#diplomatic marriage au | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

enhaflixer · 2 months ago

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psh - BOUND & BEYOND - marriage law au! PART 1

A MARRIAGE LAW HARRY POTTER AU SUNSHINE X GRUMPY 2 LOVERS FIC!! PART 2

wizard diplomat grumpy!sunghoon x witch healer sunshine f!reader

warnings: sex lol, hes emotionally unavailable and it hurts, he also might be a bit mean but its okay.

Park Sunghoon had never lost a diplomatic negotiation until today.

As Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, he'd built his career on careful strategy and perfect control. Foreign dignitaries feared his unflappable composure. Fellow department heads envied his meticulous preparation. Even the Minister himself sought Sunghoon's counsel on matters requiring delicate handling.

But against the Marriage Unity Act, all his diplomatic skills had proven worthless.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Park, but your final appeal has been denied," said Matilda Fairweather, the pinch-faced witch from the newly established Marriage Compliance Division. Her tone suggested she wasn't sorry at all. "The magical compatibility readings are among the highest we've recorded. The match stands."

Sunghoon's jaw tightened, the only visible sign of his fury. "Magical compatibility has nothing to do with personal compatibility. You're binding strangers together based on theoretical readings."

Fairweather's thin smile didn't reach her eyes. "The law is quite clear, Mr. Park. Magical compatibility is the primary consideration. Personal preferences are secondary to the greater good of wizarding society."

"And forcing strangers to marry serves the greater good how, exactly?" His voice remained low and controlled, but the edge in it could have cut glass.

"By creating magically powerful unions capable of producing the next generation of witches and wizards," she replied, the rote answer suggesting she'd delivered it dozens of times already. "The population numbers don't lie, Mr. Park. Without intervention, we face magical extinction within three generations."

Sunghoon knew the statistics. He'd studied them extensively during his three appeals. But statistics didn't justify stripping away individual autonomy—especially not his.

"I understand tomorrow is the deadline for your compliance," Fairweather continued, consulting a file. "Your match has already submitted her paperwork accepting the union. The ceremony is scheduled for nine o'clock tomorrow morning, after which you'll have twenty-four hours to establish cohabitation."

"Twenty-four hours," Sunghoon repeated flatly. "The original directive specified thirty days."

"The timeline has been... adjusted," Fairweather said with bureaucratic indifference. "Experience has shown that prolonged separation after matching leads to decreased compliance rates. Twenty-four hours ensures the bonding process begins promptly."

Bonding process. As if they were magical creatures being bred in captivity rather than human beings with established lives and careers.

"And if my residence isn't suitable for immediate cohabitation?" he asked, though he knew his immaculate home with its three bedrooms and precise organization was more than adequate.

"Then the Ministry has prepared standard accommodations for newly matched couples," Fairweather replied, producing a pamphlet depicting a depressingly bland apartment building. "Though given your position, I imagine your residence will meet requirements."

The implied threat was clear: comply or be relegated to Ministry housing, where monitoring would be even more invasive.

"Fine," Sunghoon said, rising from his chair with fluid grace that belied his inner tension. "If there's nothing else, I have work to do."

"Just one more thing," Fairweather said, handing him another pamphlet. This one depicted a smiling couple surrounded by animated text about "Building Marital Compatibility" and "Fulfilling Union Requirements." "The complete timeline for compliance milestones. Shared sleeping quarters by three months, consummation by one year, conception efforts beginning by year two. All subject to regular Ministry verification."

Sunghoon took the pamphlet between two fingers as if it might contaminate him. "Ministry verification of consummation? You can't be serious."

"Detection charms," Fairweather clarified with clinical detachment. "Non-invasive but highly accurate. The Privacy in Marriage Act of 1753 prevents direct observation, but magic leaves traces, Mr. Park. The charms merely detect those traces."

The casual way she discussed monitoring intimate acts made Sunghoon's skin crawl. "How reassuring," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm that seemed to pass entirely over Fairweather's head.

"Indeed. Many couples find the structure helpful in developing genuine bonds." She returned his file to a towering stack on her desk. "Nine o'clock tomorrow, Conference Room B. Your match has been notified. Do try to arrive on time."

Dismissed like a first-year clerk, Sunghoon exited the Marriage Compliance Office with his dignity intact but his future irrevocably altered. He'd known from the moment the Marriage Unity Act passed that he would likely be affected—single, magically powerful, and within the specified age range, he was an obvious candidate. But he'd believed his position and influence would secure him an exemption.

He'd been wrong.

Tomorrow, he would be legally bound to a virtual stranger. And not just any stranger, but the one person in wizarding Britain whose very existence seemed designed to disrupt everything he valued.

Y/N L/N. Pediatric Healer at St. Mungo's.

He'd encountered you exactly twice, and both meetings had left him with the unsettling feeling of having been caught in a hurricane of warmth and chaos. The first time had been at a Ministry function honoring medical innovation, where you'd received an award for your work with children suffering from unstable magic. Instead of the proper, reserved acceptance speech expected at such events, you'd told a story about a seven-year-old patient that had the entire room first laughing, then wiping away tears, and finally erupting into the kind of genuine applause rarely heard at Ministry functions.

Sunghoon had watched from the back of the room, increasingly uncomfortable with the emotional display. You'd broken every rule of formal Ministry presentations and somehow emerged triumphant, leaving the podium surrounded by people drawn to your genuine warmth like moths to a flame.

The second encounter had been at St. Mungo's, when he'd reluctantly accompanied the child of a visiting dignitary who'd been injured during an international portkey journey. You'd swept into the examination room in lime-green healer robes personalized with embroidered stars and moons, your whole being radiating such cheerful competence that the sobbing child had immediately quieted.

You'd barely acknowledged Sunghoon's presence, focused entirely on your small patient, kneeling to eye level and speaking in the kind of warm, engaging tone he associated with people who genuinely enjoyed children—a foreign concept to him. Your office, glimpsed through an open door, had been a riot of color and movement: animated drawings covered the walls, magical plants bloomed in every corner, and enchanted toys danced on any available surface.

Everything about you—from your bright laugh to your obvious comfort with disorder—represented the antithesis of Sunghoon's carefully structured existence. And now, by Ministry decree, you would be his wife.

The thought was so absurd that he might have laughed if he were the type of man who laughed at anything.

Conference Room B had been superficially transformed for its role as a wedding venue. Someone—presumably not the Ministry—had conjured garlands of flowers that draped the usually austere walls, and the harsh magical lighting had been softened to a warm glow. The effect was like putting a party hat on a troll: fundamentally incongruous but somehow endearing in its attempt.

Sunghoon arrived fifteen minutes early, as was his habit for all appointments. He was surprised to find the room already occupied—not by Ministry officials, but by you.

You stood by the window, adjusting a vase of wildflowers that certainly hadn't been provided by the Marriage Compliance Office. At the sound of the door, you turned, and your face bloomed into a smile so genuine it seemed to brighten the enchanted lighting.

"Good morning!" you greeted, as if this were a pleasant social gathering rather than a forced legal proceeding. "I hope you don't mind the flowers. I couldn't bear the thought of getting married in a room that looked like a place where people receive tax audits."

Your robes were a soft blue that complemented your complexion, with tiny embroidered stars at the cuffs and collar—similar to the ones you'd worn at the hospital, but more elegant. Your hair was styled simply but beautifully, and despite the circumstances, your eyes held a warmth that seemed to be your natural state rather than a cultivated expression.

Sunghoon, dressed in immaculate formal robes of deepest charcoal, felt suddenly severe in comparison. "This isn't a wedding," he said flatly. "It's a legal formality. Decorations just waste time."

Your smile dimmed slightly, but you rallied with visible determination. "Well, yes, but that doesn't mean it has to feel like signing a business merger in a dungeon, does it? It's still our wedding day, even if the circumstances are... unusual."

Our wedding day. The phrase made something in Sunghoon's chest constrict uncomfortably. This wasn't a wedding in any meaningful sense—it was a legal proceeding mandated by an overreaching government.

"I brought something for you," you said, reaching into a small bag to produce a boutonnière—a single blue flower with a sprig of greenery. "I know this isn't a traditional wedding, but I thought... well, it might make it feel a bit more special."

Sunghoon stared at the offering, momentarily at a loss. In his numerous appeals and countless mental preparations for this day, he had never once considered that you might approach the situation with such... sentimentality.

"No," he said simply, not bothering to soften his rejection.

Your hand, still extended with the boutonnière, faltered visibly. For the first time, uncertainty crept into your expression, the sunshine dimming behind gathering clouds.

"Oh," you said softly, withdrawing your hand. "Of course. I just thought..."

You didn't finish the sentence, but Sunghoon could read the disappointment in the slight slump of your shoulders, the way your smile became something practiced rather than natural. It was remarkable, really, how transparent your emotions were—like watching weather patterns move across an open sky.

He moved to speak, “Uh, I just-“

The Ministry official arrived then, saving him from having to respond. You quickly tucked the boutonnière back into your bag, straightening your robes and visibly composing yourself.

"Good morning," said the official, a harried-looking witch with ink-stained fingers. "Y/N L/N and Park Sunghoon?" At your nods, she continued briskly, "I'm Cordelia Figg, Marriage Registration Office. I'll be conducting your binding ceremony today."

She set a stack of parchments on the table, glancing around at the flowers with mild surprise. "Oh. Someone's made an effort."

"That would be me," you said, your smile returning, though it didn't quite reach your eyes. "I thought a few flowers might brighten things up."

"Very nice," Figg said, clearly indifferent. "Now, shall we begin? The Ministry has seventeen ceremonies scheduled today, and we're running behind already."

The ceremony was mercifully brief. Names confirmed, magical compatibility verified (with a begrudgingly impressed "Highest reading this week" from Figg), and binding vows recited—not traditional wedding vows of love and devotion, but Ministry-approved declarations of compliance with the Marriage Unity Act.

When it came time to sign the marriage certificate, you hesitated fractionally, your quill hovering above the parchment. Sunghoon, watching your profile, saw something like resignation pass across your face before you signed with a surprisingly elegant flourish.

He added his own signature beneath yours, the document glowing briefly as the magical binding took effect.

"Congratulations," Figg said with the enthusiasm of someone announcing a mandatory tax filing. "You are now legally bonded under the Marriage Unity Act." She handed each of you a copy of the certificate. "You have twenty-four hours to establish a shared residence and file your cohabitation notification. Failure to comply will result in immediate relocation to Ministry housing."

You tensed slightly at the timeline, though Sunghoon had expected it after yesterday's meeting.

"Additionally," Figg continued, consulting her notes, "your first compatibility assessment is scheduled in two weeks. A representative from the Marriage Compliance Office will visit your residence to verify appropriate cohabitation and evaluate initial bonding progress."

"Two weeks?" you asked, surprise evident in your voice. "I thought the first assessment wasn't until the one-month mark."

"The timeline has been adjusted," Figg replied, echoing Fairweather's words from yesterday. "Experience has shown that early intervention improves long-term compliance."

Sunghoon noted the tightening around your eyes—the first sign of genuine distress you'd shown. "What exactly are you looking for in this assessment?" he asked, his tone making it clear he expected a direct answer.

"Standard evaluation of living arrangements, observation of interaction patterns, basic questions about your developing relationship," Figg recited. "Nothing invasive at this stage. That comes later."

The casual acknowledgment of future invasions of privacy made your eyes widen slightly.

"Is that all?" Sunghoon asked, not bothering to hide his irritation.

"Just one more matter," Figg said, producing two small velvet boxes. "The Ministry provides standard binding rings. You're required to wear them at all times as visual indicators of your matched status."

She opened the boxes to reveal two plain gold bands. Nothing distinctive, nothing personal—just visible symbols of Ministry control.

"The rings are enchanted to monitor basic health status between matched pairs," Figg explained, "and contain locator charms that activate in emergencies. They also warm slightly when in proximity to each other, encouraging regular contact."

"So they're tracking devices," Sunghoon said, making no move to take the box.

Figg's expression hardened slightly. "Health and safety measures, Mr. Park. Standard for all matched pairs."

You reached for your box with visible reluctance, opening it fully to examine the ring inside. "It looks like a normal wedding band," you observed quietly.

"That's the intention," Figg replied. "To all external appearances, matched pairs should resemble traditional marriages. Public confidence in the program depends on perceived normalcy."

Sunghoon couldn't quite suppress a derisive sound at that, earning a sharp look from the official. He took the remaining box with precise movements that conveyed his displeasure without requiring words.

"The rings must be placed on each other," Figg instructed. "Part of the binding magic."

This, Sunghoon hadn't anticipated. The exchange of rings implied a level of personal involvement he'd expected to avoid. From your hesitation, he suspected you felt the same discomfort, though likely for different reasons.

"I can go first," you offered after a moment, removing the larger ring from its box. Your hand trembled slightly as you held it, and Sunghoon was struck by the realization that despite your attempts at cheerfulness, you were just as unsettled by this forced union as he was.

He extended his left hand, and you carefully slid the ring onto his fourth finger. The metal was cool for a moment, then warmed against his skin as the magic activated. He felt a curious sensation—like a door opening somewhere in his mind, creating an awareness of your presence that hadn't existed before.

"Your turn," you said softly, offering your own hand.

Sunghoon took the smaller ring from its box, noting the delicacy of the band compared to his own. Your fingers were slim but strong—healer's hands, steady in crisis but gentle with the vulnerable. He slid the ring into place with efficient movement, careful to maintain a professional distance despite the intimate gesture.

You inhaled sharply as the ring settled, your eyes widening slightly. He wondered if you felt the same strange awareness that he did—like a compass suddenly oriented toward magnetic north.

"The binding is complete," Figg announced, gathering her papers. "You'll receive an owl with the exact time of your first assessment. Remember, cohabitation must be established within twenty-four hours."

And with that anticlimactic conclusion, you were married.

Figg departed with brisk efficiency, leaving you and Sunghoon alone in the flower-decorated conference room, newly minted spouses with nothing to say to each other.

You were the first to break the silence. "So... twenty-four hours," you said, your voice determinedly bright despite the strain evident around your eyes. "That's not much time to arrange a move."

"No," Sunghoon agreed shortly, already thinking through logistics. "Where do you live?"

"Diagon Alley," you replied. "Above the apothecary. It's small but convenient for hospital shifts."

He nodded once, decision made. "We'll use my place. It's bigger, has three bedrooms, good security. Bring what you need today, the rest can come later."

The practicality of his response seemed to steady you somewhat. "That makes sense. Though I should warn you, I have a cat, Nyx. She's part of the non-negotiable package."

A cat. Of course there would be a pet. Sunghoon's jaw tightened again. "Just keep it off the furniture."

"She's very well-behaved," you assured him, though your expression suggested the cat might have opinions on the matter. "Thank you for offering your home. I know this isn't... well, what either of us would have chosen."

The simple acknowledgment of their shared predicament was unexpected. Sunghoon had prepared for tears, for anger, for manipulative emotional displays—not for this straightforward acceptance coupled with determined grace.

"Neither of us has much choice," he said, his tone less harsh than before. "We might as well make it workable."

You studied him for a moment, head tilted slightly as if trying to read something in his guarded expression. "You're taking this remarkably well," you observed. "I've been fluctuating between panic and hysterical laughter since I got the letter."

The candid admission surprised a nearly imperceptible quirk of the lips from Sunghoon—not quite a smile, but the closest approximation he'd shown all day. "Years of dealing with difficult diplomats," he said by way of explanation. "I've handled worse than this."

"I'm not sure whether to be relieved or offended by that comparison," you said, attempting a tentative smile. "Though I doubt your diplomatic training covered forced marriage."

"It did not," he confirmed, and if his tone held the faintest trace of dry humor, it was gone too quickly to be certain.

You glanced at the flowers you'd brought, now looking somewhat forlorn in the empty conference room. "I should clean these up before we go."

"Leave them," Sunghoon said, surprising himself slightly. "The next couple might need them more than we did."

Something in your expression brightened at this small consideration—disproportionately, in his view, to the minor gesture. "That's... surprisingly thoughtful."

Sunghoon shifted uncomfortably. He didn't do thoughtful. Practical, efficient, fair, but not thoughtful. "It's just efficient. Cleaning up would waste time we don't have."

"Right," you said, though your smile suggested you didn't entirely believe his explanation. "Efficient. Of course."

As you gathered your few belongings, Sunghoon found himself studying the ring now encircling his finger. The magic hummed just below his awareness, a constant reminder of the connection that had been forced upon him. When you moved toward the door, he felt a slight warmth from the metal—the proximity alert Figg had mentioned.

"Shall we?" you asked, pausing at the threshold.

Sunghoon nodded once, following you from the room. As the door closed behind them, he caught a final glimpse of the flowers brightening the sterile Ministry space—a small rebellion against institutional coldness that seemed to embody your approach to this entire situation.

It occurred to him, with unwelcome clarity, that navigating life with someone who met adversity with flowers and determined optimism would require reserves of patience he wasn't entirely sure he possessed.

This, he suspected, was going to be significantly more complicated than any international negotiation he'd ever handled.

Journal Entry: 14 March 2023

Day one of cohabitation with Y/N. Initial observations:

The woman is incapable of following basic organizational systems. I left a detailed orientation packet on her nightstand. Found it this morning with doodles in the margins. DOODLES. On a carefully prepared document.

Her belongings have already invaded common spaces. Colorful throw pillows appeared on my sofa. Books stacked at odd angles on the side table. Even the bathroom isn't safe. Potions bottles everywhere, none arranged by size or purpose.

The constant humming and talking to herself is worse than I anticipated. Also talks to the cat as if it understands English.

Speaking of the cat - it's staring at me. Constantly. Follows me from room to room. I've done nothing to encourage this behavior. Today it had the audacity to sit on my chair and stare until I gave it a treat. Not sure why I complied. Temporary lapse in judgment.

Sleep was difficult. The awareness of another person in the house is... distracting.

Y/N herself is less irritating than expected. She's handling the situation with surprising practicality, despite the excessive cheerfulness.

The Ministry assessment is in 13 days. Need to create the appearance of "bonding" without actually changing anything. Should be straightforward enough. Just need to ensure she doesn't rearrange anything else in the meantime.

Initial verdict: Not quite as bad as projected. Still completely unacceptable.

— S.

Three days into your cohabitation, and you'd already established that Park Sunghoon's morning routine was inflexible. He woke at exactly 5:30 AM, spent forty-five minutes in the bathroom, and left for the Ministry at 7:15 AM sharp. The presence of a new wife apparently didn't warrant any adjustments to his schedule.

Your own hours at St. Mungo's were far less predictable. As a pediatric healer, you worked rotating shifts across days, evenings, and occasional nights. This morning, you were due at the hospital by 8:00 AM, putting you on a collision course with Sunghoon's immovable morning ritual.

At 6:10 AM, you stood outside the bathroom door, shifting from foot to foot, your patience wearing thin.

"Sunghoon?" you called, knocking lightly. "I really need to get ready for work."

Silence. Either he couldn't hear you over the shower, or he was deliberately ignoring you.

You knocked again, louder this time. "Sunghoon, I have rounds at eight!"

The water shut off abruptly. A moment later, the door opened just enough to reveal Sunghoon's face, his hair still wet, eyes narrowed with obvious irritation.

"I'm not finished in here," he said flatly.

"I know that," you replied, trying to keep your voice even. "But unlike you, my schedule changes day to day, and I need to be at St. Mungo's by eight. Could you please finish up so I can get ready?"

Sunghoon stared at you for a long moment. "This disrupts my schedule."

"Yes, I'm aware," you said, your famous patience beginning to fray. "But unless you want me to show up for work in yesterday's robes with unbrushed teeth, we need to adjust."

Sunghoon's jaw tightened, but he gave a curt nod. "Five minutes." The door closed before you could respond.

True to his word, exactly five minutes later he emerged fully dressed in impeccable Ministry robes, not a hair out of place. How he managed to transform from shower-damp to completely presentable so quickly remained a mystery.

"Thank you," you said, genuinely grateful despite his obvious annoyance. "I promise we can work out a better schedule."

Sunghoon stepped aside with a grunt that might have been acknowledgment. "Figure out a system for the bathroom. This isn't working."

"Tonight?" you asked, already closing the bathroom door.

He nodded once, already walking away.

The bathroom, like the rest of Sunghoon's home, was impeccably organized. Everything was precisely arranged, from the towels to the toiletries. Despite his hasty exit, there was no evidence he'd been there—no steam on the mirror, no water drops, not even a damp towel.

You couldn't help comparing it to your old bathroom, with its cheerful clutter of hair potions and colorful healing salves. You'd tried to contain your "mess" (as Sunghoon had bluntly called it) to your designated spaces, but the bathroom was necessarily shared.

As you showered, you wondered how long before Sunghoon lost his mind completely at having to share his perfectly ordered world with someone who considered "sort of organized" a major achievement.

Sunghoon returned from work that evening to find his kitchen transformed. Cabinet doors stood open, cookware rearranged, and something simmered on the stove, filling the air with rich aromas.

You stood at the counter, chopping vegetables with practiced precision. Music played softly from a wireless on the windowsill, and Nyx sat on a kitchen chair—flagrantly violating his "no pets on furniture" rule—watching with obvious interest.

"Hi," you said, looking up with a warm smile. "I thought I'd make dinner for both of us. Seemed silly to cook separately."

Sunghoon's eyes narrowed as he took in the scene, gaze lingering on the kitchen timer that had been moved from its designated spot. "I eat at seven. Sharp."

"Perfect timing then," you replied, undeterred by his lack of enthusiasm. "That's exactly when this will be ready. Nothing fancy, just stew."

Before he could respond, Nyx jumped down and wound herself around his ankles, nearly tripping him.

"Your cat is trying to kill me," he muttered, regaining his balance with a scowl.

You laughed, the sound bright in his usually silent home. "She's saying hello. Though with cats, the line between greeting and attempted murder is admittedly thin."

Nyx continued circling his legs, purring loudly despite the minimal acknowledgment from Sunghoon.

"I have work to finish," he said, carefully stepping around the cat. "Let me know when dinner's ready."

"Of course," you agreed, turning back to your cooking. "Oh, Sunghoon?"

He paused in the doorway, looking back with obvious impatience.

"About this morning," you continued. "I made a schedule of my shifts for the next two weeks. Maybe we could coordinate so we're not fighting over the bathroom?"

You pointed to a colorful chart on the refrigerator, held up by a magnet shaped like a frog. You'd detailed all your shifts and bathroom times with different colors.

Sunghoon stared at it longer than necessary, clearly caught off-guard. He'd expected complaints or demands, not a practical solution that actually respected his need for routine.

"Fine," he said finally, though his tone was notably less harsh. "I'll look it over."

Your smile brightened, as if he'd offered high praise instead of grudging acceptance. "Great! I know neither of us wanted this arrangement, but we might as well make it work, right?"

Sunghoon just grunted in response and retreated to his study, unable to formulate a proper reply to your persistent optimism.

Once safely behind his desk, he found himself staring blankly at his work, distracted by the unfamiliar sounds and smells filtering through the house. Even here in his private sanctuary, your presence seemed to permeate everything. The house felt different—warmer, more alive somehow.

The Ministry ring warmed slightly on his finger, a constant reminder of your presence elsewhere in the home. The sensation wasn't entirely unpleasant, which was perhaps the most disturbing part of all.

Dinner proved surprisingly tolerable. The stew was excellent—rich and flavorful. Despite himself, Sunghoon finished his entire bowl, a fact that seemed to please you immensely.

"There's plenty more if you want seconds," you offered, your own bowl already empty.

"This is enough," Sunghoon replied, though he wouldn't have minded more. Taking seconds felt strangely like admitting defeat.

"So," you said after a moment, "how was your day?"

The question caught him off-guard. No one ever asked about his day. His evenings typically passed in complete silence, with no expectations of small talk or social niceties.

"Fine," he said finally. Then, after a brief internal debate: "The Bulgarians are being difficult about potion imports."

To his surprise, you didn't just nod politely and change the subject. "Is that the nightshade derivatives issue? I read about it last week."

Sunghoon looked up, reassessing you. "Yes. They've implemented restrictions that violate Section Seven of the International Trade Agreement."

"Because of the poisoning cases?" you asked, seeming genuinely interested. "We had a child on the ward who got sick from a poorly regulated Sleeping Draught from Eastern Europe. Really bad situation."

"Exactly why proper regulation matters," Sunghoon said, finding himself drawn into the conversation despite his intention to keep dinner brief. "Bulgaria's unilateral action undermines the existing framework without actually fixing the problem."

You nodded thoughtfully. "I can see both sides. As a healer, I want the strictest safety standards for potions. But I also understand why uniform international rules matter."

"The two aren't mutually exclusive," Sunghoon found himself explaining. "A coordinated approach gives both safety and consistency."

The conversation flowed with unexpected ease as you discussed the intersection of international policy and healing practices. Sunghoon was reluctantly impressed by your insights. This wasn't the mindless chatter he'd expected but an actual exchange he found... almost engaging.

He was so focused on explaining a particularly complex regulation that he didn't notice Nyx jump onto the table until she was approaching his plate with determined interest.

"Nyx!" you exclaimed, reaching for the cat. "No, we don't do that!"

Sunghoon had already moved his plate away from her investigative nose. "Your cat thinks rules don't apply to her."

"She's testing boundaries," you said, scooping her up and removing her from the table. "She does this with every new place. Sorry—I should have warned you she'd try to take over the dining area."

"Take over?" Sunghoon repeated, eyeing the cat with new understanding.

"She's checking if you'll enforce rules or if she can gradually claim the house as her domain," you explained with a smile. "Classic cat power move."

"So she's deliberately challenging my authority," Sunghoon said, a hint of grudging respect in his voice as he studied the cat's unrepentant face.

"Exactly," you laughed. "It's basically a hostile takeover attempt, just with more fur and purring."

To your surprise, the corner of Sunghoon's mouth twitched slightly. "Tell your cat that I don't negotiate with terrorists, regardless of how fluffy they are."

"I'll relay the message," you replied with mock seriousness, "but fair warning—she's been known to leave hairball 'presents' for those who resist her rule."

This time, Sunghoon's almost-smile was more visible. Something about your willingness to joke about the situation without mocking his need for order was strangely disarming.

The rest of dinner passed in conversation focused mainly on the upcoming Ministry assessment. You both agreed on minimal compliance—showing just enough "bonding" to satisfy the bureaucrats without crossing Sunghoon's carefully drawn boundaries.

"I should probably put a few more of my things in the living room," you suggested as you gathered the dishes. "Nothing overwhelming, just enough to show we're sharing space."

"Makes sense, although you already have," Sunghoon agreed, rising to help with cleanup—a small but notable departure from his usual habits. "They'll look for signs we're actually living together, not just occupying the same house."

"Maybe a couple of photos? One of my healing journals on the coffee table?"

"Fine," he said, the word less clipped than usual. The excellent meal had perhaps mellowed his typical resistance, or maybe he simply recognized that some concessions were necessary to keep the Ministry off their backs.

After dinner, you retreated to your room, leaving Sunghoon to his evening reading. The house settled into quiet, punctuated only by your occasional movements upstairs and Nyx's determined patrols of the hallways.

The morning that changed everything came on your fifth day together.

Despite your carefully coordinated bathroom schedule, an emergency at the hospital had disrupted everything. Called in at three AM, you hadn't returned until nearly dawn, forgetting that 5:15 was exactly when Sunghoon would be waking up.

You were halfway through your shower when the bathroom door opened.

Sunghoon, still half-asleep, was two steps into the room before registering the running water and steam.

"Shit—sorry," he said, suddenly alert. "Didn't know you were back."

"Emergency case," you called over the water. "Completely lost track of time!"

"I'll come back—" Sunghoon began, when his retreat was interrupted by Nyx darting between his legs, nearly knocking him off balance.

What happened next unfolded too quickly to prevent. Sunghoon stumbled against the sink, knocking your bottle of Madame Mimosa's Magnificent Moisture Potion to the floor. It shattered, immediately releasing both its contents and its powerful enchantment.

The bathroom instantly filled with fragrant mist smelling of honeysuckle and vanilla. The moisture-enhancing charm transformed the already steamy bathroom into a tropical greenhouse.

"What the—" you gasped, shutting off the water and grabbing a towel.

"Goddamn magical beauty products," Sunghoon muttered, already looking for something to clean up the mess.

You stepped forward to help when your foot hit a slick patch. With a startled yelp, you lost your balance as the towel began to slip.

Sunghoon moved with surprising speed and grace, catching you firmly by the arms before you could fall. The towel stayed in place, though precariously low.

For a breathless moment, you found yourself held securely in his grip, your face inches from his. Through the enchanted mist, you saw his eyes darken as he registered your proximity. Water droplets clung to your skin, and you became acutely aware of how little separated you—just a damp towel and his rapidly dampening clothes.

"Thanks," you said softly, suddenly very aware of how strong his hands felt.

Sunghoon seemed to realize he was still holding you. Rather than jerking away awkwardly, he released you with controlled deliberation, his hands sliding down your arms before dropping to his sides.

"I should let you finish," he said, his voice lower than usual. "We can deal with this mess later."

He left with surprising composure despite his now damp clothes and the way his normally perfect hair had started to curl against his forehead.

When you emerged thirty minutes later, the house was quiet. On the kitchen counter, you found a note in Sunghoon's precise handwriting:

Early meeting at the Ministry today. Back this evening. —S

Beneath it lay a small velvet pouch containing a vial of Madame Mimosa's Magnificent Moisture Potion—the exact product that had shattered.

He'd replaced your broken cosmetic. Such a small gesture, yet as you held the vial, you felt a warmth spreading through your chest that had nothing to do with moisture potions.

Somewhere beneath that grumpy exterior, Sunghoon had not only noticed what you used but gone out of his way to replace it without being asked.

Maybe there was hope for this arrangement after all.

That evening, Sunghoon returned to find dinner waiting—a peace offering of sorts for the morning's disruption. He entered the kitchen cautiously, as if expecting another magical mishap.

"I promise there are no moisture potions involved in tonight's dinner," you said with a smile that acknowledged the morning's awkwardness without dwelling on it.

"Good to know," Sunghoon replied, and if his voice sounded less irritated than usual, you chose not to comment.

"Thank you for replacing my potion," you said as you served the food. "You really didn't have to do that."

Sunghoon focused intently on arranging his napkin, clearly uncomfortable with gratitude. "It was my fault it broke."

"Still, it was thoughtful," you persisted, unwilling to let the kindness go unacknowledged.

Sunghoon just shrugged, visibly uncomfortable. "I updated the bathroom schedule to include emergency shifts," he said, obviously changing the subject. "There's a buffer period built in now."

"Perfect," you replied, allowing him the redirect. "I've also moved my potions to a safer spot. Though I can't promise Nyx won't continue her reign of terror."

As if summoned, the cat appeared in the doorway, yellow eyes fixed on Sunghoon with unusual interest.

"Your cat is staring at me again," he said, eyeing Nyx warily. "It's unnerving."

"She's decided you're interesting," you said with a smile. "I've never seen her take to anyone so quickly."

"I haven't done anything to encourage her," Sunghoon muttered, though he didn't object when Nyx jumped onto the empty chair beside him and settled in to watch the meal.

"Some people just have that effect on animals," you suggested, hiding a smile as you noticed how Sunghoon had shifted to accommodate the cat's presence.

"No, she's definitely plotting something," he replied, though without real heat. "She knows I don't like her on the furniture, so she does it more often. She's probably enjoying my irritation."

"That's... actually spot-on cat psychology," you admitted, impressed despite yourself.

Neither of you mentioned the morning's encounter directly, but something had shifted between you. As you cleared the dishes together—a small routine that had developed without discussion—you found yourself wondering if Sunghoon was as aware of you now as you suddenly were of him.

Because in that moment in the steamy bathroom, you'd noticed things about your Ministry-assigned husband you'd been ignoring: the strength in his hands, the heat of his skin through damp fabric, the way his eyes had darkened when they met yours.

Physical attraction. Exactly the complication neither of you needed.

But as you watched him methodically drying dishes, his movements controlled yet oddly graceful, you wondered if he'd noticed something too—something that had sent him to the Ministry for the day, something that had prompted him to replace your broken potion with such uncharacteristic thoughtfulness.

The Ministry ring warmed slightly on your finger, as it always did when you were near him. But for the first time, you wondered if the enchantment was merely enhancing something that might have developed naturally, given time and proximity.

A dangerous thought, and one you quickly dismissed. This wasn't a love match but a Ministry arrangement. Developing feelings for a man who clearly valued order and emotional distance above all else would only make an already challenging situation unbearable.

Still, as you bid Sunghoon goodnight and headed upstairs, you couldn't quite forget the look in his eyes through the enchanted mist, or the careful strength of his hands as they steadied you.

Some boundaries, it seemed, were proving more difficult to maintain than others.

Journal Entry: 18 March 2023

This morning's bathroom incident requires documentation before I forget the details.

Thanks to Y/N's emergency shift and that damn cat, we had a collision in the bathroom. A bottle broke, releasing some kind of moisture enchantment that turned the bathroom into a steam room. She slipped, I caught her, and for a moment things got...complicated.

She was wearing only a towel. Her skin was wet. I could smell honeysuckle everywhere. And for a few seconds, I couldn't think straight.

Basic attraction. Nothing more. Just biology responding to an objectively attractive woman in close proximity. Doesn't mean anything.

Replaced her broken potion on the way to work. Simple courtesy since I knocked it over. She's reading too much into it, calling it "thoughtful." It was just fixing a mistake.

I need to be more careful about maintaining distance. Too easy to slip into casual intimacy in a shared living space. The proximity is...distracting.

— S.

The notes began on your seventh day of cohabitation.

The first appeared on the kitchen counter:

Second cabinet from the left has tea. Purple tin is good for early shifts. —S

More notes followed, appearing with increasing frequency throughout the house:

Book on Eastern European healing techniques is on the third shelf. Might help with your case. —S

Chair by the east window has the best light for reading. —S

Each note was brief and practical, yet together they revealed something unexpected: Sunghoon was paying attention to the minute details of your habits, preferences, and needs.

"Your husband keeps leaving me instructions," you told Nyx as you discovered yet another note, this one attached to a vial of headache potion after a difficult shift. "As if I can't possibly function without his guidance."

Nyx, curled on your pillow, regarded you with knowing yellow eyes.

"Okay, fine," you conceded. "The headache potion is actually thoughtful."

The strangest part was that Sunghoon never mentioned the notes. Not when you used the recommended tea, not when you sat in the supposedly optimal reading chair. He merely inclined his head slightly when he noticed, acknowledging without actually having to talk about it.

It was as if the notes allowed him to be attentive without the discomfort of direct personal interaction—a buffer that let him care from a safe distance.

"The Ministry assessment is in three days," Sunghoon announced over dinner. "We need to discuss strategy."

"I've been leaving some of my things in the common areas," you offered. "Signs of shared space, like we talked about."

"Good," Sunghoon said. "That covers the basics. But they'll be looking for signs we're comfortable with each other."

"So we need to act like we don't hate each other," you summarized. "That shouldn't be too difficult. I don't actually hate you, despite your militant organization of spice jars."

Something that might have been amusement flickered in Sunghoon's eyes. "The spice system makes perfect sense. And I don't..." He paused, as if the words were difficult to form. "I don't mind having you here. As much as I thought I would."

Coming from Sunghoon, this was practically a declaration of fond attachment.

"For the assessment, we'll need to look comfortable with physical proximity," he continued. "They watch for casual contact."

"Casual contact?" you repeated, feeling inexplicably nervous. Since the bathroom incident, you'd both been careful to maintain personal space. The thought of deliberately breaching that boundary sent an unexpected flutter through your stomach.

"Hand touches. Sitting close. Basic couple things." His tone was matter-of-fact, but you noticed how his fingers tightened slightly around his water glass.

"Right," you agreed, trying to match his casual tone despite the warmth creeping up your neck. "Just normal married-people stuff."

An awkward silence fell, broken only when Nyx jumped onto the table and began examining Sunghoon's water glass.

"Your cat is still testing me," Sunghoon observed, making no move to remove her.

"She likes you," you said.

"Cats like people who ignore them," Sunghoon replied, though he unconsciously extended a finger to scratch behind Nyx's ear. "Perverse creatures."

"Is that why you leave notes instead of talking to me directly?" The question escaped before you could reconsider it.

Sunghoon looked up sharply. "The notes are practical. They avoid unnecessary conversation."

"They're about which chair gets the best light and which tea I might like," you pointed out gently. "Not exactly essential information."

"Writing is more direct."

"And less personal," you added. "You don't have to look at me or deal with my response if you just leave a note."

"The notes keep things simple," he said, his expression closing off. "The Ministry wants us to live together. They don't require us to be best friends."

The coldness in his voice stung more than it should have. After all, this was a Ministry arrangement, not a love match.

Still, when you climbed into bed that night, you were surprised to find a new note on your pillow:

Found an error in that healing text you're reading. Page 394 has wrong moonflower dosages for children under seven. I made a correction in the margin. —S

Below his usual initial was an additional line:

Your input on the Bulgarian negotiations was helpful. They accepted our proposal.

You stared at the note, reading and re-reading the second part. It wasn't exactly effusive praise, but coming from Sunghoon, it was practically a standing ovation.

In a note, of course—heaven forbid he mention it in person—but still.

As you placed the note on your bedside table, you noticed something else: your wand, which you'd left on the dresser as usual, had been moved to the bedside table exactly as Sunghoon had suggested in his earlier note.

You'd moved it without even thinking about it, automatically following his "more efficient" arrangement.

The realization made you smile despite your lingering hurt from dinner. Perhaps, in your own way, you were both adjusting to each other—his brief notes, your gradual adoption of his systems. Not a traditional foundation for a relationship, certainly, but a form of communication nonetheless.

With the Ministry assessment rapidly approaching, you supposed any form of connection, however peculiar, was better than none at all.

"We should adjust how we sit," Sunghoon announced the following evening as you both stood awkwardly in the living room, attempting to "practice" looking like a comfortable couple.

"What's wrong with how we sit?" you asked, looking at the sofa and chairs that had been in their precise positions since you moved in.

"We sit too far apart," he said bluntly. "You're always in the armchair, I'm at the opposite end of the sofa. Real couples sit closer."

You glanced between your preferred chair and Sunghoon's usual spot at the far end of the sofa. He wasn't wrong—you'd naturally established territories as far from each other as the room allowed.

"So we should sit closer together when they visit?" you suggested.

"We should practice now, so it looks natural," Sunghoon said, moving toward the sofa with visible reluctance. "Forced closeness will look just as suspicious as sitting across the room."

You fought back a smile at his serious approach to what was essentially "pretending to like each other." It was so very Sunghoon to treat casual affection as something that needed rehearsal.

"Alright then," you said, settling onto the sofa at what you judged to be a friendly but not intimate distance. "Like this?"

Sunghoon studied the space between you with a frown. "Still too formal." Before you could respond, he shifted closer, not quite touching but near enough that you could feel the warmth emanating from his body.

"Couples who are getting comfortable with each other sit about this far apart," he said. His tone was practical, but you noticed how carefully he was holding himself, as if afraid to relax into the sofa cushions.

"You've really researched this, haven't you?" you asked, unable to keep the amusement from your voice.

"I looked into what Ministry inspectors look for," Sunghoon said defensively. "I don't want to fail over something as simple as sitting arrangements."

"Of course," you murmured, suddenly very aware of how close he was. The scent of his cologne—something clean and subtle that you'd begun to associate with his presence—seemed more noticeable at this distance.

"We should practice casual touch too," Sunghoon continued, though you noticed the slight tension in his jaw. "Hand touches. Arms brushing. Normal couple things."

You nodded, your mouth suddenly dry. "That makes sense. Should we, um, go for it?"

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, with what appeared to be forced casualness, Sunghoon extended his hand, palm up, between you.

"Hand holding is pretty basic," he said, his voice lower than usual. "Nothing complicated."

You placed your hand in his, expecting a brief, perfunctory touch. Instead, his fingers closed around yours with a gentle pressure, his palm warm and surprisingly soft against your skin.

"This is the kind of thing they'll expect to see," he explained, his eyes fixed on your joined hands. "Just casual touch."

"Right," you agreed, trying to ignore the way your pulse had quickened. "Casual."

You couldn't help but notice how neatly your hand fit in his, how the simple contact somehow felt both ordinary and intimate at once. Sunghoon's thumb moved slightly, a small brush against the side of your hand that might have been unconscious but sent a surprising tingle up your arm.

"How long do we need to practice this particular touch?" you asked, attempting humor to mask your unexpected reaction.

Sunghoon looked up, and for the first time you noticed the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. "A few seconds is enough for a casual touch," he said. "Any longer means something else."

"And what might that be?" The question slipped out before you could stop it, softer and more genuine than you'd intended.

Something shifted in Sunghoon's expression—a momentary crack in his carefully maintained armor. His eyes dropped briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes, the movement so quick you almost missed it.

Before he could answer, the front door wards chimed with an unfamiliar pattern.

Sunghoon dropped your hand and stood in one fluid motion, suddenly all business. "Ministry officials."

"But the assessment isn't until tomorrow," you said, rising as well.

"They do surprise visits," Sunghoon replied, straightening his already immaculate robes. "To catch couples off guard."

The wards chimed again, more insistently.

"Do we look okay?" you asked, smoothing your own robes nervously.

Sunghoon's eyes swept over you briefly. "You look fine. Just try to seem comfortable with me."

"That makes two of us," you murmured, earning a brief, startled glance from him before he moved to answer the door.

You settled back onto the sofa, trying to appear relaxed rather than like someone who had just been practicing hand-holding with her reluctant husband.

You heard the door open, Sunghoon's polite greeting, then he returned to the living room with a short witch with iron-gray hair. A clipboard hovered beside her with a self-writing quill poised above it.

"Mrs. Park," the witch said, her eyes sharp behind square spectacles. "I'm Inspector Howell from the Marriage Compliance Office. This is a standard preliminary assessment visit."

You rose, offering your hand with what you hoped looked like genuine welcome. "It's nice to meet you, Inspector. We were expecting you tomorrow."

"That's the official assessment," Howell replied, shaking your hand briefly. "This is a preliminary observation to establish baseline interaction patterns."

"I see," you said, though you didn't really. The Ministry's procedures seemed designed to maximize discomfort. "Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you. This will be brief." Howell's gaze swept the living room, taking in the signs of cohabitation—your books on the side table, the colorful throw on the armchair, Sunghoon's journals now mingled with yours.

"You've established shared living space," she noted approvingly. "And you use the common areas together rather than separately."

"We were discussing some international trade regulations," Sunghoon said, moving to stand beside you—not touching, but close enough to signal connection. "Y/N's experience with imported potions has been valuable."

You glanced at him in surprise. It wasn't exactly what you'd been discussing, but it wasn't entirely false—you had spent several dinner conversations on that topic.

"Professional collaboration is a positive sign," Howell said, making a note. "The Ministry encourages pairs to find connections beyond mere cohabitation."

"We're finding we have more in common than we expected," you offered, unconsciously leaning slightly toward Sunghoon.

Howell observed you both with clinical assessment. "Your physical comfort indicators are minimal," she observed, making another note. "Body language suggests formality rather than developing intimacy."

Without thinking, you reached out and touched Sunghoon's arm—a light, casual contact that might look natural between a developing couple.

"We're still getting used to each other," you explained, your fingers resting on his sleeve. "But it's getting easier."

To your shock, Sunghoon's hand came up to cover yours, his touch warm and sure. The gesture was so unexpected you almost pulled away, but the gentle pressure of his fingers kept yours in place.

"We're making progress," he agreed, his voice perfectly steady despite the unexpected touch he'd initiated.

Something flickered in his eyes as he looked down at you—a brief, unguarded moment when the mask slipped and you glimpsed something that looked remarkably like genuine attraction before his diplomatic expression returned.

Howell watched this exchange with sharp eyes, her quill making rapid notes. After a moment, she gave a curt nod. "Acceptable for preliminary stages. You'll need to demonstrate further development at your official assessment."

"We understand," Sunghoon said smoothly, though his hand lingered on yours a moment longer than necessary before withdrawing.

"Good. Your official assessment remains scheduled for tomorrow at two o'clock." Howell consulted her clipboard one final time. "Be prepared for a more comprehensive evaluation."

With that, she departed as abruptly as she'd arrived, leaving you and Sunghoon in a suddenly charged silence.

"Well," you said, your skin still tingling where his fingers had pressed against yours. "That was unexpected."

"The Ministry likes surprise inspections," Sunghoon replied, moving away to put more distance between you. "It prevents couples from rehearsing."

You nodded, trying not to feel hurt by how quickly he'd reestablished space after the inspector left. "Quick thinking with the hand thing. Very convincing."

Sunghoon glanced at you, something flashing in his eyes that was gone too quickly to identify. "It was the logical response to her comment about formality."

"Right," you agreed, forcing a smile. "Logical."

An awkward silence fell, broken when Nyx sauntered into the room. With impeccable timing, she assessed the tension and promptly jumped onto Sunghoon's favorite chair.

"Your cat has the worst sense of boundaries I've ever seen," Sunghoon observed, though there was no real bite to his words.

"She's just letting you know who's really in charge here," you said, grateful for the tension breaker.

The corner of Sunghoon's mouth twitched upward. "Then she should be conducting our Ministry assessment. She'd have everyone properly trained in no time."

Your laugh filled the room, genuine and relieved. "She'd have the inspector bringing her treats within minutes."

Sunghoon's almost-smile lingered for a moment before he turned toward his study. "I need to finish some work. We should practice again tomorrow before the official assessment."

"Looking forward to it," you replied, surprised to realize you meant it. Despite the awkwardness, there had been something undeniably... intriguing about those moments of closeness.

Sunghoon paused at the doorway, his expression unreadable. "You did well today. Quick thinking."

Coming from him, it was high praise. You smiled, warmth spreading through your chest at the rare compliment. "We make a decent team when we try."

He nodded once—not quite agreement, but not denial either—before disappearing into his study.

Later that evening, you found a new note on your pillow:

Would like your thoughts on the childhood magical stabilization research for our Eastern European initiative. Your perspective would be valuable. —S

Below, in a less formal postscript:

You have good instincts for dealing with Ministry officials. The arm touch was effective.

You smiled, running your fingers over his neat handwriting. A professional consultation request and what might actually be a genuine compliment, all in one note. For Sunghoon, this was unprecedented.

As you settled into bed, Nyx claiming her usual spot by your pillow, you found yourself thinking about the moment Sunghoon's hand had covered yours—not the practiced touch during your rehearsal, but the instinctive way he'd reached for you during the inspection. There had been something natural in that gesture, something that felt less like performance and more like genuine connection.

And that brief, unguarded look in his eyes...

You pushed the thought away. This was a Ministry arrangement, not a romance. Developing feelings for a man who kept himself behind such carefully constructed walls would only lead to disappointment.

Still, as you drifted toward sleep, you couldn't help remembering the warmth of his palm against yours, the surprising gentleness of his touch, and the fleeting moment when his eyes had revealed something his words never would.

Journal Entry: 21 March 2023

We had a surprise Ministry inspection today. Howell called us out for looking "formal" with each other. Like we're supposed to be madly in love after two weeks of forced cohabitation.

Need to fix this before tomorrow's real assessment. Y/N has good instincts for this stuff - grabbed my arm at the perfect moment when Howell was watching. I covered her hand without thinking about it. Worked well - the inspector bought it.

The hand-holding practice earlier was... distracting. Shouldn't have been. It's just holding hands, for Merlin's sake. I've touched plenty of women before without losing focus. Something about Y/N's hand in mine made it hard to think straight. Probably just the stress of the situation.

Y/N keeps using the chair by the east window I mentioned in my note. She moved her wand to the bedside table too. At least one of us is listening to reasonable suggestions.

The cat has claimed my reading chair. Again. I don't have the energy to fight a territorial war with a cat while dealing with Ministry inspections. Pick your battles, as they say.

11 days until the three-month assessment with the sleeping arrangements check. We'll deal with that when we have to. One crisis at a time.

— S.

P.S. Her laugh makes the room feel different. Less empty somehow. Just an observation.

"Don't you think we're approaching this all wrong?" you asked, setting down your teacup.

It was the morning before your official Ministry assessment, and tension filled the living room. You'd spent three days awkwardly "practicing proximity" with mixed results.

"Wrong how?" Sunghoon looked up from the notes he was reviewing.

"This—" you gestured between you "—all this practicing and measuring. It feels forced. The inspector already noticed we seem too formal."

"We need more practice," Sunghoon said, though he sounded less convinced than usual.

"I don't think we can rehearse our way into looking comfortable with each other," you said. "That's not how this works."

"What do you suggest, then?" His tone held a challenge, but his eyes showed genuine curiosity.

"I think we need to actually get comfortable with each other," you said. "Not just pretend. Real couples don't measure the space between them or time how long they hold hands. They have inside jokes, nicknames, shared habits."

Sunghoon's expression suggested you'd proposed something outlandish. "Nicknames."

"Yes, nicknames! Or at least using first names consistently. You still introduce me as 'Y/N L/N' to colleagues, like I'm a stranger rather than your wife."

"It's your name," he pointed out, frowning.

"Think of it diplomatically," you countered. "What creates stronger alliances - formal state dinners or casual meetings where leaders use first names and make personal connections?"

Sunghoon's eyes narrowed slightly as he considered this. "The informal connections last longer," he admitted reluctantly.

"Exactly! We need to stop treating this like a performance and build some real connection."

Sunghoon studied you for a long moment. "Fine," he said finally. "What do you suggest beyond... nicknames?"

"For starters, you could actually look at me when we talk, instead of staring at the wall like you're afraid eye contact might kill you."

To your surprise, Sunghoon immediately shifted in his seat, turning to face you directly. His dark eyes met yours with unexpected intensity.

"Like this?" he asked, and there was something almost vulnerable in the question.

"Yes," you said softly, momentarily caught off-guard by the full force of his attention. "That's much better."

Nyx chose that moment to jump between you, settling possessively in Sunghoon's lap. For once, he didn't stiffen or push her away, his hands automatically adjusting to accommodate her.

"Your cat has no concept of personal space," he observed, though his fingers found the spot behind her ears that made her purr.

"She's shameless,your complaining holds no value to her," you agreed, watching with hidden delight as the cat nestled comfortably against him. "But she gets what she wants."

"Something you have in common," Sunghoon said, and you could have sworn the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

"Tell me something about yourself that's not in your Ministry file," you said, seizing the moment. "Something personal."

Sunghoon was quiet so long you thought he might refuse. "I like autumn best," he said finally. "The colors, the crispness. It's... predictable but beautiful."

"And you?" he asked, the question awkward but clearly deliberate.

"Spring," you answered with a smile. "New beginnings, surprises, flowers appearing in unexpected places."

"Our preferences match our personalities," Sunghoon observed, surprising you with the insight.

He hesitated, then added: "My family moved constantly when I was young. My father's diplomatic postings."

"That must have been hard," you said gently. "Always being the new kid."

"I learned to adapt," he said with a shrug that didn't quite hide the old hurt. "New places, new rules."

"But lonely?" you suggested.

Something flashed in his eyes—vulnerability quickly hidden. "I got used to being on my own," he said simply, which wasn't a denial.

Then later, you came downstairs to find a note on the counter:

Early meeting about Bulgaria. Back by 1:00 for assessment prep. —S

Below, in less formal handwriting:

This morning's conversation was good. We should do that more.

As you made your tea, you noticed a small vase containing three perfect autumn leaves, their colors brilliantly red and gold, sitting on the table.

No note, no explanation. You touched one leaf gently, knowing Sunghoon had placed them there as a reference to your conversation.

From a man who communicated primarily through efficiency and structure, the gesture felt like something significant—a wordless acknowledgment that perhaps he was beginning to see you as more than just an inconvenient Ministry assignment.

The warmth that spread through your chest at the thought was dangerous, but increasingly difficult to ignore.

The official Ministry assessment arrived with all the subtlety of a rampaging hippogriff.

At precisely two o'clock, your fireplace flared green, and not one but three Ministry officials stepped through. Inspector Howell led the group, accompanied by a thin wizard with a monocle and a young witch whose Quick-Quotes Quill was already scratching away before she'd fully emerged from the flames.

"Mr. and Mrs. Park," Howell announced, brushing soot from her severe gray robes. "As scheduled, we're here for your first formal compatibility assessment."

Sunghoon, who'd been pacing the living room for the past half hour, immediately straightened his already immaculate robes. "Inspector. We've been expecting you."

"Indeed." Howell's sharp eyes took in the room, cataloging the small changes you'd made since her preliminary visit. More of your books mingled with Sunghoon's on the shelves. One of your cardigans was draped over the back of a chair. A half-finished game of wizard's chess sat on the side table.

"This is Examiner Finch," she indicated the monocled wizard, "and Record-Keeper Wilby." The young witch nodded, her quill still moving frantically.

"Please, make yourselves comfortable," you offered, gesturing to the seating area where you and Sunghoon had spent the previous evening rehearsing.

"This won't be a comfortable assessment, Mrs. Park," Examiner Finch said, his monocle glinting. "The preliminary evaluation indicated minimal physical compatibility indicators. Today's assessment must provide evidence of progress."

Your stomach tightened. "Progress? It's only been two weeks—"

"Precisely the period when compatible matches typically demonstrate initial bonding behaviors," Finch interrupted. "The Marriage Unity Act is quite clear on expected timelines."

Sunghoon moved closer to you, his hand coming to rest lightly at the small of your back. The touch was so unexpected that you nearly jumped, but his steady pressure kept you in place.

"We understand the Ministry's expectations," he said, his voice even but with an edge of steel. "However, we believe in a measured approach to relationship development."

"Measured approaches rarely produce the magical bonding necessary for the program's success," Howell said, making a note on her clipboard. "We'll need to evaluate your physical compatibility more thoroughly today."

The assessment began with standard questions about living arrangements, daily routines, and shared activities. You described your coordinated bathroom schedule, joint dinners, and professional collaborations, carefully emphasizing the aspects of your lives that had genuinely begun to intertwine.

Throughout, Sunghoon kept his hand on your back or lightly touching your arm. Each contact sent a small shiver through you that had nothing to do with the Ministry's intimidating presence.

"Your living space shows adequate integration," Howell finally concluded. "However, we must now evaluate personal knowledge and physical comfort."

She nodded to Finch, who withdrew a small silver sphere from his pocket. "This is a Veridian Orb," he explained. "It measures truth and concordance between matched pairs."

He placed the orb on the coffee table, where it hovered slightly above the surface, pulsing with a soft blue light.

"You will be asked a series of questions about your partner," Finch continued. "The orb will measure your knowledge of each other and the authenticity of your responses."

Sunghoon's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he gave a curt nod. "Proceed."

The questions started innocuously enough. Favorite colors, preferred foods, daily routines. Thanks to your conversation the previous evening and Sunghoon's surprisingly attentive note-taking habits, you both answered with reasonable accuracy. The orb maintained its calm blue pulse.

Then the questions grew more personal.

"Mr. Park," Howell said, "describe Mrs. Park's reaction when she's particularly pleased about something."

Sunghoon hesitated only briefly. "She smiles first with her eyes before her lips follow. When she's genuinely happy, she makes a small sound—not quite a laugh—just before she speaks."

The orb pulsed slightly brighter. You stared at Sunghoon, startled that he'd noticed such a detail.

"Mrs. Park," Finch continued, "where does Mr. Park touch when he's feeling tense?"

Heat crawled up your neck. "He... adjusts his left cuff. Three times, always three precise movements."

Sunghoon's eyes flickered to you, a flash of surprise crossing his usually composed features. The orb glowed slightly warmer.

The questions continued, each more intrusive than the last. How does your partner sleep? What physical gestures do they find comforting? Have you noticed changes in their behavior when you're in close proximity?

With each answer, the tension in the room grew thicker. You found yourself hyperaware of Sunghoon beside you, the warmth of his thigh an inch from yours, the subtle scent of his cologne, the way his fingers occasionally brushed yours when you both reached to adjust positions.

"The knowledge indicators are adequate," Howell finally announced. "However, physical comfort remains underdeveloped."

"What exactly are you expecting?" Sunghoon asked, a dangerous edge to his voice. "We've been married for two weeks."

"The most successful matches demonstrate natural physical affinity by this stage," Finch replied, adjusting his monocle. "Simple gestures of affection without hesitation or overthinking."

"I believe a practical demonstration is in order," Howell said, making another note. "Please show us how you typically interact when alone."

You froze. Beside you, Sunghoon went so still he might have been petrified.

"That's hardly appropriate," he said after a moment, his voice low.

"Mr. Park," Howell replied coldly, "nothing you do in your own home with your spouse is inappropriate. Unless, of course, there is no genuine interaction occurring, which would indicate non-compliance with the Marriage Unity Act's core requirements."

The threat hung in the air. Behind her, Record-Keeper Wilby's quill scratched ominously.

Sunghoon turned toward you, his expression unreadable. "May I?" he asked quietly, his voice pitched for your ears alone.

You nodded, heart hammering against your ribs. You'd expected perhaps a brief touch, maybe an arm around your shoulders.

Instead, Sunghoon's hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across your cheekbone. The touch was so unexpectedly gentle that your breath caught.

"They're watching for authenticity," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "Follow my lead."

Before you could respond, he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn't a passionate kiss, but neither was it the clinical peck you might have expected. His lips were warm and surprisingly soft against yours, the pressure light but lingering. His hand slid from your cheek to the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair with a sureness that suggested this wasn't the first time he'd done this.

You found yourself responding without conscious thought, your hand coming up to rest against his chest. Beneath your palm, his heart beat a rapid rhythm that belied his composed exterior.

When he pulled back, his eyes were darker than you'd ever seen them, pupils expanded to nearly swallow the brown. For a moment—just a moment—his careful mask slipped, revealing something raw and wanting beneath before he reconstructed his composed expression.

The orb on the table had changed from blue to a warm, pulsing gold.

"Well," Howell said, a note of surprise in her voice. "That's significantly more progress than your preliminary assessment indicated."

Finch cleared his throat, a faint color in his typically pallid cheeks. "Yes, quite. Physical compatibility appears to be developing appropriately."

Sunghoon's hand had returned to the small of your back, but there was a new tension in his touch. "Is there anything else, Inspector?" he asked, his voice remarkably steady.

"Just one more matter," Howell replied, consulting her clipboard. "Three-month milestone requirements. As you know, shared sleeping quarters will be required by that date. Our assessment then will include verification of appropriate accommodation arrangements."

"We're aware," Sunghoon said tersely.

"And the mandatory bonding retreat," Finch added. "All couples we see fit, in the program must attend the Ministry's three-day compatibility enhancement retreat at the three-month mark."

This was new information. You glanced at Sunghoon, whose jaw had tightened again.

"Compatibility enhancement retreat?" you repeated.

"A specialized program designed to accelerate the bonding process," Howell explained. "Under the supervision of marriage integration specialists, couples participate in therapeutic exercises to build natural physical and emotional connections."

Sunghoon's fingers pressed more firmly against your back. "And is this 'retreat' optional?"

"It's a mandatory component of the three-month compliance verification," Howell replied. "All couples we pick participate, no exceptions. You'll receive detailed information by owl next week."

The assessment concluded shortly after. As the green flames of the Floo died down behind the departing Ministry officials, an awkward silence fell over the living room.

Sunghoon had already moved away from you, putting his usual careful distance between you. His expression was closed, unreadable.

"So," you said finally, your voice not quite steady. "That was..."

"Intrusive," Sunghoon finished, his tone clipped. "But we passed. That's what matters."

You touched your lips, still feeling the phantom pressure of his. "About the... demonstration. I know that was just for show, but—"

"It was necessary," he interrupted, not meeting your eyes. "The orb measures genuine reactions. A clinical touch wouldn't have registered correctly."

"Right," you agreed, trying to ignore the twist of disappointment in your chest. "Smart thinking."

Sunghoon glanced at you briefly, something flickering in his eyes before he looked away. "I apologize if I overstepped."

"You didn't," you assured him quickly. "It was... convincing."

A heavy silence fell. The Veridian Orb still sat on the coffee table, its glow now faded to a dull bronze.

"This three-month retreat," you said finally. "That sounds..."

"Problematic," Sunghoon supplied, running a hand through his usually immaculate hair, mussing it slightly. "We'll deal with it when we have to."

He moved toward his study, clearly eager to escape the lingering tension between you. At the doorway, he paused, his back to you.

"You did well today," he said, his voice lower than usual. "The observation about my cuff adjustments... I didn't realize anyone had noticed that."

Before you could respond, he disappeared into his sanctuary, leaving you alone with the rapidly cooling orb and the persistent memory of his lips against yours.

You sank onto the sofa, trying to process what had just happened. The kiss had been for show, of course—a calculated move to pass the assessment. But there had been something in his eyes after, something unguarded and real that contradicted his dismissive words.

And now there was this "retreat" looming in the future. Three days of "therapeutic exercises" to build "natural physical connections." The very thought sent a flutter of both anxiety and something else—something you weren't quite ready to name—through your stomach.

Nyx jumped onto your lap, kneading your thighs with her paws as if sensing your turmoil.

"What am I getting myself into, Nyx?" you murmured, stroking her soft fur. "This was supposed to be simple. A paper marriage, minimum compliance, keeping our distance."

But nothing felt simple anymore. Not with the memory of Sunghoon's gentle hands and warm lips still so vivid. Not with the knowledge that he'd noticed tiny details about you that even you hadn't been aware of. Not with the Ministry pushing for even more intimacy in the coming months.

And certainly not with the realization that despite all your best intentions, you were beginning to want more than the careful distance Sunghoon insisted on maintaining.

As the afternoon light faded, you remained on the sofa, absentmindedly stroking Nyx while your thoughts circled around one unsettling truth: the Ministry might have forced you into this marriage, but they couldn't force the flutter in your chest when Sunghoon touched you. That had happened entirely on its own.

And judging by the way his heart had raced beneath your palm, you might not be the only one fighting an unwanted attraction.

The official Ministry assessment had gone better than expected. You'd passed, but something more significant had happened—something that changed everything between you and Sunghoon.

The following morning found Sunghoon in the back corner of the Leaky Cauldron, nursing a cup of tea while three of his oldest friends bickered over the last piece of treacle tart.

"It's mine by right of discovery," Jay insisted, his Ministry Legal Department badge slightly askew on robes that perpetually looked one charm away from respectability. "I saw it first."

"You've had two already," Jake countered, his Auror reflexes allowing him to snatch the plate before Jay could reach it. "Besides, Heeseung needs the sugar more than you do. Look at those eye bags—those magical bridge supports must be brutal."

Heeseung, who indeed looked exhausted from his latest Magical Construction project, just grinned and took advantage of their distraction to steal the tart for himself. "While you two were arguing, I was acting. Very Slytherin of me, wouldn't you say?"

Sunghoon watched this familiar chaos with the resigned expression of someone who'd endured it since their first year at Hogwarts. Fifteen years of friendship hadn't changed their dynamic—Jay still talked annoyingly, Jake still played peacekeeper while causing half the trouble, and Heeseung still quietly got his way while the others weren't looking.

"If you're done with the dessert theatrics," Sunghoon said, checking his watch, "I have fifteen minutes before I need to get back."

Jay rolled his eyes dramatically. "Still counting minutes, I see. Some things never change." He leaned forward, suddenly serious. "So, you finally cracked and asked for our help. Must be desperate."

"I didn't crack," Sunghoon replied, his tone defensive. "I just thought you might have some useful input."

"The great Park Sunghoon needs our advice on women that hate him," Jake grinned, leaning back in his chair. "Never thought I'd see the day."

"She doesn't hate him," Heeseung corrected, always the more tactful one. "She suggested nicknames, which means she's trying to make things work. That's encouraging."

Sunghoon's eyebrows rose slightly. "How did you know about the nicknames?"

"You literally started this conversation with 'Y/N suggested nicknames might help with the Ministry assessment,'" Jay reminded him. "We're not mind readers, you prat."

"So you want to know what to call her?" Jake asked, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Don't tell me the great Park Sunghoon is going to start saying 'sweetie' and 'darling' like a normal husband."

Sunghoon's expression suggested he'd rather drink bubotuber pus. "I just need to know what's standard. For the assessments."

The three friends exchanged a look Sunghoon had seen countless times—a silent "he's hopeless" communication that dated back to their Hogwarts days.

"What do you call your wife?" Heeseung asked Jay, steering the conversation toward actual help.

"Baby, mostly," Jay replied, grinning. "Or jagiya when I'm showing off my Korean."

"I use sweetheart with mine," Jake offered. "Sometimes baby when we're fucking and i’m really—"

"Just the name is fine," Sunghoon cut in before Jake could elaborate. Seven years of sharing a dormitory had taught him exactly where Jake's stories tended to go.

"I use 'angel' most of the time," Heeseung said, smiling fondly. "Sometimes 'doll' because of her collection. She can tell my mood by which one I use."

Sunghoon absorbed this information with a slight frown. The idea of using such terms still felt foreign.

"You don't have to force it," Heeseung added kindly, noticing his discomfort. "Maybe start with something simple. Her name, but said differently than you'd say a colleague's name."

"What's wrong with just using her name?" Sunghoon asked.

Jay snorted into his butterbeer. "Merlin's beard, Sunghoon. She's not a Ministry report you're filing."

"The assessment's over," Sunghoon said, redirecting the conversation. "What else am I missing?"

"Touch her," Jake said bluntly.

Sunghoon nearly choked on his tea. "What?"

"Not like that," Jake laughed. "Small things. Hand on her back when you walk together. Fingers brushing when you pass things. The little touches couples do without thinking."

"We've practiced appropriate proximity—"

"Practiced?" Jay interrupted, eyebrows shooting up. "Tell me you didn't schedule 'touching practice' like some kind of—"

Sunghoon's silence was damning.

"Bloody hell," Jay threw his hands up. "You can't schedule normal behavior. No wonder she suggested you try actually getting comfortable instead of pretending."

"She's right," Jake nodded approvingly. "Smart woman."

"How exactly am I supposed to develop 'comfort' on demand?" Sunghoon asked, frustration evident in his voice.

His three friends exchanged looks ranging from disbelief to pity.

"The same way you became friends with us," Jay said finally. "You spend time together. You pay attention to what she likes. You talk about things that aren't work."

"I pay attention," Sunghoon said defensively. "I know which tea she prefers after night shifts, which chair she likes to read in—"

"Do you tell her these things," Heeseung asked gently, "or just notice them?"

"I leave notes when relevant."

The collective groan from his friends turned heads at nearby tables.

"Notes," Jake repeated. "You leave your wife notes about her tea preferences."

"It's efficient."

"But not personal," Heeseung pointed out. "When's the last time you complimented her?"

The question caught Sunghoon off-guard. "What?"

"You know," Jake said slowly, "told her something nice about her. That she looks pretty. That she's smart. That you like her laugh. Anything."

Sunghoon frowned slightly. "I mentioned her bathroom schedule was well-designed."

Jay dropped his head to the table with a thunk. "We're all doomed."

"I also told her that her insights on Bulgarian potion regulations were useful," Sunghoon added, feeling oddly defensive.

"That's... something, at least," Heeseung conceded. "Professional respect is a start. But maybe try something more personal?"

"Like what?"

"Tell her she looks nice," Jake suggested. "Or that you like being around her. Small things."

Sunghoon considered this. There were, in fact, several qualities he'd noticed in you that deserved acknowledgment. Your persistent optimism despite difficult circumstances. The focused competence you showed when discussing healing cases. The way your entire face lit up when you laughed.

"I'll think about it," he said finally, checking his watch. "I need to go."

"Think fast," Jay advised, stealing the last bite of Heeseung's tart. "Connection isn't something you can plan like a diplomatic negotiation. Sometimes you just have to let yourself feel things."

"And Sunghoon," Heeseung added as they stood to leave, "we're giving you a hard time, but we're on your side. It's a terrible situation, but she sounds decent. Maybe it won't be as bad as you feared."

"Maybe," Sunghoon admitted, a rare moment of uncertainty crossing his features.

"Thanks for the advice," Sunghoon replied, his tone dry but not entirely ungrateful.

Back at the Ministry, Sunghoon found himself replaying his friends' advice while finalizing the Bulgarian trade agreement. Their suggestions, while buried in unnecessary teasing, weren't entirely without merit.

After sending the final draft to the Bulgarian liaison, he made a detour to the Ministry atrium's small conservatory. After checking no one was watching, he carefully selected three perfect lilac flowers from a charmed flower grove that cycled through seasons.

They weren't a traditional gift, but they were a reference to your conversation—a silent acknowledgment that he had listened and remembered what you'd shared.

As he arranged the lilacs in a small vase on the kitchen table that evening, Sunghoon admitted to himself that he actually wanted to see your reaction when you discovered them. Not just for the assessment. Not just for show.

A troubling realization, indeed.

Two days after the Ministry assessment, you noticed subtle but unmistakable changes in Sunghoon's behavior.

It began at breakfast. You'd come downstairs to find him already seated at the table, the Prophet open before him, a cup of tea steaming at his elbow. Nothing unusual there. But when you entered the kitchen, he looked up immediately—not the brief, perfunctory glance you were accustomed to, but an actual pause in his reading, his eyes meeting yours directly.

"Good morning," he said, his tone lacking its usual clipped efficiency.

"Morning," you replied, slightly thrown by the attention. "Sleep well?"

"Adequately," he answered, watching as you moved to prepare your tea. Then, with visible deliberation: "And you... angel?"

The endearment came out so awkwardly that you nearly dropped your mug. It sounded foreign in his mouth, as if he were attempting to speak a language he'd only read about in books. You turned slowly to find him looking faintly uncomfortable, a hint of color high on his cheekbones.

"What did you just call me?" you asked, certain you must have misheard.

Sunghoon cleared his throat, his discomfort visibly increasing. "I was attempting a term of... affection," he said stiffly. "If it's unwelcome, I won't repeat it."

The realization that Park Sunghoon was genuinely trying to use a pet name—and doing it so badly—created a warm bubble of amusement in your chest.

"It's not unwelcome," you assured him, hiding your smile by turning back to your tea preparation. "Just unexpected."

"Noted," he said, his usual crispness returning as he retreated behind his newspaper.

You thought that might be the end of it—a single awkward attempt never to be repeated. But that afternoon, as you sat in the living room reviewing patient files, Sunghoon surprised you again.

He entered from his study, a stack of parchment in hand, and paused by your chair. "I've been reviewing the childhood magical stabilization protocol you mentioned," he said. "Your approach is quite innovative... baby."

The endearment was even more stilted than the first, tacked onto the end of his sentence like an awkward afterthought. This time, you couldn't suppress your laugh.

Sunghoon's expression closed immediately. "You find it amusing."

"No—well, yes," you admitted, your smile softening the words. "But not in a bad way. It's just... very clearly not something you're comfortable with."

"Comfort develops with practice," he said defensively. "All skills require initial periods of inadequacy."

Understanding dawned. "Are you... practicing endearments on me?"

The color on his cheekbones deepened slightly. "The Ministry assessment demonstrated our need for increased displays of familiarity," he said, not quite meeting your eyes. "Verbal indicators of affection are standard components of marital communication."

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh again. It was so very Sunghoon to approach pet names as a skill to be mastered through deliberate practice.

"You don't have to force yourself," you told him gently. "The assessment went fine."

"It was adequate," he corrected, "but future evaluations will require deeper evidence of bonding. Advance preparation is practical."

Before you could respond, Nyx darted into the room, weaving between Sunghoon's legs with her typical disregard for personal space. To your surprise, rather than stiffening or stepping away, Sunghoon merely looked down at the cat with a slight frown.

"Your tactical timing remains impeccable," he told Nyx, who meowed back as if responding to the observation.

You watched in fascination as Sunghoon lowered himself to the sofa, still holding his parchments, and allowed Nyx to jump onto the cushion beside him without protest.

"She's really taken to you," you observed, pleased by the unexpected truce between your cat and your reluctant husband.

"She's persistent," Sunghoon replied, though there was no real annoyance in his tone. "I've determined that resistance requires more energy than accommodation."

"A diplomatic solution," you said, smiling. "Very on-brand for you."

Something that might have been the ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Effective negotiation often requires strategic concessions."

The conversation lapsed into comfortable silence as you both returned to your work, the only sounds the occasional rustle of parchment and Nyx's rumbling purr. It wasn't until you rose to make a fresh cup of tea that Sunghoon spoke again.

"Would you like me to prepare that... sweetheart?"

The third endearment was no less awkward than the previous two, but something about his determined persistence was oddly endearing.

"Thank you, but I've got it," you replied, fighting another smile. "You know, Sunghoon, you really don't have to keep doing this."

He looked up, his expression serious. "Is it objectionable?"

"No," you assured him. "Just unnecessary. And clearly uncomfortable for you."

"Discomfort is temporary," he said with characteristic stubbornness. "Adaptation requires consistent effort."

You studied him for a moment, a new understanding dawning. This wasn't just about Ministry assessments. In his own way, Sunghoon was genuinely trying to build something more comfortable between you—following the advice you'd given him about creating real connection rather than rehearsed proximity.

"Well, if you're determined to practice," you said lightly, "maybe focus on one or two that feel less unnatural to you. And perhaps use it when it actually fits the moment, not just randomly inserted into conversation."

Sunghoon considered this suggestion with the same gravity he might give an international treaty amendment. "A logical approach," he conceded. "Which would you recommend?"

The question caught you off guard. "It's not really about what I recommend," you explained. "It's about what feels natural to you when you look at me."

He studied you then, his dark eyes surprisingly intense. The scrutiny might have been uncomfortable if not for the genuine consideration behind it. After a moment, he nodded once, as if coming to a decision.

"Angel," he said simply. No sentence wrapped around it, no awkward placement—just the word itself, spoken with unexpected softness, “or Baby, I’m more determined to conquer that one.”

Something fluttered in your chest at the simple declaration. "Those ones definitely sound more natural," you managed, your voice not quite steady.

Sunghoon nodded again, apparently satisfied. "Angel," he repeated, testing the word. "Yes, that seems most appropriate."

The moment hung between you, charged with something neither of you was quite ready to name. Then Nyx broke the tension by standing abruptly, stretching, and deliberately knocking one of Sunghoon's parchments to the floor.

"Your cat requires remedial boundary training," Sunghoon observed, though there was a hint of something almost like humor in his voice.

And just like that, the unusual intensity dissolved, replaced by the comfortable routine of your shared domestic life. But something had shifted, however slightly. Sunghoon didn't use any more endearments that day, but his eyes lingered on you more often, and there was a new thoughtfulness in his expression when he caught you watching him.

That evening, as you prepared for bed, you found a note on your pillow:

Your suggestion regarding term selection was efficient. Implementation will continue at appropriate intervals. —S

Below, in what appeared to be a hastily added postscript:

Thank you for your patience with the process, angel.

You smiled, running your fingers over the carefully written endearment. It was such a small thing—a simple word that countless couples exchanged without thought. But from Sunghoon, with his carefully maintained walls and precise distance, it felt like a tiny miracle.

All you knew, in that moment, was that Park Sunghoon was trying—in his methodical, occasionally awkward way—to build something real with you. And for now, that was enough to fall asleep with a smile on your face and hope warming your chest.

You woke to the sound of Sunghoon's voice drifting up from downstairs. Curious about who he might be speaking to so early, you wrapped yourself in a robe and padded quietly toward the stairs.

What you heard made you pause, hand frozen on the banister.

"No, absolutely not there," Sunghoon was saying, his tone exasperated but lacking its usual edge. "That is designated working space, not a cat leisure area."

A plaintive meow followed.

"Your objection is noted but overruled," Sunghoon continued, as if having a perfectly normal conversation with your cat. "Previous concessions regarding the armchair do not constitute blanket permission for desk occupation."

Another meow, this one somehow sounding argumentative.

"Fine," Sunghoon sighed. "You may observe from the corner of the desk, provided you maintain a minimum six-inch clearance from active documents. Those are the terms."

You covered your mouth to stifle a laugh, hardly believing what you were hearing. Cautiously, you descended a few more steps until you could see into the living room, where Sunghoon sat at his writing desk with Nyx perched on the corner, exactly six inches from his paperwork, looking smugly satisfied.

"Your negotiation skills are improving," Sunghoon informed the cat, who began to purr loudly in response. "Though I maintain that emotional manipulation through sustained eye contact is a questionable tactic."

The sight of a stern, proper Sunghoon having a serious diplomatic negotiation with your cat was so unexpectedly charming that you couldn't help the small sound of delight that escaped you.

Sunghoon's head jerked up, genuine surprise crossing his features when he saw you on the stairs. For a moment, he looked almost embarrassed at being caught in such an unguarded moment.

"Good morning," you said, descending the rest of the stairs. "I see Nyx is expanding her territory again."

"We've reached a compromise," Sunghoon replied, recovering his composure with impressive speed. "Though I suspect her compliance will be temporary at best."

"She's very strategic," you agreed, moving into the kitchen to put the kettle on. "Always looking for weaknesses in the defense."

You heard Sunghoon's chair scrape back, followed by his measured footsteps as he joined you in the kitchen. When you turned from the stove, he was standing closer than expected, watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read.

"You have an early shift today," he said, and it wasn't a question.

"Until four," you confirmed. "Barring emergencies."

Something that might have been disappointment flickered across his face. "I had hoped we might discuss the Eastern European educational initiative this afternoon. Your research on childhood magical stabilization has direct applications."

"Tomorrow?" you suggested. "I'm free all day."

Sunghoon nodded, though the slight downturn at the corner of his mouth suggested genuine disappointment at the delay. "Tomorrow then."

As you prepared your tea, you were acutely aware of him watching you, his usual morning efficiency temporarily suspended.

"Is something wrong?" you asked finally.

"No," he said, then, with visible effort: "I simply find your presence... agreeable, My angel."

The endearment came more naturally now, less practiced but still careful. Combined with the unexpected compliment, it created a flutter of warmth in your chest.

"That's... thank you," you managed, oddly flustered by his direct gaze.

Sunghoon nodded once, as if confirming something to himself, then returned to his desk and a quietly smug Nyx, who had inched closer to his papers in his absence.

You finished your preparations for work, your mind replaying that quiet "angel" and the unusual intensity in Sunghoon's eyes. Something was shifting between you—something neither of you had anticipated when the Ministry had forced you together.

Your shift at St. Mungo's had run longer than expected. A seven-year-old with a case of magical hiccups that turned everything she touched temporarily invisible had required careful handling, especially when she'd accidentally made her little brother's left ear disappear. By the time you restored visibility to all affected body parts and calmed the panicking parents, you were running nearly an hour late.

You hurried through the hospital corridors, expecting to find an empty house and probably one of Sunghoon's notes about dinner being in the warming drawer. Instead, as you pushed through the doors into the reception area, you stopped short. Sunghoon himself stood near the welcome desk, his immaculate posture unmistakable even from behind. He appeared to be studying a display of educational pamphlets about magical childhood ailments with surprising interest.

"Sunghoon?" you called, still not quite believing he was actually there.

He turned, and for a moment—just a fleeting second—his expression softened with what looked remarkably like relief before his usual composed mask returned.

"Your shift ran late," he said, though his tone lacked its usual edge of criticism.

"Invisible ear emergency," you explained, still caught off guard by his unexpected presence. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought I'd meet you directly," he said, moving toward you. "I was in the area anyway."

You knew this was almost certainly untrue—Sunghoon's schedule was planned with such precision that spontaneous neighborhood visits were virtually nonexistent. But the fact that he'd chosen to wait for you rather than return home alone created a warm flutter in your chest.

"That was thoughtful," you said, genuinely touched. "Thank you."

A hint of color appeared high on his cheekbones. "It wasn't a problem," he replied, his eyes not quite meeting yours. "I thought we might try that new restaurant near Gringotts. Unless you're too tired, angel."

The endearment still sounded slightly practiced, but not as awkward as his previous attempts. Progress, it seemed.

"Dinner sounds lovely," you said, smiling. "Just let me grab my things."

As you collected your bag from the staff room, you couldn't help but marvel at this unexpected development. Sunghoon waiting at the hospital? Suggesting dinner out? Using endearments without Ministry officials watching? It was as if the carefully constructed walls between you were developing hairline cracks.

When you returned to the reception area, you found Sunghoon in conversation with Healer Matthews, one of the senior pediatric specialists. To your surprise, he didn't look uncomfortable or impatient—his usual response to unexpected social interaction. Instead, he appeared to be listening with genuine interest as Matthews gestured animatedly.

"—revolutionary approach, really," Matthews was saying. "The integration of emotional stabilization techniques with magical dampening is precisely what these cases need. Y/N's research could change our entire treatment protocol."

"She mentioned her work with the unstable core case," Sunghoon replied, his tone carrying a note of what sounded remarkably like pride. "The international applications are significant."

"Oh, absolutely! We're already documenting the methodology for the international healing journal. Your wife is quite the innovator." Matthews beamed at you as you approached. "Ah, speak of the devil! I was just telling your husband about the Mira case. Brilliant work, truly."

"Thank you," you said, slightly flustered both by the praise and by hearing Sunghoon referred to as your "husband" in a context unrelated to Ministry requirements.

"You two make quite the powerhouse couple," Matthews continued cheerfully, oblivious to your discomfort. "International magical cooperation and pediatric healing innovation under one roof! How long have you been married?"

"Three weeks," Sunghoon answered smoothly, surprising you with his hand coming to rest lightly at the small of your back. "Though it feels like we've known each other much longer."

You nearly choked at this uncharacteristic display of charm. Sunghoon was many things, but "smooth" had never been one of them.

"Newlyweds!" Matthews exclaimed delightedly. "Though you'd never know it from how in sync you two are. Young love is so refreshing to see these days."

You felt Sunghoon's hand tense slightly against your back but his expression remained pleasantly neutral. "If you'll excuse us," he said politely, "I've made dinner reservations."

"Of course, of course! Don't let me keep you lovebirds," Matthews winked. "Enjoy your evening!"

As you walked away, Sunghoon's hand remained at your back, guiding you through the evening crowd in the hospital lobby. The warmth of his palm through your robes created a distracting tingle up your spine.

"That was... unexpected," you said once you were outside. "You were very convincing."

"Practice makes perfect," Sunghoon replied, though his hand didn't withdraw from your back. "It seemed important to be consistent even outside the assessments."

"Right," you agreed, trying to ignore the twinge of disappointment. "For consistency."

Sunghoon glanced down at you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "The restaurant is just ahead, baby."

The second endearment caught you off guard, especially without any Ministry officials present to necessitate it. This one sounded less rehearsed than his previous attempts, almost natural despite the slight hesitation before it.

"I'm not used to hearing you call me that," you admitted as you approached the restaurant, a cozy establishment with warm golden lights visible through the windows.

"Do you mind it?" Sunghoon asked, a hint of uncertainty crossing his features.

"Not at all," you assured him quickly. "Just... different. Nice different."

Something that might have been relief relaxed his expression. "Good to know," he said simply.

The maître d' welcomed you, leading you to a quiet corner table partially screened by a decorative trellis covered in tiny fairy lights. It was, you couldn't help noticing, a notably romantic setting.

"This is lovely," you commented as Sunghoon held your chair—another unexpected courtesy.

"The Bulgarian ambassador recommended it," he replied, taking his own seat. "Apparently their seafood is exceptional."

Conversation flowed with surprising ease as you perused the menu. Sunghoon, typically so reserved about personal matters, spoke of his day at the Ministry with unexpected detail, describing the frustrating negotiations with a hint of dry humor you'd rarely witnessed. You shared stories from your hospital shift, including the invisible ear incident, which actually earned a small quirk of the lips that was the closest thing to a smile you'd seen from him.

When your hands accidentally brushed while reaching for the bread basket, Sunghoon didn't withdraw immediately as he might have done before. Instead, his fingers lingered briefly against yours, the contact brief but deliberate.

"You still haven't told me why you really came to the hospital," you said as your main courses arrived. "I know you didn't just happen to be in the area."

Sunghoon's fork paused halfway to his mouth, his expression shifting to something almost uncomfortable. "You caught me," he admitted after a moment. "I wasn't in the neighborhood."

"So why come wait for me?"

He set his fork down carefully, as if buying time to formulate his response. "I didn't particularly want to go back to an empty house," he said finally, the admission clearly difficult for him. "It's... quieter when you're not there."

"You missed me," you said, unable to keep the smile from your voice.

He frowned slightly. "I wouldn't go that far," he said, though the color in his cheeks suggested otherwise. "I've just gotten used to having you around."

"You missed me," you repeated, still smiling. "It's okay to admit it, Sunghoon. I'd miss you too if you were gone all day."

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or something warmer. "You would?"

"Of course," you said simply. "We've gotten used to each other."

"We have," he agreed, his gaze dropping to his plate. "More than I expected, honestly."

The meal continued in this vein—moments of surprising warmth interspersed with Sunghoon's more familiar reserve. Yet something had undeniably shifted between you. His eyes found yours more frequently, lingering longer than necessary. His hand occasionally brushed yours when passing the salt or reaching for his wine glass, each touch seeming less accidental than the last.

By the time dessert arrived—a shared plate of tiny pastries filled with various magical creams that changed flavor with each bite—you found yourself genuinely enjoying not just the excellent food but Sunghoon's company as well.

"I found something for you today," he said as you sampled a pastry that tasted first of chocolate, then unexpectedly shifted to lemon. "It's at home."

"For me?" you asked, surprised. Sunghoon wasn't exactly the gift-giving type.

"It's nothing big," he said quickly, seeming almost embarrassed. "Just something I thought you might like."

Curiosity piqued, you finished dessert with perhaps more haste than the exquisite pastries deserved. Sunghoon paid the bill with characteristic efficiency, then surprised you by offering his arm as you left the restaurant.

"It might rain," he observed, glancing at the darkening sky as you walked toward the apparition point. "The forecast mentioned thunderstorms overnight."

"I've always liked storms," you commented, acutely aware of his arm beneath your hand. "They're so dramatic and unpredictable."

"You would like chaos," Sunghoon replied, though there was no criticism in his tone. "You and your disorganized filing system."

You laughed softly. "And you prefer everything orderly and planned. We're quite the opposite pair, aren't we?"

"Maybe that's not such a bad thing," he suggested, surprising you. "Different perspectives, working together."

Before you could respond to this unexpectedly thoughtful observation, you reached the apparition point. Sunghoon's arm tightened slightly around yours as he prepared to apparate you both home.

"Ready, angel?" he asked, the endearment now sounding almost natural on his lips.

The journey was brief, and moments later you found yourselves in the front garden of your shared home. The air felt heavy with approaching rain, the scent of ozone sharp in the twilight. Sunghoon's hand remained at your elbow as he guided you up the garden path, his touch light but steady.

Inside, the house felt different somehow—warmer, more inviting than the functional living space it had been when you first arrived. Your books now mingled with his on the shelves, your colorful throw blanket draped across one end of the sofa, Nyx's toys scattered across the rug. Somewhere along the way, it had become a home rather than just a house.

"Tea?" Sunghoon offered, removing his cloak.

"Please," you agreed, curious about his mentioned "something" but not wanting to seem too eager.

As Sunghoon moved to the kitchen, you wandered into the living room, drawn to a small vase on the side table that hadn't been there this morning. Inside were three perfect lilac flowers arranged with characteristic precision.

"Oh," you breathed, touching one petal gently. The texture was perfect, the colors vibrant despite being separated from their roots.

"They're from the Ministry conservatory," Sunghoon's voice came from behind you. "The groves there cycle through all four seasons weekly. These are from its spring phase."

You turned to find him watching you, his expression uncharacteristically uncertain. "They're beautiful," you said softly. "Is this what you meant?"

He nodded once, his posture almost stiff. "You mentioned liking spring. I thought... well, I thought you might like them."

The gesture touched you deeply. Not because the flowers themselves were particularly valuable or rare, but because they represented something precious—proof that Sunghoon had truly listened to you, remembered details of your conversation, and gone out of his way to bring you something personally meaningful.

"Thank you," you said, stepping closer to him. "I love them."

Something in his expression shifted, softened. "I'm glad."

"No one's ever given me autumn leaves before," you said, smiling up at him. "It's very thoughtful."

"It's nothing," he said, though he looked pleased at your reaction.

Standing on tiptoe, you pressed a quick kiss to his cheek—a gesture that would have been unthinkable just days ago. Sunghoon went very still, his eyes widening slightly at the unexpected contact. For a moment, you feared you'd crossed some invisible line, pushed too far too fast.

But then his hand came up to your waist, steadying you as you settled back on your heels. Instead of stepping away as you expected, he remained close, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

"Y/N," he said softly, your name almost a question.

In answer, you reached up, touching his cheek gently. His skin was warm beneath your fingertips, the slight stubble of late evening rough against your palm. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved, suspended in a moment of unspoken possibility.

Then, with a deliberateness that made your heart race, Sunghoon lowered his head and kissed you.

It wasn't the brief, almost clinical kiss he'd given you during the Ministry assessment. This was different—tentative at first, as if he was testing unfamiliar waters, but growing more certain as you responded. His lips were surprisingly soft against yours, the pressure gentle but unmistakably real.

Your hands found their way to his shoulders, feeling the surprising strength beneath his always-perfect robes. His own hands settled at your waist, holding you steady but not pulling you closer. Always so careful, even now.

When you finally broke apart, Sunghoon looked slightly dazed, his usual composure temporarily shaken. A strand of his always-perfect hair had fallen across his forehead, making him look younger, less severe.

"That was..." he began, then seemed at a loss for words—a rare occurrence for someone usually so precise in his speech.

"Unexpected?" you supplied, your own voice not entirely steady.

"But not unwelcome," he added quickly, his hands still resting lightly at your waist.

"Definitely not unwelcome," you agreed, smiling up at him.

For a moment, you simply looked at each other, something new and fragile hovering between you. Then, with a sureness that took your breath away, Sunghoon kissed you again.

This time, there was nothing tentative about it. His arms drew you closer, one hand sliding up your back to cradle the nape of your neck. You responded in kind, your fingers threading through his hair, disrupting its perfect arrangement in a way that felt quietly rebellious.

The kiss deepened, lips parting, breaths mingling. Sunghoon made a soft sound in the back of his throat—something between a sigh and a groan—that sent a shiver down your spine. Who knew that proper, composed Park Sunghoon could kiss like this?

You found yourself pressed against the bookshelf, the spines of ancient tomes digging into your back, but you hardly noticed. All that existed was Sunghoon—his mouth hot against yours, his hands now bolder in their exploration, the surprising heat of him through layers of formal robes.

When you finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Sunghoon looked thoroughly disheveled. His hair stood up where your fingers had mussed it, his usually pale cheeks flushed, his perfect robes slightly askew. The sight of him so undone—because of you—created a flutter of something dangerously close to pride in your chest.

"I..." he began, then cleared his throat. "That was not what I had planned for this evening."

You couldn't help but laugh softly. "Do you always plan your evenings in such detail?"

"Usually," he admitted, a hint of something almost like humor in his eyes. "Though I'm finding that some deviations from schedule can be... acceptable."

"Just acceptable?" you teased, straightening his collar where your hands had disturbed it.

His expression softened, becoming almost vulnerable. "More than acceptable, baby."

The endearment, spoken in this context, created a warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with the lingering heat of your kiss. This was not a practiced performance for Ministry officials—this was something real, however unexpected.

"The tea must be getting cold," you said finally, though you made no move to step away from him.

"I believe you're right," Sunghoon agreed, though he seemed equally reluctant to break the moment. With visible effort, he stepped back, his hands lingering at your waist before finally falling away. "We should probably..."

"Yes," you agreed, though neither of you moved toward the kitchen.

A distant rumble of thunder broke the moment, reminding you of the approaching storm. As if on cue, Nyx appeared, winding her way between your legs with her usual disregard for personal space.

"Your cat has impeccable timing," Sunghoon observed, his composure gradually returning despite his still-mussed hair.

"She does have a talent for interruption," you agreed, bending to scoop her up. "Though she seems to approve of you."

"A dubious honor," Sunghoon replied dryly, though his hand came up to scratch behind Nyx's ears, earning a loud purr of appreciation.The tension of the moment eased, replaced by a new kind of comfort as you both moved to the kitchen for tea. Outside, the storm drew closer, occasional flashes of lightning now visible through the windows, followed by increasingly loud rumbles of thunder.

As you finished your tea, a comfortable silence fell between you, broken only by the sound of rain beginning to patter against the windows and Nyx's contented purring from her spot on the kitchen chair.

"It's getting late," Sunghoon said finally, his eyes meeting yours with lingering warmth. "You mentioned an early shift tomorrow."

"Six-thirty," you confirmed with a sigh. "The joys of pediatric emergency rotation."

Something that might have been disappointment flickered across his features, but he nodded. "You should get some rest."

As you both stood to clear the tea things, your fingers brushed again, the brief contact now charged with new meaning after your shared kisses. Sunghoon's hand caught yours, holding it gently for a moment.

"Thank you for dinner tonight," you said softly. "And for the flowers. It was... nice."

"It was," he agreed, his thumb tracing a small circle on the back of your hand. For a moment, he seemed on the verge of saying something more, but then simply nodded. "Sleep well, angel."

The endearment, now perfectly natural on his lips, created a warm flutter in your chest. "Goodnight, Sunghoon," you replied, reluctantly withdrawing your hand.

You both moved toward the stairs, the approaching storm casting dramatic shadows through the windows. At the landing where the hallway branched toward your separate bedrooms, you paused, suddenly reluctant to part.

Sunghoon hesitated as well, his usual decisive movements temporarily suspended. Then, with deliberate care, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your lips—gentle, brief, but unmistakably genuine.

"Goodnight," he said quietly, drawing back.

"Goodnight," you echoed, your voice not quite steady.

You turned toward your bedroom, feeling his eyes on you until you closed your door. Inside, you leaned against it for a moment, touching your lips where his had been, trying to process everything that had happened.

From casual dinner to heated kisses against a bookshelf to this new, tentative tenderness—it was a lot to absorb in one evening. As you prepared for bed, you could hear Sunghoon moving about in his own room across the hall, the familiar sounds somehow comforting despite the growing storm outside.

You slipped under your covers, Nyx jumping up to claim her usual spot at the foot of your bed. The approaching storm had intensified, lightning now flashing more frequently, thunder following in quicker succession. You'd always enjoyed storms, finding something soothing in their wild energy, and tonight the dramatic weather seemed to match the tumult of your thoughts.

Sleep came more easily than you expected, the day's events and emotional revelations having left you pleasantly exhausted. You couldn't know that in just a few hours, the storm raging outside would wake you both, creating an opportunity for the final barriers between you to fall completely.

PART 2

TL: @ziiao @seonhoon @beariegyu @somuchdard @ddolleri @zzhengyu @annybah @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @jakewonist @azzy02 @addictedtohobi @cherrybeomm @urmomdotcom5678 @jaeyunsbimbo @yongbokified @changbinniescurlyhair

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smileysuh · 4 months ago

Text

princess & kingpin

🌙 starring. Lee Donghyuck x afab!Reader

🔮 preview. Donghyuck might have a reputation to uphold in the darker world he inhabits with his family, but with you, this is Hyuck, the rascal ward who’d stolen your heart when you were children. Right now, he’s not a future Kingpin, nor are you a Princess. Instead, you’re man and wife, and you intend to reap the new benefits these connected titles give you.

tw/cw. Unprotected sex, arranged marriage, virgin!reader, thick dick!Donghyuck, first-time sex, wedding night sex, body worship, wedding garter, fingering, pussy eating, lots of foreplay, pussy stretching, dirty talk, praise, good first-time communication, lots of kissing, gentle/hand holding sex, talks of ‘consummation/duty’, Hyuck uses a knife to cut open her intricate laced wedding gown, etc… I pet names: (hers) Princess.

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 5.7k

🍭 aus. Modern royal au, mafia au, childhood friends to lovers, strategically arranged marriage, princess! y/n, future kingpin!Haechan

☀️ mlist + an. i had a field day with the au selection for this one haha

Prologue:

There was never any doubt when Donghyuck was born, that he was his father’s son. He’d come out of the womb punching, and despite his mother being a mistress, the renowned weapons dealer had claimed Donghyuck as his own, as he’d claimed other illegitimate would-be heirs.

The blood of the mother was redundant in Donghyuck’s father’s eyes, all that mattered, was that he was a Lee. This mentality had stayed with Donghyuck in his early childhood, growing up amongst other half-siblings. Mark, for example, was slightly older, and although he had more of his mother’s gentle temperament, he knew how to live up to his name when it mattered. Jeno, in contrast, was very much another mini-me to their father, very bold, very aggressive.

When Donghyuck was ten, something happened that would change the entire course of his life.

Having lived in a corrupt monarchy for the entirety of his existence, and having a father who was somewhat of a Kingpin in the shady world of weapons, Donghyuck grew to have a disdain for the King, who was always meddling, always making choices that had negative effects on his people.

The Lees weren’t the only clan who hated the King, in fact, the head royal’s choices were so bad, that he gained the moniker ‘The Mad King.’ His own family had turned against him, and when he would not willingly relinquish his power it was decided that for the first time in a very long time, an internal assassination would be the best choice for the entire realm.

When Donghyck was ten, his eldest half-brother, Lee Taeyong, assassinated The Mad King, thus making way for the thrown to be usurped by the King’s own younger brother, a younger brother who now had ties, and a debt to settle, with Donghyuck’s family.

The first year after The Mad King’s death saw more reform for the better than perhaps ever in the history of the kingdom. There were some who were unhappy with a militia-style arms dealer family injecting themselves into the court through a blood favor, but others understood that sometimes, this type of brute force is necessary for positive change. Besides, the new King understood, as the King before him had not, that having the raw power of the Lees backing him up would be the safest choice of all.

At eleven, Donghyuck was sent to the castle to be a ward for the royal family. He would spend six months of the year learning the ins and outs of the court. This was the first time Donghyuck had felt like a half-son, like the birth of his mother had reflected negatively on him. He didn’t want to be in the libraries studying, or learning how to make diplomatic concessions- that wasn’t who he was. Lee Donghyuck was not a royal, and in the mind of his eleven-year-old self, he never would be.

Donghyuck would spend seven years in between the castle and his family home, feeling torn, feeling less than his half-brothers, who were gaining the benefit of a full-time life with his father. There were a few bright moments with the royals, bright moments when he’d first met you, the Princess. The two of you became fast friends, both sharing a common feeling of dissatisfaction with your fathers’ treatment, both feeling like being the youngest in a large clan had its downsides.

At eighteen, Donghyuck was no longer forced to be a ward. He was a full member of the Lee’s now, and he’d spent all his time in the castle working to be the best asset to his father that he could be, desperately wanting to prove to his father that he could be the best of all his sons, maybe even better than Taeyong, who had been the tool used to secure their spot as royal-adjacents.

It wasn’t until Donghyuck was twenty that he learned the truth of why he had been the one chosen to go to the castle. He, out of all his siblings, of age, and of sharp mind, was determined to be the most useful plant within the marble walls of royalty.

After he’d found out how his father truly saw him, Donghyuck became a fully unstoppable force, and he never looked back.

One:

“It’s been a long time,” the old advisor to the King says as he takes a seat, staring at Donghyuck from behind his large office desk.

“It has,” Donghyuck agrees, eying all the official papers that still scatter Seunghyun’s space.

“I received the letter from your father,” the advisor continues, reaching for the document in question to hold it up. “I suppose I always knew this day was coming, especially after what your family did for our King.”

Donghyuck nods. It would seem to him that the notion of an arranged marriage had likely always been in his father’s back pocket, but of course, when Donghyuck was younger, he hadn’t realized he would be the intended Lee to join the royal family. Now, as a man, the entire play makes sense. He’s not a complete stranger to the princesses, nor is he unfamiliar with the court and the way the royals conduct themselves.

No, Donghyuck was purposefully sent here by his father to infiltrate, to make the exact move that he’s attempting to make right now.

Lee Donghyuck will marry into the royal family, forever securing an unbreakable bond between them, and it is this mission, that Donghyuck has unknowingly spent over ten years trying to achieve.

“I have discussed this letter with the King,” Seunghyun continues, “and we assume there is no guess as to whom you would like as your bride.”

“No guess,” Donghyuck responds with a chuckle, looking down at the Lee family ring on his pinky.

“You always did have a connection with the youngest princess. If it would be amenable to your father… If he has no other specifications as to which Princess you are to be wedded to, the King agrees that you and Princess y/n can be wed within a week’s time.”

Donghyuck can’t help the way his heart thumps in his chest. His father had made him aware of this royally arranged marriage a month ago, but he’s still not quite used to the idea that you’ll be his wife.

He’d always had an attraction to you, an attraction to your body, mind, and spirit- but as a teenager, he’d done his best to push those thoughts aside. He’d been acutely aware that your differing situations in life would most likely keep you from ever being in a union-

In some ways, Donghyuck feels like he’s entered a very good dream, but there are some anxieties that come with it. After all, he hasn’t seen you in years… what if your opinion of him has changed?

“That timeline works for the Lee clan,” Donghyuck says smoothly, “as does the Princess in question.”

It’s funny how easily Donghyuck slips back into the diction of the castle, the ‘proper’ way of speaking. it’s been years since he’s been here, but in some odd way, it’s as if he never left.

Two:

“The two of you always had a connection,” your older sister Jenni concedes as you sit in front of your vanity, an artist working on your makeup. “But you haven't seen him in years.”

“He can’t have changed that much, right?” you ask, looking between your siblings.

Hwasa exchanges a glance with Jenni. As the second oldest, Hwasa is married already, however, in contrast to your arranged match, she’d been wed to a Prince and is now next in line for a throne half a continent away.

“Certain qualities are bound to stay the same,” Hwasa says diplomatically. “However… I have heard about his more recent reputation.”

You’ve all heard about it. Once upon a time, Taeyong had been the prodigal son of the Lee clan, he’d even overthrown a whole kingdom for the chance to strengthen family ties, but in recent years, the story goes that the eldest Lee boy had become timid, less so like his father. Donghyuck, in contrast, has supposedly risen in the ranks, working all the way up to somewhat of a right-hand man figure, despite him being one of the younger members of the halfling brood.

“He’ll still be the same boy who wanted to skip lessons to play in the park,” you insist. “The same boy who got high marks without studying.”

“Intellect is an attractive trait,” Hwasa concedes, “however, I seem to remember his reckless disdain for rules got you in trouble a number of times as well.”

“She was always following him into bad situations,” Jenni agrees with a laugh. “It was charming when they were young. A twelve-year-old kingpin’s son, corrupting a princess to go on ‘dangerous’ quests, playing pretend in the castle park.”

“I guess neither of us thought we’d ever be very important to our families,” you sigh. “I’m the youngest daughter. Sure, I was expected to marry well, but I think we all knew I’d never be more than a princess. I’m no Queen.”

“Maybe not one in name,” Hwasa says, cocking her head to the side as she plays with your veil. “But someone has to run the Lee empire when the kingpin dies, and many sources are pointing toward Donghyuck as being the next in line. Securing you as a match would definitely add some… legitimacy, considering the fact that he’s a half-blood.”

“His father’s wife never bore children,” you point out, feeling defensive. “It made sense for him to have mistresses, children born out of wedlock. He kept his wife, whom he loved, but still needed a line to inherit his work. It’s an arrangement they had.”

“I’ve heard conflicting reports on whether Mrs. Lee was very agreeable to the situation, having a host of children calling your husband father while she herself was not a birth mother,” Hwasa sighs.

“I don’t want to hear about this anymore,” you declare. “I’m getting married today, and these politics and talks of family lines and legitimacy are dampening my mood.”

Your sisters exchange one last look, but then they bow their heads to you, a sign of submission.

You know they’re just protective, that they’re not the only ones dissecting the arrangement with your fiance.

Having spent your life in a castle, you’re used to gossip. The only person who never truly cared about what others thought was Donghyuck, and you’re eager for the strength he provided you when you were young.

Three:

Donghyuck can hardly breathe when the church doors open and you begin to walk through. Your veil obscures your face, your chin dipped down to pay attention to the floor as your father slowly escorts you up the aisle. Even without being able to fully see you, Donghyuck can tell you’ve only grown more beautiful in the years since he’s seen you, and his heart begins to thump wildly in his chest.

Jeno and Mark are his groomsmen, and he can feel them shifting behind him, clearly reacting to your beauty, as everyone in the House of God is.

Things seem to move incredibly slowly, and also incredibly fast. The King is handing you off to Donghyuck, and he’s taking you by the hand, marveling at the scar on your palm that you’d gotten from slipping on a rock when you were both fifteen. God, the castle physician had had a field day with Hyuck when that happened-

He can feel your eyes on him, and soon, he’s lifting your veil to see your face.

Donghyuck can feel the smile that appears on his lips, and you shyly beam back, downcasting your gaze. The Lee can hardly hear the minister as he goes through a useless traditional ceremony, it’s all business after all.

The only things that matter are the ‘I do’s’ and the kiss, and when that happens, Donghyuck is fully present. He wets his lips, squeezing your hand gently. You give him a small nod, a wordless show that it’s okay, that he can move forward and solidify the future you’ll now have together, the future that, in some ways, was always meant to be.

He wants to be gentle with you, cupping your face and watching you intently as you both move in. At the last moment, your eyes flutter closed, and he mirrors the action, pressing his lips to yours.

It’s the most chaste kiss Donghyuck’s ever had, but at the same time, nothing in the world has ever excited him more.

You taste like mandarine oranges and springtime, and a familiar feeling that has been buried for years begins to bubble up in the young man’s chest like the blossoming of a cherry tree. You’re his future, and he can feel it in his very soul.

Four:

You’ve felt as if things had progressed quite naturally at the wedding and reception, but now, going with Donghyuck to his home and finally getting some alone time- well, you’re beginning to feel twinges of anxiety.

This man, who you’d known years ago, has grown up. His hair is a little longer, and his hands bear the marks of an everlasting fighter’s soul, but despite these changes, his smile is still the same, as is the soft way he gazes at you.

“How are you feeling?” Donghyuck asks, walking around his large master bedroom to retrieve some water for you.

“I’m alright, and you?”

“Never been better,” your husband grins, handing you a cup and sitting across from you in the small seating area of his room by the fire. “Were you surprised by this whole arrangement thing?”

You cock your head to the side, considering the question. “Yes, and no. I hadn’t expected a marriage connection between our families, but once I was made aware of it, it felt like I was stupid for never seeing the intention before. And when I found out it would be you marrying someone from my family, I knew you would choose me.”

“We always got along.”

“We did more than get along,” you laugh, feeling your skin flush. You take a sip of water to steady yourself. “I’d always had a crush on you, Donghyuck, following you around like a lost puppy-”

“You never felt like a lost puppy to me. You were just my best friend six months of the year.”

You can’t help but smile. “Best friend,” you repeat, releasing a sad breath. “I was upset when you turned eighteen and stopped coming. I never heard from you.”

“Life got busy,” Donghyuck frowns.

“I’ve heard,” you nod.

You can feel him studying you, and he leans forward. “I’m sorry. I should have contacted you.”

“It’s alright,” you wave your hand. “We’re here now.”

“We are,” he agrees. “If it makes you feel better, I’ve been thinking about you.”

“You have?”

“I uh…” He rubs the back of his neck shyly, “I always had a crush on you too, but I figured it would never work out, so…”

“It’s funny how life has a way of bringing people together again,” you muse. “As if our fates were always set in stone, always meant to be…” you search for the right word, and it comes to you both in unison: “aligned.”

You both laugh, looking down, and it’s as if you’re shy teenagers again, teasing with the idea of a forbidden romance that has now come to fruition, with the full backing of both of your families.

“You look very beautiful,” Donghyuck muses, eyes raking over your wedding dress.

“I thought you might like this one,” you smile, also looking down at yourself. “I remember you used to like the bows I’d wear in my hair, always tugging on them-”

“So you wrapped yourself up like a pretty present for me,” Donghyuck deduces. “How very generous of you, Princess.”

A giddy tingle erupts up your spine. While everyone calls you Princess - as it is your title - it feels different coming from Donghyuck’s lips, and it always has.

“It’s our wedding night…” you point out, “I wanted to gift you something, give you something to unwrap.”

Donghyuck swallows thickly, a motion you don’t miss. “Princess… you’ve gotten… bold since we last met.”

“You’re my husband, can’t I be bold with you, Hyuck?”

He takes a deep breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to be… I mean, I’m willing to give you time-”

“Consummation is a time-honored tradition,” you point out, only half teasing. “It’s our wedding night, and I’m not the only person with expectations.”

“I doubt your family expects me to give you an heir, Hwasa and your eldest brother have more than delivered in that area,” Donghyuck laughs. “But I see your point.”

“Do you?” You set your water down, standing. Turning your back to Donghyuck, you approach the large bed before looking over your shoulder at him. He’s taking in the bows that make the length of your corsetted back, and you can see his mind working to figure out how he’s going to undo everything in a timely manner. “Come, husband, unwrap your wedding present.”

You’ve been dreaming about this night all week- in fact, you’ve been fantasizing about this since you were sixteen.

Donghyuck might have a reputation to uphold in the darker world he inhabits with his family, but with you, this is Hyuck, the rascal ward who’d stolen your heart when you were children. Right now, he’s not a future Kingpin, nor are you a Princess. Instead, you’re man and wife, and you intend to reap the new benefits these connected titles give you.

You can sense Donghyuck hesitate as he approaches you, coming to a stop just at your back. His hands gently smooth up your arms, and he leans forward to press his lips to your shoulder. “Are you sure about this?” he asks.

“I’ve never been more sure,” you respond, arching your neck to look back at him.

Donghyuck reaches up to pinch your chin, and then he kisses you.

It’s a soft kiss like you’d shared at the alter just hours ago, but you have no need to put on a chaste show for royals, there’s no one currently in attendance at this special moment. It’s just you and him, and you’re quick to turn things deeper, releasing a small moan of pleasure as you turn in his arms, threading your fingers through his silky hair.

He grabs your waist, but as you kiss, you can feel his palm smoothing to the small of your back. He begins to pluck loose all the intricate bows, not missing a beat as he does so.

You tug at his suit and Donghuck concedes to you just long enough to get his jacket off before he returns to his task. The kiss is turning heated very quickly, and your skin is tingling with excitement, your heart racing like a wild bird in your rib cage.

Donghyuck begins to kiss down to your throat, licking and sucking on the skin while you gasp and whimper. He’s all-consuming, and you don’t know where to focus as he worships you while simultaneously undoing the bows on the back of your dress.

His lips ghost by the swell of your breasts, pushed up by the corsetted structure in your wedding gown. God, it feels amazing, and you throw your head back, panting deeply.

“Being so good for me, Princess,” Donghyuck muses, his lips trailing back up your throat. He pulls away, looking down at you. “I want you to know- you can change your mind at any time and I won’t hold it against you-”

“Hyuck,” you groan. “Can you just let me want you?” You bunch your hands up in his suit. “Can you accept that I need you? That I’m not being forced, or coerced- that this ‘arranged’ marriage isn’t even really that ‘arranged’ because, for me, it’s always been you?”

He’s staring at you in shock, and you decide to take matters into your own hands. You muster up all your strength and push him onto the bed before confidently mounting him. You gather up the poofy skirts of your dress, getting comfortable so you can grind down on him despite all the fabric in the way.

“I didn’t expect this,” Donghyuck admits, swallowing thickly.

“Get used to it,” you fire back, leaning down to cup his face, pressing your lips against his with a newfound passion.

He quickly gets to work on the back of your dress again, and now you’re both moaning at the feeling of you grinding down on top of him.

Something hard is pressing up against your core, and the knowledge that he’s already hard has you feeling feverish in the best possible way. He wants you the way you want him, and you’re starting to regret wearing such an intricate dress.

“Fuck this,” Hyuck groans, pushing you off of him and onto the bed. He grabs you next, flipping you onto your stomach. When you look over your shoulder, you realize he’s produced a knife - had he been hiding that in a clip on the back of his pants this whole time?

With one rough stroke, he cuts through all the ribbons and the lace along the back of your dress, ruining it in an effort to get to you quickly.

“I never had much patience for presents or keeping wrapping paper intact,” Donghyuck muses, leaning over to set his knife on the bedside table. “Let's get you out of this fucking gown.”

He flips you again, and you release a giggle at the manhandling, loving this new side of your husband. He’s clearly insatiable, and it sets your entire body on fire as he grips your dress and practically tears it from your form.

You’re in undergarments, and unlike your dress, there hadn't been any royal and historical specifications about the details, so the thong and garter are very much a contrast to the now-destroyed gown that’s been tossed aside.

The corset on the dress has been enough to not merit a bra of any sort, so now, looking up at Donghyuck, you’re already half naked, and it’s clear that he’s taken aback from the view.

He stops, just staring at you, his lips parted in disbelief.

“Wow,” he breathes.

“Like what you see?”

“Yes, Princess.” He swallows thickly, gaze finally dipping to take in your thong and the wedding garter on your thigh. “This is pretty.” Donghyuck grabs at the lacey strap, pulling it away from your skin to let it gently snap back.

“It’s not the most traditional thing in the world for royals to wear one, but I thought you might enjoy it,” you muse.

“What do I do with it?”

“I was thinking… you could take it off with your teeth.”

“My teeth?” Donghyuck looks up at you with surprise.

“Your teeth,” you confirm, “but… maybe also take your shirt off first.”

“Is this tradition?” your husband asks as he begins to unbutton his top.

“Not entirely,” you giggle, enjoying the look of his tanned skin as more and more of it is revealed.

When you’d known Donghyuck before, he’d always been a little scrawny, but in his years away, he’s built muscle, and the sight of it is making you drool.

There are a few scars that litter his skin as well, scars that likely have stories you’ll have to ask about later, but right now, your focus is of a more primal nature.

Donghyuck shrugs his shirt to the floor, then he gets down on the bed between your legs. He starts peppering your calf in kisses, slowly ascending to your knee, then your thigh.

The feeling of his breath makes you groan and he looks up at you with dark eyes.

“Keep going,” you urge, grabbing at the bed sheets.

His teeth tease along the flimsy garter, and once he has an acceptable grip, he begins to tug it down your leg. Donghyuck moves slowly, toying with you and building the suspense.

You can feel your pussy beginning to throb with need already, and when the garter is discarded, Donghyuck’s lips take the same path up your leg again, but this time, he doesn’t stop where the material had just been.

He continues until his breath is fanning across your covered core, and it makes you whine, gripping the sheets tighter.

“Can I take these off too?” Donghyuck asks, voice low as one of his fingers teases the waistband of your thong.

“Please,” you whimper, lifting your hips a little to help him remove the only piece of clothing still standing between your husband and what you both want most.

Your panties are gone in a flash, and then two hands are snaking under your thighs, adjusting your core. Donghyuck licks his lips, looking up at you.

You expect him to say something, but he doesn’t, instead, he dives in, licking your pussy and sucking your clit into his mouth while you release a strangled cry. One of your hands flies down to tangle in his hair, and Donghyuck groans deeply, sending a vibration through your core that lights up your entire form.

As a Princess, your virtue has always been protected. You’re a virgin, and while you know about sex, you’ve never known what it is to experience it with another.

Nothing could have prepared you for this, for the way your entire body tingles with pleasure so all-consuming that you can’t help but moan desperately.

Donghyuck eats you like he’s been a man starved, unashamed to be a little messy.

There’s something sinful about it, but something that also feels so right- so correct.

Donghyuck adjusts slightly, and you feel a finger begin to gently circle your wet hole. He pushes just the tip in and you mewl from the sensation. Your husband takes your sound as an affirmation to continue, so he presses further inside of you, still moving slowly and gently to allow your body to adjust to the foreign intrusion.

You love how he’s taking his time with you, listening to your body and your cues.

It seems clear that he’s aware this is your first time with a man, and he’s not in some eager, self-gratifying rush to get to the part where he’s the one feeling good.

Soon he has a whole finger inside of you while he continues to suck on your clit, and he pumps the digit slowly, working you open in the most delightful way.

“Can I add another?” he asks, gently kissing your sensitive bud as he looks up at you.

“Yeah, I’m ready,” you nod, swallowing thickly.

Donghyuck returns to his task, licking at your clit to distract you from the stretch that comes with two fingers now slowly working into you.

He adjusts his hand again, crooking the digits up to hit a sweet spot inside of you that makes your toes curl.

“Oh my God-” you whimper, clutching at the sheets again.

“Feels good?” he asks.

“Feels amazing,” you confirm, eyes shut as you can enjoy the pleasure that’s coursing through you.

Donghyuck applies more pressure to the sweet spot inside of you, thrusting in an almost rhythmic fashion as he sucks harder on your clit.

You’re all consumed by the throbbing ecstasy that’s bubbling out from your core and into the entirety of your body.

“Do you think you might cum for me soon, Princess?” Donghyuck asks.

“I… I think so,” you nod, swallowing thickly.

“Take your time,” he assures you, “when the feeling hits, just let go for me.”

He continues to worship your pussy, licking and sucking and stroking and fingering- your toes begin to curl from the pleasure, and the feeling is building quickly in your abdomen.

You’re gasping now, panting and moaning, clutching at the bed desperately. “Hyuck-” you whimper.

He responds by sucking your clit even harder and your thighs move to close around him, but your husband pushes them open with his free hand. He finger fucks you even harder, and before you know it, the tension in your stomach is snapping.

A wave of euphoria unlike anything you’ve ever felt washes over you like a warm summer rain. You gasp loudly, pleasure throbbing out from your core and engulfing you.

Donghyuck doesn’t stop, he works you through it, ignoring the way your thighs are shaking around him, the way you’re clawing at the bed and crying out.

“Hyuck!” you whimper, finally unable to take any more of the pleasure-

Your husband pulls away from your core, and you hear him lick his lips, but you’re too exhausted to open your eyes.

He pulls away from your core. “You look good like this, Princess.”

You don’t even have the words to respond, chest heaving, heart racing-

The bed dips as he lays down next to you, and you feel him push some hair away from your face. His lips brush your cheek, his hand moving down to your breast, where he begins to massage your flesh.

“That might be enough for tonight,” he muses softly.

“What?” Your eyes snap open.

“You look pretty tired.”

“Hyuck,” you take a deep breath, “I… I need you to fuck me.”

He stares at you in shock. “I’ve never heard that word come from your mouth before, Princess, this must be pretty serious.”

“It is,” you insist, cupping his cheek. “Please.”

“If that’s what my Princess wants,” Donghyuck concedes with a grin. “I’ll go slowly, I promise.”

He gets up again, and you watch him take off his pants.

You’ve never seen a cock in real life before, and the way his springs up makes your mouth water.

He’s thick, and a decent size too, or so you assume. You lick your lips in anticipation as he gets back onto the bed with you.

He moves between your thighs, and your legs wrap around him instinctively, your hand cupping his cheek again.

You draw your lips to his as he begins to gently rut, his cock gliding between your soaked pussy lips with easy, teasing by your clit, but not entering you.

It’s as if he’s toying with you, and your patience runs thin very fast. “Please,” you whimper again.

“You got it, Princess.”

He grabs the base of his cock, adjusting so his tip can fully tease your hole now. He pushes in slightly and you grab his shoulders, squeezing and making him stop.

You can feel him watching your facial expressions as you get used to the largest intrusion you’ve ever had inside of you.

“Just breathe,” he tells you, bringing his lips to your throat in an effort to soothe.

“Okay,” you nod, “okay, deeper.”

He follows your instructions, gently pushing in another inch only to pause and wait for your affirmation to continue.

This continues for a few minutes, Donghyuck diligently taking his time and allowing you to acclimatize to his cock until he’s fully sheathed in your wet and throbbing core.

“Okay, okay,” you nod, breathing heavily. “You can move now.”

Donghyuck cups your cheek, kissing you softly as he begins to gently rock back and forth. Your pussy walls are getting used to the sensation, and the slick from your orgasm makes things very smooth as he gradually increases the intensity.

You begin to moan from the feeling of him, clawing at his shoulders again, kissing him desperately as he makes love to you in your wedding bed.

One of Donghyuck’s hands moves down to your thigh, hiking it higher on his hip. Suddenly he’s hitting a deep spot inside of you, making you cry out as your toes curl with pleasure.

“Good?” he asks, pressing kisses along your throat.

“Good,” you confirm, whimpering desperately.

“You’re so tight,” Donghyuck groans.

“Maybe you’re just big,” you counter, stifling a giggle.

It’s shocking how natural this feels- there’s no awkwardness with Donghyuck, after all, you might be newlyweds from an arranged marriage, but you’ve been friends for most of your lives. You couldn’t imagine a better man to be with, a better man to be taking care of you for your first time.

“Princess,” Donghyuck moans, “I… I don’t think I’m going to last very long.”

“How… how long do men usually last?” you ask.

Donghyuck chuckles. “It all depends, but- eating you out got me pretty worked up, and now your pussy is gripping me so fucking well-”

God, his words are sinful to a Princess like you, but they’re sinful in the best possible way, making your pussy flutter with pleasure.

You’re making this man come undone, as he’d made you cum, and that knowledge makes pride burn through you.

“Don’t try to last,” you tell him, cupping his face. “Let go.”

Donghyck stares at you for a moment before smashing his lips to yours. He grabs one of your hands and intertwines your fingers, pressing it to the pillow to use as leverage as he begins to fuck you even harder.

The whole bed is rocking by now, each powerful thrust making you mewl and whimper.

“Fuck, fuck-” Donghyuck groans, burying his face against your throat again. “Shit, I’m gonna cum-”

You hold him tightly, stroking his hair as his thrusts falter, a deep moan escaping his lips.

You can feel the unfamiliar sensation of something filling up your core, and you wrap your legs tighter around his hips, keeping him locked inside of you as he fills you with his release.

He’s groaning and gasping in your ear and it’s one of the most erotic sounds you’ve ever heard.

You can sense when he’s come down from his high, but you continue to hold him, your chests pressed together, racing hearts beating as one.

This man is your husband, and you know he’ll take care of you. It’s a different life path laid out before you than you’d perhaps imagined when you were younger, but you know that as long as you’re with Lee Donghyuck, everything will be just fine.

☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! Short but sweet this month, longer things to come for nct in February :)

🍭 support me by. sending a tip here or here - or become a patron to access monthly bonus content and extensions for fics like this one :) find the Patreon teaser below!

🔮 preview. In the five years you’ve been married to Donghyuck, he’s helped you come out of your sexually repressed shell. You’ve even tried things with him that you never even thought you’d be interested in. While Donghyuck can be soft and gentle for you, as he was on your wedding night, he’s still a Lee, and that factor comes with its fair share of darker tastes.

cw/ tw. cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, squirting, bondage, use of toys (vibrator), impreg/breeding kink, multiple positions, dirty talk, praise, fingering, breast worship, body worship, etc… I petnames. (hers) princess

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.3k I teaser wc. 120

🌙 starring. Haechan x afab!Reader

bonus

“Happy anniversary,” Jeno grins as he shows up at your compound, with Mark in tow.

“Thank you,” you smile, welcoming them into the house.

Jeno is the favorite uncle of your two children, and it’s clear that he feels his congratulatory diligence is done, as he rushes past you to pick up your son and daughter, one for each arm. Mark, in contrast, bears some of the manners that you were used to much of your life, and he steps into your home. “Did you have a nice day?” he asks.

“A lovely family day,” you nod, stepping closer to Mark and lowering your voice, “but between us, I think Hyuck and I are both ready for some alone time.”

☀️ to read the full fic AND 2.3k bonus NOW, subscribe to my Patreon, then click here

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general taglist

@gotshinct - @subhyuck - @fraechan - @learnthisfeeling

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@poutypoutybin - @notbeforelong - @creepybakeoven

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@lovelyhan - @grilledbananas - @sourkimchi

As I was short on time this month and unable to do a teaser, here's another shout out to some of my favourite blogs who interact with my work, I love you guys endlessly

@bobathi - @amazinggraxia - @bluempire425-blog -

@twililty - @cheolaholic - @babieculture

@meowniee - @ridenotpark - @ollieollieoctopus

@axo-l0tl - @blspphr3 - @roseandpeaches

#haechan #haechan smut #lee donghyuck #lee donghyuck smut #donghyuck #donghyuck smut #nct #nct smut #nct 127 #nct 127 smut #nct dream #nct dream smut #haechan nct #nct haechan

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alliekitaguchi · 10 months ago

Text

hey so what the fuck did matt mean the longstanding relationship with the ashari and the squall.

what the fuck do you mean dorym diplomatic marriage but they’re actually stupidly in love au could be REAL?????

#dorym #critical role spoilers #critical role #bells hells #Orym #Orym of the air ashari #Dorian storm #1k

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amethystarachnid · 5 months ago

Note

Hey! I wanted to request Loki x reader fanfic. Can it be arranged marriage with slow burn au where the reader is a princess of a small kingdom who never thought she'd be marrying into a higher kingdom let alone Asgard. So is surprised when is betrothed to loki. She tried to give him benifit of doubt but we'll he acts like an ass and she decides to give it to him back equally. They both banter and throw sarcastic jibes during the courting period and after the marriage but over time they become friends and then lovers. Maybe She calls odin out on his bullshit and bias towards thor, and all the fun family dynamics with frigga and thor.

Thank you! And wishing you a happy new year!✨🍀

THE ROYAL LOVERS

⤷ LOKY LAUFEYSON

ᯓ★ Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, some angst and some fluff

ᯓ★ Requests status: open (only by asks)

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 11k (I dont think I can make it more slow burn than this lol)

ᯓ★ Summary: just what the ask said

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think

ᯓ★ Part 2

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

You sit in the grand hall of your father’s castle, the sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows, casting kaleidoscopic patterns on the cold marble floors. The room feels heavier than usual, the weight of your father’s words pressing down on your chest. Betrothed. You turn the word over in your mind, trying to make sense of it, trying to figure out how this has become your reality.

“To one of Asgard’s princes?” you repeat, unable to mask the disbelief in your tone.

Your father nods, his expression grave yet tinged with pride. “Yes, daughter. This alliance is a great honor for our kingdom. A union with Asgard strengthens our position, ensures our prosperity, and secures peace for generations to come.”

Peace. Prosperity. You’ve heard these words countless times before, always in speeches or during court gatherings when foreign diplomats visit. Now they’re being used as the justification for altering the course of your entire life.

You swallow hard. “And which prince?”

A pause stretches between you, long enough for your heart to skip several anxious beats. Your father finally answers, his voice calm, though his eyes betray some unease. “Prince Loki.”

The name settles over you like a shadow. You’ve heard stories of Asgard, of its golden spires and indomitable warriors. Tales of its princes, too—Thor, the golden-haired god of thunder, beloved by all, and Loki, the sharp-tongued trickster whose reputation is far more ambiguous.

You straighten in your chair, forcing yourself to remain composed despite the storm building inside you. “I see. And when am I to meet this... prince?”

“Soon,” your father says. “King Odin and Queen Frigga have agreed to host a meeting at their palace. You will accompany me to Asgard in three days' time.”

Three days. That’s all the time you have to prepare yourself for the encounter that will determine your future. You nod stiffly and rise from your seat, excusing yourself from the conversation.

Once you’re alone in your chambers, the weight of it all crashes down on you. You pace the room, the rich fabrics of your dress swishing around your legs, your mind racing. Betrothed to a prince of Asgard. It sounds like something out of a storybook, but you’re no naïve dreamer. You know enough to understand the realities of political alliances.

Still, you can’t help but wonder: why would Asgard—a kingdom so vast and powerful it dwarfs your own—be interested in such a union?

Three days later, you stand before the shimmering Bifrost Bridge, its prismatic light almost blinding. The sight of it steals your breath, though you quickly compose yourself as the Asgardian guards usher you and your father toward the grand palace that looms in the distance.

The palace is even more magnificent than the stories described, its golden towers piercing the sky, its halls adorned with treasures from realms beyond your imagination.

You feel small here, insignificant. But you refuse to let it show.

In the throne room, King Odin sits atop his gilded seat, his presence commanding, even intimidating. Beside him stands Queen Frigga, her beauty and poise as striking as the rumors claimed. The sight of her eases your nerves slightly; she seems kind, her gentle smile a stark contrast to the stern expressions of her husband and the guards flanking the room.

And then you see him.

Prince Loki.

He stands a step behind his parents, dressed in sleek black and green, the golden accents of his attire catching the light. His dark hair is neatly combed back, his pale features sharp and angular. There’s an air of arrogance about him, a cool detachment that only adds to his enigmatic aura.

Your father bows, and you quickly follow suit, keeping your gaze fixed on the floor.

“Your Majesties,” your father begins, his voice steady. “It is an honor to stand before you. I thank you for welcoming us into your home.”

Odin nods curtly, his single eye fixed on your father. “We are pleased to have you here. This alliance is of great importance to both our realms.”

Frigga steps forward, her smile warm. “And you must be the princess,” she says, addressing you directly.

You lift your head, meeting her gaze. “Yes, Your Majesty. It is a privilege to be here.”

Frigga’s smile widens, and for a moment, you feel at ease. But the feeling is short-lived as you catch Loki’s gaze. He’s watching you, his expression unreadable.

“Loki,” Odin says, gesturing toward you. “This is the princess, your betrothed.”

The words hang in the air like a thunderclap. Loki’s lips curl into a faint, almost dismissive smirk. He inclines his head slightly but says nothing.

You suppress the urge to bristle. Fine, you think. If he’s going to be curt, so be it.

Frigga notices the tension and steps in, her voice soothing. “Why don’t the two of you take a moment to speak privately? Get to know one another.”

Your father nods in agreement. “An excellent idea.”

Before you can protest, you’re being led to a nearby chamber, Loki following behind you at a leisurely pace. Once the door closes, you turn to face him, your hands clasped tightly in front of you.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence is thick, uncomfortable.

“So,” you begin, forcing yourself to sound calm. “It seems we are to be married.”

Loki leans against the nearest wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “Indeed. Though I must admit, I find the arrangement rather curious.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Curious? In what way?”

He shrugs, his tone casual but laced with condescension. “Our kingdoms are not exactly equals. One might wonder what my father hopes to gain from such a union.”

The words sting, but you refuse to let him see it. Instead, you smile sweetly, matching his tone. “Perhaps he hopes I’ll teach you some manners.”

Loki’s eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he regains his composure. “Manners? How quaint. I wasn’t aware my betrothed was a tutor.”

You take a step closer, meeting his gaze head-on. “And I wasn’t aware mine was a child.”

His smirk falters, and for a moment, you think you’ve won. But then he chuckles, low and amused. “You have spirit, I’ll give you that. It’s almost endearing.”

“Almost?” you echo, tilting your head. “I’ll take that as a compliment, though I doubt you intended it as one.”

Loki studies you for a moment, his green eyes piercing. “You’re not what I expected.”

“And neither are you,” you reply, refusing to look away.

The tension in the room is palpable, an unspoken challenge hanging between you. Finally, Loki straightens, his expression unreadable once more.

“This should be interesting,” he says, his voice quiet but carrying an edge.

You don’t respond, watching as he strides toward the door and leaves without another word.

When you return to the throne room, Frigga gives you a knowing look, as if she can sense the clash of wills that just occurred.

“I trust you had a productive conversation,” she says gently.

You offer her a polite smile. “It was... enlightening.”

Loki says nothing, his expression calm but his eyes glinting with something you can’t quite place.

As the meeting concludes and you prepare to return to your chambers at Asgard for now, you can’t shake the feeling that this is only the beginning of a battle of wits and wills. And for the first time since hearing of the betrothal, you find yourself almost looking forward to the challenge.

The news spreads faster than you’d expect. Within days of the announcement, the realms are abuzz with the most unlikely engagement of the century: Loki, the so-called “trickster prince” of Asgard, and you, the princess of a modest but proud kingdom.

You learn of the reactions secondhand—your father shares reports from neighboring realms, some of which range from incredulous laughter to outright disbelief. Even within Asgard, whispers fill the air. Servants, courtiers, even the warriors of the great halls exchange furtive glances as you pass, clearly wondering how and why such a union has come to be.

You, however, have no answers for them.

Forced to stay in Asgard for the duration of your courtship, you find yourself in a whirlwind of carefully orchestrated meetings, formal dinners, and—most excruciating of all—dates.

The first one is planned with all the subtlety of a lightning bolt. Frigga herself announces it over breakfast, her tone pleasant but brooking no argument.

“The two of you will take a walk through the gardens this afternoon,” she says, her serene expression giving no indication that this is a royal decree rather than a suggestion. “It’s a lovely day, and I’m sure you’ll find the fresh air invigorating.”

Loki, seated across from you at the lavish dining table, barely looks up from his plate. “Invigorating,” he echoes dryly, his tone implying that being dragged into the sunlight is the last thing he finds appealing.

You sip your tea, determined not to let him ruin your mood. “It sounds delightful,” you say, forcing a bright smile.

When the time comes, the “walk” is as awkward as you anticipated. The gardens of Asgard are, of course, stunning, with vibrant flowers and towering trees that look as though they were sculpted by the gods themselves. But the beauty of your surroundings does little to ease the tension between you and your betrothed.

“You seem thrilled to be here,” you remark as you stroll along a cobblestone path, glancing at Loki. He walks a step ahead of you, his hands clasped behind his back and his expression neutral.

“I’m beside myself with joy,” he replies without missing a beat.

You roll your eyes. “If you hate this so much, why not just tell your parents you’re not interested? I’m sure they’ll understand.”

Loki stops, turning to face you with an arched brow. “You think I haven’t tried? My father, as you may have noticed, is not particularly accommodating when it comes to matters of ‘duty.’”

You shrug. “Neither is mine. But at least I’m trying to make the best of it.”

“Ah, yes,” Loki says, his lips curling into a smirk. “You’re positively brimming with enthusiasm. Tell me, is sarcasm a custom in your kingdom, or is it just your natural talent?”

“It’s a survival skill,” you shoot back, crossing your arms. “Particularly useful when dealing with insufferable princes.”

Loki laughs—a genuine laugh, though he quickly masks it with a cough. “Touché.”

The rest of the walk is less tense, though the banter continues. By the time you return to the palace, you’re both mildly annoyed but also—if you’re honest with yourself—mildly entertained.

The dates that follow are no less eventful.

One afternoon, you’re coerced into accompanying Loki to the library, which he claims is his “sanctuary.” You quickly learn that by “sanctuary,” he means a place where he can hide from people and indulge in his penchant for mocking their intellectual inadequacies.

“You know,” you say, trailing your fingers along the spines of ancient tomes as Loki lounges in a nearby chair, “if you put half as much effort into being pleasant as you do into being smug, you might actually be tolerable.”

“Why would I aim for tolerable when I can achieve perfection?” he counters, not looking up from his book.

You grab the nearest volume and plop it unceremoniously onto the table in front of him. “Here. Enlighten me, oh wise one.”

Loki picks up the book, glances at the title, and smirks. “A Beginner’s Guide to Asgardian History? How quaint.”

You grin, leaning on the table. “Well, I wouldn’t want to overwhelm you with anything too advanced.”

For a moment, his eyes meet yours, and you swear you see a flicker of amusement there. Then he closes the book with a theatrical sigh. “Very well. Sit, and I’ll educate you—though I can’t promise you’ll retain anything.”

By the end of the afternoon, you’ve learned more about Asgardian history than you ever thought you’d care to know. And, despite his constant teasing, Loki is an excellent teacher.

Another date—a “ride” across the Bifrost on enchanted steeds—proves to be even more chaotic.

“Have you ever ridden a horse before?” Loki asks as you mount your steed, his tone suggesting he already knows the answer.

“Of course,” you reply confidently, though your grip on the reins betrays your nerves.

As the horses take off, galloping across the shimmering bridge, you quickly realize that Asgardian steeds are not like those of your kingdom. They’re faster, stronger, and seemingly unbothered by the laws of gravity.

You let out an involuntary squeal as your horse leaps into the air, soaring above the bridge for a heart-stopping moment before landing gracefully.

Behind you, Loki laughs—an infuriating, delighted sound. “Having fun, princess?”

“Shut up!” you shout, gripping the reins tighter.

By the time the ride is over, your hair is a mess, your heart is pounding, and you’re thoroughly mortified. Loki, of course, looks as composed as ever.

“Well,” he says as you dismount, his smirk firmly in place, “that was exhilarating. Shall we go again?”

You glare at him, brushing strands of hair from your face. “Don’t push your luck.”

Despite the constant banter, you find yourself… not hating his company as much as you expected. Loki, for all his arrogance, is undeniably clever, and his sharp wit keeps you on your toes. He’s also surprisingly observant, occasionally making remarks that reveal a deeper understanding of you than you’re comfortable admitting.

For his part, Loki seems to enjoy sparring with you, though he never lets on too much. There are moments when his smirk softens, when his eyes linger on yours a little longer than necessary. But just as quickly, he retreats behind his usual façade of indifference.

The days pass, and the courtship continues, much to the amusement of the palace staff and the frustration of your parents.

“They’re impossible,” Odin mutters one evening after dinner, watching as you and Loki exchange yet another round of playful insults.

“They’re perfect for each other,” Frigga replies with a smile, her gaze warm as she watches the two of you.

Perfect. You wouldn’t go that far. But as you lie awake in your chambers that night, replaying the day’s events in your mind, you can’t deny that something about Loki intrigues you.

And though you’d never admit it, you’re starting to think that this arrangement might not be so terrible after all.

The day of your wedding looms ever closer, and Asgard hums with preparations. The golden halls are adorned with garlands of flowers, banners bearing the crests of your kingdom and Asgard hang side by side, and the palace is abuzz with activity. Servants scurry to and fro, courtiers gossip behind jeweled fans, and Frigga oversees every detail with her characteristic grace.

You, meanwhile, feel like a tightly coiled spring, caught between nervous anticipation and the persistent irritation that comes from dealing with Loki.

If the prince’s attitude was difficult before, it’s positively maddening now. You’re not sure what changed, but he’s been colder, more distant, his biting remarks sharper than usual.

One day, as you’re walking through the palace gardens, you decide to confront him.

“Alright, what’s your problem?” you demand, stepping in front of him and blocking his path.

Loki arches a brow, clearly unimpressed by your attempt to corner him. “You’ll have to be more specific, princess. I have so many.”

You cross your arms. “Don’t play coy. You’ve been acting like an even bigger ass than usual lately, and I want to know why.”

His lips curl into a smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You flatter me with your concern.”

“I’m serious, Loki.” Your voice softens, though your gaze remains firm. “If I’ve done something to upset you, just tell me.”

For a moment, his expression falters, and you think he might actually answer you. But then his smirk returns, colder than before.

“Perhaps I’m simply preparing you for the reality of being married to me,” he says, his tone light but laced with something darker.

Your stomach twists, but you refuse to let him see how much his words sting. “Fine,” you snap. “Be an ass. See if I care.”

You storm off, leaving him standing in the garden, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

The tension between you only worsens with the arrival of Thor.

The golden-haired prince returns from a long mission, his presence immediately commanding attention wherever he goes. Thor is everything Loki is not—open, friendly, and effortlessly charming. He greets you with a beaming smile, his blue eyes sparkling with genuine warmth.

“You must be the princess,” he says, clasping your hand in his large, calloused one. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Good things, I hope,” you reply, returning his smile.

“Of course!” Thor’s laughter booms through the hall, drawing the attention of everyone nearby. “I can see now why my brother is so reluctant to share his time with you. He must be afraid I’ll steal you away!”

You laugh politely, though the comment catches you off guard. Before you can respond, Loki appears at Thor’s side, his expression carefully neutral.

“Thor,” he says smoothly, his tone deceptively light. “How delightful of you to join us. I see you’ve already met my betrothed.”

“Indeed, I have!” Thor claps a hand on Loki’s shoulder, grinning. “She’s delightful. You’re a lucky man, brother.”

Loki’s smile tightens, and you swear you see his jaw clench. “Yes,” he says, his voice a touch colder. “Lucky indeed.”

From that moment on, Loki’s demeanor shifts even further. He grows colder, more distant, and his once playful banter becomes outright cutting.

During a dinner with Thor and the royal family, you find yourself on the receiving end of one of his more caustic remarks.

“Tell me, princess,” Loki drawls, leaning back in his chair. “Have you been enjoying your time here in Asgard? Or is it too overwhelming for someone from such... modest origins?”

The table falls silent, all eyes turning to you. Thor frowns, clearly disapproving of his brother’s behavior, while Frigga gives Loki a sharp look.

You take a deep breath, forcing a smile. “Oh, it’s been lovely,” you reply sweetly. “Though I must admit, the company has been a bit... mixed.”

Thor bursts out laughing, while Loki’s eyes narrow dangerously.

“Well played, princess,” he says, his voice low and icy.

The tension between you only seems to escalate as the days pass, culminating in a heated argument the night before the wedding.

“You know,” you say, standing in the middle of the grand hall where the ceremony will take place, “if you’re so miserable about this marriage, why don’t you just call it off?”

“And bring shame to both our kingdoms?” Loki replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I think not.”

“Shame?” You scoff. “Oh, please. Everyone knows you don’t want this any more than I do.”

“And yet here we are,” he snaps, his eyes flashing with anger.

The argument spirals, both of you hurling insults and accusations until you’re both breathing heavily, standing far too close to each other.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The air crackles with tension, and you half-expect Loki to say something cruel, something to end the conversation once and for all.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he steps back, his expression unreadable. “Goodnight, princess,” he says quietly, before turning on his heel and walking away.

You’re left standing alone in the empty hall, your chest tight and your mind racing.

The day of the wedding arrives, and you wake with a mixture of dread and resignation. You’re dressed in an elaborate gown, the finest your kingdom has ever produced, and escorted to the ceremony by your father and a contingent of Asgardian guards.

The hall is packed with dignitaries and guests from across the realms, their eyes fixed on you as you make your way down the aisle. At the end of it stands Loki, dressed in black and gold, his expression a perfect mask of calm.

As you approach, you search his face for any sign of emotion, any hint of the man you’ve gotten to know over the past weeks. But he gives nothing away.

The ceremony proceeds smoothly, the vows exchanged without incident. But as you stand before the gathered crowd, your hand resting in Loki’s, you can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted between you.

When the officiant finally declares you husband and wife, Loki leans in, his lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, “The games begin, princess.”

You pull back slightly, meeting his gaze with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. “Bring it on, prince.”

The crowd erupts in applause, oblivious to the battle of wills raging between the two of you.

And as Loki leads you down the aisle, his hand resting lightly on yours, you can’t help but wonder what the future holds for this strange, tempestuous union. One thing is certain: life with Loki will never be dull.

The wedding feast is a blur of golden light, laughter, and endless toasts. Your smile is painted on, your cheeks aching as guests from every realm offer their congratulations. Loki plays his part impeccably, charming the crowd with his wit and occasional glances in your direction that are just shy of affectionate.

Inside, you feel like a tightly coiled spring, wound tighter with every passing moment. You know what comes after the feast. The thought sits heavy in your chest, making it hard to breathe.

The hour grows late, and when the last of the guests have finally departed, you’re escorted to the chambers that have been prepared for you and Loki. The halls seem longer than usual, the distance to your destination stretching endlessly as your nerves build.

When you reach the door, the servants offer you both polite bows before disappearing down the corridor, leaving you and Loki alone.

He opens the door, gesturing for you to step inside. His expression is unreadable, though his usual smirk is noticeably absent.

The chambers are stunning, of course—richly furnished and illuminated by soft, flickering candlelight. But all you can focus on is the massive bed at the center of the room, its silken sheets and embroidered pillows looking more like a throne than a place to rest.

Loki closes the door behind you, and you hear the faint click of the lock.

You stand frozen in the middle of the room, your hands clasped tightly in front of you as you stare at the bed.

“Well,” Loki says after a moment, his voice breaking the tense silence. “I suppose this is the part where we consummate the marriage.”

Your stomach flips, and you force yourself to turn and look at him. “I... I know,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

Loki studies you, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. Then, to your surprise, he sighs and moves to the nearest chair, sinking into it with an almost theatrical air of exasperation.

“Let’s make one thing perfectly clear,” he says, resting his elbow on the armrest and propping his chin on his hand. “I have no intention of forcing you—or myself, for that matter—into anything tonight.”

You blink, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he replies, his tone dry, “that we don’t actually have to do anything. All anyone needs to know is that we sayit happened. As long as we both stick to the story, no one will be the wiser.”

Relief floods through you, so sudden and intense that your knees nearly buckle. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly,” he says, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. “I find the idea of spending the night in awkward silence far more appealing than the alternative.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, nodding quickly. “Alright. I... I agree.”

“Good.” He stands and moves to the other side of the room, unfastening his cloak and draping it over a chair. “We’ll sleep in the same bed—appearances and all that—but I promise to stay on my side. You won’t even know I’m there.”

You hesitate, glancing at the bed again. “Alright,” you say softly, your voice steadier now.

Loki changes into a loose tunic and trousers while you slip behind a screen to remove your elaborate gown and don a simple nightdress. When you emerge, he’s already lying on one side of the bed, his back to you.

You climb in cautiously, keeping to the very edge of your side. The mattress dips slightly under your weight, and you can feel the faint warmth of Loki’s presence, though you’re careful not to look at him.

The silence stretches between you, heavy but not entirely uncomfortable.

“Goodnight, princess,” Loki says after a while, his voice quiet but laced with his usual sarcasm.

“Goodnight, Loki,” you reply, your lips curving into a faint smile despite yourself.

The next morning, you’re awoken by a knock at the door. Loki groans softly, rolling onto his back but making no move to get up.

“Come in,” he calls lazily.

The door opens, and a group of servants enters, carrying trays of breakfast and fresh clothing. They’re followed by Frigga, who takes one look at the rumpled bed and your mussed hair and smiles knowingly.

“I trust you both slept well,” she says, her tone light but her eyes sharp with curiosity.

Loki sits up, running a hand through his disheveled hair and flashing her a lazy grin. “Like babes in a cradle, Mother.”

You flush, quickly busying yourself with the tea that one of the servants has placed on the bedside table.

Frigga’s gaze lingers on the two of you for a moment longer before she nods, clearly satisfied. “Good. The court will be eager to hear that the union has been properly sealed.”

You nearly choke on your tea, but Loki remains perfectly composed, raising an eyebrow at his mother. “Of course,” he says smoothly. “They needn’t worry about that.”

Frigga gives him a pointed look, then turns to leave, her skirts sweeping gracefully behind her.

When the door closes, you let out a shaky breath, your cheeks still burning.

“Well,” Loki says, leaning back against the headboard with a smirk. “That was convincing enough, wouldn’t you say?”

You glare at him, though there’s no real heat in it. “You could have warned me she’d ask.”

“And deprive myself of the pleasure of seeing you flustered?” He grins, clearly enjoying himself.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

The rest of the day is a whirlwind of public appearances and well-wishes from guests and courtiers. You and Loki play your roles to perfection, standing side by side and accepting congratulations with polite smiles.

But every so often, you catch Loki’s eye, and there’s a flicker of something there—something you can’t quite define.

As the sun sets and the festivities wind down, you find yourself wondering if this strange, tentative partnership might become something more.

The passing weeks blur in a mix of royal duties, public appearances, and private moments that seem far too fleeting. You and Loki settle into an unexpected, but not unwelcome, routine. It’s not one born out of affection, nor of any deep romantic feeling—at least not on your part—but something else entirely.

It’s friendship, of sorts, though it has an edge of guardedness on both sides.

Loki is still as sarcastic as ever, his barbed words often making you want to throw a pillow at him, but there’s a subtle shift in his attitude. He doesn’t try to make you uncomfortable, nor does he push you into situations that force your discomfort. Instead, he lets the two of you share moments of quiet companionship, moments that pass without him demanding anything more than just… being together.

At times, you even catch him offering a rare, genuine smile when the two of you exchange witty banter, the edge of coldness in his eyes softening for just a moment before it’s hidden away again.

It’s those moments—small, fleeting—that make you begin to wonder if there’s more to Loki than meets the eye.

But then, every time Thor is around, Loki retreats into himself. His demeanor hardens, his eyes become colder, and the playful teasing he once directed at you disappears, replaced by something almost resembling disdain.

It’s frustrating. You had grown used to Loki’s sharp wit and dry humor, but around Thor, he becomes a stranger. It’s as though he’s a different person entirely.

It’s in those moments that you realize just how much Thor’s presence affects Loki. The way his brother’s easy charm and warmth seem to have earned him the favor of everyone around them, especially their father, Odin.

The stark contrast between the two brothers becomes painfully obvious during family dinners.

On this particular evening, you’re seated at the grand table in the palace hall, flanked by Frigga on one side and Thor on the other. Loki sits at the far end, his posture rigid and his eyes fixed on his plate. The tension between the two brothers is palpable, though it’s subtle, buried beneath layers of carefully crafted politeness.

Frigga chats lightly with Thor about his latest battle, her soft voice carrying through the room. You listen attentively, though a part of you can’t help but glance over at Loki.

You can feel the weight of his silence, the way he seems to withdraw into himself whenever Thor speaks. Loki only offers the occasional half-hearted comment, his tone distant, as if he’s not really a part of the conversation.

Frigga, ever perceptive, seems to notice as well. She glances between Loki and Thor, her expression one of quiet concern.

“Loki,” she says gently, her voice carrying the weight of unspoken understanding, “is there something you wish to add?”

Loki straightens slightly but doesn’t look up from his plate. “No, Mother. I’m simply… observing.”

You can’t help but notice the way his jaw clenches, his gaze still fixed on his food as though he’s avoiding looking anyone in the eye.

Thor, ever the optimist, tries to break the tension. “Come now, brother. Surely you have a better tale to tell than mine. You’ve always been the more… creative one when it comes to storytelling.”

Loki’s eyes flicker toward Thor, but the look he gives his brother is colder than you’ve ever seen it. There’s something there, something unspoken that hangs heavy in the air between them.

“I have no tales to tell,” Loki replies coolly, his voice flat. “Not tonight.”

The silence that follows is thick, awkward. You shift in your seat, unsure of what to say, and Frigga clears her throat, clearly attempting to shift the atmosphere.

“I’m sure Loki has many stories to share when he’s in the mood, Thor,” she says, giving her son a kind smile. “But for now, perhaps we should allow him the peace to enjoy his meal in silence.”

Thor seems to take the hint, though there’s a flicker of confusion in his eyes as he nods. “Of course, Mother.”

But you notice the way he glances at Loki one last time before he turns his attention to you. He smiles, his usual warmth returning.

“It’s good to see you again, Princess,” Thor says, his voice easy and kind. “I trust you’ve settled in well?”

You smile back, grateful for the change of subject. “Yes, thank you, Thor. Asgard has been… more than welcoming.”

Loki stays silent, his fork moving absently as he pushes food around on his plate. You try not to let your gaze linger too long on him, but it’s difficult to ignore the way he seems to withdraw further with each passing moment.

Later, after the dinner has ended and the courtiers have dispersed, you find yourself walking the halls of the palace, your thoughts a tangled mess.

Loki’s behavior continues to trouble you. It’s clear that there’s something between him and Thor, something deep and unresolved. You can sense it in the way Loki acts when his brother is near, the way he retreats inward, shutting everyone else out.

And then there’s Odin. You’ve seen it too—the way the Allfather seems to favor Thor in ways that Loki could never seem to earn. The way Odin’s praise comes effortlessly to Thor, while Loki is left in the shadows, forced to fight for every scrap of recognition.

You’ve begun to notice the small things—the way Loki’s expression shifts when Odin speaks to Thor, or how he watches them both with an almost painful intensity when they stand together.

It’s hard to ignore the dynamic between them. Loki’s desire to prove himself to his father, to gain his approval in a way that seems perpetually out of reach, is something you can’t help but empathize with.

But you don’t know how to talk about it, how to approach him without making things worse.

That night, after the dinner, you retreat to your chambers, the silence of the room settling around you like a weight. Loki is already there, seated on the edge of the bed, his back to you as he stares out the window.

The flickering light from the torch on the wall casts shadows across his face, making his expression seem distant and closed off.

You hesitate in the doorway, unsure of what to say. But the longer you stand there, the more the words seem to push their way out.

“Loki,” you begin, your voice tentative, “I know things have been… difficult lately.”

Loki doesn’t turn around, but his shoulders tense at the sound of your voice. “Difficult? You mean the constant parade of Thor’s victories and Father’s adoration?” His words are sharp, laced with bitterness.

You step further into the room, your heart aching at the venom in his tone. “I didn’t mean it like that,” you say quietly. “But I can see it, Loki. I can see how much it hurts you.”

For a long moment, there’s nothing but silence. Then, Loki sighs deeply, rubbing his temples as if trying to stave off a headache.

“I don’t need your pity,” he mutters. “I don’t need anyone’s pity.”

You take a careful step closer, your voice soft. “I’m not pitying you, Loki. I’m just… I just don’t want you to feel alone in this.”

He laughs bitterly, his shoulders shaking as he turns to face you. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t understand what it’s like to be cast aside, to never be good enough no matter how hard you try?”

You swallow hard, your throat tight as you look at him. “I don’t know what that’s like,” you admit, “but I know what it’s like to feel like you’re constantly trying to prove yourself to someone who doesn’t even notice.”

Loki’s gaze flickers briefly to yours, and for a moment, there’s a crack in his armor. But it’s gone almost instantly, replaced by that familiar coldness.

“I don’t need your sympathy,” he repeats, though there’s less conviction in his voice.

“I’m not offering you sympathy,” you reply firmly. “I’m just saying… if you ever want to talk about it—about anything—I’m here, Loki.”

He stares at you for a long while, his eyes unreadable. And then, with a quiet sigh, he nods once, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you, princess. But I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”

You nod, though your heart aches at the weight of his words.

“I’ll be here when you are,” you say softly.

Loki doesn’t answer, but the silence that falls between you is… less heavy somehow. Less lonely.

You’re not sure what the future holds for the two of you, but in that moment, you both find a small measure of peace.

And for now, that’s enough.

The days following your conversation with Loki are a strange blend of light and shadow. The weight of your words lingers in the air between you two, but there’s an undeniable shift. It’s subtle, at first—a slight softening in the way he looks at you, a rare but meaningful smile that occasionally plays at the corners of his lips.

But it’s clear, too, that there are walls around him, walls that are not easily torn down. You don’t press him further, content to let him open up in his own time, if at all.

Then, one evening, when the palace is quiet and the rest of the court is engaged in a distant gathering, Loki surprises you.

You’re walking down one of the many hallways, heading back to your chambers after a rather dull meeting with various nobles, when you hear his voice.

“Princess,” he calls softly, his voice carrying through the silence of the corridor.

You turn to find him standing a little ways down the hall, leaning against the stone wall with his arms crossed. There’s something different in his stance—less guarded, more… open, though he still holds that impenetrable air around him.

You raise an eyebrow. “Loki? What’s the matter?”

He shifts, a subtle but noticeable tension in his posture as if he's deliberating whether or not to speak. Finally, after a beat of silence, he steps toward you, his footsteps soft on the stone floor.

“I… I’ve been thinking about our conversation,” he says, his voice quieter than usual.

You give him a careful look. “What about it?”

Loki glances down, avoiding your eyes for a moment before meeting your gaze. “About my father.” His voice tightens slightly, but it’s not the usual bitterness. It’s something more raw. “You were right. I… I’ve been carrying a lot of things for a long time.”

You wait, not wanting to interrupt, giving him space to speak.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever told anyone this, but…” Loki exhales slowly, his breath shaking as if he's letting something go for the first time. “I’ve never felt like I was enough for Odin. For my father. Not in the way Thor is. Not in the way that he needs me to be.”

You step closer, drawn in by the vulnerability in his voice. “Loki…”

He shakes his head, as if frustrated with himself. “I’ve always tried to do everything he wanted. Prove myself, be the son he wanted. But it’s never been enough. Every time I think I’m close to earning his favor, Thor does something. It doesn’t even matter what. Odin just… adores him.” Loki’s words come out with a sharpness, like they’ve been pent up for years, and yet there’s an unmistakable sadness there.

You want to reach out, to comfort him, but you don’t. Not yet.

“Thor…” Loki scoffs, though it’s not with malice—more a mixture of frustration and helplessness. “He doesn’t try. He just is. And Odin… he praises him for every little thing. Meanwhile, I’m left to pick up the pieces, to try to carve out a place for myself. But nothing ever works.”

A knot forms in your chest as you listen to him. It’s impossible to ignore how deeply Loki’s words cut, how much he craves the recognition and love he feels he’ll never receive.

“I know it’s not Thor’s fault,” Loki adds, almost as an afterthought, as if the words pain him. “But sometimes, I just… I can’t help but resent him.”

There’s an ache in his voice that hits you like a physical blow, and without thinking, you step forward and place a hand on his arm.

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Loki,” you say quietly. “I can see how much this hurts you.”

His eyes soften for just a moment, a flicker of something—something like gratitude—before the walls go back up. But it’s a start.

“I know you understand,” he mutters, his gaze dropping. “It’s just… hard to admit, even to myself.”

The silence between you two stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. It feels like a shared understanding, an unspoken bond that has formed between you.

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” you say softly, stepping back a little but keeping your eyes on him.

Loki looks at you, his expression unreadable. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible nod, he gives you a faint smile. “Thank you.”

It’s more than he’s ever said to you in any of your interactions, and it makes your heart flutter, though you don’t show it.

“Anytime, Loki,” you reply, your voice steady, though your hands are trembling ever so slightly.

The next day, Odin makes his usual rounds through the court, his presence like a weight hanging over everyone. He speaks with courtiers, listens to reports from the generals, and gives out orders. But as usual, his praise for Thor is effusive, his voice rich with admiration.

It’s when you’re walking through the hall toward the council room that you catch the conversation between Odin and Thor. They’re speaking loudly enough for you to overhear, and you can’t help but wince as Odin lauds Thor’s latest achievement.

“Thor,” Odin says, his voice full of pride, “you’ve done the kingdom proud. Truly, your battle strategies are unmatched. I’m so glad to see you take your place as the leader Asgard needs.”

Thor laughs, clearly pleased, though there’s no sign of arrogance in him. “Thank you, Father. But I couldn’t have done it without the support of my allies.”

Odin waves off the sentiment with a chuckle, his voice warm. “Your humility is one of your finest qualities, my son.”

And that’s when it hits you—how blatant the favoritism is. How obvious it is that Odin is always quick to praise Thor, but Loki, despite his brilliance, is always left in the shadows.

Your chest tightens with the unfairness of it all. You’ve heard whispers before—how Odin has always placed Thor on a pedestal, how his approval has always been out of reach for Loki.

You’ve seen it yourself, in the way Odin looks at his sons. Thor, with his easy smiles and loud boisterousness, is clearly the favored one. Loki’s quieter, more calculating nature doesn’t seem to earn him that same adoration.

And something inside you snaps.

You’ve had enough of watching Loki suffer in silence. Enough of the obvious bias that Odin so openly displays.

With a deep breath, you step forward, deliberately interrupting the conversation between father and son.

“Lord Odin,” you say, your voice steady and louder than you expect. Both Odin and Thor turn toward you, surprised by your sudden interruption.

Odin’s eyes flicker over you, but his expression remains neutral. “Princess,” he greets, his tone polite but distant. “What is it you need?”

You take a step closer, finding the courage you’ve never had before to speak your mind. “I think it’s time someone pointed out something that’s been bothering me for some time,” you say, meeting Odin’s eyes with unwavering resolve.

Thor looks at you, clearly surprised, but Odin’s expression doesn’t change.

“I’ve noticed,” you continue, “that you never seem to acknowledge your sons equally. You give Thor praise, constantly sing his virtues, while Loki…” You glance over at him, who stands with his arms crossed, looking more uncomfortable than usual. “Loki deserves the same recognition, and it’s time someone said it.”

Thor’s eyes widen at your words, and Odin’s gaze sharpens, though he doesn’t immediately respond.

“Princess, this is a matter between my sons and I,” Odin says, his tone calm but with an edge that warns you to back down.

But you don’t. “It’s a matter of fairness,” you say, your voice unshaken. “Loki is just as capable, just as brilliant, and he deserves the same respect as Thor.”

For a long moment, there’s silence, a heavy, thick silence that seems to hang in the air. Odin’s eyes study you carefully, as if deciding whether or not to chastise you.

But then, to your surprise, he lets out a slow breath. “Perhaps you are right,” he says, his voice thoughtful, though still carrying the weight of authority. “I will consider your words, Princess.”

You nod, your heart pounding in your chest as you turn to leave. You know you’ve probably made a powerful enemy, but for once, it feels worth it.

As you walk away, you can’t help but glance back at Loki, who is now watching you with a look of surprise—and something else, something softer.

Later that night, you’re in your chambers, lost in your thoughts when a quiet knock at the door pulls you from your reverie.

You open it to find Loki standing there, his usual composed demeanor in place, though there’s something different in his expression.

“Loki,” you say, surprised to see him. “What’s wrong?”

“I wanted to thank you,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “You didn’t have to do that. But you did.”

You shrug, trying to appear casual despite the flutter in your chest. “It was the right thing to do.”

“I know,” he replies, his tone soft. “But that doesn’t make it any less… meaningful.” He hesitates, then takes a step closer, his eyes meeting yours. “You’ve… you’ve done more for me today than anyone has in a long time.”

The words settle between you, and for a moment, everything is quiet.

You don’t know what to say. But somehow, it doesn’t matter. The air between you is charged, but calm, like a storm that’s waiting to break.

And then, without thinking, you step forward, closing the distance between you.

Loki’s breath catches slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. His hand brushes yours, tentative but warm, and that’s when you both understand.

You look into each other’s eyes for a moment, the words unsaid but understood, and then you kiss—softly, tenderly, as if this moment, this connection, is something you both desperately need but never quite expected.

It’s gentle, quiet, and everything in between, and for the first time in a long time, you feel as though the walls between you are starting to fall.

The day after you stood up to Odin, something subtle but undeniable changes between you and Loki. The lingering tension that had once surrounded him, the cold barrier he had erected between himself and everyone, especially you, seems to soften just slightly. He still wears that aloof mask he’s perfected over years of deflecting people’s attention, but there are moments when he looks at you differently—like he sees you, really sees you, as something more than just the princess he was supposed to marry.

But of course, Loki is Loki, and despite the small shifts, he’s still a master of maintaining distance. He keeps his emotions locked away as tightly as his wit, but you’ve begun to notice the cracks. Maybe it’s in the way he lingers a little longer when you’re together, or how he catches your gaze in passing, holding it just a little longer than necessary.

Despite the changes between you two, the world around you continues to spin, and your role as the Princess of Asgard, as Loki’s wife, only grows more public.

The next day, after an awkward breakfast with Frigga, where she kept giving you knowing looks and you were pretty sure you heard her suppressing a sigh, you find yourself walking through the gardens, trying to escape the subtle whispers of court life.

As you stroll among the flowers, you hear footsteps behind you. A familiar, booming voice calls your name.

“Princess Y/N,” Thor’s deep voice rings out, and you stop, turning to face him.

Thor looks even more like the golden child of Asgard today, his wide smile blinding and a glimmer of guilt in his eyes. “I’ve been meaning to thank you, for what you did yesterday. Defending Loki like that.”

You tilt your head, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I never saw it, you know?” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “The way Father favors me and how much it’s hurt Loki. I’ve always thought he was… I don’t know, distant, difficult. I didn’t realize I was a part of the problem.”

You blink, a little surprised by his sincerity. You’ve never seen Thor look so humble, so… vulnerable. It’s a stark contrast to the loud, boisterous warrior he usually presents to the world. “You didn’t know?” you ask softly.

He shakes his head, his broad shoulders slumping a little. “No, not really. And I’m ashamed to admit it. But I never thought about how he might feel when all the praise I get… it takes away from what he deserves. Loki’s clever, more than anyone gives him credit for. I see it now. I see how I’ve made him feel… less.”

Your heart aches a little. There’s so much more to Thor than the world gives him credit for, and perhaps there’s more to Loki’s pain than you even realized.

“Thor,” you start, your voice a little unsure but kind. “I think you need to tell him that. He needs to hear it from you.”

Thor gives a tight nod, the look in his eyes both heavy and sincere. “I will. But… I wanted to talk to you first, because I didn’t want you to think that I… I didn’t care.” He pauses, as if weighing his next words carefully. “I know you’re in a difficult position, Y/N, especially with Loki…”

You shrug lightly. “It’s not difficult. He’s my husband, Thor. I have a duty to him, yes, but I also want to see him happy. I don’t want him to feel this way anymore, either.”

“I understand,” Thor says with a soft smile. “And I promise you, I’ll try to make things right between me and Loki. But thank you. Truly.”

He offers a warm, brotherly smile and pats you on the shoulder, making you smile back, a little touched by the earnestness in his voice. It’s rare to see Thor so serious, but in moments like this, you realize just how much he cares about his family—even if it’s a little too late.

As the conversation dies down, Thor bids you farewell, walking off in the opposite direction to presumably find his brother. You remain in the gardens for a few more minutes, deep in thought. There’s a strange, almost bittersweet tension in the air now, an unspoken understanding of the dynamic between the brothers.

The next day, you find yourself walking the palace halls when you catch sight of Loki. He’s talking to a group of Asgardian nobles, but the moment he notices you, his demeanor shifts instantly. His sharp, emerald eyes cut toward you, his mouth forming a thin line. He says something to the nobles, and they scatter quickly, leaving him alone in the corridor.

You pause for a moment, unsure of how to approach him. But before you can decide, Loki walks toward you, his footsteps purposeful. You can feel the chill of his presence before he even speaks.

“What was that, then?” Loki’s voice is cool, his usual aloofness cloaking his words.

You raise an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

His eyes narrow. “You and Thor,” he sneers slightly, as though saying his brother’s name leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “You two spent an awfully long time together yesterday, didn’t you? Talking about me, no doubt. What was it this time? His concern for my well-being?”

You bite your lip, taking in the sharp edge of jealousy in his voice. You feel a slight pang of guilt, but you stand your ground. “We talked about you, yes. But it wasn’t to criticize you, Loki. It was about… understanding.”

Loki scoffs, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, and his gaze shifts toward the floor. “I see. Understanding.”

“You don’t have to do this,” you say, your voice softer now. “You don’t have to push everyone away. Not me. Not him.”

Loki’s head jerks up, and his eyes flash with something unreadable. “I push people away because I know how this ends, Y/N. Thor always takes what he wants. He took Father’s love, and now he wants to take you, too.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, the raw, vulnerable emotion in his voice twisting something deep inside you. You take a step toward him, but he recoils slightly, his posture rigid.

“You don’t have to be afraid of that,” you say, your voice barely a whisper, but there’s certainty in it. “Thor won’t take me from you. I won’t let him.”

Loki’s eyes flicker toward you, the flickering of something darker in his gaze before he presses his lips together in frustration. “How can you be so sure?” His voice cracks slightly, and you don’t know how to respond, except to step even closer to him.

His face softens for a fraction of a second—just long enough for you to see how fragile he really is, how deeply the idea of losing you, losing anything, is etched in him. You place a hand gently on his arm, your voice even softer now.

“I know because we talked. Thor and I. He knows the way you feel, Loki. He’s going to make things right between you two. You don’t have to push him away.”

Loki’s jaw tightens, and you can see the battle within him, the struggle to trust his brother again. But then, something shifts in him, and his gaze softens, if only for a moment.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Loki admits in a low voice, the words barely audible, as though he’s afraid of speaking them too loud, afraid of what they might mean.

You reach up, gently cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly over his skin, and he leans into your touch. “You won’t lose me, Loki. I’m not going anywhere.” Your voice is steady, and you see his breath hitch slightly as his emotions threaten to overwhelm him.

He looks away quickly, his throat tightening, but the tremor in his shoulders betrays him. “I don’t deserve you,” he mutters, barely holding it together.

“Don’t say that,” you reply firmly. “You’re not perfect. None of us are. But you deserve all the love and respect in the world. And I’m here, Loki. Always.”

He looks at you then, his expression softening with that familiar vulnerability you’ve seen fleetingly in the past few days, but it’s stronger now, more present than ever before. Without thinking, you pull him into an embrace, wrapping your arms around him tightly. For a long moment, he doesn’t respond, his body stiff in your arms, but then he exhales slowly, his breath shaky, and finally, he holds you back.

The weight of everything between you two finally lifts, and the walls crumble a little more. The steady rhythm of his breathing in your arms is all you need to know that he feels safe.

Later that night, when you retire to your chambers, Loki follows you, a quiet presence in the doorway.

You look at him, feeling something deep inside you—a need for closeness, for reassurance that everything will be okay. “Stay with me?” you ask softly, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you see something like relief wash over his face.

“I don’t think I can ever go back,” he says quietly, his voice laced with exhaustion, vulnerability.

You reach for him, and without another word, Loki walks into your arms, settling beside you on the bed. You pull the blankets up around both of you, and without a word, you curl up against him.

His arm drapes around you naturally, and you breathe in the warmth of his presence, the security of knowing that, no matter what happens, you

’ve found something real between you two.

“Thank you,” Loki murmurs softly, as if you’ve given him everything he’s ever wanted, even when you haven’t fully realized it yourself.

You smile, tracing circles on his chest with your fingers, whispering back, “No need for thanks. Just stay here, with me.”

The night deepens, and the world outside your chambers is cloaked in quiet, but inside, there’s an unmistakable warmth that envelopes both of you. Loki’s arm around you feels like the most natural thing in the world. As the minutes pass, you rest your head against his chest, listening to the rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear. There’s a comfort in the silence, in just being close to him. You feel safe here, as if this moment is yours and yours alone, something you both can keep in the quiet intimacy of the night.

Loki doesn’t speak, but the occasional brush of his lips against your temple is all the words you need. Each kiss is a small promise, gentle and soft, as though he’s trying to tell you everything his voice cannot. The warmth of his lips against your skin lingers long after he pulls back, and the weight of the past few months—the distance, the uncertainty, the doubts—slowly begins to dissolve. You realize now that it was never about the marriage contract, nor the obligations that bound you together; it was about this—this connection between the two of you that had always been there, waiting for the right moment to surface.

You kiss him back, tentatively at first, but as you feel him pull you closer, your kisses deepen. They’re slow and deliberate, as though you both want to savor this, to make sure it isn’t just a fleeting moment but a beginning. His lips are warm and soft, and every time they meet yours, there’s a spark—a connection that has been years in the making, one that now feels as though it’s blooming into something beautiful, fragile, and new.

The kisses grow longer, more meaningful, as if both of you are learning how to express the things you’ve kept hidden for so long. Loki’s hand gently cradles your face, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, as if memorizing the feel of your skin. He deepens the kiss slightly, and you meet him with equal fervor, the world outside fading away until there’s nothing left but the two of you, tangled in the quiet intimacy of shared tenderness.

When the kiss finally breaks, neither of you moves, just breathing in the same air. Loki’s forehead rests gently against yours, and you can feel the warmth of his breath, still heavy with emotion.

“Stay here,” he murmurs, his voice low and filled with something you can’t quite put into words. It’s a question, but more than that, it’s a plea—a quiet request for this peace to last.

“I will,” you reply softly, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm. And you mean it, more than anything. You know that, in this moment, everything between you has changed.

The night goes on quietly, both of you finding comfort in each other’s presence, the soft and tender kisses gradually fading into the warmth of shared silence. It’s a perfect peace, a moment of vulnerability and connection that neither of you had ever expected but now can’t imagine living without.

As the days pass, the dynamic between you and Loki shifts. What once seemed like a forced relationship, something borne out of duty and circumstance, is now something more. The distance that once existed between you two has shrunk, replaced by an ease that only comes when two people begin to trust each other in ways neither expected. Your interactions are now filled with light touches, shared glances, and quiet smiles. There’s a softness in Loki’s demeanor that wasn’t there before—a gentleness that’s slowly replacing the walls he’s built around himself.

You see it in the way he looks at you, the way he seeks out your presence even when there’s no need for it. There’s an undeniable shift in his behavior, one that others notice, too.

Frigga, ever observant, notices the change in the air the moment she steps into the palace halls. She smiles knowingly when she sees the way Loki watches you during breakfast, his eyes soft and full of affection. It’s the first time she’s seen him like this in a long while—less guarded, more present. She watches you both from across the room, her heart swelling with a mix of pride and relief. For all the missteps and misunderstandings, she’s always known that the two of you could find something real.

Thor, too, sees the change, though he’s not as subtle in his observations. He slaps Loki on the back one afternoon, his booming laugh echoing through the palace halls. “Well, well! Looks like someone’s finally figured it out,” he teases, a wide grin plastered on his face.

Loki stiffens at first, but then the corner of his lips quirks up, a smirk that’s less mocking and more content than it’s ever been. “What do you mean?” Loki asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t play coy,” Thor says, his tone playful. “I’ve seen the way you look at her. It’s about time, brother.”

Loki sighs, rolling his eyes dramatically. “I’m not in the mood for your commentary, Thor.”

But even as he says this, there’s a subtle flush to his cheeks, a fleeting moment of embarrassment that makes you chuckle softly. Loki’s pride may be as sharp as ever, but there’s a vulnerability there too, one that he tries to hide behind his biting sarcasm and quick wit.

As the days go by, your connection to Loki only deepens. The two of you spend more time together, finding moments of quiet solace amid the chaos of palace life. You talk—about everything and nothing at all. You learn more about each other in those quiet, unspoken moments than you ever did in the months before. It’s in the way he brushes your hair out of your face when it falls in your eyes or how he looks at you when you laugh at something absurd he says. It’s in the way he remembers small details about you, like the way you take your tea or how you always tie your shoes in the same knot.

The change doesn’t go unnoticed by the people around you. The courtiers whisper about it, the nobles gossip behind their fans. They notice the way Loki looks at you when you enter the room, how his eyes soften when you speak. They notice how the two of you sit together at dinner, heads close, sharing small private jokes no one else seems to understand. The shift in the way he treats you is almost palpable, and it doesn’t take long for the rest of the palace to catch on.

But the real surprise comes from the children.

It starts innocently enough. One evening, as you walk through the palace gardens with Loki, you hear giggling in the distance. When you look around, you see a group of young children playing near the fountain. They stop as soon as they notice you, eyes widening before they run over to you, their faces alight with excitement.

“Princess Y/N!” one of them exclaims, a little girl with bright red hair. “Is it true that you and Prince Loki are really married now?”

You raise an eyebrow, surprised by the question, but before you can answer, another child chimes in.

“Yes! I heard you two are so in love!” The child’s voice is full of awe, as though this is the most magical thing they’ve ever heard.

Loki scoffs, but there’s a teasing glint in his eyes. “I assure you, we’re simply fulfilling our duties. Nothing more.”

But the children aren’t convinced. They gather around you, bombarding you with questions. “When will you have babies?” one of them asks innocently.

You blush deeply, not quite sure how to handle the question. Loki looks absolutely mortified, but there’s an amused edge to his expression.

“Well,” you start, unsure of what to say, “we haven’t really discussed that yet. But we’re very happy.”

“Oh, I bet you are!” another child giggles, clearly not taking you seriously. “You two are always together now. You must be so in love!”

Loki looks at you in mild horror. “What have we gotten ourselves into?”

You laugh, feeling the warmth in your chest spread. “I think we’ve just become a fairytale, Loki.”

The children’s excitement doesn’t end there. The next day, they’re playing again, this time reenacting your supposed “love story” with elaborate costumes. They insist on calling you and Loki the “Royal Lovers of Asgard,” and you can’t help but smile at their innocent enthusiasm. It’s impossible not to see the joy they find in the idea of your relationship, an idea that, in their eyes, is full of magic and wonder. The way they view you both—so wrapped up in this imagined romance—is innocent and sweet, and it makes you realize how far you and Loki have come.

As the days go by, the children’s stories spread throughout the palace. The courtiers begin whispering more frequently about the Royal Lovers, and soon enough, even the servants are in on the tale. You and Loki have become the subject of countless stories, both real and imagined. The court’s expectations of your relationship have shifted, but for the first time, it feels like you’re not just playing a part anymore. You’re both actively shaping this life, together.

And for all the teasing from Thor and the gossips from the children, there’s a part of you that feels proud of what you’ve built. It may have started as a duty, a contract forged by fate, but now it feels like something more. You and Loki are no longer bound by obligation alone. There’s affection, there’s trust, and there’s something deeper—something far more real.

It’s not the fairytale the kingdom expected, but it’s yours. And somehow, that feels perfect.

part 2 with royal kids? ;)

405 notes · View notes

youthguk · 21 days ago

Text

Black Ribbon Bride ۶ৎ | jjk (m)

Mafia AU · Dark Romance · Arranged Marriage · Angst · Smut ·

“I want this one,”he said, eyes on you like a predator. A marriage sealed in diamonds and blood. You were supposed to hate him, but monsters don’t let go of the things they’ve claimed.

wc: 18k

WARNINGS: explicit content (minors do not interact), explicit smut, forced marriage, power imbalance, slight graphic violence, death threats, mentions of murder, forced intimacy

Jungkook's voice cuts through the discord like a knife through silk. His eyes, when you meet them, hold neither pretense nor mercy. Just certainty. "I want this one." The words fall like destiny.

His touch, when it comes, is winter-cold against your cheek. Your soul flinches from those precise fingers even as your body remains still. He carries the scent of woodsmoke and exotic spice, foreign and dangerous.

The smile he offers holds neither warmth nor malice - just the satisfied smile of a man who always gets what he wants. "Don't look so scared," he murmurs, voice silk over steel. "We're going to have so much fun."

One week ago.

Dawn hasn't broken, but consciousness seeps in like winter frost. Your body knows the rhythm of secrets - when to rise, when to fade, when to become nothing more than a shadow against stone walls.

The pre-dawn air tastes of endings. Each breath crystallizes before you, little monuments of everything you can't keep. Your fingers, sheathed in black silk, trace meaningless patterns on frozen glass - a language of loss you're still learning to speak.

The chapel path recognizes your footsteps. Frost shatters beneath each step like promises, like futures, like the carefully constructed cage of expectations you've lived in since birth. Even your older sister Nora, who shared these halls with you for three years, never discovered this sanctuary where ancient pines hold their breath and weathered stones keep their silence.

Beyond the courtyard, the other girls drift between rose gardens and marble benches, their uniforms pressed to perfection, their laughter measured in careful octaves. But here, in this forgotten corner where mist meets morning, you've found something raw and real - a holiness that has nothing to do with their polished prayers.

Your Saint-Margaux winter uniform clings like a second skin, ivory wool buttoned to the throat like armor against uncertainty. The black ribbon anchoring your curls might as well be a crown of thorns.

"Je ne suis pas prête," you breathe, watching Lake Geneva stretch below like quicksilver. The French makes it sound poetic. Then, softer still, in Italian: "Non sono mai stata pronta per questo."

Your carefully constructed future lies shattered at your feet: The UN internship you earned through sleepless nights. Geneva's diplomatic corridors where you were meant to walk. Rome's ancient streets calling your name. All those perfect grades, those meticulously practiced curtsies, those debate championships – sacrificed to your father's unexplained whims.

London. The word tastes like ash on your tongue. Why there? Why now?

Your mother's note burns against your ribs, her elegant script a funeral dirge: "Be ready by sunset. They're coming."

École Saint-Margaux rises behind you, a cathedral to calculated futures. Here, where tears are forbidden unless quoted in Ancient Greek.

"We don't raise dreamers here," Madame Directrice always says, her smile sharp as cut glass. "We raise queens."

They're forged into living weapons, taught to smile while drawing blood.

"Queens who smile through gritted teeth," you whisper to the dawn. "Queens who negotiate peace while swallowing war. Queens who marry power because they're not allowed to claim it for themselves."

Your schedule mocks you with its pristine normality:"En garde!" at noon brings your final dance with steel, four o'clock tea with Professor Valbonne - discussing Machiavelli while pretending your world isn't crumbling.

Lavender-lined suitcases wait in your room, packed by your mother's trembling hands. Your sister's muffled sobs echo through the halls like ghostly footsteps. Your brother Luca's silence speaks volumes. And your father... his absence is a wound that both terrifies and relieves you, his iron grip on your future tightening even when he's not here.

Something crackles in your pocket - a dried white peach blossom, edges curled like fingers reaching for yesterday. Its fragrance unlocks a memory: blood on snow, trembling hands, a boy whose name you never learned but whose life you saved many years ago with nothing but quick thinking and forbidden fruit.

The blossom slips from your fingers, caught in the morning breeze. You watch it spiral toward Lake Geneva's steel-gray surface, this final piece of softness you can't afford to keep. Your sister's allergy to white peaches - your most cherished scent and flower - feels like fate's way to mock you once again.

A motorboat violates the lake's surface, its wake splitting the silence like an omen. You trace a cross in the frozen air - half benediction, half curse - and whisper words that taste like goodbye. The chapel bell announces noon with solemn finality. You turn toward the university, spine straight as a blade. Non importa più.

Queens don't look back, and prisoners learn to watch without turning. You've been both.

The salle d'armes wraps you in familiar scents - chalk dust hanging thick in afternoon light, ancient leather padding worn smooth by generations of calculated violence. Trophy cases line the walls, their glass clouded with age, each cup and medal entombed like frozen dreams that never learned to fly.

You move beneath centuries-old beams, your breath a whispered prayer behind cold mesh. The blade in your hand sings with deadly grace, an extension of everything you've been molded to become.

Your opponent dances the steps she's been taught - precise, controlled, a perfect puppet of propriety. But there's wild electricity in your veins today, something that makes your movements liquid lightning. You strike not with the measured grace they demanded, but with elegant fury barely contained.

The lunge comes like destiny - inevitable, beautiful, terrible. Your blade cuts through air like fate itself, writing tomorrow's grief in today's perfect form. Steel kisses steel with a sound like breaking promises.

Her parry comes a heartbeat too late. Your point finds her heart with butterfly gentleness, the touch both caress and condemnation. This is how we end - not with violence, but with devastating grace.

"Touché," falls like judgment in the hollow air.

You retreat with practiced poise, each step a study in contained rebellion. This is Saint-Margaux's secret language - not fencing, but warfare dressed in silk and centuries of refined cruelty. They taught you to fight like falling snow - beautiful, silent, deadly. To strike with a smile, to kill with courtesy.

But beneath your perfect form writhes something untamed - a creature of starlight and stolen chances, something they couldn't breed out or break down. It's the same force that once made you save instead of strike, that makes you wear defiance like perfume and weaponize tenderness.

Victory brings no applause - only silence thick as cemetery snow. The maître d'armes nods once, your wild heart thundering rebellion against your ribs as you lower your blade.

That's when you feel his presence - Professor Valbonne, half-shadow and unspoken truths at the gallery's edge. His stillness speaks volumes in this temple of calculated violence.

He waits until the salle empties, approaching like truth itself- inevitable, terrifying.

"Your blade speaks what your voice cannot," he says softly, studying you with that terrible gentleness that makes your ribs ache. "You fence like someone who has learned to turn cage bars into wings.”

A laugh escapes you, sharp as broken glass. "Wings are just prettier prisons, Professor."

"Perhaps." His eyes hold yours, steady as truth. "But they remember what freedom tastes like."

You turn away, sweat-damp black ribbon clinging to your neck like a collar. White peach and rosewood cling to your skin - soon to be scrubbed away, replaced with the sterile scent of duty and diplomacy.

"You look haunted today," he observes. "Or you’re just not happy to see me.”

"I’m not happy to leave," you answer, truth slipping past your guard like a blade between ribs.

Silence stretches between you like a bridge neither dares to cross. He leans against cold stone, a scholarly revolutionary in this fortress of careful conformity.

"If I could write you a future," he says, "it wouldn’t begin with someone else's last name.”

Something in your chest splinters, words hanging between you two like shattered stars. You both understand everything, there is no need to name things vocally. "I was born to be a transaction."

His jaw tightens, grief etching itself in the corners of his mouth. "You were born to be a revolution."

His arm appears like an offering - this small rebellion, this moment of pretend equality. You take it with the care of handling broken dreams.

The walk to the chapel gates is a funeral march in slow motion. Words would only pollute this last pure thing between you - this shared understanding of cages and wings.

At the threshold, he pauses, eyes fixed on horizons you'll never touch.

"When they write your name in history," he says, "make sure they spell it in lightning."

You look up at the ghost-pale sky, where even clouds know better than to break formation. He'll never read your name the way he hopes.

You slip away like morning frost before the sun, before he can watch another future die.

Raindrops streak down the airplane window like tear tracks you weren't allowed to shed at every carefully orchestrated farewell. The sky bleeds into the same shade of steel that haunted every funeral where your spine had to remain straight as a blade.

First class feels like a gilded cage - all polished chrome and hushed whispers. The flight attendant's eyes slide past you like oil on water, trained to see nothing, hear nothing. Somewhere between Geneva's promises and London's threats, you're suspended in limbo, watching France blur beneath cotton-wool clouds.

A quiet sob catches in your peripheral vision. Nora. Your sister - your perfect and pristine Nora - has mastered the art of beautiful devastation. Even now, she's practicing for her future role: the tragic bride. Her fingers tremble against Chanel-painted lips, but her posture remains museum-worthy. The tears that escape are precisely timed, like crystal drops in a champagne fountain.

"Have you heard-" her voice cracks like fine porcelain, "-what they whisper about him? The youngest Jeon?"

You trace patterns in the condensation on your window. Each swirl feels like writing epitaphs for the futures dying in your chest. The glass fogs with your silence.You don't answer - she's not speaking to you but to whatever god abandoned girls like you to fates like this.

Nora's laugh sounds like shattered crystal. "Last spring - crashed a Maserati through the Louvre's courtyard. Called it 'performance art.' Three million in damages, swept under imported Persian rugs."

"The auction incident," she continues, voice dropping lower, "when he used Van Gogh's 'Starry Night' as an ashtray. 'Too pedestrian,' he said. The curator nearly had a stroke."

"And the women-" her voice catches, "God, the women. Like butterflies in his collection. He pins them down with diamonds, watches them suffocate in luxury, then adds their tears to his champagne."

The papers call him 'l'héritier de marbre' - the heir carved in marble, as though his beauty could excuse his barbarism and his wealth could cleanse the blood from his hands.

The Jeon empire rises like a gilded fortress: Jeon Antiquities & Restoration. They polish history until it gleams, restore broken things until they're worth more than they ever were whole. But beneath every restored masterpiece lies a massacre; behind every preserved beauty, a battlefield. They don't just collect beauty - they weaponize it.

Their public face gleams like polished marble, but beneath? It's all gunmetal and old blood. The Jeons don't just run an empire - they curate violence, frame it in gold, and sell it at invitation-only auctions. They don't just kill enemies - they transform them into art, into debt, into whispered warnings.

And Jungkook Jeon? He's their youngest sin. Trust fund terror with a smile that breaks hearts and necks with equal elegance. The whispers follow him like perfume: genius, they say. Rebel, they whisper. Monster, they mean. Every society photo shows the same warning: beauty sharp enough to draw blood.

"He'll destroy me," Nora whispers, pressing her forehead against the cool window. "Like one of their marble angels - pretty and hollow and broken."

"Isn't that the point?" Luca's voice cuts across the aisle, sharp as a blade between ribs. "Better broken than worthless."

The temperature drops ten degrees. You turn, ice crystallizing in your veins.

"One more word," you breathe, "and I'll show you exactly what Saint-Margaux taught us about making pain look elegant."

"Truth hurts, doesn't it?" He doesn't look up from his Financial Times fortress. "At least crying prettily might raise your market value."

Nora's whole body flinches, a butterfly pinned to silk. Your mother's voice slides through the tension like a poisoned blade. “Fix your face, Nora. Tears age you. The Jeons prefer their art unmarred."

The silence that follows tastes like ash and dying dreams. You grip your armrest until your knuckles match your mother's pearls, trying to anchor yourself to something - anything - that isn't falling apart. But there's nothing solid left to hold.

Jungkook Jeon. The name sits like lead on your tongue. You've never met him, but you know him - the way prey knows predator. A man carved from privilege so ancient it's crystallized into cruelty. Living art with venom in his veins. A marble god with gunpowder for blood. And your sweet sister is being gift-wrapped for this demon in Dior.

Grief fractures through you like safety glass, a web of tiny breaks held precariously together. The pain comes in relentless waves - not just for Nora, but for the shadow of your own future. Her tragedy is merely a preview of what awaits you in the procession of sacrificial daughters, your fate already sealed in your father's ledgers.

Your family fortune bleeds out in frozen accounts and foreclosed dreams. The name still glitters - just enough to barter away daughters like vintage jewelry. Your father's already pricing your future, weighing your worth in potential alliances. He'll find someone hungry enough, cruel enough, rich enough to buy the last of his daughter's freedom.

London materializes beneath you like a tomb of fog and steel. As you watch Nora reapply her Chanel Rouge with surgeon-steady hands, you see her clinging to composure like a lifeline, still believing grace might be armor enough. Something hot and sharp lodges in your throat - she thinks dignity will save her, and you pray she never learns how wrong she is.

Rain hammers against the windshield as your car crawls through the rusted gates of Amare estate. The ancient iron groans like a wounded beast, London's sky weeping harder as though trying to wash away the shame of what you've become. Each raindrop feels like an accusation against the facade you're desperately trying to maintain.

"Home sweet home," Nora whispers beside you, her voice trembling like the droplets sliding down the glass. You say nothing, watching the ghost of your childhood dreams loom before you - a castle turned prison.

The marble steps are cracked now, nature's fingers prying apart what wealth once held together. You trace the familiar path with your eyes, remembering how your smaller self used to dance here, spinning tales of ivory moldings and enchanted corridors. Now the walls tell different stories - of water stains mapping your decline, of paint peeling away like shed skin, of chandeliers that sputter and gasp rather than sparkle.

The door creaks open before you reach it, and there he stands - Father, a shadow cut from faded glory. His suit whispers of too many wears, though his pocket square stands at attention, starched with the last remnants of your pride. The silence between you stretches like a taught wire.

"Twenty-three minutes late," he says, each word falling like ice. "I suppose punctuality wasn't part of that expensive education."

Nora's breath catches beside you, a butterfly trapped in a jar. You feel her fingers brush against yours, seeking anchor, but you both know better than to grasp it.

He steps aside - not an invitation but an order. As you pass, his fingertips graze your shoulder, light as frost but heavy with unspoken threats. Your body remembers before your mind can catch up - memories of shattered crystal, of cold water, of darkness behind locked doors. The bruises have faded but the lessons remain, written in your bones.

Mother's heels click against warped wood, a metronome counting down to something inevitable. The foyer air hangs thick with mildew and Chanel No. 5 - decay dressed in designer perfume. Each breath feels like swallowing stones, the weight of this homecoming settling in your chest like lead.

"Your rooms are prepared," Mother announces to no one in particular, her words floating in the shadows like lost things. "I trust you remember where they are."

Your suitcases land with hollow thuds against marble that's seen better days. Your father's presence fills the space like frost, immediate and biting.

"The Jeons arrive in two days." Each word falls like a death sentence, precise and final. "We'll be ready."

His eyes rake over Nora like winter wind, cataloging every imperfection. "Go upstairs. Fix yourself. You look weak." The last word snaps like a whip, and Nora - sweet, fragile Nora - folds in on herself like origami crushed in a cruel child's fist.

The question that's been poisoning your thoughts since Geneva claws its way past your lips, "Why would the Jeons even want us?"

Your father's smile is all broken glass and tarnished silver. "Because our name still matters." He savors the words like aged wine. "Because even monsters want their sons to marry nobility." He turns away, leaving you to drown in the acid truth of it. You don't push further - this rare moment of actual answers instead of his usual artillery of screams and humiliation feels like a trap you're too tired to spring.

Rain drums against the window panes like a metronome counting down to dawn. The sound almost - but not quite - drowns out Nora's muffled sobs filtering through the wall. Each hitched breath feels like a dagger between your ribs as you trace the sound to her room, finding her curled into herself at the edge of her bed. Her silk robe pools around her like spilled moonlight, mascara-stained tears mapping constellations of despair across her pillow.

"Don't-" she chokes out before you can speak, her fingers twisting in the sheets. "Please, just... pretend you can't hear me falling apart."

The mattress dips beneath your weight as you settle beside her. Some wounds run too deep for words to reach, so you let the silence speak instead.

"God, you don't even see it, do you?" Nora's laugh shatters like crystal against marble. "The way they look at you - at Saint-Margaux, at every gala, every breath you take. Like you're something rare and precious. While I..." Her voice cracks. "I'm just... here. Taking up space. Fighting for scraps of attention."

The words hit like ice water. You want to laugh, but the sound dies in your throat. You've spent years perfecting the art of invisibility, of folding yourself smaller and smaller until you barely cast a shadow.

"Nora, I-" But she cuts through your protest like a blade through silk.

"There was someone," she whispers, each word falling like a confession. "In Switzerland. Behind the old cathedral where the shadows grew long in winter. His hands were gentle - like he thought I might shatter. He looked at me like I was art worth preserving, not just another pretty thing to be sold."

Your heart stops. Dating wasn't just forbidden - it was heresy against the careful cultivation of your worth. You were precious commodities, after all. Pristine dolls waiting to be auctioned to the highest bidder.

"He loved me." Her voice breaks on the past tense. "And I thought... for once, someone chose me first. But then the Jeons...I never thought anyone would ever want to marry me when we have you." She presses her face into the pillow, shoulders shaking. "Who would want the spare when they could have the masterpiece?"

Something fractures in your chest - not a clean break, but a spiderweb of cracks spreading outward. All this time, she'd carved out this tiny paradise of stolen moments, while you... you were an open wound she kept comparing herself to. The realization burns like bitter poison in your throat.

But looking at her now, trembling like a bird with clipped wings, how could you be angry? She'd dared to grasp at happiness in a world that offered only gilded cages. The secrecy stings, yes, but her pain cuts deeper than any betrayal.

Save her, your heart screams. But what power do you have? You're just another pretty puppet with strings of silk and obligation, taught to bend but never break, to endure but never fight.

Words fail, so you reach for her hand instead. Your fingers intertwine - a bridge across the chasm of secrets between you. You can't rewrite her tragedy, but you can stay there with her. At least for today.

Midnight strikes with mechanical precision, each chime reverberating through the drawing room like fate's own countdown. Through leaded glass, you watch them arrive – three obsidian vessels cutting through the rain, their polished surfaces drinking in what little light remains. No emblems mark their passage. No flourish announces their intent. They move with the silent certainty of apex predators.

At your vanity, fingertips ghost over the black ribbon – your chosen weapon for tonight's battle. Beside it, the perfume bottle gleams with poisonous promise. White peach, innocent as first love, deadly as the last. You anoint the silk with calculated precision, watching droplets seep into darkness like secrets into skin. When you weave it through your hair, the scent wraps around you like a lover's promise – or a noose.

Your mother's approval comes in glacial silence. Luca's scorn breaks it like thunder.

“Still playing the grieving virgin?” he sneers, eyes catching on your ribbon, your carefully crafted despair. “Or are we mourning your relevance, sister? The Jeons didn’t come for you.”

You meet his gaze with the weight of winter. “You’re standing in a house that’s falling apart.”

“Which is why we’re selling the prettiest thing we have left.” he hisses, teeth gleaming. “And it’s not you.”

The words dissolve like frost as you descend, each step carrying you closer to the awaiting storm. Your father stands sentry at the door, his spine curved in submission to powers greater than pride. The air shifts – not with cold, but with the kind of sharpness that precedes bloodshed.

They enter like darkness given form. The matriarch first, towering in her sovereignty. Her nineteenth-century choker catches light like a blade – emeralds and onyx, beauty and warning intertwined. She surveys your home as one might examine a failing empire: cataloging weaknesses, calculating worth.

The grandfather follows, silence his scepter. One nod to your father speaks volumes – here, at last, is someone who makes even your tyrant tremble.

Their entourage filters in like smoke – advisors, guards – until finally, he appears.

Jungkook.

He moves like sin made flesh, each step a study in controlled chaos. Power clings to him like shadow to night – from his obsidian gaze to his deliberately disheveled elegance. His suit, artfully askew, mocks propriety while his presence commands it. Dark hair kisses his throat like spilled ink, and raw energy radiates from him like heat from a forge.

His disinterested sweep of the room stutters when it finds you. Something flickers in those depths – recognition, perhaps, or hunger – as your carefully chosen scent reaches him. His posture shifts minutely, like a predator catching prey's scent on the wind. His gaze lingers, heavy as prophecy, and something molten coils in your core.

You don't yield. Nora materializes beside you, trembling like autumn's last leaf. Perfect in her dress, betrayed by the rising flush on her throat, her glassy eyes, her failing breath. Your mother makes introductions like offerings at an altar, your family name wrapped in silk and shame.

The scene unravels with terrible precision. Nora's curtsy falters. The white peach blooms around you like judgment. Her allergy reveals itself in stuttering breaths and panic-wide eyes, her composed facade cracking like ice in spring.

Guilt lashes you even as hope whispers that your plan might work. But the Jeons' reaction isn't pity – it's disdain.

"We were promised perfection," the matriarch pronounces, each word a blade. "Not fragility."

Your father's mask slips, pride warring with fear. "She's merely overwhelmed—"

"She's weak," Luca interjects, venom dripping.

The room descends into chaos – old money snarling at older money, wounded pride clashing against cold contempt. Until…

"She's not the one I want anyway."

Jungkook's voice cuts through the discord like a knife through silk. His eyes, when you meet them, hold neither pretense nor mercy. Just certainty. "I want this one." The words fall like destiny.

The room falls still as breath catches in throats - your mother frozen mid-gesture, Nora swaying like a reed in winter wind, the matriarch's face transforming to cold, unforgiving marble.

"Jeon Jungkook—"

But his gaze remains unbroken, and the white peach at your throat burns like a brand. This wasn't the sacrifice you had intended to make - your carefully laid plans had twisted into something unrecognizable, leading you down a path you never meant to walk.

A silence falls like velvet, heavy with unspoken words that press against the gilt-edged walls until even the shadows hold their breath.

Your father's eyes dance between you and Nora like a master appraiser examining jewels. His gaze is cold arithmetic - measuring worth, calculating losses, tallying gains. To him, you were never daughters; merely assets in his grand portfolio. Two precious stones: one crystal, one porcelain. Now one bears a fatal flaw.

His lips curl into something between a smile and a sneer as he delivers your fate with businesslike efficiency. "If that's the one the Jeons want..." A careless shrug seals your destiny. "Then she's yours."

The words strike like winter frost, crystallizing the air in your lungs. Beside you, Nora's choked sound of despair is quickly muffled by your mother's gloved hand.

Your plan shatters — delicate, doomed, never yours to control. You were meant to be the savior, not the sacrifice. The thought of becoming his choice had never even whispered across your mind.

Memories assault you in violent flashes: your father's leather-bound ledger, your mother's desperate mantra of survival, the wicked glint of Jungkook's rings catching lamplight, white peach perfume clinging to black silk like a death shroud. The sound of breaking - not glass, but your very essence - as your name is bartered away without consent.

You shrink into yourself, a child's instinct to become invisible. But his gaze pins you like a butterfly to velvet. There is no hiding now. You are seen. You are chosen.

The Jeons regard you with clinical interest, recalculating your worth like merchants at auction. The matriarch's lips press into a blade-thin line. The grandfather's slight nod falls like an executioner's axe.

As they file out, you remain rooted, a marble statue carved from pure shock. Nora trembles beside you fragile as frost about to crack, but your arms hang useless. Screams build in your throat - take her instead, take me back, unmake this moment - but they die unspoken, turned to stone by terror.

He approaches with lethal grace, each step a claim of ownership. His presence weighs on you like storm clouds heavy with lightning. You've become his territory now, marked without permission.

The doors seal your fate with thunderous finality. You sink to the marble floor, barely conscious of the movement. Around you, the scene arranges itself like a baroque tragedy - Nora's muffled sobs providing the score, your mother's absence speaking volumes, Luca's triumphant smirk completing the composition.

Reality settles over you like a burial shroud: you are no longer daughter or sister or savior. You have become property, his property. And as this truth sinks its teeth into your heart, you wonder if anything of you will remain when he's done.

Time slips by like grains of sand through an hourglass, each moment dissolving into an infinite stretch of silence. The world outside your window fades to watercolor impressions, bleeding at the edges like a painting left in the rain.

You exist in whispers now. Food remains untasted, questions unasked. The house holds its secrets close - rewound clocks marking phantom hours, curtains drawn against persistent daylight. From your perch on the velvet chaise, you watch raindrops trace silver paths down windowpanes, each one carrying away fragments of the freedom you once knew - freedom lost by your own design.

When they come to take your measurements, you don’t move. The Jeons’ tailors arrive with tape and notebooks, their hands cold and precise. They don’t look at your face. They pull the fabric of your nightdress taut against your hip bones, murmur numbers in a language you don’t understand, and note the curves like they’re assessing a statue to be replicated.

Their fingertips brush against your skin as they take measurements - the inside of your arm, the curve of your neck, the gentle slope of your back. One whispers to the other in hushed tones, no doubt commenting on your rigid posture and reluctant demeanor.

Your mother hovers nearby, her voice drifting through the air like wisps of smoke. "Add more stones," she murmurs. "She needs to shine beside him. Something from the Jeons' blue vault - something rare." She pauses, eyes critical. "Yes, longer sleeves. Hide the ribs."

Your father's voice cuts through the room, sharp and businesslike. "If we're going to do this, make it count. Double the diamonds. Let it be known what house she's marrying into."

You stand motionless, a butterfly pinned beneath layers of silk and expectation. Numbness flows through your veins like winter frost - you neither flinch at the bite of pins nor stir at honeyed compliments. In the mirror, a stranger stares back: a creation of ice and diamonds, beautiful and hollow, already half-ghost.

Time blurs in the silence of the house, each day melting into the next. The halls have grown quieter, more hollow, with only the ghostlike passage of untouched food trays marking the hours.

But it's Nora's absence that weighs heaviest on your heart, making each breath more difficult than the last. No footsteps outside your door, no whispered conversations through the wall, not even the faintest sign of her presence in the dark hours.

You find yourself unable to cry, your grief crystallized into something too solid for tears. Instead, a single poisonous question haunts your thoughts: What was the purpose of your sacrifice if she doesn't comprehend what you tried to do for her?

And Nora - sweet, fragile Nora - remains distant, unreachable. She neither visits nor acknowledges your presence, as if the space between you has become an uncrossable void. Perhaps she harbors hatred for what you've done, or maybe the truth is more painful: she was never meant to be saved, and you were never meant to be her savior.

The veil floats like a whisper of tulle and threat, weightless as frost yet heavy with fate. Before the gilt-edged mirror, you sit wrapped in ivory and diamonds, a bride sculpted from winter's essence. The silk remembers your shape, clinging to your ribs while stones adorning your sleeves scatter morning light like scattered secrets.

Behind you, voices blend together - the dressmaker's soft murmurs, rustling house staff, and your mother's instructions cutting through the air like sheathed knives. But your mind wanders elsewhere, to someone unexpected.

Valbonne. His calm, curious voice echoes in your memory, speaking of how your mind was a cathedral and your anger a kind of music. He saw you differently then - the girl who fenced with restrained grace, never allowed to truly run free. His words linger like an unfinished promise: "If I ever read your name in history books..."

You wonder now if he would even recognize you. You look at your reflection, skin glazed in peach and powdered rose. This is not the girl who wrote essays in French about revolutions and smiled over Latin conjugations at dusk. This is not the girl who debated in the courtyard until her voice cracked, or the one who wanted to work for the UN, who wanted to be something.

“Je ne suis plus moi-même,” you whisper to the mirror. I am no longer myself.

The door opens without warning. Through the mirror's reflection, you see her - Nora, her hair pulled back too tightly, her lipstick perfect, looking like grief painted in gold.

"So this is the masterpiece," she says, her voice cutting through the silence. The words hang in the air between you, heavy with accusation.

"You came," you whisper, your breath catching.

She moves into the room with controlled fury. "I had to see it - the moment where you finally became what you always wanted."

Confusion breaks through your numbness. "What are you talking about?"

Her laugh rings out like shattering crystal. "Don't act innocent. YYou didn’t just take my wedding — you took the one time I was finally enough."

"But you said you'd rather die than marry him," you protest, your voice weak. "You were crying about someone else-"

"You think tears meant I didn't want this?" She advances closer, each word precise and sharp. "A man like him - rich, young, beautiful. I could have thrived. Do you know how many girls would kill to be chosen by Jungkook Jeon?"

Your pulse thunders in your throat as she continues, her voice turning to ice. "I would have let the other one go for this. For once, I wasn't second choice. But you-" her eyes narrow, "you couldn't stand it."

"That's not true," you manage, rising on trembling legs. "Tu pleurais. Tu disais que tu voulais disparaître-" ["You were crying. You said you wanted to disappear-"]

"You're so greedy," she cuts you off, ignoring your French plea. "You needed to be both savior and sacrifice, martyr and bride. You couldn't let me have anything without making it about you."

You can only stare, your carefully constructed world unraveling thread by thread.

"I hate you for it," she says simply, then turns and leaves. You want to scream that it wasn’t supposed to be this way — but guilt is louder than truth.

The door closes behind her with the finality of a tomb being sealed. In the silence that follows, you stand motionless before the mirror. The veil trembles in the breeze, but your eyes remain dry. There's no room for tears in a girl made of lace and betrayal - only silence, the lingering scent of peach perfume, and the sound of your heart shattering beneath a cathedral of lies.

The cathedral is carved from light and silence, its vaulted ceilings vanishing into shadow. Golden ribs and silvered arches trace delicate patterns overhead, while chandeliers hang like captured constellations. Candlelight pools along marble, dancing across a sea of couture-clad guests draped in legacy, their hollow eyes and diamond-adorned faces watching with barely concealed hunger.

You stand at the center of their attention, both masterpiece and sacrifice. Your gown, threaded in silver and framed with pearls, shimmers like a dying star. The train follows you like a whispered surrender, while your veil - long enough to mask your doubts but not your trembling - floats ethereally around you. In this moment of pristine ceremony, everything glows with an intensity that burns.

Your body glides down the aisle — but your mind lags behind, somewhere in the crushed space between Nora’s voice and your father’s warning. You don’t remember when the music began. You barely register the clicking heels, the cameras, the smell of roses imported from Florence. Everything is white and violent.

Your father walks beside you with measured grace, his hand firm on your wrist and posture iron-stiff with pride. You sense his movement before the words come — his mouth dipping close to your ear.

"If you dare to ruin this," he hisses through clenched teeth, "I will destroy everything you are."

Your breath catches as he continues, his grip tightening painfully, "One wrong move in Jeon’s mansion and you'll wish you were never born. No one will take you in after you displease Jungkook. You'll be ruined, discarded, a broken doll no one wants to touch."

Wordlessly, you nod, your gaze fixed on the endless expanse of marble before you - a pristine river of white that stretches like fate itself, each step bringing you closer to him, inevitable as gravity pulling stars from the sky.

Jungkook waits at the altar like a marble statue come to life, all sharp edges and cold beauty. His black suit might as well be carved from midnight itself, perfectly fitted to his frame like a second skin. The single pearl at his throat gleams like a tear frozen in time - a beautiful "fuck you" to tradition. His hair falls in a precise line across his nape, ink-black against stone-white, and you hate that you notice. You hate that you care.

You hate how your traitorous mind catalogs every detail - the fresh haircut, the way his jaw clenches slightly, the calculated perfection of his appearance. Each observation feels like a betrayal of yourself, like you're collecting precious stones to add to your own cage.

His eyes don't leave you as you approach, dark and assessing, like he's appraising a rare artifact he's already purchased. Your footsteps echo through the cathedral - not because you're walking slowly, but because each step feels like signing away another piece of yourself.

When your fingers finally meet his, the air shifts like it always does around him. His hand is warm, steady and sure against your trembling one. You try to hide it, this weakness, but his knowing smirk tells you he feels every quiver. Of course he does - the self-satisfied glint in his eyes suggests he anticipated your trembling long before you arrived. Nothing escapes that calculated gaze.

The vows dissolve like sugar on your tongue, crystalline and too-sweet, while the officiant's words blur into a symphony of carefully chosen platitudes. Unity, power, bloodlines, blessings - "eternity" floats past like a butterfly with broken wings, and "legacy" follows, heavy as a curse.

The ring they give you burns cold against your skin - platinum and promises binding you tight. Your "I do" emerges barely above a whisper, like a secret you never meant to tell, the words feeling foreign in your mouth as if borrowed from someone who knew how to want this. But Jungkook's response rings clear as church bells, sure as sunrise, as though he's been rehearsing this moment since birth.

When the ceremony concludes and the crowd rises in a wave of silk and diamonds, he leans in close enough to count your heartbeats. The kiss isn't proper - that would be too kind. Instead, his lips find the corner of your mouth, precise as a knife's edge yet soft as a threat, tasting of possession.

You freeze, a perfect statue in white as the cathedral carries on its ancient dance of sparkling chandeliers and clicking cameras. But deep inside your chest, something ancient and angry begins to stir, like the first crack in winter ice.

The ballroom unfolds, adorned with champagne and ancient bloodlines. Beneath vaulted ceilings, strings swell while crystal and candlelight dance together, every surface glinting with gold, diamond, and carefully crafted deception. At Jungkook's side, you stand like a statue carved from pearl, his arm a ghostly presence at the small of your back while you receive strangers masquerading as friends - your smile and curtsy perfectly measured, your voice carefully contained.

The first dance ends and your gown whispers warnings as the floor fills with aristocracy. Distant royals and international moguls move through the space while women drift by in couture worth fortunes. The air is heavy with imported orchids and centuries of refined violence, threatening to pull you under.

The Jeons move through the room like gods draped in tailored suits, untouchable and unreadable. His mother maintains her regal pose, wine glass pristine and untouched, while his grandfather sits motionless as heated marble, observing all. Around them, guests trade danger and influence with practiced ease, their diamonds and secrets competing for brilliance.

Though Jungkook's fingers remain steady at your waist, his eyes retain their coldness. Behind you, the Jeon security team emerges from the shadows - Namjoon, Jin, Hoseok, Taehyung, Jimin, and Yoongi. Their beautiful suits barely conceal the violence in their bones, each man moving with purposeful intent, awaiting instructions.

The music shifts. Your first dance has ended. The floor is filling again with distant royals and corrupt diplomats, soft laughter smeared across every corner. Toasts rise like smoke. Cameras flash. Every mouth says “congratulations” while every gaze says “how long until she breaks?”

The numbness, ritual, and pretending almost bring relief, until everything shifts. You sense their presence before you see them - in the subtle falter of musicians, the way Jungkook's posture stiffens, and how Namjoon and Jin move closer without touching, just hovering near.

When you look toward the entrance, they materialize: The Maranzano Syndicate. Their appearance is immaculate - perfect suits, gleaming shoes, and smiles that stretch too wide. Though you know nothing about them specifically, you recognize their nature - the kind of silence that's been trained to kill.

Leading them is a man your age, his presence commanding attention. Handsome and controlled, he moves across the floor with deliberate grace, champagne in one hand and clear intent in the other. As he approaches, you feel the temperature drop and every Jeon ally tense. When he stops before you, his smile carries weight.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he says, tone velvet-smooth. “It would be rude to leave without congratulating the bride.”

Jungkook’s hand twitches at your waist.

The man takes your hand — slowly, theatrically — and raises it to his lips. His mouth doesn’t touch. But it hovers just enough. Long enough. The entire room stills.

"Leo Maranzano," he murmurs. "Piacere."

The glass shatters from Jungkook's grip as he lunges forward, seizing Leo by the shoulder. His face transforms from marble to murderous fury. "Disappear," he growls.

Leo's smile widens with deliberate provocation. "You're not the only one who appreciates women's beauty, Jeon."

Violence erupts in an instant - too swift for the guests to follow, but precisely what these trained men anticipated. Tables crash and champagne sprays as chaos unfolds. Jin materializes to shield you while Namjoon steps protectively forward. Through the mayhem, you glimpse Taehyung dispatching an attacker, Yoongi's blade appearing and vanishing like lightning, and Hoseok moving with lethal grace.

At the center of it all stands Jungkook - sleeves torn, chain gleaming against his throat, transformed into something dangerous and wild. He doesn't command; he simply acts, throwing bodies aside with ruthless efficiency.

You remain frozen, deaf to Namjoon's urgent words. Your eyes fix on Jungkook - your husband - as he hurls another man to the ground. The wedding ring seems to tighten around your finger, a burning reminder of your vows.

Jungkook whirls toward you, blood staining his collar, eyes fierce. "Why the fuck are you still here?! GO!"

But your legs won't move. Namjoon curses and drags you backward as another violent crash reverberates through the floor.

And then silence descends as a single gunshot echoes through the room. At the center stands Jeon Grandfather, holding a pistol with an ivory-inlaid grip. His expression carries not anger, but disappointment as he raises the weapon, wielding it like a priest might hold a cross during sermon.

His voice slices through the tension. "Back in my day, men didn't dishonor women and children with their cowardice. They handled their vengeance where it belonged - in the dark, out of sight."

The assembled crowd remains motionless as Leo steps forward with deliberate confidence. "I came to honor the bride," he states simply. When Jungkook moves to retaliate, Jin restrains him with a firm hand and whispered warning.

Turning to you with a gaze both gentle and menacing, Leo continues, "The Jeon family killed my father. They will answer for that, but not tonight. My grandfather learned patience, as will I." His smile transforms into something sharp and dangerous as he adds, "Try to enjoy the wedding night, Mrs. Jeon."

Jungkook lunges forward, his face contorted with murderous rage. "Keep my wife's name out of your dirty mouth before I fucking kill you," he snarls, muscles coiled like a predator ready to strike. Namjoon's arm shoots out to block his path while Hoseok grabs his shoulder from behind.

"Not here," Namjoon hisses through clenched teeth. "Think of the consequences."

Jungkook's eyes burn with barely contained violence, but he stills under their restraining grip, every muscle in his body taut with suppressed fury. Leo's satisfied laugh echoes through the room as he and his men retreat, the heavy doors closing behind them with finality.

In the tense silence that follows, a single voice dares to ask, "Shall we continue?"

The music returns, violins gliding back into waltz-time as champagne flows freely. The guests — trained creatures of legacy and fear — seamlessly resume their practiced dance of pretense, their laughter echoing through the hall as if violence had never touched these marble floors.

Jungkook, temple still stained with blood, vanishes down a darkened hallway while waiters weave through the crowd with fresh glasses. Under the glittering chandeliers, toasts rise and fall like waves against the shore, each clink of crystal a studied performance of normalcy.

You stand frozen, diamonds cold against your trembling collarbones, and face the terrifying reality of what you've married into — and wonder how long it will take to learn the art of survival in this glittering, dangerous world.

The ride is long and silent. One black car glides through the night like a hearse, and behind it — two more, identical in their gleaming precision. Their engines hum low like beasts beneath chains, headlights slicing through London fog as if daring the dark to follow. The city blurs past in streaks of silver and neon, but inside the car, everything is still.

You sit beside Jungkook, trembling quietly in a cage of lace and diamonds. Your gown spills over the leather like a spilled secret, crushed and wrinkled at the knees. You keep your hands folded like a prayer that will never be answered.

Across the seat, he is all silence and shadow.His jaw is clenched. His breathing even. But his mind is somewhere else — you can feel it, like storm clouds gathering in the distance. One leg draped loosely, his ringed fingers tapping once against the edge of the window. There is blood at his collar, dried now, half-hidden beneath the pearl.

No one speaks. Outside, security guards on motorcycles flank both sides. A third car follows behind, lights off, ready. One of the men in the front seat glances back, but neither of you look up.

The Jeon penthouse rises above the city, all glass and power, its windows gleaming with cold wealth. You don’t even remember how you got out of the car — just the blur of doors opening, voices murmuring orders, arms lifting packages and flowers and boxes of gifts wrapped in gold paper and blood-colored ribbon. They carry everything inside.

The penthouse is breathtaking in its silence — a towering open space where the walls don’t hold memories, only expensive taste. Marble floors echo under your shoes. The scent of white roses hangs in the air like a threat disguised as beauty. Chandeliers glimmer above you with a cruelty sharper than candlelight. Even the air here feels conditioned to perfection — expensive, perfumed, untouched.

Jungkook strides ahead silently, his jacket unbuttoned and fists clenched tight. His people dissolve into the shadows with practiced efficiency, bowing once before they disappear. The heavy doors seal shut with a decisive click, leaving you utterly alone.

You remain frozen where they abandoned you, rooted to the pristine living room floor like some tragic modern art installation. Your wedding gown - this beautiful, suffocating thing - pools around your feet like spilled moonlight. The veil still clings to your hair, a gossamer reminder of promises made under crystal chandeliers. Each breath is a battle against the corset's cruel embrace, while your legs have long since surrendered to numbness.

The silence stretches between you like a taught wire, ready to snap. He's there, a dark silhouette against darker shadows, methodically undoing his cuffs with elegant, calculated movements. Without a word, without even the courtesy of a glance, he vanishes into the bedroom.

When exhaustion finally drives you to follow, the bedroom rises before you like a gilded cage - all emerald walls and gleaming gold, with a bed that could swallow kingdoms whole. The sharp edges of wealth cut through any notion of comfort. You're a sparrow in a falcon's nest.

And there he is - sprawled across silk sheets like sin incarnate, jacket discarded but otherwise fully dressed, radiating the casual danger of a predator at rest. His silence fills the room like smoke.

"Why are you still dressed?" The words fall like ice between you.

You stand paralyzed, breath caught in your throat as your fingers nervously twist in the yards of white fabric. His eyes rake over you methodically, dissecting every tremor and fear until his expression settles into something more cutting than cruelty - pure disappointment.

His words shatter your composure, unleashing a tide of fury that drowns your fear. "I never wanted this," you whisper, voice trembling with raw emotion.

"What?" His expression darkens dangerously.

The truth pours out, bitter and sharp. "This marriage, you, this entire twisted world - I only did it to save her."

He rises like a storm gathering force, each movement a study in controlled violence. City lights paint him in shadows as he stalks closer. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Words become weapons: "You were never wanted. Not by her, not by me. You were a death sentence, and I stepped in because she was dying at the thought of you."

Something dangerous flickers in his eyes - not shock, but a terrible fascination. His smile unfurls like a blade. "Interesting."

He advances slowly, and you instinctively back away, feeling every bit the cornered prey he sees you as.

"Did you think we'd sleep in separate beds on our wedding night?" he murmurs, fingers moving to his buttons. One by one, they come undone like falling stars.

You can't look away as skin appears - beautiful and brutal, carved from marble and midnight. He undresses like someone who's never known shame.

Then he's behind you, his presence radiating heat and shadow as his breath ghosts across your neck. His fingers find the buttons of your dress, methodically undoing them one by one while panic floods your veins, causing you to tremble uncontrollably.

He pauses, lips brushing your ear: "Anyone would want this night with me. But you're shaking like prey about to be devoured."

The warmth vanishes. His voice turns to steel. "I don't need this."

He collects his jacket like gathering shadows. At the threshold, without turning: "If you change your mind, I'll be in the other room."

Then he's gone, leaving you alone with your fear and your fury and your wedding dress coming undone.

You lie in the dark, cocooned in too much silence and too little peace. The sheets whisper over your bare skin as you shift — lace against skin, skin against memory. You hadn't meant to take the dress off so soon, but the corset had left bruises across your ribs, and your legs gave out the moment he left. Now you wear only your underwear and the quiet pulse of your thoughts, lying in the center of a bed too large, in a home too vast, after a night too violent to forget.

Sleep eludes you as memories of the night replay endlessly in your mind. The echo of gunfire lingers, accompanied by Maranzano's haunting presence - his smile forever imprinted in your thoughts, the way he regarded you like a silk-draped warning. Yet what truly unsettles you is the image of Jungkook - bloodied fists, disheveled collar, claiming you as his before a room of demons.

In a strange twist of fate, you realize he became your sole defender, choosing you for reasons still shrouded in mystery. This revelation propels you from the bed.

You wrap yourself in a robe of pure seduction - flowing silk that caresses your skin, its shortened hem and plunging neckline suggesting intentions you hadn't consciously formed. Or perhaps you had.

Moving silently through the penthouse, you find yourself before the open double doors at the hall's end. The room beyond bathes in amber light, where Jungkook reclines on an enormous bed, his bare chest catching gold like sculpture. A MacBook rests in his lap, screen light playing across his jaw, while his legs - long, parted, powerful - stretch across the duvet, clad only in black boxer briefs.

His eyes meet yours and he freezes, the air between you transforming into something tangible. You witness the exact moment desire overtakes thought in his gaze as it traces the curves beneath your silk-draped form.

Setting aside his laptop, he leans back with calculated grace, the embodiment of sin made flesh. "Knew you'd come to your senses," he drawls as he tilts his chin and widens his legs slightly, a silent command. "Go ahead."

Instead, you voice your turmoil. "The wedding... the Maranzanos... I can't sleep."

His jaw flexes, a slight tell. "I don't know what I'm more afraid of," you confess softly. "Them... or you."

Something in your words spurs him forward, his predatory grace on full display as he rises, his arousal evident against the thin fabric of his boxers. You try to steady your breathing as he approaches with measured steps.

"I will never let those filthy fuckers touch something that's mine," he declares, voice cold and sharp. "And you are mine."

Your slight nod draws his scrutiny. "Still afraid?"

"I believe you're powerful..." you hesitate, "but power itself can be terrifying."

His smile turns razor-sharp as he closes the distance between you, until his breath mingles with yours. "You think I'm a monster."

"I know you are."

His laughter - deep, rich, dangerous - slides down your spine like poisoned silk.

“Everyone’s a monster,” he murmurs. “You just happened to be lucky enough to marry the most dangerous of them all.”

His hands find your thighs. His thumbs drag slowly upward — grazing, pressing, testing. Your robe parts beneath his touch. You feel heat spread like fire through your veins, breath catching as his fingers brush over your hips, then the curve of your waist, the dip between your breasts. Your body trembles, not from fear anymore but from something deeper, more primal.

"Let me pull back the curtain," he whispers against your neck, "and show you what I might give you."

At your subtle nod, he guides you to the bed with the careful precision of someone handling their most precious weapon.

You’re guided gently into his lap — your thighs folding around him, your knees pressed to the mattress, your robe already falling from your shoulders. His hands don’t rush. They devour.

You begin to move — hesitant at first, your hips swaying forward with tentative rhythm, the silk of your underwear dragging against the heat straining beneath his boxers. It’s an unbearable kind of friction, featherlight but charged, as if every breath you take draws fire from the contact.

Jungkook exhales harshly — the sound low, broken — his head tipping back slightly as your hips grind again, slower this time, deeper. His hands stay resting at your thighs for a moment, as though he’s restraining himself, letting you move, letting you lead. But his muscles twitch under your touch, like a storm waiting to shatter the sky.

You find your rhythm. Back and forth, your hips brushing his with increasing urgency, and the softest moan slips from your lips, unbidden — a sound that startles even you.

His reaction is immediate as his mouth trails to your neck, pressing a kiss just below your jaw — hot, open, unhurried — then drifts lower, brushing over the hollow of your throat, your collarbone, teeth grazing so lightly it sends shivers down your spine. He’s not in a rush. He explores you like he’s reading a language he already knows but wants to savor syllable by syllable.

Your breath catches as his lips skim the edge of your bra, teasing the skin above the lace. He doesn't ask. He doesn’t need to. His hands slide up your ribcage, palms wide and reverent, finding the soft swell of your breasts and cupping them through the fabric — thumbs stroking lazily over the thin material, coaxing gasps from your throat like he’s plucking at the strings of some hidden instrument.

Every moan you release feeds the hunger in his eyes. And he’s watching you — every twitch of your hips, every parting of your lips, every flutter of your lashes. It consumes him.

You can feel his arousal beneath you, hot and solid, straining harder with every roll of your body. His hands move again — one gripping your waist with bruising intent, guiding your movements, while the other trails along the curve of your lower back, holding you flush against him.

The rhythm intensifies — friction now slick, pulsing, unbearable. Your thighs tremble. His jaw clenches. Every breath is shared now, your open mouths hovering close, not kissing but just existing in that charged space where desire lives and burns.

You can feel the tension building, hovering at that delicious edge. When he moans - low, guttural, nearly a growl - something inside you shatters. As you arch forward, his hands tighten their grip possessively. You feel yourself unraveling — not with shame, but with the devastating knowledge that no one has ever made you feel like this before.

You’re close — so close — when his hands suddenly shift.

With a strength that feels effortless, Jungkook lifts you in his arms as though you weigh nothing at all, his grip steady beneath your thighs. The motion steals your breath. The loss of rhythm makes your body cry out silently, aching and wanting.

He lays you down onto the bed like he’s placing something sacred — your hair fanning over silk, your skin burning against the cool sheets. The robe hangs loosely at your elbows, forgotten now, as your chest rises and falls with a rhythm that has nothing to do with breath and everything to do with him.

He kneels beside you, his gaze slow and molten, taking in every curve, every tremble, every shiver that escapes you now without resistance.

His hand skims down your stomach — fingers dragging with maddening slowness. The silk of your skin, the shallow dip at your navel, the heat blooming beneath every inch of his touch — he traces it all, not as a man in a hurry, but as one who means to memorize you.

His fingers find the center of your heat, where friction once burned and now aches for more. A gasp escapes your lips as he pauses, his other hand reaching for the clasp of your bra. Before you realize it, your palm presses against his chest, stopping him.

Not yet. Whether from fear, pride, or the need to maintain some control, you can't let go completely. The tension between you crystallizes into something quieter than rejection as he studies you, his expression unreadable.

He leans in, lips brushing your jaw as he speaks in a voice both molten and low. "This act of patience," he murmurs, "is exclusive. For you."

His words sink into your skin more than they reach your ears, and then he moves lower. He doesn’t remove the bra — doesn’t try again — but he does not ignore you. His mouth descends over the lace, hot breath seeping through the delicate fabric. His tongue flicks, teasing just above the cup. Then lower. The edge of your breast. The underside. He kisses there, open-mouthed, savoring the way your body arches, how your thighs tense around nothing.

His hands slide down across your waist, steadying you before moving lower with deliberate intent. You feel him shift, his shoulders slipping between your knees, parting them with a reverence that only makes the air leave your lungs faster.

He presses slow, searing kisses along the inside of your thigh. His fingers draw your underwear aside with maddening control, brushing lightly against sensitive skin before his mouth descends.

The first drag of his tongue is like nothing you were prepared for — slow, wet, deliberate. Your back lifts from the bed as your hand shoots out, gripping the sheets like they might anchor you to the earth.

He moves with the precision of someone who has studied power — who knows exactly how to wield it and when to be cruel with pleasure. His tongue circles slowly, testing you, tasting. Then deeper — firmer. His mouth closes over you, lips parting to suck gently, then harder, then teasing again, and again.

You cry out, a sharp, desperate sound you’ve never heard from your own throat before.

Your hand finds his hair. Your fingers tighten in the dark strands as his rhythm deepens, his moans vibrating against you, low and hungry. Your thighs tremble as your breath breaks apart.Your body begins to spiral faster, helplessly — his tongue working in endless rhythm, his grip steady on your hips as you start to fall apart in his mouth.

You cum like something tearing open inside you — high and hot and trembling — your gasp catching, then breaking, then disappearing entirely as your body arches up into his mouth like it belongs nowhere else.

He maintains his steady devotion, drawing out every wave of pleasure until you lay completely still, breathless and undone beneath him.

When he finally rises, his mouth glistening and eyes dark with pride, he presses one final kiss to the inside of your thigh before meeting your gaze with a satisfied smirk. His voice comes rough with shadow.

"Now that," he purred against your trembling thigh, voice dripping like honey and sin, "was just the beginning of what I can give you."

You wake tangled in silk and shattered moonlight, sin still sticky-sweet on your tongue. Your robe whispers secrets against feverish skin, one sleeve sliding down like a lover's touch, sheets still singing hymns of his warmth. There's an ache threading through your muscles like golden honey, each pulse a reminder of hands that knew too well where to press, where to bruise, where to worship.

The air is thick with him still - spice and shadow and something darker, something that tastes of stolen prayers and midnight confessions. You stare up at a ceiling that gleams like polished bones, willing yourself to forget.

But memory is a cruel mistress. She paints his hands in watercolor bruises across your mind. His mouth - oh god, his mouth - the way he consumed you like you were his last meal, like you were salvation itself. And you? You broke apart like stained glass beneath a light, scattered and sacred and his.

You must have lost your mind.

You press trembling fingers against closed eyes, shame and want warring in your chest like caged birds. It should repulse you - this descent into darkness, this willing fall from grace. Some part of you remembers innocence, remembers when touch meant tenderness instead of torrential need.

But there's a monster living in your ribcage now, purring at the memory of worship wrapped in violence. It remembers the weight of him, the raw intensity of his focus, the way he made devotion feel like damnation.

Have you always been this hollow, waiting to be filled with fire?

The bedroom holds no answers. Just cold marble and colder air, roses drowning in some foreign scent that wasn't there before. Everything's too sharp, too sterile, too vast.

He's gone. Of course he is. Demons never linger for too long. The penthouse feels different now, hollow and cold in his wake. Stepping into the hallway, you're greeted like fine china - precious, pristine, breakable. The world wants its doll back, wants to forget how she shattered in the dark.

There's a ritual waiting by the window: breakfast laid out like an altar. Poached eggs under crystal domes catch morning light like tears. A blood orange bleeds perfectly on white china. Fresh brioche exhales steam into the silence. The Jeon family crest watches from your napkin, judging.

You don't dare touch any of it.A maid ghosts through the room, her "madam" falling too quickly, too properly, gaze skittering away like scattered pearls. Another servant arranges your armor for the day: silk blouse with a collar high enough to hide secrets, modest skirt, pearls to match your cage.

Steam curls from behind the bathroom door, a siren song of hot water and false comfort.Your feet refuse to move. This attention scrapes against your skin like sandpaper wrapped in silk. It's not luxury - it's surveillance dressed in gold leaf.

Watched. Always watched.

Every gesture is a report in waiting. Every bite you don't take will be noted. Every wrinkle in your robe tells stories to ears you'll never see. The mirrors - god, the mirrors - they're everywhere, reflecting your uncertainty in infinite angles until you're drowning in your own discomfort.His presence lingers like smoke, invisible but choking. The walls have eyes, and they all belong to him.

You perch at the table like a bird about to flee, clutching silk around yourself like armor.The perfect breakfast dies slowly in the sunlight.Your appetite fled with the night.

It starts like this: a whisper of rebellion, soft as moth wings against silk. Your fingers find the white peach perfume, its crystal bottle cool and dangerous in your palm. One spritz — delicate, precise — finds your wrist. Another graces its twin. The hollow of your throat accepts the third like a blessing. The scent blooms in the air, all summer-sweet defiance, honeyed memories that curl through empty halls like forgotten prayers. And no one — no one — dares stop you because of some allergies.

These marble halls may cage you in gold and expectations, but they can't dictate the way you smell anymore, can't police the way your bare feet whisper secrets against cold floors. Your robe trails behind you like a queen's cape, leaving echoes of fruit and rebellion in your wake. Deep in your belongings, the black ribbon waits. It remembers you, this small scrap of darkness. It remembers the shape of your defiance.

The silk slides home against your hair and it for a moment it feels like armor. He materializes like a dark fairytale - no warning, no preamble. Just the whispered code at the door and footsteps that paint promises across marble floors. When he enters, the room holds its breath. Storm-cloud presence, predator grace. His skin still gleams from whatever violence he's been courting - white shirt, rain-slick hair and a towel draped carelessly around his neck. Cedar and sweat and danger roll off him in waves.

Your ribbon-bound hair and peach-sweet defiance catch his attention like matches to gasoline. His grin splits the atmosphere. "Miss me, Pesca Mia?"

The Italian drips like honey-coated thorns - My Peach - far too gentle for a man whose smirk could cut glass. You answer with silence, with measured steps past him, with carefully crafted distance.And of course he follows, tigers don't let prey walk away.

"Playing ghost bride still?" His voice chases you down the hall. "We share a home, Peach. Looking at me won't turn you to stone."

But then the air thickens, and his shadow swallows yours whole. His hand finds your wrist - a brand of heat that stops your heart.

He materializes before you, all aristocrat skin and lethal grace. Too close. Not close enough. Your eyes refuse to trace the dangerous landscape of his chest.

"Why?" Confusion bleeds into his voice, softening its edges. "You're my wife, yet you treat me like a stranger."

You meet his gaze at last. Your voice comes arctic cold. "You are."

Two words, quiet as falling snow yet sharp as winter wind. Something flickers in his expression - pain, maybe, before pride swallows it whole. His laugh comes out all broken glass.

"You think I'm desperate for your attention?" Arrogance wraps around his words like armor. "Girls would kill to wear your crown, peach. Don't think you're irreplaceable."

Your silence lingers, though his statemnt stings. He exhales - one sharp breath that carries worlds of frustration. And he urns away like you're not worth the oxygen.

"I won't beg you to claim what's already yours," he mutters, defeat dressed as disdain. "You don't want me? Fine."

His exit is soundless, but it echoes in your bones. The door slams like punctuation. But the halls still whisper of peaches and regret.

IIt's 2:17 a.m. and the universe holds its breath.

Your heartbeat counts time with the expensive clock on the wall, both of you locked in this infinite moment of waiting. Silk sheets coil around you like living things as you sit there, spine straight as a blade, every nerve ending electric with that delicious cocktail of rage and loneliness. The lamp bathes everything in honey-gold light, making shadows dance across the pristine emptiness beside you - a canvas waiting for a body that isn't there.

He hasn't returned. You tried maintaining your cold façade, denying how the empty space beside you slowly hollowed out your chest, how the silence grew unbearable. You called it strategy, convinced yourself it was necessary breathing room. But now? Now you're done waiting. Your fingers find your phone with lethal grace.

Namjoon picks up on the second ring, his voice heavy with sleep yet carrying an edge of anticipation, as if he'd been expecting this call.

"Is he with you?" The words slip out like ice daggers.

The pause speaks volumes. "...No. He's at The Roselace."

Your lashes lower once, slow and dangerous. "A club?"

"Yes." The word hangs there, heavy with implications that flicker like warning lights in the dark. But you stopped needing warnings the moment you tasted rebellion on your tongue. Your voice doesn't just turn to steel. No, it crystallizes into something far more dangerous: diamond-sharp certainty wrapped in velvet menace. "Bring the car around. I want to go."

Another heartbeat of silence, shorter this time. "I'll be outside in five."

Night bleeds neon across rain-slick streets, your revenge wrapped in a dress that fits like a promise. The city's a living thing tonight, all electric pulse and wet concrete confession. And you? You're winter made flesh in the backseat, ankles crossed like loaded guns, while Namjoon pilots the car through streets that taste of destiny. He knows better than to speak - you can't small talk with gathering storms.

Jin materializes at the club entrance like a harbinger, umbrella in hand, face carved from marble. His words fall soft as burial dirt: "Back lounge. Always."

You ghost past him without acknowledgment. Some moments don't need words.

The Roselace wraps around you like sin in silk stockings - all crushed velvet shadows and dripping crystal light. Bass thrums through your bones while bodies write poetry against each other on the dance floor, everything drenched in rose-gold desperation and champagne dreams.

Then the VIP lounge opens its maw and your world tilts sideways. There. Him.

Jeon Jungkook. Sprawled like fallen royalty across black leather, shirt undone like an invitation to sin, silver chain catching light like stolen stars. A glass of scotch hangs from his fingers.

But it's the women that make your blood crystallize. They're draped across him like living jewelry, all velvet curves and sheer promises. Their hands map territories you were claiming last night, lips writing stories against skin that was against yours yesterday. One whispers something that pulls a smirk from him like poison from a wound.

His eyes find yours across the chaos.

And smiles like the devil has just been entertained.

Your body moves without conscious thought - a bullet made of silk and fury. The click of your heels against marble sounds like a countdown to chaos. Your fingers find soft flesh, yanking the nearest woman away from him with the kind of graceless violence reserved for scorned goddesses.

Her shriek pierces the air like shattered crystal. She stumbles backwards, a doll thrown from its perch.

"You selfish, arrogant, fucking idiot-"

His laughter cuts through your rage like a knife through velvet.

"You're so fucking sexy like this," he purrs, voice dripping with dark honey, watching your anger like it's the most exquisite show he's ever seen.

"I swear to God, if I ever see…" The words die in your throat. Because his mouth claims yours like he's signing a contract in sin.

He kisses you like he's trying to steal your soul - all open mouth and wicked smile. One hand cradles your face like you're made of precious things, while the other brands your lower back, pulling you into his lap like you're the missing piece he's been waiting for.

Time stops breathing.The bass still pounds through the walls but the world goes quiet. The women dissolve like smoke. Staff melt into shadows. Even the velvet walls seem to lean away. There's nothing left but the dangerous heat between your teeth and his. He breaks away just enough to trace your bottom lip with his tongue.

"Don't look at me like that in public," he whispers, eyes like molten gold. "I'll forget every rule I've ever learned."

Your palm finds his cheek - not gentle, not cruel but Jungkook only grins wider.

The city blurs past like smeared watercolors as Namjoon guides the car through rain-slicked streets. Jin's profile cuts a careful silhouette against neon-lit windows. The air between you all feels like the moment before lightning strikes.

You're a study in barely contained fury next to Jungkook - all crossed arms and white knuckles, electricity crackling beneath your skin. He's sprawled in his seat like a fallen angel, that split lip you gave him worn like a badge of honor, watching you with the kind of smile that makes devils nervous.

"Still giving me the silent treatment after that kiss?" His voice drips honey-sweet venom.

"Touch another woman," you breathe, each word dipped in ice and promises, “and I will bury your body in the same marble your family worships.”

Up front, Jin's cough shatters the tension. Namjoon's eyes catch yours in the mirror - a flash of pure amusement you choose to ignore.

And Jungkook? He laughs like you've just told him the most delicious secret, leaning in until his breath ghosts across your ear, voice pure sin, "Baby, your jealousy looks better on me than designer suits."

You don't give him the satisfaction of a response. But your traitor pulse skips like a scratched record, and the devil's smile says he knows exactly what he does to you.

A knock that sounds like the universe holding its breath. Like fate writing the first line of a tragedy.

You're poised at the edge of the grand sitting room like a statue carved from anxiety and expensive silk. Your blouse is buttoned to your throat - armor, really. Chandeliers drip gold light like honey. White roses perfume the air with your false hope of Nora coming to visit you too with your family. And then the door opens the past comes crawling in like poison through your veins.

Your mother glides in first - her hairspray a helmet, her lipstick a warning sign in crimson. Then Luca, wearing wealth like a borrowed skin, pressing family obligation against your cheek in a kiss that tastes of nothing. And finally - because the universe has a cruel sense of dramatic timing - your father.

He moves through space like a black hole, warping reality around him. The kind of presence that makes rooms smaller, air thinner, daughters invisible. His suit whispers of faded glory but his eyes? They gleam with collector's greed.

Your flinch is barely perceptible, but Jungkook - beautiful and dangerous - catches the subtle movement like a treasured secret. He's sprawled in his armchair like it's a throne, all devastating grace and calculated nonchalance. Whiskey glass dancing between elegant fingers, watching, waiting. The temperature drops ten degrees when his gaze sharpens.

"Where's Nora?" Your voice plays at lightness. Fails.

Your mother's hand waves away concern like smoke. "Unwell."

Luca's jaw twitches. He won't meet your eyes. Your father has no such restraint.

"Well?" The word drips disdain. "This is all... quaint. But when are you buying me a proper mansion?"

His words splatter against the pristine air like acid on silk.

You straighten your spine. "The Jeons have already given enough."

Jungkook's laugh of disbelief is velvet-wrapped steel.

"Enough?" Your father's scoff could curdle cream. "I gave Jeons my precious daughter. Raised you right. Paid for her schooling. Trained her to speak six damn languages. And they give what? A glorified cottage and few millions on bank account. This is not serious."

Jungkook shifts - barely a movement, but it rewrites gravity. You speak first.

"Don't embarrass us." You aim for ice. Your voice cracks like spring thaw.

Your father whirls. "Since when did you grow fangs, little girl?"

His hand rises - a familiar choreography of pain, promising bruises that would match your designer earrings. But the blow never lands.

Jungkook's fingers wrapped around your father's wrist with quiet, absolute authority - a prophecy written in bone and blood.

“My grandfather raised me with manners,” Jungkook muses, voice soft, “taught me to never strike someone older.” He leans close. "Don't make me disappoint him."

The silence has teeth. Your father's face performs an ugly dance between rage and humiliation. He retreats, inch by inch. Jungkook releases him like dropping something contaminated.

Then, quiet as a blade between ribs: "And don't ever think of hitting my wife."

The room stills. Your mother's face turns to marble while Luca shifts uneasily on his feet.

They retreat like storm clouds dispersing - your father leading with violence still coiled in his shoulders, your mother trailing behind him like winter fog. At the threshold, Luca pauses to mumble an apology before disappearing, leaving only traces of expensive cologne.

When the doors finally close, silence blankets the room like fresh snow. You exhale years of fear.

Jungkook stands beside you, offering neither touch nor words - just his presence, steady as gravity, protective as shelter. In this space where fear once lived, something gentler takes root.

Warmth.

Maybe love isn't some grand revelation inscribed in starlight. Maybe it's quieter than that - like finding shelter during a storm you didn't know was coming.

There was something about that moment in the sitting room. The way his hand caught your father's wrist mid-strike, precise as a knife's edge, gentle as snowfall. Not a word spoken, just the weight of his presence beside you, heavy as gravity and twice as constant.

Protection wrapped in silence. Devotion dressed in designer suits.

And how it caught in your throat - this unfamiliar feeling of being shielded rather than shaped, protected rather than possessed. Like watching a bruise bloom backwards, violence turning to velvet beneath your skin.

You've spent so long being a prize to be won, an asset to be traded. But here, in the aftermath of that infinite moment, you taste something different on your tongue. Something that whispers of possibility, of paperback endings you never dared to want.

Because maybe love isn't about grand gestures or flowery declarations. Maybe it's in the way he caught your flinch like a secret worth keeping. The way he stood guard over your fear without trying to own it. The thought haunts you like perfume, sweet and lingering, as you drift through marble halls in bare feet. Past crystal that catches light like promises, through silence that feels, for once, like peace.

Tonight, you could let the walls down brick by brick. Maybe tonight, you could let the curtain open just a little wider. Not in surrender, but in hope of something softer. Something that tastes less like warfare and more like coming home.

The clock says 11:42 p.m. when you finally allow yourself to move. Your robe slips to the floor like dusk shedding its skin, and you reach for the lingerie that still carries its tag, something delicate and barely-there — lace the color of antique ivory, with ribbon straps that whisper against your shoulders like secrets.

You spray white peach across your collarbone, behind your knees, over your wrists. The scent hovers in the air like the memory of hands you don’t flinch from. You find the black ribbon — a little wrinkled now, a little tired — and tie it loosely in your hair. A small crown. A little defiance. A reminder that this softness is yours to give.

Then — because courage needs ritual — you pour yourself half a glass of wine. You sip it standing by the window, your reflection doubled against the city: bare legs, trembling fingers, a girl sculpted from want and silk and something beginning to resemble hope.

What if I’m allowed to be held gently? the thought hums behind your ribs. What if I’m not just a transaction in pearls?

Tonight, you want more than to be protected like property - you want to be wanted like a woman. You want to feel that warmth again and maybe dare to discover more of it. Setting down your glass with shallow breath, your heart presses against your ribs like a caged bird seeking freedom. Then, with quiet certainty, you call his name. “Jungkook.”

Not a shout, nor a whisper - just your voice carrying through the stillness. And somewhere in the penthouse, you sense the shift in the air, hear the soft footsteps approaching. You wait, your heartbeat marking time in the silence.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

When the door finally creaks open, the light from the hallway carves his silhouette in gold.

Jungkook enters shirtless, barefoot, and breathing like he ran. The low waistband of his black boxers hugs his hips like sin sewn into fabric. His dark hair is tousled, damp at the ends. His chest gleams faintly from the shower or the gym — you can’t tell — but the muscles move tight beneath his skin as he scans the room, jaw clenched.

"Did something—" His words trail off as he takes in the sight before him.

Laid out across the pale sheets like a prayer wrapped in lace and quiet invitation. The ivory lingerie clings to you like mist, your legs tucked slightly to the side, bare shoulder framed by long hair and black ribbon. One hand holds the edge of the sheet. The other rests over your stomach — steady only in appearance.

You don't speak, simply holding his gaze and letting him take in the sight before him. His breath catches in his throat as he stands motionless, a moment of pure reverence washing over his features. Something raw and unguarded crosses his face, as if witnessing something he'd only dreamed of. You offer a gentle, uncertain smile and reach for him with tentative fingers.

“Jungkook.” A whisper. A gift. Like a flame lit in the darkness.

His expression shifts, tension and panic melting away in a single breath. What replaces it is hunger - not the violent kind that devours, but the kind that worships.

“Fuck,” he breathes, crossing the room like gravity commanded it. “Do you even know what you look like right now?”

You open your mouth to answer, but the words catch as he drops to the edge of the bed, body sinking against yours in one fluid, dangerous motion.

His skin is hot — all over, everywhere. His thigh presses to yours, bare and hard. His hands hover at your waist like he’s afraid to touch too much. But his eyes... his eyes consume.

“Say it again,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

You swallow. You’re trembling now, but it’s not from fear. “I wanted you here.”

That breaks the last thread of his restraint. His mouth finds yours in a kiss that starts tenderly - cautious at first, his hand cupping your cheek with careful reverence. But when you respond, matching his intensity, the gentleness gives way to something deeper, more urgent.

Your arms wind around his shoulders, your body pressing to his instinctively, lips parting under the low groan that leaves him like the last tether snapped.

That’s when he loses himself. His body crushes into yours, warmth and weight and scent — white peach still fresh on your throat, and he moans against your mouth like it’s the first time he’s ever been given something soft.

Is this what it means to be wanted? you think, dizzy under the weight of him.

His hand slides down to your hip, then your thigh, pulling you closer, and you feel it — his arousal, hard and unmistakable, pressing between your legs through the thin barrier of his boxers.

You gasp softly into his mouth. He pulls back, just enough to whisper — breath ragged, lips brushing yours. “You have no idea what you do to me, Peach.”

He leans down and begins trailing kisses down your throat, hot breath dragging over your skin, and then his fingers move to the front clasp of your bra — slow, teasing — as if asking silently. You nod once, breath catching in your throat as the fabric falls away. He pauses, eyes darkening with desire as he takes in the sight of you. With a low, reverent sound, his mouth finds your breast - tongue teasing your nipple with exquisite tenderness until you arch up against him, fingers threading through his hair.

"Jungkook," you breathe, voice trembling.

"Yeah?" he murmurs against your skin. "Want more, baby?"

He switches to the other side, tongue dragging in a spiral before sucking — hard. The sound that leaves your throat isn’t gentle. He groans in approval then he’s back at your lips again, devouring you now, and his hand slides between your legs, palm pressing against the damp lace.

“Shit. You’re already this wet?”

Your hips buck as his fingers slip past the fabric, dip down, find you with terrifying precision. He circles once, testing. “Let me hear you,” he whispers against your mouth. He sinks one finger in and you cry out softly — not from pain, but from the sudden fullness.

“So tight,” he breathes, “fuck—” and adds another. He curls them both — slow, precise, devastating — and your body trembles like silk beneath a storm.

You gasp, head tipping back into the pillows, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers stroke deeper, searching and finding the ache you never let yourself name. His mouth is at your neck again, tongue warm, breath hotter. He doesn’t rush and doesn’t demand. He explores you like he’s learned you — like every moan, every arch of your back, is a sacred response he’s waited lifetimes to unlock.

The pressure builds, low and thick, like a fire rolling beneath your skin. His palm grinds against the base of you with every push, every curl, and it lights you up from the inside — slow-burning, tender, terrifying.

“That’s it,” he whispers, lips dragging against your throat. “Let go. Just feel me.”

And so you surrender to it completely, allowing yourself this precious first taste of freedom. You let go of the shame, the cold hands of your past, the bruises you were told to hide and the hunger you were told to deny. You let go of every time you were touched only to be controlled, looked at only to be priced. Because this is different - his mouth leaving trails of reverence across your skin, his voice a mixture of raw need and gentle wonder.

This is the silk of your thighs shaking against the sharp cut of his rings, and the way he slows his fingers just when your breath catches — just to listen to the sound of you breaking open.

And in the chaos of it, a thought blooms. You feel good. The revelation hits like lightning in slow motion. God, you feel so good. You didn’t know it could feel like this. Like warmth without danger. Like pleasure without debt. Like being touched and not owned, kissed and not erased.

His lips find yours again, and this time it’s deeper — slow and thick and intoxicating. He kisses you like a man no longer teasing, but claiming. You moan into his mouth, your fingers tangled in his hair, nails grazing his neck. He groans low, a vibration that pulses down his chest, straight through to the way his fingers curl again, firmer this time.

“You feel this?” he breathes against your lips, his voice barely coherent. “How your body’s taking me so fucking sweet? You were made for this.”

You whimper — a sound of surrender, of disbelief, of joy. You’re trembling now, the pleasure cresting fast, and he knows it. He sees it. He watches you fall apart under him like he’s watching art come to life.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he murmurs, nose brushing your cheek. “Let me see you fall, baby. Let me feel you break.”

And when he whispers “Come for me, Peach,” the world splits open. Your thighs tense. Your breath stutters. And the moan that spills from your lips is broken and holy, like a prayer finally answered. Your body pulses around his fingers, over and over, as he coaxes every wave from you, patient and wicked and tender.

He doesn’t stop until you collapse back into the pillows, breathless, limbs heavy, the world spinning in white peach and warmth. You blink up at the ceiling, then at him, marveling at how the space between you finally feels like sanctuary instead of battlefield. Though familiar with pain, this experience is different. For the first time, pleasure flows through you without guilt or fear, and you find yourself yearning for more, unashamed of your desire.

You’re still trembling in the aftermath, breaths shallow, lips parted, your whole body drawn tight like silk thread loosened from its spool.

Jungkook kisses your throat — soft, slow — and you feel his breath against your skin, warm with awe, not just desire. His hand strokes gently along your thigh, then stills. For a moment, he just watches you.

You nod, breath trembling, body already molded to his heat. He shifts lower, moving from your mouth to the space between your legs, his skin brushing yours in a trail of quiet possession. The soft rustle of fabric draws your gaze downward — his boxers sliding off his hips with effortless ease, revealing him fully.

Your breath catches, but you don’t look away. The sight of him — aroused, bare, utterly unashamed — steals the rhythm from your lungs. There’s fear, yes, curled low in your belly like something primal and unspoken, but it’s laced with something stronger, deeper: anticipation that feels like hunger, and the dizzying ache of knowing there’s no going back.

He sees the shift in your eyes — the tension, the heat, the way your thighs press together unconsciously — and his gaze grows darker, steadier. There’s no smirk now, no cocky remark, just quiet reverence carved into every line of his face as he settles over you, breath warming the skin below your ear.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he says, voice rough but patient. “I’ll never take what you won’t give.”

You swallow, fingers curled around the sheets. “I want it,” you whisper. “I want you.”

And God, the look in his eyes — something wounded, something honored — like he’s trying not to fall apart just from hearing you say that. He kisses you again, slower this time. His hand cups your cheek. You feel him guide himself to your entrance, his length brushing against the soft slickness between your thighs. He presses forward, just the tip, and you gasp — a sound that’s more surprise than pain.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

You inhale, long and slow, and when he begins to push in deeper, you feel the stretch — unfamiliar, thick, slow. Your body adjusts to him inch by inch, heat curling deep in your belly as he moves inside you, every second filled with breathless restraint.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, “you’re so fucking tight—so warm—it’s driving me insane.”

You whimper as he settles fully inside you, his hips finally flush against yours. He doesn’t move at first — just stays there, forehead against yours, eyes half-closed.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispers. “So fucking perfect, Peach.”

You shift your hips slightly, and the sensation ripples through you like wildfire. “Move,” you breathe. “Please.”

His first thrust is slow, careful. He draws out almost entirely, then presses back in — deep, deliberate, letting you feel every inch. The rhythm is slow at first, aching and tender. Every time he sinks into you, you moan softly, your fingers clutching his shoulders, legs trembling as they wrap tighter around his waist.

“That’s it,” he groans. “Take me, baby. Let me in deeper.”

“You feel so good,” you whisper, dazed. “It’s… it’s so much—”

“You can take it,” he breathes against your mouth. “You were made for me.”

His rhythm builds. Not frantic, not rough — just sure. Deep. Intentional. You feel every part of him, each thrust grinding you deeper into the mattress. His name spills from your lips like confession. His hands grip your hips tighter as you start to move with him, arching, circling, giving as much as you take.

“You’re perfect like this,” he whispers, panting against your shoulder. “So fucking wet, so tight—fuck. You were made to take me.”

You moan louder — the sound shameless, raw, a full-body ache turned into voice. The pleasure builds so fast it almost frightens you. Your walls pulse around him, fluttering each time he hits that spot inside you that makes the world collapse.

He thrusts deeper now, hips snapping with desperate rhythm, sweat-slick skin slapping against yours. The room fills with the sound of skin meeting skin, of breath and moans and curses bitten between kisses.

You can feel the edge. You’re tumbling toward it, helpless to stop.

He starts to move faster — still careful, but no longer holding back. Your moans rise to meet his as he thrusts deeper, fuller, the wet sound of him filling you over and over echoing through the room, joined by skin meeting skin and both your voices breaking into the air like shattered stars.

“You’re mine,” he growls, each thrust harder, rougher now, “say it—say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, legs tightening, eyes rolling back. “Only yours.”

Your climax builds like a storm held too long behind trembling sky — not sudden, but rising, demanding, layered with sensation you can barely hold.

Every thrust winds you tighter, every kiss unravels something old in your chest, every whispered word — you’re mine, you feel so fucking good, you were made for this — leaves you burning, open, filled. Your nails dig into his back as your moans dissolve into his mouth, thighs trembling around his waist. And then — it hits. Hard, deep, unstoppable.

Your body arches into him as if trying to fuse, your cry breaking against his lips like something holy, too raw to be pretty, too intense to be silent. The wave doesn’t crest — it shatters, again and again, your walls pulsing around him as pleasure rushes over you in waves so sharp it almost hurts. You barely register the curse he chokes into your neck, the way his rhythm breaks.

His hands grip your hips — tight, desperate — and he buries himself to the hilt one last time, hips jerking as he spills inside you with a guttural groan that shakes you to the bone. The sound he makes is not triumphant — it’s wrecked, torn from his throat like he was holding it back too long. His forehead drops to yours, breath trembling, body shivering as he rides the aftershocks with you still wrapped tight around him.

When he finally pulls out, you whimper from the loss. He kisses your lips to soothe you, then your shoulder, then your hip. Then he lies beside you, pulling you to his chest, both of you still catching your breath. You wrap your arms around him. Your leg stays hitched over his waist, like your body doesn’t know how to stop holding him.

His hand rubs lazy circles into your back. “You okay?” he whispers.

You nod against his skin. And for the first time in your life — in this warm, slow silence — you feel safe. And maybe, just maybe…

…a little bit loved.

Stillness hits different in the morning-after glow. And then there's the heat between your hips, like your body's keeping secrets from last night.

The black ribbon is tangled in the linen near your waist half-unraveled, like a confession. The air's thick with white peach and memory, and you're breathing it all in like it might disappear if you don't.

Love. The word sits in your chest like a bird that forgot how to be afraid. Is this it? This quiet after the storm, where nothing hurts and everything's warm and your body remembers kindness instead of fear? Where peace isn't just a pretty lie people tell in daylight?

His voice reaches you first - all sleep-rough and commanding, drifting through the penthouse like smoke. He's on the phone somewhere in the kitchen, words too far to catch but tone saying everything.

The silk of your robe whispers against your skin as you tie it. Your feet carry you toward his voice like you're caught in the undertow of last night's tenderness. Maybe you just want to see him. Maybe you just need to know this isn't another beautiful dream your mind made up. Maybe it's because for once, someone held you like you wouldn't shatter. You turn the corner.

And you stop.

You find yourself frozen in the archway, dawn's first light painting you in half-shadows. He hasn't noticed you yet.

There he stands - a study in contradictions. Bare chest catching morning light, sweatpants riding low, silver chain kissing his throat like a whispered threat. His shower-damp hair curls at the nape of his neck, soft in a way that makes your heart ache. The untouched water glass in his hand trembles slightly.

But his voice - winter steel now, nothing like the honey-warm murmurs from last night. All sharp angles and cold professionalism. You clutch your robe tighter, silk whispering against your skin like a warning. The transformation happens in heartbeats - his tone flattening, sharpening, becoming something familiar in its danger. Like watching a knife being unsheathed.

"No." The word falls like ice. "Don't bring him in." Silence stretches, taut as piano wire. "Leave him where he is. I'll handle it myself."

Glass meets marble with a gentle accusation. "I said leave him. Yoongi—this one's mine."

He turns, and time stops breathing. There you stand, a portrait in morning light - bare feet on cold floors, white silk clinging to last night's memories, hair still tangled with black ribbon. Peach perfume hangs between you like a broken promise.

The call ends abruptly, leaving silence to crystallize between you like. His phone finds its place on the counter with deliberate casualness. He shrugs, voice light as smoke. "What?"

Words fail you. Your eyes speak volumes. "It sounded like you were giving an order," you whisper, throat desert-dry. "To kill someone."

The pause that follows feels ancient. His response comes without hesitation even thought you see slight regret in his eyes. "I was."

Words echo through the kitchen like a shot that didn’t need a bullet. Your breath hitches before you realize it’s even left you, chest tightening under the satin tie of your robe. The morning light has turned unforgiving now — too clear, too sharp, too holy for a confession like that to survive without tearing something apart.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift. Just watches you with that maddening, polished calm — the kind that doesn’t come from confidence but from certainty. The certainty of someone who has never had to regret his actions because power paved over everything that came after them. Jungkook stands there in black sweatpants and bare skin, the picture of a man too rich to be touched by consequence, too young to be so terrifyingly composed.

And you realize it — fully, bone-deep — that last night, you kissed a man who was capable of this. You let him touch your body with hands that break other men open. You slept in the arms of someone who casually decides whether another heart should keep beating.

You let him inside you. And he’s let death inside himself.

“I…” Your voice breaks like glass against tile.

He tilts his head slightly, unreadable. “Are you surprised?”

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He takes a step closer, but it’s not enough to reach you. Just enough to feel the weight of his presence settling into your skin like smoke.

“I never lied,” he says, quieter now. “You called me a monster. I never disagreed.”

You want to scream. You want to shake him, claw your way out of this invisible trap you’ve stumbled into, this house with velvet floors and bleeding walls, this man who kissed you like worship and murders without flinching.

“I know,” you whisper, and it’s all you can manage. “It’s just—”

The sentence never lands. It crumbles halfway through, pulled down by the gravity of your throat tightening. Your face crumples, lashes wet before you even know what you’re crying over — the shattered illusion or the horror of having ever believed in it. Tears spill silently down your cheeks as your trembling fingers fail to wipe them away.

“I was so stupid,” you whisper, and your knees almost give. “I am just so fucking stupid.”

He takes another step forward. His voice is softer now, unsure. “Y/N—”

“Don’t come near me!” It tears out of you like thunder, shrill and broken and sharp. He halts, hands open at his sides, stunned — and something flickers in his eyes then. Not guilt. Not remorse. Just something… hurt.

“You knew what I was,” he says, his voice rising now too, cracking like heat through glass. “Don’t look at me like I’ve changed. I didn’t pretend to be anyone else.”

You can’t stop the shaking. You want to run and tear and scream and break all the mirrors that ever told you this was safety. “I know. I just—I didn’t know it would feel like this,” you cry, wiping at your face with the back of your hand. “I didn’t know I’d be the kind of girl who could fall for someone who kills people like it’s breakfast.”

He flinches. “You think this is easy for me?”

Your laugh is bitter, strangled. “Easy? It’s not normal to kill, Jungkook. It’s rotted. I guess I thought—God, I guess I was just confused. Maybe I mistook this all for love because I never saw love before? And maybe I am just broken—maybe I let you touch me and hold me and fuck me because I don’t know what else love could feel like.”

Silence slams into the room again. He stands there, chest rising, jaw tight.

"Could I ever be with someone like you?" you whisper, wiping under your eyes. "A man who deals in death? No. What you offer... this isn't love. This is just velvet and guns. And God help me, I got lost in how good they felt."

You turn then, robe twisting around your legs, footsteps already thudding back toward the bedroom before he can speak. “Y/N, don’t—”

“Don’t follow me!” you scream from the hallway, a sob catching on your throat. “I can’t even breathe around you anymore.”

For a moment, you hear nothing. Just the hum of the fridge. The distant city beyond the window. The silence that only comes after something inside you snaps. Then his voice, low and bitter behind you, cutting through the air like frost on glass.

“This is life,” he says, not loud, but deep enough to sink. “You’re either prey or predator. You think marrying a monster’s hard? Believe me, you wouldn’t want to be married to a coward.” You hear the door close seconds later.

He’s gone.

The bedroom is filled with lingering traces of your shared intimacy. Of everything that happened between midnight and morning — the black ribbon fallen half beneath the bed, the white peach still clinging to the hem of your robe, the echo of hands and lips and breath where silence now smothers it all.

You stand there for a while, motionless in the center of the room, one hand pressed to your lips like that might keep the sobs down. But they claw their way up anyway — low, gut-wrenching sounds that don’t belong to any version of yourself you’ve ever let survive.

Your fingers tremble as you reach for the edge of the dresser. It’s instinctive, almost mechanical — the way you slide the drawer open, the way your hand curls around the strap of your old black backpack, the one you brought with you the day you arrived. It still smells faintly of Switzerland, of pressed notebooks and old perfume and snow.

Your body moves with the strange grace of someone else's strings - mechanical poetry written in desperate motion. Each movement is sharp, decisive, divorced from thought. Clothes tumble into the backpack like falling stars, necessities gathered by muscle memory while your mind screams white noise. Underwear. Blouse. Jeans. The basics of a life you're trying to rebuild, tossed together like a prayer. Your hands work faster than your heartbeat, racing against the clock of his inevitable return. You have to go - have to run - before his gravity pulls you back into orbit, before the dangerous warmth of him seeps back into your bones and turns your resolve to stardust.

With trembling fingers, you slip your ring off and place it on the marble counter of his bathroom beside his cologne. The note you write by hand comes out unsteady, the paper remaining crumpled as your shaking hands set down the pen.

If I ever meant anything to you, please don’t come after me. Let me go in peace. Let me have whatever life I can build without this. Don’t ruin it.

Your signature lingers at the bottom of the note, an inked farewell that feels heavy with finality. Placing it gently on his pillow, you turn away from the life you're leaving behind, knowing there's no turning back now.

The elevator descent feels like falling, each floor counting backwards as seconds slip by like shards of glass against your spine. When you reach the street, a grey and uncaring sky looms overhead as you step into a taxi, hood drawn up and voice carefully controlled while giving the driver your destination.

In the silence that follows, only the steady hum of tires and the blur of an indifferent city keep you company. Your phone's screen blazes too bright as you retrieve it with trembling hands. You try your sister first - one ring, two rings, then voicemail. You end the call before leaving a message.

When you dial Luca next, the four rings that pass before he answers feel heavy with unspoken weight.

"Luca," you whisper, voice trembling, "I left him. I need to come home."

There's a heavy silence before his voice comes through, flat and serious in a way that makes your stomach drop.

"You can't come home, Y/N. If Father finds out you walked out, he'll kill you."

His words carry no drama or shock - just the bleak certainty of someone intimately familiar with their father's nature.

"But where can I go?" Your voice breaks.

He exhales slowly before responding, "I'll send you an address. I have an apartment no one knows about. You can stay there while we figure things out."

"An apartment? I don't understand, when did you even…"

"Don't ask questions," he cuts in, his tone growing darker. "Just get off the street. Now."

The line goes dead and a message appears moments later - coordinates falling into your phone like a stone into still water. You read the address twice, memorizing it before turning to the driver.

He nods at your new instructions, changing course as the indifferent city slides past your window.

And then—time fractures like glass beneath winter's first frost. The world lurches sideways, reality splintering at its seams. The door bursts open with a thunderous crash, shattering the silence. Dark figures emerge as rough hands grab you, pressing a chemical-soaked cloth against your face.

You fight with every ounce of strength, your body thrashing against the iron grip of your captors. But the chemical-laden cloth works quickly, and consciousness begins to slip away like all the maybes you’’ll never get to live. The world around you blurs and distorts, reality folding in on itself until finally, mercifully, everything fades to black.

there’s a second and final part already finished and available exclusively here

(if you have any issues with it - message me directly, not anon pls)

your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

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soov · 7 months ago

Text

RUMOUR HAS iT。 park sunghoon

princess fem reader & prince sunghoon ᗢ 1OOO words ━━ fluff ꕀ royal!au, arranged marriage, repost ⌗ WARNiNGS pet names, kissing.

“I suppose you know about the rumours by now?”

The prince’s deep voice tugged you back to reality, making his presence known by leaning onto the same balustrade as you.

“Why do you think I would’ve called you here if I didn’t?” You asked back, to which he responded with a smile, looking at the scenery in front of him.

Sunghoon appeared somewhat unkempt. His hair dismissed the usual slicked-back style, soft black bangs falling on his eyes. He had a white linen puffed-sleeve shirt on, with the first three buttons undone. Once, he had admitted that he owned twelve of the shirts, them being his favorite piece of clothing.

As your stare lowered, his high-waisted black pants and boots piqued your curiosity, “What is the reason behind the informal clothes?”

“Why the question?” He turned his head in your direction. “You also have an informal attire on, my love.” Sunghoon still had a cheeky beam plastered across his face, attentive eyes observing the way you toyed with his sleeves.

“My maids said that this color and dress would look good on me.” You reasoned and pushed one of the puffy sleeves slightly up his arm, tracing the delicate veins enmeshed beneath his flesh. “I asked because I only see you wearing this outfit when it’s your birthday or a commemoration.”

“They were right; you do look good.” He seemed to be enjoying how you were caressing his arm. His muscles flexed and relaxed every time you touched him, making him feel like you were painting a masterpiece across his bare, pale skin. “And well, it is a happy day for me.”

“Even with the rumours?”

Right. The rumours. The gossip that spread around the castle like wildfire about the soon-to-be King and Queen that didn’t truly love each other, only keeping up their looks because of diplomatic problems. That, and the supposed cheating accusations, claiming that you were seeing a close friend behind the prince’s back.

In part, it would’ve been true if the false talk started a few months ago — though only the comment about real love being absent in your relationship. You used to think that the boy was a spoiled little brat who leeched off his parents’ high status. Yet, you fell right into his trap when your arranged marriage was announced.

With his eyebrows tied together and the smallest pout, Sunghoon gave you his trademark confused face. “Why would they matter? We love each other and will get married soon, isn’t it? Let them say whatever.”

The raw and honest responses from Sunghoon were one of the many factors that brought him to the center of your heart. His unfiltered remarks, reminding you of your infinite worth (his words, not yours), slowly guided you to the path without return that is loving him.

You huffed out a breath. There were a bunch of servants whispering and stroddling through the garden close to the bandstand where the both of you were. If Sunghoon wasn’t right next to you, you would have cussed them out, even knowing that you couldn’t. They were your fiancé’s people, and briefly, they would be yours too.

“I don’t appreciate how they talk so lowly about us…” You mumbled, chin on your palm. Neither of you were big on PDA, that was a fact, but you wondered if it was that bad to make the word even more convincing. “I just wanted to shut their mouths and show them that we long for each other.”

“Do you, now?” Sunghoon grinned, embracing you from behind as his pointy nose went to your neck. “We could give them a little sample of our love.” He muttered, the low timbre of his voice being more than enough proof of your effect on him.

You nearly choked on your own breath, a lump closing your throat. “I thought you were uncomfortable with showing affection in public?” The words left your mouth in a nervous whisper when he gently turned you in his hold to face you.

“Princess,” he began, the pet name almost sounding sardonic due to your title, “that was seven months ago. I hated you at the time, you know it. But I only want to kiss you right now.”

There was something in his eyes, blended with the dark brown hues and the sparkly melted stars that captivated and hypnotized you. Sunghoon was so intense that you could never bring yourself to break eye contact, or reply coherently, when you were drowning in his gaze. A nod was all that came out of you.

The prince chuckled, the act so genuine and lovesick that your knees threatened to falter, “You’re so annoyingly beautiful.” He voiced, and leaning in, his lips parted to taste the sweetness of your mouth.

With a gasp, you carded your fingers through his raven hair. It had gotten so long in such a short time. The only place that your hands went to during your kisses was in between his locks.

A soft rumble escaped his chest, body beginning to relax when you played with his hair. In a second, Sunghoon cupped a side of your face in his palm, still being smug enough to slide the other to the small of your back, gripping that part. A smirk curled his lips up as he felt the low cut back of the dress, tracing your skin like you did to his arm earlier.

His actions induced a shiver to run down your spine, and you couldn’t do much except feel yourself covered in goosebumps. Softly, gently, slowly — that was how your fiancé enjoyed kissing you.

“Sunghoon…” Tugging at the loose collar of his shirt, you tried to regain your composure after the scandalous scene. “Did they go yet?”

Your breathy voice calling out his name only fueled the pure adoration the man felt. “Not yet.” He hummed, glancing at the flustered maids that giggled amongst themselves. “Seems like they’re slow walkers.”

“At least that will make them stop talking.” You grumbled.

He squeezed you tighter in his arms, almost trying to express the extent of his feelings in the way he held you. “It surely will.”

And it didn’t, since, now, rumour has it that the prince is too greedy to go for only a single kiss.

𔓕　LETTERS FROM REi ━━ i wish prince sunghoon was real (work inspired by mr. queen!)

2024 © SOOV

#ㅤ𝓡.#enhypen x reader #enhypen fluff #enhypen sunghoon #park sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon fluff #enha x reader #enha fluff #enhypen imagines #enhypen drabbles #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon fluff #sunghoon drabbles #enhypen #enhypen x you #sunghoon #park sunghoon #park sunghoon x you #enha imagines

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yo-ri-su-ki · 24 days ago

Note

Hey… me again….

Do NOT flame me— I’ve literally never played the games before, so think of this as an au.

Arranged marriage au with Vergil? We fell first, he fell harder? You do NOT have to write this one immediately/if you don’t want to because I’m SURE you already have a lot on your plate, but I read a Mydei one with this trope and I’m OBSESSED.

LOVE YOUR WORK!!!!

An: Hnnnhggg Mydeii uhhhhhh oofmmm it's all over the screesewnn... THIS ONES LONG BUCKLE UP, ALSO SOME OF IT IS BASED OFF ONE OF MY VERGIL FICS WHERE THE READER NEARLY DIES.

Bound by blades and vows

The air in Fortuna was chilled with the scent of steel and roses, the perfume of both blood and duty. You had grown up hearing tales of the infamous Sparda bloodline—how they were gods among men, warriors forged in the fires of hell, half-demons who walked among humans with disdain in their hearts and power in their hands.

You never expected to marry one.

Especially not Vergil Sparda.

Your father, a high-ranking diplomat with a penchant for forging peace through paperwork, had somehow orchestrated an alliance between your family and the house of Sparda. After the recent skirmishes between human factions and demonic forces, a marriage between a powerful neutral family and the son of Sparda was deemed “strategic.”

You had expected someone cold, arrogant, cruel.

And you were partially right.

Vergil was a man of few words. Sharp as his katana. Eyes like frozen fire. He didn’t smile. He didn’t talk much. During your engagement ceremony, he didn’t so much as look at you, save for the brief moment when your fingers brushed during the exchange of ceremonial vows. Even then, his hand felt more like a weapon than a comfort.

You were captivated anyway.

Not by his power—though that was undeniable—but by the broken silence that surrounded him. The loneliness cloaked in stoicism. You wanted to understand the man behind the blade. The son of a legend who had carved his own cruel path.

He didn't even remember your name the first week.

---

Weeks Later — The Fortress Estate

Married life with Vergil was… quiet. Awkward. You had separate rooms. He trained before dawn and returned well past dusk. His only words to you were logistical, sometimes edged with condescension.

But you saw more than he wanted to show.

Like how he always left his coat hanging in the hall closet so it wouldn’t track mud into your side of the estate. Or how your favorite tea blend always appeared in the kitchen, perfectly restocked. Or the single time he had caught you crying in the garden—silent tears over your loneliness—and instead of offering comfort, he had simply left a single white camellia on your pillow that night.

Vergil did not understand love.

But he was learning you.

And you were already hopelessly falling for him.

---

Three Months Later — A Shift

One evening, after a particularly exhausting council meeting where you had defended Vergil’s decision to withhold demonic intervention in a human war, you returned to your chambers only to find him waiting.

“Why?” he asked, leaning against the window. Moonlight gilded his silver hair, his arms crossed in that ever-defensive way.

You blinked. “Why what?”

“Why defend me?”

You swallowed. “Because you were right. And because you're my husband.”

His gaze narrowed. “That is an obligation. Not affection.”

“I care for you, Vergil,” you admitted, heart pounding. “Even if you don’t care back.”

Silence. So thick it almost choked you.

Vergil walked past you, slowly, his boots silent against the stone. When he paused beside you, his voice was low. “You shouldn’t.”

And yet... he didn’t leave.

---

The First Crack

That same night, he stayed in your room. Not in your bed—but in the armchair by the fire. When you woke with a scream from a nightmare, you found yourself wrapped in his coat. He was gone, but the faintest scent of him lingered—cool metal, storm, and sword oil.

Your heart ached.

He was opening.

Slowly. Painfully.

But he was opening.

---

Six Months In — He Falls

The moment Vergil realized he loved you came like a blade through the heart.

You were nearly killed.

A mission to escort a high priestess to a neutral territory had turned into an ambush. You had fought, of course—you weren’t defenseless. But there were too many. Demonic mercenaries. Blood-magic blades. Poison-laced arrows.

Vergil arrived in a storm of judgment, his Yamato slicing through the air with brutal precision. But when he saw your body crumpled, your blood soaking into the snow, something snapped.

He destroyed them all.

Not with his sword.

With his fury.

When you opened your eyes three days later, he was at your side, hand clasping yours so tightly it nearly hurt.

“You came…” you rasped.

“I should never have let you go alone,” he whispered, voice raw. “I thought… I thought I had more time.”

“For what?” you whispered.

“To love you properly.”

---

And So, He Loved You

It wasn’t immediate. It wasn’t easy.

But from that moment on, Vergil was different.

He started training you personally—“so I never lose you again.” He began sitting beside you at dinner, eating in silence but present. He touched you more often—not with passion, at first, but with presence. A hand at your back. A gentle brush of your fingers when handing you a scroll. His sword callused hand brushing your cheek one evening as you studied near the fire.

And one night, as you watched the stars together on the balcony, he finally whispered, “You said you cared for me even if I didn’t care back.”

You nodded, heart in your throat.

“I care now,” he murmured. “More than I should. More than I know how to.”

He turned to face you.

“But if you’re willing to teach me, I’ll spend the rest of our days learning how to be worthy of you.”

The days after your near-death bled into weeks of quiet recovery.

Vergil stayed close. Not smothering—he never could be—but present. In the subtle ways you’d come to cherish.

He brought you tea, perfectly steeped. His fingers lingered a little longer when he adjusted your blankets. His voice, though still edged with that familiar sharpness, was softer around you now. Tinted with something that wasn’t quite affection… but not far from it.

Something fragile. Reverent.

He never said love again.

But he showed it.

With a blade sharpened each night at your bedside. With the callused touch that brushed your temple when he thought you were asleep. With the furious rage that flickered behind his eyes anytime you so much as winced in pain.

You had never felt so protected—and so afraid of how deeply you wanted him to stay.

---

Two Weeks Later – Midnight

You couldn’t sleep. Your body was healing, but your thoughts raced.

The moon cast silver light across your chambers. Outside, wind brushed against the trees like whispers. You rose, quietly, wrapping yourself in a robe, and stepped into the hall.

He was there.

Vergil always trained at midnight now, Yamato dancing under starlight in the open courtyard. But tonight, his blade was still. He stood staring into the sky, hair glinting, expression unreadable.

“You should be resting,” he said without turning.

“I wanted to see you,” you admitted.

He turned then, and for once, he didn’t look away.

There was something in his eyes—hunger, yes, but not the kind born of lust. It was yearning. Quiet. Terrifying. Tender.

“I thought I had time,” he murmured, stepping closer. “To keep you at a distance. To avoid the mess of human emotion.”

He stopped a breath away.

“But when you fell, I realized… there is no version of this world where I survive losing you.”

Your heart thundered. “Vergil—”

“Don’t speak,” he whispered, stepping even closer. “Please. Not yet.”

He cupped your cheek gently, his thumb brushing the soft skin under your eye. You leaned into him, trembling.

When his lips finally met yours, it was not like fire.

It was silk.

Soft. Lingering. Terrified.

As if he was afraid the world would end if he pressed too hard.

And maybe it would.

---

Aftermath

He didn’t say anything when he pulled away. Just rested his forehead against yours, breathing raggedly, like that single kiss had stolen the fight from his lungs.

You placed your hands on his chest, feeling the tremble beneath his coat.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice a vow.

His eyes fluttered shut.

“I am not worthy of that,” he whispered.

“But I will be.”

It began, like most arguments, with something small.

You were preparing for a diplomatic visit from a neutral kingdom—one that had long distrusted the Sparda lineage. You offered to attend alone, hoping to ease their tensions without the looming presence of Yamato.

Vergil refused.

“I will accompany you,” he said flatly, standing near the hearth, his arms crossed. “I do not trust them. Nor do I trust you to keep yourself alive without oversight.”

The words cut.

“Oversight?” you repeated, your voice rising. “I’m not some fragile doll you have to chaperone, Vergil. I’ve led more negotiations than you’ve sat through in your entire—!”

“And nearly died during one,” he snapped, stepping forward. “Do you expect me to forget that?”

You recoiled.

“That wasn’t my fault. And this—this isn’t about my skills. This is about your fear.”

His silence was all the confirmation you needed.

“You don’t trust me,” you whispered. “Not really.”

Vergil’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t deny it.

You turned away. Hurt blooming in your chest like a fresh bruise. “I thought we were becoming partners. Equals.”

“We are not equals,” he said coldly. “You are mortal. Human. You feel everything too deeply, too quickly. That makes you weak.”

The air left your lungs.

For the first time, you walked out and left him standing there.

---

Hours Later – The Garden

The moonlight made the roses seem silver. You sat on the cold bench near the back of the garden—alone, angry, aching. The wind tugged at your robe, and somewhere deep down, you hated how much his words still held power over you.

“I do not believe what I said,” came a voice from the shadows.

You didn’t look up.

“I said it to push you away. To keep you where it was safe. For me.”

You finally met his gaze. He looked… wrecked. His coat hung loose. His hair was wind-tousled. But it was his eyes that struck you most.

Soft. Lost. Bleeding.

“I have fought demons that threatened the world,” he said quietly, stepping closer. “I have slain gods and torn realms. None of it frightened me like the thought of losing you again.”

Silence.

Vergil slowly lowered himself to his knees before you—not as a warrior, but as a man.

“I do not know how to be soft,” he whispered. “I do not know how to love like a human does. My father left. My mother died. My brother—” He broke off, jaw clenched. “Everything I loved was taken or broken. So I learned not to need.”

He looked up at you.

“Then you came. And now all I do is need.”

Your heart cracked wide open.

You slid off the bench, kneeling before him, hands gently cupping his face.

“I don’t need perfection,” you whispered. “I just need you. Scars and all.”

Vergil leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours once more. It had become his way of seeking closeness when words failed him.

When he kissed you again, it was deeper this time. Desperate. Less afraid. His fingers curled into the fabric of your robe like he was anchoring himself in you.

You kissed him back with everything you had.

Because he wasn’t just yours now.

He had fallen.

And he had fallen harder.

Made by @yo-ri-su-ki, do not copy or translate my work!! Likes and reblogs appreciated!! Also if you wanna see more like this consider following!!!

An: iM SORRY I COULDN'T REACH IT SOONER THIS WAS AN AMAZING IDEAAA IM SICK SO IT TAKES A WHILE TO WRITE!!

#devil may cry #dmc #yo ri su ki #fanfic #heh...#vergil x reader #what...#dmc vergil

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hamburgerndsprite · 3 months ago

Text

Sprite's Favourite Fics {Bangtan Fics} Part 12

Note: I’ll keep updating the lists as I discover more fics. Additionally, all the mood boards have been edited by me, so I kindly ask that you do not repost them as your own. Thank you!

[Masterlist]

[OT7]

{ONESHOT}

➺ Sunshine Riptide by jincherie

— pairing: ot7 x reader — genre: hybrid au, fluff, comfort, found family, ac inspired — wc: 13.8k+ — summary: Moving to this island whose inhabitants are mostly hybrids was a bit of an impulse decision, something you did with empty pockets barely a cent to your name. Thanks to the kindness of the island’s ‘mayor’ you have a place to stay, the last spare room in a sharehouse with seven hybrids, and for three months he will pay your rent in exchange for you to work in his shop until you are back on your feet. It’s a sweet deal, but when you begin to get along better than expected with your housemates and the deadline for your departure looms ever closer, you’re not sure you’re going to be able to make yourself leave when the time comes.

➺ Until The Last Star Falls by minniepetals

— pairing: underworld lords!bts x shield!reader — genre: fluff, angst / reincarnation!au / poly!au / gods!au — word count: 44.4k — summary: it was a love you knew would never make it out alive without sacrificing a part of your happiness to receive a greater happiness. but for them, you’d go to any extreme to have them again, and for you, they will always remind you each day that you are theirs and that nothing can tear you apart, not even until the last star falls.

{SERIES}

➺ Eunoia by wishesunderthestars [ONGOING]

Pairings: Hybrid! BTS x Director! reader Chapters: 26/31 Genre: Angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, eventual smut Summary: You are a world famous director and you have dedicated your life to your job.You have everything you could ever dream of; wealth, recognision, talent, your friends and family. But loneliness isn’t cured by success. So what happens when you somehow rescue seven hybrids? Can they fill the void? eunoia (noun): beautiful thinking, the possession of a well-balanced mind, which exhibits goodwill and kindness

➺ Stay Alive by staytinyville [ONGOING]

Pairings: BTS poly!ot7 x Reader Genre: Mystical Creatures AU, Fluff, Romance, Angst, Fantasy Warnings: Smut in future chapters, toxic work environment, abuse Parts: 45/50 Synopsis: When you started working at a pharmaceutical company, you didn’t realize where it was your life was heading. After getting a patient mix up, you meet seven men who would didn’t seem to want any other nurse that wasn’t you. When you start to know them, you notice things that made you question if they were really human. No matter what excuse they would give though, you would always go home with a heavy heart. The day the truth is revealed to you, things take a turn for the worst.

[KIM NAMJOON]

{ONESHOT}

➺ Eight Years by jungkookstatts

Pairing: Namjoon x Reader Genre: MarriedCouple!AU, EstablishedRelationship!AU, a very soft Joon but also extremely powerful and dominant Joon. Wordcount: 2,493 Summary: Namjoon and you have been married for eight years. What makes it so great? Maybe the fact that your husband never stopped loving you with just as much passion as the first day he fell in love.

➺ Trivia Love by luxekook

⇥ pairing: kim namjoon x reader ⇥ genre: non-idol au with fluff and smut ⇥ word count: 5.4k ⇥ summary: in which the reader and namjoon become ridiculously attracted to each other over weekly late night trivia sessions

➺ The Bodyguard by rmnamjoons

➳ pairing: bodyguard!Namjoon x reader ➳ genre: bodyguard au, romance, smut, fake dating/fake marriage, road trip (kinda), very slight angst ➳ word count: 62.9k ➳ summary: You’re the daughter of the ambassador to a small, peaceful, barely-on-the-map country in Western Europe, working as a diplomat to help your mother with her endless meetings and politics. After a kidnapping attempt gone wrong, you and your protective bodyguard Namjoon are on the run across Europe, jumping from trains, stealing cars, and pretending to be a couple on your honeymoon to stay hidden. As the would-be kidnappers close in, Namjoon promises you that he’s going to keep you safe, no matter the cost.

➺ Six Annoying Cupids by redrose10

⇥ pairing: kim namjoon x reader ⇥ genre: non-idol au with fluff ⇥ prompt: "Dont look at them, look at me"

➺ y/n seems to have everyone wrapped around her finger and to be quite frank, namjoon's unimpressed by jungshookz

➺ pairing; professor!namjoon x y/n ➺ genre; mostly sfw with a little something something at the end!! namjoon is a philosophy professor who suddenly has to share his precious lecture hall newbie professor y/n!! we all know i am a big fan of enemies to lovers/opposites attract and i love it even more when both of them are total nerds!! y/n’s approach to philosophy is so ridiculous and namjoon can’t stand her!! namjoon is so stuffy and y/n can’t stand him!! god damnit just kiss already!! ➺ wordcount; 7.2k ➺ summary; you’re the newest professor joining the university, and all of a sudden, it feels like namjoon actually has someone to compete with for the first time. ➺ what to expect; “Also, please stick to black, blue, and red ink for future note-taking and grading purposes. Pastel purple is not an appropriate colour for a higher education atmosphere. Thank you.”

[KIM SEOKJIN]

{ONESHOT}

➺ Final Sleigh by floralseokjin

pairing; kim seokjin x reader genre; workplace/office au, enemies/rivals to lovers, starts off as a holiday au but drabbles further develop the story, rom-com words; 23,363 summary; You took an (almost) immediate dislike to Seokjin during his first week at the office and six months later that distaste is not only still going strong, but also mutual. Working in sales, you view one another as competition, so what happens when you’re forced to organise the Christmas office party together? It’s a recipe for disaster, but one thing’s for sure, it doesn’t end the way you imagined it... (Spoiler alert: you don’t wind up murdering him.)

➺ Fall in Hatred by jimlingss

➜ Pairing: Husband! Jin x Wife! Reader ➜ Words: 20k ➜ Genres: Fluff, Crack, Some Angst, Marriage!AU, Divorce!AU (kind of) ➜ Summary: You and Jin are over. When you’d rather stay with the spider that’s set up shop in the bathroom (and who’s become your new pet) than with your ‘husband’ in the living room, you know things aren’t good. But when your entire, overbearing family gathers at the summer house and you’re forced to drag him along, escaping from him isn’t so easy anymore. And maybe...just maybe...you’ll have a change of heart.

➺ Sit. Stay. by daechwitatamic

Pairing: Jin x Reader Genre: fluff, s2l, neighbors!au, baby angst for a quick minute?, smut Wc: 14k Summary: Your new puppy, Zinnia, has turned your world on its head. She’s ruined everything from your sleep schedule to your favorite shoes, and you know it’s your own failure to train her properly. When your cute upstairs neighbor tells you about a local obedience academy, he slowly starts to make himself a place in your schedule, your life, and your heart. After your last relationship went up in flames, will his affections be something else you can count as a failure?

➺ Knocked by sailoryooons

☾ Pairing: Streamer!Seokjin x f. reader ☾ Word Count: 10,673 ☾ Genre: Roommates to lovers, smut, humor ☾ Summary: Living with people is difficult, but all things considered, your new roommate isn’t terrible. He cooks, he cleans, and if you had to be honest - incredibly attractive. But his habit of streaming until the early hours of the morning while yelling and making other questionable noises has pushed you to the limit. You’ve finally decided to risk your sanity and put it all on the line with a reckless bet in hopes of getting some peace and quiet at night.

➺ Candyland by honeymoonjin

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: jin x reader ft. elf!jk ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: thriller, angst, fantasy ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: est. 13k sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: you and your husband jin try to enjoy a nice holiday in the North Pole, but there’s something not quite right with the elves.

➺ Warm this winter by jamaisjoons

❥ 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: seokjin x reader ft. ex-boyfriend jungkook ❥ 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: angst ∝ fluff ∝ smut ∝ vacation au ∝ christmas au. ❥ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 51.6k ❥ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦:〝 spending the winter vacation with an ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend was not something anyone would ever consider doing. spending the winter vacation with both an ex-boyfriend, his new girlfriend, and the one night stand you’d used to try to get over him, well that was a whole other situation that anyone sane would have fled from. and yet, here you are. caught between your best friend (and consequently your ex-boyfriend), and the very same man who you’d fallen into bed with after a night of wallowing in self pity. all while stuck in the picturesquely beautiful - and cruelly romantic - austrian alps. well. at least you can say you had an interesting christmas. 〞

➺ Buy me Presents by muniimyg

pairing: ksj x reader(f) genre: est. relationship, smut summary: in which you and your boyfriend, jin, do a gift exchange... you get him a new game console and he gifts you his credit card

➺ Heart on the Window by melancholy-of-nadia

pairing: ksj x reader(f) genre: m (18+) ; smut ; roommates au / streamer/cam boy au / office worker au, childhood rivals to awkward roommates to lovers? au parts: 4/6 summary: You lost your job, got cheated on by your boyfriend, and had to give up your home—all in the span of a few weeks. Life hasn’t been kind lately, and just when it feels like you’ve hit rock bottom, your mom suggests an unexpected solution: move in with Seokjin, her friend’s son, who you vaguely remember as your annoying childhood rival. You haven’t talked to him in like 15 YEARS. But begrudgingly, you agree, hoping for this to be a temporary fix, only to find yourself in a more complicated situation when you discover Seokjin has some dirty little secrets. As you attempt to rebuild your life under his roof, tensions rise, boundaries blur, and you’re forced to confront not only your messy circumstances but also your growing fascination with the man you thought you once knew.

{SERIES}

➺ Amalthea by daechwitatamic

Pairing: Jin x Reader Genre: best friend's older brother!au, angst smut fluff trifecta Parts: 4/4 Summary: You can count on two things in life. One: that your lifelong best friend Minji will always be there for you, in your corner, your brightest star. Two: that you'll never be free from her older brother Seokjin's orbit - the gravitational pull is just too strong.

[MIN YOONGI]

{ONESHOT}

➺ Want A Taste? by suga-kookiemonster

pairing⇢ yoongi/reader word count⇢ 18.3k genre⇢ smut | humor | friends to lovers | shopping mall!au summary⇢ pretzel pro. most skillful tongue in the food court world. allegedly. that’s what yoongi keeps telling you, anyway. of course, you’re reasonably skeptical of his claims—but if there’s one thing that motivates the notoriously-lethargic man, it’s proving skeptics wrong.

➺ Alive Aha Fxck by softyoongiionly

Pairing: Vampire! Yoongi x Human! Reader Genre: neighbor au, soulmate au, vampire au, supernatural, fluff, HUMOR, angst, smut Word Count: 42,653 Summary: An abandoned apartment in your building caught your attention the day you moved in. With a mind full of conspiracy theories, you’ve spent many hours contemplating what might be behind the door of Room 17. Your neighbor, Yoongi, doesn’t seem as eager as you are to solve the mystery but he agrees to help you break in anyway to get you to finally shut up about it. Also, he may or may not think you’re kinda cute. However, the two of you get more than you bargain for when you discover something dangerous is living right next door; Little do you know that this something has quite a lot in common with your snarky neighbor… or… “Actually this is kind of cool, I’ve always wanted to star in a Twilight fanfic…” “I can’t believe you genuinely just compared this situation to Twilight.” “Yoongi- I hate to break it to you but, this literally happened in Twilight.”

➺ Calling...Producer Min Yoongi by bangtan-dreamland

Pairing: myg x reader Genre: fluff, strangers-to-lovers!au, mutual pining Word Count: 4569 Synopsis: Not only has Yoongi erased all traces of loneliness in your nights, even your days are now filled with warmth and love. Your phone is filled with music- yours, his, and your call log of his number only.

➺ Tricks of The Trade by stutterfly

Pairings: Yoongi x Reader Word Count: 24.1K Genre: Fluff, humor, smut, oneshot Prompt: “The FBI doesn’t care about your porn preferences.” {Body Swap AU, Soulmates AU} Summary: The convenience store across the street from your apartment carries your favorite energy drink. That's why you frequent it. It's definitely not because you have a big fat crush on the owner you've been flirting with for the better part of a year. Of course your brand of flirting can also be misconstrued as bickering. When a strange man wanders into the store, he thinks you need a little nudge to embrace the strings connecting you. Next thing you know you're waking up in a body that definitely doesn't belong to you. You can't decide if it's the best or worst thing that's ever happened to you.

➺ A Man's World by trivia-yandere

pairing: Yoongi x Reader word count: 10,172 summary: you've been living in a man's world so long that you forgotten what it was like to just be a woman living in it.

➺ Cream & Suga by snackhobi

pairing: yoongi x barista f!reader word count: 14.8k genre: coffeeshop!au, fluff, dash of smut (NSFW) summary: yoongi is your favourite regular. he’s patient, polite, and predictable, a-large-black-coffee-to-go-please, no cream, no sugar, thank you. rinse and repeat. the seasons might change, but yoongi’s order stays the same. and then one fateful day in winter, yoongi asks about the weekly specials, orders a cup of christmas and sugary sweetness, and everything starts changing.

➺ Kiss Me More by mosaic-opine

Pairing: CEO!Min Yoongi x Fem!Reader Genre: Arranged Marriage AU, fluff, smut, angst Word count: 7,285 Summary: You were 7 when you were arranged to marry the younger son of the Mins. However, when the said son returns home from overseas with a pregnant girlfriend, his older brother steps in and takes his place at the altar. There was only one problem, everyone was scared of him. Including you. That is, until he walks in unannounced when you're playing with your toy.

➺ Lily Luck by gguksgalaxy

›› Pairing: MYG x Reader, MxM pairings ›› Genre: Angst / Fluff / Soulmates Au ›› Word Count: 10.7k ›› Summary: “You get five chances to meet your soulmate. Five opportunities to look them in the eyes and be overwhelmed with the feeling of love. To find a little red line around your pinky finger. Yet, the feeling dwindles with each missed opportunity. Each missed opportunity comes with a scar where that red line should be. It’s a game of fate and luck, and the latter doesn’t seem to be on your side.”

➺ Strike a Chord by snackhobi

pairing: yoongi x reader word count: 15.8k genre: smut,fluff summary: your idea of a good night certainly doesn't involve being stood up by yet another blind date and finding yourself alone in a fancy bar; fortunately for you, there's an attractive man playing the piano to keep you busy, instead.

{SERIES}

➺ Who Rescued Who? by redrose10

Pairing: Cat Cafe Owner Min Yoongi x female Reader Genre: mentions of depression, suicide, anxiety, lots of angst Parts: 2/2 Summary: With only a few dollars left to your name you weren’t sure how you were going to survive. Thankfully, Suga’s Cat Cafe came to the rescue offering you a job when you needed it most. Not only did it pay decently it also came with perks like unlimited free coffee and a cute, but grumpy cafe owner named Yoongi. At first you believed it was him that saved you at your worst, but as time went on you started to wonder…who rescued who?

➺ Love and Lullabies by ktownshizzle

Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader Genre: Fluff, Angst, Smut, idol!au, Acquaintances to Lovers, Reader is Namjoon’s bestie Parts: 5/5 Summary: What begins as a simple favor for your best friend Namjoon soon pulls you into the rhythms of Yoongi’s life—afternoons spent caring for his son, late nights filled with candid conversations, and a connection neither of you thought you needed. You’re just fresh out of a long-term relationship with an ex who didn’t want a family with you, so did you really just stumble into a life you’ve always dreamed of? (Thank god Namjoon isn’t the only one who’s clumsy.) Alternatively, It’s 2025 and BTS is prepping for their comeback. All members seem to have gained muscle weight from their time at camp. But Min Yoongi has gained a different kind of weight—an 8-pound baby and a fuck-load of responsibility. (Thank god you’re there to help him.)

[JUNG HOSEOK]

{ONESHOT}

➺ Moon Magic by Jincherie

✩ — pairing: hoseok x reader ✩ — genre: mermaid au, pirate au, magic au, fluff ✩ — words: 33.8k+ ✩ — summary: You've never paid much mind to the moon, but you quickly learn that even though you've never really thought of the her, she has always watched over you. What better to heal an grieving heart, than the luminous, rippling magic of the moon? And maybe a merman, or two. You know, for good measure.

{SERIES}

➺ Off-Labels by Jungkoode

→ PAIRING: Med Student!Hoseok x F!Reader → GENRE: Brother’s Best Friend AU ✿ medical school au ✿ brother’s best friend trope ✿ gentle!dom hoseok acting innocent ✿ plausible deniability king hoseok ✿ competency kink → PARTS: 11/11 → SUMMARY: You’ve spent four years convincing yourself that your brother’s best friend is just being nice when he remembers your coffee order, quizzes you on neuroanatomy, or lets his touch linger a second too long. Because there’s no way that the golden boy of Seoul National’s medical program might actually be flirting with you. Especially when he keeps saying things that could be perfectly innocent… if only he didn’t say them in that voice.

[PARK JIMIN]

{ONESHOT}

➺ Nefarious [M] by yoonia

⟶ Pairings | Jimin x female reader (with POV changes) ⟶ Genre | Sex Club!au, Gentlemen Club!au, Club host/escort! Jimin, Smut ⟶ Word count | 39,246 words ⟶ Summary | Welcome to Club La Rouge, where your sexual fantasies come to life. Accepting his offer might cause inconveniences for both of you, but do you really have it in you to say no?

➺ In Flagrante Delicto by hissunshiine

⟢ pairing: lawyer!jimin x lawyer!reader ⟢ genre(s): nsfw. 18+. angst, smut, fluff. ⟢ au(s): law firm au. coworkers to lovers. ⟢ word count: 12,485 ⟢ summary: In flagrante delicto (adverb) fla·gran·te de·lic·to | \ flə-ˌgrän-tē-di-ˈlik-(ˌ)tō — Latin for “in blazing offense.” Used in the courtroom to refer to someone who is caught while committing a crime, it’s commonly used as a euphemism for walking in on people having sex. Working for Kim Law LLC, you didn’t think your first big case would come with both definitions of flagrante delicto. Excited as you are for this chance, the catch is that you’re paired with Park Jimin, office hottie, flirt, and fuckboy. When the case takes a dangerous turn, will you be able to count on your partner in good faith? Or will things end in a hung jury?

➺ Caught Redhanded by withjaejae

Parings: jimin x reader Genre: pwp, roommates to lovers, oneshot Summary: In which your hot af crush/roommate catches you with your hand in the cookie jar.

[KIM TAEHYUNG]

{ONESHOT}

➺ As Thunder Rolls by jungkookstatts

Pairing: Taehyung x Reader Genre: Rich Reader, Law Student Reader, Construction Worker TH, Poor TH, Rich Girl Poor Boy AU Wordcount: 8,296 Summary: You know Taehyung is the one. You knew it since the first day you saw him, when thunder rolled through the sky. But your lives don't collide. They might be too different to choose both.

➺ The Dark Room by yoonia

⟶ Pairings | Taehyung x female reader (with POV changes) ⟶ Genre | Sex Club!au, Gentlemen Club!au, Smut ⟶ Word count | 19.1k words ⟶ Summary | Welcome to Club La Rouge, where your sexual fantasies come to life. Indulge in your deepest and darkest desire with all the wonderful treats that we could offer.

➺ Unveiled by borathae

Pairing: Prince!Taehyung x Princess!Reader Genre: Royalty!AU, Arranged Marriage!AU, Wedding Night!AU, Smut, Romance, Fluff, soft Angst Wordcount: 12.4k Summary: “In a world where women ruled the countries and princes were married off to powerful princesses, there lived a beautiful prince. Taehyung, son of the Queen of the Snow Isles and with a heart too curious for his own good. As tradition demands, come his second decade on this earth he had to leave his home and marry a princess of a far away country. Now waiting on his marriage bed, wearing nothing but a golden veil and a silken dress, he can’t help but feel nervous. Will his first night with his wife be as horrible as his fellow princes told him it would be?”

➺ Sweetened Kiss by borathae

Pairing: Good Boy!Tae + Soft Dom!Reader Genre: married life!AU, Royalty!AU, Fantasy!AU, Smut Wordcount: 4.4k [ Unveiled Drabble ] Synopsis: Princess introduces Prince Tae to chocolate for the first time.

{SERIES}

➺ Complete Faith by daechwitatamic

Pairings: Taehyung x female reader Genre: coworkers to friends to lovers to idiots to lovers again, angst Wordcount: 50k Summary: It’s Taehyung himself who admits that it’s usually around the one-month mark that he starts to lose interest in his relationships. So even though you’re so drawn to him you can barely stand it, even though he’s attentive and funny, even though you’re helplessly crazy about him… when you start dating, you feel like you’ve got an expiration date from day one. But will it be Taehyung’s issues that get in the way, or your own?

[JEON JUNGKOOK]

{ONESHOT}

➺ University Superstar by jungkookstatts

Pairing: LacrossePlayer! JK x TeacherIntern! Y/N Genre: Jock!Jk, Friends(?)ToLovers!AU, EnimeisToLovers!AU Wordcount: 10,291 + sequel and drabbles Summary: Jeon Jungkook is your University’s biggest rock-star-athlete-hot guy. It literally prides itself on his attendance at the school — walking around with his “big name” (captain of the lacrosse team), tattoos, and rude, jock-like personality. You hate him. You hate that he can’t apologize for being a complete asshole. But what you don’t hate is how he visits your office every day. You also don’t hate that your feelings for him are crawling back into your system…

➺ When She Loved Me by jungkookstatts

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Genre: Terminally Ill Reader, Non Idol AU, CEO Jungkook AU, Engaged AU, Married AU Wordcount: 11,265 Summary: How does one live when life is bound to end?

➺ Habits of Clandestine Nature by alphabetboyluvr

pairing: collegejk x female oc genre: college!jk, rich!jk, he's a college nepo baby!!!, waitress!oc, enemies to lovers, angst, smut wordcount: 16k synopsis: "Despite your teasing, you never really thought Jungkook was much of a player. But his friends are back now, and you've been relegated to the sidelines. Doesn't matter if he spent weeks—months—playing in no field but yours. Greener pastures have presumably sprouted. Your turf is wrecked from his carelessness, and he's left you to heal yourself while he goes and wrecks another."

➺ The Boy is Mine by dreamersparacosm

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Genre: this is porn. that’s all there is to it. reader is PINING, reader’s bff is a cunt, alcohol consumption, unprotected sex, fingering, oral (f recieving), dirty talk, spit play kinda, jk worshipping you, someone walks in on yall.. Prompt ; in which your best friend needs to be taught a lesson on who your crush belongs to.

{SERIES}

➺ Strings Attached by Jungkoode

→ PAIRING: Spider-Man!Jungkook x F!Reader → GENRE: spiderman au ✿ college setting ✿ sexual tension ✿ virgin!jungkook ✿ 12k of pure self-indulgence → PARTS: 2/2 → SUMMARY : You were a journalist at Yonsei University when you started noticing the strange coincidences between your favorite bumbling freshman and Seoul's newest superhero. The way Spider-Man's voice cracks on 'noona' exactly like Jungkook's does. The way they both bring you the same snacks, have the same nervous energy, the same tendency to ramble when flustered. You tell yourself it's just a coincidence, because the alternative means admitting something you're absolutely not ready to deal with.

➺ Neighbor Blunder by awrkive [ONGOING]

Pairing: software engineer! jk x accountant! oc Genre: fluff, smut, angst, neighbors!au, coworkers!au, cto!jk, chaebol!jk vibes, strangers to...? Parts: 4/? Summary: in hindsight, you should have seen it coming. had always known your luck – or lack of it, thereof – and the universe's meticulous plan of your downfall made it easy for you to get tangled up in a series of unfortunate events, which presents itself as the neighbor that lives across from you, jeon jungkook.

➺ Sutures and Scars by someonegoood

Pairing: surgeon!jungkook x surgeon!reader Genre: medical!au, surgeon!jungkook x surgeon!reader, slow burn, teasing, mutual pining, enemies to lovers, fighting turned bonding, past and present love, fluff & angst :) Parts: 4/4 Summary: in which a viral video of you standing up to your superior forces you to transfer to one of the most prestigious hospitals—only to find yourself working alongside Jungkook, the cold and brilliant trauma surgeon you once knew all too well. You're forced to navigate life-or-death situations together, blurring the lines between past resentment and something far more dangerous.

➺ The Corporate Equation by someonegoood

Pairing: ceo! jk x head of HR! reader Genre: corporate!au, grumpy x sunshine, slow burn, accidental vulnerability, mutual pining, emotionally unavailable jk, bickering turned bonding :) Parts: 6/6 Summary: in which you’ve always been the bright, optimistic Head of HR trying to make the workplace a better place, and Jungkook, the grumpy new CEO, makes it painfully clear he has no time for your idealistic notions—until a company crisis forces you both to confront the undeniable tension between you.

➺ MILF by smoljimjim

>Pairing: collegefuckboyJK x milfOC named Siri >Genre: heavy angst, fluff, smut, happy ending >Parts: 33/33 >Description: Find a MILF, sleep with her and be done with it. It was meant to be a simple frat boy challenge. One of many challenges. But what Jungkook didn’t expect was falling for this particular target.

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makeshiftdraco · 6 months ago

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WIP Wednesday

Wanted to share a little sneak peak of my new Adarond (Adar/Elrond) fic that I've been working on this week. If you're interested in a slow burn diplomatic marriage enemies to lovers long fic, the first chapter of The Diplomacy of Desire will be coming to AO3 soon!

“If you will not give me the ring to aid my cause,” Adar said softly. “Then perhaps there is another path we should consider.”

Elrond’s brow furrowed, curious and confused. The expression was far too charming. “Another path?”

Adar took a step forward, and he was gratified to hear the Half-elf’s breath hitch at the sudden proximity. The commander was even more beautiful up close, the scent of honeyed blossoms clinging to him. This familiar aroma was an intoxicating contrast to the sulfur and smoke permeating the air. Adar wanted to bathe in that sweet perfume before he defiled the Half-elven flower glaring up at him.

Somehow he restrained this urge as he offered a cryptic reply. “Tell me, Commander Elrond…what are you willing to compromise for the sake of peace?”

#adarond #saw others using this ship name so I'm embracing it #adar/elrond #adar x elrond #wip wednesday #enemies to lovers #diplomatic marriage au #slow burn

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teh-nos · 3 months ago

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i have so many thoughts on the characterisation of AU Sylvies and whether she ends up like Problematic Thor 1 Loki and the reasons for and against that idea, and also about how to translate her into non-canon settings where the obvious/easiest answer is to make her live in a bin vs CEO Nepo-Baby Loki who you've paired her with and how that's bringing in a specific class-based-but-also-very-gendered power imbalance that isn't in the original but unfortunately it is hard to talk about it without naming or inadvertantly hitting upon actual fandom examples so i mostly just complain a bit without really making the most of the excessive level of attention i have given this topic in my own mind.

#my go-to fake example is usually 'they are rival violinists in a coffee shop' which i don't THINK is a real sylki au but it might be.#i may have been really really mean about someone's coffee shop based rival violinists fic and not even on purpose.#there is a fic in my head where she's Jotun Princess Sylvie but i want her to be a good foil for Problematic Thor 1 Loki #who (imo) shares with his brother the issue of not being *malicious* as such but being so oblivious that he may as well be.#neither of them gives a fuck about the 'collateral damage' of their actions mostly just cos it's never occurred to them that they should.#(I Blame The Parents Of Course.)#and that's 95% just a Generic Rich Kid thing isn't it? so Jotun Princess Sylvie can absolutely be like that as well.#but in the tradition of diplomatic marriage she has to go live in some other realm and so she's understandably annoyed about that.#and obviously for Asgardian Princess Sylvie the big question is whether her sex changes the rivalry dynamic with Thor and so on.#i feel like Loki's problem is partly that being a Jotun *could* explain why he feels he less than Thor. It gives him a 'real' reason.#but probably Sylvie was already putting all of that on her womanhood so what does an additional 'reason' do for her?#like it's pretty fucking obvious why everyone thinks she's less worthy of the throne than Thor AND it's not really her fault.#so would she rage against The System rather than her brother who also didn't get to choose how people treat him? IDK!#but the point is that for Sylvie I think the Jotun reveal has different implications and it might not start her villain era.#because there's already an obvious source of all the unfairness (whether real or invented) she feels a victim of.#also if you're into recreating the norse 'gay magic vs no-homo magic' divide then her being a woman obvs affects how that impacts her.#'you can't nuke them with magic! that's a womanly... oh okay carry on. sorry princess i couldn't see your breastplate from that angle.'#consider: sylvie as the one going fucking apeshit on jotunheim because their king thinks the word 'princess' is an insult >:(#sylvie my precious blorbetta #LET HER BE PROBLEMATIC SOMETIMES GUYS SHE'S THE HOT BADDY FROM THE AVENGERS FOR FUCKS SAKE!!!!#what is even the POINT of casting a woman in a usually male role if she's not going to be a terrible person sometimes?#something something women's rights and women's wrongs.#she is a CEO NEPO-BABY who lives in a bin!! you need to give her the same starting background! she's not ACTUALLY working-class!#in a generational/systemic sense!#(omg that's so problematic of her <3)

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enhaflixer · 2 months ago

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psh - BOUND & BEYOND - marriage law au! PART 2

A MARRIAGE LAW HARRY POTTER AU SUNSHINE X GRUMPY 2 LOVERS FIC!! PART 1

wizard diplomat grumpy!sunghoon x witch healer sunshine f!reader

warnings: sex lol, hes emotionally unavailable and it hurts, he also might be a bit mean but its okay.

That night, something changed.

The thunderstorm had been brewing all evening, the air heavy with electricity as dark clouds gathered. By midnight, lightning split the sky outside your bedroom window, thunder rolling so close it rattled the glass.

You'd woken disoriented, reaching for your wand on the nightstand to cast a light. In the brief flash before you knocked it to the floor, you saw Sunghoon standing in your doorway, watching the storm with unusual intensity.

"Sorry," you murmured as your wand clattered away, plunging the room back into darkness. "Did I wake you?"

"No," came his reply, unusually soft. "I was already awake."

Another flash of lightning illuminated the room, freezing the moment in stark white light—Sunghoon sitting up against the headboard, his hair disheveled, eyes meeting yours with unexpected directness.

"I'll get my wand," you said, starting to move, when his hand caught yours in the darkness.

"Wait," he said, his voice low. "The storm is... interesting."

You settled back, acutely aware of his fingers still wrapped around yours.

Lightning flashed again, and in that brief illumination, you caught Sunghoon studying your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. His usual guardedness was gone, replaced by something raw and unfiltered.

"What?" you asked softly, when the darkness returned.

His thumb traced a slow circle on your palm. "You look different in the storm light."

"Different bad?" you asked, pulse quickening at his touch.

"Different... real," he replied, the word seeming to surprise even him.

The next lightning flash revealed him closer than before, his eyes dark with something you couldn't name. The thunder that followed seemed to vibrate through your entire body.

You weren't sure who moved first. Perhaps you both did, drawn together by something neither of you had anticipated. His lips met yours hesitantly, a question more than a demand.

That hesitation lasted exactly three seconds.

What began as exploration transformed into something neither of you had expected. Sunghoon kissed you with focused intensity, his careful control giving way to something hungrier. His hand slid into your hair, cradling your head as he deepened the kiss with unmistakable need.

Your wand remained forgotten on the floor, the room dark except for the occasional lightning that caught you in tableau—his hand in your hair, your fingers gripping his shoulder, bodies drawing inevitably closer.

You gasped against his mouth as his free hand found your waist, pulling you firmly against him. The heat of him through your thin nightclothes was startling, intimate in a way you hadn't prepared for. His palm skimmed up your side, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

"Is this—" he pulled back slightly, his voice rougher than you'd ever heard it. "Is this okay?"

The formality of the question, contrasted with his disheveled state and the position of his hands, made you laugh softly. "Very okay," you assured him. "More than okay."

Lightning illuminated his face—his eyes darker than you'd ever seen them, pupils blown wide, his usual perfect composure completely undone. Something flickered in his expression—relief, hunger, something deeper—before darkness claimed the room again.

His lips found yours with new confidence, no longer questioning. Your hands slipped beneath his shirt, discovering the surprising warmth of his skin, the definition of muscle beneath your fingertips. He made a sound against your mouth—half groan, half sigh—that sent electricity through your veins rivaling the storm outside.

"I've thought about this," he admitted against your throat, his voice barely audible above the rain. "More than I should have."

The confession—so unlike his usual measured statements—thrilled you more than you wanted to admit. "Me too," you whispered, gasping as his teeth grazed your collarbone.

His hands found the hem of your nightshirt, fingers tracing the edge with deliberate patience. "May I?" he asked, his usual precision still present even in this moment of abandon.

"Yes," you breathed, lifting your arms as he pulled the fabric over your head.

Lightning flashed, giving him a momentary glimpse of you before darkness returned. His sharp intake of breath was audible.

"Beautiful," he murmured, hands hovering just above your skin as if memorizing you by proximity alone. "So beautiful, baby."

The endearment sent a shiver through you. His hands finally made contact, palms warm against your ribs, thumbs tracing maddening circles that slowly moved higher.

You weren't passive in your exploration. Your fingers made quick work of his shirt buttons, pushing the fabric from his shoulders to reveal the body he kept hidden beneath perfect tailoring. Lightning gave you glimpses—broad shoulders, defined chest, the surprising elegance of his collarbones. Your mouth followed the path your eyes had traced, tasting the salt of his skin.

"Angel," he groaned, the word catching as your teeth grazed his shoulder. His hands tightened on your waist, drawing you fully against him.

What followed was a discovery neither of you had anticipated. Sunghoon—controlled, precise Sunghoon—touched you with a reverence that bordered on worship, learning every inch of you with the same focused attention he brought to diplomatic negotiations, but without the clinical distance. His mouth and hands found places that made you gasp, arch, plead.

And you discovered him in return—the places that made his breath catch, the sensitive spot below his ear that made him tense when you kissed it, the way he moaned your name when your hand slipped beneath the waistband of his pajamas.

"Wait," he breathed, catching your wrist. "I need—we should—"

Even now, trying to think. So very Sunghoon.

"Stop thinking," you whispered, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Just feel."

Something in him surrendered then. His remaining clothes joined yours on the floor, and when he covered your body with his, skin to skin with nothing between you, both of you gasped at the sensation.

"Look at me," he said, his voice low and commanding as he positioned himself. When your eyes met his, something passed between you—acknowledgment that this was about more than biology, more than proximity, more than Ministry requirements.

He moved with deliberate control at first, each thrust measured, his eyes never leaving yours. But as your body responded to his, as your hands clutched at his back, as you whispered his name with increasing urgency, that control fractured.

"Let go," you urged, recognizing his struggle to maintain composure even now. "I want to see you let go, Hoon."

His rhythm faltered at the nickname, something vulnerable flashing across his face. Then he buried his face against your neck, his movements becoming less calculated, more primal.

"Baby," he groaned against your skin, the word sounding natural in his desperation. "My angel, my—"

Words failed him as his body took over, his careful precision giving way to something raw and real. You matched him movement for movement, the storm outside echoing the one you created between you.

When release finally claimed you both, lightning illuminated the moment—his face above yours, completely unguarded for the first time since you'd met him, his eyes locked on yours as if you were the only fixed point in a universe suddenly without rules or boundaries.

After, as you lay tangled in the sheets and each other, his fingers traced patterns on your bare shoulder, his touch gentler than you'd imagined possible. The silence between you felt weighted with unspoken questions, but not uncomfortable.

"The Ministry assessment form definitely doesn't have a section for this," you murmured, feeling laughter bubble up in your chest.

For a moment, Sunghoon was silent. Then, to your astonishment, he laughed—a genuine, unguarded sound you'd never heard from him before. "A serious oversight in their protocol," he agreed, his voice warm with humor.

You propped yourself up on one elbow, staring at him through the darkness. "Did you just laugh? Actually laugh?"

"Momentary lapse in judgment," he said, though you could hear the smile in his voice. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your lower lip. "You have that effect on me."

"I like it," you admitted, turning to kiss his palm. "You should lapse more often."

He pulled you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you with surprising tenderness. "Only with you," he murmured against your hair. "Only like this."

You fell asleep to the sound of the rain and his heartbeat, a smile on your lips and the dangerous feeling in your chest that had nothing to do with physical pleasure and everything to do with the man who'd just let you see behind his carefully maintained walls.

Morning brought soft sunlight and an even more unexpected sight—Sunghoon, still in bed beside you, watching you with warm eyes.

"Good morning," he said, his voice lacking its usual crisp efficiency.

"Morning," you replied, waiting for the awkwardness, the retreat behind walls of propriety. It didn't come.

Instead, Sunghoon reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. "Did you sleep well?"

"Better than I have in weeks," you admitted, studying his face for signs of regret or withdrawal. There were none.

"Hmm," he murmured, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "I canceled my morning meeting."

You stared at him, momentarily speechless. Park Sunghoon canceling a Ministry meeting was unprecedented.

"You're looking at me like I've grown a second head," he observed, the corner of his mouth lifting in what you now recognized as his version of a smile.

"It's just... not like you," you said.

"Perhaps I'm discovering new aspects of myself," he replied, leaning forward to press a kiss to your forehead. "I found I wasn't particularly motivated to leave this bed."

Before you could respond to this startling admission, a furry weight landed on the mattress between you. Nyx, apparently sensing this new development, had come to investigate.

"Your cat has timing issues," Sunghoon observed dryly, though his hand automatically reached out to scratch behind her ears.

"She's curious about the new sleeping arrangement," you said, watching with delight as Nyx butted her head against Sunghoon's hand, demanding more attention.

"The arrangement meets with your approval, I hope?" he asked, his tone light but his eyes serious as they met yours.

"Very much so," you assured him, leaning forward to kiss him properly.

The kiss deepened quickly, morning breath forgotten as Sunghoon pulled you closer. Nyx, disgruntled at being squeezed between you, let out an indignant meow and jumped away.

"Even the cat has better judgment than I do right now," Sunghoon murmured against your lips. "You have a shift in two hours."

"Plenty of time," you whispered, your hand sliding beneath the sheets to trace the warm skin of his chest.

His breath caught, eyes darkening. "Indeed," he agreed, rolling you beneath him with surprising grace. "Time should be used efficiently."

The second time was different—less hesitant, more playful, a discovery of what pleased each other now that the initial tension had broken. Sunghoon, you were delighted to learn, was a quick study, remembering exactly what had made you gasp the night before and expanding on it with creative variations.

Afterward, as you both lay catching your breath, he pressed a kiss to your temple. "I believe I'm developing a new appreciation for mornings," he said, his voice warm with satisfaction.

"Just mornings?" you teased, tracing patterns on his chest.

"Afternoons have potential," he replied seriously. "Evenings as well. I'll need to conduct further research."

You laughed, the sound drawing a genuine smile from him—small but real, transforming his usually stern features into something almost boyish.

"I should make breakfast," you said, making no move to get up.

"I'll cook," Sunghoon offered, surprising you again. "I'm told my pancakes are acceptable."

"You cook?" you asked, unable to hide your astonishment.

"I have many talents beyond diplomatic negotiations," he replied with unexpected playfulness. "Though I rarely bother when it's just for myself."

When you finally made it to the kitchen, wrapped in your robe with your hair still damp from a shared shower (another surprising development), you found Sunghoon already at work. He moved with the same precision he brought to everything, measuring ingredients with exact care, but there was a new ease to his movements, a relaxation in his usually rigid posture.

Most surprising was his interaction with Nyx, who had positioned herself strategically near the stove, watching the proceedings with keen interest.

"This is not for you," Sunghoon informed the cat, who meowed back as if arguing the point. "Your food is in your designated bowl. This is human breakfast."

Another plaintive meow.

"Negotiations will not be successful," he replied solemnly. "Though I suppose a small sample might be permissible."

You watched from the doorway, fascinated by this one-sided conversation. When Sunghoon carefully set aside a tiny piece of pancake on a saucer for Nyx, your heart did something complicated in your chest.

"Are you bribing my cat?" you asked, finally entering the kitchen.

Sunghoon looked up, not at all embarrassed at being caught. "Strategic alliance-building," he corrected. "She has considerable influence in this household."

"She has you wrapped around her paw," you observed, sliding onto a kitchen chair.

"She's persuasive," Sunghoon admitted, placing a perfect stack of pancakes before you. "Much like her owner."

The casual compliment, delivered without his usual careful calculation, created a warm glow in your chest. This new Sunghoon—relaxed, almost playful, comfortable in domestic settings—was a revelation.

Over breakfast, conversation flowed with unexpected ease. Sunghoon spoke of his work without the usual clipped efficiency, asked thoughtful questions about your upcoming shift, and even shared a few stories from his own childhood that revealed a dry humor you'd only glimpsed before.

When it came time for you to leave for your shift, he walked you to the door—another unprecedented gesture. "Dinner tonight?" he suggested, his hand lingering at your waist. "I should be home by six."

"I'll be there," you promised, rising on tiptoe to kiss him goodbye.

He returned the kiss with surprising enthusiasm, his arms tightening around you briefly before letting you go. "Have a good day, My angel," he said softly, the endearment now rich with genuine affection rather than calculated familiarity.

You floated through your shift at St. Mungo's, earning curious glances from colleagues who noticed your unusually sunny mood. Even the most difficult patients couldn't dampen your spirits as memories of the morning kept resurfacing at unexpected moments.

When you returned home that evening, you found Sunghoon already there, setting the table with uncharacteristic care. A bottle of wine was open, breathing, and something that smelled delicious was bubbling on the stove.

"You're cooking again," you observed, hanging up your cloak.

"I'm feeling unusually domestic," he replied, looking up with a warm expression that still startled you with its openness. "How was your shift?"

"Busy but good," you said, moving to his side. "No invisible ears today, thankfully."

His arm slipped around your waist, drawing you against him with casual ease that belied how significant this casual touch was from someone who had once measured appropriate proximity in precise inches. "I missed you," he said simply.

The straightforward admission, free of his usual qualifiers and analytical distance, made your heart flip. "I missed you too."

Dinner was delicious, the conversation easy, and afterwards, you both settled on the sofa with tea—Sunghoon sitting close beside you rather than at his usual careful distance.

Nyx, sensing an opportunity, immediately claimed his lap, settling in with a loud purr.

"Your daughter really does have boundary issues," you teased, watching as Sunghoon's hand automatically began stroking the cat's fur.

"Our daughter," he corrected absently, then froze, seeming startled by his own words.

The casual claim—both of Nyx and of a connection between you that implied shared ownership—hung in the air between you, unexpectedly weighty.

"Yes," you agreed softly, reaching out to scratch Nyx's ears. "Our daughter."

Something flickered in Sunghoon's eyes—warmth and uncertainty mingled in equal measure. But he didn't withdraw the claim, merely nodded once and returned to his tea, his free hand continuing to stroke Nyx's fur.

The days that followed established a new pattern: breakfasts together, shared dinners, evenings spent in comfortable conversation or companionable silence, and nights of increasingly confident exploration. Sunghoon's schedule, once rigid and unyielding, now seemed to revolve around your shared times together, his usual late nights at the Ministry becoming increasingly rare.

Most surprising was his growing bond with Nyx, who had fully adopted him as her second favorite human. He spoke to her constantly, a running commentary that revealed a playful side you'd never imagined existed within him.

"Your preference for my chair has been noted," you overheard him telling the cat one evening as you returned from the kitchen with tea. "However, persistent occupation does not constitute legal ownership."

Nyx meowed back, settling more firmly into his favorite reading chair.

"I propose a compromise," Sunghoon continued seriously. "Shared custody with alternating usage rights."

You couldn't help but laugh, drawing his attention. "Are you negotiating chair rights with a cat?"

"Someone in this house needs to establish boundaries with her," he replied with mock severity. "You clearly encourage her territorial ambitions."

"She's learned from the best diplomat in the house," you countered, setting his tea beside him.

To your surprise, when you made to move away, Sunghoon caught your hand, pulling you down onto his lap—Nyx having relocated to the arm of the chair to observe this development with feline interest.

"What are you doing?" you asked, startled by this unprecedented playfulness.

"Demonstrating proper negotiation technique," he replied, his arms encircling your waist. "When borders are disputed, sometimes creative compromise is required."

His lips found yours in a kiss that started gentle but quickly deepened, his hands sliding beneath your jumper with familiar ease. When you finally broke apart, breathless, Nyx was watching you both with what appeared to be feline judgment.

"I believe we've scandalized our daughter," you murmured against his lips.

"She'll recover," Sunghoon replied, his voice lower than usual. "Though perhaps we should continue this negotiation upstairs."

Later, as you lay entwined in the darkness, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare skin, Sunghoon spoke softly against your hair. "I never expected this."

"What?" you asked, nestled against his chest.

"This... contentment," he admitted, the word clearly chosen with care. "I approached our arrangement as a professional requirement to be managed. I didn't anticipate..."

"That it could be good?" you supplied when he trailed off.

"That it could feel real," he corrected quietly, his arms tightening slightly around you.

The simple admission, so unlike his usual measured statements, created a warm glow in your chest. You pressed a kiss to his skin, right over his heart. "It feels real to me too."

Ten days into this new, unexpected happiness, the first crack appeared.

Your shift at St. Mungo's had run hours longer than scheduled due to a magical accident involving twenty children at a primary school. By the time you finally managed to reverse the effects of an experimental charm gone wrong (all the children had been temporarily transformed into various musical instruments), you were exhausted and running nearly three hours late.

You sent a Patronus message explaining the delay, expecting Sunghoon's usual calm acceptance of work emergencies. Instead, when you finally arrived home well after nine, you found him pacing the living room, his usual composed expression replaced by something that looked remarkably like agitation.

"You're still in your work robes," you observed, surprised to find him waiting rather than eating dinner without you.

"I was concerned," he said, his voice tight. "Your Patronus mentioned children in distress but provided minimal details."

"They're all fine," you assured him, touched by his worry. "Just an experimental charm that went wrong during a music lesson. No lasting harm done, though I suspect young Timothy Wilson will be teased about his trombone transformation for years to come."

Sunghoon didn't smile as you'd expected. Instead, he continued to study you with unusual intensity. "You appear fatigued."

"Exhausted," you confirmed, sinking onto the sofa. "Reversing transformation magic on twenty squirming children isn't exactly restful."

"You work excessive hours," he observed, a hint of criticism entering his voice. "Hospital administration should provide adequate staffing for such emergencies."

"That's how emergency healing works, Sunghoon," you replied, too tired to match his suddenly formal tone. "Sometimes things happen that weren't on the schedule."

"The schedule indicated you would return at six-seventeen," he said, his voice now clipped in a way you hadn't heard in days. "Dinner has been warming for three hours and fourteen minutes."

You stared at him, trying to reconcile this rigid, almost petulant version of Sunghoon with the warm, affectionate man who had kissed you goodbye that morning. "Are you actually upset that I'm late because I was treating children in an emergency?"

"I am not upset," he replied, though his tense posture suggested otherwise. "I am merely noting that predictable scheduling benefits all parties involved."

"Sunghoon," you said, rubbing your temples where a headache was forming. "I can't predict magical emergencies. No healer can."

"Other departments manage to maintain consistent scheduling," he countered. "International diplomatic negotiations rarely extend beyond projected timeframes."

"Well, I'm not a diplomat, and sick children don't care about projected timeframes," you snapped, your patience fraying under the combined weight of exhaustion and his unexpected criticism.

Something flickered in his eyes—hurt, perhaps, quickly masked by his more familiar analytical distance. "I apologize for the observation," he said stiffly. "Your professional obligations are your concern."

"That's not—" you began, then sighed, too tired for this sudden tension. "I'm sorry I'm late. I missed you too. Can we please just eat and talk about something else?"

For a moment, Sunghoon remained rigid, clearly struggling with something internal. Then, with visible effort, his posture relaxed slightly. "Of course," he said, his voice softening. "You must be hungry. I'll reheat dinner properly."

Dinner was a quieter affair than usual, though by dessert, Sunghoon had mostly returned to his newer, warmer self. When you yawned for the third time over your tea, he insisted on clearing up while you prepared for bed.

"You're dead on your feet, Baby," he said, his hand gentle at the small of your back as he guided you toward the stairs. "Sleep is the priority now."

You were already half-asleep when he joined you, his arms automatically drawing you against his chest in what had become his preferred sleeping position. As consciousness faded, you felt his lips press against your hair.

"I dislike when you're not here," he murmured, so softly you weren't entirely sure you hadn't dreamed it. "It's... unsettling."

Two days later, you arrived home to find Sunghoon and Nyx engaged in what appeared to be a serious conversation.

"Your request has been considered and rejected," he was telling the cat, who sat on his desk regarding him with unblinking yellow eyes. "The diplomatic pouch is not an appropriate sleeping location regardless of its apparent comfort."

Nyx meowed back, tail twitching.

"Appeals will not be successful," Sunghoon continued solemnly. "The Department has strict regulations about the handling of official correspondence. Even for the Minister's daughter, which you are not."

You couldn't help but laugh, drawing his attention. "Are you explaining international diplomatic protocols to our cat?"

"Someone needs to establish appropriate boundaries," Sunghoon replied, though his expression softened as he looked at you. "She seems to believe my diplomatic credentials extend to her as a family member."

"Our family member," you corrected gently, moving to kiss him hello.

He returned the kiss with unexpected intensity, his arms pulling you close against him. "You're home early," he observed when you finally broke apart.

"Quiet day," you explained, pleasantly surprised by his welcome. "Only three exploding cauldrons and one case of accidental vanishing sickness."

"Fortuitous timing," he said, his voice warming. "I've acquired tickets to the new exhibition at the Magical Artifacts Museum. Their collection of ancient Eastern European healing implements might interest you professionally."

The thoughtfulness of the gesture touched you deeply. "That sounds wonderful," you said, genuinely pleased. "When is it?"

"This evening," Sunghoon replied. "Unless you object to the spontaneity."

You smiled at his careful phrasing. Even in this new, warmer version of himself, Sunghoon's consideration for schedules and planning remained a core part of his personality. "Spontaneity approved," you assured him. "Let me just change quickly."

The exhibition proved fascinating, with Sunghoon's surprising knowledge of Eastern European magical history adding depth to the displays. Watching him explain the cultural significance of various artifacts to you, his usual precision softened by genuine enthusiasm for the subject, you felt another piece of your heart shift irrevocably in his direction.

When he reached for your hand partway through the evening, entwining his fingers with yours as if it were the most natural gesture in the world, you squeezed gently in response, earning a small but genuine smile.

"Thank you for bringing me," you said as you walked home later, still hand in hand. "It was perfect."

"Your enjoyment was evident," he replied, his thumb tracing small circles on your palm. "Your face becomes particularly animated when you encounter new healing techniques."

"You noticed that?" you asked, surprised by this observation.

"I notice everything about you," Sunghoon said simply, the straightforward admission making your heart stutter.

Back home, as you both prepared for bed, you caught him watching you with unusual intensity as you brushed your hair.

"What?" you asked, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

"I was considering the statistical improbability of our current circumstances," he said, his tone thoughtful. "The Ministry's compatibility formula, while theoretically sound, could not have accurately predicted this specific outcome."

"You mean we actually liking each other?" you asked with a smile.

Sunghoon's expression remained serious. "I mean the extent to which my daily functioning now appears based on your presence."

The admission—so characteristically Sunghoon in its analytical framing yet so revealing in its content—created a warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with physical desire. "Is that your way of saying you care about me?" you teased gently.

Instead of the light response you expected, Sunghoon's expression shifted to something almost troubled. "It seems to be a significantly more complicated emotional response than just caring," he said quietly.

Something in his tone made you set down your brush and turn to face him fully. "Sunghoon?"

He shook his head slightly, as if clearing unwelcome thoughts. "It's nothing of concern," he said, his expression smoothing into something more familiar. "Merely an observation."

Later, as you drifted toward sleep in his arms, you couldn't quite shake the memory of that troubled look—as if Sunghoon had realized something that disturbed his carefully ordered world. But his arms remained securely around you, his breathing even and calm against your hair, and eventually you let sleep claim you, the concern fading beneath the comfort of his presence.

The next evening, everything changed.

You arrived home from your shift to find the house unusually quiet. No Sunghoon in the kitchen preparing dinner, no Nyx greeting you at the door. A note on the counter explained the absence:

Called to emergency session regarding Bulgarian delegation. Will return late. Dinner in warming drawer. —S

The note was friendly enough, but something about the absence of his now-customary "angel" or any personal closing created a small flicker of unease. You dismissed it as simple haste—emergency diplomatic sessions didn't allow time for niceties.

When Sunghoon hadn't returned by midnight, you finally went to bed alone, the sheets feeling strangely cold without his presence. You woke briefly when he slipped in beside you in the early hours, but he merely pressed a quick kiss to your temple and settled on his side of the bed, maintaining an unusual few inches of space between you.

The pattern continued for three days. Sunghoon left early, returned late, and maintained a polite but noticeable distance when your paths did cross. There were no more casual touches, no more lingering kisses, no more playful conversations with Nyx that you'd grown to love overhearing.

Most telling was his reversion to "Y/N" instead of "angel" in his increasingly brief notes and conversations. It was as if the warm, affectionate man who had shared your bed and your life for the past two weeks had been replaced by the original Sunghoon—polite, distant, and meticulously proper.

By the fourth evening, your concern had transformed into determination. You waited in the living room until you heard his key in the lock just after eleven.

Sunghoon paused in the doorway when he saw you, his face carefully neutral. "You're still awake."

"It seems to be the only way I'll actually see you lately," you replied, unable to keep the hurt from your voice. "What's going on, Sunghoon?"

"I don't know what you mean," he said, hanging his cloak with precise movements that couldn't mask the tension in his shoulders. "The Bulgarian situation has required extensive attention."

"For three straight days?" you asked skeptically. "With no breaks for actual conversations or eye contact when you're home?"

Something flickered in his expression—discomfort, perhaps guilt. "International diplomatic crises rarely observe convenient schedules."

"This isn't about schedules," you said, standing to face him directly. "Something changed. You changed. Three days ago, you were calling Nyx our daughter and holding my hand at museums. Now you're back to formal notes and sleeping as far away from me as possible without falling off the bed."

Sunghoon's jaw tightened visibly, but he didn't deny the observation. "I've been preoccupied with work."

"That's not all it is." You took a step closer, studying his face. "If something's wrong, just tell me. If you're having second thoughts about us—"

"There is no 'us' beyond what the Ministry arranged," Sunghoon interrupted, his voice suddenly hard.

The words hit like a physical blow. "What?"

"This arrangement is not a love match," he continued, his expression closing completely. "It's a Ministry requirement with a specific purpose. We've allowed ourselves to become... distracted from that reality."

"Distracted," you repeated, the word bitter in your mouth. "Is that what you call what's been happening between us? A distraction?"

"A natural consequence of prolonged proximity," Sunghoon said, his tone analytical. "Physical attraction, comfortable familiarity—these are biological responses, not meaningful connections."

"That's not true," you said quietly, fighting to keep your voice steady. "And you know it. What we've shared these past weeks wasn't just biology or proximity. It was real."

"It was pleasant," he conceded, though his gaze shifted away from yours. "But ultimately unsustainable given our circumstances."

"Our circumstances," you echoed. "You mean the fact that we're married?"

"Temporarily aligned by Ministry decree," he corrected. "A situation that could change at any time. Emotional entanglement in such circumstances is... inadvisable."

Understanding dawned with painful clarity. "You're afraid," you said softly. "You started feeling something real for me, and it terrified you."

Sunghoon's expression remained carefully blank, but the tightness around his eyes told you you'd hit the mark. "I am simply being realistic about our situation. The Ministry created this arrangement; the Ministry could dissolve it just as easily. Developing genuine attachment would be imprudent."

"Imprudent," you repeated, the word tasting like ashes. "Heaven forbid you do something imprudent like actually care about your wife."

"Caring is not the issue," Sunghoon said, a rare edge entering his voice. "The management of expectations is the concern."

"So you've decided to manage my expectations by pulling away completely?" You shook your head, hurt turning to anger. "That's cowardly, Sunghoon. And dishonest. If you didn't want this to get serious, you shouldn't have started calling Nyx our daughter and talking about how your daily functioning depends on my presence."

Sunghoon flinched slightly at the reminder of his own words, but his expression remained resolute. "I apologize if my behavior created misconceptions. I should have maintained appropriate boundaries from the beginning."

You stared at him for a long moment, seeing past the careful mask to the genuine turmoil beneath. "You're lying," you said finally. "Not to me, but to yourself. You felt something real, and instead of being brave enough to face it, you're hiding behind work and analysis."

Sunghoon didn't answer, but the muscle working in his jaw told you your words had hit home.

"I'm not asking you to declare undying love, Sunghoon. I'm just asking you to be honest about what's happening between us." You sighed, suddenly exhausted by the emotional weight of the conversation. "But I can't force you to acknowledge feelings you're determined to deny."

You turned toward the stairs, heart heavy with disappointment. "I'll sleep in the guest room tonight."

"Y/N," he said, your name replacing the endearment that had become so natural on his lips. "I—" He stopped, seemingly unable to find the words for whatever he wanted to say.

"It's fine," you told him, though it wasn't. "We'll go back to how things were before. Professional cohabitation. Ministry compliance. Nothing messy or complicated."

You didn't wait for his response, climbing the stairs with your dignity intact despite the ache in your chest. Only when you reached the guest bedroom did you allow yourself to acknowledge the truth: somewhere between reluctant marriage and those precious weeks of genuine connection, you'd fallen in love with Park Sunghoon—his hidden warmth, his dry humor, his awkward but earnest attempts at expressing affection.

And clearly, he wasn't ready to face the fact that he might be falling in love with you too.

You didn't speak to Sunghoon for three days after your confrontation.

It wasn't difficult to achieve—he left early each morning and returned late, making it easy to maintain your silent treatment. When you did cross paths, you responded to his polite inquiries with minimal words, never meeting his eyes, never lingering in the same room longer than necessary.

If he noticed your deliberate avoidance (and you knew he did—Sunghoon noticed everything), he made no comment. The polite mask he'd perfected over years of diplomatic service remained firmly in place, betraying nothing of whatever thoughts might be churning beneath.

On the fourth day, you arrived home earlier than usual. Your shift had ended unexpectedly when the magical ailment you'd been treating—a case of enchanted hiccups that caused the patient to float six inches off the ground with each spasm—had suddenly resolved itself. As you quietly entered the house, you heard Sunghoon's voice drifting from his study.

You paused in the hallway, wondering if he had a Floo call with the Ministry. But the soft tone of his voice and the occasional pauses suggested a different kind of conversation entirely.

Curious, you moved closer to the partially open door.

"She's still not talking to me," Sunghoon was saying, his voice lacking its usual composure. "Can't say I blame her."

A familiar meow responded.

"I know, I know," he sighed. "I messed up. But what was I supposed to do?"

You edged closer, peering through the crack in the door. Sunghoon sat at his desk, a forgotten cup of tea beside an open journal. Nyx was perched on top of his papers, her yellow eyes fixed on him as he ran a hand through his usually impeccable hair, leaving it charmingly disheveled.

"It was getting too real," he told the cat quietly. "Too important."

Nyx chirped, a sound somewhere between a meow and a trill.

"That's easy for you to say," he replied with a sad smile. "You've never had your heart broken, have you, my baby?"

The endearment—never before used for the cat—made your heart twist painfully in your chest.

"Your mum deserves better than this," he continued, absently scratching behind Nyx's ears. "Better than someone who can't even..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

Nyx butted her head against his hand, purring loudly.

"I miss her," Sunghoon admitted softly, his voice cracking slightly. "It's ridiculous. She's right down the hall and I miss her like she's gone."

The simple confession, spoken when he thought no one was listening, created a complicated ache beneath your ribs. If he missed you, if he cared, why push you away?

"It's safer this way," he murmured, as if answering your unspoken question. "For both of us. The Ministry could end this any time, and then what? I go back to my empty apartment and pretend none of it mattered?"

Nyx meowed again, more insistently.

"You're biased," Sunghoon told her with a hint of his old humor. "Just because she rescued you from that alley doesn't mean she always knows best. She married me, didn't she?"

The self-deprecating joke—so unlike Sunghoon's usual confident demeanor—caught you by surprise.

"Though that wasn't really her choice," he added, his voice softening. "Neither of us chose this, Nyxie. That's what scares me."

He fell silent then, gently stroking Nyx's fur, his face unguarded in a way you'd rarely seen. The pain in his expression was so raw, so human, that you stepped back, suddenly uncomfortable with your eavesdropping. This wasn't the composed diplomat you'd first met. This was just a man—confused, hurting, and afraid of losing something precious before he was ready to admit how much it meant to him.

You retreated quietly to the kitchen, making deliberate noise as you prepared tea, giving Sunghoon time to compose himself before he realized you were home.

When he finally emerged from his study, Nyx trotting at his heels, the mask was mostly back in place—though you could see the slight redness around his eyes, the subtle tension in his shoulders. Something in your chest ached at how hard he was trying to hide his feelings.

"You're home early," he said, his voice carefully steady.

"Case resolved itself," you replied without looking up from your tea.

A silence fell, weighted with everything unsaid. Sunghoon lingered in the doorway a moment longer than necessary, as if wanting to say more. Then, with a small nod, he retreated to his study, Nyx hesitating before following him with a backward glance at you that seemed almost apologetic.

That night, lying alone in the guest bedroom that had become your refuge, you stared at the ceiling and wondered how two people sharing a home could feel so completely separated. Not by walls or distance, but by fear—his fear of vulnerability, of loss, of attachment he couldn't control.

Perhaps the most painful realization was that Sunghoon wasn't cold or unfeeling as you'd first thought. He felt too much, and that terrified him more than anything.

Journal Entry: 2 May 2023

Three days of silence. I never thought I'd miss her voice this much.

She still won't look at me. Can't blame her, really. I wouldn't look at me either.

Nyx seems confused by the tension. She keeps looking between us like she's trying to figure out what went wrong. Smart cat. I wish she could tell me how to fix this without making it worse in the long run.

The Ministry assessment is in 18 days. I should be focused on that. Instead, I keep remembering how she looked at me that night—like I'd broken something precious. I suppose I did.

I'm not sleeping well. The bed feels wrong without her. Everything feels wrong.

She laughed in the kitchen yesterday. I was passing by the door and heard it—someone must have sent her a funny owl. For a second, I almost walked in just to see her smile. I stood there like an idiot, hand on the doorknob, unable to move.

This is for the best. It has to be. When the Ministry eventually dissolves these arrangements, clean breaks will be easier than messy ones. I know this. I've seen what happens when people get too attached to things that were never meant to last.

And yet.

I called Nyx "my baby" today. When did that happen? When did her cat become our cat become my baby?

The house feels empty even when we're both in it.

I miss her.

—Sunghoon

The Ministry owl arrived at precisely 6:17 AM on a Tuesday morning, tapping insistently at the kitchen window while you prepared your tea. Your silent standoff with Sunghoon had entered its second week, the atmosphere in the house growing increasingly strained despite his tentative attempts to bridge the gap.

The envelope bore the Ministry's official seal—a sight that never brought good news. With a sigh, you opened it, scanning the contents quickly.

OFFICIAL NOTIFICATION MANDATORY MARRIAGE UNITY RETREAT MAY 12-15

Mr. and Mrs. Park,

As per Section 17.3 of the Marriage Unity Act, you are hereby required to attend the Ministry's Three-Month Compatibility Enhancement Retreat at Briar Rose Cottage in the Lake District. This mandatory three-day program facilitates deeper bonding between Ministry-matched couples through supervised therapeutic activities.

Failure to attend constitutes non-compliance with your marriage requirements.

A portkey will activate at your residence at 9:00 AM on May 12th.

Cordially, Euphemia Howell Marriage Compliance Office

You were still staring at the letter when Sunghoon entered the kitchen, his hair damp from the shower, his expression carefully neutral as it had been since your confrontation.

"Good morning," he said, the greeting so formal it made your teeth ache.

You wordlessly handed him the letter, watching as he read it with growing tension around his eyes.

"The retreat," he said flatly. "I'd hoped they might overlook it."

"Apparently not," you replied, your first full sentence to him in days.

Sunghoon set the letter down carefully. "I'll make the necessary arrangements at the Ministry. My schedule can be adjusted."

"How accommodating of you," you said, unable to keep the edge from your voice.

His eyes met yours directly for the first time in days, something flickering in their depths. "Y/N—"

"It's fine," you interrupted, not ready for whatever carefully measured statement he was preparing. "We'll go, we'll convince them we're just fine, and we'll come back to our perfectly efficient cohabitation arrangement."

You left the kitchen before he could respond, the bitter taste in your mouth having nothing to do with your cooling tea.

The morning of the retreat arrived with gloomy skies that matched your mood perfectly. You packed with minimal enthusiasm, throwing clothes into a bag without your usual care. What did it matter what you wore to pretend to be happily married to someone who couldn't bear the thought of actually caring for you?

Sunghoon was already in the living room when you came downstairs, his own bag precisely packed beside him, Nyx curled in his lap. The sight of them together—Sunghoon absently stroking the cat while she purred contentedly—created a familiar ache in your chest.

"The portkey will activate in seven minutes," he said, glancing up as you entered. His expression softened slightly. "Did you sleep well?"

"Well enough," you lied. In truth, you'd barely slept at all, anxiety about the upcoming retreat keeping you awake until the early hours.

Sunghoon nodded, clearly not believing you but not pressing the issue. He gently moved Nyx to the sofa cushion, murmuring something that sounded suspiciously like "Be good, Nyxie. Okay?" before standing to face you.

"I've arranged for Healer Matthews to check on Nyx tomorrow," he said, adjusting his perfectly straight collar. "And I've left extra food in her enchanted bowl."

The fact that he'd thought of Nyx's care—that he'd made arrangements for "your" cat without being asked—made something twist painfully in your chest. How could he be so thoughtful in some ways and so infuriatingly closed off in others?

"Thank you," you said simply, your anger momentarily deflated by this small kindness.

Sunghoon nodded once, retrieving a tarnished silver hairbrush from the coffee table. "This is the portkey. It will activate in approximately three minutes."

You moved to stand beside him, close enough to touch but maintaining a careful distance. The silence between you felt heavier than usual, weighted with the prospect of three days in close quarters under the Ministry's watchful eye.

"It won't be as bad as you think," Sunghoon said suddenly, his voice softer than you expected.

You glanced up, surprised by this attempt at reassurance. "Won't it?"

Something flickered in his eyes—vulnerability, perhaps, quickly masked. "We've managed more difficult challenges."

Before you could respond, the hairbrush began to glow. Sunghoon held it out, and you placed your finger reluctantly against the handle. The familiar, unpleasant jerk behind your navel swept you away, the world spinning in a kaleidoscope of color before resolving into a picturesque cottage garden.

Briar Rose Cottage was undeniably charming—a quaint stone building covered in climbing roses, nestled against a backdrop of rolling hills and the glittering surface of a lake in the distance. In other circumstances, you might have found it breathtaking.

"Mr. and Mrs. Park!" A cheerful voice called from the cottage doorway. A plump witch with rosy cheeks and a clipboard hurried toward you. "Welcome to your Marriage Unity Retreat! I'm Facilitator Penelope, your guide to deeper connection!"

Her enthusiasm was so at odds with the tension between you and Sunghoon that you almost laughed. Beside you, Sunghoon straightened his already perfect posture, slipping into his diplomatic persona with practiced ease.

"Thank you for the welcome," he said smoothly. "We're pleased to be here."

"Delighted!" Facilitator Penelope beamed, checking something off on her clipboard. "Now, let me show you to your cottage. You're in the Primrose Suite—our most romantic accommodation!"

She led you down a winding garden path to a smaller cottage set apart from the main building. The interior was just as charming as the exterior—a cozy sitting room with a crackling fire, a small kitchenette, and a single bedroom visible through an open door, dominated by an enormous four-poster bed strewn with rose petals.

"The bedroom has been specially enchanted for maximum intimacy," Penelope explained with a wink that made you want to sink through the floor. "The roses are self-replenishing, and the lighting adjusts to create the perfect mood!"

Sunghoon's expression remained perfectly neutral, though you noticed the slight tightening of his jaw. "How... thoughtful."

"Your orientation session begins in the main hall at eleven," Penelope continued, apparently oblivious to your discomfort. "That gives you a full hour to get settled in. The handbook on the table outlines all retreat activities. I'll leave you to get... comfortable."

With another suggestive wink, she bustled out, leaving you and Sunghoon in awkward silence.

"Well," you said finally, dropping your bag onto a nearby chair. "This is... a lot."

"Indeed," Sunghoon agreed, picking up the handbook with a slight frown. "According to this, we have a full schedule of 'bonding exercises' planned for the next three days."

You moved to read over his shoulder, uncomfortably aware of his proximity and the familiar scent of his cologne. The handbook listed activities like "Emotional Vulnerability Sessions," "Physical Connection Workshops," and "Guided Intimacy Meditation."

"This is a nightmare," you muttered, stepping away from him.

To your surprise, Sunghoon didn't disagree. "Some of these activities appear designed to create artificial emotional responses through environmental and psychological manipulation."

"You mean they're trying to force us to feel connected," you translated.

"Precisely." He closed the handbook, his expression thoughtful. "However, I believe we have an alternative option."

"Which is?"

"We don't participate."

You stared at him, certain you'd misheard. "But it's mandatory. The letter said—"

"The letter required our attendance at the retreat," Sunghoon corrected. "It did not specify mandatory participation in every scheduled activity."

"So what do you suggest?" you asked, confused by this unexpectedly rebellious stance from someone who typically followed rules to the letter.

"I suggest," he said carefully, "that we register our arrival, make brief appearances at meal times, and otherwise remain in our cottage."

"Just... hide out here for three days?"

"It would be significantly less uncomfortable than participating in 'guided intimacy meditation,' would it not?" He raised an eyebrow, a hint of his dry humor briefly visible.

Despite yourself, you felt a smile tugging at your lips. "I can't argue with that."

Sunghoon nodded once, as if the matter were settled. "I'll inform Facilitator Penelope that you're feeling unwell and need to rest. Food can be brought to the cottage. We can use the time to catch up on work or reading."

The practicality of his solution was so characteristically Sunghoon that it almost made your heart ache. Even now, with things broken between you, he was trying to make the situation more comfortable for you.

"Thank you," you said quietly. "That's... considerate."

Something flickered in his eyes—a brief, unguarded moment before his usual reserve returned. "The retreat's methods are invasive and manipulative. Neither of us should be subjected to them."

Before you could respond, a knock at the door announced Facilitator Penelope's return. Sunghoon straightened his already perfect posture and went to answer it.

"Just checking how you're settling in!" Penelope chirped, trying to peer past him into the cottage.

"Actually," Sunghoon said, his voice taking on the smooth, authoritative tone he used in diplomatic negotiations, "I'm afraid my wife isn't feeling well. The portkey travel was unusually difficult for her."

You quickly sat on the sofa, doing your best to look pale and distressed. It wasn't difficult, given the circumstances.

"Oh dear!" Penelope's cheerful face creased with concern. "Would you like me to call in our healer?"

"That won't be necessary," Sunghoon assured her. "She simply needs rest. We'll need to skip today's activities, I'm afraid."

Penelope looked momentarily flustered. "But the opening ceremony is crucial for establishing group dynamics! And the vulnerability circle is the foundation of the entire retreat experience!"

"I'm sure they are," Sunghoon replied, his tone gently implacable. "However, my wife's health must be the priority. Perhaps we can join tomorrow if she's feeling better."

There was something in the way he said "my wife"—a subtle emphasis, a hint of genuine protectiveness—that made your heart flutter traitorously in your chest.

"Well... I suppose health comes first," Penelope conceded reluctantly. "I'll have meals sent to your cottage. But please do try to join us tomorrow if possible. The magical bond strengthening ceremony cannot be rescheduled."

"We'll do our very best," Sunghoon promised with diplomatic gravity.

After Penelope left, you let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. "That was impressive. I'd almost believe I was actually ill."

"Years of diplomatic training have some practical applications," Sunghoon replied, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly in what you now recognized as his version of a smile. "We should be left in peace until dinner at least."

An awkward silence fell as you both realized you were now effectively trapped together in the small cottage with nothing but the tension between you for company.

"I brought some patient files to review," you said, moving toward your bag.

"And I have correspondence to answer," Sunghoon nodded, reaching for his own satchel.

You settled on opposite ends of the sofa, carefully maintaining the distance between you as you worked in silence. But unlike the strained atmosphere of the past week, this silence felt almost... peaceful. There was something almost comforting about sitting with Sunghoon like this, each absorbed in your own work but aware of the other's presence.

Hours passed this way, the silence broken only by the occasional turning of pages or scratch of Sunghoon's quill. Outside, rain began to fall, pattering against the windows and enhancing the cottage's cozy atmosphere despite the awkwardness of your situation.

When lunch arrived—a basket filled with sandwiches, fruit, and two bottles of pumpkin juice—you were surprised to find yourself actually hungry.

"It seems hiding from enforced bonding activities improves the appetite," you observed, selecting a sandwich.

Sunghoon looked up from his correspondence, that almost-smile appearing briefly. "A study should be conducted. The Ministry might reconsider their methodologies."

The small joke—so understated and typically Sunghoon—caught you off guard. For a moment, it felt like before—before the storm night, before the closeness, before the painful withdrawal. Just the two of you, finding unexpected moments of connection in your arranged circumstance.

"I've missed this," you said without thinking, then immediately regretted the admission.

Sunghoon went very still, his sandwich halfway to his mouth. "Missed what?"

You hesitated, then decided honesty couldn't make things worse than they already were. "Just... talking. Being comfortable. Before everything got so complicated."

He set down his sandwich with careful precision, his expression unreadable. "I've missed it too."

The simple admission hung in the air between you, more meaningful than it should have been.

"Why did you pull away?" you asked finally, the question that had been burning inside you for weeks finally escaping. "We were good together, Sunghoon. Maybe it wasn't planned, maybe it wasn't what either of us expected, but it was real. I know it was."

Sunghoon was silent for so long you thought he might not answer. Then, with uncharacteristic hesitancy: "It was too real."

"What does that even mean?"

He looked at you directly, his carefully maintained composure slipping to reveal something raw beneath. "I don't know how to do this, Y/N. I don't know how to feel this much for someone the Ministry could take away with the stroke of a pen."

The bare honesty of his admission took your breath away. "So you decided to take yourself away first? To protect yourself?"

"To protect us both," he corrected quietly. "Attachments in temporary situations lead to pain. I've seen it happen. I've—" He stopped, something vulnerable flashing across his face. "I've experienced it."

Understanding dawned. "Who was it?"

Sunghoon's jaw tightened, but he didn't pretend to misunderstand. "My mother," he said finally. "She fell in love with a diplomat from another country. When his assignment ended, he left. She never recovered."

"I'm not going to leave you, Sunghoon," you said softly.

"You might not have a choice," he replied, his voice tight with suppressed emotion. "The Ministry created this marriage; they can dissolve it just as easily when their population goals are achieved."

"So your solution is to never let yourself care? To never let yourself have anything real because you might lose it someday?" You shook your head, your own emotions rising to the surface. "That's not living, Sunghoon. That's just existing."

"It's safer," he said simply.

"It's lonely," you countered. "And you know what? It didn't work. You still cared. You still got attached. I heard you talking to Nyx."

Sunghoon went very still. "What?"

"I came home early one day last week. I heard you in your study, talking to Nyx." You held his gaze steadily. "You called her 'my baby.' You talked about missing me."

A faint color rose in his cheeks, but he didn't look away. "You weren't meant to hear that."

"But I did. And it told me what you wouldn't—that pushing me away didn't stop you from caring. It just made you miserable." You leaned forward, holding his gaze. "It made us both miserable."

Sunghoon's expression flickered, his careful mask cracking to reveal the conflict beneath. "What would you have me do, Y/N? Pretend this isn't temporary? Pretend we chose each other?"

"No," you said quietly. "I'd have you acknowledge what's already happened. We didn't choose each other, but we did choose to make something real out of this arrangement. We chose each other every day for those few weeks. And it was good, Sunghoon. It was so good."

"And when it ends?" he asked, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

"Then we'll have had something real," you said simply. "Isn't that better than nothing at all?"

Sunghoon looked away, gazing out at the rain-streaked windows. The silence stretched between you, weighted with the enormity of what you were asking him to risk.

"I don't know if I can," he admitted finally, the words clearly difficult for him. "I don't know if I have the courage for it."

His raw honesty, the vulnerability in his admission, touched something deep in your chest. This wasn't the polished diplomat or the analytical perfectionist. This was just Sunghoon—afraid, uncertain, but finally, completely real with you.

"You were brave enough to call Nyx our daughter," you reminded him gently. "You were brave enough to tell me you needed me. Maybe you can be brave enough for this too."

Sunghoon turned back to you, something shifting in his expression. "You make me want to be," he said quietly. "That's what terrifies me."

The simple admission, spoken without calculation or reserve, made your heart flip in your chest. "Sunghoon—"

A sharp knock at the door interrupted whatever you might have said. Sunghoon's expression instantly closed, his diplomatic mask sliding back into place as he rose to answer it.

Facilitator Penelope stood on the threshold, beaming despite the rain dampening her robes. "Just checking on our patient! Feeling any better, Mrs. Park?"

You summoned a weak smile. "Still a bit queasy, I'm afraid."

"Oh dear," Penelope's face fell momentarily before brightening again. "Well, I've brought you both a special tea from our healer! It promotes wellness and—" she lowered her voice conspiratorially "—fertility!"

Sunghoon accepted the steaming mugs with admirable composure, though you noticed the slight tightening around his eyes. "How thoughtful."

"The evening bonding ceremony will begin at seven," Penelope continued cheerfully. "It's a beautiful ritual involving synchronized heartbeat spells! Very powerful for marital harmony!"

"We'll try to attend if my wife's condition improves," Sunghoon assured her, though his tone made it clear this was extremely unlikely.

After Penelope departed, Sunghoon set the mugs down on the table with obvious distaste. "I believe we can safely assume these contain potions designed to lower inhibitions and increase suggestibility."

You eyed the suspiciously shimmering liquid. "So much for the Ministry's ethical standards."

"Indeed." He returned to his seat, slightly closer to you than before. "It seems our conversation must be continued against a backdrop of increasingly invasive Ministry interventions."

"We don't have to continue it," you said carefully, giving him an out if he needed it.

Sunghoon studied you for a moment, something resolving in his expression. "I believe we do," he said quietly. "However uncomfortable it might be."

Your heart gave a hopeful flutter. "Okay."

He took a deep breath, as if preparing himself for something difficult. "I apologize for the way I handled things after... after we became intimate. It wasn't well done of me."

The formal phrasing was so characteristically Sunghoon that it almost made you smile despite the seriousness of the moment. "You hurt me," you said simply.

"I know." His voice was low, heavy with regret. "I panicked. The intensity of what I was feeling—it wasn't something I was prepared for. I've spent my life constructing systems to manage emotions, to keep them within acceptable parameters."

"And I disrupted those systems," you guessed.

"Completely," he agreed, a hint of something almost like wonder in his voice. "You made me feel things I couldn't categorize or control. It was... overwhelming."

"So you shut down."

"It seemed the logical solution at the time." A faint, self-deprecating smile touched his lips. "I'm beginning to understand it might not have been."

You reached out, touching his hand lightly. "Feelings aren't logical, Sunghoon. They never have been."

He turned his hand over, catching your fingers in his. "I'm not good at this," he admitted, the simple touch seeming to ground him. "I don't know how to be what you need."

"I don't need you to be anything other than what you are," you told him. "I just need you to be honest—with me and with yourself."

Sunghoon's fingers tightened around yours. "When I'm with you, I feel... complete," he said, the words clearly difficult for him. "As if a part of me I didn't know was missing has been found. It's irrational. Unquantifiable. Terrifying."

"It's called falling in love, Sunghoon," you said softly.

His eyes met yours, startled by your directness. "Is that what this is?"

"I think you know it is," you said, your heart pounding as you took this final risk. "I know I do."

For a moment, Sunghoon simply looked at you, something complex and unreadable moving in his eyes. Then, with deliberate slowness, he raised his free hand to your cheek.

"I've been so afraid of losing you that I pushed you away," he said quietly. "That doesn't seem particularly logical in retrospect."

A smile touched your lips. "Not your finest strategic decision."

"No," he agreed, his thumb tracing your cheekbone with exquisite gentleness. "But I believe I've developed a better approach."

"Which is?"

"To stop fighting what I feel for you," he said simply. "To accept that some things can't be managed or controlled—they can only be experienced."

Your breath caught at the raw honesty in his voice. "Sunghoon—"

"I love you," he said, the words clear and certain, as if once decided, there could be no hesitation. "I don't know when it happened or how, but I do. And I'm tired of pretending otherwise."

The simple declaration, spoken without qualification or analysis, made your heart soar. You reached for him, drawing him closer. "Say it again."

A smile—a real, unguarded smile that transformed his entire face—curved his lips. "I love you, angel."

This time, when his lips met yours, there was no hesitation, no careful calculation—just the pure, honest connection of two people who had found each other despite everything.

The kiss deepened quickly, weeks of distance and longing crystallizing into urgent need. Sunghoon's arms drew you against him, your body molding to his as if returning to its natural state.

"I've missed you," he murmured against your lips, his voice rough with emotion. "So much."

"I've missed you too," you whispered, your hands finding their way into his hair, disheveling his perfect appearance in the way you'd learned he secretly loved.

When you finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Sunghoon rested his forehead against yours. "Perhaps we should continue this conversation somewhere more comfortable," he suggested, his eyes darting toward the bedroom door.

"I thought you'd never ask," you smiled, rising and pulling him with you.

The bedroom, with its enormous four-poster and enchanted rose petals, might have seemed tacky under other circumstances. But as Sunghoon closed the door behind you, all that mattered was the way he looked at you—like you were precious, irreplaceable, essential.

His hands framed your face with exquisite tenderness, his eyes searching yours. "Are you sure about this? About me?"

"I've never been more sure of anything," you told him, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. "I love you, Sunghoon. All of you—the analytical parts, the diplomatic parts, the parts that talk to our cat when you think no one's listening."

A laugh—a genuine, unguarded sound that you'd heard so rarely—escaped him. "I thought I'd imagined you calling her 'our daughter' that night," he admitted, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin. "When you heard me talking to her—"

"It made me love you even more," you said simply.

Something in his expression shifted, softened, opened completely. Then, with deliberate gentleness, he lowered his mouth to yours.

But Sunghoon surprised you. He pulled away.

You had expected something hungry, desperate, hurried—the way he had kissed you downstairs, the way his hands had gripped your waist like he couldn't stand not touching you.

But now, standing before you, he was achingly gentle.

His hands hovered over your shoulders before finally resting there, thumbs smoothing over your skin as he leaned in, brushing his lips over yours, so soft, so patient, as if giving you one last chance to stop him.

When you didn’t, he exhaled sharply, like he had been holding his breath.

His fingers trailed down your arms, delicate yet unwavering, before reaching for the hem of your shirt. Slowly—painstakingly slowly—he lifted it, his knuckles grazing your ribs, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Every patch of skin revealed was met with his lips. Every inch of you, memorized.

"You are beautiful, my beautiful wifel," he murmured against your collarbone, so softly that the words barely reached you. But you heard them. You felt them.

A shiver ran through you—not just from his touch, but from the way he said it, like he truly meant it.

Sunghoon didn’t rush.

If anything, he seemed to be pacing himself, like he was afraid to move too fast, afraid to miss anything. He traced your body with his hands, his lips following, as if this moment deserved to be experienced, not just lived through.

When he finally reached for his own shirt, your hands beat him to it.

Sunghoon stilled, his breath hitching when your fingers brushed over his stomach, his skin warm under your palms. You felt the faintest tremor when you dragged your nails up his chest—his muscles flexing involuntarily, his heartbeat hammering beneath your touch.

His reaction was intoxicating.

Sunghoon—composed, controlled Sunghoon—undone by you.

His usual restraint cracked the moment you leaned forward, lips brushing, then pressing against the line of his throat.

"Angel," he whispered, voice rougher than before, his hands tightening on your waist.

It was the way he said it—the sheer need in his voice—that made heat bloom deep in your belly.

"I need—"

"I know," you assured him, pulling him closer, molding yourself against him. "Me too."

His control snapped.

Sunghoon had always been meticulous. Attentive. A perfectionist to the core.

But that didn’t prepare you for the way he touched you now.

Like you were something precious. Like every sound you made was a revelation.

He moved slowly, mapping you with his lips, his hands, his breath—learning you, adjusting, testing what made you sigh, what made you shudder, what made you tremble.

And when he found the places that made your breath stutter, he lingered.

He kissed down your stomach, his hands smoothing over your thighs, parting them with reverence. And when his lips replaced his hands warm, deliberate, insistent—you gasped his name.

That sound—his name, shaped by your pleasure—did something to him.

His fingers dug into your hips, holding you steady as he worked you open, devastatingly precise, like he was memorizing the way your body responded to him.

And it wasn’t just what he was doing—it was the way he looked at you.

His dark eyes, locked onto yours, watching every reaction, like he needed to see you fall apart for him.

This was Sunghoon, letting you in.

When he finally pressed himself against you, his body molding to yours, he hesitated.

A brief, flickering moment of uncertainty.

You lifted your hand to his cheek, tilting his face toward yours. "It's just us, Hoon."

His breath shook.

And when he finally moved, it was everything.

Slow. Deep. Unbelievably tender.

And when he kissed you, you swore you could taste devotion on his lips.

Later, as you lay tangled together in the ridiculous rose-covered bed, Sunghoon traced abstract patterns on your bare shoulder, his expression thoughtful.

"What are you thinking?" you asked, pressing a kiss to his chest.

"That I owe Facilitator Penelope a thank you," he replied, surprising a laugh from you.

"For the fertility tea we didn't drink?"

"For creating the circumstances that finally forced me to be honest," he corrected, his fingers trailing down your spine. "Though I still have no intention of participating in synchronized heartbeat spells."

You laughed again, the sound drawing a smile from him. "Me neither. I think we're managing just fine on our own."

His expression grew serious again, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. "I can't promise I won't be afraid sometimes," he said quietly. "This is... new territory for me."

"For both of us," you assured him. "We'll figure it out together."

Sunghoon nodded, something settling in his expression. "Together," he agreed, the word clearly significant to him. "I like the sound of that."

As twilight deepened outside the cottage windows, neither of you made any move to join the evening's activities. The Ministry's mandatory retreat continued without you, the synchronized heartbeat spells and vulnerability exercises proceeding as scheduled while you remained wrapped in each other's arms, creating your own, far more genuine connection.

Later, when dinner arrived via a house-elf who tactfully avoided looking at your disheveled state, Sunghoon accepted the tray with grave courtesy before returning to bed, where you ate between kisses and shared confidences.

"Do you think we should make an appearance tomorrow?" you asked as night fell completely, your head resting on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

"I think," Sunghoon said thoughtfully, his fingers tracing lazy patterns in your hair, "that we've already achieved what the retreat intended. Perhaps more effectively than their methods could have managed."

You smiled against his skin. "So that's a no?"

"That's a 'I have no intention of sharing you with anyone for the next two days,'" he clarified, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"Mmm, I like this plan," you murmured, settling more comfortably against him. "Very efficient use of our mandatory retreat time."

"I thought you'd approve," he replied, and you could hear the smile in his voice—that rare, genuine expression that you now knew was reserved just for you.

Outside, the rain continued to fall gently on the cottage roof. In the main hall, the Ministry's retreat activities carried on without you. But in your rose-scented bedroom, you'd found everything the Ministry had hoped to create and more—not through spells or enforced exercises, but through the simple, profound courage of allowing yourselves to love despite the risks.

As you drifted toward sleep in Sunghoon's arms, you realized that sometimes, the most unlikely beginnings could lead to the most beautiful journeys—if only you were brave enough to take the first step.

And finally, both of you were.

The Ministry portkey deposited you both in your living room with the usual disorienting lurch, your bags landing neatly beside you. After three days secluded in the cottage, the familiar surroundings of your home felt both welcoming and slightly strange, as if you were seeing it through new eyes.

"Home sweet home," you murmured, steadying yourself against Sunghoon's arm.

"Indeed," he agreed, his free hand automatically reaching to straighten a picture frame that had tilted during your arrival. Some habits, it seemed, would never change.

A loud meow announced Nyx's presence before she came tearing around the corner, tail high and vibrating with indignation at having been abandoned for three days. She wound herself between your legs, then Sunghoon's, her complaints echoing off the walls.

"Yes, we missed you too," you told her, bending to scratch behind her ears.

To your surprise, Sunghoon crouched down beside you, extending his hand to the aggrieved cat. "I apologize for our absence," he said with complete seriousness. "It was a Ministry requirement, not a voluntary abandonment."

Nyx butted her head against his palm, her purr starting up like a small engine.

"She forgives you faster than she forgives me," you observed with a smile.

"Strategic diplomacy," Sunghoon replied, though his eyes held a warmth that belied the formal words. "I believe bribes may be necessary to fully restore relations."

As if understanding his words, Nyx trotted toward the kitchen, pausing to look back expectantly.

"Our daughter appears to be suggesting dinner," Sunghoon said, rising and offering you his hand.

You took it, allowing him to pull you to your feet and into his arms in one smooth motion. "I'd say she has her priorities straight."

Sunghoon's arms tightened around you, his eyes softening as they met yours. "Food can wait," he murmured, lowering his head to catch your lips in a kiss that made your toes curl.

You melted against him, still marveling at this new version of Sunghoon—one who initiated affection without hesitation, who held you as if afraid you might disappear if he let go. Three days away from the Ministry's watchful eye, three days of honesty and reconnection, had transformed something between you—not erasing his reserved nature, but allowing the warmth beneath to emerge without calculation or restraint.

"Mmm," you sighed when you finally broke apart. "I could get used to being greeted like that."

A small smile curved his lips. "I intend to make it a regular occurrence."

Nyx meowed again, more insistently this time.

"However," Sunghoon added, his expression turning serious, "it appears we have a diplomatic crisis requiring immediate attention."

You laughed, the sound drawing another of those rare, genuine smiles from him. "Heaven forbid we keep the ambassador waiting."

Together, you moved to the kitchen, Nyx trotting ahead with her tail held high in triumph. As Sunghoon prepared her food with his characteristic precision—exactly two scoops, carefully placed in the center of her bowl—you found yourself studying him, still adjusting to the new reality between you.

He looked the same—perfectly pressed robes, immaculate hair, posture straight enough to make a finishing school teacher weep with joy. But there was something different in the way he moved now, a subtle ease that hadn't been there before. The rigid control that had characterized his every gesture had softened, not into sloppiness but into a more natural grace.

When he caught you watching, his eyebrow raised in silent question.

"Nothing," you said, smiling. "Just... happy to be home."

Something flickered in his eyes—warm, intimate, just for you. "As am I, angel."

The simple endearment, now spoken with genuine affection rather than calculated familiarity, sent a pleasant warmth through your chest. Sunghoon moved to the refrigerator, assessing its contents with his usual methodical approach.

"Limited options," he observed. "I don't suppose you'd object to takeaway?"

"Sounds perfect," you agreed, leaning against the counter. "I don't think either of us is in the mood for cooking tonight."

A hint of color rose in Sunghoon's cheeks, his mind clearly revisiting the same memories as yours—of lazy meals in bed, of conversations that stretched into the night, of rediscovering each other with unhurried thoroughness. "Indeed," he said, his voice slightly lower than usual. "We have been... otherwise occupied."

The kitchen suddenly felt several degrees warmer. "Those Ministry retreat cottages certainly provided plenty of... activities," you said innocently.

Sunghoon's eyes darkened. "None of which appeared in their official program."

You laughed, the tension breaking as Sunghoon's lips curved into a small smile. "I'm going to shower while we wait for food," you said, pushing away from the counter. "I feel like I still have rose petals in my hair."

"You do," Sunghoon confirmed, reaching out to pluck a tiny dried petal from behind your ear. "Just here."

His fingers lingered against your skin, the simple touch charged with meaning after everything you'd shared. For a moment, neither of you moved, caught in the gravity of the other's presence.

Then Nyx, finished with her dinner, jumped onto the counter between you, breaking the moment.

"Boundaries, daughter," Sunghoon told her, though his tone held no real reproach as he gently set her back on the floor. "We've discussed this."

You shook your head, smiling as you headed for the stairs. "Good luck with that particular diplomatic negotiation. She's outmaneuvered you from day one."

"A temporary tactical advantage," Sunghoon called after you. "I'm developing countermeasures."

Your laughter followed you up the stairs, a lightness in your step that had been missing during the painful weeks of distance. The shower was blissfully hot, washing away the last traces of portkey travel and Ministry interference. As you dried your hair, you could hear Sunghoon moving around downstairs, the familiar sounds of his precise movements oddly comforting.

When you came back downstairs, wearing comfortable pajamas despite the early hour, you found the living room transformed. The lights had been dimmed, a fire crackling in the hearth despite the mild spring evening. Cushions and throw blankets had been arranged on the floor before the fire, and the coffee table held an array of containers from your favorite Indian restaurant.

Sunghoon stood beside this arrangement, looking almost uncertain. "I thought you might prefer a relaxed dinner," he said, his tone casual though his eyes watched you carefully for your reaction.

"It's perfect," you said softly, touched by the thoughtfulness of the gesture. "When did you have time to arrange all this?"

"Efficient time management," he replied, though the slight color in his cheeks suggested he'd moved rather quickly to create this surprise. "The restaurant is only a brief Floo call away."

You moved to him, rising on tiptoe to press a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you."

His arm curved around your waist, holding you close for a moment longer than necessary. "You're welcome, angel."

Dinner was a relaxed affair, both of you sitting cross-legged on the cushions, sharing food directly from the containers in a way that would have been unthinkable a month ago. Sunghoon had even changed into casual trousers and a simple shirt—an outfit you'd rarely seen him wear.

"The Ministry assessment is next week," he said as you both finished eating, his tone carefully neutral.

You set down your fork, stomach tightening slightly at the reminder. "Tuesday, isn't it?"

Sunghoon nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Given our attendance at the retreat, they may be more... thorough in their evaluation."

"Because we skipped all the activities?"

"It's possible they've been informed of our non-participation," he confirmed, though he didn't look particularly concerned. "However, I believe our current situation will more than satisfy their requirements."

You smiled, reaching for his hand across the blankets. "You mean the fact that we're actually happy together now?"

His fingers entwined with yours, his thumb tracing small circles on your palm. "Precisely. Though I anticipate they'll have a considerably more invasive set of questions this time."

"Let them ask," you said simply. "We have nothing to hide anymore."

Something flickered in Sunghoon's eyes—a vulnerability that still caught you off guard when it appeared. "No," he agreed softly. "No more hiding."

Nyx chose that moment to insert herself into the conversation, stepping delicately onto Sunghoon's lap and turning three precise circles before settling down with a contented purr.

"I see you've been claimed," you observed, smiling at the sight of your proper, dignified husband absently stroking the cat while she kneaded his leg.

"We've negotiated a mutual non-aggression pact," Sunghoon replied, though the gentle way his fingers moved through Nyx's fur belied the formal description. "She permits me to occupy the residence; I acknowledge her territorial sovereignty."

You laughed, the sound drawing Sunghoon's eyes to your face with unexpected intensity.

"What?" you asked, self-conscious under his steady gaze.

"I like hearing you laugh," he said simply. "I missed it... before."

Before. Such a small word to encompass the painful weeks of distance, the walls built between you, the careful avoidance of anything real.

"I missed a lot of things before," you replied softly. "I'm glad we found our way back."

Sunghoon's expression softened into something almost vulnerable. "As am I." He hesitated, then added quietly, "I'm sorry it took me so long to find the courage."

"You found it," you assured him, squeezing his hand. "That's what matters."

He nodded, something settling in his expression. "The Ministry's requirements brought us together, but what's between us now is our choice. Our creation. Not theirs."

"Our very own diplomatic treaty," you teased gently.

A smile—small but genuine—curved his lips. "With considerably more pleasant negotiation methods than I'm accustomed to."

"Speaking of pleasant negotiations," you said, moving to sit beside him, your shoulder brushing his. "I believe we were discussing Ministry assessments?"

Sunghoon's arm came around you, drawing you against his side as if it were the most natural gesture in the world—which, perhaps, it now was. "I believe we've covered the essential points," he murmured, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below your ear that he'd discovered during your time at the cottage.

"Mmm," you sighed, tilting your head to give him better access. "You're sure? No additional preparations required?"

"Perhaps some practical exercises," he suggested, his voice dropping lower. "To ensure consistent performance."

You laughed, turning in his arms to face him properly. "Always so thorough, Mr. Park."

"In all important matters, Mrs. Park," he agreed seriously, though his eyes held a warmth that made your heart flutter. "And nothing is more important than this."

Later, as you lay tangled together in the bed that now truly felt shared, Sunghoon's fingers traced lazy patterns on your bare shoulder.

"I never expected this," he murmured, his voice soft in the darkness.

"What?" you asked, nestled against his chest.

"Happiness," he said simply. "Real happiness, not just satisfaction or achievement or proper functioning. This... completeness."

The unguarded admission, so unlike his usually measured statements, created a warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with physical pleasure. "I never expected you," you replied honestly. "The real you, under all those perfect manners and diplomatic phrases."

His arms tightened around you. "For a long time, I wasn't sure the real me existed anymore," he admitted. "I'd spent so many years becoming what was required—the perfect son, the perfect diplomat, the perfect Ministry employee. You made me remember there was more."

You pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "I like all the versions of you," you told him. "Even the infuriatingly proper one who measured appropriate hand-holding distance."

A soft chuckle—still rare enough to be precious—rumbled through his chest. "I believe those measurements may require revision," he said, his hand finding yours and entwining your fingers. "Current data suggests significantly closer proximity is optimal."

"Optimal, hmm?" you teased, lifting your head to see his face in the moonlight filtering through the curtains.

"Essential," he corrected softly, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. "You are essential to me, Y/N. Not because the Ministry decided it, but because I choose it. Because I choose you, every day."

The simple declaration, spoken without qualification or analysis, made your heart swell. "I choose you too," you whispered, leaning down to press your lips to his.

As the kiss deepened, as his hands began their now-familiar exploration of your body, as the world narrowed to just the two of you in the darkness, you marveled at how something that began as a Ministry imposition had transformed into the most real, most chosen thing in your life.

Perhaps, you thought fleetingly as Sunghoon rolled you beneath him, sometimes the most reluctant beginnings led to the most passionate endings.

And this was only the beginning.

Epilogue

Six months later

"Nyx, cease and desist immediately," Sunghoon's voice drifted from the study, prompting you to pause in the hallway. "That document is for the Hungarian Minister, not feline consumption."

A plaintive meow followed.

"Your objection is noted but overruled," he continued, his tone serious but warm. "The diplomatic corps does not recognize 'but it looks chewable' as valid grounds for document destruction."

You smiled, leaning against the doorframe to observe the familiar scene—Sunghoon at his desk, hair slightly mussed from running his hands through it, Nyx perched regally atop a stack of parchments she had claimed as her sovereign territory.

"Judicial negotiations have concluded," Sunghoon informed the cat, gently lifting her from the documents. "The court finds in favor of the Ministry of Magic."

Nyx meowed indignantly as she was relocated to Sunghoon's lap, though her protests subsided when his hand automatically began stroking her fur.

"You know you're just encouraging her territorial ambitions," you observed, making your presence known.

Sunghoon looked up, his expression immediately softening in the way that still made your heart skip. "She employs highly persuasive methods of negotiation," he replied, the corner of his mouth lifting in what you now recognized as his version of a smile.

"You're wrapped around her paw," you teased, entering the study.

"A diplomat knows when strategic concessions are necessary for peace," he countered, though he didn't deny the observation.

Six months after your reconciliation at the Ministry retreat, these everyday moments still caught you by surprise—the easy warmth between you, the casual affection, the way Sunghoon's formal facade had softened into something more genuine without losing the essential qualities that made him who he was.

"The Hungarian proposal is finished?" you asked, moving to perch on the edge of his desk.

"Nearly," he confirmed, his free hand automatically reaching for yours, an unconscious gesture that spoke volumes about how far you'd come. "Their approach to international magical education standards is refreshingly progressive."

You listened as he explained the complexities of the proposal, his eyes lighting with the quiet passion he brought to his work. This was the real Sunghoon—brilliant, thoughtful, deeply committed to improving magical cooperation across borders. The fact that he now shared this side of himself with you, without filters or calculation, felt like a gift you unwrapped daily.

"I've been thinking," you said when he finished, your fingers absently playing with his.

"A dangerous pastime," he replied, eyebrow raised in mock concern.

You laughed, still delighted by these glimpses of his dry humor. "The Pediatric Magical Development Center at St. Mungo's is expanding," you continued. "They've asked me to head the new research division for childhood magical stabilization."

Sunghoon's eyes warmed with genuine pride. "That's a well-deserved recognition of your work with unstable magical cores. Your treatment protocol has already improved outcomes significantly."

"It would mean more regular hours," you added, watching his face carefully. "Less emergency shifts."

"That would be...very preferable," he said, his thumb tracing circles on your palm. "Though I've grown used to your erratic schedule."

"And there's something else," you continued, heart quickening slightly. "The position includes specialized training in prenatal magical development."

Something flickered in Sunghoon's eyes—a sudden attention, a quiet intensity. "Prenatal development," he repeated, his voice carefully neutral.

"Yes," you confirmed, watching him closely. "They're particularly interested in research on how parents' magical signatures influence fetal magical development."

Sunghoon was silent for a moment, his fingers still moving against yours with unconscious intimacy. "That's a fascinating area of study," he said finally. "With significant practical applications."

"It made me think," you said, gathering your courage. "About us. About the future."

Nyx chose this moment to stretch dramatically in Sunghoon's lap, her paws extending toward the ceiling before she resettled, purring loudly.

"Our daughter approves of serious conversations," Sunghoon observed, his attempt at lightness not quite masking the sudden tension in his shoulders.

"I've been thinking about expanding our family," you said directly, deciding that after everything you'd been through, honesty was always the best approach with Sunghoon. "About having children. Actual human ones, in addition to our feline overlord."

Sunghoon went very still, his expression unreadable in a way you hadn't seen for months. For a moment, you feared you'd misjudged, pushed too far too soon.

"Children," he repeated, the word careful, measured.

"It's just a thought," you backtracked quickly. "Something to consider for the future. There's no rush—"

"Yes," Sunghoon interrupted, his voice unexpectedly firm.

You blinked, caught off guard by the certainty in his tone. "Yes?"

"Yes, I would like to have children with you," he clarified, his eyes holding yours with unwavering conviction. "I've given the matter considerable thought."

Relief flooded through you, followed quickly by curiosity. "You've been thinking about this?"

A hint of color rose in his cheeks. "It would be irresponsible not to consider all aspects of our future together."

"Of course," you agreed, fighting a smile at his characteristically methodical approach to family planning. "And what did your considerations conclude?"

"That I would like five or six," he said matter-of-factly.

You nearly choked. "Five or six what?"

"Children," he replied calmly, as if he'd merely suggested getting a few extra teacups.

"FIVE OR SIX CHILDREN?" Your voice rose to a pitch that startled Nyx from her comfortable position.

Sunghoon blinked, apparently surprised by your reaction. "Is that an unreasonable number?"

"Unreason—Sunghoon! That's half a Quidditch team!" you spluttered, torn between laughter and genuine shock. "Where did you even get that number?"

He looked slightly embarrassed now, adjusting his collar in the way he did when feeling defensive. "I may have prepared a preliminary analysis of optimal family size."

"An analysis," you repeated faintly. "Of course you did."

"It's merely a starting point for negotiation," he added, his tone suggesting he was prepared to be flexible on the exact figure.

"A starting point," you echoed, now fighting genuine laughter. "So generous of you."

"My research indicates that larger families provide numerous benefits, including built-in social structures, diverse personality dynamics, and practical experience with diplomatic conflict resolution," he continued, warming to his subject. "Additionally, having grown up as an only boy,with just a younger sister, I found the experience somewhat... limiting."

You stared at him, this perfectly proper diplomat calmly explaining why he wanted enough children to populate a small classroom, and suddenly you couldn't contain your laughter any longer.

"What?" he asked, looking genuinely puzzled by your reaction.

"Sunghoon," you managed through your laughter, "most people start with one child and see how it goes!"

"Inefficient," he replied with perfect seriousness. "Proper planning prevents—"

"If you say 'poor performance,' I swear I'll hex you," you threatened, still laughing.

The corner of his mouth twitched. "I was going to say 'prevents problematic outcomes,' but your version has a certain alliterative appeal."

You slid from the desk into his lap, displacing an indignant Nyx who shot you a betrayed look before stalking from the room. "Let's compromise," you suggested, looping your arms around his neck. "How about we start with one and reassess after I've recovered from growing and birthing an actual human being?"

Sunghoon's arms came around you automatically, his expression softening into something tender. "Your counter-proposal has merit," he conceded. "Though I reserve the right to revisit the total number at a later date."

"Always the diplomat," you murmured, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Not always," he corrected softly, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. "Not with you. Not anymore."

The simple statement, spoken without calculation or reserve, still had the power to make your heart flip in your chest. "I love you," you told him, because you could now, because the words came easily and often between you. "Even when you try to negotiate for a small army of children."

"I love you too," he replied without hesitation, his thumb tracing the line of your cheek. "Although I believe six hardly constitutes an army. Perhaps a specialized task force."

You laughed again, resting your forehead against his. "One at a time, Sunghoon. I promise we'll revisit your task force proposal after the first mission."

"Acceptable terms," he agreed, his lips finding yours with the easy familiarity that still felt like a miracle. "Though I should note that twins run in my family."

You pulled back slightly, narrowing your eyes at him. "You're not serious."

The smile that spread across his face—full, genuine, no longer rare but still precious—was your answer. "Perhaps we should begin with adjusting Nyx to the concept of a sibling," he suggested, his eyes dancing with humor. "She does like to be consulted on household changes."

"A trial run with a stuffed toy might be wise," you agreed, settling more comfortably against him. "Diplomatic relations with our daughter must be maintained."

As Sunghoon's arms tightened around you, as his laughter—no longer a rare occurrence—rumbled through his chest, you marveled at how far you'd come from those first stilted days of Ministry-mandated marriage. From measured proximity to genuine connection, from calculated familiarity to real intimacy, from reluctant cohabitation to a future planned together—with however many children eventually joined your family.

Later that evening, as you watched Sunghoon solemnly explaining to Nyx that future changes to the household structure would not affect her status as "firstborn daughter," you silently thanked the Ministry's ridiculous marriage law and the bureaucratic algorithm that had matched you with this man—this complex, brilliant, unexpectedly tender man who had learned to let himself love despite his fears.

Sometimes the most reluctant hearts, once opened, proved capable of the greatest love of all.

"Absolutely not," you said firmly, arms crossed over your chest. "Four is our absolute limit."

Sunghoon looked up from where he sat on the nursery floor, three-year-old twins climbing over him like a jungle gym while their six-month-old sister batted at a magical mobile nearby.

"But I've prepared new charts," he protested mildly, somehow maintaining his dignity despite the toddler attempting to use his shoulder as a launching pad. "The efficiency metrics for five children are significantly superior to four."

"The efficiency metrics for my sanity are currently hovering around critical," you informed him, though you couldn't suppress your smile at the sight of your proper, dignified husband covered in sticky fingerprints and sporting a lopsided sparkly clip in his perfectly arranged hair.

"You said that after the twins," he reminded you, catching your youngest daughter as she began to roll toward the edge of her play mat. "And yet here we are, already discussing the next addition."

"We are not discussing anything," you insisted, even as you bent to kiss the top of his head. "I'm stating a fact. Four children, Sunghoon. That's halfway to your original negotiation position, which I think shows remarkable generosity on my part."

"Mummy, Daddy promised me a brother next," your eldest daughter announced, bouncing on Sunghoon's lap with cheerful disregard for his comfort. "He pinky swore."

You raised an eyebrow at your husband, who had the grace to look slightly abashed. "Diplomatic negotiations with four-year-olds require certain tactical concessions," he explained.

"Tactical concessions," you repeated, fighting laughter. "I see."

Nyx, now elderly but still regal, observed the chaos from her perch atop the bookshelf—the only surface in the house not covered in toys, art supplies, or sticky residue of unknown origin. Her expression suggested both judgment and a certain smug satisfaction at having retained her throne despite the invasion of tiny humans.

"Our firstborn daughter remains skeptical of expansion plans," Sunghoon observed, following your gaze to the cat.

"Our firstborn daughter is the only one showing proper judgment," you replied, finally allowing your smile to break through. "Unlike her father, who apparently thinks we're establishing a new branch of the Ministry."

Sunghoon carefully disentangled himself from the twins, rising to pull you into his arms despite the children immediately wrapping themselves around his legs. "Not the Ministry," he corrected softly, his eyes warm with the love that still made your heart skip after all these years. "Just our own little diplomatic corps. With you as permanent ambassador to my heart."

"That," you informed him, rising on tiptoe to kiss him, "was terrible."

"But effective," he murmured against your lips as your arms tightened around him.

"Four, Sunghoon," you insisted when you broke apart, though you both knew your resolve was weakening. "Final offer."

His smile—still your favorite sight in the world—told you that negotiations were far from concluded. But as your children's laughter filled the room, as Nyx watched over her human siblings with reluctant affection, as Sunghoon held you close in the center of the beautiful chaos you'd created together, you couldn't find it in your heart to mind.

After all, the best diplomatic agreements left room for future amendments.

fin.

835 notes · View notes

anika-ann · 11 months ago

Text

Sweet and Ours, Tonight - S.R.

Type: one-shot, established relationship, domestic... filth

Pairing: Steve Rogers x wife!reader Word Count: 5,8k

Summary: You and Steve had a long, long week.

You both deserve a reward. Perhaps an evening with undivided attention to each other... and maybe to end the endless week with a bang.

The thing is, Steve has no idea about what’s awaiting him at home. Yet, you have a feeling he will like it - and he'll be happy to show you.

Warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, praise kink, slight authority kink, soft dom/sub elements (with a tad dominant Steve), a sprinkle of possessiveness, potential blasphemy, lingerie kink, marriage kink (if that's a thing), mention of (tender) hair pulling, mention of semi-public sex if you squint really hard, language, FLOOF

A/N: At the time of Cum Together: Community Revival Extravaganza hosted by @stargazingfangirl18 and @labella420, there were two potential stories on my mind – the soulmate AU one, which I ended up writing, and this one, which fulfils multiple prompts from the list (see the end). The extravaganza is long over – but hopefully, you’ll enjoy 💕

A/N 2: DIVIDER by @saradika; enjoy, but it's smut y'all - read at your own risk and responsibility

Setting the half-full glass of water on the counter, you smiled to yourself as you heard the keys rattle in the lock. The sound meant one of your favourite things in the world: Steve was home.

‘Home’ was your spacious shared apartment near the new upstate Avengers facility, one you and Steve had chosen not because the large complex hadn’t included living quarters, but because you had wanted a place that was truly your own.

On days like this, you were more grateful for that decision than ever. Here, the work and the weight you carried from it could be left at the doorstep, and you could enter a truly safe space, shielded by your love from the outside world. World which could be loud, overwhelming, and at times, evil.

Today, it meant that Steve would try to leave behind the exhaustion and frustration of a week-long conference of the United Nations and adjoined organisations. You, you had left behind the very same sentiments lacing the endless week of extra shifts. Sometimes it felt like the work was never done; be it patching up international relations or patching up the dumbass of the day. Be it dealing with diplomats who barely even listened, let alone acted on their empty promises; or be it repairing damage to human body made by another supposedly human being, battling to keep alive agents who not so rarely held zero regard for their own safety in the process of saving the very world for whose safety Steve was advocating in DC. You wondered where the agents could have possibly got the inspiration for their reckless behaviour – but that was not the kind of thoughts you wanted to entertain tonight, especially since you knew the answer all too well.

Tonight, you wanted to cherish your husband’s company.

You had missed Steve; even when swamped with work, you both took care to stay in contact, confiding one another on as much of your longing for each other’s company as on feeling drained.

You were glad for having had enough wits to plan ahead and be able to come home before him.

It had been no surprise to you that Steve had called you that he was about to arrive home as scheduled, but crankier than planned despite finally leaving the self-contained self-important jerks behind. The relief in his voice had been palpable; and his voice had only grown warmer when he learned you were to already wait for him at home. Your lips had twitched at the guttural sigh he released upon learning, whispering he was really happy to hear that; as were you to hear that he was coming home in one piece, which was unfortunately not a rule.

He loved you, he had said too. So damn much.

You had told him the same, wondering if that was what would leave his lips when he’d see you. Especially since he had no idea what coming his way, should he want it.

The lock barely clicked open and you were already on your way. A rapid carpet-muted staccato of your heels welcomed Steve as he entered, his curiosity clearly piqued in an instant.

He had but a second to take in your appearance – the bloody red pumps, the peek of nude nylons, the beige trench coat reaching just above your knees, your simple but effective hairdo and make-up, dominated by berry-red lipstick – or get his suitcase through the doors and close them. Before he could say as much as hi, you were already cupping his face and kissing him softly, for once not having to stand on your tiptoes too high.

There was a significant part of you which was dangerously close to jumping on him with enough force to slam him against the door and pour all your enthusiasm at seeing him into the kiss. It had taken all your willpower not to do so since your body throbbed with the need – but you didn’t want him to feel ambushed, unsure about his mood. So you revelled in the precious opportunity to touch him, in the feel of the figurative and literal warmth he was radiating, in the taste of his lips you had missed so viscerally; and with the minute mental capacity left, you tried your best to read his reaction.

It would be a shame for your plan and efforts to go to waste; but the last thing you’d want was to push thoroughly exhausted Steve who’d just want some peace into something he’d… be willing but not excited to do.

Your worries were fruitless, however. Steve’s hands came to life immediately, one reaching for your waist, the other to cradle your cheek. His lips responded in kind, even as his smile tasted of surprise. The tension you had got a brief glimpse of melted away from his shoulders, fingertips caressing your skin, nose gently nudging yours as your lips parted, forehead to forehead.

“Hi,” you breathed out contentedly, feeling the tension leaving you as well, warmth spreading through every vein and nerve in your body at Steve’s gentle chuckle instead.

“Hi, love.”

“Welcome home.”

His smile was as nothing short of blinding when he retreated just a bit to look at you and grace you with a shining gaze roaming your face, as if taking in every feature, every line, every arch, every last eyelash for the first time. Your heart thump-thumped in your chest happily as your hands slid to his neck, unable to tear your gaze away from the beautiful image he made.

A man with love.

Your man.

Your husband.

Your extremely handsome husband; every suit, be it a formal wear or his tactical one, accentuated his wide shoulders and sharply cut jaw you couldn’t but run your fingertips over, marvelling at the pure delight in his face.

“I feel very much welcomed, sweetheart,” he assured you, squeezing your waist. Despite being clearly exhausted, his smile was radiant; until it fell a fraction. “Are you going out?”

Your heart hummed with a soft ache; it was impossible to miss his effort not to look disappointed as not to make you feel guilty for having a social life outside your marriage, even if rather inconveniently timed. Bless his good, good heart.

You shook your head with your smile lingering, barely hiding a smirk. “I’m not going anywhere, Mr. Rogers.”

His expression perked up again, his arm sneaking further around your waist as he observed you with playful curiosity. “Oh? Are we going out? Did you plan something, Mrs. Rogers?”

To highlight his indulgence in calling you that – and god knew hearing him say that still sent butterflies to your stomach even after months of that being a reality – his hand moved from your cheek to take you left hand, fingers interlacing; your wedding bands made a soft clinking noise as they met, Steve’s gaze flickering to their combined light with such undiluted joy in that little action you couldn’t but brush your lips over his again, something deep inside you trembling and preening at once.

Your husband.

“Would it be a bad thing? If I did plan something?” you asked, part coy, part genuine. “It’s okay if you’re not in mood for that.”

Steve only smiled wider, dropping a kiss to your knuckles and then your lips, before pulling back just a fraction. He observed you silently and almost absently, yet seemingly with mission-level intent.

The silence stretched as you awaited his answer, encouraging him – and yourself, because the silence was growing louder with every beat of your heart – with a suddenly unsure smile.

“Steve? Love?”

He blinked, shaking his head lightly. Before you could feel your stomach drop in disappointment at this being his answer, he spoke up.

“Sorry, you… you look beautiful. Got a little distracted here.”

Your belly did a funny flip-flop that had no right to be so deep within; but this gorgeous man had no right to be so perfect either. And you loved him for it.

“I don’t mind going out or staying,” he said softly. “I’m honestly just glad to be home. With you. That’s my favourite thing in the world. Being with you… here, in the home we made together.”

Tremble. Something within you trembled and it was almost comical how those words shook and soothed your soul, a sharp contrast to how very non-poetic your intention to seduce his body was. But that was how you seduced each other the first time and did so over and over again; body, mind and soul alike, tipping the scales in favour of one and then the other and back as the situation allowed.

It was your turn to blink now, fighting the burn of tears in your eyes, threatening to spill at the profound sincerity in Steve’s voice and the adoration in his beautiful blues; they turned all the prettier as a spark of mischief lit them up and he stepped back, releasing you from his warm embrace.

“But, since you got all dolled-up and clearly made plans, it would be a waste. Want to tell me what my orders are, ma’am?”

Excitement lighting up your nerves anew, you stepped back with a hum.

“Well… actually, I made plans to stay in…” Steve’s eyebrow arched a bit, but something beautifully dark flashed in his eyes – a mute understanding that whatever you had planned, you had dolled up for him. For him and him only. “And since you said those people there were all talk, no listening, no action… I thought that maybe you’d a like a change of scenery.”

As you took another step back further into the apartment, Steve discarded his shoes in a lightning speed, his gaze never leaving your face, hanging on your lips for every syllable.

You bit back a satisfied smile, something hot stirring in your belly. “That maybe, you’d like someone who can listen very well, and is willing to… act? Would you like to tell me my orders, Captain?”

His gaze went to roam – from the top to bottom, drinking in your attire, a perfect trap you had set for both of you to tangle in. The tall red heels. The coat for him to untie. The nylons – which Steve at this point must have understood were, in fact, thigh-highs, perhaps strapped to a garter belt. The hair. That lipstick. That damn lipstick that turned his eyes a shade darker and hungrier, his voice dropping two octaves.

“Is that what you want, sweetheart?”

You raised a challenging brow, a coy smile adorning your red red lips as you toyed with the hem of your coat; Steve knew you well-enough by now to know that you wouldn’t have gone through all this trouble if you hadn’t wanted that. You wanted.

You wanted him, with every fibre of your being, lit alive and reborn divine under his searing hot gaze. You longed to be his, however he pleased. To please him however you could.

At last, he got the message. He seemed to very much revel in that message, in fact.

“Let’s go to the bedroom then.”

He led you by the hand, even though you both knew the way and had walked it many times before, even when blinded by desire, with lips never parting, frantic stumbles and wandering impatient hands. Tonight, there was no rush; steps deliberately slow, you followed his lead, standing still by the doorway when he let go of your hand in favour of stripping his suit jacket as soon as you entered.

Your eyes followed his every move, indulging in the sight of his muscles rippling under the smooth fabric of his white shirt; indulging in the shudder of realization running down his body, coming after his brief confusion of finding you obediently exactly where he had left you.

You barely bit back a smirk at the way his breath hitched.

“Alrighte,” he breathed out as he walked to the foot of the bed, turning his back to it to look at you.

You had never had a man to look at you like that before; his gaze was like the most delicious shockwave igniting every cell in your body with desire and pride.

His. You were your own woman, but goddamn, were you his.

“Alright. Come here, sweetheart.”

You did. Hooked on his burning gaze as he seemed hypnotized by your every step, by every inch erased between you, you walked to him, only stopping when he settled his wide palm over your hip, his other hand soon joining on the other side.

For a moment, he simply observed you, your parted lips, your eyes blown wide, just as aroused by the dynamics as he was. Then, a warm yet mischievous smile lifted the corners of his lips, hands squeezing your hips.

You weren’t sure what you had expected – a kiss, a toss on the bed, his hands ripping the fabric, all things you had encountered and more – but of all options, he chose the one your mind had not offered at the moment. His hands slid lower, inch by inch as he kneeled in front of you, sitting back on his heels, the heat of his skin seeping into yours the second his palms slipped past the edge of the fabric of your coat.

Sensual. Steve was most definitely in mood for sensual tonight and you were not going to complain if for nothing else than for having trouble breathing as his fingertips traced the thin ankle strap of your shoe, warm fingers delicately circling your ankle, cupping your calf, sneaking past your knee to spread over the back of your thigh, inching your legs apart so he could move the coat out of the way and press a lingering kiss to your where the lace of your thigh-high met bare skin of your inner thigh.

Your breath hitched in your throat when his free hand reached for the loose knot on your coat, dextrous fingers undoing it with ease and tugging, all while his lips brushed over your sensitive skin higher and higher towards the apex of your thigh.

“Take it off, love,” he whispered into your heat, tugging at the hem of your coat, the index finger of his other hand slipping under the strap of your garter belt, nosing along your inner thigh and inhaling deeply.

A shudder ran down your spine at the huskiness of his voice, leaving you with no space to even consider embarrassment at your husband’s need to drown himself in the scent of your arousal; you busied yourself with stripping the coat in five seconds flat and dropping it on the floor, rewarded by his warm breathy chuckle.

“So good for me…” He looked up from his spot, caressing along the line of your panties, feasting his eyes on the delicate lace hugging your breasts, at the elaborate but feather-light pattern on your garter belt, at the barely-there panties covering your sex. The smoulder in his pupils as his gaze zeroed on his price was almost too much to bear. Whether you were shy or impatient, you couldn’t tell, but your chest was heaving with every breath, your back arching just a bit at the praise that stroked something deep within you. “My beautiful, irresistible wife…”

“Steve-“

He returned his attention to your thigh, sucking a lovebite just above the hem of your stocking, soothing the offended spot with a butterfly-soft kiss you couldn’t help but sigh his name at again.

He hooked his fingers at the front straps of your garter, urging you forward, closer, as he sat on the floor, back leaning against the foot of the bed, tilting his head back and resting in on the mattress; a content smile played on his lips as if it was the most comfortable spot in the apartment, his hands roaming appreciatively. Over the curve of your hip. Following the pattern of the lace. Along the straps, along the hem. But never, never where your need for him burned, soaking the excuse of underwear over your sex.

“Didn’t have such pretty view in D.C.,” he mused, gaze trailing over the thin fabric already shining with your arousal, trailing all over your body to your face, to your red lips painted just as you knew he loved them. “Never ceases to amaze me. Like a piece of art. So damn perfect… mine to touch.”

You didn’t have timefor body insecurities with Steve. Any imperfection you saw, it didn’t bother him; he’d kiss you everywhere, claiming and loving every piece of your body and soul and mind, as he hadn’t forgotten to mention when he proposed; and then followed up with proving the first part of his claim with intense but the softest damn loving.

The memory of him getting on one knee with a glimmer of tears in his eyes quickly dispersed when his maddeningly delicate touch finally brushed over your slit, your hips instinctively bucking forward; Steve instantly used the opportunity to spread his palms under your bottom, urging you closer and closer until the front of your thighs met the mattress, effectively caging him in, mouth not more than an inch from your mound. He smiled up at you wickedly, forefinger drawing nonsensical patterns over your clothed sex.

“Steve, love-“

You lost your voice when he guided your knee to prop on the mattress next to his head, a violent tug of desire gripping at your core at the implication of what he wanted – stirring as much want as insecurity and hesitance.

You voice was shaky as your gaze found his, the question on your lips so quiet he might miss it hadn’t it been for his enhanced hearing.

“Steve, are you… sure?”

One glance into his eyes told you was more than that.

And the mere thought of him doing what he was leading you towards felt like molten lava poured into your veins, nothing but smouldering heat left behind.

You had never done that. Not with him, not with anyone else.

It was true that Steve could get rather intense when it came to love making – or shameless fucking – but he always drew significant amount of his pleasure from your own. Your husband was but a giver, even as he always coaxed you to give it to him. He had sure been far from shy or prudish in the privacy of your quarters – or in certain cases no one must ever learn about, elsewhere – and he enjoyed all kinds of things, his mouth on you among them. You had explored together, dived into depths of pleasure you hadn’t thought were possible. But you hadn’t---not like this.

Not with you basically on top of his goddamn face.

“Are you?” he asked, pressing a brief kiss to the juncture of your thighs, looking at you from under his eyelashes with a challenge and a plea.

In your exploration, he had pushed your limits; but never you. He’d never do anything that seemed even tad too uncomfortable for you. As of consequence, there was virtually nothing you wouldn’t let him do, because you trusted him to stop at the first sign of your protest.

Okay. Okay. The utter wanton in his eyes shining through the sincerity was melting your brain. No choice to make.

You nodded, rewarded by a satisfied smirk that would have earned anyone else a smack to their face. But with Steve, there was something dangerously alluring about that instead; that smirk meant paradise aligning with hell awaiting you, whispered of you soon begging him – to stop or to continue, you’d never quite know yourself.

“Well then, remember you promised to listen… and do.”

Little shit, was as far as you got in your thoughts.

Because then he was wrapping a firm arm around your leg on the bed and pushing your panties aside and after a few teasingly careful licks, he began his feast like a starved man seated at the royal table.

Your hands found purchase on his hair and the bed, knees nearly buckling under the assault of pleasure, burning through your body like a wildfire. The way his wicked tongue played with you had you gasping his name in need bordering on desperation, chest tight as you were forgetting to breathe, core clenching so soon you couldn’t quite believe it as the tidal wave of bliss washed over you, hips rocking in aftershocks, knees eventually giving out.

It was only for a split second that you worried you might smother Steve or splatter ungracefully on the floor; because Steve had you. He always had you. His supersoldier part undeniable, he caught you, manipulating your body so he could cradle you protectively as you came from your high and literal height, holding you against his chest as you straddled him with seemingly boneless legs.

You were hyperaware of every bit of praise spilling from your lips, whispered to your skin warmly, but you couldn’t form words.

Not until his lips found yours, meeting in a soft kiss spiced with the tang of your essence, the most intimate kiss between lovers. He pushed the hair from your face tenderly, eyes both hungry and soft as if you weren’t soaking his dress pants where your core met his evident arousal and you weren’t both panting as if you had just run a marathon. His hand caressed up and down your spine, over and over, as if to ground you in reality.

A peck to your cheek. To your mouth. Your lips coming back to life at least, pressing to his jaw, to his smile.

“Could stay like this forever,” he whispered, nose trailing along your cheek, leaving a kiss under your ear, drawing a breathless chuckle from you. “With you in my arms, your taste on my lips, head swimming from your sweet perfume and everything that’s you… my wonderful wife… “

Blinking owlishly, you met his gaze as he cradled your cheek, hair a beautiful messy hallo from where you had tried to hold on when he was devouring you. His lips found yours again, a gentle murmur.

“You’re my everything, you know that?”

You did. By god you did. It was impossible not to, even as that fact was but a pure stroke of a miracle. He was your everything too. Your alfa and your omega. Your weakness and your strength. Your love, unshakable foundation even on days when everything including his own hands did shake. Your home, whenever you’d go.

You ran your fingers through his golden locks, expression nothing short of tender, touch nothing short of reverent – as one should be when in face of a miracle.

“And you’re my home,” you whispered back.

Seconds ticked by in soft silence, pleasure still tingling all over your body, but it was the overwhelming love and need in Steve’s gaze that consumed you completely.

You didn’t dare to blink. You didn’t dare to breathe. You simply watched him living through a moment as precious to him as he was to you, electric tension rising and almost audibly crackling in the air.

And then he was gripping your nape, mouth claiming and devouring, one hand sliding under your bottom to lift you in a display of strength that never failed to make you dizzy and blinded you with desire unmatched despite having just come down from your high. You returned his kiss with the same fervour, hands grasping at his shirt, frantically searching for buttons to undo and then simply tugging hard until the thread gave out and sent the buttons flying, a nip of teeth to your lips accompanied with Steve’s dark chuckle like the sweetest song of victory.

He sat down at the bed with you still straddling him, helping you strip the shirt without your lips ever parting, his hands leaving you but for the fraction of second necessary to get rid of the fabric in your way and then you were both sighing in relief when your palms met the burning skin of his sculptured chest, his wide shoulders, his clenching abs.

“Need you,” you confessed as soon as you got to breathe in, back at his lips the very next second, Steve’s large palm kneading your bottom, hips thrusting into yours and eliciting a wanton moan from you both. “And I want you in my mouth-“

A delicious growl rumbled in is chest, fingers tangled in your hair pulling just a little, tipping your head back to give him access to leave a string of kisses down the column of your throat, the deliberately slow bucks of his hips into yours never ceasing.

“You’re a wicked little thing.”

You chuckled, a cheeky remark on your painfully free lips, the delightful friction between your bodies not nearly enough to sooth your thirst.

“You do say I’m wicked smart. Why this time?”

The nip of teeth on your collarbone and the way his fingers dug into your flesh had you barely stifle a gasp, but his answer was a reward for a work well-done.

“Goddamn you, woman, you know what you do to me, especially that lipstick-”

“I know what it does to you to see it smeared in certain places,” you breathed out, silenced by a bruising kiss to your lips and a light sting on the back of your thigh as Steve pulled at one of the strings of your garter and let it snap against your skin. Your wandering hands reached for his belt, almost tasting the salty tang of him already as you’d get on your knees for him.

“Wicked,” he grunted against your mouth, lifting his hips – with you still on top – to help you strip his pants, “I thought I was giving the orders tonight.”

“Oh you do, Captain,” you assured him, revelling a little too much at the twitch against your core as you blatantly used his title against him. “Just informing you I’m willing.”

“Driving me crazy. Want you to want me just as much, to need me-“

“I do. Need to taste you-”

“Jesus Christ-“ he choked out, releasing you so you could press one last thorough kiss to his mouth and then slide down to your knees, grateful for the soft carpet.

Ridding Steve of the last piece of clothing, you took great care to maintain eye-contact as you stroked him, feather-light, and licked at the tip. The breathy sound resembling your name that left his lips when you wrapped your lips around the head sent a jolt of heat down your spine, hot satisfaction pooling in your belly and making your heart thunder in your chest.

Nothing had ever made you feel more powerful and treasured than Steve looking at you with half-lidded eyes, groaning as you took him deeper and bobbed your head, closing your lips tight around him as you pulled back to smear as much of the sinful red colour down his cock, his hands gripping the sheets so hard the fabric might tear.

God, he was gorgeous; a wrecked angel-like figure made for worship and sin, they only deity you needed, sculpted to divine perfection.

His fingers tangled gently at your hair, only to twitch repeatedly as he was holding back the strength he wanted to use keep you right there, always making you want to swallow around him harder to make him lose that control; the curses, the deliciously prolonged fuuuck tasting like a victory, the fuck-- sweetheart, you feel like heaven a blessing that stirred pure lust deep within your core.

He was done for almost too soon; a little work, a hint of a sinful smile in the corner of your lips as you watched him lose layer after layer of control to reveal the primal drive that made him just as human as any. Once your hands joining your efforts, he was spilling down your throat, eyes squeezed shut in an image of absolute heavenly ruin.

You waited for him to flutter his eyes open; not having even gone soft in your mouth, you dragged your lips down his length to leave the last red and glossy mark, the string of blasphemy leaving his mouth telling you he didn’t give a damn thing about your tear-smeared mascara but cared a whole lot about the prettily ruined lipstick. When you licked your lips as if he had just given you your favourite treat, he practically dragged you back to his lap, seemingly torn between proposing all over again and lamenting you were going to be his death.

Yet, he kissed you tenderly like a precious porcelain doll and reached for the wet wipe in the nightstand drawer to gently clean the black smears down your cheek. The smudged lipstick he indulgently wiped with his thumb before his mouth slanted over yours again, the thrumming passion between you growing louder again; you were dripping down your thighs from the appreciative gaze and the taste of him alone and Steve was rarely ever sated with climaxing just once. Especially after a week apart.

With his most acute hunger sated, however, he took time to admire the view again, even with your shoes finally discarded, indulging in the delicate lace instead, in the warmth of your body, in your perfume and the scent of your skin. His voice dropped low in volume, intimate whispers of how he wanted to see you take him deep and make you his, fingers gently stretching you to accommodate his impressive size before he led you to sink down on his length at last, filling you up so deliciously and completely.

With bodies stilled, the time seemed to slow down too. Eyes blown wide and dark, but with a sweet curl to your lips as you tasted each other over and over again, you both revelled in the sensation of being connected; brushes of fingertips, kisses to your lips, to your neck, to your sternum and breasts; to his chest, to his shoulders, to his kiss-swollen lips, wherever you could reach.

“I missed you, sweetheart,” he confessed between encounters of lips, the softest voice with a husky aftertaste. “Missed this. Never going to another conference again.”

You almost chuckled at the unrealistic prospect, touched all the same.

“Missed you more… might go to a conference every once in a while. For science.”

Steve grunted in protest, palms framing your face as he observed with a slightly amused pout to his kiss-swollen lips.

“Hm. Sounds like your argument contradicts your hypothesis there, Doc.”

This time, you did chuckle a bit, raising an eyebrow even as you caressed his cheek, index finger tapping the pouty lower lip. “Well sue me, I’m a little dazed. I’m allowed. I finally have you for myself after a week, Steve.”

He caught your hand, pressing a kiss to the pad of your finger, something devilish flashing in his eyes.

“That you do. I’m all yours. My smart, beautiful wife…” he coaxed with a kiss, hand landing lightly on your waist, hips thrusting up to encourage you to roll yours. There was no need to do so twice. You rocked your pelvis, jaw falling slack at the delightful sensation. A single movement and pleasure was spreading to every nerve ending, coil in your belly forming; Steve responded in kind, urging you on to keep going and set a pace.

“So good to me, sweetheart… so precious.”

“That’s it. So damn gorgeous like that--- look at me, love.”

“Making me feel so good… love having you like this. Never gonna get enough of this, of you…”

Golden. You felt so damn golden under his touch, from inside out, caressed with every single appreciative word spilling from his lips so naturally.

God, you had needed that. You needed that more than you had realized, having pushed down all the unpleasant interactions that had piled up during the week, interactions that made you feel everything but good, precious, brilliant or gorgeous. With every word, Steve poured his faith and love into the cracks in your being and healed them, silencing every doubt, grounding you so profoundly in the pleasure you shared that every single cell in your body ignited with something divine. The coil in your belly was strung so tight you almost felt yourself falling, if you’d only--- if he’d-

“Steve, please, I need-“

“I know what you need, love. I’ve got you.”

Your climax erupted through your body with Steve’s mouth wrapped around your nipple, his dextrous fingers digging into your ass and playing with your clit.

He found his release as he kneeled behind you and caged you to his front, one hand around your throat to angle your head for a sloppy kiss, the other spread wide over your lower belly, sneaky fingertips having coaxed another Earth-shattering orgasm from you.

Somewhere along the way, your lacy attire had ended up in shreds where Steve pulled a little too hard; the remnants of garter belt and stockings were carefully stripped by Steve’s tender fingers as he cleaned you up with a warm cloth before covering you with several kisses and only then with the comforter.

He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you to his side and simply holding you as close as humanly possible, living and revelling in the moment just until his stomach growled.

After a semi-serious joke about taking you as a dessert for the second time, you lazily ordered take-out for three since you had worked up an appetite, moving to the couch. A movie in the background, Steve shared some of the highlights and escapades of the past few days from the conference and DC – as much as he could anyway. In return, you shared your own – as much as you could anyway. When in each other’s embrace, the trouble seemed far away; and what had felt like a path to the next Armageddon suddenly appeared considerably more manageable.

You were practically asleep, half-sprawled over Steve’s chest, when he pressed another kiss to your scalp, this time lingering.

“I love you… and thank you. That truly was a nice welcome home,” he said, bringing a ghost of a tired smile to your lips.

“It’s our home, Steve… You should always feel welcome. Loved.”

“And I do. Coming home to you is the most precious thing,” he mused, caressing your hair when you snuggled impossibly closer to him, inhaling the comforting scent of all that was him. “But you walking the extra mile… that truly makes me the luckiest guy in the universe.”

You hummed, his words warming you more thoroughly than his body and the blanket combined. You pressed a kiss to his sternum over his sleepshirt.

“And I’m the luckiest woman. I love you, Steeeve… I’m sorry-”

His chest shook under your cheek softly as your confession turned into a yawn, but he took it as a sign. He half-carried you to the bathroom and carried you entirely by the time you were done with your nighttime routine.

You murmured another love you, sleep well as you laid your head on the pillow, cradled in Steve’s protective embrace, his words reaching your ears from a terrible, terrible distance, but tasted just as sweet as ever.

“I will, love. I most definitely will.”

Complete masterlist

Steve Rogers masterlist

Aren't they just sweet? 🥺 Happy belated birthday, Stevie 💕 I hope you enjoyed - feedback is always welcomed💕

Prompts, as promised:

Pouncing on your partner as soon as they arrive home from a trip away

“My favourite thing in the world is being here with you.”

Kinks: praise, soft!dom, oral

Now if you'll excuse me, I'll go bath in holy water and pray to my muse that she'll let me write longfic too 🤭

#fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers x you #steve rogers #captain america #captain america x you #captain america x reader #captain america imagine #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #sweet and ours tonight #anika ann

662 notes · View notes

gureumz · 2 years ago

Text

wide open

rating: explicit

member: heeseung

premise: forced to marry a dictator king of a nearby kingdom, you're advised to shut up and take whatever king heeseung gives you and give him everything you have in return. in truth, you'd rather kill yourself than be married to this monster, but he has a way of changing people's minds

notes: fem!reader, dom!heeseung, royalty au, very slight angst, marriage of convenience/forced marriage, hate-ish sex, breeding, mentions of impregnation, use of pet names, unprotected sex, strangers to sort-of-lovers, mentions and descriptions of death and injury, lmk if i missed anything!

a/n: sixth and final entry for my 1k follower special! this is the end for my two-month 1k event! i'm so thankful for the love this received and i'm excited to start my new series/anthology! i can't wait to write your other requests as well and bring you more stories you can enjoy!

it's making your stomach churn.

the way your father looks at you right now, as if he's sorry but not really. apologetic only because shouting in delight would hardly seem appropriate at a time like this.

you can practically see the sparkle in the East king's eyes.

"the decree says so," your father says with a sigh like he regrets to inform you of such news. you bite down on your tongue to keep yourself from flinging the pewter cup filled with wine in front of you at him.

"the decree can say one thing but we can do exactly the opposite of it," you challenge, balling your fists in your lap. your father turns to you sharply.

"and then what, my love?" your father coos condescendingly. "race to see which one of our heads rolls off the gallows first when the new king of the West chops them off?"

you stare at your father, clad in his deep velvet garb, the lines on his forehead pronounced in the flickering firelight in his solar. you feel your whole face stiffen as you stare back at the spitting image of yourself, the exact source of the flame raging within you. you love your father and you know him. know him enough that it's no use arguing with him now. he would fling whatever words you had right back at you with double the force.

"you're lucky he didn't snatch you in the dead of night once he proclaimed victory," your father presses on. "you're lucky he's being diplomatic about it, issuing decrees so that all the four kingdoms are bonded legally to his whims."

"it hardly feels lucky being the sole maiden of royal blood fit enough to wed him," you spit back, turning away.

you hear your father lets out a breath and you can feel him walk away towards the large window that adorns the north side of his solar. you watch as he gazes out the glass panes, his back to you.

"he's a strapping young man, a talented general as he's proven, and truly the royal seed of his father before him," your father says, something unfamiliar in his voice. he turns back to you and you see, for the first time, the fear in his eyes.

"he turned on his own father, just as his father did with his father, took over that poor dead man's kingdom, and waged a war against his neighbors."

your father's voice trembles now.

"refusal would not only mean death, my rose," your father points out quietly, slipping in the endearment he so often used with you since you were a child.

"he would make sure you wished you were dead," he warns.

you swallow, letting his words sink in.

you think back on the past year, the months of hiding, the weeks spent banged up in the highest tower of your castle, the days of weeping as you waited for your father to come back, the minutes of terror as you were told the West king had emerged triumphant.

the second you saw your father, the Almighty Blessed King of the East, staggering through the palace gates, bloodied and broken.

that wretched tyrant from the West almost took your father away from you. giving yourself to him willingly hardly seems like the right move. but not doing so would mean a fate worse than death.

"is he really that terrible?" you ask, almost in a whisper.

your father walks up to where you're seated at his dining table. he reaches down and takes your hands in his calloused, war-scarred ones.

"i couldn't give you an answer to that if i tried," he explains. "i surrendered before i could get the chance to meet him."

"then how are you so ready to give away your only daughter, your only reminder of the woman you loved?" you implore, looking desperately into your father's eyes.

he shakes his head.

"this is how i want to remember you before you're whisked away into that cruel man's arms," your father says tenderly, tucking your hair behind your ear.

"feisty, with the zeal only your mother could pass on to you."

your eyes sting with tears at hearing your father mention his late queen.

your own mother feels like someone from a dream to you. she was there one moment and gone the next. much like yourself.

you let yourself cry silently, rising to let your father hold you in his arms.

---

the trip from the East to the West typically took a little over two weeks if no hiccups are encountered along the way. but you realized, merely two days in, that this whole marriage was cursed from the beginning.

it's as if the whole world conspired against this union, and you would have been grateful for it, but after days of running into problems (thieves and hunters and sudden thunderstorms and a pack of wild boars), the only thing you wanted was to be sheltered inside a warm castle room with a cup of spiced wine on your bedside.

so unbridled was your happiness when you heard a sudden shout from outside your carriage announcing your arrival at the gates of the West Kingdom castle. your two ladies-in-waiting riding with you had equally relieved faces, your hands immediately reaching out to grasp theirs.

"we're here, your grace," the younger of the two, yuna, whispers excitedly.

olivia, the older and more cynical one, swats at yuna's arm.

"don't sound so happy," olivia berates. "this is a dictator's castle we're entering."

yuna shrinks back in her seat and you reach over to clasp her hand reassuringly.

"i'm the only one fit enough to marry him," you remind. "he should know better than to lay a single finger on me."

olivia eyes you worriedly while yuna nods in agreement.

"i'll be alright," you say. whether it's to them or to yourself, you're not entirely sure.

the entirety of your royal party comes to a halt after what you felt was an hour's worth of treading on a steep incline and only then do you allow yourself to peek through the curtains of your carriage.

you gasp as you see the fog all around. you're aware that the West was the mountainous region of the four kingdoms but seeing the clouds form beneath the castle grounds made your stomach twist uncomfortably.

"let's hope he doesn't throw me down the ravine," you mutter quietly. olivia and yuna exchange looks before giggling quietly.

you alight from your carriage a few more minutes later, the sudden light nearly blinding you. the sun is covered in dark clouds but the lack of any greenery to shield your field of view has you squinting to see in front of you.

"good morrow, your grace," a voice greets. you turn and see a smartly-dressed man approach, bowing deeply. he's adorned in the West king's court colors and it's then you notice the pin affixed on his chest.

"i'm lord jake, the royal chamberlain," he adds, taking your hand and pressing his lips to your skin. he straightens up and gestures behind him.

your eyes follow where he's pointing and you see a grand staircase leading up to the heavy wooden doors at the entrance to the castle.

"let me assist you to the throne room," jake offers, holding out his arm to you. you take it, fixing a firm grip on his bicep.

"the king is waiting," he adds.

---

you let yourself be pulled through the towering hallways, resisting the urge to gape at the lavishly adorned walls. portraits of Western monarchs, legendary shields and swords owned by said monarchs, heavy purple drapery. jake seems to understand, walking at a pace that hardly indicates that you're in any rush.

you turn behind you to see olivia and yuna following dutifully, your other ladies and servants following close behind, flanked by guards both from your party and from the West King's.

you turn back ahead of you, catching sight of the heavy doors to what you can only guess is the throne room.

"if i may speak freely, your grace." jake turns to you slightly. you return his gaze and nod.

"of course," you say.

"you need not be nervous," jake reassures. "i know of the tales you might have heard about our king. but i've been a companion of his since we were boys. he does not hurt those who are not deserving to be hurt."

you remain silent for a few seconds as you continue to approach the throne room. after a while, you respond to jake.

"i appreciate the words of comfort, my lord," you begin. "but what indication do you have that i'm nervous?"

jake smiles warmly at you just as you reach the doors.

"you've been squeezing my arm since you've arrived, your grace," jake points out.

a pause. your face breaks out into a smile and jake mirrors your expression, both of you allowing yourselves a moment to laugh.

the guards by the throne room doors heave them open and you stand, stiff but adorning your face with a look of resolve. jake pulls his arm away and steps in front of you. just as the doors fully open, jake bows to the throne and then to you.

"my most revered King of the West, this is Princess _________ of the East and her royal household," jake announces in a booming voice that startles you slightly.

"princess," jake continues, turning to you once more.

"i present to you, the Most Royal King of the West, King Heeseung,."

---

everything was a blur after that.

you do, however, remember the silver shock of hair atop the king's head. the deep purple of his doublet. the tight black breeches and black boots laced up around his ankles.

you could see King Heeseung's lips remain unmoving as you curtsied deeply in front of him. you remember the feeling of fear, humiliation, and embarrassment at having to bow in front of a cruel tyrant.

you remember the hint of a smile grace his mouth as you straighten up. you remember the sweat gathering on your palms.

you remember muffled words being exchanged between the king and jake. you couldn't make out what they were saying with the blood rushing in your ears. you remember curtsying one more time before jake takes your hand and leads you and your people out of the throne room.

now, hours later, seated in front of a mirror in an airy room somewhere on the north wing of the castle, you remember to breathe, letting out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

"your grace, are you alright?" olivia asks from behind you, her hand pausing mid-brush as she gathers your hair in her other hand.

you meet her eyes through the mirror and nod.

"yes," you answer. "just a little...tired."

"i would assume so," yuna speaks up from the other side of the room, her slender figure bent over the numerous chests containing your belongings.

"i asked and it turns out we traveled close to a month," yuna rambles. "a month! who takes a month to get from the East to the West?"

you smile at yuna's shrill voice, a comfort from the eerie silence that seems to surround the castle.

"how are you two liking it here so far?" you ask, addressing your two ladies. a palpable pause comes over the room as you wait for their response.

"it's...alright," olivia begins. "better than i expected. i pictured brutes and barbarians to litter the halls but that's a misjudgment on my part, your grace."

"everyone seems kind enough," yuna chimes in. "the king barely said a word so i'm not sure how to feel about him yet."

"better to hold your tongue when speaking of the King of the West, child," you lightly berate. "we don't know who's listening."

olivia and yuna both nod in understanding.

a knock from the door to your room interrupts your discussion.

"come in," you call out. you turn to see another one of your ladies poke their head in before straightening up and bowing.

"your grace," jen, a sprightly lady-in-waiting of yours addresses you.

"i've been informed that the king asks for your presence in his study," jen relays, hands folded in front of her.

time seems to stop as you hear these words. you feel olivia grip your shoulder and you hear a clatter of something as yuna drops it. jen avoids your eyes as the four of you soak in her words.

"well," you say after a moment. "i better make haste, then.

you meet olivia's eyes through the mirror once more and she smiles encouragingly.

---

you ask jen to accompany you this time to give olivia and yuna time for their own personal needs. jen readily agreed, not more than five paces behind you as you make your way to where you were told the king's study is.

the castle is bathed in late afternoon light, a gentle breeze fluttering through the hallways. hardly any noise can be heard save for the occasional footsteps of servants and soft chatter from some of the rooms. your heart hammering against your chest is the only thing that fills your ears constantly.

"this is it, right?" you turn to ask jen. she nods as you two stop in front of an intricately carved door with a heavy golden stag knocker.

"you may take your leave," you tell jen.

"your grace?" jen asks, voice meek. "should i not wait for you out here?"

you shake your head. "i have a feeling neither of us knows how long the king will keep me in there."

jen opens her mouth as if to say something more but she stops, sighing. she nods and bows to you before starting down the hallway.

you turn away from jen's disappearing form, hand grasping at the stag knocker. you pound the heavy metal against the door three times before stepping back, waiting to be let in.

"enter," comes a voice from inside.

you swallow, reaching for the door handle. you give it a turn, the door easily swinging inward. you step through the gap, pressing your lips in a thin line as you anticipate what you might see.

the study is a respectable size, with bookcases adorning nearly every wall. a fireplace crackles with flames at the far left end of the room and a large desk rests in the middle of it all.

hunched over a stack of parchment is King Heeseung himself, a quill twirling lazily between his fingers.

your eyes meet and the king straightens in his seat.

"your grace—"

you pause, having both said the same thing at the same time. to your surprise, King Heeseung offers a smile. not knowing what else to do, you force an uneasy smile back.

"sit with me, my lady," he says, motioning to the chair in front of his desk. you gather your skirts and perch yourself at the very edge of the seat.

no one speaks for what feels like an eternity. the king has paused in his perusing of the parchment in front of him and you've busied yourself with staring at your hands resting on your lap.

"there will be a welcome banquet tonight," King Heeseung's voice cuts through the silence.

"to celebrate your arrival," he continues.

you dip your head low.

"you have my gratitude, your grace," you say mechanically.

King Heeseung clears his throat. "i also arranged for the wedding feast to take place a week from now."

you allow yourself to gaze upon the King of the West, your eyebrows pinching together.

the king sees your expression and pauses.

"but if you wish to either hasten or push back the ceremony, then i'll take it into consideration," King Heeseung hurriedly adds, his sharp eyes rounding into a softer form.

you realize that sitting here, eye level with the king, that he's merely a man like any other. a man who smiles and startles and laughs.

your mind flashes back to your father's beaten and bruised face. your expression falls.

"no, your grace. a week from now is fine," you concede.

a long stretch of silence follows. you avert your eyes to the window to your right, gazing at the vibrant sky painted in the colors of the sunset.

"heeseung," comes the king's voice. you turn to him, a questioning look on your face.

"you can call me heeseung," he clarifies.

your face must have been of utter confusion because the king smiles again.

"we are to be wed, are we not? i would assume that you'd prefer a much more relaxed method of addressing each other." heeseung leans back in his plush seat, awaiting a response.

"of course," you agree. "and you may address me however you wish."

"my betrothed."

the two words roll smoothly off heeseung's tongue and a strange tug pulls at your chest. you nod silently as if to grant permission.

heeseung clears his throat again, pushing himself off his chair. you rise as well but you make no move to look at his face.

you see from the corner of your eye his hand reaching out to you.

"come. the banquet should be starting soon."

you shakily place your hand in his and he gently wraps his fingers around yours.

"after you, my dear betrothed," he says, motioning towards the door.

---

it turns out, a week flies by extremely fast.

you've managed to meet all of the people of importance in heeseung's court in that time, memorizing names and faces and feasting with a number of them.

heeseung hovers around, greeting you as you go about your day but ultimately keeping his distance. you wonder if you should be doing more to prepare for your wedding but you don't dare question any of heeseung's or his council's plans.

in a blink of an eye, the week is over and you're standing in the throne room, draped in your finest garments, practically glittering from head to toe with the jewelry you've brought from home.

heeseung stands tall and regal beside you, his hair perfectly done and his royal regalia adorning his broad frame. strangely enough, his face is what you anchor on for most of the ceremony—a blur of vows and prayers and oaths and finally, a restrained brush of lips to make things official.

the feast may as well have not happened with how blurry your memory of it is. you sat at the high table, watching the festivities but not really seeing anything.

that is, until a particular loud courtier knocks over a chair, bringing down plates and utensils as collateral damage in his drunken state. the noise jars you for a moment but heeseung lays a warm hand on yours to steady you.

and now, sitting on the edge of your bed, stripped down to your undergarments by your reluctant ladies, you shiver at the thought of what your wedding night may bring.

you've heard stories from your ladies and you've been taught enough by the tutors you've had over the years. but to lay with a man such as heeseung, it chills you down to the bone. would he hurt you? would he demand things from you? perhaps kill you?

you shake your head. it would do no good for him to kill you now. you're both in dire need of heirs for your respective domains, him especially now that he's deposited himself as the supreme ruler of all the kingdoms in your land. and even without taking children into consideration, would he really drive in his image as a tyrant? slaying his wife on their wedding night?

your thoughts are dissolved when you hear a knock come from the door. a second later, heeseung walks in, his cape and gloves amiss, and so are the tightly-laced hunting boots, leaving him in his doublet and breeches, wool boots covering his feet.

he almost looks...nervous.

"my b—"

heeseung pauses, taking in a sharp breath.

"my wife."

your head spins as heeseung says these words. you can physically feel the color draining from your face. when heeseung says it like that, it makes it more real, your fate looming over you like an impregnable fortress caging you in.

"yes, your grace?" you respond, trying to sound composed amidst your anxiety.

heeseung studies you for a second before sighing. he tugs his boots off, undoing his doublet right after. he shrugs the garment off, leaving him bare from the waist up. you gasp softly, abruptly turning away.

"you need not address me like that, remember?" heeseung reminds, trudging carefully before coming to a stop in front of you.

he reaches a hand out, attempting to hold a side of your face but you flinch, your whole body lurching at the feeling of his skin against yours.

your heart pounds as you quickly realize the fault in what you just did. you peer up at heeseung, eyes shaking with fear.

you expected anger, annoyance, or even confusion.

but all you see is a pair of despondent eyes looking down at you.

"why are you afraid? why do you fear me?" heeseung asks, voice quiet, defeated.

your insides churn as you try to find the right words. in a moment, the whole ordeal comes crashing down on you, the day's events flashing in your mind, a reminder that this is your life now. you're married to a dictator for the rest of your days.

"shouldn't i be?" you reply, voice stony. "i'd be a fool to not be scared of someone who murdered their own father and waged a war against the entire world."

heeseung remains silent. he heaves a sigh, turning away from you.

"it seems as if it was a mistake to ask for your hand in marriage," heeseung says.

a flicker sparks inside you.

"you didn't ask!" you cry out, voice accusatory. you stand, pulling yourself to your full height. this outrage has sprung from nowhere, seized you fully, summoning all the anger within you.

"you commanded me here, you took me away from my family, my home! i came all the way here to marry an evil man and he suddenly decides that marrying me was a mistake?"

"i gave up everything i had to fulfill a duty i was called to, that you called me to," you continue, placing yourself right in front of heeseung.

"i need you to prove to me that all this is worth it. that i did not come here to be some poor slave to a tyrant! show me and prove me wrong that you're not just some monster that nearly killed my father!"

you feel the air knocked out of you as a pair of lips press against your own. you cry out in surprise but something snaps within you, the final branch needed to let the fire catch and spread.

heeseung is kissing you and you're kissing him, your hands clawing at any part of him you could reach. his own fingers tug at your chemise, pulling it down your shoulders until it slips off your body completely.

"you're sick, forcing yourself on your wife like this," you pant against heeseung's mouth. he undoes his breeches, letting them fall.

"my wife is free to leave if she pleases," heeseung retaliates, kicking off the last of his clothes.

both of you are stark naked now.

you stand there, breathing heavily as you look into each other's eyes.

"your wife will not leave until you've bedded her and put an heir in her womb," you seethe. "that's all she came here for, after all."

heeseung grunts lowly, attacking your lips once more. he shoves you down on the bed, caging you in easily with his firm body. he runs his hands up and down your sides, squeezing and fondling at every piece of flesh he can dig his fingers into. you moan and squirm under his touch, an ache growing between your legs.

"you'll give me as many heirs as i wish," heeseung says as he kisses his way down to your neck. he suckles on a spot just beneath your jaw and the sound of defiance that you originally wanted to let out is caught in your throat.

"of course, so they can usurp you when it's your time," you say through your teeth.

heeseung says nothing, only looks at you, his face pulled down in an angry frown.

"listen here, darling," heeseung commands, voice dipping even lower. he pulls you by your thighs to the edge of the bed, pushing your legs open.

he glances down and you stare at his face as it turns into a look of intrigue, his eyes transfixed on your core.

you're soaking wet, clenching around nothing as your husband continues to survey what's between your legs. he looks back up at you, a hand reaching over to grasp your jaw in one large hand.

"my father was a madman and so was his father before him," heeseung begins and you feel something prod at your entrance. you gasp as half of him is pushed in with a single swivel of heeseung's hips.

"maybe i'll turn out to be one too, but right now, all i did was clean up the mess he made," heeseung continues, fully burying himself inside you. your legs tremble at the painful stretch and all you want is to hide your face away in the sheets but heeseung's firm grip on your face won't let you.

"he started this war," heeseung says accusingly. he draws back, allowing you momentary relief before thrusting back in, a half cry, half moan escaping you.

"yeah, my sweet?" heeseung pauses to address you momentarily, his eyes dark and evidently hungry.

"feel good?"

he doesn't wait for an answer as he lets go of your face in favor of holding your hips tightly between his hands. heeseung sets up a ruthless pace, mouth hanging open as he watches himself slide in and out of you.

you grit your teeth and refuse to look away yourself, gazing upon the face of what might be another in a line of mad kings. your husband, half of who you are now, half of what your children will be.

the thought sickens you to your stomach.

but the delicious fill of his cock deep in you has you quivering with want, breathless with desire. if this is how good it feels to fuck a mad king, then maybe you are the perfect maiden to wed him.

well, not so much a maiden now that he's buried in you to the hilt, one of his hands grabbing at your breast.

his words 'he started this war' echo in your brain, but a shift of heeseung's hips has your eyes rolling back in your head, that thought forgotten momentarily.

"come on my sweet, look at me," heeseung pleads gently. he leans down, nearly flattening his form over your own. he continues to fuck you, thursts shallow in this new position

you hook your own arms around heeseung's neck, meeting his eyes.

"you don't fear me, do you?" heeseung asks laboriously through heavy breaths. "you never did."

you withhold an answer, leaning in to press your lips roughly against heeseung's instead. he growls low in his chest, his hips moving even faster than they already were.

you keep your mouths together, tongues lapping over every expanse of each other. a shiver runs through you as you feel the friction against your core increase, turning rougher and rougher as heeseung seems to lose himself in you.

you pull away, running your fingers through the hair on the back of heeseung's head. you tighten your grip on the strands and heeseung hisses.

"no," you finally answer. "i'm not scared of you so fuck me like you mean it."

the world seems to give out from all around you as the last words escape you, your hips pinned down painfully against the bed. your legs quiver as you feel heeseung pound into you, faster, rougher, harder. you let a sob rip out of you, your whole body seizing as your release slams down on you.

heeseung looks at you and only you, eyes wide and ravenous.

you clench around heeseung and he collapses over you, hands braced on either side of your head, his face scrunched up in pleasure as you feel him throb deep in you. you feel his thick seed warm up your walls and you gasp softly, your body finally relaxing.

you lay there, weak and unmoving, as heeseung pulls out and rolls off you. he comes to rest on one side of you, his hair tickling your shoulder. without another word, heeseung pushes himself up and retrieves his discarded breeches off the floor.

your heart sinks as you think that he's about to leave. your throat tightens, the thought of being used just like that, despite being his wife, his queen, repulsing you so badly.

but heeseung doesn't walk out the door. he loosely strings up his breeches and walks over to the vanity on the other side of the room. you failed to notice when you came in the first time the bowl of water and washcloth resting beside it.

heeseung wets the cloth, wringing it momentarily before walking back over to you. you've propped yourself on your elbows now, watching his every move.

"sit up, my sweet," heeseung implores gently, seating himself beside you.

you oblige, wincing at the slight sting between your legs as you shift into a more comfortable position. heeseung starts with your face, smoothing over your cheeks with the cloth, the cooled water bringing out a sigh of relief.

he moves to wipe at your neck, then your chest. he peers down at you, laying a gentle hand on your thigh.

"let me clean down there too," heeseung says. you nod, feeling vulnerable under his watch. you part your sore thighs, letting heeseung swipe away at the stickiness.

heeseung finishes and returns the washcloth to the bowl. he picks your chemise up on the way back to you, placing it in your hands. you wordlessly stand, pulling the thin fabric over you, overtly aware of heeseung watching you from where he sits on the bed.

you turn back to him and he's gazing up at you, expression softer than all of the other times. he reaches a hand out shakily, as if hesitant, and you take it, stepping between his parted knees.

he places his hands on our lower back as if to cradle you. before you could stop yourself, you let your hand smooth back some of his silvery locks of hair.

"he—my father—sent those decrees of war out when he realized i was on to him," heeseung mumbles.

you nod gently, signaling him to go on.

"i found out he'd been plotting this war for years right under my nose. i was brought up to command my father's army but i never knew it was for this," he continues.

"i begged him to stop but you can't reason with someone mad," heeseung says, voice shaking.

looking at him now, eyes so doe-like and piercing straight through your own, you realize that underneath what you called a tyrant, he was just a boy willing his father to do right.

"i had to end it one way or another," heeseung continues, head bowing.

you pull him to you, cradling him against your chest. you feel heeseng's arms tighten around your torso.

"but by the time i had dealt the final blow, it was too late. the decrees were sent and i had no choice but to fight the war he left me with."

your chest constricts.

"why not just take the decrees back, admit surrender?" you ask quietly. heeseung looks up at you and you're struck by how handsome he looks when he's not acting like the king he is.

soft lips, the delicate turn of his nose, fluttering eyelashes.

"i was already a kinslayer and a kingslayer. i couldn't lose everything after that," heeseung whispers, brows pinched together as if begging you to believe him.

a flurry of emotions course through you. despite this, you smile apologetically.

you bend down slightly, placing a gentle kiss on heeseung's forehead.

"i don't fear you," you whisper against his skin. you feel him deflate beneath your touch.

"but there is so much more i need to understand about you, husband."

heeseung pulls away and nods. he takes your hands in his, kissing your knuckles.

"and i'll try my hardest to make you understand. i don't expect forgiveness, just your open heart and open eyes to see who i really am."

you afford yourself another smile. you lean down once more, kissing heeseung softly.

"they're wide open, my King."

#enhypen scenarios #enhypen smut #heeseung scenarios #heeseung smut #w: heeseung

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darsynia · 3 months ago

Note

Steve Rogers, Royalty AU (your call if modern/medieval/fantasy), kisses for a promise.

This got away from me, deliciously. Steve/Reader, Regency-style Royalty AU with a twist, 1,600 words.

MCU MASTERLIST | STEVE ROGERS | BUCKY BARNES

Before I loved you, love, nothing was my own. I wavered through the streets, among objects; Nothing mattered or had a name. The world was made of air, which waited. ~selection from Sonnet XXV, by Pablo Neruda

Before I Loved You

You can’t fathom how worried Steve has been, stuck in a whirlwind of official meetings, ceremonial rites, and fasting periods that limit both his social obligations and food intake. The two of you have been playing a long game, steering your ancient families toward this union with feigned reluctance and rebellion, and the uncertainty is almost over.

The Joining is minutes away.

Slumping your shoulders, you pretend to pick angrily at the embroidery on your lavish gown, puffing the delicate veil away from your face like a petulant child. As your king and guardian, your brother has taken great delight in putting you in the position to ‘punish’ his own overlord’s eldest son with the prospect of marrying his most recalcitrant sibling. Likewise, Steve has acted as though the wedding is a personal affront--all to manipulate your families into complacency.

The two of you had met by chance, finding a kinship in the desire for a more just judicial system and less social strata. The wider world has been innovating, yet the cluster of kingdoms on your isolated island have stayed in darkness. No more.

“It is time,” your brother sneers, wrenching you upright with a heavy hand on either of your shoulders. He starts moving, and you realize he’s shaming you, making it obvious to all attendees that you are here out of reluctance. With your face fully covered by multiple handcrafted layers of lace, you allow yourself to laugh, knowing it’ll shake your body in the same way that tears would.

Your brother’s pleased chuckle echoes in the cavernous cathedral space, but he’s too simpleminded to understand that you won’t be shamed by faces you can’t see. As it has been for the past two weeks of silence between you, your sole focus has been your future husband, the crown prince who is likely standing at rigid attention at the altar. Behind you, your simpering sisters are whispering to themselves about their own marriage prospects, each wearing a lighter veil and dressed similarly to you. The goal, it seems, is to imply that the crown prince may not be forced into marriage to you after all--after all, who wouldn't rather marry a doe-eyed simpleton instead of a mouthy bluestocking?

The utter foolishness of antagonizing one’s future overlord is completely lost on your brother--and you wouldn’t have it any other way. The only thing you wish you could have changed is the uncertainty Steve is wracked with right now.

You’re suddenly shoved forward, caught by a steady hand you’d recognize anywhere, despite the limited physical contact between you until this point.

“I’ve got you,” Steve whispers, and you catch your breath, nearly in tears. This good, decent son of a dying despot can’t know which sister he’s reassuring, but that hasn't stopped him. A fierce heat washes through you during the interminable vows that follow--you will protect this man in every way you can, up to and including razing your former homeland to the ground, if necessary.

Finally, the time comes to lift your veil and complete the ritual with a thumbprint of Sienna Flower. You don’t hold back the trembling anticipation that shakes your body, but you do cast your eyes down. This is the moment that could create diplomatic misery for your first weeks together if anyone realizes your deception, but nothing will unravel the Joining.

The little breath your husband lets out just before lifting your veil makes you ache for him, but his next actions shake you to your core. He lifts the veil and freezes still, the jitter of his hand translating to you through the filmy fabric. Steve growls a command to the Archbishop, crumpling the veil in his fist to pull you closer for a pollen-dusted thumb press that lands off-center on your forehead. Your headdress catches on the ceremonial metal of his jacket, tearing it from your head and giving you an unobstructed view of Prince Steven’s furious exit from the cathedral.

The resulting silence is broken by the sound of clapping.

It is your brother.

The spoiled princess persona serves you very well through the resulting mess. All you need do is act like the world will end if anyone so much as speaks to you.

It is three long hours of ruthlessly suppressed glee before you’re alone again. You’d miscalculated the level of dedication your princely husband would have for his role, but you also know that he’ll be worried about your mental state, given the way he rejected you in front of that many dignitaries. It’s with a strong need to reassure him that you step into your new apartments, finally dressed in clothes that make you feel like a person instead of a figurehead. You’re almost in tears at the thought of his guilt, which helps serve your tearful encore performance--telling the palace staff they’ll won't be needed this night.

You slam the door behind the meek-looking maid who was supposed to help you prepare for bed, partially to ensure she’ll stay away, and partially to warn Steve that you’ve arrived.

There’s nothing like the feeling of triumph that comes from hearing a similar sound echoing through the warren of rooms ahead of you. It’s gentler, but so is Steve. You force yourself to take measured steps as you search for the source of the sound, passing the shadowed shapes of furniture and sculptures, followed by the painted eyes of countless portraits, until at last you reach the welcoming spill of bright light through a half-opened door.

Steve slammed it for appearances, then opened it right back up for you.

Your heart is burning through your chest as you quietly step into the room. Steve has his palms flat on his desk, head down, the metaphorical weight of the entire kingdom bowing his back.

You whisper his name and he turns, relief briefly replacing the exhaustion on his face. Rushing over, you hesitate just slightly, the learned behavior of false aversion still strong. Steve simply holds out both hands, and you place yours in them.

“You were magnificent,” he whispers.

“Don’t sell yourself short, your highness,” you grin, lifting your chin and making full eye contact with him for the first time as wife, rather than conspirator. “Before you ask, you didn’t hurt my hair or my pride, but no one in the room needed to know that.”

Steve squeezes your hands. “I--I think I’m glad I didn’t see the aftermath. I would have called on a royal escort to demand proof from your brother that you were unharmed. Even though it was my fault.” His lips twitch with amusement, and you’re captivated.

“There will still be quite a lot of deception ahead of us,” you warn. The prospect is so much easier to face now that you know what it feels like to smile with Steve.

“There’s one deception that we can dispense with forever, if only in private for now,” he says gruffly, lifting both of your hands up to kiss each in turn. “I have never been so happy, and never in all of history has a promise been kept with greater joy and hope for the future.” As he speaks, Steve pulls you toward him with a steady, loving determination, sliding a possessive hand to your back at the word ‘hope.’ You arch up and touch your lips to his as soon as he finishes, dizzy with the newness of permission.

The kiss is revolutionary, destructive. The respectful, careful prince you’ve corresponded with in secret for months is a firebrand, taking you apart with each swipe of his tongue and grip of his strong hands. You’re being remade as someone braver, more beautiful even, as reflected in his eyes and by the way he’s touching you. You press as close as you can, anchoring yourself with a hand buried in his hair, another seeking the bare skin of his back where his shirt lifts from his waistband.

The shrill tone of a ringing bell tears the two of you apart. Brows furrowed, Steve stalks to the small door that provides crude communication between floors, spitting out a brisk ‘what?’

“Forgive me, highness. Your honored wife has dismissed her maid. I humbly ask if you wish for us to disrupt you long enough to prepare two sleeping spaces?”

“My princess shall gladly endure the duty of sharing my bed. Do not disturb us again,” Steve grits out, slamming the door shut. He turns toward you, and you watch, fascinated, as his demeanor shifts from rigidly furious prince to solicitous husband. The only common element between the two is an abiding tiredness you dearly wish to lift.

“It’s not a lie, your highness,” you point out.

Steve lets out a breath, and the last vestiges of the horrid facade he’s been forced to wear through much of his life seep away. You’ve done this, and you’ll do it again every night as long as you live, Gods’ willing.

Your husband holds out a hand and angles his head toward a closed door just a few steps away. You walk toward him, approximating the regal, joy-fueled walk you should have been able to offer him at the Joining. When you place your hand in his, the happiness you feel is strong enough to change the world.

The two of you agreed to rebuild the nation, and in so doing, revitalize the league of kingdoms into something more just, more prepared for the coming century. You’d never expected to find this much joy in the process--and it’s only day one.

Would you like to see more of these two? Let me know!

#steve rogers x reader #captain america x reader #steve rogers x you #captain america x you #romance #royalty au #regency era #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #steve rogers #steve rogers fanfiction #captain america fanfiction

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starlightsearches · 1 month ago

Text

Just a Matter of Time

Armitage Hux x wife! reader

AN: We've got even more marriage AU, my friends!! We're going a bit out of order now—I'm working on a different piece about Hux's first time with his wife, but it's giving me a little bit of trouble. I wrote this one for funsies because I'm obsessed with the idea of these two exploring sex and intimacy together. Let me know what you think, please! Comments, likes and reblogs are my favorites!!

Warnings: 18+ only (no minors), piv sex, unprotected sex (raw. next question), brief discussion of protection, partially-clothed sex, pulling out, cum, semi-public sex, titty sucking, language, and I think that's it. Let me know if I missed anything!

Armitage checks his reflection in the gleaming surface of a tie fighter and cringes internally. Just as he suspected. The shame is clear on his face.

Luckily there’s not many around to see it. It’s late in the night cycle, and this hangar receives less traffic than the others—usually reserved for small ships on diplomatic missions, or officers choosing to take their leave planet-side.

That’s why Armitage is here now.

Hux can’t imagine what would possess someone to willingly attend any of those noxious nightclubs on Canto Bight, and yet you had been endlessly thrilled when you received the invitation from a group of officers you had tentatively befriended. The prospect was exciting to you, and, regardless of his own opinions, Armitage was grateful for anything that allowed him to bask in the warmth of your delight.

Even if the thought of your going had his stomach tied in knots.

You had spent the evening getting ready, and Armitage had hung around in your shared quarters, making poor attempts to look busy: tapping away stupidly on his data pad as you rushed from your closet to the refresher, slipping in and out of every pair of shoes you own, covering yourself with glitters and fine-smelling perfumes.

He should have expected it, of course. The dresses you wear daily, while beautiful and elegant, would look out of place where you were going. And still, his heart had stuttered in his chest at the sight of so much skin—your legs stretching long from the hem of a very short skirt, hugging tight to the curve of your hips, the neckline that dipped low over the center of your breasts, held up by the flimsiest of straps.

Oh, fuck.

“How do I look?” you had asked, and it was clear to Armitage that you were in need of reassurance, shifting from foot to foot, fingers twisting together.

His dry-mouthed response to your question had left much to be desired, and yet you had hardly noticed, so preoccupied with your own nerves that you couldn’t see the ways your husband had lost himself—about to drop to his knees in desperation and bury his face against your thighs.

Armitage caught you by the arm, instead, your skin bare and warm beneath his hand. Despite all the ways he’s held and felt you, touching you like this—so casually—still had his heart beating at a strenuous pace.

“Per- perhaps,”Armitage had stuttered out the word, and regretted it, starting again, “perhaps I should accompany you, as well.”

That had made you laugh, which at least made his idiocy worth it. Your nose had wrinkled pleasantly, your feet carrying you a step closer, bringing him nearer to the magnetic field of you as you looked up at him with soft eyes.

“Why?”

A fair question—and one Armitage had no answer for. It would cause all kinds of discomfort and embarrassment, and yet the need was there, the desire. Armitage wanted to be there with you, not only so he could deal with anyone who glanced in your direction with less-than-chaste intentions, but so they could see him beside you. Could watch the way you wanted him, reached for him over anyone else.

“For your . . . protection.”

You had rolled your eyes, pressing your fingers playfully against his chest. “It’s not an active war zone, general. Besides, Phasma will be there.”

Ah, yes. That had been his one concession, although he never mentioned it to you, letting her presence on your little excursion appear as natural as possible. Phasma would certainly keep you safe, and his reasonable ground was slipping. If it had continued, he would have ended up begging you to stay with him with the hopes you might call him general like that again.

And now he’s puttering around an empty hangar, making more work for himself and waiting for your return like a love-sick pup.

Armitage’s patience, or desperation, is rewarded, though. His mental pacing is interrupted before too long by the whir of an approaching ship.

He watches the landing from a distance, straightening his posture and keeping his brow stern as the others unload from the transport, waiting for you to emerge.

His eyes catch on a glimmer of rich fabric, and a breath punches from his lungs when he sees the rest of you—a little more disheveled from the journey, but alive and in one piece. How is it possible you look even lovelier now than you did in his feeble memory?

Armitage’s heart crumples in his chest when you meet his eyes and smile.

There’s a few slurred goodbyes as you part from the group—and a cloud of noise following the officers as they stumble down the hallway in pairs or groups of three, arms slung around each other to keep the most inebriated from falling.

You seem clear-eyed, though, as you approach Armitage, and steady on your feet. The even tempo of your heels against the floor echoes through the hangar, and his chest.

“Hello, general,” you greet him, meeting his eyes through your lashes, “were you waiting for me?”

Of course he had been, but it seems shameful to admit it, and so he stumbles into a lie, instead.

“Only to make sure you arrived back safely,” Armitage claims, “are you feeling . . . well?”

Your laugh is quiet, but the melody of it rings in his ears when you press a hand against his chest. Armitage resists the urge to glance around, to check for some disapproving glare or whispered conversation outside his line of sight. There’s no one around, really—a few technicians working on a busted tie-fighter on the other side of the hangar out of sight, some mouse droids zipping past, but no audience to this contact that seems wholly inappropriate in public.

And still you’re smiling that same secret smile. “I haven’t been drinking, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Ah,” Armitage replies, rather stupidly, but it can’t be helped with the way your fingers shift, circling around his bicep, stroking over the fabric of his greatcoat, “that’s—why?”

There’s a gentle frown on your lips. Armitage resists the urge to brush it away with a kiss.

“Because you won’t touch me if I’ve been drinking.”

Oh.

There’s so much in that statement that Armitage will need to parse through later—the pouty tone in your voice and the way it stokes the fire in his chest, your strange exasperation with his concern for your unhindered consent.

But in this moment, there’s only one realization on your husband’s mind: you want him to touch you.

Fuck. If only he had known. Armitage would have used his time more wisely, wouldn’t have spent so much of it pining for your return, dreaming of the sight of your legs in that skirt again, hoping he might feel the swell of your breast through his sleeve as you clung to his arm on the walk back to your quarters. He would have used it to his greatest advantage: fulfilling deadlines, creating plans, responding to missives, and he would have done the work happily—all with the motivation of your weight in his lap and your lips at his neck for as long as he could convince you to stay.

Armitage mentally tabulates the time it would take to return with you to his quarters, to lay you down on his bed and touch you the way you had asked, the way he craves. And there’s simply not enough for that and for the tasks he was supposed to already have completed before he must return to the bridge.

“I— I don’t think,” Armitage begins, even with all the ways you make his refusal difficult—the sensual warmth of you through his uniform, your teeth absentmindedly gnawing on your plush lower lip, “there’s so much to— it’s . . . unavoidable.”

He finishes the smattering of words with a pathetic little gasp as you bring your body even closer, his blood thrumming through his veins at the contact, cock growing stiff in his trousers.

There are no words at your lips, no hit of a frown. Armitage watches as your gaze shifts, landing deliberately on the transport you had just vacated.

Your eyes meet his again. The message is clear.

Oh. No.

“We couldn’t.”

That’s what Armitage tells you, but the voice in his head speaks much louder. He could. He wants to. He’s not sure if he can resist.

“No one will know,” you whisper through a smile.

Technically true—but Armitage is aware of the security cams, positioned around the large hangar and monitored always. He had watched the footage himself only a few hours ago as you left, and so he knows exactly what would be seen: his hand in yours, the look of incredulous panic on his face as you led him into the mouth of the transport before you both disappeared from view. That is, if the heat of his blush didn’t scramble the feeds.

Maybe no one would know, but someone might assume. And given the number of incorrigible gossips on this ship, they would certainly tell, and that message would spread, uncontained.

But Armitage finds he is not as opposed to the idea as he thought he would be.

“Yes, but . . .” it’s so like Armitage, arguing against his own interests, denying himself something he wants so desperately for reasons even he can’t understand, “what if someone were to . . .”

You interrupt before he can finish the thought, your other hand sneaking it’s way up to the back of his neck, your warm skin pressed to his. “The entrances all lock.”

How long had you been considering something like this? That alone could break down his resolve. Armitage might be able to keep himself from those distant pleasures, but not you. Never you.

And yet his hesitation has sent a different message. There’s an almost imperceptible shift in your demeanor—a half step you take away from him, the uncertain tremor in all those points of contact he had been enjoying only moments ago.

“But you have work to do, of course,” you concede, “if you don’t want—”

Fear strikes Armitage in the chest at the way you turn from him. He’s disappointed you, and worse, he’s made you feel unwanted. The shame floods through him, momentarily overwhelming his desire.

He might be too eager when he reaches for your hand, fingers circling around your wrist to keep you in place.

“I do,” he tells you. Armitage wants. He hopes you can feel it, past all his failures and idiosyncrasies. You must know how desperately he wants you, in every moment. Always.

His thumb traces over the veins in the back of your hand, relishes the way you tremble. Your lips part with a pop, expression unsure, and your eyes search his face the same way Armitage watches yours.

“Really?”

Against any better judgement, your husband nods.

And it’s all a blur for the next few moments—just your hushed laughter and the blood flooding his cheeks taking up all his thoughts. He imagines the scene from someone else’s perspective: an onlooker, brimming with skepticism as you pull him eagerly across the hangar. He’s sure they would find the situation as unbelievable as Armitage does.

Once you are alone—the mechanical whir of the locks assuring it—Armitage regains some command of himself, pulling into you. Your body is soft against his, your touch eager as you push the heavy fabric of his greatcoat off his shoulders. Armitage lets it fall to the ground with a thud, then reaches for you as soon as it's gone—tracing the slope of your hips, pressing you further against the durasteel until your spine bows and the only thing he can feel between the two of you is your heartbeat.

You kiss him, messily, eager, little giggles slipping out with each breath you take at this moment of rebellion and Armitage drinks your laughter in heavy gulps, kissing you back with fervor. Each encounter has brought him additional confidence, and seems to have given you more of the same—no longer hesitant in asking for what you want.

One of your hands snakes down the length of his chest; Armitage burns in its wake, unable to take any air in when your fingers trace over the outline of his aching cock.

“Fuck.”

The expletive slips out before Hux can stop it. He shouldn’t speak so coarsely in front of you—in front of his wife—and yet you don’t pull away, your hand cupping his length more fully as you slide your tongue between his lips.

Armitage will finish right now if he’s not careful. It takes so little from you—your hot breath and curious touches—to have him right on the edge, ready to spill into his trousers. He can’t have that.

And so, with one swift movement, he pins your hands out of the way, pressing his knuckles against the wall as he grips at your wrists like a vise.

He doesn’t have any time to waste. Not if he wants to feel you coming around him in the next few minutes.

Armitage takes in the heady scent of you as he traces the length of your jaw with his nose, parts his lips around the stretched expanse of your neck. His tongue follows, picking up the taste of your skin. There’s the tang of salt and the chemical flavor of perfume, and beneath that, something lighter, more refined.

He travels lower, kissing at the juncture just above your collarbone, feels your pulse jump against his tongue, and sinks his teeth into your plush skin until he hears you whine, your hot breath feathering through his hair.

Perfect.

Armitage continues to taste you as he shifts his grip, trapping both of your wrists in the grasp of one hand. He lets the other explore as it traverses over the dips and curves of your body before brushing the strap from off your shoulder, slipping the neckline down until he can cup at your exposed breast.

Your nipple pebbles pleasantly in the cool air of the transport. Armitage watches, transfixed for a moment, and then takes the bud into the warmth of his mouth.

The transport echoes with the sound of your high-pitched breaths, a few moans when Hux lets the flat of his tongue travel over the stiff peak while his hand slips up between your thighs, petting at the swollen ridge of your clit.

You gasp his name, pulling at his hold on you with desperation that still surprises him, despite everything.

There’s a part of him—a little cruel, incredibly curious—that wants to keep you like this. Wants to see how close he can bring you to the edge when you have no chance to retaliate. The thought ignites something in him. Armitage would like to hear you, tear-soaked, begging for him until his resolve finally broke.

Pity there’s so little time.

So he relents, loosening his grip, and you’re on him again before he can recover his bearings—your nails carding through his hair and your mouth fierce against his own and the press of your warm, soft body. Armitage lets his weight cage you in, holding you tighter against the wall behind you, his hands cupping at the swell of your ass until your body is flush with his, the hot press of his cock jutting against your stomach.

You groan, needy, and you once again drop one of your hands, slipping the fastening of his trousers out of the way, fingers just barely dipping past the band at his waist, nails dragging against his skin.

Armitage feels his desire in the backs of his thighs, coiling at the base of his spine, flooding his lungs—that strange singing sting that has his teeth bared, chest shuddering with rapid breaths. He wants to give into it, to fuck into you with rabid strokes, wants to feel you unravel around him as you spill moan after moan into his gloved palm.

Just as your fingertips meet the head of his dick, he’s interrupted by a frustrating oversight.

“I don’t,” he grunts out the words, pulling away from you, despite the pain it causes, “I don’t have any . . . protection.”

Armitage digs his knuckles into the durasteel behind you, lets his irritation manifest itself in the ache that blooms through his hand. He never would have assumed something like this would happen, but he should have been prepared, regardless. He’d been so careful elsewhere—quietly maintaining the stock in his quarters and, shamefully, his office, although the need for it had felt like a distant fantasy at the time.

You meet his eyes, and he knows that the full meaning of what he’s said is beyond your understanding—something he, once again, is to blame for. Conversations around his insistence on protection had been limited, and Armitage considered it his sole responsibility for moments like these.

“Oh,” you respond, and there’s a tinge of heartbreak in your voice, “should we . . .”

Stop? Armitage knows what you’re going to say, and can’t bear to hear it. He won’t even let the word broach your lips, kissing you deeper, more fully than he had previously allowed. You accept this answer without question, like you had accepted so many others—things about Armitage you had never even considered could be denied.

He lets rationality take over for just a moment, lets it ground him. Armitage pulls away slightly, breathing deeply and doing his best to ignore the wet shine of your lips, the strings of your spit that tremble and break in the space between you.

He won’t last long, not if he’s looking at you. Watching your eyes roll back, feeling your lips tremble against his with unrestrained moans—it would have him spilling inside you before the moment had truly begun. So Armitage takes your hips in both his hands, guides you gently to face away from him.

Armitage can’t remember a time where he’s felt like this—so desperate for gratification, his vision blurry and lungs heaving, on the edge of tears for the need of it. Your head lolls back against his shoulder as he takes the hem of your skirt in both hands, pulling it up over the swell of your ass. There’s a soft sound, like seams popping, but it’s barely audible over the groan that escapes him at the sight of your soft skin, the way it indents against the harsh press of his hips.

He frees his cock, gives his length a preliminary stroke. It’s not necessary—he’s more than hard enough for you, blood throbbing at the feeling of your wet folds against his leather-covered fingers as his other hand peels back the sticky lace.

Your husband breathes, steeling himself as he slips his cock between your thighs, wetting his length as it brushes against your slick and eager folds. A moan breaks through your lips when the head of him nudges against your clit, and he repeats the movement again just to soak in the sound.

“Are you ready for me?” Armitage asks, his whispered breath hot against the shell of your ear. You nod in response, and he feels your lips against his neck, forming the word yes.

He slips the tip of his cock back toward your entrance, presses gently until your body opens for him, head buried inside the inviting heat. The grip of your walls tightens around him, and Armitage grunts, pressing forward—slowly as he can manage before wrapping one arm around your waist. He braces the other against the durasteel to mitigate the press of his weight as he begins to thrust.

Your body welcomes him, as it always has, taking him so perfectly for every inch he gives you. It feels different, without the thin barrier Armitage had become accustomed to. The already intense sensation is multiplied to a dangerous degree—the warmth, the soft grip of your cunt. He pauses once he’s fully seated, breathing in the scent of your hair and perfume, soaking in the feeling of you, of your presence, of your want.

Wants he’s not fulfilling. Your hips press back against his in desperation, breathing out his name.

“Armitage, please.”

The movements are automatic—Armitage is so adverse to denying you anything in this moment that his body responds without thought, his hips shifting against yours immediately. He starts slowly, but that tempo only lasts so long, and the transport fills with the measured beat of his hips against yours, and the wet squelch of your cunt and those soft, alluring moans.

One of your hands reaches back, cupping at his neck, fingers grazing through the soft hairs there. Armitage feels your head tip against his shoulder, feels your damp breath against his flushed skin.

And under normal circumstances, your husband would hate to rush you, would let you find your release gently and on your own terms. But Armitage is too close, and has to be careful his end doesn’t sneak up on him. So he drops his grip from your waist, slipping two fingers against your clit. The pressure of his hand has you shaking in his grasp, but he doesn’t relent, circling the little bud with an even tempo, matching the pace of his thrusts until he feels the tell-tale clench of your cunt around his cock, the flood of heat and the weakness in your legs that has your husband supporting most of your weight as you let the pleasure take you.

Armitage barely has the sense about him to slip out of you before the shocks find him, his cock throbbing and his mind a dizzying mess as he spills his seed . . . right onto the magnificent skirt bunched up around your waist.

Your gaze finds his over your shoulder before you’ve even caught your breath, slipping the garment back down over your hips, assessing the damage before leveling him with an accusatory stare.

“This was new.”

Your admonishment only serves to make him laugh, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a prideful smirk as he admires the slow drip of his cum down the fabric. Armitage presses his forehead to yours, and your demeanor changes, brows pleading, your lips searching for his.

“I’ll get you another,” he promises. Armitage would buy you a thousand just like it, if he could mar some of them in the same way. He hears no protest from you when he presses a kiss to your waiting mouth.

There’s a gentle shuffle as Armitage rights his uniform, erases any trace of this little dalliance from his appearance. There’s no such ease for you though.

“I can’t make it back to our quarters like this,” you whisper against his mouth, a hint of a smile at the corners.

That is certainly true. If he had thought people would talk before—with only the security footage of your path to the transport—the sight of you now would cause a riot.

But the transport is frustratingly low on supplies that might help in this situation. Armitage searches the space with an analytical eye, and finds only one solution: his greatcoat, in a heap on the floor.

Armitage lifts the heavy garment, holds it out for you, and finds his cheeks heating with a blush when you slide your arms inside the sleeves.

Oh. It doesn’t fit you well—the coat was made for him, and it shows in the gaps at the shoulders, the way the hem rests a little too close to the ground. And still, Armitage’s heart races when you pull the front of it closed around your body like a blanket, finding comfort in something that is so ostensibly his.

“How do I look?” you ask the question for the second time that night, and once again, Armitage is at a loss for words. There’s no need for it, though, not when he can hold you in his arms, assure you with a few gentle kisses.

Your goodbyes are short, but no less full of longing. Armitage watches your form as it disappears into the distance and feels his heart as it thuds heavily in his chest with each sway of your hips. The desire to follow you almost overwhelms him.

Well. At least he has plenty of motivation to finish his work now.

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