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mocharacha · 3 days ago

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-Sharks in The Shallow End-

💕: Bang Chan [Dad!Bangchan ] x Reader[ Mom!Reader]

✍️Synopsis: Parenting is Teamwork. Especially when Y/N and Chan juggle family life and upcoming birthday party preparations for their energetic toddler, as they balance work, parenting, and their relationship, they find joy in the simple, everyday moments that make their little family special.

🔢Wordcount: 3,8k

📖Genre: Marriage AU, Family AU, Domestic Fluff, mildly suggestive ❗Warnings: The romantic/sexual innuendos are mild and non-explicit. food mentions, parenthood/parenting themes/ mentions of family planning and pregnancy, Chan calls the reader "sweetheart", reader is called "eomma" by the kid, mentions of sharks

☕A/n: This started with imagining Bang Chan holding a toddler while also holding a grocery bag, biceps, and forearms…. Can you blame me?

Reader is an Event Manager (who recently started working part-time again) and a former idol! Chan (now music producer for the new Generation of Idols), their son, Dae-min is a toddler and likes sharks.

-[Masterlist]-

The distant squeak of the semi-broken shopping cartwheel told you that Chan and Dae-min weren’t far off, that and the race car noises, your toddler omitted from their lips, while your husband pushed the cart through the aisles of the grocery store.

You glanced up from the instructions of the vanilla butter crème mix, checking the ingredients you needed to add, and decided to add it to your shopping. Just in case, a backup if your homemade recipe didn’t work in the early August heat.

It was Sunday, barely past noon and since your husband was home and not stuck in the studio producing the newest hit for the recently debuted girl group, you decided to use his muscle strength to get the monthly groceries done early before you got busy during the week to prep for your little boy’s big day next weekend.

The bouncy castle would arrive the day before, and the grandparents were flying in the same day to help with preparations. You need to check on the guest rooms and possibly call the pool guy to confirm the water quality by Wednesday, and also deep clean the second freezer.

Party planning had been your livelihood before you had Dae-min, and what use would that be if not for your son’s birthday party?

“Sweetheart,” your husband’s voice got you out of your planning reverie, overthinking, he calls it. He had momentarily stopped turning the grocery store into the Formula 1 Grand Prix and looked at the Items in your hands, “Are we almost done? It’s his nap time soon, and we have yet to have lunch…”

“Right,” you said dropping the Items in the carts and ran a hand over Dae-min messy curls he got from his father, “we don’t have any freezer items that could go bad…so I was thinking we could get some of that rotisserie chicken from the shop outside …and Dae can start his nap in the car on our way back…”

Chan's eyebrow rose for a moment. “Rotisserie chicken?”

“Yeah, hadn’t had that for a long time…”

His lips tugged into a sheepish smile, amused, “Sounds good, babe.”

A few moments after paying, your little family settled into a cozy booth nestled in the corner of the food court. Now that he had won the Grocery Aisle Grand Prix, the almost three-year-old suddenly discovered another urgent sensation: hunger. And once that realization struck, there was no stopping him.

Dae-min, once he spotted the chicken rotating, kept yelling, “Uncle Bboki, Uncle Bboki” flailing his limbs around with wild enthusiasm, conducting a chaos orchestra….

” Uncle Bboki, Uncle Bboki!”

Uncle Seungmin probably had taught him that…

As you reached for Dae-min’s toddler legs, which were bicycle-pedaling now, as he still kicked to join his father, to fit into the horrendously impractical kids' seat.

Whoever designed them didn’t think that kids thought sitting down to eat was the worst thing on earth.

Chan got your guy’s order, of chicken, drinks, fries, and…coleslaw, you didn’t remember telling him that you wanted some…but he somehow knew you’d like.

Dae-min’s excited eyes glowed when he saw the spread, ignoring the chicken for the fries his appa was cutting into smaller pieces for him, holding out his arms, pudgy hands opening and closing in rapid motions that matched his kicking feet, “Gimme Gimme Gimme”

“Bahng Dae-min, how do we ask appa nicely?”

“Appaaaaa” Dae said, lengthening the last syllable sweetly and using a combination of his boba eyes and dimples, “may I please have Flies!”

Chan chuckled at his mispronunciation.

“Yes, Baby, you may have Flies.” he mirrored his inflection and added, “I’ll give them to you once they are cool enough so you can eat them.”

You use the time to get on your phone to put some things from your mental checklist into your notes app. There was still so much to do and organize before Dae-min’s first day, and in addition, you had to coordinate something for an upcoming wedding of a client until Thursday, too.

Getting back to work as an event manager after having an active child that kept up most of your brain’s capacity captive…that and the heat of summer was making the cogs in your brain turn even slower.

A cool touch to your cheek made you come back into reality, and you saw Chan holding a cold drink to your face

“She’s back again…” he smiled, and put the drink in front of you, with a small command, “hydrate…” Before pulling off part of his chicken for Dae-min, “Y/n I don’t want you stressing so much, darling…. Remember, it’s going to be fine…we outsourced a lot of the side dishes to our friends…my parents are going to help with the prep… Dad’s even said he’s gonna prep the barbecue…you know that he doesn’t let anyone else go near his meat prep.”

“Yes…I know“ you said starting to eat from your chicken, dang this tasted good, “But it’s Dae-mins’s first birthday, he’ll actually remember.”

“Yes…” Chan added and pushed the coleslaw towards you, “but I also want you to enjoy the day…and not crash, after our guests left on the sofa like last year….”

He sighed, “I’m helping you this year…remember that…we all are….. Hyunjin and Jisung even volunteered to do the Balloon Arch.

“They are gonna fight like they are their pre-debut selves again.”

“They are adults…they can handle arguments now.”

“Well… They’re gonna cry…..just warning you…”

“I’m used to dealing with crying…. Aren’t I buddy?” he glanced at his son, who looked up, clearly not having a clue about the conversation they had just had, but nodded, beaming because it was his dad he was looking at.

“Yes, appa…. May I have Uncle Bboki?” he gestured to the chicken.

Chan laughed, “We really have to stop letting Seungmin teach him those things when he babysits.”

As predicted, his belly full, Dae-min fell asleep just as he was buckled into his car seat, despite his protest that he wasn't tired at all, another thing he got from his dad. Chan showed you the demo of the newest song he was working on the way back, wanting your opinion on the matter. You left the AC in the car running while bringing in the grocery bags with Chan, the heat outside making you start to sweat.

“Sweetheart, why don’t you go inside and start putting things away while I get the last bags and Dae…..get inside you look like you’re melting…”, he said and tapped your behind for good measure, “I got this…”

While putting away the groceries, your mind drifted back to lunch, the taste of the chicken still lingering in your mouth, making you want more; maybe you should go back there tomorrow.

“Say babe…” You said when you heard the shuffle of Chan getting back into the house, “We used to have this chicken a lot a while ago….why did we stop having it again?”

You lifted your head and watched as your husband came into the room, Dae-min nestled against his neck on one arm, while he patted your son’s back. In his other hand, he carried grocery bags, carefully balancing as he moved.

His Muscles? ….bursting

Him?…..subtle flexing

The veins in his forearms?….popping.

Your brain?..... rotting

He caught your gaze, and the corners of his lips twitched into a smile. “Care to help me out so I don’t drop our son?”

“Y-you’d never do that anyway,” you murmured, but took the bags from his hand so he had it easier to carry Dae.

“Never,” he said sincerely but softly, shifting so Dae drooled on his shirt and not into his neck, “I’ll be right back…” He said, and then went to put his son down in his room.

Halfway through the groceries, you decided to fix a refreshment and put pineapple and watermelon into the mixer to get some juice.

The buzz of your phone, a confirmation about the delivery and setup of the bouncy castle, and the people around you made you go into planning mode again. You still had to get the party favors for the few kids that would be there from Dae-min's playgroup, and had to make sure that the members of Stray Kids also got some shark-shaped water guns Dae-min carefully selected to be part of the favors.

A gentle hand on your lower back called you back to reality, “Daydreaming again, my sweet?”

Chan was back and set the baby monitor on the kitchen counter.

“Yeah, sorry, I think this weather is doing something to my head…” You said and offered him a glass of freshly made juice.

“Yeah, you looked kind of thirsty…” he smirked and sipped. “This is nice…especially after the food…” He glanced over the shopping, half of it already put away, “Let’s get this done…”

It was a comfortable quiet with the two of you putting away the chaos, tag teaming in silence, only occasionally disrupted by the sipping of juice. You caught his glances, watching you with a careful interest, probably trying to catch you in the moment of daydreaming again.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, pushing back the hair that fell into his face.

“Lunch,” you said honestly, “The chicken was so delicious.”

Chan laughed, “Dae said the same thing when I tucked him into bed….glad we don’t need a DNA test to prove he is yours.”

“Good since he is a mini-you…” You murmured, “Ditto-copy dimples and all...”

His eyes softened when he looked at your son in the image displayed on the baby monitor. Dae turned in his sleep to hug his Sharkplushie, which he recently got.

“He was pumped to go swimming in the pool with you,” you murmured, wrapping an arm around Chan’s waist, digging your nose into his back, “So better be ready to hop in after his nap….

He turned around, arms embracing you, “Aren’t you gonna join us?”

“You and I know that we bought this house with a pool for you and you only…. I might dip my feet in, but you and your son are part aquatic animals after all….”

“Sharks…” Chan smiled, dimples showing, “Daeminnie insists.”

“Right… Sharks”

A while later…

You sat on the little piece of carpet right by the coffee table in the living room, laptop between your legs, hair up in a bun, and some files scattered around you like petals in spring. Your work phone, regularly buzzing with updates, and next to your private one, receiving messages now and then from people who ask if they could help you out in any way.

Naa you were good, AC in the house plus sitting to proximity to the cooling tiles….a drink…you were fine, this was fine. The tapping of little (and big) feet let you know that your son and husband were making their way over to you, and you glanced up to look at Dae, in his post nap glory, dressed and ready for his pool afternoon with his appa. Behind him, in hot pursuit, Chan, swimming trunks on, as per usual, was allergic to any type of shirt in the vicinity of the house.

Not that you minded.

You ogled.

God forbid, a girl had hobbies.

“Dae-min-ah,” Chan said, struggling to get the clasp on Dae-mins swim vest to open, “Come here so I can put this on you buddy…”

“Nooo…I can swims…harabeoji taught me,” the toddler insisted. Fair, having your swimming coach grandfather teach you since he was small was a bonus.

“It's not about ability, Daeminnie …but about safety.”

“But its…its…” Dae stopped his little mind trying to find the words to formulate the issues he was having with the garment, lips pouty, and you saw that he was struggling to find the words in both Korean and English.

“Deep breaths, Sarang,” you gently encouraged him…” What's wrong with the vest?”

“It does this…” Dae-min said, his thumb and pointer finger moving towards each other like a crab’s claws would. “Here!” he added, pointing below his armpit and neck.

“Oh, it pinches you,” you said and took the jacket from Chan’s hands, overseeing the straps, then held it out in front of Dae. “Yeah…this might be a little tight….I think you grew again….”

“With the amount he eats,” Chan kneeled to observe the size issue with you, “You are growing so quickly you might stop being fun sized buddy…”

“Snack time is important,” Dae-min defended himself, kicking his feet, “Can I go into the pool now?”

“Not yet, Buddy…” Chan looked at you,“ I think it's time….. I know the surprise was for his birthday but… I’d rather buy him something else next week than have a toddler that's too hyper to go to bed tonight because he didn't get his energy out during his swimming time….we have plans tonight…”

You sighed, ignoring the blush caused by Chan uttering the last sentence in a very Christopher way, “Yeah, we might as well…. I just have to remember where I hid it….”

You tried to remember where you had hidden Dae-min's birthday presents from the curious toddlers' hands…there were several places in the house, but your mind wouldn't let you access the memory storage.

“It’s either in the sock drawer in our closet….or behind the pasta….” Chan helped. “That’s where you last stored the Christmas presents….”

“Right….it's in the sock drawer… Keep him occupied and happy.” You snapped your finger and moved to retrieve the item.

Chan saluted.

When you returned a few minutes later, your husband and son were breaking it down to the sound of Baby Shark, the cursed song that has been on a loop in this house ever since Dae-min was small. No wonder he loved Sharks so much.

“Look Dae-min-ah,” you said, holding out the vivid blue swim fin swimming aid, “This can help you stay afloat in the pool and looks…

“Awesome!” Dae-min yelled out, beaming, “I can be a real shark now! Hunt appa!”

“Right…but remember no biting…” you chuckled and moved to put it on him, “This will be a little different from the vest Sarang….so you need to get a feel for it in the water….its usually for big kids but appa and I know that you can swim well and would tell us if you get tired or feel weird right.” “Safety first,” Dae-min parroted the phrase he had heard lots of times, but the wiggling of his toenails told you how excited he was.

“Remember, appa will keep you safe,” you said, adjusting the strap of the swimming aid.

“Always,” Chan added, ruffling Dae-min's hair…” Now sun protection….I’ll get you while eomma gets appa’s back…what about it?”

“You could just wear a UV shirt, you know…” You sighed but reached for the sunscreen nonetheless.

The joyful screams and splashing distracted you from your work, so you eventually succumbed and closed the laptop, put away the work phone, and came out to sit in one of the lounge chairs after fixing a snack for your boys.

When you got out, you were balancing a tray with an assortment of snacks.

Dae-min was in hot, sharky pursuit of his father, paddling through the pool with fierce determination. As soon as he reached him, Chan scooped the boy up and, with a grin, tossed him gently a few feet away, back into the water. Dae-min landed with a splash, erupting in gleeful giggles.

“Oh no, you almost got me…” Chan cried in mock horror. “These shark-infested waters are terrible!”

“Would the sharks mind a little refreshment?” you asked, hands on your hips and dipping your foot into the water. “I got blueberries, watermelon, and goldfish crackers.”

“Shark-min likes goldfish,” your son exclaimed, and paddled himself to the shallow end of the pool to the edge and lifted his arms, “eomma….uppies?”

You grabbed a big towel before kneeling and lifting him out of the water, embracing him in Turkish cotton.

“Did you have fun?”

He giggled, pressing a kiss onto your cheek, curly hair dripping with pool water as he shook his head like a dog, trying to get dry, “Lots …appa didn’t have a chance, I am too fast…”

He made race car noises again, gesturing wildly.

“Your appa is getting old,” you nodded, carrying Dae-min over to the lounge chairs, and sat down to pat him dry.

“Betrayal by my own wife and son,” Chan said, getting out of the water, the UV tank he somehow bothered to put on, clinging to his body. When he caught your gaze, he smirked, and did it even more slowly, and you realized that it had been for this exact moment he put it on in the first place.

“How did he do?” you said after Dae was busy devouring his snacks, and you made sure Chan got the wrap you plated for him. “With the new aid and all”

“At first, it was a little strange for him to move…. This gives him a lot more freedom to move than the vest, but he’s a tough guy and tried it out, and it worked. Usually, kids older than him have trouble swimming with that…. He’s a great kiddo…but I am biased.”

He sighed, running his hand through his hair. It was getting long again.

Yeah, you are biased too…

Later, after some snacking, rest, and reapplying sunscreen, the boys returned to their aquatic habitat while you watched from the safety of your lounge chair. Eventually, you went inside to start preparing dinner while Chan and Dae rinsed off by the pool. After dinner, you tucked Dae into bed for the night.

His eyes were fighting to stay awake, arms tight around the shark plushie.

“Eomma….may we have Uncle Bbokki again when I wake up…and play sharks with appa?” he murmured, squishing the plushie to his chest, “and cuddles with eomma…. Sharks are cool…”

He kept babbling until his breaths slowed into that familiar rhythm that told you he was fast asleep for the night.

Baby monitor in tow, you made your way back to the kitchen, where Chan was cleaning up the dishes from dinner. He looked up from the plate he was putting away.

“That was quick…he usually takes longer.”

“Baby Shark was exhausted,” you said with a yawn, and stretched, “He kept babbling on how much fun today was…”

“Yeah, he does that,” Chan chuckled, “His tired babbles are the best…only second to yours.”

“I don’t babble when I’m tired…”

“Sure Y/n…”

You rolled your eyes, glancing around the kitchen, “Damn…you’re all done…”

“What can I say… I am efficient…” he reached out to pull you close by your belt loops, “I see someone else being very tired…”

“It’s the weather….” You yawned against your will. It was hot, and the fatigue made you want to just crawl into bed…. Maybe you should do afternoon naps too…Dae seems to like it. That sounded like a good plan for tomorrow. Work from home, getting some rotisserie chicken again, then napping…

Chan’s eyes observed you carefully, “Are you thinking about chicken again?”

Your eyes widened, caught “Yeah…Dae wants a do-over of today…chicken and pool.”

“Sounds good…” your husband chuckled and nuzzled your neck, “But now I want attention and cuddles from my wife…you keep being distracted and not paying attention to me.”

“Gosh, you are so much like Dae-min…same pout…”

“Meanie….” he murmured against your neck, “And no, he might look like me, but he is like you…. Proof one...you both are obsessed with rotisserie chicken. Proof two, I’m obsessed with both of you…Proof three….you both snort the same way when you laugh.””

“Now you’re the one being mean,” you said, wiggling out of his grasp, giggling, and snorting when his tight hold proved true.

“See…and now I need your attention,” Chan moved swiftly to pick you up to carry you to your bedroom. “I was thinking since we have a visual mini me…how about a mini you next…”

“I just started to get back working again,” you laughed, squeezing his arm.

“Boo, work is bad for your health…quit…” he complained, finally setting you down on your bed and stepped a bit away.

“Says the workaholic,” you reached for him, your hands opening and closing in rapid motions, …then paused because Chan was looking at you. Again, curious and calculating.

“Say…sweetheart….you asked me earlier today…why we didn’t have rotisserie chicken for the longest time…”

“Yes….it really was a long time ago we had it…and at the time pretty frequently….when was it…”

The energy shifting into something uncertain made you nervous, causing you to fold your hands in your lap.

“You’re a smart girl…try to remember…”

You tried to fight through the discombobulated swirl of thoughts. It had been a while… and that particular rotisserie chicken? You’d only had it when Dae was tiny… wait, no…. Dae hadn’t been born, actually…not yet.

Oh.

“This was a craving I had when I was… pregnant with Dae…” you murmured, more to yourself than to him, rubbing the soft fabric of the duvet, “I craved it quite often actually and suddenly didn’t anymore when he was born….”

Your hand paused mid-motion, eyes widening as the realization hit.

You slowly lifted your head to face him.

Chan had dropped to a casual kneel in front of you, arms resting loosely on his knees, eyes studying your face. A knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he gave a single, slow nod, “Yeah…”

“You think?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, uncertain and breathless.

He pushed off the ground and sat beside you, his expression softening as he put an arm around you, grounding you against his warmth, “I’m assuming... the fatigue, the distractedness,” he said gently, rubbing your shoulder. “Could be a coincidence...but we should make sure.”

Your pulse quickened. You stepped back with a nervous laugh, your hand going instinctively to your belly, “I’m gonna check in the morning… I think I still have a test!”

Excitement tangled with a thread of fear, and a swirl of nervous energy bubbled up in your stomach.

“We just got out of the diaper changing age….Dae finally sleeps through the night…. Are we ready to do it all over again?

“With you and me...we’ve got this,” he said softly. “Us against the tantrums and the chaos and...whatever else comes with it. We’ve had plenty of practice in that department.”

He smiled, eyes crinkling with quiet hope, and added, “I’m secretly hoping for a girl next…”

A sudden doubt clouded your mind, “What if it's just a coincidence? What if I am not…”

Chan’s lips curved into a sly smile as he leaned in closer to kiss you behind your ear. “Then we’ll just try… we’ve had plenty of practice in that department too...”

You snorted, he laughed, and pulled your head into his lap.

“One way or another, “Chan mumbled, stroking your hair. “We got this….”

The quiet stretching around you, air filled with future possibilities. More little feet running, grocery aisle Grand Prix, plushies, giggles, lullabies, and dance moves to nursery rhymes.

Chan let out a happy sigh. “Sounds like our shark tank might have a new little fish soon.”

And you were excited about it.

-[ Reblogs, comments and/or keyboard smashes are appreciated]-

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kenntoria · 3 days ago

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──── 𝑮𝑰𝑳𝑫𝑬𝑫 𝑪𝑨𝑮𝑬 ────

SYNOPSIS. you marry satsuki gojo not for love, but for what he represents: power, security, the illusion of being wanted. it’s a quiet, distant life—until his son, satoru, returns. charming, reckless, and far too observant, he sees through you from the start.

what begins with stolen glances spirals into something dangerous: a secret, a betrayal, a love you never expected. and when it all falls apart, you’re forced to choose between what ruined you and what might save you.

but some lines, once crossed, can’t be undone.

TAGS/WARNINGS. satsuki gojo is satoru’s father, i gave him a name and a character just for the story. fem reader, age gap(not between satoru and you), emotional neglect, emotional infidelity, forbidden romance, slow burn, secret relationship, complicated family dynamics, bittersweet, so much angst, emotional hurt and comfort, power imbalance, morally grey characters, longing, guilt, smut, cheating (in context), explicit sexual content, themes of loneliness and betrayal, you could say both reader and gojo have daddy issues kinda, exploration of family dynamics. 15,4k words…

TORI’S NOTES. pls read the tags/warnings guys!! anyways, this was loosely inspired by a turkish tv series called “forbidden love” which is a really fucking great show and the dynamics and plot there are immaculate. hopefully, you enjoy this <33 also if you know who the art belongs to in the header pls lemme know.

you meet satsuki gojo in an elevator.

you’re interning at one of his subsidiary companies in shinjuku, working late, wearing a pair of scuffed heels and a blazer that doesn’t quite fit. you’re trying to look like you belong, even though you’re running on caffeine and sheer panic, even though you’ve been walking a tightrope since the day you left your family behind and told yourself you’d make it on your own.

he steps in on the top floor—alone—and you feel it before you see him. the shift in air. the press of presence. the kind of silence that makes you look up.

he’s wearing a black coat and gloves, his platinum hair pushed back like it never learned to fall out of place. older, clearly. not tired, but heavy. like the kind of man who never has to raise his voice to get what he wants.

you press the button again, like it might make the descent go faster.

he glances over. “you don’t have to keep pressing it,” he says, voice smooth and unreadable. “the elevator isn’t ignoring you.”

you flush, quiet.

but he doesn’t look amused. not quite. just… curious.

“what department?” he asks.

“marketing,” you say, after a pause. “well, marketing development. just an intern.”

his gaze lingers. then he nods once and looks away.

you think that’s the end of it. just a strange, stiff encounter with a man who probably owns the building you’re trying to impress.

but then, the next week, your name is pulled from the intern pool for a private project. suddenly you’re assigned to a small research task under one of his closest executives. suddenly your opinion is being asked in meetings. and when you look up during a conference call, you catch him watching you through the glass, hands in his pockets, expression impassive.

you don’t understand it.

not at first.

he starts small. passing comments in the hallway. a drink sent to your table when you’re out with coworkers. an invitation to a private dinner—not framed as a date, not exactly. he doesn’t touch you the first few times you meet. doesn’t try to impress you. just listens. just watches.

you expect him to ask for something. mostly, you expect him to turn cruel, but he never does.

instead, he offers you a job after your internship ends. offers you a place to stay when your apartment floods during a typhoon. offers you answers to questions you didn’t ask, like,

“what do you want to be in five years?”

“has anyone ever taken care of you before?”

“do you always flinch when someone gets close?”

you don’t realize you’re falling into him until you’re already too deep to climb out.

you let him take you to dinner, and then to bed.

and then, six months later, when he tells you he wants to marry you—

you say yes before you even think to ask why. there’s an excited gleam in the ice blue of his eyes, something that pushes you into wrapping your arms around his sturdy frame and whisper an affirmation into his lips. or maybe it’s the diamond that glints under the moonlight.

but you don’t marry satsuki gojo because you love him.

you marry him because he offers you a lifeline when you’re twenty-five and quietly falling apart—starving for something steady, something grown-up, something that makes the ache in your chest feel justified. you marry him because you’re tired of disappointment, tired of men who take and forget to leave anything behind, tired of waiting for someone to pick you. you marry him because he offers you a future drawn up in legal contracts and estate homes, because he places a ring on your finger like it’s a solution instead of a question.

you marry him because he’s older, and sharp, and still, like a mountain you can rest against. because he looks at you with quiet interest, with a kind of coldness that makes you want to prove yourself—makes you want to be good for him, for once, instead of messy and difficult and too much. he offers you affection without chaos. structure without screaming. a name that means something, finally. and you take it.

you marry him because he shows you that care can be a tailored coat draped over your shoulders in winter, a bank account that never runs out, an apartment you never asked for but get anyway—clean, minimal, with a view of the skyline you used to dream about. because when he says you belong to me, it sounds less like a threat and more like relief. like he’s offering you the role of someone permanent, someone seen.

he doesn’t speak much, but when he does, it’s never unkind. he’s polite and controlled when he fucks you—never rough, never wild, never anything that might blur the line between need and love. he kisses your forehead when you come home late. he buys you books you mention once in passing. he nods when you tell him about your childhood and doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t ask questions you don’t want to answer. he lets you be quiet, and in return, you let him believe that silence means contentment.

he spoils you in ways that feel deliberate: private cars, spa weekends, your name on guest lists you never imagined seeing. you learn the weight of status like it’s second nature—learn how to say thank you, how to smile at his colleagues, how to sit at his right side and make it look easy. and when you wake up in his bed, wrapped in high-thread count sheets and the scent of bergamot and cedar, it feels like maybe this is what people mean when they say stable.

and maybe you marry him because he looks like what a husband should look like: tall, expensive, terrifying in the boardroom, someone with hands that know how to hold power and still touch your wrist like it’s delicate. maybe you marry him because people whisper when you walk in the room beside him, because his hand on your back makes you feel chosen, because he tells you to stop apologizing and you almost believe him.

maybe you marry him because the only semi-steady male figure in your life— your father— never did look at you like you were anything more than a glance, and satsuki looks at you like a solution. like something valuable. and maybe that’s enough.

maybe it has to be.

because you do not marry him because you love him.

you marry him because it’s the only kind of love you’ve ever been offered.

and you definitely don’t marry him expecting to meet his son.

you knew he had one—of course you did. it came up once, offhandedly, in that clipped way satsuki mentioned most personal things. a son from a previous marriage. adult. lives abroad. works with overseas clients but owns his own separate company. “rarely home,” he’d said, as if that explained everything. as if there was no reason you’d ever need to meet him.

and so you don’t think about it. you don’t ask questions. you build your routines around the quiet, clinical calm of your marriage. you host dinners, answer emails, smile politely when his business partners ogle you like an accessory they could never afford. and when satsuki tells you, in early december, that you’ll be spending the holidays at the family estate in kyoto, you just nod and pack your things.

the estate is old money. not modern minimalism, not the cold beauty of his penthouse in minato—but history, carved into dark wood and silk screens, hallways lined with ancestral portraits that stare as you pass. the kind of house that smells like camellia oil and incense, like something sacred and private. you arrive two days before christmas, and the staff is already preparing for a quiet dinner party. something tasteful. something exclusive. nothing warm.

you don’t expect anyone else.

especially not him.

satoru shows up six months into the marriage, just before dinner, when the sky is already turning violet and soft snow has begun to fall. you’re seated at the far end of the long, lacquered dining table, tracing the rim of your glass with one finger. satsuki is beside you, hand resting on your knee beneath the table, heavy and impersonal, like a placeholder. you’re listening to some executive’s wife talk about a skiing trip to niseiko when the door at the end of the hall opens.

the air changes.

you don’t know why you look up—but you do.

the housekeeper bows, stepping aside.

he walks in like he owns the place. tall. loose-limbed. hair a tousled mess of moonlight white, like he spent the entire flight running his hands through it. his coat is half off his shoulder, scarf unraveling, sunglasses perched on top of his head despite the fact it’s already dark outside. he’s dressed well, but not like he tried. something expensive and rumpled and careless. he looks like trouble that learned how to behave just well enough to get away with it.

his gaze lands on you instantly.

and he smiles. slow, amused. like he already knows something you don’t.

“oh,” he says, stepping further in. “you’re her.”

your stomach flips. you blink, mouth parting—but nothing comes out.

satsuki doesn’t move, just rests his hand more firmly against your thigh, grounding you with pressure.

“you’ve heard about my wife,” he says calmly.

and satoru’s eyes don’t leave yours. he’s standing on the other side of the room, but it feels like you can feel him. like heat under your skin.

“i’ve heard,” he says, lips quirking. “she’s pretty.”

his voice is low and casual. no bite to it—but something lingers in the way he says it. like he’s testing you. or maybe his father. or maybe himself.

you shouldn’t feel anything.

you shouldn’t feel the pulse at your neck quicken, shouldn’t feel your skin burn beneath the long sleeves of your dress. shouldn’t feel the tiny tremor in your hands as you lower your glass to the table and force a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

you shouldn’t care and you are convinced you don’t.

—

the gojo house is big and cold—too big for how quiet it is, and too beautiful to ever feel lived-in. it sits on a private slope just outside kyoto, surrounded by dense pines and meticulously maintained gravel paths, bordered by walls thick enough to keep the world out. it’s the kind of place where sound vanishes too quickly. where even your footsteps feel like an intrusion.

the interior is all pale marble and deep wood, a mix of traditional architecture and modern minimalism that somehow makes it harder to settle. the ceilings stretch higher than you expect, every room perfectly arranged, untouched, like a showroom. nothing feels soft. nothing feels yours. even the sun filters in like it’s been instructed not to linger.

you’re given the garden wing and told to make yourself at home.

your room is beside satsuki’s, though he rarely sleeps. there’s a large window that faces the pond, where koi move in slow circles under a sheet of winter ice. the bed is king-sized and impersonal. the wardrobe is already filled with seasonal clothes you never picked out. everything smells faintly of cedar and linen and new money. it’s beautiful. and sterile.

satoru’s room is upstairs, at the end of the north hall. you don’t go near it at first. you don’t need to.

you try, at first, to live quietly. to earn your place in the house by not taking up too much space.

you spend your mornings on the terrace, curled under a cashmere blanket with a porcelain cup of genmaicha that a maid brings without asking. the steam fogs up your glasses. your fingers turn stiff from the cold. sometimes you pretend to read, but your eyes don’t follow the words. instead, you watch the way the morning mist clings to the lacquered railing. the way the garden’s plum trees hold on to their last leaves like they’re trying not to be bare.

midday, you take slow, winding walks through the greenhouse—an enormous glass building off the east corridor, filled with rare orchids and fruit-bearing trees. it smells like damp moss and lemon balm, and sometimes, if you stay long enough, you can pretend you’re somewhere else entirely. somewhere softer. you pause by the camellias, the white ones, and trace the shape of their petals with your fingertips. no one asks where you are. no one comes looking.

in the evenings, satsuki retreats to his study—dark wood, no windows, always locked from the inside. you stop asking what he’s working on after the third time he tells you, calmly, “it’s nothing that concerns you.”

and so, at night, you drift.

you wander room to room like a ghost in your own house, bare feet silent on the polished floors. you touch the backs of antique chairs, the corners of carved screens, the cool stone edge of the koi pond. you run your fingers over framed scrolls and family heirlooms behind glass. you take long baths in the deep-soaking tub and let your head rest back until your ears are underwater, heart thudding slow and loud in the quiet.

there are no clocks in the house. time bends strangely.

you learn to find solace in small things—folded linen robes, the weight of a heated floor, the low murmur of rain against shoji screens.

you learn to be still. you learn to be quiet.

you tell yourself this is peace. but you’re not sure it is.

you find satoru in the kitchen one of those nights, barefoot and leaning lazily against the counter, eating chocolate-covered almonds straight from a crystal jar. his shirt is rumpled, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, collar undone to reveal the elegant slope of his collarbones and just a sliver of his chest. there’s something too casual about him, too effortless—like he was born into comfort and never had to learn how to earn it, which is the case.

he doesn’t look up when you step into the room, just tosses another almond into his mouth, chewing slow.

“your room doesn’t have a snack bar?” he asks around the bite, reaching for another handful. “shame. i’ll have to talk to housekeeping.”

you hover in the doorway, half caught between leaving and saying something. the lights are low—just the under-cabinet ones casting a soft glow against the marble countertops—and everything about the moment feels like it’s not supposed to happen. too quiet. too late.

“i couldn’t sleep,” you say, finally. your voice is hoarse when it comes out, making you cringe at the sound of it, but your expression doesn’t change. it feels right to keep a shield around satoru.

that gets his attention. he turns, just a little, casting a glance over his shoulder. his eyes flick over you—robe loosely belted, hem brushing your ankles, your bare feet making no sound against the floor. still, you feel too exposed, like he’s seeing something you didn’t mean to show.

he shrugs one shoulder. “my bad. i’ll keep it down next time.”

you frown. “what?”

he taps his phone against the edge of the counter, screen lighting up briefly before he locks it again. his smirk is slow and irritatingly self-satisfied.

“the noise,” he says, voice low and bored. “your walls are thin, sweetheart.”

and then he pushes off the counter, brushing past you on his way to the stairs, footsteps silent against the polished floor. like he didn’t just say something meant to stick to your ribs and it wasn’t meant to be a challenge.

you stand there long after he’s gone, heart suddenly a little too loud in your chest.

at first, you don’t know what he meant.

but then— with burning shame, you realise.

you lie awake that night in your too-big bed with the silk sheets sticking to your skin, and your mind won’t stop looping through it. your walls are thin, sweetheart.

he heard you.

he heard you fucking his father.

and it’s not like there’s much to hear, really. you don’t make too much noise. not on purpose. you try to be good. still. quiet. like you’re supposed to be, like satsuki likes his things. you climb on top of satsuki when he asks, and when it’s convenient, and when it fits neatly into the clockwork routine of your marriage, and you move the way you’re expected to.

you kiss him. sigh into his shoulder.

you moan when he touches you.

you arch your back and say his name when he finishes, and you keep your face turned just slightly away so he doesn’t see that you’re not all the way there.

and it hits you—hard, sudden, ugly—satoru didn’t just hear it.

he listened.

he must’ve laid there, maybe just one room over, while you gasped through your teeth and dug your nails into satin sheets, trying not to look bored, trying to summon heat where there was only resignation. and now he knows. maybe he knew the first night. maybe he recognized it—the silence between the moans. the mechanical rhythm. the effort.

you wonder if he could tell you never came.

if he could hear the difference.

your face burns. your skin itches. the silk is too smooth, too cool, like a lie you’re too exhausted to keep telling. you roll onto your side and stare at the drawn curtains, heart pounding in your throat, and wonder what kind of man throws that line so casually over his shoulder and walks away without looking back.

what kind of man hears a woman pretending to enjoy her marriage and still calls her sweetheart.

—

he flirts.

not in the clumsy, obvious way that boys your age used to—those quick grins and rehearsed compliments, those lingering touches that always felt more like attempts than affection. no, satoru’s flirting is slower, sharper, so casual it almost passes as harmless. like breathing. like it costs him nothing. and maybe it doesn’t.

he flirts in front of everyone—his father, the staff, chauffeurs, distant relatives, guests with titles longer than their patience. he does it like it’s a private joke only the two of you are in on, like he’s daring you to react. daring you to let something slip. but you don’t let yourself indulge in it, don’t let it touch you the way he wants it to.

he makes lazy, unhurried comments when you walk into the room, never quite looking at you directly, but always loud enough for someone else to hear.

“you always look this put together, or is it just to impress the old man?”

“damn. you make that color look more beautiful.”

“look at you, all dressed up and pretty.”

he says it like a sigh, or like he’s bored and needs a new toy to entertain him, voice smooth and slouched and rich with mockery that never quite lands as mean. and you try not to let it show, but your stomach flutters every time.

he glances at your legs when you cross them. lets his eyes drag down your neckline, baby blues lingering on the expensive necklace his father gifted you, like he’s still thinking. he always stands just a little too close when he passes behind you at dinner. always leans in when you speak, even if he could hear you just fine from a distance, which makes you want to slap him in the face because the warmth emitting from him is too much.

he tells you you’re “adorable” when you blink at one of his references—something dry and sarcastic that floats right over your head, usually mid-conversation in a room full of people. and then he grins like he’s won something when you look flustered.

“what? you don’t know that movie?”

“god, you’re so cute when you’re confused.”

“don’t worry, princess. i’ll explain it to you later.”

he calls you princess when you frown, darling when you pretend you’re not paying attention, sweetheart when he wants you to get flustered in front of his father. and you do—because no one has ever said those words to you without wanting something. but with satoru, you’re not sure what he wants. that makes it worse.

and he never crosses a line.

not one that matters. not one you can point to.

he never touches you—never more than a passing brush of knuckles as he sets a teacup beside you, or a hand at your lower back as you’re guided into a car. never long enough to accuse him of anything and never long enough to accuse yourself of anything, either.

but his presence is constant. deliberate. it almost makes you question if he’s played this game before.

he leans into your space. mirrors your movements. sits across from you at every meal, sprawled and open, legs spread like he’s relaxed in a way no one else is allowed to be in this house. and he watches you—god, he watches you—with that lazy, amused gleam in his eyes that makes you feel like he’s reading something under your skin you didn’t even know was there.

the worst part is no one else seems to notice.

or maybe they do, and no one says anything.

and satsuki? he doesn’t blink. doesn’t glance up. doesn’t acknowledge it at all like he doesn’t care and he doesn’t see it.

like you’re not even worth the jealousy.

so you sit there, in your pretty dresses and tasteful jewelry, sipping your wine and pretending you don’t notice when satoru’s fingers brush the rim of your glass where your painted lips touch it as he passes it back to you. pretending you don’t hear it when he mutters under his breath—

“god, you’re so easy to ruin.”

and then smiles like he didn’t say anything at all.

but still, he never crosses a line. not really.

not until the party in tokyo.

it’s the kind of event you’ve grown used to by now—ornate venue, glowing chandeliers, the soft clink of crystal and meaningless conversation humming beneath the polished noise of wealth. a gala hosted by one of satsuki’s oldest partners, the type of thing where everyone is dressed like they have nothing to prove and everything to protect.

you fly in together, the two of you. first class, of course. private terminal. he doesn’t speak much on the flight, just reads over business reports with his glasses low on his nose, and you sip champagne and pretend the silence is companionable. it’s not.

you arrive before sunset, driven straight to the hotel, and by the time you reach the venue—draped in something black and tight and chosen for effect—satsuki’s already slipping into his element. one hand on the small of your back, greeting industry names, bowing with just the right degree of distance. you smile on cue. you laugh politely. you know how to be ornamental by now.

satoru’s already there.

you spot him the moment you enter the ballroom—propped against the marble bar like it’s a throne made for him, hair tousled like he didn’t try at all, collarbone on show beneath a silk shirt that looks like it cost more than your entire week’s allowance. he’s holding a glass of red, swirling it like he actually gives a shit about tannins. when he sees you, he doesn’t wave nor does he smile. just tilts his glass in acknowledgment like a private joke only you’re supposed to understand.

you try not to look.

you try so hard.

but he keeps catching your eye. like he knows.

an hour into the event, when satsuki is deep in discussion with the finance minister and half the board of some international conglomerate, you step away to breathe. to hide. you drift toward the quieter side of the ballroom, past gold-accented walls and perfumed bodies, just far enough to feel the edge of solitude.

satoru finds you there, of course.

he doesn’t ask permission.

“you’re just gonna stand there all night?” he says, easing into your space like it’s nothing, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other still holding that half-finished glass.

you open your mouth to deflect, to say something harmless, but he’s already moving—offering his hand with a mocking little bow. “come on,” he says. “you’re dressed like a dream. it’d be a crime not to dance.”

you hesitate just long enough.

and he smiles, slow and certain, like he knew you’d say yes even before you did.

the music is a rich, jazzy ballad—old-fashioned, warm, nothing like what plays in the clubs. it echoes gently across the ballroom, and when his hand settles on your waist, it feels like a secret. you take his other hand. his palm is big and warm. familiar in a way that terrifies you.

“your husband won’t mind?” he asks, voice soft in your ear. he’s teasing you.

you glance back, spot satsuki mid-conversation, expression unreadable, hands gesturing in measured control. “he’s talking to the finance minister,” you murmur, trying to steady your breath as satoru pulls you just a little closer. “i think he’ll live.”

his mouth twitches. “you’re prettier up close,” he says, as if the words aren’t knives.

you glance away, heart racing, teeth sinking into your lower lip. the dance isn’t fast, but it isn’t slow either. it’s enough to make you sway. enough to make your body remember the shape of heat, even through layers of couture and silk and restraint.

and then the song fades into something quieter.

something that asks for closeness and intimacy.

something you shouldn’t allow.

he doesn’t ask. he just tilts his head, eyes half-lidded as he studies you, voice dropping as if the room’s emptied of everyone but you.

“has he ever told you that?”

you blink. “what?”

“that you’re beautiful.”

your throat dries.

it’s not the question, it’s more the way he asks it. the certainty behind it. the soft, cruel awareness in his tone—like he already knows the answer. as if he’s spent too many nights wondering how you can look so lovely and still be so starved.

you don’t respond. you can’t.

but you don’t pull away either.

not until he leans in—slowly—and your breath catches at the unmistakable press of heat between you, the anticipation blooming into something reckless and warm.

you flinch. just enough.

you pull away before he can kiss you. just one step back. hands trembling like your nerves have caught fire.

he lets you go. doesn’t chase, just smiles again, softer this time, like he’s not surprised. like he knew this would happen too. and then he turns back toward the bar.

you return to your husband’s side in silence, makeup still intact, breath uneven.

but that night, when you lie beside satsuki in the hotel suite, listening to the sound of his breath while he sleeps, you can still feel the ghost of satoru’s hand on your waist.

you don’t stop thinking about it.

not then.

not ever.

—

you watch satoru and satsuki sometimes, and it unsettles you more than you expect.

their relationship is a strange dance—equal parts admiration, rivalry, and unspoken tension. satsuki, with his impeccable control and cold authority, commands rooms and boardrooms alike, a man carved from steel and silence. satoru, by contrast, moves through the world like a wild storm wrapped in casual grins and reckless confidence, but beneath that careless exterior, you sense a deep, complicated loyalty to his father.

they speak little to each other when you’re around—just polite exchanges, clipped tones, eyes that flicker with something unspoken. you see the way satoru tests satsuki’s patience, the way satsuki’s jaw tightens just slightly when his son pushes boundaries, and you wonder if it’s more than just a father-son dynamic. like there’s something heavier between them—competition, maybe, or old wounds neither wants to admit.

you can’t help but feel like you’re caught in the middle of that tension, like you’re a fragile fault line waiting to split. satsuki’s hand on your knee sometimes feels less like comfort and more like a claim—like he’s reminding you, silently, of where your loyalty is supposed to lie. but satoru’s presence feels like a crack in that armor, a tempting escape from the cold order satsuki demands.

your thoughts betray you constantly. you see how satoru’s defiance might be a way of reaching for something satsuki never gives freely—love, approval, freedom—and maybe that’s why he lingers near you, why his eyes hold that unreadable mixture of challenge and something softer when they land on you.

you wonder if satoru envies you for what you have, or if he envies satsuki for what you don’t. and maybe both.

you catch glimpses of their history in the way they move around each other—the subtle shifts in posture, the sharp glances that flash too quickly to be noticed by anyone else. satsuki’s presence is steady, unyielding—a mountain carved from years of discipline and expectation. satoru, by contrast, is the unpredictable wind that refuses to be tamed, restless and wild beneath that polished exterior.

sometimes, you see satoru’s smile falter when satsuki speaks, just for a moment—like a boy still craving his father’s approval despite himself. and satsuki’s eyes harden, not with anger, but with something like regret, or disappointment. it’s clear they’ve been through battles that no one else knows about, fights where words were weapons and silence was a shield.

to you, their relationship is like watching two storms collide—each powerful on its own, but when they meet, the air crackles with tension and something dangerous simmers beneath. satsuki holds the power, but satoru carries the fire, and you’re left wondering which will burn brighter, and which will consume everything around it.

you realize you’re an unwelcome variable in their equation. satsuki’s calm control is always tested by satoru’s sharp edges, and you can feel it every time their eyes lock—a silent war waged in shadows. you’re caught between the push and pull of their fractured bond, an unspoken tension that presses down on you heavier than any promise or ring.

sometimes you wonder if satsuki sees satoru’s interest in you as a challenge, a threat to his carefully maintained order. and if satoru sees your presence as a way to carve space for himself—proof that he can claim something his father owns, or something his father withholds.

it terrifies you, this tangled web of power, desire, and unspoken pain, and you’re the uncharted territory between them—dangerous, forbidden, and impossible to ignore. you know, deep down, that no matter how much you try to resist, you’re already part of their story now.

and you realize, with a sinking feeling, that none of it is going to end quietly.

the moment he pulled you close, felt the heat of his body against yours, something inside you cracked—a fragile barrier you thought had been sealed long ago. it was terrifying, this sudden longing that twisted your insides into knots. you told yourself it was wrong. dangerous. satoru was his son, the very embodiment of everything you swore to keep at arm’s length. and yet, the ache in your chest whispered a different truth.

you wanted him.

more than you wanted safety, more than you wanted silence, more than you wanted satsuki’s steady, cold touch.

it wasn’t just lust. it was the way he looked at you—like you were a secret worth discovering. like you were more than just a trophy wife. like you were alive.

you hated yourself for it. hated the way your thoughts kept drifting to the curve of his jaw, the sharp laugh he tried to hide, the way his fingers brushed your skin like he was memorizing it. hated how your heart betrayed you every time he smiled or touched your hand “accidentally.” hated how lonely you’d become, how hungry for something real, and how satoru was the only warmth you could imagine in the cold palace you’d married into.

you wrestled with the guilt, the fear. with the desperate hope that maybe—just maybe—you could find something in him that your marriage never gave you. but every time you caught yourself imagining his lips on yours, every time your skin flushed remembering his breath near your ear, you heard the cold voice in the back of your mind:

he’s his son. he’s forbidden. this is not love.

and yet, the ache only grew, louder and sharper, until it was impossible to ignore. you were caught between the promise of safety you made to satsuki and the reckless, dangerous desire burning quietly inside you for his son. a desire that whispered, every time you were alone,

maybe you deserve to be seen.

maybe you deserve to be wanted.

maybe, finally, you can be loved.

you try to push it down.

try to bury it under a thousand rehearsed excuses and reminders of what you promised yourself when you said yes to satsuki.

this isn’t real. this isn’t happening.

he’s just his son.

and you’re his wife.

but the more you fight it, the louder it becomes.

like a pulse beneath your skin—impossible to ignore.

when you see satoru’s smile, the careless tilt of his head, the way his eyes linger just a moment too long, it feels like a flame flickering inside you, warm and dangerous. you find yourself catching your breath when he laughs, your heart speeding up at the brush of his fingers against yours in passing.

you hate how much it hurts.

hate that you crave something so forbidden.

hate that every stolen glance leaves you feeling exposed and trembling.

you wonder if he knows—if he feels the same pull, the same reckless hunger.

or if it’s only you, caught in the trap of loneliness and longing.

some nights, when the house is dark and satsuki’s study door is shut tight, you lie awake replaying his voice, the softness of his touch, the way his presence fills the space around you. you want to reach out, to touch, to taste, to be seen in a way you never have been.

and yet, guilt wraps around you like chains, reminding you of the lines you can’t cross, the roles you can’t break.

but desire doesn’t care for rules.

it lingers in your blood, whispers in your ear,

and pulls you deeper into the forbidden.

—

the first time it happens, it’s nothing like you thought it would be.

you’ve imagined fire and urgency, stolen moments and desperate touches. but this—it’s soft. slow. gentle in a way that makes your chest ache with something you didn’t even know you were missing.

it’s late afternoon at the gojo family’s summer house in hakone. the air is thick with the scent of pine and blooming hydrangeas, sunlight filtering through the leaves in lazy golden streams. you’re sitting at the edge of the pool, the cool water lapping at your ankles, soaking the hem of your long dress up to your calves. your bare feet rest lightly on the stone, toes flexing against the smooth surface.

the dress clings to your skin where it’s wet, weightless and cool—a contrast to the heat that curls low in your belly, the exhaustion that drapes over you like a heavy cloak.

you hear footsteps before you see him. satoru is barefoot too, his shirt unbuttoned halfway, the sleeves rolled up, hair tousled in that careless way you’ve come to recognize. he moves quietly, like he doesn’t want to disturb the fragile stillness that surrounds you.

he stops beside you, crouching down so you’re eye level, his dark eyes searching your face with something raw and unreadable.

“you okay?” he asks, voice low and hesitant.

you nod, but the word feels hollow on your tongue.

“liar,” he says, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

you meet his gaze, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you—the gentle ripple of water, the whisper of wind through the trees, the steady beat of your heart.

“he doesn’t love you, you know,” satoru says quietly, his tone both cruel and tender. “he never could. people like him don’t know what to do with soft things.”

you close your eyes, the truth settling heavy in your chest.

“i know,” you whisper.

his hand reaches out, brushing the wet fabric of your dress where it clings to your knee. the touch is light, reverent, as if he’s afraid to break you.

“then why’d you marry him?” satoru asks, voice gentle now, almost a confession.

you swallow hard, your throat tight with unshed tears.

“because i wanted to feel like i belonged to someone.”

for a moment, silence stretches between you, filled only by the quiet splash of water and distant birdcalls.

his hand slides slowly up your leg—never rushed, never greedy—just steady, warm, real. the heat seeps into your skin, grounding you, pulling you out of the numbness.

“you don’t have to belong to someone to be worth something,” he says softly, eyes never leaving yours.

and then, with a tenderness that feels like salvation, he leans in.

his lips find yours—soft, patient, promising.

you don’t pull away.

you let him.

and in that moment, everything you’ve been missing comes rushing back.

the kiss starts almost hesitantly—like he’s testing the waters, unsure if you’ll let him in. his lips brush against yours softly at first, barely more than a whisper, gentle and tentative as if afraid to overwhelm you. it’s nothing like the cold, mechanical touches you’ve grown used to. it’s something alive, something aching.

his hand stays steady on your thigh, thumb tracing slow, soothing circles against your skin, grounding you in the moment. the warmth of his palm seeps through the soaked fabric of your dress and makes your breath hitch. your fingers twitch at his wrist, unsure whether to pull him closer or to stop time entirely.

then, slowly, deliberately, he deepens the kiss. his lips part just enough, and the world narrows until there is nothing but the two of you—the taste of him, a faint trace of wine and something wild and intoxicating. his breath mingles with yours, uneven and soft, like a secret shared in the quiet.

there’s no rush. no frantic need. just a slow, steady exploration, a promise whispered between lips that have learned to be gentle. his mouth moves with care, mapping yours as if memorizing every curve, every tremble.

you feel the tension in your body begin to unwind—the tight coil of loneliness and despair loosening just a little. it’s like breathing for the first time after being underwater.

when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, eyes closed as if savoring the moment. your heart pounds loud in your chest, a wild, beautiful rhythm you didn’t know you’d been craving.

he murmurs against your lips, “i’m here.”

and somehow, in those two simple words, you find a flicker of hope.

but reality comes crashing down quickly, cold and unrelenting, like a wave pulling you under just when you thought you’d found air.

as his lips linger against yours, as his fingers press gentle warmth into your skin, a voice inside you screams—this is wrong. wrong because he’s his son. wrong because you’re married to satsuki. wrong because every promise you ever made was to someone else, and this—this is a betrayal wrapped in softness.

your heart pounds not with desire, but with panic, a sharp ache of guilt and fear twisting inside your ribs.

yet satoru’s eyes, those soft, searching eyes, hold you steady. they don’t judge. they don’t demand. they coax. with a tenderness that feels like safety, like a secret offered just to you in a world that never cared to understand.

his hands slide from your thigh to your waist, fingers threading lightly through the fabric of your dress, tracing the curve of your hip. the warmth of his touch is intoxicating, a quiet promise that maybe you don’t have to be alone in this.

you want to pull away, to shut it all down before it goes any further. but instead, you find yourself leaning into him, letting the kiss deepen into something more—something that speaks of longing and loneliness, of broken pieces seeking to be made whole.

it’s a dangerous line you’re crossing, blurred and fragile, but in that moment, with satoru’s hands steady on you and his breath mingling with yours, it feels like the only place where you might finally be seen.

and so you stay.

just a little longer.

under the soft glow of the moonlight, the pool water shimmering quietly beside you, everything feels like it’s suspended in time. your heart is pounding loud enough to drown out the faint sounds of the night — the rustling leaves, distant crickets — and yet, when satoru’s eyes meet yours, everything stills.

he cups your face gently with those large hands, his thumb tracing along your cheekbone as if memorizing every curve. you can’t stop the way your breath catches, how your fingers tremble slightly as they rest on his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart under your palm. the world feels dangerous, yet safe in this moment — a paradox only satoru could embody.

his voice is a low murmur, full of something unspoken, something aching. “i don’t want to stop. not now.” and you don’t either. the weight of the secret you carry, the life you live with satsuki, it presses down on you like a shadow. but here, now, it’s as if none of that matters — only the way satoru’s lips brush yours again, softer this time, like he’s trying to convey every word he can’t say.

slowly, carefully, his hands move to your waist, pulling you closer. your body responds without hesitation, leaning in, molding into his warmth. you can feel the heat radiating from him, a quiet fire growing in the space between your bodies. the moonlight traces the lines of his jaw, the curve of his neck, and you reach out, fingertips trembling, to touch the pulse at his throat. he shivers at the contact, a quiet sound of vulnerability escaping him.

“you’re here,” he whispers, voice breaking just enough to let you know how much he’s trying to hold himself together. “with me.”

you nod, unable to speak, your lips catching his again, deeper now, more urgent. the fear of discovery is still there, looming at the edges of your mind, but satoru’s hands, warm and sure, ground you. he slides them down your back, over the curve of your hips, pulling you flush against him. his body is firm, reassuring — a silent promise that he’s not going anywhere, even if the world tells you both you can’t be here.

the wetness of the night clings to your skin, and satoru’s touch is electric, tracing a path down your spine, fingertips exploring with reverence. he breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe in the scent of you, his breath hot against your skin. “i want to make sure you’re okay. i want to be gentle.” his words are soft but fierce, full of a protective kind of love that makes your chest ache.

you’re trembling—nervous, unsure—but the way he looks at you, like you’re the only thing that matters, makes you want to believe you’re not broken. makes you want to believe you deserve this.

carefully, satoru helps you up, guiding you inside the summer house. the rooms are warm, a contrast to the cool air outside, and the soft light casts shadows that dance along the walls. he’s still holding you like you’re fragile, like you might vanish if he lets go.

when he finally closes the distance, his hands are gentle but hungry, exploring you like he’s discovering a secret garden. every kiss, every touch is an unspoken confession—a need so fierce it’s almost painful.

you gasp softly when his mouth finds the curve of your neck, the way he nips and sucks is desperate but careful. your fingers weave through his hair, pulling him closer like you don’t want to ever let go. the world narrows until there’s nothing but skin and breath and the sound of your heart pounding loud in the quiet.

he’s slow with you, patient, like he wants to savor every moment. his hands learn every inch of your body—the softness of your skin, the way you shiver beneath his touch, the way you sigh when he trails kisses down your collarbone. and you forget about everything else—the coldness of your marriage, the weight of your promises, the danger of what this means.

you let your hands wander over his shoulders, over the muscles you know so well from stolen moments and shared glances. the air between you thickens, charged with longing and tenderness. slowly, you both shed the barriers — clothes slipping away with careful urgency, revealing skin kissed by lingering sunlight and tingling with anticipation.

his fingers trace the line of your collarbone, down the swell of your breasts, his touch featherlight but unwavering. your breath hitches as his lips follow the same path, soft kisses blooming like petals on your skin. you’re trembling, caught between nerves and desire, but satoru’s hands cradle you, anchoring you to the moment, telling you wordlessly that it’s okay to let go.

he moves with a reverence that makes every touch feel sacred. his mouth finds the delicate skin just beneath your ear, his voice a breathy murmur, “you’re so beautiful. i’ve wanted this for so long.” the words wrap around you, tender and true, and your fingers thread through his hair, pulling him closer, urging him on.

when he finally settles between your legs, the warmth of his body pressing against yours is overwhelming — a perfect mix of strength and softness. the slow, steady rhythm of his movements is a conversation of its own, speaking of trust and need and something deeper than passion. you close your eyes, losing yourself in the sensation of him — every brush of skin, every whispered promise, every gentle sigh.

he pauses sometimes, his forehead resting against yours, searching your eyes for any sign of doubt or pain. but you’re there, fully present, giving yourself to him in this secret sanctuary. the world outside, with all its complications and betrayals, fades away, leaving only the two of you — tangled, breathless, and achingly close.

afterward, wrapped in each other’s arms by the poolside, the night feels impossibly still. satoru’s fingers trace lazy circles on your back, and you can’t stop the tears that spill silently down your cheeks — tears of relief, of fear, of love too fierce to be tamed. he holds you tight, whispering, “we’ll find a way. i swear.”

he whispers, voice rough with emotion, “you’re everything i didn’t know i wanted.”

and you feel your cheeks burn, ashamed and exposed, but underneath it all, there’s a small, fierce spark of something you thought was lost—a feeling that maybe, just maybe, you’re wanted. not for the life you married into, not as a prize or a possession, but for who you really are.

—

it’s a slow fall after that.

not a plunge, not a moment you can point to and say, that’s when it all changed. it’s more like the slow, inevitable tipping of scales. the way you go from one kiss to two. one night to three. one excuse to a hundred soft, silent ones that pile up like snow on the edges of a house you no longer feel at home in.

you try to stop. you do. in the hours after, when you return to your cold bedroom and peel off your dress like it’s made of guilt, when you catch your own reflection in the mirror and can’t quite meet your eyes—you tell yourself it can’t happen again. that you’ll pull away the next time he leans in, that you’ll turn your face, that you’ll remember who you are, what you swore, what name you wear on your finger. it’s his name but not his.

but then satoru touches you again.

and everything inside you shatters like porcelain.

he touches you like you’re precious. not fragile—not delicate or breakable like the glass women you’re expected to mimic—but precious. something rare. something meant to be held carefully, not for fear of breaking, but because it’s deserved.

his hands never take before asking, and when they do ask, it’s always with care. he kisses the inside of your wrist like it’s holy. he mouths at the slope of your shoulder like he’s starved. he palms your face and whispers “look at me,” and when you do, when your eyes meet his—blue and bright and warm—it’s like standing in sunlight after years of being cold.

he talks to you like you’re more than just a body wrapped in pearls and cashmere. more than someone to wear on his father’s arm. he listens when you speak, even when your voice is small, even when you hesitate. even when you say things you shouldn’t admit out loud— “sometimes i think i don’t know who i am anymore,” and “i think i married him because i didn’t want to disappear.”

he never laughs. never dismisses. he just says, softly, “you don’t have to explain it to me.”

and then he touches you again.

he kisses you like he’s proud of you—like he’s proud to have you. not as some stolen, shameful secret, but as something he wants to keep. he kisses your mouth like it’s the most natural thing in the world, his favorite habit. he kisses your cheeks and your throat and your sternum like he’s putting something back where it belongs.

he says things that feel too good to hear and too dangerous to believe. “you deserve more than this,” and “he doesn’t see you,” and sometimes, when he’s inside you and your breath stutters and your hands are in his hair and you’re gasping into the crook of his neck, he says, “mine.”

quietly. like a vow. like he doesn’t care who it breaks.

he fucks you like you’re real.

not some trophy and not some quiet wife. not some placeholder to keep a legacy pretty. he fucks you like he wants to know what makes you fall apart and then puts you back together with the same hands. he takes his time with you—long nights that bleed into mornings, where his mouth maps every part of you and he learns your rhythm by heart. where he breathes your name into your stomach, your thighs, the center of you, over and over until it’s the only thing left in your head.

and he’s not perfect. he’s not gentle all the time. sometimes he’s messy with it, rough with it, needy. he pulls you into dark corners and kisses you like he’s angry at the distance between you. he pushes you up against the bathroom door in a quiet restaurant because you laughed too sweetly over dessert. he hikes up your dress in the backseat of a black car on the way to a party and bites down on your shoulder just to keep from groaning your name too loud.

but even then—especially then—he holds you after. always. always wraps you in his arms and touches your hair and kisses your temple like he can’t believe you’re real.

you never feel more alive than when you’re in his arms.

when your legs are tangled under his in a bed that doesn’t belong to either of you. when his breath ghosts over the back of your neck and he mutters half-asleep, “don’t go yet.” when you’re sitting between his thighs while he dries your hair with a towel, like it’s a ritual and it matters to him. when he holds your hand in secret and kisses your knuckles like he’s making a promise you’re both too afraid to speak out loud.

it’s a slow fall. and you fall all the same.

and the worst part—the part that keeps you up at night, staring at the ceiling in your husband’s house—is not that it’s wrong.

it’s that it’s the first time anything has ever felt right.

you come home to your husband with your makeup smeared and your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might rip out of your chest.

your dress is rumpled, your lips still swollen, and there’s a faint ache between your legs that makes your knees wobble as you step out of the car. you keep your eyes low as the staff greets you, give them nothing more than a polite nod and a soft “thank you” before you disappear down the hall like a ghost.

your hands shake as you strip out of your clothes in the bathroom. you peel off the lace and silk like it’s a crime scene, like if you leave it on too long it’ll burn you. you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror—lipstick smudged, mascara streaked, eyes too bright, too wild—and you look like someone you don’t recognize. someone ruined.

his scent is still clinging to your skin. expensive cologne and sweat and heat. the ghost of satoru’s mouth still lingers on your neck, soft bruises blooming under your jaw where he kissed you too hard. where he bit down just to see you shiver.

you scrub it all away with trembling hands.

you press your palms flat against the sink, bow your head, and try to breathe. the water runs hot. too hot. scalding, almost. but it doesn’t burn enough to make you feel clean. nothing does anymore.

you lie in bed that night with your back to satsuki, still damp from the shower, your body coiled tight beneath the sheets like a secret you don’t want him to see. he’s sitting up beside you, his reading glasses on, a neat folder of briefings and documents in his lap. the soft rustle of paper, the click of a pen against the corner of his clipboard—it’s the only sound in the room.

he doesn’t touch you. he never does unless it’s scheduled. expected.

he glances over once, offers a brief, “you’re back late,” and you murmur something vague. traffic. the driver took a wrong turn. your head hurt. you needed air.

he nods and turns back to his documents.

and you think about how much you used to hate silence, how much you still do.

how heavy it feels now—how full of things you’re not allowed to say.

you lie there beside him in his cold, perfect bed with your hair still damp and your heart still beating in someone else’s rhythm, and all you can think about is the way satoru held your face in his hands like you were worth looking at. the way he said your name like it tasted good in his mouth. the way he looked up at you from between your thighs and whispered, “i’d give you everything if you let me.”

you fall asleep before satsuki does. or maybe you pretend to.

you don’t say goodnight.

in the morning, the house wakes before you do—glass clinks in the kitchen, shoes echo across the marble, muffled voices speak through closed doors. you walk into the bathroom and stare at yourself in the mirror for too long.

your lips are raw. your throat is marked. your eyes are heavy.

you put on moisturizer with hands that remember how he kissed your fingertips. you dab concealer over a bruise you let him leave behind. you spray perfume behind your ears and hope it doesn’t smell like guilt.

and you wonder—how long can i survive like this?

how long can you live in this liminal space, in the tight grip of half-truths and false smiles, wrapped in the soft thrill of being someone’s secret? how long before you forget who you used to be? how long before the shame rots you from the inside out?

you think maybe you should’ve said no that night by the pool.

maybe you should’ve run when he touched your face and looked at you like he’d burn for you.

like he already was.

but you didn’t.

you let him in.

you opened your mouth and begged for more.

you curled into his lap and rode the high of being wanted so fiercely it made you cry.

and now—it’s too late.

because you married a man who never really saw you, never asked for anything more than your presence, your silence, your prettiness in pictures. a man who offered protection and nothing else.

and you fell in love with the only person in the world you were never supposed to touch.

and he touched you.

again.

and again.

until you forgot what it felt like to be untouched.

until you forgot what it felt like to be good.

until you forgot what it felt like to be clean.

—

satsuki gojo is not a man who lets himself feel.

at least, not in the way other people do.

he’s measured. composed.precise in every word, every movement. the kind of man who values control the way others value love. who commands attention without raising his voice, who delivers disappointment with a smile so polished it feels like praise.

he can sit across from a man whose company he’s about to dismantle and pour him tea with a steady hand. he can dismantle a legacy with three words and a signature. he’s never needed threats. he’s never needed rage.

because power, when wielded properly, is quiet.

and for most of his life, he believed that was enough to keep the world in order. his world.

neat. predictable. built brick by brick in his image.

he chose you the way he’s always chosen things—with intent. not for sentiment, not for warmth, not for romance. sure, your simple charm was always something he liked, but you were always more of a solution. a symbol. a perfect little piece to complete a picture he’d been curating for years.

you were beautiful, yes. poised, obedient. the kind of woman who knew how to smile at the right people, wear the right clothes, say the right things. he’s teached you a lot, but you weren’t stupid. you didn’t press and you didn’t pry. you didn’t cry when he was cold, or complain when he was late.

you were grateful in a way that flattered him.

and maybe, somewhere deep down—though he’d never admit it—he thought he was giving you something generous. a name. a home. protection.

in return, he asked for compliance and you gave it to him.

you smiled when he gave you diamonds. you folded yourself into his world with elegant silence. you learned not to ask where he went at night. and he never asked what you dreamed about. it worked.

until it didn’t.

he noticed the shift before he had a name for it.

it wasn’t obvious at first. it was in the way you lingered longer in the garden after dinner. the way you turned your head when your phone lit up across the room, a split second too fast. the way your laughter—once rare and practiced—started to sound real again.

he noticed the changes in your perfume. subtler, warmer. scents that weren’t chosen by his assistant or gifted in velvet boxes. you started wearing lipstick he hadn’t seen before and looking like someone who belonged to herself.

he didn’t confront you.

instead, he watched.

he started marking the time you left and returned. took note of how often your hair was out of place, your blouse wrinkled, your voice a little hoarse, like you’d been endlessly whispering things into someone else’s skin.

your body language changed—softer, secretive. like you were learning how to feel again. like you were warming up in someone else’s sun. your body betrayed you, not in bruises or confessions—but in a kind of ease that hadn’t existed between you in months.

and still, he didn’t suspect satoru.

not at first.

not because he trusted you and certainly not because he trusted him, but because he didn’t think either of you would be that stupid.

and maybe part of him didn’t want to believe it.

however, satoru had always been difficult.

they’d always had a strained dynamic.

he was reckless in ways that grated against satsuki’s sense of order. loud where satsuki was quiet, impulsive where he was methodical. he’d fought everything from the moment he could speak.

rejected the power of the family name, the legacy, the weight of expectation. there was something untouchable in him, something wild that satsuki could never quite control—no matter how much money, pressure, or cold expectation he applied. a ghost of his mother’s defiance, wrapped in her smile, armed with her softness.

from the outside, they were the picture of high-society decorum—father and son, both devastatingly intelligent, devastatingly composed, cut from the same ruthless cloth. they looked alike in photographs. sounded alike in interviews. but beneath the polished surface was something frayed, something long-decayed that no amount of money or legacy could repair.

satoru was a reminder of everything that had slipped through satsuki’s fingers.

his late wife’s laughter—light, uncontrolled, human—echoed in satoru’s careless smirks, in the way he leaned too far back in chairs, in the irreverent tone he used when he spoke to people who ought to matter.

she’d been soft. too soft, he used to think. prone to warmth, drawn to people. she gave things away—attention, forgiveness, affection—without vetting them first.

he loved her once, in his own quiet way. but he didn’t know what to do with her softness. didn’t know how to nurture it, only how to contain it. and eventually, it dimmed. and when satoru was born, he took what was left of that softness and love with himself, until the woman he married was six feet under.

but satoru. . . from the moment he was old enough to speak, he’d been impossible to mold. brilliant, yes. too brilliant. but willful and defiant.

he refused to be groomed like a proper heir. he questioned things that were meant to be obeyed. he didn’t take to structure. didn’t respect the natural order of hierarchy. didn’t respect him.

and yet, he had everything satsuki had wanted in a successor. charm. intuition. a terrifying sort of instinct for power. but he wasted it.

he chose unpredictability over control. freedom over legacy. emotion over efficiency. and satsuki could never decide what infuriated him more: that his son refused to be shaped into something useful—

or that he reminded him too much of a past he could no longer touch.

every conversation between them was a performance. every exchange a negotiation. there was love, somewhere—buried deep and misshapen—but it had long since been smothered by expectation, pride, and quiet, festering disappointment. he gave satoru everything a father was supposed to give: education, opportunity, wealth.

but not the things that mattered. not patience, not understanding, not softness. and in turn, satoru gave him brilliance. gave him rebellion.

but never respect and never the submission satsuki demanded, even in silence.

their dynamic had long ago calcified into something functional and cold—like glass. clear enough to see through, but too brittle to touch.

satsuki could never quite reach him. never quite shape him.

and after a while, he stopped trying.

polite meals. distant updates. strained dinners where satoru cracked jokes to make you laugh, and satsuki watched with a stillness that looked like patience but felt like contempt.

and then the whispers came.

not loud. not dramatic. just small details offered by staff who knew when to speak and when to stay silent. two coffee cups in satoru’s room. laundry that didn’t belong to him.a lipstick print on a glass no one remembered pouring.

satsuki didn’t ask questions. he observed.

he sees it first in the way your eyes start to drift.

in the way you excuse yourself from dinners earlier than usual, lips still stained with barely-hidden kisses, skin humming with the memory of someone else’s mouth. he sees it in the tremble in your hands when you pour his tea, the way your smile falters when he looks at you for just a beat too long.

he sees it when satoru walks into the room and your spine stiffens like you’ve been caught already.

he sees it in satoru too—the looseness in his posture, the smugness barely hidden beneath casual remarks. the quiet little grins aimed nowhere and everywhere. the way he looks at you like he’s already claimed you.

like he doesn’t care who knows.

and one night, he followed.

he stood in the dark at the top of the stairs, just out of sight, as you crept barefoot down the guest hallway. your cheeks were flushed, your mouth was kiss-bruised, your sweater was too large. too familiar. too his. and you were smiling. not at him. for someone else.

he watched you slip into the shadows with quiet, practiced shame, and he didn’t feel surprised. he didn’t even feel heartbreak, he felt confirmation.

and something worse— humiliation.

not just as your husband. but as a father. because it wasn’t just betrayal, it wasn’t even infidelity. it was the way you looked at satoru—like you used to look at him, long ago. like you’d been asleep for years and someone finally woke you up.

like you’d finally remembered how to feel.

and the part that sliced deepest wasn’t that you’d chosen someone else. it was that you’d chosen someone he made. someone who shared his name. someone who had every piece of him he’d never been able to give.

he sat with that knowledge for two days.

ate breakfast across from you like nothing had changed. listened to your footsteps echo down the marble hallway. watched satoru breeze in and out of the house with that smug, careless smile and imagined wiping it clean off his face.

he kept it in his chest like a ticking clock.

and waited.

until the third night, when you come home late.

and you have to know, satsuki doesn’t scream.

he doesn’t throw things. neither does he raise his voice. doesn’t call you names or demand answers. there’s no storm. no fire. no broken glass glittering across the floor.

just silence—dense, absolute. the kind that makes your bones ache before you even understand why.

he’s sitting in the lounge when you come home. not his study or the formal sitting room reserved for guests and political favors, but the old lounge near the back of the house—the one with worn leather chairs and a window that always sticks halfway open. he used to like sitting here with you, hands full of documents and reports and your perfume lingering by his side.

the floor creaks when you step in. his jacket is folded over the armrest, his tie loose around his neck like a noose he forgot to tighten. there’s a half-full glass of whiskey in one hand, the rim catching the firelight from the hearth behind him.

he looks up when you enter and he smiles. but it’s the wrong kind of smile: it’s thin and deliberate and shaped like control—sharp and elegant and meant to wound. you’ve seen it on him and you’ve never liked it.

“you’re late,” he says.

his tone is soft, casual. like he’s commenting on the weather. like you’ve only broken curfew by an hour and not shattered the most sacred rule of this house.

you open your mouth to lie—to give him something rehearsed. traffic. errands. lunch with the wife of that board member who always pretends not to loathe you. something easy, something clean.

but then you meet his unbelievably cold eyes and everything dies in your throat. because he’s already holding the truth. you can see it in his face—in the stillness, the patience, the cold poise of a man who’s already played the entire game in his mind.

he knows.

he hums under his breath. the sound is small and almost amused, but it lands like a slap.

he taps his thumb once against the rim of his glass, then says, “i hear you’ve taken a liking to hakone.”

your breath stutters.

“you’ve been going often,” he adds, like it’s an idle thought, like he’s piecing something together he already understands.

you force your voice to work.

“I like the quiet,” you say, careful. measured.

his lips twitch. “yes,” he murmurs. “so do i.”

he sets his glass down with precision, the base hitting the table with a soft clink.

he doesn’t look away.

“you know,” he continues, tone drifting somewhere between dissection and conversation, “i used to wonder why the staff stopped telling me when you left the city.”

his fingers trace the seam of his trousers.

“why the housekeeper started locking the guest suite.”

a beat.

“why you began ignoring my calls.”

your chest goes tight, pulse thudding in your ears.

“they didn’t tell me,” he says. “but they didn’t have to.”

and then—his voice, colder. quieter.

“i’m not a fool.”

your mouth opens on instinct. some part of you still thinks you can lie your way out. deny it. explain it. apologize. even though there’s nothing left to salvage. you don’t even know which version of the truth you’re trying to reach for, but you don’t get the chance.

he cuts in.

“how long?”

you freeze.

he takes a step closer, the firelight catching in the creases around his eyes.

“how long,” he repeats, “have you been fucking my son?”

the words hit you like a blade through silk—clean, merciless, elegant in its precision.

you flinch visibly.

your fingers twist in the fabric of your coat like you’re bracing for a blow. your throat goes dry. your lungs stall. you can’t answer.

because what is there to say?

that it wasn’t planned? that it wasn’t a betrayal at first, just a kiss by the pool? that you didn’t mean for it to turn into something real?

it all sounds so small now. so hollow.

satsuki rises to his full height—he moves slowly, methodically, like he’s done this a hundred times before. straightens his cuffs. buttons the top of his collar. steps toward you without urgency.

he stops a few feet away. not close enough to touch. just close enough that you feel the weight of him, the cold edge of his presence. the domineering cool emitting from him.

he looks at you for a long time.

not with rage or disgust, but with something worse.

disappointment.

like he’s been bracing for this all along. like he expected better—and isn’t surprised that you didn’t deliver. it hits you harder than it should and your nails dig into the plush of your palm, holding in the desire to apologise over and over and ask for forgiveness like a child would with a disappointed parent.

“was it revenge?” he asks.

his voice is quieter now. more intimate.

“a performance?”

he studies your face.

“or did you just get tired of waiting for me to love you?”

you want to scream. to fall to your knees, to beg him to understand that it was never about revenge, that you were lonely, so unbelievably lonely, and satoru looked at you like you mattered. like you existed. but none of that matters now.

the words never come, instead they lodge in your throat like splinters.

“i thought you knew what you were getting into when i approached you.”

he tilts his head slightly, almost curious. like he’s waiting for something that you no longer have to give.

then he exhales just one breath. low. even. controlled.

“he always did take what wasn’t his.”

you blink. he’s not looking at you anymore.

his gaze slips past your shoulder, to the fire, or the window, or some long-dead moment you’ll never be privy to. he’s remembering something you were never a part of and it hurts like it never did before.

“i should’ve known he’d want you too,” he says, and this time the words are softer. like a realization spoken to himself.

you don’t know what history lives between them. you don’t ask because it’s not yours to touch, it never was.

you take a step back. then another.

your breath comes shallow. your cheeks burn. shame licks up your throat and settles in your mouth like ash. but he isn’t done. he adjusts his cuffs again, casual, like he’s resetting himself. it feels like he’s stepping back into the man he was before he ever let you into his home.

“there’s a dinner with the yamamotos tonight,” he says.

his voice is clipped now, businesslike. the conversation is over. this is protocol.

“you’ll attend like you always do,” he adds. “wear the gold chanel dress. and the necklace i gifted you for new years.”

you stare at him.

you’re not sure what you’re waiting for. mercy? forgiveness? one final insult? you think it’d be better that whatever this is.

“and then?” you ask, even though you already know.

he looks at you once more and this time there’s nothing in his eyes— no heat, no cold, no flicker of what you used to hope was affection. just a decision.

“then, in the morning, you’ll leave.”

your heart stops.

“you’ll be out of this house by ten,” he says.

his tone is simple and settled, the one you’ve heard him use a million times in different settings. you just never thought it’d be directed to you.

“the lawyers will be in touch.”

your knees go weak. your vision tilts, dangerously blurry, but somehow, you stand.

somehow, you nod, realising there’s nothing left to fight for. he turns away, back toward the fireplace. the flames flicker quietly, casting soft light on the clean lines of his silhouette.

and as you watch him, standing in a room that once belonged to both of you, you realize—

this is the first time he’s ever really seen you.

and it will be the last time he ever looks at you the same way again.

—

the guest room feels unfamiliar, almost cold, despite the thick curtains and soft linens that try to soften its edges. you close the door behind you with a hollow finality, the sound echoing in the silence like a heartbeat you can’t catch.

the room is quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside, a distant reminder that life continues beyond these walls. you sink onto the bed, the sheets cool against your skin, and for a moment, you let yourself breathe—shallow, uneven, like someone learning how to again.

your mind swirls with everything left unsaid. the confrontation with satsuki replays in endless loops, his measured voice cutting through the memories you had tried so hard to bury. it’s not just the end of a marriage; it’s the unraveling of the life you thought you had. you touch the faint bruises on your skin, remnants of stolen moments with satoru, and a bitter ache settles deep in your chest. the guilt is sharp, a weight that drags against any flicker of solace.

your phone vibrates quietly on the bedside table, screen lighting up with satoru’s name. you don’t answer. you can’t. each message is a tether pulling you back to a world you need to step away from, no matter how fiercely your heart resists. ignoring him feels like a small act of control amid the chaos—a way to protect the fragile pieces of yourself before the inevitable departure.

you ache for the tenderness he gave you and resent the fragility it exposed. loneliness presses in, but so does a quiet clarity: you cannot stay in this in-between, clinging to shadows when the dawn demands you move forward.

you don’t sleep. not really.

you drift in and out of shallow, fragmented dreams—flashes of firelight, the ghost of satsuki’s voice, the warmth of satoru’s hands pressed to your hips. it all blends together until you can’t tell memory from nightmare. every time your eyes close, something inside you flinches.

you lie on your side in the guest bed, staring at the edge of the wall, and you think about how quickly things fall apart. how something that felt so real, so alive in your hands, could slip through your fingers with just a few words. you remember satoru telling you once—softly, like he was afraid of the truth—“nothing we take from him ever lasts.”

you had shrugged. brushed it off.

but maybe you should’ve listened.

his name lights up your phone again around 2:00 a.m.—a short vibration, then another. then a call.

you stare at the screen until it fades. you don’t answer. you don’t dare to.

you know what he’ll say. you know the voice he’ll use—the low, urgent one that always made your chest ache, like you were the only thing in the room that mattered. and maybe that’s what you’re afraid of. that if you hear it, you’ll forget why you have to go.

you press the phone beneath a pillow. try not to cry. fail.

when the first signs of morning come, you sit up slowly, your body stiff and reluctant. the house is still quiet. no footsteps, no movement down the hall. it feels like a mausoleum now. you move through it like someone haunting their own life.

you take a long shower. let the water burn your skin red in places. like punishment, maybe, or maybe you just want to feel something that isn’t regret.

the mirror fogs, but you wipe it clear with your palm, stare at your reflection like it might give you answers. you look older today. heavier. but there’s something in your eyes—tired, yes, but awake like you’ve finally decided something for yourself.

you get dressed methodically. a blouse and black slacks you bought yourself with your own money. you fold the gold chanel dress into your bag without thinking, like a relic you’re not sure what to do with. the closet is already half-emptied; you did most of it in the night, between moments of panic and resolve. you left the jewelry. the heels. the coats. you don’t want to take anything you can’t justify wanting.

when you’re done, you sit on the edge of the bed with your coat in your lap and your bags at your feet. your phone buzzes again. another call. his name, again.

you silence it and yet—it hurts. god, it hurts.

because you miss him. not just the sex. not just the rush of being seen, desired, adored.

you miss the stupid jokes, the way he always leaned in too close when he talked. the way he touched your back in passing, like it was second nature. his honesty, his kindness, his desire for you to see him just like he saw you.

you miss how easy it was to feel wanted around him.

how light your body felt when he held you. how much fun you had, even when everything was wrong, but wanting him won’t undo what you’ve done.

and there’s something uglier than heartbreak curling inside your chest now. shame, maybe. or self-loathing. or the simple, brutal truth that you knew what this would cost you. you knew. and you chose him anyway. and now you have to let him go like the mistake it was.

you stand, finally. smooth your blouse. pick up your things. the door creaks slightly when you open it. the hallway is still empty.

you don’t see satsuki again.

but the housekeeper is already waiting by the front doors, her posture stiff, her eyes unreadable. she nods at you once yet doesn’t speak. the kind woman who’d greeted you a few years ago is gone and for a brief second, you feel like a ghost all over again.

no one says goodbye.

no one asks where you’re going.

you walk out of the house with the air crisp and the sky still gray, and it doesn’t feel like freedom, not yet, but it does feel like something.

like an ending you’ve earned and a beginning you might survive. . .

epilogue.

satoru sits alone in his sleek, dimly lit apartment overlooking the city, the night stretching endlessly beyond the glass. the silence here isn’t comforting; it’s heavy and hollow, pressing down on him like a weight he can’t shrug off. his phone lies face-up on the table, screen dark now, no new messages from you. the absence feels louder than any words ever could.

he thinks about you constantly—about the way you moved through the gojo estate, so fragile yet fierce in your own quiet way. how your eyes held a mix of longing and pain, like you were always searching for something just out of reach. he remembers the nights in hakone, the softness of your skin against his, the hesitant way you let yourself fall apart in his arms. those moments are etched in him, vivid and aching.

but alongside the tenderness, there’s the bitter sting of guilt—because he knows what you lost. the life you left behind, the promises broken, the distance you’ve been forced to put between yourself and satsuki. he wonders if you blame him, if you see him as the one who took what wasn’t his. part of him understands. part of him hates himself for it.

he wrestles with the fact that he loved you in a way no one else did—or could. that in those stolen hours, he tried to make you feel seen, whole, and alive. and yet, all he could give you was secrecy and fleeting warmth. the knowledge that he was the reason you lost everything haunts him more than he admits.

there’s a quiet ache beneath his usual careless grin, a sorrow he buries deep beneath sarcasm and deflection. satoru wonders if you’ll ever forgive him—or if forgiveness even matters anymore. he replays your last moments together, the way you pulled away before the kiss could become more, the way you disappeared afterward, leaving nothing but silence.

he’s haunted by the thought of you, not as a prize won or a secret kept, but as someone he genuinely cared for—someone he wanted to protect from the cold world that had hurt you so much already. and now, without you, even the city’s neon lights feel dimmer, the nights colder, and the space beside him painfully empty.

he knows he’s lost you in more ways than one. and the weight of that loss is something he carries with quiet, relentless heaviness.

satoru’s thoughts spiral in the quiet hours, tangled and relentless. he remembers the way your laughter once filled the corners of the house, sharp and unexpected, like sunlight breaking through a storm. how rare those moments were, and how fiercely he clung to them. he wonders if you ever felt the same—that small flicker of something real beneath the facade of your marriage, beneath the walls you both built to protect yourselves.

he thinks about satsuki, his father, with a complicated knot of resentment and reluctant understanding. satsuki’s coldness was a shield, a calculated distance that made love impossible, and maybe satoru saw himself in that—flawed, unreachable, always on the edge of something breaking. he knows satsuki never loved you the way you deserved, and maybe that’s why satoru’s feelings for you became so fierce, so impossible to ignore. it was as if loving you was the only way to fight against a legacy of emptiness.

he replays the stolen nights and whispered promises, the way your fingers tangled in his hair, the quiet confession in your eyes when you finally let go. those moments weren’t just physical—they were a desperate grasp for connection, for something genuine in a life that had become a series of transactions and silent compromises. he wishes he could go back, erase the pain that followed, but he knows some wounds run too deep.

there’s also a gnawing fear beneath everything—fear that you’re slipping further away, that the distance between you is becoming permanent, defined not just by walls and silence but by the choices made and the secrets kept. satoru hates that he might have been the cause of your exile, that the sanctuary you once sought in him might now be a memory too painful to revisit.

and yet, despite it all, he can’t stop hoping. hoping that somewhere beneath the fractured pieces, you’re still there—still breathing, still fighting. that maybe, someday, the space between you can be crossed.

satoru knows he could find you anytime he wanted. the networks of the city, the connections woven through his life like threads in a tapestry—they’re all there, quietly waiting for him to pull. he could ask, trace, track. his world is built on precision and control; locating you would be no different from making a phone call or booking a flight.

but he doesn’t.

not yet.

there’s a part of him that understands the chaos you need to navigate on your own, the space to breathe without the weight of his presence pressing down on you. he respects that silence, no matter how much it tears at him. he hopes you’re finding some clarity, some piece of yourself you lost when everything fell apart. and beneath that hope is a quiet, stubborn wish—that when you’re ready, you’ll reach out. that you’ll call him, ask for help, or maybe just for company.

he wants to see you every day. to hear your voice, to catch the light in your eyes when you smile without hesitation. he dreams of ordinary moments with you—the kind of moments that feel impossible now. but he doesn’t force it. he holds space for you in the chaos of his life, a silent promise that he’ll be there when you decide you’re ready.

and then, one day, by chance more than design, he does see you.

it’s unexpected, like a flicker of warmth in a cold room. you’re just across the street, caught in the rush of the city—unaware, untethered, breathing in the world on your own terms.

for a second, time bends. the noise around him dulls.

he watches, heart pounding, the distance between you suddenly unbearable and yet impossible to close in that moment. it’s accidental. unplanned. raw.

the moment stretches, fragile and electric, as satoru stands frozen on the sidewalk, watching you navigate the crowd with that familiar, tentative grace. the sunlight catches the edges of your hair, casting a halo you hadn’t realized you’d missed so desperately. his breath hitches—not from surprise, but from the weight of everything unsaid, every stolen moment that now feels like a lifetime away.

he wants to call out, to cross the street and bridge the gulf that’s grown between you. but something holds him back—a mix of respect, fear, and the unspoken understanding that you need to decide how this story continues. so instead, he lets you go, watching until you disappear around the corner, swallowed by the city’s endless motion.

the ache in his chest is sharp but tethered to a new hope, fragile but undeniable. seeing you—really seeing you—reminds him that the pieces aren’t lost forever. that maybe, in time, the distance can be closed not by force or desperation, but by choice.

he pulls out his phone, fingers hovering over the screen. but he doesn’t call. not yet.

instead, he carries the image of you with him—a quiet promise, a flicker of light in the dark—waiting for the day when you’ll reach back. when the accidental meeting becomes a deliberate reunion. and until then, he’ll hold on to that moment, small and precious, as the beginning of everything yet to come.

days pass like slow tides, each one pulling satoru deeper into a restless rhythm of waiting and wanting. the accidental glimpse of you lingers in his mind—a persistent ache that colors every quiet moment. he keeps checking his phone, half-expecting your name to light up the screen, half-afraid it never will.

he’s careful not to overwhelm. no messages, no calls, no attempts to intrude on the fragile space you might be carving out for yourself. instead, he focuses on the small details he remembers—the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, the softness in your eyes despite the shadows beneath them. those details become a silent prayer he carries with him, a hope that you’re healing in your own time.

sometimes, he wonders what you’re feeling. if you think of him, even for a fleeting second. if you’re angry, or scared, or lonely like he is. the not knowing is its own torment, but he endures it because it’s better than pretending the connection never existed.

and then, one evening, as twilight bleeds into the city, satoru finds himself walking past a quiet café he knows you like. the place is small, tucked between towering glass buildings, with warm light spilling onto the pavement. through the window, he sees you seated at a corner table, alone, eyes fixed on a book, a cup of tea untouched.

his heart stutters, the sight both a balm and a challenge. he wants to cross the street, to speak to you, to reach out and pull you back into his world. but he hesitates, caught between hope and fear, between what he wants and what you need.

you look up.

just for a second. just a shift of your gaze, like you’re checking the street, like you felt something—or someone. and satoru knows the moment your eyes land on him.

you blink. he can see it from across the street, that flicker of recognition behind your lashes. the brief, stunned stillness. the small part of you that wants to look away but doesn’t.

and it’s then that he moves.

he crosses the street without thinking. the city hums around him, cars passing, lights changing, but none of it touches him. his feet hit the sidewalk, one after the other, like this was always where he was going to end up.

the door jingles softly when he pushes it open. warm air hits him—coffee, jasmine tea, something spiced—and he sees you straighten in your seat, uncertain, your fingers curled tight around your book like it might keep you steady.

you don’t speak right away. you just stare. like you don’t know if this is real. maybe you’ve conjured him somehow. so he gives you a moment.

he approaches slowly, careful not to crowd your space, hands shaking at his sides and breathing shortening from nervousness. your tea sits untouched, lips of steam curling from the rim. there’s a smear of mascara beneath your left eye. your expression is tired. guarded.

but still you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

he stops just in front of the table. lets the quiet stretch a second longer. then—softly, almost like a joke, like a thread offered—

“hello,” he says. “i’m satoru. and you?”

you blink again. your brow furrows.

and a second later you understand.

your mouth parts, trembling. you reach for the moment like you’re not sure how to hold it, how not to break it. your small hand comes up—slow, uncertain—and he takes it, warmly and steadily, thumb brushing the back of your fingers in a manner too familiar.

you nod once, mouth opening to try and say your name, but it comes out as a sob instead.

your shoulders tremble. tears slip down your cheeks without warning, fast and hot, catching in the hollow of your throat. your fingers tighten in his, like you’re afraid you’ll fall if you don’t hold on or he’ll disappear.

and satoru’s already leaning in, already wrapping his arms around you like he always did when you fell apart.

he doesn’t hesitate and doesn’t ask.

he pulls you to your feet and into him like he’s wanted to do it for years, like your body belongs there, right against his chest, your face tucked into the curve of his neck.

your hands fist in his coat. your tears soak through his shirt. he doesn’t care.

he just holds you—tight, real, steady.

like he’s never letting go again.

—

satsuki’s office is dimly lit, the city lights casting long shadows across the polished mahogany desk. he stands by the window, arms crossed, staring out but not really seeing the skyline. the quiet hum of the city below feels distant, almost irrelevant.

satoru leans against the doorway, casual yet tense, his usual carefree grin replaced by something sharper, more measured.

“you knew, didn’t you?” satsuki’s voice breaks the silence, low and controlled.

“knew what?” satoru replies, eyes narrowing but voice calm.

“about us.” satsuki turns, finally meeting his son’s gaze. “about her.”

satoru shrugs, stepping fully into the room. “i figured it was only a matter of time.”

“you crossed a line,” satsuki says, voice steady but with an edge. “not just with her, but with me.”

“maybe i did,” satoru admits. “but she wasn’t yours. not really. you never loved her.”

“love isn’t always what it seems,” satsuki counters, eyes hard. “sometimes it’s duty. control. legacy.”

“then you failed,” satoru says quietly. “because she deserved more than duty and control.”

for a moment, the two men simply regard each other—father and son, rivals and kin, bound by a past neither can fully escape.

“what now?” satsuki finally asks, voice softer.

satoru’s gaze flickers, uncertain for once. “now? i wait. i hope she knows she’s not alone.”

“and if she doesn’t come back?”

“then we live with the choices we made,” satoru says, stepping toward the door. “but i’ll be here. whether she calls or not.”

satsuki watches him go, the weight of everything heavy in the room—words left unsaid, love misunderstood, and a family fractured, too close to broken.

322 notes · View notes

cakypa120 · 2 days ago

Note

May I request more Billy X Jason

Like captain marvel giving all the justice league members a thing that when they’re in danger, it will teleport them to the rock of eternity.

Jason gets injured and Batman use the thing,

Cue 18 year old Billy freaking out seeing Jason, who looks like a fully grown man, even though he’s only like 19 at best (I think) and

Jason: “ where am I?”

Billy

Jason: “damn, Roy was right demons are hot”

Batman was panicking. Jason was hurt. Seriously. And they wouldn't get help for a long time. Bruce's hands were shaking as he covered the wounds on his side. He couldn't lose Jason, his son, again. In moments like these, he understood why people prayed to something, hoping for something. Bruce was willing to give the Gods or anyone else anything if it would save his son.

A memory suddenly popped into his mind:

All the heroes were holding a strange crystal in their hands. Marvel smiled brightly at them.

Hal: What is this?

Marvel: Emergency help. If you are badly injured or trapped. You just need to break this crystal. It will teleport you to the Rock of Eternity. All your wounds will freeze in time and you will fall into a temporary sleep. I will find you, heal you and send you back to Earth. This is insurance. But if you get there unharmed, then I ask you not to wander too much. And listen to those who live there.

Batman: How reliable is this?

Marvel: One hundred percent! It can teleport you from any point in space or dimension.

Superman: That's interesting.

Diana: Thank you, brother, for such a valuable gift.

Marvel: You are like family to me! Of course I will worry about your safety.

Bruce takes out the small crystal. This was his last chance. He places the crystal in Jason's hand and squeezes until he hears a crunch. Jason's body is covered in golden light and his son crumbles into golden dust. Bruce looks at the place where his son lay and takes a deep breath. Now all that's left is to wait.

Billy jumps in surprise when he feels something teleport onto the Rock. Someone used his crystal? That was bad!! He runs to the teleportation site in a panic and freezes when he sees a bloody figure. Isn't that Red Hood? Shit, he's seriously hurt. Billy rolls up his sleeves. This was going to be a long job.

Jason wakes up with a groan. His whole body ached. The last thing he remembered was being shot and B holding his wound. Was he dead? Was he in hell?

?: You're awake! You better not move yet, your body needs to rest from all the magic I used on you.

Jason looks up and sees a young man with black hair and bright blue eyes. All thoughts disappear from his head when he sees this young man. Why was he wearing something that looked like ancient Greek clothes? (Billy had blood on his clothes. The Rock didn't have any other clothes. So he wore what he had.)

Jason: I died?

?: No, although you tried very hard. So, how did you get the crystal?

Jason: I don't know what crystal you're talking about. Maybe B did it. Damn, you're hot.

?: Sorry what?

Jason: I'm a little hot!! Is that normal?

The boy frowns and approaches him. Jason smells the rain. It calms him down a little. A warm palm touches his forehead and Jason is ready to melt just from that touch.

?: You're a little hotter than usual. But that's okay. A good night's sleep will help you recover faster.

Jason: Why do I feel so sleepy?

?: Your body wants to rest. You have to let it.

Jason: You're probably a demon. A very hot demon. Roy's right... I...don't want...to fall asleep...

Hands gently lay him down on the bed and Jason falls asleep.

He wakes up in Bruce's mansion. He remembers that boy and his face instantly turns red. He told him such nonsense!! Will that beautiful boy want to talk to him again?!?! Jason takes a pillow and screams into it while kicking the blanket.

Dick: Jaybird! You're awake!!

Jason doesn't answer. He wants to die from all the shame that's washed over him in waves.

Dick: Jay?

Jason: Who brought me here?

Dick: Captain Marvel! He said your wounds were healed and all you needed was sleep.

Jason freezes. Captain Marvel. That boy looked so much like Captain Marvel. Could that really be his son. Jason gets out of bed, ignoring Dick's protests. He goes down to the Batcave and finds Bruce talking to Captain Marvel. The hero in red was explaining something to Bruce.

Jason: Captain!!

Marvel: Oh, you're awake! How are you feeling? Your wounds were pretty bad.

Jason: I want to date your son! Give me your blessing!!

Marvel and Bruce freeze. Marvel turns pale and teleports away. Bruce stares at Jason in shock. Dick falls to the floor. Tim, who was sitting off to the side, chokes on his coffee.

#billy batson #dc captain marvel #dcu #captain marvel #shazam #fawcett city #fawcett comics #batman #billy × jason #jason todd #red hood

221 notes · View notes

starmy-sky · 2 days ago

Text

Paws and Promises

Pairing: CEO!Lee Know x Fem!Reader

Summary: You fiance has not once shown up to your wedding planning dates, in fact, he barely shows up at all. After ten months of being engaged and still no wedding or even solid plans for the ceremony, you seek comfort by adopting a cat that randomly showed up on your porch the same day Minho was supposed to go on a business trip.

Or... Minho gets karma for being a bad fiance by being turned into a cat.

Tags: Angst to Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Crying, Engaged!AU, Break Up, Negligence, Longing, Cat!Lee Know

Word Count: 4.1K (Masterlist)

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

"How long is the trip again?"

"Two weeks, Y/N."

"So I should schedule our wedding planner interviews by the third week?" You try to catch his eyes, but they were everywhere but on you. It's been like that for a while.

Minho busies himself packing a suitcase, letting out a half-minded hum. "Why can't you schedule it any other day? You're available."

Because you want it to be with him. You wanted to think of the motif with him, the flowers, the decorations, the guests, the cake flavor, the venue, the rings. It should be about you and him, not just you.

But... perhaps you're being too sentimental. You look at Minho now as the successful CEO he became from all his hardwork, he's serious, strategic, stoic. Unlike the Minho you met in your senior year of high school, the one that was silly, loud, and cheeky, sneakily slipping into your heart by acting both nonchalant while seemingly never getting enough of your attention.

Almost like a cat.

Maybe the Minho now isn't the type to want to be involved in menial things like planning the wedding, in fact, it seems as if he has no plans to be wed anytime at all, he's much too busy now.

You look down at your ring, a glimmering diamond adorned it while the metal that wraps around your finger forms into swoops that border the diamond. It's very beautiful, though he never explained to you why he chose that design, you always find yourself admiring the ring, a symbol of a future with him.

You smiled, trying to ease your feelings as you always do. "I'll keep that in mind." You answered, leaving the conversation to die once again.

...

It rained the day he left for the business trip, the sky mirroring your feelings of sorrow as you're reminded that he'll probably be a ghost the whole two weeks.

He's already pretty elusive when he's there, staying at the office late and going in early in the morning. You've always been thankful for him, providing for you even before you got engaged and letting you quit your less than ideal office job when he did propose.

Your thoughts were cut off when rough scratching rings from the door, panicked mews accompanying them as you rush to open.

A tuxedo cat barges into the house as if it lived there, grumbling in annoyance as it pounces on the rug to dry itself from the rain.

As it does so, it starts to screech at you. "Y/N, Y/N, it's me! I'm Minho, I have no idea what happened, but you need to call an ambulance or a vet, or even a wizard!"

"Honey, honey, it's okay, you're safe here..."

"No the hell it's not okay! I got turned into a cat!"

"Don't worry, I won't hurt you." You gently shush the cat, stepping closer inch by inch.

"Can't you understand me?!"

"Aww, I wish I can understand what you're meowing about, honey."

"...I'm doomed."

It was supposed to be a normal day for Minho, an unluckly, but albeit normal day. As he's about to leave for the airport from the office, he realized he forgot some documents at home.

He decided to leave his luggage in his office and drive back home to get the documents. As luck would have it, his car breaks down in the middle of the rain. He curses the sky as he opens the door to check if there's any way to get home, only for lightning to strike accompanied by blinding light.

The next second he opens his eyes, he had paws and whiskers and he was only a few inches off the ground.

Scared, he runs home as fast as he could, clawing at your door and now he's here, utterly doomed.

...

It's been five days and Lino, the name you have the cat, had no intention of going back outside. In fact, he struts around the place like he knows it by heart.

His relentless meows have not gone away either, at least once an hour he sits by your side or jumps to stand face to face with you and frantically meow his heart out, almost like he's desperately trying to make you understand him.

You just sum it up that maybe he's just a really active and talkative cat, and you continue to indulge him by nodding and smiling and scratching behind his ears and chin.

Minho puffs up frustrated sighs everytime.

"Magic exists and I was cursed to turn into a cat, Y/N!"

"Lino, you're demanding more food? You just cleaned out your whole bowl 20 minutes ago." You giggled as the cat seemed to stomp at your reply.

"You didn't put enough and you know I have a big appetite. Oh, and you have to find out how turn me back into a human!"

"Aww, my little kitty is upset, you want some pets?" You scooped up the grumpy cat and placed him on your lap on the couch.

"No, I don't want pets, Y/N! Can't you see that this is your fiancé in front of you?"

He swears it was the cat side of him that immediately calmed down and leaned into you touch when you started to scratch his chin. And it was definitely that same side that pawed at your hand when you stopped.

As his eyes slowly closed in content, a picture frame on the side table caught his attention. It was a picture of you and him.

Minho sits up immediately and leaps to the picture. "Here, here!" He points at the picture of himself and then his cat body.

You stand in shock, looking at the picture of you and your fiance. "You're right, Lino..." Minho felt like he could leap in joy at your response.

"I should call him... it's been almost a week since we last spoke."

He meows in protest, but it was too late as you already went ahead and grabbed your phone.

Minho remembers that he left his luggage and phone in his office when he drove back home to get some of the documents he forgot. His office was completly inaccessible to anyone when he's away and his phone was in silent mode.

Of course no one was gonna answer you. But you didn't know that. Minho stares at you in frustration first, still not being able to effectively communicate with you.

But as he looks up at you again, the faint expression of excitement replaced with slow defeat as you call goes to voicemail, his eyes soften from that of annoyance to... he doesn't know.

But he doesn't like that look on your beautiful face.

"Hey, my love, just calling in to check on you. I'm sure you must be busy, but I want you to know that I really miss you, okay?" Despite your mood shifting when he didn't answer, you tried to keep your voice happy, unaware of the knowing look from the cat beside you.

He listens intently at your words. "Take care of yourself and don't skip on sleep or meals. Okay, I love you... c-call me when you can."

You end your message, looking back at the cat with a smile that held back the emotion in your eyes. "Well, that could've have gone better."

"He's busy, you know? And every second of his day is important." You sigh, leaning into the couch cushions and closing your eyes. "Can't expect him to be thinking of me too when he's already got so much on his mind."

Minho thinks he could spare a call and maybe a few texts, just so he doesn't ever get to see that solemn look on your face.

He gets back up on your lap, cuddling into your stomach, and for the first time since he came in, he stays quiet, purring softly as if to comfort you.

You look down at him and smile, "Thank you, honey, I needed that."

...

Your heart never rests, and everyday you did the same thing, calling him and never getting answered, leaving a voice message that never seems to be heard. Minho sticks by your side each time, and your glad that you have a companion that cuddles up to after each disappointing call.

His little cat heart begins to ache a bit. He shouldn't have gotten used to it, to shrugging off your missed calls, to replying late to your messages, to not being there. Not when your lips turn into a frown that he had the privilege of usually never seeing before because he actually made you happy back then.

He made you happy back then...

But now? He can't even see what he makes you feel because he's never there.

And when he's here... he's a stinking cat!

You wipe your tears before they make it past your cheeks, looking at the lack of any reply on your phone. The ring on your finger glimmers beside your phone, reminding you of the promise of marriage that never seems to come.

Minho's cat eyes find the same ring, and a guilty feeling consumes him. That ring, it looks out of place on you finger, and he knows why.

...

Two weeks.

He's supposed to be home today.

Yet still no reply.

Lino has calmed down now, no more meowing fit and screaming in your face or trying to make you understand, though he still does have some weird behavior like using the toilet instead of the cat litter you bought him, tucking himself next to you in bed like a human, going into Minho's office and just staring at the papers on his desk. And for a cat, he's awfully afraid of heights.

No matter how much of an odd cat he is, you have to admit that without him, you would have been in a depressive spiral trying to contact Minho. You've been left hanging for so long that you actually started to get worried that something may have happened to him.

"I should call his assistant, right? Something might have happened and he couldn't contact me." The cat bounced from his loaf position, walking eagerly to you.

"That's a great idea! Then they'll tell you that I didn't make it to my trip and I'm missing."

"Okay, here I go." The phone rings and soon his assitant picks up.

"Hello, you are calling Lee Corp. How may I help you?"

"Hi, I was just wondering if there's any news on Minho over there. If he's okay and whatnot."

"Oh." The voice at the other line seem to turn snarky as she realizes who you are. "Ms. Y/N, if Mr. Lee is not responding to you, then he must be very busy and has no time to check his phone."

Minho's head turns, he's never heard his assistant speak in such a condescending voice, especially not to his fiancé.

"There's no need to worry, Ms. Y/N, the team and I take good care of him, so your worry is not needed. I'm sure Mr. Lee is fine, and you should not bother contacting him because it might interfere with his important business."

Minho leaps to you lap, grumbling and hissing at your phone speaker. "What the hell are you saying?"

"Wait... can you call him for me? I just need to talk to him..." You pleaded, but you're met with a scoff.

"Ms. Y/N, there's no need for a call, Mr. Lee will be home soon and you can continue to cling to him as you please." The assistant hangs up at that, making you stare at your phone in disbelief.

Minho too was stunned by the sheer unprofessionalism of his assistant, he wishes he could have said something to defend you, to let you know that he won't let her speak to you like that.

Though for you, that call was a shot to your heart more than anything, inflating your insecurities as you stare at your reflection on the screen.

He doesn't need you, you are only a bother to him, you cling to him while he tries to move forward. Maybe that's why he's so miserable in your relationship.

Tears start to quietly fall from your eyes as you let your thoughts take over you. Minho immediately paws at your face, but you avoid it, hugging your legs and crying into your knees, keeping yourself hidden from his gaze.

You feel his paws at your side, his body trying to snuggle closer to you, but no matter how much you try to appreciate it, no amount of comfort can make you feel better right now.

...

It was another rainy night, still no sign of Minho despite him supposedly coming home today.

You prepared Lino's dinner, but he seemed far too anxious to eat.

He can't eat when he sees you constantly looking at your phone with a deep thought, typing up something only to delete it later.

He wonders what could be in your mind, you might be mad at him, he understands. He also wonders if he's ever gonna turn back to human, or is he just forced to watch as you begin to believe that he has left you with no explanation.

Your phone starts to ring, and he immediately bolts to your side on the kitchen counter.

You're calling him again, and he hates that he can't answer, that he can't make up some excuse so you don't have to believe that he's ignoring you on purpose.

Unsurprisingly, it goes to voicemail. You sigh heavily, as if bracing yourself to let it all out on a recording that you're not even sure he's gonna listen to. He does the same, his heart pounding at what you could possibly say to him.

"Hey, Minho, I don't know if you're getting my messages, if you are, I don't even know if you bother to listen to them."

"I wanted to talk to you about us, and what I've been feeling."

Minho's eyes never falter from your dishearted figure.

"I haven't heard from you this entire two weeks, and honestly, I haven't heard much this past few months."

"I know, I'm sorry, my love."

"And I know it's unfair to demand your attention when you're already so busy, but I... I-I just wanted to see you more, and for you to see me too." You try to contain your sobs, hoping to let out more words before your an incoherent mess.

"You deserve my attention, and so much more."

"I have loved you since we were in high school, and more and more every single day after that."

"I feel the same way..."

"But maybe your love isn't the same as mine anymore. Maybe you grew tired."

"Please don't say that..."

"A-And that's why I feel like I should let you go."

"Please don't let me go..."

"I want you to be happy, Minho, to find someone that you can love wholeheartedly. To love your past, present, and make your future beautiful."

"That's you, Y/N."

"Please know that I do still love you and-" *beep*

*Voicemail has exceeded the time limit.*

"God I hate you too..."

Minho looks up at you, his cat eyes glossy. He wishes for you to keep going, to let it out and let him hear all of his wrongdoings.

"I hate you for promising me that I'll be marrying the love of my life, I hate you for ignoring me when all I wanted was to love you, I hate you for taking away the Minho I fell in love with for a decade. I hate you for making me love you no matter how much it hurts me."

Your phone lays flat on the counter, catching your tears as you cry your message into the air.

"I just wish you're here right now... so you would know how much it hurts."

"I'm here..." He meows at your sorrow, head down in shame.

The sound of metal hitting marble catches his ear, and in the next second he sees your figure returning to your room, while beside him, your ring wobbles slightly before it lands flatly right in front of his face.

...

It took two hours before the sobs from your room has calmed down, two hours before the storm outside picked up to accompany thunder. Two hours and he stays planted in his place.

Minho silently stared at the ring on the counter, his eyes trained on it as if it was a threat. He lays on the counter semi-loaf, paws under his chin as he stares unblinking at the ring.

Stupid ring. Ugly, meaningless, basic. That's what he thinks of it.

You derserve better, not just the first thing he saw when he went into the jewelry store. He got a random ring, proposed to you on a random day, and treated it like it meant nothing.

He did it because he was scared, he saw the way you started looking so down months ago, he saw how you no longer lit up the way you did around him, he saw the space between you expanding and he couldn't have that.

He was scared to lose you, so he proposed. And the way you lit up again ten times brighter brought him a sense of security.

Candles eventually burn out and he saw that even after getting a ring, you never escaped the emptiness that haunted your relationship.

It's his fault, for working himself to death, for acting like his work was his life, for thinking that one gesture is all it takes to make you happy again when all you ever wanted was him.

You deserve better, a better ring, a better fiancé.

Minho whimpers slightly, tears clouding his dilated eyes. He doesn't blink them away, he just stares at the ring as if it led to all of his mishaps.

He designs a ring in his mind, one that isn't just a band with an expensive diamond stuck to it, one with meaning, with designs that capture you and him. He imagines giving it to you on the anniversary of when you agreed to be his girlfriend, under twinkling stars and surrounded by fireflies, on the hill he took you to have a chilly night picnic. You would scream yes and he would almost roll down the hill in full excitement.

Instead he proposed in your bedroom while you were getting ready for bed. You still cried, you still smiled so happily and kissed him in fervor. He knows that no matter what, you would be grateful, but he beats himself up for not even making an effort.

And now you're slipping away...

You emerge from the bedroom, still with bloodshot eyes, but no longer hiccuping sobs. "Lino, still didn't eat, honey?" You scratch under his ear, and only then did he close his eyes to lean in to your touch.

Minho looks up at you, "I love you, Y/N..." He mutters the most heartfelt meows you've ever heard from a cat. It's a shame you can't understand him.

You sigh, seeing from the still full cat bowl that the cat did not really feel like eating. You slowly lift him off the counter, craddling him in your arms. "How about we just go to bed now and then you can have a big breakfast?"

He hums as he snuggles into your embrace, and you smile at how he seems to really understand you. His heart aches at how beautiful your heart is, how it's always been, because he feels as if he doesn't deserve to be in your arms.

You lay in bed, placing him on top of your chest. He loafs on you, and you both quietly stare at each other.

"Tomorrow, we're gonna go to my mom's house. And we're gonna stay there for a while..." He sees a packed suitcase placed by the closet, the closet just open enough for him to see the lack of your clothes in there.

He also notices the missing items around the room that you would normally keep in there own places. Other than your presence, you completly wiped the room of you.

"Don't go..." He gently meows at you, eyes once again filling with tears.

"Are you crying, honey?" You asked worriedly, knowing you're not getting a response. "Why are your eyes so sad, my sweet kitty?" You pet him gently, heart aching at the sight of the glossy eyed cat.

"Don't leave me..."

You think that maybe he's attched to your home and he doesn't want to leave. "It's okay, honey, you'll always be with me."

"I should've been... I should always be with you..."

His meows sounded like painful whispers, eluding to a feeling you can't quite understand from him. You press a kiss on his nose, comforting the seemingly distressed cat.

Thundet roars outside, and a flash of light appears to blind the entire room.

"Don't leave me..."

You breathe heavily, your eyes wide.

"Minho?"

Lino the cat was gone and suddenly it was Minho on top of you, legs in between yours while his face hides in the crook of your neck. You feel his tears warm on your skin as he exhales sobs against you.

He expects you to push him off, to berate him and leave right now, he clings on tightly just in case.

But instead, he feels one hand brushing through his hair and another soothing his back. "There there, my love, it's okay..."

And because it's you saying it, he believes it.

...

"Do you want to tell me what happened?"

"The lightning turned me into a cat and I was trying to tell you for two weeks but you couldn't understand me." Minho was tucked under the blanket after changing from his suit to his nightwear, looking at you with boba eyes as you sit on the edge of the bed.

"So you're Lino?" He nods at your question.

Your heart drops, he has seen you moping and hurting and even breaking down. "That's why you weren't answering my calls?" He nods again.

"I'm sorry, Y/N..." He lifts his hand from beneath the blanket to hold your hand. "Not just about these two weeks, but every single day I made you feel neglected. We promised each other that we'd always be there, and I got so used to you always being here when I come home, I forgot to be here for you when I am home. I was consumed by work, by always trying to be on top, but I forgot that all of this... was for us, for my dream future with you."

Tears stain both of your cheeks, and though Minho was never fond of talking about feelings or getting too serious, he finds that talking to you and you finally understanding him was a huge privilege.

"Minho... I dreamed everyday of our future, and I can't imagine myself still being here while you work yourself to death and-"

"I know, and I won't do that, not anymore. Not when my favorite person is always home waiting for me. I can't imagine a future without you, Y/N, you're all I've ever loved about life..." He sits up, caressing your hand with both of his, feeling your fingers.

"I-I'm sorry I took off the ring, Minho..."

"No... I should be sorry, for giving you a crappy ring in a crappy proposal..." He sighs, remembering the lack of thought in a supposedly meaningful event.

"I was crying happy tears that night..."

"But you deserve better, and I need to deserve you again, if you would have me."

You smile slightly. "I want to have you... but maybe not with a ring right now..."

He nods frantically. "I'll take that, besides, I need more months to plan my next proposal." You giggled as he wipes away the last of your tears. "For now... let me focus on spending more time with you, like we used to.

"I'd like that..." You reply, right as he stomach grumbles, signaling his hunger. "I told you to eat, Lino."

Minho chuckled, resting his chin on your shoulder. "Can we eat now?"

You hum, leading him out of the bed and into the kitchen.

What you didn't expect was a tuxedo cat on your kitchen counter, the engagement ring in its mouth as it looks surprised at you two.

It hurried to escape through the slightly ajar back door. "What was that?" You stood in shock, looking at the window to see that the cat has jumped the fence.

"Maybe it was for the best. I already have a ring idea in my mind, anyway."

Seven months later, he brought you to the hill, just as he imagined, got down on one knee and proposed to you with a ring with diamonds placed in the shape of a cat's paw.

And it took another five months to plan the wedding because it turns out he was a lot more particular than you were gonna be.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Taglists (SFW): @bleuuujpg @seungpuppymongmong @princesskrystix @aquariusscollection @chims-dimple @norabugz @diekleinesuesse @like-diamondsinthesky @isadd666 @btch8008s @geni-627 @purplelady85 @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts @chanchansgirly @emilyywhyy @veronica123

#skz fluff #stray kids fluff #skz angst #stray kids angst #stray kids fanfic #lee know fluff #lee know angst #lee know x reader #lee minho x reader #lee minho fluff #lee minho angst

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ceeceetumbles · 2 days ago

Text

in which idia shroud, faced with the looming threat of graduation, is forced to tell his girlfriend something he would have rather kept hidden.

(i want to be a twst writer so bad and take requests so please if u maybe like this and like twst consider sending a request my way :p )

idia shroud x fem!reader

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

he really, really needs to tell her.

if she does… want… to maybe… potentially… have a future… with… him, she needs to know what that means. what that entails. for him. for her. for any sort of anything that might happen between them.

his future has been firmly etched into stone from the moment he was born. and she’ll be forced to fit herself into that.

he glances up at her over the edge of his phone. she’s doing homework at her desk, gnawing the end of her pencil as she scribbles through a set of calculus equations.

he covers his eyes with his phone again, quickly.

how can he do that to her? how can he do any of this to her?

he shouldn’t have started talking to her in the first place. he’s the most selfish person alive.

his stomach twists. he’s the most selfish, selfish person alive. he gobbles people’s souls up like an overpowered boss.

first, ortho. his little brother had died. all because of him.

(he should have been the one to die. that way he couldn’t have kept screwing things up.)

his parents, too. they lost a son that day. they lost a part of themselves.

and now her.

he stares at her again, so beautiful as she flips to the next page in her textbook. she’s the most perfect thing on this earth. she singes his skin when she brushes against it.

and, for his own selfish reasons, he decided to drag her down into hell with him.

they’ve been together for nearly three years. she’s committed. his brain likes to pretend she doesn’t really care about him, but she’s been beating it into his head for three years. she loves him. she wants him. she’s his.

so if he leaves her, she’ll shatter.

but what’s the alternative? lock her up in styx’s cold, unfeeling, sterile hallways forever? cut her wings and shove her in a cage? burn her freedom? extinguish her light?

she doesn’t want to join him in styx. she doesn’t want to become a shroud.

he brushes one hand over his flaming hair.

she doesn’t want to mix herself up in all of this.

there’s no cure to this. he’s become more and more sure of that fact, like a devastating iceberg looming before him. the shrouds are going to be cursed forever. constantly on the edge between life and death. she’ll be living with a time bomb.

break her heart or imprison her forever.

and of course, the obvious answer is just to leave her. that’s the best option for her. let her live.

but idia is just too selfish to do that. he’s so selfish. he’s so greedy.

he knew that this would happen. the moment he laid eyes on her, he knew he was going to have to marry her. and the only way to stop it was to turn and run.

but he hadn’t. he’s too selfish.

he can’t just leave her now. he has to ask her to come with him. to lock herself underground forever, toiling towards a goal that can never be achieved. to fill her lungs with artificially recycled air and watch her skin drain of all color. and the shroud family has to live on. idia is the last remaining branch of it. and his parents will kill him if he lets the flame go out. she'll have to have children if she wants it or not.

he’d planned to just die alone. let them figure something out. he’ll never find a girl. nrc hadn’t had any female students, and he would never go out and find anyone, and - and, well, they probably would have given him a wife at some point, from some other stupid noble family.

but at least then, she wouldn’t be her.

he’s so selfish. he’s so selfish. he wants her by his side. he wants it to be her! he wants it to be her. he wants to have her by his side forever and ever and ever. he wants her more than anything. he wants to kill her, apparently. he wants to watch her die. he wants her. he needs her. he needs to destroy her from the inside out. he needs to let her go insane in the silent halls of styx.

he needs it more than anything.

but he can’t do that to her. he CAN’T.

she turns around. “idia, i’m so sick of this. i hate homework.”

he tries to say something but just nods. any words, any breath, just sticks in his throat. he nods.

she pushes her chair back and flops down onto the bed next to him, rolling over to stare at his phone. “whatcha doing?”

“nothing,” he says. deciding your future for you.

she studies his face for a moment. (how dare she know him so well.)

“wanna talk?” she says, quiet.

no.

“you’re gonna hate me,” he says.

“never.”

“no, i’m serious.”

“me too.” she brushes some hair behind his ears, wrapping her fingers in the blue strands and tugging comfortingly.

she doesn’t press him. he savors these last few moments of peace.

he shuts his eyes.

“so, like,” he says, “obviously i look like… this. and there’s, like, a reason for that.”

his heart is thudding so hard that he might actually die. but at least then, he wouldn’t need to tell her any of this. problem solved.

three years. three years, and he’s bit his tongue away every time he even thought of telling her.

it’s kind of embarrassing to admit that you are cursed.

and who knows how she’ll take it? she’s gotten used to his flaming hair and colorless skin. but how will she deal with i will be cursed by your side forever?

“it’s, uh. a… a curse. n-not just for me! the… the shrouds. we’re cursed. we’ve been cursed for centuries.”

“okay,” she says.

he glances at her.

she’s studying his face, her brow furrowed, her lips pursed. concerned. but not disgusted.

oh, god. has he been wrapping the curse up in the middle of his chest all this time, terrified to let her know - and she wouldn’t have even cared?

“you’re not upset?” he breathes.

“what? huh? why would i be upset with you -”

“- because i’m defective,” he rushes. “i’m messed up. literally cursed. i’m just a human. humans aren’t supposed to look like this. i look like a freaking corpse. what do you mean my lips are locked in a perma state of hypothermia. what do you mean i get tired fast because my body burns through blot like crazy. i’m defective. and i don’t want to be damaged goods.” for you, he wants to say. i feel so ashamed to hand you something broken.

but he doesn’t, or he can’t.

“i’m cursed,” he says, “we’re cursed, the shrouds are cursed, and - and our bodies turn to this, and we run through blot too fast.” he huffs through his mouth, the need to breathe starting to overwhelm him. “and, like, it’s dangerous, right. it could kill us.”

“okay.” she’s got her fingers wrapped in his hair, gently stroking his temples with her thumbs as he struggles to keep his lungs inflating.

“so all my family does… is work on blot. and research it. and it’s, like, awful. the styx headquarters is under sea, and it’s so isolated there, and cold, and, like, i dread going back there every day. but i have to. i have to go back there.” he chews the edge of his sleeve. “i have to go back there for my parents. i owe them that much. i killed ortho, you know. i owe them this much.”

she tightens her hands in his hair and pulls him a little closer.

“i have to go back there,” he whispers.

“okay.”

the question sits on his tongue, silent. a lemon candy melting a hole through the muscle.

he finally opens his eyes, for a moment. she’s staring at him, her eyes soft and patient.

she understands.

he’s just too much of a coward to say it.

she waits.

“it’s cold there,” he says. “just my family and the employees. we barely leave. especially after… after everything. it’s just… those empty hallways, and the labs, and the ocean outside. that’s all.”

one hand on the back of his neck, the other grabbing a fist of his hair, and she pulls herself flush against him, burying her face in his shoulder.

“don’t do that,” he mutters. “you’re making this so much harder.”

“oh, i know you’re not planning to leave me here,” she says, her voice muffled by his skin. “you’re not.”

“i can’t let you throw the rest of your life away - !”

“i don’t care about the rest of my life!” she says. “or, wait. i mean, it’s not throwing it away. i want -” she holds him tighter “- i just want you. for my life. i don’t care where, or how.”

“you’ll never see the sunlight again.”

she pauses for a moment. he feels the hesitation in her hands.

“i can’t let you come with me,” he mutters. “i can’t let this happen.”

“don’t care. you already cursed me. with love.”

“no! don't joke! this isn’t a game! i’m freaking serious!”

“so am i!” she snaps her head up and grabs his face with both of her hands, her fingers squeezing a little too firmly. “idia, i am not letting you walk away. i am not letting you leave me.”

“you want to destroy yourself?” he yelps back. “drain all the soul from your bones in that godforsaken place? you want to be trapped like - like a relic locked behind glass?” he wraps her tight, his arms around her back, his face in her neck. “i don’t want to leave you behind. but i - i can’t let you -”

“do you want me there with you?” she whispers.

he’s silent. he squeezes her closer. maybe if he tries hard enough, they can absorb into one body. and separating won’t be an issue ever again.

“i want to go there with you,” she murmurs. her voice is starting to strain and break. he can feel her trembling. don’t cry. if she cries, he’ll cry, and then all his resolve will crumble. “i want to spend the rest of my life in empty hallways with you.”

“you’ll hate it,” he hisses. “you’ll resent me.”

“idia,” she whispers, and presses her lips to the crook of his shoulder. her mouth feels hot.

his cheeks burn. his jaw aches. he hadn’t even realized how tightly he was clenching it.

“we’ll need to keep the shroud bloodline going,” he makes out. “not to - to sound obnoxious, but we’re like, an important family. really important. so - i know we haven’t ever talked about it. but my parents will need us to have -”

his voice breaks.

“- kids.”

“look,” she says, her voice humming against his shoulder - it tickles. he shivers - “how am i supposed to get through to you? i love you. i don’t… i don’t care what it takes to be with you.”

she presses her forehead to his, their noses bumping as they mix air.

“i want your curse,” she whispers. “your emptiness, your grief, your children. okay? i’ll drown myself in blot for you. okay? i don’t care if i never see the sun again. i don’t care. i just need you.” her fingers tighten in his hair, almost painfully. “i need you like air.”

he feels his entire face heating up as his mouth falls open. it spreads up, up, to his scalp, down through every strand of hair. her handfuls turn to glowing pink.

“i love you,” he mouths. his throat is too tight to even think about speaking.

she does not smile. she stares, stern, straight through every layer of pretense he’s put up.

“i love you, too,” she says back, her voice loud and solid in the cold quiet air of his dorm.

(he takes a breath, and shuts his eyes, and forces himself to believe it.)

#idia shroud #idia shroud x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #twst fanfic #twst x reader #my writing

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theobservatory · 2 days ago

Note

I wanna just say, David did a wonderful job of himbo Clark Kent, multiple times I wanted to kiss that boys face he was so precious. Could i request Clark acting “cute” in the office (pushing his glasses up when they slip down, nearly tripping over his own feet while walking with coffee and almost spilled it on jimmy’s shirt, doing that stupid turn around when he’s trying to find where he’s going next (even tho he’s worked at daily planet for a few years already??) doing that little head duck and half wave at a coworker when they call him “smallville” as a greeting, dropping a stack of papers when he bumps into one of the new interns, basically he’s just doing his typical himbo Clark stuff) and reader is having a really hard time not dragging him down to her level by his tie to kiss him, bonus, they are good friends with both having crushes on each other but to oblivious to realize, much to Lois and jimmy’s amusement.

Youuuu got it anon. Bless that man.

Please don't hassle me if my characterizations are bad. It's literally my first time writing any of these characters, I'll get better as I learn (⁠ب⁠_⁠ب⁠)

｡⁠.ﾟ✧ ˎˊ˗

Helpless as a Kitten｡⁠.ﾟ★ ˎˊ˗

｡⁠☆Synopsis: a few snapshots of you and Clark fumbling around each other

｡⁠☆Cw: himbo behavior, no pronouns, no use of y/n

"Don't you just wanna put him out of his misery?"

"Excuse me?" Lois turns from her chair.

You gesture over to Clark Kent, and she rolls her eyes. The man is hunched over a large potted plant, having caught it before it crashed to the ground, but now dirt is splayed all over the floor. He's frowning, bottom lip out and shoulders all hunched.

"He's like a sad shelter dog."

"Well he's got the eyes for it."

True, you think. They're big, and glossy, and a bright sky blue.

"I know. They're like giant pools of sky, aren't they?"

"I was going for pathetic and teary, but a lovey-dovey answer works too."

You groan, throwing your head back with your hands over your face. "Lois, I don't like him like that, stop pushing your agenda on me."

"If that's what helps you sleep at night." She shrugs.

Both of you turn back to Clark, his blue eyes are turned directly on you now. His stare is piercing, deep. Even if he is still holding a giant potted plant half sideways, causing more dirt to fall out.

You wave at him.

He drops it, and the lip of the pot shatters onto the floor, creating an even bigger mess. He turns away when you laugh, red faced and rapidly whipping his head back and forth. He's probably trying to find a broom or something before someone gets ceramic stuck in their opened-toed shoe.

"Wow." Lois says flatly.

You sigh unknowingly dreamy sounding.

"Wow." She says again, this time looking at you like you're the pathetic one. "This is really just sad for both of you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

You both turn back to your work, while Clark frantically sweeps up the dirt and chipped pottery off the floor.

｡⁠.ﾟ✧ ˎˊ˗

Currently, Clark is standing next to your desk. It's next to the wall, but not close enough to be touching. In fact, it's right next to the obnoxiously loud printer, where Clark is. The thing is jammed, as usual, so it's just making this annoying BZZRT-T-T sound as it tries to spit out more paper than it can handle. Meanwhile, Clark is muttering a little frantically under his breath.

"Darn printer, c'mon work you damn mule, you were just fine yesterday."

You mask a snort under your hand, pausing your own writing to watch Clark suffer. He still hears it- the man seems to hear everything around here- and his ears redden a little. Adorable.

"Having trouble?"

"Nah, I just- y'know-" BZZRT-T-T BZZRT-T-T BZZRT-T-T. "Just a difficult day."

"I see that."

He clears his throat awkwardly. "Right. Well I-"

BZZRT-T-T BZZRT-T-T BZZ- "Out of ink, please replace ink cartridge to print." The printer says.

"You wouldn't happen to have some ink, would you?"

"I think there's some in the back."

The man is so bashful it hurts a little. He has his shoulders hunched in like it will mitigate how large he actually is, he's avoiding eye contact so heavily he's basically turned the opposite way, even his fingers are whirring between each other like a little school girl talking to her crush. It's so sweet it could make your teeth rot.

"I can go grab some if you want-"

"NO! No, that's okay I can get it myself. I was the one who disturbed your work, anyway. I'll be right back."

He rushes away before you can get another word out, slamming his toe on the leg of your desk on the way out.

"Are you okay?" You call, huffing a laugh.

"I'm fine, don't worry about it!" He calls back.

｡⁠.ﾟ✧

"You invited Clark, right?"

"Yeah, of course I did. Does it matter?" You raise an eyebrow at Jimmy.

"Yes! If you didn't invite him he'd get all sad, and mopey."

"I know." You neglect to say out loud how cute you find it. He cares so much, and just wants to be included, he's so sweet.

"I know you know, which is why I had to ask if you invited him, because if you didn't i'd have to start taking sides, and you can't put me through that."

"I really don't think it's that deep, but whatever you say."

You, Jimmy, and Lois are all crowded in your small apartment. It's not tiny or a shoebox or anything, just a little small. It's not cramped now, but it will be when Clark's massive form arrives.

Honestly, it was only supposed to be you and Lois, but then Jimmy invited himself, and if Jimmy's coming then you might as well invite Clark too. It's a little exciting, it's the first time you're seeing Clark outside of work on purpose. You've run into each other on the street a bunch of times, and went out for coffee together on your breaks a few times as well.

This feels different, more intimate. Even with Lois and Jimmy 3rd wheeling. Not that you and Clark are together of course, you're just using that as a turn of phrase. They're not actually 3rd wheeling, you're happy to see all your friends an equal amount like any normal person.

Don't think too hard about it. Anyway.

"With how late it is, I kinda doubt he's coming," you say. Clark has always been pretty punctual for as long as you've known him.

Lois and Jimmy look at each other, and then look at you.

"He's coming."

"He'll be here."

They say in sync. Well, that's not creepy at all.

"Ooookay..."

As if summoned by his name, there's a knock on your door. You can tell by the hushed clack clack on your door that it's Clark. Somehow, the respective noise just sounds like him. It's quiet, not attention grabbing, considerate even- just like him.

You're quick to open the door. There's a giddiness in your bones that you've never quite experienced before, like a dog waiting for its favorite treat or something. Gosh, maybe Clark isn't the sad dog in your relation- friend, you meant friend- friendship, maybe it's you. But that is a thought for a mind vault, you are hosting right now, much more important than... Whatever your brain has going on.

"Hey, Clark!"

Clark's hair is unkempt, black strands twist every which way, a fat cowlick stands proudly at the center of his head. There's a little smear of dirt on his cheek bone, like he was trying to wash it off and ended up making it worse.

"Hi," He grins, slow and wide. "I brought peach cobbler."

"You didn't have to do that. No one else brought food."

"Well maybe they should've." He shrugs.

You laugh. "Maybe."

The cobbler in your hands has clearly been tossed around a bit. There's an air tight lid on the container, so all that's happened is the lids smeared with peach juice now. Clark is a little embarrassed about it if the way he places a sun kissed hand on top of it is any indication.

"Did you trip on your way here? There's dirt on your face."

He winces, flushing. "Yeah, you can say that."

The night progresses quickly after that. Lois and Jimmy steal the cobbler before you can even try a bite, and Clark tries to interject but only gets steamrolled by the two grabbing forks and ignoring him. He pouts, and you rub his back and try to comfort him, but the action leaves him tripping over his words. You have no clue if you succeeded in making him feel better or not.

After the peach cobbler debacle you end up pulling out your decade old boardgames. Jimmy was the one who suggested it, proclaiming that Clue was the best boardgame, which is wrong of course because the best boardgame is actually Monopoly, but Lois thinks it's Scrabble. Clark proclaims Candyland, but is swiftly shot down when everyone agrees that one sucks the most.

You end up playing Monopoly, because it's your house and you make the rules, but poor Clark has a hard time. He continuously knocks pieces off the board, and money is continuously scattered next to his feet and under your couch. He gets that bashful look again, hot in the ears and face, pulling at his collar.

"I-I guess my hands are a bit too big for the pieces," he says.

Which is so true, so very true. His hands are giant. They dwarf yours completely, consuming your fingers in his like a turtle shell. They're so gentle though. So kind. No matter how many pieces he drops, he's so delicate with it all. Honestly, watching him is filling your head with thoughts that make you squirm in your seat.

You try to think about the game instead. You try to fill your head with safer less friendship ruining thoughts. It's not your fault he's so hot huge.

The night ends with just you and Clark- and about a third left of peach cobbler. He's just thankful there was any left, really. You're standing in your kitchen with him, he's holding the tray, you have a fork in hand ready to finally taste the cobbler.

"I just wanted to thank you for inviting me tonight. It was fun."

"It was no problem, really."

"No, seriously. Thank you." He says almost sternly, with a rare forcefulness you've never seen before.

"Of course, Clark, seriously. I'm glad to have you, I don't know if you know this, but I like spending time with you, it makes me happy to spend time with you."

A few things happen in quick succession.

Clark flushes again, a deeper red than you've ever seen on him. Your fork goes down to try the cobbler. Clark trips on his own feet by shuffling nervously. He falls. The cobbler falls. It hits the floor upside down, and the lid is on the counter.

"Clark."

"Oh my gosh, I-I'll clean it up, and make another one. I'm so sorry."

He does. That man cleans your floor so good it looks brand new. He gets on his hands and knees, and scrubs until your kitchen floor shines. Then has the nerve to sit back on his knees and look up at you with sad, blue puppy eyes.

You've never had a man get on his knees for you before. You think you'd like it in any other circumstance. Maybe you like it a little in this one, too.

"I'm sorry." He repeats. "I should go."

"Clark, I'm not mad."

"I know. I'm still sorry."

"I know." You sigh. You hold out a hand to help Clark up, but he's far outside your weight class. It's more of a formality than it is helpful. "See you at work tomorrow?"

"Of course. Spend break together?"

You smile. "Of course."

Clark smiles back, and trips over his shoes.

Got a little burnt out at the end bc this was supposed to be short and it got waaay fucking longer than it was supposed to

Clark is so fucking embarrassed at the end of this. He goes outside your door and puts his face in his hands and tries to hold back screams from how cringe he's being. Love him to death fr

Headcanon that Clark gets more flustered at sweet heartfelt comments than sexual or lusty ones !!!!

If this is ass I'll take care of it later, it's 1am. I'm tired.

｡⁠☆Requests Open

#˗ˏˋ ★ venus writes ★ ˎˊ˗#˗ˏˋ ★ supers ★ ˎˊ˗#clark kent x you #clark kent x reader #clark kent x y/n #clark kent x female reader #clark kent x male reader #clark kent x gn reader #superman x you #superman x reader #superman x y/n #superman x male reader #superman x gn reader #gn reader #black reader

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pinkpuppipawz · 8 hours ago

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DRUNK

°ᡣ𐭩 . Poly! Saja boys x GN! Reader

CONTENTS ꒱ ➜ Fluff, some suggestiveness, mentions of puking, Abby’s abs, reader eating a shit ton of chocolate, reader being a mess, the boys don’t know what to do (send help)

CREDITS ꒱ ➜ Saja Boys belong to KPOP Demon Hunters (Sony) on Netflix

AUTHORS NOTE ꒱ ➜ hiii! Sos I haven’t posted anything in seemingly years, I’ve been busy with life and such. Haven’t written in a while so may be a bit rusty. I have only been drunk once so this may not be accurate. Also this is my first time writing for Saja Boys! Planning on writing for them more in the future bc yes, feel free to request if desired!

You had promised them it would only be one small drink, and they decided to trust you. Never again are they doing that after what occurred tonight.

You were currently stuffing your face full of any chocolate you could get your hands on, seemingly in a trance of some sort. The boys didn’t know if they should stop you or just leave it.

Jinu tried, key word tried, to stop you from indulging too much just in case you threw up later, only for you to turn around, give him the nastiest glare you could muster in your not so sober state whilst growling like a dog.

Mystery may or may have not found that kind of hot, and may or may have not had to go to the bathroom real quick to get rid of his problem.

Abby tried distracting you with his abs, to see if you would just maybe turn away from the chocolate for enough time for the others to snatch them from you. Nope! Did not work, for once. Abby felt his ego deflate like a balloon, muttering something along the lines of ‘my abs have failed me for the first time in my life’.

The boys were lost at this point, they didn’t want to make you cross yet they didn’t want you to be sick later, plus Baby didn’t want all of his snacks to be gone (he didn’t want to go to the shops bc he’s lowkey lazy). At this point they had tried everything, or so they thought.

Out of the blue (pun intended), Derpy appeared from the floor, his eyes unfocused per usual. The bird was sitting atop his head, donning the usual hat that he stole all the time.

In the blink of an eye, you practically rugby tackled the tiger, causing him to slightly budge a bit from the sudden force. ‘Oh my god you are so CUTE!!!! Why are you so cute???’ You cried out, petting the tiger all over whilst cooing a bunch of unintelligible words that probably didn’t even exist.

The boys sighed in relief. Finally! Something to distract you from finishing all their chocolate in one sitting. They are never letting you drink again. (Not without someone to supervise you whilst you do so).

BONUS

Baby and Romance spent the night with you on the couch, as you were too stubborn to haul yourself to bed or let them carry you, so you all agreed to compromise. When asked why you didn’t want to go to bed with the others, you claimed that you wanted to pat the night squishy kitty all night long. Only to end up falling asleep on top of Derpy not long after, with the blue tiger seemingly purring in content at the affection. The boys may or may have not taken a bunch of pictures at the sight.

#kpdh x reader #saja boys x reader #kpdh x you #kpdh #kpdh saja boys #kpop demon hunters #kpop demon hunters x reader #kpdh x gn reader #kpdh x female reader #kpdh x male reader #kpdh fluff #saja boys x female reader #saja boys x male reader #saja boys x gender neutral reader #saja boys fluff

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superbassbuck · 1 day ago

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give it up for the thunderbolts*!

Pairing: rockstar!Bucky Barnes x fl!reader

Mentions: 18+, second chance(ish), sex, choking, dom!bucky, lowkey posessive!bucky, drinking

Author's Note: different than the fluff that I normally write. is it mostly smut practice? yes. xoxo dividers by issysh3ll

Summary: What was supposed to be a fun Friday night at a concert with your friends resulted in reuniting with your past high school sweetheart, who now also happens to be the lead guitarist in a new uprising rock band, the thunderbolts*.

Word Count: 4.9k

It was late Friday night, and the only thing you wanted after surviving another brutal day at the office was to drag yourself home, take a blistering hot shower, slip into your comfiest clothes, put on a movie you’d half-watch, and bury yourself under a mountain of blankets.

But of course, your friends had other plans.

These past few weeks, they’ve been ushering you to go out more and not “waste away your years” by swallowing yourself with work. So, by the time you stepped out of the office with your hair falling out of its clip, your feet screaming from your heels, and a pantyhose probably torn somewhere around your toes—you were greeted by the sight of your friends’ car pulling up to the curb, horn blaring.

The passenger window rolled down and your friend leaned out, waving you over. “Get in!” she shouted over the music blaring inside. “We’re going to a concert.”

You stood there, staring. “No.”

They pretended not to hear you. “The show starts in twenty minutes! Move it —”

Now it was your turn to pretend not to hear them. Shifting your bag higher on your shoulder, you kept walking down the sidewalk with an exhausted sigh.

“I’m not going,” you muttered .”I’ve been working all day, I’m—”

“—exhausted, hungry, sore. You always say that!” the other interrupts, slowly pressing on the gas to meet your pace.

The one in the passenger seat pokes her head out of the window, grinning widely. “Come on! You’re off tomorrow, aren’t you? Live a little tonight, regret it tomorrow —”

You paused, gesturing down at your office clothes with a dramatic gesture. “Look at me. Do I look concert-ready to you guys?” you ask sarcastically.

Their eyes took you up and down slowly. They took in the messy hair, white blouse, pencil skirt—and then they grinned even wider.

“You look hot. Smudge on some black eyeliner, shake that hair out, you’ll look like a walking sex dream.”

“That’s disgusting—”

“Oh, come on! Seriously?” your friend groaned, throwing her head back dramatically. “Loosen up a little. You’re not going to stay young forever.”

They pulled this stunt nearly every week now, and you’d learned it was pointless to fight them. Besides, nine times out of ten when you caved, you ended up actually having the time of your life and did not regret it after.

You crossed your arms and sighed. “Fine. But who’s even playing?”

They exchanged a look before grinning like devils.

“The Thunderbolts.”

You showed up at the dimly lit venue exactly like your friends told you to. They’d handed you an old eyeliner pencil to smudge around your eyes in the car and a tube of red lipstick to finish the look. Not that it really mattered. It was dark enough inside that no one could really see your face anyway.

Funny enough, your office getup probably stood out more than the smeared eyeliner and lipstick.

Your friends found you again in the crowd, pressing a red solo cup into your hand.

“You know the Thunderbolts, right?” one of them shouted over the music.

You shrug, taking a sip. “A few of their songs show up in my playlist every now and then.”

Before they could say anything else, the house lights cut out. The crowd erupted, screaming and pushing closer to the stage. Red spotlights flickered on, sweeping across the room as the announcer’s voice echoed through the loud speakers.

“All right, everybody!” the announcer—their manager, Alexei—shouted in the mic, hyping up the crowd. “Give it up for the Thunderbolts!”

The roar that ripped through the crowd was deafening. Bodies began pressing closer together, the bass vibrating through the walls littered in stickers and graffiti, the sounds of boots thumping against the sticky floors. You just laughed under your breath, tipping back your solo cup for another sip as the stage lights flared to life.

No matter how shit your day was, nights like this always made you feel alive again.

One by one, the band stepped out.

John Walker on drums.

Ava Starr on bass.

Bob Reynolds on keyboard.

Yelena Belova, lead singer and guitarist.

Then, your heart drops in your chest.

Last out was Bucky Barnes. Lead guitar.

He was your highschool sweetheart many moons ago. You would’ve recognized him anywhere… though he wasn’t quite the boy you remembered. His hair was longer, his shoulders were broad, and he had stubble shadowing his jaw. His eyes were still blue, but there was something about his gaze that felt darker. Darker than you remembered.

The crowd lost it when he appeared, especially the girls. They were pressed up against the stage barrier, hands outstretched, screaming his name, tossing things on stage just to get his attention.

You felt something twist in your chest, that old, nostalgic, heartache. Years had passed since you’d last seen him, but watching strangers claw for a piece of him sent a petty spark of jealousy right in your bloodstream. Once upon a time, you were the only one who had the right to look at him like this.

He was yours.

And you were his.

Your friend elbowed you in the side, snapping you out of it. “That’s Bucky! He’s their lead guitarist. He’s insane. Just wait ‘til you hear him play!”

You forced a tight smile, eyes flicking back to him. “Is he?” you muttered, gaze skimming the sea of girls vying for his attention.

“What was that?” your friend shouted over the screaming, leaning closer.

But Bucky wasn’t paying the crowd any mind. While the others waved and hyped people up, he stood near the amp, head down, fiddling with the guitar’s tuning pegs. Every subtle move of his arms made his muscles flex beneath the black tee, silver rings shining under the stage lights.

You need to get out of here. The last time you and Bucky talked was after the breakup—a very, very messy breakup. And right now, you can’t even handle seeing him, much less seeing girls fawn over what was once yours.

“Hey,” you shout to your friend, handing your solo cup back. “I’m actually really tired. I think I’m gonna head out—”

She nudges the solo cup back to you, looking at you, appalled. “But we’re already here! The show is only an hour and a half long. You’ll enjoy it, I promise.”

“I really don’t think this is a good idea—”

Your words got cut off by a loud, dirty guitar riff tearing through the speakers. The crowd went feral. Your head snapped up back on stage instinctively. Bucky was playing, fingers working the strings, playing the rhythm of a song you recognized.

You were too busy staring to notice your friend leaning over until she started unbuttoning the top of your white blouse.

“What the hell are you doing!” you gasped, trying to swat her hands away.

“Relax!” she laughed. “You seriously need to get laid. Show a little skin. Who knows? Maybe you’ll catch someone’s eye… maybe even a band member’s.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Before you could respond, John started banging in with the drums, Ava’s bass began to strum, and Yelena grabbed the microphone, her guitar resting on her hip being held by the strap.

And the crowd went fucking crazy.

Yelena started to sing, and Bucky kept his head down for most of the beginning of the song, bobbing his head to the rhythm. Many girls were still shouting his name—to which he didn’t pay attention to.

But once the song got near the end, towards the bridge, he finally lifted his head. Despite his enthusiastic playing, his eyes looked dull and almost bored, scanning the crowd without much interest.

Until they landed on you.

The second his gaze locked with yours, you froze. Your hand instinctively clutches the red solo cup tighter. Everything in your gut was screaming at you to turn around, push through the crowd, run back home. But once his eyes met yours, you couldn’t move.

In the end, you were the one to look away first. You tipped your drink up, trying to act casual. What other choice did you have? You were here already, you paid your share for the ticket, and your only ride was too busy head-banging to care.

It’s okay. Maybe he didn’t even recognize you.

To him, you were probably just another girl in the crowd, another easy face for a rockstar like him to pick out and bang backstage.

So, for now, you forced yourself to relax. You are already here now. You might as well try to enjoy it.

Once you finally loosened up, you spent the rest of the show dancing and losing yourself in the music, doing your best to ignore Bucky. What you didn’t realize was that he hadn’t taken his eyes off you the whole night. Girls kept screaming his name, hands reaching out for him, but his focus stayed locked on you.

When Yelena shouted out the final thank you and the last chord rang out, the crowd slowly started to thin. A few fans lingered around for autographs and selfies, but you were exhausted and ready to go.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” you groaned, wobbling slightly on your heels as you and your friends shuffled toward the exit amongst the crowd. “I’m dead. I just want my bed—”

But just before you could step outside, one of the security guys stepped in your path, blocking you.

You frowned up at him. “Is there a problem, sir?”

He shakes his head, and you noticed that he was letting everyone else walk past you and exit with no problem. You cross your arms, tapping your foot impatiently.

“Well? Did I do something wrong?”

“One of the members is requesting your presence backstage,” he says gruffly. He tilted his chin back toward the stage, right where Bucky was standing just a moment ago.

One of your friend’s jaws dropped. She elbowed you with excitement. “Dude. You’re totally getting laid—”

You shot her a death glare. “I am not getting laid,” you turned back to the guard. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m leaving.”

You try to push past him, but he sidesteps just in time to block your path again. He crosses his arms, shaking his head again. “One of the members stated you were doing something that hindered the band’s safety and wellbeing.”

You scoffed in disbelief. “That’s bullshit!” you snapped, your voice loud enough to draw a few looks. “I didn’t throw anything, I didn’t jump the barricade. I was just dancing like everyone else!”

“It’s true!” your friend chimed in, nodding in your defense.

The guard didn’t bother to argue. He just gave a half-shrug and reached out, his big hand wrapping around your arm as he started to steer you away.

“Hey!” you yelped, trying to pull free. “Hands off, creep!”

“Sorry, ma’am. I’m just doing my job,” he grunted, unbothered by your struggling.

“Jesus Christ,” you hissed under your breath. You twisted around to shout at your friends over your shoulder while you were being pulled away. “Wait for me in the car! This shouldn’t take long!”

“Okay… text us!”

As the guard guided you toward the side of the stage, you spotted John, Yelena, Ava, and even Alexei still out front chatting with lingering fans and packing up equipment.

There was only one member missing, meaning that Bucky was already backstage.

Waiting for you.

He led you down a narrow and dark hallway before stopping in front of a battered door covered with stickers and chip paints. He knocked once and waited for a moment before cracking it open and nodded for you to go inside.

You cross your arms, glaring at him. “This is ridiculous.”

He didn’t react. He gave you a little nudge between your shoulder blades, urging you to go through. With a frustrated sigh, you brushed past him and stepped inside. Prick.

As you enter, your breath gets stuck in your throat when you see Bucky. He sat sprawled on the edge of one of the couches, his guitar resting beside him, and a half empty water bottle dangling from his fingers. Up close, he looked rougher than he did under the stage lights. His dark hair was hanging loose around his face, some sweat was glistening on his neck and collarbones, and that damn black tee was clinging to his broad and beefy shoulders.

You knew all along that he was the one that sent after you, but still, seeing him right in front of you again after all these years did something to you.

Bucky looks up at you, his blue eyes softening once he meets yours. He pushes himself off the couch and makes his way towards you in slow steps.

“It’s been a long time, doll.”

Doll.

That old nickname that still sends flutters in your chest, the nickname that he always saved just for you.

He takes a step closer, and you instinctively take another step back. The door shuts behind you. “Did you come here just to see me, baby?” He asks, almost hopeful.

You suck in a breath. You hate how even after all these years, he still has an effect on you. Deep down, a part of you wonders how many times he called other girls he brought back stage ‘baby’ or ‘doll.’

You cross your arms tight over your chest to try to have some control. “I didn’t know you were part of the band.”

He lets out a quiet scoff, taking steps closer to you and closing the distance. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” he mutters, stopping right in front of you. “You always did have a habit of pretending you didn’t know me when it suited you.”

You narrow your brows, looking up at him. “Don’t turn this on me, Bucky. You know my parents didn’t approve our relation—”

Bucky cuts you off with a sharp and humorless laugh. “Your parents,” he spits out, like the mere thought of it disgusts him. “Yeah, doll. I remember. You always did what they wanted, didn’t you?”

You sneer at him. Entertaining him is the last thing you want to do, but it’s not like he waits for you to respond anyway.

He reaches out, catching the ends of your hair between his fingers. The sudden contact sends a shiver down your spine. Despite the petty tone in his words, his touch was gentle and delicate.

He was always gentle and delicate when it came to you.

“You’ve always been such a good girl,” he mutters, voice low and raspy as he plays with your hair. His gaze—almost pained, takes you in slowly, moving from the ends of your hair to your face. “My good girl.”

You suck in a breath, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment as you melt into his words—then to the warmth of his palm when he cups your cheek, thumb brushing softly against your skin. But you catch his hand before you can lose yourself completely, pulling it away from your face, your fingers trembling just slightly around his wrist.

“Bucky,” you say. “We can’t. It’s been too long. And I’m not going to be just another one of your fans you drag backstage for a quick fuck—”

Bucky’s jaw tightens as the words leave your mouth, and before you can finish, he shakes his head, cutting you off with his voice filled with frustration.

“Stop. Don’t say that like you were just some girl to me.”

His hand catches yours where it’s still holding his wrist, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The blue eyes that you once loved—still do—are boring into yours so intensely that it makes your heart beat faster.

“Time doesn’t mean shit, doll. Especially not with you,” he explains, holding your hand tighter. “You think you were just another girl? You really think I’d look at anyone else, when I’ve already had you?”

He leans in closer, close enough to where his breath ghosts over your lips. “I haven’t been with anyone else. Not since you, even though it was years ago. And if you don’t believe me, ask Yelena, or Walker. Hell, you can even ask that damn security guard who drags the real groupies out when they try to sneak in my dressing room.”

Bucky raises one hand up, brushing your cheek again. You hate how easy it is for your body to just give up and melt into his touch.

“You’ve been it for me, baby. Only you,” he presses his forehead against yours, speaking quieter. “You’re the love of my life, and I always knew you would come back to me.”

“I didn’t come here to see you,” your voice was shaky despite your words.

“Yeah?” he chuckles, like even he knew that was bullshit.

His calloused and warm hand slowly trails down from your cheek down to your jawline, down to your neck, and to your collarbone. His touch was feather-light, yet it burned hot against your skin. He toys with the fabric of your top, his thumb brushing the edge of your bra where it peeks through just barely.

“So, you just happened to stumble into some dingy club on a Friday night,” he says, his voice deep with the rasp of longing. “Wearing this… dancing like that in the crowd…” his eyes flick down your chest, then back to your eyes, his blue eyes filled with a hunger you remember too well. “And you expect me to believe you weren’t here for me?”

Before you could say anything, his hands dropped lower. With one hand still fiddling with your blouse, the other holds onto your waist, giving you a gentle tug that pushes your body completely against his.

And just like that, a jolt of electricity ran through you after soaking in the familiar yet distant feeling of being pressed into his hard and big body.

“Say you don’t want this,” he dares you as he tilts his head, his lips brushing yours, just barely leaving enough space to not kiss you. “Say it, and I’ll let you walk out that door right now.”

But you both know you won’t say it. He knew he was being selfish. But having you here, with your hand fisting his shirt, your body pinned against his after all these years of no contact—how could he resist? He needed you. He yearned for you, and there’s no chance in hell he’s letting you slip away again.

“Bucky—”

“Are you seeing anyone?” he cuts in, his hand sliding down to grip your waist harder.

You swallow, shaking your head. “No. I’m not.”

A dark, satisfied chuckle escaped his lips, a mixture of a laugh and growl. “I fuckin’ knew it,” he huffs, his forehead pressing to yours again. “You were waiting for me, weren’t you? My good girl…”

He sees your resolve crumbling right before him, and he’s absolutely relishing in it. You knew that Bucky wasn’t the greatest influence back in your highschool days. Everyone around you warned you to stay away from a bad boy like him—your parents, your friends, and your classmates. He was reckless and dangerous. He was the boy who kissed you under the bleachers and dragged you into his fast scrap of a car and made you feel like the only girl in the world.

But you didn’t care. You never did. You always loved that about him, and many years later, you still do.

And you knew there was something else that Bucky always loved about you too.

You smirk, tilting your head so your lips graze the corner of his mouth without giving him the satisfaction of a real kiss. “Good girl?” you repeat, your voice soft yet teasing. “Who says I’m still your good girl, Bucky?”

His grip tightens, fingers digging into your waist. “Watch it,” he warns, but his voice is shaky and hungry.

You laugh, your voice low and raspy as your fingers toy with the collar of his shirt, tugging it just enough to run your fingers down his collarbone and feeling his beefy chest. You had to remind him who you were back then—who you still are.

“Why? Scared you can’t handle me anymore?” you taunt, lips brushing his jaw and feeling him shudder.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his hands already roaming over your body. One hand grips the back of your neck, the other sliding down to grab your ass like it belongs to him. “Keep talkin’, see what happens, baby.”

You grin, leaning back to look him dead in the eye. Your hands push under his shirt to feel the warmth of his skin. “What if I want to see what happens, baby boy?”

“Oh, doll,” he breathes hard, inching back closer to you. “God. I’ve been waiting so damn long to hear you call me that again.”

And before you could say anything else, Bucky’s lips crashed into yours. It’s intense, desperate, wet, and warm—all at once. His hands are roaming hungrily all over your body now. His rough and warm hands glide up and down your back, rubbing you desperately and pulling you closer against him so you can’t escape.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans as he licks his lips, tasting you. “You still taste just like I remembered. So sweet and delicious, and so fucking mine.”

He dips his head down, his hot mouth trailing to your neck where he drags his tongue over your skin. He covers your throat with wet kisses, biting and sucking hard enough to make you gasp.

Your head tips back, a helpless sound escapes your lips as your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging when he hits a spot that makes your knees weak. “Bucky…god. Baby—”

Bucky grunted against your mouth, his hands sliding back down to your ass and giving it another firm and possessive squeeze. “Fuck,” he growls, voice ragged. “You don’t know how much I missed hearing you moan my name like that.”

Before you could react, he moved his arms underneath you, hoisting you up against him in one swift motion. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist for support as he carries you to the couch with a sense of urgency. At the same time, his lips never left yours.

He plops you down on the couch with a soft thud, and he doesn’t give you a chance to even sit up as his hands continue to roam all over your body hungrily. He’s grabbing your waist, tugging your hair, his hands sliding down your thighs—feeling you, making you his.

He unbuttons the rest of your blouse, pulling your skirt up and growling when he sees your panties protected by the sheer pantyhose.

“Look at you,” he breathes. “Wasting your life away in the office, when you could be here, by my side…” his hands tug at the waistband of your pantyhose. He doesn’t even bother pulling it down. Instead, he rips it right off—baring your soaking wet panties to him. “By my side and all mine.”

“Bucky,” you pant, instinctively squeezing your legs together just to soothe that burning ache. “I can’t—I can’t be yours anymore. Our lives are too different—”

You're cut off with the feeling of his hands roughly pushing your panties to the side, fingers sliding against your increasingly wet slit. You let out a gasp, already feeling your untouched walls flutter at the mere contact. Bucky lets out a hungry growl as he slowly pushes two fingers past your entrance, fucking you with his hand at a slow, deep, and steady pace.

“You say that,” he grunts, the tightness in his pants becoming unbearable as he finger-fucks you. “But your body is accepting me so willingly. Like it misses me.”

You arched your back off the couch, fingers digging into his strong back. “Fuck… god, baby…”

Spurred on by your moans, he increases his speed, hitting your sensitive folds so sweetly with just his fingers alone. “Fuck, you’re soaking my fingers, sweetheart…” Bucky pulls his fingers out with a wet squelch. He brings his fingers to his tongue, licking them slowly. “I missed tasting you so much, my love.”

He pulls back just enough to begin unbuckling his studded belt, unzipping his dark jeans and pulling them down. He releases his throbbing cock out, enveloping his aching shaft with his large hand. He pumps himself a few times as he stares down at you with hungry eyes, his tip leaking with need.

You shiver, watching him with wide eyes and your lip parted in surprise. You couldn’t believe this. It’s been years since he’s been inside of you, yet your body is screaming, begging to be filled by him.

He leans down, guiding his aching tip towards your wet entrance. He rubs himself against you, soaking in your juices. “You used to always like it hard and fast,” he muttered. “Do you still want it that way, baby? Tell me.”

You nod weakly, his hands sliding up from your waist, to your breast, and around your neck. He applies the slightest pressure against your neck—making you gasp.

“Good girl,” he groans as he thrusts forward, pushing past your entrance in one steady slide—like you were made to take him. He shudders above you, his body collapsing on yours with one head still steady around your neck, applying enough pressure to make you pant now.

“Fuck!” he moans out, slowly moving his hips faster and faster and faster. He begins rutting against you, and your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, inviting him in deeper with each desperate thrust. “Takin’ me s’good baby, it’s like you never left me, huh?”

You don’t say anything, you just throw your head back, your eyes fluttering shut as you mutter curses and moans underneath your breath. His hands dig just a little deeper against your neck, making you moan and claw his back harder.

“That’s a good girl, fuck—my good girl…” he hissed, his lips peppering wet and sloppy kisses all over your face as he ruts into you wildly. “You’re already making such a mess, baby… look at you… dripping all over me and the couch.”

“Fuck… James!” you whimpered, your hands encircling around his wrist that’s holding your throat.

“Yesss,” Bucky hisses, his cock sliding in and out of you deliciously with wild abandon. The sounds of skin slapping against each other fills the room, the couch crying and creaking for help. “Say my name again, baby. I’m all yours.”

“James!” you moaned louder, holding him tighter against your body as you clench down on him when he hits your sweet spot with his tip. “Don’t stop, James! Oh, god… yes…”

Bucky moans, and slants his brows, looking at you with need and lust. “Fuck… thank you, baby. Thank you…” he praises you desperately and pathetically, like he’s been longing to hear you call him by his first name again.

With one hand still on your neck possessively, his other hand began wandering all over your body–groping your breasts, holding your waist, gripping your thighs, squeezing your legs… it was all too much for him. The feel of you, the scent of you, the sound of you, the warmth of you…

It was enough to make him spill right then and there, deep inside you.

“I’m gonna cum, babydoll—” he grunts, his hips moving faster. The throbbing and pounding from his cock against your tight walls fills you with overwhelming pleasure.

“Cum for me, James. God… I’m gonna cum too—!”

You clench down on him, your legs shaking uncontrollably as Bucky sends you over the edge. You were impossibly tight against him. He hissed, hardly being able to thrust any deeper with how sweetly you were gripping his cock.

Bucky throws his head back, his hands tightening on your throat slightly as he manages to hilt himself completely with one punishing thrust, spilling his hot and sticky seed deep inside your weeping pussy. “Fuck!” he moans, giving your hips a tight squeeze as he emptied himself inside you. “All mine…. all mine…” he says like a prayer as he slowly grinds his hips against yours.

You two laid like that for a moment, his large body enveloping yours in a sweaty and heated mess. He held you possessively, smoothing your hair down and pressing soft kisses to your jaw and neck—a contrast to how rough he was just moments before.

“Stay with me, baby,” Bucky murmurs against your skin, his knuckles brushing tenderly along your cheek as he looks down at you like you’re his entire world. “Don’t walk away from me again.”

“James…” you breathe out, a small frown pulling at your lips. “I can’t just drop everything. I have a job, a life—”

“Quit that damn office job,” he cuts you off, his thumb brushing your lower lip to keep you quiet. “Drop the good girl routine, come with me. Come on tour with us, live a little, baby. Be free with me.” He pulls back slightly so you can see the raw, desperate plea in his eyes. “Spend the rest of your life with the only man who’s ever really loved you. You know you want to.”

“I don’t know—”

“You know you want to, doll,” he mutters against your skin, his breath warm, his voice all gravel and longing. “We used to be so fun, baby. I could give you that life again. Say yes. Just say yes, and you’re mine again.”

And despite every argument you could possibly make, you knew deep down you couldn’t help it. Your face softens, your body relaxes into his touch. With a soft and helpless sigh, you lean into his hand.

Because after tonight, you knew you couldn’t live another moment without your long lost highschool sweetheart, Bucky Barnes.

209 notes · View notes

sunsetmade · 2 days ago

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https://www.instagram.com/reel/DK2CsXex28H/?igsh=bGQxdWNtcW43c29t

Can u make a fic on this pls with JJ maybanks shy lil sister x Rafe

Her Chance

Rafe Cameron x Shy Maybank! Reader

She nervously twisted her fingers together as she made her way up the stone steps of the sprawling house Rafe had bought just last year. Every part of it screamed money—old Kook money—but it didn’t intimidate her as much as it used to. Not because it felt like home, but because he did.

If someone ever asked her to explain her relationship with Rafe Cameron, she probably wouldn’t know where to begin. More than likely, she’d change the subject entirely. It was complicated. Messy in a way that made her heart race and her stomach ache all at once. He was a Kook—the Kook. King of the Island Club, all charm and chaos in one. And she was a Maybank. A quiet little Pogue girl from the cut, soft-spoken and often overlooked. Just another shadow in a crowd full of louder voices.

But somehow… he noticed her.

It had been at a bonfire, one of the countless Outer Banks parties that blurred together in her memory. He was surrounded by his usual crew, their laughter carrying on the wind as flames crackled behind them. She’d been off to the side, alone on the sand, knees drawn to her chest, the sound of the waves dulling the music and the noise of the crowd.

And then his eyes had found her.

He hadn’t been looking for anyone—just lazily scanning the shoreline when his gaze landed on her figure tucked quietly into the night. For a moment, time slowed. Something in his chest stirred—an ache, a pull, like gravity had shifted and she was suddenly at the center of it. She wasn’t doing anything special, just hugging her knees and staring out at the ocean, the firelight painting her face in soft golds and shadows.

But it was the look in her eyes that struck him.

Lonely. Tired. Beautiful in a way that wasn’t loud or flashy—just… real. And maybe that’s what made it impossible to look away.

From that night on, he kept noticing her. Little by little. In ways she didn’t understand, and he didn’t want to admit.

Now, as she stood in front of his front door, that memory still lingered in the back of her mind—quiet but powerful. She drew in a shaky breath, her knuckles hovering just inches from the dark wood.

Because even though he was the golden boy from Figure Eight and she was just a Maybank from the marsh, somehow—against all odds—the lines between them had blurred.

And maybe tonight, those lines would finally be crossed.

Today was the day.

She told herself that over and over again as she almost knocked, nerves curling in her stomach like tightly wound thread. Her hands trembled slightly, fingertips brushing anxiously against the hem of her shirt. She was going to tell Rafe how she felt. No more holding it in. No more second-guessing the way his eyes softened when he looked at her or how his voice dropped to a murmur when he said her name.

It had been six months.

Six months of quiet nights tangled up beside him on his couch. Six months of shared glances, whispered laughter, and brushing hands that lingered just a little too long. They’d spent nearly every evening together—movie nights that turned into sunrise conversations, beach drives with music blasting and her feet on the dash, long silences that somehow never felt awkward. But not once in all that time had he said the words she was hoping to hear.

He never asked the question.

And she had waited. Waited for him to say something, anything—to ask her to be his, to define whatever it was they had. Each time they hung out, she’d think, maybe tonight. But the moment would pass, and he’d smile that lazy, half-lidded smile, and she’d pretend her heart wasn’t silently cracking a little more each time.

After a while, doubt crept in like fog.

Maybe she’d imagined it all. Maybe those soft touches—the way his hand would rest on the small of her back when they walked too close—meant nothing. Maybe when he held her through a thunderstorm, letting her cry into his chest until the thunder faded, he was just being a friend. Maybe the way he always pulled her closer when she felt small, or brought her food when she skipped dinner, or rubbed her back after an argument with her dad—maybe that was just who he was.

But it wasn’t.

Because Rafe Cameron wasn’t that guy. He wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t soft. He didn’t take care of people—not like this.

He didn’t call anyone else at 2 a.m. just to make sure they got home safe. He didn’t remember the way she liked her coffee or the songs that calmed her anxiety. He didn’t tuck anyone else’s hair behind their ear when they were venting, didn’t say “I got you, always” with a look in his eyes that made her chest ache.

He was different with her.

And she couldn’t keep pretending it didn’t mean anything. Not anymore.

So tonight, she was going to tell him. Everything. That he drove her absolutely crazy—in the best way. That his stupid smirk and teasing comments made her blush no matter how hard she tried to play it cool. That when her phone buzzed and saw his name, she lit up like a damn Christmas tree. That his voice made the world feel quiet. That when he looked at her, she forgot to breathe.

She didn’t care if he didn’t say it back. She didn’t care if she ended up with a broken heart. (Oh but she would care)

Because not knowing was worse. Not trying—that would haunt her.

So she knocked on the door and fiddled the her skirt while she awaited.

When the door swung open, she was met with the sight of Rafe standing there shirtless, his toned chest on full display and a pair of loose gray sweatpants hanging just a little too low on his hips. Her breath caught in her throat before she could even think about stopping it.

God.

Her cheeks flushed instantly, heat rushing all the way up to her ears. She lowered her gaze quickly, eyes focusing somewhere—anywhere—that wasn’t the cut of his abs or the way his hair was freshly buzzed.

He gave her that lazy, lopsided grin that never failed to make her heart race. “Hi, sweetheart,” he rasped, his voice still gravelly with leftover sleep or maybe just that natural Rafe drawl that always made her knees wobble a bit.

Before she could manage a reply, he gently placed his large hands on her hips, grounding her instantly. “You okay?” he asked softly, his tone more serious now, searching her face with those sharp blue eyes. She could feel his warmth, his thumbs stroking slow, absentminded circles into her sides like it was second nature to touch her that way.

She barely nodded, heart thudding against her ribcage so hard it felt like he might be able to hear it. “Y-Yeah,” she mumbled, almost too quiet to catch.

Rafe smiled again, a little softer this time, and without warning, he tugged her forward by the waist, pulling her gently into his chest. Her breath hitched as she melted into him, her hands hesitating for a beat before she slowly—almost shyly—looped her arms around his neck.

His skin was warm against her cheek, and she could feel the slow, steady beat of his heart under her palm. Being this close to him always left her flustered, overwhelmed in the best way. He smelled like fresh laundry and cologne and that familiar something she could never quite name.

She let out a quiet, nervous laugh, trying to shake off the butterflies fluttering madly in her stomach. “You… didn’t have to answer the door like that,” she whispered, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Rafe leaned back just enough to look at her, his smirk deepening. “Like what?” he teased, one brow raised as his fingers brushed over the fabric of her shirt. “You’ve seen me like this a hundred times.”

“Doesn’t mean it gets easier,” she muttered under her breath, gaze flicking down again.

But Rafe caught her chin with a gentle touch, tipping her face back up toward him. His expression softened even more, that teasing glint giving way to something deeper. “You’re cute when you’re flustered,” he said quietly, voice lower now, like it was a secret just for her.

Her heart skipped. Then tripped. Then plummeted into a whole field of butterflies.

And for a second, standing there with his arms wrapped around her, her heart racing and his eyes locked on hers, she almost forgot what she came here to say.

Almost.

She stepped inside quietly, slipping off her shoes as the door clicked shut behind her. Her heart was already thumping, nerves dancing beneath her skin as she followed the sound of his footsteps down the hallway and into the living room.

Rafe dropped back onto the couch like he hadn’t moved since he texted that she should come over. He sprawled across the cushions, long legs stretched out, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. Without missing a beat, he patted the spot beside him, eyes gleaming.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low and inviting.

She offered him a shy smile and sat down, tucking one leg under herself as she settled beside him. But before she could even get comfortable, he reached over and pulled her effortlessly into his side, her chest flush against his.

She let out a surprised squeak, her hands instinctively landing on his bare chest to brace herself. “Rafe!” she gasped, cheeks burning.

He only laughed, smug and entirely unbothered, and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “What, baby?” he asked, voice rumbling against her like a soft earthquake.

Her breath caught in her throat at the sound of that baby—he said it so casually, but it did something to her every time. She swallowed hard, then sat up quickly, wriggling out of his arms and shifting a few inches away on the couch.

“I—I wanna talk to you about something,” she said, her voice softer now, more unsure.

That got his attention.

Rafe raised a brow, the smirk still lingering on his lips but his eyes sharpening with curiosity. “Yeah?” he said, sliding his arm behind her again, his hand settling warm and familiar on the small of her back.

She hesitated. The words were there, tangled in her chest, but the second she tried to pull them out, her mind fogged over. She cleared her throat and glanced down at her hands in her lap.

“Rafe… focus,” she said, attempting to sound serious but it came out more breathy than stern.

He chuckled, leaning in just enough for her to feel his breath on her temple. “I am focused, baby. Are you?” he teased, amusement sparkling in his voice.

She huffed and turned her face away to hide the flush blooming across her cheeks. “I’m trying to be,” she muttered, heart hammering in her chest.

Rafe shook his head with a small, fond laugh, then reached over with his free hand and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered for a beat longer than necessary, the gesture soft and uncharacteristically tender.

“Okay,” he said quietly, his tone shifting. “Tell me. I’m listening.”

His voice was calm now, the teasing gone. He was looking at her the way he always did when he knew something mattered—no distractions, no smirks. Just him. Just her.

“Well…” she started softly, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve as she stared down at her lap. Her heart was pounding hard, her throat dry. She felt like her entire body was buzzing, every inch of her suddenly aware of how close he was sitting. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him radiating beside her. Close enough that if she moved even slightly to the right, their legs would be touching.

“I just wanted to—uh…” she stumbled, voice faltering as her thoughts tangled into a knot. Her nerves were growing louder with every passing second.

Rafe’s playful smirk faded as he leaned in, his voice low and steady. “Hey,” he said again, gently this time. “It’s okay. I’m listening.”

But this time, it wasn’t just a throwaway phrase.

It felt like a promise. A grounding force in the middle of the storm building inside her.

She nodded once, trying to inhale slowly, trying to keep her hands from trembling. But when she lifted her eyes to his face—hoping it might help—it only made things worse. Her gaze stopped at his mouth.

His lips.

God, his lips.

She was staring.

They were slightly parted, full and soft, curved with that familiar hint of mischief. The kind of lips that had whispered her name more times than she could count, that always said just enough to make her heart stutter. And even though she told herself to look away, she couldn’t seem to do it.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

Rafe’s mouth curved into a slow, teasing grin. “My eyes are up here, baby,” he murmured, his tone light but his eyes warm, flicking down to her lips and back up again.

She blinked rapidly, pulled out of her trance. “What?” she asked dumbly, clearly not processing anything he’d just said.

He just smirked and licked his bottom lip slowly, the kind of thing he did without thinking that drove her absolutely insane. “Nothin’,” he murmured, settling back with a knowing glint in his eye. “Go on. I wanna hear what you were gonna say.”

She inhaled sharply, closing her eyes for a second to gather herself.

Just say it.

But the words were stuck—tangled and messy and too big for her chest. She opened her mouth, tried again. “I wanted to say that—” she paused, stumbling over the lump in her throat. “That I—”

She huffed, shoulders sagging, frustration and fear swirling in her stomach.

And then she looked at him.

Really looked at him.

The boy who saw her when no one else did. Who held her through her worst nights, who made her laugh when she didn’t want to smile, who remembered things about her no one else paid attention to. The boy who never asked her to be anything more than herself.

And in that moment, everything inside her tipped forward.

Before she could stop herself—before her nerves could catch up—she leaned in and pressed her lips to his.

It wasn’t practiced.

It was hesitant, trembling, and unsteady—like every unspoken word, every hidden feeling she’d buried for months had come spilling out in the shape of a kiss. Her lips pressed to his in a rush of adrenaline and emotion, fueled by weeks of late-night longing and the aching fear of not knowing how he really felt.

Her heart pounded so violently in her chest she swore he could feel it through the kiss—through the fragile space between them, now completely erased.

Rafe didn’t move at first. His breath caught in his throat, his entire body tensing like he couldn’t believe what was happening.

She kissed him.

The quiet, shy girl who barely made eye contact when she was nervous… was now wrapped around his world in one soft, desperate kiss.

And then—like a string inside him finally snapped—he moved.

His hands found her face in an instant, cradling her cheeks with such care it made her knees weak. He kissed her back like he’d been waiting years for it, like something inside him had finally been given permission to breathe.

His lips moved against hers slowly, with a kind of reverence, like he was learning her all over again—committing every curve and every breath to memory. One of his thumbs brushed along her cheekbone, gentle and grounding, while the other hand slid into her hair, pulling her just a little closer.

She whimpered softly into his mouth, her fingers curling around the front of his sweatshirt as he shifted. The sound sent a shiver down his spine.

Then he deepened the kiss—pressing forward, guiding her back until her spine hit the cushions of the couch. Her head tilted naturally beneath his touch, lips parting to let him in, and he took full advantage.

His tongue slid against hers with slow, intoxicating precision, and the breath caught in her throat.

Rafe chuckled lowly at the sound she made, a warm, smug grin curling against her mouth. “You started this, baby,” he murmured against her lips, voice rough and dipped in heat.

But he didn’t give her time to respond.

He kissed her again—hungrier now, like all his restraint had burned away in the fire she lit the second her lips touched his. His hand splayed along her waist, grounding her, anchoring her to this moment.

Every thought in her head went quiet except one: He wanted her too.

“I’ve been waiting for this…” Rafe murmured against her lips, his voice thick with something deeper—something that made her chest ache and flutter all at once. His forehead rested against hers, both of them breathless, their lips brushing with every word.

Her arms slid up around his neck, pulling him closer like she couldn’t stand to be even an inch away. Her heart was still racing, but now it felt different—less fear, more adrenaline. More him.

“You should’ve kissed me sooner,” she whispered, her voice soft, almost shy, but her fingers toyed with the edge of his hair, her cheeks still flushed from the heat of his mouth.

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling against her skin as he dipped his head, brushing his lips over the side of her neck. He kissed her there—once, then twice—his mouth warm and slow and dangerously gentle.

“Mmm,” he hummed between kisses, “I didn’t expect you to make the first move, baby.”

Her breath caught as his lips lingered just below her ear, the teasing weight of his voice sinking into her bones. She could feel the smile on his mouth against her skin, warm and smug and so Rafe.

She swatted his shoulder playfully, still tucked into his lap. “Don’t act like you’re not the cockiest person I know.”

He grinned, pulling back just enough to look at her. His eyes were half-lidded, soft around the edges, like he was seeing something he’d only ever dreamed about. “I’m cocky, sure,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over her bottom lip, “but not when it comes to you.”

Her breath hitched again—this time from the way he was looking at her. The way everything about him had softened.

“I didn’t wanna push you,” he added more seriously. “Didn’t wanna scare you off. So I waited.”

She smiled—small, sweet, completely wrecked. “I was scared.”

“Yeah?” he asked, tilting his head.

She nodded slowly. “Scared you didn’t feel the same.”

Rafe’s expression changed, like her words hit somewhere deep. He leaned in again, pressing his forehead to hers with a quiet exhale. “You have no idea how gone I am for you.”

And then he kissed her again—this time slower, surer, like he had nothing to hide and nowhere else to be.

Like he was home.

263 notes · View notes

finelinevogue · 6 hours ago

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i had a thought for a part 2 for the 'ridiculous' lando fic (obvs don't have to do it if it's crap) but maybe you could write about them being together like a year later at the next monaco gp and her friends who were being horrible to her like trying to get back in touch with y/n so they could get gp tickets because shes going out with lando

i genuinely love all your fics though, i've been here for timeeee ahhaha

makes sense to be with you

yesss let’s do it my love!! and don’t you worry, i know you’ve been here with me since the beginning <33 i never forget a name!

pairing - lando norris x girlfriend!reader

word count - ~2k

It’s race day.

The nerves were high for everyone. Sometimes you felt like your nerves were even higher than Lando’s - which was a silly thing to think.

Lando had driven you to the Monaco Grand Prix this morning, spare hand on your thigh the entire journey. You had gotten ready together this morning and Lando had calmed your nerves with a few soft morning kisses in between stolen moments.

Pulling up outside the venue though, the tension felt high.

Lando stopped the car and sat with you for a moment.

“You good?” He asked, not letting your hand go.

“Yeah. Just thinking about this time last year.” You rested your head on the back of the headrest and turned to face your boyfriend.

He watched you with a handsome smile.

“A lot’s changed since then.”

“I know.”

He chuckled which caused you to laugh back.

“I’m nervous but I’m excited for this weekend.” He told you honestly.

“You’re going to be amazing.”

He looked from you to the crowds outside the car, snapping photos and recording videos of the two of you. It was busy out there, but nothing that the two of you couldn’t handle.

It had been difficult the past year trying to fit in beside Lando and keep up with his pace of life, but he had been so patient and caring with you. Because of him the last year had been easier than it could’ve been.

Your phone beeped.

You chuckled to yourself as you opened the WhatsApp notifications.

“Who is it?” Lando asked, peering over your shoulder because he knew you’d have nothing to hide. “Oh they can fuck right off.”

“Lando!” You laughed.

It was from your ex friends and their whole group. They had added you to their group chat last minute, knowing they needed you for what they wanted.

Rochelle : How are we supposed to get tickets for the Monaco GP?

Eva : Let’s ask Y/N now she’s with Lando

Jemima : so true

Rochelle : OMG yes!!!!

[ Y/N has been added to the chat ]

Eva : Hey Y/N! Long time no speak!

“Do they realise that you can see all the conversations above?” Lando scoffed beside you.

“Probably not.”

“Bunch of….” Lando started to mutter.

“Hey, don’t,” You stopped him before he could say something he would later regret, “I’m okay.”

You deleted the group chat from your phone and left it alone, placing your phone in your lap as you squeezed Lando’s hand tightly. You used your other hand to guide his face to yours.

“I’m okay.” You promised him.

He nodded.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t like them though.”

“Enough now. Don’t let them ruin your day.” You softly brushed your thumb over his cheek and he leant into it a little more.

“Don’t want them to ruin yours either.”

“They can’t.” You shook your head.

Lando was confident with your answer and leaned in to give you a soft kiss. Neither of you noticed the influx of camera flashes as you kissed because both of you were too into each other.

He had this very special, unique, talent of making you feel like the only girl in the world.

“I love you.” He whispered close to you.

You kissed him again quickly this time, “I love you too. Now go win.”

“Don’t give me too much to do.” He joked, pulling away from you to continue the day and win this damn race for you.

• 🏎️💨 •

He fucking won.

He actually did it.

You had a pair of headphones wrapped around your neck as you cupped your hands over your mouth. You were in a state of shock and wonder.

Your Lando had done it. He had won Monaco and part of you liked to believe he had done it for you.

Engineers and teammates alike were all cheering in the garage. This was a huge win for them too.

Everyone swarmed outside to go and meet Lando and congratulate him. You weren’t sure whether to follow or to meet him later.

Your phone beeped in your pocket.

[ Y/N has been added to the chat ]

Rochelle : Congrats on Lando’s win Y/N 🍾

Eva : Yeah totally! Any big plans for tonight?

Jemima : OMG yesss we should all totally meet tonight & celebrate!

Rochelle : YEASSSS

You sighed, biting your lip as you questioned how to respond.

They had really texted at the wrong moment because this was supposed to be your time celebrating with Lando, not feeling bad for people who used to be horrid to you that you still sort of felt bad for.

You texted back, wanting this to be done.

You: hi :) thank you for congratulating lando! still not ready to be friends with you guys yet, but thanks for thinking of me.

A minute later you had been removed from the group chat.

You shook your head in disappointment.

Yes, they had been the ones to get you an invite onto a Monaco yacht party where you had first met Lando but that’s all they had ever done for you. The rest of the time they had been the type of friends to bring you down. You had often been the ‘one of these friends is not like the others’ friend.

Lando had helped you realise that you didn’t need them in your life and had supported you when you’d cut them out of your life.

It stung that now all they wanted you for was your connection to Lando and his fame.

It made you feel used.

No doubt Lando often felt the same. Hopefully never from you.

You pocketed your phone, remembering you were missing all the celebrations outside.

Before you could leave the garage to walk around to the podium, you heard Lando call your name.

He was jogging down the road and dodging people who were trying to give him a hug or a congratulatory handshake. His eyes were dead-set on you.

His hair was sweaty and his face was beet-red.

He looked so good though, with his jumpsuit folded over at his waist and his black fireproofs on underneath. He ran a hand through his messy hair as he approached you.

You took off the headphones around your neck, dropping them onto the table.

Lando reached you first, picking you up around your waist and spinning you around excitedly. Your arms held tightly around his neck with your face smushed into his head. He smelt of sweat and hair products.

You could feel him laugh into your chest and you couldn’t help but let the few tears that wanted to fall soak into his hair.

“I’m so proud of you.”

He squeezed you tighter, slowly stopping the spinning to put you safely back on the floor.

“You did it. You fucking did it.”

“I did it.” He smiled so big.

You untucked your head from where it had been hiding, but keeping your arms securely around his neck for closeness. His stayed around your waist.

You used one hand to brush some loose curls back into formation.

“Knew you could do it.”

“It’s ‘cause my lucky charm was watching on.” He nodded his head to you.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“The Monaco Grand Prix, honey.” You whispered excitedly like you couldn’t quite believe it. “What more could you want?”

He raised his eyebrows at you like that was a stupid question. You rolled your eyes before he could say something ridiculously lovely.

You tucked your head under his chin and moved your arms down so you could hug him around his waist. He hugged you closer, kissing the top of your head a few times before letting the moment sink in with his favourite person stood beside him.

“Lando! We need you for the podium!”

“Two minutes!”He shouted back, not giving you up.

“No… Now!”

Lando sighed loudly. You untucked yourself.

“Go. I’ll be right there. Enjoy this moment, okay?” You cupped both of his cheeks and brought his face down to kiss him softly. He deserved it.

liked by charlesleclerc, lewishamilton and 294,937 others

yourinstagram enjoy this moment 🍯🧡

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fan1 INSANE!!!!!

fan2 we 🧡 you y/n

oscarpiastri Well done mate!

fan3 🍯 because y/n calls lando honey?!!?????

♥️ by the author

fan4 LANDO FOR THE WIN

fan5 i love them ur honour

rochelle0110 Congrats 🥂 Let’s celebrate?

fan6 I WANT TO CELEBRATE WITH THEM

yourinstagram @/fan6 ur very welcome to xo

lando Going to enjoy this one for a long time to come (especially with you) 🧡

♥️ by the author

• 🏎️💨 •

Lando opened the door for you and held a hand out to help you leave his car.

He passed the car keys off to a valet and then returned his attention to you. He had already watched you get ready and had litterally sat next to you in the car on the way here, but seeing you step out of his car in that black dress made him want to drop to the floor and pray.

The paparazzi went crazy for you both, begging for a photo.

Unfortunately Lando wasn’t interested in giving them the time of day as he was still angry about previous things the tabloids had said about you and him.

He held onto you hand as you walked past everyone and into the club venue.

It was celebration night, post-race, and it was going to be a big one.

You didn’t need to show ID upon entry because everyone, especially bouncers, knew who the F1 people were in Monaco.

Lando gave the bouncers a handshake and wished them a goodnight whilst still holding on to you. He also slipped them a piece of paper and asked them to read it carefully.

“What was that?” You asked as you followed behind him.

“My ‘no entry’ list.”

“What?” You stopped short, your high heels digging into the floor as you did so. Lando bounced back towards you.

“I’ve asked that certain people are denied entry.” He shrugged.

“Like who?”

“Does it matter?” He asked.

“Yes. I don’t want to start some sort of feud.”

“Well, they started it when they decided to sell a story to the tabloids last year which made our relationship difficult for a while.” He was growing frustrated you could tell.

“Oh my God, will you let it go?” You stressed, dropping his hand to which he looked visibly offended by.

“No, Y/N, I won’t. They’re a bunch of arseholes and what? You want them to be a part of my celebration? I don’t think so.” He scoffed.

“I just don’t want this to be a big thing for us forever. Just let it go.”

He shook his head again before heading into the club. Without you.

Fuck.

You didn’t mean to get into an argument about it, but ever since your ex friends sold a story about Lando being a misogynist prick to the tabloids there had been a rift between everyone.

You had immediately dropped your friends and Lando had done damage control for weeks after.

You’d never believed the tabloids, but it was Lando that felt like he had to prove that he was nothing like what they were saying he was. Lando thought he had to make it up to you, as if he’d done something wrong. So it was easy to understand why they still got under his nerves.

You just wished they didn’t still taunt him.

You wanted him you find peace from all of this now like you had.

You followed him into the club a few minutes later, trying to calm your nerves after your stupid argument.

The club had cheered and roared when Lando had stepped into the main room, leaving you to slip in from the side unnoticed.

The room was dimly lit with orange strobe lights dancing around. A layer of smoke filtered through the air, along with the smell of vapes and sticky alcohol on the floor.

The music was all for Lando. The playlist included all his favourite songs.

You walked around the edge so you could go and grab a quick drink from the bar.

“Limoncello spritz please.” You asked the bartender.

A couple minutes later you had your drink in hand and slipped back into the corner of the room, a standing table available for you to rest your drink on.

All of Lando’s friends, family and fellow F1 mates were here celebrating. Lando was so loved and it was amazing to see.

He was currently stood on a raised platform with Oscar by his side. They were both bopping and singing out of tune to one of his favourite songs. You smiled as you watched on.

Then Lando caught your eyes.

He made his way off the platform and walked over to you. The crowd easily parted for him.

He didn’t stop until he was right in front of you.

“I’m sorry.” He said.

You nodded.

“I’m a dickhead sometimes.”

You pursed your lips to stop from smiling.

“But I love you too much to fight over something so boring.”

You nodded in agreement.

“So will you accept my apology and come dance with me? I did win the Monaco Grand Prix for you after all.”

You held out your hand like it was a white flag.

He took it was a grin, only to be shocked by the force of you pulling him closer so you could give him a proper kiss.

Your arms snaked around his neck and his felt their way across your waist, both of you sinking into each other and letting the rest of the room drift away.

You tilted your head to let him have a little extra room to kiss you and he followed. You could feel him smirking into the kiss, but he didn’t pull away. Not when he had you like this.

You tugged on his curls a little and his mouth opened with a gasp, allowing you to kiss him deeper. He tasted like some sort of berry flavoured alcohol, because it was known he was still a kid at heart. It made the kiss all the more delectable.

He pulled away breathlessly.

You tried to go in for another, still in a love haze.

“Later.” He whispered against your lips, but giving you another kiss all the same.

“Now.” You argued.

“Dance with me first.”

“Okay.” You tucked your face into his neck and gave him a kiss. He felt like home when you held him like this. Safe and comforting, even though you were in the middle of a club.

“Love you.” He spoke softly but loud enough for you to hear.

“Love you right back.”

“We okay?” He double checked.

“We’re okay.” You nodded. “Now let’s celebrate!”

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lando We won 🏆

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fan1 no lando, y/n won fr

fan2 THAT SHOULD BE ME

fan3 the hand placements… oh i’m dead

yourinstagram go go lando!!! so proud 🍯

♥️ by the author

lando @/yourinstagram My no 1 fan 🧡

lewishamilton 🧡

oscarpiastri Where did you & Y/N go….??

lando @/oscarpiastri 👀

fan4 deserved 👏

fan5 not y/n and lando flirting in the commentd

fan6 those are literally my parents wdym

#lando norris #lando norris fluff #lando x reader #lando x you #lando fanfic #lando imagine #lando x y/n #lando norris angst #lando norris x reader #lando norris fic

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lightsoutmatthews · 1 day ago

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jo you have been cooking with these fics girl i literally can’t get enough!!!! can i request auston x reader are having their first baby together and how auston is supportive during labor even tho reader is so scared? thanks :)

This one got long, but I felt so inspired I just had to write it all out

Warning!!! Literal description of giving birth, labor and all, mentions of needles and hospitals

Our Little Miracle – Auston Matthews

It was the middle of July in Toronto, technically the off-season, but Auston had decided in the light of things you would pass on spending it in Arizona this year.

You both agreed no travel, no vacation, no weekend getaways.

You were due any day now, and Auston wanted to be nowhere but here, with you.

The condo was clean, cleaner than it had probably ever been. Auston had let it be deep-cleaned last week, before he tried to install a car seat with YouTube instructions and a ton of muttered swearing under his breath. Turns out, Lamborghinis and Porsches weren’t really made for this.

The nursery was finished. Soft greys and whites, colorful splashes on the wall, a mobile that still needed batteries. Auston painted the walls himself, twice actually, because you changed your mind after seeing the first color in daylight. Then hired a friend to make it more colorful. You didn’t want to be one of those beige parents.

You were 39 weeks and three days. Every part of your body felt heavy. Walking had become waddling. Sleeping had become a challenge and the nesting instinct? Out of control. You reorganized the baby´s dresser drawers three times that day alone.

Auston walked in from the living room, holding two popsicles. “Pick a flavor,” he said, holding them out like a magician. “Cherry or mystery.”

You gave him a tired smile, taking the cherry. “Thanks.”

“Did you sleep at all?”

“An hour maybe,” you admitted, plopping onto the couch. “The baby was doing full-on somersaults again. I swear they´re going to be a goalie with how much they kick.”

Auston laughed and sat beside you. “Then we´re doomed.”

The two of you sat in silence for a bit, the fan buzzing quietly in the background, your belly rising and falling beneath your stretched shirt.

Auston reached out and gently placed his hand there, feeling for a movement. “Hard to believe we´re here,” he mumbled.

You looked at him. “I know.”

There was still part of you that couldn’t quite believe it. You had the baby shower, the doctor´s appointments, the ultrasounds, but the idea of actually delivering a human being into the world felt too big to wrap your head around.

“Are you nervous?” you asked, your voice soft.

Auston blinked, the nodded. “Terrified.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

He gave you a look. “Of course. Are you kidding? I´ve been googling “what not to say during labor” for weeks. Pretty sure I already broke three rules just today.”

You laughed for real this time, then winced slightly when your stomach tightened in a now familiar way.

“Was that another one?” he asked, instantly alert. “Yeah,” you breathed. “But it faded. Just Braxton Hicks.”

Still, he didn’t take his eyes off you. Ever since your last appointment, where the OB said the baby had dropped and your cervix was softening, Auston had been on full alert.

At first it was sweet, adorable even. Now? A little suffocating.

“Babe, I love you,” you said, looking over at him. “but if you don’t stop asking me if I´m sure it´s not labor, I´m going to induce myself just to get some quiet.”

He grinned sheepishly. “Can´t help it. Every time you blink, I think it´s go-time.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, letting the moment settle. You weren’t ready but you were. Both things were true.

----------

That night Auston made dinner – sort of.

He reheated frozen pasta and poured you a ginger ale in your favorite glass.

You sat at the table slowly, one hand always cradling your belly, feeling heavy and tired but weirdly content.

“You know,” Auston said between bites. “I was thinking of something.”

“Oh boy.”

He ignored that. “What if the baby looks nothing like either of us?”

You tilted your head. “What do you mean?”

“Like, what if they come out with red hair and green eyes and we´re both just standing there like who are you?”

You smirked. “Freddie would love that.” You laughed, referring to your close friend and know redhead Frederik Andersen.

“Bet he would,” Auston laughed.

“Well, we´ll cross that bridge if our baby is a ginger. I´ll buy SPF 100.”

He chuckled, but then his smile softened. “I don’t really care who they look like. As long as they´re okay.”

There it was again. The fear underneath all the joking. Auston was calm on the surface, but you had seen it in his eyes these past few weeks.

You were both first-time parents. No amount of planning could prepare you for the unknown.

That night, you climbed into bed carefully and stretched out with a long groan. Auston brushed your hair back as you sighed into your pillow.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“Yeah. Just tired and kind of scared.”

“Me too,” he admitted, lying down behind you. His hand resting on your side. “But you´re doing so good, babe. We got this.”

You didn’t know if that was true but hearing him say it made you feel a little better.

2:12 am

You shot awake with a sharp intake of breath. A tight pain, low, deep, and way more intense than any of the Braxton Hicks you had before, wrapped around your abdomen.

You sat up slowly, confused and breathless. Then you felt it.

A warm tickle, then a gush.

You pushed off the covers, heart pounding. It soaked through your underwear and started pooling under you. There was no denying it now.

You turned and smacked Auston´s arm hard. “Auston! Wake up, my water just broke.”

His eyes flew open. “Wait, what?”

“My water broke.”

He blinked, scrambling upright. “Are you serious?”

You nodded, frozen.

He flung the blankets back, took one look, and his eyes went wide. “Holy sh- I mean okay! Okay. We got this. Stay calm.”

“I am calm,” you said, panicked.

Auston jumped out of bed, already dialing the hospital on his phone. “I´m calling now. Don’t move. I´ll get the bag.”

“I have to move, Auston. It´s dripping on the bed.”

“Okay, but slowly.”

You started breathing heavier as another contraction slammed into you, sharper than the last. Auston paused mid step.

“That one hurt?” he asked, eyes locked on yours.

You nodded, already tearing up.

He dropped the phone on the bed and came to your side immediately, crouching down. “Hey, you´re okay. We´re going to the hospital now. We´re good. I got you.”

You grabbed his hand and squeezed hard. “I´m scared.”

“I know. Me too,” he said honestly, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “But we´ve waited months for this. We´re finally going to meet them.”

You nodded slowly. “Let´s go meet our baby.”

-----------

The ride to the hospital was somehow both fast and endless.

Auston drove carefully, but you could feel the energy pulsing off him like static. Nervous, focused, rattled beneath the surface.

Every few minutes he glanced at you and asked “Okay?” and you would give him a tight nod or a pained “yeah,” even though each contraction had your breath hitching in your throat.

The car smelled like lemon hand sanitizer and air conditioning. Your hospital bag was in the back seat, bouncing lightly against the headrest, and your water bottle had already rolled somewhere out of reach.

You were trying to time your contractions in your head but kept losing track.

Auston parked in the underground garage, and before you could even unbuckle, he was already outside, opening your door, his hand there to steady you. “Let´s go slow, okay?”

You nodded, gripping his arm tightly as another wave of pressure surged through you.

3:10 am

The admitting nurse greeted you with a smile that made you want to cry. “How far apart are the contractions?”

“About every four minutes,” Auston answered quickly, standing at your side with one hand resting protectively on your lower back.

You were clenching your teeth, trying to breathe through another one, fingers digging into the railing of the wheelchair they had brough you. “They´re…getting worse.”

---------

You were brought into a private room where they hooked you up to a monitor, checked your vitals and examined you.

“You´re at five centimeters,” the nurse said. “You´re in active labor.”

That made your stomach turn.

Auston crouched down beside you. “Halfway there,” he muttered softly. “You´re doing so good.”

You looked at him with damp eyes. “This is really happening, huh?”

He gave a tiny, nervous laugh. “Yeah. I think we´re doing this.”

4:20 am

You were moved into a delivery suite. Bigger, quieter, filled with soft beeping from machines and a couch in the corner that Auston would absolutely not be using.

He refused to sit. Instead, he helped you change into the hospital gown, held your hand as the nurse inserted your IV and asked the same question over and over: “Do you need anything?”

“I need this baby out of me,” you muttered through gritted teeth.

“Working on that,” he said, brushing your hair back. “I can´t speed it up, but I can hold your hand through it. Deal?”

You nodded as another contraction rolled in, this one stronger, pulling a sharp breath from you.

Auston instantly shifted beside the bed, gripping your hand, his free palm rubbing slow circles over your back.

“You´re doing great,” he murmured. “Just breathe.”

“I am breathing,” you hissed.

“I know. You´re doing it perfectly.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Stop being so calm.”

He smiled. “If I panic, you will kill me.”

5:15 am

By hour two in the labor room, you were done. The pain had moved from manageable to all-consuming. Your back was on fire, your legs shook between contractions and no breathing technique was doing the trick anymore.

You looked at the nurse between gritted teeth. “I want the epidural. Please.”

Auston didn’t even blink. “Okay. Let´s do it.”

He helped you sit up as the anesthesiologist came in.

You buried your face into his chest as the doctor prepped your back. Your arms trembled, part fear, part exhaustion and you hated the sound of plastic wrappers and alcohol swabs behind you.

“You´re okay,” Auston whispered into your hair. “I´m right here. Just breathe. You´re doing so well.”

The needle pricked and you flinched, but he never let go of you. When it was over, the relief – oh, the relief – washed over you like a warm bath.

You collapsed against the pillows, nearly crying from the absence of pain. “Better?” Auston asked, brushing your cheek.

You nodded, breathless. “So much better. Thank God.”

He kissed your forehead. “You´re amazing.”

“Don’t make me cry,” you mumbled. “I´ll get dehydrated.”

7:45 am

Time started to blur. Nurses came and went. The monitors beeped quietly. The sun was starting to rise outside, casting a soft yellow light into the room.

You were lying comfortably now, epidural taking the edge off everything, but the fear was building in your chest again. The realness of it all.

You looked over at Auston, who was sitting at your bedside, scrolling on his phone updating everyone on what was happening with one hand and holding yours with the other one. He looked up the moment he felt your grip tighten.

“What´s wrong?”

You swallowed hard. “What if I can´t do this?”

He set the phone down immediately. “You are doing it.”

“No, I mean…what if something goes wrong? What if the baby is not okay? What if I can´t push? What if they have to do a C-section? What if-“

Auston stood and leaned over the bed, cupping your face gently. “Stop,” he said softly but firm. “Listen to me.”

You blinked away tears.

“You´ve done everything right,” he said. “You´ve cared this baby for nine months. You´ve eaten all the weird snacks. You´ve dealt with all the back pain and the nausea, and the kicks to the ribs. And now you´re here. Doing the hardest part.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I´m so scared, Aus.”

“I know,” he said. “Me too.”

His honesty broke something in you. You reached for him and he kissed your knuckles, resting you’re his forehead against yours.

“I don’t know what´s going to happen next,” he continued. “But I know I´ll be right here next to you when it does. Always.”

You closed your eyes. “Thank you.”

He pulled back and smiled. “Also, I just talked to the nurse, she said you´re almost 9 centimeters.”

Your heart jumped. “What?!”

“She also said the baby´s head is low. Probably soon.”

8:50 am

The doctor entered the room after one more check. “You´re at ten centimeters. Let´s give it a few more minutes for the baby to descend a bit more, and then we´ll start pushing.”

You stared at her like she had just said something in a language you didn’t understand. “That´s it? We just start?”

Auston stood beside you again, rubbing your arm. “We start.”

Panic swelled again in your chest. Auston noticed immediately.

He moved in closer and kissed the side of your head.

“Listen,” he said gently. “You don’t have to be brave right now. You just have to be you and I´ll be right here.”

You but your lip, eyes swimming. “What if I mess up?”

“There´s no messing up,” he whispered. “You´ve already done the impossible. This? This is just the last stretch.”

You leaned into him, closing your eyes as a few tears finally slipped out.

He didn’t wipe them away. He just held your hand tighter.

“Alright,” the nurse said calmly, rolling a small cart into the room. “We´re going to start with some practice pushes first, okay?”

You nodded stiffly, hands gripping the sides of the bed.

Auston was right next to you, standing tall, a towel slung over his shoulder for no reason other than to look useful, eyes locked on yours like he was ready to go to war for you.

He had put a hat on to keep his hair out of his face, looking half-tired, half-terrified but steady.

“I´m not ready,” you whispered to him, your throat tight.

“I know,” he whispered back. “But you don’t have to be perfect right now.”

9:05 am

The doctor got into position, gloves on, coaching you through each step. “Take a deep breath in,” the nurse instructed, her tone form but encouraging. “And push, hard, for ten seconds.”

You did. You bore down and pushed with everything you had, squeezing Auston´s hand like a lifeline.

He counted quietly, voice in your ear. By seven your arms were shaking. “Ten. Breathe.”

You collapsed against the pillows, chest heaving. “Holy shit.”

“You´re doing amazing,” Auston mumbled, brushing a damp strand of hair from your forehead.

“No, I´m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

You glared weakly. “If you say that again, I will punch you.”

He grinned. “Totally fair. You´re still doing amazing, though.”

--------

The next hour passed in a haze. You pushed through waves of exhaustion. You cried through some of them. sometimes from fear, sometimes from frustration, sometimes just because you felt like your body was doing something bigger than it was ever meant to do.

You swore. You groaned. At one point, you shouted “I CAN´T” in the middle of a contraction and Auston was there immediately, gripping both your hands in his.

“Yes you can,” he said. “You are. Just one more. Come on, babe. You´ve got this.”

Your face crumpled as you looked at him. “What if I break?”

“You won´t,” he promised. “But if you do, I´ll hold you together.”

That made you cry again, but you nodded. And pushed.

10:20 am

“You´re almost there,” the doctor said. “I can see the head."

Auston´s eyes went wide. “You can?!”

“Do you want to see?” the nurse offered.

He looked at your first. You hesitated…then nodded.

He stood, peeked around the doctor, then immediately sat back down, eyes glassy, like he couldn’t quite believe what he just saw.

“She´s right,” he whispered. “They´re right there. We´re so close.”

That gave you a second wind. You clutched his hand again, chin down, and gave it everything you had.

“Push-“

You did. Everything blurred. The room dimmed and brightened at once.

“Deep breath…one more…”

You roared with effort. You felt the shift. The pressure. The release.

“Shoulders – okay, here we go…”

And then a cry.

A sharp, perfect wail.

It was like the world stopped for a second.

The doctor lifted the baby, holding them up in the light. “It´s a…” the nurse started.

“No!” you and Auston both cut in at the same time. “We wanted to look first.”

Laughter rippled through the room. The doctor gently placed the baby on your chest.

You looked down.

Tiny, red, crying. Arms flailing. So real.

And unmistakably….

“A girl,” Auston whispered, voice cracking. “We have a little girl.”

“Congratulations Mrs. and Mr. Matthews,” the doctor smiled.

You stared in awe, your arms instinctively wrapping around the tiny, slippery bundle now resting against your chest. Her face was scrunched, her fists curled.

“She´s perfect.”

10:35 am

The nurses worked quietly around you, cleaning her, checking her vitals, wiping you down.

You didn’t even notice the rest of it. All you could do was stare at her, at the warm weight of her tiny body against yours, at the way her cry faded the moment your hand cupped the back of her head.

Auston stood frozen beside you for a long moment, eyes locked on your daughter. “She´s so small,” he whispered. “Oh my god. She´s tiny.”

“She´s perfect,” you whispered.

His voice broke. “Yeah.”

You looked up, there were tears picking at the corner of his eyes.

“Babe,” you said softly.

He gave you a watery smile and crouched beside the bed, brushing his thumb over the baby´s back.

“I didn’t know I could love someone this fast,” he murmured. “It´s like… I don’t even know her yes, and I´d already die for her.”

You smiled through your own tears. “Same.”

He kissed your temple, then your shoulder, then your daughter´s tiny forehead.

“She looks like you,” he laughed.

“She has your mouth.”

“She has your nose.”

You paused. “Do you think she´ll have your shot.”

He laughed quietly. “God, I hope not. She´d break all my records.”

You joined in with laughter. “As if you would be mad about that.”

11:15 am

Eventually, the room was cleaned. The doctor left. The nurses dimmed the lights, and it was just the three of you.

Auston sitting shirtless in the reclined with your daughter curled against his chest, swaddled like a burrito, eyes closed.

“She fell asleep on me,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

You smiled from the bed, still exhausted, still sore, still floating somewhere outside yourself. “She knows who her dad is.”

He looked down at her with a mix of reverence and disbelief. “I can´t believe she was inside you. Like…that´s who we were talking to all those months.”

“She heard your Leafs rants,” you giggled. “She´s probably already a fan.”

He gave a tired chuckle. “I will buy her all the merch in the world. She´ll look so adorable in a tiny Matthews jersey.”

The room was quiet except for the gently hum of the AC and your daughter´s faint breathing.

“She´s real,” Auston repeated, like he had to say it out loud to make it true.

“She´s ours,” you added softly.

He looked at you, eyes filled with awe. “You were incredible.”

You snorted. “I was a mess.”

“Exactly,” he said. “You were scared, and you still did it like a pro. I´ve never been so proud of you.”

Your eyes stung again.

He got up carefully, walking to the side of your bed. “Want do hold her again?”

You nodded.

He placed her in your arms gently, adjusting the blankets. Her lips smacked slightly in her sleep. You stared down at her for a long moment.

“Hey,” you whispered to her. “I´m your mom.”

Then you looked at Auston. “And that massive guy over there is your dad. He´s kind of obsessed with your already.”

“She´s going to be so spoiled,” he warned. “Not just by us but Uncle Mitchy and Uncle Willy are already debating who gets to bring her a present first.”

“She deserves to be.”

#auston matthews #toronto maple leafs #auston matthews imagine #toronto maple leafs imagine #auston matthews x reader #nhl imagine

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