#Little Tales of Misogyny

[m3owfrog]

ugh i kinda wanna get back on tumblr and rot my brain out some more

[intheholler]

the appalachian murder ballad <3 one of the most interesting elements of americana and american folk, imo!

my wife recently gave me A Look when i had one playing in the car and she was like, "why do all of these old folk songs talk about killing people lmao" and i realized i wanted to Talk About It at length.

nerd shit under the cut, and it's long. y'all been warned

so, as y'all probably know, a lot of appalachian folk music grew its roots in scottish folk (and then was heavily influenced by Black folks once it arrived here, but that's a post for another time).

they existed, as most folk music does, to deliver a narrative--to pass on a story orally, especially in communities where literacy was not widespread. their whole purpose was to get the news out there about current events, and everyone loves a good murder mystery!

as an aside, i saw someone liken the murder ballad to a ye olde true crime podcast and tbh, yeah lol.

the "original" murder ballads started back across the pond as news stories printed on broadsheets and penned in such a way that it was easy to put to melody.

they were meant to be passed on and keep the people informed about the goings-on in town. i imagine that because these songs were left up to their original orators to get them going, this would be why we have sooo many variations of old folk songs.

naturally then, almost always, they were based on real events, either sung from an outside perspective, from the killer's perspective and in some cases, from the victim's. of course, like most things from days of yore, they reek of social dogshit. the particular flavor of dogshit of the OG murder ballad was misogyny.

so, the murder ballad came over when the english and scots-irish settlers did. in fact, a lot of the current murder ballads are still telling stories from centuries ago, and, as is the way of folk, getting rewritten and given new names and melodies and evolving into the modern recordings we hear today.

305 such scottish and english ballads were noted and collected into what is famously known as the Child Ballads collected by a professor named francis james child in the 19th century. they have been reshaped and covered and recorded a million and one times, as is the folk way.

while newer ones continued to largely fit the formula of retelling real events and murder trials (such as one of my favorite ones, little sadie, about a murderer getting chased through the carolinas to have justice handed down), they also evolved into sometimes fictional, (often unfortunately misogynistic) cautionary tales.

perhaps the most famous examples of these are omie wise and pretty polly where the woman's death almost feels justified as if it's her fault (big shocker).

but i digress. in this way, the evolution of the murder ballad came to serve a similar purpose as the spooky legends of appalachia did/do now.

(why do we have those urban legends and oral traditions warning yall out of the woods? to keep babies from gettin lost n dying in them. i know it's a fun tiktok trend rn to tell tale of spooky scary woods like there's really more haints out here than there are anywhere else, but that's a rant for another time too ain't it)

so, the aforementioned little sadie (also known as "bad lee brown" in some cases) was first recorded in the 1920s. i'm also plugging my favorite female-vocaist cover of it there because it's superior when a woman does it, sorry.

it is a pretty straightforward murder ballad in its content--in the original version, the guy kills a woman, a stranger or his girlfriend sometimes depending on who is covering it.

but instead of it being a cautionary 'be careful and don't get pregnant or it's your fault' tale like omie wise and pretty polly, the guy doesn't get away with it, and he's not portrayed as sympathetic like the murderer is in so many ballads.

a few decades after, women started saying fuck you and writing their own murder ballads.

in the 40s, the femme fatale trope was in full swing with women flipping the script and killing their male lovers for slights against them instead.

men began to enter the "find out" phase in these songs and paid up for being abusive partners. women regained their agency and humanity by actually giving themselves an active voice instead of just being essentially 'fridged in the ballads of old.

her majesty dolly parton even covered plenty of old ballads herself but then went on to write the bridge, telling the pregnant-woman-in-the-murder-ballad's side of things for once. love her.

as a listener, i realized that i personally prefer these modern covers of appalachian murder ballads sung by women-led acts like dolly and gillian welch and even the super-recent crooked still especially, because there is a sense of reclamation, subverting its roots by giving it a woman's voice instead.

meaning that, like a lot else from the problematic past, the appalachian murder ballad is something to be enjoyed with critical ears. violence against women is an evergreen issue, of course, and you're going to encounter a lot of that in this branch of historical music.

but with folk songs, and especially the murder ballad, being such a foundational element of appalachian history and culture and fitting squarely into the appalachian gothic, i still find them important and so, so interesting

i do feel it's worth mentioning that there are "tamer" ones. with traditional and modern murder ballads alike, some of them are just for "fun," like a murder mystery novel is enjoyable to read; not all have a message or retell a historical trial.

(for instance, i'd even argue ultra-modern, popular americana songs like hell's comin' with me is a contemporary americana murder ballad--being sung by a male vocalist and having evolved from being at the expense of a woman to instead being directed at a harmful and corrupt church. that kind of thing)

in short: it continues to evolve, and i continue to eat that shit up.

anyway, to leave off, lemme share with yall my personal favorite murder ballad which fits squarely into murder mystery/horror novel territory imo.

it's the 10th child ballad and was originally known as "the twa sisters." it's been covered to hell n back and named and renamed.

but! if you listen to any flavor of americana, chances are high you already know it; popular names are "the dreadful wind and rain" and sometimes just "wind and rain."

in it, a jealous older sister pushes her other sister into a river (or stream, or sea, depending on who's covering it) over a dumbass man. the little sister's body floats away and a fiddle maker come upon her and took parts of her body to make a fiddle of his own. the only song the new fiddle plays is the tale about how it came to be, and it is the same song you have been listening to until then.

how's that for genuinely spooky-scary appalachia, y'all?

[pennyellee]

𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐗𝐈𝐑

title: ELIXIR pairings: mafia hoseok x female reader genre: dark romance, smut, porn with plot, 90s, sort of arranged marriage, childhood friends to lovers word count: app. 22K beta read by one and only @chaoticpuff17 prompt 1: "And I won't be satisfied till we're taking those vows" prompt 2: you were apparently promised to the heir of Jung's criminal empire since birth, not that you ever took that ongoing inside joke seriously. You grew up alongside the said man, yet your mind is conflicted about upholding your part and saying I do until one drunken night reveals a lot more than you'd like.

warnings: minors dni 18+ | explicit language, hurt men's ego, arranged marriage, yandere behaviour, hoseok is complicated to understand tbh, but same for the reader, implied murder, graphic violence, alcohol usage, heavy drinking, abuse of prescribed medication, anti-depressants, oral sex (both f and m receiving), face riding, penetration, unprotected sex, sideways sex, creampie, shame walk, misogyny, old traditional norms forced upon, guns, illegal activities, emotional distress, hoseok is sometimes kind of a dick, manipulative behaviour, and so on (if i forgot something I'm sorry)

author's note: Good morning American, Good afternoon Europe, Good night Korea. Happy Birthday to Hobi! This one has been simmering in my brain for the longest time, and I can’t believe it’s finally out in the world! This is where the heart of the story really began for me when I first dreamt up the telling the tales that happened around 1996 in NYC. Champagne Confetti and Anubis may have made their debut first (and trust me, I’m still cooking up more for those), but this piece is a stand-alone one-shot, though hey, I’m not against adding some filler if inspiration strikes. Princess and Hoseok’s story is woven through all my works, past, present, and future, especially with the Anubis chapters, so you’ll definitely see more of them.

I’m a bundle of nerves and excitement sharing this with you, just like every time I hit that publish button. If you didn't read the preview and my note there, to emphasise - I’m knee-deep in my MA thesis (yes, the chaos is real), so if I go ghost for a bit, know I’m just wrestling with academic deadlines. Thus, that's why there is still no new chapter on Anubis or Lacrimosa.

But I adore you all endlessly for sticking around and reading my stuff, my lovely little fairies! ✨

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐋 | ❝𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝟏𝟗𝟗��❞

Winter 1995

"Well thank fuck we are making a ton of those,—" he laughs at you and how you're gulping down nearly a tenth glass of whiskey that has his family name on the crystal clear bottle, poisoning your mind with the elixir more and more each time the liquid meets your lips.

"and that's why you're ordering me another one now," you say, resting your head on your right hand and squinting, eyeing him. The man sitting next to you at the bar loves you, and all he wants is for you to love him back. When it was decided that you were to be wed, he was thrilled to hear the news, as if he would not want it without the blessing. But your disappointment and rebellion against the elder's decision made him calculate how to get you to obey and be the good girl he knows you are.

"You ready to talk, Princess?" The pet names were the usual consensus in your friendship. Though this one turned a shade darker. Everybody called you that and you never minded it, but now this remind you of your "duty" that you are not ready to fulfil.

You have no idea what you just agreed to. The young man nods to the bartender, who begins to prepare the eleventh glass while he only sits by his second.

The bartender places the crystal clear glass with ice and liquid inside in front of you. You inhale the air sharply and press a finger on your eyelid to smooth down your eyeshadow, only for your hand to drop to balance your head on the back of it. The other runs through a sleek, shoulder-length bob with a soft inward curl at the ends, giving it a voluminous and playful bounce that you sport now. Your hair is parted down the middle, with delicate face-framing tendrils that you push out of your eyesight turning to face him.

 "What do you want to know, pretty boy?" you play with the words on your tongue. Hoseok momentarily thinks about all the ways he could show you he is the man and not the boy you just called him. But he knows it’s just banter. He takes a sip from his glass while raising an eyebrow at your remark.

"What bothers your mind? You wouldn't be drowning like this otherwise."

You give your so-called wannabe fiancé one drunken look and reply. "They killed off the man I dated and now everything is going to shit. Am I supposed to be happy?" You wave your glass in his face and take a sip. You were too drunk to not be honest with him.

"Look, honey, I've always been honest with you, and I'm not about to change that. I ain't gonna lie to you that I'm sorry that boy is dead because I'm not. You know I didn't like him—"

"Why?" You interrupt him. Deep down you knew why, it was rather obvious, but that didn’t stop you from demanding he voices his thoughts. Hoseok lifts his head and stares into your caramel-brown eyes.

"Because I love you, and you know that." Yeah.

Sadness flickers across his face. He wishes you would say yes when he proposed to you just a few months ago when the elders' approved. They were very angry with you when you decided to chase the already dead boy instead of planning the wedding with the clan's golden heir. But that did not matter. It is decided and they'll drag you down the aisle whether you'll cooperate or not.

Jung Hoseok is the heir to his family’s s empire, your family, and when the heads of other clan families sat down in a meeting about the future of the syndicate, it was already decided that the heir needed his bride. The decision was made for you before you had something to say about it, and going against it, means risking everything. That's why he was more than surprised by how easily you answered when he was on one knee holding the emerald ring in a velvet black box staring at you with happiness in his eyes.

The subtle hum of conversation and the clinking of cutlery provided a comforting background melody. It was a few weeks since the last time you saw Hoseok, hence there was no reason for you to not go to dinner with your best friend to catch up. That's what you considered him to be for you. He had your outermost love and respect and for years you thought that's how he saw you too.

You often laughed at the remarks the other syndicate members threw your way, how you are such a lovely couple. Match made in heaven. Hoseok laughed too, but, in a different manner than you. And now when you look back, you could have seen this coming. His father always spoke about you two should get married one day and you thought that's just a fantasy because you used to be inseparable. You never fought the idea, to confess. Until you met him.

Mark Tuan had you at hello, there's no need to sugar-coat it.

He always had a way of taking up space, not physically—he was lean and unassuming—but in how he commanded a room without trying.

He wasn't like the others. He didn't wear wealth-like armour, nor did he wield power with a showy arrogance. Because he had none.

He was a stark contrast to Hoseok. But that's not why you felt so hard on your knees for him. For that reason, you want to selfishly hide as it is nothing extraordinary.

He understood your desire to be, well, you. Wild and free, being your own person, despite how the family raised you. Mark saw you for who you were beneath the titles, the wealth, and the legacy. He didn't try to contain you, didn't try to mould you into someone you weren't. With Mark, there were no expectations, no carefully laid plans. There was just you and him, two people finding solace in each other's chaos.

And that, more than anything, was why you fell.

To him, you were just some bar owner at the border of Manhattan and the Bronx. But behind the word, some was more.

You weren't serving drinks—no, that's Peaches expertise— you were listening, observing, connecting, and occasionally pulling the strings that kept the undercurrent of your world from swallowing everything whole.

Mark saw through the haze of cigarette smoke and dim neon lights to the person standing behind the scenes. He didn't need you to explain the why of it all, nor did he ask for a justification for the choices you made. He simply accepted you, and that acceptance felt like a gift.

Truth be told, you never questioned yourself why you did not cut yourself from the family. Anubis was in your name, after all.

But it wasn't just a name; it was an identity, a burden, a purpose. It tied you to something larger, something darker, and no amount of neon lights or spilt Jung whiskey could ever wash it away. Ironic that you drink Elixir out of all the liquor in the world. And maybe, just maybe, you didn't want to wash it away.

Why?

Because despite everything you just said, you loved the person you grew up with. The bond was there. A strange feeling of loyalty. When there's a seed, you nurture it until it blooms. You had grown up together in the shadow of your family's empire, running through its grand halls as children, oblivious to the weight of the world you were destined to inherit. He was your partner in crime before you even knew what that truly meant.

That's what they did. They raised you, gave you education, and love, scolded you when you misbehaved and later on gave a role in the family. You were the eyes and ears. But you were not foolish. Even that was temporary.

So, you stayed.

Not like they would let you go.

This wishful thinking by Hoseok’s old man reminiscing about the good old days. You never thought Hoseok took it seriously. Not until that tonight.

"Y/N," Hoseok's voice broke through your thoughts, pulling you back to the present.

He reached across the table, his hand warm against yours and you looked from your intertwined hands to his shiny smile and warm eyes.

"I missed you—" a voice carried a softness that disarmed you, momentarily unravelling the protective walls you'd spent years building. He made you go soft each time he decided he had enough of not being around you. You two were busy, always, but he also always found the little loophole where he could steal you away and parade with you wherever he wanted. And you never thought anything big about it. Just two best friends, living their lives together. But this time, that night, it was different.

"I missed you too," you murmured, unsure if it was a lie or a reluctant truth. His smile widened upon hearing your words and he brought your hands to his lips, laying a warm kiss against your tender skin. Another gesture you never thought twice about before.

The restaurant was dimly lit, its ambience a blend of candlelight and murmured conversations. It was the kind of place Hoseok liked—elegant, understated, and private. Tonight, however, the intimacy of the setting felt like a noose tightening around your neck.

You had a bad feeling since the moment his driver pulled in front of Anubis and you had to drop everything to accommodate Hoseok's need of having an outing with you. Why wouldn't you, right?

He studied you for a moment, his gaze both tender and searching.

"You've been avoiding me," he said, though there was no accusation in his tone, only an unspoken plea for honesty.

"I've been busy, Hobi. You know how it is." You let out a small laugh, shaking your head.

He tilted his head, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I know you, love. Tell me the truth."

There was no point denying it, not to him. Hoseok had always been able to see through you, even when you wished he wouldn't. The one who had dared you to climb trees too high, who laughed until his sides hurt when you both got caught sneaking into places you shouldn't have been. You sighed, leaning back in your chair, suddenly feeling exposed.

Should you confide in him?

"I'm just tired,—" you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Hoseok's smirk softened into something closer to concern, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned forward.

"Tired of what?" he asked, his tone careful, coaxing.

"Everything?—" you huffed out, a bitter laugh escaping your lips.

"I love Anubis, I do—" you began, but your voice wavered, the weight of your admission pressing down on your chest.

"It's just—" you struggled to find the right words for a moment, "too much to handle now."

It's been a lot to handle. Especially, when the source of your happiness and outermost help with the operations Anubis ran behind the scenes while it posed as an ordinary bar, was nowhere to be found for weeks.

He was missing, and you told yourself he was probably just busy with some shady dealings, something that would blow over in time. He had a way of disappearing when things got too hot, and you never questioned it—at least, not out loud. He was not as protected as you were. A princess.

But never this long. No calls, no messages, no nothing. The usual channels you both relied on for communication were silent. It was as though he had vanished from the world, leaving behind nothing but an eerie void.

And that's when you started to question your place in this world. All over again. As the only source of hushing those thoughts, was gone—

The teasing glint in his eyes was gone now, replaced by something deeper, something that made your chest ache.

"I don't think the place can be what the family wants it to be anymore, Hobi."

Hoseok's brow furrowed at your words, his usual calm demeanour cracking ever so slightly. He sat back in his chair, his fingers gripping the edge of the table instead of your hands now.

He seemed…..nervous.

You looked away, staring at the faint scratches on the wooden table, tracing them with your eyes as if they could lead you to an escape.

"God's timing is always right, I guess," for a moment you wondered whether you heard the same exact words he just uttered.

You swallowed, the lump in your throat growing.

"You've been handling it all this time," he said softly. "You've been holding it together when most people would've folded—"

"I just want to escape it for a little bit," you interrupted him, to not tune him on the wrong octave but by the looks of it, it's too late for that.

"And what would you do?" he asked, his voice a careful balance of curiosity and concern. "If you could walk away from all of it—Anubis, the expectations, the weight of it all—what would you do?"

You blinked at him, startled by the question, not sure what answer he wanted to get from you. The only person who ever asked you that is Mark.

“I… I never considered leaving it fully–” you started, sighed and said the truth.

"--I don't know," you admitted, a touch of bitterness creeping into your tone. "It's not like I've ever been given the choice."

He nodded slowly as if he'd expected that answer. Then, without a word, he reached across the table and took your hand in his.

"But you know that everyone has a choice in this family—" he said, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

"And it's up to you if you choose right or wrong."

That's the family mantra. At least one of many you go by. But what did that even mean to you anymore?

You had always chosen right—or at least, that's what you'd convinced yourself. You had played the game, followed the rules, kept your head down, and stuck to the script the family had written for you.

You wanted to argue, wanted to say that the control had never really been yours to begin with, but you didn't.

"You don't have to be alone you know?—" his voice quieter now, almost hesitant, as if testing the waters, unsure how far to push. But that night he pushed far.

"I'm here for you."

Before you could conjure a response, he leaned forward, his voice lowering to a near whisper.

"Do you remember when we were kids, sitting under the maple tree in the garden behind my house? You used to say you wanted to be free, to see the world. And I told you I'd take you anywhere you wanted to go. Do you remember?"

You nodded, the memory as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. Those days felt like a different lifetime—a simpler one, untouched by the complications of duty and obligation.

But Hoseok's interpretation of freedom never matched yours.

Hoseok's grip on your hand tightened, grounding you in the present.

"I still mean it. I'd give you the world if I could—"

"Hoseok…" you started, unsure of what to say.

"You don't need to worry about anything or about what anyone thinks. I'll take care of everything, I'll make it right."

You wanted to pull away, to find some way to untangle yourself from the web he was spinning around you, but his presence, his certainty, was paralysing.

You could feel the walls closing in, and a part of you wanted to fight, to tear free from the grip he was starting to have on you. But the other part—the part that had been with him since childhood, the part that knew him too well—began to crack under the pressure.

"Hoseok…" Your voice trembled, the uncertainty and the fear finally making its way to the surface. "You're not hearing me. I don't—"

His thumb ran over your lower lip and he gently pressed against the soft flesh, silencing you with a tenderness that only made it worse.

"You don't have to say anything. I know what you need, what you want. I'll give it to you. You don't have to choose anymore—

"I'll choose for you."

You blinked once, twice, thrice but you could not shake his words off. What is he alluding to?

He got the wrong impression. Or did he?

"Why are you saying all this, Hobi?" you asked, your voice barely audible. His touch was warm, and grounding, as his other thumb brushed over your knuckles, again and again.

"I've loved you for as long as I can remember, Princess," his eyes rose to yours, searching for anything. Any emotion, a hint that you're sharing his love, that you're ready for it to bloom like it was always meant to.

When he could not recognise what he was seeing in your reaction to his words, he slowly rose from his chair to move to the side of the table, closer to you.

Before you could give him any response, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black box while he descended to one knee before you.

Your eyes were never wider and even when you connected all the years of your shared youth, you still couldn't believe what was happening before you right now.

"And I won't be satisfied till we're taking those vows–"

He knew about Mark and you. He fucking knows you have a man you love. This was an ownership, a claim. He had enough of your avoidance that you blamed the bar for. He knew that avoiding him meant only one thing.

"Will you make me the happiest man in Manhattan and marry me?"

This wasn't just any love. Any proposal. This was Hoseok's way of drawing a line in the sand, demanding your loyalty, your love, your future—all of it. And in that moment, you realised the truth you had been avoiding.

A quick, shallow breath escaped your lips as his hand hovered over the open box. The family ring you used to see on Hoseok's mother's finger when you were children.

You swallowed hard, your voice trembling as you tried to find the right words. Fuck right words, ANY words.

The emerald settled in a delicate halo of precious diamonds spoke to you. More than once you imagined that ring on your finger, but whether you imagined Hoseok putting it on was hazy and distant, as if you were never sure.

Hoseok's gaze softened slightly, a glimmer of hope dancing in his eyes as if he already knew the answer you were about to give him.

But you didn't answer immediately. Instead, your gaze flickered to the small black box again, then back to Hoseok. You could see it in his eyes now—the certainty, the devotion, the unwavering belief that he was the only one who could make you happy.

The thought of rejecting him, of crushing everything he had built in his mind, gnawed at you. But at the same time, a part of you felt suffocated by his expectations, by his love that felt more like a chain than a choice.

You opened your mouth, but the words still refused to form. Your mind was a battlefield, caught between two worlds, two people, and an obligation that you could never shake.

Your heart twisted, the weight of his words settling into your chest like a stone. You wanted to tell him that you did remember. That you still cherished those memories. But things weren't that simple anymore.

"No."

He'd like nothing more than for you to understand; that you belong to each other.

"It's your fault." You mutter to yourself.

"What?" Hoseok sets a defensive tone, hoping you are not implying what he thinks you are. "What do you mean?" he asks.

"If you'd come with this forward a little bit earlier—" you point at the barren ring finger. By earlier you mean before you fell in love with Mark. You could not wear the ring so proudly when he forced it upon your finger and a second later in the heat of the moment, you threw the ring back at him, storming out of the restaurant.

"—I'd have happily said yes, do you know why, pretty boy?" You laugh drunkenly. The brunette man shakes his head, but when he sees you not continuing, he voices out his answer.

"No," now he waits impatiently for yours.

"I l-loved you—" His breath hitches when he hears your words; this is what he waited for. He does not care, it is the whiskey speaking for you, fogging your mind and critical thinking.

“I do love you, just my own way–” 

He-does-not-care. He waited long enough to hear those words from you, and now his heart is becoming whole again.

"You've always been here, and you don't look like you're going to leave me that easily. Appa Jung always used to tell me how we are meant to be, and you know what I did?" You do not wait for him to answer the rhetorical question before you do so yourself.

"I threw it all selfishly away—" You wave your hand sideways until you nearly fall off the barstool. That's what your drunken brain thinks. You could have had it all. Pussy and power. Instead, you chose the wild whirlwind of emotions you felt for Mark.

They took Anubis from you. Not literally, but you knew that the moment you'd step your foot there, Namjoon or any other brother would gladly drag you to Hoseok. So you mentally parted from the bar that embodied your youthful years for the time being. The time you needed to think. And you wish you could slap yourself for selfishly still wanting that life. Your life.

"Because I fell in love with a dead man—" he knew that. Hoseok knew you loved that young biker boy and how head over heels you were for him. In all the years of your life, he never saw you that happy and it pained his heart that it isn't him you so openly adore.

He loathed that boy and all his being. Of course, he was not sad his brain got blasted off.

"You love me?" Hoseok voices out finally. If he'd known that all it would take is for the love of his life to get a little tipsy, he would have invited you to the uphill parties with him a long time ago. He did not hope you’d show up. But this morning, you woke up vomiting last nights tour de bar and decided you are done feeling crappy about man who stole your heart (and money as you got to know later) from you and died with it. Life has to go on. 

"I want you under me, Princess,—"

—right-fucking-now," he takes the glass out of your hand, saying the words through his teeth. You would never allow it if it weren't for your lust and the boost the alcohol provided. Or at least you would tease him longer than just agree right away. 

You were grieving, drinking whilst on anti-depressants that were causing your body to swell and cloud your mind enough to give up and let the man have you. It’s not like you never wondered what that filthy mouth of his can do to you. Hoseok was an extremely attractive man to say the least. 

"Then take me, hon–" You say seductively, biting your bottom lip. Hoseok doesn't flinch and tosses a few bills on the bar with some tips for the bartender. He grabs you by the wrist and pulls you out of the club the party was held at. You obediently put one foot in front of the other, trying not to fall when you trail behind him.

The walk to the elevator feels like never-ending to Hoseok. Once in, he reaches for you, pushing you into the furthest corner of the elevator, pinning you tightly. He pulls your face to his and presses his lips to yours. He traps you there, his hands in your short hair. As he subdues you with his tongue, you taste his relief, his desire, his passion for you and your mind is clouded enough to realise that this is your first kiss together. 

Suddenly he stops, leaning into you with his gaze and the full weight of his body too, so you can't move nor attempt to run if you would have wanted to. You have nowhere to go but he's still cautious. It feels like an eternity before the elevator stops at the ground level, and an even greater eternity is the actual journey home. Agony. Hoseok is in agony to bed you and show you how much he longed for your body and soul.

In the sanctuary of his bedroom, you shed your inhibitions along with your clothes, your hunger for each other insatiable. You could feel his masculine body all over you, his hands exploring every piece of your skin and leaving hot wet kisses on your body.

His lips seared a trail of fire along your skin, leaving you breathless and wanting more. You arch into his touch, your nails grazing his back as you pull him closer, desperate for the heat of his body against yours.

In the heat of the moment, there are no words, only the primal language of desire that speaks volumes in the silence. You gasp as Hoseok's lips find yours once more, his kiss a promise of ecstasy beyond imagination.

"Ride my face—" He growled whilst he snatched the panties that covered your pulsating wet pussy.

You feel a surge of heat at his words, your pulse quickening as you meet his gaze with a hunger of your own. You feel his hands grasp your hips, guiding you towards his waiting mouth. Without hesitation, you comply, straddling his eager face as he hungrily devours you. His tongue traces maddening circles around your throbbing core, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. You moan his name, your fingers tangling in his hair as you ride the waves of ecstasy that crashes over you.

The gentle suction, the soft caress of his tongue, and the subtle scrape of his teeth all combine to create a maelstrom of feeling that leaves you gasping and trembling.

Each flick of his tongue, each nibble of his lips, sends you spiralling closer to the edge, teetering on the brink of oblivion. Your hands instinctively reach out, grasping for something to anchor yourself to as the world spins around you. You glimpse at how your fingers are tangled in the soft strands of his hair as you pull him closer, deeper, hips rocking back and forth as you ride the waves of pleasure.

His moans vibrate through every cell in your body, resonating deep within your cunt. Fingers dig deep into your skin, holding you in place as he devours you with an unbridled hunger. And when you finally shatter into a million pieces, it's with his name on your lips, a prayer of gratitude for the bliss he's given you.

Hoseok was painfully hard, his slacks were too tight at the moment. You feel his arousal pressing against you, the hardness of his desire evident even through the fabric of his slacks. With trembling hands, you reach for the button of his slacks, eager to free him from the confines that only serve to intensify his longing. As the soft fabric falls away, you're greeted by the sight of him, thick and throbbing with need. 

Without hesitation, you take him in your hand, relishing the feeling of his hardness against your skin. You stroke him slowly at first, savouring the feeling of having him in your grasp for once. He hissed, the sensation travelling his body. The knowledge that you have this effect on him sends a thrill through your veins.

With each movement, you push him closer to the edge, teasing and tantalizing him until he's on the brink of oblivion. And when you finally take him in your mouth, it's with a hunger that borders on desperation, eager to taste the sweet release that awaits.

You take him deeper, you feel him throb and pulse against your tongue, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He grips your hair tightly, guiding your head on his cock while your eyes water when he hits the back of your throat. With each bob of your head, you feel him grow even harder, his breath hitching in his chest each time.

You move faster, your own arousal building to a fever pitch, and you feel him tensing beneath your touch. But he is not ready just yet. Forcefully pushing your head away, you let his cock go with a loud pop, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his throbbing member.

He looks down at you with a hungry intensity, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he catches his breath.

"Gon' fuck you silly, princess."

You meet his hungry gaze with a look of anticipation, eager to feel him deep inside you.

With a hungry growl, he takes you in his arms, his lips crashing against yours in a frenzy of need and longing. You respond in kind, your hands roaming over his body, eager to feel every inch of him against your skin.

He flips you on your side and presses himself against your back, the anticipation builds to a fever pitch, the air crackling with the electricity of your shared desire. When he finally enters you, it's with a force that takes your breath away, filling you completely with his hardness and heat.

"Fuck, Hobi," You moan his name as he moves inside you, each thrust driving you higher and higher towards the pinnacle of ecstasy. Your nails dig into the sheets as you cling to him, lost in a haze of bliss that consumes you both.

As he whispers words of longing and desire against your skin, you feel a surge of heat coursing through you, igniting a fire that burns brighter with each passing moment. His hips are rutting against your ass, the skin slapping too, having a contest of what is louder, your united moans or the latter.

"Tell me you fucking love me again." He demanded while his cock was abusing your cunt with all the pleasure. Each thrust passes and you feel yourself edging closer and closer to the edge, your body humming with need and longing.

Your heart races in your chest as you meet his gaze, your eyes locked together in a passionate embrace. He lifts your leg to thrust even deeper than before sending your moans an octave higher.

"I fucking love you, Hobi," you gasp, the words spilling from your lips like a prayer as you surrender yourself fully to the pleasure of his touch.

A hungry growl escapes Hoseok's lips, reacting to your words. He twists your upper body so he can reach to kiss your lips, not stopping to fuck his cock into you. Hoseok's hands roam over your body, tracing every curve and contour with a reverence that sends shivers of pleasure racing down your spine.

You arch into his touch, your nails digging into his hair as you cling to him desperately, unwilling to let go of the intoxicating sensation of his touch.

"I'm gonna cum inside of your pretty cunt."

His lips crash against yours in a passionate kiss, his tongue exploring every inch of your mouth with a hunger that leaves you breathless. Even as he kisses you, his hips never cease their relentless rhythm, driving you closer and closer to the edge with each hard thrust.

You feel yourself inching closer and closer to the edge as you squeeze your eyes shut, a loud whimper coming out of you from the overstimulation that he's forcing upon you.

"Please make me cum again, Hobi. I can't-" Your plea hangs in the air between you. Hoseok's lips curve into a wicked grin as he continues to thrust into you with increasing fervour. He tightens his grip on your hips, his movements becoming even more urgent as he drives you closer and closer to the edge.

Your body trembling with anticipation. And then, with a cry of release that echoes through the room, you finally let go, surrendering yourself fully to the pleasure that consumes you. His throaty moan is muffled as your head is too dizzy to concentrate. He spills his hot cum inside of you just seconds after you release it.

And as you lay tangled together in the tangled sheets, you know that he won't let you slip away tonight. So you drift off to sleep in each other's arms after he takes you again and again and again until you cannot hold your eyes open anymore.

A sharp pain throbs in your head. You gasp when your eyes register the bright light of the morning sun. You rub your hand over them and pick yourself up, leaning with your elbows. You sigh and close your eyes for a moment. Your head spins, and you have a very strong urge to empty the contents of your stomach, which actually has nothing in it. You freeze in place when you hear a murmur from the other side of the bed, and the subsequent rustling of the duvet startles you even more.

Slowly turning your head to the source of the sound, you're scared. On your right side, the man is lying peacefully, snuffling contentedly away. His raven hair is plastered to his forehead, and his eyelids are tightly closed.

Your mouth opens into a big 'O', and you hold yourself from screaming out; the whole house would hear the words that don't belong in a lady's mouth. Your head swivels back into place again, and this time you look down under the duvet just like in all the romance movies you watched alone.

Upon discovering that your clothes are somehow missing, your eyes widen completely, and now you are absolutely awake. The maid must have taken them to laundry earlier. You put your feet on the cold floor of Hoseok's room and grab his shirt from the walk-in closet. Putting it on quietly, you begin to sneak out of his room. At the door, you turn to look at him. The realisation hits you like a truck on the highway — Hoseok won't let this slide.

Your footsteps lead you to your old room where you grew up. You hope to find some of your old clothes there so you won't have to leave the Jung mansion in only a shirt that barely reaches below your ass.

In your mind, you rejoice once finding what you're looking for and begin the smooth flee out of the mansion. You pray that you will not meet Kkangpae Jung or Halabeoji Jung on your way. You know if you do, you'll never leave this house. It wouldn’t be nice talk.

Sighing happily, you get into one of the cars and try to drive away through the open gate just for the guards to surround the car immediately.

Your body tensed and your eyes held the reflection of the armed men prohibiting you from leaving the premise of the Jung's mansion. You switched the car off, the engine's purr fading into silence as the gravity of the situation sunk in. It was clear that escaping unnoticed was no longer an option.

A tall, stern-faced man approached your car, his gaze unwavering as he rapped on your window. Reluctantly, you rolled it down, the crisp early morning air replacing the warmth of the vehicle.

"Miss Kim," the man said, his voice authoritative. "I'm afraid you can't leave. The Kkangpae requests your presence."

Fuck. You were fucked. Your heart raced as you processed the severity of the situation. The Kkangpae, Hoseok's father and the head of the whole syndicate had summoned you. It wasn't a request you could decline without consequence when you were right in his den, and you knew this was the end. They trapped you in.

The Kkangpae's study, adorned with dark wood and leather, exuded an air of authority that matched the man himself. He sat behind a large mahogany desk, studying some documents. Without looking up, he motioned for you to take a seat.

As you sat down, your eyes couldn't help but wander to the framed family photos on the walls. Hoseok's smiling face stared back at you from childhood to adulthood. The Kkangapae was a family man to his core or misogynistic anti-feminist, you choose.

"Y/N,—" he began, his tone measured. You braced yourself for what storm is to come.

"I thought you finally came to your senses when I saw you arrive with Hoseok last night—" his voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of disappointment. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, knowing that the events of last night were fuelled by the large amount of alcohol you devoured.

Only now you realise that he aimed to doom you all along by bringing you to the epicentre of the whole syndicate instead of his brownstown in the downtown. You mentally cursed at Hoseok and the brilliance of his manipulative nature. You should have known better than to try to negotiate your freedom with Hoseok and drink like that in his presence. Stupid girl, aren't ya?

When he finally looked up, his steely gaze penetrating your soul, you could feel goosebumps on the back of your neck.

"—but I did not expect you to attempt to flee the mansion like you're some whore and not my son's fiancée!" His fist met the surface of the carefully crafted table and you jumped in your seat.

The impact reverberated through the room, the sudden noise echoing in the silence that followed. The framed photos on the wall seemed to witness the confrontation, capturing the Kkangpae's stern expression and your startled reaction.

"We all have been patient with you, dear, thinking you just need to compose yourself—" a tear escaped your eye. No matter what, you won't change the outcome of this.

"But you found solace in drowning yourself in alcohol and whoring yourself around the city!" He shouted your way. "I knew I should have brought you home far earlier than this."

You could not argue with his words, no matter how shameful they are. In a span of four months, you managed to get drunk until you blacked out numerous times all for that one boy you loved and lost. The one that loved but betrayed you back. When you drank you did not think of him and how much you miss that smile of his and how much you should hate him. His tattooed masculine arms that held you at nights and soft pierced lips that kissed yours —only fragments of memories now.

"I did not raise you to ruin yourself. Have I not given you enough?" The Kkangpae's voice, though stern, held a tinge of desperation, as if searching for a semblance of reason in the chaos of your actions. You were sure that if your father would be among the living now, he would have never let this happen. But he is not and by raising you, the Kkangpae means, taking you in after he decapitated your father for betraying his leader. Remorse, he called it.

You are disappointed in yourself. But for a solely different reason. You should have run away from the continent when Mark said he had a way. Perhaps, now, he would be alive and you would not have to write foolish love letters to heaven anymore. Perhaps, you would fall asleep without the extensive drinking and all the anti-depressants you probably did not even need, but with them, you do not hate him for leaving you here to deal with this mess alone.

The truth hit you like a tidal wave, and the weight of your actions settled in the pit of your stomach. The Kkangpae's words, though harsh, were a reflection of the reality you had tried to escape.

"You lost your way, child." The Kkangpae leaned back in his chair, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. The room, once charged with tension, now felt heavy with the weight of unspoken regret. You did lose your way in the name of love. Founding him, already long gone, in the jeep just at the outskirts of Bronx, a hole in the side of his head, dried blood sprawled on the white leather seats, broke you.

There was not a second you did not regret saying no to Hoseok. It haunts you how that selfish decision might have led to the strongest gale in your sea. Perhaps, they would let him live if you would cooperate. The Jungs always found a way to persuade people to do what they wanted. But you did not expect them to go as far.

Suicide. The police ruled it as suicide. Of course, they did, with the right amount of bribery — everyone bent to their will. The day after Hoseok swore that he had nothing to do with it, that it’s an unfortunate coincidence, lying straight to your face broke you even more and that's why you ran. Hoesok knew everything that happened around, but he refused to tell you. You ran around the city as fast as you could so he would not catch up to you.

You loved Hoseok in your own way and when you said that if he'd come with the proposal sooner you'd say yes — that was not a lie. You always had a hunch feeling that those words about you two and your future together were to some degree true. So it was not such big surprise for you when he bent the knee and popped the question, a little too late. But you could not marry him then and you don't think you are willing now. You would be willing to do so, when you are ready. The difference is, now, there's no other choice. He won't let you leave this house alone, he won't let you run away again.

And there's nowhere nor no one to run to anymore.

"I never intended to bring disgrace to the family," you whispered, your voice betraying a mixture of regret and sadness.

"You'll redeem yourself, child, don't worry—" he said

"I need you to understand that you are not just Hoseok's partner; you are the future matriarch of this family. Your actions reflect not only on you but on the entire Jung legacy—"

"I know, I just never thought of this as seriously. I'm scared, I panicked when he popped the question." You blurt out. Your confession hung in the air, raw and unguarded. Or more like a lie so he will let you go, at least from this suffocating office.

You had spent years perfecting the art of composure, of presenting a façade that betrayed nothing only for it fail now.

The Kkangpae regarded you for a moment, his sharp eyes softening just enough to betray a hint of humanity beneath the ruthless exterior. He wasn't used to hearing you admit fear—it was almost as if he didn't quite know how to respond.

"Fear is natural," he said finally, his voice low but firm. "But you have nothing to fear if you choose right."

Choosing right in this family never meant following your heart—it meant aligning yourself with their expectations, their rules, their version of right.

You nodded, not trusting your voice to stay steady under the pressure. Your heart raced as you avoided his piercing gaze, hoping he'd accept your half-truth as sincerity. All you needed was a way out of this office, a moment to breathe, to think.

"You've always been stronger than you give yourself credit for," he continued, his tone measured but unyielding. "This family needs that strength now. Hoseok needs it."

The memory of his hands cradling yours, his eyes boring into you with a fervour that felt more like ownership than love, played on a loop in your mind.

"Okay," you managed to say, forcing the words past the lump in your throat.

The Kkangpae nodded, satisfied with your answer. "Good. Now off you go, Hoseok's waiting."

You stiffened, your pulse quickening.

"He's awake?" Your voice came out quieter than you intended, barely above a whisper. The Kkangpae raised a brow at your reaction but chose not to comment on it.

"Your breakfast is going to get cold if you stall this even more."

The Kkangpae's words cut through the air, dismissing any further hesitation. His sharp gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he returned to the stack of documents on his desk, signalling that your audience with him was over.

You spotted Hoseok seated at the table, a serene picture of composure, his fingers curled around a steaming cup of coffee he enjoys in the mornings.

He looked up at your approach, his eyes locking onto yours. There was no trace of anger on his face, no sharp edge to his expression. If anything, he seemed calm, almost disarming.

"Hobi—" you started before he quickly interrupted you.

"Sit down," he said a bit more firmer than he'd want to, gesturing to the seat across from him.

You hesitated for a moment before lowering yourself into the chair, acutely aware of the weight of the moment. A plate of food sat before you, untouched. Your stomach churned, but the thought of eating felt impossible.

"Are you?—"

"I'm not mad, no," he cut you off gently, surprising you, as if he knew what you were suggesting before you even managed to let those words roll on your tongue.

"So?—" you echoed hesitantly, your voice barely above a whisper. You didn't know what to expect now. Maybe it would be better if he'd be mad and you knew that you have to make it better just like it used to be, instead he is not showing any kind of position in this situation and that was making you uneasy beyond comparison.

Hoseok leaned back in his chair, exhaling deeply.

"You're still here. That's what matters to me for now." He began, his tone measured. For now. Hoseok was always skilled at this—at saying something that sounded kind but felt like a command.

"I panicked," you admitted softly, the honesty slipping out before you could stop it.

"I know, baby, you chose wrong—" he replied, his gaze unwavering.

"—twice," he added fuel to the fire, salt to the wound. But you knew why. He wanted you to submit to him, and he needed to work overtime to do so.

"You need to show me you're willing to make this right, love," you swallowed hard, the tightness in your throat making it nearly impossible to respond. His aura and magnitude of how he could move you however he liked now was overwhelming. You cannot run away, not when he dragged you back to this place instead of his brownstone at 57th street. You're not only under his surveillance here, but the Kkangpae and the rest of the family.

“What’s it gonna be? Cuz’ I can’t fucking pretend anymore–” 

His gaze dropped to the table for a moment before he reached into his pocket. You stiffened instinctively, already guessing what he was about to do. Sure enough, his hand emerged clutching the familiar black velvet box. The sight of it made your chest tighten.

"Hoseok," you said softly, your voice trembling with unease. "Please—"

"I don't think I will be so forgiving if you'll choose wrong for a third time, Princess." He ignored your plea, opening the box to reveal the ring again. The one you'd angrily thrown at him that fateful night when he tried to force it down your finger after you explicitly said no to him.

The one that symbolised everything you were not ready to accept, but you had to. It glimmered in the soft light of the room, deceptively beautiful.

"I'm done asking," he said firmly, his eyes locking onto yours. Your breath hitched, but before you could speak, Hoseok reached across the table and took your hand in his. His touch was warm, grounding, yet the weight of his action was suffocating.

You tried to pull your hand back, but his grip tightened—not painfully, but enough to make it clear you weren't going anywhere. With deliberate precision, he slid the emerald ring onto your finger.

"There," he said, his voice softening just enough to send a shiver down your spine. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

You stared at the emerald ring, your mind racing. It looked almost serene on your finger, as if it had always belonged there. Hoseok sat back, satisfied, his lips curling into a faint smile.

Before you could respond, the soft thuds of certain leather shoes announced another arrival.

"Joon-ah!" Hoseok greeted, leaning back in his chair. "I assume there's news?"

Namjoon glanced at you briefly, then back to Hoseok. "Yes. We've made progress with the Anubis situation. The distilleries have been secured, but the reports of interference need attention."

"Anubis situation?" You echoed Namjoon's words. Hoseok's smile didn't falter, but there was a subtle shift in his demeanour. His gaze flicked to you, and for a moment, you thought he might dismiss your question. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his fingers interlacing.

"Nothing for you to worry about," he said smoothly, his voice laced with a quiet finality that suggested the topic was closed.

Namjoon, however, wasn't as careful with his expression. His brow furrowed ever so slightly, a crack in the façade of calm efficiency he usually wore. It was gone as quickly as it came, but you caught it, and it only fuelled your curiosity.

"Anubis is my responsibility, Hoseok, you cannot—" you pressed, your tone sharper now. You'd learned long ago that brushing things under the rug only meant tripping over them later.

"Not anymore."

Hoseok's words cut through the room with an authority that left no room for argument. He leaned back in his chair, exuding an air of complete control, his eyes locked on yours with a quiet intensity.

"What?!" You breathed out rather loudly now.

"Not anymore," he repeated, slower this time as if daring you to challenge him. And challenge him you did.

"Hoseok," you tried again, your voice quieter this time, laced with both frustration and fear. "This isn't—"

"I gotta punish you somehow, Princess," his one was calm, almost casual, but the weight behind his words was anything but. Your stomach churned as his lips curved into a faint, disarming smile—a predator's smile hidden beneath a veil of warmth.

"Punish me?" you repeated, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to steady it. "Exactly for what you gotta punish me, Hoseok?

"For running," he said, the amusement in his voice doing little to soften the hurt he felt inside. "For throwing the ring. For abandoning me this morning after we made love last night—"

You opened your mouth to argue, but he cut you off with a raised hand. "Don't misunderstand me, Princess. I'm not angry. But actions have consequences."

Your heart pounded against your ribs, the rhythm chaotic and uneven. His calm demeanour made it worse. It took one wide-eyed glance for Namjoon to excuse himself and quickly retreat to Kkangpae's office to leave you two alone.

The sound of the door clicking shut behind Namjoon seemed louder in the heavy silence that followed. Your eyes darted to it, half-hoping for an interruption, but it was futile. Hoseok's gaze was fixed on you, unrelenting and unreadable, trapping you in this moment.

"Hoseok," you began, your voice trembling. "This isn't fair. You can't just—"

"I can," he interrupted his tone steady but brooking no argument. "And I will. You know I don't take betrayal lightly."

"Betrayal?" you repeated, the word stinging as it left your lips. "Is that what you think this is? Hoseok, I—"

"You ran," he said simply, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table. His fingers interlocked, creating a casual posture that only heightened your unease. "You left me, you threw the ring at me, you abandoned what we're building. Call it whatever you want, Princess, but to me? That's betrayal."

Your breath caught, the weight of his words pressing down on your chest. "I needed time," you whispered. "Time to think, to—"

No, you needed Mark. But you also needed your best friend.

"Think?" Hoseok's laughter was soft, almost amused, but it didn't reach his eyes. "What is there to think about? You're mine. You've always been mine. And this?" He gestured to the ring now firmly on your finger. "This makes it only official."

"You can't force me to—" you said, the defiance in your voice surprising even you. This was never a discourse you or Hobi ever had. Everything was thought to be just platonic. Not for him.

"To what?" he asked, cutting you off again. His tone was low, dangerously calm. "To wear a ring? To stay by my side? To stop running every time things don't go the way you want?"

You flinched, the truth in his words hitting too close to home. Hoseok sighed, his expression softening just enough to make your heart ache. You were running each time you did not feel like the family was doing you justice. And each time it was Hoseok who came to talk sense into you. But this is different. You are not kids anymore, or teenagers. This is serious. Hoseok is serious this time.

"You know what Anubis means to me—"

"And you still thought it was something you could just walk away from?"

You clenched your fists, your nails biting into your palms as the urge to argue warred with the fear.

"I didn't walk away from Anubis," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I just... I needed space, Hoseok."

"You said you were tired, love."

"You misunderstood—" Hoseok shook his head slowly, cutting you off once again, his gaze hardening.

"I never wanted it to come to this," Hoseok said, his voice softening as he reached across the table, his hand brushing against yours. "But you forced my hand, Princess. And now, you don't get to run anymore. Not from me. Not from us."

"But Anubis—"

"It's still yours. But until you learn your place, Namjoon will suffice."

You bit your lip, caught between the suffocating desire to fight back but all you could do is shut your mouth and obey, telling yourself that this is only temporary.

He was, indeed, not mad.

The sterile scent of antiseptic filled the room as you sat on the edge of a plush velvet chair, your posture tense, fingers gripping the fabric of your dress, as if the soft material of your slip dress that you wore on top of a while turtle neck could shield you from Yoongi's steady gaze.

You couldn't quite remember when the combination of alcohol and antidepressants had become a regular part of your routine, but it had. One to dull the ache, the other to keep the panic at bay. It felt like you were walking a tightrope between relief and disaster. The pills had been prescribed with a promise of healing, but they didn't fix anything, did they? They didn't ease the guilt, the shame, or the sense of being utterly out of control.

And that's precisely why you are sitting in Yoongi's clinic.

Again.

The door opened softly behind you, and your head whipped around, your stomach clenching in a mix of panic and irritation. Hoseok came in after he finished his call, eyes narrowed, lips pressed together in that familiar line of disapproval when Yoongi interrogated you and your well-being this past months.

Not pleasant for both of their ears.

His eyes flicked over to Yoongi, a silent communication passing between the two. You could feel the heat of embarrassment creep up your neck, the shame of being caught in this cycle again pulling at the edges of your pride.

"You've been drinking, and you've been taking your medication," Yoongi said, pretty much summarising what was happening, his voice low but commanding, as he folded his arms across his chest. His usual calm was undercut with a note of frustration. "This combination is dangerous, and you know it. You are being fucking reckless–"

"Well this family makes living that way, so—"

You trailed off, the words hanging in the air, sharp and bitter. You didn't have to look at Yoongi to feel the tension rise, the way his jaw tightened slightly, the subtle flicker of frustration in his gaze. And you didn't have to look at Hoseok, to know he rolled his eyes.

"But we don't use ourselves, not to such extent, Y/N, and you fucking know it."

You winced at Hoseok's words, the sharpness in his voice cutting through you more than you'd like to admit. You had always known that their disapproval wasn't just about the way you led your life these past months, but about how far you had drifted from the person they believed you could be. You were. 

"I'm not—" you began, but Yoongi cut you off, his tone flat and unwavering.

"—the choices you're making—this self-destructive pattern—it's not the family's fault. It's not even about the family. This is about you, Princess. About your choices."

You couldn't meet his eyes, couldn't face the depth of his concern, the quiet disappointment in his voice. The truth was, you knew what you were doing wasn't right. The pills, the alcohol, the numbness—it all came with consequences, but they were easier to deal with than the constant whirlpool of guilt and pressure that churned inside your chest every day.

"You don't get it," you muttered, your voice wavering, trying to steady it but failing. "It's hard to breathe sometimes. Everything feels... too much."

"Do you want your liver to fail, sweetheart, or your heart?"

Yoongi's gaze softened, the sharp edge to his features dulling just slightly. "You don't need to numb the pain to survive. You need to face it. And you need to let us take care of you."

"Okay." The word slipped out before you could think about it, the weight of it settling between you all. You couldn't quite believe it, the relief that came from simply acknowledging the truth. It didn't feel like a solution, but it was the first step toward something.

"No more drinking, no more pills—"

The quiet of the room enveloped you for a long moment. The sound of your breathing felt too loud, but somehow, it was a reminder that you were still here. Still breathing.

"And you gotta get you off your birth control too, we do not need additional hormones in your body."

The words hit you like a cold shock, the air in the room suddenly feeling thicker. You blinked, trying to process what Yoongi had just said. His words were muffled by the sounds of Hoseok's Motorola. Excusing himself briefly to pick up yet another call, you stared at Yoongi.

"What?" you breathed, your voice barely a whisper. The thought of changing anything about your routine, especially something so personal, felt like a violation of your fragile sense of control. "Yoongi, I—"

"You heard me," he cut you off, his voice firm but not unkind. "You need a clean slate, and that includes everything. The alcohol, the pills, the hormones. It's all adding to the mess inside you. We need to strip it all down," he spoke, overlooking some of your results that came in this morning.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out at first. Then, the words escaped before you could stop them. "But... you were the one who prescribed it."

"I know," Yoongi replied, his voice calm but firm, his posture never faltering. "And at the time, it made sense. But now? With everything that's going on in your body—"

"Was it his idea?" you cut him off rather bluntly a bit angry with his dishonesty.

Yoongi's gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowing as he met yours. There was a moment of silence between you two, the air thick with tension. The weight of your question seemed to hang in the room, the vulnerability of it pressing on your chest. Yoongi took a slow breath before answering, his voice steady but with an edge of something—something you couldn't quite place.

"No," he said simply, his eyes softening just a fraction. "This wasn't Hoseok's call. It was mine."

You felt a knot form in your throat as you processed his words. A part of you wanted to argue, to resist, but another part, the part that had been drowning in self-doubt for months, simply wanted to listen, to let go of the control you had clung to for so long.

"Don't lie to me, Yoongi."

The accusation hung between you, thick with tension. Yoongi's expression flickered, a brief flash of something—guilt, maybe?

"Was it your decision, or not?"

Yoongi stood still for a long moment, his gaze flicking briefly to the side, avoiding your eyes. His fingers clenched around the papers in his hands, and for a brief second, the weight of everything between you seemed to press down on him, too.

"Princess…" he finally breathed out, his voice low but steady.

"It was my decision, but he encouraged it." The flicker of guilt in his eyes, something raw and unguarded, made your chest tighten. You knew what that meant for you but you could not put your five cents on the table right now.

This choice is yours to make. Not Hoseok's.

The Jung Whiskey Distillery stood in the heart of Brooklyn, a looming relic of a bygone era where industrial ambition met old-money elegance. And you found it fucking ironic to be commanded to stop drinking extensively and simultaneously being called to a place that reeks of alcohol.

The building itself was a labyrinth of exposed brick, dark oak barrels stacked high like sentinels. The faint hum of machinery echoed through the cavernous space, blending with the rhythmic drip of amber liquid into hand-labelled bottles, each stamped with the clan's insignia that did not change even after the Kkangpae-ship changed several times over the decades. A dove.

You stepped inside, the heavy scent of whiskey and charred wood assaulting your senses immediately. You blinked against the dim lighting, the golden glow of antique chandeliers barely cutting through the thick shadows. Your Louboutin heels clicked against the worn concrete floor, the sound swallowed by the quiet hum of workers moving methodically through their tasks. Some cast quick, assessing glances your way, but no one said a word. You weren't an unfamiliar face here, after all.

Hoseok was already waiting, leaning against a towering stack of barrels, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable under the soft glow of an overhead lamp. He was dressed in his usual understated elegance—a charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, and a gold signet ring glinting on his finger, a subtle reminder of his place in the family hierarchy.

"If I knew that you'd take time that equals the three meetings I managed to go through, to actually get here, I'd wake you up in the morning and take you with me," he remarked, his voice carrying easily in the quiet space.

"Traffic," you replied coolly, stepping closer. "And I wasn't exactly given much of a choice nonetheless, was I?"

Hoseok smirked, a glint of something dangerous dancing in his eyes. "No, you weren't."

"I need you to sign some documents—" he started.

You stared at the papers in his upstairs' office, anger and frustration bubbling inside you, but you knew the truth. Hoseok wasn't giving you a choice—he'd planned this all along. You'd taken the risk, now you had to pay the price. Your stomach twisted as you read the details—transferring the market representation of Anubis to Namjoon, at least temporarily.

He didn't say anything at first, letting the silence stretch between you. He pulled out the pack of cigarettes after long deliberation and lighted one.

"You want me to sign this?" you asked, your voice carefully neutral.

"I'd hoped you would've learned the consequences of your actions by now—" finally, he spoke, his voice a quiet challenge, "you thought I was bluffing, am I right?"

Hoseok could read you like an open book, and that only pissed you off more.

"Namjoon is going to represent Anubis while you're away, so the market doesn't wait for anyone—"

"What about Peaches?" you had to ask. The girl who always looked up to you and listened when you needed to yap. She had, among others, a precious place in your heart. You knew she was only working for you as a barmaid until she paid off her college, but you were sure the friendship will remain.

Hoseok's lips twitched into a smirk, but there was no humor in it. His gaze lingered on you for a beat too long before he spoke again, his words deliberate.

"You know…—" he began before you cut him off. You know what he's going to say. Namjoon was rather blunt, and the girl was young and naive to ignore it for so long.

"I know—"

"She's not your concern anymore. Not with the way things are going. Namjoon's got his eyes set on her, and trust me, it won't take long before she's out of there, taken care of...in more ways than one."

"But—" you had plans to move he to work for the distilleries instead of the bar. A safer place.

"You've already dug your own grave, love, hers is not yours to lay in." You clenched your jaw. But it is, you thought.

"She'll hate him for it," she might hate you for it. You muttered, but you knew it was futile.

"That's least of your worries now, you know Namjoon's intentions are good, Princess—"

"Now, unless you want to keep playing the martyr, sign the fucking papers." He had you by the throat, and signing was the only way to keep breathing.

You hesitated, fingers tightening around the paper. "And if I don't?"

Hoseok leaned in, his lips curving into something far too amused for your liking. "Then I can take you to City Hall right fucking now and have us sign a marriage license instead. Husband and wife—your signature won't be needed anymore."

Your heart stuttered in your chest, but you schooled your features into indifference.

"You wouldn't."

His smirk widened, eyes glittering with that maddening confidence.

"Keep fucking trying me, love, a little longer." He said through gritted teeth.

Your eyes flicked back to the contract, and with a resigned sigh, you reached for the pen tucked inside.

"That's my Princess."

You hated how much he enjoyed this. He stood up, retrieving the papers and closing the folder in one swift movement. You were getting inside your head when his shiny shoes came into your vision. You raised your eyes to see him standing in the small gap between the table and your chair, looking at you hungrily from above.

"You're tense," he observed, his voice dropping into something softer, something more dangerous. His thumb brushed against your wrist, tracing slow, maddening circles.

"You just made me give it up—" You swallowed hard, willing yourself not to react, but the heat of his touch seeped into your skin.

"As I said, it's still yours, love, you just won't be its main character for a while." He tilted his head, eyes darkening as he leaned in, his breath ghosting over your ear. Your pulse hammered in your throat as his fingers slid up your arm, slow and deliberate. You hated how easily he got under your skin, how much you wanted to push him away and pull him closer all at once. Why were you so messed up in the head?

You took out the pills. He insisted. Yoongi insisted. You don't drink. At least you're trying not to. You have therapy once a week. Everything but that one thing you kept hidden from him. Your suspicions were quite rightly placed when just this morning he cream pied so deep into your cunt, it made you recount your life-span. No condom on.

The scent of whiskey and expensive cologne clouded your senses, making it impossible to think clearly. You momentarily glanced through the window to see the twin building in the distance where Kim's bourbon was made. You wonder if Namjoon's there or in Anubis now. He's got a lot work to do if he now covers both positions.

Before you could retort, he bent down and his mouth claimed yours in a searing kiss, one that left no room for hesitation. Hoseok's fingers wrapped around your wrist to pull you out of your seat and press you into his hard torso. You felt him. Every single inch.

Your hand shot up to his breasts where you laid your palm straight, trying to push yourself from him and ease the pressure he laid on the small of your back from where he was pressing you into the warmth of his body.

You yelped into his mouth when he stood and lifted you effortlessly onto the cold and hard surface of the desk, his hands roaming possessively over your hips.

"You drive me fucking insane, can't keep my hands to myself" he breathed against your lips. His curious fingers trailed down its way to the black slacks you wore today and slipped past the soft material.

You couldn't help but moan into his mouth.

"All I could think about the whole noon was you—under me."

At least, with the miraculous protection of birth control, you can enjoy sex with him. It was not bad. You wish it could be bad lousy sex but he knew damn well what buttons to push to let you see stars and scream his name. This was your new dose of drugs. Him and his gorgeous body. He knew that the line between him being your best friend was cut into small fragile pieces the moment you sat on his face that night he did not only trick you into his bed but kept you in his life. Forever. And Ever.

It felt oddly right.

Every kiss, every brush of his hand, felt like a promise—one that wasn't going to be broken.

Unlike this table.

It was several weeks later when the little peace you made with this arrangement was shattered as quickly as you built the walls around you.

The twisted branches of bare trees stretch upward like desperate hands, clawing at the sky, trying to touch something they can never reach. The heavens above seem to hum with a strange mystery, an almost suffocating weight in the air.

Beneath your feet, the fallen leaves crackle and crunch, a brittle reminder of the cold that's creeping in, claiming everything it touches. The frost is starting to settle in again, coating the world with a layer of death, a silent witness to the dying season. The peak of winter is coming, relentless and unforgiving, a season full of hidden traps and painful truths.

From a distance, you hear the haunting echo of a raven's call. It cuts through the stillness, adding to the quiet beauty of this desolation. The air feels heavy, thick with something unspoken, something unsettling. You inhale deeply, trying to push away the unease, but it lingers, like a shadow that refuses to leave.

Your eyes flutter shut, trying to hold on to the fragile calm of the moment, but the silence is broken. The crinkle of newspaper reaches your ears, followed by the faint scent of coffee. You open your eyes, slowly, and see Hoseok sitting at the table, his face absorbed in the pages, the kind of concentration that could swallow him whole. His lips are pursed, his brow furrowed, the weight of the world hidden behind those simple movements. He trimmed his hair a little. They were becoming a bother. He said to you when you asked. Nothing major though, just a little change. Not everyone could sport a mullet like Jung Hoseok could. It was such a trivial thing to do but you kept thinking about how your fingers instinctively ran through his soft locks. You liked them long. Is what you said to him and he gave you his shiny smile that you were soft for, in response. 

You sigh, your gaze drifting from him to the empty garden around you. The air feels colder now, the frost creeping deeper into your bones. You tug the fur blanket tighter around you. You need fresh air. Yeah well, not in fucking cold January, you don’t. He insisted. For you, for your health. Hoseok, oblivious to your internal storm, shifts the newspaper in his hands. His fingers grasp and release it as he turns the page, his eyes never leaving the print. He's lost in the world of politics, and you're stuck here, in your own head, unable to break free.

"What is it?" he asks, his voice not quite reaching you. The question feels distant, like it's meant for someone else. You take a sip from your coffee mug, the New York City skyline etched in its design, trying to ground yourself in something, anything.

"Nothing," you murmur, but the words feel like a lie even to you. 

You still did not know how to feel. You, of course, were still playing with the narrative you created in your head, that you do not want to get married. Hoseok’s not the problem. He never was. Only the cursed piece of paper that will bind you to him for eternity, as this family still worships and protect marriages, is what you’re afraid of. Why? You’re pushing thirty. You are expected to settle. But how can someone like you settle? You still dream of a boy who is no longer walking among living, a man who fucked you over, now that no pills are clouding your mind. And that’s another thing. 

How can you have kids after you poisoned your body with so many things? Yoongi recited the report to you and Hoseok, his lips in thin line after he finished, the verdict was clear. Cleanse. In private. They believed in the strength of your young body to recover swiftly and splurt out heirs, just like that. Don’t be mistaken, you were never addicted enough or now you’d be in asylum if you were. You just needed a reality check. But that did not include your boyfriend with a hole in his head and gun in his hand.

Then there was this tiny feeling of betrayal. You felt like you were betraying Mark each time you spread your legs for Hoseok to bury himself deep inside of you. What’s worse. You enjoyed it like this is how it was always supposed to be–

–the sound of paper crunch tears you from your stream of consciousness. Hoseok makes a ball from the newspaper with a deliberate slowness, the sound harsh against the stillness of the room. There must have been something he did not fancy to see. Your rough guess, it’s the pretty journalist that questions every step of Kim Seokjin. Your family consigliere.

He meets your gaze, eyes softening with an unspoken question. 

"Are you sure?" His voice is more insistent now, a slight edge to it as his hand reaches out, crossing the distance between you. You want to pull away, but you don't, he would never harm you. Not you.

"I don't want to get married,... yet," you say it with a finality, and rather bluntly, a decision made in the quiet chaos of your heart. You did not know why that thought came out loud. "I don't think I'm ready—"

"We talked about that already, baby" he says, his voice cold, as he releases your hand and strides toward the house, his back turned to you. The distance between you feels unbearable now, the space between your hearts widening with every step he takes.

"No! You talked about it!" you shout after him, your voice cracking as the frustration rises within you. The words feel like a plea, a desperate attempt to make him hear the truth, but it seems to vanish into the bitter wind that bites at your skin.

He doesn't turn around. He doesn't need to. The weight of the silence is enough, and you're left alone in the garden, with only the sound of your own pulse hammering in your ears.

You prop your elbow on the table and rest your chin in your hand, staring into the weak morning sun, trying to chase away the thoughts swirling in your mind. After a moment, you reach for the other copy of newspaper, flipping to the art section where the golden maknae's face is pictured. He's allowed to stay a bachelor, why not you? A bachelorette leaves a bad taste in your mouth though. Sounds cringey.

A quiet voice from the door interrupts your focus.

"You'd better look at the wedding dress catalogue instead," your cousin's voice cuts through the air, light with a teasing lilt. You two were never as close as one would say. But that's because you spent the majority of your childhood with Hoseok. Sometimes Namjoon and Yoongi.

You glance up at him, meeting his dark eyes. That man seriously needs to find his own woman. He needs to do it soon, as he is just as annoying when he doesn't get laid. She could put up with it, instead of you.

"I'm all hot!" you retort, a smirk pulling at your lips as you add the bite of irony to your words, hoping he'll catch the sarcasm.

He grins, unbothered. "Can I see for myself?" His playful challenge hangs in the air, and you can't help but roll your eyes.

"Fucking gross, Taehyung!" You splurt out, grimacing.

"Just kidding, Princess," he says, raising his hands in mock surrender. He glances at you with a wry smile. "You should start looking for them though, unless you want to get married in your pajamas." His gaze lingers on your nightwear, and you fight the urge to blush.

"Hoseok already asked Jimin to have one of his designers on it." You murmur, wishing to not acknowledge how beautiful the designs were.

"Dior… fancy," he whistled.

You shake your head and turn your attention back to the newspaper, but then a loud slam comes from the second floor. Your eyes dart to the open glass door, half-expecting Hoseok to walk back in. A few moments later, he does, but this time, he's holding a white box, throwing it onto the table with a sharp gesture.

"What's this?" he asks, his brow furrowed.

You glance at the box and read the label out loud. "Birth control."

Hoseok's expression hardens instantly, and he steps forward, hands on his hips. "I fucking know what it is," he snaps, his voice low and tense. "But why the fuck are you taking it?"

You swallow, trying to keep your composure and play dumb. That it just might have slipped from your mind to put it out. 

"Well, usually, birth control is taken to—"

He cuts you off, his frustration clear. "I fucking know why it's taken, but why the fuck are you still taking it, Y/N?"

You hesitate, unsure of how to answer, but you find the courage to speak. Hoseok would get it out of you nonetheless. Why lie.

"Because I noticed that when you were fucking me—"

"You mean making love," he interrupts, his voice softer now, but still laced with tension.

"Making love,—" you repeat, your lips tight, trying to hide the amusement and disregard the severity of this situation. Him dicking you down until you are nothing but whimpering mess was hardly tender loving. He nods in agreement, and you try not to feel self-conscious.

"—You keep ditching the condom," you add, voice trembling slightly. You're nervous, but you don't back down. “So I just wanted to be careful–” 

"Does that matter?" he asks, an eyebrow quirked in disbelief as he takes a step closer to you.

"Well, considering I don't wanna get pregnant, and I doubt you do—"

He cuts you off again, his words sharp. "What if I want you to get pregnant?"

The shock hits you like a cold wave. You blink, your heart racing, your mind spinning. You want to respond, but the words freeze in your throat.

"It's not only up to you," you finally manage, folding your arms across your chest, trying to steady yourself. But Hoseok isn't backing down.

"No?" he asks, tilting his head slightly, a challenge in his gaze.

Before you can say another word, he grabs your elbow, pulling you toward him with surprising force, his chest pressing against yours. The heat of his body is overwhelming, and you feel your breath catch in your throat. The distance between you is gone, and all you can do is stare at him, unsure of what to do next.

The words feel like they hang in the air, suffocating, as he inspects every inch of your body. His gaze is heavy and possessive, and it crawls under your skin, making you feel exposed in ways you can't quite put into words.

"I think the fuck yeah," he says, a slow smirk pulling at his lips.

"Since the fuck when?" you force the words out, the sigh caught between your teeth, as you try to mask the unease creeping through you.

"Since we made it official," he whispers, his voice dark, lips hovering just above yours, as though he's claiming you in ways that go beyond the physical.

"Hoseok, honey, I don't belong to you, I'm not a bitch that you can breed," you grind out, trying to push back, to assert yourself, but your body betrays you, reacting to his touch.

"Aren't you?" His laugh sends a shiver down your spine, and before you can pull away, his hand moves to your ass, squeezing hard, sending a shock of pain that morphs into something else—something dangerously close to pleasure.

You cock your head, trying to make sense of the rush of conflicting emotions, but Hoseok doesn't wait. He presses his lips to your neck, soft butterfly kisses that leave a trail of heat in their wake.

"You sound different when I'm buried deep down in your pretty cunt."

"Hobi—," you moan his name involuntarily, rather surprised by his blunt behaviour than actual excitement, and your hand instinctively reaching for his chest, as if you could push him away, but instead, you draw him even closer. He likes to test where your boundaries lay. And he likes to do it each time he gets you alone and all to himself.

"Now, that's my name you're moaning, isn't it?" he asks, his voice teasing, fingers now shifting to your breast, kneading it with a possessive grip. You gasp, feeling the tension coil tighter inside you as his lips continue their slow, deliberate journey from your neck to your lips. When his kiss meets yours, it's tender—almost too tender—but it pulls away too soon, leaving you breathless, hungry for more.

His hand still rests on your bottom, and your pulse races as he reaches for the white box on the table. You know what it is, and your heart drops into your stomach.

"You know what we're going to do with this?" he asks, his eyes dark, unreadable.

"Hobi, no, please," you beg, your voice weak, desperate, trying to hold onto the last shred of control you have.

"Not this time, Princess," he replies, as though he's trying to convince himself more than you.

"Please Hobi, we have time for that" you clutch his hand, the one holding the box, your grip tight as if you could keep it from happening.

"We ain't little kids anymore," he mutters, his voice cold as he pulls you toward the door, but you resist, shaking your head as he drags you toward the living room.

“Just because we skipped the whole girlfriend-boyfriend phase, it doesn’t mean that–” you trailed behind him, trying to plead with him, but when you see the fireplace you panic.

"NO, DON'T DO THIS, PLEASE!" you shout, panic rising in your chest, but the sounds of Yoongi's and Taehyung's voices drift from the dining room, too far away to help, but close enough to hear.

Hoseok doesn't listen, doesn't stop. He moves as if this is inevitable. He opens the fireplace door, adding wood and paper into the flames with mechanical precision. The white box sits on the hearth, waiting for its fate. You know what's coming, but you can't stop it.

Before he can pick up the box, you do, clutching it to your chest, your pulse pounding in your ears.

Hoseok stops, eyes narrowing, his voice low and controlled. "Y/N, give me the box," he says, his hand extended toward you, his patience wearing thin. You hide the box behind your back, shaking your head, the desperation pooling in your chest.

"Don't do it," you plead, but your voice shakes, and you know it won't be enough to change his mind. It never is. Your heart pounds and the sound fills your ears as you fight to breathe through the rising panic.

“No need for dramatics, I can fucking buy new one, Hobi–” 

You hear Yoongi and Taehyung murmur in the background, they're talking, oblivious to the tension in the room, distracted by the box, by its contents. They must have missed the giant label that clearly states so, but the realization hits you too late. In the corner of your eye you can see Yoongi bring his hand to the bridge of his nose and sigh very loudly before he readies himself to speak on your behalf. It's already too late.

"You always know how to piss me off like that!" Hoseok snaps, frustration boiling over. "You're such a brat! Why can't you just do what I ask for once?" For once? He throws his hands up, fury in his eyes.

“Well you didn’t really bother to discuss it with me, why should I?” You snap and Hoseok’s face momentary shows guilt.

"Hoseok—" Yoongi begins to step over to his younger brother, trying to intervene, but Hoseok's swift hand movement stops him in his tracks, his frustration too raw for anyone to touch.

"Don't, fucking, don't!—" he screams his way. Hoseok is fuming.

"How dare you take this from me!" His hands fly up in the air, his chest heaving with the intensity of his words. The heat of his anger crashes over you, and you feel yourself shrinking under the force of it, knowing that nothing will calm him down now. When did he become such a lunatic? Over this?

"You fucking prescribed that shit to her!" He throws his hands up, fury in his eyes. As if Yoongi had any jurisdiction over you.

"You did that!" His eyes are wide, furious, and filled with an undeniable betrayal. And with that accusation, the room feels like it's closing in on you, the weight of everything sinking in deeper.

"Hoseok, I was taking that, years prior, it's not that easy to just stop—" Your voice trembles as you try to find the words, but they're heavy as if the room itself is pressing against your chest. You know it won't make a difference. You know that nothing you say will ever be enough to calm the storm he's become. Hoseok's eyes widen with disbelief, the fury in them turning almost desperate. He steps closer, his breath coming in quick, ragged gasps.

"She was supposed to be off the pill, Hyung! You said she is!" Hoseok's voice cracks as he turns to Yoongi, his anger now laced with something else—desperation, hurt. His words are jagged, the tension in the air so thick you can feel it pressing against your skin.

Yoongi freezes, his eyes flicking between the two of you, the reality of the situation settling in. His hand stays on the bridge of his nose, massaging it as though he can physically take the tension away. But there's no escaping it now, no way to undo what's been said.

"Yoongi-hyung," Hoseok snaps, his voice raw, pleading for an explanation he knows isn't coming. "What the fuck is going on? Why is she still on it?"

You can feel the weight of Hoseok's gaze on you, the accusation in his eyes piercing through the space between you. The betrayal is there, raw and unrelenting, and it stings, more than you ever thought it would. You want to scream, to lash out, but the words don't come. Instead, you're frozen, caught in the quiet storm of their confrontation.

"I didn't know," Yoongi's voice is quieter now, regret creeping in. He looks at you, his expression softening, but it doesn't help. The damage is done. "I withdrew that prescription. I thought she stopped."

Now he turned back to your petite form and the box in question that was the last resort of your independence here. It's just a symbol now, a trigger, a reminder of how everything has shattered in the blink of an eye.

"And why exactly did her highness not listen to her doctor?!"

You try to step back, but you can't. There's nowhere to go. "I didn't think it mattered," you whisper, your hands trembling at your sides. A lie and the weight of the lie you've been carrying sits on your shoulders like a thousand tons.

"I never thought it was something you'd need to know or cared for, at least not for a while."

Hoseok stares at you, his gaze burning through you like a hot brand. "It fucking matters," he spits, his voice sharp and cruel "and I fucking care." Yoongi threw an apologetic look your way when he sensed that this was only going to get uglier, and it would be more humiliating for you if they remained in the room.

"You think I don't care? You think I don't have a right to know? Clean slate from everything, remember?" His voice rises again, and the room seems to shrink around you. 

“Hobi–” you attempted to speak to him.

"Each time we made love, I hoped you'd eventually come to tell me I'm going to be a daddy,"

Hoseok's voice trembles with raw emotion, and you feel the weight of his hopes crashing down on you. The air in the room feels thick, suffocating, as his gaze pierces you, demanding an answer you don't know how to give.

"But you were hiding this from me. You were keeping it from me, Y/N. How could you?" His voice breaks on the last words, and for a brief moment, he looks like he might collapse under the weight of his own feelings.

"I thought… I thought it wasn't important now. That we had time."

Hoseok's eyes narrow, his lips curling into a bitter smile. "Time? Time for what, Y/N? Time to keep me in the dark while you do whatever the hell you want? To fucking run again?" His voice rises, thick with frustration. So this is it, he wanted you tied to him beyond marriage.

"I trusted you. I trusted us. It's just you and me for eternity, Y/N."

“It’s not even about that fucking birth control, it’s about you keeping things from me.” 

You swallow hard, your throat tight. You never imagined things would escalate like this. The silence in the room is unbearable, and the weight of Hoseok's words crushes any attempt at defence.

“You are supposed to confide in me. I’m your person.” 

"I wanted this, Y/N," he continues, his voice a raw whisper, filled with a kind of hurt you never thought he was capable of showing. "I want to build a future with you."

His words feel like daggers, piercing straight through your chest, and you feel the walls around you closing in.

"You should have talk to me about that." You want to scream, to fight back, but all that comes out is a weak, strangled sob.

"Do you even know what you've done?" he whispers, almost to himself, as if the weight of it all is just now sinking in. "Do you even know what this means?"

You want to explain, but you can't find the words. The room is too small, the air too thick with the unspoken truths hanging between you all. And in that moment, you realize that nothing you say will ever undo what's been done.

"I was not feeling ready, Hobi–"

Hoseok's eyes burn with a mixture of frustration and desperation as he steps closer, his hand still extended toward you, demanding the box. You know what he's going to do, but that knowledge does nothing to ease the dread that grips you.

“We could have discuss this–” but he was not listening anymore.

"Give it to me," he commands, his voice low, filled with an edge that makes your heart race. The space between you two is closing, and there's nowhere left to retreat.

You grip the box tighter, pressing it against your chest as if it's the only thing keeping you anchored. "No, Hoseok," you breathe, but your voice is weak, trembling under the weight of the moment. "You don't understand."

His gaze sharpens, and in an instant, he's on you, his hands grasping at yours, trying to pry the box from your fingers. You stumble back, but he's faster and stronger, and you feel the heat of his body as he presses you against the wall. You gasp for breath, your heart pounding in your throat.

"No!" you cry out, but your words are drowned by his relentless grip, pulling at your hands, forcing you to let go. The box is slipping, and before you can stop it, Hoseok has it in his hands, clutching it like it's the last thing that matters.

You try to push him away, your palms meeting his chest with a desperate shove, but he's unfazed. With a low growl of frustration, he jerks his head toward the fireplace, his expression wild.

Without a second thought, Hoseok strides over to the fire, the box gripped tightly in his hands. You lunge forward, but it's too late. He reaches the hearth, throws the box into the flames, and it disappears with a soft crackle.

"No!" you scream, your voice raw, the loss of control hitting you like a punch to the gut. You're too late to stop him.

Hoseok stands there for a moment, his back to you, his shoulders rigid with anger. The firelight flickers in his eyes as he watches the box burn. "You wanted to hide this from me," he says, his voice harsh, filled with finality. "Well, now, it's hidden better."

You're frozen, watching the box slowly disintegrate into ash. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, the realization settling heavily in your chest. It's done. There's no taking it back now. Everything you tried to keep from him, it's all out in the open.

You open your mouth, but no words come. There's nothing to say. You didn't expect this—didn't expect him to take the box and throw it into the flames like it meant nothing to him. But it does. It means everything to him.

"If you think you can go and get another one, think again—" Hoseok turns to face you, his expression unreadable, his jaw clenched tight.

"Because you ain't leaving this fucking house anymore."

A tear escapes down your cheek before you can stop it, and you wipe it away hastily, still trapped in the suffocating silence of the room. Everything feels wrong, everything feels too much, and you don't know how to make it right. You want to scream, to tell him how unfair this is, but you can't find your voice anymore.

Hoseok's gaze softens just slightly, but it doesn't bring comfort. If anything, it only makes the storm raging within you feel even more intense.

What a good start of 1996.

It was quite a few silent weeks, and although the poetics of “never go to bed angry” was quite overrated, Hoseok seemed to cling to it. You wish you could speak again. It was enough that you were apparently and are under house arrest. The moment you tried to step out of the front door, you were turned on your heel immediately. So you got the memo rather quickly.

Now yes, you are exaggerating a little. Rightfully so, you almost went to fucking knit a sweater being cooped up in here. Even the enormous sunroom full of flowers of every kind felt small after you spent the majority of the days there.

Hoseok’s father keeps himself at his side of the lovely and vast Jung manor and you find yourself not wanting to be in his company for majority of the time. But after weeks of silent breakfasts, lunches and dinners, you found yourself in his quarters to plead to give Hoseok some wisdom. He cannot be mad at you for keeping something to yourself. You were being responsible, and this is what you got in return. It was okay until there wasn’t a ring on your finger and the one fucking you, Hoseok. 

Yet, as you stood in the dimly lit hallway of the east wing, the heavy scent of cigar smoke clinging to the air, responsibility felt like a frail excuse. Especially in this family. You neared the slightly open mahogany door of his office when you heard their voices. You halted. Listening. 

“The boy’s still angry,” came the rasp of Hoseok’s grandfather. 

You hadn’t realized he was in the estate today, now nestled in one of the armchairs, a relic of another era draped in a thick wool blanket. His voice was softer, but the words carried weight. 

“Wouldn’t blame him. He did what was necessary, and she went and questioned him for it.”

You frowned. Hoseok cannot be seriously this angry over something so… so fixable, right? 

You should have stepped inside. You should have asked what they meant. Instead, your mind spun in circles, grasping at the words and the meaning hidden between them.

“That runaway little gangster decided to fuck his way into this world, so he paid the price.”  

Your breath hitched.

Paid the price?

Your grip tightened on the doorframe, pulse hammering against your ribs. The words settled uneasily in your chest, a slow-burning fuse winding its way toward something you weren’t sure you wanted to understand.

“Tuan made his choice when stole from her.”

Mark.

Your stomach twisted. The name struck like the lash of a whip, sharp and stinging because it had been weeks since you’d allowed yourself to even think about him. You can’t reopen the wound. You forced yourself to stay rooted in place, to not stumble backwards as the realization clawed at your skin.

Your hands trembled at your sides, nails digging into your palms, your body urging you to move—to burst into that room and demand the truth. But something held you back. A small, fragile piece of you that was terrified of the confirmation.

Hoseok swore to you he has nothing to do with it nor he knows who it might be. So you opted to believe that perhaps it was one of the family heads, or maybe someone from outside who wanted to make an example that you are not untouchable. Maybe it was someone who you openly declined to purchase their booze and serve it in Anubis. Maybe, just maybe, he did kill himself. 

But that’s not the Mark you knew, and after years of seeing this family stage murders, you knew better than to think it was a suicide. Nor did you want believe that, as the recounting of books showed, he or someone was stealing from you. But the only person that would manage to steal from you without your immediate knowing, was him. So you tried to hate him instead of grieving his death for a while. It did not work out. But it did sure opened doors for Hoseok.

Hoseok and his family, your family, had a motive but you refused to let yourself think he is dead because of you. Why did you not urge the police to investigate further? It would put you on the radar. You would have to hand out those incredibly illegal books over at some point. You were not a saint. Obviously you were not as far down as Hoseok or Namjoon and certainly not Taehyung. Your role was a bit cleaner, but not holy at all.

If all those demons that you’ve sent to their death while carefully watching and listening in over the years did not come to hunt you, why now, why Mark? Why’d they speak about him now.

“It was the right decision to eliminate him.” 

Your body felt cold, your fingers numb as you forced yourself to step away, away from the door, away from the truth you had just heard spill so carelessly from their lips. Your mind raced. If he lied about this, what else had he lied about?

You needed to leave.

“For her own good.”

Even just for a moment. 

You needed to get out, away from this house. You could figure out the rest later, but right now, the walls were closing in, and you couldn’t breathe. You had never wanted to leave, leave before. Not really. Not permanently. But that didn’t mean you didn’t know how. 

The question is, though, do you want to?

When you were younger, you had your ways—slipping through unnoticed places, sneaking past locked doors, bending rules until they cracked just enough to let you through. You hadn’t used those skills in years, but desperation was an excellent teacher.

So you ran.

Slipping through the estate grounds, through a route you remembered from your teenage years, your heart pounded louder than your footsteps against the pavement.

A taxi to the downtown. A subway later to get to 59 Street Columbus Circle. 

Central Park was quiet at this hour, the city humming in the distance. You walked, your breath fogging in the cool air, your mind spinning in endless circles. You weren’t stupid—Hoseok would know soon enough that you were gone. And when he did, you knew exactly what would happen.

You could almost picture it. The calls. The orders. The silent, well-oiled machine of his influence clicking into place, mobilizing to track you down. It wasn’t fear that kept you moving. It was inevitable. Because you knew one truth above all else: Hoseok never let anything that belonged to him get away. But you wanted to make a point. That you can be gone if you want to.

Right now, you weren’t sure if you were running from him… or to him.

You sat down on a cold bench, eyeing the Plaza that you realised you never stayed in, your whole life. Why would you, right? No, that’s where he would track you down when you had your tour de bar short lived era, counting in Anubis. 

You did not want to abandon Anubis, nor did you want to give Namjoon to boss it around. You pleaded hard enough to have something in this family other than pussy between your legs that would throw up heirs. Women in this family do not work. Not usually. But you, growing up with the mighty seven, knew a bit more about how this world functions, thus when you proposed to be the eyes and ears, they considered it. When you proposed you wanted a bar, a place where lips could go loose with the right booze, they considered a bit more. 

And that’s how you got to be the owner of Anubis on the borders of Manhattan and the Bronx. 

Everyone who entered was watched, catalogued, and, when necessary, reported and the threat eliminated. It had always been a place of control. Yours. But now, standing outside in the cold, you realized how little of it you truly had anymore.

A god of the afterlife, guardian of lost souls. 

Poetic, you always were.

But it was your place, and you wanted it back. You made it what it is now and it made you. You did not want to be a housewife or an arm candy for Hoseok. Nor your desire was to leave the syndicate.

No. 

You grew up here. This was who you were. And you would not abandon it again because Jung Hoseok decided to step into different shoes in your life or that Mark was now dead. He wasn't with you from the start, you handled it just well without him.

No.

If you have to go through this fucking marriage, you’ll do it your way. 

You returned before sunset, slipping back onto the estate grounds just as the first hints of dusk kissed the horizon. But the moment you stepped inside, the air was different. Tense. Hushed conversations snapped into silence the second they saw you. Guards were stationed at the exits. Hoseok’s men were in motion immediately. 

“Namjoon?-” He echoed to the flip phone when his eyes met yours on the edge of the living room. “Abort the mission, she’s home.” 

He shut the flip phone down and motioned with his free hand to send the soldiers to their original posts. Only then hew threw it on the plush of the white sofa.

“Where the hell have you been, Princess.” He gritted through his teeth, still standing by the conference table, keeping his distance even though he wanted to close it, and cradle your face and kiss your full lips. To reward you for your comeback. 

Your pulse pounded, your breath shallow, but your voice—your voice was steady.

“Tell me, Hoseok.”

You took a step forward, the distance between you closing like the pages of a book snapping shut. 

“Say it to my face and swear that you did not kill him, and-” he pulled his tall built body slightly back at your straightforwardness and his eyes reflected a little wave of shock that was quickly exchanged with understanding. 

Hoseok understood why you ran from this house now. You could have done it before, as it did not take you long to slip out. But he also was glad that after all, you did not want to. 

“And?” He urged you to continue. To finish what you started. 

“-and I’ll fucking marry you.”

And you needed him to tell you that you were wrong.

And you needed him to lie, just this once, so you could keep pretending.

And you needed him to be the man you had loved before all of this. Before Mark. 

His eyes flickered, something dark passing through them before his expression smoothed over. His lips parted slightly, but no words came. This is what he wanted? You on a silver platter. You accepting this union. 

Your chest tightened, the air punched from your lungs as you searched his face, desperate for something—anything—to grasp onto. A lie. A denial. Even anger would have been better than this.

You have to bury Mark for good to be with Hoseok.

Hoseok stared at you, his jaw tight, his lips slightly parted as if he was weighing something—choosing something. You could see the war in his eyes, a storm threatening to break, but then…

Then he exhaled, slow and steady, before stepping closer.

His hand lifted to your face, fingers ghosting over your jaw, his touch light but grounding. 

“I didn’t kill him,” he said, the words deliberate, carefully measured. “I swear it.”

Your breath caught.

There it was. The answer you needed. The answer you had demanded.

And yet…

It was too perfect. Too clean. The kind of lie that had been rehearsed in the mirror, the kind that fit too well in a mouth that had learned to bend the truth into something beautiful.

But you wanted to believe him. Believe that he did not push the trigger. You’d rather live without the knowledge of who exactly had done it and under whose command. 

It does not matter anymore. It’s in the past and Hoseok is your present and future.

You needed to believe him as Mark is never coming to save you from this horseshit you got yourself into right now and whatever reason he had to steal from you doesn’t matter anymore. He is not coming back and it is Hoseok’s arms you’re in this time.

His lips brushed against yours, hesitant at first—like he was giving you a chance to change your mind, to turn away before the lie settled between you. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

You kissed him back, hard and fast, your fingers twisting into his shirt as if anchoring yourself to him would somehow make it real. That if you kissed him deep enough, long enough, it would drown out the whisper in the back of your mind that said this isn’t the truth.

Hoseok groaned against your mouth, his grip tightening, his body pressing into yours like he could make you forget. Like he could mould the lie into something tangible, something that felt like love instead of deception.

You let him.

Because believing was easier than knowing.

"I love you."

You sway to the beat of Material Girl as you make coffee in the kitchen, the rhythm of the music pulling you deeper into your thoughts. Suddenly, you feel his arms wrap around your waist, his head resting on your shoulder. His lips brush your neck lightly, sending a shiver down your spine.

"There is a charity gala tonight," he murmurs, his voice low, warm against your skin. You frown, your movements slowing as confusion clouds your mind. You were allowed to leave occasionally under his strong supervision, which meant that your hand was sweaty in his when he held you for dear life, whenever, wherever. Especially after you went for the little walk in Central Park and did not show up until the sunset.

"What does that have to do with me?" you ask, turning slightly to face him. You were back to being you, at least a little. Step by step. His touch tightens around your waist, a subtle reassurance that he's still there. Even though your little emotional exchange, a few months ago, you were still determined to play this game your way. He wants something? You want something too. 

"Well, as my lovely bride, you're going with me," he says, a playful glint in his eyes. He presses a soft kiss to your neck, but you don't feel it this time—not in the way you usually do. Keeping you here like mother hen turned you and your cheeks waiting to be clapped each time Hoseok finished his work day. And if not, your hands wandered around your body while you read a book that had some spice inside. Out of boredom yes. You were just a girl after all.

"Terminate the house arrest, first." You smiled sweetly. Step one, have free reign where and when you leave this house. 

"No–" you did not even let him start when you interrupted him.

"Would you like some too?" you ask, ignoring him, You continue making the coffee, your hands suddenly trembling. 

"Aren't you listening to me?" His voice is sharp now, a mix of frustration and confusion. He pulls away, the distance between you suddenly feeling cold.

"I'm listening, you were talking about an event," you respond, your eyes not meeting his as you pour hot water into the cup.

"I bought you the Versace dress you liked," he adds, trying again, his tone softening. You let out a breath, the bitterness of it mixing with the heat of the coffee.

"But I cannot go out myself, can I?" you ask, your voice quieter now. The smell of fresh coffee fills the air, but it does nothing to calm the tension between you.

"Are you not listening to me at all?" His voice rises again, this time you can feel the anger building. You don't respond right away, the silence thickening. 

"Are you listening?" You retort, smiling wickedly. 

You walk to the living room, coffee in hand, the distant hum of the television buzzing in the background. The controller feels cold in your hand as you press the red button to turn on the TV, trying to drown out the noise inside your head.

"I'm sorry your highness, I forgot you love to negotiate," he says, his voice laced with irritation.

You glance at him. His hands shake as he gestures vaguely in the air, trying to explain himself. You roll your eyes, frustration bubbling in your chest.

"You’ve put me under house arrest," you mutter, shaking your head, and taking a sip of the coffee. But before you can savour it, he raises his voice again, and the hot liquid splashes over your denim jeans, soaking into the fabric. You wince, the sting of the coffee mixing with the burn of his words.

"You!-" He started but rather opted to bite his inner cheek than to admit that indeed he could've lifted the house arrest, the moment you said you will marry him. He only lets you go out when it benefits him. But you trusted the process.

"Me?" your hand shot to your heart, acting surprised. 

"You're going to put that dress on and come with me at six," he demands, his tone sharp, commanding. He turns on his heel, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the room. You want to smash something, anything, just to get the frustration out.

"Oh so now I can go outside of this house?!"

The tension from the earlier fight still lingers between you. Hoseok's hand rests on your thigh, his touch possessive, but it doesn't bring comfort.

"Did I tell you you're stunning?" Hoseok's voice is soft, low, as he leans closer, his breath warm against your ear. You did put on the dress he bought for you, they were too pretty to leave on the hanger. The sleek, satin slip dress in a light lavender shade. Parade in front of him and threatened to not leave if he does not lift the house arrest first. And you maybe played him dirty when you declared you won’t let him get this dress off you tonight. I have to punish you somehow. You told him. Of course he obliged. Men. 

The dress is form-fitting, featuring thin spaghetti straps and a deep, elegant neckline. It drapes smoothly over your figure, exuding an air of sophistication and effortless glamour. As fitted for today’s spring charity gala. Scratch that. Old money rich shitty man gala. Nothing to do with charity, they just needed a reason to throw a party every year.

"Today or since you decided you want to play husband and wife with me instead of being my best friend?" you dare to tease him, even though you already settled that matter, at least partially,  your voice edged with sarcasm, knowing he doesn't care about your answer as much as he cares about drawing you in with his touch. The atipique black dress shirt he’s wearing under the suit jacket reveal the his torso to your wondering eyes.

“I’m still your best friend, baby.” 

You feel him smile against your skin as he nuzzles your neck, his hand slipping up to rest on your waist. His touch is gentle at first, but it soon deepens into something more—something possessive. 

“Sure you are, especially when you bend me over tables.” You whispered, trying to tease him. His tongue slides into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you in a way that makes your heart race.

“Do I really need to listen to that–”

"--Can't you save that drama for when you get home? It's giving old news already—" a voice interrupts, cutting through the moment. The dark-haired handsome man across from you, Kim Seokjin, looks at the two of you with a raised brow.

"Don't be jealous, Jin-hyung," Hoseok cuts him off, but it's clear he's irritated. "You'll find someone one day to match your narcissistic ass. How's that wannabe Nancy Drew doing?"

You shift slightly, pulling away from Hoseok, but his hand remains firm on your thigh.

"Still working on it," Seokjin mutters, giving Hoseok a dirty look. You knew who they were talking about, but Hoseok said he won't intertwine with the media unless it will be a direct threat. That's why above mentioned she was roaming around trying to dig and dig but nowhere near to find the bottom of the pit.

The car stops suddenly, jolting you from your thoughts, and you blink as if waking up from a dream. The flash of cameras outside the car window hits you like a wave, sharp and blinding, and you feel Hoseok's grip tighten around you as he pulls you closer, as though trying to shield you from it all.

The car stopped and we started to make our way out. The first thing that hit you was the flashes of the cameras. Hoseok pulled you close to him and together with Seokjin and the security guard you walked inside.

You step out of the car, the air thick with flashes and the pressure of eyes on you. His hand doesn't leave your back as the two of you walk inside, and though you want to resist, you can't help but feel the pull of his presence, like gravity, like you're being drawn into his orbit.

He's in his element here, greeting people with a smile, his charm effortlessly lighting up the room. He makes you smile, too, almost involuntarily, as he introduces you to yet another guest. 

"This is my significant other, Y/N," he says, his voice carrying the weight of ownership, and something in your chest tightens, a mix of emotions—anger, confusion, and something else, something darker you don't want to name. You lost a trace of Seokjin some time ago and a part of you wishes for him to be here, you would not feel as thrown to the wolves as you do now. You don't blame him though, you used to do exactly the same thing when you were not what you are now. Take a bottle and vanish for an hour or two. 

“What is it?” Hoseok asked you after few rounds of dances to some forties jazz music after he could not get a word out of you. He leaned in, close enough for you to feel his breath against your skin, a whisper in the midst of the music. Hoseok noticed the way your gaze kept flickering around the room, the way your smile was distant, almost mechanical. 

After the rounds of dancing and mingling, he couldn't take it anymore. Your silence, your unspoken thoughts gnawing at the edges of the night, it made him uneasy. This wasn’t how you were supposed to be. You were supposed to be laughing, teasing, maybe even teasing him, not retreating into yourself like you were doing now. Again.

He was used to the strong, confident woman who had a sharp tongue and a sharper mind, but now… this? This wasn’t you. And he did not want to lose you again.

“You know what it is,” you breathed out, a soft exhale, but it felt like a sigh of surrender. His hand, warm against your back, seemed to hold you in place as you turned your face slightly towards him. 

He raised an eyebrow, leaning closer, his grip tightening, but not in a way that felt possessive—more like an invitation. He wanted to know.

"I don’t," he replied, his voice as calm as ever, but with an edge of urgency now. "I can’t help if you don’t let me in, Y/N."

You swallowed hard, pulling away just a fraction, as if the distance between you and him could somehow ease the tightness in your chest. Now it was time to ask. Step two.

“I want Anubis back,” you said quietly, the words hanging in the air, heavy with meaning. Hoseok's eyes flickered for a moment, but his composure didn’t waver. 

“Alright.” Hoseok’s lips quivered at the edges, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. His response—so simple, so nonchalant—sent a strange shiver down your spine. 

“What?” You blinked. 

“Alright,” he repeated, as though you’d asked for something as trivial as a cup of coffee. You blinked again, caught in the dissonance of the moment.

That was it? Alright? It felt like the words didn’t align with the gravity of what you had just confessed.

You leaned back slightly, studying him as though searching for any hint of a hidden agenda, but all you found was the same carefully crafted calm. The calm of a man who was too used to getting what he wanted without asking for it.

"That's it?" you finally whispered, voice sharp despite the confusion swirling in your gut. "You just... agree?"

“If Anubis is what will make you my extravagantly beautiful Princess happy again, I’ll give it back–” 

You looked up at him, the confusion, the anger, and the uncertainty swirling in your chest, but underneath it all… there was something else. Something you didn’t want to acknowledge.

The night drags on, each introduction another reminder of what you've become. The people you meet seem to glide around you, asking about your upcoming wedding, about your plans, your future. You almost laugh at the irony of it all hanging in the air like a thick fog. You're a trophy in a glass case, and everyone's looking at you, poking and prodding, but no one seems to care to really see you. But him.

Then, an older woman turns to you, and you surely met her once or twice at these sorts of events but you never paid attention to those old snobs enough to know her name. Her gaze sharp as she asks,

"Are you with child my dear?" You freeze, almost choking on the juice, the question slicing through the air. Before you can even respond, Hoseok cuts in, his voice smooth but diplomatic.

"We have just recently started to try, Misses Kang." She was a fucking busybody. Too curious. You can feel the weight of the room shift, all eyes on you now, judging, whispering. You want to run, to scream, but you hold it in, even as your fingers tighten around your drink, your knuckles white. The grey-haired gentleman beside the woman snorts under his breath, a comment you don't hear, but you don't need to.

"Men like us Mister Jung, we need strong lineage—" It doesn't matter. You've already checked out, retreating into your mind again, thinking about how Hoseok just handed Anubis to you without thinking twice. Your brain screamed that this is not just because he had some sort of epiphany but a part of something bigger. Does he perhaps know…? Know that you cannot leave him anymore. You were ready to wield that to have your way. But he just gave it back. 

"I need some air," you mutter, standing up abruptly, and leaving the table behind. You don't look back as you walk out of the room, the hallway stretching out before you. You take the stairs two at a time, the sound of your heels echoing in the otherwise silent space.

You find a door, and a balcony, and step outside, your breath catching in the cold night air. Your dress flares around you as you lean against the railing, the weight of the night pressing down on you. You stare out into the distance, the tears you've been holding back finally spilling over, rolling down your cheeks.

A voice interrupts your thoughts, rough and grating against the wind, "Are you going to jump?"

You turn sharply, startled by the sudden presence. The man before you is in his twenties, with longer brown hair and a stubbled jaw. His Australian accent is as clear as the night sky above you.

"What?" you stammer, confusion swirling with all the confused emotions in your chest.

"I asked if you were going to jump," he says, his hands shoved casually into his black slacks. He lifts his head slightly, waiting for an answer, as though he's seen this all before.

You scoff, bitterness creeping into your voice. "What's it to you?"

"I'd jump after you," he says casually, his eyes never leaving you. You give him a look, incredulous.

"This isn't some fucking rom-com," you snap, your voice sharp, trying to push him away with words.

He raises an eyebrow, unbothered. "No, but the situation is very similar," he argues. "I'm not saying you're about to jump off a boat, but there's a pool down there. You'd survive."

Your gaze drifts back to the darkness below, the tears still falling. You don't want to talk to this stranger. You just want to be alone, but his words, his strange calmness, begin to settle into your mind.

And then, like a physical force, strong arms wrap around you, pulling you back from the railing you were almost ready to mount. You gasp in shock, struggling at first, but the man's grip is firm.

"What are you doing?" you ask, panic rising in your chest. You try to push his hands away, but he doesn't let go.

"I'm saving you, and your very very expensive Versace dress," he murmurs calmly, his voice soft but insistent.

You stop fighting then, your body slumping against him, exhaustion settling into your bones. He holds you for a moment longer, then whispers in your ear, "How about you tell me why you wanted to do it?"

There's something about the way he says it that makes your body go still, something in his voice that makes you want to open up, to speak the words you've been choking on for so long.

“I wasn’t, it just went through my mind for a moment.” 

You sit down on the cold tiles, your tears finally slowing as you tell him everything—the fear, the suffocation, the way Hoseok's love feels different now. That you’re scared to admit your feelings like you could before. 

When you're finished, you feel raw and exposed, but somehow lighter. You don't expect him to understand, but his quiet sympathy soothes something in you.

"Please, just don't tell anyone," you beg, the weight of your vulnerability heavy on your chest.

He nods, his eyes soft as he glances at the balcony door.

He doesn't seem to share your fear. Instead, he looks at you with understanding. "He's a friend," He says, "and he talked about a woman he wanted to marry...a lot. But I can't say I'd agree with everything he's ever done to achieve it."

You look at him, eyes wide with confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I'm can’t help you escape this feelings," he adds gently, his tone softening, "but I can be a friend when he no longer can be one." You don’t want to escape do you? 

"You did not tell me your name—"

His eyes scanned your face with something that almost resembled concern. But the fleeting moment of solace shattered like glass the moment the door swung open.

Hoseok stood there, framed in the balcony doorway. The soft light from the hallway illuminated him in a way that made him look almost angelic, but the glint of steel in his hand told a different story.

You froze. What is going on?

"Step away from her," Hoseok's voice was quiet, deadly, his grip steady on the gun pointed directly at the other male.

He leaned back at the railing, his hands raising slowly in a display of mock surrender.

"Easy there, mate," he said, his voice unnervingly calm. "Didn't mean to step on anyone's toes. Just having a little chat."

Hoseok motioned for you to stand up and run to him, his eyes pleading for you to understand through his firm gaze on you two. What is going on?

Hoseok ignored him, his eyes locked onto yours. "Are you alright?"

You nodded slowly, your throat too tight to speak. The tension in the air was palpable and you did not know what to think. Where is the danger in here if he's griping the gun, not letting it down?

"I should put a bullet in your head right the fuck now," Hoseok seethed. What for? You were utterly confused and when Hoseok motioned for you to get the fuck up, you hesitated but did in the end. If anything, you trusted his gut more than you did yours over the years.

His smirk didn't waver when he gripped your hand and pulled you back. Your eyes widening with shock. His touch lacked the warmth you felt before and his next words sounded utterly different than before.

"See, that's the thing, Jung. You're all about control, but I don't think you have as much of it as you think." He flicked his gaze toward you, his eyes gleaming with something dangerous. "She looks tired. Must be exhausting being your pretty little bird in a cage."

Hoseok took a step forward, his gun aimed directly at his head now, his lips curling into something dark.

"You think I don't know what you're doing? Trying to get close to her, take what's mine, use her as leverage?" He didn't flinch or let you go. And you stood frozen. Without any explanation.

"Wasn't too hard. Seems like she's already looking for a way out." He provoked, knowing what it will make Hoseok to think. Inflitrate his thoughts. Homewrecker.

Your breath hitched, and Hoseok's gaze snapped to you for a split second—long enough for him to make his move. In a flash, he grabbed your other wrist, yanking you toward him, using your body as a shield between him and the gun. You gasped, your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

"Put the gun down," he said, his tone dangerously low, his grip firm but not painful. "We both know you're not going to risk her."

Hoseok's face darkened, his finger twitching over the trigger. "You're making a grave mistake right now, Luen."

Luen.

Your blood ran cold. The Luen family. You'd heard whispers of them—new money with old grudges, climbing the ranks with ruthless efficiency. But you never encountered one. They avoided press, they avoided public outings. They operated from shadows. No wonder you did not know him, if he’d ever show his face in your circles, you’d know.

While your clan rebuilt their empire on this continent through generations of calculated business moves and deeply rooted alliances, the Luens were a wildfire—spreading fast, consuming everything in their path with ruthless efficiency. Your families used to be closer in the past. The times before World Wars and you yourself did not know exactly when their connection severed.

As you later got to know, this particular Luen man was a ghost from the past, one Hoseok had thought buried overseas while he studied abroad for some time. But now he was here, standing in front of you with his cocky smirk and calculating eyes. It was no coincidence. The Luens were patient and hidden hunters, and it was clear that he had been sent for a reason—to sink his claws into Hoseok's most vulnerable spot.

You.

"Am I?" his lips brushed against your ear, and you shivered involuntarily. "I just wanted to talk, but now... now I think I might just take her with me. Seems like she'd like that rather than being with you."

No. No. No.

He felt so wrong suddenly. Everything felt wrong. 

Hoseok's knuckles turned white around the gun, his eyes burning with fury.

"Let. Her. Go."

"Give me what I want, Jung. A slice of your market and territory, and she walks free. Easy trade, yeah?"

Hoseok's lips curled into a humourless smile, his eyes narrowing. "You must be dumber than I thought. You think I'd ever let you walk away with anything?"

Before he could respond, Hoseok moved—fast. In one fluid motion, he slammed the butt of his gun into his side, forcing him to loosen the grip he had on you. You stumbled forward, gasping for air as Hoseok yanked you away and shoved you behind him, his body a solid wall between you and him. 

Well that was strangely easy.

He groaned, clutching his ribs, but that infuriating smirk was still there. "Right… your choice."

"Get the fuck out," Hoseok growled, his voice low and menacing. "Before I change my mind and wash the floor with your brain."

He held up his hands in surrender, circling you to get to the balcony door.

"This was fun. We should do it again sometime." He glanced at you one last time, a knowing glint in his eyes before disappearing out the door.

"Goodbye, Princess." He winked at you and you felt the disgust bubbling inside of you.

Hoseok turned to you, his expression dark, stormy but worried. Too worried. He might have lost you right here and right now if he didn't decide to check on you.

You swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. "I... I didn't know who he was. I just needed to breathe."

"Did he hurt you? Did he threaten you?" He blurted those questions fast while he scanned your smaller physique for any signs of injuries.

"No, we just talked, I didn't—"

Hoseok stared at you for a long moment before sighing and dragging a hand through his hair.

"You're not leaving my sight again."

You wanted to argue, but the words died on your tongue. The look in his eyes told you there would be no room for negotiation this time. You were not even sure whether you wanted to argue with him. Not after this.

"How come I don't know that Luen's revisited their feud with us?" You ask Hoseok the moment you step into his room. Or yours now. Can't seem to get used to saying that.

Hoseok shut the door behind him with a quiet click, his jaw tightening as he shed down his suit jacket and went to get rid of his dress shirt too. 

"You weren't supposed to know," he said finally, his voice quieter now, but no less firm. "Because I handled it." Shirt down, point taken. 

You scoffed, crossing your arms as you turned to face him. "Handled it? Right. And that's why that Luen—which disgusting brother was he again— had his hands on me"

His gaze darkened. "Jinsoo—"

Hoseok exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "The Luens made their first move a few months ago. Small things. Disrupting shipments, trying to flip some of our lower-level guys. I let them play their little games because I didn't think they had the balls to escalate." His eyes flicked to you, sharp and assessing.

"Clearly, I was wrong."

You swallowed, trying to ignore the way his words sent a shiver down your spine.

"Now we have to kill him, Hoseok—" Hoseok's eyes flickered, something unreadable flashing through them before he let out a low, humourless chuckle. You held your ground, ignoring the way your pulse spiked at the weight of his gaze.

"Why? What could you possibly tell him?" He knew you were not a rookie, and that whatever you revealed from now and then to anyone who's not in your inside circle, was an oblique and vague angle of events. This was non-negotiable. This clan did not even allow its members to have a doctor, therapist, lawyer, even fucking plumber outside of the ties this syndicate had.

And suddenly, the room felt smaller, the air tighter, the weight in your chest no longer just from adrenaline.

"Baby?" His sharp eyes flicked back to yours, his fingers still curled loosely under your chin.

"I'm sure it cannot be that bad, you've been taught well—"

Your breath hitched, your fingers tightening around the fabric of your sleeve.

"He might have figured it out—"

Hoseok's entire body went rigid. The silence that followed was deafening.

"Figure out what, love?" You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. Your pulse pounded, but you refused to look away.

You hesitated for a moment. You should have told him before.

You glanced at your engagement ring that was set under your new addition to your vast jewellery collection thanks to Hoseok— a wedding band. A matching gold one wrapped around his ring finger mocking you now. It was barely a month and half since you tied the knot.

You should have told him that day. Maybe that way he would now fall down to his knees and hug your below and murmur every single word that expressed gratefulness and admiration. This is what he wanted. But you were not sure if this is what you wanted, that’s why you gave yourself time to think how you want to do this. It takes people years to have this but God has chosen you. Or listened to Hoseok’s prayers. You can't seem to undo it now. It would not fly in this family. This was even more permanent than marriage in this clan.

And now, because of this little detail, Luen Jinsoo was as good as dead.

And now, the smile Hoseok flashed you with, told you everything you needed.

Of course he knew. 

"I'm pregnant."

I N T E R L O G U E

The ceremony itself was something out of a dream, a carefully curated illusion of romance to mask the reality beneath.

Beneath the glinting chandeliers, the whispered toasts, and the weight of Hoseok's gaze as he slid the ring onto your finger, there was something else. And you were not sure what.

But once you were sitting on the closed lid of toilet in the bridal suite, wedding dress bunched around your thighs, clutching the piece of plastic in your french manicured nails, the room around you was suffocatingly silent, save for the faint echo of music filtering through the heavy doors.

The test in your hand made everything spin, the two pink lines staring back at you with finality. People were trying for months or even years and here God decided to bless you. Or Hoseok.

Too soon, it happened oddly soon. You should have bought another box. You should not get distracted but other things to forget about this. You thought you counted your ovulation correctly, you could have taken ovulation tests to ensure it won't happen. You could have done so many things to avoid this, but here you are with a new life under your heart.

A knock on the door made you jump.

"Baby?" Hoseok's voice was low, muffled through the wood but unmistakably laced with something—concern? Possessiveness? You couldn't tell. 

"You okay?"

You swallowed, staring at your reflection in the mirror across from you. What interior designer would bask in your dismay when placing a wall-tall mirror right across the toilet? Your veil was still clipped into your hair, and your makeup was still perfect. But your eyes—your eyes—looked different now. Wiser. More terrified than they had ever been.

Another knock. More insistent this time.

"Y/N." His voice was sharper. "Open the door."

He was scared. Of course he was. Even though there is no way you could vanish, he was scared that you would change your mind, that you would flee the first chance you got. He was not stupid, he knew that you staying by his side was his choice but also yours. He would not underestimate what you can do. After all, you were you.

You exhaled shakily and forced yourself to move, tucking the test under the tissues in the bin like a terrible, wonderful secret, and you straightened the folds of your dress. Your hands trembled as you reached for the door handle and turned it.

Hoseok stood there, still in his wedding suit, tie loosened just enough to reveal the column of his throat. His dark eyes flickered over you, assessing, reading you the way he always did. His fingers twitched at his side like he wanted to reach for you but wasn't sure why you looked so shaken.

"What's wrong?" he asked, stepping closer, his warmth seeping into you. "Talk to me."

You opened your mouth. Hesitated.

"I think the shrimp cocktail was not a good appetizer."

.

.

.

.

©pennyellee. please do not repost

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Don't be a silent reader, let's be friends chummers! ♥ 𖦹 ☼ ⋆｡˚⋆ฺ ♡.

lots of love, p.

[onyxstyx]

ʜᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ʙʏ ᴀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅ | emperor geta

pairing: emperor geta x fem!reader

summary: the fates spin the thread of destiny, and mortals have no choice but to follow its path. you have other plans.

➺‘the fates, who give men at their birth both evil and good to have, and they pursue the transgressions of men and gods… until they punish the sinner with a sore penalty’ - theogony, hesiod ➺‘whatever happens to you has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time’ - marcus aurelius

A/N: i watched gladiator ii, devoured all the geta fics i could find (ty writers for feeding me <3) and i’m still ravenous. the man is gnawing at me from my insides so i had no choice but to get typing. haven’t written for like a yr so bear with me. if this flops it never happened xx

warnings: mention of miscarriage (not reader's), period-typical misogyny, morally ambiguous reader bc she’s fighting for her life out here. she’s just a girl fr :( YOU try being a girlie in ancient rome :/ enjoy !!

w/c: 5.9k

latin translations: fatum - fate, carissima - dear, domina - my lady

As the moon ascends in wake of the sun’s descent, the gilded walls of the imperial palace glint softly in the moonlight. Glorious tapestries line these walls, each one telling the tale of hallowed heroes, of terrible tyrants and of revered rulers. The history of the Roman Empire.

Their patterns, depicting stories of both rise and ruin, are woven by none other than the three Fates. One Fate spins the thread, and an heir is born. Another Fate weaves it, and a battle is won. The last Fate cuts, and an emperor meets his end.

As three pairs of hands work nimbly in the heavens, another tapestry begets itself in the mortal realm, where our story takes place.

From a tender age, you had been taught to believe in fate.

Fatum.

You had first learnt the word as a little one.

You’d been a curious creature, like most children are. Sheltered from the terrors of the world, your appetite for life was insatiable. You’d wake up with a hunger for new knowledge about the world around you, and go to bed still hungry for more, no matter what had transpired during the day. Thus, you found it impossible to go to sleep of your own accord - you relied on your mother’s bedtime stories to satisfy your appetite, and lull you into slumber.

Perched by your bedside with a gentle hand stroking your hair, she regaled you with the tale of Rome’s beginnings. A tale of abandonment, wolf-mothers and fratricide. Enough thrill to tire you out, she hoped. To her chagrin, she looked down to find widened eyes, without a trace of sleep in them, staring up at her expectantly. Instead, your eyes shone bright with the excitement of unanswered questions.

She sighed fondly before prompting you to talk. “Yes, carissima?”

And so the floodgates opened. You fired her with questions with all the sternness of a Roman general, and she listened intently with all the patience of a loving mother.

Why did the king try to kill the babies? Why didn’t the wolf eat the babies?

And finally, taking great care to be gentle, you placed a tiny hand on her rounded belly and asked the most burning question. Why did Romulus kill his brother? Your innocent mind struggled to comprehend it. You hadn’t even met your little sibling yet, and you already couldn’t fathom the idea of bringing harm to him. Or her, you thought, but your father had insisted that all refer to the babe as the male heir he so desperately desired it to be.

“Fatum,” was the simple answer she supplied. “Without the king’s cruelty, without the wolf’s mercy, without Remus’ death, our great city would never have been built.”

Eyes shining with knowledge yet untold, her gaze held yours. “Whatever happens to you, has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time,” she quoted, a tone of finality in her voice.

As well-loved children do, you’d lapped up your mother’s answer as readily as the twin babes lapped the wolf’s milk.

You had first witnessed fatum some years later, at the age of twelve.

On the brink of adolescence, much about you had changed compared to the little girl having bedtime stories told to her. Much except one. Age hadn’t quelled your curiosity - if anything, it had grown.

You’d exhausted all the resources available to a girl of your standing. You’d read enough philosophical texts to debate with Aristotle himself, asked questions faster than your tutors could find answers and yet, you knew there was much more that the world had to offer. So, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

With age had also come a newfound deviance. Observant as you were, you’d learned that there was much to be gained with certain types of information - if you knew how to use it to your advantage.

As such, you’d taken to eavesdropping on your father’s meetings with his fellow senators from behind a pillar. For weeks on end, they had spoken of a play becoming popular amongst patricians and plebeians alike. Oedipus.

At the centre of their discussion was a ploy to ban the play from being performed. Abhorrent, they had called it. A threat to their authority, if the people are led to believe that even kings are subject to a thing as fickle as fate. At that statement, your eyes twinkled with mischief and a devious smile found its way to your face - you were determined to see this for yourself.

So, on the fateful night you caught your older cousin in the arms of a man bearing no resemblance to her betrothed, you knew you’d struck gold.

Desperate to protect her reputation and far too embarrassed to berate you for sleuthing around when you should have been asleep, she’d hastily agreed to the terms of your silence. She would sneak you into the city’s amphitheatre to watch the next production of Oedipus, if you swore to secrecy.

And so your plan commenced. Hidden under the large folds of her toga, you observed the story unfolding before you. The mighty king of Thebes brought to his knees by the tragic fate he’d tried to escape, to no avail.

A real spectacle, the performance elicited emotions from you that were both old and new. In a short two hours you’d been perplexed, horrified, scandalised. You’d learned quickly why you had to be sneaked in - fate wasn’t the only mature theme you were educated on that night.

But you only came to understand fatum when it took the person dearest to you, two summers ago.

Pregnant again, the fifth time that you could remember, your mother had taken ill. Perilously ill. After years of unsuccessful attempts to produce an heir - one daughter, two miscarriages and two stillbirths - she had breathed her last. In her womb? The son your father demanded of her. The son he had longed for. Prayed to the gods for. What else could bring forth such a tragic end, if not the hands of the Fates?

Now a grown woman, the beliefs your mother had impressed upon you would soon be tested. Left with no living sons to continue his legacy and no living wife to bring forth such living sons, your father’s lofty political aspirations could only be fulfilled through his daughter. You.

Your father wasted no time in advancing his plans.

After a long day spent praying at the temple of Pluto, you had been ready to wind down and relax. A good distance away from the centre of the city and situated atop a number of hills, a trip there takes up the whole day. You had set out at dawn, and as the sun set over the Tiber river to bring forth dusk, your shadow darkened the entrance of your family villa.

Exhausted both emotionally and physically, your body went through the motions of preparing yourself for supper, but your mind remained absent - occupied with thoughts of what could have been and what will never be.

After your bath you called for your maid and allowed her to dress you, head still in the clouds. It was only when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the bronze mirror atop your vanity that you noticed something was amiss.

Your eyes squinted as you inspected the image reflected on the polished surface.

“Why have you dressed me in these garments? I wish to wear my usual attire.”

You wore a tunic, the draped garment secured by an ornate brooch resembling an owl, with eyes made of precious gems. Nothing out of the ordinary.

What was out of the ordinary, was the saffron yellow hue of the tunic — since your mother’s passing you had been in mourning and thus only wore dark colours. A fact well-known by your maid, who dressed you day and night.

The hands fastening the brooch faltered as she gathered a response.

“My apologies, Domina.” She stepped back, head bowed in deference. “I assumed you would revert to your previous wardrobe, seeing as yesterday marked the end of…” She trailed off meekly, allowing you to fill in the blanks.

The previous day had marked a year since your mother’s passing, and thus the end of the customary mourning period. As such, it would be socially acceptable for you to appear happy and content again, reflected in the abandonment of deep plums and drab greys for sunny yellows and bold blues. You supposed it was not odd for her to assume you desire to don brighter colours.

But upon closer inspection, your suspicion rose again. Detailed with beautiful patterns and made of the smoothest damask money could buy, the tunic was much too elaborate for a simple family dinner in the villa. The last time you wore it was to a relative’s wedding, where your father made a point of telling anyone who would listen just how much it had cost to import the material from China.

You poised yourself to question her further, but the words died on the tip of your tongue when you saw the pleading look she gave you.

“Please, Domina.”

She offered you no further explanation, but the fear in her eyes was explanation enough. She was not doing this of her own accord, but under instruction. And if you knew your father well, under strict instruction.

Whatever plans he had for you, you knew you would have little to no choice in the matter.

Wordlessly, you acquiesced and allowed her to continue. You did not protest when she brushed, braided and pinned your hair into an elaborate updo. You were compliant when she lined your eyes with kohl and blotted your lips with mulberry juice.

Primped and primed like a prized show horse, you dismissed your maid, sat by the window and awaited your fate.

Not long passed before the sound of a male timbre filled the room.

“It appears your outfit is missing something.”

You turned to the direction of the voice to see your father standing in the doorway. Instinctively, you stood to your feet - less as a show of respect and more because you were used to being on guard in his presence.

In his hands he held a translucent, gauzy material, sheer in nature and vibrant in colour, that was all too familiar to you.

Your mother’s favourite veil.

Usually fixed firmly atop her head during special occasions - festivals, birthdays, weddings and the like - you could recognise it from a mile away. Growing up, you had associated this veil with womanhood itself. You would traipse around the corridors of the villa with it wrapped around your head haphazardly, the excess fabric trailing behind you as you ran as fast as your little legs could carry you.

What a foreign sight it was to see it in the hands of your father. And what a foreign sight it was to see him in your chambers.

Following your mother’s passing, the two of you had not conversed beyond what was formally required of you, your already fragile relationship fracturing completely. Yet here he was, extending a peace offering. An olive branch.

Pleased as you were to receive it, you were not foolish enough to believe this to be a genuinely affectionate gesture. A politician through and through, your father was no stranger to symbolic gestures, and he had made no attempts to mend your relationship prior to this moment. This sudden generosity, paired with your extravagant dressing, could only mean one thing.

He wanted something from you.

Now, you had two options. Comply with his request, or comply with his request begrudgingly. You chose the latter, of course. Even if obedience was your only option, you weren’t going to make this easy for him.

You casted him a quick look of derision. “If you wish to barter for my forgiveness with a piece of cloth, I am afraid your efforts have been wasted.”

Unphased, he stepped further into the room.  “Now, now, peace, dear daughter. Let us be civil.” The faux humility in his tone was almost comical.

“Perhaps you feel…wronged by me for holding your mother to a certain standard. But, you must understand that I was simply fulfilling my duties, by encouraging her to fulfil her own. I have particular responsibilities to this family. As do you, now.”

You levelled him with an icy glare, wise enough not to express your discontent verbally, but too headstrong not to express it somehow.

“And even if I have, in some unfathomable way, wronged you; to err is human, to forgive, divine.” 

After knowing him for as long as you did, you knew this was the closest thing to an apology you would get. You also knew your father was a talented orator - it’s how he gained a large enough political following to join the Senate, after all. And so you prepared yourself to be subjected to one of his moving speeches.

“It is common knowledge that women are the weaker sex,” What a great way to start, you snarked to yourself. “Yet, I have always seen a unique strength in you. Not physical strength, of course, but a mental fortitude. Since you were a young girl you have been willful, stubborn,” he took a step closer to you with each word, purple-lined toga brushing the floor as he advanced. 

As he said the last word, he gave you a knowing look. “Nosy.”

You failed to hide your shock. “Oh yes, I saw you slinking around behind the pillars.” He waved a hand dismissively. “It matters not, now. In fact, whatever dregs of information you picked up from eavesdropping on my discussions may soon prove useful.”

His face was a picture of smugness, with an eyebrow cocked and the corners of his mouth upturned as if he knew something you didn’t. With just a few sentences he had complimented you (even if it was backhanded), revealed that he knew your secret, and teased you with a nugget of information. The perfect combination to make you anticipate his next words.

Silence filled the room as he kept you in suspense, mind whirring as you mulled over his cryptic words. 

One hand held your mother’s veil in front of him, while the other caressed its folds delicately. His eyes had a faraway look in them that suggested his mind had travelled to another time.

“Your mother was a strong woman. Not strong enough in the end, regrettably, but strong nonthele-”

“Don’t.” You interjected. “You will not sully her memory with your caustic words.”

His lips spread into a diplomatic smile, but the twitch of his eye betrayed the irritation he felt. Belligerent as he was, he ignored your outburst and continued. 

“Unlike her, you have the makings of a lady of great influence. Much like me, you have the mind for politics. That potential lies latent within you.”

With a gentleness you wished was also reflected in his words, he draped the veil over your head. “I advise you not to waste it, dear daughter, and suffer the fate of lesser women.”

You scoffed at his words, readjusting the veil so it rested perfectly atop your head and shoulders. “And how do you suggest I fulfil this…potential? The Senate is not exactly welcoming of women.”

Well-pleased that your interest had been piqued, he finally reveals his true intentions.

“Accompany me to the imperial banquet tonight. We will celebrate the successful conquest of Britannia.”

“I do not care for banquets, nor do I spare a thought for conquests.”

“You may not care for military conquests, but this banquet itself is a conquest of the political sort. In my experience, much more is won with words, than with swords. And tonight’s event presents an opportunity for much gain.”

Again with the cryptic words.

“Allow me to present you to the Emperors. Your face is comely enough to garner their attention, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, some men find opinionated girls like you to be charming.” 

Is he insinuating what you think he is?, you thought incredulously. Surely not.

“The Senate may not be the place for women, but the Senate is not the only facilitator of politics. Why not practice your politics from Palatine Hill?”

There was no mistaking it. He intended to make an Empress of you. Equally as curious as you were sceptical, you decided to test his logic.

“Beauty is fleeting. Charm wanes with time. How would I maintain their favour?”

“That, dear daughter, is up to you. I am certain you will find a way, formidable as you are.”

While it pained you to admit it, he was right. You and your father were more alike than different, what with your scheming and blackmailing. Besides, you were formidable. You were cunning. You were capable.

There may be greater things in store for you yet.

And those greater things began with this banquet.

Upon arrival, you were met with the most magnificent sight you had ever seen. Sat proudly upon Palatine Hill, the palace looked like the image your mind conjured when picturing Olympus. After ascending the intimidating number of steps that led to the entrance, you truly felt like you’d ascended to the land of the gods. Wherever you looked there was amazing artwork that instilled equal parts awe and fear in you. 

Look up, and there were grand arches to behold. Look to the side, and the spectacular frescoes offered a feast for the eyes. Look down, and there were beautifully designed floor mosaics you almost felt bad for stepping on.

As you passed through into the atrium, it was much the same. Ostentatiously decorated, it boasted gilded walls and glorious tapestries, each feature a testament to the Emperors’ opulence, and Rome’s riches.

But it was impossible to focus fully on the artwork with the room heaving as it was. Eyes darting from one person to another with every passing second,  you were captivated by the spectacle the hoard of partygoers presented. Something seemed to be happening in every square foot of the room, each guest having their fill of whatever their vice of choice was for the night. Wine was in abundance, giving way to loose lips, and scantily-clad whores prowled about in the shadows, giving way to loose purse strings.

You had been to your fair share of lavish affairs, but this was a whole new world of revelry.

Between the loud percussion of the musicians’ instruments, the aroma of the heavily seasoned foods and the leering gazes of overexcited men, you began to feel overstimulated. You stuck close to your father as he led you into the heart of the throng, finding comfort in the familiar when surrounded by the foreign. Better the devil you know.

Oblivious to your discomfort, he reprimands you under his breath. “Stop clinging to me like a child, lest our venture fail before it has even begun.”

You’d been so taken by your surroundings that you hadn’t registered where your father was leading you to. Now you stood in front of the two men at the centre of this affair, who were seated majestically upon a golden threaded couch. You prayed you didn’t look like the bewildered little girl you certainly felt like. 

With a grand, sweeping gesture of his hand, your father bowed. 

“Imperators, what an honour it is to partake in these…wondrous celebrations with your Majesties.”

“Senator,” one of them said, voice smooth like honey but with an edge that demanded caution. His face bore a smile, but his tone was calm and measured. “What a pleasure it is to see you.” The twitch of his eyebrow suggested otherwise. “In a more agreeable mood, might I add.” The man beside him sniggers.

More agreeable? Whatever could that mean? For the second time in one night you found yourself deciphering cryptic words. Father must have angered the Emperors, somehow. 

“And you’ve brought…” He trailed off, looking at your father expectantly.

“Yes, Emperor Geta, Emperor Caracalla,” with a single clap and an officious clearing of his throat he stepped to the side, no longer obscuring their vision of you. “May I present my daughter…”

You managed to regain your composure, exhibiting a grace only a lady of the upper echelons of society could possess when you sunk into a deep curtsy. Lifting your gaze, you were met with the hair-raising sensation of being observed. Not just observed – scrutinised.  

A pair of eyes, deep brown like rich soil, trailed over your form. The man that addressed your father with contempt - Geta. His brows furrowed as he took the sight of you in. Lined with kohl much like yours, his eyes were smouldering in their examination.

Another pair, red-rimmed and cloudy with the haze of inebriation, were the perfect contrast. The man that sniggered - Caracalla. With irises of a cold blue hue, they would have been intimidating if they belonged to a face other than his, what with his rosy rounded cheeks and seemingly perpetual impish grin. 

Despite their differences, the relation between the men was clear as day. Flaming locks of hair and the gold laurels that circled their heads confirmed their identities. These were the infamous twin tyrants.

But it wasn’t just the weight of their eyes that you felt. Lounging around the couch in various positions and in varying states of undress, was an entourage of courtesans. You did your best to avert your gaze, as theirs bore into you. 

And what a pleasant sight you were. Adorned with ornate jewellery and clad in the finest of silks, you were easily one of the best dressed at the banquet. Before a word had been uttered, your appearance relayed a message – you were a lady of fine stature, more than accustomed to luxury and thus, would be well-suited to palace life.

Well-suited to be Empress.

Not taking any chances, your father decided not to leave anything up for interpretation.

He began listing your virtues as if reading from a handbook - 100 Things to Look For in a Roman Wife. He spoke of your piety, your beauty, your fertility. With every trait of yours that was mentioned, you grew increasingly more irate and keeping the docile smile on your face became increasingly more difficult. 

“...and lest I forget, she is most gifted with the lyre-”

“How quaint.” Caracalla interrupted, a peal of childish laughter bubbling from his lips. “He presents his daughter’s hand as if he is lobbying for a law to be passed!”

Geta scoffed, “Or a conquest to be forfeited.”

At this, Caracalla doubled over in laughter, the overfilled cup of wine in his hand threatening to spill over the rim with every jostle of his frame. Clearly there’s a joke you’re missing here.

There’s a wicked glint in Geta’s eyes that tells you this joke has guile. 

“Three sennights have lapsed since you last stood before us, spewing nonsense about abandoning our pursuit of Britannica.” The vitriol that coated his voice strung a discordant note in the mellifluous tune of his brother’s continuous laughter. “Yet here you stand in your Emperors’ palace,” he gestured at the ongoing frivolities. “Drinking and making merry with spoils from the very war you so vehemently opposed.” 

Ah. It finally clicked. From what you had picked up from your father and his associates’ discussions, you knew that this conquest had long since been under contention among the Senators. The campaign was taking longer than anticipated, and required more reinforcements than expected. The Roman force was fatigued. At home, the starving plebeians of Rome were one famine away from revolting, and without the full support of the army, politicians relied on empty promises to appease their constituents and maintain order. Yet, the Emperors were adamant on expanding Rome’s borders.

For whatever reason, at the last Senate meeting three weeks ago your father had been the unfortunate soul to suggest that the troops should draw back. And now he stood before them at the celebration of the successful conquest, presenting you as a bargaining chip to secure his pardon. Opposing the Emperors was costly, and he decided you were going to pay that price on his behalf.

Geta leaned his head on his hands as he asked, “Tell me, Senator, what makes you think you will triumph this time?”

You watched your father’s reaction with bitter disbelief. For the first time in your life, your silver-tongued father, the man that had landed you this fate, floundered for words.

Fine. If this was the hand dealt to you, so be it. But you were going to do this your way.

“Your Majesties,” At the sound of your sweet voice, Geta’s gaze affixed itself to your face. Instantly, he was beguiled. “If I may…” 

With the slow incline of his head, you were permitted to speak. 

“I know little of war,” you feigned ignorance. “But I do know that defying the odds to bring glory to Rome is no small feat.” Preening at your praise, Geta leaned forward in his seat, a silent encouragement for you to continue. “Rome and her citizens are fortunate to be led by you, Imperators, and I am grateful to be in the presence of such wise rulers.”

His mouth spread into a self-satisfied smirk. “I bask in your praises, my lady. It pleases me to see that someone in your family has a semblance of loyalty to the powers above them” A pointed look was shot at your father. “You see, all those that oppose their Emperors,” His venomous gaze roved over the group of Senators shifting uneasily as they watched this ordeal. “Will soon learn that there is only one way for a man to wield power.” He held up his index finger for emphasis and paused for suspense. “War.”

With all the self-assurance of a man that has never truly been challenged, he stalked towards you.

“What other power can bring a man to his knees and cause him to surrender?”

“I can think of nothing greater than war!” Caracalla piped up from behind him.

“Yes, brother.” Geta held his cup of wine up in agreement. “By no other means can a man wield such power. I am sure my lady agrees?” He offered his right hand, each finger as bejewelled as the next.

The ultimatum he presented you with was clear. Kiss the ring, let all be forgiven and allow this encounter to end pleasantly. Refuse the ring, and…well, don’t refuse the ring.

But compliance was predictable, and would only get you so far. Your beauty and charm had ignited a spark of interest in him, but that wasn’t enough. You needed that spark to burst into a flame.

With swan-like grace you knelt before him and took his hand, smiling inwardly when his eyes followed your descent with rapture. You didn’t miss his quick intake of breath when you halted your movements to look up and meet his eye, lips an inch away from the stunning signet ring.

“Upon second thought,” You tilted your head as if considering his words. “There exists another power great enough to make a man kneel in surrender.” At your bold words, the hand you held tightened around your fingers until he had a firm grip of your hand. “A power so great, even Emperors are not immune.”

Gasps of shock came from the onlookers sober enough to process what they had heard.

“Impertinence!” Caracalla’s cry of protest tore you from the captivity of his brother’s gaze. 

“Forgive my daughter, she oversteps her bounds.” Your father spat the words out and fixed you with a look of warning, a late and unappreciated attempt to de-escalate the night’s proceedings.

With a wave of Geta’s hand, his words were dismissed. For the sake of keeping your resolve, you pretended not to see the Praetorians return their drawn swords to their scabbards.

You returned to the intense stare of brown eyes narrowed in… intrigue? Suspicion? You weren’t sure, but you had his attention. 

“And what power would that be?”

Your gentle smile had him entranced. “The strike of a drum, the strum of a lyre’s strings. Music, my Imperator, holds much power.”

See, while your father was busy waxing lyrical about you, you had been studying Geta closely. As he listened to others speak, his fingers unconsciously tapped the thigh of the courtesan perched on the arm of the couch. But they were not tapping any old rhythm – they tapped to the beat of the percussion in the background.

The ring your lips had puckered up to kiss was not embossed with an imprint of Mars, the god of war, but Apollo, god of music. Geta the Emperor championed conflict and violence, but Geta the man held music dear.

Rich eyes twinkled as his laugh rang in your ears. “Ah, yes. Your father mentioned your skill with the lyre. He failed to mention your humour.” He didn’t believe you.

“I assure you, Imperator, my lyre-playing is unparalleled.” You indulged him with a coy smile.

“You believe you would best our most talented musician? That your playing would put your Emperors’ finest to shame?” He challenged your claim.

“Given the chance, I would outplay each of the Nine Muses,” you asserted boldly. You rose to his challenge.

His eyes gleamed with ardour as he regarded your statement with a raised brow. “I await the day I hear you play with baited breath, my lady.”

“It would be my pleasure, my liege.”

Not risking any more excitement, you curtsied and took your father’s arm as he guided you towards the outskirts of the atrium, and away from watching eyes. He wasted no time expressing his displeasure.

“Have you lost your senses, girl? Has some strange plague come over your mind?!” He released an exasperated sigh. “You should have held that tongue of yours.”

 “Oh, and left you there, stammering like a bumbling fool? Father,” you uttered the paternal term without an ounce of familial affection. “You entrusted this ploy into my hands, so leave it there.”

Anger flashed across his face like a clap of thunder. Before he could berate you for your indolence, however, a piercing shriek stole the moment.

You pushed through the crowd to see the commotion, weaving past bodies stilled with shock at whatever it is they were witnessing. When you got to the centre, you were met with a most harrowing display of fraternal discord.

Geta lay sprawled out on the marble floor, the corded muscle of his limbs tensing as he strained to hold back the man towering over him, wielding a dagger above his head. Caracalla. 

At first glance one may have supposed this fray was borne of anger, but with the spittle flying out of gritted teeth that gnashed and snarled like those of some inhuman beast, the incoherent stream of words and the crazed look in his eyes, it was clear that he did not have full agency of his person.

The rumours were true. He was having one of his infamous episodes.

Your eyes darted from Praetorian to Praetorian, waiting for one of them, any of them to take action. Their hands rested on the hilt of their swords, hesitation rooting them to their spots. To raise a hand against Caracalla would be treason, punishable by death. To ignore the distress of Geta would be treason, also punishable by death. They were at an impasse.

The chatter of mingling guests and the ambience of the musicians’ instruments had long since stopped, leaving the grunts of the brothers to take their place. All watched on in stunned silence, revelers turned horrified spectators.

Their scrambling continued. Geta managed to hook a leg around Caracalla’s ankle, toppling him over to join him on the cold marble. Wine cups clanged as they were knocked to the ground, collateral. The cacophony of sound nearly masked the sound of Geta’s desperate plea.

“Break the spell! Break the spell!”

Moved by an impetus you couldn’t explain, you barreled further through the crowd until you reached the musicians’ corner. You grabbed the lyre from the hands of the bard (who was too focused on the ongoing tumult to protest), and started strumming the tune of a nursery rhyme favoured by Roman children both rich and poor. 

Dulcet tones and sweet symphonies echoed through the chamber as you sang of Rome’s rolling hills, of fair maidens awaiting the return of brave soldiers, of the Tiber River’s ebb and flow.

Those around you listened intently, enraptured. They stepped aside, clearing a path for you towards the quarreling brothers. You walked forward as you sang, and as you reached the last verse you stood a few feet away from where they squirmed, limbs akimbo. 

From your position you saw the exact moment the muscles in Caracalla’s face relaxed, and his body went limp. He released a weak whimper better-suited to an injured animal than the tyrannical emperor he was rumoured to be.

Eyes fixed on you over his brother’s shoulder, he dropped the dagger as if compelled. Tears began to run down his face as he wailed, balling himself up into a foetal position. When they noticed his change in disposition, his entourage took the chance to spirit him away from the room. 

The final note of your song rang out. A beat passed as everyone came to, as if they too were held captive in a trance. Then, a slow, steady clap from one became a roaring applause, your fellow guests lauding your performance as if it had been planned. 

Chest heaving from exertion, Geta used a three-legged (formerly four-legged) stool to pull himself from the floor and adjusted his toga. At the raise of his hand, the clapping stopped. Flopping back to sit on the couch, he gestured for you to come forward. His expression was inscrutable. 

Before you could scrape together an apology, or some sort of explanation, you were utterly disarmed by the grin that spread across his face. 

“My lady,” He huffed between words, still catching his breath. “I stand corrected. It appears your flair with the lyre is equally as bewitching as your looks.”  

Your cheeks heated up at his confession of attraction towards you. “It pleases me that you think of me so, my Emperor.”

“Mmm.” He hummed, dark eyes taking their time to appraise you. “The power to bring a man to his knees can be very dangerous, you know. I believe it would be in the best interest of Rome and her citizens if such power was… managed by the capable hands of their Emperor.”

The chill of deja vu ran down your spine when he extended his hand in your direction. A second invitation to kiss the ring. Most people only get one.

“Wouldn’t you agree?”

As your lips made contact with the cold metal of Apollo’s face and you sealed your fate, you closed your eyes and said a silent prayer. When you opened them again, you found eyes the colour of rich soil searching yours. 

He turned the hand that gripped his and pressed a surprisingly sweet kiss to the back of it. His kisses travelled up your arm, growing more and more fervent, the plush of his lips leaving warmth on every spot they pressed against. He used his hold on you to pull you towards him until you were close enough to smell the heady scent of patchouli mixed with the subtle musk of perspiration, and count the freckles on his speckled cheeks, peeking through the layer of makeup. 

His palm ran up and down your arm repeatedly, inching further up each time.

“You will make a home for yourself here, in these palace walls.” Brown eyes gazed into yours, full of a veneration you couldn’t fathom. “And you shall be my little Muse.” 

As if the troubles of your life thus far had not been a sufficient allotment of suffering, the Fates had now tasked you with weathering the twin tempers of the Emperors Geta and Caracalla. And surviving.

Gods help you.

A/N: thank you ever so much for reading ! i'm working on part two so let me know if you want me to post it when it's done <3

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated x

© onyxstyx tumblr 2025

[pastanest]

Spencer Reid x she/her!reader

A/N: you’re used to me disappearing for months but I hope by now you can trust that I’ll always come back x

warnings: reader is a victim of misogyny (aren’t we all)

In A World Of Boys

Doctor Spencer Reid. His name alone sends your heart thrumming as the elevator ascends, your shoes tapping against the metal ground with excitement and impatience in equal measure. It isn’t unusual for a case to have called the team in at the crack of dawn, but that was not something you ever imagined you’d actively look forward to. Then again, you couldn’t have counted on the sunrise casting a soft pink, almost heavenly glow to illuminate the office that seemed to converge around one man in particular the moment you saw him.

He approaches you with a warm smile, one mug held to his lips and another held in an outstretched hand, for you. Made just the way you liked it; not that you ever verbalized such details, someone’s eidetic memory just thought to pay attention to how you prepared your hot drinks until it was a task that could be taken off your hands entirely.

“Good morning.” Spencer greets you, a playful lilt in his voice at just how early this morning is.

“Morning, and cheers.” You share a light chuckle as you clink your mugs together in a gesture of soft comradery, your gazes locking as you take a simultaneous sip.

Such a thing is officially a symbol of trust, but the look in Spencer’s eyes is enough to hold you still if the ground was ripped out from beneath you. His curls are a little disheveled, as always, and his tie is as crooked as ever. Ruggedly handsome would be an accurate description, if you didn’t know Spencer better than that, know him to be so much gentler than such a roughened description. And your heart sings for him.

A tradition you’ve come to appreciate amongst the BAU during longer flights is sharing stories of their shared pasts. The tales are typically hilarious at the expense of one team member or another, but it is all in jest, and as the newest member of the team, you love hearing about their funniest moments from before you had known the people who have welcomed you so openly.

“Oh, we have to talk about the pool incident! What was her name, Spence?” JJ asks with a mischievous glint in her eye, the team’s attention pulled entirely to Spencer.

You can’t withhold the shocked expression on your face, you’ve not heard of any previous romantic encounters in Spencer’s life; this should be interesting.

“It was Lila, wasn’t it? C’mon, Spence, it’s been years, you can tell us now!” JJ presses, the rest of the team egging her on, but you stay quiet, your interest piqued to the extent that you can’t utter a word.

“Lila was an admirably strong woman, but as much as I hate to disappoint, there’s really nothing more to tell.” Spencer shrugs, smile unreadable.

In his former years, such a question would have flustered him, but not anymore. His answer is enough to fluster you, however. A man who doesn’t kiss and tell, and is so quietly firm in such a resolve, is one to keep in mind.

As if to make matters worse, Spencer then rises from his seat on the jet and strolls past you, making the effort to lean away from you - in case any sudden turbulence should unsteady him, he won’t risk even nudging you - on his journey to the galley. And the way he walks, the delicate trail of his cologne lingering in his wake when he passes your seat, is dizzying.

This is a moment that you know you will never forget, and you can’t help envying the fact that Spencer can so effortlessly recall every moment spent with you in the depths of eidetic memory. It’s almost ritualistic, how you lie in bed every night and replay your most treasured moments with Spencer, to send yourself to a peaceful sleep in which you hope to dream of him. Part of you wonders if he ever replays moments with you in his mind, with more clarity than you can ever hope to possess.

Little do you know, you are his favorite film.

On nights when insomnia strikes, you are the guaranteed remedy. When it is for you, Spencer’s eidetic memory is nothing short of a gift. He has a library dedicated to you, containing every look in your eyes, every micro-expression, every variation of your laugh, your smile, every word you have ever said in his presence. Sometimes, it takes him hours to decide which memory of you he’ll replay before he allows himself to sleep.

Neither of you are aware of how many nights you have spent lying awake in the same hours, focussing on the very same memories. While you absentmindedly play with the little flower charm on the necklace that Spencer bought you for your birthday, his gaze will drift to the special edition of Frankenstein that you bought him, for no reason other than it made you think of him. Of course, Spencer already had a copy, but the one from you lives on his bedside table. He had the edition completely memorized in a matter of minutes, but he has devoted more time to rereading that book than he has any other, because you gifted it to him. Sometimes, Spencer traces the spine and wonders where you’d held it before gifting it to him; if that will be as close as he ever comes to the blessing of one day holding your hand.

One of your most vivid memories with Spencer - and one that you frequently use to fall asleep with a smile on your face - first came to be during your second week working with the team. You didn’t know Spencer very well then, but you knew enough to be besotted by him; you knew that from the moment his eyes first met yours. A case required an undercover mission centered around you, as the only member of the team to fit the unsub’s type. While you could have handled the mission on your own, Spencer insisted that he be placed undercover inside the club you were set to enter, posing as a member of the public, to ensure you had immediate backup if you needed it. The undercover mission itself went without a hitch, though Spencer spent the duration of it trying his very best not to crush the glass he pretended to nurse in his hand as he watched the unsub flirt with you mercilessly, and without an ounce of respect. When the unsub was arrested and dragged out of the bar, you and Spencer followed, and he went to one of the government-issued vehicles to grab his FBI jacket for you while advising you to stand in the doorway and wait. He didn’t want you getting cold in your pretty dress, but that was a detail he kept to himself.

As you stood in the doorway, leaning against a wall with your arms crossed over your chest, the wind caught the thigh-high slit in your dress, exposing the skin of your thigh only momentarily, but it was enough for some sleazy, drunk middle-aged man to leer out you.

“Sexy lady!” He had called out to you in a slurred voice, opening his arms to you, beer bottle in hand.

And, as every woman has learnt to do, you gave him your best, tight lipped, polite smile.

“Thanks, but no thanks.” You answered as evenly as you could.

In an instant, the sleaze’s smirk was gone, replaced with an almost disgusted frown.

“Stupid slut.” He muttered, so quietly you almost didn’t hear him, but in the time it took for your eyes to widen, Spencer had pinned the man’s hands behind his back and sent the beer bottle shattering on the ground - collateral damage from shoving the sleaze into the nearest wall.

“You are under arrest for drunk and disorderly behaviour, as well as sexual harassment, and absolutely any other charge I can find when I dig up every morsel of your existence.” Spencer’s words were eerily quiet, but they were sharper than any you’d ever heard, dripping with a venom you didn’t imagine he was capable of possessing then.

After tossing the drunk misogynist into the back of one of the police cars still on the scene from your undercover mission, Spencer walked over to you and draped his FBI jacket over your shoulders, tugging it around you with a gentleness that completely juxtaposed what you had just witnessed.

“I’m sorry.” He’d said quietly, warranting a confused frown from you, that urged him to elaborate. “I’m sorry that you were treated in such an abhorrent way, and that you had to see me like that.”

Your frown melted into an adoring smile. “Spencer, you’ve got nothing to apologize for. Thank you for defending me from a man that I doubt realizes he even did anything wrong. While he might be the scum of the earth, you-” You gently poked his chest through his shirt, “-are a gentleman.”

Spencer had thought then that his heart couldn’t possibly soar higher than that, but oh, how wrong he had been.

Coincidentally, one of Spencer’s favorite memories of you is one you can recall very little of. It was the only occasion Spencer had politely declined the team’s invitation to a local bar for drinks in an evening. He had been rereading the copy of Frankenstein you’d bought him, comfortably nestled on his couch with a lingering smile as he sought pieces of you in between the lines of text, when his phone rang.

Seeing your name, Spencer picked up in a microsecond.

“(Y/N)? Is everything alright?” His mind was immediately reeling. Had something happened? Were you safe?

A sniffle came through the phone, and his heart shattered.

“Jus’ so lonely.” Your voice was slurred by the alcohol you’d consumed, but in the sweetest way. Your words did little to ease the anxiety swirling in Spencer’s mind, because every time he had seen you drink, you had been the giggliest mess he’d ever known; you had never been the stereotypical sad-drunk, as far as he knew.

“Lonely? Aren’t you at the bar with the team?” He questioned, because he could hear other voices in the background of the call and alarm bells were ringing. Had the rest of the team left? Or, worse, had you drunkenly wandered off somewhere and gotten lost? He was already putting his shoes on and grabbing a jacket.

“Yeah, but they’re not you.” There was an urgency and an aching sadness to your words, Spencer could hear it even through the distortion of a phone call, and your words stumped him. He blinked once, then twice, before replying.

“Well, no, they aren’t me.”

He felt that had been an obvious distinction, but perhaps you needed him to make that clear in your drunken state.

An equally dramatic and exasperated sigh came through the phone. “I know that, and that’s why I’m sad. I miss you!”

Spencer was out of his apartment door in record time, racing down the stairs until he reached the parking lot beneath his building.

“You miss me? Really?” He had asked you because he wanted to hear you say it again, he had to, the smile on his face growing exponentially.

“Lots.” Your voice broke on that one word, and it was enough for Spencer to risk several speeding tickets to reach you in a time he would never, ever tell you, because you’d lecture him about road safety. Perhaps someday he will tell you, just to hear you speak to him for a prolonged period of time, even if it’s a lecture at the expense of his reckless adoration.

By the time Spencer arrived at the bar, you were a blubbering mess in Rossi’s arms. It was only when you were transferred to Spencer’s arms that your drunk mind registered his presence, and the sheer joy on your face despite your tears was something he knew would be his only remaining memory if he lost everything else in some freak accident. Amidst your incoherent mumblings of compliments and praises towards Spencer - each and every one under lock and key in his heart ever since - he carried you back to his car and drove you home with your body wrapped almost entirely around his arm from where you sat in the passenger seat of his car. Once at your house, he carried you to the door bridal style, lowering you temporarily so that you could clumsily unlock your front door -not wanting to eradicate your independence entirely- before he picked you back up again and carried you inside, all the way to your bed. And there, he laid you down, slipped your shoes off, tucked you into bed, and wiped your face with your skincare products efficiently, from what you’d told him of your nightly routine. He fetched you a glass of water and sat you up to drink the whole thing, then refilled it and set it on your bedside table - in case you woke up thirsty in the night, or if you needed it first thing in the morning. Lying you back down, he left a little kiss on your forehead, and due to your eyes being closed, he assumed you were already falling asleep, until you reached for his hand when he tried to go.

“Stay.” You pleaded in a barely-conscious and far-from-sober tone.

Spencer smiled at you like you were the stars in the sky.

“Alright.” He almost whispered, taking a seat on the edge of your bed, while you laid under your covers, practically curled around where he sat.

With one of his hands on your shoulder, Spencer sat with you, spelling out words you’d never register on the back of your shoulder blade with his thumb and index finger.

So beautiful.

Everything.

To be yours.

And as his thumb curved the last letter “s” on the back of your hand, Spencer heard your breathing settle to a rate that told him you were dreaming. Very slowly, he tucked you under the bedcovers, stood himself up, and left, but not before leaving you with a message he intended for you to comprehend later. You had not consented to Spencer staying the night with you, and you were in no position to give that consent in your state, but you had asked him to stay, so he stayed until you wouldn’t know that he’d gone.

The next morning, you awoke to a small, handwritten note on your bedside table that read:

Good morning, angel. Please drink some water and let me know you survived drinking enough alcohol to fill the Hoover Dam (not literally, that’s not biologically possible).

-Spencer x

It was enough to make you laugh, and despite your immediate pounding headache, you reached for your phone.

You: hahaha, very funny. thank you so much for last night, I’m sorry for the mess ❤️

And, to your accustomed surprise, Spencer started typing back immediately.

Spencer: I’m glad that you survived to enjoy my joke. You are always welcome, and you have nothing to apologize for.

You went to set your phone down on your bedside table again, when it lit up with another text.

Spencer: ❤️

Surviving the alcohol you consumed was nothing compared to the way you had to fight for your life upon receiving that.

That morning, when you were called into the office for a case, you’d expected to be greeted with an onslaught of teasing from your coworkers, but Spencer had enough time before you arrived to plead with the rest of the team not to embarrass you. Surprisingly, they had agreed, but on one condition: Spencer had to do something about his workplace crush, because the rest of the team were losing their patience with the tension between you. To save you the embarrassment, Spencer sacrificed his own dignity in agreeing to that, and it’s been hanging over his head ever since.

The clouds beneath the jet serve as an interesting background to your thoughts, your headphones blocking out any and all sound beyond your music. You are away in your own little world, save for the part of your brain that is acutely aware of your elbow touching Spencer’s with the only barrier being your jacket and his. Does he spend as much time dwelling on these things? Does he ever wonder, like you do, that this connection between you could amount to something else, something more, if either of you were willing to take the risk? The risk is, in itself, a great one. While the risks surrounding any love in general are an obvious factor, in your shared field of work, that is exacerbated. Neither of you can explicitly trust that you would be able to act professionally if the other was harmed in any way, and you could bear witness to any degree of harm against the other while in the field. If that wasn’t enough, should it not work out, you would have no choice but to leave your dream job to work and live elsewhere, uprooting the life you’ve built here in its entirety; while Spencer would stay with the family he has worked with for so many years, the building would never feel the same to him without you in it. Whoever took your desk after you, he would be unable to withhold a small amount of resentment towards - he would never act on it, but he would feel it. And the guilt of being with him having caused you to have to restart your life somewhere else? That is a weight he is terrified of carrying. So many have faced worse fates as a result of getting close to Spencer, but when it comes to you, he cannot think of any worse than that, or his chest will start to hurt.

Perhaps this case is the perfect opportunity, he wonders to himself while a female cop converses with him, barely occupying even half of Spencer’s brain as he focuses on thoughts of you.

“I think it’s great you guys have come down here to help us!” The local cop grins up at Spencer.

A case in Vegas, where he could use some time once the case is closed to show you some of his favorite places. You’d like that, he thinks.

“Thank you, we’re always happy to help when requested.” Spencer answers casually.

But from the little office you’re working in, you can see the way that local cop is ogling at Spencer, and you feel a twinge of jealousy. It was only a few minutes ago you were looking at the hazel in his eyes up close in the same way she currently is, but you like to think you’re a little less obvious than that. You are not.

“Some of these guys, you can tell they don’t know what they’re doing, but you definitely do, don’t you? I’ve heard the rest of your team calling you a genius!” The local cop babbles to Spencer, eyes like an animal in heat.

Perhaps a tour of the casino’s? But a certain card-counting ability resulting in a certain state-wide ban would make that somewhat difficult. That probably wouldn’t be a very good date. Would it be a date? Spencer wonders, before he shrugs, feeling a little awkward.

“I don’t believe intelligence can be accurately quantified given its diversity in both person and circumstance, but I appreciate your faith in the BAU, who I’d better get back to. Thanks.” With that, he steps away from the officer, thinking nothing of the conversation given that his focus had been elsewhere for the duration of it.

You, however, cannot let it go. To your detriment, you assume a seasoned profiler like Spencer can read flirtatious intent a mile off (his unreliable grasp on social cues begs to differ) and from a distance, it didn’t look to you that he outright rejected the advances of another woman (his unreliable grasp on social cues left him unaware there were even advances to reject), and that left you feeling…upset. You had thought your relationship with Spencer to be special, that he didn’t reject the warm, sweet tension between the two of you because he liked you, specifically, but if he didn’t reject the flirtations of another woman, are you just a more regular occurrence of what she offered him?

Little do you know, if Spencer heard your thoughts suggest he only merely “liked” you, he may very well go into cardiac arrest under the pressure of the weight to correct you, adamantly. There is not a string of words in his vocabulary to adequately describe what he feels for you, and to imply “like” conveys them is salt in the wound you cause in his heart for each minute you’re not his.

Naturally, for the rest of the day you are accompanied by a cloud hanging over your head to consistently remind you of that very same fact - that you are not Spencer’s. It is hardly surprising you do everything in your power to avoid him, offering to assist every member of the team with whatever task they’re doing to take you out of his reach and prevent him from talking to you. Of course, you know he’ll notice, and you’ll apologize when you’ve recovered enough to not cry at the thought of him, but for tonight are destined to bury yourself in hotel bedcovers that you partially hope suffocate you into unconsciousness to save you further torment.

Most unfortunately for you, only an hour into your tears, there is a soft knock at your hotel room door. By now, you are beyond the point of being able to hide the extent to which you have already cried, so you formulate a number of excuses pertaining to allergies or hormones on your way to the door. All of those lies evaporate on opening your door to find Spencer standing there, looking down at you with pleading eyes that quite frankly make you want to launch yourself from your hotel room window.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, (Y/N), I just came by to-“ His eyes widen. “You’ve been crying.”

It’s not a question; Spencer knows you well enough to not need to doubt himself when he reads your physical tells.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it. Did you need something?” You brush off his concern, hoping to distract him with whatever his original reason for coming here was - it wouldn’t be the first time Spencer materialized in your presence to ask your opinion of something obscure or a social situation he was uncertain of because he felt comfortable enough to come to you about it, you just wanted to get this over with so that you could return to your crying pit.

“I- what? Don’t worry about it? You’ve been crying, of course I’ll worry about that! Extensively!” Spencer exclaims, his voice rising in pitch slightly with his distress, before he clears his throat. “I came by to check on you because your behavior today confused me, and it appears I was right to be concerned.” Seeing the apprehension on your face, Spencer is quick to amend the question he was going to ask. “If you’d prefer not to talk about it, I understand and won’t pressure you, but please don’t force yourself to suffer alone if you can help it. There’s nothing I’d rather listen to than you.”

The sincerity in Spencer’s words brings fresh tears to your eyes, and it’s physically painful to look away from him and stare at the doorframe.

“It’s nothing, Spencer, just getting in my head about things that-“ You begin, and in a moment that is completely unlike his usually overly-polite self, he interrupts you.

“Is it something I did?” He asks, his eyes widening with the same plea as before.

Spencer’s question surprises you so much that you hesitate to answer him, only for a second before your lips part again, but your delay is enough of an answer to him.

“(Y/N), please tell me what I did so that I can fix this. I don’t understand- I’ve already gone over our every interaction over the past 48 hours, 30 times each, and I’m not smart enough to have been unable to determine a conclusion on my own. Please tell me.” Spencer begs, his voice hoarse with the weight of having hurt your feelings without ever intending to.

Knowing he isn’t going to forgive himself without an explanation and that he’ll see through any lie you give him now, you are left without a choice.

“That cop you spoke to today, was she flirting with you?” The words fall from your lips freely, and Spencer blinks.

Once, twice, then a third time.

“Which…female officer? In the past 8 hours I have spoken to three.” He asks so carefully, like he’s walking on a rooftop made entirely of eggshells.

You have to resist rolling your eyes, because you know Spencer isn’t being clueless on purpose, but it doesn’t ease your pain.

“Just after midday, the one who was looking up at you like you were the best thing she’d seen all day.” Now, you can’t resist rolling your eyes; an involuntary reaction that makes Spencer frown in confusion.

“The conversation consisted of her thanking us for assisting them with the case and enquiring as to whether I’m a genius- to which I said I don’t think intelligence can be accurately quantified, and that was it.” Spencer has never been more confused in his entire life. He feels there is something obvious staring him right in his face and he is mortified at being completely blind to it, but he is treading very carefully over this invisible minefield.

“She was flirting with you, Spencer, didn’t you see the way she was looking at you?” Trying to read his expression and only finding confusion is not helping.

“I wasn’t really looking at her.” Spencer answers truthfully, because his eyes had been glazed over as he thought of places he could show you while in Vegas; where posed the highest probability of a successful date, should you accept the offer he had every intention of presenting you with.

“You didn’t notice…” You murmur, your heart sinking in your chest.

You had been upset that Spencer hadn’t rejected the advances of another woman under the presumption he understood her advances, but if he truly did not when she was being so obvious, he most likely doesn’t notice yours, either. He hasn’t been reciprocating the energy you thought was between you for that reason, he’s just been continuing the conversation without a clue. A lump forms in your thought.

Meanwhile, Spencer is even more confused.

“I’m not certain I understand what the issue is. Was it the flirting? Or the fact I didn’t register it? Should I have?” He is lost and in desperate need of guidance. As soon as he knows what he’s done to upset you, he’ll beg on his knees for your forgiveness, but at this time he is still unable to determine the problem. If you had not realized he didn’t acknowledge the flirting until now, that couldn’t be the issue, but if the issue was simply that he’d been flirted with, you now knowing he wasn’t aware of it would have fixed that - so why do you look more upset? This just in: Doctor Spencer Reid loathes social cues.

“Do you notice when anyone flirts with you?” Answering his question with your own question is only sending him further into a spiral.

You are the only person he ever wishes would flirt with him, but Spencer is absolutely convinced you never would. If he answers “no” to your rephrased version of the same question you had just asked him, that appears to be the answer you are assuming to be true which is making you look sadder. He does not understand this at all.

“How do I answer that in a way that won’t upset you further…” Spencer frowns, focussing very hard on your every micro-expression, trying to use your face as a cheat sheet.

“I don’t think you can, Spencer. Thanks for coming to check on me. Goodnight.” You give him a weak smile and go to close your hotel room door, but Spencer places a palm against the door with an expression of alarm.

“Please-“ He starts, then stops himself when you meet his eyes, his tone softening. “Talk to me.”

You take a deep breath and decide to bite the bullet. What do you have to lose? Your heart’s already been hit with every weapon of mass destruction you can think of.

“I thought- I thought you knew there was- it wasn’t flirting, but there’s been something between us that I thought you knew as well as I did. Stupidly, I thought you were reciprocating it, but if you couldn’t tell that cop was flirting with you, there’s no way you knew…” Your weak smile wavers. “Like I said, just getting in my head over things. Doesn’t matter. You haven’t done anything wrong. Night-“

Once again unexpectedly, Spencer interrupts you, but this time for a very different reason.

“I need to sit down.”

It’s only then you realize how suddenly pale he’s become. Paler than you’ve ever seen him, in fact. Your eyes widen, and you grab Spencer’s forearms, guiding him into your hotel room and over to the armchair in the corner of the room, the door clicking shut behind you while Spencer stumbles with the most shell shocked look in his eyes.

“Spencer, what’s going on? Are you alright?” You ask him worriedly.

“Indeterminable.” Spencer answers in a distant voice.

“Okay, okay, uh-“ You flit from him to the sink in your hotel room to grab Spencer a glass of water, that you’re quick to bring to him. “Here.”

His eyes don’t even focus on you or the glass, but he takes it from your hand and gulps it down. Spencer makes the mistake of glancing at you mid-sip, and starts choking, resulting in you patting his back.

“Something between us…” He coughs out. “You said, something between us. What.”

Your eyebrows furrow, and your face feels hot.

“You know, mutual pining. Like in movies.” You feel very awkward having to explain that.

“Books, first.” Spencer corrects you quietly, his breathing finally steadying.

“Yeah, okay, books first.” You can’t help chuckling lightly and taking the empty glass back over to the sink, then returning to Spencer, but stopping in your tracks when you find him now standing instead of sitting in the armchair.

“A study has shown that on average it takes men 88 days to fall in love, while it takes women 134 days. Contrary to what most believe of me, I don’t believe every aspect of love can be reduced to facts and statistics, but in moments of self-doubt I fall back on what I know. I knew what I knew of how I felt about you on the day we met, but I waited 88 days to be certain, and then it was only logical I waited 134 days to give you the chance to develop even the vaguest pleasant feeling towards me.” He takes a breath. “It has only been 120 days; I had not yet decided how I was going to broach this topic with you, and the question remains as to whether I’ve waited long enough for you to be as certain as I am. If the answer is anything other than yes, I promise, I’ll wait as many days as it takes, even if it’s a number I can’t reach.” Spencer’s voice is that of a man swearing an oath he has no doubt he’ll live to honor in every sense, and you are certain your heart has stopped beating.

You stare at him with wide eyes, feeling like time has frozen around you, the only sounds being your breathing to fill the suffocating silence of your hotel room. A microexpression of terror flickers across Spencer’s face, and you are brought back to yourself in an instant.

“I wish you’d asked me 120 days ago.” You say breathlessly.

“I didn’t ask anything.” Yet, Spencer adds internally, his heart pounding.

“But you’re going to.” You clarify softly, and Spencer nods, so you nod back at him.

“Would…” Spencer clears his throat. “Would you allow me the honor of taking you on a date? With me? Together? Here? Or anywhere- anywhere we can realistically travel to, that is-“ As he rambles and gets ahead of himself, your expression of shock evolves into a smile, and it’s your turn to interrupt him.

“Yes. Anywhere, anytime. Yes.” You answer.

There’s a beat of silence as Spencer catches his breath.

“Now?” He dares to whisper, and you’re grinning, glancing between him, and the provisions of a TV, bed and phone that this hotel room provides.

“Would you be opposed to a first date of takeout and shitty hotel room cable?” You offer playfully.

A bashful smile curls at the corner of Spencer’s mouth as he smiles back at you.

“Anything with you.” He says, but is quick to amend his own words. “Provided it’s an entirely safe scenario, obviously.”

That makes you snicker. “Obviously.”

Spencer looks between you and the bed, nervous of how to proceed. You make the first move, taking a step towards the bed, and Spencer offers you his hand - somewhat needlessly, but if he ever misses an instant in which he can deliver a gentlemanly action upon you, he would suggest that’s the instant you shoot him dead - to assist you onto the mattress before he follows suit and sits down beside you, kicking off his shoes.

“I’m completely underdressed for our first date, sorry.” You joke, looking between your pajamas and Spencer’s suit.

“You’re beautiful.” Is all he says, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it as he gazes down at you with the most gentle smile.

You reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers, and Spencer doesn’t hesitate to lift them to his lips to kiss each of your knuckles tenderly.

“Takeout?” He murmurs against your skin, and for a second you’re lost to the daze of his kisses that you wonder if he’s asking whether the act of them has taken you out (to which you’d answer with a resounding yes), but remembering the nature of your date, you nod wordlessly.

Spencer smirks against your knuckles.

“I meant, what kind of takeout?” He amends, and your face feels hot again.

“Anything at all.” Is all you can think to respond, because to be completely honest, you do not care what you eat tonight.

Spencer chuckles quietly at that, keeping his hand holding yours while his other hand reaches for the hotel room phone, to dial for reception and request their recommendations for the best local takeout places.

“What’s so funny?” You ask him, but you’re smiling regardless of not yet knowing, just seeing him laugh while his thumb caresses your knuckles.

“I was just thinking, ‘Anything at all’ is exactly what I’ve thought every time I’ve looked at you.” Spencer muses as he brings the phone to his ear.

Anything at all to make you smile again, anything at all from you, if you asked he’d do or be anything at all for you.

And much like the last time, you don’t even realize he’s spelling out words against your skin with the caress of his thumb. This time, though, it’s just one phrase, repeated.

To be yours.

To be yours.

To be yours.

[femsolid]

My Video Games Recommendations Masterpost

The same criteria as before -> has to have a female lead and little to no misogyny

This Bed We Made Genre: Thriller, Puzzles, Narrative Game, Multiple Choices Story: A hotel housekeeper uncovers the secrets of some of her strange guests. Topics: Homophobia, Women's rights in the 50s, Mental Health, Classism Bonus: Lesbians!

Lost In Random Genre: Whimsy, Adventure Story: In a magical world where the population is divided by social class decided on the roll of a dice, a girl embarks on a journey to reunite with her sister who was sent to live in the upper class. Topics: Sisterhood, Fairy Tales, Classism, Humour Bonus: It's like playing a Tim Burton movie

Little Goody Two Shoes Genre: Horror, Romance, Narrative Game, Multiple Choices Story: To get out of poverty, Elise makes a deal with the devil (literally) Topics: Religion, Witch Hunting, Fairy Tales, European Folklore, Paganism Bonus: The main character is a lesbian. Sometimes, the characters break into songs like a musical.

Hellblade: Senua's Sacrifice Genre: Psychological Horror Story: Senua, a young Nordic woman who suffers from schizophrenia, is seeking an audience with the Goddess Hela. Topics: Schizophrenia, Anxiety, Paranoia, Celtic Mythology, Witch Hunting, Marginalisation, Grief Bonus: Best acting you'll ever find in a game

Haven Genre: Exploration, Resource Collecting, Romance Story: Yu and Kay are on the run and have taken refuge on a supposed deserted planet so they can be together. Topics: Forbidden love, Science, Intimacy, Humour Bonus: Can be played as a lesbian, straight or gay couple (the lesbian couple has the best voice acting)

Strange Horticulture Genre: Thriller, Puzzles Story: As the owner of a flower shop, you must find the right magical plants for your customers and discover who is the murderer (yes, there's also a murderer) Topics: Witchcraft, Cults, Mystery Bonus: You can pet the cat. It's point and click so you can play it on your laptop while chilling in bed (that's what I did, it's super cosy)

Gylt Genre: Adventure, Light Horror Story: A little girl is looking for her cousin who disappeared after being bullied and she discovers a dimension filled with monsters. Topics: Bullying Bonus: Makes you feel like you're in an animated movie

Sayonara Wild Heart Genre: Fast paced rhythmic action Story: A broken hearted woman faces the women in her life in a colourful and retro looking world Topics: Music, Mental Health, Romance, Self Discovery, Psychedelic Bonus: Gorgeous soundtrack

A Plague Tale Innocence & A Plague Tale Requiem Genre: Drama, Adventure Story: A girl must survive and protect her little brother while being hunted down by the inquisition, a cult and facing a plague of rats. Topics: Trauma, Childhood, Alchemy, Medieval, France, Death, Sacrifice Bonus: Excellent voice acting in french!

Shadow of The Tomb Raider Genre: Action, Adventure, Puzzles Story: Lara Croft explores Peruvian mythology in search of a magical artefact. Topics: Mythology, Remorse, Friendship Bonus: The Amazon forest! You can pick your outfits. And you can kill lots of men.

[beifong-brainrot]

One thing I love about tlok more as I age, is that it actively veers away from pitting women against each other.

While atla wasn't awful on this front, Toph and Katara's arguments often took on the flavour of Toph talking down to Katara for her percieved feminine qualities. Pairing this with Toph's insults towards male characters, specifically Aang, often having an emascualting "Don't be such a girl" type of vibe, it paints a good picture of Toph's strained relationship with femininity, and other girls, most likely due to her past, both in her family and in the ring. Katara and Toph's tale in Ba Sing Se was a nice step away from that rule, but the Runaway sorta circled back towards this argument. As much as Toph seems to secretly enjoy "feminine expression" she will still talk down to it in public.

But we can talk about Toph's internalised misogyny later. We see the phenomenon of women tearing each other down elsewhere in atla too, especially in the relations of the Fire Nation girls, like in how Mai and Azula lash out at Ty Lee in the Beach.

And I'm not saying it's bad that atla portrayed these interactions, they're a part of life and many of us are trained to talk down to other fem folks.

But it is so refreshing to see tlok subvert that trope in B1. For all the complaining about the love triangle, I really love the arc it gives Korra, who has probably barely interacted with girls her age.

When she first meets Asami, she's a little intimidated, but falls a little into that 'not like other girls' streak.

With Korra falling into more of a 'tomboy' category, similarly to Toph, it wouldn't be very unexpected for her to be portrayed with a more tumultuous relationship to femininity and people we percive as fitting into it better. This is something a lot of girl, women and fem folks go through irl.

Korra: [To Asami as she swims over to her; somewhat dismayed.] So, what do you have planned for us today? Let me guess, shopping, makeovers ...

We see that Korra has a set idea of what Asami is like based on her presentation and mannerisms, and doesn't think she can find a common language with her. But this expectation is quickly subverted when Korra and Asami race together and we see that they do get along very well.

And I like that Korra not only apologises for writing Asami off, but also attempts to partake in something feminine, makeup, showing that she's become more open to finding a 'common language' with girliness, something she previously saw as alien.

Korra: I gotta admit, I had you pegged wrong. I thought you were kind of ... prissy. [Raises hand; quickly.] Eh-No offense!

And throughout the show, although there is plenty of drama, Asami and Korra stay on relatively good terms, which is a relief. A lot of shows tend to stoke drama between its female leads, but Korra and Asami stay friendly, and more, throughout the show.

Korra: [Chuckles in relief.] Well, whatever happened with Mako, I'm glad it hasn't come between us. I've never had a girlfriend to hang out with and talk to before, except for Naga. This is nice.

And it's not just Korra and Asami's relationship that fosters an air of women supporting each other. Tlok shows us many women of different backgrounds helping each other become stronger, encouraging them to realise their potential, comforting each other in dark times and so forth. I also think it's nice to see so many older women who support and encourage younger women, as atla did not deliver on that front.

And I know it feels like such a low bar, but I think it's so important to highlight in shows, especially shows starring women and female characters.

[changbunnies]

Evermore (18+)

♡ Pairing: Beast!Changbin x fem!Reader

♡ Genre: beauty and the beast inspired fantasy au, monster/human relationship, some angst, fluff, eventual smut, mutual pining, slow burnish?

♡ Word Count: 15.1k

♡ Summary: Desperate to flee an arranged marriage, you take your chances fleeing into the woods. The home of countless myths and legends, many in your village believe the forest to be enchanted, with all manner of dangerous creatures lurking within. You never took stock in such tales, much less in that of the most feared of them all– “The Beast.” But when you are saved from a pack of wolves by The Beast himself, you quickly realize that there is more truth to the fables you grew up on than you ever believed. 

♡ Warnings: mention of an arranged marriage for reader, referenced misogyny, risk of death / near death experience, mild blood and injury, bin's appearance as the beast is based on minotaurs because i think it's sexy!, his height is never stated but i pictured him as ~10 feet tall while writing so :)

♡ Smut Warnings: monster fucking but make it Soft and Sweet,  size difference, size kink, bin is touch-starved and feral for reader (but feral in a way that is somehow still soft?), handjob, oral (m + f rec), cum eating

♡ Notes: happy very late birthday to my sweet binnie <3 i wanted to get this out on his birthday but my life has been a mess tbh lmao but i'm back now and here's to loving changbin with my whole heart <3

♡ Disclaimer: please read responsibly, and remember that this work is fiction and meant strictly for imaginative fun. the idols used in fics are more accurately faceclaims and personality outlines for imaginary characters, and should not be interpreted as factual representations of existing people.

There were many things in your life you were willing to sacrifice for the sake of family.

Time, if they were in need or want of company. Money, whatever little you had, if they were in need of something they couldn't afford on their own. Your health, if they were sick and needed caring, even if giving them aid brought their illness upon you.

But the one thing you could not bring yourself to do was marry that terrible man.

They wanted you to marry a local hunter with some wealth, one who could provide for you and your family with his talents. He wasn't unpleasant to look at, and admittedly his wealth had appeal to families suffering from poverty, but you just couldn't get past his dreadful personality.

He was insufferably arrogant in his pride, and truly awful in his views towards women. He didn't want a wife– he wanted a maid; one he could lie with and have bear his children. His desire for such was clear every time you spoke with him.

You knew that he'd never see you as a partner, or an equal, or even love you. In his eyes, you were nary more than a pretty object for him to do with as he pleased. You didn't want that to be your life, refused to be a glorified servant to such a horrid person.

And so, in the dead of night on the eve of your wedding, you made your escape. Tiptoeing through your house as quietly and carefully as you could, you tucked away what little belongings you had and food your family could spare into a basket, and fled into the woods surrounding your village.

You veered off the beaten path, hoping that if you fled into the dense heart of the forest no one would risk trying to find you. Your village believed the woods to be inhabited by dangerous creatures– all manner of fae and magical beasts that would not hesitate to bring harm to lost humans.

All who left the village stuck strictly to the dirt paved roads, and even hunters didn't wander too far inside the woods. You didn't fear the creatures of fable, to be honest; you didn't even believe they existed. You were an avid reader, and enjoyed your share of fairy tales; you just found it hard to believe such creatures existed beyond the page.

It was risky and dangerous to flee into the woods at night, but not because of the stories of magic beasts and trickster fae; such things were the machinations of imaginative writers, and nothing more. Those who believed in them were simply overly superstitious, fearful of what could be instead of what is.

What you were scared of were the tangible, real threats that you knew very well existed. Wild animals, strange men, violent hunters– those were the things lurking in the woods that people should really be scared of; not silly stories of fairies who lure unsuspecting villagers deeper into the forest.

Regardless of what is real and what isn't, one thing is for certain– the forest is frightening to navigate at night. To ensure you remained undetected and hard to track, you forwent bringing a lantern with you, and having only the moonlight to guide you is both challenging and unnerving.

Even the smallest of noises puts you on edge, but you refuse to stop moving onward. You want to put as much distance between you and the village as you can before your family rises in the morning and notices you missing.

While you doubt many will be willing to follow your trail once they've put together that you've fled off the road and deep into the woods, you can't deny the possibility that someone may wish to try. Especially your arranged husband considering what a skilled hunter and tracker he is.

Still, you do need some rest– you've been walking through the densest parts of the forest for over an hour now, and you're more than a little tired; especially since you only got a few hours of sleep before setting off.

Just a short pause should be acceptable; you can rest against a tree, rummage through your basket for some of the food you tucked away to replenish your energy while giving your legs and feet the break they need.

It's nearly impossible to see inside your basket, so you simply feel for the food you want with your hand. It doesn't take you long to find the loaf of bread you packed inside, and you carefully tear off a piece to eat. You take a bite, and then another, but before you can take a third you hear a noise that makes you freeze.

The snapping of a branch, much louder than any previous forest sounds you heard, followed by a slight rustling of leaves. You look in the direction you heard the noise, met with the terrifying sight of a pair of glowing eyes looking straight at you.

Their low proximity to the ground tells you enough about the creature to make your blood run cold; and as it steps closer, and its silhouette becomes clearer, you realize what you thought was correct. It’s a wolf. And by the way it’s sizing you up, you can guess it’s hungry.

To make matters worse, it soon becomes clear it isn’t the only one as more glowing eyes emerge between the dark trees. You start running before you can even truly think, your body running purely on survival instinct, your basket dropped and forgotten behind you. The small amount of food inside is enough to draw the attention of some of them, but the rest ignore it to give chase.

You flee with all your strength, doing your best not to stumble and fall over protruding tree roots or your own feet. You keep your eyes forward as you do, worrying that looking over your shoulder to see the wolves close behind will only worsen your efforts to get away. 

Your lungs ache, your feet hurt, your dress torn in multiple places from snagging on branches– but still, you can’t stop running. The wolves are faster than you, they’ll catch you eventually, you know it; but the desperation and adrenaline coursing through your veins keeps you going beyond your limits. 

Your legs will give out before long, you'll falter and lose speed, it's inevitable; but you will yourself to keep going for as long as you can despite it. Realistically, your only hope for survival is the wolves losing interest before you grow too tired to continue. But is that even a possibility?

Maybe you should climb a tree? Can wolves climb? No, more importantly, can you? It’s over for you if you misstep or lose your strength during the climb up– falling would assuredly be the end of you. 

Still, maybe it’s worth the risk. You can’t run forever, and it’s unlikely the wolves will give up the chase– better to try and fail than to not try at all, right? If you are to face death tonight, you wish to do so knowing that you tried everything you possibly could to escape it.

You scan your surroundings the best you can whilst running, looking for a tree with a branch low enough to the ground for you to feasibly reach and start your climb. It's a difficult task, the images before you as you run a dark blur; but eventually, you spot a branch you think will be suitable enough.

As you turn your body to reach out for it, one of the wolves lunges towards you, salivating jaws snapping at you. The wolf narrowly misses, instead biting through your dress and tearing a significant chunk of the fabric off, exposing your leg up to your thigh.

You let out an involuntary shriek at the sound of the fabric ripping in the wolf’s jaws, the knowledge that it easily could’ve been your leg chilling you to the bone. You’re terrified, but you can’t let yourself freeze up– it missed, and now is your best chance to get up the tree before it can try to bite you again, or the other wolves catch up with you.

You grab the branch, placing your foot on the trunk of the tree as you ready yourself to pull up your weight, but as you do you’re met with a sound that sinks your heart to the very pit of your stomach. The branch isn’t as sturdy as you hoped; it creaks and splinters as you pull, and it quickly becomes clear that should you attempt to pull your entire weight up with it, it will snap entirely.

So this is it, you think as you turn around to meet the gaze of the snarling wolf. You take a small step back, and then another, until your back is against the tree you hoped to climb. More wolves soon approach, and you know you’re cornered now. There’s nowhere else for you to go, nothing else you can think to try; your fate is sealed.

You try to make peace with it in these last moments you have; this isn’t how you imagined your life would someday end, but you knew the risks when it came to entering the woods. While you hoped differently, this was always a possibility. You were desperate, and you made your choice; and though the outcome is unfortunate, you don’t want to regret making the decision that brought you here.

As the wolves begin to fully encircle you, there is a loud thump in the distance that draws their attention away from you. The sound rings out again, and then again, and as it draws closer, you realize the ground is shaking, a cacophony of twigs and dried leaves snapping with each thump. Certainly you’re mistaken, but it sounds reminiscent of walking..

That’s impossible, isn’t it? The creature in question would have to be massive to cause the earth to shake around you this much, and to snap so many branches with each step. That simply can’t be reality– there’s no way something that big lives in the forest; giants and the like are nothing but fairy tales!

Still, the thumps continue to grow louder as whatever is causing the sounds draw closer, and you’re certain that if you weren’t already against a tree, you would’ve fallen over from how intensely the ground shakes. Some wolves whimper and flee with their tails between their legs, while the more ferocious of the pack stand their ground against whatever it is that approaches.

Its shadowy silhouette soon becomes visible through the trees, the forest floor shaking violently as it comes more clearly into view. You can’t tell what it is, but it's big– impossibly so. It’s too dark to make out features, and its height obscures the moonlight that was previously shining on you. The only thing you can make out through the shadow is.. Horns?

Unconsciously, you suck in a breath; it’s The Beast, you realize as it takes another hulking step towards you and the ravenous wolves. Half man, half monster, violent and aggressive, with an appetite for any foolish enough to wander into its territory. With horns and hooves, it easily towers over even the tallest of human men.

He’s the creature those living in your village fear the most, the subject of many cautionary tales told to children, the conjurer of countless hunter's nightmares. You never believed it– and it is only now that you think maybe you should’ve. Maybe if you had, you wouldn’t have been so reckless in your escape from home.

You wonder which fate is worse; to be eaten by wolves, or eaten by The Beast. You wish you could run while the wolves are distracted, but your legs are frozen; whether from exhaustion or terror, you aren’t sure. Regardless, you stand there trembling and helpless, watching as it easily shoves the wolves aside.

They bite and scratch at The Beast, but it makes no discernable sound of pain. Seemingly unphased, it (or he?) reaches out for you, lifting you from the ground with ease, as if you weigh little more than a feather. You sob as it does, squeezing your eyes shut as you anticipate the pain to follow.

But the pain never comes. Slowly, you open one eye to peek at The Beast; it isn’t looking at you, but simply straight ahead as it resumes walking. He continues to shove off the wolves that attack, and as the animals realize it is futile to stop or slow him, they slowly but surely give up and retreat back to whence they came.

He must’ve made a turn before you opened your eyes, because the moon is no longer obscured by his size, and now illuminates the creature’s face clearly. His face is mostly that of a man’s, with the exception of his nose. 

His nose is a rich brown bespeckled in pink, you can just barely tell, and its shape reminds you of the cattle that farmers own back in your village. You notice that his ears are bovine too, and fluffy in appearance. Brown in color, you think, or maybe black; it’s too dark to tell for certain.

The Beast looks down at you as if it can feel you observing him, and when he does, you can feel his breath envelop your body. Its smell is.. pleasant? Surprisingly so; like mixed berries, with a hint of tea leaves.

You expected something worse, given the tales; shouldn’t he smell like blood, or flesh? Even when his breath leaves you, you don’t detect anything remotely foul coming from him. In fact, his body smells unexpectedly clean.

“Safe now,” The Beast speaks, and you blink in surprise. You hadn’t expected him to be capable of speech, though you suppose it makes sense if he’s half man. It sounds like he’s trying to whisper, but his voice still comes out quite loud regardless; consequence of his size, you imagine. 

But wait– does he mean you? You’re safe now? It occurs to you then that he’s holding you gently in his large arms. He isn’t squeezing you, constricting your movement, or trying to hurt you in any way; he’s simply carrying you. But to where? Though you’re apparently safe, there’s still a part of you that fears you won’t be for long.

It’s likely that as a half man he has some measure of human intelligence, and it’s very possible this apparent kindness is part of a ploy to make eating you easier. Get you to his den, build trust with you so you don’t run, all so he can relish in devouring you later.

Regardless, you’re too exhausted to do anything right now. Fatigue has settled in you now that the adrenaline has run its course through your body. You wouldn’t be able to run in this state, nor be able to fight him off– not that you think you could anyways, but especially not like this. 

Your body falls limp, your eyes heavy, weary. As you close them, all you can do is hope that The Beast doesn’t toy with you in the end. If you wake before he decides to eat you, your wish is that he makes your death swift and painless. That’s all you can ask for as you lose consciousness.

When you blink awake, the first thing you register is that you’re in a bed– a large one at that. It’s comfortable, plush, and warm, if not a tad dusty. The blanket that covers you too is warm, and you realize as you continue to blink away the grogginess that you’re staring up at a darkly colored canopy– a deep purple.

Turning your head to the left, you see stained glass windows with a design of red roses filtering in small amounts of sunlight through worn, tattered drapes. On the right side lies the door to the room you’re in, wooden and carved with a motif of roses identical in design to the one on the windows.

How did you get here? You stare back up at the canopy, trying to recall what happened last night. You were walking for what felt like ages, you got tired and stopped to eat.. Wolves found you, you were running, and then.. The Beast! 

You sit up quickly as the memory hits you, and take a panicked look around the room. He isn’t here, you realize after a moment, and your brows furrow in confusion. Did someone else stumble upon you and save you from The Beast? That must be it– there’s no way the dreaded beast of the forest brought you here.

The entire room is covered in a thin layer of dust, though it’s clear that someone made an effort to clean it recently. For your sake, you wonder? Removing the blanket and looking down, you can see you’re still in your torn clothes from the night before. You rise from the bed carefully, your legs still aching from the events prior to waking up here, and take another, more in depth look around the room you’re in.

It’s a rather empty room, with just a few pieces of furniture strewn about, and a fireplace sitting in the center of the wall opposite the bed you were sleeping in. In one of the corners of the room sits a large wardrobe, and next to it a chair with a dress laid atop it that you assume has been placed there for you to change into. 

You walk over to the chair and take the dress into your hands, and it does seem like it’ll fit well enough when you hold it up to your body. It feels to be made of silk, and while not necessarily lavish, it is much fancier than any of the dresses you could get back home.

You consider for a moment if it’s really okay to change into, but ultimately conclude that it was laid out with a purpose, and you should accept the kindness. Besides, you don’t think remaining in your now tattered dress would do you any good.

You change quickly despite the ache remaining in your limbs, and unsure of what exactly to do with your old clothes, you opt for placing them on the same chair you grabbed the new dress from. Afterwards, you step to the rose-carved door, and slowly pull it open to peek out.

You’re not sure if leaving the room is a good idea, but there’s no one in the hall to instruct you otherwise, and you’re admittedly starving. You hope you can find a kitchen, or the person who kindly saved you so you can thank them and ask them for a meal.

The door opens to a long hallway, lined with lattice windows and rusty knight statues. Wall sconces take up the spaces between the windows, though many are missing the candles meant to reside in them. 

Artwork lines the opposite wall, decorating the spaces between what you assume to be other bedroom doors. Some are askew and others perfectly straight, but all are old and worn. Landscapes, still life, portraits– regardless of type, the paint on each and every one has dulled and chipped, with a layer of dust atop them.

Continuing down the hall past the several closed doors, you come to a set of stairs leading down. Following it down leads to another long hall, though this one is quite different. Multiple chandeliers hang from the ceiling, evenly spaced apart in a line. There are vases and statues of various types; human, gargoyle, angel– some few perfectly intact, but many broken in some way, often missing entire limbs.

There are no windows, and the walls are not painted like in the previous hall, but appear to be carved of stone, with each vase and statue nestled between expertly carved columns. There are only two doors in this hall– one in the center of each wall. Both doors are locked when you try them, and so you move on down the hall, eventually finding yet another set of stairs leading down. 

They bring you to what appears to be a grand entryway. Across from you is an identical set of stairs leading to what is likely a similarly structured wing of the castle you appear to be in. To the left, between both sets of stairs, is a large door that nearly touches the ceiling, and to the right a large open hall with what you think are the doors leading outside at the very end of it.

Simply leaving would be tempting if you weren’t in dire need of a meal, or entirely unsure of where exactly you are. You can tell the castle you’re in is quite old given the state of things, but you can’t think of any such old, worn down castles you’ve heard tale of. All the castles you know of are well occupied by royalty; none, as far as you’re aware, have been left to fall to dust and ruin like this.  

It’s terribly confusing, and if you don’t find a kitchen soon, you at least hope you’ll find someone kind and willing to provide you answers. Forgoing the large door that you’re pretty sure leads to a ballroom, as well as the opposite staircase you’re confident will lead to a hall identical to the one you were just in, you step right, to the entry hall.

There are a few doors on each side, and to your relief, one of them is labeled “Dining Hall.” A dining hall has to lead to a kitchen! Eagerly, you pull open the door, and as you do, you gasp when you realize The Beast himself is standing next to the dining table.

He’s looking straight at you, ears flickering in response to the sound of your gasp. You can’t help but freeze, having convinced yourself that it was impossible for him to be here, for him to have been the one to bring you here. You’re too stunned to move– everything in you was expended when fleeing the wolves, and now all you can do is stand before him.

You can see him much better now than you could last night, his every feature clearly defined by the sunlight filtering in through the dining hall’s large windows. His hair is curlier than you realized, and deeply brown, as are his bovine ears. His cheeks are round, his lips pouty and entirely human in shape.

You can also now see clearly just how broad he is– and strong. His torso, while decidedly man, is still much larger than a regular man’s could ever be. His pecs and arms are muscular and well defined, while his stomach appears to be soft, and maybe a little squishy, with a dark patch of fur trailing down beneath his belly button. 

He is in no way similar to a man beneath that point. The Beast has the legs reminiscent of a bull, every inch covered in thick, dark fur down to his hooves. His legs are much thicker than any you’ve ever seen, human or otherwise; you can only conclude this is because he is as strong in his legs as he is in his arms.

Lastly, is a tail swishing leisurely from side to side behind him. You can just barely see it when he’s facing you, but the glimpses you get of it further reminds you of cattle. Long and thin, with a large amount of fur at the tip of it. Part of you wonders if his fur is as soft as it looks– you didn’t feel it last night to know.

Parts of his arms are messily bandaged, bits of red tainting the otherwise white fabric– blood, you conclude, from when the wolves attacked him. He’s wearing a cape, the same shade of deep purple as the canopy that hung over the bed you woke up in, clasped around his collar bone with a golden buckle. The buckle, similar to the doors and some of the stained glass windows, is beholden with the image of a rose. 

It feels wrong to think so, but he’s attractive– were he a purely human man, you’re certain many village girls would swoon for him.

“You’re awake,” he smiles for a moment, clearly human teeth showing for a split second before he stops and timidly breaks direct eye contact. “I wanted to help with torn dress but couldn’t. Hands too big,” he continues, showing his hands to you to further prove his point– not that you need him to. 

“I picked a new one for you instead, glad you found it. Glad you’re wearing it,” he says, and you’re still too surprised to even speak in turn. “Looks.. Nice?” he says with an unsure tilt of the head. It seems as if he wants to compliment you, but is unsure in his word choice. He looks contemplative for a moment, as if mulling over if there’s a better word he could’ve used. 

You get the impression he isn’t used to interacting with humans. You yourself aren’t used to interacting with beasts.

“I wanted to bring you food. You must be hungry! But I don’t know everything humans like to eat..” he muses as he turns his attention back to the dining table, where you now realize an abundance of food is laid out. Nice food. 

Fruit platters, veggie trays, fine meats.. He has it all. If you weren’t already in awe of The Beast, this alone would floor you, because all this food would cost a fortune in your village unless you grew it and hunted for it yourself.

“This is for me..?” you finally find your voice and manage to ask. He nods and waves his hand, beckoning you to approach the table. Cautiously, you do, still in awe of it all.

Tentatively, you stand next to him before the dining room table, taking a nervous glance up towards him. You knew very well he was big and tall, but your difference in height is positively dizzying up close.

Your own stature barely even exceeds past his waist; if you were to look at him straight on, your eyes would be level with his belly button. His hands are bigger than your head, his legs thicker than your entire body. It’s as amazing as it is frightening– how can a creature this big even exist? You swallow, trying not to think about his size as you turn your attention back to the food.

“How did you get all this?” you manage to ask him; you can’t imagine someone as huge as him going out to collect fruits and vegetables– you imagine he’s much too big to be able to do so without struggling.

“I trade with friends of the forest. Little winged ones love shiny, sparkly things. They give me food in exchange,” he answers as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. Well, for him, it is normal. But you can’t imagine this big, burly man-beast trading with fairies. You’re hardly even ready to accept he’s real, much less that fairies are!

It’s all too much to wrap your head around. Maybe you should just eat– maybe everything will start to make more sense once your stomach is full. You hope.

You find a bare plate on the table, and pick it up to start loading food onto. The Beast watches you, seemingly happy that you’re choosing to eat the food he has out on the table. Once satisfied, you take a seat, giving him one last cursory glance before focusing on the meal in front of you.

“Aren’t you going to eat too? This is a lot of food,” you inquire as you start to nibble on the fruit you picked out. “Wanted to make sure you got enough,” he replies, "You had a bad night, used a lot of energy. Need to have enough food to recover."

You can’t believe how seemingly nice, considerate, and intelligent The Beast is. Not only is he real, but he seems to be genuinely kind and caring. The stories paint him as violent, ferocious, ravenously blood-thirsty.. But the creature in front of you seems so far removed from those things.

“What’s your name?” you ask him, and he seems surprised for a moment. He must not have been expecting you to ask. “Little winged ones call me Changbin,” he answers. You repeat it back to him, and he smiles just a little as he nods his head. “Your name?” he asks after, and he repeats it to himself after you offer it, just the same as you did with his.

“Do you live here?” is your next question, and he nods once more. “Alone?” you follow up, and again he nods. It’s clear that Changbin isn’t the castle's original inhabitant, and you wonder how long it lay abandoned before he claimed it as his home.

Of course, he could’ve killed the owners to take it, but the more you speak with him, you simply can’t imagine him being so cold blooded. He seems too… sweet.

A more pressing question– where are you exactly? You’re certain you’re still within the bounds of the forest, as you saw nothing but trees every time you looked out a window. But if that’s the case, how has an entire castle gone unnoticed? Castles aren’t exactly small– surely you and the other villagers would’ve seen it poking through the top of the trees.

Was it the magic that people believed the forest to hold that left it obscured? Or was it so deep in the forest, with the trees that surround it so tall and dense that even spying it from a distance was impossible? No matter the truth, the simple fact remains that there is much more to the forest than you ever thought, and it’s a lot to digest all at once.

“Why did you save me?” you decide to ask him instead of trying to unravel the mysteries and secrets of the forest. “You needed help,” he answers easily, “humans fear me, but I always try to help.” 

It’s easy to imagine his words true. A human like you, perhaps a hunter accidentally straying too far into the forest. They find themselves lost, hurt, or in trouble, and Changbin finds them.

He tries to help, but in their terror, they flee further into danger, get themselves more lost, strain an already injured leg.. And the ones who make it back tell a terrifying tale of The Beast in the forest who wished to devour them when all he actually wanted to do was help them. It’s a bit sad to consider in all honesty. 

“When you're feeling better, do you want to go back home?” he asks once you’ve finished your meal, and it takes you by surprise. “I’d help you. Take you as far as I could. Help you find path."

He’d really help you get home..? Just like that? You begin to feel bad that even after he rescued you, gave you a warm place to sleep, a new change of clothes and a meal, there was still a part deep inside you that feared what his intentions with you could be.

“No,” you answer after a moment, “I was in the forest trying to get away from home. My life there.. It wouldn’t be good if I went back.” 

“Then.. you stay? I’ll help you. Protect you,” Changbin offers, a faint smile appearing on his lips when you nod.

“I’ll stay,” you affirm. It’ll be strange at first, you’re sure, living in a castle in the middle of the apparently enchanted woods with The Beast your village fears so much. But you’d rather live here, with a physical beast, rather than back home, with the metaphorical one you’d be forced to call “husband.”

Living with The Beast, Changbin, is surprisingly pleasant. It was easier than you expected it to be; almost natural.

On your first official night in the abandoned castle he made his home, he gave you a tour. What was intended to be a tour of strictly the important rooms you’d be expected to frequent turned into a several hour long walkthrough of the entire estate. He took you through the kitchen, the bathrooms, the study, the drawing room, the library, the watchtower– everything.

You could tell which rooms he frequented most by how dusty they were. If there was very little dust, you concluded that he was there often. If there was a large accumulation of it, he stayed out of it.

The watchtower was one of the rooms he liked to be in the most, often finding himself surveying the forest from it. That's how he saw you fleeing the wolves– and the moment he did, he descended the tower in a rush, hoping to get to you before any harm would befall you.

Additionally, you learned that his bedroom is in the opposite wing of yours. Changbin said he purposely chose the room furthest from his own to put you in because he thought you’d be more comfortable that way if you chose to stay for a while. He’s used to humans fearing him, and he wanted to give you whatever distance you’d need to feel safe during your time here.

Truthfully, you stopped being scared of him very quickly. If there was anyone the term “gentle giant” suited, it was assuredly Changbin. He always stepped through the castle carefully, doing his best not to shake the ground too hard and risk shattering glass or knocking over vulnerable statues and vases. 

He knew his voice was booming, so he always tried to speak softly. It was still loud, of course, but you knew it could be much louder if he allowed himself to project it fully. When he handled porcelain or other breakables, he would move his hands so slowly and carefully that you’d think he was holding a newborn baby.

Changbin would often stare at you quietly when you were in the same room, assumedly out of curiosity. He’d never gotten the chance to share a space with a human, or to observe them up close for such great lengths of time; it made you wonder what he must think of you. 

You wondered if there was anything he assumed a human would be that didn’t prove true, similar to how wrong you were about him. You always noticed his staring, and oftentimes when you decided to return his gaze, he’d quickly turn away.

Did he have the gut human instinct to look away when eye contact becomes too intense or prolonged? Was he simply shy? Both?

Sometimes he would smile before he looked away, the faintest peek of a dimple showing on his cheek before darting his eyes elsewhere. Sometimes his cheeks would dust over a soft pink, and other times, on the rare moments he let himself smile more fully, the bridge of his nose would scrunch up similarly to a humans.

Was it strange to say you found such moments cute? He was oddly endearing in the way he went about life, in his mannerisms and complexities. And admittedly, you’d stare at him the same way he stared at you when his attention was elsewhere.

At first, you justified it to yourself by saying you couldn’t help it– you discovered a magical creature that you always thought was nothing more than a story is real. How could you not stare at him? But lately, you weren’t so sure that’s all there was to it.

Changbin was many things outside of being The Beast. He was warm, soft, and sincere. Caring, considerate, and careful. He was.. Attractive. Handsome. Cute. Words you never thought you’d use to describe a creature with protruding horns and other inhuman features. And with each season passed inside the castle together, the more you grew fond of him. 

You spent many afternoons together in the library. You were surprised to learn he could read; something that perhaps shouldn’t have been surprising in hindsight, given his capability of speech, but it still shocked you. The ability to read wasn’t something necessary to his everyday life, but he liked doing it to pass time, or ease the loneliness of living alone.

All the books in the castle’s library were dated, easily hundreds of years old; it was clear that every single book was one left behind by the previous inhabitants, and not a single new book had entered the library since. Their age didn’t make them any less enjoyable however, and in fact you found it exciting to have so many stories you’d never heard of before to dive into. 

Watching Changbin read was a treat within itself. Even the thickest of novels looked comically small in his large hands, and turning pages was always a struggle for him. You couldn’t help but giggle watching him try to turn a single page with his finger, only to instead turn several. There were many times you took it upon yourself to help him once your giggling subsided. 

Given his size, he’d often have to sit in a hunched position, or hold books up quite close to his face to read them. And the words– they must’ve looked so tiny to him; you were certain it was a strain. Then add his struggle to turn pages on top of it..

While it was cute to watch him pout after he turned way too many pages at once, you also didn’t want to just sit idly by if he was having a hard time. Especially not when you were more than capable of assisting him.

He was surprised when you first offered to help him read, curiously tilting his head as he watched you close the book you were reading to walk over to him. Changbin often sat on the floor, much too big and heavy to sit in the castle’s arm chairs or sofas. His place on the floor made it easy for you to climb up his leg, and sit on his thigh. 

“I could turn the pages for you,” you explained, reaching over to the book lying in his hands to demonstrate how easy it is for you to turn the pages one at a time. “Or read them to you, should your eyes grow tired from looking at the tiny words,” you said. 

You remember his smile clearly; how sweet it was, and the way his nose cutely scrunched as his smile grew the biggest you’d seen it. He seemed really thankful; he didn’t say it, but you think it meant a lot to him that you were showing him kindness.

That’s how you fell into a comfortable routine. At least a few afternoons a week, you’d sit somewhere on Changbin’s body; one of his thighs if you were reading the book to him, or his forearm if you were turning the pages for him. Sometimes his shoulder too, if a book needed to be held especially close to his face for him to be able to read the words written.

When the sun would set, and candles needed to be lit, you often sat on his shoulder as he moved about the room, helping him light them. He’d always help you up carefully, offering one of his large hands as support, or carefully wrap his fingers around you to lift you up to his shoulder. He wouldn’t move an inch or take a single step until he was certain you were steady and comfortable.

You’d always get sleepy after that. The moon through the windows, the soft candle light, the sound of turning pages as the wood in the library’s fireplace crackled, the warmth Changbin exuded.. It was just so comfortable; especially if you were sitting on his thigh.

His fur was like a blanket, his broad, soft torso like a warm pillow. And sometimes, when you relaxed all the way against him, you could hear his heart rhythmically beating. It wasn’t uncommon for you to fall asleep, and every time you did, Changbin would carry you back to your room.

He would carefully cradle you in his arms, and you’d unconsciously curl into him as he rose up from the ground to carry you to bed. The doors of the castle, while larger than any typical door, were still too small to accommodate his size. 

He’d have to duck through them while also minding his horns, your body pressing to his chest as he hunched his body to step through them. If you were awake enough to feel it, you never minded it. If you were being honest, you liked it. You liked the warmth when he held you, liked feeling his chest against you, liked hearing the thumping of his heart.

Sometimes, you were tempted to ask him to stay with you, or to ask him to take you to his room. Changbin was just so comfortable and warm– having him next to you all night just sounded like it’d be so pleasant. Safe too; you always felt safe in his presence.

The following mornings, you’d stare up at your canopy and wonder if such thoughts were okay to have. Changbin was a man– an inhuman man, but a man all the same. And it was in these moments, alone in your room and fresh from sleep, contemplating where you are and the life you lead now that you realize you are more than just fond of Changbin. 

You knew you would never leave the castle, but it wasn’t just because your best chance at survival and protection was here. It was because the thought of leaving him behind made your heart squeeze painfully in your chest. You didn’t like contemplating what a life without him in it would look like. 

And it was almost funny how despite being a beast, Changbin was the kindest man you’d ever known. Complicated as it may be, you think you love him more than you should. You want him more than you should.

It’d hit you when you shared meals, and he’d watch you with his impossibly dark, warm eyes. His attentive stare made you warm– too warm. You’d swallow, try to focus on anything other than his full lips, or the swell of his chest, or the flex of his arms when he reached out to grab a piece of meat. 

It'd hit you when you watched him split wood for the fireplaces with his bare hands. Your heart would swell when you'd step out to the gardens, and he'd carefully maneuver so as to not crush the growing flowers. From innocent, sweet love to deepest, carnal desire, and then back again, your thoughts of Changbin were like a pendulum.

It’d even hit you in the moments of comfortable silence, when ease settled over you both at day's end. When you’d tentatively steal glances at each other until your eyes accidentally meet, and you both look away, bashful and unsure. 

You’d feel it creeping on you, warming your body exponentially until you felt feverish with desire to be closer to him. Even alone, in bed or in the bath, your thoughts would linger on him. Innocent thoughts and curiosities about how it'd be for him to kiss and hold you quickly give way to perversion– impure thoughts you really, really think you shouldn’t be having. 

You needed to get yourself together. There’s no way an intimate relationship is feasible between you– you shouldn’t even be entertaining the thought. But God, you can’t stop your mind from going there. Even just watching him lick his lips and fingers clean after he finishes eating is enough to get your heart racing these days.

Every day, you desperately try to ignore it.

It’s easier on the days you venture outside the castle’s familiar walls. Warm, sunny days, where you explore the forest from the safety of Changbin’s broad shoulder. He showed you so many things you’d never seen before, things you never thought were real.

Fairy villages, magic healing ponds, meadows of enchanted flowers. His fairy friends were excited to meet you, and similar to Changbin himself, you realized they were much kinder than tales would lead you to believe. 

They were tricksters, yes; many were fond of a good prank. But really, they just wanted to have fun, and there was no inherent harm in that. (Though Changbin did advise you to speak carefully, lest you accidentally end up in a fae pact he’d have no way to help you out of.)

You watched Changbin trade with them too. A few beads from a broken necklace or marbles from a forgotten child’s playset he found within the castle you called home was all he needed to provide to receive bushels of their freshly grown fruits and vegetables.

If you returned back to the castle with a good chunk of daylight left, you’d spend them together in the castle’s flower garden. It was overgrown, and sometimes hard to navigate, but you always enjoyed your time there. Changbin would always set you down to the ground carefully, letting you roam the garden at your leisure while he picked a sunny spot in the grass to relax in.

You got the idea to make him a flower crown once. It was something you and other village girls enjoyed doing, and it was common to give them to people you cared for. It was simple, but you thought it’d be a good way to show your appreciation to Changbin for all the ways he helped you since the day you met him. 

You wondered, as you went around the garden picking flowers, if he had ever received a gift before. Apart from his dealings with the fairies, he lived a very isolated life before he met you. And while the fairies were his friends to some extent, you couldn’t imagine them giving something away without receiving something in return. 

You suppose you just wanted him to have the feeling of joy that comes with a gift. The warm feeling that settles in your chest when you realize someone was thinking of you, the delight that seeps inside you when you see the effort they made to give you a visual representation of how much they care for you. You were thinking that Changbin deserves to have that feeling.

When you were done collecting what felt like dozens of flowers, you sat yourself in the sunny grass clearing next to Changbin. He was lying flat on his back, the sun highlighting his face beautifully. His eyes were closed, and the soft snores (for his size, anyways), told you he’d fallen asleep. 

You observed him for a moment, smiling to yourself over how soft and cute his features looked whilst sleeping before you got to work on the flower crown. It took quite some time considering you had to make it much larger than you typically would. Changbin eventually stirred awake and sat up, watching you work curiously but ultimately saying nothing as he observed– he didn’t want to distract you.

“Finally! All done!” you exclaimed after threading the final of the flowers you picked together, and Changbin did his usual inquisitive tilt of the head. “It’s pretty. What is it for?” he asked, watching as you rise to your feet with your creation in hand. “It’s a flower crown,” you answer as you hold it out to him to accept, “for you.” 

He simply blinked in response, saying nothing as he processed the information. It may not have been the first time he’d ever been given a gift by another, but it was certainly the first one he’d ever received from a human. You didn’t intend to let it be the last, either. “Crown?” he finally asked after a moment, “I wear it?”

“Mhm! Like this,” you said as you held the crown around your head to try to show him what you meant. “It’s too big for my head since I made it for you, but.. Here, let me put it on you!” You hooked the flower crown you made gently around your arm after you spoke, and grabbed at one of his hands.

Changbin understood what you wanted him to do, and so he lowered his hands to the ground so that you could step onto them. You sat on your knees whilst in his hands, finding it much easier to keep your balance that way as opposed to standing; and then, as he had many times before, he lifted you carefully up.

You instructed him to tilt his head towards you, and he did without question. It occurred to you then that maybe you underestimated how big you needed to make the flower crown.

The one you made was definitely big– too big for a human head, that was for sure. Still, Changbin is at least double the size of every man in your village, and he has horns. Realizing there was no way to make it sit around his head the way it's intended to, you opted for simply placing it on his head between his horns, and letting it rest there.

You smiled at him when he lifted his head, and told him what you truly thought– that he looked cute. “Really?” he questioned, surprised to be considered such. There have been many words by humans and his little winged friends used to describe him, and ‘cute’ wasn’t usually among them.

You watched him as he processed his thoughts, another few moments passing before he moved his hands to one of his shoulders, urging you to get on. You did, clinging to his cape tightly when he moved faster than you expected him to. Changbin was always patient and careful when you were on him, always moving slowly– you hadn’t anticipated the sudden change in the slightest. 

You were a little confused, unsure of what his sudden rush to leave the gardens was, but it quickly became clear; he was looking for somewhere to see his reflection. He tried the fountain first, but when he realized he couldn’t see himself clearly enough in the water, he made his way back to the castle.

The entry doors to the castle were tall and wide enough that he didn’t have to hunch or awkwardly step through them, but he still moved carefully through it. Despite his rush to see himself, he still wasn’t walking as fast as you both knew he could.

He was trying his best not to break the glass and porcelain inside nearby cabinets with his steps, though he was still moving quick enough that the castle’s floor shook as he continued through the entry hall. His desire to be careful even whilst in a rush was endearing; it brought a smile to your face.

The ballroom was Changbin’s ultimate destination. It had a large mirror, floor to ceiling, encompassing a substantial chunk of the wall opposite the windows. It was the only room in the entire castle that had a mirror large enough for him to see his entire reflection with, from the tips of his horns all the way down to his hooved feet.

His eyes changed when he first saw his reflection– so fast that you would’ve missed it if you’d blinked. He got up close to the mirror, examining himself with the flower crown you made for him resting between his horns, and truly, he looked happy.

You chose the colors of the flowers well, each one meant to compliment the deep brown of his hair. Soft yellows, vibrant blues, and light, pretty pinks– each selection, in your eye, was perfect. You were relieved that Changbin seemed to agree.

He wasn’t just looking at the flowers atop his head in the reflection though; he was also looking at you. Sat there on his shoulder, looking at him with more kindness than he’d ever felt from anyone. Your eyes met through the reflection, and he could feel his heart starting to beat faster– he wondered if you could feel it too, with your legs dangling over his chest.

He’d never felt this way before, and didn’t know what to do with himself. He knew from his books that humans give gifts to people they care about, and for many reasons. Kindness, appreciation, love.. What was your reason? He found himself hoping it was all of them. He hoped you cared about him as much as he cares about you.

“Thank you,” Changbin said, realizing that he should’ve done so from the start. He thought maybe he should read more books on human manners and improve himself. He hoped he didn’t seem inappreciative by taking so long to thank you for doing something kind for him. His worries melted away when you smiled at him again though, sincere and sweet as always.

“You’re welcome! You’ve always done so much to help me, I wanted to thank you somehow,” you explain. Changbin didn’t think you needed to thank him for anything. No matter who it was out in the forest that night, he would’ve helped them. He’d have let them stay in his home, fed them, and made sure they were well.

But he’s glad it was you; he doesn’t think he could envision the castle without you in it anymore. There may come a day when you grow tired of Changbin being your only companion, and of your daily life in the castle. On that day, you may wish to return to human society, even if your return isn’t to the village you grew up in. 

He’d let you go if you wanted to; he’d never, never force you to stay. But he hopes you stay. He hopes that you’ll always be here with him.

“But that’s not the only reason I made it,” you continued, finding a moment of bravery to be a bit vulnerable with your feelings. Changbin watched your expression change in the mirror, your brightness replaced by something more timid as you twiddled your thumbs.

Apart from your tentative first nights here when you were still getting comfortable with his presence, you always met his gaze head on while talking. This was the first time since then that you hesitated to look him in the eye whilst speaking to him, even if it was just eye contact through the ballroom mirror. He found it curious; he wondered if he should be worried.

“The girls in my village also like to make these for people we care about. I wanted you to know that too. That I care about you,” you told him. It felt incredibly nerve wracking to say it aloud, though you didn't think he'd pick up on the underlying romantic sentiment that village girls usually tied to their gifted flower crowns.

Honestly, it was okay if he didn’t recognize how much you like him. Perhaps in some ways it was better if he didn’t; because you are a small human, and Changbin is so much more than that.

Difference in anatomy aside, you don’t think humans and beasts are supposed to have deep feelings for one another. Friendship was fine, you thought, but love? You just weren’t sure that was a line you should cross.

Still, regardless of whether or not such feelings towards him were okay to have, they were already there. Before that day, you thought you loved him; but seeing him look at you, pink in the cheeks and happy, with the flower crown on his head that you made him, you knew for certain.

You love him. And watching the concern melt away and turn to joy when you told him you care about him was more than enough to tell you how deeply you adore him.

You decided to leave the moment with one last, small gesture. You leaned over, and placed a soft kiss on his cheek. It was a simple, innocent sign of affection, but his heart stuttered all the same, as did yours.

“I care about you too,” he’d said with his usual soft, timid smile when you looked at him again, the pink on his cheeks deepening, "very much.”

Laying awake as you are now, recalling your memories with Changbin, you yearn for him even more. You want him beyond friendship, foolish and impossible as it may be. You want to tell him you love him, to kiss him, to lie with him at night and feel his warmth envelope you all over. 

You want to touch him, want him to touch you, want to straddle as much of his waist as you can as he lies beneath you, and– God, enough, you huff to yourself. You roll over, bury your head in your pillows and let out a frustrated yell into them. 

You wish you knew what to do with these feelings. How would things go if you simply told him? What if you said nothing, and instead acted on them in one of your quietly shared moments of comfort? Would he accept your kiss? Would he return your feelings?

Tossing onto your back once more, you stare up at your canopy as you always do when your brain is plagued by thoughts of Changbin. You sigh after a moment, and close your eyes, wondering if he ever lies awake at night like you do, if he has feelings like yours that he too doesn’t know what to do with. Though you probably shouldn’t, you can’t help but hope that he does.

The arrival of winter didn't make your struggle with your feelings for Changbin any easier. The outdoors used to serve as a distraction; your growing love and attraction to him was never truly silenced, but at least you found it easier to focus your attention elsewhere whilst you were outside the castle walls.

All you can do when you're inside the castle is think of him. When you're in the same room, you find it hard not to stare at him. And sure, you stared at him a lot before, but now it felt different; because before, you were simply curious about him. Now it's purely because you're too lovesick to look anywhere else.

When you read books together, you often find that you don't actually remember what happened in the story. At some point, your thoughts always travel to Changbin, and they linger there despite all efforts to focus on the book in your hands.

The fact that his body is touching yours more often these days doesn't help. It's a particularly cold winter, perhaps the coldest it's ever been in all your years. Snow is piled up to your calves when you step outside, tree branches are completely frosted over, and icicles hang from nearly every inch of the castle's exterior.

Suffice it to say, you are often very cold. Changbin doesn't suffer from the cold nearly as much as you do, but he does his best to keep the castle warmer for your sake. The minute you step into a room he lights the fireplace for you, and you stick close to it, sitting before it with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders.

But even still, you found yourself shivering much more than either of you'd like. The only time you stopped was when you were in his lap, likely thanks to the inhuman amount of warmth that radiates off his body.

So now, instead of sitting or laying in his lap just being a part of helping him read, you'd spend a majority of your winter days there, clinging to his warmth. He'd sit himself as close to the fireplace as he could, with you curled snuggly on his lap.

His fur was like an extra blanket, warm and soft and comfortable. Nearly every day was spent next to the library's fireplace, as reading was about the only thing you could do whilst trying to stay warm.

Though, as previously stated, you found it hard to focus on reading lately. And even when you did manage to focus on the words in front of you, your eyes would quickly grow heavy; Changbin was just too comfortable to lay on– you just couldn't resist dozing off.

Every night was cold, but some were worse than others. On the first of one of those extra chilly nights, when the time in which you'd go your separate ways for bed came, Changbin hesitated to carry you back to your room. Even if he lit your fireplace before he left, you'd be cold without him, he knew it for a fact.

He looked down at where he held you in his arms, asleep and curled into him, cozy and warm, and he made a decision; he took you to his room. You would understand, he thought. You may be confused when you wake up in a room that isn’t your own, but you’d understand why you were there.

And you trust him now; you wouldn’t be upset with him, especially not when he has your best interest at heart. He hoped not, anyways; in his experience, humans can be unpredictable. But you're a good human– one that he likes and cares for more than he ever has for anyone else.

With such thoughts in mind, he carried you to his room. And as he hoped, you weren't upset in the slightest to wake up the next morning beside him (or more accurately, atop him.)

You were certainly confused at first, opening your eyes and blinking away sleep only to be met with slightly unfamiliar surroundings. The windows and the view through them were the same, but the room was brighter than your own, with no curtains to obscure the sunrays pouring over you. There was less furniture strewn about than in your own room, and you were higher up from the ground than you’d be if you were lying in your own bed.

It took a moment for you to become cognitive enough to register that the reason for this, along with what the blissful warmth you were feeling was, was Changbin's body underneath you. One of his hands was resting on your back too, heavy and limp with sleep, but you didn't mind it. Strangely, you found the weight of his hand on your back comforting.

Your head was on his chest, and you could hear the rhythmic beating of his heart, slow but steady. That too, was comforting. You closed your eyes again, but you didn't fall asleep like you might otherwise expect. You were simply basking in the comfort, enjoying lying with him in bed like you'd been wanting to for so long. You wondered if he'd let you stay even once winter came to an end. 

When you felt him begin to stir awake, you lifted your head to look at him, watching him fondly as he stretched and hummed, and blinked away the last bits of whatever dream he was having. When your eyes met for the first time that morning, he seemed apprehensive; it was easy to deduce that he thought you may be uncomfortable with his choice to bring you here. 

Ideally, he would've asked you first, or let you know that the option would be available should you want it; but when he thought about how cold you'd be shivering alone in bed, he just couldn't leave you be. When you smiled at him and whispered a soft good morning, you saw nothing but pure relief in his eyes.

You knew Changbin's heart, that he was nothing but sweet and caring. The trust you placed in him, and the way you wordlessly understood him made his heart soar. But not just that– laying with you every night, and waking up to you in general made his body react in ways entirely foreign to him.

Naturally, from that cold winter’s night onward, you always slept with him. Your body, so soft and smooth, felt good pressed against him. If you weren’t yet asleep when he’d lie down with you in his arms, you’d hug him after you both settled in; your arms obviously couldn’t wrap fully around him, but you’d still try to get as much of his body in your embrace as you could manage to. 

And every morning, when you’d sit up in his lap and look down at him, his heart would always stutter, his already incredibly warm body growing hotter. Your sweet smile, your softly spoken “good morning”s, the way your lightly tousled hair beautifully framed your face– all of it affected him in ways he never imagined would happen to him.

Changbin knew of such feelings conceptually– he’s read more than his fair share of novels featuring romantic subplots within the library. But he always thought such experiences and sentiments would be out of reach for him; he was the only one of his kind in the forest, and normal humans feared him too greatly to build a bond with him.

Even you feared him at first, and while he hoped that it wouldn’t always be that way, he wouldn’t have been surprised if you never grew to like him. He was so, so happy when, in only a short time, you were no longer scared of him. He was even happier when you showed him kindness. He was happier still when he realized you considered him a friend. Having a companion after so many years of loneliness was more valuable to him than words could express.

In some ways, he supposes falling in love with you was natural. How couldn’t he fall in love with the first person to ever see him for who he was past his appearance? The first person who told him they liked his appearance. He didn’t believe you the first time you said it– how could he? All he’d ever known before from humans was fear and scorn.

He didn’t know how to accept it, always left in disbelief when you complimented him. But even if he didn’t quite believe it, he still liked hearing it. He liked it when you called him cute, or said he looked handsome, or kissed his cheek after calling him sweet.

He liked when you smiled at him, and the way you’d try to hold his hand despite how much smaller yours were than his. He liked listening to you talk, whether it was because you were reading a book to him, or because you had a lot on your mind; he could listen to you for hours, no matter the topic.

He likes hearing about your dreams, he likes the sound of your giggle, he likes the way you twirl in your dresses. He liked it when you taught him how to dance, and how you encouraged him when his steps were initially awkward. He liked how thoughtful and good you were to him. He likes that you help him believe he truly is all the kind things you describe him as.

No, he shouldn’t say he likes those things about you– it was much more accurate to say he loves them. Changbin loves everything about you. He wants to tell you as much, but he never imagined it’d be so difficult to say; he always thought that when the characters in his books struggled to find the words, it was merely exaggeration for dramatic effect.

In reality, it actually is quite hard to speak such things aloud. Changbin is normally a very candid person, able to speak whatever he thinks freely; but when it comes to you, and the feelings he has for you, his mouth runs dry, the words lodging in his throat. And realistically, should he even say them?

He knows it's true when you compliment him, he knows that you genuinely care for him and enjoy his company. But it’s hard to believe you can love him, it’s hard not to think he’s too different from you, hard to completely shut out the memories of humans fearing him. Sometimes, he’s scared that deep down there’s a part of you that still fears him.

"Changbin? Are you asleep..?" your voice calls to him softly, breaking him from his thoughts. It honestly startled him just a little; he's so used to you already being asleep before you're brought into the room, or falling asleep quickly if you aren't. He hadn't expected your voice to break the silence. 

As is typical for your nightly arrangement, you're lying atop him with your head on his chest. It's only now that he realizes your fingers have been absentmindedly tracing his skin the entire time he was lost in thought. 

Changbin doesn't have a bed in the traditional sense– he's much too big to fit on human mattresses. Instead, he has various pillows and blankets piled together on the floor. It's surprisingly comfortable, but you always find yourself laying on him, rather than next to him on his makeshift bed. 

"I'm awake," he murmurs, trying to keep his voice as soft and low as possible, "..was thinking." You hum, and lift yourself up to look at him. The room is dark, but his lack of curtains allows you to clearly make out his features in the moonlight.

He can see you just as clearly, and it makes his heart squeeze in his chest; you're always so pretty when the moon illuminates you. 

"So was I. Made it hard to fall asleep," you reply, and Changbin eyes you curiously. He can tell by your somewhat solemn expression that something seems to be weighing on you. "There's something I've been wanting to ask you for a while now, something I can't stop thinking about," you continue. 

Changbin swallows, suddenly nervous. Given where his thoughts were just moments ago, he can't help but fear that the moment he's been dreading has finally come– this is where you ask him to take you home.

Maybe not home, as the village you grew up in is a place you don't wish to return, but away from here– away from him. Back to human society where you belong, to a place that he could never hope to follow, a place he could never live in with you.

"Wh-What.. What is it?" he asks, hesitant; he really hopes you can't tell how anxious he is, but he's certain his voice has betrayed it already. He wishes he wasn't so terrified of losing you.

Even in the dim lighting, you could clearly see the way his expression changed to one of immense trepidation. You wonder if he's nervous because he can see that you're nervous. It takes you a moment to even begin to speak again, timidly fidgeting with your fingers as you try to will your voice to return to you.

"Have you ever.. been in love..?" you ask him, voice so soft and timid that Changbin almost misses it, even with his exceptional hearing. You watch as his ears flick, his eyes widen slightly as he takes your question in, his cheeks growing ever so slightly pinker.

His surprise is to be expected– from his perspective, this question must seem incredibly out of the blue. But truthfully, it's been eating at you for weeks. You know you're in love with Changbin, but you don't know how possible it is for him to love you back. You don't know if he's ever loved anyone at all– and you have to know.

If not to give yourself hope, then to put your infatuation with him to rest once and for all. If he rejects you, living with him may be awkward for a time, but at least you could try to put an end to your hopeless pining.

Changbin blinks, unsure how to respond. If he were to answer on the basis of what his life was like before you were in it, then the answer was no– he'd never been in love. Never, in all his years, had met someone and fallen for them.

But if he were to answer for the present.. Is he in love now? Yes, he is– he's in love with you. Your eyes search his desperately, and it's clear there's an answer you're hoping to hear– but which answer is it? You chew your bottom lip nervously as you watch him consider his answer. "No, and yes," he finally responds.

"No, and yes..?" you mimic, uncertain and curious. Changbin nods, and he's thankful you're no longer laying on his chest, because you'd certainly hear the quick, erratic thumping of his heart.

"I was never in love. Not before. I.. am in love now," he says, letting out a nervous exhale as the last word leaves his lips. The implication is clear, and he watches apprehensively as your eyes widen, and the truth fully settles itself within you.

Changbin is always honest and forthright, in a way that humans typically never are. Free of societal norms and expectations, he's never had to lie about anything, nor does he feel the need to. So when he looks into your eyes, deep and vulnerable, and tells you that what he feels now is love, you believe him entirely.

"Me too," you utter softly, voice a timid whisper, "I was never in love, not before.. I am now."

Changbin sits up from his makeshift bed, quickly bringing one of his large hands to your back so that the sudden movement doesn't cause you to topple off him. He doesn't want to be lying down when he asks you if this means what he thinks it does– he wants to meet your gaze directly.

"Do you mean that? Can you really love me?" he questions, hopeful but unsure– it nearly breaks your heart that he even has to ask. If there's anything in your life that you're certain of, it's that Changbin is the best man you've ever known.

It doesn't matter that he's not entirely human, it doesn't matter that he eclipses you in size and stature, it doesn't matter that he has horns, hooves, and a tail. All that matters is how he treats you, and makes you feel; and you've never known anyone who makes you feel as warm, safe, and cared for as he does.

Sitting in his lap, you look up at him and smile, warm and affectionate. "I've never meant anything more than I mean this– I love you, Changbin."

In all his life, even at his loneliest and most isolated, in his most saddened and hurt, he'd never had the urge to cry. But now he feels it, welling from deep inside and choking him up. He's always wanted to be accepted, loved– even when it seemed impossible and entirely irrational, he wanted it.

What is it that humans do when they're filled with so much emotion for another? All his books have different answers, but there's one that sticks in his mind predominantly– they get married. And perhaps he can't marry you the way a human man can, but he can make the same vow; he can, and will, promise to love you for the rest of your lives.

You reach out to him, placing your hands on round cheeks, the heat of his blush incredibly warm on your palms. "Can I kiss you?" you ask him, and he sucks in a breath, nodding shyly. His ears pick up on the loud thumping of his quickly beating heart– he wonders if it's loud enough for you to hear it too.

You lean up as he leans down for you, both of you closing your eyes as you touch your lips softly to his. You linger there, feeling the blush on his cheeks flare with more heat as you kiss him. When you pull back, you can see his eyes sparkling with awe and adoration. Shyly, he breaks his gaze away from your eyes, darting them down to your lips; it’s easy to tell he wants to kiss you again.

With your hands still on his cheeks, you guide him back to you. You kiss him again and again, slow and gentle. Eventually, you let your hands move to his chest, and you can feel the rapid thumping of his heart beneath your fingertips. He brings one of his hands to your waist, and pulls you closer, until your tiny body is flush with his.

His lips are so plump and soft, and now that you know what they feel like against your own, you never want to stop kissing him. Unfortunately for you, your lungs are much smaller than Changbin’s, and you run out of breath very quickly, often having to be the one to pull away first.

He always watches you intently when you do, all the care and affection he has towards you pouring out of him in droves as he stares at you. But there's a new emotion written in his eyes too– desire, yearning. All you’ve done is kiss him, but he’s positively, undeniably enchanted by you, a deeply rooted need for more of your touch clawing its way to the surface.

When you kiss him again, you tentatively run your tongue across his bottom lip. The feeling jolts him, sending a shiver down his spine. He parts his lips, cautiously slipping his tongue out to run over yours, butterflies erupting in his stomach over the soft noise of approval you give him in response. 

His tongue is longer than yours, as well thick and textured– it makes you imagine what it’d feel like if you progressed further, and allowed him to run it over every inch of your body. For now, you simply open your mouth for him, letting him lick and explore; it fills you with a strange sensation unlike anything you’ve ever felt, but you love it. 

Changbin carefully scoops his hands beneath you, lifting you up so he doesn’t have to hunch down to kiss you anymore. You wrap your arms around his neck, clinging to him as closely as you can whilst your kisses continue to deepen and become more heated. He eventually grows just as breathless as you, his broad chest heaving as his thirst for you grows in intensity. 

It’s almost too much for him– the feeling of you in his hands, of you trying to press as much of your body to him as you can, of your sweet scent all over him. The need he feels for you goes beyond anything he’s ever felt, a deep innate hunger and desperation beginning to gnaw at him, clawing at his sense of reason.

He wants more of you– how much more he doesn’t know, but to simply kiss you isn’t enough. All of you, he thinks; he needs all of you in every way. He wants to feel you everywhere, to taste you everywhere, needs to experience the depths of love and intimacy with you.

He’s been trying for so long to deny how bad he wants it, so scared of scaring you off with unwanted advances– but now that he knows you feel the same as him, now that you’re kissing him like this, fevered and hungry, he can’t deny his craving for you any longer.

“Please,” Changbin whines under his breath when you next pull away, his voice the most light and airy either of you have ever heard. Anything, he’ll take anything you’re willing to give him– he just wants you, so badly he can hardly think straight anymore. It sends a wave of heat through your body, butterflies thrashing in your stomach. 

“Set me down, please?” you ask, and instantly he worries that he crossed a boundary, made you uncomfortable by wanting too much too soon. Still, he does as you ask, lowering his hands to the ground so you can reunite with the ground. He swallows nervously as he watches you step off his hands; thankfully, some of the tension he feels is eased when you shoot him your characteristically sweet, yet currently more bashful, smile.

The heat on his face flares when you break your gaze away from his face to look at his erection, fully unsheathed and visibly leaking large amounts of pre-cum. It’s thick, as is to be expected given his size, but to actually see it with your own eyes is astonishing. “Sorry,” he mumbles, embarrassed, starting to grab one of the many blankets littering the floor so he can cover himself.

You shake your head and reach for his hand, stopping him in his tracks. He slowly sets the blanket back down, both of you gazing at each other shyly as you swallow down your nerves to speak. “I want to.. Can I touch it..?” you ask, and oh, the way he throbs from the question alone. You can see it, heavy where it lies against his thighs, throbbing with desire and anticipation.

“Y-You- you want to?” he asks, very nearly sent reeling when you shyly nod your head. He’s wanted this for so long; and he tried not to, really. It felt inappropriate to want you that way, almost shameful every time he got hard with you in mind.

You always interacted with each other so sweetly, innocently– it felt perverse to lie in his makeshift bed at night and throb over the way your breasts looked pressed together in your dresses, or over the glimpses he got of your legs and thighs when you twirled around.

It wasn’t this way from the start; when he rescued you deep in the woods, he had nothing but pure intentions. He didn’t know you were beautiful, he didn’t know how soft and sweet you were, didn’t know how radiant you were in body and soul. He didn’t know he’d grow to love you, nor could he have predicted how badly he’d want you as his infatuation for you grew. 

Little does he know that you always wanted him just as bad, your late night thoughts always consumed by him. None of the village men ever made you feel the way Changbin does, never made your heart race or stomach erupt in butterflies, never filled you with such insatiable need for touch. 

“Ahh, I-” he exhales, trying to discreetly wipe away the sweat accumulating in his palms due to his nerves, “I.. yes, please, I’d like it.” Even just the thought of you touching his cock makes him feel like his heart is going to leap out of his chest– he has no idea how he’ll feel when you actually do it. Still, he wants it; and he watches you, unconsciously holding his breath as he waits for you to act.

He’s leaking so much, and it occurs to you that your dress will get very wet and messy if you leave it on while you touch him. The thought of being naked in front of Changbin makes you nervous, but also excites you somehow; and technically speaking, he’s always naked in front of you– apart from the cape he wears during the day, anyways. So there’s no reason to be so shy about it, right?

You gaze up at him, still timid despite the pep talk you’re giving yourself internally, and you reach behind your back to untie the ribbons that keep your silk gown on your body. You can hear Changbin’s breath hitch as the fabric loosens and begins to fall away, your bare torso becoming visible to his eyes for the first time. 

Your breasts were so pretty, so full– and yet even then, they’d surely look small in his large hands. Still, you weren’t done revealing yourself to him just yet; reaching lower down your back, you loosen another ribbon– the one keeping it held around your waist. Your gown falls down your hips and to the floor once untied, now left only in your panties before his eyes. 

Fuck, he wants to touch you– but you asked him first, and he’s not going to interrupt whatever you have planned for him. You step closer to him, and climb up his leg to sit yourself on one of his large thighs. He can’t help but gasp when you bring your hands to his cock, and just as you thought it’d be from seeing it, it’s heavy.

It’s much too thick to wrap your fingers around, your hands appearing impossibly small in comparison. You rub your hands over his sensitive tip, glancing up at Changbin’s face when he lets out a whine. Your hands quickly become slick from the steadily leaking pre-cum, gliding easily up and down the length of his cock. There’s not as much friction as there’d be if it was Changbin’s own hand, but he prefers this despite it– having you touch him is much, much better.

He moans when you lean forward to kiss and lick the tip, his pre-cum smearing over your lips and cheeks. He fists the blankets below him, his breaths growing harsher as he watches you work him up. Your hands stroke his length in a steady rhythm while you continue to lavish his tip with attention using your mouth, and he can’t help the frequency of his whines and moans.

He already feels so close– you're so soft, so wet, it drives him crazy. When you stop kissing and licking his cock, you sit up to look back up at him, and God, the sight of you– you’re glistening with his pre-cum and your own saliva. It’s dripped down your chin, falling to your breasts and the sight proves too much for him– he whimpers, stuttering out your name as his cock twitches and spurts of thick cum begin to shoot from the tip.

You make a noise of surprise, watching in awe as it coats your bodies; his stomach, your whole torso, your hands– you wouldn’t be surprised if some ended up on the blankets beneath him too. Your stomach flips when he finally comes down from his high and looks at you. Reddened cheeks, flushed body, harsh breaths– and yet he still gazes at you hungrily.

“Your turn,” he breathes as he effortlessly scoops you into his hands, paying no mind to the mess that covers you. His carnal desire for you is fraying at him, his shyness becoming increasingly eclipsed by his need. “Can I-” he starts, lifting you up towards his face, “Is it okay? Can I do the same for you? Please?”

He’s sure you can feel how much his hands are trembling for you– he hasn’t even seen between your legs yet, hasn’t yet tasted you, but his mind already feels like it’s in a frenzy. “Yes, please,” you tell him with a nod, and he brings you closer, responding with an appreciative, hungry kiss. He licks away the mess left there, then swipes his tongue over your torso, not at all minding the taste of his own cum.

You squirm in his hands, and when he’s done, he gently nudges you with his nose, urging you to lay back. Your back meets his fingers, your butt cradled in his palms while your legs dangle over his wrists. “Can you take them off like this?” he asks, and you nod, letting out a nervous exhale as you bring your hands to your sides, and hook the hem of your panties in your fingers.

You know Changbin would never drop you or let you fall, but you’re still careful not to make big movements as you slide them down your thighs, and then lift your legs to pull them off. You toss them aside, and shyly spread your legs open for him to look at your dripping pussy. You smell so sweet– he imagines that you’ll taste even sweeter. 

You shiver when he starts by placing kisses between your thighs, your legs spreading further apart to accommodate him. He sticks out his tongue, and the whine you let you when he licks between your folds is intoxicating. His tongue is too big to focus only on your clit, but the sensation of him licking up and down is still utterly delicious.

He moans and hums as he devours you, and the vibration of it makes you tremble. You let out a loud whimper and your eyes roll back when he dips his tongue carefully into your hole. It reaches deeper than your fingers ever could, feels so much better than them too– you never imagined something could feel this good. 

Your nails dig into his palms, but Changbin pays no mind to it, continuing to alternate between dipping his tongue into your hole and licking you up from top to bottom. He can feel your body tensing, the shaking of your legs and twitching of your thighs growing more intense as he drives you closer to release. 

You cry his name over and over, the syllables broken between whimpers as your back arches and your cum gushes on to his tongue. He licks it up and swallows it eagerly, and it serves to effectively draw out your orgasm, the sounds you make easily the prettiest he’s ever heard. 

You collapse back against his fingers when your high ebbs away, and you feel positively euphoric, every inch of your body buzzing from the pleasure. Changbin waits until you catch your breath again to kiss you, and you bring your hands to his face, holding him close as he shares the taste of your release with you. 

He carefully adjusts his hold of you afterwards, cradling you in his arms and laying you against his chest as he rises from his floor bed. “Need to take a bath,” he mumbles to you as you instinctively curl into his embrace. He cringes when he thinks about how much effort it’ll take to clean the mess from his fur and sheath, but he wouldn’t have done anything differently; the night was perfect– you were perfect.

You’re exhausted, but you do your best to help him get clean once you’re done washing yourself, and he covers you with appreciative kisses when the task is done. You giggle from the attention, and Changbin giggles too before he scoops you back into his arms to carry you to bed.

Doing away with the soiled blankets he’ll leave to clean tomorrow, he replaces them with some from the many empty rooms littered about. You’d fallen asleep shortly exiting the bath, and it was a bit challenging for Changbin to fix the bed one handed, but he wasn’t going to set you down onto the cold floor– and you surely would’ve pouted if you woke up without him in reach. 

He heaves a heavy sigh once he finally lays down, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before he rests his own against the many pillows beneath him. He whispers that he loves you before he closes his eyes, and he guesses you were just awake enough to hear it, because you sleepily whisper it back. 

It makes him smile, and he squeezes you in his arms just a little. And as he drifts to sleep, he thinks about how lucky he is to have you, how wonderful it is to be loved, how happy he’ll be spending every moment in his life together with you.

network tags: @ksmutsociety @skzstarnet

[deedeeznoofs]

To be a Proper Wife

➺ Characters: Ryomen Sukuna, Fem!Reader

➺ Word Count: 3.2k

➺ Genre: Fluff

➺ Playlist: ft. Eve, Laufey, Sabrina Carpenter, and more!

➺ Content: Mentions of blood, internalized misogyny/misogynistic advice, it’s implied that Sukuna kills people, small housefire

➺ Proofreaders: Thank you to @aceakari and @lillysgotgyatt for proofreading this story! It couldn't have turned out as well if not thanks to them. 🥹

➺ A/N: BELIEVERS WILL SAY I NEVER LEFT 🗣️

➺ Synopsis: You are the King of Curses' bride-to-be, the both of you choosing each other to be one another's companions. Still, you feel unprepared for the role that you are stepping into. Luckily, you find a book in the library made to save lost women such as yourself! Sure, some of the advice is quite odd and unlike you, but really, what's the worst that could happen?

The powerful King of Curses, otherwise known as Ryomen Sukuna. An all-powerful being who could pillage villages in seconds and would not hesitate to destroy anyone who gets in his way. Surely… a being as strong as him would deserve a partner of equal value by his side. 

Yet, he has chosen you as his betrothed… 

One would assume that having the great Sukuna as a fiancé would be different, for better or worse. Yet, nothing about your relationship had been anything greatly out of the ordinary. Sure, you see more blood than one usually would see on their beloved, and the feeling of Sukuna’s overwhelming presence behind you would be described by others as something out of horror tales. However, outside of his little quirks, Sukuna is a good partner, cooking meals for both of you and cleaning up for himself around the estate. 

And that’s exactly the problem. 

You’ve heard the whispers from all the townswomen as you walked the streets, the ways they spoke about all about the meals they cooked for their husbands, how they spent all their time cleaning around their estates, all while making sure they tended to their children. Hearing their words, you only had one singular thought in your mind. 

How could you? You with the gall to call yourself the future wife of the King of Curses, without the skills to even prepare meals for him? Let alone taking care of your future children. You dare to be by his side. 

You should learn more, you must learn more. 

So, on your next visit to your town’s local library, you find yourself scouring the shelves for something that might help. 

Almost like it was meant to be, you found it, and you are overjoyed when you find a book that catches your eye. 

How to be a Proper Wife: Tips and Tricks! 

As you scoured the cover of the book, you noticed its thickness. A book of this size must be full of advice for women such as yourself. You smile, realizing you aren’t alone in having to improve your skills. As you look over the cover, your eyes land on some particular words highlighting the corner: 

“Over one million copies sold, saving women everywhere!” 

It was perfect! You were fully convinced to check it out from the library. Walking through town, you joyously open the book before even getting home, and you find yourself face-to-face with your first piece of advice. 

Tip #1: Greet him as he comes home. 

That was easy, greeting Sukuna as he came home for the day was something that was already part of both of your daily routines. You smile, perhaps you weren’t such a bad lover after all. 

Tip #1.1: Make sure to walk like a proper lady!

Turns out, greeting your future husband as he came home included a lot more steps than you had realized you had to do. 

You pace back and forth down the hallway. Making sure to walk “elegantly” as the book stated. While doing so, you make sure to continue following another tip in the book. 

Tip #1.2: Practice your facial expressions when you greet him! 

You try to capture the feeling of an elegant smile. While it felt awkward at first, after a few minutes, you finally felt yourself slowly coming together. With every single step and each gentle smile you practiced, you felt it.

You were becoming proper. 

You continue with your practice through the dawn, and eventually, you hear Sukuna’s footsteps by the doorway. Your legs and face were sore at this point, but this was your moment, and you weren’t going to let it go to waste by messing it up. You take a deep breath in and make sure to walk elegantly through the wood floors of your home to greet him, just as you practiced. 

You walk to him, and as you face him you remember to flip your hair a few times as the book advised, hoping he’d notice. 

He does, Sukuna notices everything about you, after all. 

You eye his facial features, he’s visibly tired, all four of his eyes lined with dark circles. How ironic, you think to yourself, for a man as monstrous as him, to have such human eyes. To know that even someone as powerful as he can also feel the weight of exhaustion that lines all people. You know he notices everything about you, but what you don’t realize about yourself is that you too, notice every detail about him. While you don’t notice this fact about yourself, he is all too aware.

You give him your best smile and bow “Hello, Sukuna”, you say. 

“Hello…” he says, pretending not to notice the change in your demeanor. It’s not obvious, but he feels something. Something is off about you, you’ve changed. Still, it doesn’t seem inherently negative, so he brushes it aside. 

“How was your day?” you ask. A genuine question, one that you ask every day. Sukuna brushes off his suspicions, and answers your question with the same answer he always gives, “tiring”. He gives no elaboration, but you eye his body for clues, noticing the red splashes of blood throughout his figure. Your eyes widen when you realize that some of the blood is fresh, spilling out from a wound on his chest. 

“W-what happened!?” you rush toward him to touch the wound, but Sukuna doesn’t wince. You’ve broken character, but you didn’t have half the mind to care at this point. Sukuna just shrugs his shoulders, “Idiot sorcerer started a fight.” 

“Are you okay…” 

“Of course I am,” he says, turning to walk past you, his heavy footsteps echoing across your home. Now behind you, you aren’t able to see his face. Still, you feel his grin as you hear him say the words, “I won, after all.” 

“I will make us tea.”

Your eyes widen as he says those words. As you hear him walk away toward the kitchen, you remember another tip in the book, highlighted as one of the most important. 

Tip #4: Have tea ready every night.

You knew it, having Sukuna make tea each night was a mistake. You had to undo this mishap. 

“Um– actually! I want to make tea today” you blurted out as you rushed in front of him, blocking his path.

“Hm? Whatever for?” Sukuna looks behind him to look you in the eye. He was used to making tea for the two of you when he came home, so this was another on the list of your odd changes. 

You look down on the floor as you try to think up some reasoning for the sudden change “J-just…I’d like to relieve your burden today!”

Sukuna just looks down at you, visibly skeptical of your words. You are lying. Or, at the very least, not telling him the full truth of whatever is going on with you. Still, he doesn’t sense any malicious intent behind your actions, so he allows your generosity, just this once. 

“If you insist,” he lets out a soft hum, “I will take a bath”. He turns around to walk in the opposite direction, as you get giddy inside at his agreement. “Oh– Thank you, Lord Sukuna! I won’t let you down!”

“Mhm,” you hear in the distance. He seemed hesitant to let you fix him a drink, but at least you were able to convince him in the end. You skip to the kitchen, optimistic about the opportunity to serve him well. 

You walk into the kitchen and begin to fix Sukuna's tea. Making sure to precisely measure out everything you need. You had to ensure that the tea was as perfect as it could be. 

As you are preparing the pot and cups, you feel Sukuna’s presence behind you as he enters the dining room from his bath. 

“Mmm,” he hums as he sits down across from you, water still dripping from his hair down to his chest as he happily accepts the tea you set before him. 

However, as he reaches for the teapot, you quickly grab it ahead of him as you remember the book.

Tip #4.1: A woman MUST pour for her husband! With no exceptions. 

You completely forgot that tip until the last minute, leading to the awkward conundrum you’re now in. 

Sukuna is staring daggers at you, and if you didn’t know him any better, you’d think he would be out to kill you at this moment. There were no ifs and buts about it, you had completely messed up. You idiot, you think to yourself. This was one of the earliest tips in the book. How could you expect to achieve all of the lessons if you couldn’t do something as simple as this? 

Part of you wanted to give up, to run away in shame knowing you’d never live up to the expectations of being the King of Curses’ right hand, but you know Sukuna would eventually find you and bring you back, regardless of how little you deserved it. You had to suck it up and keep going, you have no choice but to. You couldn’t give up, you don’t deserve to give up. 

As you are consumed with your negative self-talk, you hear Sukuna finally speak out loud, his gruff voice hitting your ears “What the hell has gotten into you?”. There’s no anger in his tone, only concern over your odd behavior throughout the day. 

“L- Let me pour!” is all you say as you scoot over toward him and his cup. 

You really aren’t going to tell him what’s going on. Once again, he lets it go for now, and simply lets out a soft grumble as he leans back, allowing you to go on and pour as you wish. 

Tip #4.2: Remember to pour like a proper woman! Nice and slow. 

You breathe in, calming your nerves as you slowly pour out the tea from the pot. 

You feel his irritated eyes burn in the back of your head, yet you continue to pour out the tea at the agonizingly slow pace you’re in. You must stick with the teachings, especially at this moment, where you need to undo the mistakes of your past, both the one you just made, and the ones you’ve dared to make before. Sukuna will thank you later when you can master being a proper wife, fit to be alongside him. 

As you finish pouring his tea, he lets out a soft sigh and picks up his teacup. You stay next to him, eyeing his reaction to the tea, hoping he’ll like it. You know you have so much more to learn, but selfishly, you still hope your current skills are worthwhile for now. Sukuna takes a long sip from the scalding hot tea, the boiling heat hardly affecting him. 

Even while just drinking tea, you thought, Sukuna was surely the most magnificent and serene man you’ve laid your eyes upon. His hair was still wet from his bath, little droplets dripping out of his frazzled hair into his bare tattooed chest. Yes, he is a truly beautiful man, one you are happy to one day call your husband, and you hope that one day, he will be able to call you his wife with pride. 

To have that, however, you must learn the ins and outs of being the kind of wife a husband would want. 

Sukuna notices you eyeing him as he drinks, “It’s good,” he says as he temporarily releases the teacup from his lips, “You should have some,” he urges you, his four eyes looking toward your still-empty cup. 

Your heart almost pounds out of your chest at the praise “Oh… yes, Sukuna! I will!” You smile as you move back to your side and sit cross-legged, pouring for yourself, making sure to do so properly still, hoping that Sukuna may see your efforts.

You beam with joy. The book works after all! You learned so much in just one day. Surely, if you continue, you’ll be a proper woman in no time!

Days go on, and you continue to follow the teachings of the books. All the while, Sukuna continues to follow your suspicious change of behavior. From your odd new seating posture to the too meticulous timing of your footsteps every time that you greet him. He didn’t comment on any of it, only keeping an eye for now. Still, he noticed every detail of the way you moved, all while you were left completely unaware of it.

Still, it was worth it to continue following the book to a T. Surely, the book sold all those copies for a reason. This had to be the book that all those townswomen were following. If it wasn’t impressing him, it must have been a problem from you rather than the writings. 

The sunlight welcomes another exhausting day of you waking up to open the book and prepare for another day of worthwhile teachings. The book was long overdue from the library at this point, and you had been too busy following its teachings to notice. Once the tips started getting more complicated, you began setting the goal of mastering at least one tip a day. Still, even keeping up with this task was beginning to get tiring. Yet you wanted to pull through, because everything was going to be worth it. Everything was going to be worth it for him. 

Your eyes widen, and you let out an audible gasp when you read the next few words from the book.  

Tip #73: Cook him a worthwhile meal! 

You wanted to convince yourself that your exhaustion was deceiving you. Otherwise… you were done for. 

While you’d become quite competent in making tea (especially in recent times), making a full meal was a whole different story. Still, if the readings say that you’re prepared, you are not one to believe otherwise.

Walking to the kitchen, you pick up one of Sukuna’s array of recipe books. You had an hour before Sukuna woke up, and you were going to do the proper thing and surprise your future husband with breakfast.  

Struggling through each of the ingredients, you’ve injured yourself enough times for it to become embarrassing, and you knew it would be a lie to blame it all on your overworked brain. Still, you finally finished preparing the ingredients, and all that was left was to put it all together over the stove. 

…

Who knew that you weren’t supposed to set the stove all the way to high when cooking? 

And who knew how easy it was for things to catch on fire? 

The first sensation you felt was the heat on your face, followed by the smell of smoke. Then came the bright light of fire covering the kitchen walls.

Despite the heat, you were frozen in fear. There goes being any sort of proper or useful. Truly, the least you could have done was not be a problem and now look at everything you did. You really were the worst, saying you’d amount to nothing when it came to being a decent partner for your fiance would be an understatement. 

Almost as a way to silence your thoughts, Sukuna barged in through the kitchen doors. The two of you make eye contact for a split second before he swiftly jumps in to quell the fire. 

Just then, in the same second the fire appeared, it was gone, with nothing but the smell of ashes and soot on the walls left as proof of your mistakes. 

Your vision is still blurry. Your recent near-death experience and your self-deprecation were an awful combination. Despite feeling like you didn’t deserve it, you wanted nothing but to hold him, and hold you he did. 

“That’s it. Deep breaths,” Sukuna coos, as he rubs circles along your back. You slowly breathe in and out and he instructs, and you hold him tight. You feel his chest shaking as your bury your head into it. Who could have guessed, he was just as terrified as you. 

“There you go, that’s not so bad, is it?”

You shake your head as you continue burrowing into him, feeling his warm body envelop yours like a blanket. 

Even when you begin to calm down, he continues to rub your head as he sets you down on the floor. Then, his eyes find their way to the book, untouched in the corner of the kitchen.

He picks up the book and analyzes its contents. Ever the quick thinker, it doesn’t take him long to put all the pieces together. 

“So this is why you’ve been so strange lately,” he says matter-of-factly. 

You say nothing and simply look away in shame. 

Sukuna continues, “Why would you think you’d get anything useful from such a worthless book” he grumbles as he flips through the pages, mumbling comments on how much “nonsense” is in the pages you once worshiped oh so dearly. 

“I…” you try to speak, but you get caught up in your words and simply look away again, avoiding his eyes, anything but his eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” Sukuna asks, sitting next to you as you straighten your spine along the walls. Despite the both of you now sitting, Sukuna is still massive next to you, making you want to huddle into the corner of the wall even more to hide your shame from him. He’s still reading the book, letting out a soft chuckle every time he finds something that amuses him, as if what he was reading was purposefully trying to make him laugh. 

You finally begin to speak. “It’s just… I wanted to learn how to be a good wife to you, and I found the book and–” 

“You’re already perfect for me. Why seek the council of inferior beings?” 

He doesn’t look up from the book as he says those words. As if what he is saying is simply common sense to him. Not only that, but as if it was supposed to be common sense to you. 

“I– do you mean that?” You look at him, your eyes wide and beginning to water. 

“Of course I do,” he grumbles as he closes the book and reaches one of his hands out to your face, “How dare you think I’d choose any lowlife to be my companion”

His words are harsh, but his hand caressing your face is anything but, and you can’t help but smile as you lean into his touch. He’s right, he wouldn’t choose anyone else to be with him, just as you wouldn’t choose anyone else but him to take your hand. 

“Don’t go around getting silly books anymore,” he says as he stands up, burning the book in his hands. 

Your eyes widen. “Wait– I… I needed that!” you try to reach out to grab any form of useful remains from the book but are only left with ashes. 

“Hm?” he looks at you curiously as you try to grab the ashes, “Whatever for?” 

“That was a book from the library…” you mumble as you look down at the mess before you, thinking of how you would explain your husband burning your book to the library staff. 

“Tch. They will live” Sukuna rolls his eyes as gets ready to leave the kitchen. “They’re better off without such garbage on their shelves anyways”

“B-But” 

“Let’s go out to eat. I’m hungry” he comments, though it would be much more accurate to call it a command toward you to join him. 

Looking up at him, and finally feeling like yourself again after the destruction of the book, you do nothing more but smile and say “Yeah…okay” as you get up to follow him.

A/N: Like Sukuna? You'll love these headcanons!

A/N: I might might MIGHT make a prequel to this because there’s sooo much to explore. Like how did Sukuna and her meet and get engaged? Why does she have so much internalized misogyny?  I need to know 😩

Taglist: @emmyrosee @lillysgotgyatt @aceakari

[dingodad]

love transmasc terezi analysis [thumbs up emoji] i read her as tmasc nonbinary but that might be me reading too much into the way she often forces herself into binary choices to her detriment OR has them forced on her (heads tails symbolism, the game over timeline vriska choice, dave vs karkat as 'romances to pursue', and more recently the way she acts as outsider and agent to both rose and dirk in beyond canon, the two forces of progenitor masculinity and femininity on deltritus). i think it's interesting how she views servitude to the empire as aspirational and i think that is definitely got some gender stuff going on there given preexisting reads of the caste system as misogyny. if you'd ever like to expand more on terezi as transmasculine, i'd love to hear it!

i don't think you are reading too deep into anything lol once upon a time it was pretty standard to remark upon the pointed androgyny of terezi's design so idk why i was getting yelled at for pointing it out just now. I never thought to connect this to her role as balance-keeper though.. if you think about it even the fact that her coin is called a "Cae[s]ar" but depicts a female figure seems emblematic of the illusion of dichotomy it offers

I've mentioned before that in general I'm less interested in figuring out what a character 'is' than I am in identifying how they relate to and participate in gender as a hierarchy of power, so I don't know if I would call the following a "transmasculine" read of Terezi per se. But it is a read on how I think Terezi plays masculine gender roles, or - to be crude - 'role plays' as male. So I definitely think it lends itself to interpretation of Terezi as a character with a masculine or androgynous identity

Expanding on what I first tentatively approached in this post and briefly followed up with my (apparently controversially) vague commentary on Terezi's clothing, my conception of Terezi's relationship to gender is largely informed by her relationship to the Knight role, which she implicitly tries to emulate when she role-plays as Redglare (the Knight of Mind) and which - as we understand it via Dave - is tied up in all these gendered expectations of heroism. Her proximity to gendered/hemospectral power absolutely plays a part too, though: the heroic Knighthood Terezi enthusiastically associates with being a legislacerator (see: the 'back in the day we could just kill criminals on the spot' shit) is really just systemic violence she is allowed to participate in by the blueness of her blood. But what she's apparently blind to is that - as you say - participating in that violence is subjecting herself to the violence of those higher on the patriarchal hierarchy. It's obvious to us, viewing Redglare's story as a cautionary tale about Terezi's fate, that the legislacerator is little more than the Grand Highblood's slave in the form of an attack dog; meanwhile Terezi obliviously treats Gamzee like a fascinating little oddity to play her games with, and is thus totally blindsided when he flips the script on her and reminds her of her place. Masculinity is a pool she's thrown into the deep end of, and Gamzee holds her head under the water with a grin.

Latula's bizarre struggle with the 'cool girl' persona is just Terezi and Redglare's complex of empowerment-disempowerment magnified to the ridiculous. The 'cool girl' finds acceptance among male peers by shedding off those cultural residues of femininity which are seen as undesirable, but for all her efforts can never truly become 'one of the boys' - for her gender transgression she is placed simultaneously outside of and beneath both classes. The gag about Latula not wanting to be "left hanging" even positions failure to be recognised as 'cool' ('like a boy') as a matter of life and death!

[wormtailfest]

Tale of Tails: A Peter Pettigrew Fest

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Tale of Tails: the good, the bad, and the ugly

Tale of Tails is a fest which aims to explore the complexity of Peter Pettigrew as a character, discover the flexibility of his personality outside of being the traitor, and shine the spotlight on our forgotten Marauder!

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[scoobydoodean]

what is your opinion on people calling dean a heavy misogynist? i don’t agree personally but i feel like you could put my thoughts into better words

First, I have to chuckle a little at "heavy misogynist". Apparently, some people have begun to realize their fave is also guilty of misogyny crimes therefore they focus on making sure all of us know Sam is a light misogynist and Dean is a heavy misogynist. I just find that amusing.

This is a broad topic in a long show, so I won't endeavor to address every conceivable incidence of misogyny in the show I can think of. Instead, I'm going to create a few headings, at least one of which I think most criticism falls under.

Misogyny through the writing team

How Sam's misogyny gets a pass

Purity culture wank and Dean performing for Sam

How Dean actually treats women

Misogyny Through The Writing Team

First, Supernatural in of itself has issues with misogyny—as in, the writers of the show (including female writers) have issues with misogyny which they are happy to put on display semi-frequently. The show started in 2005, during a period of time where casual sexism was absolutely rampant on TV and no one thought anything about it. Female celebrities were regularly mocked and dragged on cable television in a way men simply weren't. They were called bitches and skanks and whores, and even "progressive" voices were inundated with casual misogyny and a fixation on purity culture (that largely applied to women only). Quite simply, I think fandom tends to be far too generous toward the writers, assuming certain things were "flaws" the writers intentionally wrote for the characters.

Put another way, there are some criticisms I prefer to level at the writing team rather than the characters, because what is written plainly reflects their ignorance in the real world rather than any intent to give Sam or Dean or any other character meaningful flaws—much less outright terrible ones that greatly harm their image. I'll give a few examples:

2.17 "Heart" makes me very uncomfortable as I sit here in 2024 and observe how Sam and Madison's romance develops. Me feeling that way does not mean the authorial intent of 2007 Sera Gamble was that I think to myself, "Man Sam comes off as uncomfortably rapey here." Hopelessly bad with women, perhaps—but not creepy.

In season 2, the writers begin to develop a running “joke” that Sam is afraid of not just clowns but also little people. The latter “joke” is (wisely) dropped fairly quickly. I have never criticized Sam for being afraid of little people, and I never will. It is readily apparent to me that this running "joke" reflects the ignorance of the writing team rather than an intent to give Sam meaningful or interesting flaws. Their intent was to use little people as the butt of a joke. I personally find this "joke" distasteful, and the idea of trying to take that and somehow "dunk" on Sam for the bigotry of the writers is more distasteful to me.

This is also how I feel about the running "joke" of a porn magazine and website (BAB) that solely features Asian women, that is put on display on multiple occasions during the show—first in 2.15 "Tall Tales", where the context is Gabriel infecting Sam's laptop with a virus from the website and making him believe Dean is responsible. BAB continues to make "Easter Egg" appearances in the show afterward. While often associated with Dean by fandom, the writers clearly think of BAB as a general, "funny" (it isn't), running gag with no more depth than "haha men like porn funny". An issue is stolen by a sentient teddy bear in 4.08 "Wishful Thinking". An issue is owned by the teenager who swapped bodies with Sam in 5.12 "Swap Meat". The Men of Letters also collected a considerable number of issues (8.17). I simply do not believe the writers thought for a single moment about BAB being a grossly racist gag. They most certainly did not write it as an intentional criticism of Dean from that perspective. It reflects nothing but their ignorance and racism here in the real world, and absolutely SHOULD be criticized from that REAL WORLD impact.

How Sam's misogyny largely gets a pass

One of the things I have not been able to stop noticing on this rewatch is Sam's issues with misogyny, and how often Sam's misogyny comes out in conflicts with Dean... starting from the very first episode of the show. Pretty much any time you get anything that feels like it might be a misogynist Dean or horn dog Dean moment... Sam either just has or is about to follow that up with some misogyny of his own.

In 1.01, right after entering Sam's apartment and meeting Jess, Dean mentions the Smurfs on Jess's shirt. We think to ourselves "Okay. A little misogynist... a little horn-dog Dean." Sam is happy to 1-Up that in two ways. First, Jess voices her intentions to go get dressed. Dean dismisses this, but while doing so, makes it clear he intends to leave the room with Sam, as he'd like to have a private conversation with Sam anyway. Sam objects, walking over to Jess and putting an arm around her, demanding Dean say whatever he needs to say right then and there. Maybe this would feel supportive if Jess wasn't in her underwear and hadn't just made it clear that now that the panic over a possible break-in is over, she'd really like to not be in her underwear in front of a stranger. But nope. By god she needs to stand there so Sam can prove a point about misogynist Dean! Second, Sam immediately (and I think quite erroneously) jumps to imply Dean is trying to cut Jess out of the conversation because she's... a woman? Or... something? He makes a big show of moving over Jess and standing beside her, saying anything Dean has to say, he can say in front of Jess. However, the moment Sam actually understands that Dean is here because John is missing on a hunting trip, he dismisses Jess to speak to Dean alone... because he's lying to her. By painting Dean erroneously with this "The men are talking" bullshit that had nothing to do with anything, Sam sets himself up to be viewed as a misogynist by his own framing of the situation and what it means to leave Jess out of a discussion. He also reveals his own alleged principles as a performative illusion. Despite being his intended life partner, Sam never intends to tell the woman he loves about his past as a hunter (he makes this clear later on the bridge). However, I think because Sam's actions usually co-occur with what gets called out more directly or more immediately recognized as misogyny from Dean (should have gotten him for the Smurf's comment, Sam!) Sam's misogyny often flies under the radar... and he's really... pretty bad.

I spoke here at length about how Sam tends to look down on women who interact with Dean (often before meeting them). There is absolutely an intersection with purity culture here and there's discussion in that thread about that as well, and whether this is a "2000s writers" issue or intentionally written flaws.

In 1.06, Sam cuts Dean off before Dean can accept an offered beer from Rebecca, but then as soon as Sam needs Rebecca out of the room, Sam asks her to not just bring them those beers... but also fix them sandwiches. Rebecca says, "What do you think this is, Hooters?" and Dean mumbles, "I wish" and we somehow lose sight of the fact that Sam literally just asked a woman to make him sandwiches which is possibly the number one misogynist man trope. Sam vaguely suggests Dean is a misogynist in 1.19 for nudging Sam to go on a date with Sarah Blake and possibly get information on the case, because that would be "using" her, but Sam wants to "use" Meg Masters in 1.22 and he wants to "use" Ruby to get what he wants, and when he said getting information from women was "Dean's job", he was also showing he was perfectly willing to use Dean and Sarah—he just doesn't want to get his hands dirty. It also comes to light in 1.19 that this is more about Sam's belief that he has to protect women from him, and Sarah herself ends up calling Sam antiquated for it.

I mentioned before that Sam doesn't plan to ever tell Jess who he is, and he makes the same plans with Amelia. Dean, meanwhile, confides in Cassie (it's what leads to their breakup) as well as Lisa.

I also have to mention... one of the funniest things I see deancrit samgirls in particular dig at time after time after time is Dean calling women "bitches". Never mind that Sam also calls women like Ruby and Bela bitches and calls a woman a bitch in front of Madison. Apparently none of these occurrences count because... *looks at notes* reasons. "Bitch" only counts as misogyny when it's Dean saying it. Also, let's not mention that Sam exclusively uses the word "bitch" to refer to women, while Dean also calls men and creatures bitches at different points so it isn't a gender specific insult for him.

Dean is definitely the "heavy" misogynist here... right? (I guess Sam is a "tall" misogynist instead).

Purity culture wank and Dean performing for Sam

Dean is commonly treated in fandom as if he's some kind of sex pest, and quite blatantly... he isn't one. Women almost always proposition Dean first (thejabberwock has sets on this here and here), but him asking people out also isn't inherently creepy in any way? Co-occurring with Sam's purity culture inundated judgements, we often see fandom's own as well, where Dean is some kind of sex pest because he... likes women? Or... because he has sex with consenting women who also want to have sex with him? Sometimes it's giving purity culture wank, sometimes it's given big radfem energy... but regardless, I sometimes see people talk about Dean like him so much as making eye contact with a woman is a violent sexual threat, and that's just laughable—as is denying the agency and autonomy of consenting women in general.

Even though it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, I'll also add that Dean... doesn't even actually have sex with the frequency that people talk about it? Dean has sex with Cassie—who was a long term partner of his in 1.13. He has sex with an actress in 2.18, and with Doublemint twins in 3.01. He has sex with a waitress 4.05. He plans to have sex with someone in 3.04, but turns her down when he realizes she's a prostitute who's working. This happens again in 10.07. I'm on season 4 of my rewatch and haven't been formally keeping up... but Dean is not actually having a lot of sex? We get implications he's been out partying a few times, and can maybe infer he scored, but we don't actually know.

I'm not a huge fan of performing Dean, in the sense that I think over the years I have seen it wildly overstated far too many times. But I do think Dean sometimes plays a character for Sam especially. Dean tells us this himself in 2.03 "Bloodlust" when confiding in Gordon. He never says so directly when it comes to the sexy sex guy doing sex persona, but his actions reveal him. One can think of plenty of examples of Dean saying horny stuff about women to Sam... but what about his actions?

How Dean actually treats women

Finally, there's how Dean actually treats women... and one would be very hard pressed to prove to me that Dean is sexist toward the women in his life. He's been close friends with multiple women and worked with women on hunts on multiple occasions and never once batted an eye. Jo in 2.06 is sometimes floated as an example, but it's actually discussed within the episode. Dean makes it very clear that he thinks women can do the job just fine. What he has a problem with is Jo's lack of experience and her romanticization of the job (especially during a period where Dean has fallen deeply out of love with the job himself). Everything we see as the series progresses supports Dean's assertion as truth. He's very good friends with Charlie, Jody, and Donna and doesn't go around excluding them on hunts while favoring men. That is not a thing that happens. While he initially tries to talk Claire out of the life (as he does everybody—this is not unique to women—see Adam for example) when she decides to hunt, he supports her regardless. There is nothing uniquely overprotective about how Dean treats women who hunt. End of. Dean has no illusions about traditional gender roles or any of that nonsense, jumping to clean dishes after dinner at Jody's and cooking breakfast for Lisa and Ben. (Our knowledge of Dean and the chores he does for his family already tell us this—but regardless). Even Demon Dean, an entity with no love for anyone and close to zero principles, targeted men who abuse and threaten women, and when Crowley ordered him to kill Lester's wife to fulfill the terms of Lester's demon deal, Demon Dean instead became so deeply annoyed with Lester's hypocrisy (he cheated on his wife first) and his assertion that it's different when men cheat, that he killed him and smiled while doing it.

So anyway, nope—I don't think Dean is a "heavy" misogynist.

[turtle-paced]

Do margaery and her cousins are more than just friends? I mean she always sleeps with them and cersei implies at some point that she and loras maybe have more things in common.

The sleeping in the same bed thing, that's easily explained in a world without central heating. Cersei herself has a passage on this very topic.

Later, after they were separated, she'd had a string of bedmaids and companions, most of them girls of an age with her, the daughters of her father's household knights and bannermen. None had pleased her, and few lasted very long. Little sneaks, the lot of them. Vapid, weepy creatures, always telling tales and trying to worm their way between me and Jaime. Still, there had been nights deep within the black bowels of the Rock when she had welcomed their warmth beside her. An empty bed was a cold bed. Cersei VII, AFFC

Margaery and her cousins sharing a bed is an indication of nothing sexual or inappropriate at all.

But what Cersei doesn't get is why anyone would want to spend time with an icky girl, it's not like girls are worth being friends with... so she thinks that Margaery sharing a bed with her cousins must be about sex. It's Cersei's misogyny once again.

Oh, and the homophobia of assuming that if Loras is gay, the people around him might catch/already caught the dread disease homosexuality. That too. Why stop at just one flavour of bigotry?

[hwasoup]

Tale As Old As Time

Playlist to read along with !!

songs used for inspo: The First Branch, Belle, Nice and Airy How Does a Moment Last Forever (music box), No Matter What,

art credit goes to Marbipa

this au is very heavily inspired from the 1991 movie, 2017 movie, and the musical, some things will seem similar and at times different, some parts of dialogue will be familiar, however it's for the sake of the plot. to summarize, this is basically a retelling of the story. I hope you guys enjoy!!

also let me know if you want to be on the taglist!!

<< prev. | ch.2 >>

Warnings: brief mention of character death, slight misogyny

word count: 1.9K

summary: life as the inventor's daughter

Chapter 1 : The Village

In a small province, east of the castle, there was a small village called Arachna,

This village is quite unique on its own as there are many people of different personalities, Men go to work and get an education and the women stay at home to learn how to be housewives and tend for children. Reading was considered wrong for women to read…Men didn’t want them to develop ideas or think for themselves and only solely focus on the children… However…At the edge of the village, at a small house lived an old inventor, he knew how to fix clocks, create music boxes, and most importantly invent. He would slave the day away just tinkering and figuring out new ideas on how to make life more comfortable and convenient, he proposed his ideas constantly to the villagers to help them make their lives a bit easier, but alas…the villagers called him a loon and demented for frivolous ideas. He would go home dejected, but his greatest pride and most precious invention would be at home; Y/N…

He had raised y/n all on his own after his wife passed away when y/n was 5. To his precious daughter, He promised himself that he wouldn’t shun her from her curiosity and instead showed her all there is to know. Y/N learned how to read, write, speak, analyze, and even sing a little, all due to her father’s promise that he made to her dying mother and to his daughter. Eventually, Y/N grew to be a lovely and beautiful woman. She’s kind, compassionate, loving, and even imaginative. She even has a huge affinity for reading and especially having a bit of a collection of books at home. 

You may wonder, what is Y/N’s life like at her village

well it goes a bit like this…

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

A rooster crows in the distance, as the sun rises, signifying the day to begin..

Y/N has woken up and looked at her book beside her bedside table and smiles “well now...time to return this to the bookstore” she says softly to herself. She opens her curtains and opens the window, smelling the morning dew from the fresh air. Y/N gets dressed in her favorite blue dress, tying her hair in a low ponytail with a ribbon and walks downstairs to cook some breakfast for herself before leaving. She puts her book in a little basket and walks out and heads for the village. “Any moment now…before I hear-” she gets interrupted by the waking village “BUENOS DIAS MI GENTE” 

Y/N rolls her eyes as she sees the empty streets quickly fill up with people with errands and work to do. She smells fresh wheat from the bakery, and she smiles as she thinks how the baker always sells his bread right on time. “Ah, Buenos Dias Y/N” the baker says. “Oh Buenos Dias, señor”, The Baker looks at her and smiles and asks, “where are you off to?” Y/N smiling and excited to tell him says “Oh I’m going to the bookstore! I just finished reading this amazing story about an ogre, a donkey, and a cursed princess-” she gets interrupted “oh that’s nice. OYE MARIA, LOS BOLILLOS” he ends up yelling to his wife in the bakery. Y/N shrugs and moves along her day.

The villagers see her and start whispering amongst themselves, they gossiped about how she would always read, always having her nose stuck in a book.However, they could all mutually agree that despite her odd personality, she’s truly a sight for sore eyes, a truly beautiful woman who sadly knows how to think. 

Y/N arrives at the bookstore and opens the door, the bell on top of the door chiming, announcing her arrival. “Buenos Días señor ! vine a devolver el libro que me prestaron” she says handing the book back to the salesclerk with much care. The salesclerk laughs “ Already? Y/N my dear, it's only been since yesterday.” Y/N who was already on the ladder searching for another book looked down at him sheepishly “yea, well I couldn’t exactly put it down…” Her hand lands on a familiar blue book, she pulls it out of the bookshelf and hands it to the salesclerk “I’ll borrow this one !” The salesclerk looks at the title of the book and shakes his head, amused by her antics “you’ve read this book almost 2 times already, are you sure you want this book again ?” he says, while helping Y/N down the ladder. “Well I can’t help it, faraway places, tense sword fights, magic spells, and a prince in disguise” 

The salesclerk chuckles and hands her the book “well if you like it so much it’s yours...” Y/N holds the book in her hands in excitement “I-I… are you sure?” she asks hesitantly. “I insist, please take it” he tells her. “Well then thank you, thank you so much!” Y/N leaves the bookstore happily, immediately opening to the first page.

While Y/N is in the distance walking with her new book, next to a tavern there is a strong, tall, blone, handsome brute of a man, checking himself out in the mirror, making sure that his looks are impeccable. “BEN! I caught your uhh…whatever this bird is, oh and some girls told me to tell you you’re an amazing hunter” says a shorter looking pudgy man to him.

“Why thank you Eddie for reminding me how perfect I am,” Ben says. Eddie nods as he pretends to agree with his own statement. “I bet that not even a beast or girl can handle you,” he says, feeding the man’s ego. Ben looks down at Eddie and grins “oh and that’s true as well, but my next hunt is that one over there” he says pointing at Y/N. Eddie looks at him a bit appalled and says, “the inventor’s daughter?” Ben then inhales and goes on a tangent “Why yes, Eddie…she’s the one I’m going to marry, the most beautiful girl in town. As soon as I met her, I knew that I have to make her my wife, a handsome man like me and a gorgeous woman like her are meant to be together” Eddie agrees with him reluctantly as he sees Venom speed walk to catch up with her.

Ben goes through a bustling market in order to reach Y/N who is easing her way through the crowd despite reading a book. “Please let me through” he said exasperated, not wanting to let Y/N out of his sight. Eventually he does finally reach her by climbing the roof of a house and landing right on his feet like the man he is. “Hello, Y/N” he says as his eyes scan her from head to toe. “Hola, Ben” she says in response while still focusing on her book. ben then smirks and quickly takes the book away from her hands to get her attention. 

“Ben, por favor give back my book” she says politely. Ben ignores her by butting in her way and flipping the pages in the book “How do you read this… there’s no pictures…” 

“Well if you read books then you would know that some people have something called an imagination” 

Ben looks at her and throws the book somewhere as he tries to charm her “well Y/N, I believe it's finally time for you to stop reading books and pay attention to more…attractive things, like me” he says. “The whole town talks about it. It’s not proper for women to read...besides women thinking means they develop ideas and start assuming things” he says with a bit of a grimace on his face. 

“Ay, Ben you’re so antediluvian.”

Y/N then reaches down to pick up her book and wipes the dirt off with a handkerchief. She turns around to keep on going back home but is stopped by Ben yet again as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder, mentioning how she should join him at the tavern so that they could talk and bond. “Oh, but I can't. I have to go help my father, goodbye now” she says, as she walks away as fast as her feet can take her away from the brainless man.

A few minutes later after speed walking, Y/N sees smoke coming out of the basement and rushes there quickly. “PAPA!” She opens the basement door to let out the smoke and searches for her father “ay papa, que paso? estas bien?” she asks as she helps him get up from the floor “Ay Hijita, I'm fine... I just can’t get this piece of metal to start working” Y/N chuckles and kisses her father’s forehead “papa you always say that when you’re frustrated… Besides, if you get this to work… you can finally go to the contest and win that prize you’ve always wanted.”

Her father thinks for a while and nods “ you’re right…i shouldn’t give up, i’ll get a patent on this and i’ll finally be Mauricio, the greatest inventor ever seen!” Y/N smiles and hugs her father before leaving to let him finish his invention. “Oh right, papa did you…” she looks at him with a knowing look “yes I did mijita, it's upstairs at the kitchen table.” Y/N nods and dashes up inside the house and speeds to the kitchen. She stops when she looks at the table and smiles fondly. It was her mother’s old music box…now fixed after so many years…

Y/N sits by the table and winds up the music box and hums along to the melody being played remembering the lullaby her father used to sing to her before going to sleep as a child. She then looks up and sees her father smiling at her, enjoying the melody as well. “Papa…do you think i'm..odd ?” she says softly to him. Her father raises an eyebrow and sits beside her “y a donde sacaste eso??”

“People talk papa…” she says looking to the side. “Solecito…they talk about me too, we’re not odd at all…” He brings his hand to her shoulder to console her “you’re my daughter…and you’re mother’s daughter as well, They’re the common people and you…you’re unique Hija. No matter what you do I’m always on your side ok?” Y/N smiles and chuckles “are you sure that’s just not you being biased?” Her father laughs and shrugs “Maybe…maybe not…don’t ever change who you are, ok?” Y/N smiles and nods “ok papa” A few days later, Y/N’s father was finished with his invention and had prepared the wagon, placing some food, medicine, horse fodder, and his invention all neatly placed inside the wagon. As he adds the saddle onto Felipe’s back, placing the reins properly on the horse’s side. He then looks at Y/N and smiles “Hijita…what do you wish for me to bring back for you? Shall it be jewelry, or dresses, or new perfumes?” Y/N thinks for a minute and says, “A rose, like the one mama had embroidered on her dress” He chuckles “But, you ask for that every year. Y/N smiles as she looks at her father “and yet every year you’ll bring it...” “Fine then, you’ll have my word, adios por ahora y/n” he says as he gently caresses his daughter’s cheek. “Adios Papa...” Y/N would watch her father ride up the hill into the distance. 

“Stay Safe...”

taglist: @cupcakeinat0r , @miguelhugger2099, @mcmiracles, @xxsugarbonesxx,@codenameredkrystalmatrix,@deputy-videogamer,@lxverrings,@miguelzslvtz,@itsameclinicaldepression 

[sweetwolfcupcake]

Swords in the Court: Desire

Secret Garden

Yandere Don John x Reader

Word Count: 6k+

Part 3

Warning: Allusions to sexual and physical violence against women, talks of execution, medieval misogyny, sexual encounters, talks of pregnancy and contraception, general cynicism and scheming, obsessive behaviour

Note: This story is set in a fictionalised historical setting. Though there are clear inspirations drawn from the real world and history, this tale in no way tries to explain, change or state any historical, political, communal, geographical or religious 'facts'. Kindly treat this short-series as it is, a fiction

Unedited and my poor attempt at a medieval world-building

“What are you doing here? I have been looking for you.” 

Two days before the much-anticipated feast and masquerade, you have received the dress and chosen a mask. But a final nod from your dearest friend is a necessity. You finally manage to catch her in the archives, reading.

“That’s an awfully heavy book. What are you reading?”

“The last words of people executed on royal orders. Quite a list for a King who has been ruling for only more than four decades years.” She does not take her eyes off the pages.

“What are looking for in such a morbid history?”

“I was curious what Geo—the Pretender’s last words were.”

“Maddy!” You hiss and look around, making sure that there is no one around “Are you keen on getting yourself killed? You know that you mustn’t even mention that name around.” You sit close to her and grip her arm

She only glances at you and puts a hand over yours “Who would know what I’m looking for?”

“Those who want us out of the court, or worse. And there are many.” 

She shakes her head dismissively before pointing at a section “Found it. Short but…”

“But what?” You peek in as well, growing curious.

“'Your children shall perish my fate as the Kingdom burns to the ground'.”

You whisper out.

“Even in his last moments, he has been vile.”  

“Seems more of a curse.” Maddy comments.

“He was not a witch, was he?”

“Will we ever know?” Maddy leans back, closing the heavy book.

“Do you think it will come true? What he said?”

“(Y/N), he was a stupid boy led by greed and delusion, who plundered villages and murdered innocents. He thought he could become the King? He was a puppet, a fool.”

You nod and smile nervously  “Right, I don’t know why I let such things get to me.”

She assesses you “Maybe it is not this, something else? Has something been troubling you?”

You remember your encounter with Lord John at the chapel and his offer to you.

“It’s nothing, you know, the court and all. Lord Beecham’s wife’s demise has left a void in the court that so many houses are eager to fill. I am required to give the Queen all I can gather.”

“That’s tiring, especially for you. You don’t like the court.”

You shake your head “No, but I need it. We need to remain relevant. Don’t we?”

She hums and leans it “I heard his daughter spends hours with the King.”

“Should we be discussing things here? Go wait in my room, I will join you after I put this away safely.”

Maddy nods and smiles before leaving you with the book—written evidence of all that it takes to keep a throne and a stable kingdom. Sighing, you pick up the heavy book and make your way towards one of the towering shelves. Picking up a chair and being as quiet as possible, you put it by the shelf and stand on it. The wood creaks with a warning but you focus on placing the book carefully. 

Just as you manage to slide the book in, making sure it seems untouched, you feel the wood creak a little harder, and the chair tilts slightly, making you almost lose your balance. But unexpectedly, the piece of furniture comes to firm stability, no tilting, no swinging. Relieved, you look down, only to tense up again at the sight of Lord John.

“Careful, my Lady, a broken ankle would not allow you to participate in the majestic ball.” 

The unmistakable mirth in his eyes and tone is not lost upon you. After successfully evading him in the past few days, you had to bump into him here, out of all the places. He holds the chair with one hand and offers you the other. 

Not wanting to be impolite, you reluctantly take his hand and let him help you get off the chair.

“Lord John, I thank you for your aid. It is quite late for a Prince to be out of his chamber.”

“On the contrary, I have come to love the night here, and the people. It is though odd to find a lady roaming the royal archives at this hour.”

You smile tightly and bend to greet him good night.

“(Y/N).” There is a barely concealed desperation, if you have not mistaken in his voice as you turn to walk away.

“I did not mean to insult you.”

What a lie!

“You offer me the position of your mistress.” You do not bother about keeping the garb of politeness anymore “What should I assume it is then?” 

You glare up at him as he stands in your way. 

“And I would suggest you move.”

“Not until you hear what I have to say.” 

He is composed now; the slight breathlessness in his voice now seems like a misinterpretation. He does not appear to be offended at the slightest by your glare or tone. 

“Very well….”

“I admit. I offer you to become my mistress—but your place shall be by my side, in the Spanish Court. I put that proposal in the chapel not to insult but to make the place a witness.”

“You think you flatter me, my Lord? You think you are doing me a favour?” You can barely keep the simmering rage in check.

“I believe that your place is with me. I yearn for your company; it is no lie.”

“You have my answer, I refuse to be a whore no matter how big of a crown you wish to put on my head.”

“You are not a whore.” His voice raises slightly as he moves to hinder your walk once more “The mistress is not a whore in the court there.”

“Well, she is, here. Good night,” you hiss and try to walk away, but his fingers wrap around your elbow “Have you not insulted me enough?”

“What would you have?” There, the fire under the surface rares its head as his sharp gaze pierces through you.

The question rattles you— you should answer ‘nothing’ instinctively, but you realise you would not mean that. But what are you hoping for? A marriage with a man who is a clear threat to the Princess’s position as the Empress of Spain? They are to be engaged

“Nothing, My Prince. I wish to have nothing to do with you.”

“You and I both know that is a plain lie. Why would the healer send you for any medication to my chamber? Why would you risk your life for me? I see it in your eyes, you do desire me”

“You are full of yourself.” You try pulling away, but it makes him jerk you closer. “You are no gentleman!”

“Oh, drop it! You are not living in fairytales like those sheltered young ladies of the court! You and I know what it is like. You and I have made our own place. We can do so much more!”

“You. Only you! You have no clue what it is like to be a woman in the court, that too one of no noble heritage. A blacksmith’s daughter’s miraculous rise in the court due to the Queen’s favour. But the people I walk among do not fail to ever remind me how I would never belong! You know how cautious I must be? They’re waiting for scandal. They all wait for me to fall from grace, back in the mud where I belong. I have no royal blood running through my veins; I have claim to nothing. I must earn it all!”

“And you think I did not earn my way up? Do you—” 

He stops, and his hold softens before his thumb comes to wipe the tears that have been on your cheeks without your permission or knowledge.

 “I offer you a ladder to rise. We could have so much together. Not only because you have the potential and power to do so but also because…Because I want you, I have wanted you since the day I saw you. You were burnt in my mind.” He exhales, fluttering his eyes closed for a moment before opening them again as if he has tasted something refreshing.

You know, at this moment, more than anything that you want him. You desire him not only physically but emotionally as well. You want to be by his side; listen to your heart. But you are well-acquainted with the fickle nature of men—you have seen many good women ruined with the promise of love and the position of a mistress.

“You must retire to your chamber. It would be no good if anyone sees us together, here, like this.”

Before he can react, you jerk away from him and rush out of the place, praying that he will not follow. He does not.

—-------

The next day, you find yourself in the Queen’s chamber. You find her reading one of her favourite classics by the fire. By this hour, the Ladies-in-Waiting are dismissed. 

“You summoned me, Your Grace?”

“Yes, I did. Have your dress for the ball arrived yet?”

“Yes, My Queen, it is stitched to perfection. I thank you for sponsoring all the Ladies’ dresses for the ball.”

“As the Queen, I ought to make sure that my Ladies stand out. It also helps in finding suitable matches, and other reasons are that feasts and balls are so beloved among ladies.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.”

“Have you thought of it?”

“Forgive me, Your Grace?”

“Marriage. Have you considered it?”

“No, Your Grace.” You frown, confused at the course of the conversation.

“Do you know what it is?”

“All I have heard of is one becomes another’s companion for life, partner is sorrow, happiness, pain and—”

“And so it goes.” She rolls her eyes and picks up her cup

“Let me.” You fill it with wine.

“Thank, dear. So, I say—yes, marriage. That is for the beauty of literature. Not life.  Life is beauty with pain and sorrow and the burdens we bear. Especially as women. For us, marriage is the safest and the best way to secure our position in society and wealth in our names.”

You nod, absorbing her words.

“Am I expected to marry, Your Grace?” Even the thought fills you with slight dread and much uncertainty.

“As a woman, it is never going to be easy, but you must endure in order to secure your position in society and its court and rise. Remember this before we go forward.”

“I will.”

She eyes you while finishing her wine. When you offer to refill it, she refuses, keeping her contemplative stare at you. “Sit here,” she pats on the chair beside her. 

Though you know she favours you, she has never asked you to sit by her. It is frowned upon, after all. Your social stature is much, much lower to her; no matter what position you take in the court, you will always be known as a blacksmith’s daughter. 

But you oblige, tentatively taking a seat.

“Do you know where the most difficult battles take place?”

“I do not think I do, my Queen.”

“It’s the court, child. The court is where the trickest and the longest battles take place. It is the most dangerous battle in any Kingdom or Empire. And I have been fighting this battle ever since the day I was crowned the Queen. I have been fighting to keep my crown until I gave birth to my son, and now for my children and my crown. And they are threatened by the vipers that sit right beside the King.”

“Has something happened, Your Grace?”

“Something might, Earl Beecham’s daughter is the King’s new mistress and he is a part of his council. His influence grows every day.”

The rivalry between the Queen and Earl Beecham is still subtle as it is relatively new. But if she has decided to share this with you, then you can surmise that he has become a considerable threat to her influence in the court. But you keep quiet, letting her continue.

“But with the death of his wife, we are presented with new opportunities.”

“You want me to find a suitable bride for him?”

She chuckles at that.

“No, that is slightly more complicated. I want you to be his bride.”

The silence that follows is a fusion of shock from your end and contemplation from hers. 

“Your Grace I—Lord Beecham is…”

“I know your concerns, and I do not dismiss them, child. I am not asking of you to make this a successful marriage, I need you to keep an eye on him until I have him by the neck. I will arrange a kitchen wench to work for you there, you will send me letters through her.”

“But what about me? What if he is a terrible husband?” You can barely keep your voice from cracking

“Lord Beecham will fall; I shall make sure of that. And once he does, we can arrange a divorce, or if he falls hard enough, you will inherit all the lands he ought to gift you after the wedding. It is a custom. Either way, I will see to it that a real and prestigious match is arranged for you.”

You say nothing. You do not know what to say. The Queen sighs and reaches for your hand.

 “I know what I ask for is not easy, but I need someone trustworthy in Beecham’s lair. And I trust you. If anyone can do this, it is you.” 

“You know that I am not prepared.”

“No one is ever prepared. But if you succeed in preventing his house from spreading its wings, you will prove your worth in this court. There is potential in you. You are old enough to truly learn the games we play at court. Hidden and patient. That would do for now.”

“And why would Lord Beecham take me as his wife?”

“Because he’s my husband’s lapdog. And I still hold influence over the King. Fools like him think they can challenge me.” She pauses for a moment and observes you “I know you are afraid. But know that Lord Beecham is a danger to this Kingdom, and it would be long before he is put in his place. Just make sure not to get pregnant. A child involved will complicate matters.”

She hands you a bottle of dried herbs.

“A pinch in a cup of warm water every morning and night would do. Are you intact?”

“You mean I—yes. I am.”

“It’s always better that way with them. However, in case you slip as we so often do in the flush of youth, remember to prick your skin right after the wedding night and make sure to put traces of blood on the sheets.”

“I will not slip, My Queen, I know I must save myself for marriage.”

“Learn to please him if you can; men are easily swayed by the thing between our legs and like to crow about love for virtuous women. Take the herbs with you now, in case you ‘slip’, you know what to do.”

You silently take the bottle, trying to absorb everything.

“There will be no need to oversee the flow of refreshments, be present in the celebration instead. Be charming, observe Beecham, if possible, strike a conversation.”

You nod, not trusting your voice anymore.

“May I leave, Your Grace?”

“Hm, sleep well.”

You somehow hold yourself until you reach your room. But once you do, the dam breaks.

—-----

The bed creaks with the force of their hips clapping against each other. Sweet sweat mingles with wanton moans and pleasured huffs and grunts. What they say about this lady—Katherine is indeed true; she is a lover men cannot forget. No wonder even the nobles yearn for bedding her. John’s mind, though, has another face. He throws his head back, gripping her hips as he feels the rush towards the edge, but he holds back, grunting and looking up, but not quite looking into Katherine’s eyes as she rides him. He feels her walls spasming and reaches for her clit to make the swing more lasting. She moans, coming on his swollen manhood before his grip on her hips tightens, and he flips her on her back. She lets out a light, startled yelp, followed by a laugh, earning a grin from John.

“Have you taken the herbs?”

“You know I always do. They work, always.” A part of him struggles to hold back as he holds onto the bedframe and looks up; your face flashes before him. 

It makes him chuckle—how come you have crept into his mind like a disease? He forces himself to pull out, dangling right on the edge. Instead, he grabs her supple thighs.

“Let me, my Lord.” Katherine chuckles and wraps her hands around his manhood. 

She has to be a priestess of desire and pleasure; how else does she know which vein to trace? How to rub and squeeze until he comes, staining her stomach with his release? John gasps and huffs, feeling her fingers still rubbing, letting him ride through the climax. It infuriates him how your eyes flash in his mind. Maybe he should have kissed you that night and deliberately let someone be the witness. Word of mouth is such a powerful tool.

But he cannot bring himself to do that—not yet, at least. He knows how gruelling it is to build everything from nothing, and he admires you for doing that. To John, you were initially a mystery who refused to leave his head, and the more he has come to know you, the more it grows on him. He knows passion and desire, and he has that for you, but he has rarely felt the empathy you possess and have shown him.

He grunts, closing his eyes as his hand grasps her breasts. Will your breasts feel something like this? Or even softer? Will you whimper first and look up at him, showing your vulnerability with no attempt to conceal it as you try? Or have there been other men? An uncharacteristic rage churns in his stomach at the mere thought of it.

“Ah! My Lord—” Katherine’s pained hiss brings him back. Eyes flying open, he frowns, looking into her surprised and slightly frightened gaze.

He has never done anything to hurt her or any other of the women here, but the reddened marks on her breast stare back at him.

“Oh, Katherine, forgive me, please?” He sighs with regret, her hand still gripping his girth but no longer moving. Lowering himself, he kisses her breast, tenderly tracing the redness. It will fade, but it has been unexpected, he can see it in her eyes, and he can feel it.

“Have you been well, My Lord?” Her hand begins to move again, but with a tenderness to coax out the answers.

John looks into her hooded eyes and smiles faintly. The moment is already spoiled; he is looking into her eyes, but they are not yours. It should not matter, but it does. He let himself be carried away and almost hurt her.

“I am well.”

He tries to pull away but her grip tightens, her thumb tracing a particular vein once more that makes him chuckle with the swift rebuilding of desire. He buries his head into the crook of her neck, she smells so different than you. But there are prominent traces of him. 

Will you smell like him as well? Will your petals bloom, flushed and dewy under his touch? He gulps, feeling parched as he envisions your fingers parting your nether lips for him to see, smell, taste and fill. Grunting into Katherine’s neck, he feels himself explode, spurting into he r hands, thighs and stomach and, to his surprise, wishing it were you.

This…this is not him. 

A snarling part of him wishes you had been just cruel and prideful; he could have thrown you out of his mind. But no, you occupy his thoughts not only in the tenderest moments but also in his schemes. How powerful he can be if he has someone like you by his side. You can empathise with him, navigate the court, and be ambitious. You do not stand out in features or possess any land to your name, but you are…John realises that it hardly matters. Even if he tries to deny this, it would be a boyish attempt. You completely take him and have not yet found a reason deep and firm enough. Maybe he would have found his heart drawn to you even if he had met you at the fish market. You are you. 

You do aim for something bigger and better, you admire the Queen and are fiercely loyal to her, but because she is your way up. He can be your way even higher once he strengthens his position. But he cannot afford to wait for another opportunity when he has to return to Spain while you are ripe for a wedding. The Queen surely has her plans. Even if it is lowly lord, you are to be married and remain a part of the court. He cannot risk it, even though asking your hand for companionship, not marriage, is a risk in itself he is willing to take that.

Cleaned up and dressed again, John puts down gold coins instead of silver this time.

“Are you not paying too little, my Lord?” she smirks

“I do not think so.” He replies, watching her as she dresses herself.

“Do you feel guilty? It won’t even bruise; I have seen worse noblemen.” He smirks sardonically.

“I’m not them.”

“No, you’re worse than them.”

“Worse? How so?” He raises his eyebrow, intrigued.

“You have reins over yourself. You do not lose yourself here, ever the guarded.” She eyes gold coins before her knowing gaze meets his once more “You do not intend to return, do you?”

“Rest, Katherine.” 

With that, he walks out of the chamber.

In his modest clothing, it is difficult to single out the bastard pricne from the rest of the patrons. John's keep eyes, though, catch the sight of Earl Beecham before he breezes past the older man without attracting any attention.

—-----

The day of celebration and the formal announcement regarding the upcoming marriage and a befitting alliance. The Emperor and the Empress align with their party and are given a grand welcome before the feast begins. Wine, pies, sweets, candied fruits, meat and the Emperor’s favourite– chocolates flow in with women, mostly Katherine’s girls. 

You get to enjoy Maddy’s company when you are not accompanying the Queen, as she demands your presence while she speaks with the nobles. It is tiring, but you know that she is trying to introduce you to the court for a more active participation. This comes as a blessing in disguise—you are able to evade Lord John—at least for most of the evening, until he walks up to the Queen himself

Maroon and gold are the shades he is made for, or perhaps they are, for him. He stands out from the royal family with the lack of emeralds in his clothing. As for pants, he has chosen befitting black, while the golden twines and flowers bloom over the maroon that fits perfectly over his torso, highlighted by the simple, white attire underneath, peeking out of the regal hues. He is indeed a sight for sore eyes.

“A grand celebration indeed by the graceful Queen.”

“Prince Juan, I earnestly hope that nothing has been amiss regarding your and your family's comfort.”

“You put me in shame, Your Grace; if anything, your hospitality has won our hearts and filled our bellies to the brim.” He chuckles, raising his cup of wine.

“If our hospitality brings you pleasure and a smile on your handsome face, my Lord, the gold and sweat are well-spent.” 

“Lady (L/N), I cannot thank you enough for your kindness and heroic act.”

“You have thanked me more enough, my Lord.” You are polite yet indifferent but let a cold smile slip.

Something akin to amusement twinkles in his brown eyes before he takes your hand—graceful and gentle, yet you flinch. You tell yourself that you are surprised, nothing more, but your heart hammers wildly against your chest as if ready to scream out your deepest desires.

“I do not believe it was enough.” His lips are soft, and you are afraid you will burn with the need to touch them again. 

His gaze has mirth, and the subtle burn you feel is only meant for you, and you are tempted to melt. You shiver, fighting to keep up an air of indifference, especially when the Queen stands right beside you.

“If you allow us, I have taken it upon myself to see to the prospects of my maiden Ladies-in-Waiting. She is yet to be introduced to many deserving members of the court.” The Queen smiles, but you cannot bring one to your lips.

Lord John’s smile remains, but the warmth sizzles out into a cold, hard stretch of lips and eyes that dim, which one might mistake as fury.

“Of course, Your Grace, it seems to be the right time indeed.”  His smile stretches wider as he moves out of your way in a smooth step, yet you do not dare to meet his gaze again.

—---

Evading the brooding half-prince had been relatively easy with the constant mingling and overall crowd in the hall. You have already decided that the masquerade would be a cakewalk at this point. You are not the most graceful on the dance floor, but you will take as many spins as you can if it means you avoid Lord John.

With a quarter of the candles and lamp blown out, the once brightly lit grand hall dims into a seductive glow. Now, meeting eyes and stolen kisses have the shadows to shield them from prying eyes. The swaying and lazy feet on the floor give away that there are more empty goblets than plates. Silk, gold, silver and pearls twirl around, matching with the varying masques held in front of their faces or tied with silk ribbons. Some feathered, some golden, some with pearls swen and hanging, intricate and delicate, the masquerade ball is a sight to behold, alluring yet with an edge of danger and secrets. Perhaps the most secrets do spill out here.

On the Queen’s insistence, you share your first dance with Lord Beecham. Despite the distinct stink of alcohol surrounding him, he is controlled and graceful; his noble mannerisms can charm an innocent onlooker into considering him an ideal man of honour, but you are all too aware of the foul schemes the court thrives on. You smile graciously, ignoring the prickling feeling of being watched. You make no attempts at dismissing it; you are all too familiar with the feel, and you have endured the scrutinising stares and scowls of the aristocrats for long enough. 

While your conversations with Lord Beecham remain shallow, you see his eyes assessing you—cold, calculative and hungry. In his prime, he would not have been too bad to look at, but knowing him, he would have been just as unappealing to you as tonight. But you wear a charming smile and put up with him, prying on his interests and scattering the right political or social perceptions that you know please men like him.

“Would you mind if I fetch us something to drink, My Lady? I am incredibly thirsty.”

“That is so kind of you, My Lord.” 

You adjust the silk ties of your mask behind your head instead of looking into his eyes and risking the sheer relief that courses through you, being exposed. That would not be in your favour, and you have to make him think favourably of you.

You try to follow him on his way out of the dance floor and find a more secluded part of the hall to steal a moment of solitude but your plans are foiled by the appearance of the familiar sight of maroon and gold, you look up and your fears take the shape of Don John’s handsome face now adored with dark mask.

“Would you grace me with a dance, My Lady?”

“I’m afraid I have grown tired, my Lord.” You try to excuse yourself, looking over to find Lord Beecham being dragged by Conrad towards the wine table.

“Once dance would not hurt.” His voice is as smooth as his movements, but his hold is firm, pulling you back towards the dance floor, hidden from the brighter spaces.

“I do not think it is appropriate!” You hiss out, glaring up at him as he holds you still with a hand on your back and another holding your palm over his shoulder.

“Shh, no need to attract unwanted attention. I simply wish to talk.”

“I did not know we had anything to talk about.”

“I will make it official. Your name shall be in the royal archives.” He jumps straight to the point, pulling you closer.

He is warm and firm, and you want to lean in, but your good sense holds you back.

“What are you saying?”

“I shall take no other mistress but you; you shall have to share the roof with me; you shall be a part of the court as my official mistresss.” His voice is hushed, but there is a desperate edge to it.

“No one can dispose you; your position would be secure—”

“Have you any good sense left?” You hiss at him, keeping your voice low.

“You are in my senses. Like a disease, you creep around and linger. You haunt me. I have my part to play, and yet I am here, risking everything for you because I must have a sane mind if I were to have my dukedom.”

“Do you think I will believe this? Men write poems of eternal love only to bed them for a night. They have nothing to lose here. So fickle in heart and cold in thoughts, while they weave poetry on women’s rejection.” You snarl, unable to hold your contempt,

You hope it wounds his ego–there is nothing to rival the fragility of a man’s pride. But his smile defies your expectations.

“I am not so poetic; I have been honest with you.”

“So have I. I am no whore.”

“I ask you—”

“You do not get to ask me of anything the Queen does, and she hall decide my fate, not you.”

“You like to think that you are free, but you are a slave to the Queen.”

“I am indebted to her.”

“Well, that’s a dangerous thing if you value your freedom and want power. Royals use you as they see fit, let your limbs grow as long as it serves them, but once they feel threatened, they will cut them off.”

“You speak as if you are no royal yourself. You have noble blood in you.”

“‘Half-blood’, that’s what they call me behind my back.”

 He raises your hand above your head, and you twirl around.

“I am not denying your truth—surely the Queen has been kind and generous. I am letting you know what lies on the other hand. When you are a thorn that pinches them with your existence.”

“Then being your mistress would be betraying my Queen.”

“Do you consider me a threat then? Me? Who has served the empire with my life at stake? I am to become a Duke.”

“You are not yet.”

“I will be, and I shall have everything I ever wanted.”

His hold tightens, and he leans close to your ear—he smells of cinnamon, wine and leather, you realise, forcing yourself to not inhale deeply. 

“And then I will have you, too.”

His lips touch yours like feathers playing, and you realise that your throat is parched.

“You can never have me. The Queen decides who gets my hand in marriage.”

“Oh, sweet bird…I will burn everything on my way to you for the peace you can provide me.”

“You have not known me only a fortnite.” You whisper back in disbelief.

“And yet I am taken by you.”

You scoff at that “How many young women have you lured into your bed by those words before?” 

Moving his head back, he smirks “Quite a few, but never offered them to be my official mistress.”

“Oh, I’m honoured.” You give him a wry smile before swiftly moving away from him ‘I’m parched.” 

You are quicker on your feet this time, heading straight to a more lit-up, crowded area, where you indeed take something to drink. You know it does you no good, but your eyes prick with unshed tears. His words have stung you. Lord Beecham is nowhere to be seen, and you are unsure of how long you can keep up this charade. 

How can you allow a man you barely know to break your composure?

Emptying your cup, you walk out of the ballroom. Perhaps the safety of your room can be your last refuge for the night that can no longer be redeemed, It’s ruined. You are forced to acknowledge the fact that for a moment, you have considered his proposal. That you want the brooding half-prince, that hearing him admit that he has lured other women to his bed using the same words has made your heart crack.

“(Y/N)! (Y/N), wait...”

Your steps quicken as you look for knights or guards. In the lit-up hallway. Why would they be here? It does not lead to any aristocratic chamber.

“You misunderstand my words.” He is quick on his strides, catching up to you sooner than expected.

“You will never have me! I am no whore!” It is an assurance to yourself more than anything.

“Who said you are?”

“You admitted there you used the same words to lure women to your bed.”

“I do not have to trick women to sleep with me, I admit it was a foolish attempt to stir your gall”

“Stir my gall? Pray tell me how this lowly servant has offended you to push his dignified lordship into playing cruel jests” You scoff and snatch your hand away from his reaching grasp.

“You do not understan—”

“What do I not understand?”

John’s face tightens. “Because you vex me.” he hisses “Day and night I have thought about you and this little fancy, and yet you haunt me. You are always there when I am in need, and it vexes me. It angers me how you prove my assumptions wrong; it angers me to see you, with potential, to swipe away every opportunity present. Why? Because you must be loyal to those who shall never care.”

“You say this because I refused your proposal. Of all the ladies in the court, you choose me, despite knowing that I am loyal to the Queen. I do not know what games you play, but I am not a pawn.”

“I chose you for you, I would have chosen you even if I met you in the fish market. And about being a pawn, you already are. You are the Queen’s pawn. If I manage to convince her, she can give you to me. You like to think that you belong to no one, but you already do. You belong to her. She would marry you to a peasant if it benefits her.”

“Careful there, Don Juan. Your words can be interpreted as an accusation against the Queen, the mother of the future Empress.”

“I'm merely showing you the closer possibilities. This has happened before. You cannot possibly be foolish enough to think that you hold a special place in her heart.” His smile is cold with a stare struggling to restrain a fire.

“She would do no such thing!” You cry out, despite Lord Beecham’s name flashing in your mind. 

“You and I both know that this future is closer to your dreams of being an integral part of the court here. You will never be one of them. You and I are not so different after all.”

“You are lying.” You growl, turning to leave, but his grasp is unrelenting this time.

“You are afraid to face the fact. This might be the greatest opportunity presented to you, woman!”

“Let go of me.”

“You are foolish to believe that any good will come out of serving her or that I cannot bend her will in my favour.” 

“You forget your manners. Let go.”

“You forget  who holds the power here—”

“You cannot have me as your mistress in a hundred years; I am to marry Lord Beech—”

You pull the reins a moment too late, as you watch the realisation dawning upon him with your subsiding rage. Your lips part. The damage is done

No use trying to cover this up. You breathe in, trying to compose yourself against his hardened gaze.

“I shall wed to a member of the court, man of Her Majesty's choice. And there is nothing left to bend or break!” 

At least you get to have the satisfaction of shutting his mouth, despite knowing that you will regret revealing the Queen’s plot. Sensing his hold loosening for a moment, you snatch the opportunity and your hand away before walking out of his sight and reach.

******

I don't know what I did with it, but yes, that was all I could come up with.

[atomsvrtual]

in defense of anora: an analysis about classism and gender expectations.

first of all, this silly analysis has no intention of converting people who dislike this film into sean baker’s biggest fans, as he is a flawed person that deserves real critics. this is being written after the oscars ceremony, and since the most opinionated people are on twitter, it took mere minutes after anora won best picture and best actress for waves of misogyny, vitriol, and misguided discourse to flood the platform. many questioned whether it was right for the film to win five of the six categories it contended in.

so, like most, i too felt compelled to express my opinion on all of this.

i am not a film major, so technical details about framing, the use of color as part of the “unspoken dialogue,” and many other small yet necessary aspects might escape my notice. as the title of this analysis suggests, i have chosen to focus on subjects that i consider myself less ignorant of.

so, shall we begin?

cinderella is one of the most well-known fairy tales in human history. a pretty girl, subjected by external forces to live in a degrading situation, longs for a better life — a better version of herself. as many psychoanalysts have pointed out, cinderella symbolizes the human yearning for validation and belonging. bruno bettelheim, in the uses of enchantment, argues that fairy tales serve as psychological guides for children, reinforcing the belief that perseverance will lead to recognition and reward. cinderella’s transition from servitude to prestige represents the fulfillment of this unconscious desire—the certainty that, even in adversity, a grand destiny awaits us.

her arc has inspired countless films, such as pretty woman (1990) and every direct adaptation of cinderella. sean baker’s anora, however, does not simply borrow this archetype — it interrogates it. he could have delivered a more sympathetic protagonist, one with an explicitly happy ending. after all, two hours are more than enough for us to root for ani, to wonder what circumstances led her to that club, to that harsh life. but baker takes a different route, offering something more unsettling: what if a grand destiny doesn’t await all of us? what if resilience alone is not enough? anora forces us to confront an uncomfortable reality — class barriers don’t always crumble in the face of perseverance, and not every woman’s story is destined for validation through love or social mobility.

pierre bourdieu, in distinction, highlights how class structures perpetuate themselves, shaping opportunities in ways that effort alone cannot overcome. by stripping away the cinderella illusion, baker dismantles the fantasy of upward mobility and forces us to ask: what happens when society refuses to grant you the dignity of a happily-ever-after?

in the opening minutes of the film, ani moves through a dark, almost nightmare-like sequence — dancing for strangers, securing clients, and scraping together money. she returns home alone, the metro rattling in the background, as if time is slipping away from her. the moment echoes judith butler’s concept of precarity in precarious life — how some lives are rendered more vulnerable, their suffering less acknowledged. ani’s existence is dictated by survival, her worth measured in transactions, her agency eroded by forces beyond her control. she is seen but never valued. and stopping, even for a moment, feels like a luxury she cannot afford.

when ani meets her russian prince — wealthy yet unremarkable — the viewer is left wondering: in a more realistic scenario, would a woman in her position react the same way? or would she recoil from another dynamic that feels transactional? anora diverges from the classic fairy tale, adding another layer: the loss of what little remains of innocence. if cinderella is a story of transformation, anora asks — what if the transformation is not into something greater, but into something colder, more resigned?

if fairy tales teach us to believe in destiny, baker’s film forces us to confront the weight of disillusionment.

yet ani, on some level, already knew what to expect. the rushed marriage, the transactional nature of her relationship with vanya — it all lacked deep enough roots. and yet, she clings to the fantasy. in a society that demands self-sufficiency from women while systematically depriving them of space to dream, her decision appears almost irrational. after all, what woman — especially a sex worker — is that naïve?

this is where gender expectations weigh heavily on ani’s story. women are forced to balance self-reliance with desirability, pragmatism with hope. judith butler’s gender trouble frames femininity as a performance shaped by social forces. ani, in embracing the fantasy of transformation, is punished for daring to believe she could escape her place. but should she have known better? or is that expectation itself a form of control?

in an era of growing conservatism, where rigid gender roles dictate what is expected of women, anora unsettles because it grants humanity to those deemed unworthy of it. ani is a girl — yes, a girl. because while men in their thirties are still called “boys,” given room to be reckless, ani is expected to navigate the world with full awareness of its dangers. she is supposed to know better. to never mistake survival for opportunity. to never dream.

baker strips away any romanticized notions of survival. we see ani’s sexual encounters—her pleasure rarely centered. the luxurious gifts — decorations rather than affection. the husband — almost never bothering to correct his friends when they call her a whore in russian. and even if she understands, what does it matter? in their eyes, respect was never hers to claim.

this is what makes anora so unsettling: it refuses to conform to the fantasy that upward mobility and male validation can redeem a woman on the margins. it forces us to confront how gendered expectations dictate who is allowed to dream — and who is expected to endure.

ani’s abrasiveness isn’t just a trait — it’s a shield. a survival mechanism. she sharpens her edges not because she enjoys the fight, but because she cannot afford to appear fragile. she has felt the weight of judgment every day since she realized this was her only option. and when the illusion of her fairy tale crumbles, she clings to the last vestige of that dream: the ring. not for its material value, but because it proves she had, for a brief moment, existed outside her work.

but to those around her, she was never truly a wife. to them, she remained what she had always been — a sex worker. a body for rent, never a woman to be cherished.

and yet, in her lowest moment, ani is recognized — not by her husband, not by the people who once claimed to respect her, but by igor, the russian henchman who had watched her from the beginning. he alone refuses to use force against her. he alone sees something beyond the labels imposed upon her. his presence echoes bourdieu’s theory of social reproduction — how those trapped within rigid hierarchies recognize each other’s struggles. his silent acknowledgment carries more weight than any declaration of love, because it is not rooted in fantasy but in understanding.

in the end, anora is not a fairy tale, and ani is not a cinderella whose worth is defined by eventual ascent. she is a woman caught in the machinery of a world that demands performance but offers no redemption. the fantasy of upward mobility was nothing more than a cruel sleight of hand — a game where the house always wins.

what makes ani’s story tragic is not that she loses — it’s that she was never truly allowed to play. the moment she dared to believe in something beyond survival, the world closed in, reminding her brutally of her place. her mistake was not naïveté; it was the mere act of reaching for something more.

and as she walks away — without a prince, without a kingdom, without even the ring she desperately tried to keep — we are left with the harshest truth of all:

some cinderellas do not make it to the ball. some are left in the ashes, where the glass slipper was never meant to fit.