, "'m i annoying? d'you not liking being with me?"

katsuki’s eyes widened. he knew you were just extra emotional from the alcohol, but he still never wanted you to think that.

"hey, look at me." he said softly. "i'd never spend time with ya if i didn't wanna, so never think that."

your face brightened comedically fast, and you were quick to squeeze him tight, giggling. "awee, you're so cute! 'nd sweet!"

katsuki rolled his eyes, but his eyes softened at the sound of your giggles. he'd never admit it, but it was his favorite sound in the world.

"come on, loser. let's get you to bed."

-

"TOUCH ME AND FUCKING DIE!" were words that had been roared by katsuki to just about everyone that had ever come within a four-meter radius of the boy. whether it was an arm slung over his shoulder in celebration, a high five, a pat on the back, or even someone trying to help him up or tend to his wounds, katsuki was very clear that the only reason someone should ever, ever, ever come into contact with him was to get blasted by his explosions and die at his hands.

so, the reactions of the red and yellow-haired (ba ba ba BA ba i'm lovin' it) boys at the sight in front of them was pretty justified.

"no way," kirishima whispered, a hand over both his and denki's mouths. "this cannot be real."

before them, they saw a peacefully asleep y/n on top of bakugo. on top. of bakugo. the bakugo. the "i don't care that my life is in danger and i need treatment! don't fuckin' touch me!" bakugo.

and that bakugo was.. playing with her hair? and rubbing a hand up and down her back? underneath her shirt? and upon closer inspection, wait.. is she wearing his shirt?!

the two watched silently as you began to stir awake, eyes fluttering open. you were greeted by katsuki's looking down at you, a certain fondness in his eyes. you mumbled a hi with a sleepy smile, to which he grinned (like a real, genuine smile not a demonic feral chihuahua smirk) at and ruffled your hair gently.

"mornin', dumbass. you sleep well?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly.

"mhm!" you beamed before returning your head to its rightful place on katsuki's chest. you nuzzled into him happily, mumbling a sleepy "so warm.."

his cheeks tinted pink and he scoffed, but he still wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close. he gave your head a quick, gentle peck and pulled out his phone to scroll for a bit, his grip never once loosening as he massaged your scalp and nape.

you melted at his touch, an blissful expression on your face. "such a sweetie pie!" you giggled sleepily.

he rolled his eyes and gave your neck a quick scribble, his eyes dilating at the sound of your increased laughter. "i gotta stop spoilin' ya.." he grumbled, though there wasn't even a hint of maliciousness in his voice, his lips quirked up slightly.

you giggled again. "love you, kats!"

"..love you too, loser."

(kirishima and kaminari, who were still watching on the side could do nothing but sit there in stunned silence. they contemplated if maybe you'd done something amazing to curry his favor that they, too, could do, but they both arrived at the same conclusion: no matter what favors they could do or feats they could accomplish, there are simply certain things that the explosive boy would die before allowing for anyone but you.)

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