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thedensworld · 23 days ago

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Duty Finished | C.Sc

Pairing: Duke Seungcheol x reader Genre: Noble House Au! Type: Romance, Angst, Smut (mdni!) Word count: 22k Summary: The wife and the son of Choi's house went missing one night.

“Sir…”

Seungcheol didn’t bother lifting his head right away. He was halfway through a glass of aged whiskey, the ice barely clinking as he swirled it in his grip, eyes still scanning the reports on his desk. His office—sleek, dim, and built like a vault—reeked of silence, save for the sharp interruption of his right-hand man’s voice.

When Mingyu barged in, slamming the door open with the kind of recklessness he should’ve known better than to display, S eungcheol finally glanced up. His gaze was frigid. Controlled. The kind that made men squirm and executives sign whatever he wanted just to escape it. Mingyu stood just inside the threshold, his breathing tight, jaw clenched like he was trying to bite back a disaster. He didn’t speak right away, which meant only one thing—this wasn’t just bad. It was catastrophic.

Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he placed the glass down on the leather blotter. “This better be worth the noise,” he said, voice smooth but carved with warning. “Or I’ll personally remind you of protocol.”

Mingyu swallowed. “It’s… your wife. And your son.”

That got a reaction. Barely. One brow ticked upward. Seungcheol’s mind flicked briefly, vaguely, to you. And the boy. When was the last time he saw either of you? He had to think. It all blurred together. Boardrooms. Contracts. Private jets. Endless handshakes. The house was his base, not his home. You were part of the arrangement—an accessory that came with it. And the child? A product of timing. Nothing more.

He left both of you in the care of his mother, the Duchess. But you never complained. Not seriously, anyway. You knew what this marriage was. Five years of luxury, power, and cold silence. You got the title. He got the freedom. That was the deal. A marriage crafted from ink and strategy, not affection.

An arrangement.

The Choi family’s wealth was forged—literally—in fire and steel. Their legacy built on the backs of blacksmiths, blades, and the unyielding rhythm of iron mines. For centuries, they supplied the royal army with weapons and armor, their influence woven into the very skeleton of the kingdom.

But not all legacies are immune to decay.

Twenty years of mismanagement had nearly bankrupted the family. Lavish galas, failed ventures, and an aging patriarch too obsessed with tradition to adapt—it had all but dragged the Choi name through the mud. The empire of steel had rusted.

And then came Seungcheol. Sharp. Surgical. Unforgiving.

He returned from his education abroad not with fanfare, but with a scalpel in hand—cutting out inefficiencies, dismantling old loyalties, and selling off sentiment piece by piece. The boy they once dismissed as too cold, too ambitious, had become the man who would not flinch while setting fire to his own house just to build it back stronger.

He didn't save the family for pride. He did it because he hated failure. Now, the Choi name gleamed again. Polished. Feared. Powerful.

The silence that followed Mingyu’s words was weighted. Heavy. Not with grief—Seungcheol didn’t operate in emotions—but with calculation.

“What happened,” he asked at last, voice like chilled steel.

“They were kidnapped.”

Kidnapped.

The office door opened again, this time more cautiously. Seokmin stepped in, still in uniform, dust clinging to the hem of his coat and sweat slicking his brow. He looked like he had run—like he had failed.

“Sir,” he said, breathless.

Seungcheol didn’t raise his head. “You were assigned to her today.”

Seokmin froze in the doorway. “Yes, sir. I—I was. I didn’t leave her side… until West Gwanrae.”

A beat passed.

Seungcheol leaned back in his chair slowly, folding his hands together. “Explain.”

“We stopped by a boutique. Lady Choi wanted to try on a dress. She was with her lady-in-waiting. I checked the perimeter twice. There were no signs of threat—nothing. But when I came back inside, the store was empty. Everyone gone.”

“You lost them in a boutique?” Seungcheol’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

Seokmin flinched. “The store was a front. We’re looking into the workers now, but the boutique was staged. There were no real records of the staff. The surveillance cameras were wiped clean. Whoever planned this… they were prepared, sir.”

Silence followed, thick and brutal.

Seungcheol stared at the unopened letter on his desk. His jaw ticked once.

“And the boy?”

Seokmin swallowed. “They took him too.”

Still no emotion. Not visibly. Not in his face, not in his posture. Just a colder shift in his gaze, like steel icing over.

Mingyu stepped forward, holding something in his hand. “A letter arrived at the estate,” he said. “No return address. It was hand-delivered through a driver—anonymous. The staff didn’t question it. They thought it was routine.”

He passed the envelope across the desk.

“They used paper,” Mingyu added. “No traceable signal. No digital footprint. If this is a kidnapping, sir… it’s a careful one.”

Seungcheol didn’t react immediately. He stared at the envelope—ivory, expensive paper, sealed with red wax. Old-fashioned. Deliberate.

“This was a move,” Seungcheol muttered, almost to himself. Then, finally, he broke the wax seal.

The letter inside was handwritten. Cursive. Expensive ink. “If legacy is all you care about, we’ve taken your future.”

No ransom. No demands. Just a warning. Who dares to warn Choi Seungcheol?

Seungcheol didn’t pace. Pacing was for the uncertain. He stood behind his desk like a statue carved from winter stone, fingers drumming against the glass surface with chilling precision. One beat. Two. Three.

“Find out who’s behind this,” he said, his voice smooth and flat like polished obsidian. “The ones who’ve been sniffing around our territory. The ones who smiled too long at that last summit dinner. I don’t care if it’s a silk-suited investor or a sewer rat with a grudge—dig them out.”

Mingyu stood straighter, but something in his shoulders betrayed him. A delay. Barely noticeable—unless you’d spent a decade watching a man read war tables like bedtime stories.

Seungcheol’s gaze slid to him, a flick of ice under shadow. “You’ve got names in mind already,” he said, not asking. “Start there.”

Mingyu opened his mouth, then shut it. His throat moved with a slow swallow. “Understood.”

The air tightened between them like an old wound reopening.

“Good,” Seungcheol muttered, already turning away, as if dismissing both the man and the moment. “And Mingyu—”

He paused at the window, eyes cast toward the distant skyline, where the horizon bled rust and coal smoke.

“If someone thinks they can take what’s mine, make sure they understand the cost.”

The silence that followed rang louder than any threat.

Mingyu nodded once, firm—but when he left, his steps weren’t as sharp. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t head straight for the security floor. He took a detour. Past the portraits no one dusted. Past the closed doors where your laughter used to echo before it fell into absence.

And when he stopped, it was in front of one painting. Yours. Just for a second. Then he kept walking.

“What’s going on, Seungcheol? My birthday is in a week, and your wife and son went missing? Are they insane?”

His mother’s voice pierced through the marble halls of the estate like a thorn catching on silk—sharp, persistent, unwelcome. Seungcheol barely glanced at her as he passed, his coat still dusted with the chill of dusk, jaw clenched with exhaustion. The Choi household, once a fortress of routine and elegance, had descended into chaos. Guards scrambled across city districts. His right hand, Mingyu, was stretched thin with investigation routes. And Seungcheol—he was running out of patience.

“If only your late father had been in his right mind,” his mother continued, trailing after him in her usual designer heels. “That marriage—what good has it brought? Nothing but problems. Look where it’s led us. And now, of all times—before my birthday party!”

He stopped at the base of the grand staircase, one hand gripping the railing tighter than necessary. His mother caught up, her perfume too sweet for his senses, too loud for the grief she pretended to wear. Her expression faltered when she met his gaze—cold, unreadable, and far too silent for comfort.

“I’m sorry, son,” she said softly, her voice trembling just enough to sound rehearsed. “I’ve just… been lonely lately. Your father’s gone. Your wife never cared for me, and the boy—he avoids me like I’m a ghost. And now they’re missing. I only wanted someone to talk to. Someone to understand.”

She folded her arms, her sorrow wrapping around her like a well-tailored coat. A performance—quiet, pitiful, tragic.

Seungcheol took a breath, long and steady, his eyes drifting past her to the portrait of his father hung above the hallway. A man with vision but no spine. A legacy he had to rebuild with blood and bone.

“I understand, Mother,” he said at last, voice controlled, cold. “But right now, I need silence. And space.”

He turned away again, leaving her standing at the foot of the stairs in her designer grief.

Seungcheol passed your room on his way to his own, but his steps faltered at the familiar curve of the mahogany doors. Without a thought, he turned, hand reaching for the ornate brass handle. The door creaked softly as it gave way under his push.

He stepped inside.

A scent lingered—soft, distinct. Yours. That subtle blend of lavender and something sweeter, something warmer. It hadn’t even been ten hours since you vanished, but the room still breathed you in every corner. It was as though the space had been carved around your presence—crafted to cradle only you.

He walked further in, letting his eyes sweep over the room he never truly looked at. Not until now. He had never wandered here—not out of curiosity, not even out of care. Usually, if he needed you, he came to your bed. If he needed to speak to you, he summoned you to his library. Cold, efficient. Just like him.

But now, he noticed the details.

The delicate lace curtain that fluttered slightly with the wind. The vanity table with brushes still holding strands of your hair. The books stacked haphazardly beside your bed, half-read. A teacup on the nightstand, still stained with lipstick.

"It’s her favorite color."

A voice broke the silence.

Seungcheol turned. Minyeong stood by the doorway, hands folded tightly in front of her apron. She had served your family for decades, and had been assigned to you ever since your wedding. Her gray hair was pulled into a neat bun, and though her body was aging, her eyes were as sharp as ever.

Seungcheol’s gaze dropped briefly to the soft lilac sheets before meeting hers again. “I suppose you have something to say to me?”

His tone was flat—too calm. It was the calmness before a blade struck, laced with something colder than anger. Minyeong bowed, trembling faintly.

“I failed, sir. I should have protected the lady and the young master.”

“That’s exactly what you were meant to do, Minyeong. And yet—they’re gone.” His voice didn’t rise, but the weight in it pressed against the room like a storm cloud. “Do you know if my wife ever received any threats? Any enemies she failed to mention?”

Minyeong looked hesitant, her brow furrowing. “It’s hard to say, sir. The lady rarely entertained guests. She barely had friends in society. Most of the time, she stayed here… or in the garden.”

Seungcheol’s jaw ticked as he scanned the room once more.

“Then someone must’ve watched her from the outside,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Minyeong wrung her hands tightly, her knuckles whitening. She stepped forward, her voice trembling as she fell to her knees in front of Seungcheol.

“Please, sir… you must find her. The lady—she may not speak much, but I see things.”

Seungcheol's eyes didn’t waver. He watched her with the same stillness he offered his enemies in negotiation—silent, unreadable.

“She bore the weight of this marriage without complaint,” Minyeong continued, eyes brimming with guilt. “Never once did she dishonor the Choi name.”

His gaze flickered at that, just slightly.

“She never asked for anything,” Minyeong whispered. “Not love. Not affection. Just safety. For herself. For Jiho. And I failed to give her even that.”

Seungcheol looked down at her—an old woman who had watched over your days like a silent guardian, now crumpled before him. He didn’t kneel. He didn’t speak words of comfort. But his voice, when it finally came, was low and steel-edged. “Get up, Minyeong. I’ll find them. That’s a promise.”

And when he turned, his footsteps carried something heavier than usual—a crack in his otherwise flawless control. As Seungcheol stepped out of your room, his shoes silent against the marble, the lingering scent of you clung to the air like smoke after a quiet fire. Lavender and something faintly citrus—he never bothered to ask what you used. He just knew it had always been there, soaked into the sheets, the curtains, the collar of his shirt when he walked too close to you.

He hadn’t intended to think of you tonight. But something about the silence of your room, the untouched comb on your vanity, the faint imprint on the armrest where you used to sit and read—unsettled him. Not in grief. Not in worry. In disturbance. Like a room missing its weight. A system missing its balance.

You’d entered his life five years ago—unwanted, inconvenient, and needed. A solution. Your family’s downfall had brought you to his door like a merchant pushing damaged goods wrapped in silk. He hadn't wanted a wife. He wanted leverage. Political gain. A calm household. A woman who wouldn’t scream. Instead, you had the gall to challenge him.

You walked into the Choi estate in that faded navy hanbok, spine straight, eyes sharp, and mouth far too honest. You questioned everything—the contract, the house rules, even the arrangement of his schedule. You moved through his life like a storm in slow motion, unraveling the stiffness in his perfect world.

He hadn’t liked you. But he hadn’t hated you either. You were just… noise. Eventually, like all things, the noise faded.

The storms dulled. Your voice softened. The fire in your chest smothered itself into embers. He watched it happen gradually—arguments turned into nods, sharp words into silence, protests into polite compliance. You stopped decorating your days with resistance. You stopped speaking unless spoken to. You became still.

And Seungcheol—he thrived in stillness.

He never told you to change. He never needed to. Your defiance melted the longer you stayed, and what remained of you was quiet, predictable, peaceful. He didn’t love you. He didn’t hate you. You were just… there. Like furniture that fit the room too well to be noticed.

You gave him peace without touching him. You gave him space without absence. And that was the closest thing to comfort Seungcheol had ever known.

Then the child came.

Jiho. A small, soft echo of you. A boy with your eyes and your uncanny quietness. At first, the sound of his laughter grated him. Too alive. Too human. But one night, Jiho had fallen asleep on his office couch, book in hand, head tilted back. Seungcheol had watched him for minutes without understanding why. He didn’t touch the boy. Just stood there.

Now… that boy was gone. You were gone. And peace was cracking at the edges of his life again.

He reached the study, fingers grazing the edge of his mahogany desk, his reflection staring back from the glass of the scotch bottle he didn’t touch. Seungcheol didn’t mourn. He didn’t fear.

But the quiet wasn’t peaceful anymore. It was hollow.

Seungcheol woke with a violent jerk, breath caught sharp in his throat. The sheets were tangled around his legs, damp with sweat, his chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. Moonlight spilled through the curtains, soft and silver, illuminating the untouched side of the bed beside him.

It was just a dream.

But the phantom weight of your body still clung to his arms—limp, warm, then terrifyingly cold.

In the dream, you had curled into him after the haze of an intimate moment, skin bare against his, your voice still hoarse from whispering his name. His hand had rested on the dip of your waist, fingers tracing the soft line of your spine, when he felt something wet. Sticky.

He pulled his hand back. Crimson.

He remembered shouting your name, once—twice—his voice breaking the peace of the room. You had turned your head slowly, eyes glassy, your lips moving without sound before your body slumped against him. Blood soaked through the sheets like spilled ink, blooming across white cotton in uneven circles.

Then Jiho appeared. Small feet pattering against the wooden floor.

“Appa!” His voice cracked.

“Appa!”

The boy’s tiny frame stumbled into view, hands outstretched, his nightclothes soaked in blood up to his elbows. Not yours. His. He was crying but not sobbing—just calling, repeating the word like a broken hymn.

Seungcheol reached for him— And the dream shattered.

Now, in the stillness of his room, the air felt heavy, oppressive. He sat up, elbows on his knees, dragging both palms across his face, trying to scrub away the remnants of the nightmare. His heart wouldn’t calm down. It thudded with unnatural rhythm, out of sync with the silence around him.

He looked at the empty side of the bed again. The pillow still held the faintest indentation of where you used to sleep, as if your absence had weight.

The scent of your skin, the softness of Jiho’s voice—he could still feel it in his bones.

Was it guilt? Fear? Loss?

Seungcheol didn’t know. He didn’t care to name it.

He stood, slowly, quietly, as if afraid the wrong sound might call the dream back. He moved to the window, looking out over the dark courtyard, the lights of the estate flickering like the last embers of a dying fire.

Somewhere out there, you were breathing. Alive.

At least, he told himself that.

And somewhere out there, someone was playing with his mind. Twisting his fears into letters. Into silence. Into images that crept into his dreams like poison.

He would find you. He had to. Because if the nightmare ever became real— He wasn’t sure there would be a man left in him to crawl out of it.

The ballroom shimmered under a thousand crystal droplets, chandeliers glinting like stars caught mid-fall. Music swelled, delicate and distant, barely cutting through the sound of expensive laughter and clinking glasses.

Seungcheol stood with a glass of aged champagne in hand, sharp in a tailored navy suit embroidered with fine gold thread that curled like ivy across his lapels. The suit was commissioned weeks in advance, as always. His presence alone demanded perfection—and he delivered.

Then you arrived.

A soft blue dress, simple in its silhouette. No jewels. No embroidery. No lace, no drama. It barely touched your ankles, and the neckline was too modest to flatter. Next to him, you looked like a shadow of yourself—muted, out of place, and hauntingly quiet.

He had turned to say something that night. Something biting. The words were already in his mouth: “You’re underdressed.”

But he said nothing. Not because he approved. Because he didn’t want to argue. Not there. Not now.

Still, the memory of your first ball played in his head like an echo—louder than the orchestra. You had stormed into his study with silk swatches and sketches, your arms full of fabrics, babbling about tone and fit and social expectations.

“It has to match,” you’d said with bright insistence. “You in dark navy, and me in silver. Or black. Or deep emerald—something with character, Seungcheol. People talk about these things. I won’t have them saying your wife dresses like an afterthought.”

You were alive then. Not just breathing, but burning. And now… you dressed like a ghost. Clothes dull. Accessories absent. Hair always pulled back in the same low bun, practical, forgettable.

“Do you think my wife has an enemy?” Seungcheol asked, his voice low and steady as the car rolled through the city, tinted windows blurring the passing world into streaks of gray.

Mingyu, seated beside him, turned slightly in his seat. The silence between them had lingered for most of the ride until now.

“She was a bit vocal,” Mingyu said carefully, “but watching her all this time… I don’t think there’s anyone who would hate her. Not truly.”

Seungcheol arched a brow, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Are you sure?” His tone held weight. “No one in the house? Among the servants?”

Mingyu hesitated, then gave a small shake of his head. “Your wife baked everyone cookies last winter.”

The words pulled Seungcheol’s gaze toward him, his expression unreadable. “Cookies?”

“Mm,” Mingyu nodded, lips twitching faintly. “I got one too. Peanut butter and cinnamon. They were pretty good.”

Seungcheol leaned back in his seat, letting his elbow rest against the car window as he stared out. The tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. If anything, it pulled tighter.

“I didn’t receive any.”

Mingyu glanced at him. “You were buried with the railroad project, remember, sir? You barely came home that month.”

The car went quiet again, the soft hum of the engine filling the space between them. Seungcheol didn’t respond—not immediately. But his jaw tensed, and a flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes.

He hadn’t even known you baked.

Seungcheol stepped into his office with the weight of a storm dragging behind him. The heavy doors shut with a soft thud, muffled by the thick carpet covering the marble floor. The space was cold as ever—sleek black furniture, sharp-edged shelves lined with files and books no one dared touch unless permitted. The glass windows stretched wide behind his desk, revealing the smoky outlines of Gwanrae’s skyline blurred by early morning fog.

Before he could sit, Seokmin entered quietly, his presence firm, respectful.

“Sir,” he said, approaching with something folded carefully in his gloved hand. His face looked drawn, strained.

Seungcheol turned halfway, eyes narrowing as Seokmin held it out.

A flash of red.

It didn’t need unwrapping. Even from a distance, the fabric bled familiarity. Seungcheol’s steps slowed as he approached, gaze fixed on the item like it might vanish if he blinked.

The scarf. Your scarf.

Worn and soft from use, it still carried the faint scent of your perfume—floral with a hint of musk. Years ago, he’d given it to you without much thought after he noticed how you tugged at your collar to hide the bruises he'd left the night before. It wasn’t an apology, not quite. It was possession disguised as protection.

Now it was evidence.

“Who else knows about this?” Seungcheol asked, his voice quiet but sharp, a blade hidden in velvet.

“Just the search unit. They haven’t spoken to anyone.”

He gave a single nod, eyes still fixed on the red scarf in his hand, thumb grazing a fraying thread near the hem. His mind flickered—your neck wrapped in that scarf, your voice low against his chest, your hand twitching in sleep as you pulled it tighter around yourself.

Seungcheol’s fingers paused mid-fold.

There, at the very tip of the scarf—just above the frayed hem—faint ink bled into the threads. It was subtle, like it had been brushed in haste or with something barely permanent. He squinted, bringing the fabric closer to the pale morning light.

A line of handwriting.

Almost delicate in its curve. Almost playful.

“So beautiful but this scarred? Can’t wait to take off more than this scarf.”

The ink was uneven. Someone had written it quickly, perhaps without care—or maybe with too much pleasure. The handwriting was unfamiliar. Not yours. Not Seokmin’s. It wasn’t the neat, meticulous penmanship of his staff or the strict, cold lettering from official documents.

Personal.

Seungcheol’s chest tightened with a sick heat, as if something vile had begun to churn slowly under his ribs.

He read the words again.

So beautiful.

But this scarred?

Who had seen you up close enough to write this?

The scarf had hidden a bruise, a bite, a scar—one left by him. He remembered that night. How you turned your face away as you buttoned your blouse. He hadn’t apologized, and you hadn’t asked him to.

But someone else had noticed. Someone who had looked. Touched. Written this message.

The fury came like a low flame, slow and silent. It didn’t need a burst to burn—it simply simmered, eating through logic and restraint, until his fingers curled tightly around the fabric.

Not only were you taken. Someone had been near enough to you to leave this behind. Near enough to humiliate him, to provoke him. To mock him.

This wasn’t just a disappearance. It was a challenge. A message dressed as a taunt.

His reflection glared back at him in the glass of his office window—sharp suit, expression like stone, eyes void of softness. For a man known for never flinching in courtrooms or boardrooms, something now stirred within him. Something ancient. Primal.

He looked down at the scarf one last time before slipping it into his inner coat pocket. Not like a keepsake. Like evidence.

Whoever wrote that message had no idea what they'd started.

A week had passed since your disappearance, yet rumors swirled like wildfire—fanned further by his mother’s lavish birthday party, held defiantly even as family members vanished without a trace. The glittering ball went on, but Seungcheol arrived burdened, exhaustion etched into the lines of his face and the slump of his shoulders.

He stepped through the grand doors with the weight of sleepless nights pressing down on him, every movement heavy. His plan was simple: greet his mother, offer the obligatory birthday wishes, and retreat swiftly to his office to bury himself in the endless updates about you and Jiho.

Choi Jiho—his son. The name still felt strange on his tongue, foreign yet tethered to his heart in ways he didn’t fully understand. After Jiho’s birth, your world had shifted. Your attention poured into your son with a fierce protectiveness that left little room for him. Seungcheol’s role was clear-cut: provide. Make money. Supply everything you and Jiho could need.

But sometimes, when work allowed a brief reprieve, he caught glimpses of Jiho wandering into his home office. The boy would settle himself on one of the leather couches with surprising ease, fingers busy sketching on scraps of used paper strewn about. No words passed between them—just presence. Quiet companionship.

Those moments peeled back years. They reminded Seungcheol of the early days of their marriage.

You, sitting patiently on the couch nearby, engrossed in a book or your journal, brows furrowed in thought. He remembered the way your eyes would occasionally flick up toward him—focused, calm, sometimes weary. A stark contrast to his own sharp, guarded expression.

And every time his gaze fell on Jiho, it was as if he was looking at a perfect carbon copy of you: the same gentle concentration, the same subtle intensity. In those moments, the cold, ruthless man he was softened, caught off guard by the echo of your presence in his son.

“Seungcheol.”

He turned slightly to find Hong Jisoo—an old friend of yours—approaching from behind a marble column. Impeccably dressed in a muted gray suit, the heir of the Hong family from East Gwanrae always carried an air of soft elegance. His eyes, though gentle, now bore a solemn weight.

“My deepest condolences,” Jisoo said quietly once he was close enough. “I heard about Y/n and your son. I… I can’t imagine the weight you're carrying.”

Seungcheol didn’t flinch. Didn’t nod. He simply returned the gaze, still and unreadable. The golden light made his tired face look sculpted from cold stone—sharp, shadowed, untouched by grief in any conventional sense.

“Thank you,” he replied, voice smooth and devoid of emotion.

Jisoo hesitated, then offered, “If there’s anything I can do—my men in the East are reliable. If you permit me, I’ll send them to sweep that side of Gwanrae. Discreetly.”

There was a pause. A thin, sharp one.

Seungcheol’s expression didn’t shift. “I appreciate the offer,” he said with practiced politeness. “But I prefer to handle my family’s matters internally.”

Jisoo studied him for a moment, as if trying to read what lay behind the cool surface. But Seungcheol gave him nothing. No worry, no despair—only poise carved out of discipline and restraint.

“Of course,” Jisoo replied after a beat, offering a small bow. “Should you change your mind, I’ll be around.”

Seungcheol inclined his head once, and watched as Jisoo disappeared into the sea of well-dressed guests. The noise of the party returned in full as the space between them widened, but inside Seungcheol, everything remained quiet. Still.

Because wavering now would be a crack in the foundation—and if he cracked, the whole house would fall.

“Seungcheol…” his mother began, catching his arm just as he approached to greet her.

“Everyone’s talking about your wife and your son! This is my party!” she hissed through a tight smile, her voice kept low behind her glass of wine as Seungcheol offered nods to her circle of well-dressed friends.

“I told you to postpone it,” Seungcheol replied, his tone measured and calm, but with the faintest edge of warning.

His mother scoffed softly, brushing imaginary dust from her sequined sleeve. “Remind me to punish your wife once she returns. This level of disrespect toward the Choi family can’t go unchecked. I’ll speak to her family personally.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. The weight of her words sank heavier than usual tonight. Something about the way she spoke—so cold, so performative—rubbed against the unease already nesting in his chest. He cleared his throat, a silent attempt to dispel the building discomfort.

“I think you’ve said enough, Mother,” he said, voice clipped with restraint. “Perhaps you should enjoy your party. I won’t be staying long.”

Before she could respond, Seungcheol bowed politely. “Happy birthday,” he said simply, then turned on his heel, walking past the soft glow of chandeliers and champagne flutes, out of the suffocating warmth of the ballroom—and toward the silence of his office, where duty and dread awaited him in equal measure.

The scent of paper and aged mahogany greeted Seungcheol as he entered his office—a sanctuary from the shallow glitter of the ballroom. He barely had time to close the door behind him when his eyes fell on something out of place.

A single envelope. It sat in the center of his desk like it had been waiting.

His gaze swept the room with calculated precision, eyes narrowing slightly. Every item seemed untouched, precisely where he left it. Yet the letter’s presence felt like an intrusion. Quiet, deliberate, and too bold.

Without removing his coat, he pressed the intercom.

“Mingyu. My office. Now.”

He didn’t sit. He stood before his desk, gloved fingers pulling the envelope open in one slow motion. The paper inside was thick, almost luxurious, as though it were meant to mock him in its elegance. But it was the handwriting that made his breath pause—neat, feminine, unfamiliar.

“He looks exactly like you. Do you know he’s mute?”

The words didn’t strike—they clawed.

A slow-burning fury flickered in Seungcheol’s chest, tempered only by years of discipline. His eyes darkened, and when the door creaked open behind him, he turned sharply, holding the note up.

“What is this supposed to mean?” His voice cut through the silence, firm and low.

Mingyu paused at the threshold. His expression faltered—not from fear, but hesitation. “Sir…” He stepped in slowly. “I didn’t know you didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?” Seungcheol’s tone remained steady, but the weight behind it was unmistakable.

Mingyu lowered his gaze to the floor, exhaling quietly. “Jiho… Your son... he’s barely spoken.”

Seungcheol’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. His fingers clenched the paper tighter. All those moments—Jiho silently watching him, quietly doodling, smiling without sound—they flooded his mind in sharp, disjointed flashes.

The air in the room felt heavier. He slowly lowered the letter to his desk and turned toward the window, eyes distant, yet sharpened with a quiet storm.

The letter still sat open on his desk, but Seungcheol’s gaze had drifted toward the couch across the room.

That old leather seat, worn smooth at the edges, once held a different kind of weight—your weight. Now, he saw Jiho in your place. His small figure curled up, legs barely reaching the edge, papers sprawled before him. A single crayon tucked behind his ear, his little fingers busy sketching something only he understood. His head would tilt, brows furrowed just so, lips parted ever so slightly in concentration.

He didn’t make a sound. He never did.

And yet Seungcheol saw you.

Five years ago, it was your body stretched across that couch, draped in a silk robe or one of your too-large knits. Your legs would swing lazily, a journal balanced on your lap, your pen tapping the pages as your thoughts spilled freely. You used to talk then. A lot.

“Seungcheol, don’t you think this room needs better curtains? Or should we get one of those antique globe bars?”

“I saw Lady Jung’s daughter wearing canary yellow at the ball—do you think I’d look good in that shade?”

You were bold, curious, utterly unfiltered. Sometimes he listened. Sometimes he didn’t. But he had always heard you.

It was strange. At the time, he thought you were exhausting. Always pushing at boundaries, filling silences he once treasured. Yet now, in the stillness, all he could think about was how much color you had brought into this room. Until that color faded.

He didn’t know when it started. Maybe it was after Jiho was born. Maybe it was before that.

Your voice softened. Your steps grew quieter. You stopped suggesting changes to the curtains. You stopped speaking about colors and dresses and opinions. You simply… adapted.

You scribbled in silence. You waited in silence. You moved through the house like a shadow he had grown used to but never truly studied.

“Journal…”

The word left his lips in a whisper, as if spoken too loudly, it would break the thread of memory he was clinging to.

He remembered it—faintly—seeing a book on your vanity. A worn leather-bound journal, the corners soft from years of turning, its spine slightly cracked from frequent use. At the time, he hadn’t thought much of it. Just another one of your habits. Another thing you kept close.

But now, it felt urgent. He rose from his chair with a suddenness. His strides were long, purposeful. The echo of his shoes down the hallway broke the house’s stillness, like a force too large to be quiet anymore.

The bedroom still smelled faintly of you—of jasmine and the warm, almost nostalgic scent of dried lavender. It hadn’t changed in the past week. Everything remained untouched, as if time itself was reluctant to erase you from this space.

And there it was.

Sitting right where it always had—on the vanity, beside your untouched bottle of perfume and a silver hairpin he bought you years ago in Vienna. The journal.

He reached for it slowly, as if it might vanish. His fingers hovered just a second longer before making contact, brushing over the soft cover. It was warm from the afternoon sun slipping through the lace curtains. He held it in both hands, staring.

You wrote. Every day, almost. He remembered catching glimpses of it—your hand furiously scribbling after arguments, after dinners, even on lazy mornings where you stayed curled in bed long after he had left. You used your journal like a vault, locking pieces of yourself away when you couldn’t say them aloud.

Seungcheol sat on the edge of the bed—your side. The weight of the mattress sank just as it used to when you lay there. He cracked open the journal, pages filled with your looping script, so familiar and yet so distant now.

His breath caught when he read the first line on the open page. Seungcheol’s eyes traced the words again, but this time, their meaning twisted deeper into his chest.

“I sold all the accessories my husband had given to me this morning. But I failed to hide the new dresses. She got mad.”

“You know where my wife is…” Seungcheol said, voice low and tight, the moment the last servant slipped out and the door clicked shut behind them.

His mother barely lifted her gaze, swirling her tea as if his words were no more significant than idle gossip. “What nonsense are you talking about, Seungcheol?”

But there was nothing nonsensical about the storm building in his chest. The weight of guilt, disbelief, and a boiling rage pressed down on his shoulders, making it hard to breathe. Seungcheol remained still, but his hands trembled slightly at his sides, fists curling and unclenching.

“I think you’ve hidden them—my wife, my son.” His tone was calm, but every syllable was laced with something sharp, jagged. Accusation.

His mother let out a soft chuckle, amused. Amused. It made his stomach turn. “You’ve lost your mind, my son.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tensed, the muscles twitching. He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Just stared, as sentence after sentence from the journal echoed relentlessly in his head.

“She hit me again today for making her go to the ball instead of me. She met her enemy: Duchess Kim.” “Minyeong has treated my wound, but it was still hard to sleep last night.” “She put Jiho in the cupboard. I couldn’t do anything but cry. I’m sorry, Jiho.”

His hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles whitened, veins visible beneath his skin. Guilt gnawed at his gut like rust. All this time, he had thought he was protecting you by providing, building an empire so you and Jiho would never lack anything. But while he was drafting deals and signing contracts, you were being dragged through hell under the same roof. By his own blood.

“You lost your mind hitting my wife behind my back,” he said, voice as brittle as cracked glass.

She lowered her cup then, finally sensing something in his tone. Her eyes narrowed. “She told you?” Her voice was low, disbelieving. There was no remorse—only the offense of being exposed. “How dare she,” she muttered, her lips curling.

The air thickened between them, tense and suffocating.

“I don’t know her whereabouts,” his mother snapped, lifting her chin. “Maybe she went somewhere. Maybe she was kidnapped. Either way, she deserves it. That woman was a pain in this family.”

Pain.

The word echoed in his chest. What she called a pain—he now knew as suffering. Suffering you endured in silence, under his roof, while he turned a blind eye.

He turned his back to her, not because he was retreating, but because he couldn’t look at her anymore without feeling sick. His voice dropped into a tone colder than stone. “Say that again, and I’ll cut your funds immediately.”

She gasped behind him, rising from her seat. “My son, don’t let a woman’s tantrum undo your reason. You forget how she came here—she wanted our money. Her parents sold her, and I suppose she’s no better than they were.”

His steps were slow, deliberate, echoing on the marble floor as he walked toward the door.

Every word she said now sounded like static in his ears. His body felt hollow and burning all at once, his heart pounding like a war drum. He had failed you. He had failed Jiho.

He paused at the door and turned his head slightly, enough for her to see the disdain now written in his eyes.

“From today,” he said, “your accounts are frozen. Until my wife and my son are back, not a single coin will reach your hands.”

Then he stepped out, not looking back—not for her, not for excuses, not for explanations.

Ten days since you were gone.

The world kept turning—ballrooms were lit, contracts passed hands, and the morning sun still crept through the windows of the Choi estate. But for Seungcheol, everything had stopped. Days blurred into nights, and the silence of your absence grew louder with every tick of the clock.

His work was a mess.

Documents piled on his desk, untouched. Reports sat unanswered. Meetings were postponed, calls ignored. He couldn’t sit through briefings without seeing your face flash in the expressions of strangers. Couldn’t look at maps without wondering if you were somewhere cold, scared, or worse.

He couldn’t even think straight. Every time someone knocked on his door, a violent hope bloomed in his chest—that it was you. That someone had found Jiho.

But it was never you.

Never.

Seungcheol sat slouched in his office chair, eyes hollow, staring blankly at the open folder in front of him. He didn’t even know who the client was anymore. Their voice on the speaker was just noise.

When the man across the table mentioned “transport,” Seungcheol flinched.

“You say something about moving her?” His voice was suddenly sharp.

The client blinked, confused. “I was talking about coal—shipping routes to the West—”

Seungcheol stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor. Mingyu rushed in before he could throw the folder across the room.

“You think I care about coal when my wife and son are gone?” he barked, eyes bloodshot. “Why are you all still talking about shipments and investments like this is normal?!”

The man stammered an apology before fleeing the room. Mingyu stayed quiet, closing the door behind him with a heavy sigh.

Seungcheol pressed his hands into the desk, head hanging. His breath was unsteady, raw with exhaustion. A man who once commanded fear with composure now looked like a soldier losing a war no one else could see.

“I can’t do this, Mingyu,” he muttered. “I can’t even look at people without wondering if they had something to do with it. I sit in front of allies and I wonder if they betrayed me. I see enemies and I can’t decide if they’ve hidden her out of spite.”

He looked up, eyes gleaming but empty. “I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

It was five months into the marriage when Seungcheol pushed open the bedroom door without knocking, only to find you brushing your hair in front of the vanity. You looked serene, like a painting—but he knew better. You were always eerily quiet when you were angry.

“You didn’t leave the room all day,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “I assume the bed’s more interesting than our entire estate now?”

Without looking at him, you replied, “I didn’t realize I needed to submit a movement report.”

“I’m your husband. I think I’m allowed to ask.”

You let out a low chuckle. “Since when do you ask anything without sounding like it’s an interrogation?”

He stepped into the room. His eyes caught the reflection of your face in the mirror—expression calm, but your tone cut like glass.

“You’re mad at me again.”

“No, Seungcheol,” you said, finally turning to look at him, “this is just my face. Turns out five months of marital bliss leaves me glowing.”

He ignored the jab. “I’ve been patient with you, Y/n. But I come home and find you locked up in here like some moody debutante. What do you want from me?”

“Oh, you want honesty tonight?” you quipped. “Interesting choice.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I think I’m pregnant, Seungcheol.”

The words fell heavy—but not soft.

He blinked. “You think?”

You shrugged. “Unless nausea and crying at toothpaste commercials is just a charming new hobby of mine.”

Seungcheol stared at you for a moment. His reaction was unreadable, which only fueled your irritation.

“Right. There it is,” you said bitterly. “You look more panicked than when the market crashed.”

“I’m just... processing.”

“You mean calculating,” you snapped, standing up. “You’re already thinking about how this messes with your timeline, your quarterly goals, or—God forbid—your public image.”

“I never said that,” he said, jaw tight.

“You didn’t have to,” you shot back. “You speak in silence better than you do with actual words.”

“And you don’t speak at all unless it’s laced with attitude.”

“At least it’s real.”

The room buzzed with tension—resentment, sarcasm, the ache of two people who couldn’t stop clashing because they both refused to bend first.

Still, as always, it ended the way it always did: your bitterness crashing into his restraint, your fingers eventually finding his shirt collar, his hand gripping your waist too tightly. No solution. No apology. Just another night pretending friction meant intimacy.

Seokmin barged into the office, breathless, eyes wide. “Sir—they found her. Your wife and son are on their way to the estate. They were spotted in East Gwanrae market.”

The room froze for a split second before it snapped into motion.

Seungcheol shot up from his seat, already reaching for his coat. Mingyu was two steps behind, phone pressed to his ear, barking instructions as they stormed down the hallway.

“Driver!” Seungcheol shouted. “Pull up the car. Now.”

The black vehicle cut through the city like a blade. Inside, silence hovered thick between them, save for the low murmur of Mingyu speaking on the phone with Seokmin.

Seungcheol’s hand rested on his knee, knuckles pale. His voice broke the silence, low and rough. “What did Seokmin say? Is she okay?”

Mingyu hesitated—just for a second. Too quick for most to catch, but Seungcheol noticed. His eyes darted toward his right hand, waiting.

“They looked like they were… escaping someone,” Mingyu finally said, his voice carefully measured. “Your wife was with Jiho. She was holding him close, keeping low in the market crowd. Someone recognized her and followed the trail. They were scared. Hungry, probably. But alive.”

Seungcheol’s eyes narrowed. “Escaping?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu said, avoiding eye contact. His jaw tensed faintly. “Seokmin thinks they were trying to run from the person who had taken them.”

The words lingered in the air, cutting deeper than Seungcheol expected. He leaned back against the seat, staring at the blur of the road outside, expression unreadable.

But Mingyu didn’t speak again. He only tightened his grip on the phone, as if holding in something more.

Something he wasn’t ready to say.

Seungcheol didn’t wait for the car to stop completely. As soon as the estate’s iron gates creaked open, he pushed the door and ran—feet heavy, breath sharp. The guards barely had time to bow before he was past them, storming through the halls he built but never cared to live in.

In his mind, you were collapsed in a corner. Maybe barefoot, trembling. Your clothes torn, hair matted, Jiho sickly pale and clinging to you for warmth. That image had haunted him for days—kept him up, fed his guilt like a slow poison.

But what he saw when the door opened made him freeze in the doorway.

You were sitting on the bed.

Clean. Dressed in a simple beige dress, hair slightly tangled but tied loosely at the back. Jiho curled against your side, his small hand holding your scarf like a lifeline. You were whispering something to him, too soft to hear. Both your eyes turned to the door at once.

And in that moment, Seungcheol felt like a ghost standing in his own home.

You weren’t the broken image he had imagined. You didn’t look like a victim of some wild, tragic escape. No bruises on your face. No desperation in your posture.

But there was something in your eyes—tired, aged, older than the woman he married. A hollow sort of peace. Like someone who had already buried too many things inside herself to count.

“Y/n…” his voice cracked before he could stop it.

You blinked slowly, saying nothing.

“You’re… okay,” Seungcheol breathed, as if trying to convince himself.

“I’m here,” you replied, voice calm. “We both are.”

But you didn’t stand. You didn’t run into his arms or cry or scream or ask where he had been. You just looked at him, as if he was a stranger at the edge of your door.

And for the first time since this madness began, Seungcheol didn’t know what role he was supposed to play anymore—husband, father, or something far more irrelevant.

“Do you want a doctor? Food? I can call someone—” he started.

You shook your head once. “We ate. We’re not sick.”

He nodded slowly, unsure. Everything he imagined saying, every question and command, shrank in his throat.

You weren’t what he expected.

Seungcheol approached slowly, as if afraid that the moment would vanish if he moved too fast. The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat on the edge of the bed. His eyes dropped to Jiho, small and still, curled against your side with one hand tucked beneath his cheek.

The boy looked peaceful, untouched by the storm Seungcheol had imagined—but that only stirred more chaos in him. His gaze shifted to you. You were watching him, chin slightly lifted, as if measuring his intentions. Without speaking, his hand reached out, hesitating before his fingers gently traced your cheek. It was still soft, full, with that natural flush you always had when you were annoyed or caught in the middle of a sarcastic remark. Alive. Still you.

“You’re okay?” he murmured.

You tilted your head slightly, eyes unreadable. “Why? You worry?”

There was a teasing lilt to your voice—subtle, sharp, the same tone you used when you knew exactly how to push his buttons. But your eyes didn’t match it. They were colder. Distant.

Seungcheol bit his lip, gaze dropping. Was it worry? Or curiosity? He wasn’t even sure anymore. All he knew was that something clawed at his chest the moment he saw you again, like he’d been underwater for too long and just found air again.

“I…” He paused, swallowed. “I couldn’t think straight.”

You looked at him with a slight teasing glint, voice soft but tinted with edge. “Why?”

“You disappeared.”

“And?” Your tone was flat. Testing.

“Jiho too.” His eyes flickered to the child again, still fast asleep against your side.

You hummed faintly, tightening your arms around Jiho’s small frame. It was a protective gesture, but it also told him everything he needed to know—you didn’t trust him yet. Maybe never had.

“Someone took you.”

You bit your lips, your jaw tightening. Then, a sigh escaped. “What are you trying to say, Seungcheol?”

He let out a long, shaky breath, fingers gripping his knees. “I… I’m glad you’re fine, but… I’m angry. I’m furious at the people who took you, and I promise you—I’ll catch them. I’ll make them pay.”

Your brow quirked. “You’re acting odd, Seungcheol. The fact that you were running in here like a madman, with this look on your face, is odd.”

His lips parted, but you cut in before he could explain.

“You never ran for me before,” you added coolly, eyes locked on his. “Not when I cried. Not when I begged you to talk to me like I was a person. But now—suddenly—I disappear, and it’s like you remembered I existed?”

There was no venom in your voice, but it stung worse than any shout would’ve.

He flinched. “That’s not true.”

“No?” You raised a brow, blinking slowly. “You said you couldn’t think straight. Is it because you missed us? Or because you lost control?”

His mouth opened again, but nothing came out. You’d hit the mark, and he knew it.

You exhaled deeply, your tone softening only slightly. “We were surviving, Cheol. Me and Jiho. Out there, with no money, barely any food, and always looking over our shoulders. Do you know how many times I had to lie just to keep him safe?”

His jaw flexed.

“And now you’re here, talking about revenge,” you said. “But you weren’t the one suffering. You weren’t the one hiding bruises, or calming down a mute child in the middle of a nightmare.”

“I didn’t know,” he whispered.

“You didn’t ask.”

That landed like a punch. The silence stretched. Thick. Bitter. But still, you didn’t tell him to leave. And he didn’t stand up.

Because somewhere beneath all the resentment and ruined intentions, something lingered—small, quiet, broken. Something still tethered.

You heard from Minyeong that Jiho had accidentally knocked over your mother-in-law’s favorite vase that afternoon. The moment her words reached your ears, a cold dread climbed up your spine. You knew how she was—unyielding, cruel when it suited her. And you knew what that meant for Jiho.

Without thinking, you bolted through the halls of the estate, heart pounding like a war drum. You burst into the room where they said Jiho was, only to find him wailing—his tiny body trembling in the arms of unfamiliar servants, his face streaked with tears and fear.

“Get my son down, right now!” you shouted, your voice raw with panic and rage. You stepped in only to freeze—halted by the icy presence of your mother-in-law, seated calmly in the armchair as if the chaos around her were just a matter of inconvenience.

“Not until his mother learns how to educate her son,” she said coldly, standing with deliberate grace to approach you.

You tried to keep your voice from breaking. “Stop this. Please… I beg you.” Your knees wobbled as your eyes locked onto the small cupboard where Jiho had just been shoved. The servants had locked him inside, and the sound of his muffled cries—sharp, panicked, and unrelenting—cracked your heart in two.

Your mother-in-law’s lips curled into a twisted smile as she watched you collapse to your knees, the humiliation like a crown she placed upon your head.

Then came the sting. A slap, hard and merciless, sent your head snapping to the side. Your cheek burned, and tears spilled from your eyes—not just from pain, but from helpless fury.

Still trembling, you didn’t have time to recover before she gripped your hair and yanked your face upward to look at her. Her gaze was icy. Unforgiving.

“You and your son better learn some lessons, Y/n,” she hissed. “Do you know how easily you can be replaced? You and that unfortunate, mute child of yours.”

Her words sliced through you sharper than any blade.

“First, you tried to hide those dresses my son sent you—expensive things, meant to honor this family. I told you to give them back. I told you to stop wasting his generosity.” Her voice dripped venom with each word.

“And now,” she gestured toward the cupboard, where Jiho’s sobs still echoed, “your little beast breaks my most treasured vase.”

She shoved you backward, and you stumbled to the floor as she turned to the servants.

“Lock them in here,” she ordered coldly. “No food until dinner tomorrow. Let them reflect on their behavior.”

You cried out, but the door had already slammed behind her.

And in that moment, with your son trapped and your body aching, you knew: no one was coming to save you—not even your husband.

You married Choi Seungcheol not out of love, but out of necessity—at least, that’s what you used to tell yourself.

Your family, once noble and revered for their long-standing loyalty to the Choi family, had fallen into disgrace. Years of quietly aiding them behind war lines and political tides came to nothing when your father’s business collapsed into bankruptcy. Reputation meant survival, and survival meant sacrifice.

So your parents turned to the Choi estate, heads bowed with desperation, asking for a marriage alliance to preserve what little dignity your bloodline had left. You were the offering. The last, obedient daughter of a once-great military household.

You didn’t protest. In fact, you thought of it as an escape.

A way out of your father’s suffocating expectations, the cold lines on his face drawn deeper every time you dared to speak for yourself. You thought marriage to Seungcheol—Choi Seungcheol, the heir with a good name and a better record—would at least mean gentler days. He was calm, level-headed, generous when it mattered. Not once had you seen him raise his voice. A respectable man, people said. One of the best this generation could offer.

And for a while, you believed it. Even in the early months of your marriage, he was attentive in his own reserved way. He didn’t try to love you, but he didn’t hurt you either. That, in itself, was a mercy.

When Jiho was born, everything changed.

The cruelty didn’t come from him—not at first. It came from your mother-in-law, the regal matron of the house with eyes colder than marble. She said it started because of your attitude. Because you were “spirited.” Because you were "too free" for a woman who should’ve been grateful to be saved from ruin.

The abuse began with a slap—one sharp sting across your cheek when you failed to greet her with the right tone. Then came the days without food, long hours in the nursery with Jiho where no one entered. The isolation. The servants looking through you like you were something to be tolerated, not served. You weren’t allowed to step outside the estate without her approval. Even your letters to Seungcheol were filtered. Some were likely never sent.

Seungcheol never knew—because he was away.

Your mother-in-law believed your "rebelliousness" would one day convince Seungcheol to cut the financial cord. That you would poison him against his duty. She believed that if she broke you, caged you, tamed you—then you’d stop trying. Then you’d surrender to the role they assigned you. And Seungcheol, their golden heir, wouldn’t be distracted from the real goal: protecting the name.

You were awakened by the sound of the door unlocking. A quiet click in the dark, but enough to jolt your senses. Eyes wide, you scanned the room—Jiho was still curled up inside the cupboard, the space too small for a child, his soft breaths uneven from earlier cries.

Your heart lurched.

Without thinking, you shot up and sprinted barefoot through the hall. The cold marble bit into your feet with each step, but you didn’t stop. You didn’t even know where you were going—only that you needed someone. Anyone.

You collapsed against the corridor wall. A tall figure came running to you. Surprised and worried.

“What’s wrong, Lady Choi?” Mingyu asked, crouching beside you. His voice softened at the sight of your shaking figure, your palms scraped and dirty from crawling.

“My son…” your voice was barely a whisper, “Jiho… they locked him in the cupboard. He’s still inside. Please, Mingyu. Help me…”

Mingyu’s expression changed. Just a flicker. Concern replaced courtesy, and for a second, something else—fury, maybe—flashed through his eyes.

“I’ll get him,” he said, standing up. “Stay here.”

And you could only nod, pressing a hand to your chest as your breath fought its way in and out—because for the first time in so long, someone had heard you.

You held Jiho close to your chest on the bed. His small frame trembled in your arms, his fists curled into your shirt, though the tears had long since stopped. The silence between you was heavy, but not empty. You could feel it in his breathing—shallow, uneven. In the way he clung to you like a lifeline. He didn’t cry anymore. But you were his mother. And you knew.

This child—your child—carried too much for a body so small. Too many things he didn’t know how to name. Pain. Fear. Confusion. He had grown up in a house where love was spoken like a foreign language. A house where his parents barely looked each other in the eye, where tension hung like fog. His grandmother’s cruelty had only carved the wounds deeper, branding trauma into him before he even learned how to defend himself. Before he even learned how to speak.

And now, he doesn't speak at all.

Muted—not by choice, but by trauma. And no one seemed to understand.

You gently ran your fingers through his hair, kissing the crown of his head as your heart ached. You asked yourself—again and again—what was best. For him. For you. For both of you.

Was staying here a form of protection? Or just a slower kind of destruction? You didn’t know. But you knew you had to keep trying. Because Jiho deserved more than this silence. He deserved safety. He deserved love. Even if you had to crawl through fire to give it to him.

The night after Jiho’s trembling subsided and he finally drifted into sleep—still curled tightly against your side—you sat in the dark and stared at the moonlit ceiling. Eyes wide open, heart numb.

You had cried all you could. It was no longer grief that kept you awake. It was resolved. Something in you broke that night. Or maybe, something in you finally woke up. You had to get out. Not just you—but Jiho. He deserved more than a prison guarded by tradition and cruelty. And you… you deserved a life where you didn’t flinch every time a door opened.

One morning, you waited in the garden until you saw him.

Mingyu.

He was one of the few people in this house who had always looked at you with a trace of human decency. Loyal to Seungcheol, yes. But not blind. Not heartless.

“Mingyu,” you whispered from the corner of the rose wall. “I need your help.”

He looked hesitant at first, glancing around. “Is something wrong?”

You stepped forward, showing him the bruises you had covered the night before. Not with pride, but with desperation. And when you said, “It’s not just me. It’s Jiho, too,” something in his expression shifted.

Still, he hesitated.

“I serve your husband, Lady Choi. You know I—”

“I’m not asking you to betray him,” you cut in softly. “I’m asking you to help a mother protect her son. That’s all I’m asking, Mingyu. Please.”

He stared at you. At your trembling hands. By the way your eyes, even when dry, screamed for help. And then… he nodded. It was the smallest gesture, but it changed everything.

Together, the plan began. Fake kidnapping. Enough to throw the house into chaos. You’d vanish without a trace. Just gone. Long enough for Seungcheol to search, for his mother to squirm, and for you to slip far beyond the reach of this gilded prison.

You needed one more piece. So you wrote a letter. With careful words and shaking hands.

“Dear Jisoo, I hope this finds you well. I have no time to explain everything, but I need you more than ever. I’m trying to escape with my son. I know this is asking a lot, but if you ever saw me as your friend, please—help me disappear. With all my heart, Y/n.”

Jisoo had been your friend from the years before marriage. Gentle, quiet, kind-hearted. He had always seen past your mask. Past your name. The kind of friend who noticed sadness even when you smiled.

The response came swiftly—disguised in a box of imported tea.

“Tell me when and where. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

No one will find you. You clutched that letter to your chest the night it arrived.

You didn’t just want to leave. You wanted them to feel it. You wanted the Choi family to suffer in confusion, to twist in paranoia. To question their power, their security, their control over you. You wanted Seungcheol to see what happened when he turned a blind eye. You wanted his mother to choke on her arrogance.

They thought you were weak. They mistook endurance for submission. Mistook silence for obedience. But you had been watching, learning. Smiling at every slap. Bowing after every insult. Playing your part—until it was time for the curtain to fall.

Mingyu swallowed hard. “You’re colder than I thought.”

You smiled darkly. “Yes, this is who I've been the whole time.”

You disappeared in silence. Like a shadow slipping into dusk.

That night, you imagined Seungcheol pacing the estate in rage. You imagined his mother screaming at the staff, flipping porcelain in hysteria, all while you sipped tea in a warm cabin nestled deep in the property Jisoo owned.

“They’ll lose their minds,” Jisoo said calmly, reading your expression.

You leaned back, watching Jiho chase butterflies through the window.

“I want them to,” you replied, smiling without warmth. “I want her to think someone took me the same way she took everything from me.”

Jisoo stared for a moment. “And Seungcheol?”

You sipped your tea and set it down gently. “He doesn’t get to play the victim. He left me there for four years. If guilt’s what haunts him now, let it grow roots. Let it rot.”

Your tone was soft. But your words were razor sharp.

You hadn’t run to be free. You had vanished to make them remember you in fear.

And when the time came—if it ever came—you wouldn’t return as the girl they once tried to break.

You would return as the ghost that taught them how it feels to lose everything.

The Duchess Choi stepped into the room like a queen returning to her throne, the smug curl on her lips unmistakable. Her heels clicked on the polished floor, every sound like a warning bell. Jiho’s small fingers tightened around yours, and you could feel his pulse racing—just like yours. You gently shifted him behind you, body instinctively shielding his.

"Nice to see you come back," she began, her voice honeyed but hollow. "I finally can breathe."

You didn’t say a word. You just looked at her—truly looked. She was thinner, her cheekbones sharper, and the usual glint of superiority in her eyes had dulled slightly, just slightly. Ten days without Seungcheol’s money must have felt like ten years in exile for a woman like her.

You had learned a lot in those ten days.

That fear could turn to fury. That silence could scream louder than words. That a journal—carefully placed on a vanity Seungcheol would pass by—could rewrite the entire narrative.

Even if you sprinkled salt into the wounds, embellished the bruises, and emphasized Jiho’s silence as irreversible, your husband wasn’t the type to fact-check a bleeding truth. He would feel it. And it was his feelings you counted on. The man who once watched you from a distance was now looking too closely for comfort.

Before your mother-in-law could raise her hand—as she had so many times before—you beat her to the blow.

"My husband wouldn’t like it," you said sharply, voice low but sure, "if he knew you hit me again. Would he?"

The words cut the air like a dagger. And for the first time, her hand faltered mid-air.

The duchess laughed—a dry, unimpressed sound that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Bold, are you?” she scoffed.

You tilted your head, smiling just faintly. “No. Just smarter.”

You stepped forward, careful but steady. Jiho clung to the back of your dress, and your voice dropped to a whisper meant only for her.

“Now we wouldn’t want the court hearing things about what’s been happening behind closed doors, would we? Or the charity ladies you love so much.”

Her jaw tightened. The way her fingers curled at her sides told you she wanted nothing more than to hit you, but the risk outweighed the impulse.

“I don’t know what nonsense you fed my son,” she hissed.

“You raised him to swallow a good story.” You stepped back with a shrug, “I just wrote a good story.”

Her voice slithered back into the room like a shadow that refused to leave.

“I shaped him, Y/n,” she said, one heel pivoted against the marble, eyes gleaming with poisonous pride. “Do you think I can’t unmake him?”

You froze only for a breath. Jiho’s head tucked against your side, his small fingers still curled around your dress, a living reminder of what she once tried to break.

Your lips twitched into a cold, almost amused smile. You stood tall, one hand protectively on Jiho’s back.

“You shaped a puppet,” you replied, your voice calm but laced with steel. “But I raised a soul. One you never understood.”

Her jaw clenched. You saw it. That flicker of fear that she was losing control. The very thing she thrived on was slipping through her fingers.

“I won’t let you,” she whispered, venom behind each word.

You stepped forward, not backing down. “You’ve already tried. For years. With silence, with fear, with violence.”

You bent slightly, meeting her gaze at eye level.

“And yet—here he is. Still standing. Still whole.”

That silenced her.

She turned with a dramatic sweep of her gown, fury stiffening her spine. But before she left, she paused at the door and glanced at Jiho. His wide, scared eyes met hers.

“You’ll regret this,” she said coldly.

You leaned down, pressing a kiss to Jiho’s temple. “No,” you murmured, meeting her stare without flinching. “You will.”

And then she was gone.

You exhaled—deeply, slowly—and wrapped Jiho in your arms. His little hands were still trembling, but your body had stopped shaking.

For the first time in years… You weren’t afraid of her anymore.

Seungcheol leaned against the doorframe, his eyes softening at the sight before him. You were seated on the carpeted floor, a handful of colored pencils scattered around you as Jiho clung to your side, intently focused on the sketch he was making. His small hand moved across the page in childlike strokes, your hand resting gently on his back, steadying him.

It was quiet, peaceful even—too peaceful for what he expected after hearing that his mother had come to see you.

He cleared his throat deliberately, breaking the silence.

Your hand stilled mid-stroke, and you slowly turned toward him. Jiho instinctively leaned closer into your side, his small frame tense again.

Seungcheol stepped in. “I heard my mother was here,” he said, voice unreadable.

“She was.” You didn’t look away as you said it, your tone flat but not hostile. “She left just before Jiho finished drawing this.” You held up the picture—a messy house, two stick figures, a sun drawn in orange rather than yellow. He knew it wasn’t a coincidence. Jiho always drew the sun in yellow.

Seungcheol stepped closer, eyes trailing over the drawing, then back at Jiho. His son didn’t meet his gaze.

“You didn’t call me,” he said, watching you.

He crouched down finally, close enough to see Jiho’s trembling lip, though the boy quickly masked it. “Jiho…” he called gently.

But Jiho only pressed his face further into your side. Seungcheol’s hand twitched like he wanted to reach out, but he didn’t.

“He needs space,” you said quietly. “And time.”

He nodded, understanding. “I came to check on you,” he said after a moment. “Not just because of her.”

“Jiho, Mingyu is outside and he wanted to draw with you in my office,” Seungcheol said, his voice unusually gentle. Jiho turned his head toward you, seeking approval with those quiet eyes of his, still wary—still unsure.

You gave him a soft nod. “Go ahead, sweetie.”

Jiho stood, clutching his crayons, and after a small, almost hesitant glance at Seungcheol, he shuffled out of the room.

The door closed behind him with a soft click, and just like that, silence swallowed the room again.

You didn’t move.

Seungcheol remained standing for a beat, as if unsure how to begin. But then his voice came, low and heavy.

“I read your journal.”

Your fingers froze mid-reach toward a colored pencil. You slowly lifted your eyes to him, quiet but unreadable.

He took a step forward. “I don’t know what I was expecting when I found it—maybe anger. Accusations. But not…” He trailed off, brow furrowed. “Not that.”

You tilted your head. “Not what? The truth?”

His jaw clenched. “Some of it,” he admitted. “But you made it sound like I left you here knowing what would happen. Like I… abandoned you on purpose.”

“Didn’t you?” you asked, voice like calm water over a sharp stone. “You never asked. Never checked. Four years, Seungcheol.”

His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t defend himself. Instead, he let the weight of your words fall where they must.

“I didn’t know.”

“No,” you said. “You didn’t want to know.”

Silence.

He ran a hand through his hair, stepping closer, something burning just beneath his expression. “You made me believe you were okay. You wrote letters, you smiled when I called—”

“Because if I told you, she would’ve hurt Jiho more.” Your words cracked then, the first sign of emotion leaking through. “So I smiled and lied.”

Seungcheol’s face twisted at that. Regret carved deep into his features.

“She told me you hid the dresses I bought for her,” he muttered. “That you were wasting my money. She said you were trying to turn Jiho against the family.”

“And you believed her?” you asked with a hollow laugh. “You believed her over your own wife and child.”

“I don’t anymore,” he said quickly. “Not after reading that. Not after seeing Jiho.”

You looked at him for a long moment, your expression softening—but only slightly. “Then do something. Don’t just stand there feeling bad. You were raised by that woman, Choi Seungcheol. You know what she’s capable of.”

He stepped closer again, his voice lower, almost hoarse. “I didn’t know it would come to this. I—I should’ve protected you.”

Seungcheol’s eyes didn’t leave yours, but there was something different in them now—no longer just regret or guilt. Something quieter. Something breaking.

His voice was softer when he spoke next, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to say it. “Can I…” he paused, his gaze flickering down for a moment before rising again. “Can I hug you?”

Your breath caught, not because you were surprised, but because of how long it had been since he asked. Since he even thought to ask. You looked at him—not as your husband, not as the man the world respected—but as the man who once held your trembling hands on the altar and swore he'd make you feel safe.

You didn’t answer right away.

The silence stretched between you like a thread pulled taut—threatening to snap.

And then you gave the faintest nod.

He stepped forward slowly, carefully, like you were glass he had shattered and was trying not to cut himself on the edges. When his arms finally wrapped around you, they felt different—not like a husband who claimed, but like a man who begged to be allowed back in.

You stood still at first, tense in the circle of his embrace, memories flashing like scars beneath your skin. But as his warmth bled into you, you felt the steady rhythm of his heart—fast, unsure, human.

And slowly… your hands lifted to rest on his back. You didn’t melt into him. You didn’t collapse. But you let him hold you. And that, after everything, was the beginning.

Your plan has run well so far.

Seungcheol felt the small tug at the hem of his coat just as he was about to step out. He turned on instinct, ready to brush it off—but then he saw him.

Jiho.

The boy was in his slippers, hugging a drawing book against his chest with one hand, the other still gripping his coat tightly. His eyes wide, silently pleading.

That silence—it hit Seungcheol like a brick to the chest.

Jiho couldn’t call his name. Couldn’t say “Appa” like other kids might. And yet here he was, tugging him back with all the strength his little body could offer.

Seungcheol glanced at his watch. He was already late. A meeting with regional heads, important people.

But the promise he made to you echoed louder than any ticking clock.

“I’ll change,” he had told you.

So, without a second thought, Seungcheol looked over his shoulder and called, “Mingyu, push the meeting back. Two hours.”

He crouched to Jiho’s height, his voice softer, careful, like something sacred could break between them.

“Jiho… what’s wrong?”

The boy hesitated only a moment before holding out the sketchbook and colored pencils, then pointed toward the garden with a hopeful look.

Seungcheol followed the gesture, noticing the sunlight pouring gently through the windows. The air outside looked crisp and golden.

“You want me to draw with you?” he asked, still unsure if he was reading it right.

Jiho gave a shy nod, his eyes flickering down like he was preparing for rejection.

But Seungcheol didn’t hesitate. “Let’s go to the garden,” he said.

And just as he straightened up, ready to guide Jiho forward, he felt it—small fingers wrapping around his own. A warm, hesitant hand slipping into his.

He looked down, stunned.

It wasn’t much.

But to Seungcheol, that little hand holding his was louder than any word Jiho could’ve spoken.

It was trust. Maybe even forgiveness.

And for the first time in a long time, Seungcheol let the weight of work fall away as he stepped outside—not as a chairman, not as a Choi, but as Jiho’s father.

The crayons rolled lazily on the blanket as Seungcheol added a pair of long ears to the rabbit he was drawing. Beside him, Jiho carefully shaded the butterfly’s wings in a bright orange, his tongue peeking out slightly in concentration. It was peaceful—quiet but warm, like the sun filtering through the trees around them.

Seungcheol leaned back on one hand, glancing at Jiho’s drawing and then back to his own. “I think mine looks like a dog,” he chuckled softly. Jiho looked up and tilted his head, lips twitching like he might have laughed if he could.

But the calm was broken by distant shouts.

“Jiho!”

Seungcheol turned his head, brow furrowing as he caught sight of two figures darting through the hedges—your voice unmistakable, calling for your son. Minyeong was behind you, looking just as panicked.

You skidded to a stop when your eyes finally landed on the garden, where Jiho and Seungcheol were sitting casually on the picnic blanket, surrounded by scattered drawings and crayon boxes.

Your shoulders dropped, relief flooding your face as you exhaled. “Jiho!” you cried, hurrying toward them. “You scared me.”

Jiho’s head whipped toward you, startled by your tone, and he immediately clutched the sketchbook to his chest, eyes wide.

Seungcheol stood, brushing his hands on his pants, still confused. “What’s going on?”

You knelt down beside Jiho, checking him over as if making sure he hadn’t vanished and reappeared. “He wasn’t in his room. He always waits for breakfast after class. No one saw him leave. I thought—” your voice broke off, the worst-case scenarios unspoken but loud in your expression.

Seungcheol’s brows lifted as he finally understood.

You let out a shaky breath, gently tucking Jiho’s hair back. “You can’t just disappear like that, sweetheart. I got scared.” Your voice softened as you held his cheek, thumb brushing under his eye.

Jiho looked down, guilt plain in his body language.

"He's safe here. You don't need to worry," Seungcheol said, his voice calm, his stance steady.

But his assurance didn’t sink into your chest the way it should have. Not with the image of the Duchess still fresh in your mind—her cruel smirk, her venomous words, the way her shadow still lingered in every corner of this estate. Not with the memory of Jiho's trembling form, locked away and crying for someone who would never come.

You tightened your arms around your son, cradling his fragile body to your chest as if your heartbeat alone could shield him. “He’s too precious,” you murmured, your voice low, heavy with everything you couldn't say. Too precious to be used. Too precious to suffer. Too precious for this house to break.

Seungcheol didn’t say anything at first. He looked at you, at Jiho, at the way your hand cupped the back of your son's head protectively. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“I understand,” he said quietly. “He’s important to me, too.”

You looked up, your eyes sharp and cautious.

Seungcheol stepped closer, dropping to a knee so he was eye-level with the both of you. “Whatever happens,” he said, voice more serious now, “I’ll work hard to protect him… to protect you. So you don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”

Your breath caught.

You wanted to believe him—so badly—but belief wasn’t trust, and trust wasn’t earned overnight. Not after years of silence. Not after years of being left behind.

Last night, the nightmare returned.

The same one that gripped you with icy fingers every time you dared to close your eyes. The same twisted scene that played over and over like a curse etched into your subconscious. You had thought that leaving the estate would quiet it—give your mind the peace to heal—but it only followed, sinking deeper into your bones each night.

It always began the same: silence. A vast, suffocating silence that wrapped around you like a veil.

Then, the halls of the estate. Dim, echoing, endless. You'd find yourself running, barefoot and frantic, the cold stone floors numbing your feet. Your heart thundered louder than your steps.

Then her—Duchess Choi.

Her figure always emerged from the dark, regal and terrifying. Her hands were always red—soaked, dripping. Her eyes gleamed with something inhuman.

And Jiho...

You never reached him in time. No matter how fast you ran, how loud you screamed, you always arrived just a second too late. The final moment always burned itself into your soul: Jiho's lifeless eyes, his small body limp in her cruel arms, as she whispered, "You should’ve obeyed."

You jolted awake, drenched in sweat and breathless, clutching your chest as if it could steady the madness storming inside.

But the room was silent.

Beside you, Jiho slept peacefully, his tiny hand curled into a fist near his face. The innocence of his slumber clashed cruelly with the horror that still lingered in your veins.

You pressed a kiss to his forehead and laid back down, eyes wide open, unwilling to risk sleep again. You couldn’t. Not when the nightmare was always the same, and the ending never changed.

Your mind whispered over and over: What if the dream was a warning? What if it wasn’t just a dream at all?

Seungcheol’s voice cut through the heavy silence, gentle but firm. He noticed the weariness etched into your face—the dark circles beneath your eyes, the distant glaze that made you look like you were somewhere far away.

“You should rest, my wife,” he said softly, stepping closer. “Leave Jiho to Minyeong for a while. Let yourself breathe.”

His words carried more than just concern; there was a quiet insistence, a promise that you didn’t have to carry everything alone.

You blinked slowly, the exhaustion weighing down your lids, and for a brief moment, you almost wanted to say yes. To give yourself permission to stop fighting, even if only for a little while.

But the nightmare still lingered behind your eyes—the bloody hands, the silent screams.

The door creaked softly as Seungcheol stepped into your room. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in a dim wash of moonlight that etched pale shadows across the floor. The air was still, thick with silence. You were curled up beneath the covers, your body barely moving, your eyes open and distant—staring at nothing.

He stood at the threshold for a moment, just watching. You looked so small like that, fragile in a way that struck him in the gut. His chest ached. He wondered how long you’d been surviving in this half-state, quietly unraveling while he stood blind beside you.

“You haven’t slept again,” he murmured, voice soft as cotton.

You didn’t answer—just turned your head ever so slightly in his direction. The motion was slow, like it took effort.

He approached the bed and sank gently onto the edge, careful not to startle you. For a moment, he didn’t say anything more. His hand lifted, tentative at first, before his fingers brushed beneath your eye, tracing the bruised hollows of exhaustion there. Then down to your cheek—warm, familiar, trembling.

You let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. “Are you just here to touch me?” you asked, your voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper, but with an edge of bitterness beneath it.

Seungcheol’s brows pinched, his thumb ghosting over your temple.

“I’m here because I want to carry what you’ve been carrying alone,” he whispered. “I turned my eyes away when I should’ve looked closer.”

Your throat constricted as tears swelled. You bit your lip hard. “I’m already broken, Cheol.” Your voice cracked. “This house… your mother… everything. I—I don’t even recognize myself anymore. I tried to be what you needed, but I’ve only ruined it. You don’t deserve someone like me.”

He closed his eyes briefly, jaw tight with pain. And then he leaned forward, pressing his lips to your forehead—delicate, unwavering.

“I don’t care,” he whispered against your skin. “You’re my wife. Convenient or not. I made vows, and I meant them. I still do.”

A sob shuddered up your throat as your defenses collapsed. The tears you’d swallowed for months broke free.

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t hurried or full of hunger—it was slow and aching. His mouth moved against yours like he was memorizing you again, trying to soothe every invisible wound. You clung to him, fingers fisting the front of his shirt, desperate for something solid, something real.

There was no need for words anymore.

Clothes slipped off like old armor. His hands didn’t rush—they moved over you gently, like you were something he thought he’d lost. His touch was reverent, worshipful. He kissed the curve of your shoulder, the dip of your waist, the softness of your stomach like they were all parts of a story he refused to forget.

Your fingers threaded through his hair, trembling. “I’m scared,” you admitted into the dark.

“I know,” he breathed against your skin. “But I’m here. I’m here.”

When he entered you, it wasn’t a conquest—it was a return. A slow, desperate need to feel something real between the both of you again. You moved together like the world outside didn’t exist. Like grief and shame and regret could all be held at bay if only you stayed close enough.

Your breaths synced, ragged and warm. Gasps turned into moans, moans into whimpers. The sound of your name on his lips was unlike anything—hoarse, reverent, as if it hurt to say but he couldn’t stop saying it.

You cried through it. Not just from the sensation, but from all the pain that had piled up between your bodies for months. Seungcheol held you through it all, brushing your tears away with his lips, whispering apologies and I love you’s and I’m so sorrys between every kiss.

He whispered your name like a vow. Like a prayer.

“You’re mine,” he breathed over and over, not possessively, but like a truth he clung to. “You’re my wife. You’re mine.”

That night, the bed wasn’t just a place of desire—it became a sanctuary. A fragile, fleeting pocket of warmth where two hearts could find their way back to each other.

Morning crept in quietly, the rain having washed the world into a pale stillness. The sky was soft and gray beyond the curtains, the kind of morning that asked the world to slow down.

Seungcheol stirred beside you, his hand instinctively brushing a lock of hair away from your face. You were still asleep, finally at peace. Something in his chest loosened at the sight. For a moment, it felt like maybe, just maybe, things were starting to heal.

Then his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He reached for it lazily, intending to silence it, but froze when he saw the name.

Seokmin. Your personal guard.

The blood drained from his face as he opened the message. The screen burned into his vision. The phone nearly slipped from his hand.

Not kidnapped. Requested. Lied.

His lungs stopped working. He stared at the words, willing them to change, to rewrite themselves, to offer any other meaning. But they stayed the same, cold and damning.

The room shrank. His pulse pounded in his ears. Everything—their night, your tears, your trembling voice saying “I’m already broken”—all of it twisted now. He looked at you lying there, still, peaceful, the soft blankets rising and falling with each breath.

And suddenly, he didn’t know what that peace meant anymore.

He stood from the bed, the sheets pulling slightly as he moved. He was still half-dressed from the night before, hair a mess, lips bruised from kissing someone he thought he knew.

You stirred, frowning slightly at the absence of his warmth. Your voice was sleepy, unguarded. “Cheol?”

He turned, and you saw the expression on his face. The way his jaw clenched. The way his eyes looked at you like he didn’t recognize you anymore.

“Did you sleep with him?” he asked. The words were low, cold, and jagged.

You blinked, sitting up abruptly. “What?”

“Hong Jisoo,” he repeated, more biting this time. “Did you sleep with him? Is that why you ran off and let me think you were taken?”

“Cheol—no.” You shook your head, panic rising. “I didn’t. I would never—how could you even—?”

“Then what was it?” he snapped. “Don’t tell me it wasn’t betrayal. Don’t tell me you didn’t look me in the eye every day and pretend nothing was wrong while you were planning your escape behind my back!”

You flinched like he’d struck you.

Your voice wavered, but you forced the words out. “It wasn’t cheating. It was surviving.”

The silence that followed was sharper than any scream. It cracked through the air between you, full of things neither of you had said for months—maybe years.

His throat worked around the lump forming there. “You lied to me,” he whispered, voice almost breaking. “You stood in front of me, wore the ring I gave you, and lied every damn day.”

You stood too now, trembling, bare feet on the floor, your arms crossed tightly over your chest like you were holding yourself together. “You neglected me,” you said quietly, but it came out sharp. “You left me to rot in that house, alone. Your mother made me feel like dirt and you—you never even looked at me.”

“I was trying to protect you!” he shouted. “You think I didn’t know how bad she was? You think I didn’t want to fight her? I was trying, but you never let me in! You never told me how bad it got!”

“Because I didn’t think you'd believe me!” you cried. “You kept brushing it off. You said I was being too sensitive. Every time I tried to tell you, you told me to be patient. So I stopped talking.”

“You gave up on us,” he said, venom trembling behind each word. “You chose him.”

“I chose myself, Seungcheol.” Your voice cracked. “I had no one. No one listened. Not you, not your family, not the people I was supposed to trust. So yes—I ran. I asked Jisoo for help because I didn’t want to die in that house.”

His face twisted. Pain and rage warred behind his eyes. “You should’ve come to me.”

“I did,” you said. “You just didn’t hear me.”

He backed away from you like your words physically pushed him.

“I didn’t cheat on you,” you said again, voice quieter, but no less steady. “I lied. I’m not proud of that. But I did what I had to do.”

“You don’t get to rewrite this like you’re the victim,” he muttered bitterly. “You lied. That’s the one thing we swore we’d never do to each other.”

“And you swore to protect me,” you said, eyes burning. “You failed me first.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Two people who once promised forever, now standing in the ruins of misheard cries and emotional silence. Both of you hurt. Both of you right, and both so terribly wrong.

Seungcheol looked away, jaw flexing. “I don’t know how to come back from this.”

And this time, you didn’t answer. Because neither of you did.

Seungcheol slowed his steps as the raised voices reached him—fierce, trembling, far too close to a breaking point. He stood just shy of the corridor’s edge, where the marbled hallway met the staircase landing, his hand resting on the wall as if grounding himself from a storm he hadn’t yet seen.

And there it was.

You—face flushed, eyes glassy with fury and something dangerously close to heartbreak—stood between his mother and your son. Your arms were slightly outstretched, like a shield. Jiho stood behind your legs, barely visible, clutching his sketchbook tightly to his chest, his small frame tense like a frightened deer in the open.

Seungcheol didn’t move. Couldn’t. The weight of your voice froze him in place.

“You’ve always blamed him for existing,” you said, each word like a shard of glass cutting through the thick silence. “He’s a child. Not a burden. Not your second chance to twist another soul.”

His mother's lips curled, cold and disdainful. “You should’ve taught him obedience instead of weakness. No wonder he turned out like this. You coddle him like he’s glass—”

“He is!” your voice cracked, but you didn’t waver. “Glass that you keep trying to shatter. He’s traumatized—because of you! Because of this cursed house! You broke every child that passed through your hands and now you want to break him too—”

“Watch your tone,” she snapped.

“Or what?” you challenged. “You’ll hurt me? You already have. But I won’t let you lay a single finger on him.”

Your breath was coming in hard, shallow bursts, your voice trembling with the desperate kind of love only a mother could understand. And Seungcheol—watching from the shadows, unseen—felt something rip open in his chest.

Then it happened.

Jiho, who had been so still, so silent—stepped forward. A tiny hand tugging on your skirt, eyes flickering between the two adults in confusion and fear. He didn’t speak, couldn’t speak. He only wanted to stop the fighting. To reach you. To help.

And Duchess Choi turned. Sharp. Too sharp.

“Don’t touch—!”

Her hand flew in a gesture meant to shove you back—but Jiho was there. Too close. Too small. Her arm struck him across the chest, not hard enough to harm a grown-up, but more than enough to unbalance a child on the edge of stairs.

Seungcheol’s heart stopped.

Jiho’s sketchbook flew from his arms, pages flapping like wings of a broken bird.

And then—time cracked.

Jiho stumbled backwards. One small foot slipped. He tilted.

“Jiho!” Your scream pierced the hallway like a siren, raw and anguished.

Seungcheol was already moving. But he wasn’t fast enough. Jiho fell. Head first, down the staircase. His tiny body bounced off the steps in an unnatural, horrifying rhythm. The final thud—when his head hit the marble—echoed through Seungcheol’s ears like a gunshot.

Everything was silence after that.

You screamed again, louder this time, but it sounded distant in Seungcheol’s head. He sprinted, feet hitting the ground too late. You were already at the bottom, shaking, your hands trembling as you pulled Jiho’s limp frame into your arms.

“Jiho—Jiho, baby, no—” your sobs came in gasps, hoarse and broken, like something inside you was shattering.

Seungcheol collapsed beside you, his hands fluttering uselessly, hovering over Jiho’s blood-matted hair. The boy whimpered faintly, eyelids fluttering, a soft sound that should have been a relief but only deepened the horror—because it meant he was still conscious through this pain.

“Eomma… don't cry.”

“Mingyu,” he said quietly. The butler had already rushed into the hall. “Get the doctor. Then gather the guards.”

“My lord—” the duchess began, but Seungcheol didn’t even look at her.

“You’re no longer welcome in this house,” he said coldly. “Not near me. Not near my wife. And not near my son.”

His mother’s breath hitched. Her mask finally cracked. “I raised you—”

“And you nearly unmade me,” he snapped. “You will not get the chance to do the same to my son.”

He turned back to you and Jiho, kneeling once more, brushing Jiho’s hair back gently as the boy leaned into him.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You’re safe now.”

“Appa…”

Seungcheol sat heavily in the armchair, the dim light from the window casting long shadows across his worn face. His eyes, dark and stormy, never left you as you sat on the edge of Jiho’s bed, watching your son sleep. Jiho’s breathing was soft and steady now, peaceful in the fragile safety of the moment—his small face untouched by pain, save for the faint bruises and bandages that marked the night’s horror.

The silence between you was suffocating—thick with everything left unsaid, every wound raw and aching beneath your skin. Your heart pounded in the quiet, the weight of what had happened pressing down like a heavy shroud.

Then, your voice—low, brittle but unwavering—cut through the stillness.

“I knew this was coming.”

Seungcheol’s breath caught a subtle hitch that betrayed the storm inside him. His gaze sharpened, hanging on every word you spoke.

“I dreamed of this,” you said, voice trembling like a fragile thread stretched too thin. “Over and over. How your mother would... harm him.”

Your hand clenched into a tight, desperate fist at your side, knuckles whitening. You didn’t want to look weak, not again—not now—but the tremor in your chest betrayed your fierce vulnerability.

“That’s why I turned to Jisoo,” you whispered, the words heavy with bitter truth. “Because my own husband wouldn’t. Because you don’t have the heart to turn your back on your mother. And I understand... because I’m a mother too.

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened, a war raging behind his eyes—between blood ties and love, duty and desperation, guilt and regret. He felt torn apart, the impossible weight of loyalty clashing with the raw, aching need to protect the family he claimed as his own.

You finally met his gaze, your eyes shimmering with tears you fought to hold back—an ocean of pain, exhaustion, and pleading that spilled over despite yourself.

“Let us go, Seungcheol,” you said, voice breaking but steady. “We’ve suffered enough.”

The words hung in the room like a fragile glass between you—beautiful, sharp, and ready to shatter. It was a plea. A reckoning. A heartbreak that neither of you could deny. For a long moment, the world outside ceased to exist. Only the quiet breaths, the unspoken fears, and the fragile hope that maybe, somehow, healing could begin.

Seungcheol’s jaw clenched, his breath shallow and uneven. The words you’d just spoken echoed in his mind, sharp and unyielding. He wanted—needed—to say something, anything, to hold on, to fight, but the weight in his chest crushed his voice before it could form.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Silence hung between you like a thick fog, suffocating and endless.

His eyes, dark and conflicted, searched yours, but no answer came. The battle raging inside him was too fierce—between love, loyalty, guilt, and despair.

Three years later, Seungcheol sat behind the grand oak desk in his government office, the weight of responsibility settling heavily on his shoulders. The sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the room lined with books, maps, and official decrees.

Now appointed as the regional governor of Gwanrae by the kingdom, he was tasked with ruling a land both vibrant and challenging—a region ripe with opportunity but tangled in its own conflicts and histories.

Papers scattered across his desk demanded his attention: petitions from villagers, reports on trade and security, letters from the palace, and reminders of the delicate balance he must maintain between power and justice.

He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, feeling the years of lessons pressed into every decision. The role was demanding, each day a test of wisdom, patience, and strength. But Seungcheol carried it with quiet determination, fueled by a desire to forge a future where pain like his family’s could be undone.

Though the past still lingered—ghosts of mistakes and loss—he focused on what lay ahead. His kingdom, his people, and perhaps, one day, the chance to heal the fractures within himself.

Seungcheol sat behind his polished desk, papers neatly stacked but momentarily untouched as Mingyu entered the room with a purposeful stride.

“Mingyu,” Seungcheol greeted without looking up, his tone measured yet weary.

“Sir,” Mingyu replied with a slight bow before standing straight. “I wish to update you on young Jiho. He has recently commenced his studies at the elementary academy in Southeast Gwanrae.”

Seungcheol finally raised his eyes. “Is that so? And how does the child fare? Has he begun to speak more freely?”

Mingyu nodded respectfully. “Indeed, my lord. Though reserved, Jiho has begun to articulate himself with increasing confidence. His progress, while gradual, is promising. He shows signs of resilience reminiscent of your own.”

A faint expression softened Seungcheol’s features. “That is reassuring to hear. It has always been my hope that he would find his voice in his own time.”

“Also, the Ministry of Trade has confirmed your presence at the opening ceremony for the new provincial market in Southeast Gwanrae. It’s scheduled for the second week of the coming month.”

Seungcheol paused in his writing, his pen hovering just above the parchment. “Southeast Gwanrae?”

“Yes, sir,” Mingyu replied, maintaining professional composure. “The region has seen significant growth in recent years. The local business community has funded and organized the new market plaza. You’ll be expected to deliver an address and conduct a ceremonial inspection of the trade facilities.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tensed subtly, though his expression remained neutral. “And who oversees the business council there?”

Mingyu met his eyes with a steady nod. “The chairwoman is Lady Ji.”

Silence followed—not strained, but still.

Seungcheol leaned back slightly in his chair, folding his hands before him. “Did she submit the invitation herself?”

Mingyu hesitated, then answered carefully. “It came through the council secretary, but her name was signed at the end of the official document.”

A long breath filled the room.

“I see,” Seungcheol said quietly, gaze distant now.

Mingyu added, “It’s not a personal summons, sir. It’s a public obligation. The council is aware of your history, but they believe your presence will lend prestige to the event.”

Seungcheol gave a slow nod, eyes shadowed but steady. “Prepare the itinerary. Notify the guards. We’ll proceed with the visit as expected.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Mingyu turned to leave, Seungcheol’s voice called him back—quieter, tinged with something more thoughtful. “Send word ahead. I expect nothing more than a formal greeting. She owes me nothing else.”

Mingyu bowed low. “Understood.”

You stood before the mirror, adjusting the silk ribbon at your waist with trembling fingers. The fever had come quietly the night before—subtle aches, a flush that crept beneath your skin. But the ceremony couldn’t wait. Not when months of preparation and the trust of so many local merchants rested on your shoulders.

You dabbed a touch of powder to your cheeks, trying to mask the pallor that clung stubbornly to your skin. The dizziness made your limbs feel like they moved underwater, but you anchored yourself with deep breaths and the steady hum of responsibility.

Outside, the town square of Southeast Gwanrae buzzed with anticipation. Banners hung from the rooftops, merchants lined the stalls with wares, and citizens gathered around the ceremonial platform. The new market was not just a structure—it was proof of survival, of self-reliance. Of rebirth.

You walked slowly toward the platform, Jiho’s small hand in yours. He looked up with curiosity, unaware of the way your steps were measured, your breaths shallow. Jisoo hovered nearby, eyes watchful.

Then you saw him.

Governor Choi Seungcheol. Cloaked in ceremonial robes, his stature even more commanding now. His gaze swept the crowd with practiced poise—until it landed on you.

And it lingered.

You didn’t falter, not outwardly. But your heart tripped painfully in your chest as heat bloomed behind your eyes—not from the fever this time, but from something older. Deeper.

He stepped forward at the cue of the master of ceremonies. Applause rose around him. You bowed your head in respect as protocol demanded, hiding the slight sway in your posture.

He took the podium. His voice, when it came, was steady and regal. But in the middle of his speech, there was a pause—so brief that only those watching closely would notice.

You didn’t look up, but you felt it.

“Was that the Lady Ji he married to?”

“They didn’t even make eye contact.”

“They used to be married, didn’t they?”

You kept your chin lifted, hands folded tightly in front of you to hide the tremor. Jisoo shifted subtly beside you, standing tall, a quiet shield against the public’s prying eyes. Jiho tugged at your sleeve, sensing something even in his young innocence, but you only gave him a weak smile.

The ceremony pressed on. Names were called, the market gates opened, and trade resumed with festive cheer. But around you, eyes still flicked between your back and Seungcheol’s retreating form. Between the woman who had rebuilt from nothing, and the man who had once vowed to build everything with her.

The hotel’s reception hall was lavish but subdued, echoing the tone of formality befitting a governor’s visit. Crystal glasses gleamed under soft golden light, and the long table was dressed in cream linens and lined with carefully arranged refreshments—fine teas, traditional pastries, imported fruits, and small plates that suggested abundance without ostentation.

You sat with practiced grace near the center, across from the Governor himself. Your pale cheeks were touched with a hint of makeup to conceal the fever’s lingering shadow, though the heaviness in your limbs remained. Jiho was safely with Minyeong elsewhere; this part of the evening was no place for a child.

The air around the table buzzed with polite conversation. Influential dukes from surrounding provinces, regional council members, and a few trade lords from the merchant guild sat in a semi-circle. Discussions drifted from recent drought relief efforts to tariffs on imported grain, yet somehow always curved back to Gwanrae’s rapid development under Governor Choi’s new policies.

You remained composed, offering observations when appropriate, your voice even but soft. You noticed how Seungcheol glanced your way only when no one else was looking—quick, unreadable flickers of something unspoken. Perhaps it was memory. Or curiosity. Or guilt.

You couldn’t tell.

“The Lady Ji’s market district in Southeast Gwanrae has seen the highest citizen satisfaction index in the last quarter,” one of the younger councilors noted, smiling at you respectfully. “The property restructuring method she adapted from Sir Hong was a success. Her initiative has inspired the outer provinces.”

A few nodded in agreement.

You inclined your head politely. “We simply provided what people needed—affordable space to grow. Most of the credit belongs to the people who dared to try.”

“Well spoken,” Seungcheol said then, his voice calm but commanding.

It was the first time he had addressed you directly.

The room stilled just slightly—not noticeably, but enough that your spine straightened. You lifted your tea to your lips, hiding the flicker of surprise in your eyes.

And the whispers… started again. Not out loud, not yet. But in glances. In tightened smiles. In the careful politeness that only arose when something unspoken filled the space between two powerful figures.

By the time dessert was served, the room looked orderly again. But beneath it all, the air hummed with possibility—and a tension that even fine porcelain couldn’t mask.

You rose from your seat with the same poise you had maintained all evening, offering a quiet apology to the table. “Please excuse me for a moment,” you said, your voice gentle, unshaken. No one questioned it.

But as you stepped into the hallway beyond the reception hall’s doors, the air shifted.

The soft murmur of noble chatter faded behind you, replaced by the hush of a long, carpeted corridor lit with wall sconces and the distant patter of staff footsteps. You pressed a hand to the wall as your balance faltered—the fever had been steady all day, but now it surged again, making the corners of your vision blur and pulse. Your breath caught. The polished tiles swam beneath your feet, the weight of the night catching up to you.

You leaned your back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut, willing the dizziness to pass. Your fingers curled lightly around your stomach, the warmth of your palm a weak shield against the chill pooling in your limbs.

This wasn’t the place for weakness. Not with officials gathered, not with him in the next room.

But your body disagreed.

Your throat was dry, and the soft layers of your hanbok, though elegant and stately, felt heavier with each breath. You took another slow step forward, then another, intending to reach the small powder room at the end of the hall. But your legs buckled slightly.

And that’s when you heard him.

“Y/n—” Seungcheol’s voice, low and sharp with concern, cut through the silence.

You turned your head, just enough to see him striding toward you. His expression had shifted from formal restraint to something rawer, something dangerously close to the man you used to know. His eyes scanned your face, your posture, the way your fingers trembled against the wall.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, instinctively, but your voice betrayed you—it cracked like paper.

“You’re not,” he said, already beside you. His hand hovered at your back, hesitant but prepared to catch you if you faltered again. “You’re burning up.”

You opened your mouth to dismiss him, to deny him, but the weakness clawing through your spine left no room for pride.

The world around you dimmed slowly, like a lantern flickering in the wind. Your breath grew shallow, your limbs impossibly heavy. You tried to take one more step, tried to hold your chin high despite the spinning in your head—but it was too much.

Then you heard him.

“Mingyu, prepare a room. I’m going there.”

His voice was firm. Urgent. No longer the voice of a distant governor or a man hardened by time and power—but of Seungcheol. The man who once held you like you were made of glass and fire.

You felt the warmth of his hand wrap around yours, the way it used to, anchoring you. Your knees buckled, and the last thing you registered was the sensation of being caught—his arms solid around you, strong and familiar, just before everything faded into darkness.

Seungcheol sat in the armchair beside the bed, a stack of reports resting in his lap—mostly unread. His eyes kept drifting toward your sleeping figure, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest beneath the covers. The doctor had said you were dehydrated and exhausted, the fever pushing your body past its limit. You’d been given a shot to bring it down, and now you finally rested—still, pale, and far too quiet.

The soft creak of the door opening caught his attention. Footsteps—small, hesitant—tapped gently against the floor.

Seungcheol turned, and there stood Jiho.

The boy’s eyes were wide, glassy with worry. He stood frozen in the doorway until he whispered, “Mother…”

The sound nearly undid Seungcheol.

It wasn’t just the word—it was the way Jiho said it, the clarity in his tone. After years of delayed speech and silence, the word shattered something inside him.

Seungcheol rose from his chair, slowly. “She’s going to be fine,” he said gently, his voice low. “She just needs rest.”

Jiho stepped forward, inch by inch, as though afraid that if he moved too fast, it would all disappear. When he reached the bedside, he reached out with a trembling hand and took yours.

“Thank you, Father…”

Seungcheol stood in place, the words echoing in his mind. His heart clenched—not out of pain this time, but something bittersweet and unfamiliar. Jiho’s voice, his gratitude… it was more than he deserved.

He swallowed hard, blinking back the emotion stinging behind his eyes.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he said hoarsely. “She’s your mother. She’s everything.”

Jiho didn’t answer, but his hand remained firmly wrapped around yours.

And for a moment, in that quiet room filled with the steady sound of your breathing, Seungcheol felt something he hadn’t in years.

A glimpse of what could have been.

Or perhaps… what could still be.

Seungcheol watched Jiho in silence, unable to tear his eyes away from the boy’s small hand wrapped around yours. His chest rose with a slow, heavy breath as something bloomed in him—warm, unfamiliar, and overwhelming.

Jiho had grown.

Not just in height or how he carried himself—but in spirit. The timid little boy who once hid behind your skirts was now standing tall beside your bed, speaking clearly, and holding your hand like he could protect you.

It struck Seungcheol with a force that left him breathless.

He knelt beside Jiho, eye level with him now. “You’ve grown a lot,” he said softly, his voice a bit rough around the edges. “You’re strong… just like your mother.”

Jiho looked at him, his eyes uncertain but bright. “I practiced,” he said shyly. “Talking. Writing. Reading.”

Seungcheol nodded, swallowing the emotion in his throat. “I can tell.”

He reached out, gently brushing Jiho’s hair back, something he hadn’t done in so long it felt like a forgotten memory brought to life. “I’m proud of you, Jiho.”

The boy blinked, stunned, before a small, careful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Will she wake up soon?” he asked.

“Yes,” Seungcheol said, his hand still resting lightly on Jiho’s head. “She just needs rest. You gave her a reason to rest easy.”

Jiho’s small fingers clutched yours a little tighter, his eyes still fixed on your sleeping face. Then, after a pause, he glanced up at Seungcheol—uncertainty flickering in those big, dark eyes.

“Father isn’t here to take me from my mother, right?”

The question landed like a blow to Seungcheol’s chest.

He froze, caught off guard by how quietly it was said, how much fear and understanding hid behind such simple words. Jiho wasn’t asking as a child guessing. He was asking as someone who remembered. Someone who had lived through absence. Through tension. Through loss.

Seungcheol lowered himself again, this time more slowly, until he was eye level with Jiho once more. His throat tightened, but he didn’t look away.

“No,” he said, voice low but steady. “I’m not here to take you away from her.”

Jiho searched his face for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether he could believe him.

“You have nothing to be afraid of. Not from me. Not anymore.”

Jiho nodded slowly, still watching him. And then—quietly, cautiously—he leaned just a little toward Seungcheol’s shoulder, not quite touching, but not pulling away either.

It was the smallest shift.

“Rest…”

Seungcheol’s voice, deep and hushed, wove into the stillness like the final note of a lullaby. It wrapped around you gently just as your eyes fluttered open, lashes blinking against the soft golden light that seeped through the curtains. The scent of chamomile lingered faintly in the air—either from the tea or from the linen sheets recently changed—and for a brief moment, the world felt hushed, like it was holding its breath.

You stirred slowly, your body sore but lighter, the fever that had held you hostage now a fading ache. Disoriented, you mumbled, “Why are you here?”

He was already there—by your side. Sitting on the edge of the bed like he belonged in that room, like he’d never left your orbit. The light caught the edges of his sharp features, softened by fatigue and something quieter. Something more tender.

“Taking care of you,” he said, his voice low, smooth like worn velvet. His hand reached out, calloused yet gentle, brushing against your forehead. Cool skin against warm. The kind of touch that made your heart betray you with its sudden stutter.

“Your fever’s gone down,” he murmured, eyes studying you. “But you still need rest. Are you hungry? I can have something sent up.”

You turned your face toward him, blinking slowly as you tried to anchor yourself. The pillows cradled your head, the comforter tucked around you like arms you couldn’t name. It was your hotel, your room, and yet it felt like he had brought the air with him—changed it just by being there.

“We’re strangers now, Seungcheol…” you said, your words barely above a whisper, unsure if they were meant to remind him or to protect yourself.

A faint laugh escaped his lips—low, breathy, amused in that familiar way that always managed to stir something under your ribs. “Strangers usually call me Lord,” he teased, already pulling out his phone, fingers dancing across the screen.

Your brow furrowed. “This is my hotel,” you muttered, frowning. “You can’t just order people around like you own the place.”

He leaned back slightly, still so at ease. “Their boss is sick,” he said with a sly smile, “so naturally, they should tend to you.”

A quiet hum filled the space between you. The distant clink of silverware being prepared downstairs, the muffled rush of staff moving through the halls, and the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing. The air was laced with something fragile and unspoken, like the moment before a confession or the second before dawn.

“You’re weird,” you said softly, your eyes not quite meeting his.

Seungcheol’s smile grew—smaller, more personal, like he didn’t want the world to see it. “You always said that when I did something nice.”

“And you always acted like it meant nothing,” you whispered back, your voice thinning, unraveling.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full—of everything unsaid, of the ache of almost everything, of a past that still lived in the corners of the room. The kind of silence that made your heart flutter even as it weighed down your chest.

“You’re the chairman of the council,” Seungcheol said quietly, eyes narrowing slightly as he watched the way your fingers trembled just a bit when you reached for the glass of water. “Yet no one seemed to notice you were sick.”

You gave a soft, rueful smile, pressing the glass to your lips before setting it down again. Your voice came gentle, laced with fatigue and a hint of something more resigned. “The art of noticing…” You let the words settle, your gaze drifting to the window where morning light filtered through gauzy curtains. “It’s not easy. Needs a lot of practice.”

Seungcheol stilled. Something in your tone made his chest tighten—not with guilt, but with recognition. You weren’t talking about the council. Not entirely.

“Jiho came earlier,” Seungcheol said, his voice gentler now, changing the subject. He leaned back slightly, eyes still fixed on your face. “He was worried… You shouldn’t worry your son like that.”

A soft breath escaped your lips, not quite a sigh—more like a breeze of guilt brushing through your chest. You didn’t look at him right away, only let your gaze fall to the folds of the blanket between your fingers.

“Hmm…” you murmured, then turned to face him with a small, grateful smile. “Thank you for reminding me.”

“You’re far too calm for this situation…” Seungcheol muttered, his voice low and taut with frustration. He wasn’t looking at you—his eyes were fixed on the half-open window, where sunlight spilled lazily across the room.

You tilted your head, watching him quietly. “Why?” you asked softly. “Are you… feeling something, Seungcheol?”

A silence fell between you. Not the comfortable kind, but a loaded pause that felt like holding your breath underwater. He didn’t answer right away—just clenched his jaw, the flicker of emotion twitching behind his eyes.

“Hm… old things,” he finally said, his voice quieter. “But I don’t want to talk about this.”

You nodded once. “Okay.”

Another silence—quieter this time. The wind outside rustled the trees. Somewhere down the hall, a servant’s footsteps echoed faintly and then faded again.

Then, like a whisper dropped into the stillness, he said, “I miss you.”

Your breath caught in your chest. For a moment, the room felt smaller, like everything folded in around those three words.

These visits became a quiet rhythm over the months—small, almost unnoticed, but impossible to ignore. You were immersed in the latest market expansion reports when Jeonghan appeared, calm as ever, his tablet tucked beneath one arm.

“My lady,” he said gently, “Governor Choi was seen in the lobby again.”

Your pen hovered but you didn’t look up. “Again?” you asked, voice steady but with just a hint of something beneath.

Jeonghan nodded. “His fourth visit this year.”

You said nothing, turning the page deliberately. The room filled with a heavy silence as Jeonghan lingered, waiting for a crack in your carefully guarded composure. But none came.

This pattern repeated over time: subtle visits, thoughtful gifts.

One afternoon, Jeonghan appeared with a small, carefully wrapped package. “Governor Choi has sent painting equipment for the young master,” he said softly.

You accepted it with a quiet “Thank you,” your heart catching briefly before your face smoothed into neutrality. These gifts carried more weight than paint and canvas.

Later, Jeonghan returned, a slight smirk on his lips. “Lord Seungcheol asked for a recommendation on a local restaurant.”

You met his gaze evenly. “Tell him the best place is the one he hasn’t discovered yet.”

Jeonghan’s knowing smile lingered as he left, the door clicking softly behind him.

Month after month, these quiet reminders arrived—unspoken words and careful gestures, threading their way through your days, stirring memories you tried not to name.

It was near sunset when Jeonghan entered again, the golden light casting long shadows across your office floor. He stood with both hands behind his back, his voice as composed as ever.

“My lady,” he said carefully, “Lord Seungcheol has asked… if he could take the young master for a stroll around the city.”

You looked up from the correspondence in your hand, eyes resting on him a second longer than usual.

The question hung in the air like incense—unexpected, warm, and slightly disorienting.

“For how long?” you asked, though your voice was quieter than intended.

“An hour or two,” Jeonghan replied. “He said he wants to show Jiho the market square lights… and the new flower lane.”

You glanced toward the window, where faint sounds of the evening city buzzed below. Jiho had asked about the flower lane just days ago.

And now Seungcheol remembered.

You closed the document before you slowly nodded. “Tell Lord Seungcheol… as long as Jiho wears his coat.”

Jeonghan gave a slight bow. “Yes, my lady.”

As he exited, your eyes lingered on the door he’d just left through, a quiet ache swelling in your chest. You knew Seungcheol wasn’t just walking through the city. Somewhere else you didn't want to name.

Seungcheol opened the door of his hotel room, his tie loosened and sleeves slightly rolled up, only to pause at the unexpected sight.

You stood there, framed by the soft hallway light, holding a familiar bottle of red wine cradled in your arms—his favorite vintage.

“Room service,” you said with a small, wry smile.

A quiet laugh escaped him, subtle but real, as he stepped aside. “I should’ve known this hotel had excellent service.”

You stepped inside, the wine bottle cool in your hand as you made your way to the small sitting area. The room smelled faintly of cedar and old paper—his cologne mixed with the remnants of long hours and unopened reports. You settled onto the couch with practiced ease, the weight of the years between you both momentarily suspended in the soft click of the bottle setting down on the table.

“How was the stroll with Jiho?” you asked, your tone casual, though your eyes lingered longer than they should.

Seungcheol took the seat across from you, his gaze steady. “Peaceful. He asked questions about every flower and every vendor. He’s bright... very much like you.”

You gave a faint smile, looking away as if brushing off a compliment that hit a little too close to the chest.

“I didn’t expect your visit,” he said finally, voice quieter now, more careful.

You shrugged lightly, fingers tracing the rim of a wine glass. “I didn’t expect to be here either. But I figured I’d be a terrible host if I didn’t personally greet one of our most loyal guests. You come here almost every month, Lord Seungcheol. That’s an impressive amount of... business in Southeast Gwanrae.”

His eyes didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something in them—soft, vulnerable, almost sheepish.

“I find the region… welcoming,” he murmured.

“Mm. I’m sure you do,” you replied, pouring the wine with quiet grace, the room now bathed in the quiet hum of night and all the things that remained unsaid.

The wine settled between the two of you like a truce—rich, deep, and aged with memories. Seungcheol swirled the glass in his hand, the deep crimson catching the lamplight in slow motion.

“So,” he began after a sip, voice low, “how’s business been treating you?”

You leaned back against the couch, crossing one leg over the other as your fingers reached for a slender silver case from your coat pocket. With practiced fingers, you pulled out a cigarette and placed it between your lips.

You lit it without hesitation, exhaling softly, the smoke curling into the warm air like a secret.

“Depends on the day,” you answered. “Some days I feel like I own half of Southeast Gwanrae. Some days I feel like I’m drowning in numbers and neck-deep in egos.”

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, watching the trail of smoke dance above your head. “And today?”

You glanced at him, lips tugging in a wry smile. “Today I’m drinking wine with the governor and pretending we’re just old friends catching up.”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze intent. “You don’t have to do that,” he murmured.

“Do what?”

He tilted his head toward your cigarette. “That. You don’t have to put on the show. Not with me.”

A soft laugh escaped your lips, laced with tired amusement. “You know I’m not here to be your business partner, Seungcheol. This isn’t a deal. This—” you gestured around with your cigarette, “—is just tradition. Wine, smoke, talk. It keeps people from asking the real questions.”

He looked at you quietly for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Still. You don’t have to play the game.”

You met his gaze, then took another drag, the cherry at the end of your cigarette glowing faintly. “We all play, Seungcheol.”

Silence stretched between you like silk, delicate and taut. Only the quiet ticking of the wall clock and the soft clink of his glass broke through it.

“I never expected to see you like this,” he said finally. “Cigarettes in one hand, a thousand thoughts behind your eyes, carrying everything on your own.”

You looked at him then, really looked—and for a second, it felt like the years hadn’t passed. Like your hearts had never broken, like the city hadn’t swallowed you both in different directions.

“You were the one who shaped me,” you replied, voice steady, though the wine had begun to warm the ache in your chest. “You don’t get to hate the woman I had to become.”

He didn’t speak. He only nodded once, solemnly, before refilling both your glasses.

Seungcheol watched as you took your third drag, the smoke curling lazily from your lips, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light. He frowned, a flicker of concern tightening his features. Rising from his seat, he moved toward you with measured steps, until he stood beside the couch.

Without hesitation, his hand gently closed over your fingers, pinching the cigarette between them and pulling it away. The sudden loss startled you, but you didn’t pull back.

“Enough smoking,” he said quietly, eyes searching yours. “It’s not good for a woman.”

You inhaled sharply, the edge in your voice barely masked. “I had worse,” you mumbled, the silence that followed thick and heavy.

Seungcheol stepped closer, the space between you shrinking until his breath brushed your cheek. His voice softened, almost pleading. “Stop this mask, right now.”

You looked up at him, steady and unflinching. “I don’t wear any mask, Seungcheol. Never.”

His eyes darkened with something unsaid, a mixture of frustration and longing. The tension between you pulsed in the still room, neither willing to break, yet both craving the truth beneath the carefully crafted walls.

For a long moment, you simply held each other’s gaze—raw, honest, and dangerously close.

Then, slowly, he released your hand, the cigarette forgotten between his fingers.

“Maybe,” he whispered, “it’s time we stop pretending.”

You swallowed hard, your breath catching as his hand slowly lifted to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a tenderness that belied the tension in his stance.

“I don’t want to pretend anymore,” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath.

Your eyes fluttered closed as his face dipped closer, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours. Time slowed—every second stretched thin with the weight of what was about to happen.

And then, finally, his lips found yours—soft, tentative at first, as if testing the waters of a long-denied connection. The kiss deepened slowly, a silent confession that spoke louder than any words ever could.

All the pain, the silence, the masks—they melted away in that moment, leaving only raw, honest truth between you.

Seungcheol’s lips brushed against yours again, softer this time, but no less intense. His voice was low, rough with something like hunger.

“Stop pretending, Y/n. I don’t want the mask—I want you.”

You trembled beneath him, eyes searching his. “I’m not sure I know how to be anything else.”

His fingers tightened around the fabric of your blouse. “Then let me show you.”

With a slow, deliberate motion, he undid the buttons, his breath warm against your skin. “You don’t have to hold back with me.”

Your pulse thundered as he trailed a finger along your collarbone, voice dropping to a whisper. “Not here. Not anymore.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding, and whispered back, “Seungcheol...”

He silenced you with a deep, searing kiss, his hands tracing the curves he’d longed for, claiming every inch with a touch that was anything but innocent.

Seungcheol’s kiss grew more urgent, his hands tightening slightly as he pressed you closer. The room seemed to shrink around you, the air thick with heat and longing. Your breath hitched, heart pounding wildly as his lips trailed down your jaw, then the curve of your neck, each touch leaving a trail of fire.

Seungcheol’s hands moved with purpose, peeling away the barriers between you as if memorizing every inch of your skin. His lips never left yours, devouring and tender all at once, a fierce mixture of restraint and need.

“Do you feel it too?” he murmured against your mouth, his voice rough yet intimate.

You nodded, breath hitching, fingers threading through his hair. “I’ve never stopped.”

His gaze darkened, intense and unwavering. “Then stop hiding from me. Let me in—completely.”

With that, he gently laid you back onto the bed, his body following, warm and solid against yours. The world outside the room ceased to exist as his hands and lips explored with a slow, deliberate hunger, every touch igniting fire beneath your skin.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, fingers tracing a path along your jaw, “I’m listening.”

Your voice trembled, honest and raw. “I want to stop pretending. Just be with you… like this.”

A low, satisfied growl escaped him as he closed the distance again, sealing your confession with a kiss that promised no more masks—only truth and desire.

Fingers deft and confident, he began to undo the buttons of your blouse, each movement sending shivers down your spine. His touch was far from innocent—possessive, claiming, demanding without words.

You parted your lips, breath mingling with his as his hands explored, every brush of skin a promise, every lingering touch a confession. The line between restraint and abandon blurred until it vanished entirely, leaving only the two of you tangled in a heat too fierce to ignore.

Seungcheol’s breath hitched as his fingers traced the curve of your jaw, steadying you in the quiet storm between heartbeats. The air around you thickened, charged with a magnetic pull neither of you could resist. His eyes darkened, searching yours for any flicker of doubt—but found none.

Slowly, deliberately, he closed the space between your lips, the world narrowing to the soft press of his mouth against yours. The kiss deepened, hungry and fierce, as if trying to make up for all the years of silence and restraint. Your breath caught, trembling beneath the weight of his touch, the heat of the moment wrapping around you like a consuming flame.

His hands slid lower, warm and urgent, tracing the lines of your body as he lowered you back onto the bed. The sheets whispered beneath you, cool against skin that burned with anticipation. The tension in the room thickened—every inch of space between you charged with unspoken desire, fear, and a longing that had refused to die.

Seungcheol’s voice came low, almost a growl. “I’ve waited too long for this.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears as the distance between hesitation and surrender vanished. In his arms, all your defenses began to crumble—raw, exposed, but never more alive.

The golden morning light spilled lazily into the room, tracing soft lines over the floor, the sheets, and the scattered remnants of last night’s heat — a blouse hanging off a chair, his watch forgotten on the nightstand, your heels crooked beneath the desk. The room smelled of perfume, wine, and something intimate, like skin warmed under candlelight.

You woke to a quiet stillness, broken only by the faint rustle of sheets and the distant hum of the city outside. The clock on the bedside table glared with urgency, a rude interruption to the warmth that still lingered between your tangled limbs and the imprint of Seungcheol’s arm curled loosely around your waist.

He was already awake beside you, eyes open, watching the way your lashes fluttered before you even spoke. A lazy smile twitched on his lips — affectionate, knowing.

“We’re late,” you murmured, voice low and still wrapped in sleep.

His smile didn’t fade, but there was a flash of clarity in his eyes. “No time to waste.”

And then the spell shattered.

The room erupted into a controlled chaos. You both moved with half-hearted haste — clothes tugged on backward, then corrected; buttons mismatched, hair smoothed with hurried fingers. There was laughter between curses, near stumbles, and shared glances that betrayed the rush with something softer.

You slipped on your heels, feeling the bite of time catch up to you, and turned to find him — shirt half-buttoned, collar askew, eyes still locked on you like you were the only thing in the room that made sense.

Your steps toward him were quiet but purposeful. The carpet cushioned the urgency beneath your feet, but your heart beat loud with everything unspoken. You stopped in front of him, reached up, and pulled him into a kiss — not rushed, not frantic, but deep. Measured. A pause in time.

His lips tasted like memory and morning, like the ache of missing someone too long and finally having them again.

“I have a meeting,” you said as you pulled back, your breath brushing his lips, hand cupping his jaw. “I’ll meet you for lunch, alright?”

Seungcheol’s hands slipped to your waist, grounding you with that steady strength he always carried. His touch was warm, possessive in the gentlest way — not demanding, just there.

“I’ll wait for you,” he whispered, low and sure.

There was no space for doubt in that voice. No hesitation. He would wait for you, just like how you had waited for him.

You smiled, fingers lingering a second longer on his jaw before you stepped back, turning toward the door.

The day was calling — but behind you, in that hotel room still steeped in shared heat and the haze of closeness, a kind of quiet longing bloomed.

It fluttered in your chest, soft and stubborn.

Like the start of something secured.

Like hope.

The end.

805 notes · View notes

punkssavior · 5 months ago

Text

tired of you.

| cm punk x fem!reader

my wwe fic tumblr debut. feeling chaotic.

title is a foo fighters song!

“regret, anger, and a pair of gym shorts.”

content warnings: post breakup. smut. angst. pet-names. choking. mentions of blood/semi-blood play. pain kink. pnv, riding.

i definitely went off the rails and lost the plot along the way.

** part two, part three <- linked here!

wordcount: 8.3k

There was something wrong with you.

Maybe, the problem was the pounding headache. The one that’s lasted three days so far and felt like a doldrum banging in your skull.

Maybe, it was the streaks of eyeliner that stained your lower lashes and wouldn’t wipe off no matter how hard you tried.

Or maybe, just maybe, the problem was the urge to reach for your phone and dial up the number of a man who you know wouldn’t right his wrongs.

Yeah, something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

It was a Saturday night— alone in your one bedroom apartment. A quiet, dreary week that led right into a hellscape of a weekend. You were always told that breakups were hard, but never this hard.

The stubborn heart that beats inside you almost took hold of the reins when the thought of calling Punk crossed your mind. But the more logical part of your body, your brain, ultimately decided that— maybe that wasn’t the best idea.

The breakup was far from mutual. If anything, it was completely one sided. The last thing you remember from that night a few weeks ago was standing in your apartment door with angry tears in your eyes as Punk drove away from your duplex in a torn down Chevy Malibu.

Like nothing even happened.

You weren’t sure how much longer you could stare at your TV in boredom, watching the same rerun of action movies that played every Saturday night around the same time.

It was getting late.

Maybe you should get some sleep.

But God knows your mind wouldn’t allow it.

As you stand up to gather the growing pile of blankets that collected in the midst of your ‘breakup-self-loathing’, you begin to fight that intrusive urge once more.

You couldn’t call. It was way too late. He was probably asleep, or out somewhere training like he’d do when he couldn’t.

You didn’t want to bother.

Because that’s the last thing you ever wanted to be.

Bang, bang.

Your head whips around; two loud knocks at your door almost rattled it right off its hinges.

Bang, bang.

With a cautious air, you walk to the door and rest your hand on the knob. Before you could even begin to twist it, there it was again.

Bang, bang.

Soon enough your heartbeat matched up with the rhythm of the pounding door— making you anxious enough to look through the peephole.

Low and behold, as if he could read your mind from the miles that separated your apartment from his, there Punk stood. Leaning on the bannister that held up your rickety old porch with his arms crossed tightly to his chest.

It was cold, about 30°, yet there he was in a t-shirt, long dark hair slicked back, like he’d just walked through the rain. You freeze in your tracks, hand shaky over the brass doorknob as you debate opening the door.

Would you let him inside? Would you banish him out to the cold and make him talk to you from behind the threshold? Would you finally stick up for yourself and act like you were asleep? Hoping maybe, just maybe, he’d fuck off and take a hint?

You didn’t want either of those things. You didn’t want him to stand out in the cold, or turn around and leave.

You’d been secretly waiting for the moment where he wouldn’t care about the consequences of his actions.

Nor did you want him to “take a hint”.

You swing the door open, acting completely on instinct. But your breath is caught somewhere in your larynx when you realize that he is actually standing there.

“Nice jammies, player.”

“What do you want?”

Your heart stops. The words you spoke were completely off rip, seeing him in person for the first time in weeks must’ve carried a lot more weight to it than you anticipated.

Punk’s straight face morphs into a smile, his eyes darting down your figure and back up again.

“Came here for the gym shorts you stole. I did my laundry this morning and realized they were pretty much all gone.”

“So— why didn’t you come this morning? Instead of trying to break my door down at midnight?”

You cross your arms over your chest, the black and pink heart pajama set that he had gifted you for Valentine’s Day this past year seemed to be the star of the show. The draft from the outside was cold enough to send chills up your spine, as Punk stood there and just looked at you.

Come to think about it, maybe it wasn’t the wind.

“I was busy. Surely you were too, no?”

“I‘ve been here all day. Maybe if you called and asked, you would’ve known that.”

As you stand slightly elevated before him in your bunny slippers, you can’t help but notice the way he keeps inching closer.

“Well, maybe if you’d answered my calls from last week, we wouldn’t be standing here in the cold. Face to face. At midnight.”

You freeze, as he rattles off, your hands moving to your hips.

He called you last week?

“You called me last week?”

“Mhm. Sure did.”

A puff of air leaves your chest, noticing the now rising goosebumps across his sleeves of tattoos, and feeling slightly guilty about keeping him out in the cold.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you call me?”

Punk chuckles, brushing a lock of that slick dark hair behind his ear. He looked amused, to say the least— maybe he just wasn’t grasping onto the concept of breaking your heart and smashing it all to pieces. Maybe he thought that reaching out to you would be the good little ego boost he needed to carry on his week in the training gym.

“I called because I wanted to check in. Y’know— see how you were doing.”

Your brow furrows, in an attempt not to show him your hand of cards. Truthfully, your heart skipped about seven beats at the way his voice softened, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

“You’re joking, right?”

“And why would I joke about that?”

Punk leans on the doorframe, his eyes darting behind your shoulder at the living room that the two of you used to cuddle up and watch movies in. Maybe the sight of it after the breakup was finally cracking that iron-clad cage around his heart.

You never understood Punk. Not fully, at least.

Despite a three year long relationship that ended abruptly on a random Wednesday night— there were so many layers to his character that you just begged and pleaded to understand. He was caring, but sarcastic. An open book, yet somehow there were pages stuck together by an immeasurable amount of glue.

You wanted to learn more, your only wish was to be able to speak in a language that the both of you understood.

You figured that maybe, three years just wasn’t enough time.

“Wanna come inside?” you ask softly, breaking the silence, your voice barely reaching the surface of the now whipping wind.

“Only if you’ll have me.”

As you step back and let him in, you just— watch.

You watch how he kicks his sneakers off in the same exact spot he always did whenever he’d get home from the gym. You watch him anchor himself onto the wall, as if he were about to dig into his pocket and hang up his car keys on the hook that’s remained vacant since he left.

Must’ve been a repeated habit, or muscle memory. But your chest tightened at the thought either way.

“Your shorts are in my dresser,” you hum, still fighting the feeling of heartburn as he moves fluidly through your living room, “I could go get ‘em if you want.”

“Like I don’t know where your bedroom is. You think I’ve got amnesia or somethin’?”

Looking at Punk felt like a slap in the face. A hard one, at that.

His tight, perfectly fitted t-shirt molded to his cut body, contrasted to the loose gym shorts that hung just above his knees made you want to scream at him for being so visually appealing. But instead, you just smiled warmly, and bit your tongue.

There’s a brooding cloud of silence looming over both of your heads. An unspoken tension thick enough to cut with a butcher knife. Punk was acting casual, a bit too casual for your liking. I guess he figured that those stupid, sea green eyes searing into your forehead were enough to let you forget about what happened in this very room.

“Look, maybe you hit your head on the way here because last I checked, you dumped me. And now— here you are, standing in my living room.”

A catty smile flashes across Punk’s face, his lip ring catching in the light above your kitchen island as he leaned on it with that familiar sense of cockiness.

The one you knew, the one that you unfortunately loved.

“Shit, okay— we’re taking a bit of a leap here, aren’t we?”

“Tell me the real reason why you’re here. And don’t fucking bullshit me.”

The jumble of hurt words you’d been pushing down your throat for weeks— finally had a target. Your voice betrays you at the end of your sentence, fleeting off into a much weaker tone than you anticipated.

“I already told you why. I’m here for my shorts.” His posture straightens as he speaks, putting up his guard as the tension rises.

“Bullshit. You know I fuckin’ hate when you lie, dude. What is this, a wellness check? Did you feel so inclined to check up on my sorry-ass to the point where it kept you up at night?”

Punks hands come up in defense as you move an inch closer, wagging a helpless, beaten down finger at him. Yet that smug smile painted on his cheeks remained, only making you more enraged.

“Wellness check? What the fuck is your problem?” his laughter is indignant, as if he were pitying you, “You really think I’d drive down here in the middle of the night to smile in your face and laugh at you?”

“Newsflash, dickhead. You’ve been doing that this whole time.”

In seconds, Punk’s face switches back to a blank slate. He seemed visibly taken aback by your words. His hand, still dawned in a piece of old wrist tape, clung to his chest.

“Wow. Well, I’m sorry— for trying to keep the mood light— and greet you at your door with a fuckin’ smile when I know damn well that I’m the last person you want to see right now… But have you ever stopped to think that maybe you’re not the only half of this mess suffering? Maybe you’re not the only one who stays up way later than they should, thinking about where everything went wrong?”

As he grows more animated, he nears closer, to the point where you could still smell the remnants of his cologne and see the drops of frustrated sweat beading on his forehead. You wanted to keep screaming, but your voice was caged behind gritted teeth. You guarded yourself with your arms, mimicking his posture as you crossed them over your chest.

“Well maybe you should cut some slack for the girl you left crying in the doorway, Punk.”

His stage name shoots off your tongue like poison, now in a heated face-off with the man you once loved.

And maybe still did, beneath the scratched up, broken down surface. That was the reason why this all seemed so complicated.

“Do you want your fucking shorts, or not?—”

“—Keep the damn’ shorts, Y/N!” He cuts you off before you could even dream of continuing.

Another silence falls over the room after all the shouting, only the TV in the background filling only half of the void that was your brain right now. Despite getting those harsh words off of your chest, a part of you felt inclined to say no more. You figured you’d done enough irreparable damage to both yourself and Punk. It was in your best interest to leave it be.

“Sorry for yelling,” you mumble, a bit sheepishly.

Punk still stood against your kitchen island, his hand now rubbing his temples between middle finger and thumb.

“Don’t apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Awkward. That was the word to describe it. After airing out grievances, finding out that you weren’t the only party in this sick and twisted dance with a lingering feeling that tugged on your heartstrings, everything else surrounding you was just awkward.

You stare at Punk intently, letting him shake his head and mutter curse words under his breath.

“I’m sorry for coming here unannounced. But what I said was true.”

“Hm?” you hum, worried that if you said too much, his vulnerability would be guised as a momentary lapse of judgement.

“I still think about what happened.”

A deep breath catches in your throat the moment his eyes meet yours. It was hard to look at him in general after all that you’d been through, but it was even more difficult to pull yourself away from the defeated, sorrowful expression on his face.

Being so openly honest and true to his inner monologue was a rarity for Punk. You could tell how much he hated the fact that he was admitting this to you, let alone standing once again in your living room after already breaking your heart.

“Seriously,” you begin to say, bridging the gap between your bodies with a sharp tug on his wrist, “Tell me why you came here. If it wasn’t for those two pairs of stupid shorts that you haven’t asked me about in two and a half years, then what was it?”

Punk grimaces, still beaten down by his own honesty, “You just don’t let up, do you?”

“Answer me, asshole.”

You were still aggravated, and the quickly tightening hold you had on his arm was proof of that.

“I came here because I missed you, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?” A wave of something much more dreadful than relief washes over you— it seemed more existential and off putting than anything. “I missed your face. Your voice. The scent of your perfume. The way you bitch me out to get off and have a good time fuckin’ doing it.”

“I— I genuinely do not believe you,” you mutter, tripping over your words, slightly twisting the skin on his arm in pure, unbridled frustration, “There’s gotta’ be some other excuse.”

Punk’s face comes to a pinch, mulling over your words while simultaneously experiencing the burn from your untamed grip on him.

“There’s no other excuse,” he blurts, bordering a whine, “What? You want me to admit that I’ve been up for days? Unable to sleep, to eat, to wrestle, to fuckin’ unwind and jerk off without the thought of you crossing my mind? Is that what you want?”

Your jaw clenches at the rise you’re getting out of him, wanting nothing more than to smack him across the face.

“Maybe you should’ve said this all to me, what, a month ago? Instead of trying to pop by on a Saturday night like I’m one of your idiot friends?”

It was getting to a point where your nails were surely leaving marks, his arm fully surrendered to you as you took out your pent up anger on one of his innocent limbs.

Punk’s face tightens, the gap in his teeth visible as he writhes in discomfort, “Jesus fuck, you’re hurting me—”

“Touché.”

Having almost completely given up on trying to fight your cat-like grip on his arm, Punk does the unthinkable. With a crooked, masochistic smile, he wraps his free arm around your waist and pulls you straight into his chest.

“You wanna fight dirty?” he asks, his voice a low, rigid grumble.

Rather than replying, due to the sheer shock running through your spine, you just nod your head meekly.

“We can fight dirty,” a wry chuckle leaves his lips as he leans into your angry face, “Baby, those eyes of yours are quite telling.”

“I’m sick of your shit, Punk,” you spit, still tangled in his sultry words, “it’s too hot and cold with you.”

“Really? Tell me more. I saw how you froze up when I said that I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Tell me that my words didn’t leave a mark in that pretty head of yours.”

Holy fuck.

Holy fuck

This was getting to be too much.

You wanted to pull away; but the thought of tasting his lips again after you were forced away from them for so long just seemed intoxicating.

“I don’t have to answer you,” you mumble, trying your hand at defending yourself whilst simultaneously breaking your neck to ignore your desires.

“But I bet you really want to.”

You swallow hard at the feeling of his blistered palm trailing across your side. And your nails continued etching marks into his flesh; the closer he got, the harder you tugged .

“We’re not together anymore. I have nothing to fucking say to you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with speaking your mind though, right? That’s what you used to tell me…”

That burning feeling in your chest was back again— like hot lava rising up your throat. You wanted to retort, but couldn’t help but notice how he was completely ignoring the small pooling of blood from the gashes on his forearm.

“…Remember what you used to say to me, Bunny? ‘Don’t be afraid to show a little bit of that heart, Punker. Acting like you care won’t kill you.’ Man, if only you could see yourself right now. Being a damn hypocrite…”

“Stop it.”

The nickname he’d revived from the dead felt like a karate chop to the throat, all while he was still holding you tightly to his chest. His body language read passion, but his words oozed anguish.

He glanced down to your lips, eyeing them with a crooked smile.

“What? Stop what? Stop trying to get you to break down those stubborn walls of yours and be honest with me? I know I hurt you baby, but you can’t keep it all bottled up forever.”

You grabbed him tighter. Tighter. Tighter. Until his face came to a pinch and he was yanking his arm from between your bodies.

He hisses at the sight of trickling blood running down his colorful tattoos, eyeing you shamefully like you were a dog that just crapped in the house.

But rather than letting that anger carry over into another screaming match, he takes the hand that you’d held hostage, and runs it through your hair.

“Bet you needed to let that out, didn’t you?” Punk coos, a complete 180 switch in his demeanor, that same hand trailing down your cheek towards your neck.

“You’re insufferable.”

“Ditto, player.”

SMACK.

Your palm lays flat across the side of his cheek, his head whips to the side. A surge of searing anger seemed to free itself the moment your hand connected with his skin, a small splatter of his blood from your fingertips painting across his jawbone.

He shakes his head, and looks at you, that grip he had on your hip tightening as his eyes narrow, and bore into yours.

“You asked if I wanted to fight dirty, didn’t you?” your voice is weakened by the sheer force of that smack. But Punk just nods like a pompous asshole, a slow and desperate smile sliding across his face with the corners of his mouth coming to a Cheshire-cat-like point.

In moments like these, you had to remind yourself of a few things. Punk knew you better than anyone else— your friends, most of your immediate family, even the people you’ve met in passing and spilled your guts to on a whim. You and Punk would spend hours just talking. About anything. About nothing. There was something about his demeanor that drew out the most vulnerable, tucked away parts of your person.

He also had the ability to use what he knew against you. And from the facial expression he made, and from what you could tell from knowing him, he knew that smack held a lot more weight than just pure anger.

He was into it. You were into it.

With a low, practically inaudible growl, Punks hand slides up the front of your body. You could feel the roughness of his palms and the cool touch of his fingertips lingering from standing out in the cold, as he makes his way past the little plastic buttons of your pajama top.

“I love it when we fight, Bunny,” he grumbles, that hand making its way to your throat, “You wanna show me how angry I make you? How much of an asshole I am for breaking your heart?”

Your breath sputters when he clamps his hand down, gently squeezing the sides of your throat. You could only imagine how you looked to him right now— still a bit ticked off, but now a whole lot more desperate.

“I want— an apology.”

“Really? That’s all you want from me right now?”

As you open your mouth to squeeze out an answer, he presses the pads of his fingers into your neck, hitting that blissful pressure point and instantly relieving your three-day-long headache.

“Yes. That’s it,” you breathe, finding it hard to concentrate on only one feature of his face.

The hand of his that stayed stagnant on your hip began to travel downwards, following the curve of your ass all the way down to where it met your thigh. You swallowed, feeling the pressure from his hand fighting the building, anxious saliva from going down.

“Are you sure about that? You don’t seem very confident—”

“—Yes. Yes. For the love of God, please just—”

Your sentence becomes more and more incoherent as Punk slowly spins you around. Your body replaces his, leaned against the kitchen island, still feeling cowardly beneath his over 6-foot stature.

“Just what? Wanna hit me again?” his eyes narrow with challenge, the grip on your throat still in charge of this dance, “Do it. Hit me again. Show me that you’re not afraid to show me what’s on your mind.”

SMACK.

The sheer power from the second slap loosened Punk’s grip on your throat— you breathed out shakily at the loss of the contact, feeling the delayed sting that shot through your palm the moment your knuckle cracked his jaw.

He eventually frees your neck from his hold to aid his wounded cheek, rubbing it softly as those viridian eyes ask you for a favor that his words had yet to reach.

“Jesus Christ baby. You sure know how to lay a good one don’t ya?”

“Fuck you.”

Your palm began to throb in time with the beating of your heart, the surface skin now tender from two measly slaps to a man who gets hurt for a living.

“Fuck me? Alright. If that’s all you have to say then—”

SMACK.

“I hate you! God, I fucking hate you!”

That dry, fervid rage suddenly morphed into a mess of soggy tears— your words biting violently as they fanned across his now helpless face.

You couldn’t help yourself from crying. As if you hadn’t done enough. But now, in the same vein of feelings you felt the moment you saw his silhouette through the peephole, crying was really the only thing you could do.

“I—I am so fucking sick of you! Who the fuck do you think you are? Coming to my apartment, standing there with that stupid, shit-eating smile. Acting like you didn’t have any part whatsoever in ruining my goddamn life!”

“Y/N, I—”

As much as you wanted this to be a civil conversation, there was no turning back as the tears rolled down your face and onto the floor.

“I’ve been crying over you for weeks. Weeks. You left me. After telling me our relationship was practically meaningless. After dumping me with zero fucking explanation! I’m tired of you, Punk. So. Fucking. Tired.”

Silence.

The tears just kept on coming, there was nothing you could do to stop them from searing hot streaks down your face.

Nothing you could do to stop you from yelling now, either.

“Fuck you! Fuck your stupid hair. That stupid shit box car you drive. Your stupid piercings— and stupid tattoos that you refuse to get touched up because I said I liked them the way they were!”

Punk’s face was a blank slate. All it took was for you to start barking out your qualms with him, and suddenly he was at ease like a soldier.

In the heat of your tirade, you slither out of his arms, angrily marching over to the couch and picking up a throw pillow.

“I can’t fucking believe you. You would think three years meant something, right?! But noooo. Not for Mr. CM Punk. You got to carry on life as usual after you left my house that night. You got to parade around your ring, hearing a crowd of people chant your name like you’re the second coming of Christ! All while I was at home sobbing over gym shorts! Fucking gym shorts!”

The pillow you’d been smacking against your hand was perfect ammo to toss at his head; you grunt as you throw it, listening to the pitiful thud as it slams against the wall behind him.

“You want the shorts? I’ll give you the fucking shorts. The same way I gave you the hours it took me to sew your fucking name onto the tags like you asked me to!”

Your throat felt like sandpaper, your heart racing at 90mph and fluttering with every honest truth you spoke.

“I bet a selfish part of you missed having me around, didn’t you? Because without me, who makes you breakfast in the morning? Who else sits through your God-awful, mean jokes when nobody else is around to hear them?”

It was getting harder to stay away from him now, the adrenaline rush that came with smacking him across the face was the last little push you needed for your penultimate sentence.

“Who else is there, Punk?” the volume of your voice lowers when you take a hurried step closer to him.

SMACK.

“Who else fucks you like I do?”

For a split second, you see the glass in Punk’s eyes shatter. You see all of his rugged features soften and he searches your face for something, anything to say.

But just when you think he’s about to pull away, and curse you out for berating him with your spiteful tongue, his lips crash against yours in a bruising kiss.

You melt into him instantly, all of the pieces of your scrambled up puzzle falling back into place the moment his hands hold you against his body.

His cheek was tender, hot to the touch, and your hand was still lingering from that one final smack, yet he encouraged you to cup his face as it hovered in the aftermath.

The initial kiss grows more primal, a twisted dance of heavy breathing and knocking teeth brings Punk’s hands to travel.

Suddenly your mind is back where it started, an unshakable feeling of wavering uncertainty as he lifts your leg to rest on his hip.

“You— you don’t get to do this,” you stammer, not making any attempt to regain your composure, “you don’t get to just— walk in here and destroy everything I’ve been working so hard to rebuild.”

Your noses knock against each other as your breathing becomes one, Punk pulls away with a tug at your bottom lip.

“Then tell me to leave. Push me away. Kick me out.”

As you open your mouth to retort, his body rolls against yours, leaving your head to spin and freeze up like it always did whenever he turns you on.

“Go on, Bunny,” he continues his torturous drawl, bending down to nip at the sensitive skin behind your ear as he whispers, “Tell me to leave.”

A quiet whimper takes over whatever else you’d planned on saying. Any and all remnants of anger from your rant had suddenly disappeared.

“You—”

Your sentence is cut short by your other leg being picked up off the ground. You gasp, clinging yourself to his hips as he spins you, holding you between the wall and the rising warmth of his body.

“You know I can’t do that, you fuckin’ asshole.”

Another searing kiss, one that made stars pass behind your eyelids as his hands held you tighter. Tighter. Tighter. Surely the pads of his fingers would leave bruises in only the places he could see— he loved to know that he was the only one to touch you in the places that get hidden beneath layers of cotton and lace.

He always did. He always will.

A gasp flies past your lips, and his, as he adjusts his grip on you, nailing you higher to the wall with the sheer weight and force of his lips. His own twisted form of crucifixion.

“God, you’re addicting,” he mumbles into your cheek, his line of kisses getting sloppier as he can’t decide where to pay attention to, “You slapped me ‘till my face went raw… You scratched me ‘till I bled…”

A groan of his own interrupts his string of lustful sweet nothings, only for you to take it as your opportunity to grab his chin in your hand.

You look him in the eye, still feeling the burning sensation in your chest— but this time, it wasn’t anger. It wasn’t sadness. It was fighting that feeling that you could never quit.

As you look at him, you take your thumb, still stained with blood from before, and trail it across his bottom lip. His lips and chin are defiled with that perfect shade of scarlet — his eyes glittering as you paint him red.

“…And you cursed me out like a fuckin’ bitch,” he chuckles wryly, his tongue flicking out to catch the blood you’d left.

“And yet—” You cock your head to the side, your features fully softening for the first time since he arrived at your door, “—you’re still here with me.”

Before you could even think, Punk is grabbing at the buttons on your pajama shirt and anchoring you to the wall with his hips. His actions are frenzied, popping open the first, second, and third button.

“Fuck this,” he grumbles in frustration, fully surrendering, tugging at the bottom hem and lifting that black and pink heart printed pajama top over your head in one full swoop. You can’t help but chuckle as he tosses it behind his head, and gets straight to work on worshipping the valley of your breasts with open-mouthed kisses.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, Bunny,” he breathes out between each time his lips press against you, “I wanna slap my damn’ self for breaking your heart.”

As he caters to you, you find your hands lacing through his hair, pushing it back to reveal a slit in his eyebrow. The same one he refused to shave back in no matter how many times you asked.

Maybe he thought that you seeing it tonight would help him get lucky.

And judging by the position you were in right now, it clearly worked its magic.

“All these sweet nothings aren’t gonna change the fact that you’re an asshole,” you state plainly, but finding it harder to speak due to him pinning you against the wall.

“You can call me— whatever the hell you want,” says Punk, tucking a strand of your frizzed up hair behind your ear.

The heated encounter had blindly begun to move towards the couch. You found yourself going limp in his arms the moment there wasn’t a sheet of drywall holding you up like a puppet on strings. Punk had you completely at his mercy— although fast-paced, steamy, extremely desperate sex was a staple in your repertoire.

“Is this how you planned on apologizing to me?” you ask, tailing off your sentence with a squeak as he tips you back to lay on the couch.

Punk crawls his way up your topless body, licking a stripe from your belly button all the way to the start of your jaw.

“Wasn’t planned, no. But I suppose that fucking it out to the point of forgiveness is better than a healthy conversation, right?”

Although forgiveness wasn’t a thing that crossed your mind until now, the events that had unfolded within the past thirty minutes had your head in knots. How could a man who you’d sworn off ‘till death come back into your life, simply with a bat of his pretty eyelashes and a flash of the gap in his teeth?

Maybe Punk’s visit was the universe telling you that you’d met your match. You simply couldn’t stay away.

After any and all clothes that barred access to the places he needed you most were removed, you found yourself swimming in a pool of dizzy, love-drunk thoughts. Punk took his time with you, yet still seemed as though he was rushing to get to where you needed him most.

“Fuckin’ Christ, I missed you. I missed you so much,”

Punk groans, taking a moment to stare into your soul before dipping down to bite at your bottom lip with his teeth.

You sigh in bliss, having not felt the touch of him, or anyone else for that matter, since the last time you saw him. As fucked up as it was, you missed this feeling.

You really missed him, too.

“Can I?” you begin to say, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt after another pick up of that steamy makeout session.

“Of course. Anything you want. Have me topless, have me naked, fully clothed, I don’t fuckin’ care.”

You chuckle at his eagerness, he helps you in taking off his tee, and your mind freezes up when you notice the beginning of a tattoo on his chest.

“Is this new?”

You trace the outline of ink with your manicured finger, following its shape all the way to the curve of his shoulder.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Been thinkin’ about a chest piece for a while.”

“Mmmh, yeah?” you hum, a fluttering feeling rumbling through your stomach the moment you realize that his hand had travelled to the waistband of your panties. “Chest tattoos are fucking sexy.”

Punk smirks, inching that wandering hand down past the waistband of your underwear towards your throbbing core. He bites his lip, that silver lip ring getting caught in the crossfire.

“Glad you think so, Bunny.”

An immediate wave of pleasure crashes over your senses the moment you feel his finger tease at your dripping slit. He always took the time to make sure you were fully ready— but you were afraid that your screaming match from earlier had you more hot and bothered than you’d like to admit.

“Punk, c’mon—” you whine indignantly, writhing beneath him as he slowly starts to spread your own wetness across your folds, “Not getting any younger here.”

“Impatient now, are we?” he bites back, making it a point to slowly, tauntingly dip in and out of your entrance with his slender finger.

You can’t help but moan out in purse frustration— impatience, as he called it.

“If you don’t hurry this along and fuck me already, I’ll send you home with blue balls and no gym shorts.”

As he opens his mouth to retort, you shoot your hand down to catch his wrist, shaking your head at him disapprovingly.

“Don’t remember you ever being this desperate to get fucked, Bunny,” he chuckles lowly, keeping you and your stamina on its toes as he flips your position to have you straddling his lap, “And here I was thinking you were a fan of the slow, sappy shit.”

“People change, y’know,” you shrug, finding a comfortable position to grind your hips down onto his bulge as you slide your hands up his chest towards his throat, “I think you may have ruined me for good.”

Punk was an athlete. He was quick on his feet, and even quicker to get into the minds of anyone he deemed a worthy opponent. When it came to you, the most worthy of them all, he read you like a book. Cover to cover.

“Ruined you?” he asks, watching your hands climb his chest towards his throat, “Is that why you felt so inclined to almost kill me earlier?”

You clasp your hands around his throat, pushing out a shaky sigh from his chest. A smile spreads across your face like wildfire, your hips now wielding a mind of their own against the hard-on in his shorts.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be dramatic— Are you going soft on me, Punker? I thought you liked it a little— rough.”

When you looked back down at his face, what you didn’t expect to see was an airy grin. Punk must’ve done a lot of thinking in the time you were apart— because the Punk you knew a month ago wouldn’t stand for a second of this role reversal. But now, it seemed as though he was basking in the art of submission.

Safe to say, you had him whipped once again.

Fucking finally.

A low rumble from Punk floats to your ears, the first sign of his bleeding impatience. His eyebrows furrowed, the tip of his nose twitched, all while your hands were still wrapped around his neck and gently squeezing the pressure points on either side.

“I really meant it when I said you ruined my life, y’know,” you coo to him quietly, rolling your hips down past his crotch in order for your mouth to be level with the new ink traced on his chest, “Because now, I can’t think of anyone else who makes me feel the way you do.”

“Bunny…” Your nickname sounds like prayer in his gravelly voice, as you take your time and nip at the sensitive skin above his peck. Your teeth leave bruises in their traces, but you knew he didn’t mind.

“I really did try to forget about you. It’s true— but I just couldn’t help myself… Thinking about those big, sad, green eyes every time I slid my hand between my thighs t’ try and get myself off.”

A trail of bruises adds on to the weight of your words— all of which were true. You thought you’d had it all under control the moment your relationship with Punk ended. But the harder you tried to forget about those aforementioned eyes or the spiteful, sarcastic bite of his tongue, the more you really fucking missed it.

“You’re fucking evil, you know that?” Punk gasps, a broad hand flying to brush rogue hair from your forehead.

“What about me is so evil? The fact that you loved me so good and fucked me so hard that you stained my conscience?”

In a lingering spike of anger, you dig your nails into his abdomen, watching his muscles flex beneath the grapple you held. Punk winces, returning the favor with a tug at your hair.

“I don’t think it’s evil. I’d say you left your mark,” you add onto the torture, dragging your nails past the tattoo on his stomach towards the waistband of his shorts, “And now, I think it’s only fair that I leave mine.”

The speed in which your lips reattached to his should've been a worthy competitor to the speed of sound; moans catching between heaving, desperate breaths as Punk held you like you were the last thing he’d ever touch.

“Take your fuckin’ shorts off—” you demand, a lightning bolt of confidence shocking through your spine as he follows your orders without question. All while your lips were still entwined.

You blindly reach down past where the hem of his shorts were, a sloppy frenzy of movement as you feel his cock free itself and spring up from the confines of his briefs.

A moan is caught in your larynx as your hand finds his thick shaft, locking eyes with him the second that skin touches skin.

“I— I bet you’ve been dreaming of this shit. Beatin’ the hell outta’ me, bossing me around—”

“—Oh please. I could do this in my sleep. I was always just worried about bruising that big, dumb ego of yours.”

You bite your lip, and Punk just sighs, his head hitting the throw pillow that you didn’t choose to launch at him while he stood against the wall.

“The biggest and dumbest. Yet you loved me more than anything. Isn’t that strange?”

Your eyes narrow at his smug expression. Despite being on the short end of the stick, he sure did have a mouth for the ages.

“But I’m not the one that came here all mopey, trying to put on a fuckin’ show because I missed incredible sex and the smell of vanilla perfume.”

“You didn’t deny that you love me.”

Your lip twitches at his smug expression. You’re almost tempted to rear that same hand back and slap him once more.

“Bite me.”

In a haze of rough, needy kisses and enough love bites to kill a man, you’d finally felt that your teasing quota was met. One final peck to the tip of his nose had Punk gasping for air, as you slithered your hand between your bodies and palmed his cock. You lift your hips, his pupils blown like he’d just seen the center of the universe.

“Missed seeing you on top of me—” Punk blurts out, looking shocked at the delicacy of his own words.

You flash him a wicked smile, not wasting any time in pushing your panties to the side and teasing his tip at your entrance.

“Bet you missed this pussy too, hm?”

Your condescension only adds to the fire raging in those evergreen eyes. Punk can only nod into submission as you lower yourself onto him, stretching out your walls around his cock and reinstating your title as the perfect fit.

Collective sighs fill the air, but there was still a small amount of unspoken tension that lingered above your heads like a storm cloud. There was only one way to release that tension— and it was the best way that you knew how.

Before you know it, the pace of your rocking hips picks up in speed, and the trembling breaths leaving Punk’s parted lips sounded like church bells ringing in your ears.

“Oh my God, fuck— Bunny—” he grunts, his hands grabbing tightly onto to your waist like clothespins as he guides you up and down his cock.

“Say my name. My— real name.”

Now that demand was something you knew he hated to do.

Although never showing any distaste for your real name, he had an aversion to using it. Only allowing himself to use it was of the utmost importance.

For himself, he preferred you just call him Punk, simply because ‘Phil’ just felt too mundane for his eclectic, brooding tastes.

The same went for you. The phenomenon of a ring name was something that got him more hot than bothered— and since you weren’t a wrestler, nor were you planning to be, he was left to his own devices to give you one. That was when ‘Bunny’ came about.

He may have chosen ‘Bunny’ for a multitude of reasons—it could have been for the fuzzy boots you wore on the winter night you’d met him outside of an indie show, or the way your nose crinkled up every time he said something that made you wince. For a while, you’d assumed that he’d forgotten your real name.

But you never really questioned his logic. Hell, you rarely questioned any of his idiosyncrasies at all.

If Bunny was what he liked to call you, then Bunny it was.

“Say my name, Phil. Fucking— say it.”

An impetuous moan breaks you out of your reminiscing, feeling that rage inside of you bubble back up into the desire to cause him more than just emotional pain. You take your hand and cup his jaw, fiercely pulling his spaced out eyes back into yours.

“Ah, fuck— fuckin’ Christ, you’re a lunatic.”

Your grip on his jaw grows tighter, watching him fight a smile with the ruminating thought of his masochistic ways in the back of your mind.

“You love this shit,” you pant, still rocking your hips with an utmost force that eventually brought the coffee table beside you to rattle, “Admit it. Tell me you love it and say my fucking name.”

An array of sloppy sounds fills the room once again, you can see, and feel, Punk’s shoddy attempts to fight back your ruthless aggression with his hips.

He slams into you upwards, a ping-pong of changing power dynamics, your entire body somehow feels like it weighs a ton.

“Kiss me. Bite me. Do it— do it ‘till it hurts.”

Suddenly, you’re crying out, loosening your hold on his jaw to run your nails down the front of his chest. He winces in pure, unbridled lust at the feeling of that brief sharp pain, and snaps his hips up even faster.

“Say my name first,” you barely squeeze out the words.

“Shit— Y/N— I fucking love you.”

Your wish was his command.

As you continue to bounce on his cock with enough force to drive you off the rails, you duck down, and slam your lips against his.

It was almost as if that final kiss was what he needed to send him to the brink of climax— his rhythm suddenly sloppy and his hands now crawling across your back to keep you pinned to his chest. You almost go weak in his arms when he bites at your neck, running his hand through the back of your hair and holding you closer— as if closer than you were right now was even humanly possible.

“Punk, oh my God— just like that, yeah. Right— right fuckin’ there—”

The rhythm of his hips was hitting every single mark— your walls tensing around his thick shaft with each snap of his hips and every glance into his needy eyes. He groaned for you, that poor, beaten up face of his looking as though you had him under a spell.

“Nobody fucks me like you do,” you breathe out, hoping your words were everything he needed and more to push him to the edge, “I love you. I still love you— so fucking much.”

A symphony of moans breaks you out of your bouts of praise, his hips snapping upwards with utmost force and bringing your entire body to tremble above him.

“Oh fuck. Fuck, Y/N!”

And suddenly, as if you were whipped through space and time, stars and fireworks fluttering towards the pit of your stomach— his cock twitches inside of you with an unspeakable amount of desperation and desire, reaching his climax in tandem with yours.

“Jesus Christ,” you sigh, sinking down to lay your cheek atop the fresh ink on his chest.

Punk lets out a low whistle, one that sounds familiar, and oddly comforting to you. It is reminiscent of a sigh of relief, as if having you wholly again was the one thing that kept his sarcastic quips and shitty ego afloat. All of that tension that lingered in the doorway of your apartment disappeared in an instant, his hands wrapping around you tightly as you attempted to level your breathing.

“You really know how to wear a man out, don’t ya?” Punk comments, tracing hearts and stars across your shoulder blades.

“I feed off souls, it's how I stay young.”

A simultaneous, hearty chuckle shakes both of your bodies. There was a feeling brewing around in your head that you couldn’t quite place your finger on. Maybe it was regret, but it was far too early to tell.

Especially with him still being inside of you.

“A succubus of sorts, hm?” says Punk, picking up your chin.

“Maybe. Maybe my mystifying, witchy-woman powers are what brought you here.”

“Or maybe I’m the one who can sense sadness. Don’t think I didn’t see those kicked-puppy-dog eyes when you opened the door...”

There it was again. The Punk you knew and loved. Defensive, yet somehow still able to make you swoon.

“...Gotta admit, there is a bit of magic between us.”

After laying in Punk’s arms for a long while after, that overwhelming sense of impending doom had dissolved completely.

You watched Punk scramble up and down the stairs of your lofted apartment to grab you everything you needed. A warmed washcloth and a glass of water; the two staples in your aftercare routine.

“Need anythin’ else?” You hear his disembodied voice from the kitchen above the running water.

“Actually, I do,” you comment, sitting up fully on the couch after he’d re-dressed you in your pajamas, “I need you to admit that coming here at midnight to bother me about a pair of gym shorts was a stupid fuckin’ plan.”

Punk freezes in his tracks, a sly smile sneaking onto his lips as he reaches over to dramatically turn the faucet off, “Guess I didn’t really think it through. I was more focused on seeing you. I needed an excuse to cover my own ass— the shorts were the best I could do.”

“Do better,” you snarl, “Still want ‘em back?”

Before replying, Punk slides beside you on the couch, his arm ready to cradle your head into the crook of his neck. He presses his lips against the side of your head, keeping there as his breathing slows.

“You can keep the shorts, Bunny. Just as long as you take me with ‘em.”

#cm punk smut #cm punk fanfic #cm punk x reader #wwe fanfiction #wwe smut #cm punk angst #my debut post weeeeee

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soft4changbin · 12 days ago

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Only you

Stray Kids Lee Know x reader

Summary: Lee Know dislikes everyone—except you—and his quiet actions prove it.

Word count: 599

Everyone at the company knew Lee Know didn’t like people.

He wasn’t rude—at least not intentionally—but he didn’t do small talk, didn’t smile just to be polite, and didn’t bother pretending to like someone if he didn’t.

So when you joined the choreography team and he started offering you water after practices, everyone noticed.

And when he waited for you to finish packing up before leaving—even if it meant sitting in the corner with his hood up, pretending not to watch you—your coworkers whispered.

You tried not to read into it too much. Minho was blunt, sure, but he wasn’t cold. Maybe he was just being… decent.

But then one afternoon, as you sat in the practice room tying your shoe, a loud trainee burst in, obnoxiously chewing gum and joking way too loud for a Monday. You winced as his voice echoed through the studio.

Minho’s jaw ticked.

“You don’t need to be in here,” he told the guy flatly.

The trainee blinked. “Huh?”

Minho stood up, arms crossed. “We’re using the room. Come back later.”

“It’s just five minutes—”

“Out,” Minho said, voice sharp. His eyes flicked to you, and something unreadable passed over his face.

The trainee left without another word.

You blinked up at him, startled. “You didn’t have to do that…”

He shrugged, avoiding your eyes. “He was annoying.”

“You literally train with him.”

“Doesn’t mean I like him.”

You laughed softly. “Do you like anyone?”

He hesitated for half a second. “Just one person.”

That made your heart skip. But you played dumb, tugging the laces of your shoe a little tighter. “Yeah? Who’s the unlucky one?”

Minho didn’t answer right away. Instead, he walked over and crouched in front of you, fingers gently pushing yours away as he redid your messy knot with expert precision.

“You always rush this,” he murmured. “No wonder you trip.”

Your breath caught.

He tied the last loop and looked up, gaze steady, serious.

“I don’t like people,” he said again. “But you’re not people.”

You swallowed. “What does that make me, then?”

His lip twitched in the faintest smile. “Something else.”

A beat of silence passed. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears.

“Minho—”

He stood up quickly, brushing invisible dust from his sweats. “Let’s go get food before practice starts again. My treat.”

“…You hate eating with people.”

“I said you’re not people.”

You smiled. “Okay.”

He didn’t take your hand or hold the door open or say anything particularly sweet. But he walked beside you, shoulders nearly brushing, and made sure you didn’t trip over the studio threshold.

That was Lee Know’s love language.

And it was loud enough for you to hear.

#stray kids #stray kids x reader #lee know x reader #lee minho #minho stray kids #minho x reader #minho x you #minho x y/n #lee know x you #lee know x y/n #lee minho x reader #stray kids x y/n #stray kids x you

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mahalachives · 3 months ago

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Part 5: The Sound of Her Silence

TW: This chapter contains intense emotional distress, depictions of self-harm, mental health deterioration, themes of suicidal ideation, fever-induced hallucinations, and emotional abuse. Reader discretion is advised.

Please take care of yourself and skip or pause if needed. 💛

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

The Great Hall fell into uneasy silence after the Night Court's entrance, their arrival a deliberate provocation.

Even Beron hesitated, his ever-burning flames receding as if inhaling before a storm.

The flames illuminated the High Lord's face, calculating, dangerous, a predator considering his options.

Rhysand stepped forward, power coiled tight beneath his skin, a leashed tempest. "Lord Beron," he said with cool precision, "we come regarding matters of mutual interest between our courts."

Beron's voice, low and sharp, sliced through the tension. "You enter my court uninvited. That alone is a breach of protocol. Give me one reason not to treat it as an act of war."

"Because war would serve neither of us," Rhysand answered smoothly. "Not over what is, by all appearances, a personal complication."

Your eyes were drawn unbidden to Azriel.

He stood apart from Rhysand and Cassian, his body angled as if bracing for a fight. His face was impassive, carved from stone, shadows held tight around him like armor.

Yet they strained against his control, reaching toward you in aborted, desperate movements before he willed them still.

Where one tendril briefly brushed the flagstone, a frost pattern etched itself into the ground and faded, leaving behind a scent like winter pine.

The mating bond flared in your chest, a barbed hook that twisted with every heartbeat, golden warmth laced with unbearable pressure.

Your lungs constricted. Your fingers trembled.

Every instinct screamed to move toward him, to close the unbearable distance.

Beron's gaze flicked from you to Azriel, sharp with calculation. "Your shadowsinger shows an unusual concern for my daughter." His fingers tapped once against his throne, embers spiraling upward. "Is this intrusion about the mating bond that threatens both our courts' standing with the others?"

Eris stepped forward, his copper hair gleaming in the firelight. "Perhaps we should hear what the Night Court has to say." His voice was silk over steel, practiced and smooth. "After all, we wouldn't want to appear inhospitable."

Beron shot his eldest son a withering glance. "Your hospitality has already cost us enough, Eris."

"Among other things," Rhysand replied to Beron's earlier question. "Though this may not be the appropriate setting to discuss such matters."

The doors to the Great Hall swung open, and Lady of the Autumn Court entered.

Your mother moved with quiet grace, her russet gown flowing like autumn leaves around her slender frame. She paused at the threshold, taking in the scene with eyes that betrayed nothing of her thoughts.

"You weren't summoned," Beron said coldly, not bothering to turn fully toward his wife.

She inclined her head slightly. "I heard we had guests." Her voice was soft but steady. "It would be remiss of me not to welcome them properly."

Beron's flames flared, casting harsh shadows across his face.

"Always interfering where you're not wanted. Like mother, like daughter." His gaze cut to you, contempt evident. "Both of you, useless except for the trouble you cause."

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, rage building in your chest alongside the pull of the bond. The insult spoken so casually, so cruelly, made something crack inside you.

Eris's face remained composed, but his eyes hardened to amber chips. "The Night Court representatives are waiting." His voice was still controlled, but carried an edge sharp enough to cut. "Perhaps we should continue this discussion elsewhere."

Your mother's face remained impassive, a mask perfected over centuries of such treatment. Only the slight whitening of her knuckles betrayed her reaction.

Beron's nostrils flared. The flames around him crackled and dimmed, reflecting the push and pull of his control.

Heat pulsed in waves through the hall, making the air shimmer. At last, he waved a hand. "The western salon. I will join you shortly."

As the Night Court turned to leave, Beron snapped his gaze back to you. "You. Walk with me."

You stood, legs stiff beneath the weight of your father's fury, and fell into step beside him.

"I'll accompany them," your mother said quietly, moving toward the Night Court.

Beron grabbed her wrist, flames licking at his fingers, dangerously close to her skin. "You will return to your chambers and stay there until I send for you."

"Let her go." The words escaped your lips before you could stop them, quiet but firm.

Eris shifted slightly, positioning himself between your father and mother. "The Night Court is watching," he murmured, his voice for Beron's ears alone. "Consider the impression we make."

Beron released her wrist with a shove. "Get out of my sight."

Your mother's eyes met yours briefly, a warning, a plea for caution before she bowed her head and withdrew, dignity intact despite the humiliation.

Eris lingered a moment, his eyes meeting Azriel's with cold assessment. "Watch yourself, shadowsinger," he murmured, too low for the others to hear. "Beron's patience has limits, and so does mine."

He followed after Beron, silent as a blade at your back.

"Control yourself," Beron hissed at you as you walked. "Your mother's weakness is bad enough without you adding to our shame."

Rage simmered beneath your skin, hot as Autumn fire. "She is not weak. She never has been."

Beron's laugh was cruel. "Defending her now? Where was that courage when she needed it?"

The word struck like a physical blow, dragging memories forward, sterile white rooms with strange instruments, laughter that didn't belong in this realm, voices discussing you as if you weren't present.

A life before Prythian, before the Autumn Court. Before you were—whatever you are now.

The western salon was warmer, quieter. Sunlight poured through amber-stained windows, gilding the dust in the air. Rhysand and Cassian stood near the hearth, speaking in low tones. Azriel remained by the door, positioned like a sentry, his back straight, expression unreadable.

When your eyes met his, the bond shuddered.

Golden light rippled beneath your skin and his, cold fire racing along your veins.

Azriel didn't move. Didn't flinch.

His shadows curled in tight coils around him, containing the flare before it could escape, but not before one shadow darted toward you, caressing your cheek with a touch like frost-covered silk.

Your heart stumbled in your chest. Blood rushed in your ears.

Beron took his seat and gestured curtly to the chair beside him. "Speak, Rhysand. Then leave."

Rhysand sat, every inch the High Lord, his posture relaxed and voice level. "Recent events call into question the stability of our courts' relationship. An unexpected mating bond. An attempted crossing into another court's lands. An unauthorized rescue."

"My daughter's choices are her own," Beron said coldly.

"They become our concern when they involve one of mine," Rhysand answered, unblinking. "And when they nearly end in bloodshed."

You stared down at your hands. The bond tugged with every beat of your heart, flaring whenever Azriel so much as shifted his stance. His silence was deafening, a void that demanded to be filled.

Beron leaned back, his expression glacial. "The bond was rejected. That is the end of it."

"It is not so easily discarded," Rhysand said. "You know that. A rejected bond leaves... consequences. Dangerous ones."

Beron sneered. "Do not lecture me about consequences, boy. If your shadowsinger cannot stomach the match, that is no longer my concern."

"Then consider this a precaution," Rhysand replied, steel beneath the silk. "Allow my spymaster ten minutes alone with her. To ensure there are no... lingering complications that might destabilize Autumn's borders or create vulnerabilities Night's enemies could exploit."

A long silence followed.

Beron's fingers twitched, flames licking at his knuckles, crawling up his wrists like living things.

At last, he gestured dismissively. "Ten minutes. Then she returns to her chambers, under guard."

Rhysand rose. "Cassian, Eris, shall we?"

Eris unfolded himself from his chair with feline grace. "Of course." His gaze swept over you, lingering on the faint glow of the bond beneath your skin.

They filed out, one by one. When the door shut behind them, silence settled like ash. The only sound was the crackle of the hearth and your treacherous, thundering heart.

Azriel did not move.

You waited, the pressure in your chest mounting until each breath felt like drawing in shards of glass. He watched you like a stranger, shadows still circling his boots, though they shivered with what looked like restraint.

"You shouldn't have come," he said at last. His voice was low. Controlled. Ice, not fire. Each syllable precisely measured. "Not to the war camp."

Your mouth dried. "I didn't mean-"

"I know what you meant," he interrupted, sharp enough to cut to bone. "But intent doesn't undo consequences."

You stood, unable to remain still under the weight of his voice, every muscle drawn taut. "The bond-"

"Is inconvenient," he said flatly.

His shadows flinched at the words, contradicting his tone.

One of them drifted toward you before curling back like a burned leaf, leaving a trail of frost that melted instantly in the Autumn Court's heat.

You swallowed. "I thought if I said goodbye, it would ease the pain."

His expression didn't change, but his jaw tightened fractionally, tendons straining beneath scarred skin.

"And the lake? Was that meant to ease something too?"

You couldn't answer. Not truthfully. Your fingernails bit into your palms.

"I wanted it to end," you whispered. "I thought death might sever the bond."

His shadows stilled. The silence that followed was so complete it rang in your ears. The temperature in the room plummeted, your breath clouding before your face.

He stepped forward once, slow and deliberate.

Not close. Never close.

"I've seen bonds form between killers. Between traitors. Between those who should be enemies." His voice dropped lower. "They don't care about virtue or wisdom. Only connection. And sometimes, connection is a curse that will tear down everything we've built."

You stared at him, heart splintering. "Is that what I am to you? A curse?"

He didn't answer right away.

When he did, his voice was quiet, almost gentle, and that gentleness cut deeper than any blade. "You're not the same female I knew."

A breath. A pause. His shadows twisted around him, agitated.

"But you have caused too much pain." I can't trust myself around you hung unspoken between you.

The bond pulsed again, a flare of pain so acute it forced a gasp from your lips.

You staggered slightly.

Azriel didn't move to catch you, but his shadows lurched forward before he brutally reined them back.

You steadied yourself against a table, knuckles white. "If I could change it-"

"You can't," he said, more sharply than before. "And neither can I. Not without destroying what keeps both our courts safe."

His gaze locked with yours, centuries of survival and sacrifice written in the tight lines around his mouth. "The Night Court has enemies who would use any vulnerability. The Autumn Court the same. This bond is a weakness neither of us can afford."

He looked at you as if weighing something, then added, "I don't hate you. But I don't believe this bond is something either of us should accept. Not at the cost it would demand."

Another breath passed, then two. He reached for the door, shadows reluctantly trailing after him.

"I came to say goodbye," he said without turning around. "And to make it clear. I reject you. I dont want anything to do with you."

His shadows curled toward you one final time, a defiance of his words—their touch colder than winter, gentler than a lover's caress as they traced the contours of your face. Then they vanished, ripped back to their master.

"Goodbye," he said.

You couldn't speak.

Not as he opened the door and left without a backward glance. Not as the door clicked shut behind him, sealing you in the quiet.

You rose from your chair, legs unsteady, hand pressed to your chest where the bond burned like a brand. It pulsed once more, then dulled to a low throb.

Still there. Still aching.

But colder now. Just like him.

You moved toward the door, vision blurring.

You needed to be away from here, away from the lingering scent of pine and winter that his shadows had left behind. Each step felt heavier than the last as you pushed through the doors and into the hallway, not caring who might see the tears that now threatened to spill.

The corridors stretched before you, all amber and ruby and burnished gold.

Suffocating.

You quickened your pace, heading for your chambers, the only place where you might find a moment's peace.

A figure stepped from an alcove, blocking your path. Your mother—no, not your mother. The Lady of Autumn Court.

She stood before you, her eyes taking in your trembling hands, the faint golden glow still visible beneath your skin, the tears you could no longer hold back. Something in her expression softened, a recognition of pain she understood all too well.

You tried to step around her, to maintain the distance that had always existed between you, heightened by the knowledge that you were not truly her daughter. That you came from another world entirely, a world of skyscrapers and smartphones, not magic and immortal fae.

But she simply opened her arms.

The gesture broke something loose inside you.

Memories flashed through your mind, another mother in another life, hugs after scraped knees, whispered comfort during thunderstorms.

A life stolen from you.

You stepped into her embrace, burying your face against her shoulder. Her arms closed around you, unexpectedly strong, smelling of cinnamon and woodsmoke. The dam within you burst completely.

Silent tears soaked into the silk of her dress as she held you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head like you were a child. Your shoulders shook with the force of your grief—grief for the bond, for the cold goodbye, for the life you once knew, for the truth you couldn't speak.

She made no move to pull away, asked no questions you couldn't answer. Her heartbeat steady against yours, a counterpoint to the painful throb of the rejected bond.

In that moment, in that corridor of amber and shadows, something shifted between you.

Not blood, not shared history, but something equally powerful—understanding. Compassion.

A choice to be family when nothing in fate had designed you to be.

You clung to her, this woman you barely knew, as the golden bond-light flickered beneath your skin and tears continued to fall.

Days passed in a gray haze of pain and emptiness.

Confined to your chambers under Beron's orders, you barely left your bed.

The mating bond, once a dull ache you could somehow endure, had transformed into something monstrous in the wake of Azriel's formal rejection.

It pulled and twisted beneath your skin, the golden light pulsing visibly through your nightgown at all hours, casting eerie shadows across your walls.

"Make it stop," you whispered into your pillow, the words becoming a mantra as hours bled into days. "Please, make it stop."

Food remained untouched on trays. Water turned stale beside your bed. Sleep came only in fitful bursts, often jolting you awake when the bond would suddenly flare as if sensing Azriel across the distance.

Each time, the pain would be fresh again, as if his rejection had just occurred.

On the third day, you couldn't leave your bed.

Your limbs felt leaden, unresponsive to your commands. The bond's golden light had spread, no longer contained to your chest but threading through your entire body in a complex network that resembled veins of fire beneath your skin.

"Make it stop," you begged the empty room, your voice cracking with disuse. "Make it stop."

Briar came and went, her face increasingly drawn with worry. She bathed your forehead with cool cloths that brought momentary relief, helped you sip water when your throat became too parched to speak. But even her gentle care couldn't touch the agony of the bond.

"The healers say-" she began on the fourth day, only to fall silent when you shook your head weakly.

"No more healers," you whispered. "They can't help."

The rejection was killing you.

Not quickly with merciful swiftness, but slowly, systematically.

First your appetite, then your sleep, then your strength.

Soon, you knew, it would take your mind, and finally, your life.

By the fifth day, the pain had become so unbearable that you could no longer contain your screams.

They tore from your throat in ragged bursts, startling servants and causing guards to peer nervously through your door.

Ember, your faithful flame bunny, tried desperately to comfort you, nuzzling against your tear-stained cheeks and offering his warmth. But even his presence brought only fleeting solace.

"Make it stop," you sobbed between screams, your voice raw and broken. "Please, just make it stop."

Night fell, and with it came fever.

Your body burned from within, as if the bond had ignited your very blood.

The golden light beneath your skin pulsed in nauseating waves, brightening and dimming with each labored beat of your heart. Shadows danced strangely across your walls, though no source of light moved to cast them.

In your delirium, you thought you saw your human body, lying peacefully in a hospital bed, monitors beeping steadily beside it.

The vision taunted you—safety and normalcy just beyond reach. You stretched your hand toward it, only to watch it dissolve like mist.

"I want to go home," you wept, curling into yourself as another wave of pain crashed through you. "I just want to go home."

The latch on your door clicked softly, the sound barely audible over your ragged breathing.

You didn't bother looking up. Another healer, no doubt, come to offer useless remedies for a condition beyond their understanding.

"So, this is what a mating bond does," said a familiar voice, cool with equal parts disdain and clinical interest. "How remarkably... undignified."

You forced your eyes open to find Eris standing at the foot of your bed, his amber eyes assessing your deteriorated state with detached calculation.

He held a small wooden box in one hand, its surface carved with intricate symbols you didn't recognize.

"Go away," you managed, your voice barely audible. "Can't... help."

"Can't I?" A smirk played at the corners of his mouth as he set the box on your nightstand. "Your arrogance persists even in this state. How typical."

His dismissive tone convinced you he saw only what he expected to see. His cruel sister, temporarily weakened. He didn't suspect you were someone else entirely.

Eris opened the box with careful precision, removing a small vial of dark liquid.

"Do you know what this is?" When you didn't respond, he continued, "It's called ash tea. Death to our kind in sufficient quantity, it disintegrates our magic from within, dissolves our organs rather spectacularly." He swirled the vial, studying the contents with academic interest. "But in minute, carefully measured amounts..."

"Poison?" you whispered, hope flaring briefly.

Eris laughed softly. "Not as you're thinking, no. Though many would consider offering this to a High Fae treasonous." He sat carefully on the edge of your bed, an unexpected intimacy that emphasized the seriousness of the moment. "This particular blend contains ash wood bark, ground fine enough to enter the bloodstream without killing you outright, but potent enough to... dampen certain magical connections."

Understanding dawned slowly through your pain-addled mind. "The bond?"

"Precisely." Eris uncorked the vial, the scent of earth and something acrid filling the air between you. "It cannot be broken, but it can be... muted. Made bearable. At least temporarily."

You tried to sit up, wincing as the movement sent fresh waves of agony radiating from your chest. "Why would you... help me?"

Eris's expression remained carefully neutral, though something flickered in his eyes, not quite compassion, but perhaps a cold form of practicality. "Let's just say having the Lady of Autumn Court driven mad by bond rejection doesn't serve anyone's interests. Particularly not when diplomatic relations with the Night Court are so delicate."

He lifted the vial. "This won't be pleasant. And the effects are temporary. A day, perhaps two. But it should bring enough relief to keep you from it."

Hope and suspicion warred within you. This was Eris, after all—known for manipulation and political maneuvering, not acts of charity.

"What's the... price?" you asked, even as you eyed the vial with desperate longing.

A smile ghosted across his lips. "Smart question. There is, of course, a cost. The ash will dampen the bond, but it also suppresses all magic—including healing magic. You'll be weaker, more vulnerable to injury. And if you take too much, too often..." He shrugged eloquently. "Well, that's a risk you'll have to decide if you're willing to take."

Another wave of bond-agony crashed through you, drawing a whimper from your raw throat. The golden light beneath your skin pulsed viciously, as if the bond itself protested this conversation.

"Give it to me," you gasped, reaching weakly for the vial.

Eris held it to your lips. "Drink all of it. And brace yourself. This will hurt before it helps."

The liquid burned like fire as it slid down your throat, leaving a trail of blistering pain in its wake. You gagged, nearly retching as your body instinctively tried to reject the poison. Eris held you steady, his grip surprisingly gentle despite his usual coldness.

"Breathe," he instructed calmly. "The first wave will hit in approximately thirty seconds. Try not to scream too loudly. The servants are already terrified enough."

The pain began in your stomach, a spreading heat that quickly evolved into liquid agony. It raced through your veins like molten metal, seeking out the golden threads of the mating bond wherever they had infiltrated your system. You bit down hard on your lip to keep from screaming, tasting blood as your teeth pierced skin.

"Good," Eris murmured, observing with cold efficiency. "If you survive the next few minutes, relief should follow."

You couldn't respond, too consumed by the battle raging within your body. The ash tea burned through you like wildfire, while the mating bond fought to maintain its hold.

Golden light flared beneath your skin, brighter than ever before, illuminating your chamber as if noon sun streamed through the windows.

Just when you thought you couldn't bear another second, when death seemed not just welcome but necessary. The pain crested, held for one eternal moment, then began to recede.

The golden light dimmed, not disappearing entirely but retreating, condensing back toward your heart where the bond's core resided. The burning sensation of the ash tea transformed into something cooler, almost numbing, as it wrapped around the bond's tendrils like a smothering blanket.

"There," Eris said, satisfaction evident in his voice. "The worst is over."

You collapsed back against your pillows, gasping for breath. The pain hadn't vanished completely—the bond still pulsed steadily in your chest—but it was... contained.

Manageable. For the first time in days, you could think clearly, breathe without agony slicing through your lungs.

"How do you feel?" Eris asked, assessing you with calculating eyes.

"Like I've been trampled by a herd of horses," you replied honestly, your voice hoarse but stronger. "But... better."

He nodded, seeming pleased with the results of his experiment. "It forms a temporary barrier between you and the bond. It's still there, still active, but its effects are dampened. You should be able to eat, sleep, perhaps even function normally for a brief time."

"Thank you," you whispered, the words entirely genuine.

"Don't thank me yet. It has side effects, headaches, nausea, significant weakening of your healing abilities. A paper cut could take days to close. And when it wears off..."

"The pain returns," you finished for him.

"Precisely. This is not a cure, merely a reprieve." He rose from the bed, returning the empty vial to its box with careful precision. "I have more. Enough for several treatments, if necessary. But using ash too frequently risks permanent damage to your magic, possibly death. It's a temporary solution at best."

You nodded, understanding the limitations but grateful nonetheless for even temporary relief. "Why help me at all?"

"Because a mad Lady of Autumn is a liability to this court," he said finally, his voice carefully devoid of emotion. "And because no one deserves that particular hell. Not even you."

Through your exhaustion, you noticed Eris studying you with an intensity that hadn't been there before. His amber eyes narrowed slightly, head tilted in calculation.

"Rest now," he said, his voice oddly soft. "Sleep while you can."

The suggestion was unnecessary.

Your body, wrung out from days of suffering and the recent battle with the ash tea, was already surrendering to exhaustion. Your eyelids felt impossibly heavy, darkness crowding the edges of your vision.

The last thing you saw before consciousness fled was Eris standing over you, his expression unreadable as he pulled something from his pocket—another vial, this one filled with clear liquid.

"Forgive me, sister," he murmured, though the words seemed to come from very far away. "But you cannot stay here."

Then darkness claimed you completely.

Far away in the Night Court, in the darkest chamber of the House of Wind, Azriel knelt on the cold stone floor.

Alone, as he preferred. As he required.

His blade—Truth-Teller—lay before him, its edge gleaming in the dim light.

Blood. His blood. Already stained the steel, fresh rivulets running down its length to pool on the stone beneath.

Another wave of pain crashed through the bond, brutal and unrelenting.

Azriel didn't make a sound.

Five centuries of torture and war had taught him that lesson well.

Silence in suffering.

But his body betrayed him, trembling violently as the mating bond seared his insides like molten silver.

With deliberate precision, he picked up the blade and drew it across his chest, adding another perfect line to the row of cuts already marking his skin.

Each one corresponded to a wave of your pain that had reached him through the bond.

Blood for pain. Pain for denial. Denial for protection.

His shadows writhed around him, agitated and distressed by the self-inflicted wounds, but he controlled them with ruthless precision.

Control was all he had left. All he could permit himself.

It was the secret that male Fae carried and females rarely understood.

Rejection hurt the male more. Always.

The Cauldron's cruelest design—to make the one who denied the bond suffer more deeply, more fundamentally, than the one rejected.

The females experienced the pain as something inflicted upon them.

The males felt it as something torn from within them.

He had rejected you. For his family, for his court, for five centuries of history that couldn't be erased by the sudden, incomprehensible appearance of a bond.

Yet with each day that passed, with each wave of agony that pulsed through the connection, his reasons seemed increasingly hollow.

Azriel closed his eyes, mastering the tremors that threatened to overtake his body.

His wings tightened against his back, the membrane between the joints quivering with the effort of maintaining control. Each breath was measured, deliberate, a weapon against the madness that clawed at the edges of his consciousness.

The madness all males faced when denying the mating bond.

His shadows swirled around the wounds on his chest, trying to staunch the bleeding, but he commanded them back.

The physical pain was a lifeline, an anchor to sanity when the bond threatened to drag him into the abyss. Each cut was a reminder, a demarcation between thought and action, between the primal claiming instinct and his hard-won self-control.

"She's not mine," he said aloud, his voice steady despite the war raging within him. "She can't be mine."

His shadows disagreed, stretching southward toward the Autumn Court, toward you, before he wrenched them back with brutal force. They had grown harder to control since the bond formed, increasingly rebellious against his commands where you were concerned.

Just as his mind had grown more fragmented, thoughts circling in patterns he recognized as dangerous.

Possessive. Violent. Obsessive.

Mine to reject. Mine to claim. Mine to punish. Mine to protect.

Another wave of your pain rolled through him, sharper this time, different. Not the steady agony of rejection but something new—something foreign.

His body arched backwards, a wordless snarl escaping through clenched teeth as the unfamiliar sensation burned along the bond.

Something was happening to you. Something was being done to you.

Without conscious thought, Truth-Teller was in his hand again, his grip so tight the scars on his hands whitened. His shadows exploded outward, slashing across the walls in chaotic patterns before he brought them to heel.

"Control," he gasped, the word a prayer and command. "Control."

The foreign sensation continued, burning through the bond for endless minutes before slowly, gradually beginning to recede.

As it faded, the connection itself seemed to dim—not broken, never broken, but muffled.

Distant. As if a veil had fallen between them.

Azriel stared at his bloody hands, at Truth-Teller's gleaming edge, as realization dawned.

Someone had interfered.

Someone had touched what was his.

A low, feral growl built in his chest, shadows coalescing around him like armor. His wings flared wide, bumping against the chamber walls, as pure, primal rage flooded his system. It was the claiming instinct, the mating drive—made worse, not better, by his rejection.

Shadows pooled at his feet, rising up his legs like living things, responding to emotions he refused to name. They whispered to him, ancient and dark,

Find her. Claim her. Kill anyone who stands between.

For one terrible moment, he considered it—giving in to the madness, surrendering to the bond's demands. It would be easier than fighting, easier than the constant war between instinct and reason, between what the bond wanted and what his mind knew was necessary.

The shadows sensed his weakness, surging eagerly in response, already mapping the fastest route to the Autumn Court, to you.

With tremendous effort, Azriel forced them back, confined them to the chamber, to himself. His hands shook with the strain, blood dripping from fresh cuts to the stone below.

"I am not a slave to instinct," he said, each word precise and controlled. "I am not ruled by the bond."

But even as he spoke, he knew it for the lie it was. The mating bond had fundamentally altered him, changed something essential in his makeup. The ruthless control he had maintained for centuries was fracturing, eroding a little more with each denial, each rejection.

Eventually, it would break entirely. And when it did...

You woke to sunlight and the scent of lavender.

Soft sheets. Linen curtains. A breeze slipped in through the open window, carrying the scent of wild roses and summer heat.

Winnowed here from the heart of Autumn, you were somewhere new—somewhere safe. The ash tea still burned faintly in your bloodstream, muting the mating bond's agony into something distant and bearable.

Not gone. Never gone. But quieter now.

You pushed yourself upright, slow and stiff. Your muscles protested, days of agony had left their mark. Ember stirred at your feet with a warm churr, his tiny pink flame ears twitching lazily as he hopped up onto your lap.

His companion—Sizzle, your second fire bunny—lounged on the windowsill like she owned the house, her tail periodically sparking small holes in the curtains.

"We live another day, troublemakers," you murmured, scratching Ember behind his flaming ears. He purred in response, a sound like kindling catching fire.

Sizzle, apparently jealous of the attention, sneezed dramatically. A tiny fireball shot across the room, hitting the curtain.

You scrambled to pat out the flames while Ember, startled by the sudden movement, jumped onto your pillow and promptly set it ablaze.

"Perfect," you muttered, now frantically swatting at both the curtain and pillow. "Absolutely perfect."

The door opened with a soft click, revealing Lucien Vanserra standing in the threshold, one brow arched. His russet hair was pulled back in a neat queue, his metal eye whirring as it assessed the smoldering chaos.

"I see your therapy animals are hard at work," he remarked dryly.

"They're very passionate about interior redesign," you replied, finally extinguishing the pillow.

Ember, unperturbed by the commotion he'd caused, began grooming himself smugly. Sizzle hopped down from the windowsill to join him, leaving a trail of tiny scorch marks across the blanket.

Lucien stepped inside, moving with the fluid grace of a High Fae male. Despite his seemingly casual demeanor, his hand never strayed far from the ornate knife at his hip.

"Eris said you were stable," he said. "I see he was being optimistic."

"I'm perfectly stable," you protested. "It's these two that are hazardous."

As if on cue, both bunnies looked up at Lucien with identical innocent expressions, their flame ears flickering like halos.

A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Why am I here?" you asked, gathering Ember in your arms before he could cause more damage.

"My home. Border estate between Spring and Autumn," he replied. "Far enough from Summer that their water-wielders can't sense your fire magic."

"No, I mean why here. Why you?"

His jaw clenched. "Because Eris didn't trust anyone else to keep you alive."

A beat of silence. You stared at him. "Beron knows I'm gone?"

Lucien nodded grimly. "He's furious. You disappearing was one thing. But being bonded with the Night Court's shadowsinger... that made you a liability."

You swallowed hard. "He'll come after me."

"Yes," Lucien said simply. "But not here. Not yet. The border glamours I've crafted keep this place hidden from most eyes."

Ember, sensing your distress, nuzzled against your hand, his warm fur oddly comforting. Sizzle hopped closer, squeaking indignantly, as if personally offended by Beron's threat to you.

Eris swept into the doorway, elegant and deadly in fine Autumn Court attire. His eyes immediately landed on the singed pillow, then the bunnies, then you.

"You're awake," he added, gaze sliding over you. "Good. You were very dramatic about nearly dying."

You offered him a flat look. "You drugged me. Forgive me for not being chipper."

Eris just smiled thinly. "You're welcome."

Ember, evidently unimpressed by Eris's entrance, turned his back on your eldest brother and began methodically cleaning his paws. Sizzle, however, puffed up to twice her size, her tiny flame ears growing larger as she stared Eris down.

Lucien and Eris stared at each other, tension crackling like fire beneath still water. Centuries of history hung between them—betrayal, silence, blood.

"Why bring me here?" you asked again.

Eris's gaze darkened. "Because Beron watches me too closely. And because our charming brother has experience managing broken bonds."

Lucien's jaw ticked. "I'm not your pawn."

"No. Just the only one who's already walked through fire." Eris's eyes flicked to the scars on Lucien's face. "Literally and metaphorically." He continued. "I have business in the human lands. Autumn's emissaries report unusual activity," Eris said, already stepping back toward the door. "I'll return in three days. Try not to explode before then."

And then he was gone, leaving behind only the scent of embers and spice—not bothering to walk out, but winnowing away in a flash of copper light.

Ember triumphantly squeaked, as if he had personally driven Eris away, while Sizzle hopped in an excited circle, leaving a ring of tiny burn marks on the floor.

"Your security detail is very effective," Lucien remarked, his lips twitching.

"They're very selective about who they allow near me," you replied, patting the bed for them to return. Ember immediately hopped back onto your lap, while Sizzle took a detour to investigate Lucien's boots.

"So," you said, "Beron's hunting me."

Lucien nodded. "And I'm keeping you off his radar. For now."

Your mind flashed suddenly to that moment in the Autumn Court—Azriel's shadows coiling away from you, his face carved from ice as he rejected you.

The memory sent a bolt of pain through the bond, sharp enough to make you gasp. Golden light flared beneath your skin, pulsing once, twice, before the ash tea smothered it again.

Ember chirped in alarm, nudging your hand with his warm nose. Sizzle abandoned her investigation of Lucien to race back to your side, both bunnies pressing against you as if trying to absorb your pain.

Lucien tensed, his hand moving to his knife, not drawing it, but ready. "Breathe through it," he instructed, voice steady. "Don't fight it."

You nodded, forcing air into your lungs. "Why help me?" you managed after a moment.

He paused, then said, "Because someone should have helped me."

Your hand drifted to your chest, fingers pressing lightly over the steady, bruised thrum of the bond. "Azriel told me it wasn't real. That we weren't anything."

Something flashed across Lucien's face—recognition, perhaps. Understanding. His metal eye whirred softly. "But you felt it."

You nodded. "Still do."

Ember, as if understanding, rested his tiny paw on your hand where it pressed against your chest. His warmth seeped into your skin, a small comfort against the ache.

Lucien exhaled, his gaze distant. "It never fully goes away. You just get better at living around the ache."

"For how long will the tea work?"

"A week. Maybe less." His voice was clinical, practiced. "It gives you time to think without drowning."

"Think about what?"

"Whether you're going to keep breaking every time he turns away," Lucien said quietly.

Sizzle, who had been unnaturally still and attentive, suddenly hopped toward Lucien and squeaked forcefully, as if disagreeing with his pessimism. She punctuated her argument by sneezing a perfect smoke ring.

Lucien blinked down at her. "Was that... intentional?"

"She has opinions," you said, unable to stop a small smile. "Strong ones."

You looked at him. "And you? With your bond?"

His jaw tightened. "I've learned to stay standing."

You let silence sit between you. "It hurts."

"It should," he replied. "It means you cared."

You stroked Ember's back as he nestled against your ribs. "Azriel's in love with Elain," you said. I

The bond flared again at the shadowsinger's name, a sharp, twisting pain that made your fingers curl into fists. Golden light rippled beneath your skin, illuminating your veins like molten metal.

Lucien didn't flinch. "Yes."

Your eyes widened slightly. "Elain is your mate."

He nodded once, the motion tight and controlled. "Yes."

You gave a sharp, humorless laugh. "So my mate wants yours. And yours won't even look at you."

Heat surged through your body—not the bond this time, but your own power.

Flames licked between your fingers, dancing along your knuckles. Ember chirped in alarm, scurrying to safety, while Sizzle watched in what appeared to be admiration.

Lucien moved with startling speed, his hand closing around your wrist. Not roughly, but firmly. "Control it," he said, voice low. "You'll burn down the house."

The absurdity of the moment—the deadly serious warning about your power—broke through your anger. You took a deep breath, pulling the fire back inside.

"Sorry," you murmured, extending a gentle hand to coax Ember back.

Lucien's smile didn't reach his eyes. "The Cauldron has a twisted sense of humor."

"I'm done," you said, voice barely a whisper. "Done chasing someone who only ever turns around to run."

The moment the words left your mouth, the bond gave a violent pulse, as if in protest.

You gasped, pressing a hand to your chest as golden light spilled between your fingers.

Lucien looked at you for a long moment. "Good."

"I keep thinking if I'm better, softer, less angry, he'll see me. But I could walk through fire and he'd still stare at the smoke."

His voice was quiet. "I know the feeling."

You wiped at your face with the edge of the sheet. "So what now?"

Lucien's mismatched gaze found yours. "Now we learn to walk forward. With the ache. Without them."

You offered a watery smile. "We'll be strong for each other."

He returned it, faint but real. "The Vanserra way."

You wiped tears from your cheek. "Honestly? They're both walking red flags."

Lucien blinked. "Red what?"

"It's a saying," you explained quickly. "Red flags mean warning signs. Bad news. Like signals in battle, but for people."

"So I've been ignoring battle signals for decades," Lucien said dryly.

"Exactly. And Azriel..." You sighed. "Shadow and steel and silence don't make for healthy relationships."

Lucien's laugh was unexpected—sharp and genuine. "Don't let Rhysand hear you say that."

"At least I'm done chasing my red flag," you said.

The bond throbbed once more, a deep ache that would never truly fade. But for the first time, it didn't feel like it would tear you apart.

He nodded, the golden eye whirring softly. "And I'm learning to carry mine."

You looked at him, really looked at this brother you barely knew, and said, "We've got each other. That's enough."

Lucien leaned back. "The Vanserra siblings. Mated. Rejected. Slightly flammable."

"Speak for yourself," you grinned, A small flame danced across your fingertip as you stroked them, controlled this time, gentle. "We're adorably flammable."

His laughter—sharp and real—echoed softly through the room, making both bunnies' ears perk up in delight.

And for the first time in days, the ache in your chest felt like something you might one day be able to carry without breaking—a permanent bond, yes, but no longer a chain.

The golden light pulsed once more beneath your skin, and somewhere, miles away, in the darkness of the Night Court, you knew a shadowsinger felt it too.

Azriel woke shaking, breath crystallizing in the frigid air.

The bond.

Muffled for two days now—erupted with savage, unfamiliar pain. He'd marked each hour of silence with thin, precise cuts across his chest, but nothing prepared him for this blazing agony, as if the golden thread inside his ribs had been yanked tight and set aflame. Shadows writhed across the floor, mirroring his frantic heartbeat as sweat soaked the sheets.

He dressed by touch alone, leather sliding over half-healed wounds. Blood blossomed beneath the buckles, warm against his ice-cold skin. The hallway distorted, edges warping, but discipline drove him forward.

Movement might drown the torment. He staggered toward the training ring, trailing frost in his wake.

Cassian was drilling recruits when Azriel stepped onto the sand. Ice crackled under his boots; every Illyrian within twenty paces fell silent. His hands trembled violently, nearly dropping the practice sword until he clenched harder, reopening the newest cut.

Crimson seeped down his abdomen, its metallic scent sharp in the morning air.

A young warrior advanced.

Azriel struck—too fast, too brutal—wood splintering against bone.

The boy crumpled with a cry that Azriel barely registered through white sparks bursting behind his eyes, each one pulsing with the bond's torment.

Another opponent stepped forward, then another. Azriel met each with vicious, mechanical precision until Cassian intercepted, arms braced across his chest.

"Look at me," Cassian ordered, voice cutting through the roaring in Azriel's ears.

Azriel's vision swam. "It's worse," he rasped, throat raw. "Didn't know it could get worse."

Cassian's gaze dropped to the blood darkening Azriel's tunic. "You need a healer."

"I need-" Azriel couldn't finish.

Shadows spilled from his shoulders, lashing the air like whips, carrying the scent of nightfall and steel.

Cassian's siphons flared crimson, siphoning the wild magic before it scorched the watching recruits. "Training's over. War room, now."

Azriel remembered nothing of climbing the stairs to the River House, only the taste of copper and frost on his tongue. Maps blanketed the long table where Rhysand, Feyre, Mor, Amren, and Nesta looked up as he stumbled in, darkness trailing his every step.

Rhys's violet eyes narrowed at the blood. "Az-"

"The bond," Azriel grated, each word a tremor. "The agony's funneling straight through. I can't-" He pressed a shaking fist to his sternum where phantom fire burned. "I can't shut it out."

Feyre reached with her mind, gentle as dawn. The attempt brushed against raw nerves; Azriel recoiled with a guttural snarl. Glass shattered in the windowpanes.

The chandelier swayed, crystal tinkling. Shadows erupted, drenching the room in smothering darkness that tasted of ashes and grief.

Mor stepped forward, palms raised. "Az, breathe-"

"Every heartbeat feels like a blade," he said, voice breaking.

His eyes—normally calm as a midnight lake—shone wild, desperate. "If it gets any worse, I'll-" He bit down on the rest, but the madness was there, circling, hungry, a beast straining at its chains.

Nesta's steel-gray gaze tracked the shadows crawling over the ceiling. "Then we fix it before you lose yourself."

Cassian planted a steady hand between Azriel's shoulder blades, grounding him. "Name the order, Rhys."

Rhysand's power rolled out—cool midnight and stars—pushing the shadows back until lantern-light flickered once more. "Stealth flight to Autumn in four hours," the High Lord said. "We extract and return before dawn."

Azriel's knees nearly buckled with equal parts relief and renewed terror. "Four hours is too long."

"It's how long it takes to prepare winnow points that Beron can't trace," Rhys countered, voice edged with authority. "You will hold."

Azriel's jaw clenched so hard something cracked.

Fresh blood slid beneath his leathers, a warm contrast to the cold sweat beading his skin. "I'll try."

Amren clicked her tongue, ancient eyes gleaming. "Try harder. Velaris has survived worse than your shadows."

Azriel dragged in a ragged breath that smelled of pine and steel and coming snow.

The pain surged again—hot, merciless—and his vision went white at the edges. But he felt Cassian's steadying hand, heard Rhys's measured voice, sensed Feyre's mind-touch waiting for permission.

He swallowed hard. "Keep me busy."

Cassian's grin was fierce, all teeth. "I can do that."

The shadows settled—trembling, resentful, but leashed. Focus returned to Azriel's fever-bright eyes, razor-sharp and deadly.

Four hours.

He could endure four more hours of this hell.

And when the time came, he would fly south on wings of night and frost, and anyone standing between him and that muted golden thread would learn why even High Lords feared a shadowsinger's wrath.

Author’s Note:

If you made it through this chapter—first of all, I love you. This one was heavy, but necessary. Our girl is still standing (with fire bunnies), and Azriel is one breakdown away from realizing he’s in love. As always, thank you for reading. 💛

Taglist: @circe143 @lunarxcity @willowpains @messageforthesmallestman @lreadsstuff @evye47 @lovely-susie @moonfawnx @tele86 @moonlitlavenders @darkbloodsly @ees-chaotic-brain @smol-grandpa @auraofathena @lottiiee413 @minaaminaa8 @claudiab22 @moonbeamruins @shewolf1549 @crimsonandwhiteprincess @a-band-aid-for-your-heart @kathren1sky-blog @alimarie1105 @masbt1218 @topaz125 @falszywe @randomdumsblog @sophia-grace2025 @okaytrashpanda @thegoddessofnothingness @unarxcity @moonfawnx @svearehnn @suhke3 @galaxystern08 @willowpains @ivy-34 @hellsenthero @nayaniasworld @raccoonworld @bobbywobbby @evergreenlark @greenmandm @bobbywobbby @shinyghosteclipse @catloverandreader @the-onlyy-angie @bunnboosblog @i-like-boooks @ashduv @kayjaywrites @lovelyreaderlovesreading @badbishsblog @vera0124 @i-am-infinite @scatteredstardustt

#acotar #azriel x oc #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel x you #rhysand #cassian #eris vanserra #lucien vanserra

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alwayslurkinginthebackground · 5 months ago

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Rocking Chair - A Joel Miller Drabble

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader Rating: E, unprotected p in v, slightest of breeding kinks?, idk y'all I just went feral here. Word Count: 2156 a/n: Happy TLOU Sunday! I genuinely blacked out while writing half of this in some kind of NyQuil induced haze! Enjoy!

Something is bothering him.

You clocked it the second you walked over the threshold of his brother's home. Actually, you knew something was up long before that, when he kept trying to make excuses as to why you and Ellie should go and he should stay home, despite the fact that it was his brother. Eventually, you convinced him to follow you down the street, Ellie chattering excitedly about the prospect of having a baby in the family while Joel dragged his feet.

His mood only worsened as the evening went on, following the trend of distance he'd been following since the baby arrived, a pattern that made you uneasy. Tonight, it was difficult to tell if it was the result of the mirage of questioning from the handful of close friends Tommy and Maria had invited over to meet their new son or because of whatever was lurking in the depths of his mind, but you kept trying to pinpoint it. You could only assume that it was some combination of both, a hypothesis only strengthened by the look of disappointment in the younger Miller brother's eyes when his sibling politely declined the opportunity to hold his nephew.

You're next to Ellie on the couch, the newest resident of Jackson tucked into your arms, when you meet his eyes from across the room for what feels like the thousandth time since you arrived. He's leaning against the door to the kitchen and you can see the discomfort in his posture and the way his shoulders tense further as yet another person approaches to congratulate him as though he was the new father and not his brother.

"Can I hold him?" Ellie asks suddenly, pulling your attention back to your side of the room. You turn to find her bright eyes looking down at the sleeping child, and it's impossible to stop the spread of warmth through your chest at the teen's eagerness. After a quick glance at Maria for permission, you gently pass the bundle over to Ellie, showing her how to properly cradle his head.

Joel's still watching when you turn back to the kitchen, his gaze securely set on the way Ellie is beaming as she holds the newborn. There's something hovering beneath the surface of his dark gaze, the root of whatever has truly been bothering him, and you feel certain you've almost worked it out when Ellie elbows you.

"He's waking up! What do I do?!"

"Just keep holding him, it'll be okay," you reassure her, although when the crying starts a moment later you can't help but join in the laughter filling the room as Ellie quickly hands the baby back to his mother. She breathes a sigh of relief and flops back on the couch the second he's out of her arms, and you give her a pat on the shoulder before you naturally seek out Joel once more, only to find him gone.

You don't see him again until the gathering winds down. He's eager to get home, and soon he's resuming his vigil of silence on the walk back down the street. He's behind you, always behind you, his shoulders still set in the same rigid formation they've been in all night, and you walk a few feet ahead with Ellie, doing your best to answer her questions about when the baby will start talking or walking and whether you think he'll look more like Tommy or Maria when he gets older.

The delicate balance that has been hanging between the three of you all evening holds steady until you're back through your own door, when three sets of eyes land on the rocking chair that still sits nearby, the silence soon enveloping you all.

"I thought you were going to bring that for Tommy and Maria?" Ellie asks, breaking the tension in a way that has you wincing, even if she's right. The chair still smells of fresh lumber, the smooth edges molded by Joel's hands in the late hours of the night when he couldn't sleep, and it's still sitting in your living room.

"Didn't he want it?" she continues, earning her an elbow to the ribs courtesy of your right arm. Joel grumbles something behind you as Ellie winces, and you're already silently begging her not to push it further. She must catch the look you give her because a moment later she's heading upstairs with a heavy sigh, the door of her room closing with a soft click.

"Wanna tell me what's going on?" you inquire firmly once you're alone, arms crossing over your chest as you watch Joel move into the kitchen.

He dismisses you with a shake of his head and a muttered "nothin's wrong," but the way he stands, unmoving as he stares at the sparse contents of the fridge, tells you otherwise.

"No, something is bothering you, so do you wanna start with why you've been distant all week or would you rather discuss the way you tried to stay as far away as possible from your new nephew tonight?"

It's easy to see the way he tenses when you finish your questioning. You've known him long enough to recognize the subtle straightening of his spine whenever you hit a little too close to the mark and the way he avoids eye contact when he turns back in your direction, a signal that you have indeed gotten under his skin. It's in the familiar quiet that descends upon the kitchen as you wait for him to speak.

Only, unlike the clockwork routine you expect to follow, the one that usually has him letting down a few of his walls for you and you alone, you instead find yourself hauled against his body like a man possessed. When his grasp trails to your thighs, it's mostly instinct that has you jumping up to wrap your legs around his waist in a practiced motion.

He's pinning you against the counter within seconds.

"Joel," you mumble, trying to sound stern even as his lips trail along your jawline, down your neck, and across the expanse of your chest, trailing lower until he's found where you're wet and wanting. You try to get him to look at you, hands raking through the hair he's refused to cut as of late, hopeful that his gaze will tell you something about the way you can feel him avoiding whatever it is that's on his mind. A hint as to why he's using you to forget instead of working through the emotions that are obviously controlling his every move.

But when your eyes meet his again, you only see the feral haze of lust, and you can do nothing but give in when he's pressing his nose against the damp spot between your thighs, leaving you thankful for the warm summer air that made you choose one of the few dresses in your closet as your attire for the evening.

He's slipped your panties from your legs in record time, leaving you squirming atop the edge of the small island in the center of the room. It's obvious that he won't be gentle, not tonight, not when he's hard between your thighs a moment later, filling you in a swift motion that has you wondering when he managed to even unbutton his jeans. You bite into the soft flesh of his shoulder, holding in the scream that could alert the teenager upstairs about what's currently happening in the kitchen, but the sound crawls up your chest with each pound of his hips against yours.

"Quiet," he whispers harshly in your ear, an unnecessary command because a moment later he's devouring you again, the frantic movement of his lips against yours concealing any evidence that threatens to escape. It's fast, the way he's rutting into you, within you, driving you higher until you're no longer certain where he stops and you begin.

And then you notice it. You catch the way he's focused on something over your shoulder, but it isn't until he's lifted you from the counter and carried you effortlessly across the room that your mind begins to process.

Ellie's earlier question slips from your mouth when he settles you in his lap, your knees braced against the wood on either side of his hips. "Thought this was for Tommy," you grit out when he guides your hips against his own, the chair rocking back in a way that leaves you feeling off balance. "I thought it was for the ba..."

He cuts you off with a grunt, pulling you back down and holding you tightly against him as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. He's strangely silent, his movements slowing to nothing even as the chair continues to shift slowly back and forth beneath you. The only sound remaining is the heavy rhythm of your breath, your body relaxing further against his in a way that makes it impossible not to feel him everywhere.

"Hey," you ask, voice softer now, more at ease, because you know he'll hear you this time. "I saw the way you were looking at them, earlier." He says nothing as you trace your fingers along the greying stubble on his jaw and you wait to see if he'll answer you, even if you already know his answer to the question you haven't asked.

It wasn't a secret to anyone that Joel was struggling with the idea of his brother having a kid, but it left everyone treading a fine line between the eager new father and the man still plagued by the memories of his lost daughter. The prospect of new joys mirrored only by the multitude of moments stolen long, long ago.

So when Joel had brought up the idea of the rocking chair, it caught you off guard. Things had been understandably tense between the Miller brothers, but it felt to you like Joel was finally finding peace with the situation, the rocking chair serving as an olive branch. One that might just help repair the broken parts of their relationship. But now, wrapped up in his arms, you begin to realize that perhaps you've been reading it all wrong.

You smooth back his hair from his forehead, looking down at him, and you see it. It's not just the loss of Sarah he's mourning now. It's the loss of all of it.

So you do the only thing you can think of. You move.

The sound that escapes his lips as you lift from his lap can only be described as a growl, one that you can feel rumbling in his chest when you brace your hands against it. You're slow at first, letting his length drag along your walls until he's nearly slipped from your heat, and then you fall back down. Joel's hands slip beneath the fabric of your dress, pushing it up along the expanse of your back as his fingers trail along your spine.

He pulls you closer then, his grip just as possessive as earlier, tugging you against him in a way that has you keening. You do your best to cling to reality, gripping the wood behind his head, nails digging into the surface as he continues to guide you. But when he tries to lift you from his lap, as he tries to proceed through the practiced motions that will leave him spilling across your stomach, you stop him.

"It's okay," you whisper against his ear, "let go."

For a moment he resists, his eyes clamping shut with the effort it takes to ward off his own climax as you continue to clench around him. But when you whisper it again, it's all the encouragement he needs. He finally snaps, pulling you somehow closer as he buries his length in your heat, the movement causing the chair that supports you both to rock back and forth gently as he fills you to the brim.

The air in the room feels different as you come back to earth, the two of you still nearly fully clothed as you perch atop his lap. He's softening inside you, the gentle feeling of his release trickling down your thigh and onto his jeans, but neither of you have the will to move aside from the way you gently rest your head against his shoulder.

"Are you sure?" Joel asks a while after, the question sounding redundant as his hands run soothingly along your back.

You nod against him, pressing your lips to the spot where his shoulder meets his neck. "I'm sure. Although," you pause, pulling back, "I think you might need to make another chair for Tommy and Maria."

"And why would that be?" he questions in a way that, for the first time in weeks, makes you feel like the man you love is back.

"Because," you kiss him softly, "we're gonna need this one for us."

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #tlou sundays #lurking and writing

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odileeclipse · 3 months ago

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In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 16

<<<Previous Next>>>

No, you would go. But today would be different. You had decided determined, really that today would be nothing more than a lesson. All work, no jokes. No lingering on things that didn’t matter. No personal questions. No stolen glances. Because it wasn’t fair. He knew so much about you. Your struggles, your habits, the way your mind worked…or failed to work, at times.

He had seen you laid bare metaphorically, of course, but somehow that was worse. He had read you like an open book, and yet when you tried to do the same, you found the pages blank, sealed, or written in a language you could not understand. What did you know of him? He played the harpsichord. That much you had gathered. But what did he listen to when he was alone? What was his favorite piece?

Did he hum while he worked, or did he sit in silence, letting the weight of knowledge fill the air? Did he prefer tea or coffee? Did he even need to eat? And if he did, what was his favorite meal? Who were his friends? Did he have friends? Or was he always the Sage, always standing apart, untouchable and revered? What had he been like as a child? Had he always been this way poised, unwavering, impossibly composed? Or had he once been clumsy, uncertain, still learning what it meant to be the Sage of Truth? Was he spoken for?

That thought, more than any other, made something twist inside you, a sharp pang of something you refused to name. It wasn’t his fault you had gotten attached. But you had. And now, you had to fix it. You pushed the door open, stepping into the study room with renewed resolve. Today, there would be no unnecessary conversation, no lingering warmth. Just work. At least, that was the plan. You only hoped he wouldn’t make it difficult.

You entered the room, not bothering to hesitate at the threshold. No unnecessary thoughts. No unnecessary emotions. Just work. Without so much as a greeting, you pulled out your notes, flipping to the section you had struggled with most. The paper was a mess of hurried scribbles, half-finished equations, and the occasional margin note that made less sense now than when you first wrote it. But that didn’t matter. You dropped the pages onto the desk in front of you and spoke clear, direct, without hesitation.

"On the application of astral runes in planar stabilization," you began, skipping pleasantries altogether. "How does the stability matrix account for flux when the anchor points shift independently of one another?"

It was an advanced question, more than a little out of your depth, but that was precisely the point. If you buried yourself in complex theory, there would be no room for anything else, no stray thoughts, no wandering emotions, no reflections on how unfair it felt to be this exposed while knowing so little about him.

You finally lifted your gaze, forcing yourself to meet Shadow Milk Cookie’s golden eyes. He had been watching you from the moment you stepped in, his hands folded neatly on the desk, his expression unreadable. Usually, he would greet you with a thoughtful remark, perhaps a small observation on your mood or state of mind. But this time, you had given him no opening.

No space for idle chatter. Only a question. His gaze lingered for a moment, searching, as if trying to discern something unspoken. Then, with an almost imperceptible tilt of his head, he answered. "A precise question." His voice was as smooth as ever, but there was something else there, something quieter. "Let us begin."

You sat down with a sharp, deliberate motion, placing your notes onto the table before Shadow Milk Cookie could say anything. No greeting, no lingering hesitation, just a question. “About the theorem we covered last time,” you said, flipping to a particular page in your notes, voice brisk, focused. “I was reviewing the applications, but I’m not sure how it applies when you shift the variables outside of the original bounds.”

The words left your mouth in a rush, leaving no space for anything else. No space for warmth. No space for familiarity. No space for him to see through you. For a moment, there was silence. Then, Shadow Milk Cookie, ever composed, inclined his head. His golden eyes flickered over you not with suspicion, not with amusement, but with something unreadable. He did not acknowledge the shift in your demeanor. Did not ask why there was no hello, no trace of your usual energy. Instead, he smoothly picked up the thread of your inquiry, as if nothing had changed.

“A fair question,” he mused, steepling his fingers before him. “To understand the constraints of the theorem, one must first consider its foundational premise. If we deconstruct the function as an extension of its primary logic, we find that-” He launched into an explanation with his usual measured eloquence, his voice even and assured, weaving seamlessly between theory and application.

Good. Good. This was what you needed. You nodded along, forcing your mind to follow the thread of his reasoning, gripping onto each word like a lifeline. If you focused truly, deeply focused on this, then maybe the rest would fall away. Maybe you wouldn’t feel the weight in your chest, the sting of self-awareness whispering that you were lying to yourself. But Shadow Milk Cookie was thorough.

He explained the theorem in layered depth, drawing diagrams with practiced ease, his golden eyes alight with the quiet thrill of dissecting knowledge. His words flowed effortlessly, forming intricate patterns of logic, each thought linking seamlessly to the next. His explanations were precise, unraveling the structure of the problem with such clarity that, for a moment, you felt yourself being swept into it.

You blinked. Wait. What? Your grip on your quill faltered as you scrambled to process the last few sentences. Somewhere between defining the function’s behavior and its correlation to alternative magical applications, he had gone far beyond what you could follow. “Slow down,” you blurted, lifting a hand in surrender. “I don’t-I don’t understand.” Shadow Milk Cookie halted mid-sentence, his gaze flicking to yours. His expression did not change, but there was something in his eyes something careful, something aware. You swallowed, feeling frustration creep into your chest not at him, but at yourself. At the fact that you had let yourself get caught in the cadence of his voice, in the way his words spun knowledge so effortlessly, and now you were struggling to keep up.

No. That wasn’t the only reason. You were frustrated because even now even after deciding that you needed to create distance, that it wasn’t fair how much he knew about you while you knew so little of him he still had the power to pull you in. Still had the ability to make you forget yourself. He tilted his head slightly, as if considering you. Then, instead of continuing, he leaned forward slightly, hands resting on the table with practiced ease. "Tell me, then," he said, his voice softer now, less of a lecture and more of an invitation. "Where did I lose you?"

You gritted your teeth. That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t fair. If he had just been indifferent, if he had simply continued as though you were nothing more than a struggling student, it would have been easier. But he wasn’t indifferent. He was patient. And worse he was perceptive. You forced yourself to exhale. “The part about restructuring the function,” you admitted, flipping back a page in your notes, trying to ignore the way your voice had lost its sharp edge. “You lost me there.”

Shadow Milk Cookie nodded once, then, with the same patience as always, began again. And you let him. You let him guide you back through the explanation, let yourself focus on the words, let yourself be lost in the steady rhythm of learning. Because deceit was a warmer embrace than truth. And if you focused hard enough, maybe you could convince yourself that this was all there was. Your quill hovered over the page, ink pooling at the tip, threatening to drop onto your already messy notes. You stared, not really seeing the words anymore, your mind an unsteady blur of half-formed thoughts.

Shadow Milk Cookie’s voice was steady, patient as always. His explanations wove through the air, each word carefully measured, precise, yet they slipped through your grasp like sand. You tried to follow, tried to focus, but nothing stuck. You knew it wasn’t him. It wasn’t the material. It was you. And that made it worse. “Do you follow?” he asked, his tone as composed as ever. You blinked, suddenly aware that he had finished speaking. You hadn’t even processed the last thing he said.

“Uh-” Your grip on the quill tightened, your heartbeat loud in your ears. You scrambled, flipping back a few pages in your notes as if searching for something, anything that would make the past few minutes click into place. But it was useless. His gaze was expectant, not impatient, not unkind. Just waiting. Waiting for you to catch up. Waiting for you to be honest. Your chest tightened. You couldn’t do this. “I don’t get it.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, low and tense, barely above a whisper. You swallowed, willing your voice to stay even, but the frustration was creeping in, sinking its claws deep into your ribs. “I don’t” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “I’m not following anything you’re saying.”

Shadow Milk Cookie tilted his head slightly, studying you. “Would you like me to simplify it?” That…That was it. The final push. You let out a short, bitter laugh, but there was no humor in it. Your quill clattered onto the desk as you leaned back, rubbing a hand down your face.

“What’s the point?” His expression didn’t change. He simply regarded you, eyes steady, waiting for you to continue. You almost didn’t. But something in you snapped. “It’s not like I’ll get it if you keep trying,” you muttered, shaking your head. “I don’t...I don’t know why I even bother.” You exhaled harshly, hands clenching into fists on your lap.

“I just...I thought if I kept showing up, if I kept listening, I’d get somewhere, but I...” Your breath hitched, frustration rising to the surface, sharp and undeniable. “It’s useless. I don’t get it. I never get it.” Your voice wavered at the last part, and you hated that. A quiet settled between you, thick and heavy. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the heat behind them to go away. You didn’t want to be seen like this weak, frustrated, cracking under the weight of something that shouldn’t even matter this much.

But then he spoke. “Are you frustrated with the material?” The question was simple. Too simple. And for some reason, that made your chest tighten even more. You opened your mouth, ready to snap out an answer, to deflect, to insist that yes, of course, it was the material. What else could it possibly be? But the words wouldn’t come. Because it wasn’t just the material.

And Shadow Milk Cookie…He was too perceptive for his own good. You clenched your jaw, turning your face away, unwilling to meet his gaze. “I don’t know,” you muttered. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth, either. Silence stretched between you again. You wished he’d just move on. Let it go. Let you sit in your frustration and wallow until the feeling passed. But instead, he said “Truth is not always kind.”

Shadow Milk Cookie rested his chin against the back of his hand, watching you carefully. “It is a mirror that does not bend to our wishes. And when we look into it, we do not always like what we see.” You stared at him, words caught in your throat. He continued, voice calm, unwavering.

“Deceit, on the other hand, is a gentler embrace. It soothes, where truth may wound. It comforts, where truth may force confrontation.” He tilted his head slightly, gaze sharp, piercing. “Would you rather remain in deceit, then? Because it is easier?” You jolted as if struck.

Your mouth opened, then shut. You had no response. Something in you curled inward, like an exposed nerve, raw and aching. You wanted to say no. You wanted to deny it, to insist that you sought truth, that you weren’t weak enough to cling to something false just because it hurt less. But wasn’t that exactly what you were doing? Wasn’t that why you were here, sitting stiffly in your chair, forcing yourself to create distance because you had let yourself see too much? Your throat tightened. “I-” Your voice failed you. You suddenly felt… exposed. Like he had peeled back a layer of yourself you hadn’t even realized was showing.

Your hands clenched into fists. You needed to focus. You needed to ground yourself in something solid before you spiraled too far. You forced yourself to look at your notes, flipping a page just for the sake of doing something, anything. “Let’s” You cleared your throat, trying to steady your voice. “Let’s just get back to work.”

Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you for a long moment. His gaze wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t pitying, either. Just… knowing. You didn’t like that. But he did not press. “Very well,” he said simply, and began again. You tried to follow. You really did. But your thoughts were elsewhere, your mind still tangled in the weight of his words. And before long, you realized, You weren’t listening at all. You were staring. You weren’t sure when it happened, but at some point, you had stopped hearing his words entirely. His voice became nothing more than a distant hum, like waves rolling in and out against the shore. His gestures, his careful movements, the way his golden eyes flickered with thought it all blurred together into something incomprehensible.

“Are you following?” You snapped upright, startled. You blinked rapidly, heat rising to your face as you scrambled to make sense of where you were, of what he had just said. But you had nothing. You had absorbed none of it. Your breath caught. Your heart pounded against your ribs. You swallowed thickly, gripping the edge of your notes like they could anchor you back to reality. “Wait-wait, slow down, I-I don’t understand.”

Shadow Milk Cookie paused. Then, slowly, he leaned back, folding his hands neatly in his lap. “I see,” he mused, and there was something almost amused in his voice. “You weren’t listening at all, were you?” Your face burned. You turned away sharply, jaw clenching, frustration bubbling up all over again.

“Forget it,” you muttered. “Forget it?” he echoed, arching a brow. “You were so determined when you arrived today. I wonder, what changed?” Your breath caught. You wanted to say nothing. You wanted to pretend it was just another day, another failed attempt at understanding material that would always slip through your fingers. But you couldn’t. Because you knew what changed. And you were afraid to admit it. To him. To yourself.

The silence stretched between you. You weren’t sure how long you had been staring at the parchment in front of you, but the words no longer made sense not because they were difficult, but because they felt distant, irrelevant. Like trying to grasp smoke. You knew he was watching you. You could feel the weight of his gaze, the quiet patience with which he waited for you to speak. But you had nothing to say. Your fingers curled against the edge of your notes, gripping them tightly before relaxing again.

What were you doing here? You had asked yourself that before, but the question had never burned as much as it did now. It wasn’t his fault. That much you knew. It wasn’t his fault that he was always composed, always steady, always carrying himself with the unshaken confidence of someone who knew their place in the world. It wasn’t his fault that he could look at you, really look at you and see through the barriers you thought you had built. That he could tell, without needing to ask, whether you were listening, whether you were engaged, whether your mind was somewhere far away. Instead of addressing anything he continued tutoring in the hopes you’d start to follow along.

The ink on your parchment blurred before your eyes, the symbols and diagrams twisting into meaningless shapes. You weren’t even tired…not really, but focus felt impossible, slipping through your fingers like grains of sand. You knew he could tell. Of course he could. Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t miss things like this. Even now, as you sat stiffly across from him, your notes spread out in front of you, you could feel the weight of his gaze.

Patient. Expectant. Waiting for you to catch up, to ask a question, to engage. But you hadn’t. Not tonight. Instead, you had simply nodded along, feigning understanding when in reality, your mind was a thousand miles away. Shadow Milk Cookie finally set down his quill. The motion was deliberate, the quiet tap against the desk almost deafening in the heavy silence.

“You are unfocused.” Your jaw tensed. It wasn’t a question. You swallowed, gripping your quill a little tighter. “I’m fine.” His golden eyes studied you. “Then tell me what I just explained.” You hesitated. There was an answer somewhere in your head, you were sure of it. But when you reached for it, all you found was noise his voice, the rhythm of his words, the structure of his explanations, all slipping past you too fast to grasp. “I-” You frowned. “It was about…” Nothing. Your silence was all the answer he needed.

Shadow Milk Cookie hummed, tapping his fingers lightly against the parchment. “Curious. If you are fine, as you claim, then why do you falter?” You inhaled sharply, irritation prickling under your skin. “I just zoned out for a second.”

“More than a second.”

You clenched your jaw, heat rising to your face. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “It is if you wish to learn.”

That was the thing, wasn’t it? You did want to learn. You wanted to be here. Or at least, you had convinced yourself that you did. But tonight, everything felt wrong. You had walked into this session determined to build a wall, to keep things strictly professional, to separate whatever this was from what it needed to be. He was your tutor, nothing more. And he knew you weren’t listening. It was unfair. Unfair that he could read you so easily, unfair that he always seemed to know exactly what you were thinking, unfair that he could see right through you while you…You knew so little of him. You had spent all this time by his side, listening to his teachings, watching the way his mind worked, the way his words wove knowledge into something tangible. You had seen him confident, assured, unwavering. But beyond that?

What did he like outside of all this? Did he have a favorite color? A favorite meal? Did he ever get frustrated? Did he ever feel lost? Who were his friends? What was his childhood like? What made him him? He had told you once that his hair was a reflection of who he was. But that answer had only left you with more questions. And yet, he had never offered more. And why would he? Why should he?

Your fingers curled into fists on the table. This wasn’t his fault. That was the worst part. This wasn’t his fault. It was yours. Yours for letting yourself get attached, for allowing yourself to wonder, for looking at him and seeing something beyond what was there or worse, for seeing something that was there but was never meant for you.

Shadow Milk Cookie exhaled softly. “Shall we begin again?” His voice was calm, composed. Like this was just another lesson, just another evening. Your frustration swelled. You couldn’t do this. Not like this. “Why do you care?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, sharper than you intended.

Shadow Milk Cookie’s eyes narrowed slightly not in irritation, but in consideration. “Is that truly what you wish to ask?” You let out a sharp breath, shaking your head. “I just. I don’t get it. Why does it matter if I’m paying attention or not? It’s my problem, isn’t it? It’s my responsibility to learn.”

Shadow Milk Cookie leaned back slightly, regarding you with a look you couldn’t quite decipher. “You misunderstand.” You frowned. “Do I?”

“Yes.” His tone was measured, deliberate. “It is not that I care whether you listen. It is that you wish to listen, yet you do not.”

Your heart stuttered. His gaze didn’t waver. “And that, I believe, is what frustrates you most.” Your breath caught in your throat. You did want to listen. You wanted to be here. But your thoughts had tangled into something unmanageable, something overwhelming, and no matter how hard you tried to pull yourself back, you couldn’t. You looked away, your voice quieter now. “It’s not that simple.”

“Is it not?”

You scoffed. “Of course you’d say that.” His lips quirked up at the corner, almost imperceptibly. “I only speak the truth.” You exhaled sharply, pressing your fingers against your temple.

“You always do, don’t you?” There was a pause.

“Would you rather I lie?” You looked up at him sharply, startled by the question. Shadow Milk Cookie’s gaze remained steady, unyielding. But there was something beneath the surface. You swallowed. “No.”

He nodded, as if that answer was expected. “Then tell me.”

You hesitated. “Tell you what?”

“What troubles you.” You nearly laughed.

“That’s not how this works.”

He tilted his head slightly. “No?” You let out a dry chuckle. “You’re the Sage of Truth. You already know, don’t you?” He didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was softer than before.

“I know what I observe. But I am not omniscient.” Something in your chest tightened. You shook your head, looking away again. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” You exhaled sharply, frustration flickering back to the surface. “Why?”

He regarded you for a long moment before speaking. “Because truth is not always what one wants. And yet, it remains. Would you rather embrace deceit?”

Yes. Yes, because deceit was easier. It was a warmer embrace than the truth. Because the truth was…You liked him but…you didn’t know him. Not really. And yet, you had let yourself want to. Your fingers curled against the parchment, heart pounding. Shadow Milk Cookie sighed, leaning forward slightly. “We will begin again,” he repeated, quieter this time. You swallowed hard, nodding without a word. You didn’t know what you were doing anymore. But you knew you had to move forward. Even if the truth was the last thing you wanted to face.

The sharp edges of frustration had dulled now, replaced with something else something quieter, something bitter. You had let your emotions dictate your actions, let them warp your thoughts into something unbecoming. You had sat here, barely listening, building walls between yourself and the one person who had done nothing to deserve it. And for what? Because he saw through you? Because you didn’t know him the way he seemed to know you? It was childish. You were childish.

Your grip on your quill tightened before you finally sighed, letting the tension slip from your shoulders. “I…” You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry.” Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t respond right away. He merely watched you, eyes unreadable in the dim candlelight of his office.

“For what?” You hesitated, pressing your lips together before exhaling. “For… behaving like that. For letting things get to me. For…” You frowned, searching for the right words. “For allowing emotions I don’t even understand to dictate what I do.”

He tilted his head slightly, considering your words. “A rare admission.” You let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. “Yeah, well. I feel foolish.” His gaze didn’t waver.

“Foolishness is not in acknowledging one’s emotions. It is in denying them.” You stared at him for a long moment before shaking your head. “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Say things that make too much sense,” you muttered, rubbing your temple. Then, after a beat, you looked at him again, more serious this time. “How do you always know the truth?” He blinked, the shift in topic catching him off guard. “I am the Sage of Truth.”

“No,” you interjected. “Not as the Sage of Truth. I want you to answer me as Shadow Milk.” His expression flickered, the ever-present composure cracking just slightly at your request. You leaned forward, elbows resting against the table. “What is the truth to you? And don’t give me some grand, philosophical answer. I want to know what it means to you.”

Shadow Milk Cookie was quiet for a long time, his fingers idly brushing against the parchment on the table. You could see the way he weighed his words, measured them as he always did. But this time, it wasn’t for the sake of some grand declaration. Finally, he spoke. “The truth,” he said slowly, “is both burden and gift.” You frowned slightly, but let him continue.

“It is an unyielding force. One that exists beyond our desires, beyond what we want to be true. It does not change, no matter how we plead or fight against it. And yet…” His gaze softened, almost imperceptibly. “It is also what guides us. What shapes us. What reveals us, even when we do not wish to be seen.”

You exhaled through your nose, mulling over his words before finally asking, “And what about me?” Shadow Milk Cookie blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You said truth reveals us even when we don’t wish to be seen.” You met his gaze fully now, unwavering. “What do you see? What do you know just from what you observe in me?”

His expression shifted something deeper settling in his gaze, something you couldn’t name. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer. “I see someone who tries to convince themselves they do not care, when in reality, they care far too much.” Your breath hitched. “I see someone who holds their own struggles close, too stubborn to share them, because they believe no one would truly understand."

You held your breath. “I see someone who seeks knowledge not just for the sake of learning, but for the sake of proving something to themselves, to others, to someone whose voice still lingers in their mind.”

Your chest felt tight. “That’s-” But he wasn’t done. “I see someone who is afraid.” Your breath caught in your throat. His voice was softer now, but no less steady. “Afraid of being seen. Afraid of being known. However…” He studied you carefully, as if peeling back the layers of your very being.

“You crave it, all the same.” The room felt too small. You swallowed hard, looking away. “I hate that you’re right.” Shadow Milk Cookie hummed, tilting his head.

“Did you want me to lie?” You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “No.” He nodded, as if that was all he needed. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“…Is that all you see?” The question was quieter than before, uncertain. Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his golden eyes. “I see someone who is trying.” You looked up at him. He continued, voice steady. “Someone who, despite everything, still moves forward. Who still chooses to be here. And that, I believe, is no small thing.”

Your chest ached. There was nothing grand about his words, nothing overly poetic. Just simple, honest truth. And somehow, that made it harder to bear. You exhaled, rubbing your temple. “You really don’t hold back, do you?” His lips curved ever so slightly. “You asked.” You let out another breathless chuckle, shaking your head. “Yeah. I did.” The weight of the conversation still lingered, pressing down on you. But somehow, it didn’t feel quite so suffocating anymore. “…We should probably get back to studying,” you murmured after a beat. Shadow Milk Cookie inclined his head slightly. “If you are ready.” You hesitated just for a moment before nodding. “I am.” And this time, you meant it. At least you thought you did.

The conversation lingered in your mind, even as you forced yourself to refocus. Shadow Milk Cookie had said his piece laid bare what he saw in you and though the weight of it still sat heavy in your chest, you found yourself breathing a little easier. And as the lesson resumed, something within you eased.

The usual rhythm returned the back-and-forth, the push and pull. You let yourself slip into the banter, your playful nature peeking through in small quips and exaggerated sighs of suffering whenever he asked a particularly difficult question. “Of course you’d expect me to remember that,” you muttered, frowning at the notes before you. Shadow Milk Cookie merely arched a brow. “Would you prefer a simpler question?”

You scoffed. “What, and give you the satisfaction? I don’t think so.” He exhaled, amusement dancing in his golden eyes. “Your defiance is commendable, though misdirected.”

You grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” And so it went. You asked questions. He answered them. He posed new ones, guiding you toward realizations without simply handing you the answers. Somehow, without even realizing it, you learned. Not through rigid memorization or frustrating drills, but through genuine discussion. By the time you finally closed your notebook, the weight of the day felt lighter, the earlier frustration nothing more than a faint echo in the background.

“Well,” you sighed, stretching slightly. “That’s that.” Shadow Milk Cookie gave a satisfied nod. “You grasped the concepts well.” You hummed, tapping your fingers idly against the cover of your notebook before saying, “I don’t actually think I needed to learn this.” His gaze flickered to you, mild curiosity in his expression.

You shrugged. “I just picked the concept that seemed the hardest.” You smiled a little, rolling your shoulders. “Figured if I was going to spend time learning something, it might as well be the biggest challenge. Maybe it’ll come in handy one day.” Shadow Milk Cookie studied you for a moment before exhaling a quiet chuckle. “That is certainly one approach.”

You smirked. “Hey, if I’m going to suffer, I might as well choose my suffering.” He shook his head, though there was no real disapproval in his expression. “You continue to be an enigma.” You laughed. “And yet, somehow, you always seem to figure me out.”

He hummed, watching you with that ever-measured gaze. “Not entirely.” That made you pause. Your grin faltered slightly, just enough for the shift in expression to be noticeable. But before you could ask what he meant before you could linger too long on the thought he spoke again. “Shall we conclude for today?” You blinked before nodding.

“Yeah. That sounds good.” He nodded in return, gathering his own notes as you shut your notebook. You found yourself wondering just for a moment, if he had truly meant what he said. That he didn’t entirely know you. That there was still more to be seen. You left his office only to return. You should have stayed gone. But, It wasn’t time for dinner yet, and you had nothing to do. You also nothing to say, no reason to sit here idly while he worked.

Your fingers tapped against the arm of your chair, your gaze flicking between the bookshelves that loomed over his desk, the faint glimmer of candlelight against the deep blue strands of his hair, and the serene focus on his face. Shadow Milk Cookie hardly seemed to register your presence. Or maybe he did and simply chose not to acknowledge it. You weren’t sure which would have been worse. You shifted in your seat, uncomfortable, not with him but with yourself.

Your mind was restless, searching for something to latch onto, and before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out. “…What do you actually like?” The quill stopped mid-stroke. For a long, silent moment, he did not move, his head only barely tilting in your direction. Then, his golden eyes flickered toward you, unreadable. “…I beg your pardon?” You swallowed, suddenly feeling foolish, but you had already spoken. There was no taking it back. “I mean… I don’t know anything about you. Not really,” you admitted, leaning back in your chair. “I know the Sage of Truth. I know the scholar, the mentor, the one everyone looks up to. But… I don’t know you.”

That surprised him. You could tell by the way his brows lifted just slightly, the way his quill lingered, forgotten, between his fingers. You exhaled, shifting under his gaze. “What do you like?” you repeated, softer this time. Shadow Milk Cookie set his quill down, folding his hands neatly over the parchment. “You are quite direct today.”

You huffed. “Would you rather I beat around the bush?” He studied you, something thoughtful behind his gaze, before exhaling softly. “No,” he admitted, almost to himself. You weren’t sure why, but the way he said it made something in your chest feel lighter. Still, he seemed to consider your question carefully, as if deciding how much of himself he was willing to share.

Finally, he answered. “I enjoy playing the harpsichord,” he said, voice even, measured. “The act of creation through music is… calming.” You blinked, you knew this.

He continued. “I find solace in quiet libraries, where the weight of time lingers in the air.” He glanced briefly at the nearest bookshelf, his expression softening just slightly. “And I prefer tea to coffee. Something floral, with a subtle sweetness.” You listened, eyes fixed on him, taking in every word as if they were the rarest truths you had ever heard.

Shadow Milk Cookie hesitated for a fraction of a second, then added, quieter almost like an afterthought “…I like the night sky.” Your breath caught. Not because of what he said, but because of the way he said it. There was something different in his tone something uncharacteristically unguarded.

You tilted your head. “Why?” He glanced at you, then away, his fingers pressing together slightly. “…Because it is vast, endless, and unknown.” A pause. “Because no matter how much I seek to understand it, there will always be something beyond my reach.” You watched him carefully, his golden eyes fixed somewhere distant, as if lost in thought.

For a moment, he wasn’t the Sage of Truth. He was just himself. Perhaps you selfishly wanted to see more of that. You hummed, letting his words settle before saying, “So… if you like the night sky because it’s something you can’t fully understand… does that mean you like a challenge?”

His gaze snapped back to you. And for just a second just a heartbeat you thought you saw it. A faint warmth at the tips of his ears. It was gone before you could be certain, but something about it made your own heart stumble over itself. Shadow Milk Cookie exhaled through his nose, amusement flickering in his expression, though his eyes held something else something curious. “

You are quite bold today,” he remarked. You shrugged. “Maybe I just wanted to see what kind of answer I’d get.” His lips quirked up slightly, a ghost of a smile, before he leaned back in his chair. “And? Are you satisfied?”

You studied him for a moment, the quiet flicker of candlelight reflecting in his eyes. Maybe it was because you swore just for a moment that you had seen something there, something warm and human and quietly sincere, but you found yourself smiling. “…I think I’ll need to keep asking to know for sure.” Shadow Milk Cookie exhaled softly, shaking his head, but there was no disapproval in it. Only quiet amusement. “…So be it.”

The soft glow of candlelight flickered against the polished wood of Shadow Milk Cookie’s desk, casting long shadows that stretched toward the walls lined with books and parchment. You leaned back in your chair, staring at the ceiling as you let your thoughts drift, the memory of the night in the Ghost City lingering in your mind. You had meant to focus on your studies tonight to keep things light, simple, free of the tangled web of thoughts you kept getting caught in. But your curiosity gnawed at you, persistent and unshaken. And so, before you could think better of it, you spoke.

“You know… the other day, when we went to the Ghost City, I heard this story.” Shadow Milk Cookie hummed in acknowledgment, quill still moving against parchment, his focus undisturbed. “Oh?”

“Yeah. A ghost told it in the Storyteller’s Circle,” you continued, watching his expression carefully. “It was about two lovers who could only meet once every hundred years.” His quill paused for just a fraction of a second before continuing its path across the page. “A compelling premise,” he mused, his tone neutral.

“What did you make of it?” You huffed, tilting your head. “I don’t know. Chai Latte thought it was romantic.” He let out a thoughtful sound, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “Hazelnut Biscotti said it was tragic,” you added, crossing your arms. “A reasonable perspective.”

“And Earl Grey Cookie said some people are worth waiting for.” At that, Shadow Milk Cookie finally glanced up from his work, his golden gaze flickering toward you with quiet intrigue. “And what do you think?”

You hesitated. That was the real question, wasn’t it? You exhaled, shifting in your seat. “I think… I don’t know if I could wait that long. A hundred years is a long time.” You tapped your fingers against the desk idly. “But I guess it depends.”

Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you carefully, setting his quill down. “On what?” You met his gaze. “On the person.” A beat of silence stretched between you. You weren’t sure if he caught the way your voice dipped slightly, the way something quiet curled beneath your words. If he did, he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, considering. “A rather pragmatic answer.” You shrugged. “So… would you?” His brow arched slightly. “Would I…?”

“Wait,” you clarified. “A hundred years. For someone you cared about.” You tried to keep your tone casual, as if this were just another question in a long list of inquiries about philosophy, logic, and the nature of truth itself. But your fingers curled against the fabric of your sleeve. “Would you wait that long for someone?” His eyes searched yours. You forced yourself to hold his gaze, though your heart had a traitorous way of lodging itself in your throat. Shadow Milk Cookie exhaled softly, his fingers pressing together in thought. “I suppose,” he began, voice measured, “that would depend on what awaited at the end of that wait.”

You swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“If one waits a century,” he mused, “it is not merely a question of patience, but of purpose. Is the reunion assured? Or is it a mere hope, a wish cast into the void?” His golden gaze flickered slightly. “If there is certainty. if the one I waited for would be there, unchanged, unwavering then perhaps.”

You nodded slowly, absorbing his words. Then, after a pause one that felt light, almost playful you added, “Are you waiting for someone now?” It was meant to sound like casual curiosity. A natural follow-up. But even you knew better. Something in his expression shifted not in a way that was easily decipherable, but in a way that made your stomach flip nonetheless. He held your gaze for a moment too long. Then, a slow, knowing smile tugged at his lips.

“An interesting question,” he murmured, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Why do you ask?” You forced yourself to shrug. “Just curious.” His expression didn’t change, but there was something about the way he looked at you something you couldn’t quite name. You realize now it’s hard to make out his expressions. Perhaps it’s faint amusement. A quiet knowing. Then just for a moment you swore you saw it again. A flicker of warmth at the tips of his ears. It was gone as soon as you noticed it, replaced by the careful neutrality he always wore so well. Shadow Milk Cookie leaned back slightly, regarding you with interest. “And if I were?”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“If I were waiting for someone,” he elaborated, “what would that tell you?” You opened your mouth, then closed it. Because what would that tell you? Your heart was a traitor, thrumming in your chest as if it knew something you didn’t. But you weren’t ready to answer that yet. So instead, you scoffed, crossing your arms. “It would tell me that someone has very high standards if they’re making you wait a hundred years.”

That earned a chuckle from him soft, real. “I see,” he said, shaking his head in amusement. “A fair assessment.” And just like that, the moment passed like a leaf caught in the wind, drifting just out of reach. But even as you turned the conversation elsewhere, even as you forced yourself to move on, you couldn’t quite forget the way he looked at you in that fleeting second. Or the way something in your chest felt just a little warmer because of it.

Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you carefully, golden eyes gleaming with quiet curiosity. You weren’t sure why you kept talking why you pushed just a little further. Maybe it was the way he always seemed to know everything about you, yet you knew so little of him. Maybe it was the way he answered without answering, weaving around your questions like a scholar sidestepping an argument they didn’t want to commit to. Or maybe it was something simpler. Something quieter. Maybe you just wanted to hear him say it…whatever it was. You exhaled, leaning your chin into your palm.

“I don’t think I’d even live to a hundred years old,” you mused, keeping your voice light. “A century is a long time to wait for someone.” Shadow Milk Cookie tilted his head. “Indeed it is.”

You tapped your fingers against the desk, gaze flickering toward him. “If it were me, though…” That caught his attention. His fingers stilled against the parchment. “If I knew it was you,” you continued, voice thoughtful, “I wouldn’t keep you waiting.” A flicker of something crossed his expression so brief you almost missed it. You shrugged, as if the words hadn’t set your heart pounding, as if you were merely speaking in hypotheticals. “I mean, someone as important as you? It’d be ridiculous if someone kept you waiting for a hundred years.” You laughed, trying to pass it off as a casual remark. “Who in their right mind would do that?”

Silence. You expected him to brush it off. To give you some grand, scholarly response about patience, about truth, about the nature of time itself. But he didn’t. Instead, he regarded you for a long, quiet moment, his expression unreadable. Then, so softly you barely caught it he spoke. “Who indeed?” Your breath hitched. It wasn’t a question. It was something else. Something weightier. Something that made warmth coil low in your stomach, even though you weren’t sure why. You blinked, forcing out an awkward chuckle. “Well, it’s just a thought.”

“Is it?” You froze. He was still watching you, head tilted slightly curious, contemplative. He didn’t press, didn’t pry, but the weight of his gaze alone was enough to send your heart into an uneven rhythm. You swallowed. “Yeah. Just a thought.” He hummed, studying you for a second longer before looking back down at his parchment.

But that flicker of warmth the one you swore you saw, barely dusting the edges of his ears didn’t quite disappear. And neither did the feeling settling into your chest. Shadow Milk Cookie was silent for a beat too long. His quill hovered above parchment, the ink threatening to blot as his golden eyes flickered toward you, unreadable. Yet there was no mistaking the way his ears' traitorous things remained dusted with that telltale warmth. You had caught him off guard. But the Sage of Truth was nothing if not adaptable. Slowly, his lips curled into something unreadable too knowing to be innocent, too amused to be cruel. He set his quill aside with deliberate grace and leaned back ever so slightly, watching you with something that made the space between you feel suddenly smaller. "What about you though...Would you wait for me?" You asked with faux confidence, after all it was just a follow up question nothing more...

"A most fascinating inquiry," he mused, tilting his head. "Tell me, are you testing the limits of my patience? Or is this merely a cunning attempt to unravel the heart of the Sage of Truth?" Your breath hitched. You hadn’t expected him to turn it back on you. He must have noticed, because his smile deepened. "You have already given your answer, have you not?" he continued, fingers steepling as he regarded you.

"You would wait for me. And yet, here you are, asking if I would do the same." His voice lowered mischievous, like a scholar who had just found a contradiction in a well-argued thesis. "Curious. What is it you are truly seeking, I wonder?"

Your face grew warm. "I was just asking," you muttered, crossing your arms. "It’s not that deep." "

Oh?" His golden gaze gleamed. "Not that deep, you say? And yet, you pressed the matter. As if my answer mattered greatly to you." You had never wanted to shrink into your chair so badly. "I was just curious!"

"Ah, curiosity!" He gasped theatrically, placing a hand over his heart as if he had just uncovered a great mystery. "A scholar’s greatest vice. And yet, I cannot help but wonder…" He leaned in just enough to make your breath falter. "Is it truth you seek from me, or something else entirely?"

You opened your mouth then closed it. He had you cornered. And the worst part? He knew it. His expression was far too pleased, as if your silence was the answer he had been seeking all along. "You are unfair," you grumbled, shoving a book toward him in some weak attempt at distraction. He chuckled, the sound richer than you expected.

"Unfair? My dear scholar, it is not I who sought answers this evening." You scowled, looking away. "Just forget I asked."

"Ah, but you did ask." His voice was teasing, yet there was something else beneath it something warmer, more thoughtful. "And for that, I shall give you an answer…" You dared a glance back at him, finding his expression softened. He did not look away. "If it were you," he said, quieter now, "then I suppose…" A pause so brief, yet so heavy.

"Waiting a century would not be such a terrible thing." Your heart stumbled. Before you could react, he picked up his quill again, the moment vanishing as quickly as it had come. "Of course," he added, voice turning light once more, "I imagine it would be quite inconvenient for you. You did say you wouldn’t last a hundred years, after all." You gaped at him. "Are you seriously throwing my own words back at me right now?" He gave you a slow, knowing smile. "Why, of course. What kind of scholar would I be if I ignored inconsistencies?" You groaned, dropping your head onto the desk. The Sage of Truth may have been flustered before. But now? Now, he was enjoying this far too much.

For a long moment, Shadow Milk Cookie said nothing. You weren’t sure if that made it better or worse. The weight of his gaze lingered, golden eyes gleaming with something unreadable something you couldn’t quite grasp. And yet, the corners of his lips twitched, ever so slightly, as if he was holding something back. Amusement? Intrigue? Something crueler? It was almost infuriating. “Curious,” he murmured at last, tapping a gloved finger against his parchment. “You asked such a question, knowing full well what you have already declared.” You frowned, tilting your head. “What?”

“You claimed you would wait for me,” he said simply. “With that same breath, you asked if I would do the same. Are you hoping to trap me in my own words? Or…” He leaned forward slightly, just enough to be teasing, his voice taking on that lilting quality he used when debating. “Are you seeking something more, something beyond a mere answer?” Heat crept up your neck. “That’s not-”

“Ah, no need to deny it.” His eyes gleamed, a smirk playing at his lips. “It is only natural. When one flirts with the unknown, they wish for something in return. A revelation. A secret.” He tilted his head, mock-considering. “Perhaps even a promise.”

Your breath caught. He had to be doing this on purpose. You clenched your fists, looking away, frustration bubbling under your skin. It wasn’t just the teasing…it was the way he always did this, always knew more, always stayed just out of reach, dangling answers like bait but never letting you catch them. “I was supposed to be mysterious,” you muttered, your voice quieter now. “Cold, even.” Shadow Milk Cookie blinked. The teasing glint in his eyes faltered, ever so slightly. You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “As silly as it sounds… it’s not fair.” You glanced at him, gaze searching.

“You know everything about me. Where I come from. My friends. How I react to things. And yet, I barely know anything about you.” A pause. A shift. Your hands curled into your sleeves. “It’s not fair.” Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you for a long moment, his smirk fading into something quieter, something more thoughtful. The playful glint in his eyes dimmed not gone, but subdued, as if considering your words in a way he hadn’t before. Then, unexpectedly, he let out a soft chuckle. “Ah… so that is what troubles you.” He leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, fingers steepled together.

“You wish for the truth, yet I remain an enigma. A most tragic plight.” “Don’t mock me,” you mumbled. “Oh, but I wouldn’t dare.” He tapped a finger against his temple, a slow, thoughtful motion. “It is true, I know much about you. Perhaps… an unfair advantage, as you say.” You raised a brow, wary. “And?” He hummed, as if considering. Then, he smiled mischievous, teasing, but not unkind. “Very well,” he said lightly. “Ask, then.” You blinked. “What?”

“Ask,” he repeated, tilting his head. “Since you wish to know me as I know you… ask a question. Any question.” His voice dipped slightly, a challenge hidden beneath the invitation. “Let us see if you are ready for the answers you seek.” Your heart thumped. You swallowed. For all your complaints, for all your frustrations, you had not expected him to offer this. And yet… now that he had… What would you even ask?

For a moment, you hesitated. Not because you didn’t have anything to ask, but because there were too many things. Countless questions had been building in your mind since the day you met him things he sidestepped, things he answered only in riddles. But if this was your only chance… if he truly meant only one question… You had to make it count. Your fingers curled against the table. “Were you always immortal?” Shadow Milk Cookie stilled. The glint of amusement in his eyes faded, replaced by something quiet.

For the first time, he looked… caught off guard. You had never seen him hesitate like this before. The weight of the silence between you thickened, pressing against your ribs. He did not scoff, nor tease, nor weave his way around the question like he usually would. Instead, he merely studied you, his golden eyes flickering with something distant. Finally, he spoke. “I was made this way.” His voice was softer than you expected. Not heavy. Not sad. But… thoughtful.

Carefully measured. You watched him, searching his expression. “You were made immortal?” He nodded, fingers tracing the edges of his parchment, though his focus was nowhere near it. “From the moment I came into being, time held no claim over me. It was never a question of fate or choice. It simply was.” The way he said it was almost… detached. As if he were reciting something from a book, something he had accepted long ago. Your heart thumped, but you pushed further. “So you’ve never known anything else?” A soft chuckle escaped him not mocking, but almost… amused by the idea itself. “No. I have not.”

You bit your lip. That answer felt so final, so matter-of-fact. But something about it gnawed at you. Because if he had never known anything else… had he ever wanted to? You hesitated, then asked the next question before you could stop yourself. “And do you ever wish you weren’t?” This time, he truly paused. His fingers stilled against the parchment. Golden eyes met yours, and for the first time, you weren’t sure what you saw in them. He did not answer immediately. The silence stretched not uncomfortable, not tense, but thick with something unspoken. Something considering. He exhaled softly, tilting his head. “You do not hesitate to dive straight into the depths, do you?”

“You said I was allowed to ask,” you murmured, voice steady despite the warmth creeping up your neck. “I had to make it count.”

Shadow Milk Cookie studied you for a long moment before letting out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Ever the scholar, seeking the deeper truths.” He hummed, almost to himself. “And yet… you are the first to ask me this.” Your breath caught. The first? Before you could dwell on that, he leaned forward slightly, resting his chin against his steepled fingers.

“There are those who would envy my existence,” he said, voice measured. “To be free of time’s grasp, to witness centuries unfold like pages in a grand tome… It is a privilege few could even fathom.” You swallowed. “That’s not an answer.” His lips curved not quite a smile, but something close.

“No, I suppose it is not.” A flicker of warmth coiled low in your stomach. He wasn’t avoiding the question not exactly. But he was making you wait for it. So you did. You held his gaze, waiting. Finally he spoke. “There are moments,” he admitted, almost absently, “when I wonder.” Your fingers curled against the desk. “I do not regret what I am,” he continued, as if carefully choosing each word. “Nor do I mourn a life I have never known.” A pause. A slow inhale. “But to exist beyond time… is to be a witness, never truly a participant.”

A witness. Your stomach twisted at the weight of that. “How lonely,” you whispered. His eyes flickered. You hadn’t meant to say it aloud. Another silence stretched between you, heavier this time. And then slowly, deliberately his smirk returned, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Ah,” he mused, tilting his head. “And here I thought I was meant to be the enigmatic one.” You rolled your eyes, but your chest still felt tight. “You still haven’t really answered me.”

“Haven’t I?” You scowled. “Not properly.” A thoughtful hum. “Perhaps not.” You huffed, crossing your arms. “Then at least answer this if you could choose, right now, to be mortal… would you?” Another pause. A longer one. His gaze met yours, not just glanced, not just observed, but looked. As if he were weighing something unseen, something vast and unspoken. Then, very softly he answered. “I do not know.” Something in your chest ached at that. Since you met him, you weren’t sure who had truly won this exchange. You hesitated for only a moment before exhaling, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "Well… if it makes you feel any better, we’re friends now...remember?."

A/N Sometimes it really is easier to put a band aid over it ㄟ( ▔, ▔ )ㄏ In other news I did not do as great as I thought on that chem exam...However, I still have 2 more exams to lock in for...but I got a 93 on my philosophy midterm sooooo, it balances out sort of...

Anyways...

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥🔥

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yandere-daydreams · 11 months ago

Text

Title: Going Live.

Pairing: Yandere!Nanami x Reader (JJK)

Word Count: 7.6k.

TW: Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Camgirl!Reader, Kidnapping, Physical Intimidation, Long-Term Stalking, Obsessive Behavior, Delusional Behavior, Slight Exhibitionism, and Panic Attacks + Disassociation. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

You were a lot of things to Nanami Kento – his world, his light, his love – but above all else, you were the reason he looked forward to getting home.

Calling it ‘infatuation’ would’ve been a disservice to the depth of his feelings for you. It’d been love at first sight; instant and wholehearted, a shackle snapped shut around his neck that he had no will or desire to escape. His eyes were on his watch as soon as he crossed the threshold, his coat shrugged off and abandoned along with his tie in the doorway. He didn’t bother turning on lights or taking off his shoes, doing anything to make his empty apartment seem more lived-in, his focus solely dedicated to reaching his home office with as few disruptions as was possible, with Gojo and the higher-ups still attempting to contact him about the curse he’d finished exorcising less than an hour prior. They could wait. You wouldn’t.

He was smiling by the time he collapsed into the leather-cushioned chair, his laptop still on his desk from the night before – the last time he got to see you. The motions were automatic, practiced to the point of reflexivity. One hand glided over the keyboard while the other found his phone, silencing it in the same motion as he tossed it haphazardly onto the desk, out of his view. He checked his watch one more time; 6:59. Good. He was early.

His grin brightened, as did his laptop. Your stream flickered to life a second later and with it, your smiling face. The relief was instant, pure warmth accompanying it. The bittersweet tinge – as subtle as it was prodding – came only a moment later, but Nanami did his best to ignore it.

You were the sole reason Nanami Kento looked forward to getting home. The center of his world, the sole light in his otherwise bleak life. The person he loved more than anything, more than everything.

It was only a shame, then, that you had no idea he existed.

One of his favorite things about you had always been your meticulousness. For tonight’s show, you were splayed out across the foot of a queen-sized bed, surrounded by pastel pink satin sheets and a fleece comforter of the same shade, a matching dormant hitachi vibrator (Nanami’s favorite and, guessing from how often it made an appearance in your shows, yours too) nestled between your thighs. Your outfit was aesthetically pleasing – a set of lacey, baby blue lingerie with white, knee socks – but paired with your set up, casual enough to give the impression that you hadn’t realized the camera you were posing in front of was actually on, as if you weren’t entirely prepared to be seen by a thousand or so strangers just yet. The fact that you didn’t start talking right away, only humming as you idly toyed with your hair, only added to the nonchalance of it all. You would make a good actress, if you ever decided to pursue something more, for lack of a more applicable phrase, legitimate.

Nanami’s attention drifted from you to your chat, slowly starting to fill with impatient viewers. Despite himself, he felt his absentminded smile waver, an irk of irritation momentarily tainting his bliss. He knew you weren’t entirely real, that he didn’t have any right to be possessive over a performer, but he loved you. It would’ve been difficult for anyone to watch someone they loved be exposed to so many prying eyes.

user34333: fuck she’s hot

hotbox420: looking good y/n!!!

lostandconfused: why does she still have her clothes on?

The only silver lining was how oblivious you seemed to it. Another minute passed before you straightened, yawning slightly as you pushed yourself up, legs hanging over the foot of your bed. “Welcome home,” you started, with a quick stretch and a playful wave towards the camera. “Everyone’s already put the kids to bed, right? I’ve got a very special surprise I want to bring out a little later, so nobody’s allowed to leave early.”

Your tone was light, melodic, saccharine. Already, Nanami could feel his cock beginning to harden against his thigh, straining at the material of his pants. You were always mobile during your shows, prone to flitting from one position to another, but tonight, you almost seemed antsy as you pulled your legs back onto the mattress, tucking your knees underneath you and bowing your head, your neutral smile taking on a shy undertone. “I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” you admitted, speaking quickly enough for the words to blend together. Then, with more composure, “Who wants to get us started?”

Nanami’s hand was already on his keyboard, waiting for your cue. Somehow, he was still too late.

blueeyeswhitedragon sent 150 credits!

blueeyeswhitedragon: Bra first, pretty please.

You giggled as you raised your hands, leaning forward to give the camera a better view of your chest as you undid the clasp at the nape of your neck. Nanami’s breath hitched as the thin fabric fell away, revealing the soft curves of your breasts and your pretty, perfect nipples – already hard, already enough to make saliva pool underneath his tongue. The lower clasp was next, undone with more effort and more bouncing than what seemed absolutely necessary, but Nanami couldn’t complain, not when he was struggling to undo the fly of his dress pants without ever looking away from you. There was another giggle as the article fell away entirely, then a third as you cupped your chest with both hands, groping gently. “I used to be so shy about taking my top off on camera…” You trailed off, batting your eyes. “But, you guys think I’m pretty, right?”

Your requested affirmations flooded the chat in an instant. Nanami grinned, slumping back in his chair. He could compliment any part of you earnestly, but aside from donations, he rarely let himself participate in your chat. Speaking to you so openly, being one of a dozen people whose username you’d glance over in a second – that wasn’t what he wanted. Anonymous adoration wasn’t the shape his affection took.

Eventually, you collapsed back onto your bed. “Okay, okay, that’s enough,” you went on, as Nanami wrapped a fist around the base of his cock. “What next?”

There was another offer – 300 credits for your panties, 400 if you took them off with your back to the camera. You obliged, bent at the waist, inching the silken fabric down your thighs at an almost sadistic pace. After you finished, you seemed ready to move onto the main show, but another donation cropped up in your chat.

user34232 sent 75 credits!

user34232: for the socks pls

That, as far as Nanami could tell, seemed to catch you genuinely off-guard. He could see you blushing as you leaned towards the camera – or, he supposed, the laptop you had positioned underneath it, as if you’d misread something. “…my socks?”

Nanami stifled a grown, tightening his hold. With his free hand, he reached for the keyboard,

n. kento sent 200 credits!

n. kento: Don’t take them off.

You played your part perfectly, sighing as you let your head lull to the side. All it took was you batting your eye lashes while letting out the sweetest murmur of “Well, I don’t know if that’s fair, but…” for your chat to dissolve into a bidding war, donations ranging from five credits to five hundred. If you were making any earnest attempt to keep track of which side was winning, you clearly had no motivation to call it too early on – pulling your legs onto your bed and kicking your feet out playfully towards the camera. “Some of you guys ask for such weird stuff,” you went on, rolling your left ankle. “If someone doesn’t tell me what to do soon, I think I’m just going to have to change into another outfit.”

Nanami let out a breath of a chuckle, only half aware he was typing.

n. kento sent 1,750 credits!

n. kento: You look beautiful. Keep them on.

You laughed, and this time, Nanami chose to believe it was sincere. “I get it! We’ll move on.” You were already leaning back, rolling onto your stomach, giving your viewers a perfect view of your ass as you reached for something off-screen. “Normally I’d ask for a suggestion,” you said, as you brought what you’d retrieved back into frame – a pale pink rabbit vibrator, the penetrative half of the forked wand ribbed. “But I have something I’m kind of looking forward to. I promise, I’ll try to get past the boring stuff quickly.”

You thought too little of yourself. Arousal drooled from Nanami’s flushed tip as you positioned yourself on the edge of the mattress, legs spread wide and slick, glistening pussy fully on display. You were already wet, but he knew you would be. It was something you joked about often – how sensitive you were, how something as minor as a wet dream would have you soaking through your panties. Normally, he would’ve figured you were just playing it up for the sake of your viewers, but it was hard to deny the evidence in front of him.

A whimper slipped past your parted lips as you eased the head of the toy past your entrance, stretching yourself out on its bulbed tip. Now, now, he started to move his hand, pumping his fist over the length of his shaft in short, slow strokes, matching your tempo as you rocked your toy into your pussy. A dull hum fills the room as your thumb finds the switch built into the handle’s underside, and your expression immediately goes from dazed to pained, your tongue peaking out from between your lips and your eyes fluttering shut as your hips bucked against the vibrator. “It—It feels—” Your thighs threaten to twitch shut, but you hold them open, determined to give your audience the best possible view of your pussy clenching around your toy. “I really—I wanna get some bondage gear soon, so that I can—”

Whatever you might’ve said was replaced by a bubbling moan, and just like that, Nanami was fucking his fist without restraint. He knew how pathetic it was, but it would’ve been impossible not to imagine it was his cock sinking into your dripping cunt rather than an inanimate toy, not to wish it was your pussy clamping down around his length rather than his own fist. He wondered what you smelled like, if you wore perfume, what it would be like to have his face buried between your thighs. He was aware, vaguely, that your chat was the most active it’d been all night, people trying to catch your attention with donations and tips and compliments, but they didn’t matter. They weren’t watching you, not really, not the same way Nanami was. He knew you, well enough to know that you couldn’t think once something had been stuffed inside of your cunt. He loved you, enough to wish he was the one making your mind go so euphorically blank.

There was more moaning, more failed attempts to speak, but you didn’t let yourself cum. You were visibly trembling by the time you switched the toy off, and it took agonizing seconds to ease the wand out of your disappointed pussy – seconds Nanami watched with rapt devotion. More out of sympathy than anything else, he lets go of his cock entirely, gritting his teeth and attempting to ignore the pulsing ache forming in the pit of his stomach. What was next was better. What was next was worth waiting for.

You took a few panting breaths, your voice still airy by the time you managed to speak. “I have a—” You paused, grinned. Nanami smiled too. “I have a surprise for all of you, tonight. I think I mentioned that already, but— oh, right.” You perked up, playing excited. “We have to move to the floor, for this next part.”

You slipped off-screen, and a second later, the camera shifted to follow you – falling onto a corner of your room less staged than your bed, but just as pristine. Abstract, pastel tapestries obscured the walls, but the dark floorboards were left bare. On one side, most of a dog kennel was visible, decorated with string lights and clearly meant for one of your more niche shows, and on the other, he could make out the bottom corner of a poster – not for anything kinky, or sensual, or in any way suggestive, but an underground band, a local band. You probably hadn’t realized it was in the shot, let alone meant for it to be. You were usually more careful about giving away anything even remotely personal, but Nanami couldn’t be mad.

After all, it’d been that poster that’d let him find you.

He could still remember the first time he ever saw you – actually saw you, not through a screen, but in person. After he knew that you lived in the same city as him (the same district, even), it’d only taken a few more days to find your name, your age, your address. Still, he put off visiting you for weeks, telling himself that it didn’t matter, that you wouldn’t recognize him, that you wouldn’t want to see him. And, in the end, you hadn’t seen him at all – you hadn’t needed to.

That night, he’d watched your show from the rooftop of the building opposite of yours, straining to see you through a bedroom window left carelessly open. Even now, the guilt was almost tangibly agonizing, the shame practically unbearable.

Almost as unbearable as the temptation to go back.

But, that part would come soon enough. You were on screen, again, holding something he recognized.

“I have some exciting news,” you chirped, as you kneeled on the floor, holding a pitch-black dildo, a suction cup attached to the base. Despite its color, Nanami could make out defined veins running down the silicone shaft, a noticeable girth to the base. A perfect mirror of the cock currently pulsing for attention in his lap.

He felt himself grinning, as you went on. “I got my first real fan gift!” You held up the toy to your cheek, like a child showing off their first stuffed animal, before planting it on the floor between your thighs. “It’s so big, too,” you said, showing off its size, where the blunt tip rested well above your navel. “Everyone say thank you, Daddy Kento!”

Your chat was instantly flooded with predictable responses, but Nanami couldn’t look away from you. You were enjoying yourself, clearly. You must’ve thought you were so smart, renting out a P. O. box, going on and on about how grateful you were to your dedicated fans when he reached out to ask if you accepted physical donations, and you were smart. It was only a shame that Nanami loved you enough to look past all of your attempts to keep him away.

As you began to move onto your knees, he allowed himself one more intervention.

n. kento sent 3,000 credits!

n. kento: Take it to the hilt.

It was cruder than he usually cared to be, but as your eyes flickered towards your monitor, your lips quirked into a slight smile. You didn’t respond verbally, but you nodded, and sunk down onto his cock.

Immediately, his hand wasn’t enough, but he tried to make do – matching your agonizingly slow pace, imagining what it would feel like to have you lower yourself down onto his real cock, rather than a cheap imitation. Trails of iridescent slick dripped down the dark silicone, your camera positioned strategically to catch every bounce of your breasts as your breathing hitched, to provide the optimal view of your pussy stretching around the tip, then the head, then the shaft as you lowered yourself slowly. “It—It’s so big,” you repeated, bringing a hand up to your stomach while the other remained on the floor, keeping you stable. “I mean, I knew it would be, but—fuck—” Another inch, Nanami’s fist moving over the same part of his cock. You let out an airy laugh. “Just be thankful I’m so tough.”

“I am,” Nanami muttered, his voice echoing off the bare walls of his office. “You’re perfect.”

“I really wanna cum on this one, too – to, like, christen it, or something. Been keeping myself pent up all day for it.” With a pitchy keen, you brought yourself a few inches higher, then dropped. Your free hand shot away from your stomach and back to the floor as you continued to bounce on the toy’s length, getting just a little deeper each time. “Welcome it to family, y’know? Maybe make it a regular, for you sadists out there.”

Nanami stiffened at the thought of you fucking yourself on a replica of his cock in front of thousands of people twice a week; drooling and panting as you told your viewers how big he was, how good he felt inside of you. With his restraint brought to its limits, he fucked his fist carelessly, his attention fixed on the steady movements of your hips as you rode his toy. Your eyes didn’t flutter closed, this time – they clenched shut, and you couldn’t seem to keep your voice under control, little mewls and half-conscious whines bubbling up from your chest as you struggled to take that much more of him with every thrust. When you did manage to speak, your voice was uneven, whiney, so sweet it made him want to dig his teeth into something and tear. “I’m so close,” and then, as you brought yourself back down, so close to bottoming out, “I wanna cum!”

“You will,” Nanami whispered. He knew you couldn’t hear him, but it was true – you would, and if he’d been able to, he would’ve made you. He would’ve let you fuck yourself on his cock whenever you asked, would’ve woken you up every morning coming undone on his tongue and made sure you fell asleep with his cock buried inside of you. If you were with him, you’d never have to think again, never have to feel anything but pleasure – any time you wanted it, every time you wanted it. He’d make sure—

You didn’t moan as you reached the toy’s base, you screamed. One of your hands moved to the space between your thighs, two fingers rubbing quick circles into your clit as you nursed yourself through your orgasm. Nanami didn’t stand a chance, still chasing his fantasies as he spilled over his hand; searing hot cum pooling on his lap, soaking into the material of his shirt, spilling onto his desk. He didn’t stop moving his hand, though, not until you went limp – bending at the waist, bracing yourself on the floor. Finally, you managed to raise your head, flashing that brilliant smile towards the camera. Of course, Nanami smiled back.

In a daze, he watched you ease yourself off of the toy and wrap up your stream, so familiar from your script that he would’ve been able to recite it with confidence. Even after you signed off, the screen going black, he didn’t move, only letting his head roll to the side with a shallow sigh.

It was pathetic, just how much he loved you. It was painful, being so far from someone who made him feel so irrationally happy.

He could only count the days until he wouldn’t have to limit himself to only watching from a distance any longer.

There was a man in your apartment.

A man you didn’t want to be in your apartment, just to be clear. You’d heard the front door open, seen a bulky silhouette moving through your living room, and now, you were listening to him riffle through your bedroom as you hid in the en suite bathroom – crouched in the smallest corner you could find with both hands locked over your mouth, trying to stifle the sound of your own breathing. The door was locked, but that didn’t matter. You didn’t want to find out how much a thin sheet of wood would do to protect you. You didn’t want to give him a reason to acknowledge you at all.

As far as you could tell, there was only one intruder. You could only hear one pair of muffled footsteps, with second-long gaps between every little movement. The air caught in your throat as you heard him edge closer, closer, then pause. There was a dull clack, the sound of metal clashing against plastic, and you relaxed, sighing into your palms. Your filming equipment. It was expensive, but nothing you couldn’t replace. If you were lucky, he’d take what he could carry and leave.

And that was what he seemed to be doing, too – more rustling interrupted every so often by a few moments of heart-wrenching silence. Soon enough, you heard the intruder start to move again, his footsteps edging closer to the bathroom door as he moved to leave your bedroom entirely, and—

“(Y/n)?”

Fuck.

You didn’t say anything, holding your breath and digging your nails into your cheeks, willing yourself not to move, not to think. You didn’t make a sound, you couldn’t have, and yet he kept talking.

“I know you’re in there. Please, come out.”

He couldn’t know. He couldn’t know. You’d kept the lights off, and you hadn’t moved in minutes, and—

He tried the knob, and something cracked deep inside of your chest. There was an airy sigh, then a dull thud, like he was leaning against the door frame. “Please,” he repeated, sounding more exasperated than angry. “I don’t want to scare you.”

“Y-you can take whatever you want,” you stuttered, your voice unsteady, just a touch louder than it really had to be. That was fine. You didn’t have to pretend to be brave, so long as you made it out of this alive and uninjured. “I won’t call the police – I can’t call the police, I left my phone in the kitchen. You can take it, too. I… I don’t have a lot of cash, but my camera, it should be worth—”

“I don’t want your camera, love.” If you hadn’t known better, you might’ve thought he sounded wistful. “Come out, or I’ll break down the door.”

Honestly, it hadn’t occurred to you that he could.

It took a second to pry your hands off of your face, and another to push yourself to your feet – your legs shaking as you struggled to stand. Almost mechanically, you moved towards the door; unlocking it in the same motion as you pulled it open. Light from your bedroom spilled into the entryway, revealing—

God.

He was taller than you’d expected him to be.

Six feet at least, with a build to match. The sleeves of his dress-shirt were rolled up to his elbow, showing off arms so muscular, you wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d planned to tear your door off its hinges with his bare hands. He had a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, visibly full, but you could still see your equipment standing untouched behind him, and you couldn’t imagine anything else he would’ve wanted to take. His blonde hair was swept back, out of his eyes, and he was holding a butcher’s knife in his right hand, the blade wrapped in leopard-spotted fabric. Surprisingly, though, his weapon wasn’t what concerned you the most.

He was smiling. No, actually, that wasn’t right.

He was beaming.

“(Y/n),” he said, again. You didn’t let yourself wonder why he knew your name. “I—I’m sorry, I should’ve introduced myself earlier. I might’ve gotten a little carried away – I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

“…it’s okay,” you managed, your voice barely audible. “Are you going to kill me?”

His expression dropped. “No. Of course not.” And then, after a brief lapse, “I’d never hurt you. I…” You saw his right hand flex around the grip of his knife, and thought you might black out. “I’m a fan.”

Instantly, you felt the blood freeze in your veins.

Fuck. Fuck.

You knew you should’ve gone into accounting.

“I… You’re a fan?” You tried to smile, but it might’ve come across more pained than relieved. “I’m sorry, I’m not used to meeting people who’ve caught my stream. Should I know what to call you?”

And just like that, his grin was back, any momentary tension assayed. You wished he would’ve put down the knife, too, but beggars can’t be choosers. “Kento,” he said, and for the first time, you noticed the pink hue creeping over his cheeks. “Nanami Kento.”

You grit your teeth as you struggled to place him. After a second, it came to you.

Kento. Right. The dildo guy.

Somehow, knowledge provided little comfort. Still, you soldiered on. “It’s really nice to meet you, Nanami.” You clasped your hands behind your back, rocking gently on your heels. “I—I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting any guests. If you want to step out for a couple minutes, I can change into something more comfortable, and show you how appreciative I am for your—”

“I’m not an idiot.” He cut you off, still grinning. “You’re coming with me.”

You didn’t let your smile waver, either. “And, if I didn’t want to go with you…?”

“I’m afraid this isn’t about what you want, anymore.”

You meant to say something – opened your mouth and everything – but nothing came out. Your heart tightened in your chest, a not inconsiderable portion of your mind screaming for you to run, run, run. And yet, when he took you by the wrist in a feather-light hold, leading you through your own apartment and out into the hall, it was all you could do to smile and follow after him.

The first thirty minutes of the car ride passed in silence. Nanami – because you couldn’t stand to keep thinking of him as ‘that guy who bought you a dildo shaped like his own dick and paid you thousands of dollars to ride it live on stream’ – kept his knife in his lap, his hand falling away from the wheel and onto its hilt whenever you so much as took a deep breath. Eventually, your eyes fell to the clock built into his dashboard, and you broke through your paralysis with a nervous laugh.

“It’s a little funny,” you started, for lack of anything else to do. “I’d actually normally be getting ready for my stream, around now.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you watched him swallow, his jaw tensing. “I know.”

Great. Okay. Whatever. “I don’t mind, y’know,” you managed, before you could let yourself fully consider what you were going to say. “If it means we don’t have to go through with the whole kidnapping thing, I really wouldn’t mind sleeping with you – you can even take pictures, if you’d like that, or record, whichever you’d prefer.”

“That’s not what I—”

“I haven’t tried a lot of hardcore stuff, but I wouldn’t mind if that’s what you’re into. We don’t even have to go back to my apartment, you could just pull over, and—”

“That’s not what I’m interested in.” He didn’t raise his voice, but his tone left no room for protest. “I’m not going to… I’m not going to just fuck you once and leave you by the side of the road. I’m doing this for your sake.”

As if you’d willingly climbed into a maniac’s car. “I… I’m not following, Kento.”

“It’s for your own protection. Once I thought to look, it took me hours to find out everything about you.” He spared you a quick glance, that same uncanny smile. One of his hands left the wheel and, rather than moving to his knife, found your knee, squeezing gently. It took everything you had not to scream. “Imagine what someone could do with that kind of information. They could blackmail you, if they found your full name, or track you down if they pieced together your address. It’d be a miracle if they were only a stalker. It just wasn’t safe to let you keep going on that way.”

“Yeah,” you mumbled, more to yourself than to him. “They could even break into my apartment and abduct me at knifepoint.”

His gaze narrowed, but his smile only softened. Neither of you spoke for the rest of the journey.

After far too long and not nearly long enough, you reached your destination: a housing complex, leagues nicer (and more expensive) than your own rundown building. Calling them apartments would’ve been a disservice; they were more similar to free-standing condos, or miniature villas slotted just outside of the city’s more metropolitan districts. Without a word, you let him guide you into a relatively generic home, its only notable feature being the absolute lack of evidence of meaningful life within it. You wouldn’t have been surprised if it was a rental, leased exclusively to give him someplace to do… well, whatever he planned to do to you. It’d be more off-putting to know that someone actually lived someplace so vacant.

He led you through the empty halls and up a flight of stairs, keeping you in front of him and in his line of sight at all times. Finally, you reached the door he seemed to be looking for and, with a nod by way of instruction, let yourself inside.

Before you stood, puzzlingly, your own bedroom.

Or – the parts of it you could make out on camera, at least. The bed was the same size, the same model, made with the same sheets and littered with the same pillows, but the floor was covered in a harsh white carpeting, the surrounding walls soundproofed with suffocating black foam. Camera equipment identical to your own had been set-up at the foot of your bed, but an unfamiliar silver laptop replaced your own sticker-covered monstrosity. You didn’t see any chains, whips, or shock collars, which was good. You still didn’t know what the fuck was going on, which was bad.

Confused, you turned to Nanami as he crossed the threshold and rather conservatively, shut and locked the door. “There are clothes on the bed,” he explained, with a tone that made it difficult to tell whether or not he knew how weird this was. “A script, too. Memorize as much as you can.”

So he still expected you to stream. Or, that was what you hoped, at least – considering the only alternative was that he was planning to make an extremely elaborate snuff film. “I’m not used to using scripts.”

“You’ll manage.”

You didn’t bother trying to argue, only moving towards the bed and attempting to forget he was there entirely.

The ‘clothes’ he’d left for you turned out to be lingerie – the nice stuff, too, white and lacey and bridal with a babydoll cut. You glanced over his script (which, disturbingly, didn’t exactly not sound like you) as you got dressed and fixed your hair, doing the best you could without any of your usual supplies. You wouldn’t be able to reapply your make-up, but you’d put some on earlier, and—

You almost laughed at yourself, stifling a chuckle.

You’d been kidnapped, and you were worried about your make-up. If you got out of this alive, you swore, you’d never touch foundation or a ring light or a camera ever again.

He didn’t have to tell you when it was time – you would’ve known by instinct alone. With Namami watching from an armchair pushed against the opposite wall, you clambered onto the bed and took your usual position, kneeling in center frame. He’d never asked for your credentials, and yet, when you glanced towards the laptop positioned just underneath the main camera, you found that your own profile was already pulled up, a miniature timer in the corner of the screen counting down the seconds until you went live.

As it reached thirty seconds ‘till, it occurred to you that you were in a soundproof room alone with the man who’d kidnapped you and was currently holding you hostage, and that no one could’ve possibly known where you were or, more importantly, who you’d been taken by.

As it reached fifteen, you realized you were being held captive and being forced to wear bridal lingerie that your kidnapped must’ve picked out with the occasion in mind.

As it reached five, for the first time that day, you thought you might actually start to cry.

And, as it reached zero, you put on your biggest, brightest smile and hoped beyond hope that you’d stop thinking entirely, eventually.

“Welcome home!” Skipping over your normal grace period only felt right. You didn’t think you’d be able to survive sitting in silent, motionless suspension for another second, let alone a full minute. “Sorry if I seem a little nervous tonight – to tell the truth, I kind of am. I’ve got a major announcement, and I just can’t put it off any longer.”

Reflexively, your attention drifted first to your own feed – you looked perfect, as always – then to your chat, moving quickly despite your sudden start. You caught a few of the longer messages in your peripheral.

secretary.lover: Is it just me, or does she seem kind scared lmao?

blueeyeswhitedragon: yeahhh i thought her room looked kinda weird too lol

justheretowatch: fuck ur pretty

rapidfire: let me guess, another fake dick?

“I know I probably should’ve given you guys more of a warning,” you went on, fighting the temptation to break, to yell for them to call the police, to give up entirely and make a run for it. “But…”

You forced yourself to laugh, to beam, to clap your hands together in front of your chest like a schoolgirl – excited to tell her friends that she’d gone through with her first ever confession. “I’m getting married!”

You didn’t have a ring to show off, but you tried your best to preen regardless, to not let any amount of fear or discomfort or hesitation show on your shining expression. After a show delay, congratulations and well-wishes filled your chat (some genuine, others more reluctant), and you did your best to go on without letting the sizable knot slowly gaining mass in the back of your throat smother your voice entirely. “This is going to be my last stream – for a while, at least, until we get settled in. And…”

You tried to remember what’d been listed next in Nanami’s script, but your conscious mind was bogged down by a thick layer of buzzing static, your sense of improvisation dulled by a heavy dose of anxiety. Your eyes flickered to where Nanami was sitting behind your equipment, only to find that the chair he’d formerly occupied empty. You didn’t have time to panic before the edge of the mattress dipped under a new weight, and you remembered what you were supposed to say. “My husband actually wanted to cameo on my send-off show. I was a little hesitant—” Another dip in the mattress, this one much closer than the last. “—but he insisted. I thought you all deserved a chance to meet him, too.”

As soon as you finished, you felt a large hand on your shoulder, a sudden presence at your back. Your gaze fell back to your feed, your own image now accompanied by that of your captor – on his knees behind you, one hand on your shoulder and the other on your hip, the framing positioned so that his head was cut off just above the mouth. The lower half of his face was covered with a black surgical mask, and you had to stop yourself from frowning. You hadn’t expected him to be stupid enough to show his face on camera, but still.

Your heart dropped into your stomach as you felt his hand fall away from your shoulder, slipping underneath the lace camisole of your babydoll. You tried not to move, not to flinch, but you couldn’t stop yourself from jerking forward as you felt his hand slip under your bralette, the angular ridges of his knuckles visible through the thin silk. Despite everything he’d said about not hurting you, about doing this for your protection, he made no attempt to be gentle – the calloused pads of his fingers pressing into the curve of your breast with enough force to bruise. You bit back a whimper, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sincere reaction. If you wanted to go home, you had to put up with this. He’d never said anything about pretending to enjoy it.

(In the back of your mind, you knew he hadn’t said anything about letting you go home, either. Still, you didn’t let yourself dwell on such discontinuities).

You should’ve known better than to think he’d attempt to follow the normal flow of your stream, and yet, it still caught you off-guard when his unoccupied hand found its way to the waistband of your panties, then to your clothed sex. You weren’t overly sensitive, despite how you might’ve acted in front of your viewers, but you were still on edge, still panicked, and while the adrenaline being held at knifepoint might’ve sparked was beginning to fade, having your kidnapper grope you on camera was enough to bring on a fresh wave. Reflexively, you pressed your back into his broad chest as his thumb traced over the length of your slit, pausing only momentarily to press into your clit with a dull, oppressive sort of pressure, biting down on your bottom lips to stop anything vulnerable and pathetic from escaping. If Nanami was affected by your stoicism, it wasn’t enough to stop him from pulling the flimsy material to the side entirely and slipping two fingers into you, your now-slick cunt providing humiliatingly easy access. In the same motion, the heel of his palm pressed into your clit, the friction immediately too harsh, too much. It would’ve been too much if he wasn’t touching you at all. It would’ve been too much if he was still sitting alone in his dark, empty house – getting off to the idea of degrading someone he claimed to care about so publicly.

It didn’t help that you were wet. Not dripping, sure, but wet enough for there to be an audible, slick clicking-type noise as he pumped his digits into you, never taking the pressure off of your clit. You could feel his cock pressed into your ass, already hard, already too familiar not to be nauseating, but he didn’t seem to be in a rush to move past your exhibition; his pace measured and experimental, his fingers prone to spreading apart and curling inside of you. To distract yourself, you moved your attention back to your chat, trying to pick out the longer messages between donation notifications.

user84343: girl i call dibs when you’re done with him

hotbox420: no seriously y/n are you okay???

bunnygirl69: still can’t believe you’re leaving us for him </3 can’t say i don’t see why tho ToT

absolutely.soaked: Blink twice if you’re in danger lmaoooo

“G-guys, I’m totally—” Your breath hitched as he forced another finger into you, the stretch now a touch past ignorable. His other hand kneaded at your chest, blunt nails scraping against tender flesh, and momentarily, you wondered if it really would’ve been so bad to take your chances and let him kill you right away. “I’m totally fine, I’m just—” His nails bit into your skin by way of warning, and you allowed yourself a single, stilted moan. “I’m just so happy that I finally get to—to—”

You didn’t know what you were supposed to say, but it didn’t matter. Nanami’s hand dropped from your chest to your side, his arm locking over your midriff and hauling you that much closer. You couldn’t stop yourself this time – whimpering as the tempo of his fingers sped up, as tears started to prick at the corners of your eyes. You glanced around the bedroom, searching for anything familiar, anything you could use to stabilize yourself, anything that you could start to find comforting. Instead, your eyes landed on the duffle bag he’d carried out of your apartment, the zipper now partially undone. You couldn’t see much, but you could make out the handle of a pink hitachi. It wasn’t difficult to guess what the rest of the bag’s contents looked like, what he’d spent so long riffling through your possessions to find.

It wouldn’t been pointless to try and hold back the crooked, ebbing sob that leaked past your lips. This time, when you turned to face your camera, it was with tears just beginning to spill and absolute terror written across your expression. “Call the police,” you managed to spit out, making no attempt to be subtle. “I—I don’t actually know this man, and this isn’t my apartment, and—“

It happened too quickly – like he’d been expecting you to do something so obviously short-sighted. You processed that he was pulling out of your cunt as you felt his fingers entangle themselves in your hair, and then your face was being shoved against the mattress, your body folding over itself as he forced you down. You tried to yell, tried to scream, but your voice was muffled by your own fucking comforter as you heard fabric shifting behind you, as you felt something warm and stiff and leaking align with your entrance. You refused to put a name to it, but that didn’t help. Nothing would’ve helped.

His palm pressed into the back of your head, his body slotting against yours as he leaned down, lowering his head so that he could speak directly into your ear. “I’m doing this for your own good,” he whispered, his voice muffled but still painfully audible. “I’m doing this because I love you.”

You didn’t have a chance to response. He was already inside of you – his cock filling you to your breaking point.

You weren’t sure if your viewers could hear you, but you hoped they could. It would’ve been a pity to sob so loudly for the sole entertainment of the sick, sick man currently rutting into you, grinding into your cunt from behind with a kind of animalistic desperation – all desire and no control. It was a struggle to stay on your knees, not to go entirely limp underneath him, but you doubted it would’ve made a difference if you hadn’t, that he wouldn’t have fucked your limp body just as enthusiastically. Out of the corner of your eyes, you could just barely see the monitor – the miniature image of Nanami’s body moving on top of yours, his blond hair still obscuring the other half of his face, and then next to it, your chat. If you’d been thinking more clearly, you wouldn’t have let yourself look, wouldn’t have let yourself fully acknowledge that there were still thousands of people watching you, but you weren’t thinking at all, and you would’ve given anything for someone to say something that made you forget where you were, just for a second.

sniper727: so the bitch likes it rough? hot

callmeanonymous: FINALLY!!! I’ve been waiting for some cnc rp for actual years.

blueeyeswhitedragon: hey i think i might work with that guy

hotbox420: yeah no i’m calling the cops.

Predictably, your efforts were grotesquely unsuccessful.

Nanami didn’t seem as bothered. The weight on the back of your head disappeared as his hands found your hips, pulling up as he straightened his back. For anyone else, it might’ve been an awkward position – holding up your uncooperative form while bouncing you on his cock – but no amount of unpleasant technicalities could’ve stopped him from burying himself to hilt with every stroke, keeping you in a constant state of mind-numbing fullness. You tried to talk, again, to call for help, but fractured mewls and pathetic whines drowned out whatever you might’ve said, and even those were put to an end as Nanami took you by the jaw, turning you to face him as his lips crashed into your – his mask either pulled down or discarded entirely, you couldn’t be bothered to check. The kiss itself was messy, rough, brutal, his tongue raking over yours as you sobbed unabashedly into his mouth – your connection only growing more chaotic as his hand once again found your clit and ground two fingers into the sensitive bundle of nerves. You knew what he wanted. You knew what he was trying to do.

And you couldn’t do anything to stop him.

With a ragged sob, you came undone around his cock, any strength you might’ve once had flooding out of your body and dripping down his shaft. Nanami groaned into your mouth, drawing back just far enough to bury his face in your neck and mouth meaningless nothings into your throat as he chased his own climax. He thrusted into you again once, twice, and then you felt pure heat pour into you – a new kind of torture that rendered you entirely senseless. You didn’t try to scream, again.

You were distantly aware of him moving, shifting, pulling something out of his pocket as he muttered a mix of ‘you did so well’s and ‘I love you’s into your skin. When you did finally manage to raise your head, you didn’t think to look toward the remote in his hand or your tattered lingerie or the cum slowly leaking out of your entrance. Rather, your attention landed on the same thing it always did during your streams – your monitor.

You’d never know why, but for whatever reason, you could feel your heart break in your chest as you realized that the screen had already gone black.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen #yandere jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jjk imagines #yandere nanami #yandere nanami kento #nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader

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yanderenightmare · 2 years ago

Text

Mahito

♡ TW: NSFW, noncon, psychological torture

♡ FEM reader

Mahito is so scary because you're the only one who sees him.

You can't tell your friends, you can't call the cops, you can't even discuss it with your therapist for fear of being committed.

You're all alone with him—half the time convinced you’re going insane.

He doesn't even need to kidnap you. Why would he? He likes your cozy apartment. To see you in your natural habitat with all your personal trinkets. Your books, your decorations, the contents of your fridge, your makeup, your clothes, not to mention the soft warmth of your bed…

Sure, his sewer has its charm, but you probably wouldn’t like it there very much. Not that it would stop him, but he’s sure you’d be boring if all you did was stay cooped up there all day.

This is much more interesting. To be there when you come home from work, having trifled through all your belongings, dragged everything out—made a mess like a new puppy would. To watch you try to cling to your sanity, going about life, trying to live it normally even when he’s right there on your sofa wanting to dish about how much you loath your pissy boss or that loud neighbor and what fun it might be to kill them.

You brush him off as intrusive thoughts—a manifestation within your mind. That’s the only explanation that allows you to keep your wits with you.

But it’s become hard to bring anyone home. Even though others can't see him, he’ll walk about your friends and the odd date and comment on all the things they do, ridiculing them when they say something cheesy, feigning puking before giving it away with a snicker, then asking you why you bother hanging out with them at all. And you wonder if that’s what you really think… why else would a figment of your imagination say something like that?

No. You decide. He doesn’t represent your thoughts. He’s just… a roommate who knows no boundaries.

Funny enough, you don’t really recognize that he’s any dangerous before you’re getting dressed after a shower, opening a drawer on your dresser you rarely look in—only to find it overfilled with dozens of tiny shrunken heads.

You scurry back on the floor with your hand clasped over your mouth until your back meets your bed—skin crawling. There’s no air left in your lungs from the shock to produce any such thing as a scream—so instead, you start heaving—then crying.

“Oh—I was wondering when you’d find them!” A cheer is heard from your bedroom threshold.

Your eyes pan to look at him—or it. Mahito, with a big grin on his face—clapping as though impressed by your performance.

“Wh-what– what is this?” You splutter, trying not to throw up—casting shifty glances over at the lump that had fallen to the floor—its face twisted with agony, unrecognizable, but you think you still knew… “What have you done?”

It doesn’t smell of rot, but something else—like unwashed clothing – sweat and piss and shit—you don’t understand how you hadn’t smelled it before. You don’t understand how you hadn’t heard it before—the moaning, though only in hoarse weak voices, still there, in a chorus, crying in pain.

“I’ve been studying them.” He says—casually, padding across the floor before bending down to pick the one up.

He looked at it with disappointment, throwing it up and catching it like one would a baseball—then clicked his tongue.

“But I must say you’ve got boring taste… I don’t feel like I learned much of use from any of them at all.”

He drops it to the floor in a fleshy splat, and you cringed anew—wanting to crawl away, wanting to get out, to call the police—maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to be committed—maybe there was something genuinely wrong with you…

Mahito doesn't share your concerns, though. He’s got his mind on other things.

“I think I’ll learn better through practice.”

You don’t realize what he’s talking about before you’re being lifted up on the bed and then pushed down against it.

His lean but muscular frame has you dwarfed as he crawls after you—caging you between his arms and legs.

“I wouldn’t mind the floor, but I’m sure you’d prefer the bed. That’s how you humans usually like it, right?” He smiles—as though he’s doing you a favor.

He’s taken off his usual tunic—showcasing a pale grey chest patchworked together in crude stitches—and you don’t really understand why you’d ever conjure something that looked like it. So human, yet still… so not.

“I didn’t know what size you’d want—they were all so different—but I think bigger is better, isn’t it?”

It doesn’t register before you feel the weight of it on your stomach.

Fat and warm, ridged with veins and hard against you.

Looking down, feeling the situation settle on your skin like the raw cold—you realize, though you don’t understand it—Mahito isn’t just some imaginary friend.

Whatever he is—he’s neither friend nor imaginary.

Your chest flares. “Mahito, no – ”

Your hands fly to try and push him off, but they’re easily caught. His fingers stretch inhumanly like playdough, using only one hand to reign in both wrists, pinning them to the pillow above you.

“No? Still too small?” He asks, as though your uproar had been a cry for more—his voice in a playful lilt. “I can make it bigger if you like~”

You squirm when the thing between your thighs grows an inch—swelling up into something fatter than your wrist—weighty and twitching atop you.

It alone churns your guts, but the sight of his face gleaming so innocently makes it all so much worse.

You whimper as he drags a rude finger through your folds—bluntly poking at your hole.

“You’re supposed to be wet, no?” He posed, keen eyes watching your face grimace in discomfort—drilling his digit inside you despite it.

When knuckle-deep, he curled it, nail scraping into the gummy of your tender walls—making your whole body twist with an ache, shaking your head while sinking your teeth into your lip.

“Stop-” You croaked pitifully, still trying to wring your wrists free—but the hand keeping them jailed had hardened into something that was no longer skin.

He just yawned at your struggle. “So noisy...” Bored while looking down at you and the ugly way your lips curled at his crude fingering—but then his eyes widened. “Wait—oh! I get it now! So, this is what kissing is for…”

He didn’t give you much time to turn away before his mouth locked on yours—more in an attempt to swallow than to kiss, feeding you his tongue—which felt so much longer than it should be—winding through you until it licked your gag-reflex and made you choke.

You tensed in response, clenching the finger prodding you—and he took it as an invitation to squeeze another in—making you squeal out a sob in his mouth.

But though it was a cruel ministration, it was enough to tickle the instinct—dragging wet out from within you, bathing the digits that now slid with greater ease in and out.

“See~ I told you I’d learn better through practice...” He mumbled against your lips—having felt the change—also noticing the quiet that befell you… looking so cute beneath him.

He chuckled—the taste of your kiss still warm and wet on his lips.

“That really did shut you up, hm~ you humans are so funny.”

That thing resting heavily on your belly does a little jump, and you flinch with it. Left panting after being throat-fucked by a tongue—you’re really only able to shake your head as he slips the beastly thing down between your thighs—its fat head licking your clit on its way until kissing your entrance.

Two fingers haven't done you any justice—nothing could—to prep you for something of that size.

“I think this is correct…” He muses, nudging himself against the slim coin-sized hole—looking a little confused while he did so—though not exactly unsure of himself… more as though it was the whole procedure in and of itself that was at fault and not him. He was just following instructions, after all.

Sucking his teeth at the tautness, he continued to press the tip through you.

A whine was ripped from your chest as it arched off the bed—thighs quaking on each side of his hips, kept spread despite wanting to force themselves shut.

“It’s better if you relax.” He offered then, though without much sympathy. Sounding almost jaded—as though you were keeping him waiting.

But then a thumb pressed down on your clit, forcing another jolt to rush through you.

“Women like to be touched here, right?” He rubbed crass circles into it—worse than amateurishly—rough patterns that bore no real intention of making you feel good.

Then his mouth slid from your mouth, down your neck—only to sink teeth in your tit.

“And here~” He giggled while nomming your nipple, rolling the little nib between his teeth before flicking over it with his tongue again and again, sucking on it harshly.

None of it made you relax like he’d suggested. Either way, he continued to sink his length one thick chub at a time as fast as your hole allowed. And soon enough, he reached your end before your hole could reach his. But that was no issue…

The hand on your clit, cupped your mound instead—and beneath it, where warmth pooled, you felt inner things alter—change, rearrange, allowing the giant member inside you to sink deeper even though you knew there couldn’t possibly be any deeper to go.

“Wow~ look at that…” He awed when his pelvis smushed against your mound—kneading into your clit as he pressed a curious hand down on the bulge he was making in your belly.

Strings of drool stuck from his lips to your chest—and a sick look pooled in his eyes.

Thicker and thicker breaths left him. He swallowed thickly. Barely blinking.

“I think I get it now…” His voice had shed its humorous tone, now sounding soft with something you didn’t want to have the attention of. “It’s like our souls are playing together…”

His hand stroked your stomach—like he was petting something you couldn't see.

“Feels good.”

♡ MAHITO masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

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sevsgiirl · 15 days ago

Text

— got lovesick all over my bed.

sevika week 2025, smut and fluff: day 7.

synopsis: due to being preoccupied at work for long hours, sevika hasn’t been able to focus on you and your needs, and it only became more obvious when she came home one day to a pleasant surprise.

word count: 1.9k

tags: top!sevika, bottom!reader, masturbation, strap-ons referred to as cock, daddy kink.

note: my final entry for sevika week!! I had a great doing this event and thank you to everyone who tuned in! I hope you guys like day 7, the prompt is smut and fluff ;)

you know you could never be mad at sevika.

it just so happens that the circumstances are constantly stacked against you two. she’d never do anything to upset you on purpose, but it’s impossible not to feel slightly disheartened that she’s always away for work to the point that you only get to see her during the night when she’s already spent and ready to head to bed.

then you’d wake up the next morning alone, with a note telling you that she’s sorry and that she’d make it up to you.

it was bad when she was working for silco but it only got worse when she became councilor.

spending time with her only ever happens once in a blue moon now and you kept telling yourself to sympathize with her situation, but it’s difficult. especially when you already felt like you came second after her job.

you didn’t want to come across as clingy, god knows sevika doesn’t want another problem added to her plate, but at the end of the day you still had needs and she was still your partner.

so to hell with it if you came across as bitter. although you would never tell it to her face that her busy schedule upset you, your actions spoke volumes.

and sevika wasn’t blind. she’s been feeling guilty about it ever since you two moved to piltover and she kept telling herself, again and again, that she’ll cut off a few work hours from the council to focus on you. but those damn pilties just wouldn’t let her.

and now you give her weak smiles that don’t even reach your eyes when she comes home late, knowing she’ll be too sleepy to even stay up and cuddle with you. but you’ll just wave her off saying that ‘it’s fine’ when she knows it’s not. she can see it in the way you turn your back on her in bed or when she kisses you goodbye after breakfast and you barely even reciprocate it.

she knows it’s unfair for you, and she knows you don’t have the heart to speak up about it because you know how much her work means to her, but she never wants you to think, even for a split second, that it matters more than your relationship.

so she did what needed to be done. she filed a report to the council demanding that she needed some time off, even just for a week, to focus on personal matters at home which surprisingly, they agreed to. and she almost fell to her knees in joy because finally she’ll be able to make it up to you, because no doubt you’ve been feeling neglected.

she doesn’t even want to think about it - you at home all alone just waiting for her to walk through the door at any moment. not bothering to wait up for her during dinner and looking at her empty seat as you ate all by yourself.

god, she feels like an asshole.

she doesn’t even want to think about how sexually deprived you must be too. you didn’t need to say it but she can feel it whenever you prolong kisses in hopes of turning them into full-on makeout sessions, then her alarm would go off just in time, forcing you to pull away, frustrated.

but she’ll fix that. she’ll spend the following week cooking you breakfast in bed and making love to you in ways that makes up for loss time because she knows you’ve missed her - what she didn’t know, however, was just how much.

as soon as shoola dismissed her from work she practically ran across piltover to your home, trying to be quiet when she walked through the threshold of your apartment. not bothering to call your name, as she wanted her early arrival to be a surprise.

the apartment was silent, too silent that she almost got worried you weren’t here, not until she heard it.

it was barely audible at first - the sighs and the whimpers. her eyebrows knitted in confusion as her feet dragged across the corridors leading up to your bedroom, where the door was slightly agape.

she automatically assumed you must’ve hurt yourself or were experiencing cramps, but when she peeked through the gap that showed her a glimpse of your shared bed, she was immediately taken aback because there you were:

flat on your back with your panties pulled down to your ankles and the cups of your bra hiked up all the way up to your chest.

your nipples pebbling in the cold air as your fingers made quick work to rub circles around your clit.

your head thrown back as you pulled your bottom lip in between your teeth, suppressing the moans that threatened to spill out of you but it was no use.

your moans were soft and desperate, and she knew you were finding it hard to get yourself off because with the way she fucks you, even ten of your fingers wouldn’t be able to wring an orgasm out of you.

but you persisted, sliding two of your fingers inside of you as you pumped them in and out, your breathing shallow.

“fuck, sev…” she felt a pool of warmth flood her insides when she heard you mutter her name, either you were envisioning her fingers, tongue or cock plunging into that needy hole of yours.

you looked like the human embodiment of sin, all sweaty and quivering as you kept grinding onto your hand thinking it’d do something.

and just when she sensed that it wasn’t enough, did you take the initiative to flip yourself over so you were on your hands and knees.

snatching the pillow - her pillow - beside you as you slid it down to where it met your dripping cunt and began humping it.

it took every ounce of willpower she had not to slam the door open and jump into bed with you - to rip your fingers away because no one, not even you, should be touching your pussy and giving it the pleasure it needed.

instead, she stood by and watched you just a bit longer - because although she felt guilty that you had to resort to this while she was gone, she had to admit that this was the best thing she could’ve come home to.

with you riding her pillow in a frenzied pace, tongue sticking out as beads of sweat slid down on your hairline…

“daddy please,” you cried out as she held the edge of the door with a grip of steel “make me cum, I’m so close, fuck, my pussy needs it so bad.”

that did it. she couldn’t stand idly by as you got yourself off on anything that wasn’t her cock pounding into you.

with that, she stepped inside the room and made quick strides until she was a few feet away from you, but still you didn’t notice her, too caught up in your own little world…

“god, I need to cum so bad,” you gripped the sheets in your hands, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes as you sobbed “fuck, this is torture.”

“I know it is, bunny.”

jumping, you startled away from the pillow as you looked up to see sevika looming over the edge of the bed, her eyes clouded with lust.

you gulped “sev, baby, you’re home-“

“is this what you do while I’m gone?” she rasped “fucking yourself stupid on your fingers and failing?”

your mouth fell open, not knowing what to say until the situation dawned on you.

and she was shocked when instead of being met with shyness, you stared at her with pouted lips and irritated eyes.

“I wouldn’t have to do this if only you were home to do it, you know.” you sassed, and just like that her initial guilt washed over her and she took a step closer towards you.

“oh bunny, I’m so sorry,” she reached out and cupped your jaw in her calloused palm “that was rude of me. you’re right, it’s my fault that you had to do this all by yourself.”

she bent down and kissed you, making you sigh as your hands shot up and squeezed her shoulders, trying to find some stability.

but your mind was fuzzy with lust and dear god, did you miss her. the feel of her, the smell of her - strong, rough and warm.

you couldn’t help it as you nuzzled your nose into the crook of her neck, rubbing yourself against her like some sort of feline suffering through her heat and offering herself up to her mate.

you shuddered when her mech arm clutched you by the hip and pulled you closer, her breath hot against the shell of your ear as she whispered:

“did you come already?”

you shook your head, so desperate you could almost cry “n-no.”

sevika hummed “let’s fix that then.”

𐙚˙⋆.˚

you two have been at it for hours.

yet you kept taking it and taking it - the way she harshly slammed her cock into you without so much as a pause, her pelvis smacking against the back of your thighs as the wet sounds of your pussy squelching filled the room.

letting out moans so obscene you almost sounded like a pornstar.

“d-daddy, feels so good.” your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you arched your back and met sevika’s thrust by bouncing your ass sensually against her strap “missed your cock. missed the way it feels inside me, missed the way you fuck me…”

“y-yeah?” sevika was on the brink of ruin as her hand squeezed your rear, the skin folding in her palm “you missed the way daddy fucks you, don’t you?”

“yes, yes, yes!” you cried out as she began a punishing pace that made you jolt violently “don’t leave again. I need you here. don’t make me fuck myself all on my own, it’s not the same. n-need your cock,”

she nodded earnestly, leaning down so her chest pressed against your back while she wrapped both her flesh and mech arm around your waist - driving into you with a sense of urgency while her fingers found the hood of your clit and rubbed. hard.

making you jerk as your body tensed, mouth falling open into a silent cry as sevika held you tighter as you rode out your orgasm.

“that’s it,” she cooed “that’s my pretty girl. so good to me, fuck…”

she peppered kisses down your throat as you sobbed, looking for her right hand as you intertwined her fingers with your own.

“never leave me again like that, please…” you let out a sniffle as sevika’s chest tightened “I hate it when you’re away,”

she nodded, wiping your tears away “I’ll try to talk to the council and see if I could cut off some hours to get back home early, okay? for now, I asked if I could have a few days off to attend to personal matters,” she kissed your temple, making you melt “those personal matters being you and your needs, of course.”

you hummed, a smile on your face as you lit up at the news.

“do you want me to draw you a bath?” she asked as you gave her a small nod “okay, come on.”

she stood up and took the strap tightened around her hips before throwing it carelessly onto the bed, making you giggle as she slid one of her arms at the back of your knees while the other held your waist before scooping you up in her arms.

you were already feeling tired and your limbs were sore but it didn’t really matter, she’d take care of you. all you needed to do was just shut your pretty little mind off.

“… I missed you so much, sev,” you muttered, eyes closed.

she pulled you closer and sighed “I missed you too, bunny.”

#sevika x reader #sevika x you #sevika x y/n #arcane #arcane fanfiction #arcane smut #wlw smut #lesbian #sapphic #sevika week 2025 #dividers by fairytopea

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joelsbloodyhands · 7 months ago

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Enjoy the Silence

SUMMARY: You come home from work and find yourself having sensory overload from everything. Joel comes home and takes care of you.

WARNINGS: no outbreak, no mention of Ellie 😭, established relationship with Joel, soft!Joel, descriptions of loud noises, reader gets big sad and unable to manage themselves, needs Joel for comfort, an overuse of terms of endearment (baby, sweetheart, honey), Joel is here to help with everything, sensory overload of touch, sounds, sensitive smell. Just absolute fluff (I need it so bad rn) 🤧 no use of y/n, gender neutral pronouns used, reader has hair long enough to tie up, reader has no visible disabilities. Reader loves Sarah. WE LOVE SARAH 🥺 but she’s unintentionally overwhelming us, sorry Babygirl 😭

Dividers by @nicodefresas 🎀

A/N: As I’m writing this, I’m currently having the worst sensory overload episode 😔 also I don’t think I should need to specify but everyone has different triggers and symptoms when dealing with overstimulation. A lot of this is based on my own personal experiences.

You don’t have the foggiest clue where it triggered from.

You just know that one minute you were grinding away at work, then you were driving home in the rain becoming all too aware of the blaring lights of other cars bothering your eyes more than they usually did.

If you could’ve worn sunglasses without crashing in the evening darkness, you would have. The sudden outburst of a car horn had you gripping the steering wheel tighter causing you to subconsciously flex your fingers, becoming all too aware of the rough leather of the steering wheel against your dry hands.

Dry hands. My lips are dry too.

You lick your lips.

My mouth tastes weird.

You’re becoming all too aware of your teeth grinding against each other.

Just tired, yeah…that’s all. Just tired. Long day at work. I’ll be fine once I get home.

So you keep driving.

Sarah was home when you got back. Her voice shaking you awake as soon as you passed the threshold of the house while she spoke to you about her day.

You look forward to these moments usually.

Coming back to Sarah and Joel.

Gossiping about the joys of working and all the drama of high school that you definitely don’t miss but enjoy hearing when Sarah gives you her best dramatic retelling of events.

Though as she followed you through the corridor to the kitchen, your ears rang.

Is she talking louder than normal?

You open the refrigerator, a sudden overwhelming scent of Thai green curry catching your senses and not in a good way.

But it’s your favourite?

Joel made it yesterday, putting the leftovers into three Tupperware boxes to eat for dinner today. The pounding of the washing machine and dryer causes you to close the refrigerator uneasily, your eyes glancing to it. Sarah’s voice joining the chorus of sounds echoing off the kitchen walls.

You don’t feel hungry all of a sudden.

“Are you okay?” Sarah voice breaks through and you come to realise you must have been staring at her for an awful long time, your eyes wide.

You nod and Sarah frowns ever so slightly.

“So what do you think?”

Your mind goes blank.

You didn’t even hear anything she said except yes you did but it was so loud, you didn’t take any of it in.

“About what?” You find yourself murmuring, your own voice startling you.

It sounds unfamiliar to you for some reason.

You’re worried you’ve upset her while Sarah takes a minute before a smile breaks out on her lips and she’s laughing and prodding you on the arm playfully. Your eyes drift there instinctively, her laughter making you wince.

You don’t laugh in return.

“Long day at work, huh?” She giggles and rolls her eyes before telling you she needs to go study and that you should eat dinner.

She leaves you then, your body standing in the same position in front of the refrigerator where she left you. The sound of her feet hitting against the staircase filling your head, the floorboards creaking harshly. You exhale a heavy breath.

As you stand there, eyes turning distastefully towards the washing machine and dryer singing their tune far too loud, your skin starts to itch. You tug at the sleeves of your work shirt, unbuckle the belt at your waist, the feeling too tight against your hips. You pull the hair tie from your wrist and put your hair up into a bun, the tickle of the hairs against the back of your neck bothering you.

You know what’s happening.

You’re just trying to refuse to accept that it is, hoping that for once you can just ignore it and go about the rest of your evening like you originally planned.

You just want to hear Joel’s voice, cuddle into him on the couch, eat your curry and go to bed.

Except when you hear the front door open and his voice is carrying through to the kitchen, you retract into yourself, carrying your feet away from the overwhelming sounds of mundane tasks and to the staircase. You want nothing more than to sit on the floor of your bedroom with your legs crossed and the lights off.

So you skip up the stairs, albeit with dramatic wide steps, trying not to trigger the creakiest of the floorboards. When you get to yours and Joel’s bedroom, flooded with darkness, you shut the door and allow yourself to crumble.

Ah you can’t take this. You need your shirt.

Where is it?!

You’re frantic, the tears falling down your cheeks as you continue to feel itchy in your work shirt, longing for the wide airy comfort t-shirt you keep for this very reason.

“Hey,” a whisper sounds behind you and you turn abruptly, eyes wide to see Joel stood, his eyes on you intently as he holds your oversized shirt by the shoulders in both hands.

Lost in all your distress, you hadn’t even heard him come in.

You realise you’re crying then.

“Joel, I-“

He watches you harshly rub at your face.

He knows you hate to be touched at times like this.

It feels like nails on a chalkboard but he ever so gently, puts two fingers to the wrist of your hand practically clawing at your face and you drop it immediately, your eyes meeting his again, pained and bloodshot.

“I’m sorry, Joel,” you cry, “I’m just-“ you flail your arms in frustration, the intense sound of your sobs making your eyes twitch.

“Hey, hey,” he whispers, moving towards you and taking the hem of your shirt in his fingers, careful not to graze any more skin as he starts to lift it from your body.

“You don’t need to apologise, baby,” he keeps whispering, “let’s get you more comfortable, hm?”

Joel knew all too well about your episodes.

In fact, it’s partly the reason of how he met you at Tommy’s house when you attended a barbecue and got overwhelmed by the music and sounds of neighbours, talking and getting louder the more drunk they got.

Joel had planned to leave early but was surprised when he found you curled in the bottom of a dark closet when he was retrieving his coat.

He froze when he saw you, your watery eyes lifting up at him, your arms wrapped around your knees pulled up against your chest.

Your cheeks had flushed dangerously, embarrassed about being found in this predicament but all Joel saw was a young woman clearly upset so he bent down to your level, his head turning this way and that scoping the corridor to make sure no one was around and asked you what was wrong and if he could help in any way.

You had shook your head so fast, the room span but Joel didn’t back away so easily.

Truth be told, you’d caught his attention all night and Tommy had nudged and smirked at him for noticing his eyes on you, encouraging him to go talk to you but he never did.

He couldn’t find a reason to.

Well, what more of a reason did he need than finding you sat with your back against a coat closet in his brothers house?

You had stood up so shakily that Joel found himself wanting to take you in his arms just to offer you some support to stand but you backed away when his hands instinctively held out to grab you if you fell.

He retracted them just as quick.

You told him you were fine and thanked him, saying you just needed to call an Uber and go home. You made the excuse that you’d had too much to drink and your head was spinning.

Dizzy and nauseous, you just needed somewhere dark to sit.

With the daunting thought in mind of having to sit in a stuffy taxi with a voice trying to make polite conversation with you, you didn’t catch Joel’s offer until you met his eyes again and he realised your blank expression, his back straightening and voice softening with a smile.

“If you need a dark closet, I got one at my place across the street if you need it?”

Somehow you laughed and even though your own voice hurt your ears, you found yourself saying, “if you’d said that to anyone else, you’d sound like a murderer,” and all it took was Joel’s pretty smile to take him up on his offer.

Except rather than a dark closet, he simply closed the curtains in his living room, offered you some chamomile tea, a blanket and sat in silence with you on the couch. And though your voices were silent, your mind was loud, finding it completely baffling that a man you just met and barely knew was being so incredibly sweet as to offer you a safe space. No questions asked.

Then he’d asked you out on a date and you were absolutely dumbfounded.

Later in your relationship, you had admitted what had happened and while he understood what it meant to feel overwhelmed (god did he feel it sometimes), sensory overload was a completely new term for him.

You explained as best you could, your cheeks the same shade of red he had seen when he found you in the closet. Joel took it upon himself when he was awake lying next to you, tangled up asleep in his bedsheets, to take his phone from his bedside and spend a good hour reading about what sensory overload was and how it can be eased.

You couldn’t believe your luck of finding this man. You practically thank that damn closet for it’s existence in Tommy’s house every time you visit.

So now you’re back in that predicament again and Joel is pulling back the covers from the bed, folding it up at the end knowing you just want a nice cool mattress to lay against.

Your heart twists at his care, tears falling from your eyes like rain, except Joel is the sun as warm and inviting as can be even when you want nothing more than to be left alone.

“Okay, honey,” he now whispers, knowing it’s easier to talk to you that way. His heart aches at the sight of you as he turns to face you, slowly walking so that his footsteps don’t make too much noise along the wooden floorboards.

“You wanna lie down? I’ll get you something to eat.”

“I don’t think I can eat, Joel,” you reply, your voice shaky as you lay down on the bed. Joel kneeling beside it, his palms flat on the mattress beside you while you lay on your side looking up at him.

“Usually liquids are best, right? Soup? Or I could make you a smoothie? And a cup of tea? Do you want your noise cancelling earphones, baby?” Your eyes are tearing again at his words and Joel’s face crumples at your glistening cheeks.

“It’s okay, honey,” he cooes, hand rubbing the mattress, pretending it’s your back.

“I feel bad,” you cry.

“No, no, no, sweetheart,” Joel shushes you, knowing all too well where this is leading and disallowing you to talk badly about yourself.

“But Sarah, she…she was trying to tell me about something and I couldn’t even concentrate on what she was saying-“

“Baby, you know Sarah understands,” Joel leans in closer, his breath on your face as he reassures you of your racing thoughts.

“She told me as soon as I came in that she thought you were having an episode. She knows, sweetheart.”

Your eyes widen, your crying stopping momentarily.

“Really?” You ask, your throat dry.

Joel nods, a small smile on his lips, “And she gets it, baby. She doesn’t judge. We’ve talked about it before. Just to make sure she always knew you might have a moment every now and again so if you need space, it doesn’t have anything to do with our relationship or the one you have with her. She loves you, honey and she knows you love her. Okay?”

You nod and Joel’s smile grows, glad to have consoled you.

“Now,” he starts again, “I’ll go get you what you need and you stay right here. I’ll be right back.”

You nod again, “thank you, Joel.”

Joel has to stifle his chuckle only a little, “how many times do I have to tell you? You don’t need to thank me, sweetheart. I’m your partner. It’s important that I take care of you. You do it for us plenty.”

You smile a little and it makes Joel swoon, happy to finally see your lips turn up, your dimples gracing the edges.

True to his word, he disappears but not before scoping the wardrobe and retrieving your earphones. You put them in and try to close your eyes and relax when he leaves. Trying to will your body to loosen up, your muscles to relax rather than freeze rigidly with every sensation. The mattress is cool, your long shirt light and airy and Joel left a cold glass of water with a straw on the bedside for when your mouth was feeling too dry.

He was one in a million and you smiled knowing you won the lottery when he found you that day in the wardrobe and then you became the richest person on the planet when you met Sarah and the connection you had to both of them grew stronger until he eventually asked you to move in.

Five years later and here you were. A family.

The best family you could’ve asked for.

“Hey baby,” you lift your head to see Joel wandering in, taking out one of your buds as he places a shaker bottle he normally uses for his protein shakes on the bedside full of a pink smoothie, joined by a cup of camomile and a bowl of your favourite soup.

“Thank you, baby,” you smile and Joel turns his head giving you a wink, seeing you that you seem to be gradually returning back to your normal self.

And luckily you are feeling a little more comfy now.

The sounds of the evening chores going on downstairs are becoming less aggravating.

You don’t feel like you need to tear your skin off your body. In fact you’re almost longing for a bath, feeling a little sweaty from being worked up so bad earlier.

“Joel?” You sit up, Joel turning to see the way your oversized shirt rides up over your underwear, his face flushing at the sight.

“You need something, baby?” He’s got that flirty smile on his face, the one that tells you he sees something he likes but you’re still not completely past your overwhelming senses.

If anything, you’re now bothered by the smell of sweat emitting from your body.

“You know how you love me so much?” You start and Joel’s eyes crease, his smile growing into a full grin.

He hums in response, awaiting your command.

“Pretty please could you run me a bath? You always make it feel so good.”

Joel kneels at the bottom of the bed, his flirty smirk returning at your words, his hands splaying out over the mattress, smoothing over it as you inch a bit closer to him.

“Is that right, sweetheart? You want a nice warm bath with all your rose petals and bubble bath? Is that what you need, baby?”

You nod with a pout, overplaying it a bit, watching his tongue poke into his cheek amused by your behaviour.

“If that’s what you need, I can do that for you but first I need you to eat some of your soup and drink some of your smoothie. Can you do that for me?”

You nod with a dimpled smile and as much as he longs to reach out and graze your knee with his fingertips, he reframes from doing so, continuing to respect your boundaries while you might still be working through your hypersensitivity.

True to his word, Joel ran the bathtub at just the right temperature, sprinkling rose scented petals and dropping a floral scented bath bomb into it. He’d even gone as far as to light some candles, set a fresh cup of tea on the side and stolen some chocolates from the last Halloween run you’d had with Sarah.

If you thought your lover couldn’t get any sweeter, he’d helped you out of your clothes and respectfully kept his hands away from you until you prompted him with a small smile to offer his hand and help you climb into the tub.

Joel left you to check on Sarah while you laid back, your senses mellowing out and coming back down from the heightened agitation you were experiencing earlier. Now finally you felt like a weight had been lifted. Your skin felt less itchy.

“So pretty…”

Your cheeks redden when Joel walks into the misty bathroom, stopping in his tracks at the doorframe and overlooking your soft skin peppered with fluffy soap.

“Have you washed your hair, honey?”

You shake your head, your smile slipping momentarily.

You would have done it if the room wasn’t a little cold. You were doing what you could to stay buried under the hot water, still feeling slightly sensitive to the temperature of the room. The aspect of lifting your bare wet arms out of the water to massage your scalp made you feel uneasy. You weren’t completely out of this episode yet and even if you were, the twinkle in Joel’s eyes told you he’d still offer up his services.

You watch him with bated breath as he kneels beside the tub, pushing up the sleeves of his favourite green plaid shirt, your eyes following the hardened muscles of his forearms up to his biceps peeking out under the flannel.

Though Joel may have a soft tummy, his arms were a statement to his hard work running a construction company with his brother, Tommy.

You rather adored your man being soft and a little hard around the edges.

“Want me to help you, sweetheart?” His voice captures you again, your eyes on his soft brown orbs.

You nod wordlessly, suddenly longing for his large hands and gentle fingers to work their way through your locks and massage your scalp deliciously.

You anticipate Joel’s touch anxiously when he leans over and reaches for your cherry scented shampoo, squeezing the red shiny liquid over his thick hands and lathering it together.

He offers you a smile, his head tilting in request to proceed in touching you. You nod and he moves behind you, his fingers sinking up into your hair from the back. You fight to suppress a shiver tickling up your spine when Joel works the product through your scalp, massaging and coating the ends of your hair with soft strokes.

It constantly amazed you how Joel’s strong hands that spent most the day throwing around heavy parts, growing calloused from checking wooden palettes during the day, could become so delicate and gentle when touching you.

You smiled to yourself, dropping your chin to your wet chest with a satisfied sigh.

Joel made sure not to massage too hard or tug harshly at your hair. He didn’t want to make you retreat back into your shell by triggering your hypersensitivity again.

He could see just from how your shoulders were gradually easing back down to normal level below your chin that your overstimulation was dissipating as the time passed.

He bites his inner gum when he hears a slight moan leave your lips at his movements.

“That feel okay?”

You hum in response, a short nod of your head.

“Good,” Joel whispers, even daring to lean forward, your damp soapy strands sticking to his cheek when he presses a slow soft kiss to your bare shoulder.

“I love you.”

Your words caress the relaxed atmosphere.

Joel smiles.

Joel wanting nothing more than to strip back and join you, holding you against his chest under the warmth of the water but he continues to hold back.

Instead he greets your quiet intimacy with a whisper.

“I love you too, baby.”

You open your eyes to a light breeze, birds singing and a smoky cup of coffee on your bedside in your favourite mug.

You lay on your side for a good few minutes, blinking away sleep, your hands cradled under your cheek and buried against the pillow.

You don’t remember falling asleep but when you feel a shuffle behind you, large warm hands slipping under your nightshirt and tugging you against his bare body, the memories start flooding back.

You were so relaxed in the bathtub that it made you sleepy. So sleepy in fact that Joel leaned over the tub after emptying it, bundled you up in a fluffy towel and lifted you into his arms.

Your cheeks warm when you vaguely remember the slight groan of protest on Joel’s lips as his aching back retaliated but with you squashed nicely against his chest, Joel couldn’t complain.

He laid you down in your bed carefully and dried you as gently as he could before tucking you in.

You remember being alone in your half-asleep state that you heard the familiar murmur of father-daughter voices, the click of the door and padded footsteps before the mattress dipped.

A kiss pressed against your forehead and all went dark.

Now the world was brighter than ever before, the sounds of the birds and cars passing by doing nothing to disturb your hearing. Your bones no longer stiffening at the natural sounds of life.

More importantly, the sensation of your lovers thumbs brushing your naked hips was very much welcomed. So much so you groaned happily, rolling over to face those perfect brown eyes and plush lips quirked up into a tired smile.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

You lean forward, meeting Joel half way and kissing him softly. You let your hands slip under his arms, cuddling into him while shuffling just below his chin.

Joel presses a lingering kiss against your head.

Distantly, you can hear Sarah’s record player and you sigh happily as the music carries through your home.

All I ever wanted…

All I ever needed is here…

In my arms…

You squeeze Joel tighter.

#joel miller #TLOU hbo #the last of us fanfiction #Joel miller fanfiction #Joel miller x reader #Joel miller x you #ppcu fanfiction #ppcu #pedro pascal cinematic universe #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal #joelsbloodyhands writes

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sashaisready · 8 months ago

Text

Starting Over: Chapter 5 - Better

Mob!Bucky x Female Reader

Series Masterlist

When Bucky throws you out of the house for a betrayal and won't listen to your side of the story, you know the only way out is through - it's time to start over. Maybe this was never going to be your happy ending.

Hi! I'm sorry this took so long, work has been kicking my bum lately and I haven't had much writing time. But it's here - the final part! I hope you like it. Thanks to everyone who has reblogged/commented/engaged with this story - it means so much. Thank-you!!

💔

One week later…

You were cleaning tables when you glanced at the diner’s clock and realised it was almost 9am. Friday was here once again…

…Would he be in as usual?

It was raining heavily outside, throughout the early shift your regulars had rushed in and shaken the sogginess off their coats and umbrellas once they were safely over the threshold of the diner. You’d chatted with them, commiserating with them about ‘this damn weather’ and promising to warm them up with coffee and breakfast.

You’d spent your time off this last week popping into the hospital to see Lou. He was doing well, making progress, but the road to recovery was long. He needed to make major adjustments to his lifestyle and potentially engage in physical therapy as they think he’d also had a small stroke. He got his personal mail delivered to the diner and asked you to open it and keep him updated with anything pressing. The medical bills you’d seen were already dizzying and his insurance only covered part of it, but you couldn’t bother him what that just yet – he didn’t need the stress on top of everything else. You’d figure it out. You always did.

Lou had made you acting manager to pick up the slack while he was gone. You were pulling extra hours, working overtime to ensure the ship remained afloat while the captain remained on the shore. It was tough, but you couldn’t deny you loved the buzz of being in charge – of keeping everything moving.

You hadn’t seen Bucky since that night at the hospital. He’d insisted on driving you home after you’d said goodbye to Lou, ignoring your protests that the subway was perfectly fine…

“The subway, doll? Fuck no. Not on my watch”.

You’d rolled your eyes, knowing you didn’t have the energy to fight him after the evening you’d had. He knew it too. You’d merely sighed and hopped into the back of his SUV as you gave him your new address, giving a little wave to Clint who was driving.

The two of you sat in the back in silence for the entire journey, you watched the city flying past you from the window and it felt strange that the outside world was just continuing around you like normal while yours had almost collapsed.

The car rolled to a stop in front of your building, and you turned to Bucky. He seemed to be studying you carefully, concern drawn across his features. Even after all this time and distance, the beauty of his face still took your breath away at times.

“Thank-you…for the ride. For dinner. For showing up…all of it,” you said softly.

He nodded stoically, “always. Look…no matter what happens between us, I’ll always show up for you if you need me. Any time, any place. And Lou is going to be just fine, alright?”

Almost instinctively you found your hand sliding across the leather of the seat towards him. He looked down as your hand moved to find his. You clasped your fingers around his metal digits, the cool sensation against your skin was something you hadn’t felt in a long time. They in turn wrapped around yours and the two of you sat holding hands for a short while. You didn’t speak or look at each other, just both existing in the moment and concentrating on the feeling of your hands entwined. You paused, wanting to say more – but unable to quite find the words.

Eventually you couldn’t bear the strange tension in the air. You gently withdrew your hand and cleared your throat as you shuffled across the seat towards the door.

“Well, thanks again. And for the ride, too”.

“Anytime. Nice building…” he peered out of the window at your apartment block.

“Ah yeah, thanks,” you said proudly.

“You doing okay, living there?” he asked quizzically in his Brooklyn-lilt, his brows furrowed.

“Mm…I mean, it’s not as fancy as your place,” you chuckled, “it’s kinda cramped and small, but it’s cosy and warm. And it’s mine,” you told him with fondness.

He smiled, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes. “My place was yours too, you know”.

You chewed on your lip, you hadn’t intended it as a slight against him. “I-I know Buck…but…you know what I meant”.

He nodded reluctantly. “Yeah…that’s good. I’m pleased for you, really”. His nose crinkled as he looked at you fondly. It was a little mannerism of his that you’d missed.

You shared a small smile before getting out of the car and heading inside. You couldn’t quite bring yourself to look back at the car, a storm of emotions fighting to escape you. Your fatigue mixed with your anxieties about Lou, confusion about this sudden shift with Bucky now swelling. You could tell from the quiet behind you that the car hadn’t pulled away yet, no doubt waiting until you were safely off the street. You put your key in the door and quickly moved inside.

That was last week. You hadn’t spoken to him since, although you’d wondered if you should reach out. You thought he might’ve been in touch – a text, a call, but nothing. It was nice, he was leaving the ball in your court and not crowding you, respecting the boundaries you’d established. But part of you couldn’t shake the small sense of disappointment that lingered, too.

The fact was you couldn’t deny that something was stirring. Bucky, who you’d long written off and blacklisted for his betrayal, had started to be on your mind more and more. He had crept back into your brain.

You didn’t believe the old adage that time healed all wounds, but it had certainly helped. The space you’d had from him a year on from the incident had allowed you to find yourself again, the parts that you hadn’t realised you’d lost after diving headfirst into your relationship with Bucky. You still felt immense pain when you thought about what happened…but you also thought about how he had been true to his word. He hadn’t tried to force you back, not aggressively pursuing you or trying to talk you round. His weekly mornings at the diner had never felt pointed or manipulative. You believed that he was just happy to have you in his life, like he’d said. You’d since found your own place, started therapy and looked at your own issues, thrown yourself into work. Remembered who you were before you were ‘mob boss girlfriend’. You knew that what had happened with Bucky was not your fault, it wasn’t your job to reflect and change accordingly – that was all his. But still, having the space and time to work on yourself…it was refreshing. One small silver lining on this ugly, black cloud.

You’d also been on a few dates over the last few months. Nothing to write home about. A few nice guys, a few less than nice guys. Nothing had truly sparked for you; nobody had piqued your interest enough to want to really explore more than a few dinners or coffees. Maybe it was because of how things ended with Bucky, or you just hadn’t met someone right for you, or maybe you were just off dating altogether…But it wasn’t something you felt real enthusiasm for at this point. But that was okay. It had been fun to dip your toe back in the dating pool, and you weren’t averse to trying again when the moment was right, or you met the right person.

Unless of course, it was because someone else was on your mind.

Your slow burn friendship with Bucky had crept on you, taken you by surprise. The man who had once broken your heart now had a new place in your life. It was strange, but in some ways, you knew him better than you had when you were together. Despite your previous connection - your conversations had opened territory up you’d never covered together before, previously too caught up in passion and heat to dive as deeply as you had now.

And most importantly, he had shown up for you that night at the hospital, been there for you without you needing to ask. He had brought you dinner and stayed by your side without a word, because he knew you needed not to be alone – needed support. You were touched by his care for you, his willingness to clear his schedule for you at the drop of a hat. It meant a lot. It meant everything. He had intuited how you felt and acted immediately. He was there.

You didn’t know what it meant, if anything. Something had changed, the safe barrier of diner breakfast chats had been crossed. Part of you was panicking – no! Don’t let him get close, not again! Remember what he did! But another part of you had missed him deeply, longed to hold him again and wake up to him each morning. Your thoughts were a spiralling mass of contradictions and conflict, nothing made sense.

You weren’t sure if you could ever truly forgive him for what happened.

But could you try?

Roscoe snapped you out of your thoughts as he passed you the latest batch mail on his way by. You thanked him, flicking through the junk mail until your attention was caught by the hospital logo on one of the envelopes. You winced, tentatively ripping open the paper as you braced yourself for the latest bill.

You cursed under your breath as you unveiled the total figure, a stupid amount of money. You spiralled as it sank in, wondering if Lou would have to sell the diner in order to settle his debt. You knew he didn’t have anywhere near enough in his savings. You thought about all the jobs that could be at stake, including yours, and your heart ached most of all knowing that the restaurant was Lou’s baby. It would break him to give it up.

Maybe you could call them, sort out a payment plan…something?

You tried to calm yourself down, thinking about what your therapist would say about your immediate jump to the worst-case scenario. Relax. You can fix this. Remember your mindfulness exercises. Life would find a way.

The opening of the front door pulled you from your catastrophising. You glanced over, making eye contact with a rather damp Bucky as he entered the diner. He sighed, shaking the rain from his coat as he scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“A lovely morning…” he muttered, deadpan.

You smiled, stuffing the hospital bill into your apron pocket and going to grab the coffee jug, “Morning, Buck. Get a little wet?”

“A little,” he gruffed, slotting himself into his usual booth.

You chuckled as you filled up his mug.

“How’s Lou?” he asked, shaking the rain from his hair.

“He’s doing better, thanks for asking. They’ve got a whole treatment plan worked out for him - so that’s positive”.

“Good. Glad to hear. You over here running the show while he’s out?”

“Something like that,” you smiled, then shuffled on your feet as you realised you needed to talk to him. “Bucky, I-”

A loud clatter and exclamation from the kitchen cut you off, causing you both to look over at the disturbance. You sighed with exasperation.

“Ah. Duty calls…I’ll put your order in while I’m in there”.

You rushed off to sort out whatever mess waited for you in the kitchen as Bucky smiled playfully at your annoyance.

He noticed something had fallen out of your apron as you dashed off. A piece of paper. He leaned over to pick it off the floor for you in case you needed it. Before he realised it was private and had a chance to look away, his eyes were immediately drawn to the monstrous sum at the bottom of the page. Ah. He grimaced as he quickly put two and two together, folding the paper neatly and leaving it on the table. He took a sip of his coffee.

You appeared a little while later with his order, sighing heavily as you placed the plate in front of him.

“Sorry about that…Roscoe and Ron were fighting about if the bacon was too crispy, and some trays got caught up in the carnage. Never a dull moment around here…”

You suddenly noticed the paper on the table, your words trailing off as your eyes locked onto it. You snatched it away quickly, shoving it into your apron.

“That’s not…that’s-” you floundered, embarrassed for him to have seen it.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to snoop. You dropped it, so I picked it up and then realised what it was,” he explained softly.

“It’s fine. I’m dealing with it,” you shrugged, desperate to appear nonchalant.

“Sit down, doll”, he said sternly.

You scoffed, “Bucky…I’m busy running a restaurant here…”

He paused, looked up and bellowed across the diner, “Roscoe! Ron! Handle things while your boss takes a break!”

You rolled your eyes, turning to see Roscoe and Ron nodding furiously as they scattered and suddenly started working harder than you’d ever seen them. They had always been afraid of Bucky. You stifled a laugh.

“Problem solved, now sit,” he gestured.

You reluctantly sat down opposite him, “Bucky…”

“We’re gonna talk”.

“I don’t need-”

“No. Let’s do this”, he said sternly.

You folded your arms in front of you, fully aware that you resembled a petulant teenager but not caring enough to stop.

Bucky cleared his throat, taking a sip of his coffee before picking up the letter. “Now, I don’t want to overstep…but I can take care of this you know…”

You shook your head. “No. Thanks for the offer, but no,” you told him firmly.

“Alright. That’s fine. So, Lou has enough to cover it?” he asked, “all of it?”

You nodded a bit too quickly, “mmhmm”.

Bucky caught it immediately, your lie. You noticed the quirk of his brow and the subtle rubbing of his lips together. Damn him.

“Well, that’s a relief,” he sipped his coffee again and ate a few forkfuls of his meal, then wiped his mouth with a napkin and tilted his head quizzically. “Guess it’s all wrapped up, then”.

You nodded again in agreement, but knew he wasn’t done.

He took his time, casually taking a few more bites of his breakfast and sipping his coffee. You knew his relaxed demeanour was a careful façade…you had somehow found yourself at the centre of a famed Bucky Barnes interrogation.

You tried to appear relaxed, as if you had nothing more to add.

“Because…” he started.

Ugh.

“…because, if he didn’t have enough. That would be a problem, wouldn’t it?”

“Mmm. It would. But it’s not…so…”

“Right”, he cut you off. “But if he didn’t – great eggs today by the way – if he didn’t, that would be putting this place at risk, right? All the staff here and their jobs. Your job?”

“Right,” you replied, your voice a little strained.

“And of course Lou himself…he loves this place. It’s his baby. I’m sure he’d be devastated if he had to give it up to pay his medical bills. Especially as the last thing he needs right now is more stress and financial worries on top of his ill health”. He paused again to eat, not even looking up.

You nodded; your eyes now slightly cloudy now.

“Yep…” you said meekly.

He looked up at you, his eyes intensely locked onto yours, gesturing towards you with the fork. He was in full swing now. The diner suddenly felt much hotter, you could feel tiny beads of sweat forming on your forehead and the back of your neck.

“And I hope it would be known, if that was the case of course, that my offer would have no strings attached. Because I could imagine someone might decline it out of pride, or concern that it would have conditions and that person would then be in some sort of debt to me…either financially or emotionally. And if that was the case, I’d want to reassure them that it would only be a friend looking out for a friend, helping because I want to, and I can, and God knows I should do something nice once in a while to even out my moral scales…”

The barrier broke and your tears finally escaped, the stress about Lou and this intimidating bill, and your confusion about how you felt for Bucky, all finally coming to the surface. You cupped your face in your hands as you quietly sobbed.

“I’m sorry, I just…I…”

Bucky moved like lightning, whipping around to your side of the booth as he swung in next to you.

“Hey…hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry,” he said softly, “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted to be clear what my offer entailed; but I understand why you’d be reluctant to accept my help”.

He pulled a few napkins from the dispenser and tenderly wiped away your tears.

“It wouldn’t be a loan, doll, and you wouldn’t need to make nice with me to say thanks. You could call me an asshole and dump these eggs on my head, and I’d still pay in full with a smile. There’s no expectation here, no contract – legal or implied”.

You sniffed, looking up at him blearily, “you’d really do all that for me…but…why?”

He paused, then very delicately used his thumb to collect the tears forming at the side of your eye.

“You know why,” he said plainly.

Your heart panged, and you looked down at your hands in your lap, clutching at one of the now-soggy napkins he’d given you. You sniffed again as you regained your composure, suddenly feeling exposed in front of him. The two of you stared at one another for a few moments and you were so desperate to tell him everything, but you couldn’t form the words. You hoped he would elaborate and fill in that gap for you, but he didn’t.

He quietly got up, putting on his coat and placing some bills down on the table to cover his check. He leaned over and kissed you on the crown of your head, then used a finger to tilt your chin up to look at him.

“You don’t have to decide anything now,” he told you as he looked into your eyes, “Think it over. I’ll be back here next week like always”.

He smiled at you, then disappeared out into the street. You heard the roaring of the rain outside as the diner door opened, the little bell above the frame chiming to announce his departure.

You missed him already.

You looked down at the hospital bill in your hands, the total at the bottom practically screaming from the page.

He’d hurt you so badly, you weren’t sure if you could ever fully forgive him for that fateful night. You understood it had been his insecurities, you understood he had lashed out after he thought his worst fears were realised – but that had only even explained his actions, not justified them.

Although…he’d always been there over the last year. Slow and steady, but he’d taken the time to rebuild his relationship with you platonically. He’d let you manage the pace, never tried to force anything more than you were willing to give him.

…and he’d been there for you.

He continued to be there for you.

It wasn’t about the money. He wasn’t trying to pay you off to win favour. He was just trying to be there for you, and this was something he had the power and resources to help you with.

He was your friend.

He loved you. He’d continued to love you…

“Are you back off break, boss?” Roscoe rudely interrupted your train of thought, “Ron said that the fryer-”

You were pulling off your apron before your brain could even catch up with your body.

“Nope,” you shot back, firing out of the booth at full speed as you tossed the apron at him on your way out, “a little longer…”

You left Roscoe gawping in your wake as you sailed through the front door. You yelped in shock as you stepped out into the downpour, you’d forgotten about the mini storm happening beyond the restaurant doors. It was so dark outside it looked more like early evening than the morning hours. You looked down at your immediately soaked uniform, your work shoes flooding as you traipsed through the puddles…

Focus!

You surveyed the street, your eyes catching a brief glimpse of the SUV turning the corner. The instantly recognisable JBB107 plates drawing your focus in the split second before they vanished.

And so you ran.

You sprinted after the SUV waving your arms, shouting for it to stop. A concerned elderly lady asked if you were okay but you sailed on by. You must’ve looked utterly insane.

You rounded the corner and rushed up behind the SUV as it slowed. The back door flew open, and Bucky suddenly appeared out of it, a look of horror on his face as the vehicle pulled over.

“Doll! Jesus Christ, what the- are you okay??” he shouted to you as you approached.

You didn’t answer, just flung yourself inside the car as you desperately tried to catch your breath. Bucky slid across the seat to give you room. The divider screen was up so you couldn’t see the driver. One less person to witness your mortifying display, at least.

“Fuck…you must be freezing,” he muttered as he pulled off his jacket, wrapping it around your shoulders and leaning over to close the car door behind you.

You were, your teeth chattered. Your hair was wet and matted, your uniform soaked through.

“Bucky…” you said hoarsely as you dripped all over his plush car interior.

“What is it, doll?” he asked, his eyes wide and alarmed, “what’s going on??”

You couldn’t find the words so you acted purely on instinct, you cupped his face and kissed him. Kissed him hard. Kissed him longingly. He caught up quickly and kissed you back, his fingers tangled in your soaking hair. It was desperate, messy. Your teeth clashed and your cheeks bumped. It had been so long that you’d lost each other’s rhythm with this. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. You couldn’t have waited any longer.

He pulled away, gawping at you incredulously as he held your face in his hands.

“Doll…does this mean?”

“Let’s go slow,” you whispered, “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. The effort you’ve put into rebuilding us from the ground up…for being my friend…for never pushing me…for Lou…but I’m not sure I’m ready to jump into this headfirst…whatever this is…”

He nodded, “of course, anything you want”.

“I’m not sure if I can…fully forgive. But I want to try,” you told him softly as you pressed your forehead to his.

He wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly as he sighed. A sigh of long held tension, of relief.

“Thank-you for giving me a chance…I didn’t think you ever would again,” he admitted.

“Yeah…well neither did I,” you laughed,

“What changed your mind?”

“Well…. how you showed up for me with Lou has made me rethink a lot of things. Plus…the money”.

He laughed, “the money? Really? This whole time I just needed to pay you off?”

“No…”, You rolled your eyes, “it was more that you offered, but you didn’t force anything, and you made it clear it was no strings attached. It’s like…you want to help me, but you trust me to make my own decisions and don’t just try and fix it all for me, like you used to. I just…it made me realise how much I’ve missed you. But it’s gotta be different this time…”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah…like…I want to stay in my apartment. And I want to keep my job,” you said firmly.

He nodded, “yeah. Of course”.

“Maybe I’d move back in with you one day…but I want my space”.

“Okay. You got it,”.

You smiled, “yeah?”

He smiled back at you, the smile that still made you weak at the knees. “Doll? If it means you’re by my side…Of course ‘yeah’. Anything you want. And I have some conditions too…”

“What?” you frowned. “This isn’t exactly a two-way negotiation, Buck…”

“Just…listen. They’re conditions for me. I promise I’m going to trust you entirely, and to communicate you with you properly – not let my emotions get the best of me. I’m a different man to who I was the last time we were together. I know how lucky I am to get this second chance with you. I’m not fucking it up. I'm gonna be...better”.

He spoke earnestly with such conviction that it was almost aggressive. You nodded gently, squeezing his hand. You believed him.

“Alright…well, let’s give it a shot, shall we?”

He grinned, “I can’t believe you’re here…”

“Me neither. But…I’m sorry I’m dripping rainwater all over your car”.

He shrugged. “Fuck the car”.

And then he kissed you again.

Maybe you did believe in happy endings.

THE END

There we have it! I hope you liked where it went. I know some of you didn't think she should ever forgive him and I understand, and I'm sorry if you're disappointed! But in my eyes he had shown her he was willing to change...and she wasn't trying to rush back into anything heavy. Thank you for reading!

If you liked this story, please consider supporting me with my Ko-Fi link 💐

#mob!bucky #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #starting over fic #sebastian stan

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warpdrive-witch · 1 day ago

Text

Remind Me

Pairing: Agatha x fem!reader Warnings: NSFW, Daddy Kink, Breeding Kink, Oral, Grinding, Plot: Agatha picks you up from jail after being arrested at a protest. Smut. Pure fucking smut. MEN AND MINORS DNI!

The door to the holding cell groaned open with a mechanical click, a burst of stale air and flickering fluorescent light bleeding across the cement floor. It spilled into the room like something sour and uninvited. You squinted as the frame widened—like the night itself had blinked awake, and you were the first thing it saw.

“Harkness!”

The name cracked through the stale air like a warning shot—sharp, nasal, and clipped with bureaucratic disinterest. The desk sergeant didn’t look up from his clipboard. He didn’t have to.

A summons. A signal. The sound of consequences catching up to chaos… and letting it walk free.

It took you a full breath to register he was calling for you. Your last name, detached and impersonal, echoing across steel and stone like it didn’t belong to flesh. Before you could even respond, it came again—louder, more impatient this time: “Harkness!”

Your name, barked out like an accusation. Like a command. Like you were both the problem and the proof. You rose slowly from the concrete bench you'd been slumped on for hours, spine creaking, shoulders groaning under the weight of stillness and dried sweat. Your legs protested, stiff from sitting cross-legged too long. Every muscle in your body buzzed with fatigue, but you moved like you weren’t giving anyone the satisfaction of seeing it.

Nothing was broken. Nothing that wouldn’t fade. But the ache was real. The skin around your wrists stung, raw and red where the zip-ties had dug in deep. Raised welts circled your skin like branding, half-faded but unforgettable. Your shirt stuck to your back—damp with sweat, dried gas, maybe blood. You couldn’t tell anymore. Couldn’t care.

You smelled like protest: Pepper spray. Adrenaline. Smoke. Truth. And you walked like you’d earned every second of it.

Boots hit concrete with a weight you didn’t bother to hide. Every step was deliberate. Measured. Yours.

The Sharpie number on your forearm was half-smeared from sweat and friction, but still visible. Still inked into your skin like a spell. Still there. Just like you would continue to be until people woke up to the insanity around them taking place.

The hallway stretched ahead like a tunnel built from fatigue and bad lighting. You passed fingerprint stations and cold metal desks. You passed other faces—blank, bureaucratic, bored. The hum of vending machines and overused fluorescents filled the air like static.

And then— him.

The cop.

The officer who’d slammed your face into the sidewalk during the scuffle, who’d muttered something about “you people” when the zip-tie bit into your bone. He sat behind a glass partition in a side office, half-shadowed, chewing the end of a pen like it owed him something.

His eyes didn’t lift. But his presence soured the entire hallway. As you passed, he muttered without looking: “Stay out of trouble and listen next time.”

You didn’t break stride. Didn’t slow. Didn’t blink. You just raised one hand behind you—deliberate, smooth, no hesitation—and extended your middle finger like a quiet act of war. A blessing, even. A fucking benediction. That gesture was a full sentence. A punctuation mark. A signature. One last message to the officer who thought the right to protest needed to be approved by him personally.

The door to the lobby buzzed. A low, grating sound—followed by the clank of an electronic lock disengaging.

You pushed it open with your shoulder. And there she was. Agatha.

Standing just inside the threshold, like she’d been pacing seconds before and froze the moment the door released. A single line of harsh overhead light caught the crown of her head and the curve of her cheekbone, casting the rest of her in shadow.

Her coat was black, unzipped, thrown on in a rush. Her hair was pulled up into a loose knot, haphazard and unstyled—too high, too tight, like she hadn’t meant to come out. Like she hadn’t expected it to be you she was bailing out until it already was. Jeans. Boots. No makeup. Still beautiful. Still furious.

She didn’t move. Not right away. Just stood there, arms folded tightly across her chest, one boot angled slightly out—her weight tilted like she didn’t trust the ground beneath her anymore. Her eyes found you instantly. They dropped to your wrists first, where angry red bands still marked your skin. Then up to your face—your swollen cheekbone, your tear-gas eyes, the smirk you couldn’t quite wipe off your face. And then her gaze hardened. Not in rage. Not in judgment.

In something worse. Fear, choked and weaponized. A gut-punch of helplessness buried under the brittle armor of restraint. Her head tilted just a fraction. Her brow arched just enough. That look. The Agatha Harkness look. Sharp enough to slice through steel. Soft enough to hold your name inside it. Somehow, impossibly, it held both: You absolute idiot and thank God you’re standing. Judgment and devotion in one unbroken, devastating line of sight.

Your lips parted. You had something cocky on the tip of your tongue—something like “Miss me?” or “Wasn’t even the worst night I’ve had.” You almost said it. But before a single syllable passed your lips, her voice cut across the space—low, quiet, final: “Not now.”

It landed like gravity. Not a threat. Not a plea. Just a truth wrapped in warning. An invocation of privacy. Of safety. Of boundaries drawn by love, not law. You stopped. The smirk faded just slightly, tucked back into the corners of your breath.

A pause bloomed between you. Thick enough to carry everything unspoken: the worry in her shoulders, the heat in your ribs, the way you had both seen this moment coming and still hated the fact that it had arrived.

She turned before you could answer, pushing the door open to the parking lot without looking back. The concrete was slick with dew. The air still held a trace of smoke. The smell of asphalt and distant rain filled your nose, wiping away the bleach and stale sweat of the jail behind you. And as you passed her to slide into the car, your thigh brushed hers—accidental, but real. She flinched. Just barely. Just enough.

You climbed into the car without a word. The seat creaked under your weight, the scent of her perfume rising up from the upholstery like muscle memory. She closed the door behind you with the softest click. You closed your eyes for half a second—just long enough to feel the ache settle.

She got in beside you, turned the key, and backed out with a sharp turn of the wrist. Headlights flooded the cracked concrete in front of you, catching the faint haze of rising mist. The tires rolled slow over the speed bump in the lot, then faster once the road widened, away from the building, away from the cuffs, away from everything that reeked of detention and authority and stale coffee breath.

The city was quiet at this hour, not asleep but sedated. Fog drifted low across the asphalt, blurring the orange glow of the streetlamps into watery halos. The roads were slick from earlier rain, and everything smelled like pavement and static.

Agatha said nothing.

The dashboard cast her face in a dim blue wash. Soft shadows sat beneath her eyes, deepening the sharp line of her cheekbone. She looked composed, but not calm. Her jaw was too tight. Her hands too still on the wheel.

You shifted in your seat, restless. Your knee bounced on a melody of its own. Your fingers picked at the half-smeared Sharpie ink on your arm. The numbers were fading fast, blurring into a mess of gray lines and sweat, but you kept rubbing them anyway. Like the act itself might keep you tethered to her voice on the other end of the phone. The bruises on your arms pulled tight when you leaned to adjust your seatbelt. You winced—quietly. Didn’t want her to see.

She saw. She always saw. Her eyes flicked to you at the next red light. Not long. Just enough. Her gaze lingered on the movement of your hand, your arm, the slight shake in your knee. She didn’t speak. But she didn’t have to.

The silence in the car wasn’t cold. It was thick. Dense with everything she wanted to say but wouldn’t. Not yet. The light turned green. She drove on. Another few blocks passed before her hand moved—slow, deliberate, cutting through the heavy stillness between you. It slid across the center console and found yours.

Warm. Steady. Real. You didn’t squeeze back. Not at first. Afraid to misread it. Afraid this was about control, not comfort. Her thumb brushed across your knuckles. Once. Twice. A soft, rhythmic motion. Not forgiveness. Not approval. Reassurance.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Your throat tightened. You cleared it, voice catching in the silence. She didn’t look at you, not fully, but her voice came low and edged: “My number is on your skin.”You nodded.

“I said you it might happen. I didn’t even think. Just…Wrote your number before I left the house. I knew it might get bad.” You glanced down at your arm. The numbers were nearly gone. Her fingers paused. Then gripped tighter. Not painfully. Just... present. “And when I didn’t hear from you for hours?” Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t crack. But you heard it anyway beneath the words. That coil of emotion she wouldn’t let unspool. Not yet. Frustration. Fear. The helpless, gnawing dread ofnot knowing. And something else, too. A flicker. A break in the current. Relief.

You stared out the windshield, the empty stretch of road ahead gleaming with scattered puddles. “I knew you’d find me,”you said quietly.“You always do.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t scoff. Didn’t pull her hand away.

She just kept driving.

The city gave way to quieter streets. The fog thickened, wrapping around the windshield like cotton gauze, softening the edges of the world. The headlights carved a narrow path through it, bright and breathless.

Her hand stayed in yours. You could feel the tremor in her palm—barely there, like something she was holding back on instinct. Rage, maybe. Or the memory of hearing your voice from the other end of a jailhouse phone line, too calm, too quiet, using the word “processed” like it didn’t mean caged.

She took the next turn too quickly. The tires skidded just slightly, and her knuckles went pale around the wheel. Still, her hand in yours never wavered. A streetlight passed overhead. For a moment, her face caught the glare. You saw the tightness in her jaw. The way her lips were pressed thin. The way her eyes flicked to you and then away again like she couldn’t look too long or she’d unravel something she didn’t want you to see.

When she spoke again, it was almost a whisper: “They could’ve hurt you worse.” Her voice was barely above a breath. Flat, restrained. Not numb—but trying to be. You turned your head, slowly, watching the way her fingers tightened against the leather of the wheel. Her other hand was still tangled in yours, thumb still frozen against your skin like she didn’t trust herself to keep moving.

The car was so quiet you could hear the low hum of the tires on wet asphalt. You inhaled through your nose—slow, steady. “They have,” you said finally, eyes fixed ahead. “Not me. But others. Way worse. For generations” Your voice didn’t shake. Not even close. “This?” you added, glancing down at your arms, the bruises just now darkening to a sick shade of violet. “This I can handle.”

She didn’t respond. But her jaw clenched again. You let the silence fill the space between you. Let it be uncomfortable. Let her feel it all.

Because it wasn’t about her. And she knew that. And still—it wrecked her. The drive turned familiar. The houses started to look like memories instead of background noise. You passed the little bookstore she liked, dark now, the yellow awning damp with rain. The corner market. The faded mural three blocks from home.

She made the last turn tight, then slowed into the driveway. The engine ticked softly as she shifted into park. The headlights cut off. Just the amber glow from the porch light now, and the long shadow of the night trailing behind you. She didn’t move to open her door. Neither did you. Her hand still cradled yours, still unmoving. But something in the air shifted—like a held breath exhaled, slow and unwilling. You turned to her fully this time, the side of your body screaming from the movement, but you did it anyway. You turned to her, slow and aching. “I’m okay.”

The words felt small in the air between you, too neat for the wreckage they were meant to contain. Agatha didn’t respond at first. Her hand flexed on the steering wheel—once, then twice—leather creaking beneath her grip. Her jaw was tight. Set. Not clenched in anger, but in preservation. Like her whole body was holding something back.

When she spoke, it was quiet.nNo drama. No theatrics. Just precision. Just truth.

“Your friend called.” A pause. Measured. “Said they took you.” Another. “Said no one knew where.”

Her eyes didn’t leave the road ahead, but her voice came sharp—like frost under fire: “Your friend. Not the police. Not the station.” You heard the emphasis, the edge under it—the insult of being forced to rely on someone who shouldn’t have been the one to tell her. “Then their phone died.” That silence bloomed again—thicker now. Nearly unbearable. “No location,” she said, quieter still. “Just… ‘on the ground. Bleeding.’”

You felt the breath leave her—not all at once, but in pieces, like it cost her something to remember it. She didn’t blink. She didn’t flinch. “Three hours of silence.” Her voice hit like a knife honed on restraint. “I had your blood in my head and some asshole at the desk asking me to spell your name like it was a trivia question.”

She let out a breathless laugh—sharp and mirthless. It sounded like something that had been waiting days to escape. “They made me wait.” Her voice lowered, dropped into something dangerous. Controlled. Clipped. Each word like a match struck and held just shy of flame. “While I imagined your body in the back of a van. Head hitting the floor. Face-down. Cuffed. Bleeding.”

The weight of it landed on your chest before you could process it. She shook her head, just once—barely a movement, but loaded almost like she didn’t trust herself to do more. “I looked at every blank face behind every window and asked for you.” Then, finally, she turned. And when her eyes found yours, they didn’t just hold fury. They held proof.

“And no one said a word. No one gave a shit that you were missing.” A pause. “That you were mine.” The word landed soft, but final. Like it had already been carved into the bones of the night. She exhaled. Not shaky. Not broken. Just steady—like someone who had made it out of the worst moment of her life and hadn’t forgiven the world for it. “The system didn’t just take you.” Her voice lowered to a level that chilled your skin. “It erased you. For hours.”

A pause so long it bordered on sacred. “Like your name didn’t matter.” She blinked once. “Like I wasn’t standing right there. Demanding it. So don’t tell me you’re okay.” There was no venom in it. Only grief sharpened into something lethal. “Let me be angry first.”

She stared straight ahead.

And you sat there, head bowed slightly, fingers curled loosely in your lap. Sharpie smeared. Wrist raw. Still breathing.

A minute passed. Maybe more. You counted the beats of your pulse like footsteps in your chest. Then, without a word, Agatha opened her door and stepped out. Not loud. Not abrupt. Just done waiting. You watched her walk around the front of the car, her silhouette catching the faint wash of the porch light as she moved—composed rage wrapped in denim and shadow. She rounded the passenger side, pulled the handle, and opened your door. She didn’t speak. Just looked at you. Her face was unreadable—not because she was hiding it, but because the storm behind it was still deciding whether to retreat or rise again.

Still, she was here. Still, she’d come for you. Still, she was holding the door open with one hand and her breath with the other.

You stood. It took effort. Your legs protested the movement. Her hand brushed your back once, barely there. Not a push. Not support. Just… proof. The gravel of the driveway crunched beneath your feet. The porch light caught the corner of your jacket, your frizzed hair, the shine still clinging to your cheeks from dried gas and sweat.

Agatha didn’t walk ahead. She matched your pace. Shoulder to shoulder. No words. Only the quiet weight of everything she hadn’t said—and everything she already had. She unlocked the front door and opened it.

The house greeted you like it had been holding its breath. Soft light spilled in from the kitchen—left on, maybe out of hope. The air was warm, still faintly scented with whatever candle she must’ve blown out before she left. Rosemary. Smoke. Wax. Home.

You stepped inside first. Your boots met hardwood with a soft thud. The ache in your thighs flared with every movement, and your ribs pulled tight where the bruises were beginning to set in. Sweat still clung to your back, to the backs of your knees. The scent of tear gas and adrenaline followed you like a second skin.

Behind you, Agatha closed the door. The lock clicked into place—clean, final. You didn’t look at her. You didn’t need to. You moved on instinct now. Down the hall. Around the corner. Through the bedroom to the bathroom.

The path was muscle memory now—dim light, familiar shadows, every step echoing louder than it should have. You peeled off your jacket as you walked, fingers fumbling a little at the zipper. Then your shirt, tugged over your head with a wince. Every movement dragged at tired muscles, each one aching in a different register. The fabric stuck to your back, damp with sweat and tear gas and hours of tension. You let it fall in the doorway without looking back.

The mirror caught your reflection under the soft, gold light from the fixture overhead—low, almost merciful. Still, it didn’t hide the truth.

Your skin was flushed, red from heat and movement. Dried tear tracks curved down your cheeks in uneven lines. Your hair stuck out in every direction, curls frizzed and tangled from sweat and smoke and the weight of the night. But what caught your eye first—what made your stomach pull—were the bruises.

Dark. Ugly. Blooming across your arm in shades of violet and rust. The edges had already begun to swell, pooling in thick shadows under the skin. And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

You reached forward, turned the water on hot. Steam rushed up almost immediately, fast and thick, wrapping itself around the glass and climbing toward the ceiling. Within seconds, the mirror blurred, softening the edges of your reflection until you couldn’t see yourself at all.

It helped. One by one, your clothes hit the tile—pants, underwear, socks. You didn’t fold them. Didn’t bother. You just wanted them off. Wanted everything that clung to you—the night, the fear, the humiliation—gone.

You stepped into the shower. And the water hit you like gravity. Hot. Relentless. Real. The first few seconds stung, the heat dragging across raw skin, catching every scratch and welt. But then… you exhaled. Not dramatically. Just a slow, shaky breath from somewhere deep in your ribs, like you hadn’t let yourself take one since the moment you were cuffed.

Gas. Dirt. Someone else’s blood. It all swirled down the drain in thick streaks, carried away with the last traces of control you didn’t even know you were still clinging to. You pressed your hands against the tile wall, head bowed, water pounding against the back of your neck. The pressure pushed into your spine, your shoulders, your bruised ribs, until it felt like you might finally collapse.

You didn’t cry. But your shoulders shook anyway. Not from pain. Not from fear. Just from release. Ten minutes passed. Maybe more. Softly, so quietly it could’ve been imagined, you heard the door open behind you. You didn’t flinch You knew it was her. You reached for the knobs and turned the water off slowly, each movement deliberate, aching. Your hands trembled as you pushed the glass door open, steam rolling outward in thick waves. The room had filled with it entirely, fogging the mirror and blurring the outside world to a haze of silver and light.

Agatha stood by the sink, arms crossed, still in the black coat she hadn’t bothered to take off. Her hair had begun to fall from its pin, a strand curling against her cheek. She didn’t speak. Her eyes caught yours in the mirror first—dark, unreadable. Then they dropped.

To your ribs. To your thighs. To the darkening bruise on your shoulder. The raw, red pressure marks around your wrists. The angry welt stretching violet across your hip.

Her entire body tensed, but she didn’t move. And just for a second, you saw it again—the exact expression she’d worn in the jail lobby.

Not horror. Not pity. Rage, tempered only by awe.

Not awe at what had been done to you— But awe at the fact that you had walked away from it.

She didn’t move toward you. Not immediately. Her eyes continued to scan your body, slow and deliberate, like she needed to memorize it. Every mark. Every place they had dared to lay hands on. Every part of you that hurt.

She stepped forward only when the silence between you shifted from fragile to sacred. Her movements were quiet. Almost reverent. She reached for a towel on the nearby rack. Unfolded it with careful hands. Wrapped it around you in one slow, precise motion—starting at your shoulders, tucking it close at your back.

And then, she knelt. Not fully. Just enough to place herself lower than you. Just enough to bring her eye level with the bruise near your hip, the abrasion across your thigh. One of her hands reached out—hovering just above your skin. Waiting.

She didn’t need to ask. But she did, with her body.

You nodded.

Her fingers ghosted over the bruises. Light as air. Not pressing. Just present. Her voice, when it came, was almost nothing. Just breath shaped into words. "This… they’ll answer for this.” Your throat tightened. You swallowed. Still wrapped in the towel, still damp and shaking.

“I’m okay,” you said again, softer now. Not to reassure her. Not even to reassure yourself. Just to mark that you were still here. But she shook her head, rising to her full height with measured grace. “No.” She took a breath, steady and quiet. “You’re hurt. And you’re mine.”

The words rang out low and absolute—like a spell cast not to control you, but to protect you. She looked at you fully now, eyes locked on yours. Every inch of her tall with fury, with grief, with love she hadn't been able to voice while you were missing. “So no—they don’t get to walk away from that.”

And in her gaze, you saw it:

Claim. Sanctity. A rage that bent toward justice, not vengeance.

You stayed like that for a few seconds longer—still damp, wrapped in the towel, her hands no longer touching you but her presence close enough to feel. Then you moved. Not far. Just a few steps out of the fogged bathroom and into the bedroom. You walked slowly, body aching, towel clutched tight around your ribs. Agatha followed without a word, the rhythm of her footsteps deliberate and light behind you.

The bedroom was dim, quiet, safe. Moonlight brushed the edge of the comforter. One lamp glowed on the nightstand. You sat on the edge of the bed, exhaling long and slow. She moved around you—methodical, steady—and pulled a soft shirt from the dresser. One of hers. Black cotton, worn thin from years of wear. The kind that smelled like her skin, like amber and salt. You took it without speaking, tugging it gently over your head. The motion hurt your arms, made your back sore, but once it was on, it felt like being held. Not fabric. Her.

She disappeared for a moment, then returned with a glass of water. She knelt in front of you again, the glass offered in silence. Her hand brushed yours as you took it. You drank slowly. Half the glass, then set it aside. She didn’t move. “You smell like smoke and injustice,” she murmured then—almost to herself, almost like it surprised her.

You let out a breath of a laugh. Not quite humor. Just something loosening inside your chest. You shifted, resting your hands between your knees. “We were handing out water,” you said, voice rough but steady. “It was calm. Peaceful. People were chanting, walking. Holding signs.”

Agatha didn’t interrupt. “Then they brought the riot gear,” you continued, your gaze unfocused, fixed somewhere past the floor. “And the gas hit. I didn’t flinch.” You looked up then. Let her see the fire still sitting behind your eyes. “I didn’t fucking move.”

Her face twisted at that—something sharp and unreadable crossing over her features. Not surprise. Not pride. Something harder. “Of course you didn’t,” she said softly. Her voice was flat, but her body wasn’t. Her shoulders had drawn inward slightly, her hands curling in her lap like she was holding back more than words.

You looked down at your thighs. The bruises. The raw skin near your wrist. “But they saw that as defiance,” you said. “Guess I was easy to grab.” Her exhale was quiet but fierce. Her hand slid along your thigh, slow and grounding, then came to rest on your knee. Warm. Anchored.

“I know why you went,” she said. “I’m not mad.” You turned your head. Met her eyes again. There was something else in her face now—something softer beneath the heat. Something that hadn’t had space to show itself until now. “But next time,” she added, voice lower, almost reverent, “you don’t go without me. Not again.”

There was a beat of silence. Your breath caught somewhere between protest and understanding. “You’d get arrested too.”

“Good.” She didn’t blink when she said it. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t flinch. And she meant it. You stood slowly, rising from the edge of the bed. Her shirt—the one she’d handed you minutes ago—hung loose on your frame, skimming the tops of your thighs, still damp from the towel you let fall in a hush to the floor. The fabric smelled like her. Cedar, smoke, and something deeper—clove, maybe. Home.

She stood a few feet away, still as stone. Her eyes tracked you as you moved—every step, every breath. But she didn’t move toward you. Not yet. You stepped in close. Close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin. Close enough to taste the tension that lingered in the space between your bodies like static before a strike. And then—gently, reverently—you reached for her hands.

Her fingers were warm in yours, a little unsteady. You didn’t rush. You brought them up, guiding them to your waist with a care that felt like ceremony. Her palms settled against your skin. They hesitated for half a second. Then spread—slow, open, searching. “Touch me,” you whispered, voice barely more than a breath. “See? I’m still here.” Agatha’s lashes fluttered once. Her lips parted, but no sound came. She obeyed.

Her hands began to move—not with urgency, but with a sacred slowness. She traced the edge of your hips with the same focus she might have used to trace runes. Her thumbs swept inward, brushing the slight dip just above your pelvis, then up—across your ribs, your sternum, your stomach. Every inch she touched was treated like proof of life. Of endurance. Of return.

She didn’t speak. But her hands said everything. They moved up your sides, cataloging every bruise, every scrape. Her fingers paused at each one—lingering, memorizing. Not because she needed to know where you hurt, but because she needed to know where they had dared to leave a mark.

And then, her mouth followed. She leaned in and pressed her lips to your collarbone, slow and open. You tasted her breath against your skin, warm and uneven. She kissed the hollow of your throat, then lower. Her mouth ghosted over your sternum, then down the side of your ribs, just shy of the bruise beneath. When her lips found the edge of it, she paused. Exhaled. Pressed a kiss there, too. It wasn’t comfort. It was claim. You felt it in the way her lips lingered, in the press of her cheek to your ribs. And then she whispered—barely audible, thick with need. “I need to feel you safe.”

The words hit harder than any bruise. You nodded. You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t need to. Your hands moved to her shoulders—strong, steady. You turned her gently, guiding her backward toward the bed. Her knees hit the mattress first, and she sank down without protest, her hands never leaving your waist. And then—gently—you laid her down, pressing her down like a benediction. The mattress dipped beneath your bodies, the sheets whispering around you. She yielded beneath your touch like water bending to pressure—unresisting, unafraid.

She looked up at you like she was trying not to fall apart. Like she was trying to memorize the angle of your face above her. Her breath caught when your fingertips brushed the inside of her wrist, then her forearm. You kissed your way down to her throat, over the pulse beating there like a secret.

Her hands slid up to your sides, not pulling—just holding. Her touch was slow. Devout. Nothing selfish in it. Just devotion, made flesh. You kissed her like a confession, mouth soft but sure. You opened against her lips, let her taste your exhaustion, your survival, your hunger to be seen again outside of pain. She kissed you back like absolution. Like she needed this to believe it was over.

You whispered her name. Not as a question. Not even as a prayer. Just to say it. Just to feel it in your mouth. Agatha exhaled like she had been holding her breath since the second your name came through the phone hours ago—dry, hoarse, and terrified. Your mouths found each other again, slower this time. Her lips parted under yours, soft and seeking, as though she were relearning how to be kissed after hours of holding her breath. Her hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt—the one now clinging to your damp skin—fingertips brushing your waist like they were rediscovering a coastline she used to know by heart.

Your hands moved up her shirt, lifting it just enough to press your palm to her stomach. You felt her muscles jump beneath your touch—tiny, electric tremors. She let you pull it over her head in silence. Underneath, she was bare. No bra. No armor. Just skin—warm, freckled, trembling faintly where your breath touched her.

You didn’t lunge. You looked at her. The pink rise of her nipples. The soft swell of her stomach. The tension still curled in her lower abdomen like a held note. She didn’t cover herself, but her eyes flicked up to meet yours—waiting to see what you’d do next.

You bent, kissed her sternum. Lowered your mouth to one breast and wrapped your lips around it slowly, drawing her into your mouth with purpose. Her breath caught instantly. One of her hands flew to the back of your head, not to guide but to feel—to tether herself to the reality of your mouth on her.

You sucked, slow and sure, tongue dragging against the peak of her until she arched beneath you. A low sound spilled from her throat—half-gasp, half-growl. You moved to the other breast and gave it the same devotion, your free hand sliding down the flat plane of her stomach, fingers following the subtle lines of muscle and tension.

She was already shaking. Not from fear. From release—emotional, physical, holy. You kissed your way lower, slow as sunrise, your breath warm against her belly as your mouth descended. Her thighs parted instinctively, one drawn up at the knee, the other falling open to welcome you in. Your fingers found the button of her jeans and lingered there—not for permission, but to mark the moment. She watched you with parted lips and a flush blooming along her chest, her pupils wide and swallowing the light.

You undid her pants with deliberate precision, the metal catch releasing with a soft click, the zipper rasping down like silk drawn through clenched teeth. She lifted her hips without being asked—composed, compliant, offering. You eased the denim down her legs, the gentle curve of her thigh, the ridge of her kneecap, the vulnerable softness of her calf. She was laid bare before you. Her underwear was damp. Not just from arousal, but from everything that had built between you since the moment you stepped out of that jail. Her body had been waiting for this—not just release, but restoration. Her breath hitched as you hooked your fingers under the waistband and dragged the last barrier down, watching the way her body responded: muscles twitching, thighs parting further, the gleam of her already-slick folds catching the low light.

When you reached the edge of her, you paused—your lips hovering just above the place where her scent thickened, where heat pooled, where need lived. She looked at you then, eyes glassy and dark, lips parted around a breath she hadn’t let go. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. You licked her slowly. From base to tip. Flattening your tongue and dragging it up her center like you were writing something into her skin—something she could only read with her body.

Her hips jolted beneath you. Not a flinch. A response. Her thighs locked tighter around your shoulders, anchoring you in place, as if her body already knew this was where it had been trying to return all night. You moaned softly into her—the taste of her warm and familiar and wild. Salt and heat. Lightning and earth. You licked again, slower, firmer, letting your tongue press into her like a vow she could feel in the marrow of her bones. She gasped, a sound caught low in her throat, one hand flying to the headboard as if something in her needed grounding—needed anything to keep her from coming apart too fast. The other found you.

Her fingers slipped into your hair, threading through the damp strands with the kind of pressure that made your spine tighten. She wasn’t pulling, not exactly. Just holding—curling her fingers into the roots like she needed the physical proof that you were real, grounded, there. Her palm pressed flat to the back of your head, her thumb stroking behind your ear. She guided you not with force but with reverence, her whole body trembling beneath your mouth.

You kissed her clit gently, lips sealing around the swollen flesh, tongue flicking once, twice, slow and deliberate. Her grip in your hair tightened just slightly, and a low, broken sound slipped out of her—half need, half disbelief.

You pushed two fingers inside her—slow, steady, unyielding. Her whole body jolted as if struck from the inside. A gasp tore out of her, raw and ragged, sharp enough to leave her throat aching. It wasn't just breath—it was need, it was the wild instinct of someone who had been holding themselves together for too long.

She clenched down around you immediately, tight and wet and pulsing, the heat of her body drawing your fingers in like a promise. You didn’t give her time to settle. You filled her with purpose, curled your fingers inside her with the quiet rhythm of worship, of knowing. The press of you was deep, certain, reverent. You kissed her clit again, slow and soft, then harder—your tongue circling with aching, relentless care. Agatha’s legs trembled violently around your shoulders. You felt it in the way her calves tensed, the way her thighs bracketed your body like instinct and defense and surrender all at once. She tried to breathe through it—but her body was speaking louder than her control ever could. You didn’t want stillness. You wanted the way her hips bucked upward, wild and graceless, seeking more. You wanted the way her voice cracked open, not in language but in pure, desperate sound. You wanted the way her breath staggered as her fingers twisted deeper into your hair, holding you to her like her life depended on it.

Agatha—always composed, always calculated. The sharpest voice in any room. But here, under your mouth, around your fingers—she fractured. Her back arched off the mattress, the curve of her spine a perfect, trembling bow. Her head fell back, mouth open in a silent plea. One hand fisted the sheets beside her, white-knuckled, pulling until the fitted corner snapped loose. Her other hand never left your head. It gripped the back of your skull like she didn’t dare let go, like if she did she’d be dragged under completely.

You pressed harder. Worked her deeper. Tongue circling her clit in unrelenting spirals, fingers curling inside her with divine purpose. You could feel her starting to break—her muscles locking, her core tightening, the low whimper curling in her chest like lightning about to strike.

You watched her fall apart from the inside out. And just as the first cry spilled from her lips, her hand flew upward—reflexive, frantic—covering her mouth like she could somehow swallow the sound. You lifted your head just enough to speak, your voice dark with reverence and heat. “Agatha.” A pause. Her eyes met yours, wide and wet. “Don’t you dare hide those moans from me.” The hand fell away slowly, shame stripped bare beneath your gaze. Her lips parted, but it wasn’t an apology you were after. It was release. And when she did moan—raw, shattered, helpless—you groaned in return. Low. Hungry. Possessive. The sound of her pleasure ricocheted through your spine, setting your body alight. You moaned into her, the vibration of it surging through her clit like a spark to kindling.

Her whole body jolted. “Fuck—” she gasped, the word dragged from her throat like a secret finally exposed. That’s what you wanted. Not silence. Not restraint. You wanted her loud. You wanted her to give herself over to it completely. You moaned again—because of her,for her—and she cried out, hips bucking against your mouth like her body couldn’t take it anymore. The way you said her name, the way your voice trembled around her, the way your fingers curled just right inside her—it tore something open.

Her voice followed, thick and broken between panting gasps. “Please—don’t—don’t stop—” The words spilled out of her like a dam had cracked wide. Her voice was hoarse with desperation, her body straining for you, toward you. Every muscle in her thighs trembled, her hands fisting the sheets on either side of her hips. Her knuckles had gone white.

Your fingers stroked deep inside her, slow and relentless. Your mouth latched onto her clit again, tongue pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Your name fell from her lips like worship. Her voice caught on it. Broke. “I need to—God, I need to cum—on your mouth, I want to come on your mouth—”

You paused just long enough for her to feel the absence of your tongue. Then you lifted your head—barely—just enough to speak against the slick heat of her. “Is that what you want, Aggie?” you whispered, voice dark and rich with authority. Your breath dragged over her, teasing the edge of her clit. She whined—high and wrecked.

You slid your fingers deeper. Her head tossed against the pillow, her voice hoarse with need. “wanna cum for you—please.” You moaned at the sound of her begging, the raw edge of it cutting straight through your chest. She arched off the mattress, a full-body quake that overtook her entirely. Her thighs trembled, locked around your head like she could fuse you to her. Her fingers dug into your hair—not to guide, not to control, but to hold—to anchor her in the only truth she knew anymore: you.

You pulled your fingers out slowly, deliberately, watching the way her body clenched around the absence. Slick coated your knuckles, glistening with the proof of her need, her surrender. But you weren’t done. You leaned in lower, kissed the inside of her thigh once—then again, a whisper-soft press of lips against skin flushed with heat. You pushed your tongue inside her. Her moan broke apart mid-air, jagged and helpless. She convulsed. The moment your tongue slid into her—deep, slow, possessive—her back bowed hard off the mattress. Her legs trembled violently on either side of your face as you fucked her with your mouth—smooth and strong and steady—tongue stroking deep, then pulling back, then driving forward again with the full weight of your devotion.

“Fuck—” she sobbed, and the sound was wrecked, nearly inhuman. Her voice cracked in half around it. “Mmmf—right there—””

You curled your arms under her thighs and pressed deeper, locking her in place. You moaned into her and the vibration made her choke on her next cry. She broke. Hard. Messy. Loud. Soaking your mouth, twitching under your tongue, gasping your name like it was the only anchor left in the world. Her thighs shook. Her body trembled. And still, you stayed with her. Inside her. Worshipping her with every stroke of your mouth, until she had nothing left to give but your name, whispered again and again like prayer.

You kissed her one last time, slow and deep, letting your tongue linger inside her. You felt the final tremors roll through her body like aftershocks, her thighs twitching, her chest still heaving, one hand still tangled in your hair like she couldn’t quite bear to let you go.

Your palms pressed into the mattress on either side of her hips as you climbed—not over her, but along her—tracing the altar of her body like scripture. Your mouth dragged over the soft plane of her stomach, the fluttering curve of her ribs, the flushed slope of her breast. She shuddered beneath your touch, every muscle drawn tight in the echo of what you'd already given her—legs parted, chest rising in shaky, uneven gasps.

Her eyes found yours through the haze, wide and reverent and burning. Not begging. Offering. You leaned down, just enough to let your breath ghost over her lips. “I’m not done with you,” you whispered. A vow against her mouth. Your voice was low, wrecked, raw—full of need, full of knowing. “Not even close.” Your mouth collided with hers in heat and hunger, tongue sliding deep. She tasted like salt and surrender—like skin and aftermath, like the echo of your name caught in her throat. She gasped into you, helpless, and you swallowed it whole. Her hands flew to your back, clawing hard down the damp curve of your spine like she needed to leave marks. Maybe she did.

Your chests brushed—nipples tight and aching—and the contact made you both groan into the kiss. A low, shared sound. Desperate. Devout. You sat back slowly. Moving your body to let her see you. Let her watch. Your fingers found her right leg—slick, trembling. You lifted it gently, reverently, pressing a kiss to the inside of her knee. And then, in one smooth motion, you draped it over your shoulder. Her body flexed beneath you, breath hitching.

You leaned against her left thigh, sliding into place like you’d been sculpted to fit her. Not above her. Not controlling. Aligned. Open. Anchored. The angle was perfect—your leg slotted beside hers, your center catching hers with devastating precision. That first touch—clit to clit, slick and swollen—made your whole body jolt. Your mouth parted around a gasp, head falling back as heat shot down your spine like lightning.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. You leaned back slightly—just enough to keep her leg curled over your shoulder, just enough to rock your hips into her with deliberate rhythm. Your clit caught against the underside of hers—that ridge—so sensitive, so swollen it felt like it was made to meet yours. Agatha’s breath tore from her throat in a raw cry, her head dropping back, spine bowing off the bed. Her hips twitched, chasing your rhythm. Her fingers dug into your waist—not to stop you, never that—but to anchor herself. To feel.

You circled again. Firmer. Sharper. Each pass of your clit dragged through hers with a heat that bordered on unbearable. The contact was obscene—wet silk, soft friction, slippery pressure that made your breath shudder out in broken pieces. Her leg trembled over your shoulder. Her breath faltered. You kissed her calf. Then your voice dropped—low, guttural, trembling. “Just like that.”

You moved—hips grinding in a soaked, sacred rhythm. Every circle hit that same angle, that same nerve-rich ridge where you met her perfectly. Agatha whimpered. You moaned. The sound of your slick bodies meeting filled the air—wet, rhythmic, shameless. And still, you moved. Again. And again. And again. You leaned into the drag—controlled, wrecked, reverent. The pressure bloomed at the base of your spine, sharp and divine. The angle. The heat. It was all too much and not nearly enough. Your clit caught beneath hers again—right in that aching spot—and her entire body arched like she'd been struck by lightning.

“Ahhh—fuck—” Her voice cracked, hands flying to the sheets, the mattress, you. “You feel—oh God—” You rolled your hips again, your breath catching on the impact. The drag was soaked. The ridge was sharp. The friction was perfect. You cried out—raw, guttural—as pleasure surged through you like fire. You kissed the inside of her knee again, teeth scraping lightly against the muscle as your back arched and your hips snapped.

Your grip tightened—one hand braced on her hip, the other still holding her leg where it crowned your shoulder like something holy. She held on. You found your rhythm—deep, slow circles that made her whimper with every pass. Her clit pulsed beneath yours, slick and swollen, catching you in that divine slide. Her head thrashed. Her hips bucked. “Look at me.” Your voice was rough now, cracked with need. Sacred. Sharp. “I want to watch you while I fuck you like this.”

Her eyes flew open—wrecked, glassy, pleading. But they met yours. Locked. Wide. Glowing. And what you saw there was beautiful. Ruined devotion. Wide-open need. It nearly broke you. You ground down harder. Slower. Let your clit drag through hers in one long, brutal slide that made her cry out, voice splintering in your name. Her mouth opened. But no words came. Just sound. Just you. Your body was fire—burning from the inside out, every nerve wired to hers. Every grind of your clit sent new waves of heat crashing through your spine. You moaned—louder this time, no shame, no restraint—as your climax clawed its way up from your core. “F-fuck—Aggie—fuck—”

Your hips moved faster. Deeper. Tighter circles that slammed your clit against hers again and again until the pleasure went white-hot, ragged, unstoppable. The drag of your bodies was slick and relentless. Soaked. Sacred. Her breath caught. It hit her like a tidal wave—her thighs locking, hands clawing at the sheets, mouth torn wide in a moan that cracked into pieces. She came hard, convulsing under you, her whole body seizing with the force of it. You were right behind her. Your orgasm slammed into you like thunder, blinding and wild. You cried out her name—wrecked, gasping—as your clit spasmed with every beat of your heart. Your body shook. Your vision blurred. The pleasure tore through you like something holy.

You kept circling, trembling, your body grinding through the aftershocks as if you could give her more, all of you. You moved her thigh off your shoulder, kissing it once more. Laying it down gently. You collapsed into her, chest to chest, trembling, your breath hot against her throat. Agatha was gasping, your name slipping from her lips in pieces—quiet, hoarse, like a prayer spoken through tears. Her hands slid slowly up your back, not searching, just holding, like she needed to feel you pressed close to believe you were still real. She was shaking, still whimpering softly into your neck, her legs quivering around your waist, her entire body limp with the weight of what had just passed between you. Your slick mingled with hers in a soaked, sacred mess between your thighs—evidence of need, of trust, of everything you’d just given and taken.

The room around you vibrated with aftermath—wet skin, broken rhythm, the trembling hush of something holy having torn through both of you. The air smelled like sex, like salt and heat and skin, but beneath that, it smelled like home—like her. You kissed her. Not hungrily. Not to claim. But because you needed to. Because the only thing left to do in the wake of what you’d shared was to seal it with reverence. Your lips pressed to hers with the kind of aching slowness that meant everything. The kind of kiss that didn’t demand or devour, but promised. A kiss that said, I see you. I always will. You lingered there, mouths open and soft, letting the weight of the moment settle into the center of your chest like gravity.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words catching on what little breath you had left. It wasn’t a dramatic declaration. It didn’t need to be. It came out like marrow—raw and unshakable, undeniable in its truth. Her breath caught, just once. And then her hands began to move.

They slid up your sides in long, steady strokes. Down your spine. Into your hair. Her fingers cradled the back of your head, firm and sure, like she was taking hold of something she already owned. She kissed you again, deeper this time, her mouth opening beneath yours, guiding rather than asking. “I know,” Agatha murmured against your lips, her voice still frayed around the edges—wrecked, but shifting.

And then she moved. It was subtle at first. Barely perceptible. Just the tilt of her mouth against yours, but you felt it. The shift. The transfer. Something beneath your skin recognized it before you did. Her lips parted beneath yours—and then sealed again—this time deeper, firmer. Her kiss was no longer a reply. It was a command. Her tongue met yours, coaxing at first, then catching. And then she sucked—slow, hungry, deliberate—pulling your tongue into her mouth like she was taking something sacred. A taste. A vow. Your breath. The sound you made cracked open from your chest, half-moan, half-sob. You shivered beneath her, your hands slipping, trying to hold on—but she had you.

Agatha kissed you like she wanted to swallow your pulse. And as your hips trembled up into her, she began to rise. One hand cupped the back of your head. The other slid down, anchoring at your hip. She rolled her body against yours—not aggressive, not forceful—but with the quiet power of someone reclaiming ground that had always belonged to her.

She shifted her weight, one leg sliding between yours, her thigh nudging yours apart again, her breath still catching but her movements gaining precision. You felt her fingers flex against your ribs as she took a breath and exhaled through her nose—steadying herself.

And then she rolled you. It happened in a fluid wave. One moment you were on top—straddling, trembling, kissed open. The next, her hands were guiding your hips and your spine, your body turning beneath hers with the ease of water answering gravity. You landed back against the mattress with a soft gasp, your hair fanned across the pillow, your legs open and wet and waiting.

She followed you down. Didn’t hesitate. Her body stretched over yours in one long, heated press—shoulders shadowing yours, her thighs bracketing your hips. She hovered just above you for a breathless second, her gaze drinking you in—cheeks flushed, chest rising fast, lips swollen from the way she'd kissed you.

You stared up at her like you'd never seen anything more beautiful in your life. Agatha was trembling—but it was a different kind of tremor now. Not overwhelmed. Not undone. It was control, newly returned to her hands. It was power, held gently, like fire carried in open palms. She looked at you like she’d waited her whole life for this moment. Her hair fell forward around her face as she leaned in again, mouth just barely brushing yours.

When your lips parted beneath hers, she didn’t hesitate—she sucked your tongue into her mouth with a low, shuddering moan that made your hips jerk up beneath her, involuntary, aching for her again. She kissed you like she wanted to live inside your mouth. Like she wanted you silent and shaking beneath her. Each pass of her lips tasted like gratitude. Like a name whispered in a temple. There was nothing rushed about it—just warmth and breath and the shared stillness that follows sacred things. And then, slowly, she pulled back.

Her hand slid down your thigh again, steady and grounding, and then she rose—leaning back on her knees, settling between your hips like she belonged there. You blinked, dazed and open, every inch of your body slick and oversensitive. She looked down at you, and something in her expression shifted. Her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes roamed over your flushed chest, your parted legs, the shine of your arousal spread across your skin—and something ancient unfurled behind her gaze.

Without speaking, she brought her hand to her abdomen. Her fingers splayed across her skin just below her navel, and the air changed. You felt it first—a pulse, soft and rhythmic, like two heartbeats meeting in the dark. A violet glow flickered to life beneath her palm, faint at first, then brighter. Tendrils of energy coiled outward from her center, crawling across her torso in patterns that looked almost alive. The magic trailed over her hips, down her thighs, up her sternum, like molten silk, casting her skin in otherworldly shimmer. The heat of it rolled off her in waves, thick and heavy. She gritted her teeth, her jaw flexing with the effort of containing it. Every muscle in her body rippled with purpose, tightening as the spell took shape.

Her back arched, and then she gasped. The sound came from deep inside her—a raw, broken groan that fell out of her before she could stop it. Her head bowed. Her hair fell around her face like a curtain as her shoulders shuddered. You could feel the magic converging, sharpening, concentrating in her pelvis.

And then it appeared. Not an illusion. Not a trick. Something real. Summoned from the place where desire and divinity meet. A cock—thick and heavy and irrefutably hers—rose from her body, glowing faintly in the soft violet light of her magic. Veins ridged beneath the skin, hot and flushed, pulsing with the rhythm of her spell. It curved upward as though it had always been there, summoned not just from flesh but from need, from history, from some buried truth made manifest.

She moaned again, quieter this time. Shaken. Her hand wrapped around the base of it, tentative, like she was still learning the shape of herself. She stroked once. Then again. Slow and reverent. Her breath caught on the third pass, her shoulders twitching as her body adjusted to the new weight, the new heat. Her magic shimmered across her chest and arms, trailing after every movement like her skin couldn’t stop singing.

Her arms trembled. Her hips flexed with each slow stroke. She was still getting used to the weight of it, the power of it, the promise of it. "Fuck," she whispered. Her voice broke over the word like it didn’t know how to survive it. Her thumb dragged over the head, gathering her own shimmer-slick, her breath catching as her cock twitched in her grip.

When her eyes lifted to meet yours again, they burned straight through you. You didn’t realize you were moaning until she tilted her head, lips parted, and said your name so softly it sounded like an invocation. There was nothing performative in her expression. Just hunger. Reverence. Love, edged with something wild and claiming. “You’re trembling,” she whispered. Her voice was hoarse, roughened by sensation. “Look at you... spread open for me.”

The words hit you like a wave. You whimpered, hips canting upward in pure, instinctive offering. The air between you crackled. Her hand kept moving between her legs, stroking herself slowly to full hardness. She groaned under her breath, teeth gritted, her jaw clenched like she was holding something back. Then her fingers stilled, and she leaned forward.

She exhaled hard, and her cock twitched in her hand like it heard you. Her magic pulsed with it. Her whole body seemed to sharpen, realign, steady itself around your need. Then she moved. Slow at first—like a wave shifting its weight before the crash. Her hands slid to your knees, guiding your trembling thighs into place with a touch so gentle it hurt. And then she rose higher onto her knees, the heat of her body pulsing between you. Her cock, flushed and gleaming curved up from her hips like something holy. A weapon forged from magic and want. She held it loosely at the base, breath hitching as she watched the way you fluttered open beneath her.

And then—deliberately, devastatingly—she leaned forward. Her thighs slipped between yours like water seeking depth, parting you with reverence. Her body lowered above yours, the air shifting with the weight of her presence, the gravity of what she was about to do. And then you felt her.

The crown of her length, flushed and slick with need, brushed your inner thigh like a secret you weren’t ready to hold. You gasped. The sensation was maddening—too soft, too searing, too much, not enough. A whisper and a thunderclap all at once.

Her skin clung to yours—slick with sweat and humming with magic, the heat between you thick enough to taste. Her hips hovered just above yours, mercilessly patient, but the weight of her cock hung low, suspended in tension, dragging across your thigh like a vow she hadn’t yet spoken.

The tip of it glistened, leaking warmth in slow, deliberate beads. Each time she shifted, it left behind a searing trail—a streak of wanting—a mark not yet visible, but already burned into you.

Her left hand braced beside your head, palm flat, arm trembling under the strain of control. With the other, she reached between your bodies—fingers steady, reverent—and wrapped around the base of herself like she was holding a relic, not flesh. She adjusted the angle, her knuckles grazing your skin as she guided her shaft down to meet you.

And then—you felt it.

The velvet heat of her cock slid through your folds. Once. Twice. Again. Deliberate. Worshipful. Her tip nudged your clit on the third pass and your whole body jumped, a cry torn from your throat as fire shot up your spine. She groaned above you—a low, wrecked sound, as if it cracked something open in her.

But still, she didn’t push in.

She moved through you slowly, the underside of her length dragging across every swollen inch—thick, heated, reverent. Her palm followed the motion, firm around the base, guiding each stroke with ruthless, aching precision. Each pass made your breath stutter. Each drag sent another jolt through your core—not deep, not even close—just enough to leave you soaked and trembling.

The tip of her, slick and flushed, circled your clit with maddening patience before sliding down again, catching against you, spreading you without entering. She kept her grip steady. Adjusted the pressure. Aligned herself perfectly with every trembling inch. Her knuckles brushed your skin as she moved—controlling the rhythm, controlling herself.

The head nudged again, pressing into your clit in a slow, deliberate arc before dragging back down to rest—just barely—at your entrance. The anticipation coiled, sharp and unrelenting. You could feel it gathering in your belly, your throat, your skin—a need edged in reverence.

Her jaw was clenched. Her thighs shook. Her breath came hard and shallow through her nose, and still she didn’t give in. You could feel it—her restraint. A tremor disguised as control.

“God, look at you,” she rasped. “So wet for me. So fucking ready.” Her voice cracked, and she stopped, eyes fluttering shut for a second as she grounded herself in the sensation. When she looked at you again, her pupils were blown wide, her face caught somewhere between awe and hunger.

Your fingers clutched at the sheets. Your mouth opened but only broken sounds came out. Her cock teased your entrance again, pressing in just enough for your body to part around her crown, just enough to make you sob with need.

“Look at me,” she rasped.

Your eyes flew to hers. Her gaze was fire and storm—wide, blown, burning with something old and sovereign. The magic behind her eyes glowed faintly violet at the edges, laced with reverence, with need, with the terrible beauty of being known. Her fingers released their grip from the base of her cock and braced instead beside your head, caging you in. You felt the shift. The change in gravity. The surrender of resistance.

With the slowest, most devastating precision, she began to push forward. You felt her enter you inch by inch—her, not a spell or a toy or a placeholder, but Agatha. Her cock stretched you open with reverent force, thick and alive, pulsing with magic and heat. Your body gave way around her, clutching tight and slick, your cunt fluttering in desperation as she filled you deeper than you thought you could take.

The pressure was overwhelming, but not pain. It was fullness. Expansion. A claiming. You could feel your walls adjust to her shape, your muscles trembling with the effort of holding her, welcoming her, keeping her. The sensation tore a cry from your throat—raw and helpless—and your head tipped back on instinct.

She exhaled through her nose, slow and measured, as though the feeling of your body accepting her was the reward she’d waited her whole life for. Then her mouth was on yours—hot, breathless, consuming—as her hips pressed forward in one smooth, controlled motion. She slid all the way in. Not fast. Not rough. Just full. The stretch burned its way through your core, your body breaking open around her, split wide by the sacred pressure of being taken. Her moan spilled into your mouth, ragged and low, vibrating against your tongue. Her body shook above yours, her muscles clenching with the effort it took not to lose control.

She collapsed against you, breasts pressed tight to your skin, both of you slick with sweat and spellwork and need. She throbbed inside you, thick and impossibly deep, every pulse matched by the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat. Her thighs braced around your hips, trembling as she held you down with her weight, surrounding you in heat and strength, in the unbearable intimacy of now.

A soft, broken moan spilled from your lips, your mouth grazing her collarbone. “Ahh—Agatha…”

Her breath caught, a low, strangled sound rising in her throat. “Nnh—fuck…” Her hips jerked just slightly. Barely. Just a slow, languid pull of her hips—an inch, maybe two—before she slid back in, deep, deliberate. The stretch renewed, softer now, the ache melting into something wetter, something hungrier, and you moaned again—louder this time, throat open, breathless.

“Ah—god—yes…”

Your voice broke against her skin, trembling against the slope of her neck. She felt it—heard it—and her mouth curved into a smile so gentle, so wrecked, it made your heart seize. “There you go,” she murmured, voice thick with reverence.

She thrust again—slow, fluid, the drag of her cock thick and heavy as she pulled back and sank in deeper, letting her hips roll in a way that made your entire body bow beneath her. Your moan spilled out raw and unrestrained, your hands scrambling from the sheets up her back, trying to hold her closer, tighter, as if you could pull her inside your bones.

She groaned in response—low, breathy, helpless. “Mmmnh—fuck, you feel incredible…”

Her cock slid against every nerve, every tender edge inside you, and her next thrust came with more weight—still slow, still aching, but impossibly deep. You whimpered into the heat of her neck, your lips catching on damp skin as her rhythm built—steady, patient, devastating.

“I’m gonna take my time,” she whispered, breath hot in your ear, voice laced with the strain of control. “I want you to feel all of me… every inch. Every goddamn stroke.”

You moaned again. The syllables dragging out of you like worship. And she gave it to you. One deep, sinuous thrust at a time. Not fast. Not hard. Just full.

She moved like the tide, hips pressing forward in slow, shattering waves, your core gripping her with each stroke, wetter by the second, slick running down your thighs with every deliberate grind. The sound of your bodies meeting—wet, obscene, sacred—filled the room in soft stutters: smack… mmgh… fhh…

“God,” she rasped, biting gently at your earlobe, her hips circling as she stayed buried. “So fucking wet for me already…”

You could barely speak. Could barely breathe. A soft gasp broke from your lips—“Mmh—”—as your head turned into her shoulder, the tremor in your exhale betraying just how deep she’d reached. She pulled back again, then pushed forward once more—deep, slow, consuming—and made your whole body jolt.

“Aahh—Agatha—!”

She leaned in closer—her mouth brushing your jaw, then lower, lips parting against your neck—and sucked just beneath your pulse, slow and deliberate. The drag of her tongue made your breath hitch again— “Ahh—fuhhh—”

“I’ve got you,” she whispered against your skin, voice frayed. “I’m gonna take such good care of you…”

You nodded beneath her mouth, unable to speak—only moaning, low and helpless, as she kept moving. “Nnh… mmh… fuhhh—”

Each thrust was a vow, sinking into you with deliberate pressure, making your body light up, cell by trembling cell. Her cock dragged along every swollen nerve—thick, ridged, pulsing with heat—slow enough that you felt every vein, every twitch of her arousal mirrored through your walls. You were soaked. Slick dripped from the place where you took her deepest, where your body clung to her with desperate, greedy rhythm.

Your moan turned sharp—“Ahh—fuck—Agatha—oh my god—”—your back arching under her weight as you trembled beneth her.

She groaned, low and guttural, a rough sound torn from somewhere deep as you clamped down around her. Her mouth never left your skin—lips dragging upward now to kiss the corner of your mouth, her breath shaking as she murmured into it.

“mhhaahh—shit, baby,” she breathed, hips grinding slow but deeper, “you’re so tight—so wet for me…”

Your answer came in breath, not language— “Mmmh—nnh—tch—” You could barely hold still beneath her. Every inch of you was shaking, your skin buzzing, your mouth dragging open for another moan as she filled you again. The sound of her—the sound of you—was everywhere now. Moans tangled in the thick air, sharp gasps, wet cries. The slick, obscene drag of her inside you. The soft thump of her balls meeting you with each deep roll of her hips, sending shocks through your core that made you cry out, made your thighs tremble wide around her.

And she felt it. All of it. The way your body pulsed around her with every slow retreat, every devastating return. Her rhythm never quickened, not yet—just deep, deliberate strokes that left you clawing at her back, at the sheets, at yourself. She pressed deep again—one long, shattering stroke and bottomed out sending you arching beneath her, your head thrown back in a sobbing moan. “A-ah—Agatha—! I’m gonna—fuck—”

She caught your hips, pinning them down, and stilled inside you buried to the root. Her voice dropped, breath brushing your cheek, dark and loving and absolute.

“No.”

You froze, panting against her shoulder. Her lips ghosted your ear. “You don’t get to cum,” she whispered, voice tight and reverent, “not until Daddy says so.”

You whimpered—clenching hard around her in response, aching, throbbing, already teetering on the edge. The denial cut through the haze like lightning, sharp and grounding, your whole body trembling from the effort of holding back. “Daddy—please—” you gasped, your voice cracking around it.

“No,” she growled again, gently, into your neck. “You’ll wait. Be a good girl and let Daddy take her time.”

She pulled out halfway—your walls clenching, fluttering in protest—then thrust back in with such aching slowness you nearly sobbed. Your hands flew to her back, to her ass, to anything you could hold to keep from unraveling. Her shaft was too thick, too hot, too deep, every vein scraping against the inside of you in a rhythm that bordered on torture.

“You feel that?” she breathed. “Every inch of me—every fucking part of me inside you?”

Your mouths found each other in the mess of it—open, gasping, wet. Lips clashed, tongues tangled. It wasn’t clean, it wasn’t composed.

She groaned into your mouth as she thrust again, harder this time—still controlled, still intentional, but the power behind it made your back arch and your thighs tremble. Her cock pushed deep and her balls slapped wetly against your ass with a smack that made your toes curl and your walls clench down tight.

She felt it.

“Fuuuck—” Her voice cracked, hips stuttering before she caught herself.

Your legs wrapped tighter around her hips, locking her in, refusing to let her go. You felt her cock throb inside you, thick and soaked, every thrust now hitting deeper, sharper—wet, messy, sacred. Her hips slammed into yours with rising urgency, the sound of your slick bodies meeting echoing between the broken gasps and frantic kisses.

Your head dropped back against the pillow, a sound catching in your throat— “Hnn—ah—mmnh—” It slipped out helplessly, your body arching to meet her.

“Ahhh—f-fuck, Daddy—!” you sobbed, your voice cracking open as her thrusts drove deeper, each one dragging more sound from your chest than you knew you had. “You feel so good—so fucking good—”

She groaned—loud, guttural—as your words washed over her. Her mouth dropped to your throat, lips grazing your pulse, breath thick against your skin. “Yeah? You like how my cock feels inside you, baby?”

You moaned again—shakier this time— “Nnhh—tch—fuhhh—” Your hips twitched under her weight, your legs squeezing tighter as your body began to tremble. “God, yes—yes, I love it, I—fuck—I love when you fuck me like this, Daddy—”

Her pace stuttered, her next thrust rougher, deeper—perfect. “Mmmnnh—shit,” she growled, hips grinding into you. “You were made for this—look at the way you open up for me… this pussy’s mine, isn’t it?”

“Yours,” you choked.

She moaned against your skin, the sound rough and filthy and wrecked. “I love fucking you,” she gasped. “I love how deep I get—how tight you are—how you clench around me like you never want me to leave—”

Her next thrust had you screaming—sharp and desperate. She slammed into you again—deep and wet, the slap of her balls hitting you sending stars through your vision—and you cried out, your voice breaking, body shaking beneath her.

“Listen to you,” she panted, mouth dragging across your jaw, lips brushing your ear. “So loud for Daddy. You need it, don’t you? You need my cock. Say it.”

“I need it,” you gasped. “I need your cock—”

She growled again, fucking into you harder now, her pace still controlled but relentless, every thrust sinking to the hilt. “That’s it. That’s my girl. So fucking wet for me—dripping, soaking my cock like you’ve been waiting your whole life to take me—”

Her words drove you wild—your hips rocked up to meet her, thighs trembling, moans pouring out of you like prayer. “Nnnh—ah—ahhh—”

“I can feel it,” she groaned, biting your neck. “The way your pussy’s clenching—grabbing me—like it knows it’s mine…”

You whimpered, nearly crying from how full you felt, how good she felt, how you couldn’t get close enough. Your bodies moved like one—your sounds rising together.

Her voice hit your ear again, raw and breaking. “No one else gets this. No one else makes me this hard. This gone. It’s only you. You do this to me.”

Your head fell back, a guttural moan breaking free. Your voice cracked, legs shaking around her as she rocked her hips again, just as slow, just as merciless.

Her hands found your wrists and pinned them above your head, her body bearing down with all that heat and weight. She kissed you hard—messy, open-mouthed—tongue sliding over yours as another deep thrust made your body arch, your cunt gripping her so tight she groaned straight into your mouth.

“Not yet. My brave girl.” she whispered.

You whimpered, sobbing softly, your body shaking beneath her from the ache of holding back. Every part of you was strung tight, your cunt soaked and pulsing around the heat of her cock, your breaths ragged, mouth open in helpless moans.

And then she pulled back just enough to see you, releasing your wrist.

She braced above you, trembling slightly, and her eyes scanned every inch of your face like she was trying to memorize the way you fall apart just for her. Your hair was a wild halo against the pillow, lips kiss-bruised and parted, breath coming hard and fast. The flush on your cheeks mirrored the heat in hers. Your chest rose and fell in sharp waves beneath her, the soft swell of your breasts brushing against hers with every trembling inhale.

She stared—stilled in that space where worship met want—and her pupils were blown wide, blue and endless. Her mouth hung open, the bottom lip twitching like she was about to say something, then forgot how to form words. She looked down, groaning softly at the sight of her cock still buried deep in your cunt, slick and twitching inside you. Then her gaze snapped back up—eyes glazed with heat, yes, but also something raw. Something more than hunger.

Devotion.

Her breath hitched. You felt it—tight and shaky where her chest brushed yours. Then her voice, low and cracked and full of awe: “God, baby…” Her eyes traced your every ruined, radiant inch. “Just lay there like that. Let me look at you.” Her hips rocked forward again, slow and dragging, her cock pulling nearly out before she slid back in, pressing so deep it punched a moan from your throat.

Your mouth dropped open, head falling back. Your fingers fisted the sheets. Your back arched. “Ahhh—nghhh—”

She groaned at the sound, her whole body stuttering like your voice had gone straight through her. Her hands trembled against the bed, but then she moved—shifted her weight to one arm, keeping her chest hovering just above yours. Her other hand slipped down, fingertips brushing your stomach, then lower, slow and reverent, until she found the base of her cock where it disappeared inside you.

You felt her knuckles brush your swollen lips as she wrapped her fingers around herself again—steadying, guiding. Then she pulled back. Her cock dragged through your slick heat, every vein scraping against the oversensitive clutch of your walls until just the head remained inside you. She paused there, hovering, teasing. Her breath fell hot against your cheek as she looked down between your bodies, watching the way you stretched, watching your cunt flutter open and empty without her.

And then she slid herself along you—up through your folds, thick and slick and unbearably slow—rubbing the head of her cock up your center and catching on your clit with a pressure that made you cry out.

“Mmmppphhhh—” The sound cracked from your throat before you could swallow it.

She moaned at the sound—low, wrecked—and did it again. Dragged herself down your slick folds, nudging at your entrance, pressing just enough to feel the resistance, then slipping back up. Her cock gleamed with you, soaked, pulsing in her hand. “Fuck…” she breathed, her voice unraveling. “God, baby, look how wet you are for me…”

Another pass—slow, obscene. She rubbed herself against your clit again, made you jerk under her, made your thighs twitch and your cunt clench around nothing. You gasped—“Ahhh—nnh—mmh—”—half-sob, half-shiver, your voice catching on the edge of need.

Then, finally, she lined herself up and pushed back in. Her hand stayed there, guiding herself through the tight squeeze of your cunt until her hips pressed flush to yours again, and she moaned—long, guttural, helpless. “Fuuuck…” You sobbed beneath her, legs wrapped tight around her waist. “D-Daddy—” The word fell apart on your tongue.

She did it again. Pulled back with aching control. Rubbed herself through your folds once more—slow, loving, filthy—then pushed back inside, slower this time, like she needed to feel every twitch of your body welcoming her.

And you gave it to her. Every time she slid in, you opened for her. Every time she dragged herself out, you ached for more—hips twitching, coating her cock in wet devotion. Her voice broke at your ear, thick with need. “I could do this forever… tease you, fuck you slow, watch your face every time Daddy slides back in…”

“Shit,” she breathed, eyes locked on your face as she pulled out again. Her fingers wrapped tight around the base, guiding herself back through your folds. You whimpered when the head rubbed over your clit, your voice breaking with it— “Nnh—ah—don’t—please—” She grinned—crooked, hungry, knowing. She lined herself up and sank in once more, all the way to the hilt, slow enough that your whole body arched and your breath caught. “Ohhh—fuhhh—Agatha—”

She groaned. Long. Shattered. “God, baby… you love this, don’t you?” she whispered. “It kills you, but you love it…” Her thrusts slowed again, her hand still on herself, controlling the angle, the pressure, the tease. You nodded, tears in your lashes from the burn of holding it all in. Her lips ghosted across your cheek, her breath hitching. “This drives you just as crazy as it drives me. Say it.”

You moaned against her jaw—“Mmnh—yeah—”—your voice breaking on the inhale. “I love it… I love when you do this to me…”

She pulled out again, ran herself over your folds—your clit, your entrance, back again—her cock soaked and twitching against your skin. “You love the way I fuck you slow. The way I wait.”

“D-daddy—please—” The word tore from you—broken, breathless, soaked.

Her hand still gripped her base, steadying, guiding, shaking. Then she pressed forward and slid back in, slow and devastating, until she was buried to the hilt.

Your whole body seized with it—back arching, a sob of a moan catching in your throat. “Ahhh—nnn—fuck—”

Her eyes dropped to where your bodies met, to where your cunt stretched around the thick base of her cock, soaked and trembling. “You’re so full—fuck—you look so good full of me.”

The words hit like heat. Your chest heaved. Your walls fluttered around her. She held there a beat longer, breathing hard, eyes locked on your face like she was reading every quake of your body, every trembling moan. Then her hand left the base of her cock—slow, deliberate.

And she moved.

One thrust. Then another. Deep. Heavy. Unforgiving. Her length dragged through you with unbearable thickness, every swollen vein and pronounced ridge scraping slow along your walls like a brand. It was too much—it was perfect. A stretch that lit you from the inside out, left your thighs trembling and your cunt fluttering wildly around her. Your slick coated her, dripped down between your legs, wet and hot and endless, every stroke pulling more from you.

Your fingers twisted the sheets. Your breath stuttered through parted lips. Each time she bottomed out, your voice cracked with it.

Above you, Agatha groaned—low, long, aching—her chest beginning to tremble with every thrust. “Shit—ahh—fuck—” “Mmmgh—god—baby—” She didn’t hold back now. Didn’t slow. Her hips rocked into you with rhythm and reverence, every stroke buried to the hilt.

Then she folded over you.

Bracing on her elbows, her chest flush to yours, slick with heat and breathless sweat, her mouth caught your cry as her hips thrust hard. The weight of her ground deep inside you like she belonged nowhere else—like home was something she found in you.

You felt her everywhere. The pressure. The weight. The relentless drag of her rubbing inside you. She slammed into yours, her hips pressing down, claiming. Her skin was hot and tight and trembling against yours, and your legs fell open without thought, trying to take her deeper.

Her balls slapped against your ass—wet, rhythmic, relentless. Each impact hit with a soaked precision that made your breath stutter and your cunt clench around her cock. That sound—obscene and sacred all at once—echoed between you like worship. Like ruin. Like everything she ever wanted was happening right here, in the way your bodies met over and over again.

Agatha groaned behind your ear—“Uhhhn—fuck—”—deep and thick, pulled straight from her chest. Her hips ground into you harder, her weight pressing you down into the mattress like she wanted to leave a mark on your soul.

“God—your pussy’s so fucking tight, baby,” she growled, her voice shredded with reverence and need. “So tight for Daddy…”

Your mouth fell open, your head thrown back. You couldn’t stop the moan that spilled out—high, broken, needy. “Hhhah—uhh—uhnnh—”

You could feel everything—every drag, every pulse, every twitch of her cock inside you. The way she dragged along your walls, the ridges of her veins catching and pulling against every swollen edge. The head—wide, swollen, pressure-heavy—pressed deeper and brushed the place that made your voice snap in half.

Your nails scraped down her back, desperate and trembling, your voice cracking as it left you. “Ah—ghhh—f-fuck—too much—”

She moaned into your skin, low and guttural, the sound scraped from deep in her chest. Her hips stuttered for half a breath, tension rippling through her frame. “Ffhh—shit—baby—”

Then she snapped forward again, grinding so deep the base of her cock pressed flush to your slick folds, her hips rocking in like she needed to carve herself into you. “I know, baby. I know it’s too much,” she panted, her lips dragging across your cheek, your temple, your throat—frantic with reverence. “But you’re doing so good—so fucking good—. You love how full you are, don’t you?”

You whimpered. Your voice failed. Your whole body locked up in answer. All you could do was nod—trembling, wide-eyed, jaw slack—until another thrust knocked a cry out of you. “Hh—ahh—mmgh—fuck—” The burn was sacred. The stretch was heaven. You nodded, head rolling back, jaw slack—until her next thrust forced a sound out of you that didn’t sound human.

“Ahnn—huhh—hahhh—D-Daddy—”

She didn’t slow. She didn’t let you breathe. “That’s it,” she growled, lost now. “Let me in, baby. Let me have all of you—”

Her cock slammed in again. Then again. Every thrust was heavier now—deeper, like she wasn’t just fucking you, she was planting herself inside you. The drag of her cock pulled a string of slick sounds from your body—lewd and soaked and sacred.

Your legs trembled around her waist. Your arms locked around her shoulders like you could anchor yourself through the storm. “T-too big,” you gasped, voice thin and shaking. “So fucking big—mmmnnh—hurts, Daddy—feels s-so good—”

Agatha moaned again—“Fuck, fuck—”—low and biting, like she was barely holding it together. Her forehead pressed to yours, her breath pouring over your lips, every exhale unsteady. Her voice dropped to a growl. “Shhh… look at you—so good for me, baby, so fucking good—””

She rolled her hips again—slow, so deep—and your whole body jumped. Your cunt spasmed around her. Another gush of slick spilled between you, coating her cock, your thighs, the sheets. “Unhh—nhghhh—c-can’t—can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” she breathed, panting now, voice twisted with awe and hunger. “You want this. You want me to fuck you until you can’t think—til you're crying, saying it’s too much—while your pussy just keeps sucking me in—begging me to stay—”

You moaned—long, cracked, desperate—as you clenched down without meaning to, your cunt fluttering like your body had made peace with breaking.

Agatha groaned—“Hhrrgh—shit, baby—you feel that?” Her voice cracked. Her hips jerked again, her cock twitching inside you. “You’re dripping—fucking shaking— and your body’s still begging—still asking Daddy for more—”

Her rhythm faltered—hips stuttering, breath catching—but she forced herself back in. Controlled. Grinding. Her thrusts weren’t wild anymore. They were starving.

Each one came with a moan scraped straight from her lungs: “Ngh—fhhk—hnnh—so deep—” “Mmmnn—tight—tight—fuck—”

The slap of her hips against yours filled the room. Louder. Faster. Filthier. Her balls hit you with every stroke—wet, heavy, punishing. Each smack made your thighs twitch, your mouth fall open, your eyes roll back. Your cries came in waves—shattered, breathless, sobbing sounds. No words. No shape. Just the wreckage of want echoing off the walls.

“So hard…” you gasped, barely audible. “So deep—c-can’t—mmmnngh—so full—”

Agatha kissed your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—open-mouthed and panting. She moaned against your skin, her voice raw. Her hips never stopped. She rutted into you like she was losing herself inside your body. “I know, baby. I know. You’re being so good—taking every inch”

The bed creaked beneath you in a steady rhythm—sharp, hollow thuds that matched the weight of her hips slamming into yours. Each thrust jolted the frame, the soft squeal of wood and motion becoming a relentless cadence. Her cock dragged through your core with lewd, aching precision—thick and soaked, every ridge and vein scraping along your walls like it had been made to fit you and only you. The wet sound of her slipping in and out filled the room, louder now, impossible to ignore—raw, slick, sacred. The weight of her balls slapped against you, adding to the slick echo of your bodies meeting. Slap. Slap. Slap.

You choked on a moan, eyes fluttering, mouth falling open. “Mmf—mmf—nnnh—”

The bed rocked harder, the headboard tapping the wall in time with every movement. Her skin stuck to yours. Her sweat beaded at the hollow of your throat. Your slick coated her thighs, ran down onto the sheets, made every stroke louder. The air was thick with it—sex and heat and magic and the kind of desperation only she ever pulled from you. The mattress heaved beneath you, the bed groaning under the force of her body. Slap. Her balls struck you with the next thrust—wet, firm, heavy. Slap. Slap. Slap.

Your breath hitched. “Hnnn—hh—gghnn—” A sob burst from your throat, crumpling your voice in the middle of a gasp. “Uh—uh—uh—ahhh—f-fuck—” you whimpered, each gasp caught on the back of your tongue like you couldn’t quite keep up with her. “Daddy—” Above you, her breath broke into a moan—low, guttural, feral. “Nnnnnnnnnh—fuck—”

Her teeth grazed your neck as her hips slammed forward again, chasing the sound she just pulled from you. “You sound so good when I’m inside you,” she panted, voice hoarse, ruined. “You love when I fuck you like this, don’t you?”

You nodded before you could speak, tears clinging to your lashes, jaw slack as your body rocked beneath her. The rhythm of her cock was constant and unholy, the obscene drag of her thickness pulling out just enough to make you cry for her, then slamming back in with a slick slap that echoed off the walls. “Khh—khhn—fuckfuck—” Your voice cracked, dragged raw with the rhythm.

The sound was so intimate it made you cry out, your body convulsing in helpless pleasure. You felt it—the swing and slap against your ass with every deep thrust, every grind that forced her cock as far as you could take. They were hot and tight, bouncing against your skin, again and again, swinging low enough to land perfectly, rhythmically, over and over, until your spine arched to meet each blow. The pressure, the weight—it made your thighs tremble. Your walls clenched around her, clutching with instinctive hunger. “Nnnh—nghh—fuck—Agatha—ahh—”

Agatha let out another moan—drawn from the depths of her chest, broken at the top. “—god, baby—” She bent low, her mouth pressed to the corner of your jaw, sucking in each of your sounds like breath.

Your voice cracked on her name, and something in her broke open. She groaned low, primal, her mouth pressed to your jaw as her hips rolled again. Slap. Your breath hitched. A choked moan escaped—half-formed, soaked in need. Slap. Again. Again. The sound of your slick, her cock, your moans—the rhythm was deafening now.

“Mmmph f-fuck—” you gasped, voice high and wrecked. “—it’s s-so loud—” you sobbed, voice cracking as the bed knocked against the wall, as the slap of her balls hit you again, again, again. “So loud, Daddy—””

Agatha froze for just a beat—like the words gripped her spine and dragged a moan straight from her chest. It rolled out of her low and shaking, not a word, not a command—just a raw, punched-out “Nnh—ah!”, scraped from somewhere primal. Her hips stuttered, cock buried deep, her body trembling from the force of it.

She loved it. The wet slap of her against you, the bed knocking the wall, your cries catching on every thrust—it did something to her. Her moan deepened into your neck, long and ruined, the sound vibrating straight through you. She didn’t speak right away—just groaned again, voice curling out of her like smoke, like surrender and power in the same breath.

The slick wet sound of your cunt wrapped around her cock echoed loud in the room now. Louder than it should’ve been. Louder than it had to be.

Agatha moaned into your skin, deep and drawn out, her hips stuttered for half a beat—not from weakness, but from the way you said it. From the way you meant it. Her grin was sharp, breathless, possessive—pressed against your jaw as she rocked deeper. “You hear that, baby?”

She thrust again and your body jolted under her, a wet cry tearing from your throat. “Ahn—ahn—ahn—ahhh—fuck!”

“That’s your pussy,” she murmured, voice soaked in reverence. “That’s what you sound like when I’m inside you. When I’m fucking you right.” She thrust again and your body jolted under her, a wet cry tearing from your throat. “Hnn—fuck—” Her voice dropped, low and ruined, right against your ear. “Listen to it.”

Another thrust. She eased in until her thick tip went slack, swelling in your depths, pressuring just enough before she rocked forward. Slap. “That’s us. That’s my cock, my balls, —Daddy fucking you raw and open—fuck…..” she growled, voice thick with awe, her lips brushing your ear. She snapped her hips harder, and the slap was louder this time, more deliberate.

You whimpered, your whole body tensing beneath her. It was so obscene. So perfect. That heavy, rhythmic smack against your skin—it drove you wild. You couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe. You nodded, whimpering, pussy fluttering as her cock dragged slow through you again, thick and pulsing. You sobbed beneath her, helpless and soaked. Her moan hit your ear, rough and ragged, her body trembling above yours. “I love it,” she said, breathless. “No one else gets to hear this. Just you. Just me.”

Every sound matched the sensation: her grinding deep, hitting your cervix with every pass, her balls smacking your skin, the slick, obscene squelch of your core soaked around her. The headboard rattled. The sheets shifted. The whole room sang with it.

“It’s so much,” you gasped, your voice shredded, every breath catching. “So loud—”

“I know it is,” she gasped, rutting forward, her hips finding that devastating rhythm again. “You’re taking it. Like you always do.”

Your cries weren’t words anymore. They were open-mouthed gasps, whines, shattered, aching moans you couldn’t hold in if you tried. “Ahnn—khh—hhhn—!”

Agatha kissed you hard, catching one of those sounds against her tongue, swallowing it like a gift. She twitched inside you as you clenched again.

“That’s it,” she moaned. “Sounds so pretty—every fucking sound you make for daddy.”

You tried to speak—but your mouth only opened around air, around need. A whimper escaped instead, thick and trembling, catching on your tongue like it wasn’t sure if it belonged to pain or pleasure. You felt splintered under her—overwhelmed and pinned and dripping with want. You couldn’t shape a single word. Just noise. Just that sound, raw and bitten down, forced from your throat as she drove deeper.

“Open your mouth,” she whispered.

Your lips parted before your mind could catch up. Agatha moaned—a deep, wrecked sound scraped from somewhere primal—before leaning in and spitting into it. It hit your tongue hot and heavy, tasting like salt and sin and the sacred claim she never stopped making. You swallowed instantly. Reflex. Worship. Her breath caught as she watched you do it, her body twitching above yours like she could feel it in her spine.

“That’s my girl,” she breathed, voice shaking. “So fucking good—so sweet like this.”

And then her hips snapped forward.

Slap.

It echoed off the walls like punctuation—sharp, soaking, final.

“Say it,” she growled, voice barely tethered. “Say who’s fucking you like this.”

You tried. Tried to speak through the wreckage of your breath, through the tears on your tongue and the moans stuck to your ribs. Your head tipped back into the pillow, mouth open, body trembling beneath her. Your throat gave first.

You sobbed. “You, Daddy. Always—fuck—always—”

Her moan followed instantly—“Nnhhh—fuck, that’s it—”—shuddering out of her like she couldn’t keep it in. Her chest pressed flush to yours, sweat-slick and searing, grinding impossibly deeper as she whispered into your skin.

“That’s right. All mine.” One hand slid under your thigh and lifted it higher, spreading you wide, forcing you open. The angle was brutal. Perfect. She surged again, driving into the softest, deepest part of your body. “Mine to fuck. Mine to ruin. Mine to keep.”

Her next thrust was devastating—hard, slow, exacting. You screamed—wordless, holy. A wrecked, high sob tangled with a moan. Your core gushed around her again, drenching her, the sheets, everything. The sound was wet, shameless, sacred.

“Khh—ahhh—mmnfhh—Daddy—fuck—”

Agatha shuddered. Her voice splintered on a groan. “God—baby, you sound so fucking good—so wet—so tight—so fucking mine—”

The bed slammed into the wall now, over and over, in time with her thrusts. Her moans broke free between clenched teeth, and each one only drove her harder. Deeper.

Your cries poured from you like heat, each one higher than the last— “Ahh—mmhh—nnnh—please—please—please—” You didn’t know what you were begging for. More? Mercy? Her? All of it?

Her hand caught the back of your neck. Her thumb pressed under your jaw—not choking, not cruel—just enough to hold you in place. To feel the moans crawling out of your throat.

You clenched again—reflexive, involuntary—tightening around her your body was trying to keep her there, locked inside, sealed with heat and need. Agatha moaned, deep and guttural, the sound catching at the base of her throat before it cracked on the way out. Her hips stuttered—barely—but enough for you to feel her restraint fracture.

“Fffffuck—” It rasped through her teeth, rough and trembling, her breath dragging across your jaw like she couldn’t speak without breaking.

She pulled back—slow, every ridge and vein dragging through your slick, swollen walls—until your breath caught, and you whined for her, small and shaking: “Nnnh—D-Daddy—please—” —and then slammed back in, hips smacking wet against your ass, her balls landing with a heavy slap.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

Your eyes rolled back, mouth falling open as your body seized beneath her. The sounds pouring from you weren’t words anymore—just cracked, desperate gasps from somewhere deep inside: “Ghhn—nnnk—fffh—ahhh—”

Agatha groaned—louder now, breathless, strained. She kissed you mid-sound, catching one of your cries against her mouth like it belonged to her. Her thrusts were steady, punishing, exquisite—like her rhythm had been carved to match yours. She dragged perfectly along your soaked walls, each grind punching a new sound out of you. Your body knew her. Reacted to her. Opened for her.

Her voice broke into your mouth like a spell. “You’re gonna cum on me, baby—I can feel it—fuck—you’re right there—” You gasped—nodding frantically, helpless. Too wrecked to speak. Your whole body trembled beneath her, thighs shaking, breath stuck somewhere between a sob and a scream. “C-can’t—hold—oh God—f-fuck—please—”

Agatha was groaning now—low and constant—every breath a ruin. “Mhrrnnh—hfff—nnngh—baby—fuuuck—” Her voice was shot—rasped thin from the strain of holding on.

She pressed her palm flat over your stomach, just above your center, the weight of her hand grounding, claiming, sacred. She could feel it—every flex of your walls around her. Every tremor building in your core.

Her lips touched your ear. “Let me feel it,” she whispered, voice trembling with reverence. “Let Daddy feel you break.”

Your whole body snapped tight as the orgasm hit—no warning, no space to think—just white-hot pressure exploding outward, dragging a scream from your lungs as you clamped around her shaft like you never wanted to let go.

“Aahhh—hhnhhh—ghhk—fuckfuckfuck—” You shook—legs twitching, mouth open, your cries slurring into each other as you came hard around her.

Agatha groaned so deep it sounded like her soul cracked open. Her hips stuttered mid-thrust, unable to stay steady through the feel of you pulsing around her like that. “That’s it,” she gasped, voice shaking. “Just like that—cum for me—goddamn—you’re perfect—”

You sobbed beneath her, back arched, drenched in heat and sound and the rhythm of your own ruin—every part of you drawn tight and trembling as she fucked you through it, holding you to the edge of yourself like it was a prayer.

Her thrusts slowed, then stilled—hips hovering just above yours, trembling with the effort not to fall. Her cock pulsed inside you, deep and thick, twitching like it was lost without movement. The flush across her cheeks deepened, crawling down her throat like it had been dragged from the furnace of her chest. The fire in her eyes didn’t fade—but it flickered. Drawn inward. Banked behind clenched teeth and a jaw so tight you could see the restraint in every shaking muscle.

Her breath hitched—hard and sudden. Not a moan. Not even a gasp. A warning. One she couldn’t bear to give voice to.

And then she shook. Not from weakness. Not from fear. From restraint.

A full-body ripple of heat and hesitation rolled through her like a tide breaking against stone. Her shoulders tensed. Her eyes fluttered closed. And then she smiled—barely. Just enough to reveal the crack in her armor. That soft, secret kind of smile she only ever wore when she was on the edge of breaking. The kind that belonged to you alone.

“I don’t—I don’t have a condom,” she said, and the words came out wrecked. Frayed at the edges. Her voice trembled like it hurt to say, like it was a confession she didn’t want to give. “Fuck, I don’t—I don’t wanna hurt you—”

But you knew that tone. You knew what came after it.

This was the part of the story you’d rewritten a thousand times—on breath, on trust, on soaked sheets and holy promises. The line between devotion and craving blurred so beautifully here, it left you both trembling. This was the game. The ritual. The ache you loved to live in.

She was your first. She was your only. And she was already shaking from how badly she wanted to stay buried inside you.

You didn’t answer.

You moaned—deep and cracked, a sound that came from the pit of your stomach—and let your legs fall open beneath her, wider than before. A silent dare. A sacred offering.

Agatha’s breath hitched again—this time so violently it punched through her chest. Her hands flew to your thighs, clinging like she needed the contact or she'd fall through you. “You—fuck—” she gasped, her voice breaking. Her head dropped to your shoulder, trembling, her breath ragged against your neck. “You’re not making this easy on Daddy…”

She lifted her head—barely. Her eyes dragged down your body, slow and reverent, until they landed between your legs—at the place where her cock was still sheathed inside you, flushed and soaked and trembling. And something broke in her. You saw it.

“You look so fucking perfect like this,” she whispered. Reverent. Wrecked. “So full of me…”

You moaned again—low, guttural, full of possession. Your arms came up around her, locking behind her back like you could hold her in place with will alone. Your chests pressed tight together, sweat slick between you, the heat of her body pulsing like a second heartbeat inside you. The tremble in her thighs grew more frantic. Her breath stuttered into your hair.

“So good—so good—so—fucking—good—” she panted, forehead pressed to yours. Every inch of her was shaking. Every muscle burning with restraint. “I don’t wanna hurt you…”

But her body had already betrayed her.

Her hips shifted—just a twitch—but you felt it. The slow, aching grind of her cock rocked through you—deep, searching. Not a thrust. Not a decision. Instinct. Need. Too old and too deep to be masked. She gasped—sharp and startled—like the motion had shocked her. She shook her head. “No—fuck—” she whispered, almost to herself, like she was trying to anchor her soul to her skin.

She tried to pull back. Not in fear. Not in shame. In discipline. In love. Her hips lifted slowly, deliberately, every muscle in her fighting the pull of your body. Her cock dragged against your walls—thick, soaked, trembling—and the stretch of losing her made your whole body whimper. You felt your cunt clutch at her, fluttering, desperate, slick and aching. Your body didn’t want to let her go. Her thighs tensed. Her shoulders shook. Her breath fractured into your neck. She was slipping.

You felt it. Her cock twitched at your entrance. Her chest quaked with effort. Her mouth opened—maybe to apologize, maybe to say goodbye.

But you didn’t let her. You moved. Your hips surged upward, deliberate. Hungry. You caught her just as the head of her cock began to pull free. Your thighs clamped around her waist, anchoring her with something deeper than muscle.

You knew. You knew she needed this. You knew what she was asking without saying. You caught her. And she gasped—a sound so raw it cracked through the air like lightning. Her hands flew to the mattress, bracing herself. Trembling. Her whole body thrown into chaos by the feel of you tightening around her again.

“Baby—” she choked. But it was already too late. You were clinging to her, soaked and shaking, every inch of your body begging to be filled. Your arms wrapped around her back. Your legs held her in place.

And then—your voice. It rose like a vow between you, trembled in the stillness, and split the world open. “Stay,” you whispered, your lips brushing hers, your eyes locked to the soul of her. “Don’t pull out. Cum in me.”

Her breath hitched like a sob. Her hands braced hard against the mattress like she was trying not to collapse. Her whole body trembled above you, suspended between the ruin she wanted and the reverence she still thought she had to maintain. “Fuck—baby, I can’t—” she moaned, voice breaking apart in your ear. Her hips pressed forward again, helplessly. Her cock twitched deep inside you. “Daddy won’t be able to stop.”

Your voice cracked. “I said don’t.” Her hips twitched—once, then again—small, helpless movements that betrayed her restraint. She hovered over you, every muscle shaking, her cock still buried to the hilt inside your soaked, aching cunt. You could feel her pulse there—thick and frantic—each beat a warning, a plea, a promise she was no longer capable of keeping. She was holding herself back with trembling, white-knuckled effort. But the illusion of control was slipping.

“I wanna come so deep inside you,” she whispered, voice splintered at the edges, her lips brushing your cheek like a kiss she couldn’t quite commit to. “I want it to spill out when I’m done. I want you to feel it all night.”

Your answer wasn’t a word. It was a moan—low, wet, reverent—dragged from your throat like prayer. Your body arched to meet hers, your center clenching around her with instinctive, aching hunger. It felt like your entire body was answering for you.

You couldn’t speak at first. Couldn’t breathe. And then, breathless: “Y-yeah…”

Her breath hitched like the word wounded her—like it split something in her open.

“You want that, don’t you?” she rasped, grinding into you—barely. Just once. Just enough for her cock to drag thick and slow through your desperate heat. “You love it when I talk about it. When I tell you how bad daddy wants to cum inside her girl’s perfect pussy.”

Your whimper cracked through the air like a sob, high and broken and helpless. It echoed between your bodies, filled the room with something raw and sacred. Agatha shuddered. Her hands clenched against the mattress like she was trying to anchor herself.

“Fuck—when I say how bad I want to breed you—”

That shattered something inside you.

She was all instinct now. All ruin. And then—mid-thrust—you cried out: “Daaaaaadddyyyyy”

Your clamped around her with brutal force—slick, pulsing, desperate—and your moan tore loose like your body couldn’t contain it another second. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t quiet. It came out high and aching, the kind of sound only she ever got from you. The kind that made her shake. Her own cry followed—lower, guttural, deep in her chest like it had been buried there and finally broke free. She rocked forward again, unable to stop herself, her body betraying her with every twitch.

“You want me to fill you so full it leaks down your thighs,” she choked, voice climbing, rhythm faltering. “Claim you from the inside out—mark you.”

Her balls slapped wetly against your ass with the next thrust—sharp, filthy, final. The sound echoed off the walls: smack, squelch, moan. The bed creaked. The headboard tapped. Your soaked body made everything louder.

“I want to stay inside you, baby,” she panted, forehead dropping to yours. “Come so deep you’ll feel it tomorrow. I need it—”

That was when the rhythm changed.

No more reverence. No more restraint. No more holding back.

Her hips slammed into you with rising desperation—wet, heavy, obscene. Slap, slap, slap. Her cock drove deep, the sound of her plunging into your soaked heat nothing short of sacrilegious. Every thrust rang through the room like a chant. Her moans broke free without filter now—low and guttural, cracked and pleading.

Her breath stuttered each time she bottomed out, your name tumbling from her lips like a litany—like she needed to say it or lose herself entirely. Her voice cracked.

“God—you feel so fucking good—so fucking tight—”

You couldn’t even think. You were sobbing with every thrust, breath catching, cunt fluttering helplessly around her cock. You were soaked. Slick poured down your thighs, your body begging for everything she had.

And she felt it.

She felt how you welcomed her—dragged her deeper, clung tighter, fluttering open with every thrust like your body had been waiting just for this. Just for her.

Her hands tightened around your hips, knuckles white, anchoring her to this moment like it was the only thing keeping her breathing. Her mouth found your throat—hot, desperate—moaning into your skin like she needed the taste of you to survive. Her hips rolled harder, faster, her cock grinding deep with every wet, shuddering thrust, the bed groaning beneath you both.

“Mmnnnnghh—D-Daddyyy—” The moan cracked from your throat like it had been torn loose from your chest, thick with heat, soaked in reverence. Your head fell back, your lips parted in a ruined O, and your cunt clenched down around her—tight, fluttering, dripping—as her cock dragged deep through your heat.

“F-fuck—s’too big—” you sobbed, voice catching as her hips rolled forward again, thick and unrelenting. “You’re so big—fuck—you're splitting me open—”

That shattered what little restraint she had left.

Her hips slammed forward with a groan, and her cock drove into you—deep. Thicker than you could bear. Harder than you could take. And still you took it.

Slap.

Her balls struck your ass, wet and firm.

Your soaked core sang with the sound of her sliding through you, obscene and perfect.

Smack. Slap. Wet. Slap.

The room echoed with it—your joined bodies loud and desperate, a symphony of slick, moans, and the stuttering bedframe beneath you. The headboard tapped the wall, sharp and rhythmic, as she fucked you into it without mercy.

You were sobbing now, openly, your moans cracked and high and helpless. “Mmmmppph—ahhh—ngghhh—so full—c-can’t—”

And still you clung to her. Still you begged. “make me take it—”

Agatha gasped, like your words pierced her straight through. Her hips rolled forward harder, pounding into you with a rhythm that bordered on reverent destruction. Her cock dragged against every nerve ending inside you—every ridge and vein catching on your walls, scraping you open, carving her into your body with every thrust.

“You’re takin’ it,” she growled, voice ragged with awe. “So fucking deep, baby—God—look at you—squeezin’ me like that—like your body wants me to stay inside forever—”

You moaned so loud it made her groan, your body shaking under hers. “Mmmmnnghh—ahhh—fuck—s-so deep, so fucking big—can feel it all—every inch—”

She was unraveling above you, moaning into your skin, her voice breathless and raw, hips slamming deep inside you. Your slick spilled over her, onto your thighs, onto the bed.

“Y-you love it,” you gasped, your voice shattered but sure. “You love how my pussy pulls you in—how it takes you—how it wants you—”

“Fuck—fuck—I love it, baby,” she cried, hips stuttering. “I love how you open for me—how you beg for it—how your body won’t let me go—”

And she was right. You couldn’t let go. Your walls fluttered, clenching down, milking her cock with every thrust, chasing every ridge like it was holy.

“Fuuuck—” you sobbed, voice breaking into a high, helpless cry. “Harder—don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop—”

The bed creaked beneath you, wild and unsteady, as her hips slammed into yours again—wet, sharp, sacred. The sound filled the room, slick and obscene, the rhythm of your bodies raw and unrelenting.

Her length dragged through you with brutal grace—thick and veined and so hot you could barely breathe through it. You felt the tilt of it, the way the thick underside vein caught on your soaked walls with every pull, every push—rubbing you open, making your thighs shake, making your core weep for her.

“Mmmnnnh—ahhh—fuck—right there, right fucking there—” you gasped, your moans slurring into sobs, your hands flying to her back, your nails clawing down in frantic arcs. “You feel so big—s-so big—your cock’s too big—fuck, fuck, please—”

“Good girl” Agatha groaned, voice wrecked, teeth gritted as she slammed into you again, cock throbbing inside you. “ so fucking good—”

“Don’t stop—please don’t stop—d-don’t stop,” you begged again, crying through your moans, your voice nothing but cracked sound and open-mouthed gasps.

“Shhh, I won’t,” she panted, her forehead dropping to yours, sweat dripping between your bodies. “I’ve got you—so fucking tight around me—gonna make me—fuck—”

You whimpered, sobbed, rocked up into her again and again, chasing every inch of her with your body. You could feel it—every vein, every ridge, every desperate throb as her cock dragged through your fluttering walls. That thick vein on the underside—that was what made your back arch, made you scream, made you sob out again, “Daddy—right there—ahhhhhh—”

Her rhythm snapped, her hips tilting just enough to catch that same spot over and over. You choked, your whole body clenching around her as the pressure spiraled again, unbearable and holy.

Agatha growled above you—low, breathless, wrecked. Her hair stuck to her cheeks, her shoulders gleamed with sweat, and her jaw locked tight as she slammed forward again, cock dragging through your heat like a live wire.

“I know those sounds,” she panted, her voice a ragged whisper right against your mouth. “That little gasp—right there—that’s the one you make when you’re close, baby. That’s the one that drives me fucking insane—”

“‘M close,” you cried, tears brimming again, your thighs quaking.

She moaned—loud, raw, her voice breaking open in your ear as her hips snapped forward again, rough and deliberate. “Fuck—you feel so good—so fucking wet—I can feel you clenching—you’re right there, I know you are—just a little more—give it to me, baby, let me feel it—”

The sounds were obscene now—your soaked bodies meeting in a frantic, slapping rhythm, the headboard knocking faintly against the wall, your moans a rising symphony of want and unraveling. Her cock dragged deep with every stroke, her balls slapping wetly against your skin.

“Ahnnn—nnnghh—mmmphh—please—please—” You sobbed, clutching at her arms, at her back, your nails digging in as the pressure crested inside you like a tidal wave breaking.

Agatha kissed your mouth and didn’t stop moving. Her thrusts were steady, punishing, exquisite. Her rhythm owned you, like her body knew exactly how to wring sound from yours with every thrust, every grind, every perfect drag of her cock along your soaked walls. Her voice broke into your mouth like a confession. “You’re gonna cum on me, baby—I can feel it—fuck, you’re right there—”

You gasped, nodding frantically, too wrecked to speak. Your whole body trembled around her, thighs shaking, breath stuck somewhere between a sob and a scream. “C-can’t—hold—oh God—f-fuck—please—”

Agatha was groaning now—low and constant—every breath a ruin. “Mhrrnnh—hfff—nnngh—baby—fuuuck—” Her voice was shot—rasped thin from the strain of holding on.

She pressed her palm flat over your stomach, just above your core, the weight of her hand grounding, claiming, sacred. She could feel it—every flex of your walls around her cock. Every tremor building in your core.

Her lips touched your ear. “Cum for me.”

That was all it took. Your whole body snapped tight as the orgasm hit—no warning, no space to think—just white-hot pressure exploding outward, dragging a scream from your lungs as your cunt clamped around her cock like it never wanted to let go.

“Aahhh—hhnhhh—ghhk—fuckfuckfuck—” You shook—legs twitching, mouth open, your cries slurring into each other as you came hard around her.

Agatha didn’t stop. Even as your body convulsed beneath her, even as your walls clamped tight around her cock and your thighs trembled like you were breaking apart, she kept moving—rocking through you with reverent, unrelenting strokes. Her breath caught on every thrust, her voice splintered with awe and desperation.

“That’s it—fuck, that’s it,” she panted, her rhythm fraying, her body grinding into yours like she was trying to leave a part of herself inside you. “You’re taking me so good, baby—look at you—fucking soaked for me…”

Your moans were ragged, helpless. Every inch of you was pulsing, oversensitive, radiant with aftershock. But you didn’t pull away. You pulled her in. Your arms moved across her slick skin, trembling, desperate. Your thighs quivered but refused to loosen. You held her like you were afraid the world might end if she left your body before you were ready—before she was ready.

And Agatha felt it.

Felt the way you clung to her cock, still fluttering, still wet, still begging even as it throbbed with the remnants of release. The way your body flexed in involuntary aftershocks—tight, wet pulls that milked her deeper, pulled her harder, made her gasp like it physically hurt to stay buried inside you and still not cum.

She whimpered at the feel of you—guttural, raw, her whole body stuttering like she’d forgotten how to hold herself together. “Oh my god—” she breathed, voice catching on a ragged moan as your walls fluttered again, sucking her back in with that perfect, maddening grip. “You’re still—fuck, you’re still clenching around me…”

Her hips drew back just enough for you both to feel it—that slick, obscene stretch, that almost-pull that made your spine arch and your mouth drop open in a soft, broken cry. Then she sank in again—slow, dragging, deliberate. Her shaft pushed through the mess she’d made of you, thick and trembling, gliding past every hypersensitive nerve like worship.

The sound of it was devastating—wet, sticky, sacred. A lewd kiss of bodies slick and shaking, heat folding into heat. Your hips twitched as she bottomed out again, and you sobbed—a soft, breathless whimper that turned her bones to ash.

“Ahhh—nnghh—m-mmmhhf—” The sounds tore out of you unbidden, your voice cracking as she rocked inside you with aching precision, her breath catching at your neck.

Her hand slid up your side, knuckles grazing slick skin, then curled around your ribs like a promise. A grounding point. A quiet prayer not to fall apart then dragged slowly down your body, over the swell of your hip, the dip of your waist, until it slid between your thighs and gripped the inside of your knee.

And then she opened you.

Not with haste, not with force—but with reverence. Her fingers spread wide, guiding your leg open, wider, until your body trembled with the exposure. She tilted your hips with one slow pull, adjusting the angle like she was tuning a sacred instrument. And when she moved again—when her cock sank into you, deep and deliberate—you both gasped at once.

“F-fuck—” she choked out, her voice wrecked, her restraint fraying at the edges. The new angle let her slide in deeper—thicker, hotter, pressing right up against that swollen, aching place inside you that made your legs jerk and your mouth fall open in a helpless moan.

“Dadddyyy”

Your voice cracked, and she shuddered.

Her grip tightened, her body bowed over yours like she was praying with her whole form. Her hips rocked forward again, slow but devastating, and your thighs twitched wider under her hands—open, aching, desperate.

She dragged back. So slow it felt like cruelty. Deliberate. Precise. She slipped out inch by inch, gliding slick and thick from your cunt until just the head remained—pulsing, wet, swollen. It caught on the sensitive swell of your entrance, and your pussy fluttered instinctively around it, already aching, already begging .

Your moan tore loose—not pretty, not practiced, but primal. “Nhh-ahhh—fhhuhhckk—don’t—don’t—”

Your hips chased her before you could think, lifting from the bed in a frantic tilt, body arching toward her like gravity had shifted.

Agatha hissed—a feral, guttural sound that rattled in her chest. Her cock twitched hard between your legs, flushed and glistening, so slick with you it looked glazed. Her whole body shook like restraint was becoming impossible.

The air around you thickened—hot, drenched, heavy—as if even the room couldn’t bear the tension.

“Brave fucking girl,” she rasped, voice thinned with strain. “Taking me so deep—so fucking deep— and now you’re just… letting me pull out like this?” She leaned in closer, her breath against your mouth. “Fuck. Knowing I won’t last. Knowing it makes me fucking insane—”

She wasn’t wrong. Her grip faltered, breath staggered, like she was seconds from falling apart. Her hand fisted the curve of your hip, grounding herself. But it was your body that wrecked her. soaking her cock, shining her in the mess of your need, and clenching around nothing like you were trying to break yourself with how much you needed her back inside.

“Fhhuckk—” she groaned, barely able to breathe. “Look at you. All spread out for me… greedy little pussy begging to be filled—”

Her hips rolled forward—slow, steady, claiming. The thick head of her length slid through your slick folds, dragging across every soaked, swollen inch until it caught right at your entrance. She paused just long enough for your body to twitch—needing, fluttering—and then she pushed.

Hard. Deep. All at once.

Your body seized, a strangled cry catching in your throat as her cock slammed in to the hilt—thick, soaked, unrelenting. The breath left your lungs in a stuttering rush, and your walls clamped down on her so tight, so instinctively, it felt like a reflex as old as need.

“Hhhhnn—nnhhhGod—”

The stretch hit you like heat, like revelation. Blistering. Breath-stealing. Fucking perfect. Your legs wrapped around her waist before you even realized—desperate, trembling, refusing to let her go. She groaned at the feel of it, low and wrecked, her hips twitching inside you from the tightness. “That’s it,” she panted, her voice cracked and reverent. “Show me how bad you need it.”

Her next thrust came slow—a long, merciless drag pulling partway out, slick with your need, before sinking deep again, grinding up into your cunt like she was branding her shape into your walls.

You sobbed—sharp and soaked—your nails biting into her back. “Ahh—ahhhnn—f-fuckkk—Daddy—”

She moaned at the sound of her name on your tongue, her whole body shuddering. “Say it again,” she breathed against your mouth. “Fuck, say my name like that again while I ruin this sweet little pussy—”

Your response came as a broken whimper—high, desperate, wet—and she answered it with another thrust. Another brutal, gorgeous stroke that dragged through your core like lightning. The sound of her shaft sinking in—slow, soaked, reverent—filled the room like worship.

Her breath trembled as she rocked into you again, each grind deeper than the last, her rhythm steady but intense—each movement designed to undo you slowly, intimately, until all you could do was moan for her.

You whimpered, long and low, your hips arching, body trembling under the weight of her cock. “Mnnnh—nnhh—please—”

Her hips pulled back—just slightly, her cock dragging against your walls with a pressure that felt like it had teeth. And then she pushed forward again, slow and relentless, like the world had narrowed to the wet sound of her moving inside you.

You gasped—a soft, wrecked little sound that left your mouth open and trembling. Her cock ground into you with purpose, every ridge catching just enough to make your legs twitch beneath her, your back arch without permission.

“Fuck,” you choked, the word falling apart against her throat. Your lips brushed her skin, tasted sweat and salt and something like surrender. “It’s s-so—” but you couldn’t finish. Your breath caught. Your throat closed.

Because she was still moving.

Not fast—never fast. Just intense, deliberate, soaking you in friction so slow it felt like it burned. Each thrust was a promise and a threat, her cock dragging out, then sinking back in like she had all the time in the world to destroy you.

“Daddyyy—” Her name tore loose, wet and high and wrecked.

She moaned at the sound of it—deep, from her chest, like the syllables had lit her nerve endings on fire. Her mouth found your jaw, her lips brushing just below your ear as her hips rolled forward again—slow, wide, obscene. You felt her cock pulse inside you, thick and flushed and so deep you couldn’t tell where your body ended and hers began.

You whimpered again—softer this time, soaked and clinging—because it wasn’t even the pressure that undid you. It was the control. The fact that she hadn’t let herself go yet. That she was holding back—on purpose—just to see how much you could take.

She moved again.

A small thrust. Just the tip. A drag that barely stroked you, but still sent heat rippling up your spine. Then another. A deep, steady push that made your breath catch, her cock sinking into you slow and wet and endless. Your walls clenched, slick and fluttering around her, soaking her in the need she'd spent the whole night building. Another thrust followed—then another—a rhythm, slow but complete, deep enough that your back arched off the mattress, your mouth falling open.

"ffhhhh—fuck—Daddy—" you gasped, your hands clenching at the sheets.

And then she found it. That spot. You felt it when her cock dragged over it—a thick, swollen place deep inside that made your whole body jolt. You spasmed, fluttering around her as if to plead. Your thighs twitched. Your voice cracked on a moan that spilled out half-broken and high.

She felt it too. Her hips froze—just for a breath.

Then she moved again. A full thrust—slow, deep, deliberate. Her cock dragged right over that swollen, aching spot, and you seized beneath her like you'd been shocked. She watched it happen—watched your breath hitch, your mouth fall open, your thighs jerk around her waist.

Another thrust. Then another. Each one deep, steady, unhurried—just to feel you react. To feel how you spasmed around her, fluttering wildly, your moans breaking apart with every stroke. Your body arched helplessly, your hands scrambling for her arms, her shoulders, for anything to hold onto.

"That’s it," she murmured, voice thick with hunger. "—so fucking good when I fuck you just like this—" And then she paused. Her hips rolled forward, cock still buried deep.

She adjusted—tilted her angle just a little—just enough to align the swollen head of her cock against that spot with surgical precision. Her eyes never left your face. A small, deliberate thrust. Just enough to let the swollen head of her cock nudge that same spot—deep, aching, devastating. The one that made your whole body seize like it had been struck by lightning.

Your spine arched. Your throat tore open. “Ahhh—hnnnnngh—fuuhhhk—” The sound cracked out of you like a sob, soaked and raw, half-swallowed against the damp heat of her shoulder. It didn’t even sound like your voice anymore—just broken need scraped into sound.

She did it again. Then again. Tiny thrusts. Measured. Cruel. Divine. Each one punched into that throbbing bundle of nerves buried inside you like she was branding her name into it. The angle was obscene—too precise, too perfect—and it made you clench in helpless, fluttering waves around her cock, soaked and swollen and desperate to keep her there.

You twitched. Your hips jerked. Your moan came high and strangled, shattered through your teeth like it was being dragged from your lungs by force.

Your body rocked in place, helpless under the weight of her control, the friction of her dragging slow, shallow, maddening strokes that felt like they were splitting you open by degrees. She wasn’t fucking you in thrusts—she was fucking you in fractions, in slow surgical pressure that didn’t allow for escape. Just sensation. Just fullness. Just the aching slide of her cock dragging across that place again—

—and again—

—and again.

You whimpered—wrecked, breathless—as the pressure curled tighter in your belly, your thighs trembling with every grind. Your chest heaved. Your mouth stayed open but nothing came out. Just panting. Gasping. Trembling heat. The edges of your vision blurred with tears. Your hands clawed at the sheets, desperate for something to ground you. Your hips moved. Just a little. An unconscious roll. A silent plea. You didn’t even realize you were doing it—seeking relief, seeking mercy, seeking more.

But Agatha was already there. She growled—deep and guttural, her voice catching fire in the space between you—and grabbed your hips with one hand. The grip was brutal. Final. “Stay open for me.” Her breath shook. Her voice was wrecked with the sound of restraint ripping at the seams. “Take it. Just like this.” You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Her cock moved inside you in slow, measured drags—barely there, but devastating—like she had all the time in the world to watch you fall apart.

Your hips trembled in her grip, thighs twitching as you tried to stay still, tried not to writhe under her—because she wouldn’t let you. Her hands held your hips firm, thumbs digging in just enough to ground you, to remind you who you belonged to. You sobbed through clenched teeth, your fingers scrambling for purchase—her back, her arms, the sheets—anything to hold you down as she ruined you.

Her rhythm stayed slow. That deliberate grind of thick pressure against your most sensitive place made your toes curl, your back arch, your core clench like it couldn’t bear the emptiness between each stroke. The weight of it. The ruin. It was too much. And not enough.

“Daddyyyy—” you moaned, her name tumbling out wrecked and helpless.

She groaned at the sound of it. Deep. Unrestrained. Her hips never stopped. “That’s it,” she murmured, voice thick with reverence. “Say my name like that, baby. Let me hear who’s fucking you like this—who’s got you dripping and shaking—”

You gasped, eyes fluttering, the tears finally breaking loose. The intensity was overwhelming—but holy. Her cock ground into that spot again, and your whole body jerked. You couldn’t stop it—your hips rolled beneath her, your body moving without permission, chasing something, anything, everything. Her moan tore free—loud, wrecked, helpless. “Fuuuuck—”

She sped up. Not in distance. Not in depth. Just speed. Just those tiny, punishing thrusts. Again. And again. And again. The swollen head of her cock hit that same spot over and over until it felt like your soul was unraveling. You screamed for her without words, your moans peaking, catching, melting into hers.

“Mmpphh—ahhnn—A-Agatha—fuck—please—”

“That’s it, baby,” she gasped. “That’s my good girl.” She didn’t let up. Those shallow thrusts grew quicker, sharper—just a little more pull, just a little more force. Just enough to build power. Her hips rocked with ruthless control, her cock dragging back that fraction further before driving in again, each time landing squarely on that spot that had you twitching, sobbing, writhing beneath her like a live wire.

You were keening now—moaning raw and wordless, your breath stuttering out in high, desperate pitches. Each sound was a plea without shape, every vowel broken around the weight of her inside you. Your walls fluttered. Clenched. Gasped for her.

Agatha’s eyes were locked to you, wide and dark and awestruck—like she couldn’t believe the way you looked, wrecked and shaking, stretched around her, soaking her with every thrust. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched your body pulse, your cunt gripping her cock like it knew who it belonged to.

You pulled back. Not much. Just a shift. Your hips arched, spine bowing, breath caught in your throat as your body tried—futilely—to seize control. To find air. To keep from drowning in her. But the second your movement met hers, the second your cunt flexed and fluttered around her cock with that slick, aching need. She felt it. Her grip, already tight on your hips, turned punishing. Her fingers dug in—possessive, anchoring you like she owned the gravity that held you down. “Don’t run,” she snarled, low and savage, her breath ghosting over your cheek. “You’ll take it—just like this—”

Then she fucked you. Hard. Ruthless, hungry thrusts that left nothing between you—no space, no pause, no forgiveness. Just slick, brutal friction. Just her cock pounding deep and thick and fast, burying itself inside you like she was trying to mark the end of you. The mattress jolted beneath each stroke. Your moans cracked apart, helpless and high, as she chased the sound of you breaking.

Her own moans hitched in rhythm with yours—guttural, choked, holy. She gasped your name like a prayer and a curse, her mouth falling open, her breath stuttering as her heat pistoned into you. Sweat slipped down her spine. Her chest rocked against yours.

And she didn’t stop. She drove into you—loud, soaked, merciless. Her cock slick with everything you’d already given her, now thrusting so deep your legs shook with every impact.

Your voice broke entirely, no longer words, just sound. Sharp, aching cries tangled with breathless whimpers as she fucked you through it—through the overwhelm, through the heat building low in your belly, through the raw, shattering edge of too much and not enough.

She groaned into your throat, ragged and desperate, her jaw clenching as she slammed forward again, and again, and again. “Fuck—fuck, you feel so good—so fucking tight—you’re soaking me, baby, you’re—”

A moan ripped out of you before she could finish.

You sobbed against her shoulder, shaking under the weight of her body and the brutal rhythm of her cock. You spasmed around her, fluttering hard with every stroke, and still she kept going, chasing the slick, squeezing heat until your whole body seized up beneath her.

Her hips stuttered. Slowed. Still deep. Still buried to the hilt. Her thrusts shifted again—shorter. Sharper. Targeted. Right against that devastating spot, Right at the edge. She stayed deep, her hips rolling in those slow, ruinous thrusts—angled just enough to keep dragging over that spot again and again. Precise. Relentless. Her grip on your hips didn’t loosen, not even a little. She kept you pinned, trembling and slick, her rhythm steady enough to drive you mad.

You whimpered—soft at first, then louder, less coherent. A stream of helpless sound slipped from your lips with every motion. Moans, gasps, fragments of her name tangled with raw pleas you couldn’t form into sentences.

She kissed you. Not a whisper of a kiss—no, this was a claiming. Her mouth crushed against yours, open and messy, slick with sweat and moans. Her tongue moved with purpose, with need, with heat that stole the very breath from your lungs. She kissed you like she was trying to crawl inside you through your mouth, like the only way to survive was to be in you—flesh to flesh, soul to soul.

Her hips never faltered. That same brutal slowness. That same precision. Her cock moved with surgical intent, grinding into that spot again and again—so deep, so devastating. You clenched with every drag, every wet pass of her catching exactly where you needed it. The rhythm stayed maddeningly slow, each thrust pushing the pleasure further past the threshold of what should’ve been survivable. You moaned into her mouth, and she moaned back—low, wrecked, the sound of a woman losing herself. Her breath stuttered. Her hips rocked again, her cock thick and wet inside you, your slick coating every inch of her with obscene warmth.

She tilted her hips—just a breath, just enough—and everything changed. Her cock slid deeper, impossibly deep, the head angling upward until it caught perfectly, scraping over that swollen, desperate knot of nerves with surgical precision. You seized under her. Your whole body jolted, a cry half-caught in your throat as your eyes went wide.

And Agatha—Agatha felt it.

Her hips stayed locked to yours, her cock buried to the hilt, pulsing thick inside you—and then her breath shattered. She gasped into your mouth—sharp and sudden—like the new angle had struck something deep inside her. Like it had split her open. You felt it too. The way her cock drove even deeper now, angled just right, the thick underside catching along the swollen nerve-vein that pulsed like it belonged to her. It did. Everything did. Your body arched without asking—hips lifting, thighs trembling, nails digging into her shoulders with a force that barely scratched the ache blooming inside you.

“—fuuhhckkk—” she gasped, voice breaking on the inhale, as if she hadn’t expected you to feel that good. Like the new angle had touched something in her, too—something raw and holy and ruinous. Her head dropped, her chest pressed to yours, and her mouth found your lips again, crushing into you like it was the only thing tethering her to this earth.

She kissed you hard. Desperate. Tongue deep. Mouth open. Breath lost between you. And all the while, her hips never stopped moving.

That same precise rhythm. That same controlled torture. Slow, shallow thrusts that dragged the over your sweet spot with agonizing accuracy, over and over and over again, each one punching the air from your lungs like she was sculpting you into something she could never let go. Agatha moaned into your mouth—wrecked, high, trembling—and you felt it everywhere. It wasn’t just sound. It was a vibration, a tremor that started in her chest and spilled into you, flooding the heat where your bodies met. Her shaft dragged deep inside you with slow, devastating precision, and your whimper cracked open between her lips like an offering. Then she pulled away, lips brushing across your cheek, breath stuttering like she couldn’t believe what she was feeling. You barely had time to brace.

Her mouth dropped to your neck. And that was it. She broke. Her moan punched out of her chest like it had been trapped there raw and ragged, hot and hoarse, muffled against your skin like she was trying to bite it back and couldn’t. It didn’t sound human. It sounded wrecked. And still—her hips kept moving.

Slow. Focused. Punishing. Tiny thrusts that shouldn’t have had power but did—because they hit that spot. Your spot. The one only she could reach. And she hit it again. And again. And again. The swollen head of her cock dragged across that nerve like it was drawn there by instinct, and your back arched in response, a choked cry tearing from your throat.

Her moans were relentless now. Shaky, high-pitched, desperate. Her hips shifted just enough to pull back, to gain power, and she slammed into you once. Then twice. Then again. Each thrust was thick and brutal and blinding. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. You could only feel. “F-fuck—fuck, baby—oh my God—” Agatha gasped, her voice cracking like she couldn’t bear how good you felt. Her grip on your hips tightened like iron, holding you steady while her cock hit that spot with every merciless stroke.

“You feel—Christ, you feel so fucking good—so tight—so wet—fuck.” Her words broke into moans, open and unfiltered. She sounded wrecked, like your cunt was pulling her apart from the inside out.

All you could do was sob under her, your moans coming in a frantic, wet string of syllables that barely made it out of your mouth. You tried to move—just a little, just to breathe—just to ease the pressure—but her hands slammed you right back down. Her hands gripped tighter, holding you down as her hips dragged another thrust through you, deeper this time, devastating.

“Stay,” she growled, voice ragged and raw.

Then she fucked you harder. One deep thrust. Then another. Then another—each one angled with perfect cruelty, hitting that electric place inside you that made your thighs twitch, your nails claw for her back, your mouth fall open in a gasping, soundless scream.

And then—she slowed again. Back to those small, ruinous thrusts. That lazy, agonizing rhythm that had your whole body convulsing. She moaned into your neck—long, loud, nearly broken. Her mouth was open against your skin, panting raggedly, her voice trembling like she was right on the edge of losing control. Each thrust felt sharper, deeper somehow, as if the new angle had split her wide open, too.

You didn’t know when the tears had started—only that your body was shaking, soaked and clenching, your voice long past words. Your mouth hung open, too breathless to moan, too full to beg, your head tipped back against the mattress like it was the only thing still holding you together. Everything below your ribs was pure sensation: wet friction, aching fullness, the relentless grind of Agatha’s cock dragging through your cunt like she owned it—because she did. She hadn’t even let herself move fast yet. That was the worst part. She was still slow. Still deliberate. Still holding back just enough to ruin you by inches.

Her body hovered over yours—forearms braced, muscles tight, sweat dripping from her collarbone onto your chest. Her eyes stayed on your face like she could read every flinch, every twitch, every sobbed breath that fell from your lips. She shifted her weight slightly, and her cock pressed deeper—thick, hot, soaked in everything your body kept giving her. And then she stilled.

The sudden lack of movement made your hips jerk without permission. Your cunt clenched again, fluttering helplessly around her. The need to be filled, to be fucked, was unbearable. And still—she waited.

“Say it,” she gasped, and her voice cracked on the words—wrecked, raw, barely tethered to control. Her grip on your waist tightened, possessive and bruising, like she could hold you in place with just her fingers and her will. “Say you want it—say you want Daddy to fucking breed you—”

You tried to speak, but your throat failed you, too full of breathless sobs and trembling tension. And that silence was all she needed.

A growl tore from her chest—a sound so low and feral it vibrated straight through your ribs—and her hips snapped forward. The slap of her heat plunging back into your core was brutal and wet and final, your whole body jolted from the force of it.

“Don’t make me pull it out of you,” she snarled, and her words hit your skin like a lash. Her cock ground in deep—long, slow, ruthless—dragging against every oversensitive inch inside you, catching on your swollen edges like she wanted to carve the shape of herself into your body from the inside out.

“You want me to cum in your perfect pussy?” she hissed, and her breath hit your mouth like fire, like fury. Her hips stayed locked, buried to the hilt, and the twitch of her cock inside you made your walls flutter again. You moaned—a broken, sobbed sound, high and shivering, your voice catching on the unbearable friction of her filling you. “Nnnh—A-ahhh—!”

She groaned at the sound, her lips curling into a cruel, reverent grin. “You want it so bad—you're shaking for it—so fucking say it.”

Another thrust—hard, sharp, deep—and it knocked the air out of your lungs. Your hands scrabbled for her shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto, something to ground yourself against the storm building behind your ribs. “Open your mouth, pretty girl. Beg for it.”

You sobbed. You were past pride now—your body slick, your cunt aching, your thighs trembling from the tension she kept you locked inside. Her next thrust came slow and punishing, grinding every ridge of her cock against your slick walls, dragging her heat through the soaked, swollen mess between your legs. “I said beg. Fucking earn it,” she rasped, her voice splitting on the edges, straining against how close she was to breaking.

“F-fuhhh—Daaddyy—” The words broke on your breath, a guttural gasp that scraped its way from deep in your chest. Your hips jerked beneath her, legs trembling, cunt already clenching down around her cock like you were trying to drag the orgasm from her by force. You didn’t even realize you were grinding up into her until her hands locked tighter on your waist, holding you steady, making you take it.

Your body was soaked—dripping—slick sliding down your thighs, your cunt fluttering and flushed, too hot, too open, too needy. Every thrust made you arch—your back lifting from the bed, your moans torn out in broken, breathless gasps, each one louder than the last. The sound of her inside you was obscene—wet and thick and holy—the slap of skin, the suck of soaked friction, the quiet gasp that came every time your body clenched and pulled at her cock like it needed more.

Agatha’s breath hitched—sharp and shaking—a broken inhale like the pleasure had caught her mid-thrust and split her wide. Her hips bucked forward hard, slamming deep enough to flatten your spine to the mattress. Her groan cracked—rough, frantic, raw.

“Oh—fuck—baby, I’m close—so close,” she gasped, the words punched out of her. Her rhythm faltered, hips rocking now in rougher, needier strokes—her control hanging by a thread. And then her hand slid from your waist down—down—until it found your thigh.

She shoved it open—rough, sure, demanding—until your legs were spread so wide you could feel the stretch in your hips and the throb of your cunt fluttering open around her. Her palm pressed firm, keeping you there, your body trembling and exposed, laid bare for her to take.

“Open for me,” she groaned, voice cracking, thick with possession. “Let me in—take it—fuck, take all of it. You’re mine. You’re gonna take all of me—every inch—until I can’t pull out.”

Your moan cracked high and raw as your body gave way, the new angle hitting so deep your vision blurred. Her cock slid in to the hilt, thick and pulsing, stretching you wide with every slow, ruinous grind. The sound of it—of her fucking you open—was soaked, filthy, full of slick and breath and gasping. Your cunt sucked her in like you were starving for her. The room echoed with it.

She let out a moan—wrecked and guttural—as she rocked into you again, rougher now, desperate. “I’m gonna fill you up,” she groaned, biting the words into your throat. “Put a baby in you—fuck—stuff you so full they’ll know. Everyone will know. You’re mine—you’re fucking mine—” You sobbed, body spasming under her, your mouth falling open in disbelief. “Yes—Aggie—oh god, yes—please—fill me—”

A fresh rush of wetness coated her cock as she rutted into you. Your body was shaking, thighs trembling, nerves sparking at every contact point. She kissed you then—wet and open-mouthed—her tongue dragging across your cheek, your lips, your jaw.

“You take me so well—fuck—you’re perfect—” Her thrusts were messier now, deeper, sloppy with need. Her breath fell against your ear in shuddering waves. And you couldn’t stop it—the pleading, the hunger, the ache rising up your throat in sobbed, desperate moans. “Please—need to know I’m yours—make me yours—” you whimpered, voice cracking wide open. “Want it—wanna belong to you—please, baby, remind me—remind me who I belong to—”

Agatha’s head snapped down like she’d been summoned. Her mouth sealed over your pulse—hot, wet, desperate—and her groan into your skin was a sound ripped from the pit of her body. Her hips surged forward on instinct, cock driving in so deep your breath punched out of you, your moans dissolving into strangled, broken gasps. “Mine,” she growled into your neck, her teeth grazing just shy of another bite. “Say it. Say it again—”

“Yours—yours—oh my God, Agatha, I’m—”

Her thrusts hit ruinous—hard and shallow and perfectly angled. You were soaked, your cunt a mess of slick and stretch, fluttering around her like your body didn’t know how to stop wanting. Her cock slid through it like she was made for this, made for you, thick and unforgiving, dragging through every nerve-ending she’d ever lit on fire.

Agatha’s hand dragged up your thigh again—pushing, spreading—until your legs were open so wide it hurt, until she could grind deeper, slower, filthier. The sound of it—wet and loud and holy—filled the room. Her body slapped into yours again and again, skin sticking, breath caught, sweat slicking both of you down to your bones.

Her moans were wrecked now—short and guttural and constant, bursting from her throat with every slam of her hips. Her hand braced beside your head trembled, the other still clutching your thigh, pressing you wide, open, made to take every inch of her.

You cried out, unable to hold anything back. “You feel so good—so fucking hard—I can feel you in my stomach—don’t stop—don’t stop—” She gasped. Then again—louder, messier, mouth dragging along your jaw like she was chasing the taste of you. Her magic surged in pulses, crackling in the air, slipping between your fingers, coiling low in your spine like it knew.

“I’m not stopping,” she growled, each word slurred through moans and ragged breath. “You’re gonna take it—all of it—I’m gonna fill you up, baby, fuck you full till there’s nothing left but me. I want you full, round with me—I want them to see who you belong to.” You sobbed. Loud. Soaked. Arching into her like your body was pleading to be taken.

Your orgasm broke. Silent at first. A flash of heat and lightning ripping through your spine—your hips jerking, toes curling, breath seizing like you’d been struck from the inside out.Then came the sound—wet, obscene, sacred. A guttural cry torn from your throat as your cunt clenched tight around her cock and your body poured slick over her. Your magic surged with it—bright, violet, starbursting—casting light against the ceiling, illuminating the soaked sheets, curling through Agatha’s body like a brand. You felt her breath catch against your throat, her pulse jump beneath her skin where it pressed to yours.

Agatha’s lips kissed across your face—your cheek, your jaw, your temple—as if grounding herself in the reality of your body. Her tongue followed in a slow, trembling drag, licking the sweat from your skin like it was the holiest thing she'd ever tasted. The air shimmered—tinted violet and silver—threads of your magic clinging to her lips, to the curve of her neck, to the space between you like spider silk laced with starlight.

She didn’t speak—couldn’t. She only moaned—low, broken, reverent—as her tongue moved down to your neck, licking gently over the skin, her breath hot and shaking. Her hips slowed, not stopping but savoring, every grind of her cock dragging her deeper into your soaked cunt. The sound of it filled the air—squelching, filthy, beautiful. Yours.

Your breath hitched, caught between the rhythm of her thrusts and the heat crawling up your spine. The words slipped out raw, instinctive—low enough that only she could hear. “Baby,” you whispered, voice cracking on want, not weakness. “Remind me.”

Agatha froze—just a little. Just long enough for your hand to curl around her shoulder, your chest arching into her. And that’s when she saw it. The faint bruise beneath your collarbone—just left of center. A shadow from only hours ago—the press of a baton or a boot or a body that never should have touched you. It wasn’t fresh enough to bleed. But it was fresh enough to burn.

She inhaled sharply—like it hit her in the lungs. Her gaze locked there. Her jaw tightened. And then she kissed it. Softly. Once. Then again. Her lips shaking. Your body clenched around her again, fluttering with the weight of what you meant. Not just pleasure. Not just release. “Fill me,” you breathed, your hands curling around her shoulders, anchoring her. “So they know who I belong to.”

That did it. Agatha’s jaw slackened, just slightly— But her moan tore straight from her chest like it had been waiting to be born. Her hips jerked once, deep—reflexive. Her tongue dragged across your neck again before her mouth opened in a gasp that cracked into your skin like thunder

She collapsed into you—pressed belly to belly, chest to chest—skin flushed, breath tangled, soaked in want—like she needed more than friction. She needed contact. She needed you. Her body sank against yours in full surrender, and for a moment, she stopped holding back—stopped pretending she could be anywhere else. Like if she didn’t touch you, she’d come undone entirely.

One hand was already braced beside your head—steady, grounding, trembling under the weight of restraint. The other, still gripping your waist, loosened. Her fingers slid upward—shaking, reverent—as they skimmed the curve of your ribs, your side, your breast… until they reached your face. She cupped your cheek with a touch that felt more like worship than control, her thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like she needed to feel how ruined you were. Like she had to know it in her bones.

You turned into the touch with a gasp, lips parting around her thumb—and sucked. Slow. Needy. Mindless.The taste of her skin, the tremble in her breath, the way her hips faltered just slightly—it all fed the hunger curling hot and helpless in your gut. She moaned—low, wrecked—and pulled her thumb from your mouth with a slick drag. The loss made you whimper, chasing her without thinking, your mouth still open, your chest arching into her.

Your hand reached for hers—blind, aching, instinctive—and she caught it at once. Her fingers threaded between yours, firm and grounding, then she pushed your joined hand up above your head, bracing them there with steady pressure. Holding you down without force. Her hips surged, fast and wild, fucking into you with the sharp, soaked sound of flesh meeting flesh, louder now, endless, devotional. The weight of her body—all of her—was on you. Not crushing. Claiming. Her nipples dragged across yours with every thrust, hard and aching, the friction a lightning-hot drag of sensation that made her whimper against your mouth.

Her thrusts turned frantic—wild and deep, lost in the rhythm of her need. The bed rocked with every soaked collision of her hips against yours, the wet slap of your bodies filling the air with each devastating stroke. She wasn’t holding back anymore. She couldn’t. Her breath hitched with every thrust, torn from her in half-formed gasps and ragged, broken moans.

“Ahhh—nnhhh—hahh—baby” She sounded ruined. Ruined for you. Each one sounded like it shocked her, like she couldn’t hold them back anymore. She bucked wildly, her thighs trembling, your slick coating her skin with every desperate grind, and she was sliding through it—like lightning made flesh, called home to the storm you had become.

Her fingers unthreaded from yours and cupped your jaw like something sacred. Her thumb brushed your lip—slow, reverent—and then she pulled you into her, kissing you like it was the only thing anchoring her to this world. Mouths collided. Moans spilled. The taste of her breath, the tremble of her need—it filled you like a spell already cast. You could taste her desperation, feel it in the way she clung to you, like if she didn’t kiss you now, she’d fall apart completely. The kiss broke as she gasped against your mouth, voice shaking.

“My love,” she whispered, wrecked and reverent, her eyes glassy, wide, worshipful. “Fuck—I’m gonna—”

Her whole body arched into you—wild, trembling, possessed—and she shattered.. She slammed deep and then she shattered. The first pulse hit like lightning—hot, thick, claiming—flooding you with an overwhelming heat, and you felt every drop. Felt it rush into you like a spell, like a star being born inside you. The shock of it seized you—your spine bowed, your mouth fell open in a voiceless cry before it cracked loose on a sob of disbelief:

“Ohh—ahhh—Agatha—”

She moaned—loud, guttural, a wrecked whimper that cracked straight from her chest as her whole body locked down against yours. Her hips jolted, trembling as she spilled into you with another pulse, each one thick and sacred, flooding you so fast and so full your body could only convulse around her, slick and radiant and open.

She was panting against your cheek now, whimpering with every twitch—“H-hhhnn—God—ohh—yes—”—her voice a spiral of disbelief and surrender. Her cock jerked helplessly inside you, sliding deeper as her body rocked with the rhythm of release. It was messy. It was unstoppable.

And it was holy. You could feel it in your bones, like magic. Like she had poured a piece of her soul into you and sealed it with heat. Like a sacred claim that threaded itself through your womb, your blood, your ribs. Like she was pouring a part of herself into you, and the universe was holding its breath. The world narrowed to the rush of her coming undone in you, for you, because of you.

Her forehead dropped to yours, sweat-slick and burning. Her breath tangled with yours. The moans didn’t stop—smaller now, sweeter, every sound peeled straight from her chest like she couldn’t hold anything back.

Even as the last pulse shuddered through her, Agatha didn’t stop moving. Small, soaked thrusts. Slow and instinctive. Like her body needed to feel it deeper. Like she had to work every drop further into you—into the place that belonged to her—and couldn’t stop until she had.

The motion wasn’t about climax anymore. It was about claiming. About connection. About sealing herself inside you in every way that mattered. You whimpered at the sensation—body still twitching, overstimulated and glowing, every nerve stretched thin with aftershock—but you didn’t pull away. You let her move. You let her stay.

And oh—God, the way she moaned.

Quiet now. Wrecked. Her voice broken open at the edges as her lips brushed your skin between panting breaths. Little sounds spilled from her as if her heart couldn’t hold them anymore. You felt her everywhere. Her sweat-slick chest flush against yours, her hardened nipples dragging gently over your skin with every tender thrust. Her breath hitched every time your clenched down, milked her deeper. Agatha buried her face against your neck, inhaling you like you were air. Her body finally began to still—her hips slowing, her weight sinking into you as though gravity had finally caught her in full. Her voice, barely a whisper. Wrecked. Honest.

“I love you.” She didn’t lift her head. Didn’t pull back. She just held you—in her, around her, with her—and let the words breathe where they belonged: in the space between your joined hands, your joined bodies, your joined futures.

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Time had folded in on itself. The air still smelled like sweat and skin and magic, like something sacred had split open and wrapped around the two of you.

Agatha hadn’t moved far. Just enough to rest her forehead against yours, her breath mingling with your own, her hand still twined in yours above your head. You felt her pulse in her wrist. Still fast. Still real.

Your voice broke the silence—ragged and dry, but smiling. “…I should get arrested more often.”

Agatha’s laugh cracked out low, wrecked, and full of wonder. “You’re insufferable,” she whispered, but she didn’t let go. You squeezed her hand. “And yours.”

Her lips brushed your cheek. “Always.”

And that was how it ended—your body still open around hers, her magic still glowing somewhere low and deep inside you, and the weight of her love holding you exactly where you’d always belonged. Even when the world was burning around you, Agatha was there to light the next match.

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Now go ahead and tell Mommy what you think. I may need to ask for forgiveness for this shit.

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