#breaking dawn in real time

[real-time-twilight]

STEPHENIEEEEEEEE~

GOOD LORD the Breaking Dawn timeline is fucked.

DECEMBER IS NOT THAT BIG A MONTH, STEPHENIE.

My brain hurts

[alohaasaloevera]

Oh boy do I love it when I see two characters with vastly different personalities and wow their backstory and motivations and developments are in some proximity tied to each other? Wow how I do love that! What’s that? They have a rival-esque dynamic? Which stems from one characters insecurities? How interesting! I can’t wait to see how the pair’s relationship progresses throughout the span of the entire show! Hopefully they will be granted with a blossoming relationship from rivals to friends to an unbreakable bond that not even the insurmountable obstacle that is time and distance can wither! Hopefully the show displays poignant moments between the two that can act as lessons the audience can learn from such as battling your insecurities and being able to rely and trust people etc.!!!!

I do love both of these characters dearly. 😈 HAHAHAHAHA SHIPPING TIME!!!

Ok, let me just binge the whole thing—

[psychopomp-namine]

<- fake kh fan. I just found out that don't think twice is a separate song, lyrically, from chikai. I thought it was the english version... no? the lyrics are different?

utada hikaru oh my goodd I didn't know these were two songs responding to each other. head in hands HEAD IN HANDS

[wexhappyxfew]

CHAPTER 10 - VALIANT AND PATRIOTIC SHOWMAN

October 16th, 1942 - 1700 Camp Toccoa, Georgia, United States War Correspondent Esther Armstrong

In my mind, to say I had trouble writing during my time at Toccoa sounded pathetic and I hated to have to admit it aloud. I had been going so hard for so long that coming to this screeching halt all of the sudden without a thought in my mind, enamored me entirely. Winters seemed the only person to knock a bit of sense into me, though whether on purpose or unintentionally, I think back to that moment and thank him from the bottom of my heart. The honest truth and what was happening around me and what I felt in my heart were what mattered. Speak to the American people from the perspective of where so many of the children now were, heading off to fight a war that had no end in sight. The men of Easy Company might've had an equal share in such....I may never see maps the same again...... - Esther Armstrong, in her book, Stroke of Luck

[read the newest update here]

tags: @mads-weasley @icantdecideofthename @cetaitlaverite @sergeant-spoons @vintagelavenderskies @ronald-speirs @easycompanys @hinkel-im-home

if you would like to be added or removed from the taglist, please let me know! :)

[lynzishell]

Prev // Next

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

🍖 How to Build a Culture Without Just Inventing Spices and Necklaces

(a worldbuilding roast. with love.)

So. You’re building a fantasy world, and you’ve just invented: → Three types of ceremonial jewelry → A spice that tastes like cinnamon if it were bitter and cursed → A holiday where everyone wears gold and screams at dawn

Cute. But that’s not culture. That’s aesthetics.

And if your worldbuilding is all outfits, dances, and spice blends with vaguely mystical names, your story’s probably going to feel like a cosplay convention held inside a Pinterest board.

Here’s how to fix that—aka: how to build a real, functioning culture that shapes your story, not just its vibes.

─────── ✦ ───────

🔗 Culture Is Built on Power, Not Just Style

Ask yourself: → Who’s in charge, and why? → Who has land? Who doesn’t? → What’s considered taboo, sacred, or punishable by death?

Culture is shaped by who gets to make the rules and who gets crushed by them. That’s where things like religion, family structure, class divisions, gender roles, and social expectations actually come from.

Start there. Not at the embroidery.

─────── ✦ ───────

2.🪓 Culture Comes From Conflict

Did this society evolve peacefully? Was it colonized? Did it colonize? Was it rebuilt after a war? Is it still in one?

→ What was destroyed and mythologized? → What do the survivors still whisper about? → What do children get taught in school that’s… suspiciously sanitized?

No culture is neutral. Every tradition has a history, and that history should taste like blood, loss, or propaganda.

─────── ✦ ───────

3.🧠 Belief Systems > Customs Lists

Sure, rituals and holidays are cool. But what do people believe about: → Death? → Love? → Time? → The natural world? → Justice?

Example: A society that believes time is cyclical vs. one that sees time as linear will approach everything—from prison sentences to grief—completely differently.

You don’t need to invent 80 gods. You need to know what those gods mean to the people who pray to them.

─────── ✦ ───────

4.🫀 Culture Controls Behavior (Quietly)

Culture shows up in: → What people apologize for → What insults cut deepest → What people are embarrassed about → What’s praised publicly vs. what’s hidden privately

For instance: → A culture obsessed with stoicism won’t say “I love you.” They’ll say “Have you eaten?” → A culture built on legacy might prioritize ancestor veneration, archival writing, name inheritance.

This stuff? Way more immersive than giving everyone matching earrings.

─────── ✦ ───────

5. 🏠 Culture = Daily Life, Not Just Festivals

Sure, your MC might attend a funeral where people paint their faces blue. But what about: → Breakfast routines? → How people greet each other on the street? → Who cooks, and who eats first? → What’s considered “clean” or “proper”? → How is parenting handled? Divorce?

Culture is what happens between plot points. It should shape your character’s assumptions, language, fears, and habits—whether or not a festival is going on.

─────── ✦ ───────

6. 💬 Let Your Characters Disagree With Their Own Culture

A culture isn’t a monolith.

Even in deeply traditional societies, people: → Rebel → Question → Break rules → Misinterpret laws → Mock sacred things → Act hypocritically → Weaponize or resist what’s expected

Let your characters wrestle with the culture around them. That’s where realism (and tension) lives.

─────── ✦ ───────

7.🧼 Beware the “Pretty = Good” Trap

Worldbuilding gets boring fast when: → The protagonist’s homeland is beautiful and pure → The enemy’s culture is dark and “barbaric” → Every detail just reinforces who the reader should like

You can—and should—challenge the aesthetic hierarchy. → Let ugly things be beloved. → Let beautiful things be corrupt. → Let your MC romanticize their culture and then get disillusioned by it later.

─────── ✦ ───────

📍 TL;DR (but like, spicy): → Culture is not food and jewelry. → Culture is power, fear, memory, contradiction. → Stop inventing spices until you know who starved last winter. → Let your world feel lived in, not curated.

The best cultural worldbuilding doesn’t look like a list. It feels like a system. A pressure. A presence your characters can’t escape—even if they try.

Now go. Build something real. (You can add spices later.)

—rin t. // writing advice for worldbuilders with rage and range // thewriteadviceforwriters

Sometimes the problem isn’t your plot. It’s your first 5 pages. Fix it here → 🖤 Free eBook: 5 Opening Pages Mistakes to Stop Making:

🕯️ download the pack & write something cursed:

[flowersforbucky]

my love, mine all mine

bucky loves you a lot every day - but maybe just a little extra today. your first mother's day.

word count: 1.9k

tags/warnings: smut, 18+ only, oral, bucky's pov, wife reader and girl dad bucky, heavy fluff and wife worship, reader is afab, no use of y/n, thunderbolts era but no spoilers (i know the picture in the header is tfatws but it's hard to find pics of him smiling ok)

follow @flowersforbuckyfics for updates ♡ dividers by @/strangergraphics ♡ header collage made by me

Bucky opens his eyes as the first light of dawn begins to filter through the cracks of embroidered lace curtains.

His body and mind are still acclimated to the earliest days of parenthood – when the nights feel long yet morning comes all too soon. Though the newborn trenches had come to a bittersweet end, Bucky's sixth sense for miraculously waking up shortly before his daughter every morning still lingers.

Judging by the slow rise and fall of your chest, you’re still dreaming from where you lay beside him. Your hand rests against your pillow, the ring that he’d slid onto your finger when he’d got down on one knee sparkling in the early morning light.

This is a view that he’ll never tire of waking up to.

He sometimes still can’t believe it – that you, this family you’ve created together, this life is really his. Every now and then, he’ll randomly wake during the night in a panic that he’s somehow dreamed it all. But then he feels you begin to stir beside him, and it quickly brings him back to reality. Just one glance at the sleeping infant on the video monitor’s screen and he can close his eyes knowing that this isn’t just something his subconscious conjured up as a twisted joke.

It might feel too good to be true at times, but it’s not. It’s real, and that’s all thanks to you.

He skims the tips of his fingers up the expanse of your bare arm. Peach fuzz and goosebumps rise and you make a noise akin to a sigh at the feather light touch. Your eyes flutter open, a sleep-dazed grin appearing on your face when you register that he’s already looking at you.

“Really? Waking me up early? On Mother’s Day?”

“Sorry, doll,” he purrs, his Brooklyn drawl making an appearance in his voice, still raspy with sleep. “Didn’t mean to. I just can’t help myself.”

You half yawn, half laugh as he brings his face to yours. His lips capture yours in a messy kiss that starts innocently enough. Then you part your lips as you pull him closer to you by the back of his head. He slips his tongue past your lips, lazily exploring the inside of your mouth as if it’s brand new territory for him.

He twitches inside his boxers – he’d blame it on the morning wood that had yet to fully dissipate, but he knows damn well that this is all you. Your scent, your touch, your taste. He continues to move his lips against yours as he pulls the comforter back enough to maneuver himself over you. You’re wearing a thin cotton tank top and a pair of panties that he’s particularly fond of – but right now, he’d prefer both articles of clothing to be on the floor.

Reaching between your bodies, his flesh hand finds the hem of your top. He pulls the fabric upwards, above your breasts. Your nipples are already pebbled as he breaks the kiss and lowers his face to your chest. His lips lock around the peak and you arch your back into his touch, a melodic whine escaping your lips.

Only after paying careful attention to each breast does he begin to leave a trail of wet kisses down your sternum, over your belly button, and to the hem of your panties. He dips his fingers into the waistline of the fabric, ready to tug them down your thighs when your hand grabs his. He pauses, looking up at you with raised brows.

“Winnie will be awake any minute now,” you breathe. He chuckles, shaking his hand free of your loose grip to resume pulling your panties off of your hips.

“Guess I’ll just have to be quick, then,” he smirks up at you from his position between your thighs. “Come on, honey. It’s Mother’s Day, yeah?”

Any further objection from you dies on your tongue before your underwear can hit the bedroom floor.

Normally, he’d take his time with you – make you squirm and plead just a little. But you do have a point. Winnie usually wakes up earlier than the sun, so it's only a matter of time before you’re interrupted by the sound of cries coming from the nursery at the end of the hallway.

But that’s okay. He doesn’t need long. He’s spent enough time studying your body to know exactly how to get you where you need to be.

Settling himself between your legs, he licks a thick strip up your center. One of your hands dashes to the top of his head, where you thread your fingers through his hair to help guide his ministrations. Your other hand instinctively covers your mouth, in an effort to muffle your moans.

He circles your clit with his tongue while he teases your hole with the tip of a long, vibranium finger. You whimper as he nudges the icy digit past your entrance, eagerly sinking yourself onto the length of it. Your walls constrict around the metal, and while he selfishly wishes it was a different part of him buried in your tight heat, he knows that this – this whole day – is all about you. Loving you, worshiping you, making you feel as loved and appreciated as you make him feel every day.

You writhe against the mattress, grinding yourself against his mouth. His lips lock around your swollen clit, sucking until you’re on the verge of climax. He adds a second metal finger, sending you crashing over the edge.

Sitting up on his knees, he uses his t-shirt to wipe his mouth before looking down at you with a satisfactory grin. Your chest is still heaving and there’s a thin sheen of sweat on your skin.

He thinks you’re glowing.

“See? Told you I’d be quick,” he teases as he looms over you, leaning down to give you another quick peck on the lips. “And baby girl is still fast asleep.”

As if on cue, a soft cry begins to sound from the room next door. You laugh, looking at him as if to say what is it you were saying?

“Don't get up. I'll get her,” Bucky stops you when you start to swing your legs over the side of the mattress. He quickly puts on the pair of sweatpants that he had discarded before falling asleep last night. “Tea or coffee this morning?”

“Hmm,” you contemplate as you lay back down against your pillow and readjust your tank top. “Coffee. Thank you, baby.”

After making a quick pit stop in the bathroom to wash his hands, Bucky hurries to get a crying Winnie from her crib. She’d recently started standing up on her own, so Bucky isn’t surprised that she’s already standing up and holding onto the railing of her crib when he opens the door. As soon as she sees him, the crying stops and she breaks into a huge grin that showcases her brand new bottom teeth.

“Good morning, Winnie girl,” Bucky coos as he lifts her into his arms. “It’s Mother’s Day. Are you ready to go give Mama her presents?”

Winnie’s response, of course, is a bunch of incoherent babbling, but Bucky likes to think that she understands.

He makes quick work of changing her, making you a cup of coffee just the way you like it, and grabbing the gift bag that he’d hid behind a bunch of extra cleaning supplies in a storage closet a few days prior. In one arm, he juggles a wiggly baby and your present, and in the other, a hot cup of coffee.

Back in your and Bucky’s bedroom, you’ve changed into a casual lounge wear set. Your face instantly lights up as soon as Bucky enters the room with Winnie in his arms. She reaches for you right away, almost throwing herself out of Bucky’s arms.

He can’t help but take a moment to admire the scene in front of him. You attack Winnie with kisses and she bursts into a fit of giggles. He places your mug on your bedside table and then sits down on the edge of the bed, smiling to himself as he watches his two favorite girls.

Everyone tells Bucky that Winnie looks just like him, but he thinks that she’s the spitting image of you. Especially the smile – he adores that she has your smile.

“What is this?” you croon at Winnie when you notice the bag in Bucky’s lap. You place her bedside you on the bed as he hands you the present. “Did you get something for me?”

“She can’t take all the credit,” Bucky teases. “But she certainly helped.”

You pull the tissue paper out of the bag, handing it to Winnie so that she can entertain herself by crumpling it up in her fists. First, you pull out the gift that Bucky is most proud of.

It’s a glass frame containing various polaroid pictures of the three of you, as well as small flowers that Bucky had dried from a bouquet that he’d given you just a few months ago. On top of the glass are two small, pink footprints. Bucky had bought acrylic paint just so he could paint Winnie’s feet and print them on the glass.

You stare at the gift, taking it in as you chew on your bottom lip. Your silence makes him a little nervous. He’s not normally one for handmade gifts, but he wanted your first Mother’s Day gift to be sentimental.

“Oh, Bucky,” you whisper after a moment. Your fingers trail over the glass, settling on a picture of you, him, and Winnie sitting in front of your Christmas tree several months prior. “It’s so beautiful. How did you come up with something like this?”

“Yelena told me that I should check Pinterest for ideas,” he admits, suddenly feeling bashful. “And she may or may not have helped me and Winnie do the footprints without making a complete mess.”

You throw your head back in a genuine cackle. You place the frame on your bedside table, exactly where he expected you to put it. “Oh, so that’s why you wanted to take Winnie to the team meeting last week.”

“To be fair, I didn’t lie. Everyone did really want to see her.”

You reach back into the bag, pulling out your next present. He didn’t bother wrapping it, knowing that you would have the wrapping paper in shreds within seconds. It’s a simple, pale yellow box. You open it up, a look of awe immediately coming over your face.

“Do you like it?” Bucky asks softly, though your teary-eyed expression answers his question without you having to say a word. You nod rapidly, removing a delicate gold chain from the box. In its center, is a W shaped charm. On either side of the letter are stones – Winnie’s birthstones.

“Help me put it on?” You request, turning around so that he can latch the necklace for you.

It looks as perfect on you as he imagined it would.

“Thank you, baby,” you murmur, pulling him to you by the collar of his t-shirt to bring his lips to yours. “So much. They’re both just beautiful.”

He cups your face in the palm of his hand, massaging your cheek with his thumb. He’s silent for a moment, reveling in how thankful he is for you and the fact that he now gets to celebrate you on this day.

“Happy Mother’s Day, honey.”

thank you so much for reading 💖 reblogs and comments are always very appreciated!!

[liberalsarecool]

THE ERA OF VANISHING HAS BEGUN

They are not arresting people. They are vanishing them.

Rumeysa Ozturk wasn’t read her rights. She wasn’t told why she was being detained. She was walking to break her fast in Somerville, Massachusetts when masked men in an unmarked SUV pulled up, took her phone, slapped on handcuffs, and dragged her into a vehicle like she was some kind of national security threat.

She’s a doctoral student. A Fulbright scholar. A trauma researcher. But in Donald Trump’s America, she fit the profile: Muslim, foreign-born, sympathetic to Palestinians.

Now she’s locked in a for-profit detention center in Louisiana, hundreds of miles from her lawyer, after a federal judge specifically said she wasn’t to be moved.

They moved her anyway. Because rules no longer apply to those with badges — real or fake.

A MOVEMENT BUILT ON CHAINS AND COWARDS

Alireza Doroudi is gone too.

He’s a doctoral student at the University of Alabama, born in Iran, studying mechanical engineering. No criminal record. No warning. Just scooped off the grid.

ICE refuses to say where he’s being held. No public charge has been announced. His only crime appears to be existing in the wrong body, from the wrong country, in the wrong era.

Mahmoud Khalil was next — a Columbia student, arrested for leading pro-Palestinian protests. Trump labeled him a “radical foreign Hamas sympathizer” on Truth Social. Days later, he was gone.

Jeanette Vizguerra was taken from her Target shift in Colorado, chained at the waist.

Alfredo “Lelo” Juarez, a farmworker organizer, was dragged from his car at dawn in Washington. His window was smashed by federal agents. His voice silenced.

These aren’t isolated incidents. These are deliberate acts of political intimidation.

They are testing the system — testing us — to see how many people they can disappear before we stop calling it democracy.

WHEN ICE IS A BADGE — AND A COSTUME

While the real ICE disappears scholars, organizers, and mothers, the fakes are circling like vultures.

In South Carolina, Sean-Michael Johnson posed as an ICE officer. He pulled over a van of Latino men, screamed slurs, jiggled their keys, and knocked a phone out of someone’s hand. “You’re going back to Mexico!” he shouted. He wasn’t an agent — but he played one with conviction.

In North Carolina, Carl Thomas Bennett used a fake badge to sexually assault a woman at a motel. He told her if she didn’t comply, he’d have her deported. He held up a counterfeit ID and pretended to be the state.

And in Philadelphia, a Temple University student in an “ICE” shirt tried to storm a dorm building with two accomplices. They were dressed for the part, intoxicated by the illusion of authority, emboldened by the climate.

This is what happens when the state makes cruelty a brand. When a badge becomes a fetish object. When the line between enforcement and cosplay disappears altogether.

THE WHOLE SYSTEM IS THE CRIME

Let’s stop pretending this is a coincidence.

This is a unified strategy. The Trump administration is using ICE like a personal strike force — targeting international students, protest leaders, organizers, and mothers with surgical precision.

They invoke secret designations. They bypass due process. They manufacture pretexts out of thin air and rely on the fog of bureaucracy to hide the blood on the floor.

The point isn’t law enforcement. The point is deterrence. Spectacle. Control.

This is what political cleansing looks like when it’s dressed up in the language of national security.

They’re showing the world that resistance has a cost — and the cost is your freedom, your voice, your visibility, your future.

SILENCE IS CONSENT. AND WE ARE LOUD.

There is no middle ground here. No fence to sit on. No neutral position when people are being kidnapped in the name of the state.

ICE doesn’t need your applause. It needs your silence. Every time a student vanishes and the media shrugs, every time a woman is cuffed and the public looks away, the machine gets stronger.

They are daring us to ignore it. They are counting on our numbness. They are betting that we’ll keep scrolling.

We cannot let them win.

This is not border policy. This is not visa enforcement. This is not safety.This is authoritarianism with a PowerPoint presentation.This is fascism disguised as formality.

This is the state stripping people from the land and pretending it’s order.

Let the record show:

They took people.

And we did not look away.

We saw it.

We named it.

We raised hell.

And we did not stop.

(I didn’t write this. Credit goes to Fear and Loathing: Closer to the Edge)

[real-time-twilight]

Breaking Dawn in Real Time

December 12th, 2006 (Friday)

Moon Phase: Waning Gibbous

🌄 Sunrise: 7:52 AM

🌅 Sunset : 4:26 PM

Breaking Dawn, Pgs. 533 (from line 24)--553

Ch. 27 ("Travel Plans")

Ch. 28 ("The Future")

Bella and Carlisle book tickets for their trip to Italy

3:00 PM (Approx.) - Bella, Jacob, and Renesmee go hunting; Bella and Jacob disagree over whether he should accompany the Cullens on their planned research trip to Brazil

3:05 PM (Approx.) - Bella notices Irina watching them from afar before disappearing, apparently deeply upset and angry; Bella calls Edward and informs her of this development

3:07 PM (Approx.) - Edward arrives with Carlisle to try and catch up with Irina; Bella and Jacob hurry home with Renesmee

5:00 PM (Approx.) - Carlisle and Edward fail to catch up to Irina; Carlisle calls Tanya to inform her of what's happened

[monicaalexandraaa]

THE BEST !!!!! Made my day🩷🩷

Pucking Rookie Extra II

Read Pucking Rookie here | ~4.6k words

From me: I probs should have made this two parts but I felt like Harry was suffering at the end of where I wanted to cut it off and I think you'll see that he's suffered enough.

Warnings: angsty and fluffy

Summary: Before the season begins, Charlie tells the team his niece is off limits. After they're together, Harry wants to cry because he loves her so much and is all but dying to say it.

*Preseason*

“Look who decided to grace us with his presence!” Charlie could hear Asher’s voice coming from the next room. He shook his head with an eye roll. His players were loud, cheeky, and very forthcoming with their sexual partners toward each other. Charlie ignored most of it...

“Sorry y’can’t find a woman put up with your sorry ass,” Harry called back.

Charlie loved his team. They were like a giant extended family—a set of twenty-something sons. But the boys were in their twenties, just like his niece. And today he took notice of how they talked about women.

To be fair, they never spoke poorly of women. Honestly, there was no question in Charlie’s mind that they adored women.

Especially his star forward, Harry Styles.

But maybe he had ignored it because he hadn’t really had a conversation with his niece in a long while. Maybe he hadn’t thought about his daughter growing up and being the same age as some future hockey star that would make his skin crawl to know she liked. Or maybe, it just wasn’t his concern because since he had been assistant coach, the team and his extended family were mostly separated and the connection didn’t click for him.

But that was before. He had just gotten off the phone with his brother. He had called and asked if he could give his sweet niece a call. It sounded a little ominous and Charlie was ready to battle like the hot-tempered hockey boys in the locker room just outside his office. In fact, at first, he considered asking the boys for help. They would blindly love getting into it with a stranger. Especially on his behalf. There was no question that the team respected Charlie. “Of course I can, is everything alright?”

“She’s not giving me much to work with,” he explained. “Give me a call back if you figure it out.”

Charlie responded to his brother, but he listened in to the conversation happening behind him.

“Maybe if you didn’t sleep with the entire city there would be a woman to put up with him,” Callie answered Harry’s rebuttal on Asher’s behalf.

“S’not the entire city,” Charlie could practically hear Harry’s eye roll.

“Anything more than five may as well be,” Asher grumbled.

Charlie looked at the family portrait on his desk. Himself, his wife, and their two kids: daughter and son. Captured by the lovely niece he was just thinking about. The quality of her photography was unmatched. She called herself an amateur when she sent the pictures over, but they were lovely. There were a couple photos blown up and framed in his house and he couldn’t thank her enough for capturing the love in his family.

It made him more nervous about her call.

“Hi Sweetheart,” he smiled into the receiver.

“Hi Uncle Charlie,” she sighed. Her voice cracked a bit. “Thank you for calling me. I’m sorry to interrupt and I hope I’m not bothering you and your busy schedule.”

He frowned immediately. He remembered the little girl the day she was born and how she didn’t cry the way some newborns did around strangers. She looked around in fascination even if her eyes weren’t developed yet and couldn’t see more than a centimeter in front of her. It was like she was already looking for that perfect angle when she was just hours old. Hoping to find the right moment to capture in her little mind just like the camera she would hold in several years’ time. He adored his older brother and by proxy this little girl was wrapped around his finger. Even after all this time, his niece was one of his favorite people. He loved seeing her, loved hanging out with her, and loved talking hockey with her.

If she didn’t cry coming into this crazy world, Charlie didn’t think she ever would. So, hearing the sadness in her voice made him miserable. Ready to tell the boys to get in their cars and head to wherever she was and make sure whomever made her cry never did it again. “Sweetheart, you’re no bother. Ever. What’s the matter? You sound upset.”

She took a shaky breath and sniffled. “I-I’m sorry.... I-I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. “Kael,” she swallowed, her voice breaking on a cry. “I’m sorry,” she took a deep breath trying to steel herself. “Kael and I are over. I’m moving out your way. I’m going to waitress at The Locker Room. Have you heard of it?”

Good riddance, Charlie thought. Kael Crowe was the worst kind of guy for her. Granted he probably would have thought about that for the best guy there was for her. But Kael didn’t appreciate her the way she deserved, that was obvious. But they had been together for years. For them to be over something bad must have happened.

Of course he had heard of The Locker Room. It was the team’s favorite hangout. “Yeah, Sweetheart. It’s a good place. Louis is a good guy.”

“I figured because I dropped your name,” she swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

He chuckled without humor. “That’s what it’s for, Sweetheart. Tell me what happened.”

“I can’t... not right now. But it’s bad,” she took another shaky breath. “But waitressing isn’t going to be enough,” she sniffled. “Do you have any media leads? I’ll do anything. I’ll run the Instagram account. I’ll take pictures of the old jerseys you want to auction off. I just...”

“Of course, sweetheart. I’ll call over right now. You can have whatever you want.”

She took a deep breath and paused. “Thank you, Uncle Charlie. So much. I promise I’ll do whatever you need too. Photos, babysitting, anything.”

“You don’t have to do anything Sweetheart. Promise the guys are going to give you a run for your money.”

“That’s okay,” she laughed dryly. “I’m done with hockey players.”

“You’re jus’ jealous that I can get laid every night and you can’t,” Harry had a shrug in his voice overshadowing the conversation he was having with the girl who would always be a baby in his eyes.

Good. He thought to himself. “Sweetheart,” he said tentatively.

“How your dick hasn’t fallen off I’ll never know.”

“S’jus’ like hockey, practice make perfect,” Harry answered casually making his teammates laugh.

“Yeah?” She asked quietly.

“You know that Kael’s number one rival is on the team,” he reminded her.

“So he is,” she mumbled. “Guess working for you will be two-fold.”

He smiled. “Harry...” he said quietly just in case the boys walked by his office. “He’s a bit... over the top sometimes.”

“I just told you I’m done with hockey players. Especially ones that know they’re the best in the league and are on track to break franchise records in scoring, assists, and fights.”

“You keeping tabs on my players?” He chuckled and was looking forward to adding a picture to his desk of his niece. Couldn’t wait to spend more time with her. He felt awful she was sad, but he was excited to get some quality bonding time.

“I can get laid every night,” Callie countered. “I am also just looking for the one I want to fuck every night.”

“Is that why you hooked up with that hot girl from Seattle? So you could fuck her every night?” Lang chuckled.

“I would love to fuck her every night,” he groaned.

“Me too,” Asher agreed.

“Not with this job,” Harry snorted. Charlie was suddenly and acutely, more aware of the sexuality of his players. Hearing that his beautiful, sweet, kind, and intelligent niece was practically on her way to the clubhouse... he had to give a warning.

He had already warned her of Harry... because it was no secret he enjoyed spending time with women. But the thought of any of his players with his niece made his blood boil. Especially knowing that Kael hurt her in some way that was making her uproot her life.

However, he couldn’t help but notice the tinge of sadness in Harry’s voice. It was overpowered by the idea of murdering his best player if he hurt the sweet girl about to take photos of them all, but he still heard it.

“The boys will love you,” Charlie warned.

“Plenty of people have wives and girlfriends in the league,” Niall reminded his best friend.

“Good for them. M’happy with m’situation,” he affirmed with the same shrug in his voice. “No strings, no heartache, and a whole lot of fun,” he chuckled.

“I’m sure I’ll love them. They probably hate Kael as much as I do,” she sniffled.

He frowned. “Do you need help, Sweetheart? Moving or anything?”

“No... I’m leaving a lot behind. I just have to get out of here.”

“I’m so sorry, Sweetheart.”

“It’s okay,” her voice broke again. “It’s for the best.”

“Call me if you need anything. Are you flying?”

“Yes.”

“Have a safe flight, Sweetheart.”

“Thanks Uncle Charlie. Thank Uncle Ray for me as well.”

Charlie pushed back from his desk and headed to the locker room, his hands in his pockets as he watched the players in their various states of dress and undress. He leaned against the wall casually. “Team meeting,” he called.

They all glanced at their head coach’s office. They all knew Ray was tending to business elsewhere, so they were confused about their meeting. They watched with rapt attention, Lang quieted the younger guys with his captain authority and waited for the announcement.

“My niece is coming to be part of the media staff,” he stated.

“Finally,” Callie cheered. “It’s about time we got some pretty motivation around here.”

“Which is exactly why I’m having this conversation, Calloway,” he narrowed his eyes at him. “She is completely off-limits. She’s done with hockey players.”

“She’s got a thing for hockey players?!” Asher perked up excitedly.

“I just said she’s done with you lot.”

“Hit too many times into the boards, Coach,” Callie smiled. “Can’t understand you sometimes.”

“If I find out that any of you, so much as breathe on her when she doesn’t want it, I’ll kill you. Then bench you,” he threatened. “Even Niall,” he added.

The team looked at one another in surprise. Niall was the golden boy. He was their goalie. The sweetest by far on the team.

Coach meant business.

“Didn’t know you had a niece coach,” Lang mumbled. “Everything okay?”

“No,” he said. “We also hate Kael Crowe more.”

“Oh, y’should have led with that, Coach,” Harry rubbed his hands together excitedly. “Can’t wait t’wreck him for two reasons now.”

“Holy shit, this is your niece, Charlie? Thank God your genetics are weak,” Callie grinned holding his phone in front of him.

“Let me see!” Asher crowded nearby and then the rest of the team was itching and moving to huddle around Callie’s phone to get a look at his niece. Charlie snagged his phone from his hand and dropped it in the trash can without so much as a second glance.

“Hey!”

“Off-limits. All of you,” his eyes paused on Harry for an extra second. “Styles, my office.”

“Ooh...” the sound echoed while Callie stuck his head halfway into the trash bin filled with medical tape and discarded Gatorade bottles to retrieve his phone.

Harry sighed, rolled his eyes, and followed Coach. Once inside, he closed the office door. Harry sat in the seat across from his desk. “You can’t fight Kael, not for my niece.”

“T’be fair coach, I was going t’fight him anyway,” he shrugged. “Y’jus’ gave me another reason t’win.”

“You are not to fuck with my family,” he stated next. “Do you understand?”

“Why are you singling me out?” he frowned.

He was right to, but he didn’t really want his coach knowing of that. He looked up to Charlie and he wanted to earn his respect. “Because I know you’re popular with the ladies... and my niece is too sweet and doesn’t deserve her heart to be broken by the two top forwards in the league.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Crowe isn’t even that good.”

Charlie snorted. “Not the point.”

“What is the point?”

“If you hurt my niece, I’ll kill you. Which is bad for the team. I love this team, Harry.”

“M’not gonna hurt her,” he rolled his eyes. “M’very respectful towards women,” he reminded him.

“From the sound of what I hear, you really respect women.”

Harry felt the slightest bit of shame creep up from his chest, up his throat, and a burning sensation filled his cheeks. “I do,” his voice was quiet. Because he meant it. He may have slept with a lot of women, but he respected them first and foremost.

“My niece is off limits.”

“Isn’t she old enough t’make her own decisions?” He asked. See? Respectful. She deserved to decide herself if Harry was worth her time. Harry didn’t even want a girlfriend. He was happy with his life. It made sense. There wasn’t time for a girlfriend. Wasn’t time for love that made his heart stutter. Retirement. That was when he would find a girl and get the family he always dreamed of having. Right now, was for hockey and sex.

“She’s vulnerable, Harry. She’s going through a hard time right now and she doesn’t need you to be... you while she figures things out.”

Harry frowned and glanced away. It felt like he was in trouble at the principal’s office. “M’not going t’do anything,” he mumbled.

“She’s the best, Harry. Literally the best. You cannot hurt her.”

“Jesus Coach, I won’t. Fuck. Y’gonna give Callie this talk?”

“Callie doesn’t have a list of women in every city. Callie doesn’t come telling the locker room his conquests from the previous night.”

Harry could feel his blood boiling. But he was right. “You’re a tremendous young man, Harry,” Coach said gently, and Harry swallowed down the emotion in his throat, he was angry, frustrated, and hurt. It was all his own doing and for what? So, he wouldn’t hit on Coach’s niece? Whatever, he couldn’t date a woman anyway. Not with his schedule. He wasn’t going to fall in love. He didn’t deserve it.

Coach was right. It was bitter and awful to feel. But he was. Harry wasn’t the love and relationship guy. Not right now.

“I just don’t want my niece to get her heart broken again.”

Harry nodded silently. “We’re done here?” He asked.

“Done,” he responded.

Harry practically jumped out of the chair so quickly it tipped a bit before righting itself. He slammed the office door open so hard he was surprised the glass didn’t shatter. Fuming, he headed toward the rink. He punched the wall hard and then growled out a moan as he clutched his hand to his chest and turned toward the trainer’s office hoping he only sprained his finger and not broke the knuckle for the beginning of the season.

*Present*

Harry came home from a grueling day at practice. His body was aching, and he missed the pretty photographer that seemed as much of a fixture of the rink as net or bench. But she wasn’t truly needed for the day, and she was working at The Locker Room that night,so she wanted to get some things done around the house.

Not that Harry didn’t insist that he could hire someone to clean now that it was worth cleaning. When it was just him, he didn’t care much. But now his princess lived with him, and he didn’t want her living in filth.

“Hi, Harry!” She called.

Harry smiled instantly, all the achiness and exhaustion melted off him. Her voice carried from the living room. Michael and Marc were on the sofa playing a video game while she snuggled on the chair with her book. Harry leaned over the back of her chair and kissed the top of her head. “Hi Rookie,” he grinned and gave her shoulder a squeeze.

“Where’s my kiss?” Marc asked.

“Shut up,” Michael rolled his eyes. “You sound desperate, and you have a boyfriend.”

“We both have a mutual understanding about Harry.”

She shook her head, ignoring her friends while she flipped to the next page. “There’s food on the stove; it just finished a little bit ago.”

“It’s delicious,” Marc added. “I didn’t think chickpeas could taste that good but put it with sweet potatoes and veggies and apparently I’m in.”

Harry chuckled to himself and went to the kitchen to make himself a plate.

“We’ll get out of your hair,” Michael said.

“Speak for yourself!” Marc frowned. “I don’t have my study dates anymore.”

Harry brought his plate back to the living room and stood in front of her. She finished her page and looked up with a grin. “Can I help you?”

“Get up,” Harry murmured. She tilted her head at him.

“Why?”

“Jus’ get up,” he sighed. “M’tired, Bunny. Please don’t argue,” he mumbled and yawned as if to prove his point.

She giggled but stood up. Instantly, Harry sat down and with his free hand pulled her down to his lap. She shifted slightly so he could eat comfortably, and she could read without putting too much pressure on his leg or groin. “There’s a whole couch over here you know,” Marc patted the seat beside him with a megawatt grin. He also squished Michael into the other end of the couch at the same time.

“You’re pathetic,” Michael saved his progress and stood. “Thanks for letting us come over, babe,” he squeezed her shoulder as he passed her and headed for the front door. “Marc, let’s get out of their hair.”

He sighed dramatically. “Bye babe,” he mumbled. “Bye Harry,” his voice was flirtier and airy as he spoke to him. Harry smirked around his bite of food.

“Bye Marc. Bye Michael.” Once they heard the door close, she stood from the chair to give Harry some breathing room.

Tried to, anyway.

“Where are y’going?” he grumbled, frowning as he snagged her with one hand and tugged her back almost dropping his yummy food in the process. She sat right back in his lap. She turned, grabbing his plate while he adjusted her so she sat cradled on his legs. She fed him another bite as she spoke.

“I was just giving you space to eat.”

“What ‘bout me says I want space from you?” He questioned, his eyebrows pinching together in the process.

“You’re a fun boyfriend,” she giggled feeding him another bite.

He rolled his eyes. “M-hmm. Why’s it so cold in here?” He asked, taking another forkful of his food. She wiped her thumb on the corner of his mouth as she shrugged.

“To save money. It was just me for most of the day.”

He frowned. His heart aching for her. “Kitten, y’don’t need t’save money on heat. I don’t want you t’be cold. Y’don’t live in your apartment anymore,” he reminded her.

“I know, but still...it seems...wasteful.”

“S’not. Nothing ‘bout you is wasteful, Rookie,” he promised gently and kissed her cheek. “S’cold at the rink, want t’come home t’a warm house with a warm girlfriend.”

She tucked her face into his neck and Harry squeezed his arm around her waist sympathetically. He leaned forward to set the plate on the coffee table and pulled her closer to him and rocked her gently for a moment in his lap. “I suppose m’partial to this though,” he practically moaned kissing her neck. The need to say I love you was so prominent. It was aching to leave his mouth. She felt so good in his arms. He wanted her to melt into his body so they could meld into one person, and he would never have to leave her. “Missed you,” he mumbled instead.

“Oh, thank God. I missed you too. I thought I was insane. It wasn’t that long but I missed you anyway.”

He practically groaned. “Don’t go to work, Bunny...”

“Harry!” She giggled. “I have to,” she rubbed his back and pulled his face from her throat so she could read his eyes. “You don’t have to come out—”

“Of course, m’going t’come out. Jus’ because we’re dating doesn’t mean m’gonna change everything. I just get to fuck you now,” he cupped her jaw and parted her lips with his own. He had that boyish smile pressed against her mouth as she laughed into the kiss.

“You had a long day though, you should stay—”

“I can’t be away from y’for this long, Rookie. I’ll go insane.”

She opened her mouth to say something but at that moment her phone rang. “I’m sorry I have to take this,” she sighed. “Hello...? This is she. Thank you for getting back to me,” she listened closely, and he could see her thinking actively as she listened, calculating, and questioning something that was said. “I just don’t understand how that’s possible. I’ve had this policy for years. Since I first got my license. I’ve been such a loyal customer and—”

Harry’s lips parted. “Oh, shit,” he whispered.

She looked up at him and realization colored her face as well as his own. She put together that Harry knew exactly what happened with his quiet expletive. “I’m so sorry, can you please hold on one second?” She pulled her phone from her ear and muted it. “What?”

“Is that your car insurance?” He asked quietly.

“Yeah, I got a notice that my policy was terminated and I—”

Harry sucked his lip into his mouth and sighed. “That’s my fault.”

She stared at him. “Why?” She asked.

“Well... I figured y’were driving m’car it would be easier t’have you on m’insurance. So... I jus’ kinda told them y’lived here and...”

“How did you get my information?” She asked her eyebrows pinched together. She didn’t seem mad.

“Well... I really only needed your birthday—”

She gasped as the understanding came over her in an instant. “Is that why you asked about my birthday the first time I came over?” She whispered. Her eyes watered almost instantly, and Harry frowned.

He asked for her birthday months ago. He put her on his car insurance months ago. They weren’t even a thing. Not even in the way the rest of the team insinuated when they were at the airport, or when she wore Niall’s jersey.

“Yes,” he nodded and brushed his thumb beneath her eye even though no tear had fallen. “S’when I gave you my car t’borrow,” he shrugged. “I didn’t want you t’have t’worry ‘bout anything—”

She swallowed hard, her throat bobbing as she dropped her eyes to her lap. She put the phone back to her ear after unmuting. “Sorry about that, I figured out what happened... I’m sorry for the confusion, everything is all set. Thank you for the help,” she hung up and she looked at Harry, her face pouting so cutely Harry wanted to take a picture of her himself. Honestly, he wanted to capture every emotion that crossed her pretty face on film so he could look at it when he missed her. Even if she was only gone for a few hours. “Harry,” she said seriously, her voice catching as she said his name. It practically broke his heart to hear her say it with so much admiration. He didn’t deserve it. She was perfect and she deserved so much better than a hot-tempered hockey player who was busy seven months out of the year.

“Yeah?” He asked tentatively. Maybe she was upset. An overreach yet again. But he wanted her to have the best of everything. Car insurance to make her safer. A car that wasn’t going to break down at a moment’s notice. An art gallery displaying beautiful photos of the sports world she loved perhaps as much as he did if not more.

“How did you get the reputation you did?” She began and Harry felt his stomach nearly fall out from him. She was in his arms, unmoving, but he was so scared she was going to bolt. Why wouldn’t she? He overstepped a lot. He was clingy and he was gone so much. He had never been so in love with someone, and he couldn’t even tell her. Somehow, he offended her, and he couldn’t help but think about when coach had told him she was off limits. Harry didn’t deserve love because of his schedule and who he was. Top player in more than one way. No wonder coach threatened him. Here he was not enough once more and now she realized it.

“No one has ever been as kind to me as you. Or as thoughtful. I feel so adored—so seen by you,” Harry’s heartbeat flew.

He was wrong. She wasn’t upset. He felt his throat tighten on his vocal cords as he tried to say something to stop her so he could beat her to the punch. But she left him speechless. Utterly stunned that she was going to say it before him. “I love you so much I can’t keep it in any longer,” she held his gaze as she said it, only blurred slightly by her own unshed tears. “You don’t have to say it if I’m too soon or if—”

Harry crushed her to his chest and buried his face in her hair against her neck once more. He tried to work his jaw to loosen his vocal cords, but the ache wouldn’t go away. Then he sniffled unwillingly. “Fuck,” he whispered. “You weren’t supposed t’say it first, Bunny. I wanted t’say it after our first real night together,” he croaked. “I love you so much, I’ve waited m’whole life for you, Rookie. I don’t deserve you or—”

“Harry,” she cooed. “Baby,” she frowned cupping his face. “Of course I deserve you. You’ve been taking care of me from the moment you caught me from slipping on the ice the first day I met you,” she reminded him. “You have cared for me in ways no one ever has. You could have said it, baby,” she peppered kisses along his hairline so sweetly it made him want to cry harder.

Perhaps he was hiding all these years about how badly he wanted this kind of love. How much he wanted to love someone. All the women he had been with were lovely in their own way. Served a purpose, but it wasn’t real. They couldn’t be. It never would have worked. Now that he knew what this felt like with the beautiful woman who took pictures of his team, it seemed so obvious.

“I love you so, so much,” she whispered in his ear and clutched to him despite the fact she knew she probably turned his leg numb from holding her for so long. “I’m sorry I pushed you away, baby. You didn’t deserve that... I don’t deserve you. You’re perfect in every way. I wouldn’t change a second of our relationship or an ounce of your personality. I know we joke, but I was right: any girl would be lucky to have you and I’m the luckiest there is.”

Harry was hopeful the guys never found out that he burst into tears over the pretty girl on his lap telling him she loved him for the first time.

But even if they did, he wouldn’t mind. He was too in love to care.

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[starmaidengarden]

Can i request a s/o say "see you tomorrow" but when he turns away they immediately grab his sleeves (maybe they don't want to leave him yet)😭 thank you so much!!❤️❤️

— Housewardens : x gn!reader. no cw/tw. established relationship. dividers: uzmacchiato.

note: I seen your ask about wanting the housewardens! I had a fun time writing this so hope you enjoy!!

Riddle Rosehearts ༉⋆｡˚

"Tomorrow, then," he says with a neat nod, prepared to walk off with hands neatly behind his back—when he feels it. A gentle tug at his sleeve. He stops mid-step, almost startled by the contact. He turns, a flush already climbing his neck. “Is… is something wrong?” he asks, confused. You shake your head and smile, still holding his sleeve like a lifeline. He stares for a moment, and the realization dawns on him slowly. His cheeks darken more. “You… just wanted me to stay?” he murmurs. His posture relaxes, a rare vulnerability flashing across his features. “I-I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to stay… just a little longer. For you.”

Leona Kingscholar ༉⋆｡˚

Leona leans against the archway as you say goodbye, eyes half-lidded, voice low and gruff. “Yeah, yeah. See you tomorrow.” He gives a lazy wave with one hand, already turning to go. His tail flicks idly behind him. Then—tug. He halts, shoulders tensing. You’ve taken hold of his sleeve, just barely. You’re looking down—quiet, hesitant. Like you're trying not to seem clingy. Like you're afraid of asking for more. He glances over his shoulder, one brow arched. You nod, sheepishly. “I just… wanted a bit more time with you.” Leona sighs. Long. Drawn out. But he doesn’t pull away. “…Tch. You’re real annoying sometimes, you know that?” he mutters, though there’s no heat in it. “…Guess I didn’t really feel like leaving yet either,” he mumbles. “You just beat me to it.”

Azul Ashengrotto ༉⋆｡˚

Azul bows slightly, ever the gentleman. “Until tomorrow, my pearl.” He turns on his heel, coat flaring. And then—tug. Your fingers hold his sleeve delicately like you’re afraid to break a spell. He stops immediately, looking over his shoulder with wide, uncertain eyes. "...Oh?" he says, voice barely above the night breeze. You don’t respond. You just give him that soft look—the one that makes his composure waver every time. His breath catches. “I see… you don’t want the evening to end yet.” A small, real smile touches his lips, He gently takes your hand, intertwining your fingers. “Neither do I.”

Kalim Al-Asim ༉⋆｡˚

“See ya tomorrow!” Kalim beams, arms wide as if he’s trying to hug the entire evening sky. “Can’t wait to see you again!” He’s already halfway into a joyful spin when—tug. He stumbles slightly, blinking down at your fingers curled around his sleeve. His brows rise in curiosity. “Whoa—hey! What’s up?” he asks brightly. “Did I forget something? You okay?”You shake your head, For a second, he blinks. Then that smile returns—softer now. Deeper. He gently places his hand over yours on his sleeve. “Huh? You wanna hang out a little more?” he asks, voice almost breathless with wonder. “Aww, I was hoping you'd say that! I wasn’t ready to say goodbye either!”

Vil Schoenheit ༉⋆｡˚

The golden twilight frames his silhouette perfectly—of course it does. Vil always seems touched by sunlight, regal even in the quietest moments. He brushes a strand of his immaculate hair behind his ear, already half-turned. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.” You smile, nodding. Already poised to walk off when he feels a gentle tug on his sleeve. He pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “…Darling?” His voice is soft, but there’s a thread of concern woven in. “Something wrong?” You don’t speak. You just look up at him with that quiet, aching expression—the one that says I’m not ready for this moment to end. Vil inhales, then exhales like he’s shedding a layer of performance. His eyes soften, expression shifting from polished to painfully real. “Ah,” he murmurs. “Well… who am I to deny you a little more of my company?” he says, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Let’s take the long way back then."

Idia Shroud ༉⋆｡˚

Your goodbye is brief—almost too brief. “See you tomorrow,” he mumbles, trying to scuttle away before his social battery dies. Hoodie up, eyes avoiding yours. He turns, taking one step, then another tug. He freezes. You’re holding onto his sleeve, just enough that it stops him mid-stride. He turns his head slightly, hair glowing faintly with the smallest hint of pink, his voice even smaller. “y-yeah?” he asks, barely above a whisper. You don’t say anything, just look at him. And that look says everything. “Okay… just five more minutes. Or twenty. Or... however long you want.”

Malleus Draconia ༉⋆｡˚

“Until we meet again,” Malleus says solemnly, gazing down at you with timeless grace. He turns, the weight of the night settling around him—when he feels a light tug at his sleeve. He pauses. Slowly, he turns his head, puzzled. “…You wish for me to stay?” There’s something almost childlike in the wonder behind his question. Like he’s still not used to someone wanting his company. You nod gently, fingers still curled into his sleeve. He looks at your hand, then back to you. Slowly, he smiles—something soft and ancient blooming in his expression. “Then I shall stay. Even until all the stars die out.”

[sixeyesonathiel]

cw: dubcon, non-con elements, somnophilia, manipulation, codependency, obsessive behavior, jealousy, netorare themes, explicit sexual content (penetrative sex, oral, fingering, degradation, breeding kink, choking, spit kink), voyeuristic surveillance, panty theft, dacryphilia, power imbalance, emotional abuse, forced dependence, explicit language, 18+ only, minors DNI.

rich boy roommate satoru who’s the sole heir of the gojo conglomerate, a silver-spooned prince with eyes like shattered sapphires and a grin that cuts deeper than any blade, born into a world where desire is a currency he spends without thought, yet starved for something real beneath the polished veneer of his charmed life. his penthouse is a glass cathedral overlooking tokyo, where he throws lavish parties to drown out the silence of his own heart, but it’s the glimpse of you—singing in a smoky bar, fake diamonds glinting in your ears, rented dress clinging to your curves—that snags his attention like a hook in his throat. he books you that night, not for your body, but for the way your sharp tongue slices through his bullshit, offering you a room in his apartment by dawn because he can’t stand the thought of you slipping back into the grime of your world.

rich boy roommate satoru who you meet under the dim glow of a bar’s stage lights, your voice a sultry thread weaving through the crowd, fake earrings catching the flicker of neon as you belt out lyrics about heartbreak you’ve never let yourself feel. he’s lounging in a vip booth, all long limbs and careless charisma, but his gaze locks onto you—not your body, but the defiance in your eyes, the way you hold the mic like it’s a weapon, and when he approaches you after, offering a wad of cash for “just a chat,” you laugh in his face, thinking he’s another rich prick playing games, until his soft, persistent charm and a promise of no strings convinces you to follow him to a quiet diner where he listens, really listens, to your stories of scraping by. by morning, he’s dangling keys to a spare apartment in his building, calling it a favor, but the hunger in his stare when you accept betrays the lie—he’s already weaving a web to keep you close.

rich boy roommate satoru who wastes no time reshaping your world, his generosity a velvet trap as he floods your closet with dresses, silk skirts so short they barely skim your thighs, tops that hug your tits until they spill over, all delivered with a sheepish grin and an “oops, must’ve misjudged the size.” he insists he’ll toss them and order replacements, but you, stubborn and wary of owing him more than you already do, shrug and wear them anyway, oblivious to how his breath hitches, eyes darken when he catches you in the kitchen, your tits practically falling out as you pour coffee. every morning, he tells himself he’s saving you from the life you led before him, erasing the cheap glitter of fake diamonds with real ones—earrings and a necklace that gleam like his wealth, a sparkling collar to mark you as his.

rich boy roommate satoru who can’t stand the thought of you selling yourself to strangers, his jaw tightening when you mention your clients, their sweaty hands and clumsy thrusts, because in his mind, you’re too good for that filth, too pure for the muck of your past. he tells himself he’s protecting you, offering you a job at one of his company’s cushy offices—easy work, fat paychecks—but when you shyly refuse, citing the debt you already owe him for the apartment, his blood simmers, because how can you be so demure, so soft-spoken, when you’re spreading your legs for anyone with enough cash? he masks his irritation with a lazy smile, thinking he’ll mold that innocence into something that belongs only to him, even if it means breaking you first.

rich boy roommate satoru who’s got eyes everywhere, not that you’d ever notice—tiny cameras tucked into the corners of your apartment, hidden in the vase of roses he sent, capturing every moment you think is private. he watches you on his phone at 3 a.m., your silhouette slipping out of a too-tight dress, or your fingers brushing against your panties as you change, and he’s hard as a rock, stroking himself to the sight of you unaware, his own private show. he tells himself it’s to keep you safe, to make sure no one else is touching what’s his, but the truth is he’s addicted to the thrill, to the secret of owning you without you knowing.

rich boy roommate satoru who’s got a habit of slipping into your room while you sleep, the city lights casting shadows over your face as he stands over you, heart pounding like a drum in his chest. he traces the curve of your hip with a featherlight touch, sometimes sliding your panties aside to slip a finger inside you, feeling your warmth clench around him as you stir, half-conscious, thinking it’s a dream. he’s careful not to wake you fully, but the thought of you waking up, catching him knuckle-deep, makes his cock throb, because even if you screamed, he knows he could make you beg for more.

rich boy roommate satoru who’s always stealing your panties, pocketing the lacy ones you wear for clients, the ones still damp with your scent, and keeping them in a locked drawer in his penthouse. late at night, he presses them to his face, inhaling deep, jerking himself raw to the thought of you wearing them for someone else, only to come back to him, his bed, his world. it’s a sick ritual, but it fuels his obsession, a reminder that no matter who fucks you, he’s the one who owns your soul.

rich boy roommate satoru who’s got a silver tongue, seduction dripping from every word when he leans close, whispering how much better he could make you feel than those clumsy johns you service. he’ll catch you in the kitchen, pressing himself against your back, his cock hard against your ass as he murmurs about how he’d eat you out until you’re sobbing, how he’d fuck you so deep you’d forget every other man. you laugh it off, thinking it’s just satoru being satoru, but the way his eyes darken tells you he’s not joking—he’s waiting for the moment you say yes.

rich boy roommate satoru who buys you everything—designer bags, heels that make your legs look endless, perfumes that linger on his sheets—but it’s the diamond necklace he clasps around your throat that feels like a chain. he tells you it’s to replace the cheap shit you used to wear, to make you shine like you deserve, but deep down, he’s marking you, branding you as his creation, his doll to dress up and parade. every time you wear it, he’s reminded of how he’s rewriting your past, making you someone who belongs to him and no one else.

rich boy roommate satoru who’s always touching you, casual but deliberate—fingers brushing your neck when he adjusts your necklace, a hand lingering on your waist when he guides you through a crowded party. he’ll tug you onto his lap during movie nights, his breath hot against your ear as he teases about how you’d look better naked, and though you swat him away, the heat pooling between your thighs betrays how much you crave his touch. he knows it, too, and the smirk on his face says he’s just waiting for you to break.

rich boy roommate satoru who’s got a knack for showing up when you’re with clients, “accidentally” running into you at hotels or bars, his charming grin masking the rage in his eyes when he sees another man’s hand on you. he’ll slide up, all smooth talk and expensive cologne, introducing himself as your “friend” while his grip on your arm screams mine, and the client scurries off, intimidated by the sheer force of his presence. later, he’ll fuck you in his car, rough and possessive, growling about how no one else can have you, his cock slamming into you so hard the seat creaks, leaving you trembling and marked.

rich boy roommate satoru who’s obsessed with your stories, the way you recount your clients’ fumbling attempts at pleasure with a laugh, detailing their quick finishes and awkward groping. he listens, leaning forward, cock straining in his pants as he imagines you under them, only to replace them in his mind—his hands, his mouth, his dick making you scream instead. he tells himself he’s better than them, that you deserve him, but the twisted part of him loves the details, loves jerking off to the thought of you being used, because it makes his claim on you that much sweeter.

rich boy roommate satoru who tries to wean you off escorting, dangling carrots like a trust fund or a private studio where you could sing instead, his voice soft but insistent as he paints a picture of a life without strangers’ hands on you. you hesitate, not because you love the job, but because his gifts—the apartment, the clothes, the jewelry—already feel like shackles, and taking more would mean surrendering the last shred of your freedom. he hides his frustration behind a playful pout, but inside, he’s seething, because you’re choosing that dirty world over him, and he won’t let that stand.

rich boy roommate satoru who’s got a thing for your demure nature, the way you blush when he compliments your singing or duck your head when he stares too long, and it drives him fucking wild that you can be so shy while spreading your legs for strangers. he’ll tease you about it, calling you his “little contradiction,” but there’s an edge to his voice, a quiet fury that you can play innocent while letting random men fuck you raw. he wants to ruin that shyness, to make you so dependent on his praise, his touch, that you’ll never look at another man again.

rich boy roommate satoru who’s always pushing boundaries, like the time he “helps” you relax after a long night, his fingers kneading your shoulders before slipping lower, massaging your tits through your dress until you’re gasping. he’ll chuckle, acting like it’s all a game, but when you don’t stop him, he’s sliding a hand between your thighs, fingering you until you’re soaking his wrist, your moans echoing in the penthouse. he doesn’t let you come, though, pulling away with a smirk, saying you’ll have to beg for it next time, conditioning you to need his hands, his control.

rich boy roommate satoru who’s got a savior complex, not that he’d admit it, convincing himself he’s pulling you out of the gutter, giving you a life you could never have without him. he’ll buy you a grand piano for your singing, install it in his penthouse, and watch you play, thinking he’s giving you a future, not a cage. every gift, every favor, is a thread in the net he’s weaving, and when you thank him with that guileless smile, he feels like a god, even as he’s plotting to keep you his forever.

rich boy roommate satoru who loses his shit when you tell him about your new boyfriend, some stable, kind nobody who takes you to coffee shops and holds your hand like you’re fragile. he’s livid, pacing his penthouse, because he’s been pouring his soul into you—paying your bills, dressing you up, listening to your every word—and you throw it away for a guy who’ll probably fuck you in missionary and call it love? he corners you one night, voice low and dangerous, saying you’re ungrateful, that you’re wasting yourself on someone who can’t fuck you like he can, and the hurt in his eyes cuts deeper than his words.

rich boy roommate satoru who starts sabotaging your relationship, subtle at first—cancelling your dates by “accidentally” scheduling emergencies, planting doubts with offhand comments about how “normal” guys get bored fast. he’ll hack your phone, reading your texts, smirking at your boyfriend’s sappy messages, then send anonymous tips to make him question your loyalty. when that’s not enough, he’ll fuck you in your sleep, slipping into your bed while you’re out cold, his cock sliding into your slick cunt as he groans your name, knowing you���ll wake up sore and confused, wondering why your boyfriend’s touch doesn’t feel the same.

rich boy roommate satoru who’s relentless in bed, the night he finally snaps, pinning you to his mattress, his hands bruising your wrists as he fucks you like he’s punishing you for choosing someone else. his cock slams into you, deep and unforgiving, each thrust hitting your cervix until you’re crying, babbling “i love you, satoru, i love you,” as he chokes you just enough to make your head spin, spit dripping from his lips into your open mouth. he grabs your phone, video-calling your boyfriend mid-thrust, angling the camera to show his balls slapping against your ass, your tits bouncing, your face twisted in pleasure as you scream his name, making sure your boyfriend sees every second of you falling apart.

rich boy roommate satoru who doesn’t stop after the call ends, flipping you onto your stomach, fucking you into the sheets until your voice is hoarse, your body trembling from overstimulation. he’ll pull your hair, growling about how no one else can make you come like this, how your pussy was made for him, and when you’re sobbing, begging for a break, he’ll slow down just to edge you, keeping you teetering on the brink until you’re pleading for his cum. he’ll fill you up, groaning as your cunt milks him dry, then spread your legs to watch it drip out, marking you as his, knowing you’ll never go back to that nobody after this.

rich boy roommate satoru who thrives on your tears, the way they streak your face when he fucks you too hard or when you realize your boyfriend’s gone for good, and he’ll lick them off your cheeks, his tongue hot and possessive. he tells you it’s your fault for pushing him to this, for making him jealous, but the truth is he loves seeing you broken, loves knowing he’s the only one who can piece you back together. every sob makes his cock twitch, and he’ll fuck you again, slower this time, whispering that you’re his, always his, until you’re too exhausted to cry anymore.

rich boy roommate satoru who conditions you to crave him, making you dependent on his touch, his voice, his money, until you can’t imagine a life without him. he’ll withhold affection when you mention work, only to shower you with it when you stay home, training you like a pet to seek his approval, his cock, his bed. by the time you realize you’re trapped, you’re too addicted to his chaos, to the way he makes you feel alive, to ever leave, even when you catch glimpses of the cameras, the stolen panties, the truth of what he’s done.

rich boy roommate satoru who moves you to a new city, far from anyone who might remember your old life, setting you up in a penthouse identical to his, where he can watch you through the cameras he’s installed there too. he’ll visit unannounced, fucking you against the floor-to-ceiling windows, your body exposed to the skyline as he whispers about how no one else will ever have you, how he’s your future, your everything. you don’t argue, because deep down, you know he’s right—you’re his, and the thought of anyone else touching you now feels like a betrayal.

rich boy roommate satoru who buys you a ring, not an engagement ring, but something heavier, a band of diamonds that sits like a collar on your finger, a constant reminder of who owns you. he’ll slide it on while you’re sucking him off, his cock stuffed down your throat as he murmurs about how it’s a promise—you’ll never need to sell yourself again, because you’re his to fuck, his to love, his to ruin. you gag around him, tears mixing with spit, and he laughs, thrusting deeper, knowing you’re too far gone to say no.

rich boy roommate satoru who owns you completely by the end, your body and soul molded to fit his desires, your days spent waiting for his touch, your nights filled with his cock and his voice. he’ll fuck you whenever he wants—on the kitchen counter, in the shower, while you’re half-asleep—each time more possessive, more demanding, until you’re nothing but his slut, his doll, his everything, and you love it, love the way he’s broken you down to nothing but him. you’ll wear his skimpy dresses, his diamonds, his marks, and when he pulls you onto his lap at parties, showing you off like a trophy, you’ll smile, because you’re his, forever his, and there’s no one else you’d rather be.

[enhaflixer]

pjs. The Marriage Law

synopsis: A Marriage Law was the last thing you expected to dictate your future, let alone shackle you to Park Jongseong. A pureblood heir, painfully composed, infuriatingly good at everything, and—unfortunately—now your husband.

What starts as reluctant cohabitation, filled with awkward silences and sharp words, slowly unravels into something neither of you can ignore. Stolen glances, fleeting touches, and the illusion of normalcy turn into a dangerous game neither of you meant to play. Is it all for show? Or has the line between pretend and real already disappeared?

But love alone isn’t enough to erase the past—or the law that forced you together. As the Ministry looms over your every move, and whispers of rebellion grow louder, you and Jay must decide: fight the law, or fight for each other.

wc: around 20.5K

warnings: Marriage Law AU, Harry Potter AU, forced marriage, government control, slow burn, forced proximity, awkward domesticity, enemies to lovers, bickering, rivalry, mutual annoyance, emotional angst, hurt/comfort, doubt, insecurities, fear of the future, eventual smut, explicit sexual content, sexual tension, intense intimacy, fear of love, conflicted feelings, vulnerability, mentions of pregnancy, future parenthood, domesticity, soft Jay, pining, repressed feelings, denial, yearning, lingering touches, stolen glances, smut, sexual content, F! receiving.

A/N: PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU GUYS THINK I'D REALLY APPRECIATE THE FEEDBACK!!!!!

Masterlist

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The owl came at dawn.

You woke to the sharp tap, tap, tap against your window, the early morning light bleeding through the tattered curtains of your London flat. Sleep still clung to your body, but the incessant tapping forced you upright, rubbing the remnants of last night’s exhaustion from your eyes. You recognized the Ministry’s wax seal before your fingers even touched the envelope. Your stomach dropped.

It was here.

The letter you had been dreading for months. The whispers of the Marriage Law had been circulating for nearly a year, rumors passed between hushed conversations at pubs, in hidden corners of Diagon Alley, and among former classmates who refused to believe that the government could enforce such a thing. But deep down, you had known it was only a matter of time. The Ministry had already been heading in this direction for years, pushing for more control under the guise of restoration.

With a deep breath, you slid your nail under the seal, breaking it with a snap. The parchment unfurled in your hands, the ink dark against the crisp paper.

Dear Miss Y/N, By decree of the Magical Unity Act, you have been assigned a partner as part of the Ministry’s initiative to preserve and strengthen magical bloodlines. Your assigned match:  Park Jongseong. Pureblood. You are required to present yourself at the Ministry within 48 hours for the formalization of your union. Failure to comply will result in consequences deemed necessary by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We trust you will uphold your duty to preserve our magical world. Sincerely, Matilda Greengrass Head of the Magical Unity Office

Park Jongseong. Of all the people in the world, it had to be him.

You weren’t sure what to think. You had never hated Jongseong—not really. He had always been there in the background, a constant presence in your classes, a name that lingered on the top of exam scores just above yours. He was the type of person who excelled quietly, never rubbing his victories in your face, but still managing to be infuriating simply by existing. You had no idea what he thought of you. If he had any feelings about your academic rivalry, he had never shown it.

And now, he was going to be your husband.

You hadn’t even processed the letter properly before you found yourself in a booth at The Leaky Cauldron, sitting across from Riki. You had sent an urgent owl the moment you had read the letter, needing to talk to someone—anyone—who might understand.

Riki was younger than you by only a couple of years, but you had always seen him as something of a younger brother—mischievous, quick-witted, and annoyingly perceptive when it came to your emotions. He was the kind of friend who teased you relentlessly but would hex anyone who dared to cross you. If there was anyone you could turn to in a moment like this, it was him.

“You got him?” Riki’s eyebrows shot up when you showed him the parchment. “That’s...sure, yeah.”

You groaned, letting your head fall into your hands. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Well, I mean—it could be worse, " Riki shrugged, taking a sip of his Butterbeer, “He’s not, like, awful. He’s just...Jongseong. A bit awkward, not much of a talker, but not the worst person to be tied to for life.”

You groaned again. “That’s supposed to be comforting?”

He grinned. “A little,”

You shook your head, trying to focus. “I don’t even know how I’m going to tell my parents. They’re barely involved in my life as it is, and now I have to explain to them that I’ve been legally bound to someone they don’t even know?”

Riki’s face softened. He knew how complicated your relationship with your parents was—how they had never truly accepted the magical world, even after you got your Hogwarts letter. “You don’t have to tell them right away,” he said gently. “Focus on getting through this first.”

The Ministry of Magic smelled like ink, parchment, and old magic. The weight of history pressed down upon you as you walked through its grand halls, flanked by Aurors ensuring that every witch and wizard assigned under the Magical Unity Act appeared for their mandated marriage registrations. The building was colder than you remembered, or maybe it was the weight of what was about to happen that made you shiver.

Jongseong was already waiting when you arrived, standing stiffly in the corridor outside the registration chamber. His posture was impeccable, shoulders squared, his hands buried in the pockets of his finely tailored robes. The deep green fabric complimented his sharp features, accentuating the strong lines of his jaw and the dark intensity of his eyes. There was always something enigmatic about Jongseong—he was the type of person who carried an air of quiet authority, a man who never wasted unnecessary words. He rarely let his emotions show, but now, even beneath his composed expression, you could see the subtle signs of tension—the way his fingers tapped idly against the parchment he held, the way his lips pressed together a little too firmly.

You swallowed hard, gripping your own letter tightly. His eyes flickered toward you, assessing.

“Y/N.” His voice was steady, but there was something unreadable beneath it. He gave you a small nod, nothing overly familiar, yet not entirely cold.

The Ministry official cleared his throat, pulling you both out of the awkward moment.

”Park Jongseong and Y/N L/N,” he announced, his voice devoid of emotion, as if he had done this a hundred times before. He motioned toward the chamber doors. “Step inside. We will begin the legal binding process.”

Your breath hitched as you stepped forward, feeling the heat of Jongseong’s presence beside you.

The chamber was larger than you had expected, with high ceilings adorned with ancient runes glowing faintly in the dim light. At the center of the room stood a grand mahogany desk, where stacks of parchment were neatly arranged. Hovering above it was a blood-binding quill, pulsing faintly, attuned to the magic that would soon seal your fates.

“Please, be seated.”

You and Jongseong sat across from each other, the tension between you thick, though neither of you acknowledged it. The official took his place behind the desk, flipping open a massive leather-bound ledger.

“Before we proceed, it is my duty to inform you of the terms and expectations set forth by the Ministry under the Magical Unity Act. This marriage is legally binding under magical law, and both parties are required to uphold their roles as husband and wife.”

Your stomach twisted. You knew this was coming, but hearing it laid out so plainly made it harder to ignore.

“First, you will be required to cohabitate within the next twenty-four hours. The Ministry has provided accommodations, though should you choose to relocate, you must inform the Department of Magical Law Enforcement within seven days.”

Jongseong’s fingers drummed lightly against the desk, his gaze unreadable. He was listening carefully, though he gave nothing away.

“Second,” the official continued, flipping to another section of the document, “you will be required to consummate the marriage within one year. This will be monitored magically, and failure to do so may result in penalties.”

Your breath caught. You forced yourself to keep your expression neutral, but you couldn’t help the way your fingers curled slightly against your lap.

Jongseong’s face remained calm, though you thought you saw the faintest flicker of tension in his jaw.

“Third,” the official continued, “as part of the act’s goal to maintain the magical bloodline, you are expected to conceive a child within two years. Failure to comply will result in further legal interventions. Exceptions will only be granted under rare circumstances, such as medically confirmed infertility.”

You exhaled slowly, heart pounding. This was the part that had haunted you the most. It wasn’t just about being forced into marriage—it was about being forced to give up control over the future you had always imagined for yourself.

You had wanted children, eventually. You had imagined raising them in a world where they could make choices freely, where they could love and marry without being told when and how. But now, that dream had been reduced to a cold deadline set by the Ministry.

Jongseong finally spoke. “What are our rights in terms of autonomy?” His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it.

The official barely looked up. “You are granted limited autonomy. While you may maintain employment and personal activities, your primary duty remains fulfilling the obligations of the act. Any attempt to break the contract is considered an act of defiance against the Ministry.”

Jongseong gave a slow nod, as if he had expected that answer but wanted it spoken aloud regardless. The official placed two scrolls of parchment in front of you, followed by the hovering blood-binding quill.

“By signing this document, you are agreeing to all conditions and responsibilities dictated by the Magical Unity Act. Once signed, the bond is sealed permanently under wizarding law. Any attempts to nullify it without Ministry approval will result in severe consequences.”

Jongseong’s eyes met yours then, and for the first time, there was something there—a quiet understanding, a shared reluctance. Neither of you wanted this. But there was no choice.

With a deep breath, you reached for the quill. The moment your fingers touched it, a sharp, warm sensation prickled against your skin, and the magic within it stirred in response. You watched as your name etched itself onto the parchment in deep crimson ink.

Across from you, Jongseong did the same.

The moment his signature was completed, the parchment glowed gold, sealing the contract. A faint hum of magic filled the air as the binding took effect.

It was done. You were married.

The official gave a brisk nod, gathering the signed documents. “The bond is sealed. You are now husband and wife under magical law.” He closed the ledger with a dull thud before standing. “Congratulations.”

The word felt hollow.

The moment you stepped into the apartment the Ministry had assigned, the full weight of your situation slammed into you. This wasn’t just a bureaucratic nightmare anymore. It was real. It was your life.

The space was larger than you expected, a sleek, magically expanded flat that felt caught between two worlds—modern and traditional, functional and intimate, impersonal yet unsettlingly designed for romance. It was clear that whoever had designed these living quarters had done so with the idea of a happily married couple in mind.

The open-concept living space had softly enchanted lighting, walls painted in neutral, calming tones that could be adjusted to fit the residents' “mood.” A fireplace sat in the center of the lounge, with a plush sofa curved just enough to suggest cozy nights spent tangled together. The kitchen was fully stocked, fitted with both Muggle and magical appliances, making it impossible to avoid the domestic intimacy the Ministry seemed so determined to impose.

Two bedrooms were set at opposite ends of the flat, though one was clearly meant to be temporary. The master bedroom, which you tried to ignore, was the worst of it. The king-sized bed was too large, too luxurious, the silk sheets far too inviting. The enchanted wardrobes had already been merged, both your belongings stored together, blending lives you hadn’t chosen to entwine.

Even the bathroom was designed for two people meant to share everything. The tub was massive, the type built for indulgent baths, fitted with potion-infused oils meant to relax muscles—meant to encourage closeness. The sinks, the mirrors, the counter space—everything was structured with a life of intimacy in mind.

Jongseong was standing stiffly just inside the doorway, his hands still shoved into the pockets of his dark robes. He looked as out of place as you felt. His eyes flickered over the surroundings, lingering on the details, his expression betraying nothing.

“Well,” he said, finally breaking the silence. “This is… something.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Yeah.”

An awkward pause stretched between you. Neither of you moved.

You cleared your throat. “So… Do you want to set some ground rules?”

Jongseong finally looked at you, his head tilting slightly. “Ground rules?”

You shifted uncomfortably. “For… coexisting.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face, but it disappeared just as quickly. “Fair enough.” He nodded toward the hallway. “You can take the bedroom on the left.”

You hesitated. “The Ministry expects us to share one eventually.”

His jaw tightened slightly, but his voice remained calm. “We don’t have to rush into that.”

You let out a breath of relief. “Good.”

Another silence settled. This was going to be excruciating.

You thought the first night would be easier because you had separate rooms. It wasn’t.

The walls were too thin. Every tiny shift, every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of the bed linens as one of you turned over—it was impossible to forget that you weren’t alone. That there was someone else here, just a few steps away, existing in the same space, adjusting to the same forced reality.

You lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, feeling every inch of the strangeness that had settled into your life. The silence of the apartment was deafening. Somewhere beyond your door, Jongseong was doing the same. Not sleeping. Not moving. Just existing in this same, uncomfortable limbo.

You weren’t sure how long you lay there before you heard it—

A soft, almost hesitant knock on your door.

You sat up immediately, heart stammering in your chest. “…Yeah?”

You moved toward the coffee pot, pretending not to notice how he was gripping his quill a little too tightly. The sight of him already reading the regulations booklet made your stomach twist. You weren’t sure if you wanted to know what new absurdities the Ministry had included.

“What’s that?” you asked warily.

Jongseong turned the booklet toward you so you could see the bold title stamped on the front.

A Guide to Magical Marital Expectations: Understanding the Unity Act.

You stared at him. “You’re actually reading that?”

He shrugged, flipping to the next page. “Figured it might be useful to know what we’re legally bound to.”

You sighed, sinking into the chair across from him. “And? What’s in it?”

Jongseong skimmed a few lines before speaking. “Mostly just reinforcing what we were already told. Cohabitation, marital duties, legal ramifications if we break the contract.” He hesitated, his fingers pausing on the page. His jaw tensed slightly, and that was when you knew whatever he had just read wasn’t going to be pleasant.

A beat of silence.

Bravely, you cleared your throat. “What else are you working on?”

Jongseong’s eyes flickered up briefly before he tapped the page with his quill. “Just organizing my work schedule. Trying to figure out how to balance—” He gestured vaguely between the two of you. “All of this.”

Right. Work. You hadn’t even thought about how this new life would affect your schedules. You needed to figure out yours, his, how to exist in this space without stepping on each other’s toes.

“I have a morning shift at Flourish and Blotts starting tomorrow,” you said after a pause. “And I have an evening class twice a week.”

Jongseong nodded slowly. “I start work at the Ministry at eight every morning. Sometimes later, depending on meetings. But I’m usually back by seven.”

You absorbed that. That meant you’d have the mornings mostly to yourself, but the evenings… “So we’ll see each other mostly at night.”

“Yeah.” His expression didn’t change, but there was something unreadable in his gaze. Maybe he was just as wary of that realization as you were.

You stirred your coffee absentmindedly. “And, uh… weekends?”

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t usually work on weekends, but I study. And sometimes I meet up with friends.”

Right. Friends. You almost forgot that, despite everything, he had a life outside of this.

That thought stuck with you longer than it should have. Maybe because you were realizing that your life, your freedom, had been traded in for something else. For something you didn’t get to choose.

“Oh,” he said flatly. “Also.” He looked up at you, his dark eyes unreadable. “The shared bed rule.”

You grimaced. “I was hoping they’d forgotten about that part.”

Jongseong sighed, setting the booklet down with more force than necessary. “Unfortunately, the Ministry doesn’t forget anything.”

The booklet sat between you on the table, the pages filled with carefully worded regulations, all designed to ensure that the couples formed under the Magical Unity Act fulfilled their “duties.” The words seemed too sharp, too final, as if they carried an unspoken command beneath them.

Your fingers curled around the edge of your mug as you read the clause for yourself.

Clause 7.3 - Marital CohabitationIn order to promote a natural and successful union, married partners must reside within a shared living space and engage in consistent physical proximity.

It is required that both parties sleep within the same quarters by the third month of marriage.

Noncompliance will result in Ministry intervention.

You exhaled sharply, closing your eyes for a moment. “They’re really monitoring everything.”

Jongseong tapped his fingers against the table, his expression carefully neutral. “We have three months to figure that part out.”

You rubbed your temples. “Three months is… not a lot of time.”

He looked at you for a long moment before setting the booklet aside. “We’ll deal with it when we have to.”

And for some reason, that stuck with you.

Jongseong—or Jay, as his closest friends called him—was totally unamused by his morning conversation.

He sat at his desk in the Ministry, flipping through paperwork as Jake lounged against the opposite desk, watching him with a knowing look. The blond Auror had a casual ease about him, one leg stretched out, a quill spinning between his fingers as he regarded Jay with mild amusement.

“So,” Jake finally said, dragging out the word. “How’s married life?”

Jay didn’t look up. “It’s fine.”

His friend snorted, adjusting his robes as he leaned in. “Oh, come on. I know you better than that.”

Jay set his quill down with a sigh. “What do you want me to say?”

Jake tilted his head, considering. “I don’t know. That she’s unbearable? That she’s the love of your life? That you’ve realized you actually have a thing for arranged marriages?”

Unamused, Jay shot him a flat look. “None of the above.”

But the blond was relentless, he leaned forward, arms resting on the desk. “So, what? You guys are just awkwardly existing in the same space?”

Jay hesitated, fingers tapping against the parchment in front of him. “…Something like that.”

“Is she at least decent company?”

Jay exhaled, stretching his arms before finally looking up. “She’s normal. It’s awkward. We’re trying to figure out how to coexist without making it worse.”

“Makes sense. I mean, you didn’t exactly get a say in this. Neither of you did.”

Jay appreciated that Jake wasn’t trying to force humor into the situation, not like their other friends probably would. Jake had a way of knowing when to joke and when to actually listen, which was why he was one of the few people Jay actually talked to about things that mattered.

the Australian smirked. “Alright, I’ll leave it alone. But tell me one thing.”

Jay raised an eyebrow. “What?”

The blond's grin was slow and knowing. “Do you find her attractive?”

Jay’s hand froze mid-page turn.

Jake caught it immediately. “Ohhh. That’s interesting.”

rolling his eyes, setting the file aside a little too forcefully, the married man in question responds. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn��t have to.”

Jay pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re insufferable.”

Jake laughed, standing up and stretching. “Well, I’d say welcome to married life, but…” He gave his friend a mockingly sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’ve already figured out it’s a mess.”

Jay shoved his hand away. “Get out of my office.”

“See you at lunch, hubby.”

Jay groaned as Jake walked away, already regretting every life decision that had led to this conversation.

Jongseong was a morning person. You learned that quickly.

He was always the first to wake up, moving around the apartment with an effortless ease that was frankly annoying to someone like you, who preferred to cling to sleep for as long as possible. You often woke to the sound of the shower running, the smell of coffee brewing, and the faint rustling of parchment as he read through Ministry documents while waiting for breakfast.

This morning was no different a few weeks later.

By the time you groggily dragged yourself out of bed, Jongseong was already fresh out of the shower, hair still damp, a towel slung low around his waist. His toned chest and broad shoulders glowed slightly in the morning light, water droplets still clinging to his skin as he casually walked toward his dresser, seemingly unaware—or unbothered—by your presence.

You immediately averted your eyes, heart stammering in your chest. But you could still feel him, still sense the heat radiating off his skin, and the way the air seemed thicker in his presence.

“Morning,” he greeted smoothly, voice still slightly hoarse from sleep.

Your throat felt impossibly dry. “Yeah. Morning.”

He smirked slightly, as if noticing your discomfort, and continued dressing—slowly. The deliberate way he pulled his shirt over his head before taking it off again, deciding he wanted a different one, the flex of his muscles, the way he pushed his damp hair back… it was infuriatingly distracting.

You turned toward the kitchen in desperation, fingers gripping the edge of the counter as you tried to steady yourself. You were not going to be affected by this.

But then he walked past you, his bare arm brushing against yours, the heat of his skin searing through the fabric of your sleeve. You felt the breath hitch in your throat, a sudden rush of awareness sparking along your spine.

You had just taken your first sip of coffee, finally feeling somewhat human, when a loud knock echoed through the apartment. You and Jongseong exchanged a glance.

“Expecting someone?” you asked.

He sighed, setting his mug down. “No. But I have a bad feeling about it.”

The moment Jongseong opened the door, a tall, severe-looking woman in a charcoal robe strode in without invitation. She introduced herself as Ms. Alderton, her expression a mixture of polite authority and thinly veiled scrutiny.

“We’re conducting routine compliance inspections under the Magical Unity Act,” she said, flipping through her clipboard. “It’s a simple process, really. Just verifying that the two of you are… adjusting well to married life.”

Your stomach dropped.

Jongseong had not finished dressing.

He was still only wearing a towel around his waist.

You saw the exact moment Ms. Alderton’s eyes flickered downward—not in a scandalized way, but in a very obvious assessment of the situation.

“Oh.” She blinked, arching an eyebrow. “I see I’ve caught you at a… private moment.”

Jongseong’s entire body tensed. You scrambled to grab his shirt off the chair and shove it at him.

“Right, um, we weren’t expecting company,” you said quickly, willing your face not to burn.

Jongseong took the shirt, clearing his throat as he pulled it on, but not before you saw the way his abs tightened under the scrutiny, the way his fingers twitched as he buttoned his shirt with forced composure.

Ms. Alderton hummed, clearly unimpressed. She began the inspection, moving through the apartment with cold efficiency.

She examined your living quarters, asked too many questions about how often you and Jay were together in the same space, and, of course, dropped the expected question:

“And how are you finding the transition into… intimacy?”

You nearly choked on your tea.

Jongseong, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “We’re taking our time with that,” he said evenly. “As I’m sure the Ministry is aware, not all couples move at the same pace.”

Ms. Alderton gave him a knowing look, scribbling something onto her parchment. “Well, as you both know, there are expectations to be met. We’ll check in again soon.”

And with that, she was gone, leaving the weight of her unspoken warnings hanging in the air.

You let out a long breath, still feeling the residual heat of the morning’s tension clinging to your skin.

At work, Jongseong barely had time to sit at his desk before Jake was on him.

“Alright, listen, I’ve been patient, but you’re dodging, man,” the blond Auror said, plopping down in the chair across from Jay’s desk. “We need to meet her.”

Jay sighed, rubbing his temple. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”

Jake gave him a pointed look. “You’ve been married for weeks and we haven’t even met your wife. Sunghoon’s convinced you made her up.”

“We’re fine. We’re adjusting. That’s all you need to know.”

Jake smirked. “See, the more you say it’s fine, the less I believe it.”

“You’re impossible.”

Jake shrugged. “That’s why you love me. So, what do you say? A small get-together. Nothing crazy.”

Jay sighed again, but this time, he hesitated. He knew the Blond wouldn’t let this go.

“I’ll… think about it.”

When Jay got home that evening, you could immediately tell something was on his mind.

“What is it?” you asked, watching as he loosened his tie.

“Jake keeps pushing for us to meet up with him and the guys,” Jay admitted, running a hand through his hair. “I told him we were fine, but he wasn’t buying it.”

You thought about it for a moment before shrugging. “Maybe we should.”

Jay raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

You nodded. “I mean, we’re supposed to be building a life together, right? It might help to actually know the people in it. And… if something ever happens, it’d be good to have them as a support system.”

Jay studied you for a moment, then sighed. “Alright. But there’s an issue,” You arched your brow in response, “ They think we’re like them, you know, more settled into our married life” 

“Ah, I see.” 

He chuckled dryly, “And I haven’t had the chance to correct them.”

And that was how you found yourself getting ready to put on a show.

You weren’t sure why you felt so on edge. It was just a night out with his friends—people who, by all accounts, had no real expectations of you beyond existing at Jongseong’s side. But still, as you stood in front of the mirror, adjusting your outfit for what felt like the tenth time, something in your chest felt tight.

Jongseong passed by behind you, fastening the cuff of his crisp, navy button-up. The color complemented his complexion unfairly well, the sleeves neatly rolled up to his forearms, just casual enough to look effortless.

His reflection met yours in the mirror. “Are you ready yet?” he asked, smoothing a hand through his hair.

You exhaled through your nose. “You act like getting ready is as simple as putting on a shirt.”

He smirked. “It is, actually.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t push it. Instead, you turned slightly, watching as he undid the top two buttons of his shirt, exposing just the faintest sliver of his collarbone. It wasn’t intentional, but it made something stir deep in your stomach.

The silence stretched between you as you turned back toward the mirror. He lingered behind you, close enough that the warmth of his body made the air feel heavier.

His voice came softer this time. “You look fine.”

Fine. Not breathtaking, not beautiful—just fine.

You scoffed lightly, shaking your head. “Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.”

Jongseong’s gaze flickered over you, his brows drawing together slightly like he wanted to say something else but thought better of it. Instead, he just let out a short exhale and reached for his wand. “Let’s go before Jake tracks me down and drags us there himself.”

As he stepped closer, brushing past you to grab his jacket, your breath caught in your throat. The scent of his cologne—clean, warm, just faintly spiced—wrapped around you before you could react. Your skin prickled as he leaned past you, his fingers grazing the dresser beside you.

You didn’t move until he pulled back, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with practiced ease. Jongseong glanced at you once more, amusement dancing in his dark eyes, before he disappeared into the Floo Network.

You stepped into the Floo Network, watching as Jongseong disappeared in a swirl of green flames before following suit. The familiar tug of magic sent you tumbling through the space between, and in the next moment, you landed just behind him in the bustling pub.

The scent of warm ale, roasted meat, and burning firewood wrapped around you, the low murmur of conversation filling the air. The pub was lively but not overly packed—just busy enough to feel comfortably distracting.

Jongseong placed a hand on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd. His touch was light, but it lingered, a silent reminder that this was part of the act.

Jake spotted you first, grinning. “There they are!” He leaned back in his chair, tilting his glass toward you both. “The happy couple.”

You tried not to stiffen at the word. Happy. That was the goal, right?

Jongseong slipped into the role easily, his arm around your waist a little firmer now. “You make it sound like we’ve been in hiding.”

Jake clapped him on the back as everyone scooted over to make space. “Well, you have! We needed proof you didn’t just run away.”

The conversation flowed smoothly, the group’s laughter blending into the warm, buzzing atmosphere. But you couldn’t help noticing the way Jongseong’s hand lingered on your waist, the way his thumb traced lazy circles over the fabric of your dress. It was subtle—just enough to be convincing, just enough to make your pulse jump.

Sunghoon smirked, raising a brow. “So, how’s married life? Are you two still in the honeymoon phase?”

Jake chuckled. “Yeah, Jay keeps insisting they’re doing just great.”

You felt Jongseong’s hand tighten slightly on your hip as he hummed in agreement. “We are.”

And then, before you could react, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple.

It was brief, chaste, and yet… oddly intimate. His lips lingered just long enough to make your skin prickle with awareness.

The table burst into cheers.

As the night went on, the conversation shifted from teasing to storytelling. Jake leaned back in his seat, shaking his head fondly. “You know, I still don’t know how the hell Jay managed to get through Hogwarts without completely embarrassing himself.”

Sunghoon chuckled. “That’s because he had us covering for him.”

Jongseong scoffed. “You mean causing more problems than helping?”

Jake smirked. “Call it whatever you want, mate. But let’s not forget that one time you tried to impress a girl by showing off on the Quidditch pitch and almost broke your arm.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Now this sounds like a story I need to hear.”

Jake grinned. “See, back in school, Jay was all business, all the time. But one day, some girl in Ravenclaw was watching him practice, and he got it in his head that he should show off—flew higher than necessary, tried a fancy dive, and nearly knocked himself unconscious.”

Heeseung chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah, young love.”

Sunghoon leaned in. “Speaking of, we should all introduce our wives one day. Maybe have a proper dinner.”

Jongseong stiffened slightly, and you felt it. But before he could say anything, you jumped in.

“That would be nice,” you said, smiling. “Though, I’ll admit, I’d probably be terrible at hosting.”

Jake waved a hand. “Nah, don’t worry about that. Besides, I heard you’re friends with Riki?”

Your brows lifted. “Yeah, I basically treat him like my little brother.”

Jake laughed. “Figures. We were both in the Gryffindor Quidditch Team. He was a Seeker, I was a Chaser—best duo ever.”

Sunghoon snorted. “And yet, somehow, Jay was the one always getting all the attention.”

Jake groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

The banter continued, light and warm, and despite yourself, you found that you were enjoying it. The illusion of normalcy was beginning to feel real.

Jongseong wasn’t just your forced husband tonight—he was someone who had a past, who had friends that truly cared about him. And maybe, you were starting to see why people cared about him, too.

The moment the Floo Network spit you both out into the apartment, the spell of the night started to break. Gone was the warm, buzzing atmosphere of the pub. Now, there was only quiet, filled with nothing but the ticking of the enchanted clock on the wall and the soft rustle of Jongseong adjusting his sleeves.

You expected him to make some dry remark about the night, maybe joke about Jake’s relentless teasing. But instead, he just stood there, staring at you with an expression you couldn’t quite place.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

You blinked, taken aback. “I—yeah. Why?”

He exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his hair. “You were… different tonight.”

Your throat felt dry. “We were both acting.”

“Yeah.” His voice was quiet, unreadable. “I know.”

Neither of you moved. Neither of you quite knew what to do now.

The next few days were… different. Not drastic, not obvious, but something had changed. You noticed it in the way Jongseong lingered in rooms a little longer than before, the way his gaze flickered to you more often, the way silence between you no longer felt so hostile—just heavy.

Even the small moments carried weight. The way he passed you a cup of coffee in the mornings without needing to ask how you took it. The way he let his hand linger just a fraction longer than necessary when handing you something. The way your name sounded softer when he spoke it.

It was nothing. It was everything.

And then came the first real break in the routine.

You hadn’t expected to see Jongseong standing outside your workplace that evening. His presence was striking against the backdrop of hurried Ministry employees, his sleeves rolled up, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against a lamppost.

For a moment, you just stared, thrown by the sight of him waiting for you.

It felt unnatural—this wasn’t part of your unspoken agreement. You met in shared spaces at home, interacted when necessary, but waiting for each other? That was… different.

You hesitated before approaching. “What are you doing here?”

Jongseong glanced up, his dark eyes flickering over you before he straightened. “Picking you up.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Since when do we do that?”

Jongseong exhaled, shifting his weight. “Since now.”

You studied him, waiting for an explanation that never came. Instead, he pushed off the lamppost and nodded toward the street. “Come on.”

A flicker of uncertainty settled in your stomach as you fell into step beside him. You weren’t used to this—him reaching out first.

As you walked, the sounds of Diagon Alley surrounded you—shopkeepers closing up for the night, the faint hum of distant chatter, the flickering glow of enchanted street lamps. But the quiet between you was louder.

At some point, he spoke again. “You get along with them.”

You glanced at him. “With who?”

“My friends.”

You hummed. “They’re easy to like.”

Jongseong nodded, his hands tucked into his pockets. His steps were measured, like he was choosing his words carefully.

“They like you too.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around your bag strap. Was that what this was about?

“You fit in well,” he added, his voice lower.

Something warm unfurled in your stomach. “Would it have been a problem if I didn’t?”

Jongseong smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Jake would’ve grilled you until you caved.”

You laughed, and for a moment, things felt effortless.

But as you reached the entrance of your shared home, a thought lingered at the back of your mind.

Why did he come to get you in the first place?

It was well past midnight when you shuffled into the kitchen, craving nothing more than a glass of water. You weren’t expecting to see Jongseong standing there, already by the counter, a mug in his hands.

He turned at the sound of your footsteps, his gaze flickering down your figure.

It wasn’t until you followed his line of sight that you realized exactly what you were wearing.

A nightshirt. Just a nightshirt. One that barely skimmed the tops of your thighs.

You hadn’t thought about it before leaving your room, but now, under his scrutiny, it suddenly felt like the single most scandalous thing you could’ve worn.

Jongseong cleared his throat. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You nodded, stepping closer, reaching for a glass. His presence felt larger in the quiet, like it filled the room in ways you weren’t prepared for. Like he was waiting for something neither of you had the words for.

After a moment, you sighed, staring into your mug as if the swirling liquid inside had all the answers. “I texted my parents about… this,” you finally admitted, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Two weeks ago.”

Jongseong’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he didn’t interrupt.

“They never replied,” you continued, voice carefully even. “Not that I was expecting them to.”

Jongseongs fingers tapped lightly against the table, a thoughtful rhythm. “They’re Muggles, right?”

You nodded, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. I didn’t exactly have the best relationship with them before this. But I thought—” You paused, exhaling sharply. “I thought they’d at least say something.”

He was quiet for a long moment before he spoke again, his voice softer than before. “Maybe they just… don’t know how to respond.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Or maybe they just don’t care.”

Jongseong shifted in his seat, glancing down at his hands. He looked like he wanted to say something, to reach for the right words, but he hesitated. Instead, he settled for a careful, almost reluctant, “I’m sorry.”

You lifted a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “It’s fine.”

The silence stretched. The air felt thick. Too thick.

He exhaled through his nose, eyes flickering up to yours. And for the first time, you didn’t look away.

His fingers twitched. His jaw tensed. His eyes darkened, just slightly. And then, he took a step back. A deliberate one.

You swallowed. “I should—”

“Yeah.” His voice was lower than before. Rougher. “Me too.”

Neither of you moved for a long moment. And then you did.

The next morning, the reminder came. A letter, crisp and official, waiting for both of you on the breakfast table.

Jongseong opened it first, scanning the words, his jaw tightening. You peered over.

Ministry of Magic Directive 492-B: Cohabitation Progress Assessment As part of your continued marital integration, you are required to submit a Cohabitation Progress Report detailing shared living arrangements and physical proximity. As per Clause 7.3 of the Unity Act, proof of continued cohabitation will be assessed in the next Ministry visit. Failure to comply with expectations may result in reassessment and intervention.

You let out a slow breath. “They’re watching us closer now.”

Jongseong scoffed, tossing the letter aside. “Of course they are.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of the table. Something about the wording unsettled you.

“Physical proximity,” you murmured. “They’re pushing for more.”

Jongseong ran a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at you. “Yeah.”

Silence.

The weight of the words hung in the air between you, heavy and suffocating.

“We need to practice.”

You looked up from your book, momentarily caught off guard. “Practice what?”

He closed his own book, exhaling like he had already anticipated your reaction. “Being more… natural with each other. The Ministry is expecting real signs of a relationship, not just two people coexisting in the same space.”

You swallowed, shifting slightly. “You mean touching, kissing, all of that?”

He nodded, meeting your gaze with a calmness that only made your stomach tighten further. He wasn’t wrong, of course. If anything, you should have expected this conversation to happen sooner. But something about the way he said it—so practical, so unaffected—sent a nervous flicker through your chest.

“How do you want to start?” you asked, your voice steadier than you felt.

Jongseong hesitated for only a moment before he pushed himself off the couch and extended a hand. “Come here.”

You stared at his outstretched fingers, debating, before finally placing your hand in his. His palm was warm, steady, and as he gently pulled you up, you felt your breath catch slightly at how close he was now.

“Hugging first,” he murmured, like he was giving instructions.

You exhaled softly before stepping forward, wrapping your arms around his waist. It felt awkward at first—stiff, calculated—but then, as his arms circled around you in response, something shifted. He was warm, solid, and despite the tension in your shoulders, there was a comfort in the closeness. You felt the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers rested lightly against your back.

“This isn’t terrible,” he muttered, voice lower than usual.

You huffed a small laugh, eyes still pressed against his chest. “High praise.”

He chuckled, a small vibration against your body. The silence stretched between you, no longer heavy with hesitation but something else—something unspoken. You weren’t sure how long you stood like that before he finally murmured, “Next.”

You swallowed, stepping back slightly. His hands lingered a second longer than necessary before dropping away.

“Kissing?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

Jongseong nodded, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. “We should get used to it.”

You inhaled, forcing yourself to meet his gaze head-on. “Alright.”

His fingers reached for your chin, tilting it up slightly, and the air in the room seemed to shift. He didn’t move immediately, as if gauging your reaction, waiting for the tension to settle before he finally leaned in.

The first brush of his lips was light, cautious. Testing.

Your breath caught. It was such a simple touch, barely there, and yet it sent a strange warmth curling in your stomach. His lips were soft, warm, lingering just a moment longer than necessary before he pressed in again—this time firmer, deeper.

A slow, deliberate slide of lips.

Your fingers curled involuntarily into his shirt, as if steadying yourself, as his lips moved against yours with a patience that sent your pulse hammering in your ears. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t merely going through the motions. He was learning you.

There was something unbearably intimate about it, something in the way he lingered, in the way his fingers flexed slightly against your waist. Like he wasn’t sure where to place his hands, but he knew he didn’t want to let go.

Your own breath had turned uneven, the warmth between you making your skin prickle. You weren’t supposed to feel this. It was just practice. Just a test.

And yet, your heart betrayed you with every second he refused to pull away.

Just when you thought he was done, his lips barely parted from yours, he hesitated—and then he pressed a featherlight kiss to the corner of your lips, softer than the first, but somehow infinitely more dangerous.

Your eyes snapped open, breath stalling in your throat.

Jongseong didn’t move for a second, his gaze locked on yours as if waiting for a reaction. Then, he took a small step back, clearing his throat. “See? Not so hard.”

You exhaled shakily, forcing a smirk. “Speak for yourself.”

He smiled slightly, but there was something else there now. Something neither of you were quite ready to address.

That night, long after you had gone to bed, you lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The feel of his lips hadn’t left you. The warmth of his touch still clung to your skin, lingering in a way that made sleep impossible.

The first morning after the kiss, you had been unsure what to expect. Would he pretend it hadn’t happened? Would the air be awkward between you?

You walked into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from your eyes, and saw him standing by the stove, making coffee like he always did. The difference was how he looked at you.

"Morning," he said, and before you could respond, he reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with an ease that made your stomach turn over. The touch was fleeting, barely there, yet entirely intentional.

By the second day, it was a hand at your waist when he passed by you in the hallway, fingers lingering as if testing his boundaries. You weren’t sure when it started feeling natural, but you knew that by the third day, when Jongseong pressed a small peck to your temple as he handed you your morning coffee, you didn’t freeze.

You accepted it.

Maybe even welcomed it.

By then, you had decided that if he could do it so easily, so could you. That morning, before leaving for work, you turned back to him just as you reached the door.

"See you later," you murmured, before pressing a quick peck to his cheek.

It was supposed to be casual, unthinking, but as soon as you stepped back, you caught the slight widening of his eyes before he composed himself. You had caught him off guard.

You swallowed, feigning nonchalance, before leaving quickly. You were the one initiating now.

It was the second evening when Jongseong offered to pick you up from work again.

"If people see us together more often, it might help with the whole convincing thing," he had reasoned.

Logical. Sensible. Everything Jongseong was.

Except when he showed up outside your building, leaning against the stone wall with his hands in his coat pockets, looking entirely unbothered while your coworkers noticed.

"Your husband’s here again," one of them teased as they nudged you.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the heat crawling up your neck as you stepped outside. He looked good under the streetlights, the cool air turning his skin slightly pink. His gaze met yours, and something flickered in his eyes before he pushed off the wall and walked toward you.

"Long day?" he asked as he fell into step beside you.

"Exhausting," you murmured. "Thanks for picking me up."

He glanced at you, then, as if on impulse, reached for your hand. Not a performance. Just instinct. His fingers laced through yours with the same steadiness he always carried, and even though you told yourself it was just for show, your pulse didn’t get the memo.

Halfway down the street, you spotted a familiar figure across the road—Jake. He caught sight of you at the same time, waving enthusiastically.

Without thinking, you smiled and waved back. "Jake!"

Jongseong’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, just barely noticeable, but he didn’t say anything.

Jake grinned, giving a knowing look before disappearing into the crowd. You cleared your throat, hoping Jongseong didn’t read into anything. But of course, he had noticed.

The morning of the visit felt different. Heavier.

You woke up to the quiet sounds of Jongseong moving around the flat, the faint scent of coffee drifting through the air. The weight of the upcoming meeting sat in your chest like a stone—there was no ignoring the fact that today, the Ministry would scrutinize everything you and Jongseong had been working toward.

You lingered in bed for a moment longer than usual, staring at the ceiling, feeling the heat of your own overactive thoughts. Had you practiced enough? Would they believe you? Would they catch on that some of these moments had started feeling far too real?

You sighed, forcing yourself up, and padded into the kitchen. Jongseong was leaning against the counter, arms crossed as he sipped from his mug. His hair was still damp from his shower, sticking to his forehead slightly, and—

You blinked. He wasn’t wearing a shirt.

Again.

Jongseong barely acknowledged you as he took another sip of coffee, then set the mug down with an exhale. “We should go over a few things before they get here.”

You were still staring at his bare chest, lips slightly parted. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him like this—Merlin, you lived together now—but something about it felt different today.

“Uh,” you said eloquently. “You’re—”

“I know,” he replied, completely unbothered. “I forgot to grab my shirt from the other room.”

Before you could respond, a loud knock at the door shattered the moment.

Panic seized your chest.

“They’re early?” you hissed.

Jongseong swore under his breath, grabbing for the nearest thing—your cardigan, which had been draped over a chair. He threw it at you before sprinting toward the bedroom, leaving you standing there, gripping the fabric uselessly as another knock sounded.

Forcing down your nerves, you rushed to the door, opening it just enough to see the official standing there, a clipboard in hand.

“Mrs. Park?” the man asked in a clipped tone.

“Yes,” you said, trying to sound composed.

“We’re here for the cohabitation assessment,” he continued, adjusting his glasses as he glanced down at his paperwork. “May we come in?”

You stepped aside, letting them in, just as Jongseong reappeared—this time fully dressed, but slightly breathless. The Ministry official’s gaze flickered between you both, already taking notes.

The official took a seat at the dining table, motioning for both of you to do the same. His assistant, a younger witch with keen eyes, remained standing near the bookshelf, observing.

“We’ll start with some basic questions,” the man said, clicking his quill against the parchment. “How has married life been treating you both?”

Jongseong leaned back slightly, arm draping over the back of your chair in a practiced motion. “It’s been an adjustment,” he said smoothly, glancing at you with what looked like amusement. “But we’re settling in well.”

The official hummed, eyes narrowing. “What would you say has been the biggest change since getting married?”

You hesitated, heart pounding. What was a normal answer?

Jongseong, of course, had no problem answering. “Waking up to each other in the house.”

You nearly choked on air.

The official scribbled something down. “And how do you usually spend your evenings together?”

Your mind raced. Jongseong was the first to respond, again, far too at ease with all of this. “Dinner, talking about our days, sometimes reading together on the couch.”

That was true. But the way he was selling it so smoothly made heat creep up your neck.

The assistant tilted her head. “And your sleeping arrangements?”

The air in the room thickened.

Jongseong barely hesitated. “We have separate rooms for now, but we’re adjusting.”

The official’s quill paused. A bad sign.

“That will need to change,” he said briskly. “As you know, starting next week, it will be mandatory for all married couples under this law to share a bedroom. The Ministry will have enchantments in place to verify compliance. Any deviation from this could result in a reevaluation of your union.”

Your stomach twisted. They were going to monitor your sleeping arrangements?

The assistant added, “It’s a common concern among couples who haven’t previously lived together, but physical closeness is a necessary step toward a successful marriage.”

Your hands clenched beneath the table. Necessary? Successful? What did that even mean in a marriage you hadn’t chosen?

The official leaned forward slightly. “Are you prepared for that transition?”

Jongseong’s grip on the back of your chair tightened just slightly before he nodded. “Of course.”

The official’s gaze flickered between you two, scrutinizing every reaction, every hesitation. “Then we will expect that adjustment to be complete by the next check-in.”

The assistant cleared her throat. “One last thing. We need to verify your comfort with one another.”

You barely had time to process before Jongseong’s fingers curled under your chin, tilting your face toward him.

You should’ve seen it coming.

His lips brushed against yours softly, gently at first. But the moment your breath caught, the moment he felt your fingers instinctively tighten around his, he pressed in just a little more—lingering, deepening, turning what should have been just for show into something you didn’t know how to categorize.

By the time he pulled away, your pulse was hammering.

The official seemed satisfied. “That will do.”

Jongseong didn’t let go of your hand.

The Ministry left shortly after, having seen enough. The moment the door shut behind them, you turned to Jongseong, heart still racing.

“That was—”

“Convincing?” he supplied, arching an eyebrow. He still hadn’t let go of your hand.

You swallowed. “You didn’t have to—”

He cut you off, voice lower. “Would you rather I hadn’t?”

You had no answer to that.

Because the truth was, you weren’t sure anymore.

And, worse still, in just a few days, you wouldn’t be able to avoid the reality of what the Ministry expected from you.

You weren’t just playing house anymore. You were about to start living in it.

You remained standing by the door, arms crossed, still feeling the weight of their scrutiny on your skin. The words lingered between you and Jongseong like an unspoken curse.

You must share a bedroom. You must be physically close. The Ministry will verify.

You turned slowly, eyes meeting Jongseong’s. He was still standing near the table, fingers drumming against the wood. He looked composed—too composed, like he hadn’t just promised the officials something neither of you had fully prepared for.

“You said it so easily,” you muttered.

Jongseong raised a brow. “Would you rather I had hesitated?”

Your arms tightened around yourself. “I don’t know.”

His expression remained impassive, but something in the air shifted—thick, charged with something unspoken.

You swallowed. “We have a week.”

“Six days.”

Your gaze snapped up. “You’re counting?”

He shrugged. “It’s important.”

You exhaled sharply and turned toward the hallway. The flat wasn’t huge, but it had two bedrooms. Your bedroom and his. The safe distance you had clung to was suddenly about to vanish.

You crossed your arms tighter over your chest. “We need to figure out how to do this.”

Jongseong ran a hand through his hair, considering. “We should start by deciding how to—”

“Who’s moving?” you interrupted. “You or me?”

He blinked. You hadn’t even let him finish.

For some reason, the question flustered him more than he expected. He looked toward his room, then toward yours, then back at you. “I… I guess it makes sense for one of us to move into the other’s space.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s obvious.”

His jaw tensed. “Then why do you sound upset?”

You inhaled sharply. “Because this isn’t normal. None of this is normal.”

Silence. The tension was razor-thin, tight enough to snap, but just as the air felt like it might crack open with unspoken frustration, Jongseong suddenly stepped forward.

Your breath hitched as he reached up, fingers brushing lightly against your hair, tucking a loose strand behind your ear. His touch was barely there—soft, lingering, as if grounding you before the moment could spiral too far.

Your stomach flipped. The anger, the frustration—it melted in an instant, leaving something quieter in its place.

“I know,” he murmured. “But we don’t have a choice.”

He hesitated for a beat before his thumb brushed lightly over your cheek, his fingers barely ghosting your jawline. 

“Baby,” he murmured softly, testing the word, letting it hang between you. His eyes searched yours. “Is that okay?”

Your lips parted, but no words came. You weren’t sure what shocked you more—the nickname, or the fact that you didn’t mind it.

You swallowed, heart hammering in your chest, but eventually, you nodded.

Jongseong held your gaze for a second longer before his hand dropped, tension breaking just enough for you to exhale again.

You cleared your throat, stepping back slightly. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it?”

“It matters,” he murmured again. His gaze flickered with something unreadable before he turned and walked toward his room. He pushed the door open, revealing a clean and modern space—a bed that somehow seemed too big, a desk neatly arranged, shelves lined with things you hadn’t paid attention to before.

“This will work,” he said simply, like it was nothing. Like moving you into his space wasn’t going to alter everything.

You stepped into the room cautiously, running your fingers along the edge of his desk. This was real now.

Jongseong moved beside you, hands slipping into his pockets. “You’ll take the bed, obviously.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Where are you going to sleep?”

“The couch.”

“No.” The word left you before you could think about it. Because that would be too obvious. Too much space. Too much defiance against what they were expecting.

Jongseong tilted his head. “No?”

You swallowed. “If they’re monitoring, we can’t make it look fake.”

His expression was unreadable. Then, after a long silence, he said, “We’ll take sides.”

You nodded slowly. “Sides.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Neither of you moved.

The weight of the agreement pressed in around you. You would share a bed. You would be inches apart at night. The pretense of distance was officially gone.

Jongseong finally sighed. “I’ll move your things in tomorrow.”

You nodded. Then, after a pause, you took a small step toward him. “This isn’t going to be easy, is it?”

He smirked faintly. “Nothing about this has been.”

You exhaled slowly. “Then we should make it look real.”

Jongseong’s smirk faded slightly. He tilted his head, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips. That look. That tension. 

Without thinking, you reached for his wrist, fingers curling around it just briefly before pulling away. Something about touching him first felt necessary.

Jongseong didn’t pull back. Instead, he lifted a hand, his fingers brushing against yours before he murmured, “We’ll figure it out.”

You nodded, stepping back. “We have six days.”

His lips quirked. “Five and a half.”

You huffed a laugh despite yourself. Then, before you could change your mind, you turned and left the room, your pulse still unsteady in your chest.

______________________________________________________________

The first night in the same room felt heavier than you had expected. You sat at the edge of the bed, fingers gripping the sheets as the reality of the situation fully settled over you.

Jay was in the bathroom, the faint sound of running water filling the silence of the bedroom. Your bedroom now. Your bed, which was suddenly meant for two.

When he stepped out, towel drying his hair, you didn’t look up immediately. Instead, you focused on the shifting space around you—the way your books now lined part of his shelf, your blanket was folded at the foot of the bed beside his, your perfume lingered in the air now.

The room was no longer just his. It was becoming yours, too.

Jay let out a slow exhale as he tossed his towel over a chair. When you finally looked up, your gaze caught on the fact that he was shirtless. He had no intention of sleeping in one, it seemed.

“I don’t sleep with a shirt on,” he said casually, noticing your stare.

You swallowed and cleared your throat. “Can you—just for tonight?”

Jay’s brows lifted slightly before he let out a quiet chuckle. “You really think a shirt’s gonna make a difference, baby?”

Your stomach flipped at the nickname, the casual way it rolled off his tongue. The second time tonight.

You forced yourself to hold his gaze. “Just for tonight.”

He sighed, but didn’t argue, grabbing a t-shirt from the dresser and slipping it on before climbing into bed. “Happy?”

You ignored the warmth creeping up your neck and nodded.

“You okay?” he asked after a beat, watching you.

You blinked. That was the first time he’d asked you that all night.

“Yeah,” you said, voice quieter than intended. “Just… adjusting.”

He hummed, turning onto his back. “You’ll get used to it.”

Would you?

You inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “We should set some ground rules.”

He nodded, shifting to get comfortable. “Okay. Like what?”

You hesitated, chewing on your bottom lip. “No unnecessary touching while sleeping.”

Jay smirked. “You think I’m gonna be all over you in my sleep?”

Your stomach flipped at the teasing edge in his voice. “I think accidents happen,” you countered, narrowing your eyes.

He lifted his hands in surrender. “Fine. No unnecessary touching.”

You nodded, though the warmth in your cheeks refused to fade.

“Anything else?” he asked, glancing toward you as he adjusted the pillows.

You hesitated again. “What if, what if one of us wakes up first?”

Jay raised a brow. “Then the other keeps sleeping? That’s usually how waking up works.”

You glared. “I mean, do we pretend to still be asleep? Do we—do we greet each other? What’s the etiquette here?”

Jay let out a soft chuckle, clearly amused. “I dunno. Do you want me to say good morning all soft and sweet? Maybe kiss your forehead while I’m at it?”

You shot him a look, but the mental image sent something warm curling in your stomach.

He grinned. “I’ll just say ‘morning’ and get out of bed. Sound good?”

You nodded. “Okay. That works.”

Jay leaned back against the headboard, watching you for a moment before tilting his head. "By the way," he murmured, "you don’t have to keep calling me Jongseong. Jay is fine."

You hesitated. "Are you sure?"

He smirked slightly. "Yeah. Sounds better when you say it."

Your stomach did an odd little flip at that, but you masked it with a nod. "Alright. Jay." 

“You sure you’re comfortable?”

You hesitated before nodding. “Yeah.”

He hummed again, like he didn’t fully believe you, but didn’t push.

Then, just as you were about to shift under the covers, he reached over and brushed a stray strand of hair from your face.

Your breath hitched slightly at the unexpected softness of the gesture. It was casual, like something natural, something instinctive.

“Relax,” he murmured, voice lower now, almost drowsy. “It’s just me.”

Just him.

The realization settled somewhere deep in your chest as you nodded slowly. You lay back, facing the ceiling for a long moment, listening to the quiet rhythm of the room. Eventually, Jay flicked the bedside lamp off, and darkness swallowed the space between you both.

After a long stretch of silence, you swallowed and, almost in a whisper, asked, "Are you already used to it?"

There was a pause before Jay shifted slightly beside you. His voice was softer than before when he finally answered. "Not yet."

Everything that could go wrong had gone wrong. You had spilled coffee on your only clean work shirt, and barely made it to your job on time. Meetings ran over, projects piled up, and no matter how much you tried to get ahead, the day kept dragging you down.

Then, to top it all off, the train home was delayed, and your wand flickered weakly when you tried to summon your keys at the door. By the time you finally stepped inside the apartment, exhaustion clung to your bones, irritation simmering beneath your skin.

You kicked off your shoes with more force than necessary, throwing your bag onto the chair with a frustrated huff. Everything sucked. Absolutely everything.

Then you looked toward the bed.

Jay was already there, half-asleep, his head turned toward the door as if he had been waiting for you. His hair was messy, his bare shoulders peeking out from beneath the covers. The dim lighting made his features softer, relaxed in a way that nearly made you forget how awful your day had been.

“Took you long enough,” he mumbled sleepily.

Your frustration flickered, the sharp edges of it dulling almost instantly. You sighed, running a hand over your face. “Yeah. Today was hell.”

Jay hummed, eyes barely open as he shifted, making just enough space for you. “C’mere, baby.”

Your heart clenched at the way he said it, voice thick with sleep, laced with a quiet warmth that had no right making you feel better. 

You sighed again, but this time it wasn’t frustration—it was something softer, something that melted under the weight of his tired gaze.

You moved toward the closet to change, but Jay groaned softly, burying his face in the pillow. “No, just talk to me. I wanna hear about your day.”

You shook your head, exhaling as you unbuttoned your shirt. “You’re barely awake.”

“So?” he muttered, voice muffled. “Still wanna hear you.”

His insistence chipped away at whatever was left of your bad mood. As you moved through your night routine, you found yourself telling him everything—the stupid meetings, the unbearable commute, the way your boss kept mispronouncing your name even after working together for months.

Jay hummed occasionally, nodding in half-conscious agreement, eyes drifting shut between your sentences. But every time you stopped, thinking he had finally fallen asleep, his voice would break the silence.

“What happened after that?”

“Did you tell them off?”

“Bet you rolled your eyes at least five times.”

By the time you finally crawled into bed, most of the weight from the day had lifted, replaced by a quiet comfort that settled deep in your bones. As you exhaled, sinking into the sheets, Jay shifted beside you. His eyes were barely open, sleep pressing heavy against him, but he still reached out, fingers brushing against your cheek.

Without thinking, he murmured, "C’mere," and before you could register what was happening, he pulled you in, pressing a firm, lingering kiss against your lips. It was warm, slow, edged with sleep and something softer, something that made your chest tighten.

By the time he pulled away, his lips barely ghosting against yours, he was already halfway asleep again. "Better?" he mumbled, his voice slurred.

You swallowed, your pulse unsteady. "Yeah," you whispered. Jay’s fingers brushed against your arm as he exhaled a long, satisfied sigh. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “Me talking about my day was more for your entertainment than comfort, wasn’t it?”

Jay’s lips curled lazily. “Maybe.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting under the covers. But then Jay mumbled, “No shirt, no pants? I know you don’t like to wear your pants to sleep.”

You exhaled, already feeling the exhaustion tug at your limbs. “Fine.”

His fingers flexed against the sheets, satisfied. “Good. Together, we make one whole pajama set.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

Jay hummed in agreement, already drifting off. Only when you settled beside him, feeling the shared warmth beneath the blankets, did he finally stop fighting sleep. But before he did, his hand found your cheek, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin.

Without thinking, he leaned in again, this time pressing a softer, lingering kiss against your jaw. You exhaled slowly, your hands hesitating for only a moment before one of them lifted, fingers grazing the bare skin of his chest, feeling the warmth beneath your touch. His breath hitched slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he shifted closer, his lips trailing down to brush a barely-there kiss against the curve of your neck, his hand moving up to cradle the side of your face. 

"Sleep," he mumbled against your skin, voice fading into exhaustion, before finally letting go.

You woke up to warmth. A slow, steady heat radiating from beside you, the blankets feeling heavier than usual. 

Your eyes blinked open to see him still asleep, lying on his stomach, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other stretched out lazily, fingers grazing your side. His breathing was even, his face completely relaxed in sleep. 

You hesitated, watching him for just a moment longer than necessary, before attempting to shift away.

The second you moved, Jay groaned low in his throat. “Stay,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. His fingers flexed against your hip before retracting as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you yet.

You swallowed, trying to ignore the way your stomach flipped at his drowsy tone. “I need coffee.”

Jay cracked one eye open. “You always need coffee.”

You huffed. “And you always wake up in a good mood. How?”

He smirked sleepily, rolling onto his back with a slow stretch, his toned stomach peeking out from under the sheets. “It’s a gift, baby.”

The nickname sent a rush of heat to your cheeks, and you pushed the covers off before he could catch your expression. “I’m making coffee.”

Jay hummed, still blinking away sleep. “You’re really just gonna get up and leave me like this?”

You paused, turning to glance at him. “Like what?”

He grinned lazily. “Cold and abandoned.”

You scoffed but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re so dramatic in the morning.”

Jay only smirked as you made your way to the kitchen, the comfortable ease between you lingering even as you started your morning routine.

Moments later, he joined you, still shirtless, hair a mess, moving to grab a mug from the cupboard. As you handed him his coffee, he leaned in absentmindedly, pressing a soft kiss against your shoulder before taking the cup. The motion was so casual, so natural, that it took you a second to process.

You blinked, turning to face him. "Aren’t you kissing me too much?"

Jay stiffened slightly, eyes flicking up to meet yours. But then his lips quirked, and he leaned back against the counter, sipping his coffee.

You watched him for a beat before setting your mug down. "Fine."

Before he could ask what you meant, you leaned in, arms lifting to loosely wrap around his neck as you pressed a soft kiss just beneath his jaw, your lips grazing the warm skin of his neck. You felt the slight shudder run through him, the way his grip on his coffee mug tightened just a fraction. Jay's breath hitched slightly, his fingers tightening around his mug.

When you pulled back, you smirked at the way his ears had turned red. "Happy now?" 

"You should kiss me more," he teased.

You shot him a look, passing him a cup of coffee. “You’re lucky I made extra.”

Jay took a sip, sighing in content. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks, baby.”

You pretended not to react to the name, but the warmth stayed with you longer than your coffee did.

As you took another sip of your coffee, the quiet hum of the morning was interrupted by the sound of fluttering wings. An owl swooped in through the open kitchen window, landing gracefully on the counter, a neatly tied envelope clutched in its beak.

Jay sighed, setting his mug down as he reached for the letter. "That'll be from my parents."

You watched as he untied the parchment, unfolding it with a slight frown. The owl hooted softly, waiting for a response.

Jay's eyes scanned the page, his expression unreadable at first. Then, with a small exhale, he muttered, "They want to see us."

Your fingers tightened slightly around your mug. Us.

“You’re staring at it like it’s gonna bite,” he mused, taking a sip of his coffee.

You huffed. “I just don’t know what to expect.”

Jay exhaled through his nose, setting his mug down. “My parents… they’re not bad. Just… traditional. They’ll expect things to look a certain way.”

Your fingers curled around your cup. “And what if they don’t?”

He tilted his head slightly, watching you. “Then we make sure they do.”

There was something unreadable in his expression, something both reassuring and unsettling all at once. He was taking this seriously—not just the Ministry part, but the part where you both had to convince his family, too.

You bit your lip. “One thing at a time?”

Jay smirked slightly, tapping his fingers against the counter. “One thing at a time.”

You weren’t sure why the thought made your stomach twist, but something about meeting Jay’s parents, about having to present this marriage as real to them, felt heavier than anything you had prepared for.

Jay looked at you then, tilting his head slightly. "I can write back later. No rush. Honestly, let’s just get through the last Ministry visit for a while first—then we can deal with my parents."

You swallowed, nodding. "Right. No rush."

The owl flapped its wings, as if impatient, but Jay simply placed the letter aside, returning his focus to his coffee. The weight of the letter lingered in the air between you, unspoken but present.

The morning had started normally enough. Work had been relatively uneventful, save for your coworker Mina pulling you aside as you both sorted through some files in the break room. She leaned against the counter, stirring sugar into her tea with a knowing look in her eyes.

"So," she drawled, "how's married life treating you?"

You blinked. "It’s… an adjustment."

Mina scoffed, taking a sip of her tea. "Adjustment? That’s a diplomatic way of putting it. You barely look married. No ring marks on your fingers, no swooning over your husband’s lunch visits."

You huffed. "He doesn’t visit me at work, but he does pick me up after. And we do kiss and stuff."

Mina’s brows shot up, interest piqued. "Kiss and stuff? So, what, like a peck on the lips? A lingering moment? You making out against the nearest wall?"

Your face burned. "Not making out. Just… normal kissing."

Mina gave you a deadpan look before taking another sip of her tea. "Okay, listen. Make out. Suck his dick. Get laid. In that order."

You nearly choked. "Mina!"

She smirked, unbothered. "What? Jongseong is a total hottie, you’re stressed, and all this weird tension you’re feeling will go away the moment you two start properly acting like husband and wife."

You groaned, rubbing your temples. "You are actually the worst."

Mina shrugged, grinning. "I’m just saying, sweetheart, at some point, you’re gonna have to stop pretending this is a polite roommate situation. Might as well enjoy yourself in the process." 

She only laughed, patting your shoulder. "I’m just saying, if you’re already forced to live together, might as well enjoy the perks, right? Bet he’s not bad in bed either."

Mina shrugged, clearly unfazed. "I’m the realist. You’re the one making this more complicated than it needs to be."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't fully shake her words from your mind as the day went on.

Jay had suggested going out for lunch—something about fresh air being good for you, but you had a sneaking suspicion he was trying to get you out of your own head. The tension of the upcoming dinner with his parents had been lingering between you both, and he was trying to shift the focus.

The café was cozy, tucked into a quiet corner of the city, the kind of place that blurred the line between magical and Muggle. Small, levitating candles hovered above each table, but there was also a very prominent espresso machine steaming in the background, giving the place a strange but warm blend of both worlds.

Jay was different today. More touchy.

The first time he reached for your hand, it caught you off guard. You had been gesturing while explaining something, only to have his fingers wrap around yours mid-sentence, lacing them together as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You blinked down at your joined hands, but he only smirked, continuing to listen as if nothing had changed.

Jay tilted his head slightly. "By the way, you always talk about Niki, but what about your other friends? Jungwon, right?"

You blinked. "Yeah. Jungwon and I have been friends for a while now."

Jay hummed. "Funny. I actually tutored him for like a week back in school."

Your eyes widened. "You? Tutoring Jungwon?"

He smirked. "Yeah. He was struggling with Charms. Thought he could figure everything out by himself, but he kept botching the spellwork."

You laughed. "That does sound like him. How did it go?"

Jay shrugged. "He quit after a week. Said he learned better by messing up on his own."

You snorted. "That sounds even more like him."

Jay smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Guess we’ve had more overlapping connections than I thought."

It wasn’t until later that evening, back at the apartment, that you realized just how much more comfortable Jay had gotten with you.

You were sitting on the couch, legs curled up beneath you as you skimmed through a book, when Jay walked in, plopping down beside you with absolutely no regard for personal space. Without hesitation, he reached for your arm and tugged gently, signaling for you to shift.

You raised a brow. “What?”

Jay smirked. “Come here.”

You scoffed. “Why?”

He sighed, as if you were exhausting, before simply pulling you toward him. You barely had time to react before you were settled against his chest, your back pressed against him as he stretched his legs out comfortably. His arms caged you in, warm and steady.

“Jay,” you muttered, stiffening slightly. “What are you doing?”

“Relaxing.” His voice was easy, like this was normal. Like you hadn’t just settled directly into his lap.

You swallowed, unsure of what to do with yourself. “I—”

“You’re warm,” he murmured, voice dropping slightly.

Your heartbeat stuttered.

The worst part was that he was warm too.

After a few seconds, you exhaled, finally allowing yourself to relax into him. Jay hummed in approval, his lips grazing against the shell of your ear as he shifted slightly, adjusting his grip around you. The touch was fleeting but intentional.

“You really don’t mind all this?” you asked quietly.

Jay chuckled, his breath warm against your skin. “Mind it? I’m starting to think I like it too much.”

You sucked in a breath, but before you could respond, he nuzzled against your shoulder, his teeth grazing your ear before closing lightly around it in a teasing nibble. Your breath hitched, and your fingers instinctively gripped his arm.

"Jay—"

He didn't pull back. Instead, his arms tightened around you, and his lips moved lower, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the curve of your neck. The warmth of it sent a sharp jolt through your spine, and before you could second-guess yourself, you turned slightly in his lap, tilting your head toward him.

It happened naturally—his mouth met yours in a kiss that was slower, deeper than either of you had intended. The shift in energy was unmistakable, tension curling between you like an unspoken understanding neither of you wanted to break.

Jay's hands splayed against your back, pulling you closer as your fingers curled into his shirt, anchoring yourself. When he bit at your bottom lip, a quiet noise escaped you, and he responded by deepening the kiss, tilting his head as if he couldn't get enough.

By the time you finally pulled away, breath uneven, his forehead rested against yours, his lips just barely brushing over yours again in a lingering tease. Your heart was still racing, your hands still lightly curled against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

Jay's breath was still uneven against your skin, his hands resting against your lower back, keeping you close. You could still feel the warmth of his lips, the lingering tension settling between you both like an unspoken acknowledgment.

His arms tightened slightly, and he nuzzled against your cheek, pressing a barely-there kiss against your temple. "You feel safe," he murmured, his voice lower, softer.

Your breath hitched. "What?"

Jay exhaled slowly, as if grounding himself in your presence. "With you. I feel safe with you."

The confession sent a warmth through your chest that you weren’t prepared for. Your fingers twitched slightly against his shirt, caught between the instinct to pull away and the need to stay exactly where you were.

Jay tilted his head, his nose brushing against your cheek. "You like taking care of me, don’t you?" he mused, teasing but sincere.

You swallowed, trying to steady yourself. "You’re impossible."

His smirk returned, albeit softer this time. "Maybe. But I think you like me this way."

You huffed, shaking your head, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you let yourself sink just a little further into his embrace, knowing—deep down—you weren’t quite ready to let go yet.

"Told you you'd get used to it," he murmured, his voice husky.

“Jay,” you warned, though your voice came out softer than intended.

He only smirked, resting his chin on your shoulder like he hadn’t just sent your heart into overdrive. “You’re overthinking again, baby.”

And you hated that he was right.

You had been dreading the Ministry’s visit from the moment the letter arrived, confirming the final scheduled check-in before a long evaluation period. It was supposed to be a relief—this was the last time, for a while at least, that an official would come snooping around, dissecting your marriage like it was an experiment instead of your actual life.

But relief was the last thing you felt.

There was something suffocating about the expectation of passing. You and Jay had gotten good at playing your roles, good at the casual touches, the familiarity, the easy, teasing back-and-forth that had started feeling more real than pretend. But today, something felt… off.

Maybe it was because the words still echoed in your mind.

You should kiss me more.

You feel safe.

Jay had said it so easily, as if it was second nature to him now, to be comfortable around you. But comfort didn’t mean security, and today, everything felt like it was hanging by a thread.

The Ministry official, a stern-looking woman with wire-rimmed glasses, sat across from you both in the living room. A notepad in her hands, quill poised. Watching. Always watching.

“So,” she said, adjusting her glasses. “We’ve received positive reports so far on your integration as a married couple. How has the transition been?”

Jay, as always, was calm, composed, charming. “It’s been good. We’ve built a routine, settled into daily life together.”

Her eyes flickered to you. “And you?”

You swallowed. “It’s… an adjustment, but I think we’re getting there.”

The Ministry woman nodded, making a note. “Good, good. And the cohabitation aspect? Shared space, sleeping arrangements?”

Jay didn’t even hesitate. “Of course.”

You nodded, feeling the walls close in around you. You wondered if she could sense the strange weight in the air, the tension neither of you had fully addressed.

She glanced down at the file in her lap. “As you know, by the next evaluation period, the Ministry will be monitoring this aspect through magical verification. We must ensure that your union progresses naturally.”

Naturally. As if any of this had been natural from the start.

Her gaze sharpened. “And, of course, I must remind you that by the second year of marriage, procreation is expected. The Ministry understands that adjustments take time, but ultimately, your union is meant to strengthen the magical bloodlines.”

Your stomach clenched. Jay’s jaw tensed.

“Understood,” Jay finally said, his tone even.

You managed a nod, even though your heart was pounding in your ears. The official studied you both for a moment longer before standing, closing her folder.

“I believe that will be all for now,” she said, giving a tight smile. “We will check in again at the next scheduled period. Until then, I suggest you continue settling into your roles as husband and wife.”

And just like that, she was gone. But her words lingered, thick like smoke in the room.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment.

Then, Jay let out a sharp breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Well, that was fun.”

Your jaw clenched. “Fun.”

He glanced at you, sensing the shift in your tone. “What?”

You stood abruptly, pacing toward the kitchen, needing space. “Nothing.”

Jay sighed, rubbing at his temple. “Come on, baby, just say it.”

And maybe it was the way he said it—so effortlessly, so casually, as if nothing had just happened—that made something in you snap.

“Say what, Jay?” You whirled around, frustration bubbling over. “That I hate this? That I hate how the Ministry talks about children like we’re required to breed for them? That I hate how we have to act like our lives are some scripted performance?”

Jay exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You think I don’t hate it too?”

“Do you?” The words were out before you could stop them, sharp, biting. “Because sometimes it feels like you’re perfectly fine pretending.”

Jay’s expression darkened. "I’m trying to make the best of this, but you act like I’m the enemy. We’re in this together, or have you forgotten that?"

You let out a bitter laugh. "Together? Jay, sometimes it feels like you don't even care. Like you're just rolling with this because it's easier for you."

Jay’s eyes flashed with something unreadable, his posture stiffening. "What do you mean I don't care? Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I wake up every morning thrilled about the fact that my life got rewritten by some Ministry law?"

You exhaled sharply. "I never said that."

"No, but you sure as hell act like I’m the one who forced you into this." His voice was sharper now, frustration laced into every word. "I’ve been trying, okay? Trying to make this livable, trying to make it easier for both of us. But every time I do, you push back like you’d rather pretend I don’t exist."

You crossed your arms, hating the way his words stung. "I don’t pretend you don’t exist, Jay. I just—" You swallowed hard. "I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to balance what’s real and what’s not," Your heart pounded, "I haven’t forgotten that we're in this together. But maybe I wish we weren’t."

Jay’s entire body went rigid. His jaw clenched, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter, but no less sharp. "What do you mean, you wish we weren’t?"

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out at first. "Jay—"

"No, say it," he pressed, his voice laced with something raw. "Has this all just been an inconvenience to you? Have I just been another part of the mess?"

You inhaled shakily. "That’s not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?" His eyes bore into yours, frustration and something else—something closer to hurt—bleeding into his gaze.

You hesitated. "I just meant… I don’t know what’s real and what’s not anymore."

Jay’s expression darkened further, his frustration spilling over. "It’s all real, because this is our life now! This isn’t some fantasy, or some nightmare you can wake up from. This is it. We’re here, together, and no amount of wishing it away is going to change that."

Jay let out a harsh breath, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe it isn’t normal, but it’s ours. And if we keep tearing it apart every time something doesn’t go the way we want, then what the hell are we even doing?"

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. Neither of you willing to be the first to break it.

The silence that followed was deafening. Jay’s face didn’t change, but something behind his eyes did. A flicker of something that looked like hurt.

And then, just like that, the moment passed.

His jaw clenched, his voice measured. “We have dinner with my parents tonight.”

You inhaled sharply, your stomach twisting. You had completely forgotten in the middle of the chaos.

“Great,” you muttered. “Can’t wait.”

Jay exhaled, stepping back. “Just… get ready. We’ll deal with this later.”

The carriage ride to Jay’s family estate was quiet, tense. You barely spoke, both still reeling from the heated argument earlier. Jay’s gaze was fixed outside the window, jaw tight, and though you knew this dinner was important, you couldn’t shake the unease crawling under your skin.

By the time you arrived, the grandeur of the Park estate was impossible to ignore. The house—no, the manor—was a striking example of old magic, the kind of wealth that had been passed down for generations.

Tall wrought-iron gates opened with a soft creak, revealing sprawling courtyards lined with lantern-lit pathways, their glow flickering in the cool evening air. The mansion itself was regal, its high stone walls blanketed in ivy, windows aglow with warm golden light.

Jay straightened the moment the carriage stopped, his usual relaxed demeanor replaced by something practiced. Reserved. This was his world, and you were only stepping into it.

A house-elf opened the massive front doors before either of you could knock, ushering you into a vast foyer lined with polished marble floors and an intricately carved staircase leading to the upper levels. The walls were adorned with enchanted portraits, all featuring past generations of the Park family—stoic figures in rich robes watching you with unsettling scrutiny.

Jay’s mother was waiting in the grand entrance hall, regal as ever. Her dark hair was elegantly styled, her robes immaculate, her presence exuding the effortless grace of someone accustomed to being obeyed.

"Jongseong," she greeted, her voice smooth but edged with expectation. "It’s been too long."

Jay nodded, a polite smile barely reaching his eyes. "You know how it is."

His father stood just behind her, taller than Jay, his presence commanding even in silence. His features were sharp, his stare assessing, but there was a flicker of curiosity when he glanced at you.

His mother’s gaze shifted toward you, scanning with the precision of someone accustomed to weighing worth. "And you must be my daughter-in-law."

The title landed heavily. Daughter-in-law. It sounded more binding coming from her than it ever had from a Ministry official.

You dipped your head slightly. "It’s lovely to meet you."

She studied you for a long moment before giving a small nod. "Come in. Dinner is ready."

The dining room was ornate and intimidating, the kind of place where silence held weight. A long, polished table stretched across the room, set with fine china and gleaming silverware. Floating candles hovered overhead, casting a warm but almost oppressive glow on the deep mahogany walls lined with more ancestral portraits.

Dinner was served in meticulously timed courses, each plate appearing at the perfect moment as house-elves moved soundlessly through the space. The food was exquisite, but you barely tasted it—your mind too occupied with the undercurrent of tension between you and Jay.

His parents, though polite, were assessing you, their questions carefully crafted to evaluate rather than genuinely get to know you.

"Tell me," his mother finally said, dabbing her lips with a pristine napkin, "how have you been adjusting to married life?"

You forced a smile. "It’s been an adjustment, but we’re finding our way."

Jay’s father hummed, swirling his wine glass. "Finding your way?" His sharp eyes flickered between the two of you. "That’s an interesting choice of words."

You felt Jay tense beside you. "We’re managing just fine."

His mother tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharper than before. "Did you two have a fight?"

Your breath caught in your throat. The room felt smaller. Had they already noticed?

Jay let out a measured sigh, fingers tightening slightly around his fork. "It’s nothing. Just—" he exhaled, sparing you a quick glance, "a disagreement."

His mother hummed thoughtfully, setting her napkin down beside her plate. "Marriage isn’t about never fighting. It’s about how you handle the fights."

His father nodded, his deep voice breaking the tense silence. "A marriage built on avoidance will always crumble. Disagreements are inevitable, but how you choose to move forward from them is what matters."

The weight of their words settled heavily between you and Jay, a third presence at the table. It wasn’t accusatory, nor was it particularly comforting—it was simply fact. And it left you feeling exposed.

His mother’s gaze lingered on Jay for a moment longer before softening just a fraction as she turned back to you. "It will take time, but if you are both willing to build something real from this, then you must learn to meet each other halfway."

You swallowed, nodding slowly. Halfway.

After dinner, as the plates vanished and the dining room emptied, Jay’s mother turned to you with a calm, knowing expression. "Come," she said, rising gracefully from her seat. "Let’s wash our hands before dessert."

You hesitated for only a moment before following her, feeling Jay’s gaze linger on you as you exited the room. The air in the corridor was cool, laced with the scent of fresh linen and aged parchment. You expected her to lead you directly to the washroom, but instead, after you rinsed your hands, she gestured toward a side door that opened into a moonlit garden.

"A walk will do us both some good," she murmured, stepping outside.

The estate grounds were vast, illuminated by the soft glow of floating lanterns. The paths were lined with perfectly trimmed hedges and arching trellises of enchanted flowers that bloomed faintly in the evening air. It was quiet, serene, the opposite of the tension you had felt all night.

She walked beside you in silence for a few moments before speaking. "I can see the weight you’re carrying, dear. You don’t need to hide it from me."

You exhaled slowly. "It’s just… a lot. Adjusting, trying to understand what all of this means, what’s expected of me… and Jay."

Her lips curled slightly, not unkindly. "My son is… difficult at times. But I know him well."

You glanced at her, uncertain. "You seem to know a lot about us already."

She chuckled. "I know marriage is not easy, especially one like yours. But I also know that my son is not as indifferent as he pretends to be. He may act as though he’s handling everything well, but I see the way he looks at you. And I see the way you look at him, even when you don’t realize it."

You swallowed. "I don’t know how to make this work."

She stopped walking, turning to you. In the dim light, her gaze was softer than before. "Then start by meeting him where he is. And let him meet you there, too."

You nodded slowly, her words settling deep within you.

Then, as if sensing your next question, she offered a small smile. "If I know my son—and I do—he’s waiting for you upstairs. In his old bedroom. He may be stubborn, but he won’t go to sleep without trying to fix things."

The warmth in her voice was unexpected, and when she placed a gentle hand on your arm, she added, "Call me Mom. Family is built over time, but you’re part of ours now."

Something in your chest tightened, but you found yourself nodding, feeling the smallest bit lighter.

"Go to him," she murmured, stepping back toward the house. "The night is long, but love is patient."

The hallways of the Park estate were quiet, dimly lit by sconces casting soft, flickering light. The house smelled like old parchment, polished mahogany, and something herbal—like a potion left brewing long enough to become part of the walls. The weight of history pressed in on you as you followed the familiar path to Jay’s childhood bedroom.

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides as you stood outside his door, slightly ajar, warm lamplight spilling onto the dark floorboards. Your heart was a riot in your chest, each beat slamming against your ribs.

You pushed the door open.

Jay was there. Waiting.

He sat on the edge of his bed, one elbow propped on his knee, fingers pressed to his temple like he had the beginnings of a headache. His sleeves were still rolled up, exposing the lean muscle of his forearms, and his shirt hung loosely over his frame, collar slightly undone like he’d been tugging at it in frustration. His hair was tousled—from his hands, or maybe from the weight of the night.

He looked up as you entered. His expression was unreadable, but his shoulders tensed.

The room was suffocatingly personal. The bed, bigger than you expected, was covered in dark gray sheets that had long lost their crispness. The walls, lined with old Quidditch posters and bookshelves crammed with textbooks and novels, spoke of a younger, more ambitious Jay—one you had never known.

Your throat tightened. This was his space. His past. And now you were stepping into it.

You shut the door behind you, your breath unsteady.

“Your mom told me you’d be here,” you said softly.

Jay scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. "Of course, she did."

The silence that stretched between you was thick with unspoken things. You shifted on your feet, nerves crawling up your spine. It shouldn’t be this hard to talk to him.

You exhaled. "She also told me to call her Mom."

That got his attention. His brow furrowed slightly, his gaze flickering over you like he was trying to decide if you were serious. "Yeah?"

You nodded. "She gave me some advice, too. About meeting halfway."

Jay inhaled deeply, rubbing at his temple before looking at you fully. "Sounds like her."

More silence. It wasn’t cold anymore, but it wasn’t comfortable either. Just hesitant. Fragile.

Finally, he sighed. "I don’t like fighting with you."

The words hit you harder than they should have. A lump formed in your throat. "Me neither."

Jay’s eyes softened just slightly, his posture relaxing the smallest bit. "I meant what I said earlier. This… us. It’s real, whether we wanted it to be or not."

You swallowed against the sudden sting behind your eyes. Real. That word lodged itself deep in your chest, making it hard to breathe.

You took a slow step forward. Then another. And another, until you were standing between his knees.

Jay’s hands twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he should.

"I don’t know how to do this," you whispered, voice tight.

Jay’s throat bobbed as he exhaled, and this time, he didn’t hesitate. His hands slid up your hips, fingers digging into your waist just enough to make you feel it.

“Then let’s figure it out together,” he murmured.

A small, broken sound escaped you before you could stop it. His grip tightened.

Tears slipped past your lashes, and Jay’s entire expression shifted. His fingers brushed up, cradling your face, wiping them away.

"Baby, hey—" his voice dropped lower, raw. "Why are you crying?"

You let out a watery laugh, shaking your head. "I don’t know. I just—" You sucked in a breath. "You call me baby like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like we’re normal. And I don’t know what to do with that."

Jay studied you for a long moment, then tilted his head forward, pressing his forehead to yours.

His warmth seeped into your skin, anchoring you. He smelled like home.

"You don’t have to do anything with it," he murmured. "Just let me hold you."

You let out another shaky breath before you did something you hadn’t done before.

You settled into his lap.

Jay’s entire body stiffened, but he didn’t stop you. His arms came up instinctively, wrapping around your waist, holding you tighter, like he was afraid you’d disappear.

Your fingers toyed with the edges of his collar, trailing along the warm skin just beneath it. His pulse thrummed under your fingertips, fast but steady.

Then, without thinking, you leaned in and kissed him.

It was soft at first, hesitant—a brush of lips meant to test the waters. But when Jay sighed against your mouth and pulled you flush against him, the hesitation melted away.

He kissed you deeper.

You could feel everything in the way he held you—his hands sliding up your spine, his fingers tracing your ribs, the weight of every moment leading up to this one.

By the time you pulled away, you were breathless. Your forehead rested against his, lips still tingling.

Then, in a hushed, teasing voice, you whispered, "I love it when you smother me with yourself. It makes me feel beautiful."

Jay froze.

Then—a deep, rich laugh rumbled in his chest. He tipped his head back, grinning. "What?"

Your cheeks burned. "It sounded better in my head."

Jay’s arms tightened around you, his lips brushing over your temple as he chuckled. "God, you’re ridiculous."

You hummed, tracing absent patterns over his chest. "But you love it."

Jay exhaled, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as if he belonged there. "Yeah, baby," he murmured against your skin. "I do."

For the first time that night, everything felt right.

The morning sun poured through the windows the next morning, casting golden streaks across the bedroom floor. You stirred slightly, feeling warmth wrapped around you—solid, firm, undeniably Jay.

His arm was draped over your waist, his breath hot against the back of your neck, slow and steady. His entire body was flush against yours, the weight of his leg thrown over yours, as if he had unconsciously tangled himself around you in the night.

You froze, hyper-aware of every point of contact. His hand splayed low on your stomach, fingers curled just barely under the hem of your shirt. His breath fanned over the shell of your ear, sending shivers racing down your spine.

Then, he tightened his grip.

You sucked in a breath as his fingers flexed against your skin, pulling you back against him. A low hum rumbled in his chest, deep and sleepy.

"Mmm. Stay," he muttered, voice thick with sleep, gravelly in a way that made your stomach flip.

You should move. You should pull away. But you don’t.

Instead, you let yourself sink into the warmth of him, just for a second. The feel of him—his bare skin against yours, the solid press of his body—had your mind spiraling into dangerous places. He was so warm, so strong, so impossibly close.

Your breath stuttered as you felt his fingers slide just a little lower, his palm pressing just a little firmer.

And then, realization hit.

You jerked away, heart hammering, but Jay barely reacted. He let out a tired groan, stretching his arm over his head before blinking at you through half-lidded eyes.

"What’s wrong?" His voice was hoarse, his gaze still heavy with sleep.

You cleared your throat, forcing your voice to stay even. "Nothing. Just… we should get up."

Jay smirked, lazy and knowing.

"If you say so, baby."

The walk home was silent, but thick. Every brush of your arms, every accidental glance, every moment of quiet between you carried an unbearable weight.

You weren’t sure when it had started—this undercurrent of something more, something dangerous. But you could feel it burning beneath the surface.

When you stepped inside the apartment, the air changed.

Jay lingered near the kitchen, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter. He watched you, gaze heavy, unreadable. You could feel it—the tension crackling between you like a live wire.

Finally, he broke the silence. "You’re different."

You glanced at him. "So are you."

His lips quirked. "That a bad thing?"

You didn’t answer. Because no, it wasn’t. And that was the problem.

It started small. A test. A game.

You began pushing his buttons—on purpose.

Brushing past him with too much force. Leaning in just a little too close when speaking. Letting your fingers trail over his wrist absentmindedly, just to see if he’d react.

And Jay? He played back.

His palm ghosting over the small of your back when he passed behind you. His lips brushing your ear as he murmured something teasing. His fingers trailing down your spine for just a second too long.

Then came the moment when he finally called you out.

One night, as you passed him in the hallway, his hand shot out, catching your wrist.

He turned to face you, his eyes dark, smirk sharp.

"What’s this, baby? Trying to get my attention?"

Your breath caught in your throat. You had been. But you weren’t about to admit it.

You scoffed. "In your dreams."

Jay chuckled, but there was something dangerous in his expression now.

"Oh, I think you’ve been in my dreams, too."

Your heart slammed against your ribs. He was winning. And you couldn’t have that.

So, you did something reckless.

As you moved past him, you let your fingers drag over his stomach, just barely skimming the skin exposed by his loose shirt.

Jay stiffened.

For the first time, he looked affected. His jaw clenched, fingers twitching at his sides.

Then, he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "You keep playing with fire, baby."

You turned, eyes locking onto his. "And what if I am?"

His lips parted. His fingers curled into fists.

He was so, so close to losing it.

It happened in the smallest, most ridiculous way.

You were reaching for something on the top shelf in the kitchen when Jay stepped behind you, his body pressing up against yours, his hand effortlessly grabbing it before you could.

"Let me," he murmured, his voice low and deep in your ear.

You froze. Every inch of him was against you. His chest, his hips, his hands.

Then, you pressed back against him.

Jay let out a quiet, shaky breath. His fingers dug into your waist.

"You don’t know what you’re doing to me," he whispered. His lips brushed your ear, his breath warm.

You turned slightly, your lips just barely grazing his.

"Then show me."

And that was it. That was the moment. Jay grabbed you, spun you, backed you against the counter.

His mouth crashed against yours—needy, desperate, hungry. A gasp escaped you, swallowed instantly by his lips. His hands gripped your thighs, lifting you onto the counter with ease.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him closer, so, so close.

Jay broke the kiss, panting, pressing his forehead against yours. His hands shook as they held onto you. "Tell me to stop."

You shook your head. "Don’t you dare.".

The air between you and Jay was electric, charged with unspoken desire that had been simmering for far too long. It was too much now, a weight pressing down on you both, demanding to be released. When his lips finally claimed yours, it was with urgency, with hunger, as if he had been holding back for months.

The kitchen—such a normal, mundane setting—was suddenly transformed into something far more intimate, more dangerous. The cool granite countertop pressed into your back as Jay’s lips crushed against yours, sending shockwaves through your body.

At first, your lips parted in surprise, but the moment you surrendered, it was over. His kiss was hungry, his mouth moving fervently against yours, tasting, exploring, claiming. His tongue swept inside, demanding, possessive, like he was marking you as his own.

A soft moan escaped you, a sound of surrender, of need.

It seemed to unleash something in him.

His hands, which had been resting gently on your thighs, tightened with fierce intensity. His long fingers dug into the soft flesh, leaving imprints as he pushed you further into the counter, molding you against him. Your back arched instinctively, pressing your body closer, craving more of the heat between you.

The kiss deepened, turning hotter, messier. A whimper slipped from your lips, and Jay responded with a deep, primal growl, his mouth leaving yours to trail fire along your jaw, your neck.

“God, baby,” he rasped, his voice hoarse, wrecked. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.” His breath was hot against your skin, sending shivers down your spine, curling in your stomach. “You drive me fucking crazy.”

Your thoughts were incoherent, lost in the sheer intensity of him.

Your hands, which had been resting against his broad shoulders, now tangled in his dark hair, tugging, pulling him closer. You needed more, needed to be consumed by him, needed to drown in the way he was touching, kissing, ruining you.

"Do something about it," you whispered, your voice thick with want, raw with need.

It was a challenge, a dare—one that Jay was more than willing to accept.

With a feral grin, he pulled back, his eyes dark with pure desire. “Oh, I will.” His voice was low, dripping with promise.

In a swift motion, his hands gripped your waist, strong fingers spanning your sides as he lifted you effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his hips on instinct, as if you had done this dance with him a thousand times before.

And then, you felt it.

His hardness pressing against you, just enough to make your breath hitch, just enough to send a delicious thrill racing down your spine.

Jay devoured your mouth as he carried you out of the kitchen, his footsteps unsteady, his grip unrelenting. You clung to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, matching his fervor with your own.

The urgency between you both was palpable, nearly unbearable.

By the time Jay kicked open the bedroom door, his lips never leaving yours, his hands never loosening their grip on you, your entire body felt like it was burning from the inside out.

He stumbled inside, kicked the door shut with his foot, and suddenly, everything blurred.

You barely had time to register the bed before you were falling onto it, your body sinking into the mattress as he followed, covering you, pressing you down, making sure you felt every inch of him.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he growled, his voice thick, rough with need. “Every fucking day, I’ve fantasized about having you, about claiming you like this.”

Your fingers traced the strong lines of his jaw, relishing the roughness of his unshaven skin.

"Then take me," you whispered, a boldness you didn’t even know you possessed. “Make me yours.”

Jay’s response was immediate.

His fingers wrapped around your wrists, pinning them above your head, his grip firm but careful. His free hand roamed, tracing your curves, exploring, memorizing.

His thumb brushed over the peak of your nipple, eliciting a sharp gasp from you, your body arching instinctively.

“I want to see you,” he murmured, his voice like gravel, heavy with restraint. “All of you.”

Your heart pounded as you sat up, pulling your shirt over your head, revealing the delicate black lace beneath.

Jay’s eyes darkened. His breath hitched.

Releasing your wrists, his hands moved to cup your breasts, thumbs teasing the hardened peaks, rolling, stroking, watching you squirm beneath him.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, his lips finding yours again, a searing, devastating kiss.

His mouth trailed down, down, down, leaving a path of kisses, nipping, sucking, making you tremble beneath him.

His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your pants, and you arched into him, desperate.

"Please, Jay," you begged, your voice a breathless plea. "I need you."

He let out a dark chuckle, the sound vibrating against your skin. "Oh, you’ll have me, baby. But first… I want to taste you."

And then, he did.

His lips, his tongue, his fingers—all of him, taking his time, taking you apart.

You were a trembling, gasping mess beneath him, gripping the sheets, crying out his name.

And when you finally shattered, when he pulled every last moan from your lips, he moved back over you, watching you, waiting, drinking in the sight of you undone beneath him.

You reached for him, pulling him down, wrapping yourself around him, whispering his name.

And when he finally slid into you, deep and slow, filling you in one smooth stroke, you knew. This wasn’t just need. This wasn’t just hunger.

This was everything.

Jay buried his face in the crook of your neck, groaning as your body clenched around him, gripping him perfectly. He moved slow, deep, deliberate. Like he wanted to make sure you felt everything. Like he wanted to ruin you.

And he did. He whispered your name against your skin.

And when you both tumbled over the edge together, it wasn’t just ecstasy. It was something more.

Something terrifying, something dangerous, something neither of you were ready to name. Afterward, Jay didn’t move.

He just held you, his lips pressing absentminded kisses against your temple, your jaw.

The sheets were a tangled mess beneath you, the room still thick with the remnants of last night—the heat, the whispered names, the overwhelming need.

But morning had arrived, and with it, clarity.

You lay still, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding, stomach twisting. You could feel him beside you, the warmth of his body still clinging to yours, the weight of his arm draped lazily over your waist.

You should move. You should get up.

Instead, you stayed still, afraid to break the moment. Afraid of what came next.

Then, Jay stirred.

A slow inhale. A shift of weight. Then, his hold on you tightened.

“Baby, you know I'm in love with you right?” he murmured, his voice thick, raspy from sleep.

Your stomach flipped, heat rising to your cheeks at the way the word slipped so effortlessly from his lips.

Then, he pressed a lazy kiss to the back of your shoulder.

Something inside you clenched at the tenderness of it. The way his lips lingered, soft and warm, like he was memorizing you, grounding himself in the feel of you.

It was so different from last night. Last night had been fire, hunger, pure desire. But this? This was something else entirely.

Something terrifying.

You swallowed hard, your body going stiff beneath his touch. He noticed.

Jay let out a quiet exhale, his fingers tracing soothing circles over your hip. Then, finally, he spoke.

“I meant what I said.”

Your breath caught in your throat. His words. The confession you hadn’t acknowledged.

“I know,” you whispered.

He shifted, his grip tightening just slightly, as if afraid you’d slip away. His lips found your bare shoulder again, pressing another slow, lingering kiss.

“My Doll,” he murmured, his voice softer this time, but still weighted with emotion. “You don’t have to say anything. Not yet.”

You turned your head slightly, eyes meeting his for the first time that morning. He looked different.

Softer. More open. But just as intense. Your lips parted, but no words came. Because what could you say? You weren’t ready. You weren’t sure what this was.

But Jay just smiled, small and knowing, like he understood anyway.

“You don’t have to figure it out right now,” he murmured, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Just… let me be here with you.”

Your chest tightened. That was the problem. He was already here. Closer than he had ever been. You didn’t know if you had it in you to push him away.

It took days. Maybe longer. But it was always there, lingering between you.

Jay never said it again, but you could feel it in everything he did.

The way he pulled you close when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The way he touched you—not just with heat, but with reverence. The way he whispered "Baby" like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But the moment it finally hit you, it was almost embarrassing how obvious it had been all along.

It wasn’t in the quiet nights, or the way he held you in his sleep.

It was something as simple as Jay waiting for you outside of work.

It had been a rough day. One of those days where everything felt heavy. And when you stepped outside, seeing him leaning against the lamppost, hands in his pockets, waiting for you like it was the most natural thing in the world—

It hit you like a train.

He smiled the second he saw you, pushing off the post and walking over like he couldn’t get to you fast enough. “Hey, babe. You okay?”

And instead of answering, you just stood there, staring at him—this man who had somehow become everything.

Jay frowned slightly, reaching out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

You let out a breath, and before you could stop yourself, the words just slipped out “I love you.”

Jay stilled. His fingers twitched against your cheek, his expression unreadable.

Then, his lips parted. “Y/N…”

You panicked. “I—I mean it too I-”

But before you could take it back, Jay was already moving, already kissing you like he’d been waiting his whole life to hear you say those words.

And when he finally pulled back, breathless, a little dazed, he just grinned.

“You can say it again, you know.”

You rolled your eyes, but when he leaned in and whispered, “Say it again, baby,” you did.

Because you meant it.

Months later, the apartment felt different. Warmer. More like a home than a place you had been forced into.

The nursery had been Jay’s latest obsession. He had spent the entire day painting the walls, rearranging furniture, making sure everything was perfect. And now, he was sprawled across your bed, half-asleep, waiting for you.

You stood in the doorway, hand resting on your six-months-pregnant belly, watching him with amusement. His shirtless form was stretched across the mattress, hair still messy from the day’s work, an arm thrown over his eyes.

“Babe,” you called softly.

He groaned. “Mmm.”

You stepped forward, nudging his foot with yours. “You’re hogging the bed.”

Jay cracked one eye open, a slow, sleepy grin spreading across his lips. “And you’re glowing, mama.”

You rolled your eyes, crawling into bed beside him, letting out a relieved sigh as you sank into his warmth. Jay turned onto his side, one large hand coming to rest on your belly, thumb rubbing slow circles over the fabric of your shirt.

“Tired?” you asked.

“Exhausted,” he muttered, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. “But you’re worth it.”

You smiled, letting your fingers trace the ridges of his forearm. “You’ve been working too hard.”

Jay hummed, shifting closer, his lips grazing your jaw, your cheek. “You’re carrying my kid. I’d build a whole damn castle if you wanted one.”

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

He nuzzled against your cheek, voice growing drowsy. “Only for you, my Doll”

You turned your head slightly, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips.

Jay smiled into it, whispering, “Can’t wait to meet them.”

Your heart squeezed, warmth flooding through you.

“Me too,” you whispered, letting yourself sink into him. “Me too.”

Then, in his half-asleep state, he muttered, “But if they have your stubborn streak, we’re doomed.”

You snorted. “Then you better start preparing now.”

He pulled you in tighter, his lips brushing your forehead. “I already have everything I need.”

You yawned, stretching your fingers along his bare chest before whispering, “Come here, baby.”

Jay let out a pleased hum, shifting fully into your arms, resting his head against your shoulder. His strong arms wrapped around you, careful yet firm, his warmth seeping into your skin as he melted into you.

“Mm, I like it when you call me that,” he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion.

You smirked, running a hand through his messy hair. “Good. Because I’m not stopping.”

As sleep began to claim you both, Jay murmured, “You know, I hated every second of that damn law.”

You sighed, your fingers tightening against his chest. “Me too.”

“But…” he continued, his voice soft and full of something deep, something real, “I’ve loved every second with you.”

You smiled, pressing a final kiss to his skin. “Me too, Jay. Me too."

fin.

taglist: @wonnienyang @firstclassjaylee @belle643 @ijustwannareadstuff20 @heelovesmeknot @heeseunggotrizz @jaeyunsbimbo @immelissaaa @somuchdard @jkslvsnella @vernorica123 @lillotus17

[beloveds-embrace]

(When you died suddenly, Simon wasn’t the only who mourned you)

The house was eerily quiet now.

Simon sat at the edge of your shared bed, his head in his hands, fingers tangled in his short hair. His mask lay discarded on the nightstand, and for once, it wasn’t shielding him- it was just another thing you wouldn’t tease him about. Not anymore.

Your scent still lingered faintly in the room. It clung to the blanket you always wrapped yourself in on cold nights after pushing him away because his toes were too cold on your skin, to the hoodie you wore when you fed the cat at dawn. Simon had tried to avoid those reminders, tried to stay out of the bedroom entirely, but it was impossible.

Everywhere he turned, you were there.

And so was the cat.

The creature you’d found under a car during a rainstorm last year- skinny, drenched, and hissing at the world that had abandoned it- had never liked him much. It was your cat, after all. You were the one who had carried it home, coaxed it to eat, and won its trust with the same patience and soft words you cracked Simon’s walls with. He’d accepted the animal because it made you happy, even if it always gave him a disdainful glare before curling up in your lap and never let him go near it without hissing.

But now, the cat was lost too.

“Meow.”

Simon glanced down. The black-and-white cat stood at his feet, looking up at him with wide, confused eyes. She let out another small, plaintive cry, and Simon’s chest tightened. He hadn’t cried since the accident- hadn’t let himself, even when they’d lowered your coffin and your parents had hugged him, told him he is still their son, but the sight of the cat pacing the house, searching for you, broke something in him.

“She’s not coming back,” he murmured, his voice rough and uneven. The words tasted bitter, and saying them aloud made them feel real in a way he wasn’t ready for.

You weren’t coming back.

The cat didn’t understand, of course. She jumped onto the bed and pawed at the blanket, kneading the fabric before curling up where you used to sleep. It meowed again, softer this time, and Simon felt his throat close up.

Why does it sound like she’s crying “Mom”-

“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispered, his hand trembling as he reached out. The cat flinched but didn’t run, and after a moment, she allowed him to rest his large hand against her small frame. Her fur was warm beneath his fingers, a living reminder of you.

She nuzzled against his hand with another sad meow, something she had never done before, and Simon’s breath hitched.

“You… miss her too, don’t you?” he said, voice breaking. He swallowed hard, but it was no use. The tears slowly spilled down, and yet he had no energy to wipe them away.

What was he to do in a world bereft of you?

The cat meowed softly, curling closer to him, as if she understood.

Maybe she did. Both of them were now robbed of the one person that made their lives feel warm.

[n0rmal-cat]

Yandere Farmer x Thief reader- simple instructions

[yeah sorry for whatever is happening, let me know if there’s any trouble]

You wake up with a groan, dreading the morning light that floods your senses like a harsh reminder of your dreary existence—cold, dark, and uninviting. You’d gladly slip back into sleep, surrendering to the comforting embrace of oblivion. But as you turn over, expecting the familiar hardness of an abandoned building’s floor beneath you, you instead find yourself nestled on a soft pillow. Where are you?

You glance around the room, and the sunlight streaming through the window suggests it’s probably mid-day. "How did I end up here? Did I sleep with someone?" you wondered.

Rising from the bed, you stretch your limbs, stepping out of the bed feeling a softness beneath your feet. "Wow, carpeted floors, fancy... oh, and pyjamas damn." Just then, the door creaks open, must be the lucky-.

"Didn't I tell you to get up before seven?" His voice sends a shiver down your spine. "You!? I thought you were... it wasn't a dream?!" you yell in surprise. "I wouldn't call you stealing from me a dream, but I assure you, I'm entirely real." He removes his hat, revealing beads of sweat trickling down his face and a slight sunburn marking his arms—no, stop that!

"So what time is it, then? If you wanted me up, why didn't you just wake me?" you ask. "Half past eleven. Now tell me, if I woke you up, would you have learned?" His accent is thick as he steps closer, his presence closing in. "A dog needs to be trained, doesn't it?" He stops right in front of you, an imposing figure. "Now, back on the bed." Heat floods your cheeks, turning your face as red as a ripe tomato. "W-what?"

"What, you don't understand simple instructions?" He towers over you, commanding. Without a word, you find yourself sitting back on the bed, heat coursing through you. He kneels before you, grasping your ankle with one hand and sliding the soft fabric of your pyjama pant leg up while rummaging through his pocket with the other. You bite your lip you hadn’t anticipated things taking this turn, but if you’re honest with yourself, you aren’t complaining. You release a shaky breath and close your eyes in anticipation.

A soft click resonates in the silence, and you snap your eyes open, realization dawning as you look down. "What is..." You gaze at your foot, wide-eyed. "Did you put an ankle monitor on me?!" Staring up at him in disbelief, he dusts off his hands with a satisfied smirk.

"How else am I supposed to ensure you don’t run away before you repay your debt?" You’re left speechless, taking in the situation, words failing you. "I'll be downstairs. Get ready and come down quickly because you're already on thin ice, pest." With that, he strides out of the room, leaving you in stunned silence. You lift your foot, inspecting the monitor strapped to your ankle. Etched in golden lettering is the name "August."

"I don’t know if I should feel turned on or pissed off... I guess I’ll get dressed." You make your way to the closet, which is a chaotic jumble of clothes none in the same size or style, and most appear to be barely even cleaned. After some debating , you settle on a simple shirt paired with overalls, the only outfit that seems relatively clean.

After getting ready, you make your way downstairs, trying your hardest not to make a sound. Even though he already knows you’re in the house, it’s a habit you picked up over the years of breaking into people’s homes. As you reach the kitchen, the man you now suspect is ‘August’ is busy cooking something unidentifiable.

The air is thick with an odour that hits you like a freight train—reminiscent of rotten meat. You quickly cover your nose, suppressing a gag. "Do you normally make this much noise when you try to sneak up on someone?" he comments without turning around. "Well, it’s hard when whatever you’re cooking smells like shit..." He hums to himself, his demeanour unperturbed. "Should I gag you as well? You seem to run your mouth a lot. Your food is already on the table."

And so it was, a perfect picture of pancakes, bacon and eggs, but again with the smell of...whatever that was in your nose you couldn't bring yourself to eat anything.

"So what are you cooking then?" you move to try to see what was on the pan but he blocks you with his shoulder.

"my lunch, now eat" his tone firm.

"ah I don't think I can eat right now-" you started to protest, but he spun around, gripping both your shoulders "I had leniency on you in the morning, I made you a full plate for you, lord knows you haven't eaten in a while"

"you don't know that"

"I've watched you on my cameras steal my excitement and sell it off just to get a meal, I quite literally see my logo in the pawn shop every weekend I go back to buy my own stuff, did you not question why you kept taking the same plow every time?"

He seated you forcefully at the table, you couldn’t help but feel a mix of emotions, it felt nice to be here, I mean he was right, the last decent meal you had was well...

"ok fine ill eat the damn food, can you at least tame your 'lunch' to a different room?"

"I already ate" he crossed his arms, a bit of sauce dripped down his chin, you narrowed your eyes at him as you cut into your pancakes.

“So, what am I supposed to do to repay this debt?” you asked, chewing.

“You’ll be working for me, just as I said—feeding the animals, helping me carry food to the stalls,” he replied, leaning forward.

“You don’t really look like you need much help with that,” you mumbled through a mouthful of food.

He leaned over on the table with his hand "And I definitely don't, but I told you I would train you wouldn't I?"

"I guess..."

he took your chin with his rough hands "When you're done come out to the back, but I want that plate to be clean" You feel a knot in your stomach as you nod.

“Good job,” he praised, "I'm glad you can understand simple instructions" Your face travelled with his hand as he walked out through the back door.

You swallowed hard, the remnants of your meal suddenly feeling heavy in your throat. “Holy shit…”

[Please be patient with me I had a rough day, the art is 70% done I’m just not in the right mood.]

[perfectqueenfan]

Having the egg right at the opening at the start of your work shift, so you have to hold the egg in so you can finally deliver the egg back home.

*Sorry folks it's gonna be a long one. I got a good writing flow and idea for this.*

I knew that going into work today was probably not the smartest idea, but I needed the money and had signed on for a double shift. I started early, driving to the bakery I worked at around 7:45am. A few months ago I had signed on to help a friend out with a science project for one of their classes at our local college, which ended up being something a lot more out of the ordinary than I had initially thought.

"Human egg incubation. But not like a human egg, you have plenty of those. I found these alien eggs on the black market and need a test subject to see if these are even real. Can you help me please?" And me, being weak when it came to them, said yes. It has been 4 months since we inserted one of the eggs into my womb, at the time it was as small as a pea. They were a light green color, slightly glowing. To a normal eye, you wouldn't notice any difference with me. But I could see the beginning of a bump forming, the slight distended look of where my womb is, looking like I had just a little too much to eat. The bump was firm if I pressed against it, and I could often feel the egg shift when I moved around. It had definitely grown, I'm unsure by how much but enough for me to feel it's weight at all times.

When I pulled into the staff parking lot, I felt a sudden shift in my womb, more intense than the usual movement. Running a hand across the tiny bump, I felt to make sure that nothing was breaking before heading into work. Greeting my co-worker Annie, I moved to grab my apron when I felt a twinge deep in my belly. Placing my hand against the bump again, I felt the egg shift in a harsher way than normal. Weird, but it's not gonna stop me from getting my job done, I thought to myself as I tied on my apron and began to open up the bakery.

It wasn't even an hour into open when I had to excuse myself for a bio break, quickly rushing to the bathroom as another wave of pain washed over me. As soon as I was in a stall I unbuttoned my pants and pulled them down enough to expose me stomach and underwear. Looking at my bump, I noticed it was a bit more pronounced and I could feel the egg shift again uncomfortably, holding back a groan at the feeling. But the pain wouldn't let up, a near wiggling feeling from how much the egg was shifting again the walls of my womb. Then it all came to a crest when I felt a pop like feeling, a small rush of what seems to be blue slime coming from between my legs and soaking my underwear.

"Oh, fuck me." I cursed under my breath as I grabbed some toilet paper to quickly wipe away what would be best described as my waters, really it was a mucus sac the egg had developed around itself to keep it safe. Once I was cleaned enough, I pulled my pants back up and quickly rushed to the break room to grab my phone, texting my friend that the egg was on its way. That's when it dawned on me, I had signed up for a double shift today. Realizing that I had to stall the birth of this egg as much as possible, I put back on my apron and walked back to the counter with determination: make it thought this shift without having this egg.

Not even halfway though my first shift, I realized that was easier said than done. The egg, which turns out was massive, had managed to fully get into my birth canal and weighing heavily on my hips. I was saving my groans until I was in the pantry or couldn't be heard over the espresso machines. The worst part though, is that I was so turned on by it. The hiding, the weight and feeling of the egg shifting lower and lower, and nobody else knew that I was using all my mental strength not to give in and push the massive egg out of me. Moving throughout the motions of making yet another caramel macchiato, I bent down to grab another carton of milk when the egg shot forward, resting just behind my lips. I let out a startled yelp at the feeling, Annie giving me a weird look at my sudden outburst. "Hit my head." Was all I said and she gave a nod of understanding before returning to the customer.

By 3pm, I was sweating, constantly denying my bodies cry to push practically every minute as I moved around the bakery. My confident walk had turned into a slow, almost waddle. It felt like there was a bowling ball between my legs, and with every step the feeling of the egg shifting right at my entrance was torture. But I couldn't push, not here and definitely not right before the after-school rush of students. Standing behind the counter taking orders, a regular walked up and began chatting about her annoying professor. I felt myself relax a bit, swinging into our normal conversation. Biggest mistake. Not even realizing, my body began pushing, feeling the sudden stretch of my hole making me whimper out in shock and pain. Without apologizing, I rushed to the bathroom and quickly undid my pants again, pulling my underwear down too. I could see the tiniest bit of hard, glowing green shell peaking between my lips. Running my fingers against it, I moaned out as I pushed it back in, my body protesting as I did. Once I felt safe enough, I returned to work, only for all the progress I had just undone to return, feeling my opening begin to spread again just a bit as the egg slowly shifted downward.

Finally, after two hours of feeling the egg ever so slowly stretch me open, I left work for the day and as quickly as I could rushed to my car. The second I sat down, the angle from the seat and my jeans pushed the egg back into me a bit, causing me to groan at the feeling. I pressed a hand to my throbbing cunt, feeling the slight outline of the egg though my pants. It wasn't crowning, but it was getting close. Driving home was almost as bad as working, the constant burning and subconscious pushing but the egg not being able to move due to my underwear and jeans.

I managed to get into my home with only a slight waddle, not being able to fully close me legs with the giant egg weighing between them. I didn't even try to get to my room, heading to the couch in the living room and striping off every article of clothing on my body. I pressed one hand over my pussy again, feeling the egg against my palm. It felt like it was tearing me open, at least the size of an ostrich egg, and hand more of a bumpy texture. I whimpered for hours as I squatted and tried to push the egg out of my cunt, playing with my clit to try and ease the slide out with arousal. Around 11pm, I finally got the egg to crown, crying out as it felt like I was being split open and simultaneously orgasming, managing to have the egg pop and slip free of my poor, overstretched cunt.