#his speaking range is... impressive

[snarky-wallflower]

okay, we all need to salute James Tolbert for many reasons—but the biggest has to be the fact that he said everything he did as the Prince and did not break. I respect him so much for that. I cannot imagine being able to ever do that.

He played a ridiculous, ridiculous man and did it SO well.

[cbeargyu]

marry me, mr. jeong

summary: while everyone around you is getting married, you're left behind—no ring, no lover, just silence waiting at home. but one night, your boss, mr. jeong, makes an unexpected proposal: "marry me." and suddenly, your quiet world begins to burn.

pairing: boss!jaehyun x fem!reader

genre: romance, slow burn, fluff, emotional smut, domestic married life, eventual pregnancy, emotional growth, healing.

warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), strong language, emotional vulnerability, pregnancy mention (later), minor angst, lots of kissing, crying, soft husband jaehyun, tooth-rotting fluff, crying-in-the-club type of love.

wc: 19,7K

notes: i’m obsessed with jaehyun as a boss, boyfriend, hubby, and daddy lmao. man’s got range 😮���💨💍🖤 i swear i try to keep it short but my brain goes rogue every time 😭 like girl be fr, when’s the day i finally drop a short fic??? bye lmao 💀

you’re twenty-nine, and the number feels heavier than you thought it would. not because it’s old—not really—but because thirty is close. and thirty means expectations. by now, you were supposed to have it all figured out. at least, that’s what they say. your friends certainly make it seem that way with their photo-perfect marriages, toddlers learning to walk, houses in peaceful neighborhoods. meanwhile, you still live in a quiet apartment with plants you often forget to water and a fridge that holds more takeout containers than groceries.

you work at an architecture firm—clean lines, big ideas, and even bigger egos. the kind of place where late nights are common and recognition is rare. you’ve built a name for yourself, though. you lead your team well, your ideas consistently get approved, and your work ethic has never been in question. the other women whisper that you’re just trying to impress the boss, that your dedication is nothing but a strategic flirtation. they don't know that your passion isn’t about pleasing anyone but yourself. well, mostly. maybe part of you does want to be seen. to be acknowledged by him.

jeong jaehyun.

your department lead. two years younger than you, but somehow always carrying himself like he’s lived three lives already. he doesn’t talk much. doesn’t engage in the small talk that fills the office kitchen or the empty flattery some of your coworkers throw his way. he’s serious, focused, almost too calm. the kind of man who’s unreadable, and yet somehow always watching. you’re not close, not really, but there’s a quiet understanding between you. he trusts you. you can feel it in the way he gives you space to lead, the way he nods subtly in meetings when you speak, the way his eyes linger sometimes—not in a way that feels invasive, but like he’s... thinking.

you’ve never seen him flirt with anyone. never seen him talk about his personal life. no ring, no photos on his desk, not even vague mentions of a girlfriend or family. and while no one dares to say anything to his face, everyone wonders. he's a man, though—no one criticizes him for being single. no one asks him what he's waiting for.

you, on the other hand, can barely go a week without someone making a comment. still not married? you’re so pretty, what a shame. your mother means well, but every call ends with a variation of you’re not getting any younger, sweetheart.you smile through it. you tell them you're happy. you tell yourself that, too. but deep down, there's a quiet ache. because you’ve always wanted a family. always dreamed of being a mother, of coming home to someone who knows you—not just your schedule or your favorite takeout order, but the way you think, the way you feel things deeply and try to hide it. but love hasn’t knocked in years. not since your last relationship ended at twenty-two, before the world hardened your heart. since then, you’ve been too busy, too careful, too tired.

tonight, you're staying late again. the office is nearly empty, save for a few flickering lights and the buzz of a vending machine down the hall. you're finessing the last pieces of a major project, making sure every detail is just right. you're in the zone when you hear soft footsteps approaching, and then his voice—low, familiar, closer than expected.

“you’re still here, byun?”

you glance up to find jaehyun standing by your desk, hands in his pockets, that usual unreadable expression on his face. there’s no judgment in his voice, just quiet curiosity.

you offer a tired smile, leaning back in your chair. “oh, mr. jeong, i just wanted to polish a few things before the presentation. i figured if i leave anything messy, the senior managers will rip it apart. and then you’ll take the heat for it.”

he raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that almost looks like a smile. “you care that much about how i look to the execs?”

you shrug, turning back to your screen. “you’re my boss. if you look bad, i look bad.”

he lets out a soft exhale, a sound that's dangerously close to a chuckle. then he leans against your desk, his body relaxed but his eyes still sharp as ever. “you’re too committed.”

“you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

he shakes his head. “not bad. just... rare.”

a brief silence settles between you, not awkward, but weighted. it feels like he’s about to say something else, and when he does, it’s not what you expect.

“doesn’t your family mind that you stay this late?” his gaze holds yours. “your husband? kids?”

you blink, the question catching you off guard. your smile falters just slightly, and you look down at your hands before answering.

“no husband. no kids. no one waiting at home.” you try to sound casual, even throw in a little laugh. “i guess i’m just married to the job.”

he doesn’t laugh. doesn’t look away. “i didn’t know.”

you nod, suddenly very aware of the silence around you. “most people assume. but... yeah. i live alone.”

another pause. then, gently, you ask, “what about you, mr. jeong? i mean, you’re always here late too. no one waiting on you?”

he looks away for the first time, his jaw tightening slightly before he answers. “no one yet.”

and there it is again—that silence between you. but this time, it’s different. it hums with something unspoken. curiosity. surprise. maybe even recognition.

you return your gaze to the screen, not really seeing it. he’s still standing there, close enough to feel but not close enough to touch. something in the air shifts, and for the first time in a long time, your chest feels... not heavy, but full.

the next morning, you arrived a few minutes early—just like always. being punctual wasn’t about impressing anyone; it was about control, about proving—at least to yourself—that you had your life together. it made you feel reliable. consistent. in a workplace full of half-assed excuses and people who couldn’t meet a deadline to save their lives, your discipline was something you wore like armor. something no one could take from you.

your outfit was soft, delicate even—rose-pink skirt brushing just above your knees, a crisp white button-up tucked in neatly, the blazer matching your skirt in a subtle pastel tone. your heels clicked softly against the tile floor as you made your way to your desk, and as you passed the reflection on one of the glass panels, you couldn’t help but think: i look good today.

you did. your hair was in place, makeup light but elegant, lips tinted a faint nude-pink. polished. pretty. professional. but beneath all that... you also looked a little alone. not that anyone would say it to your face—but you could see it sometimes, in the glances people gave you. admiration, maybe. pity, sometimes. curiosity always.

you sat down, smoothing your skirt and adjusting your chair, reaching for the little yellow post-it you’d stuck to the side of your monitor the day before. your handwriting was neat, methodical. a short list of pending tasks, each one already being mentally checked off as you booted up your computer. you didn’t waste time—your fingers flew across the keyboard, and within minutes the familiar sounds of productivity filled your small corner of the office: the rhythmic clack of keys, the soft hum and spit of the printer warming up to spit out proposals and reports.

you didn’t hear him come in.

you were too deep in the flow, too focused on aligning the final report with the visual standards the company demanded. your eyes scanned the document line by line, searching for typos, ensuring everything was clean, sharp, presentable. the sound of footsteps behind you didn’t register until you felt it—that subtle, electric awareness that comes when someone is watching.

“good morning, byun. please leave the project report on my desk once it’s ready.”

he didn’t look at you. just passed by, smooth and quick, his voice calm and firm, a cup of steaming coffee in one hand, the familiar scent of roast beans and expensive cologne trailing behind him like a silent presence. his stride didn’t falter, his gaze fixed ahead, like he’d already moved on to the next ten things in his mind. you barely had time to nod, mouth parted to respond, but he was already disappearing behind his office door.

you blinked.

right. the report.

you gathered the last printed pages, slid them into the presentation folder, double-checked the order, smoothed the cover with your palm before rising from your seat. your heels clicked softly against the floor as you made your way down the short corridor, your fingers lightly tapping the edge of the folder, nerves tightening with each step even if there was nothing to be nervous about. it was just work. just jaehyun. just another report.

you knocked once and entered when he answered. he was seated behind his desk, sleeves already rolled up to his elbows, the dark veins of his forearms visible as he typed something on his laptop. he glanced up, briefly, then reached for the report when you held it out.

“thank you,” he said, flipping it open with precision, already scanning the contents. “at two p.m. we have the meeting with upper management. you’ll be joining me at the table. along with choi and hwang.”

you nodded. “understood.”

“good. go over the numbers one more time before then. they’re likely to ask.”

“yes, mr. jeong.”

and that was it. no warm smile. no thank you. just professional, cold efficiency. you turned and left, closing the door gently behind you before returning to your desk, the weight of the upcoming meeting settling on your shoulders like a familiar cloak. you’d been through this before. plenty of times. but it never got easier. not when the room was full of men in suits who barely hid their condescension, who chewed through ideas like tasteless gum until someone—usually jaehyun—said something smart enough to catch their interest.

you spent the next few hours fine-tuning the financial section, making sure your data was clean, graphs properly labeled, estimates realistic but still ambitious. it was a delicate game—making things sound innovative without actually suggesting anything too risky. they didn’t want bold. they wanted impressive illusions of boldness packaged in safe wrapping.

the meeting room was as bland as ever. too much glass, too much beige. you sat at the long table beside jaehyun, your laptop open, presentation ready. the managers arrived first, already complaining about another team’s failed prototype. the director entered last, stone-faced as always, his tie perfect, his opinion impossible to read.

as expected, the meeting dragged. they picked apart the proposal, paragraph by paragraph, expressionless until one of them grimaced like the very concept of originality offended them. you watched them, these men who nodded at each other but rarely smiled, who offered feedback that wasn’t feedback, just empty phrases like “it needs more punch” or “is this trend even scalable?”

then jaehyun spoke.

his voice was calm, slow, measured. and yet he made every single line sound convincing. powerful. like there was no other way forward but the one he was laying out. the room shifted around him. the tension eased. eyes narrowed—not in skepticism now, but interest. he wasn’t just presenting; he was selling a vision, and you felt yourself straightening with pride even if the credit wasn’t yours.

until he said your name.

“y/n,” he said, still facing the director. “if you could present the budget projections.”

you froze for a half second. not out of fear—just... surprise. you hadn’t expected him to call on you so soon.

you stood, smoothed your skirt unconsciously, and took a breath before switching slides. your voice was steady, even if your palms were clammy.

“these are the projections for the next two quarters,” you began, pointing at the chart. “we’ve estimated a moderate increase in cost during the development phase, with a break-even point projected for the beginning of q3. depending on the approved budget, we’re looking at a return on investment of approximately—”

you kept going, explaining the graphs, walking them through the numbers with careful clarity. no embellishments, no guesswork. facts. you swallowed once, clearing your throat before the final slide, then ended with a nod.

when you sat back down, jaehyun glanced at you. just a moment. a flicker of something almost soft in his expression.

like you’d done well. like you couldn’t possibly disappoint him.

the rest of the meeting blurred. the managers began tossing in extra suggestions—small changes, tweaks they hoped would impress the director. the man nodded, offered vague praise, and you remained at your seat, listening to it all with a practiced, patient expression.

when the meeting finally ended, you stood beside jaehyun again. he didn’t say much—he never did—but as he packed his laptop, he looked at you.

“good work today,” he said. “you’re an essential part of the team. if you keep this up, i’ll make sure your name’s considered for the upcoming promotions.”

you stared at him, momentarily stunned. the words hit harder than you expected. you’d worked for five years, given everything to this company, and this—this was the first time someone above you had said something that felt... real.

“thank you,” you said softly, trying not to let your smile get too big. “really.”

he nodded. “you earned it.”

later, when the director extended the dinner invitation, you didn’t hesitate. it wasn’t optional. the team needed to show up, needed to mingle, to pretend everything was a celebration and not an endless cycle of office politics masked with clinking glasses.

the bar was upscale but casual enough to loosen people’s ties. smoke from grilled meats hung faintly in the air, the tang of sweet sauces and roasted garlic filling the space. you sat between your supervisor and jaehyun, trying not to feel too stiff in your work clothes. everyone was drinking, toasting, laughing louder than they had all day.

the supervisor leaned forward, voice slightly slurred. “you know,” he said to the director, “the whole prototype? the mockup? the execution timeline? all her. y/n practically carried the whole thing.”

the director turned to you, surprised. “really? how long have you been here?”

“five years,” you replied, sipping from your glass.

he raised a brow. “how is it possible i haven’t noticed you until now?”

jaehyun, still beside you, said nothing—but you felt the subtle tension in his posture.

“you’ve got a good employee,” the director told him. “it’s your job to shape her. teach her. sounds like she’s already on the right path. with the right guidance... she’ll move up in no time.”

he raised his glass. “to y/n.”

“to y/n,” echoed around the table.

you lifted your glass, cheeks warm—not just from the alcohol but from the unfamiliar sensation of being seen. you smiled, surrounded by coworkers and approval and good food, and for a moment, just one moment, everything felt like it was finally going somewhere.

you were finally going somewhere.

the dinner had blurred into noise.

conversations overlapping, laughter rising and falling like tides. glasses clinked, meat sizzled on the grill, the warm lighting softening everyone's expressions into something hazy and unguarded. you sat at the long table, just a bit to the side, the smoky scent of barbecued meat in your hair and the echo of compliments still lingering in your chest. across from you, your supervisor had long since slipped into a drunken retelling of his glory days. to your left, jaehyun sat quietly, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. his arms were strong, veins defined even in the low light, and on his left wrist, a sleek, expensive watch glinted every time he reached for his glass. he hadn’t touched his soju in a while, though. he just held the rim between his fingers and occasionally let his gaze wander across the room.

when your eyes met, it was casual, almost accidental. but you didn’t look away.

“you’re not drinking,” you said, quietly enough that only he could hear.

he offered the ghost of a smirk, the kind that barely pulled at one corner of his mouth. “someone has to remember what was actually said tonight.”

you laughed, a soft breathy sound, grateful for his clarity amidst the chaos.

a silence settled between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. rather, it felt like a small space carved out just for the two of you—unbothered, untouched, a bubble where you didn’t have to keep smiling or pretending. you let out a quiet sigh, swirling your untouched drink in your hand.

“do you ever feel like you're running out of time?” you asked, voice low, not even sure why you were asking him of all people.

jaehyun looked at you, brows drawn slightly, intrigued but still calm. “time for what?”

you hesitated, fingers tightening around your glass. the alcohol was warm in your chest, but not enough to numb this confession.

“for everything,” you admitted. “i mean, professionally… things are going great. i can’t complain. i’ve worked hard, and it’s starting to pay off. but…” you looked down, lips pressing together. “sometimes i feel like i’m trapped inside a giant hourglass, watching the sand fall, grain by grain. i’ll be thirty in a few months. and i know that shouldn't mean anything, but in a world where people expect you to have everything figured out by now—marriage, kids, some picture-perfect life—i feel like i’m falling behind. like my dreams are moving farther and farther away.”

you took a breath, not daring to look at him.

“it’s just… sad,” you continued. “when you achieve something big and there’s no one waiting at home to celebrate it with you. no partner, no family. no one to say, ‘i’m proud of you.’”

jaehyun was quiet for a moment. then his voice came, soft and even.

“i can celebrate with you.”

you looked up, surprised, blinking at him. “thank you, but… that’s not what i meant. it’s not the same.”

he held your gaze. then, calmly, like he was offering a solution to a logistics problem, he said it.

“then marry me.”

your brain stalled.

you didn’t understand at first. maybe you misheard him. maybe he was joking, or drunk—except his voice hadn’t changed. his tone hadn’t wavered. your stomach dropped.

“…what?” you whispered.

“you want a family. you want someone to come home to. marry me.”

the words hung between you like smoke. absurd. unreal. your mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. you glanced around—everyone else was too busy laughing or slurring their next toast to notice what had just happened.

you leaned in slightly, voice tense and hushed. “mr.—jeong—what are you talking about? we don’t even know each other like that.”

“we know enough,” he said without blinking.

“we’ve never even had a real conversation outside of work until now.”

“so let’s have more,” he replied, as steady as always.

you felt like your heart was beating too loudly. “are you… are you seriously suggesting we get married?”

“i’m not suggesting it. i’m telling you i’d do it. if you said yes.”

you stared at him, at the cool detachment on his face, the quiet certainty in his voice, and felt your world tip on its axis.

he shrugged. “how long until you turn thirty?”

“…my birthday’s in november,” you muttered, the words escaping before you could even process them. “it’s april now. that’s seven months.”

jaehyun nodded slowly. “then you have seven months to decide.”

he finished his beer in one slow, final gulp. then he stood up, reaching into his wallet and placing a few bills under his empty glass. you were still frozen when he stepped beside you.

“i’ll take you home,” he said.

you tried to protest, voice stumbling over half-formed refusals. “you don’t have to—i can call a cab, really—”

he looked down at you, expression unreadable.

“that wasn’t a request. it’s your boss giving you a ride.”

and with that, he turned, waiting for you to follow. your legs felt heavy as you stood, your mind racing, still reeling from what had just happened. marry him? seven months? he was serious. he was actually serious.

you had no answers. only questions. and one man who had just offered you everything you’d spent your life pretending you didn’t need.

you didn’t sleep.

not really. you tossed and turned, arms flung across the bed one minute and buried under the covers the next. jaehyun’s words echoed in your skull like an intrusive melody, looping over and over again.

then marry me.

you have seven months to decide.

like some sort of countdown had been triggered.

you must have stared at your ceiling for hours, trying to make sense of what he meant—what it meant for you—and whether he’d been serious. but the worst part wasn’t the proposal. the worst part was how calm he’d been, how effortlessly he’d said it, and how easily he’d walked away afterward like it hadn’t upended your entire sense of self.

your alarm went off at seven, and you hit snooze five times. by the time you dragged yourself out of bed, you felt like your bones had aged a decade overnight. you put on your makeup with the heaviness of someone trying to erase exhaustion from the inside out—concealer, color corrector, foundation. you went over your under-eyes twice, then a third time. you looked like yourself, but blurry. off.

you arrived to work twenty minutes later than usual, which was already enough to earn a few raised brows. no one said anything, but they noticed. you noticed them noticing.

you sat at your desk and stared at your drawers, forgetting which one you kept the monthly reports in. your fingers shook slightly as you shuffled through folders, trying to find the stupid paperwork you'd seen a million times. a stack of them slipped from your grasp and scattered onto the floor like a metaphor. you groaned and crouched down to collect them, muttering under your breath. your brain still felt like it was swimming through molasses.

then—

“good morning.”

his voice. that casual, bored tone he always used in the office. neutral, even, no trace of anything buried beneath it. no sign that he’d ever said something as life-altering as what he’d said last night.

you startled so hard you hit your head on the underside of your desk.

“good—ouch!” you winced, clutching your scalp with one hand and your pride with the other. “good morning, mr. jeong.”

he kept walking. didn’t glance down at you. didn’t smirk. didn’t check if you were okay. he passed your desk like any other morning, like he hadn’t proposed to you over beer and smoke and shared loneliness.

a few coworkers peeked over their partitions, concerned. you gave a shaky thumbs-up and a whispered, “i’m fine,” even though you felt anything but fine.

you weren’t like this. not at work. not ever. your name was synonymous with precision. discipline. control. and here you were, dropping papers and bumping into furniture like your brain had short-circuited.

you finally gathered the reports and brought them to his office.

he was seated at his desk, focused on his screen, the sleeves of his dress shirt still rolled to his elbows. your eyes caught briefly on the line of his forearm, the watch still there, still ticking.

“these are the reports from last month,” you said, setting the folder down.

“thanks,” he replied without looking at you.

you lingered.

“mr. jeong.”

he finally looked up.

his eyes were calm. cool. like nothing was wrong. like he hadn’t detonated a bomb and walked away from the wreckage.

you hesitated, your throat dry. “about what you said last night—”

his expression didn’t change.

“we’re at work,” he said simply. “i’m being professional.”

you blinked, almost offended. “so that’s it? you say something that insane and then just—go back to normal?”

“we’ll talk after work,” he said, returning to his screen. “if you want to.”

you stood there, gripping the folder even though it was already out of your hands, heart thudding with something sour and hot and unnamable. frustration? humiliation? confusion? all of it?

he was treating you like you were the one out of line. like you were being inappropriate for even bringing it up.

you turned around without saying anything else and walked out of his office, pulse hammering in your ears. the rest of the day dragged like wet cement. you couldn’t concentrate. you couldn’t remember what you were supposed to be doing half the time. you reread emails four times before hitting send. and every time someone walked past your desk, you wondered if it was him, if he’d say anything, if he’d look at you, if he even remembered what he said or if the memory of it belonged to you alone now.

you’d never felt so out of control.

you didn’t know what was worse—his silence or the fact that you wanted him to break it.

you tried to focus. god, you really did. you stared at spreadsheets until the numbers blurred into static. you answered emails with words you didn’t remember typing. every time the phone rang, your heart jumped, irrationally convinced it might be him—even though you were in the same building, separated by maybe thirty feet of glass, air, and unspoken tension. it felt like the longest day of your life. your temples throbbed with a slow, building ache, like your thoughts were pressing too hard against the inside of your skull.

you popped two painkillers around lunchtime, washed them down with lukewarm water from your reusable bottle, but they didn’t help. not really. because the pain wasn’t just physical—it was mental. emotional. a kind of pressure that wrapped around your ribs and squeezed.

your mind wouldn’t shut up.

you kept looping the same questions, over and over again, like your brain was stuck on a carousel with no exit.

why would he say that? why now? why you?

he already told you he'd wait. seven months. seven impossibly long, slow-burning months.

so why talk? why meet? it wasn’t for him. it didn’t serve him. he’d been clear. he had time, he had patience. this conversation—it was for you. you were the one desperate to make sense of it. to understand his motives. to justify the insanity of it all.

but how were you supposed to justify something that made no sense?

he’s twenty-seven. handsome. polished. wealthy. he could have anyone—literally anyone. girls younger than you, brighter than you, women who weren’t crawling toward their thirties with a fading list of half-achieved dreams and a fridge full of takeout leftovers. why you?

a mid-level employee in a department no one paid much attention to. someone who had to fight tooth and nail just to be noticed in board meetings. someone who had accomplishments but no one to toast with. someone who fell asleep most nights with their phone face-down and on silent because no one was texting anyway.

why you?

you didn’t have an answer.

you finished your tasks—barely—and the moment the clock hit the end of your shift, you shut your computer down with shaky fingers and grabbed your bag. your steps felt heavy, reluctant, as you made your way through the hall toward the entrance. part of you wanted to bolt, to pretend nothing had ever been said, to go home and crawl into bed and put on a show you wouldn’t really watch. to sleep off the confusion like a bad hangover.

but the doors opened before you could entertain the thought. those clean, automatic glass doors slid apart with a hiss, and there he was.

leaning casually against one of the white pillars just outside, his suit jacket draped neatly over his forearm, his other hand gripping his sleek black briefcase like it weighed nothing. he looked like something out of a commercial—well-dressed, composed, the perfect image of success. but when his eyes met yours, something flickered beneath the surface. maybe restraint. maybe tension. maybe nothing.

he walked toward you calmly, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the smooth tile.

“get in the car,” he said, voice even. “we’re going to talk. like you wanted.”

not a question. not a request.

he turned without waiting for your answer and made his way to a parked luxury sedan—shiny, deep black, windows tinted so dark you could barely see the interior. he opened the passenger door for you, as if the conversation that waited inside was just another part of his routine.

you hesitated, only for a second.

but then you followed.

because no matter how messy your thoughts were, no matter how terrified or confused or unworthy you felt, one truth cut through the noise:

you wanted to know.

you slid into the passenger seat, trying to calm the way your heart was sprinting inside your chest. the door closed beside you with a quiet thunk, sealing you into a space you weren’t sure you were ready for.

he walked around the front of the car and got in behind the wheel, smooth and unhurried.

you stared straight ahead.

ready—or not—to finally ask the questions that wouldn’t leave you alone.

the silence in the car wasn’t uncomfortable. not exactly. but it was dense—like fog inside your chest, heavy and silent and there to stay.

you stared out the window as the city drifted past, familiar buildings made foreign by the storm in your head. beside you, jaehyun drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift. there was music playing—low, jazzy, old—but he didn’t speak. not until you passed a traffic light and he tilted his head, casually.

“did you get enough sleep last night?” he asked, like he was commenting on the weather.

you didn’t look at him. “not really.”

“figured,” he said, turning smoothly into another avenue. “you looked like hell.”

you gave a humorless chuckle, resting your elbow against the door and propping your chin in your hand. “thanks for the compliment, sir.”

“anytime,” he said dryly.

and that was it. that was all the small talk he offered. nothing personal. nothing intimate. just an acknowledgment that he saw you. that he’d noticed.

the drive was short, and before you could make sense of anything, you were already parking in front of a modest little korean restaurant tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore. it smelled like steam, garlic, and simmered bone broth. a place where people went for real food and no-frills comfort.

“this place has the best gomguk in the city,” jaehyun said, grabbing his briefcase from the back. “been coming here since i was a teenager.”

you hesitated at the door. “you like bone soup?”

“love it.”

you wrinkled your nose. “i can’t stand that stuff. never could. not even as a kid.”

he paused mid-step and gave you a look, slightly amused. “well,” he said, “there’s our first disagreement as a couple.”

you blinked at him, caught off guard. “what?”

“now i know you don’t like gomguk. guess i’ll have to avoid cooking it for you.”

you said nothing.

because he wasn’t joking. not really. not entirely. and that was the part that made your mouth dry.

how could he say things like that so easily? so naturally? as if you hadn’t spent the entire day unraveling at the seams while he strutted through the office like nothing had happened?

he sat across from you at the table, unbothered, scanning the menu like it wasn’t even necessary. he already knew what he wanted. meanwhile, you still didn’t know why you were there.

you picked something else. kimchi jjigae, maybe—safe, familiar, strong enough to mask the taste of your confusion.

once the server took your orders and disappeared behind the curtain, you leaned forward, folding your hands together to stop them from trembling.

“why me?”

his eyes lifted slowly from the empty table to your face. “there’s no reason,” he said. “i just want to give you what you want.”

“do you say that to all women?”

he smirked. “if i did, i’d probably be married to half the city by now.”

you shook your head. “don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“don’t treat this like a mission,” you snapped, trying not to raise your voice. “i don’t need your pity. i shared something vulnerable with you, yeah. but that doesn’t mean you have to swoop in and rescue me from a miserable life of solitude by offering a ring. this isn’t some fairytale. i don’t need a man to save me.”

“i never said you did.”

you exhaled slowly. “i want to love and be loved. to build something. something real. not this... whatever this is. a contract. a deal. a deadline to escape loneliness.”

his expression didn’t shift. not a single flicker. but his voice softened.

“then let’s say this. if in seven months, you still haven’t found someone—someone who makes you feel like you can build something... try it with me.”

you stared at him. hard. trying to read every intention in the lines of his face.

“just like that?”

“just like that.”

you couldn’t look away.

and then he said it. the words that settled into the cracks of your resolve like warm rain after a drought.

“we can love. i can love you. you can love me, if you want to. if you want to date, we can date. you don’t have to feel pressured. i just think... you’re worth the risk. and i don’t think you should torture yourself every day that passes just because you haven’t ‘settled down.’ opportunities don’t always come twice. sometimes you have to grab them while they’re here. or regret it forever.”

your lips parted, but nothing came out.

you looked at him then—not as the cold, polished man who walked the halls like a ghost in tailored suits. not as your boss. not as someone who confused and overwhelmed you.

you saw him as a man.

a man who knew what he wanted. who wasn’t afraid to take action. who looked you in the eye and offered you something you weren’t even sure you deserved.

his jawline. his eyes. the little wrinkle between his brows when he got serious. the calm way he listened. the confidence. the clarity.

you saw him differently.

you weren’t ready to give him an answer. not yet.

but something inside you had shifted.

you just didn’t know what to call it.

he didn’t rush you.

he didn’t push.

he just sat there across from you in that tiny booth, his sleeves rolled up and his tie slightly loosened, waiting with the kind of quiet confidence that only made your heart beat louder. he stirred his soup gently, letting it cool, occasionally taking a sip without ever looking away from you for too long.

and then he said it—casually, as if proposing something as simple as lunch next week.

“let’s do this. i’ll pick you up after work from now on. we’ll go out. have dinner. spend time together. see what happens. let it unfold naturally.”

just like that.

your breath caught. “i… i have doubts,” you admitted, almost in a whisper. “i don’t know what to say. i don’t know what to feel. this is all so sudden, so... fast.”

he nodded, unbothered. “that’s okay.”

you blinked. “that’s okay?”

“yes. it’s not a race. but you heard what i said—opportunities don’t always knock twice. you don’t have to say yes right now. just think about it.”

but you were thinking. too much.

his voice played on repeat in your mind: we can love. i can love you. you can love me. and god, wasn’t that the exact thing you’d been terrified of never having?

your fingers trembled under the table. your palms clammy, your mouth dry. you rubbed your hands together slowly, grounding yourself in that simple motion, trying to breathe.

he didn’t flinch. didn’t ask again. just kept sipping his soup, patient as stone, like he’d already accepted whatever answer you’d give him.

you stared at your food, at the steam rising, the way the aroma filled the space between you and him like something sacred. you still couldn’t stand bone soup. but somehow, being across from him made it smell less... offensive. less like something to run from.

and you remembered.

all those nights crying in silence.

all those mornings brushing your teeth with tears stuck in your throat because you didn’t know if ever would come.

ever finding someone.

ever being enough.

ever being loved without begging for it.

maybe he wasn’t what you imagined.

maybe he was better.

you looked up at him.

“okay,” you said, softly. then stronger. “okay. i’ll try. i’ll let you pick me up. we’ll go on these dates. maybe… maybe i can love you. maybe i can let myself be loved by you.”

he paused mid-sip, eyes lifting.

your voice cracked slightly when you added, “maybe i can stay with you.”

for a beat, the world went still.

he didn’t smile wide. didn’t gloat or tease.

he just gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. his eyes warm, deep, but controlled—like someone who’d been expecting this moment and didn’t want to scare it off.

“good,” he said. “that’s all i needed.”

you swallowed hard.

and for the first time since that strange proposal, something in your chest loosened.

you weren’t sure if this was love.

but it was a beginning.

the next morning. everything is different.

you walk into the building like you own the damn place—heels sharp, suit immaculate, makeup clean and fierce, ponytail slicked high like a crown. the memory of yesterday—your stumble, your throbbing head, your wandering thoughts—now felt like a distant, irrelevant dream. that wasn’t you. this was.

a woman who knew what she wanted.

a woman who said yes.

you smiled to yourself in the elevator. not just any smile—that kind. the kind that curled at the corners, the kind that held secrets, the kind that felt like sin dressed in silk. the kind that belonged to someone with a man waiting outside a restaurant, ordering bone broth, and talking about love like it was something simple. doable. inevitable.

you were early. again. not by accident this time, but by choice.

you slid into your desk, organized, efficient, present. the hum of the office hadn’t started yet, and you took advantage of the calm, catching up on reports and scheduling the week like the good girl you were trained to be. but this time, it was different. you weren’t surviving the day. you were anticipating it.

and then—at exactly the hour—he walked in.

jung jaehyun.

same black suit. same silver watch. same air of cool detachment.

but today, when he passed by your desk and muttered his usual, “good morning,” you didn’t just nod like before.

you stood up—too fast.

too happy.

“good morning, mr. jeong!” you sang, voice lilting and almost musical, like you’d just won the lottery.

it was instinctual. not calculated. just... you.

the entire floor stopped.

heads turned.

some eyebrows shot up. a few eyes narrowed.

jaehyun himself halted in his tracks, looking back at you slowly, his brows drawn together in the tiniest frown. he cleared his throat.

“everyone, back to work,” he said, voice firm. and then, after one last look—eyes narrowed at you in something between confusion and amusement—he turned and walked away.

you bit your lip so hard it almost hurt, barely suppressing the giggle building in your throat.

the memory of last night echoed in your mind, maybe i can love you, maybe i can stay with you—and now here you were, trying not to beam like a teenager with a crush. you watched his back disappear into his office, and your lips curled up, despite yourself.

you could still feel his eyes on you. even if he wasn’t looking.

after work, you waited by the entrance as the glass doors slid open.

he was already there—like he promised. leaning casually against his car, black coat folded over one arm, briefcase in hand, gaze scanning the horizon like the perfect ceo out of a drama. but as soon as his eyes met yours, they softened—barely, subtly—but you noticed.

“get in,” he said, opening the passenger door for you.

you slipped in without protest, heart beating faster than it had any right to.

once the car pulled away from the curb, the silence settled—but it didn’t last long.

“you can’t do that,” he said, not harshly, just... firm.

“do what?” you asked, knowing damn well.

“greet me like that. like that.” he glanced at you sideways. “at work.”

you shrugged. “what? we’re dating now. aren’t we?”

“we’re seeing where this goes,” he corrected. “but we still have to be professional. people talk. your position can be affected. and mine—”

you cut in, not harshly but with a certain fire. “i’m not going to apologize for being happy.”

“i’m not asking you to apologize.”

“then don’t ask me to pretend. i’ll dial it down, sure. but i’m not going to act like you don’t mean something to me when we’re under the same roof eight hours a day.”

he stayed quiet for a beat, tapping the wheel with one hand, lips twitching like he was trying not to smile.

“is this how you are with all your boyfriends?”

you grinned. “i’m worse.”

he laughed. actually laughed. that deep, velvet sound you hadn’t heard much outside of formalities.

“well, i’ll brace myself,” he said. “i might enjoy it.”

you turned to the window, hiding your smile. this was really happening.

the drive back was quiet at first—a comfortable silence that didn’t demand immediate conversation. the kind of quiet that says: you don’t need to perform, just exist here with me.

the radio was on. a soft playlist of english ballads played in the background—songs about longing, beginnings, maybe even second chances. you doubted jaehyun picked them himself. it was probably just the algorithm. still, the timing felt so precise… so intentional, that you wondered if the universe was helping him out tonight.

you played with your fingers over your thighs, crossing and uncrossing your legs slowly, watching the night pass outside the window. city lights in the distance. trees swaying softly in the wind. you tried to guess where he was taking you next, but the truth was… you didn’t really care.

not knowing was part of the charm.

“where are we going?” you finally asked, unable to resist the curiosity.

he smiled without turning to look at you, eyes steady on the road ahead.

“it’s a secret,” he said. “you’ll have to wait and see.”

you squinted at him with mock suspicion, amused—and yet, inside, your heart started to thump a little faster with every mile.

there was something strangely beautiful about not being in control this time. about letting yourself be taken somewhere, not out of submission, but out of trust. you weren’t used to that. you weren’t used to letting anyone drive. but tonight, you wanted to believe you could lean back and just... be.

and then… the car turned down a dark, barely lit road, and you saw it.

a wide, open lot. a giant projector screen glowing at the far end. dozens of cars parked in neat rows, some with trunks open, fairy lights, blankets, snacks. couples curled together under the stars.

it was a drive-in movie. like something out of an old romance film.

you gasped, both hands flying to your mouth as you turned to him.

“oh my god. no way. are you serious?! i love the movies—but i've never done this. i’ve always wanted to, but… i don’t know. it just never happened.”

jaehyun glanced at you sideways. and this time, he smiled. really smiled. not the polite, composed smile he wore in the hallways or meetings—but something warm. something real.

“then it was a good idea,” he said simply.

he parked in the middle row. good view of the screen, but far enough for privacy. you were already melting—and then he popped the trunk.

a thick blanket. two small pillows. a tote bag with snacks—popcorn, a big soda bottle, even the exact chocolate bars you’d once said you liked during a random, probably drunk, late-night conversation. you didn’t even remember mentioning it.

he did.

“did you plan all of this?” you asked, curled slightly sideways in the passenger seat while he arranged everything with care between you.

“i just wanted you to be comfortable,” he said. “i wanted it to be... special.”

no posturing. no hidden motive. just sincerity. you felt it in the way he unfolded the blanket and draped it gently over your lap. in how he checked the window—cracked just enough to let in the breeze, not enough to let in the cold. In how he handed you the soda first, before even opening his own drink.

the movie started. some lighthearted rom-com with ridiculous dialogue and cheesy plot points, but it didn’t matter. it was perfect. low-stakes. no pressure. you curled your legs under you, blanket snug, the flickering light from the screen dancing across your skin.

every once in a while, you’d glance at jaehyun. and more than once, you caught him watching you instead of the film.

“are you bored?” you whispered.

“not even close.”

“you haven’t laughed once.”

he turned to you, that sarcastic little smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth, eyes narrowed just slightly.

“you’re already making enough noise for the both of us.”

you gave him a playful slap on the arm, pretending to be offended.

“that was a compliment,” he added, amused.

you rolled your eyes—but smiled. god, you smiled so much that night.

as the credits rolled, something shifted in the silence. the mood thickened—not heavy, just… deeper. weighted with something. a moment hanging on the edge of change. your head leaned against the window as the screen dimmed, your eyes distant but your heart so very full.

he still didn’t touch you.

he didn’t grab your hand. didn’t lean in.

but his presence wrapped around you all the same—solid, patient, waiting. not pushing, just there. learning how to be near you without demanding anything in return.

“thank you,” you said softly, voice almost too quiet to hear. “for this. for everything.”

“you don’t have to thank me.”

“yes, i do. it’s not every day someone goes out of their way like this.”

he paused before answering. his tone was steady, but low.

“i want this to work,” he said. “and if that means planning teenage-level dates with blankets and popcorn, then… yeah. i’ll do that.”

you laughed, eyes dropping to your lap.

“you’re doing well so far.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

and then you looked at each other. just looked. no words needed.

but inside… you felt it.

your shoulders, usually tense, were light. your heart, bruised and cautious for so long, was opening again. quietly, but surely. as if whispering, i’m still here. i still want to believe.

you weren’t sure where this would go. if it would last. if it would end in tears or something worse.

but right now, in his car, under the stars, with the last notes of the film still echoing through your skin…

you wanted to find out.

you wanted to try.

the next morning at the office felt different—less chaotic, more grounded. you greeted the receptionist with a small smile, your heels clicking softly against the marble floor as you made your way in, clutching your coffee cup like a security blanket. you weren't glowing, exactly, but something about you was… softer. less guarded. like a petal finally relaxing in the warmth of spring after a too-long winter.

jaehyun noticed immediately.

you caught him watching you from the glass-walled conference room as you entered the bullpen. he didn't stare, not in a way that would make it obvious to others—but his eyes followed you, just long enough to clock the change. your navy blue pencil skirt hugged your hips, the slit in the back offering just the right amount of grace as you walked. the cream blouse you wore was modest but elegant, the top button left undone, showing the delicate line of your collarbone. your hair was half-up, your makeup minimal, professional—but the gloss on your lips and the quiet shimmer on your eyelids betrayed a whisper of mischief. not overt. just enough for someone paying attention.

you met his gaze briefly through the glass and raised your brows in a silent hello before looking away, sipping your coffee with forced nonchalance.

by the time you crossed paths an hour later—both of you heading into a smaller briefing room—he gave you that look again. the one that asked, really? amused, but faintly disbelieving.

"good morning, mr. jeong," you greeted him politely, eyes straight ahead as if you hadn't spent the last night wrapped in his blanket, watching a movie with your legs tangled under it.

"miss y/l/n," he replied, his lips curving into a knowing smile as he held the door open for you. “very formal today.”

you didn’t rise to the bait. just gave him a brief, professional smile and walked past, heels clicking, not looking back. you were committed to the bit.

the meeting was brief, technical—a review of deliverables, some feedback loops, nothing out of the ordinary. you contributed where you needed to, kept your tone measured, avoided lingering glances. even when he made a rare joke and the room chuckled, you only allowed yourself a small, polite laugh, hands folded neatly on the table.

he didn’t push. but when you passed each other near the coffee station later, his voice dropped low, just enough for you to hear.

“you’re really leaning into the whole executive assistant with boundaries thing, huh?”

you smirked as you refilled your mug, still not looking at him. “just trying to keep things professional, mr. jeong.”

“of course.” he nodded once, pretending to adjust his tie. “wouldn’t want to cross any lines.”

you bit your lip to suppress your grin. the game was on.

at 3:47 PM, your phone lit up with a text from his office number: meeting with the department heads in fifteen. boardroom. don’t be late. signed J.J.

you rolled your eyes but your stomach did a little flip.

the 4 PM meeting dragged—there was a lot of back and forth over campaign numbers and rollout schedules, but you held your own, taking notes, speaking clearly when your insight was needed. you could feel jaehyun watching you when others weren’t—his gaze warm, grounding—but he didn’t speak to you directly unless it was related to the discussion. you appreciated that. It let you stay in control, let you breathe.

after everyone had trickled out and the room was quiet, you stayed behind a moment, closing your laptop and straightening the chairs without a word. he didn’t move from his seat at the head of the table, just watched you as you moved, his fingers idly spinning a pen.

“dinner?” he asked eventually, breaking the silence.

you didn’t look up right away. “are you asking as mr. jeong or...?”

he tilted his head, eyes playful. “just jaehyun.”

you looked up, meeting his eyes. something flickered between you—recognition. of the past few days, the softness in your chest, the way your shoulders had finally stopped bracing for disappointment.

“okay,” you said quietly. “dinner.”

he didn’t take you to a fancy restaurant or anywhere showy. just a quiet little rooftop place downtown, dim lights and mellow music, open air and the sound of the city below. you sat across from him at a small table, knees brushing under the surface. you shared dishes, laughed softly, talked about nothing and everything. he asked about your childhood; you asked about his first heartbreak. there was no rush to get anywhere. just being there—together—was enough.

at some point, after dessert and a second glass of wine, the conversation quieted. the city stretched around you, glittering and alive. jaehyun leaned back in his chair, watching you.

at some point, after dessert and a second glass of wine, the conversation quieted. the city stretched around you, glittering and alive. jaehyun leaned back in his chair, watching you with that open expression he reserved for moments like this—unguarded, gently curious.

“you said you grew up outside the city,” he said, casually swirling the remnants of his drink. “what about your parents?”

you set your fork down and rested your elbows lightly on the table, exhaling. “they still live in the same town. a couple hours from here.”

he nodded. “siblings?”

“one,” you replied. “older brother. married. two little boys.”

jaehyun smiled at that. “you’re the cool aunt.”

you laughed softly, the sound bittersweet. “i try. i send them stickers and weird snacks from the city. but i think i’m mostly the mysterious aunt who lives alone in seoul and doesn’t have a husband, which is a major point of concern for my parents.”

jaehyun raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “concern?”

“oh, huge.” you leaned back, crossing your arms with a mock-serious nod. “they think i’m one heartbreak away from crawling back into my childhood bedroom with a suitcase and giving up entirely. i get the same call every weekend—‘have you met someone yet?’ and ‘when are you coming home, sweetheart?’ like my single status is a national emergency.”

you smiled, tried to make it sound light. funny. but the knot in your chest tugged a little tighter with each word. because underneath the teasing tone, it hurt. the weight of expectation, of having let them down without really meaning to. you’d always thought, by now, you’d have that picture-perfect family. a husband. maybe a child. but life had taken its own sharp turns, and somewhere along the way, you'd lost the map.

before your thoughts could spiral too far inward, you turned your eyes toward him and asked, “what about you? any siblings?”

he shook his head. “only child.”

“wow. that explains the drama,” you teased.

he grinned, playing along. “what drama?”

you shrugged, playful. “the perfectly tousled hair. the quiet confidence. the whole mysterious boss with a tragic past vibe.”

jaehyun laughed, the sound low and warm. “nothing tragic, thankfully. my parents own a condo complex back in busan. they keep to themselves. ever since i moved out, they’ve stayed out of my decisions. no guilt trips. no blind dates.”

he smirked a little, taking another sip. “which is great for me.”

you smiled at that, but there was something about the way he said it—casual, yes, but laced with a kind of loneliness you recognized. the kind that came with being left alone a little too much. with being successful but still carrying a shadow no one quite asked about.

you watched him for a second longer than necessary. then nodded slowly. “that does sound kind of great.”

he looked at you then, really looked, and the silence between you shifted—deeper now. heavy with things not said.

the city hummed around you. glasses clinked from other tables. somewhere, a violinist was playing faintly near the street below. but you only heard the soft cadence of his breath, the way it matched your own.

and then he stood and offered you his hand.

you didn’t hesitate this time. you let him lead you to the edge of the rooftop, where the view was clearer, the air colder. your arms brushed as you looked out together, shoulder to shoulder, warm skin against cool wind.

he turned to you first, eyes darker now, thoughtful. “you don’t need to rush anything. marriage, or whatever they want from you. you’re… okay. just as you are.”

you looked at him slowly, your heart caught somewhere between gratitude and ache. “thanks,” you whispered. “sometimes i forget.”

he stepped closer—barely—but it was enough to make your breath hitch.

you met his gaze, and something shifted between you again. tighter. stronger. the kind of tension that doesn’t demand to be broken, only… felt.

he leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. you didn’t.

your lips met his softly, a single, tentative kiss that carried the full weight of everything left unspoken. sweet, searching, the kind of kiss that says i see you. that says stay.

and when you pulled back, your eyes didn’t dart away.

they lingered.

because something had begun. and neither of you was pretending anymore.

there was no big speech. no sudden declarations.

just the quiet gravity of this moment. the closeness. the way his eyes searched yours with a gentleness that made your breath catch.

april melted into may in soft, golden increments—like a candle burning slow at both ends. the weather grew gentler, the evenings warmer, and with each passing day, your relationship with jaehyun unraveled in small, tender pieces that neither of you rushed to name.

you had more dinners together. nothing extravagant—he wasn’t the kind to impress with grand gestures—but always thoughtful. ramen tucked away in a quiet corner shop with mismatched stools. a spontaneous detour after a work meeting that led to an art gallery’s closing hour. coffee at a tiny cafe with mismatched mugs and jazz playing softly from a dusty speaker. with every outing, something softened between you. the way you spoke to each other, the way you lingered a second longer when saying goodbye, the way your eyes found his in a crowded room and stayed there.

still, at work, everything remained perfectly composed. restrained. you never touched, never called him anything but mr. jeong. no one suspected a thing—and that secrecy gave it all the thrill of something sacred. childish almost. like passing notes under a desk. a shared joke disguised in a spreadsheet. your fingers grazing when you exchanged documents. a glance too long in the breakroom when he poured your coffee before you even asked. you could feel it in the air, that charged silence of two people pretending to be just colleagues, and failing quietly, deliciously.

the project itself was moving well—smooth timelines, promising data. it gave you an excuse to spend more time in his office, laptop open across from his, sometimes both of you too focused to speak for long stretches. sometimes one of you talking while the other typed, nodding with half-listening affection. sometimes, on the slow days, the lines between work and personal conversation blurred gently, like ink on damp paper.

today was one of those days.

you sat across from him, legs crossed under the conference table, scrolling through performance reports while he adjusted a chart on his screen. outside the windows, the afternoon sun filtered through the blinds, casting pale lines across the carpet and the sleeves of his shirt. he leaned back, stretching slightly, then caught your gaze with a small smile.

“so…” he said, voice lower than usual, “what are you doing this weekend?”

you glanced up, biting your lip to hide a smile. “why? do you need me to run more numbers?”

“maybe,” he said, teasing. “but i was thinking something less tragic. maybe the museum? or that poetry cafe you mentioned.”

you shrugged, trying to sound casual. “depends. are you asking as mr. jeong or as… jaehyun?”

he smirked, eyes playful. “i guess that depends on your answer.”

you were about to respond when the door opened without a knock. both of you sat up straighter instinctively, like students caught passing notes. the supervisor from the analytics division stepped in, scanning the room with barely concealed curiosity.

“mr. jeong,” he said, tone clipped, “the director wants to see you.”

jaehyun stood immediately, buttoning his jacket with an easy nod. “i’ll be there in a moment.”

the supervisor looked at you then. his eyes lingered—not long, but long enough. something unreadable passed over his face. “you’ve been spending a lot of time here,” he said, like it wasn’t a question.

you gave him your most neutral smile. “just supporting the project. we’re on a tight schedule.”

“mm.” he said nothing more, just nodded once and stepped out.

jaehyun glanced at you before leaving, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes—amusement, maybe. or quiet warning. you went back to your laptop, fingers pretending to type while your heart tried to calm its sudden gallop.

the evening found you both in his car again. the sun had already begun its descent, turning the sky a soft shade of apricot. you slid into the passenger seat, closed the door behind you, and without thinking too much, leaned over to kiss his cheek.

his skin was warm under your lips.

he blinked, clearly caught off guard, and for a second, he forgot to hide it. the tips of his ears flushed red. he cleared his throat and reached for the ignition, like nothing happened, but his smile lingered, crooked and faint.

“you keep doing that,” he murmured, not looking at you.

“doing what?” you asked innocently.

he shook his head, eyes on the road. “making it hard to pretend we’re not dating.”

you grinned and didn’t answer.

he drove you to the han river, where the breeze was cool and kind, and the crowds were light enough to feel private. you sat cross-legged on the grass, sharing tteokbokki and fried dumplings from paper trays, watching cyclists blur past under the lamplights. a small speaker nearby played an old ballad, sweet and melancholic, and you leaned into his shoulder without needing permission.

“i like this,” you said softly.

“what part?” he asked.

“this part. where everything’s… quiet.”

he didn’t speak immediately. just reached over and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

“me too.”

you looked at him, really looked—and it hit you in that moment how far you’d come. from formal greetings and polite distance to soft laughter and shared silence. from stolen glances to kisses on the cheek that left him blushing.

and somehow, without realizing it, you’d stopped keeping count of how many times you thought about him during the day. because now he was part of your days.

and you didn’t want to imagine them without him anymore.

june arrived with a subtle shift in rhythm—projects moved faster, deadlines drew closer, and the sun stayed longer in the sky. the office felt heavier in the afternoons, warm with late spring air and the quiet hum of new beginnings.

one of those beginnings came in the form of kim jungwoo.

he was transferred from the incheon branch—a bright-eyed analyst with quick wit and a laugh that filled corners. you were told he'd be supporting the data team, and since your department handled most of the projections, he was placed right in front of your desk, where your eyes met every time you looked up. your first impression of him was that he was disarmingly charming—too friendly, too easygoing for the stiff, quiet culture of the office—but undeniably efficient. he asked questions that made sense, learned fast, and had a way of easing tension with a joke delivered just under his breath.

you kept things professional, as always. showed him how you sorted the quarterly metrics, how to navigate the company’s outdated database system without crashing it, how to color-code your sheets for easier reading. he listened, smiled, nodded. and eventually, he joked. made you laugh when you’d been staring at the same budget chart for hours. brought you coffee with your name scribbled on the lid in dramatic calligraphy. sometimes too much, sometimes exactly what you needed.

you liked him. platonically. comfortably. it was easy to like jungwoo.

but jaehyun noticed. of course he did.

at first, it was subtle. he’d call you into his office more frequently, asking for reports he usually didn’t request until later in the week. you didn’t think much of it—until you realized he was keeping you in there for hours. even when the topic had already run dry, even when both of you were silently pretending to still be discussing something relevant. you’d glance at your watch, mumble about needing to check on jungwoo’s progress, and jaehyun would give you this look—tight-lipped, unreadable, almost irritated.

the third time it happened, you couldn’t keep quiet anymore.

“are you seriously going to keep me hostage in your office every time jungwoo asks me a question?” you asked, laptop balanced on your knees, arms crossed.

jaehyun didn’t answer right away. he leaned back in his chair, one hand draped lazily over the armrest, watching you. but there was tension under his cool expression, the kind that coiled in his jaw.

“you’re my girlfriend” he said, voice low, measured. “even if we have to act like colleagues in this building, you’re not just anyone to me.”

your breath caught. not because of what he said—because of the way he said it. with that sharp, quiet certainty, like it wasn’t up for debate.

“you’re jealous,” you muttered, trying to smile, to turn it into something lighter.

“of course i’m jealous,” he said, leaning forward. “he’s new, he’s charming, and he’s looking at you like he already knows what you taste like.”

your face flushed.

you looked away, but only for a second.

because when you met his eyes again, he stood.

in two strides he was in front of you, taking the laptop gently from your knees and setting it on the coffee table without a word. then he cupped your face with both hands and kissed you—deep, slow, and hungry. there was nothing tentative about it. it wasn’t sweet or shy. it was possession, poured soft and molten through the shape of his mouth on yours. you sighed into it, hands gripping the front of his shirt, pulse thudding in your throat.

he pulled away just enough to speak, voice rough. “don’t tease me about this.”

you nodded, breathless. “okay.”

and then he kissed you again.

the kiss tasted like all the things you weren’t allowed to say out loud. frustration. longing. the ache of pretending, day after day, that you were only what the world let you be. his thumb stroked your jaw as his mouth opened against yours, deeper now, slower. you felt your knees weaken and your thoughts scatter, all logic melting into the heat of the moment.

that night, like every night since the start of your secret, you met him outside the office. his car waited at the edge of the lot, tinted windows and the soft thump of quiet music playing through the speakers. you slid into the passenger seat, your heart already dancing.

this time, he didn’t say hello.

he reached over and kissed you—harder than before, lips parting yours in a way that made your body sing. the car wasn’t moving. neither of you were thinking. you kissed like it was all you knew how to do. mouths hungry, breath shallow, his hand tracing the edge of your thigh just enough to make you gasp. every time you pulled away for air, he followed. every time he groaned into your kiss, you shivered.

he never rushed.

never crossed that line you hadn’t yet spoken about.

but you felt how close it hovered. just under the skin.

and as your lips brushed his one last time before pulling back, your forehead resting against his, you whispered, “i like it when you get jealous.”

his smile was crooked. dangerous.

“you better not like it too much,” he said, his thumb stroking the corner of your mouth, “because next time… i might not let you leave so easily.”

thursday crept in quietly, with no big plans or messages of anticipation. the city, usually loud and hungry for excitement, felt unusually tame that week—like it had spent itself on too many events, too many evenings out, too many people chasing novelty in crowded cafés and rooftop bars. maybe it was just you, though. maybe everything had started to feel dull because your world had shifted to revolve around something—someone—entirely new. and nothing outside of that circle could compare anymore.

you barely spent time in your apartment lately. always out. always in his car, in places that weren’t quite home but felt more real because he was there. so on that afternoon, with your head tilted against the cold surface of your desk and your brain spinning from spreadsheets, you blurted it out between quiet keyboard taps.

“don’t make any plans tomorrow night.”

jaehyun glanced at you from across his office, pen in hand, eyebrows drawn. “should i be worried?”

you smiled without looking up. “you’re staying over. the weekend. at my place.”

the pause was heavy. not uncomfortable, but... loaded. you didn’t dare lift your head until he spoke.

“wait—what?”

and there it was. you looked at him finally, biting your bottom lip to keep from smiling too wide. he looked stunned. genuinely caught off guard.

“you heard me. pack a bag. pajamas. toothbrush. snacks. i don’t know. whatever you need to survive two days with me.”

his face went red. a deep, rich pink that spread across his cheeks to the tips of his ears. you laughed. he was thinking things.

“ya, what were you imagining?” you teased, narrowing your eyes at him with a smirk.

“nothing!” he defended too fast. “i just... i didn’t expect we’d be spending the weekend... alone like that. it’s not a bad thing. i like it. i like the idea. i just—i mean, we’ve been doing great. this relationship. it feels good. real. and... if it keeps going like this, who knows—maybe one day we’ll get married.”

you froze.

he didn’t say it as a joke. it was quiet. casual. but he meant it.

married.

you hadn’t thought about that in weeks. you’d been so swept up in the rush of the new—new glances, new kisses, new secret dates and stolen evenings. but that word made your heart skip, stumble, leap. it opened a future you hadn’t dared imagine.

married to jeong jaehyun. walking down an aisle. your coworkers gasping. your parents trying to stay calm. him lifting your veil. kissing you like it was the beginning of forever. sunday mornings with kids and cartoons and coffee. vacations. shared bookshelves. him waiting at the door when you got home.

you shook the image out of your head.

“you can’t just say things like that,” you whispered, barely breathing.

“why not?” he asked softly, his eyes sincere. “it’s where we’re going, right?”

friday night came like a slow exhale.

he arrived with a small black duffle bag slung over his shoulder and a sheepish grin. you wore mismatched pajamas—striped pants and a faded hoodie from a school club you barely remembered joining. the sight of you like that made him laugh, and the sound was so unguarded it made your chest ache with affection.

you stayed in. ordered too much food. picked a cheesy rom-com that made you cry halfway through. he kept making sarcastic comments at first, trying to pretend he didn’t care, until somewhere in the middle he got quiet. his hand found yours under the blanket, warm and steady. when the credits rolled, your head was on his shoulder and your eyes were puffy.

“i hate that you made me cry,” you sniffled, wiping your face.

“i didn’t make you cry. blame julia roberts,” he said, kissing the top of your head.

the rest of the night blurred. an improvised dinner of instant noodles and wine, soft music from your phone speaker, him dancing stupidly in the kitchen with a wooden spoon, trying to make you laugh. and you did. hard. the kind of laugh that made you forget to be careful.

when it got late, and the lights dimmed, the kisses came back. slow. long. searching. his hands on your waist, your fingers in his hair, breathing each other in like you were afraid to stop. the heat built, like always, but neither of you pushed further. it wasn’t time. not yet. but god, it was close.

saturday was lazy and warm and beautiful.

you woke up tangled in the blankets, his arm draped over your stomach, his breath soft against your neck. the kind of morning you never thought you’d get to have—where nothing was urgent, and everything felt right.

you took turns in the shower, argued over who finished the milk, and spent an hour sitting on the floor flipping through old photo albums you’d forgotten you had. you didn’t plan to show him—but he insisted. and once he started looking, he didn’t stop.

“wait... this is you in high school?” he asked, pointing at a photo.

“yeah,” you said, embarrassed. “why?”

“you were so cute.”

you rolled your eyes. “i wasn’t popular or anything. i had one boyfriend. lasted a week.”

he stared. “a week?”

“he said i was too uptight and boring.”

jaehyun’s mouth dropped open. “that guy was an idiot.”

you laughed. “no, he was probably right. i’ve always been... structured. controlled. even back then. guess that’s why i’m like this now—such a workaholic.”

he didn’t laugh. instead, he kept looking at your photo—finger brushing over the glossy paper like it meant something.

“if i had met you back then,” he said quietly, “i would’ve fallen in love with you. no doubt.”

your breath caught.

he didn’t look away. “i wouldn’t have let you go. not for a second.”

“you don’t mean that,” you whispered, unsure what else to say.

“i do,” he said, firm. “you’re not boring. you’re brilliant. you’re thoughtful. you see things no one else sees. you work harder than anyone i know. and... you make me want to be better.”

tears pricked your eyes again. not from sadness. just—too much emotion. too much truth.

“you’re going to make me cry again,” you whispered.

“then cry,” he said, pulling you close. “but only if you let me hold you through it.”

the rest of the weekend passed like a dream.

grocery runs in sweatpants. a half-burnt attempt at making pancakes. arguments over which playlist was better for cleaning the kitchen. you wore ridiculous socks with cartoons on them. he made fun of you until you found his even worse ones.

you kissed between chores. kissed while brushing your teeth. kissed while folding laundry.

it wasn’t glamorous.

but it felt like home.

and when sunday night came, and he packed his bag again, you didn’t want him to go. not because of the sex, or the thrill, or the high of newness. but because somewhere between instant noodles and high school photos, you realized something terrifying and beautiful—

you were falling in love.

for real.

for the first time.

towards the end of the month, your phone rings. you’re in your apartment, folding laundry with the window cracked open to let in the soft breeze of early summer. the sunlight filters through sheer curtains, painting everything in golden hues. you glance at the caller id and feel a knot tighten in your stomach. mom.

you answer.

“it’s your father’s birthday this weekend,” she says, skipping greetings as always, her voice a mix of cheerful anticipation and subtle reprimand. “you should come visit. he’s been asking if we’ll see you.”

you agree, almost without thinking, but then comes the dreaded question.

“and? have you found a boyfriend yet or do i need to talk to mrs. lee again?”

you rub your temple. “mom—”

“her son is still single, you know. owns a good piece of land. sells vegetables to that big food corporation. you’d be set for life.”

you exhale deeply, eyes closing in frustration.

“i’m… i’m seeing someone.”

a pause. then her voice lights up like fireworks. “you are? oh, this is wonderful! finally, you’re not wasting away alone up there in that office job.”

“mom, we’ve just started seeing each other,” you say, hesitating. “it’s too soon to—”

“no,” she cuts in firmly. “you don’t have time to be unsure. the train is about to leave the station, sweetheart. you either get on or it’s gone. bring him. we want to meet him.”

before you can argue, the call ends with a clipped goodbye, and you’re left staring at your phone, pulse racing and chest tight.

the rest of the week, you feel like a ghost of yourself. distracted at work, distant on your dates with jaehyun, your mind spinning in loops. he notices immediately—of course he does—and it only takes one missed joke and a quiet dinner for him to call you out on it.

you’re sitting across from him, poking at your food. the restaurant is softly lit, cozy, but there’s a distance in your eyes.

“y/n,” he says, setting his chopsticks down. “what’s going on?”

“nothing,” you mutter, but he leans in.

“don’t give me that. we’re together now, remember? you can talk to me. or… if you’re second guessing this… if i’m moving too fast, just tell me. i can handle it.”

your heart aches at his words. you reach across the table, grabbing his hand.

“it’s not that. i’m not doubting us,” you say quietly. “it’s just… my mom called. she wants me to visit this weekend for my dad’s birthday. and she… kind of expects me to bring you.”

he blinks. then, without hesitation, he says, “okay. then i’ll come.”

you blink right back. “wait, seriously?”

“yes. if it means that much to them—and to you��I want to go. i want to meet your family, y/n. it feels right.”

your chest swells with something warm and terrifying. you nod, silently.

friday comes and your suitcase is zipped and ready by the door. you’re wearing a floral summer dress, light and breezy, with your favorite pair of nude heels that make your legs look longer than they are. your hair is pinned loosely, lip tint soft and rosy. there’s a nervous flutter in your chest when you step outside.

jaehyun is already waiting beside his car, leaning casually against it like he belongs in a photoshoot. he’s in cream linen pants and a sage green button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, collar open at the throat. his sunglasses reflect the afternoon sun, and he looks, frankly, too good to be standing in your quiet little street. you gulp.

“need help with those?” he says with a grin, reaching for your bags before you can answer.

the ride is filled with music, laughter, and long, thoughtful silences. the kind that don't feel awkward, but full. pregnant with meaning. he holds your hand on the highway, thumb stroking the back of it lazily, his warmth anchoring you through your nerves.

when you pull up to your parents' house—a modest home with stone finishings and a neat little front garden—your heart thunders. everything feels smaller, more fragile, like stepping back in time. your mom rushes out first, apron still tied around her waist, eyes wide and wet with excitement.

and when she sees jaehyun? she nearly cries. “you’re real,” she says, pressing her hands together like she’s witnessing a miracle. your dad comes out next, chuckling as he wipes his hands on a dish towel.

“so this is the young man,” he says with a knowing nod, clapping jaehyun on the back. “your mother hasn’t shut up about you since she found out.”

inside, the dining table is set with your dad’s favorite dishes. everything smells like memory. you sit in the living room afterward, your parents across from you, jaehyun beside you on the couch, close enough to feel his knee brushing yours.

he speaks up first, voice calm and clear.

“i just want to say that i’m very serious about your daughter,” he says. “i have genuine intentions. we’re still getting to know each other, but… if things keep going the way they are, i’d like to build a future with her.”

your mother gasps, reaching for a tissue. your father nods slowly, visibly moved.

“this… this is the best birthday gift i could ask for,” he says.

you shrink into the couch, cheeks burning, while jaehyun’s hand finds yours again and squeezes gently.

then comes the chaos.

your older brother, baekhyun, bursts through the door with his wife and two kids in tow. he takes one look at you and smirks.

“who’s the guy and what have you done with my perpetually single little sister?”

you groan. “shut up, baek.”

the two of you bicker like teenagers, tossing playful insults back and forth while your nephews cling to your legs, shouting your name with delight. you hand them the toys you brought and their eyes light up like it’s christmas.

jaehyun watches it all, amused, until one of the boys climbs into his lap and hands him a toy too.

he freezes.

and in that moment, something shifts in him. the sound of children’s laughter, the image of you with a soft smile, cradling one of your nephews in your arms. the warmth of this home, the love in every corner. he imagines it—having this with you. kids with your eyes. a house that’s yours. your framed wedding photo on the wall. vacations. birthdays. late-night talks in bed. wrinkles and silver hair, but still loving you with the same fire.

he blushes.

and you notice.

“what?” you whisper as you lean close.

he shakes his head, smiling to himself. “nothing. just… i really, really like this. all of it.”

the night unfolds gently. dinner turns into stories, stories into laughter, and soon the sun has long set and the house is lit with warm yellow lights. you and jaehyun sit outside for a moment, watching the stars.

he wraps an arm around you, and you rest your head on his shoulder.

“you feel like home,” you whisper, not even realizing the words have slipped out.

he turns to look at you, eyes soft. “so do you.”

and in the quiet, with the cicadas singing and the echo of your family’s voices drifting from inside, you know.

this might just be the beginning of everything.

the month of july passed by with little to no complications. your parents were pleased with jaehyun, and you could tell that their approval meant the world to him. jungwoo, on the other hand, was playful and teasing, but with a newfound sense of respect, especially as jaehyun started to show more signs of being protective, making sure that jungwoo didn’t cross any boundaries. you were still professional with everyone at work, but the chemistry between you and jaehyun was undeniable. nights together were spent laughing, and weekends were filled with stolen moments of joy, where you both shared something more than just professional courtesy.

jaehyun had made a habit of calling you during the day, just to check on you, and you found yourself doing the same. the conversations were simple, but they felt important. visits to his office became more frequent, sometimes just for work, but other times, it was an excuse to sneak in a kiss or two. the passion between you two continued to build, a slow, steady fire that became increasingly hard to ignore.

one night, a wednesday, you both ignored the weather forecast and decided to take your date out in the city. the air was warm, and the lights of the city sparkled as you walked the streets together. the mood was light, but as midnight approached, the weather took a sharp turn. dark clouds rolled in, and soon, rain began to pour, turning into a violent storm. the wind howled, and the streets quickly flooded. jaehyun’s car struggled against the force of the water, and you couldn’t help but grip the seat, anxious.

jaehyun tried to keep calm, glancing at you with a reassuring smile. “it’s okay, nothing’s going to happen,” he said, though you could tell he was also feeling the weight of the storm.

the rain pounded against the windows, and the car barely moved as the currents began to grow stronger. after what felt like an eternity, you both agreed that waiting in the car wasn’t safe anymore. as you both discussed where to go, a motel appeared in front of you. it seemed like an odd choice, but the parking lot was dry, and there were few other options at that hour. both of you hesitated, unsure of what to do. it was a strange situation—neither of you wanted to suggest anything that could be misinterpreted.

jaehyun was the one to break the silence. “let’s just use the parking lot, at least we’ll have shelter from the rain,” he said. “and if it lasts all night, we’ll have a warm place to stay.”

you nodded, a little nervous. “yeah, i mean, we’re not going to do anything else, right? just sleep, then in the morning, we’ll head back to our places and go to work, right?”

jaehyun smiled at you, trying to ease your nerves. “of course, just a safe place to wait out the storm. no pressure.”

you both parked and got out of the car, a little stiff from the tension, but the moment you entered the motel, things started to feel different. jaehyun took the lead, making sure you were comfortable and settled in, giving you space to breathe. He didn’t rush you, always checking to see how you felt.

both of you were tired from the day, and the weather didn’t help the situation, so after some brief, awkward glances, you both decided to take separate showers to unwind. you both changed into something more comfortable, but since it was summer and it was warm, you decided to just sleep in your underwear. when you looked at jaehyun in his, the moment felt almost surreal. his gaze lingered for a moment before he quickly turned away, as if both of you were still trying to adjust to how close you had become.

“you know,” he said softly, his voice breaking the silence, “you don’t have to feel awkward. we’re taking things at our own pace.”

you smiled, feeling your heartbeat quicken at the sound of his voice. “what if i want to go faster?” you said, your words surprising even yourself.

jaehyun looks at you, eyes widening slightly before they darken with something deeper—something he’s clearly been holding back. “are you sure?” he asks, voice low, almost trembling with restraint.

you nod, stepping closer, your fingers brushing against his bare chest. “i’m sure.”

his hands find your waist gently at first, testing the waters, but when you lean into him, he pulls you in like he’s been waiting forever to hold you like this. his lips find yours in a kiss that starts soft, exploratory, but quickly deepens, hungry and needing. he walks you backwards slowly until the back of your knees hit the bed, and you fall onto it with a soft gasp, taking him with you.

his hands roam your body, reverent and slow, like he’s memorizing every inch of you. he whispers your name against your skin, trailing kisses down your neck, over your collarbone, and lower still. your breath hitches when his mouth lingers between your thighs, his eyes meeting yours, waiting for any sign to stop—but you nod again, your fingers threading into his hair, guiding him closer.

what he gives you isn’t rushed. it’s worship. like he’s been dreaming of this moment for too long to waste it. you lose yourself in the rhythm of his mouth, the way he listens to your body, adjusting, teasing, giving. he doesn’t stop until your thighs are shaking and your voice is broken with moans you couldn’t hold back.

when he finally crawls back up your body, his lips kiss yours again, slower this time, tasting you. he whispers, “still okay?” and you nod, pulling him closer.

when he slides into you, it’s not hurried or careless. it’s deep, slow, and overwhelming in the best way. you cling to him, breathless, as your bodies move together like they were made to. he holds your gaze, foreheads pressed together, sweat-damp skin sticking in the summer heat, but neither of you care.

you whisper his name like a prayer, and he answers with yours, over and over, like he’s trying to brand it into the moment.

you fall apart in his arms, not once, but twice, and he follows soon after, burying his face in your neck as he trembles against you. 

his lips are still on yours when he pushes deeper inside you, and this time, there’s no hesitation. your body arches under him, the stretch of him delicious and overwhelming all at once. he fills you slowly, inch by inch, like he wants to feel every reaction he pulls from you.

“fuck, you feel so good,” he breathes out, forehead resting against yours. “been thinking about this for so long.”

you moan softly, nails dragging down his back as he starts to move, slow at first, rolling his hips into you with precision that makes your legs tremble. he kisses down your throat, biting softly at your skin as he picks up the pace, each thrust hitting deeper, harder. the headboard taps gently against the wall, a quiet rhythm that matches the sound of your breathy moans and his soft, low groans.

your fingers clutch the sheets, the pleasure building with every thrust. jaehyun’s hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider for him, and the new angle has you gasping his name, your voice breaking. he doesn’t stop—he can’t stop—lost in the feel of you, the sounds you make, the way your body clings to his like it’s the only place it belongs.

he pulls out just enough to see the way you take him, watching your slick coat his length before sliding back in with a filthy, wet sound that makes your toes curl. “look at you,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing your lower lip, eyes locked on yours. “so fucking beautiful like this.”

when he shifts, propping one of your legs over his shoulder, the angle has you crying out, your whole body shuddering. “you’re so deep,” you whimper, and he groans, hips snapping faster, harder, chasing both your highs like a man starved.

your climax hits hard—white-hot and blinding—as your walls clamp down around him, dragging him over the edge with you. he cums with a strangled moan, burying himself to the hilt, his hips stuttering as he spills into you. he stays there, chest pressed to yours, breathing heavy, hearts pounding in sync.

after a few moments, he pulls out slowly, carefully, kissing your shoulder as he lies beside you and pulls you into his arms.

your body’s still trembling when he runs a hand down your spine, voice low and thick with affection. “think we’re still just sleeping?”

you laugh softly against his chest, lazy fingers tracing circles on his skin. “not a chance.”

he kisses the top of your head. “then let’s not sleep yet.”

and before you can even respond, he’s already kissing down your body again—because one round clearly wasn’t enough.

you barely have time to catch your breath before jaehyun’s mouth is back on your skin, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your chest, between your breasts, over your stomach. his hands roam your thighs with greedy fingers, and even though you’re still sensitive, your body responds instantly—needy, aching, already ready for him again.

“you’re still so wet,” he murmurs, spreading you open with his fingers, dragging two of them slowly through your folds. “fuck, baby… you’re dripping.”

your hips jerk when he circles your clit, light and teasing, and you whine, fingers gripping the sheets. “j-jaehyun…”

he smirks, dark eyes meeting yours as he sinks his fingers into you—slow, deep, curling just right. “you can take it, can’t you?” he says, voice thick with lust. “you want it again.”

you nod helplessly, mouth parted as your back arches off the bed. he fucks you with his fingers until you’re trembling again, begging for him, grinding down onto his hand like you can’t get enough—and you can’t.

when he pulls his fingers out and lines himself up again, there’s no patience this time. he pushes in all at once, rougher, deeper, making your breath catch in your throat. the stretch, the pressure, the heat—it’s almost too much, but you crave every second of it.

he fucks you like he owns you now, one hand on your hip, the other pressing down on your stomach so he can feel himself inside you. “you feel that?” he groans. “you’re taking all of me.”

your moans turn shameless, high-pitched and raw, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the room with every thrust. the bed creaks, the headboard pounds against the wall, and you don’t care who hears. he flips you onto your stomach without warning, pulling your hips up, and slides back into you from behind.

you cry out at the new angle, your hands clawing at the sheets as he drives into you, deeper than before. “god—jaehyun, i’m gonna—”

“cum for me,” he growls, grabbing your hair and pulling your head back to kiss the side of your neck. “cum all over my cock, baby.”

your orgasm hits like a shockwave, blinding and hot and overwhelming. your whole body shakes, legs giving out beneath you as he keeps fucking you through it. he follows moments later, groaning your name as he fills you again, hips jerking against your ass, the sound of it all so filthy and perfect.

this time, when you collapse together on the bed, everything is soaked in sweat and heat and the scent of sex. your body is limp, your mind dazed, and he just pulls you close, wrapping you in his arms like he’s never letting go.

“okay,” you whisper, laughing breathlessly. “now we might need to sleep.”

he chuckles against your hair, voice rough. “maybe. after round three.”

that night at the motel changed everything.

it wasn’t just the sex—though, god, it was incredible. it was the way his hands learned your body like a second language, the way he whispered your name like a secret, the way you both let yourselves fall without fear. that night was messy, breathless, and soaked in want. but more than anything, it was a turning point—a quiet, unspoken agreement that this was no longer just something casual. not for either of you.

after that, the line between love and lust blurred beautifully. sex became part of your rhythm, part of how you communicated. stolen glances in the office turned into stolen kisses in the elevator. late nights became sleepovers, and every morning-after was filled with lazy touches and knowing smiles. you memorized each other’s moans like favorite songs, found new ways to say i want you, even when the words themselves weren’t spoken.

but there was one night that stood out. the one you still think about more than any other.

it was the night you stayed over at his apartment—just the two of you, no distractions, no storms outside, only the slow burn between your bodies. dinner turned into kisses. kisses turned into the first round on his kitchen counter, then the second in the shower, steam fogging up the mirror as your bodies tangled and slipped together like water and flame.

by the third round, it was past midnight. you were already sore, breathless, but insatiable. he pulled you back into bed, whispering things in your ear that made your skin burn. he was rougher that time—hungrier—gripping your hips as he fucked you deep and slow, drawing out every moan until your voice was hoarse and your mind was gone.

you were on top, riding him with lazy, desperate rhythm, your head thrown back, your nails digging into his chest. he looked up at you like you were something divine, his hands guiding your pace, eyes locked on the place where your bodies met.

and just when your orgasm started to hit—when everything went hot and tight and unbearably good—the words slipped out of you.

“i love you.”

your voice cracked around it, high and trembling, your body still grinding against his, your climax crashing over you like a wave. for a split second, everything stopped. you felt him freeze beneath you, heard the sharp intake of breath, saw the shock in his eyes.

you hadn’t meant to say it like that. not in the middle of fucking. not when you were bare in every sense of the word.

it was reckless. vulnerable. raw.

but not wrong.

his hands gripped your waist tighter, and then he was sitting up, arms wrapping around you, thrusting up into you so hard and deep that you sobbed out his name.

“i love you too,” he groaned against your neck. “fuck, i love you so much—too much.”

and then he came—hard and fast, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

afterward, you just lay there on top of him, chest to chest, skin to skin, hearts pounding in unison. there was no awkwardness. no regret. only this strange, beautiful calm that settled over the room like dawn.

it was in that moment you realized just how deep your feelings for him ran.

what had started as a simple plan—just something to avoid growing old alone—had become the best part of your life. somewhere along the way, between the office visits and shared glances, motel rooms and quiet mornings, you had fallen hopelessly, madly in love with jaehyun.

and the craziest part?

you couldn’t imagine ever thinking of anything—or anyone—else but him.

august wrapped around you like a golden ribbon, thick with heat and filled with the kind of breathless anticipation that only comes after months of hard work. the project was done—finally—after weeks of stress, endless reports, last-minute corrections and late nights. but it was done. and not just done, but successful. glowing feedback, client satisfaction, numbers that sang. it was more than you had dared to hope for.

and then—the email.

subject line: promotion confirmation.

you stared at it for a full minute before opening it. and when you read the words “congratulations, supervisor,” your breath hitched. you covered your mouth. you gasped. and then you ran.

jaehyun wasn’t even at his desk anymore, he was just walking into the hallway when you caught him. “jaehyun!” you called, your voice trembling with a kind of joy that had nowhere to go.

he turned, concerned for half a second—until he saw your face. and then you said it.

“i got it.”

“you got what?” he blinked, confused.

“the promotion.”

his eyes widened. he froze for a second. and then—his arms were around you before you could even finish breathing. he lifted you, spinning you once, twice, both of you laughing as you clutched his shoulders and buried your face in his neck.

“oh my god, baby—you did it! i knew it, i knew you would!”

you were dizzy, and not just from the spinning. he kissed your cheek, your temple, your lips. everything was warm and golden and right.

he took you out that night.

you didn’t go anywhere fancy—jaehyun insisted that celebrations should be personal, not performative. so he drove you to that one little pizzeria you loved, the one that made the potato crust just the way you liked it. he ordered your usual without asking, and when the wine came, he raised his glass first.

“to you,” he said, his eyes soft and gleaming under the low light. “my brilliant, unstoppable, incredible woman.”

your heart swelled so fast it almost ached. the clink of your glasses felt like the sound of a new chapter opening.

“i’ve never had this before,” you confessed, fingers curling around the stem of your glass. “celebrating something this big. with someone i love. it feels…” you laughed, shy and overwhelmed. “it feels like everything’s different now.”

jaehyun reached for your hand, his thumb stroking the back of it slowly.

“it is different,” he said. “because now, every good thing that happens to you—we get to celebrate it. together.”

you stared at him, your chest tight with emotion, with the kind of love that had no bottom, no edge. just more.

you leaned across the table, kissing him slow, deep, grateful. pizza between you, wine in your veins, your laughter echoing off the walls of that tiny booth.

you didn’t need fireworks.

this was better.

this was yours.

mid-september arrived with a softness that clung to the air—warm enough to feel like summer still lingered, but mellowed by the early hints of fall. the leaves hadn’t turned yet, but something in the wind carried change. maybe that’s what had been stirring inside you all week—a restless certainty that had taken root in your chest and bloomed with every kiss, every sleepy morning wrapped around each other, every whispered i love you that escaped your lips without hesitation. it had been five months, five months of chaos and clarity, of fire and softness, and you knew now—you didn’t want to wait anymore.

you wanted jaehyun. not in a month. not after careful plans. now.

so you climbed the steps to his office, heart thudding like a war drum, nerves tangled with determination. you paused outside the door, breathed once, twice, and knocked.

“come in,” his voice called, muffled behind the heavy door.

you stepped in and found him at his desk, back slightly hunched, focused on the glow of his screen. he looked up, and the moment he saw you, he smiled—that slow, dazzling smile that always made your knees feel like melted wax—and stood immediately, walking toward you without hesitation. he cupped your face, leaned in, and kissed you like he’d been waiting to do it all day.

“jaehyun,” you said, voice almost trembling, more from the gravity of what you were about to say than nerves. he pulled back slightly, tilting his head.

“yeah?”

you met his eyes and, without giving yourself the chance to second-guess it, you let it fall from your lips.

“i want to marry you.”

his lips parted slightly, surprise flickering across his features. he blinked, as if trying to be sure he heard you right.

“i know, baby,” he said, a soft chuckle lacing his words. “that was the whole deal, right? but remember—we said after november. we’d have more time to plan, get everything ready—”

“no,” you interrupted, stepping forward, clutching his hands tightly. “i don’t want to wait till november. i mean it. i want to marry you now. today, tomorrow, next week—i don’t care when or how. i just want to be yours. forever.”

he stared at you, quiet. processing. his brows drew together, and then lifted again like the meaning had just landed fully. his hands gripped yours tighter.

“but—what about the wedding? your parents, mine—”

“we’ll figure it out,” you whispered. “but this... this love we have, i don’t want to keep treating it like something that needs to be scheduled. it’s real. it’s now.”

he took a breath, deep and full. and then, his expression softened into something vulnerable and glowing—his eyes shone with something deeper than just affection. he leaned his forehead against yours and whispered, “you want to be my wife.”

you nodded, lips brushing his as you breathed, “more than anything.”

his thumbs brushed over your cheeks, as if committing this moment to memory. “then we’ll do it. not because it’s rushed, but because we know. we’ve known. and if you want to be my wife now... then i’ll make it happen. we’ll get married. i promise.”

and he kissed you again, this time slower, as if sealing an oath between your mouths.

the proposal happened three days later.

he told you it was just a normal date—dinner, then a walk somewhere scenic. no pressure. he even played it off by wearing something casual: a white linen shirt, sleeves rolled, soft beige slacks, and the cleanest pair of loafers you’d ever seen. he looked devastatingly handsome without trying.

he picked you up and drove toward the edge of the city, toward the river trail where the summer festivals were usually held. the area was quiet now, early autumn having driven the crowds away. but fairy lights still dangled from the trees, twinkling faintly as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, casting a warm, honeyed hue over everything.

he walked with you along the wooden path, your fingers tangled. his hand was slightly clammy. you noticed, and your heart fluttered, thinking—he’s nervous. the realization made you giddy.

and then, just as you reached the little bridge that overlooked the water, he stopped.

“wait here,” he said softly, squeezing your hand. “don’t move.”

he jogged a few steps ahead, ducked behind a low fence near a cluster of trees, and returned with a bouquet of peonies—your favorite. you hadn’t told him that. he remembered.

your eyes began to water.

he handed them to you, smiling shyly, and then pulled something out of his pocket.

a velvet box.

he opened it without a speech, without fanfare. his voice was soft, his eyes locked on yours like the world outside didn’t exist.

“you already said yes,” he whispered. “but i want to do this right.”

he got down on one knee, the gravel crunching beneath him, and held the ring up.

“y/n, will you marry me—not next month, not in theory, not in some future we’re still trying to picture... but now. for real. because i’m yours. and you’re mine.”

you didn’t cry. you sobbed. like an idiot. like a girl who had waited her whole life for someone like him. you nodded so fast your vision blurred and fell into his arms, and he kissed you like he was promising you the rest of forever.

in that moment, september never felt sweeter.

telling the company was a whole thing.

it started with a scheduled meeting—a weekly operations check-in with the usual suspects: team leads, upper management, the supervisor, and a couple of sharp-eyed executives who never missed a detail. it was jaehyun’s idea to make it official at work, to do it clean and direct and proudly. no rumors. no hiding. just the truth, glowing and solid like the ring that now lived permanently on your finger.

you both walked into the meeting room together, which wasn’t unusual, but something in the way your hands brushed as you took your seat already had jungwoo giving you the side-eye.

the presentation started, charts and projections lighting up the screen behind jaehyun as he stood with calm confidence. it was business as usual—until the last slide.

"before we wrap up," he said, glancing back at the room, his eyes finding yours briefly before turning to the group again, "i have one personal announcement to make."

you swallowed. jungwoo leaned forward like a damn hawk. mr. choi narrowed his eyes suspiciously, as if he'd been waiting for this moment since spring.

jaehyun smiled—soft, boyish, unbothered. “as some of you may know… or have guessed," he said, and gave jungwoo a teasing look that made him gasp, "i knew it," he muttered dramatically—"y/n and i have been seeing each other for a while.”

the room exploded. a gasp from the secretary and the supervisor actually choked on his coffee. someone in the back whispered “what the fuck” under their breath.

jaehyun held up a hand, a little smug, a little amused.

“and, as of last weekend… we’re engaged.”

your cheeks were burning. your heart thundered. you expected chaos, maybe disapproval, but what followed was—

cheering. clapping. wide eyes and stunned smiles. even mr. choi looked like he was trying very hard not to grin.

“you’re marrying jaehyun? our jaehyun?” he blinked at her, then looked at jaehyun like he’d just discovered a double life. “okay, i knew something was going on. i’m not blind. but marriage? dude, that’s insane. like, insane in the good way, but—holy shit.”

you stood up, feeling brave. “we just didn’t want to hide it anymore,” you said. “we’re really happy. and we hope you’ll be happy for us too.”

the room burst into applause again. someone shouted, “wedding invites or we riot!”

the parents came next.

you visited your family first. your mom opened the door and immediately noticed the ring. she gasped, dropped the dish towel she was holding, and squealed in that way only mothers can. within seconds, your dad was there too, grinning, eyes glossy, holding jaehyun’s shoulder like he was already part of the family.

"are you kidding me," your mom kept saying. "you're engaged? oh my god, you're engaged!"

you nodded, trying not to cry as she hugged you so tight it hurt.

“he’s everything i ever wanted for you,” your dad told you quietly, before giving jaehyun a very serious handshake. “you take care of her.”

“always,” jaehyun promised, voice thick with sincerity.

then it was his parents' turn.

you were more nervous, but you shouldn’t have been. the moment jaehyun’s mom saw you, she pulled you into a hug, muttering in korean how beautiful you were, how she’d been praying her son would be smart enough to not let you go. his dad was more reserved, but the sparkle in his eye said everything. when jaehyun said, “we’re getting married,” his mother clapped her hands and screamed like she’d just won the lottery.

“we’re so happy,” she said, eyes shining. “you are already family.”

they brought out food, wine, photos from jaehyun’s childhood. his mom made you take home a tupperware of kimchi and a crocheted doily she claimed she made for whoever he married one day. she said she just had a feeling it was going to be you, and jaehyun turned red.

it turned out that weddings—real weddings—took a lot more time to plan than y/n had expected. even with jaehyun’s calming presence and the help of a surprisingly competent wedding planner, the months passed like petals falling from a tree: softly, quickly, too beautifully to hold onto.

they settled on march 28. it gave them just enough time to breathe, to build, to dream together.

from the moment they told everyone—first their friends, then their families, and finally, in a hilariously formal email, the entire company—the whirlwind began. the announcement caused a stir so loud in the office that y/n had to leave her desk just to get some peace.

the directivos were equally shocked, though mostly amused. her supervisor just nodded sagely, like he’d been betting on this since the beginning.

“you two were always ‘too in sync’,” he said, raising his coffee mug in mock toast. “i give it six months before one of you becomes the other's boss at home too.”

and then came the parents.

jaehyun’s mother cried when she met y/n, tears slipping down her cheeks as she hugged her tight and whispered in korean, “you’re even more beautiful than he said. and i knew he was in love the first time he said your name.”

her own parents, after recovering from the initial shock, became obsessively involved in the planning, sending flower samples, playlist suggestions, and opinions on wedding favors at all hours of the day. but none of it was overwhelming. not with jaehyun there, always pulling her back into calm. always making sure this was their wedding, not anyone else’s.

they chose a venue outside the city—a small vineyard with soft hills, blooming wisteria, and golden light that melted everything it touched. march 28 arrived with the scent of earth and lilac, a warm wind, and the sky so blue it almost hurt to look at.

y/n stood before a mirror in a white gown that made her feel like everything good in the world had been sewn together just for her. she could hear the quiet rustle of guests arriving, the soft music playing in the distance, the laughter of children running between the rows of flowers.

and then, jaehyun.

when she saw him waiting at the altar, dressed in a suit that fit like second skin, with his hair slightly tousled and a look in his eyes that could undo galaxies—she forgot how to breathe.

he mouthed “you’re perfect” as she walked down the aisle.

she mouthed “you’re mine.”

the ceremony was intimate, emotional, wrapped in vows that made everyone cry—even jungwoo, who tried to play it off by pretending he had allergies.

“i promise to protect your dreams as fiercely as my own,” jaehyun said, voice trembling slightly, “and to always make sure your pizza has the right amount of potato crust, even when we’re eighty.”

“i promise to choose you, even on the days we forget how lucky we are,” y/n replied, tears in her eyes. “and to never let the fire between us die, even when we’re old and gray.”

they kissed.

and the world felt new again.

their first dance was under strings of fairy lights, barefoot on the grass. the song was soft, a slow jazz tune that jaehyun had played for her once in the car when she’d been crying. now, with her head against his chest, they swayed like the wind had been made just for them.

“we did it,” she whispered.

“we did,” he said. “and i’d marry you again tomorrow if i could.”

the honeymoon came a few days later. they chose santorini, greece, not for the postcard beauty or luxury, but because y/n had once told him, offhandedly, that she always dreamed of watching the sun melt into the sea from a white rooftop. he remembered.

their suite was perched on a cliff, overlooking the caldera, with white walls and blue domes and windows that opened to eternity. the first night, they sat on the balcony with a bottle of wine, their feet touching, their hands always searching for each other.

they kissed under sunsets and made love under stars. they danced in narrow streets, shared kisses between sips of ouzo, fed each other olives and sweet baklava. they were ridiculous. and in love. and utterly themselves.

“this is the life i want,” y/n whispered one night, tangled in cotton sheets, her cheek against his chest.

“then it’s the life we’ll have,” jaehyun said. “forever.”

and this time, forever didn’t sound like a fairytale.

it sounded like a promise.

three years passed like chapters in a love letter—written slowly, lived fully.

you and jaehyun made a home out of a sleek little apartment tucked into the rhythm of the city. it was all black wood and soft gray, velvet cushions and open windows where sunlight poured in like gold. it wasn’t big, but it held your whole world. your toothbrushes leaned against each other. your shoes tangled by the door. your laughter lived in the walls.

mornings were sleepy and soft—coffee mugs clinking, your legs wrapped around his under the kitchen table, newspaper pages ignored in favor of each other’s eyes. nights were even softer—blankets twisted around you, movie soundtracks playing in the background while your fingers danced across his skin. the kind of love that didn’t need grand gestures—just the warmth of his palm on your thigh and the way he said “come here” like home itself.

but then, one evening, the quiet changed.

you were in the bathroom. pacing. heart in your throat. your phone timer ticked like thunder in the silence. the test rested on the sink, small and still—like it held the weight of the universe. you sat on the edge of the tub, knees pulled up, trying to breathe.

when the timer stopped, you moved like you were underwater. slow. hesitant. scared.

two pink lines.

you stared. blinked. stared again.

your lips parted, the shape of a whisper you couldn’t form. your hands trembled, and for a moment, the whole world tilted—just you and that tiny piece of plastic and everything it now meant.

you stepped out of the bathroom, barefoot, holding the test like it might shatter.

jaehyun was on the couch, lounging with his phone, one leg bent lazily, hair tousled from running his hand through it too many times. he looked up. paused. frowned softly. “baby… what is it?”

you didn’t answer right away. just walked toward him—slow, like the floor might disappear—and placed the test in his hand.

“we’re gonna be parents!!”

the silence cracked. and then—

jaehyun surged forward, arms wrapping around you so tight you gasped. he lifted you off the ground, spinning you around the living room like a kid on christmas morning, laughter bursting from his chest, from yours, from some place deep inside where all the hope had been hiding.

you were both crying. laughing. kissing. saying “we did it!” over and over again like a prayer you never thought you’d get to say out loud. he pressed his forehead to yours, voice shaking, “we’re having a baby.”

“we’re having our baby,” you whispered.

months passed like petals falling from a blooming tree.

you were glowing. exhausted, but glowing.

your blush-pink maternity dress clung gently to your growing belly, printed with tiny white florals that made jaehyun smile every time he saw you in it. your feet were bare, your ankles swollen, your back ached constantly—but he was always there, hands rubbing your spine, lips on your shoulder, whispering, “you’re magic, you know that?”

the nursery was nearly finished—lavender walls painted with care, gold stars twinkling on the ceiling, and a soft mobile that played lullabies like stardust. the crib waited, delicate and perfect, with a plush bunny nestled in the corner.

jaehyun was kneeling by the dresser, sweat on his brow, tongue between his teeth as he finished the final drawer. he looked up, eyes finding you immediately, and god—he looked at you like the whole sky lived inside your smile.

“she’s gonna love this room,” he said, standing to press a hand to your belly. his palm warm. grounding. full of quiet awe. “our little moon.”

you leaned into him, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “i hope she gets your eyes,” you whispered.

he smiled, eyes soft with wonder. “and your heart,” he murmured. “especially your heart.”

the room went quiet again—except for the soft hum of the mobile spinning slowly above the crib. gold stars turned, catching the light.

and in that moment, just one suspended, breathless moment, everything was still.

you. him. her.

and the love that built it all.

finally. completely.

beautifully yours.

[yeah-thats-probably-it]

Once again tumblr is silencing my voice by not letting me add more than 30 tags. Okay the rest of what I was going to say is that if you gave him an assignment that was simple and out of the way enough, even upstairs, he might be able to stick it out for a couple hours. Another factor that determines how long that might be is where this is happening. Is he at Brinkley Court? Then Aunt Dahlia and the other servants (whom he seems to be on good terms with) will cover for him. No matter what he screws up, “oh, that’s Barry! He’s just new here!” Jeeves might be able to work something similar at a different manor house (presuming Bertie’s face isn’t already known there) if he’s on good terms with any of the servants there. They might agree to take Bertie under their wing as a favor to Jeeves. It also depends on whether Jeeves himself is there to help him, whether they’re working in the same area of the house, and if they’re able to inconspicuously pull each other aside to confer.

In conclusion: can’t answer question, too many variables

[plethorawrites]

Hey, so imagine Jason with a reader whose parents are simply the most loving beings in the universe, like R's father taught him basic things that neither Bruce nor his biological father could (like how to fix a broken sink, how to assemble a cabinet and even love advice) and R's mother was practically like a mother to him (visiting them regularly even when her daughter is not home, bringing soup when they know he is sick and helping him choose Valentine's Day gifts for the reader).

This may be the cutest prompt I've ever received. I love soft Jason soooo much!! (I fear I am not out of my obsession stage yet.)

---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---_

Jason Todd obviously grew up with few to no parental guidance and when he got it, it was more often than not negative like manipulation and abuse or neglect.

So, when he meets his girlfriend's parents he's understandably extremely nervous. From what you've told him, they're sweet. But he knows perception can change quickly and let's be real, he's not the good, kind-hearted person anyone would want for their daughter, in his opinion.

That said, when he does meet them for the first time and your mom envelopes him in the biggest hug he's received aside from you (a chronic cuddler, which he's come to appreciate.) he's a little stunned for the moment. It takes him a minute to even remember how to speak to introduce himself.

This man, all 6'2 and 240 pounds of him, actually seems shy for a moment, trying to make a good impression. You find it adorable when his cheeks blush after your mom compliments him on all the nice things you've told them about him. He didn't even know you bragged about him to people, let alone the extent of it. Like yeah, sure, you showered him in affection all the time, but that was at his apartment or yours.

The fact that you had actually mentioned him often enough that they knew about some of his quirks— his disdain for fish because Bruce made him eat it all the time as a kid at fancy events until he couldn't stand it anymore and his desire to meet for dinner not lunch since he had an obscure sleep schedule because of his "job" was astounding to him.

Even though they couldn't know what it was, you still boasted about how he was very passionate about it and you were proud of him for how hard he worked. That, admittedly, made him blush a little harder.

"She says you've got late hours, I hope dinner won't interfere," your mom would tell him considerately.

He shook his head. "No ma'am. I don't work until later."

She beamed. "Well good, then, because we've been dying to meet you."

Even the things about him that he assumed most parents wouldn't be thrilled to hear about, yours didn't seem to mind.

"You grew up in crime Alley, right?" Your father was questioned, in between the salad and entree.

Jason swallowed. There it was, he assumed. The disapproval he was anticipating. "Yes, I did," he replied, nodding.

"It's a difficult area to grow up in," your father noted. "A very close friend of mine was born over there. He's as tough as they come. Very resilient and reliable."

Jason was taken by surprise. "Uh- yeah, yes. I suppose you learn to be loyal when you don't have many people to trust." He internally cursed himself for saying that. It was too dark and pessimistic.

"An admirable quality," your mother said sincerely as you squeezed his hand under the table. "It must have also exposed you to a lot of different types of people and given you a very broad outlook on life."

He just nodded, swallowing some of his water.

Your father had similarly commented that he seemed to have a great work ethic, which Jason clearly appreciated and considered important. Your dad also, at the end of dinner, when you were out of ear range, made a quiet remark to Jason about how he seemed to make you very happy and that's all he ever wanted for his daughter. Jason had been expecting shovel talk or threats. At the very least, judgemental stares, the way he was used to, but instead your parents were absolutely lovely.

And it very clearly wasn't some temporary ruse, either, like he thought it might have been. They really were good people, just like you. When you moved in with him, your parents helped the two of you pack your old apartment and unpack in his. Your mom even insisted on cooking dinner since the two of you were exhausted from all the moving. He would never say no to her cooking, since aside from Alfred's, it was the best he'd ever had.

It was only a few weeks later, in the middle of summer, when your air conditioner broke down. It was Gotham, so obviously it was hot as hell. And of course no one was reliable when it came to actually coming to fix it. Your father, however, was used to fixing things and came over when you casually mentioned it to him after it was broken for a week or two.

He was about halfway through with it when Jason came home and he immediately felt bad just letting him, so your dad pointed towards some tool and asked him for some help.

"I don't really know how to fix an AC. Vehicles are more my thing," he confessed, lifting a wrench to his hand.

Your dad shrugged. "Not that hard. I'll show you."

Jason glanced at where you were sitting at the table with a glass of lemonade, giving him a light shrug. "Okay, sure," he muttered, rolling up his sleeves.

Jason liked to think the two of you had a pretty solid relationship, as far as honesty and commitment went. He loved you, he was almost positive by the time you'd been dating 15 months that he wanted to marry you.

But you still, occasionally, fought the way all couples did. And when you did, it was usually because he struggled to keep plans or left you waiting up for him, only to come home desperately needing stitches.

The worst it ever got was when he deliberately lied to you, swearing he'd stay out of something dangerous and going straight into danger the second he could. Even though nothing that bad actually happened, you were more than a little angry. In fact, during the screaming match you had, he could swear he saw the exact moment your heart broke when you told him you thought he cared more about being Red Hood than he did about you.

You left for hours. Four of them.

And when he heard a knock at the door, he was hopeful it was you, having forgot your keys. Instead, it was your mom. His heart dropped, wondering what she was doing there—planning to yell at him for how he treated you, grabbing some things for you so you could stay away for several days, breaking up with him on your behalf.

All she did was invite herself in, making some coffee (just the way she knew he liked it) and sitting on the couch with him. He was confused and silent, until she spoke up.

"She's not saying what the fight was about," she told him. "I assume it's your work. The uh-... nightly aspect of it?"

He blinked a little. Something about her tone was more suggestive than he liked. "It- partially, yeah," he admitted. "I didn't mean to break my promise."

She nodded. "I know," she muttered. "And I don't think she's mad, just...scared. She doesn't want to lose you."

"She won't," Jason replied instantly.

Your mom's lips quirked into a small smile. "Then tell her that," she suggested, adding that: "Trust is fragile. It takes a long time to build it and a single action can shatter it." She patted his knee, standing up and he stood too, walking her to the door.

"Why do I have a feeling you know what the fight was about, even without her telling you?" He asked quietly if not with some suspicion.

"You're a very good man, Jason," she told him. "But it doesn't take a genius to know why those hours you work are so obscure." Before he could question or deny what he felt she already knew, she was giving him a small kiss on the cheek, the way she often did to greet and say goodbye. "Call her," she said. "I'll make sure she picks up."

So he did. And you did answer, like she promised.

You made up, like always and it wasn't even six months later that he was calling your parents, asking for blessing to propose to you. Of course they said yes and we're thrilled to do so. Your mom even helped him pick out the ring. Which took hours, half because he couldn't decide and half because she kept starting to cry.

When he finally did find the right one, she naturally helped him plan the proposal, too. He wasn't always the greatest at romantic gestures. At least not grand ones. He was always better at the subtle shows of affection—remembering dates and details or taking care of you when you're sick. He doesn't want to do anything overwhelming, but filling the apartment with twinkling lights and telling you—with several tears in his eyes—how much he wants to spend the rest of his life with you, is plenty for you.

"Yes?" He repeats, almost in disbelief that you'd agreed so quickly to marry him.

"Yes, yes, obviously," you repeated, sniffling to keep from crying as you gave him your hand, letting him slip the ring on your finger.

His arms immediately enveloped you, lifting you off the ground and spinning you around like you weighed nothing. Setting you down, his lips found yours for a deep, long kiss, before pressing his forehead against yours and nuzzling your nose.

"I love you so much," he repeated, even though he'd said it three times already.

He already saw plenty of your parents, at least four or five times a month, but it seems like he sees them nearly everyday when the wedding planning starts. Your mom is more concerned with invitations and linens or vows while your dad really just shows up for cake tasting, or trying the catering companies. Not to mention to judge and criticize the venue options.

Still, they're there more than his own father figure is, sort of like they have been since he met them. They're there on your wedding day, crying in the front row when he uses his love of literature to craft was perhaps the most beautiful wedding vows ever recorded. They're there to take care of your apartment when you're on your honeymoon, coming to water the plants and collect the mail, not to mention stock the fridge before you get back.

They're there for your birthday and his, as well as Thanksgiving and Christmas. They're there to help prepare for the baby when you eventually have kids, your mom by soothing Jason's nerves and your dad by helping him paint the nursery or assemble furniture. They're there after the baby is born and visit whenever you need a babysitter for a few hours or even days to spend time together.

They're there, he realizes. They're there and he loves that, not just for you or for the baby, but for himself too. For the little kid inside him that never fully felt like any adults around him truly had his best interests at heart.

[cheer-nympho]

Steve had been conned into chaperoning the kids to a ren faire.

Admittedly with very little resistance, but he was keeping that to himself. Once there and with their bags packed away into some apparently theme appropriate tents he had shrugged on some medieval casual clothes and…immediately lost track of all of them,

But a figure he did spot was a long haired Jester entertaining a small entourage with juggling,

Steve finds himself laughing slightly condescendingly at the jingling man. Why do people find juggling so impressive?

He picked it up straight away with some hackey sacks while bored between practices. He’s just good with his hands.

When he looks back up to get another glance in however, the jester isn’t perched on top of his little rock anymore and the crowd has merged with the other dweebs.

Steve stares at the empty space for a moment before a jingle right by his ear spooks him into turning around.

“Art thou not impressed by my amazing skills, your lordship?” The jester asks, swaying on his feet and causing the bells all over him to ping, grin wide and mocking.

And up close Steve notices one very important, very dangerous thing.

This court jester is really fucking hot.

He looks like an idiot, a nerd, a dweeb. Its hard not to in a pointy hat. But he also wore it too well, looked too perfect like that.

Steve notices the…is that..? Yes, the corset wrapping tightly around the mans waist, red and black diamonds decorating the sides and leading to small puffy shorts. His legs are covered in tight black leggings which should look ridiculous. It should.

An obnoxious cough and head tilt-jingle make Steve aware that he has been staring at the mans waist for way longer than was ‘bro code permitted’

He looks up with a wince, expecting a look of disgust ranging from mild embarrassment to punch-your-lights-out.

He was, instead, greeted by a smug and knowing smile. The red and black triangles painted over the mans eyes warped where the grin reached them. “Or maybe thou art impressed, but skills are not what draw thine eyes.”

Shit. Fuck. The stupid hot nerd is using stupid nerd speak on him. And Steves stupid nerd, apparently ‘very accurate’ pants are getting tighter. He needs to say something. Anything.

“You’ve got…bells.” Okay, maybe not anything. He used to be better at this shit.

He is rewarded with a wild, joyous laugh as the jester throws his head from side to side. “I do! Isn’t it amazing?The staff insisted on it so they could hear me coming.”

“It certainly makes an impression-“

“Eddie, names Eddie. And what does my lordship go by?”

“Steve is fine.”

“That he is…” The comment was punctuated by a less than subtle glance, almost a leer. “However, Fine Steve seems unimpressed with my merrymaking. As the official court jester, I cannot let that stand.” He stamps his foot, causing another cacophony of jingles.” “Therefore…”

“…Pick a card any card!” A pack of standard cards was presented to him with a flourish, but all he could do was roll his eyes.

“Come on, really? This shit is basic. All I have to do it watch your hands. You’ll swipe my card out and put it back in later, or mark it somehow.”

“Ooo his highness has it all figured out doesn’t he. Well then, princess, you have nothing to lose by picking a card, do you?” And that was…true. Plus he could maybe try to fix his previous fumble and try to claw a number out of this disaster.

So with another bitchy roll of his eyes, Steve plucks a card from the deck and hides it behind his palm. Two of Hearts.

Then out of nowhere… “You know, Stevie, if you think I’m pretty you can just tell me. I know the kingdom would approve not of a noble like yourself marrying a commoner like me, but they need know little of how we…” He begins to reshuffle the cards, motioning for Steve to place his chosen one back in before making some very obvious, very crude movements with his fingers. “…get to know each other in the meantime.”

He was going to die. In the middle of a nerd fest.

“Well, my lord…” Eddie continues, circling him while dragging a finger across his arms and shoulder blades before coming to a stop in front of him. A very bold hand takes Steves jaw and forces his head up, pretending to inspect something on his costume for any bystanders.

“If you would like some more…close up demonstrations…” He leans in tightly, still holding Steve’s jaw in a tight grip. “You can pay me a visit in staff cabin 23 tonight.” He strokes a piece of hair gently behind Steve’s ear before pulling out a card, as if from said ear.

Steve was glad that Eddie took the initiative to carefully pull his hand up and place the card into his palm, because currently Steve was too preoccupied with staring like a fish out of water into Eddies eyes. Everything about him was just so captivating, so alive.

Maybe that’s why he did little more than step forward aimlessly, with small grabby hands when Eddie pulled away. Before Steve could even process it, the bells and jingles had mingled back into the crowd. But that was…that was okay. Cause he could go to the…cabin?

But how was he supposed to- Oh. He looks down. On the card was a loosely clipped room key with a ‘23’ crudely engraved into the edge as if by a pocket knife.

The card itself, to his horror, was the Two of Hearts.

Shit.

He forgot to watch the fucking hands.

[missadangel]

MAKE HIM DISLIKE LOVE YOU

Harry Castillo x Reader (The Materialists)

Chapter 9: Hurt

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Chapter Summary: Is love enough to overcome everything? -Yes. How? -No. Why? Warnings: 18+ (smut, MDNI) kinda romantic comedy stuff, fluffy, angst, lying, soft and caring Harry Castillo, Lucy as his ex, John as Lucy's ex, wealth, expensive gifts, drinks, money, cars, language, sexual tension, oral sex, p in v sex, kissing, slow burn, power imbalance, I might have missed some warnings; I will update them in due time. Chapter Word Count: 9,8k, ANGST (sorry for that), love, feelings, fluffy, rom-com, lust, passion, dirty talk, love triangle, intrigue, mention about death. authors note: I used Spanish and Italian language in some parts, I'm sorry if I made mistake, I'm still a learner. Feel free to warn me guys :) Thank you all for your support, asks, comments, reblogs and likes. I appreciate each and every one of you! Love you all!

“Baby, just try to breathe.” 

That was the third time Harry had said it as you both stepped out of the car, holding hands while walking up to the mansion. But despite his reassurance, your nerves were still going wild. 

Excitement mixed with anxiety as the weight of the moment settled in; you were about to meet your boyfriend's mother. Your mind raced with questions, each one jostling for attention like cars on a racetrack.

No, don’t think about cars, you reminded yourself.

You didn’t want to make a strange first impression by mentioning things like what men typically like. The last thing you wanted was for your future mother-in-law to think you were odd.

Mother-in-law.

That thought made you grin a bit. 

Suddenly, you felt Harry’s lips on your temples, and you turned to him in surprise. “You looked like you needed that,” he said with a grin, wrapping his arm around your waist and leading you toward the door.

He was right; the kiss worked wonders. You gazed at the grand historical mansion in front of you, located in Brooklyn Heights, not too far from the bridge. It was surprisingly close to your and Zoe's apartment in Dumbo. Considering the Castillo family's wealth, you were taken aback to learn his mother lived here. On the way over, Harry had mentioned that his mother had faced a trauma that kept her from leaving the house for years. That made you feel a wave of empathy as you anticipated meeting her. Taking a deep breath, you tightened your grip on Harry's hand while clutching the bag of pastries and pie you had prepared all morning.

“Mr. Castillo, it’s great to see you again.” 

An older guy opened the door, greeted Harry, and welcomed both of you in with a warm gesture. Stepping inside, the spacious reception hall welcomed you with its grandeur. The staircase twisted in multiple directions, adorned with wrought iron balustrades and floral designs. While you admired the surroundings, Harry helped you remove your coat before doing the same for himself, handing them to the man. 

“This way,” he said, guiding you gently toward a large hall on the right with his hand resting on your back. 

“Master Harry!” A woman in her sixties approached you, arms wide open and wearing a big grin. Dressed casually, her accent clearly revealed her Latin roots. 

“How are you, Sofia?” Harry asked her. 

“I’m better now that I’ve seen you!” she replied, giving his arm an affectionate touch. 

Then, she turned her attention to you, her smile widening as she took in your appearance from head to toe. “Oh, Dios mío, qué mujer tan hermosa eres.” 

Nervously, you smiled. Your Spanish wasn’t great, but you grasped the compliment. “Muchas gracias,” you managed to reply. 

Her laughter rang out as she seamlessly switched back to rapid Spanish, leaving you a bit lost. You looked to Harry for help. “Sofia, could you please speak in English? I’m not sure she understands you,” he said to her.

“Oh, disculpa, señorita,” she said, looking at you, a bit embarrassed. “Mrs. Castillo is inside, waiting for you.” She took the bag from your hand and led the way. 

As you walked in, you whispered to Harry, “I really need to work on my Spanish.”

He chuckled lightly. “It’s not on you. Sofia’s English isn’t great, and she loves speaking her native tongue. Sometimes she talks so fast that even I can’t keep up.” 

“Oh yes, they’re here; I’ll call you later,” a voice came from the living room. When she hung up and turned around, you couldn’t help but admire her. She was a woman in her late sixties with short gray hair, stunning for her age. Honestly, she looked more like Harry's older sister than his mom. 

Her gaze focused on Harry, and a joyful tear sprang to her eye as a wide smile spread across her face. “Mi hijo!” They embraced tightly, and you felt a warm smile cross your lips as you watched them. She playfully punched Harry on the shoulder. “You’ve really been a bad son! Is your job more important than your old mama?” 

“Mother, must you embarrass me in front of my girlfriend?" he grunted.

Her gaze then shifted to you, prompting you to flash your most nervous smile. As her admiration deepened, you felt your cheeks heat up while she appraised you with a satisfied expression. “Oh, how beautiful you are!” she exclaimed, narrowing her eyes at Harry. “Now I see why you’ve been so busy.” 

Harry chuckled as he introduced you. 

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Castillo,” you said warmly, extending your hand. 

With a cheerful laugh, she shook your hand. “Oh, please, cariño, just call me Valeria.”

Sofia, the woman you met earlier, quietly stepped into the room and leaned in to whisper, her eyes sparkling with mischief as they both chuckled while looking at you. “Sofia says dinner’s ready; let’s head to the dining room,” Valeria announced, her gaze locking onto yours with intensity. Harry took your hand gently, and Valeria placed her hand reassuringly on your back. “Come on, sweetheart,” she invited with warmth.

Well, you hadn’t expected this kind of attention from Harry’s mom. She kept an eye on you until you were comfortably settled at the table. Harry pulled your chair out for you, sliding it in once you sat down, then took a seat right beside you. Valeria, at the head of the table, folded her hands and shot you a warm smile while Harry beamed with happiness as you two exchanged grins.

As dinner was served, Harry and Valeria chatted easily about work. When the conversation shifted your way, you answered every question honestly, sharing that your mom had passed away, your dad was living alone on your farm in Atlanta, and a bit more about your life. Valeria listened closely, her kind smile and supportive words making you feel at ease. When it was your turn to talk about your job—the part that made you the most anxious—Valeria surprised you. “Don’t feel ashamed, honey. This job is one of the toughest out there. People can be awful, but you’re amazing and hard-working, and you deserve more. Keep your head high; it’s the person who brings dignity to the job, not the job that brings dignity to the person.”

You recognized the quote. “Martin Luther King,” you said, smiling back in gratitude. "Thank you Valeria."

Harry then reached over the table to take your hand. “Actually, she’s done with that for now,” he said, looking deeply into your eyes. You smiled back. “Because I didn’t want her to wear out her beautiful, skillful hands,” he added, kissing your knuckles. A bit shy about the attention in front of his mom, you bit your lower lip and grinned nervously.

Valeria sipped her champagne, a playful smile lighting up her face. “Hmm, I sense a bit of ‘skillful’ in your tone, Harry.”

“She’s an incredibly talented bakery chef,” he proclaimed proudly.

"Um-" You were about to protest, but Harry continued, “You’ve got your certificate, love; it’s time to stop being modest. You’re officially a chef now,” he said with proud, prompting smiles between you.

“Oh, that’s wonderful.” Valeria said excitedly.

“And this made by this lovely lady herself, Mrs. Castillo,” Sofia chimed in with a smile as she entered the room, serving the dessert you’d prepared and placing it in the center of the table.

“Ah, Sopapilla?” Valeria said, her eyes lighting up in delight.

“Harry mentioned it was your favorite, so I made it for you. I hope you like it,” you said, biting your lower lip.

Sofia drizzled honey over the cheesecake before serving Valeria, then Harry, and finally you. “My baby's been hustling in the kitchen all morning to make this,” Harry said, glancing your way as he took a bite of the cheesecake.

“Ah, this is absolutely delicious! The best sopapilla pie I’ve ever had. It’s fantastic!” Valeria exclaimed eagerly, savoring another forkful.

“Thanks, I’m so glad you like it,” you said happily, relieved.

“I loved it, honey,” Valeria added, giving Harry a knowing look and then turning back to you. “It was really sweet of you to make this for me.”

As the evening went on, Harry shared stories about his family and showed you old photos in another room. He talked about his sister, who had passed away young due to a congenital disease, and how their mom struggled after that. He also shared the history of their home, which was built in the 1800s for a ship dealer and beautifully restored with modern touches after Harry’s dad immigrated from Mexico to New York. The house’s stunning design, with its vintage charm, offered breathtaking views of the city from the terrace, while the backyard was a serene escape, filled with plants, flowers, and dwarf trees, created since his mom couldn’t go outside anymore. It was a beautiful house, especially seeing it was where Harry grew up.

When you asked for permission to use the bathroom, Harry went to his mom. In the kitchen, he and Sofia were chatting about you.

“She’s got a pretty good figure,” Valeria giggled.

"And young too," Sofia said.

“Even better. Young enough to give me lots of grandchildren one day—hopefully.”

"Fingers crossed. Oh, Jesus, please hear our little prayers.”

They both raised their hands above as if praying, then laughed together.

Harry, hands on his hips, huffed in mock disapproval. “What kind of conversation are you two having about my girlfriend?”

Valeria took Harry's face in her hands and smiled warmly. “Harry, this girl is incredible. I was so nervous since it’s the first time you’ve brought someone home. But you really hit the jackpot! Don’t let her slip away; propose to her and put a ring on it! If you don't marry this girl, I'll beat the shit out of you regardless of your age,” she said, teasing.

Sofia chimed in with a laugh, “Last time you said that, Harry was only 19.”

They both shot her a look, and Sofia quickly looked away, focusing on her work.

“Mom, don’t worry. Even if she ever decides to leave me, I wouldn’t let her go. Besides, I was coming to ask you for your wedding ring.”

Valeria gasped, her hand flying to her chest. “Oh my! Are you really going to propose? Did you hear that, Sofia?”

Sofia clapped her hands excitedly. “Gracias Jesus! Finally, the moment you’ve been waiting for, Mrs. Castillo! God bless you, Harry,” her voice a little shaky from all the happiness.

Harry chuckled and then warned her, "Ssh, she will hear you."

“I thought you might never want that ring; thought it would just gather dust in the drawer,” Valeria said with a happy sigh. “Hold on, I’ll go get it for you.”

After Valeria left the kitchen, cheerfully murmuring to herself, Sofia turned to Harry. “I haven’t seen her this happy in ages, and neither have you. She was so down when you went to France, but now…” Her voice trailed off as tears welled up in her eyes. “Thank goodness for this moment; it’s such a blessing to see you both so blissful.” 

Harry grinned back at her, totally oblivious to the fact that you were walking back from the bathroom and could hear him in the hallway. “Thank you, Sofia. I promise it won't happen again; she’s been through enough. Now that I’ve found the one, we will create our happiness together, and nothing will stand in our way. I won’t allow it.”

You smiled, hoping for the same.

The first day of the fair arrived just a few days after you received your certificate and master’s license. The logo design for the booth, brochures, banners, and everything else was set to go. After much consideration, you, Harry, and Mia -who insisted strongly- finally settled on the brand name “The Vanilla Vine.” Since it was the weekend, Zoe joined you at the booth. Harry was the first to test the desserts and sweets you made, followed by Maria, Mia, and John.

The fairgrounds brimmed with a tapestry of colorful booths, filled with throngs of eager visitors. As the hours slipped by, more and more people gravitated towards your booth, captivated by the tantalizing aromas wafting from your offerings. Each smile and compliment filled your heart with joy, a testament to all the hard work you had poured into this endeavor. However, as the sun began to set, the fatigue began to settle in, weighing on your limbs. Harry, receiving an urgent call, excused himself and hurried off, leaving just you and Zoe to manage the dregs of the day. Thankfully, it turned out to be a way better day than you expected—almost everything was sold out before closing time.

As John and Zoe were heading home together, you waved goodbye to them before getting into the car that Harry had sent for you. You were so ready to get home, take a shower, and collapse in bed—exhausted from the long day of cooking and standing around.

You were yawning when the elevator dinged as it reached Harry’s penthouse. You swiped the card against the door lock and stepped inside, finding the lights off. Hadn't he come home yet?

“Harry?” you called out, but there was no reply.

Only stillness answered, prompting you to pull out your phone. A quick call confirmed he would be home in a few hours. Sighing, you wandered into the laundry room, shedding your clothes before heading into the bathroom for a hot shower. You tossed your well-worn cooking apron and the remnants of your day’s attire into the washing machine. The steam enveloped you as you stood under the warm water, washing away the fatigue, and afterward, you slipped into bed wearing only Harry’s bathrobe, far too worn and loose for you, but comforting nonetheless.

You fell asleep pretty much right away.

When you woke without opening your eyes, you felt the bed dip as he slid next to you, followed by a gentle pressure on your cheek. His familiar, masculine scent of cologne wafted through the air, and you felt the tickle of his mustache as he kissed your cheek.

“You awake, baby?” he asked softly.

Not quite opening your eyes, you mumbled sleepily, “You came.”

He wrapped his arm around you, burying his nose in your damp hair. "Sorry I'm late. A few things came up."

His tone urged you to open your eyes. “Is everything okay?” you asked, not turning to face him.

"A few setbacks, but I’ll handle it tomorrow. Don’t worry about it. How did things go after I left? Everything run smoothly?"

You released a sigh of relief. “Yeah, it was fantastic—everything sold out.” 

“They were all incredible. I’m not surprised at all. I’m so proud of you.”

“I couldn’t have succeeded without your support. Thank you for everything,” you murmured, turning to him.

He smiled wider, leaned down, and kissed you, his hand sliding under the collar of your robe, brushing your skin. “No underwear?”

You smiled at the thrill in his voice.

"I was so worn out to wear any. I still am," you murmured, turning onto your side and closing your eyes again teasingly.

Mischievously, he gathered your damp hair and slowly slid the robe down to your shoulder. He started placing soft kisses along your skin, moving to your neck. “I wonder how tired are you? Can you rate it for me?”

"I would rate it a solid 10 out of 10," you murmured again, trying to hide your amusement while content to enjoy his warmth.

“Hmm, that much? Well, can I have permission to fuck you while you sleep then, because I want you so bad.”

You turned to him lazily, your eyelids heavy. "Baby, I'm wiped."

He smiled mischievously and whispered into your face as he ran his lips along the edge of yours. "Hush, it's all right, love. Just stay still. I'll take care of you."

It was the first bit of excitement you felt, even though you were really tired, and you started to wonder if he was thinking about where to begin.

Damn.

The idea of him running his tongue over your skin was enough to make you wet. Drifting into consciousness slowly, you were enjoying the feel of being wrapped by his strong, warm arms. You stretched a little, toes pointed toward the end of the bed, and snuggled tighter into him.

However, his intention was not solely for cuddling.

His arm curved around you, slid a hand under the robe to cup your breast, gently pinching and rolling your nipple between his fingers. The stimulation made you gasp, the sensation blossoming out and down. 

You suddenly noticed that Harry still hadn’t taken off his shirt. Your hands searched for the hem clumsily, he laughed at your efforts. With a swift movement, he yanked off his black T-shirt and tossed it to the floor. His arm slipped around you from behind as his other hand skillfully pulled the robe off you. The scent of fresh soap from your skin reached him, he couldn’t help but touch you again, trailing his lips softly over your skin. Your hands found the waistband of his pants with a bit more ease this time, and as you tried to unbuckle them in the low light, you noticed that the thrill of the moment was making you feel surprisingly more alert and less tipsy. As you loosened the belt, he delightedly caressed your neck and collarbone, then between your breasts, using wet touches of his tongue and smiling as he tasted lavender off your skin.

But now he was feeling impatient.

Dangerously so.

He sat on the bed to remove his pants and left them to the same fate as his T-shirt, returning to the bed to kiss you passionately. You both moaned from the vibrating waves of the touch as he insistently thrust his tongue into your mouth. You felt a shiver run through you as you realized that the taste of his tongue and saliva revealed he had just knocked back a strong whiskey.

Irish.

Neat.

He must’ve had about four or five shots.

He always went hard like that whenever he was feeling stressed.

It was kinda wild and almost beautiful to understand him just by tasting him.

It felt like reading a book without even looking at the pages.

He was too, and he relished tasting you just as much. He felt the vanilla frosting of the cupcake you had just popped in your mouth before you got in the shower - the only thing left from the fair - on his tongue and he sucked so hard that you couldn't help pushing yourself against him, almost sitting up in bed. You held onto his shoulders and his hand, which was everywhere at that moment, began to caress your legs sweetly. With a swift movement he got rid of his underwear and got back to business.

He ducked his head, kissing his way slowly up your belly, over your ribs, finally taking a nipple in his mouth and sucking gently. "Oh," you gasp, bucking your hips against him. Harry released the tender nub and blew gently. His breath was hot against your wet, cool skin, making you writhe.

You groaned and arched your back, then leaned in to kiss him. His kiss was now slow and thorough. He moved his mouth over yours, drinking more while he groaned. He nudged your thighs apart with his knee, lowering his hips to grind his hard cock against your pussy. You spread your legs wider, bringing your knees up and hooking your ankles behind his back. You felt him reach down and slide his fingers between your folds to rub against your clit. He dipped two fingers inside you, moaning as he slid easily into your hot, wet pussy. He grinded his hips in time with the stroke of his fingers inside you, his cock hard and rough against your clit.

“Oh god Harry,” you moaned, watching him.

He looked up at you, eyes glistening in the dim light. His mouth quirked up at the corners into a half smile. "Feels good, baby?"

You ran your fingers through his hair, which looked really dark, almost black, in the dim light. "Yes, keep going please," you craved.

As you moved your hand down his forehead, you gently touched his face, trailing your thumb over his eyebrows and giving his cheeks and jawline a soft caress.Then, your fingers wove through his hair again, with your thumbs circling around the contours of his ears this time, he smirked, clearly enjoying it. You sit up to kiss him again, rocking your hips against his palm as he continued pumping his fingers inside of you.

A groan escaped from your lips as you came.

He then captured your mouth in a fervent kiss to swallow your loud moans, pulling his fingers out slowly. “So fucking hot,” he hummed then dipped his head down to kiss your neck, hands pulling at your hips, flipping you onto your stomach.

You buried your face into the pillow, groaning when you feel his cock against your ass. He kneads your ass, pulling your cheeks apart. You could feel his knees on either sides of your thighs. He kissed your back, sliding the head of his cock down low between your legs to rest against your pussy.

He slid inside of you so slowly that every nerve sings. It glided against the taught, wet muscles, stretching and pulling. Harry's hips come to rest against your ass as he buried himself inside of you. He pulled back, movements measured and deliberate. "God, you're so tight, every damn time," he groaned.

Bringing your ass up, you pushed against him, silently begging for more. He grabbed you, long fingers wrapping around your hips. He pulled back but only to push himself forcefully forward into you with a grunt. "Fuck, you're driving me crazy. I want to fuck you so hard."

“Yes, please,” you beg, voice party muffled by the pillow.

“You want it hard baby?” he asked, voice ragged almost begging for your confirmation.

“Yes,” the muscles in your abdomen shuddered and tighten with expectation.

And that was it.

He rocked his hips back, his forward thrust slamming inside of you, repeating the motion again and again, bed rocking, springs creaking slightly with the rhythm.

Gripping the sheets desperately, "Harry," you moaned, mewled and gasped, your own movements limited by the position. He leaned over you, lips pressing to your shoulders and the back of your neck, licking sucking, nibbling.

Pressing your ass up, you pushed down against the bed, breathless. Harry shifted, pulling out. You felt his cock, wet and hard, smack against your thigh. You got up onto your knees, turning to your lover. He took your breasts in his hands, kneading them, rubbing his thumbs over your nipples.

“Baby,” he whispered, dipping his head to kiss you. His lips were soft and part readily. You reached down, taking his cock in your hand which was slick from your pussy. You tightened your fingers around his thick shaft, stroking slowly. He moaned and shifted back, sitting against the headboard. Your body moved with him, lips pressed to his, stroking his cock in your hand.

Stretching his legs out, he pulled you into his lap, fingers digging into your ass. Never breaking the kiss, you tilted his cock up towards you, slowly lowering your hips onto him.

Harry groaned.

You spread your knees to either side of his hips, taking as much of his cock as you can before rocking your hips back, grinding your clit down against him. He broke the kiss, running his tongue down along your neck, nipping gently at the base, just above your collar bone. You set the pace, increasing the speed as you find your rhythm and the pressure started to build in your core.

“Harry,” you gasped, gripping his broad shoulders for leverage. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you into him. He slid his left knee up the bed shifting onto his side enough to drive his hips up into you, head bent as he panted.

Kissing the top of his head, you wrapped your arms around his neck, grinding yourself down onto him faster, gasping. His cock was hitting you just right, sliding against your right spot. The pressure built quickly, your movements becoming frantic.

“Come baby, I want to feel you come,” he rasped.

With a loud moan, you collapsed into him, eyes squeezed shut and head falling back. The deep sensation of pleasure blast through you, setting off a chain reaction of bliss. Your pussy clenched around him, muscles milking him.

With an impatient growl, he pushed you down onto the bed, pushing your knees out wide. His hips pounded into you, rocking you back and down against the mattress. He gasped and grunted, head down, lost in the sensation.

You brought your hips up, snapping them upwards quickly in time with his thrusts. Digging your nails into his ass, you pulled him into you, moaning soft encouragements.

He shuddered, groaning, collapsing onto you as he came hard. He tightened his arms around you, sliding his cock in slowly once, twice, until only his chest moves against you in time with his quick, ragged breaths.

You slid your hands up his back, the outlines of his arms, biceps like faint messages under your fingertips. Harry kissed your chest, letting out a long, shaky breath against your skin. "God, I love you so much," he said, still catching his breath. 

"I love you too Harry. So so much."

He lifted his head, a lazy smile spreading across his face as he gazed deeply into your eyes. Then, leaning in, he pressed his lips against yours for a slow, tender kiss.

In the morning, when Harry dropped you off at the convention center before work, he couldn't tear his eyes away from his phone. He was deep in a serious convo, his face all furrowed. You couldn't shake the feeling that something was off, but he wasn't sharing any details. Whatever it was, it felt like a dark cloud hanging over you both, even as he leaned in for that quick goodbye kiss before you left the car.

The second day of the fair turned out to be even busier than the first. You felt grateful that Zoe had taken time off from her job, as managing the booth alone was quite challenging. As much as you wanted Harry by your side, with his busy schedule, it was unreasonable to expect him to be there all day. Still, you couldn’t fault him; he had a lot on his plate at the company right now.

As the hours flew by, visitors showed a growing interest in the products at your stand. They kept asking about the shop, inquiring when it would open and expressing eagerness to visit, Zoe included.

“Have you signed the lease for the shop yet?” she asked while you arranged cupcakes on the display.

You replied, “Harry's a bit swamped at the moment, but we're just waiting to hear back from the shopkeeper about the lease terms.”

“Oh, I really hope everything goes smoothly. I can’t wait to be a waitress at your shop – my current boss is driving me crazy. He’s acting like I faked my sprained ankle to just chill on the couch all week or something,” she complained.

“What a jerk,” you said, frowning before a smile broke through. “I hope so too, girl.” You often daydreamed about the day when Zoe would be working alongside you as a waitress, serving customers the desserts you made while you managed the cash register, chatting with them and baking treats in your shop. That day didn’t seem so far off; it felt incredibly close.

You were on the verge of realizing your dream and had a wonderful boyfriend in your life. Everything was falling into place, and your life was almost perfect.

As you shared stories about how your dinner at Harry's mother's house went, two familiar faces approached your booth.

“Danilo! Bruno!” you exclaimed with excitement.

"Ciao, cara mia!” Danilo greeted you with a warm hug.

“I've missed you so much! How have you been?” you laughed, reminiscing.

“You won't believe it but Jack sent Melanie to a religious camp for young adults, and it’s been blissfully quiet at the manor. We're all finally finding some peace."

You sighed, “Damn it, Jack. He will never change.”

“Great boss, terrible dad,” he chuckled.

“Hmm, molto delizioso! Good job, cara mia,” Bruno chimed in as he sampled one of your cupcakes.

“I learned from the best,” you replied with a playful wink.

“I taught you well,” he grinned with pride.

Danilo let out an awkward laugh. “How can you claim that after just a few months? I’ve taught her countless tricks during our three years together, right, honey? I'm a master chef after all.” he said, narrowing his eyes.

You were about to respond when Bruno cut in again, “You mean a master chef at being jealous, Danilo? What she learned from me equates to five years of experience, not just three. I sped up her internship.” he added with a smug grin.

In that moment, the two began bickering in their native language. Zoe leaned closer to you. “Are they always like this?”

“I've seen them argue over the phone, but I’m shocked they are worse in person,” you chuckled.

By evening, you felt thankful for Danilo and Bruno’s company; their presence made the long day feel more bearable. You checked your phone but found no messages from Harry. Unlike yesterday, when his busy schedule hadn’t stopped him from sending silly texts that brightened your day, today was different. You opened the messaging app to find your lunchtime selfie still unread with a note:

Sopapilla pie is a hit at our booth today. Thanks for the idea ol'man.

Maybe he was just too busy to answer, you thought. Lost in your thoughts, Zoe’s voice broke through, “You need to see this,” she said, her expression anxious as she handed you her phone.

Nervously, you took it, bracing yourself. The screen displayed a tabloid article that sent your heart racing.

Is Castillofunds.co going under? Shares of Harry Castillo’s company have taken a dramatic nosedive, a major player in NYC's Financial District!

The next piece of news hit even harder.

Tense moments at Castillofunds headquarters. After the company lost shares quickly, founding CEOs Harry Castillo and his childhood friend Gerardo Armada reportedly got into a heated argument.

“Oh no. Harry,” you murmured, heart racing. You immediately dialed his cell, but it went straight to voicemail. You tried calling Oliver next, but he didn’t pick up either.

Anxiety wrapped around your entire body. What could have happened? Yesterday, Harry hadn’t said much; there hadn’t been time for a proper talk. How could he keep something so serious under wraps? Or, if he wasn’t aware, how could he fail to see the company spiraling down? Questions raced through your mind, and for a moment, you just wanted to escape and get to him. Your anxiety was overwhelming, and a sick feeling settled in your stomach. With Zoe and Danilo by your side, you asked them if they could cover for you at the booth while you stepped away. Thankfully, they agreed without hesitation.

You needed to reach Harry; you were worried about him.

As you made your way to the subway, your phone buzzed with a text message. You opened it right away, and your heart sank—it was from Alan.

Your boyfriend's downfall has begun. Just so you know, honey, this is only the beginning.

You froze, feeling a mix of anger and shock hit you as you remembered your last conversation with him.

That bastard.

Of course, he was behind this.

But no matter what he did, you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. You believed Harry's company would weather this storm.

Every company faces tough times, right?

When you arrived at the company building, you were taken aback. A furious crowd had gathered, waving banners and shouting slogans, while paparazzi filmed the chaos that was unfolding. Security was struggling to maintain control.

But things got even worse.

One of the paparazzi caught sight of you and pointed, drawing the attention of all the cameras. You felt frozen; you had never experienced anything like this before. Well, there was that one time with Melanie, but usually, the spotlight was on her, not you. 

But now, the roles had flipped. 

They all rushed toward you, and the questions began to come flooding in like bombs.

"Miss, is it true your boyfriend Mr Castillo's company is on the verge of bankruptcy?" 

"Will this financial mess affect your relationship?" 

"Did Mr. Castillo and Mr. Armada actually get into a fight?"

"Is it true that Mr. Armada is unable to pay his gambling debts and has been siphoning funds from the company?" 

"What’s your take on all this?"

You swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond.

Suddenly, Oliver’s voice broke through the crowd. He reached you, grabbing your arm, and together, you hurried into the building, security guards ushering you past the relentless paparazzi and shouting crowd.

Just as the security team managed to slam the doors shut, you turned to Oliver. “Where’s Harry?”

“He's upstairs. Come on,” he replied, guiding you to the elevator.

“Ollie, what’s going on? Where did all this come from?”

He let out a troubled sigh as he pressed the button for the office floor. It was clear he was feeling the weight of the situation. “Gerardo. In Harry's absence, he got involved in illegal betting and gambling, attempting to cover his debts using company resources. He tried to bail out the company with post-dated checks, hoping Harry wouldn’t find out when he returned to NYC. But it backfired horribly. We’ve been trying to figure out how the finance and accounting teams missed this, but it seems part of the larger scheme.”

“What do you mean?”

“Alan has been deliberately concealing his identity while orchestrating the issuance of post-dated checks. The finance team, the accounting department, even the last company we did business with—he’s got them all in his pocket. It looks like he’s been plotting against us for a while. Gerardo fell right into his trap. He’s messed everything up. I can’t imagine how we’ll pull through this; we’re backed into a corner.”

Your chest tightened, and dread washed over you as the elevator reached the floor with Harry’s office.

The reminder of Alan's text kept bothering you, making you feel pretty guilty.

How did you underestimate him like that?

It all made sense now why Maria was acting so strange that day. You wished you had talked about it with Harry.

As you approached the office, you spotted Harry inside, deep in conversation with his lawyers and PR team.

Your heart sank.

It wasn't only his sad condition that concerned you; there was a wound marring the edge of his eyebrow. The paparazzi’s reports were true—he had been in a fight. Oliver slipped into the office without you noticing, as your attention was fixed on Harry's face. He leaned in and whispered something in Harry’s ear, prompting him to turn and look at you. When your eyes met, you offered him a weak smile, but it faltered as he didn’t return it.

The meeting wrapped up, and everyone filed out, looking grim. Harry stepped toward you.

“What are you doing here?”

Your hand instinctively reached out to his face, gently examining the small band-aid over his eyebrow. “I was worried. Are you okay?”

He sighed, weariness evident in his voice. “I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine,” he replied, lacking conviction. Taking your hand, he brushed your hair back with a faint smile. “Let’s get out of here.”

Making your way to the car was a daunting task; the paparazzi and remaining crowd persisted with their incessant questions and shouts until you finally managed to slip inside. As the car pulled away, you noticed the writing on the protesters' banner.

WE ARE HERE, WHERE IS YOUR CONSCIENCE?

YOU TOOK OUR DREAMS, AT LEAST GIVE US OUR MONEY BACK.

GIVE BACK OUR KIDS' FUTURE.

WE DEMAND JUSTICE.

You couldn't bear to watch any longer; it was just too frustrating. The sadness etched on Harry's face filled you with sorrow. Who knows how deeply he must be feeling all this? He chatted on the phone the whole way, but it seemed like everything was spiraling out of control. You didn't want to overwhelm him with questions, so you kept quiet; he was already struggling enough. You had asked him to take you to the fair after leaving Zoe there alone. Although you didn’t invite him to stay since he was feeling down, you agreed to meet up at home afterward. As the fair wrapped up, you should have felt happy that everything you cooked at the booth was cleared out. The attention had been great, but your thoughts were consumed with Harry. Nothing else seemed important while he was struggling through such a difficult time.

When you came home and saw him sitting at the counter, sipping whisky, you had planned to talk about the shop, but those thoughts quickly faded. Instead, your attention shifted to the glass he held. “Harry, how much have you had?”

The bottle was nearly half-empty.

"Hmm..." Looking up at you, he pursed his lips and held up his fingers—first one, then two, and finally all five on his palm. You chuckled at his expression and sighed, taking the glass from his grasp. “That’s enough, ol'man, move your ass.” He reluctantly agreed, allowing you to guide him to the couch, where you both sank down side by side.

“Things aren’t getting any better, are they?” you asked softly.

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back as fatigue washed over him. “I’m doing everything I can, but it’s incredibly tough. We have to cancel all our investment deals. We’re left with just the company’s assets to pay the employees. Even if we manage to make it work, what about the victims?Thousands of families are suffering.”

“Can’t the lawyers file a countersuit? Surely there's a way out. We could argue that this is a setup, that the post-dated checks were signed without Gerardo's consent. If we prove Alan has a personal vendetta against you...”

Hearing his name made him open his eyes in irritation. “Lawyers? They’re all in on it. Don’t you get it? There’s no way out!” he shouted, his frustration palpable.

When he noticed the shocked expression on your face, his tone softened. He cupped your face in his hands. “I’m sorry, baby, I...”

You placed your hands over his. “It’s okay. I understand how you feel; you’re angry, tired, hurt. But I truly believe you’ll get through this, I’m sure of it.”

He withdrew his hands and let out a troubled sigh. “I really don’t know; this is way worse than I thought it would be. We’ve been through tough times before, but we always made it work together. I can’t believe he’s been hiding stuff from me. I trusted him completely, and he went behind my back. I just don’t get how he could do that.”

“Alan clearly orchestrated this. He must have lured him into a trap,” you said, deciding it was time to share what you had kept from him. “Harry, I saw Maria that day, talking to Alan.” You frowned, gathering your courage to continue. “She looked upset and asked me not to tell you I saw her. I’m so sorry for not telling you sooner.” You bowed your head, hoping he wouldn’t be too angry.

He lifted your chin gently, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Baby, that doesn’t matter now. What Gerardo did happened a long time ago. And Maria was probably trying to protect her assets. She must have been thinking about Mia. But I wish you both had been honest with me.”

“I thought it was something personal for her, nothing to do with you, so—”

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “It’s not your fault, love. You had nothing to do with this. I’m really sorry, but I’ll have to delay renting the shop for now. I promise that as soon as the economy improves, I’ll make sure to get the shop and hand it over to you.”

You gazed up at him. “Harry, I don’t care about opening the shop under these circumstances. We’ll figure things out, I’m sure of it. Everything will be fine.”

He smiled, resting his forehead against yours. “Thank you. I feel so fortunate to have you by my side. You’re my strength. I love you so much.” He leaned down to kiss you softly.

“Ow, you smell like a liquor store, baby.” you chuckled, standing up and tugging at his hand. “Come on, up you get! Let’s get you in the shower, and then we can hit the hay ol'man. You know what they say—a good night’s sleep can work wonders.”

Suddenly, he swooped you into his arms, effortlessly lifting you onto his lap. “You’re the only remedy I need, mi amor.” He continued kissing you as you made your way to the bathroom together.

The final day of the fair turned out to be far worse than expected. News that had started circulating online was now splashed across TV screens, and conversations about it filled the subway and the streets. Harry was in worse shape than ever, and seeing him like that tugged at your heartstrings, making you feel as if your heart were being squeezed. When his mother, Valeria, called and invited you over to her house, you agreed and left the fair early that day.

Upon arriving at her home, Valeria enveloped you in a tight embrace, tears streaming down her face. She spoke of her concern for Harry, saying she felt helpless about not being able to reach him. You tried to comfort her, assuring her that Harry was with you and would remain close. However, you refrained from sharing too many details, as it was clear she was deeply sensitive about her son’s plight. Before you left, she hugged you one last time at the door. “I’m so grateful you’re there for my son. I’ve felt terrible for being unable to leave this house, it’s never been this tough.”

“Valeria, please don’t blame yourself. As for Harry, there’s no need to worry; he’ll be okay. I’ll be by his side and do everything I can to help him through these hard days. We’ll get through this.”

Her eyes glimmered with a mix of gratitude and sorrow as she clasped your hand gently. “Thank you, dear. It eases my heart to know you’re there for him during these days when I can’t be.” You could feel the weight of her worry—like any mother, she was deeply concerned about her son.

Leaving her house and walking down the street, you were set on doing whatever it took to help Harry feel better. You thought about whipping up his favorite dessert or putting on that dress he loved, but first, there was something else you needed to do.

You had to meet Alan.

As you arrived in front of the hotel, you steeled yourself, gathering your courage. Perhaps you could persuade him to reconsider; you weren’t sure, but you knew it was worth a shot. If you could understand his motives, it might help you steer things in the right direction. In this battle, you had to make sure your man didn’t end up losing.

You were ready to do whatever it took to help him overcome all obstacles.

The doorman greeted you with a smile, recognizing you as you entered. Learning that Alan was in his room, you took the elevator to his floor. Nerves crept in as you headed to a hotel room, but you pushed them aside, determined to present a strong front.

As the owner of the hotel, Alan lived in the penthouse on the top floor.

The elevator opened directly into his room, and while you glanced around, feeling uncomfortable in his lavish space, you reminded yourself to stay focused.

“Hello, gorgeous.”

At the sound of his voice, you turned to see him lounging at the bar area, a drink in hand and a smug grin plastered across his face. Dressed in a satin robe, he glanced at his watch. “I expected you earlier; you’ve caught me by surprise,” he said, taking a sip of his drink, then he raised it. “Care for some?”

Asshole was acting as if nothing had happened.

Crossing your arms, you replied, “No, I don’t want anything. Look, whatever you’re doing, just stop it. I get that you want revenge—I lost my mother too—but this won’t bring her back. Besides, Harry is innocent in all this, he didn't deserve-.”

“How can Harry be innocent? That woman is his mother.”

“She’s already lost a daughter. What’s hurting her even going to do for you?”

He shrugged. “At least it gives me some relief. Watching them suffer makes me feel better, just like my mother suffered because of them.”

“Alan, listen—”

“Save your breath, sweetheart. What’s coming is inevitable. The Castillo family will pay for what they’ve done.” He finished his drink, setting the glass down on the counter. “The company was just the beginning. Tomorrow, Harry will lose his penthouse with the breathtaking view due to foreclosure and debts he can’t cover. And soon enough, his mother will lose her house too.”

You frowned. "That woman can't leave her house because of her illness. You can't do that. You can't be so cruel."

As he approached you, the look in his eyes made it clear he could, indeed, be that cruel. "Do you think I care? They deserve whatever’s coming to them. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do."

“It was a mistake to come here,” you said as you turned to leave, but he grabbed your arm to stop you. "But nothing is beyond repair. Maybe you can change this."

A flicker of hope ignited within you. "Me? How? What can I possibly do?"

He smiled, a chilling grin. “Don’t underestimate yourself, sweetheart; you have no idea how much you mean to me.” He reached out, intending to touch your face, but you angrily pushed his hand away.

"Stop it. Just tell me what you want. Oh, let me guess—you want me to break up with Harry?"

He chuckled. “Nah, I’ve changed my mind. I know you won’t leave him, no matter what happens.”

You tried to mask your surprise. “So, what do you want from me?”

“One night." He locked eyes with you. "I want you to spend just one night with me.”

The way he said those words sent a shiver down your spine. The mere idea made your stomach turn. “What kind of sick bastard are you?”

"I'm offering you a choice, and it comes with just one condition, sweetheart. If you don’t comply, you’ll have to watch your man falter and see the heartbreaking news about the Castillo family everywhere. Think it over. Harry's fate is in your hands."

"Do you think I'm an idiot? How can I trust you won't pull a fast one on me?"

He chuckled and leaned closer. "What other options do you have?"

You fell silent, realizing you had none.

"I'll draft a contract between us. I’ll ensure Harry gets everything he needs to stabilize the company’s stock, and I’ll drop the lawsuit. Would that satisfy you?"

Just like that?

That seemed too simple.

"What is this, a telenovela? Will you be satisfied when I sleep with you? Will you leave your revenge just like that?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Harry's been shaken up enough, and he's going to have a hard time putting the company back together, watching his misery that's enough to satisfy me. But of course as soon as you volunteered to satisfy my needs-"

You slapped him in the face. “You piece of shit!”

He put his hand where you hit him and smiled wickedly. “So you're not accepting my offer?”

Fuckin' asshole. 

You squinted at him, your whole body shaking with anger. "I would rather spend the night with Joffrey Baratheon. Yeah, I know he's a fictional character, but at least I could beat the bastard up and my night would be more interesting.” you said and turned around to leave. 

“Suit yourself,” he said behind you. "But remember, whatever happens to Harry next will be your fault. And about those telenovelas... They may be exaggerated and clichéd, but know that in the end they're always have a point.”

The next day, things took a turn for a lot worse. Just when you thought it couldn't get any shitty, everything spiraled out of control. The streets outside the company overflowed with an army of paparazzi, their cameras clicking like a relentless drumbeat, while protesters shouted, their voices rising in a tumultuous chorus of anger and despair. Even Forbes magazine, which had once celebrated Harry on its cover, was now reporting that his company was teetering on the brink of bankruptcy and that he had slipped off the list of the wealthiest people. When Maria and Mia came to visit you one evening, you watched them through the door as they talked about losing their home. They were filled with sadness and desperation. You couldn’t help but wonder what else could possibly go wrong, and then it did. The Feds and the SEC even IBRC got involved.

That’s when the last text from Alan arrived on your phone.

This is your last chance to save your man.

But it wasn't just the urgency in the text that spurred you to act; it was the sight of Harry himself. He looked so lost, so deeply unhappy that your heart ached for him. Maybe it was reckless, stupid, maybe he’d come to resent you for this decision—or maybe, just maybe, this was the only way to pull him back from the brink.

He would understand eventually, wouldn’t he?

That night, as you lovingly caressed his face while he slept beside you, your mind raced with turmoil. He had increasingly sought solace in alcohol, and fatigue clung to him like a shadow. He was your everything; you would do anything for him, anything.

The next morning, after preparing breakfast—he barely touched it—you sent Alan a text as Harry left for work.

Your fingers shook as you typed, tears in your eyes.

Tonight.

That evening, you slipped into the underwear and the dress you knew you would tear them off and throw them into the trash afterwards. You wrote a note to Harry, left it on the counter, and stepped out of the house.

But first, you had to see someone.

Jack.

You needed to prepare yourself for the big fish that wanted to swallow you whole, instead of being just another fish on the line.

It was around ten o'clock when you finally arrived at the hotel. Your heart raced with nervousness; you felt like a sacrificial lamb, and the thought of what could happen made you feel disgusted. How could you allow another man to touch you, especially someone you despised?

When you caught sight of the elevator, fear gripped you so tightly that you almost turned back.

But no, you had to summon your courage.

You were doing this for the man you loved. All Alan had to do was sign the contract you had arranged through Jack's lawyer.

You were ready to pay the price for that—a straightforward agreement. Seemingly simple, but a gnawing sense of dread gnawed at you from within.

You clutched the belt of your trench coat tightly as the elevator ascended, your nausea returning. Perhaps it was simply the tension building inside you. The elevator bell startled you, and your palms were slick with sweat. As you stepped inside, you felt timid at first, but upon seeing Alan and his unnecessary smug smile, you lifted your chin and approached him with purpose.

“There you are,” he said, his victory grin irritating you even more.

Taking a deep breath, you retrieved the documents from your bag and laid them on the counter. “Sign it now.”

He glanced at the papers. “What’s this? No kissing, no hugging—this is the kind of stuff escorts ask for, or somethin'?”

You shot him a withering glare.

"Well, I already had these documents prepared, sweetheart," he said, showing his briefcase.

“I don’t trust you, which is why I asked Jack to draft them. Sign them or I’ll go back,” you stated firmly, trying to keep your expression icy and unyielding.

He chuckled. “Hmm, clever. Fine, but I’d like to read them first.” He settled onto the barstool and began examining the pages. “There are some carefully crafted clauses in this contract that will benefit Harry's company and the entire Castillo family. But what about you? Don’t you demand anything?”

You understood his meaning but tried not to care. You had already made up your mind. “Are you going to sign it or not?”

He looked at you with a serious expression. “If I have to pay a price to get you out of those clothes, then so be it, honey,” he replied, starting to sign each page one by one.

A mixture of relief and anxiety washed over you. Your heart raced at the thought of what was to come, and you felt your courage slip away.

But there was no turning back now.

Once he finished signing, he slid the documents back across the counter towards you. As you reached for the folder, he seized your hand and pulled you closer. “I’ve done my part; now it’s your turn.”

A shiver ran down your spine, and you nearly burst into tears, but you steadied yourself. Putting the folder in your bag, you turned to him. “Just one thing: Harry can’t find out about this.”

He nodded, his impatience growing. “Okay, I swear.”

You untied the belt of your trench coat, took it off and put it on the chair. You were emotionless looking at him, or tried to be.

You felt like you were stuck in quicksand and you were sinking deeper and deeper as he approached you, staring at you like a hungry wolf.

You closed your eyes tightly when he reached out and touched your cheek. You tried to suppress the urge to sob as he slid his hand slowly from your cheek to your neck, your body shaking. Suddenly he wrapped an arm around you, pulled you to him and pressed his lips hard against yours. Instinctively you closed your lips tightly, it was so disgusting. You placed your hands on his chest and pushed him away while he kissed you more eagerly. 

But then suddenly he paused and pulled back. Only then did you realize that you were crying.

He looked at you licking his lips, grinning with disappointment. 

“Okay, that's it.”

You looked at him with your eyes wide open. You couldn't believe what you were hearing. "Wh-what?"

He walked back to the bar, sat down and poured himself a drink. You had a lot of questions, but the first thing you thought was that he backed out of the deal because you didn't kiss him back. "You signed the papers, you can't back out now."

"I’m not backing out; that was the agreement between us. It's done."

"But you said-"

"I prefer a woman who is eager to sleep with me," he said, looking at you angrily. “I'm not a fucking rapist. Now go, leave me alone,” he said and sipped his drink.

Confused but relieved, you picked up your trench coat and put it on. He didn't even look back as you walked to the elevator. But that was good, you sighed deeply to yourself. You hadn't imagined getting out of here like this.

With a strange sense of relief.

But then you remembered that bastard kissed you. "Ugh, that's disgusting. I should wash my mouth out with soap until it hurts. Eww.” you muttered to yourself while frantically wiping your lips with a wet tissue.

It wasn’t yet past midnight when you stepped into the dim corridor leading to Harry’s apartment. The elevator ride felt surreal, each floor ticking by as hope bloomed in your chest. You were grateful to return intact, clutching the crucial documents that could save both him and the company. Everything would be fine from here on out. You just had to sweep tonight's events under the rug, even if their stench lingered.

As you pushed open the apartment door, a wave of confusion washed over you. There, shrouded in the shadows, sat Harry, motionless on the counter.

When had he returned?

Oliver had mentioned he would be out late, and the stark absence of lights only heightened the weird atmosphere. Hesitant steps carried you closer, but the heaviness of your night weighed heavily on your mind. You inhaled deeply, attempting to steady your nerves, and called out softly, “Harry?”

His gaze pierced through the dark, and it made you falter. You had expected to find him with a drink in his hand, yet he appeared unsettlingly sober. On the counter, bathed in the soft glow of the city lights, your note rested beside an ornate ring box.

Something felt off.

“Baby, are you okay?” you ventured, your voice quavered as it broke the silence.

He absently glanced at his phone, muttering, “You’re back early.”

A lump lodged in your throat as you scrambled for your thoughts.

“‘I’ll be with Zoe. I might stay with her if it’s late,’” he recited, pointing at your note.

Clearing your throat, you forced out, “Well, yes. We finished up early and decided to head home.”

“Oh yeah?” he said, showing you his phone screen.

Your heart dropped like a stone.

There on the screen was a photo of you lingering in the hotel lobby, captured just hours ago.

Who the fuck... How?

You closed your eyes tightly, willing yourself to choose right words.

“Harry, let me explain,” you began, but he silenced you, lifting the ring box instead.

“This…” he opened the box slowly, revealing a stunning antique diamond ring that sparkled amidst the gloom, “was from my mother. I had intended to give this to you, to propose... later.”

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered, awe mingling with pain.

“It is. It was. Everything was beautiful—until this night,” he spat.

“Wh-what do you mean by that?”

He stood up abruptly, his grip seizing your shoulders with a force that was both desperate and heartbreaking. “How could you go to him?”

“Harry, just listen. I... I did it for you,” you implored, your eyes wide with plea.

His eyebrows arched in disbelief as he tightened his grip. “For me?”

“Yes! Everything I did was for you.” You fished your bag and pulled out the papers, placing them before him. “I was going to give these to Oliver, but now that you know everything, they’re yours. Alan signed them all. You can save your company.”

“Fuck the company!” he bellowed, the sound echoing off the walls and making you jump. The fury in his eyes pierced right through you as he clutched your shoulders fiercely. “You were all I cared about! The company, everything else—it didn’t matter as long as you were with me. But you…” He shook you roughly, tears spilling over onto your cheeks. “How could you do this to me?”

“Harry, listen... You were so sad, and I thought—I thought I could help...” you swallowed, your voice breaking.

“What did you expect would happen? Did you really think I’d be fine with you sleeping with my enemy?”

“Please... I thought that was my only option. It was all I could think of to help you.”

He finally released you, his hands trembling as they fell away. Tears welled up in his eyes, catching the light like tiny gems. “Even if it meant losing me, everything we have?"

You sniffled, tears flowing freely now. “All I did was love you and think about you.”

“You were thinking of me? Yet you didn’t have me in mind when you went to him, did you? Maybe you were too eager,” he said, the sharpness of his words cutting deep into your heart.

In a moment of raw pain, you slapped him.

With the impact, he turned his head to the side, eyes squeezed shut, and sighed deeply.

How could he say something like that to you?

You waited for him to apologize.

But he didn't.

Did it truly not matter what you had done for him?

How could he be so cold?

With a shattered heart and a deep breath, you managed to get the words out.

“Goodbye, Harry.”

The simple farewell fell from your lips like a final breath as you turned and walked toward the elevator.

And just like that.

It was over.

He might have regain his company and his reputation, but in the end, he had lost you.

Thanks for reading! I really appreciate your comments, likes, and reblogs. I'd love to hear what you think about the chapter!

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lots of love 💋💋❤️❤️

[mihii-i]

form of worship.

Pairings: mizu x fem!reader

CW: nsfw, female reader, afab reader, wlw, redo of the brothel vision scene because I fucking hate it, flashback yippee, you’re not here w her unfortunately mizu just thinks of reader, I made this more passionate because I just don’t like taizu and I get more action than taigen cause I’m her wife obvi, praise, fingering, crying, sough rex, the kink where you drag your nails along someone’s back (do not tell anyone I have that this stays here.), mizu’s confused about gay people lmfao, hehehehe switch mizu yes I live for switch mizu, bottom lean tho cause im thirsty rn, not proofread.

A/N: here’s the little poll winner request cause you freakazoids (lovingly) requested anyway this is literally just the brothel sequence but with mizu imagining you instead of baldie (I hate that scene sm I pretend it doesn’t exist lmfaooo) anyway have fun cause it’s almost midnight so writing might be a little off. 🕯️

“He was honest with his desire, that is a swordsman who knows the shape of his soul.”

Madame Kaji’s smooth voice rang around the thick atmosphere clouded with lust, her voice soft like a bundle of silk running fluidly without any openings or stray threads. Slim spills of golden light poured out from the thin, rectangular peephole that slid open to observe such acts through the periphery a singular eye.

Orange glasses lowered to rest atop the bridge of her nose, Mizu couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of the raw skin to skin contact, both a woman and the samurai from the duel earlier brushing up against each other so sinfully, while another man pressed against the samurai’s back to loom over his wide shoulders. Her pupils dilated wide within the rim of her cerulean eyes, fixated on how the dull yellow brightness outlining their bodies in the midst of a firey passion scorching within the confines of the heated ambience.

She had solely convinced herself that such acts were nothing but a medium of self indulgence in the pleasure of another. An addictive feeling that is solely useless to partake in. Sexual pleasure could either be a soul entangling act of love, coursing through the veins in an ardent ache throbbing within someone to love and please the other. While on the other end, it could be the exact opposite. A heightened, sadistic thirst to satisfy one’s selfish desires to bask in, as well as inflict harm upon another in rugged destruction where the reciever pleads for it to be over. The duality alone was enough to draw Mizu away from the prospect of something supposedly disgusting to her.

So why couldn’t she tear her eyes away from the two men, engaged so deeply in their fervor together?

Mizu opened her mouth to speak for a moment, eyes still locked onto the grasp of the three in the room rocking against each other as a chorus of quiet moans gradually grew louder from the inside. Her mouth hung dry in response though, not a single word rasping out of her mouth in the usual stern tone that lowly hummed against her throat. She wanted to deny the potential thought of sex being an act of worship as Madame Kaji had proposed, trying to force out the words of desire being beyond the need of her purpose.

Madame Kaji only flashed her a satisfied smile at the sight of her gaze transfixed onto the passionate act between the three within the room. The corners of her cherry lips perked up at the sight, cautiously stepping toward Mizu.

“Has the gentleman finally caught sight of an act that piqued his interest?” She inquired, under the impression that sexual relations with a man was what Mizu had desired.

That wasn’t it.

A man with another man? Although quite different to her, the act itself between two of the same sex seemed beautiful in her sights, a fresh bond between the two men being honest with their desires in a way that wasn’t the norm nor taboo, yet was rather welcome as a beauty of preference to one another.

Could two women partake in the same act?

Mizu blinked at the abrupt thought she had, her bottom lip curled into a thin line dashed below her nose. She wondered to herself that if women weren’t so confined in such a society, remaining as open to several options as men were…could two women be honest with their desires in the same affection to crave one another?

Her mind began flood with scenarios as she blankly dulled her eyes into the two men’s lips smashed up against one another’s, not particularly looking at them with much interest. Rather, she wanted to know how it would feel to outline her hands along the smooth skin of another woman. Head racing with scenarios of you in particular, rather than some random woman she picked up on. It was clear Mizu had missed you, yet she didn’t think it was to the extent where her thoughts were clouded with fucking you in the same way the do in these brothels.

Face flushing deeply, the upper end of the bridge of her nose was dusted in a gentle blush of pink, diffusing to the thin bones of her cheeks. All she could picture in the moment while staring blankly—were the calloused ridges of her fingers tracing along your curves as her palms carefully dug into the plush of your bare skin, handling you cautiously as if you were a porcelain doll, fragile to her unmerciful hand.

Lips grazing the flesh of your throat while her skull was nothing but a whirlwind of desire for you, longing to hear your drawn out noises as the compulsive need to feel you clenching around her waned at any composure she kept within her. Mizu continued to observe the acts of the two, with less interest in what they partook in and rather what she wanted to lock you into, imagining the infatuating sight of your nude frame sprawled out below her, legs held up to your chest with only one of her hands as her gloves chafed against the bristles of hair on your knees.

Mizu bit her bottom lip subtly at the lone idea itself of her free hand sunken into your cunt while she took in your cries of pleasure circling her, the heightened want and desperation in your voice bouncing off the walls into every corner of the room as you enclosed the velvety warmth of your walls around the ridges of her digits. Simply burying them knuckles deep in you, your body bouncing up and down with each thrust as she kissed you all over as a sweet act of love coated in pleasure until your inevitable climax.

Gods, she couldn’t keep you out of her mind.

Even when the two men flipped over, Mizu strangely enough was only able to dissolve her previous thoughts into a whole new scenario, one of which made her skin burn as a bead of sweat built up directly below her jaw on the vein of her neck. Feeling as if her head was throbbing at the influx of perverted thoughts, she didn’t attempt to push away any idea of you laying on top of her as well, hands flat against her waist to press her into a tatami mat.

Such a shameless thought of you taking her on the floor itself only sent her reeling into a mess, brain short circuiting as her knees pushed closer together than they already were. Attempting to push back the simple, raw idea of your fingers brushing along that spot within her, massaging the spongy end that addictively buries your fingers into the soft warmth of her pussy, was nothing but a futile attempt.

It was hard to push back, especially darting to the idea of your teeth grazing the edge of her collarbone as you hummed against the crook of her neck, uttering out soothing words of praise along her skin as a shiver racked Mizu’s body. Tears stinging at the corner of her eyes as her legs tightly coiled around your bare waist, obscene moans she attempted to suppress spilling from her lips as your fingers sunk into her cunt enveloping you with a welcome warmth.

Each gentle word of affection rasped out by your hushed voice against her throat serving to prick more tears welling up in her eyes from the sheer emotion blending into the sensation of pleasure arching her body in a dome off the ground as your palm ground against her sensitive clit. Her fingers traced along your back as you rammed your fingers into her against the mat while her body jousted upward with the slam of three of your fingers inside her, nails dug into your back as she raked down your skin in a wake of bright red blooming along the ridges of goosebumps.

Mizu knew how damn loud she was, the fact even coming to enticingly haunt her in her fantasies as she envisioned the lewd noises wrenched out of her throat while she dug her nails into your back, your fingers nudging up against her g-spot as she let out a pleading sob at the sheer stimulation driven by your love. Only being able to imagine the blanking feeling mentally as she snapped from her climax, her lithe figure arching to the cool air assaulting her bare skin as it drew in shiver along her exposed tits, chest heaving up and down as you captured her in a gentle kiss.

Her imagination subsided as soon as she lost sight of the three within the room upon grounding herself back into reality, the heat dusted across still lingering along the midpoint of her sharp facial structure. When Mizu had imagined your hands on her, or even her hands pressed onto your body, she couldn’t help but ponder Madame Kaji’s words once more…she wanted you in a way that could be considered a form of worship.

“Have you found your desire?”

Madame Kaji’s words cut through Mizu’s elevated state as she stared through the warmth of her glasses wide eyed, swallowing back the embarrassment accumulated from the strangely detailed scenario. Mizu only shook her head in response, replying in a hesitant voice firmly.

She shut her eyes under the facade of being calm, her fingers pressed to the wood before dragging it across to slide the window closed as she pursed her lips shut.

“Desire is beyond the need of my purpose.”

A/N: bye I have midterms next week anyway this is fine but like yall voted for this don’t even

ily all no matter how freaky yall are (im acting like I’m not)

I was gnawing at the bars of my enclosure writing this and it’s 2 am I’m sleepy gn.

[westside-rot]

Talk To Me Nice

Pairing: Terry Richmond X Black reader

No warnings for this one. Hopefully there aren't too many errors cuz it's only lightly edited. I'm trying to squeeze in my last post of the year lol

This little idea is the result of a writing prompt and @megamindsecretlair keeping me honest about writing something every day. Figured I'd share the results with whoever else wants to check it out.

“That’s a bit harsh my love…”

After spending the last 20 minutes filling your home with negative energy you expected reciprocation.  Instead you were being derailed with a new form of gaslighting, the kind reserved for evolved men who appeared harmless on the surface but harbored a petty side few got to see. Though impressive, you knew Terry was only using kind words to paint himself the victim. It didn’t matter how many steps ahead you thought you were. The guilt still hit with the same bruising force.

Six months of newlywed bliss cruelly interrupted by disappointment you never wanted to feel so early into your marriage. Perhaps there was a better way to convey that hurt to your husband. Maybe sitting him down for a mature conversation would’ve spared you from the growing pressure around your temples and the rawness in your throat from all the yelling you’d been doing. You were convinced the window for apologies and grand romantic gestures had closed. He'd started it. You were damn sure going to finish it.

You pushed through your doubts and committed to your frustrations with arms folded tightly across your chest, the initial urge to roll your eyes shifting to a hard, resolute stare. “Well Terrence sometimes harsh is necessary.”

He scratched his beard and nodded as though you’d just agreed on what to have for dinner. Silence took over the room once again, intensifying the conflict between you. His eyes never broke contact.

“Are you done?” From anyone else the question would’ve triggered your inner toxic and possibly resulted in the police being called. But there was note of calmness in your husband’s voice that exonerated him from the accusation before it became your new truth. Terry wasn’t being dismissive. He was simply better at regulating his emotions.  His inability to stop wringing his hands together revealed the stress hidden within. For a second time you were forced to ignore your guilt for the sake of winning. Mirroring his casual demeanor, you continued to stand firm and prepared for whatever he intended to say next.

“I must’ve imagined sitting in premarital counseling for all those weeks. Or maybe I was the only one taking it seriously. That must be it 'cause at the first sign of a problem you’ve broken every promise we made to each other.” His words landed direct hits on your conscience. Everything holding you together began to cave under the weight of his response. Terry wasn’t wrong. Instinctively, you went into defense mode anyway.  

“That’s not fai—”

“Nah, you’re not about to interrupt me. I let you speak. You’ll show me the same respect. Understand?” The natural base in his voice instantly got your attention. Yes sir rang so clearly in your mind you weren’t entirely convinced you hadn’t said it out loud. You prayed Terry couldn’t somehow feel the lust pulsing alongside everything else flooding your system. One day soon under normal circumstances you were going to explore his newfound aggressive side. How, you weren’t entirely sure. With a new goal seared into your brain and soaked through panties clinging to your ass you managed to retain a sense of dignity as you obeyed your husband’s command. 

“You’re my wife. One day you’ll be the mother of our children. I refuse to let them hear us talking crazy to each other, so I’m gonna need you to find a better way to communicate your feelings. If I need to sign us back up for therapy I will but this shit ends tonight.”

All the fight drained from your body. Shame took its place. In its presence you were finally able to recall those important conversations leading up to your wedding, the dreams you shared, the legacy you wanted to create. If not for your anger you could have revisited them sooner and found a better use for them. Now you were facing an evening apart, perhaps more depending on how long Terry held on to a grudge.

All you could do was stare at the ground and wait for it to be over with. Hopefully you’d find a way to sleep knowing you had failed your first test as a wife. When your lip started to quiver you promptly bit down on it to keep your hurt feelings in check.  You hadn’t behaved in a way deserving of care but when Terry's long fingers reached out to palm the side of your face you sought out his warmth like a needy kitten.

“Now you’re breaking my heart.”

“I can’t help it. Did you have to be so mean?” Though you found your ability to speak you burrowed your pout lips further into his hand. The loudest person in the room didn’t deserve to cry. If you were lucky you'd disappear and rematerialize tomorrow with more sense.

“It got your attention. Besides, I thought harsh was necessary. Or does that only apply when you’re cursing me out?” He chuckled.  You weren’t persuaded by the playfulness in his voice to look up. Terry initiated the gesture with fingers affectionately placed beneath your chin. It wasn’t lost on you that he'd repositioned your face at the same proud angle you held while lecturing him as if two nights apart somehow equated to years of neglect. You wanted to look away but soon discovered his eyes remained steadfast and beautiful in the aftermath of the storm you’d caused. They connected with your soul in an instant providing a gentle assurance that you were safe with him.

 The words flowed through your upturned lips effortlessly. “I’m sorry baby. You didn’t deserve all those ugly things I said to you.” Before you could say more he captured your face in both hands, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

“You’re already forgiven my love.” Terry’s lips grazed yours as he spoke. The distance was torture. Finally, after what felt like an unbearably long time, he covered your mouth with his, reestablishing his dominance with a tenderness that sets your heart and mind at ease.  It was a proper reconciliation, but it also wasn’t enough. Not after the way you behaved tonight.

You treated the sincerity on his lips as your own personal buffet. When it became difficult to breathe you pulled away to regain control over the situation.  “I still have a lot to make up for.”

A smile tugged at his lips as he pushed the curls back from your face. “We both do. Your approach needs some work, but you had a right to be upset with me.” You nodded and yet nothing in you wanted to celebrate the vindication. You were simply relieved to know you hadn’t caused any irrevocable damage by overreacting. Even more relieved to see him smiling again.  "I think my beautiful and extremely childish wife should get the honor of going first.”

The frown you attempted to hold cracked under the pressure of his wide grin. You hate being teased. You were also guilty on all counts and willing to take your punishment. “I suppose that’s fair.”

“It’s very fair.” He mumbled between prolonged kisses down your neck.

You exhaled and curved your fingers over his broad shoulders. It was becoming harder to think or even breathe with him sucking everywhere his lips could reach. “Can we talk it out like grown-ups tomorrow?”

“Of course, baby. It's mandatory from now on.” When he spoke the guttural quality possessing his voice registered deep in the places he’s yet to touch. You felt painfully empty but knew you wouldn’t stay that way for long. At the rate his lips were moving you weren’t convinced you'd make it past the couch. You preferred the comfort of your king-sized bed the scene of your crime was a fitting place for getting down on your knees to make proper use of your mouth.

Terry surprised you when he broke the suction on your collarbone to reunite at eye level. There was a noticeable glint of mischief in his eyes before he bent down to throw you over his shoulder. You squealed and braced a hand at the center of his back for support you really didn't need.

"You better not drop me trying to be cute!"

"I was planning on letting you off easy tonight. Now I'm thinking your apology needs to be as loud as all that shit you've been talking."

"Yes daddy. Remind me what all these big strong muscles are really for. Also, please send help!"

With a single act you reclaim the home you’ve built, your gasps and combined laughter echoing along the walls as he carried you upstairs.

[darkmatilda]

𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: if you were to look back, you would realize you had loved him forever. from the first glance, well, the first conversation in the garage of your family home during the christmas. but although time passed and you did everything you could to get his attention, you eventually realized he would never love you the way he loved your sister. the way you loved him.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x jareau!female!reader, angst, looots of angst prepare some tissues, unrequited love, reader is a theater/drama student, comparing herself to her sister, feeling of not being enough, unsupportive family, extremely overdramatic, the reader is delusional af and obsessively in love, reader smokes, inspired by lana's song "tomorrow never came"

𝐚/𝐧: it'a a request from lovely @lillaberry you asked me about my fav lana's song and i had huge problem with choosing just one, probably sth from "norman f*cking rockwell" like happiness is a butterfly or mariners apartment complex :> i have no idea what happened, but at some point, this story just started living its own life, i don't like it

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 7.4k

Your friends always joked about how quickly you fell in love.

All it took was one interaction with someone—a small gesture, words that impressed you, a lingering glance, or holding a door open. And you were utterly smitten.

A psychologist would later tell you it probably stemmed from a lack of male attention during your upbringing. You shared one father with two sisters, and he couldn’t give you all the care and attention you needed. Then, he completely dropped off the radar. He left, and you were left with just your mom and JJ. Just the two of them.

Coming back, you weren’t a heartbreaker, a woman jumping from flower to flower. Maybe you fell in love quickly, but faithfully. A bit obsessively, as others said, but you preferred to call it “with all of yourself.” It sounded more poetic, subtle, and didn’t create an image in your mind of yourself dressed in a straitjacket, banging against the walls of a room without doors. Coming back again, this particular stage of your love life began exactly on Christmas Day, your first after starting college.

Since Dad left and your sister—well, you spent them very intimately. Mom prepared two, maybe three dishes, Aunt Martha brought a Pecan Pie (from the store, but pretended she baked it herself), and you and JJ baked gingerbread cookies early in the morning, decorating them for half the day. You were just shoving two gingerbread cookies into your mouth at once, leaning with your elbows on the kitchen counter, while your sister was busy setting the table.

"So, when is your friend arriving?" you asked, a few crumbs falling from your mouth. You brushed them off the counter and onto the floor.

 "He should be here in about fifteen minutes. If he arrives earlier, he'll probably wait by the door until the exact hour strikes. That's Spencer," JJ snorted, smoothing her hands over the red tablecloth. "And stop saying friend like that. There's really nothing between us."

"Uh-huh. And that's why you invited him here for Christmas?"

She leaned against her hip, looking at you more seriously.

"Not everyone has the chance to spend the day with their loved ones. I didn't want him to be alone, okay?"

You raised your hands in mock surrender, still holding a gingerbread in one as a defensive gesture. Your sister sounded almost stern, just like your mom. Speaking of mom, someone slapped your hand.

"For god's sake, you're going to eat all the gingerbread. Do something, help JJ. Aunt Martha will be here soon..."

"She'll be fifteen minutes late, like always. She read somewhere that the Queen of England does that.”

"And when will your friend arrive?" Mom ignored your critical remark and turned to your older sister.

She had already opened her mouth to answer, probably saying the same thing she told you, when the doorbell rang.

 "It must be him," she said and went to let him in.

 Mom subtly adjusted her hairstyle.

 "I saw that," you muttered.

"Oh, be quiet," she shot back.

Two people walked into the living room, where, in addition to a huge Christmas tree, there was also a fireplace decorated with spruce ornaments and stockings. The first was, of course, your sister, and the second was a tall man with an almost boyish face. Slim, you might even say, skinny. He was dressed elegantly, in a light shirt with a tie peeking out from under a black vest, the tie neatly tied at his neck. You immediately had the impression that he dressed like this every day, simply by the fact that everything fit him so well. Years ago, your second sister decided to introduce her boyfriend to your parents. He wanted to impress them with his elegant appearance, but even though you were very young at the time, you clearly remembered how uncomfortable he seemed in that kind of clothing, constantly adjusting something.

"You must be Spencer," greeted your mom with a wide smile, stepping forward. He shook her hand, and you noted in your mind that his grip was very weak, almost filled with hesitation. Well, he probably felt a bit awkward spending Christmas with strangers.

"That's right, ma'am," he replied, his hand falling back along his side. "I really...really appreciate the invitation."

"Oh, don't be silly, it's nothing. Do you work with JJ?"

"Yes, ma'am. We're on the same team."

His gaze slowly started to sweep the room, finally landing on you. Without moving from your spot, you waved at him. Behind Spencer, JJ crossed her arms and looked at you, turning her head in annoyance. You almost rolled your eyes, but instead, you simply got up with a martyr's expression and offered him your hand. Just as you suspected, his grip was gentle, unsure.

"I'm glad you're here," you said after introducing yourself. His face showed surprise, and you chuckled. "It's you Aunt Martha will bombard with questions. And her unapologetic criticism. Not me.Yay!"

His eyes widened in horror. They were dark and honest, one of those they call windows to the soul. JJ quickly grabbed him by the elbow and led him further inside.

"She was just joking," you managed to hear.

You were not. Aunt Martha and your mom shared one personality trait: meddling in other people's affairs and offering unsolicited opinions. The difference was that mom did it behind people's backs, secretly, so that the person being discussed never heard it, and their perfect image remained intact. Her sister didn’t care about that. And her favorite target for attack was you.

Spencer helped set the table despite the objections. He answered your mom's personal questions with precision and logic, which you found rather amusing. You wondered if he was always like that, or if stress just made him act this way. The only thing you knew about him from JJ was that he was a genius and had a doctorate at such a young age. Or maybe she had said a lot more, but that was the only detail that stuck with you, as a student, terrified at the very thought of a master's thesis.

Queen Elizabeth, or rather Aunt Martha, arrived fashionably late as usual, a good fifteen minutes behind schedule, immediately throwing out comments about the unshoveled driveway and how she almost died because of it. Oh, and also about how her neighbor's son is probably gay because he got an earring. Actually, that last issue seemed to bother her the most.

"I'm telling you, he was such a normal guy," she complained, setting down her bought, or rather freshly baked, pie on the kitchen island. "Used to be, anyway. Now, who knows what's going on in his head. Anyway, it's nice to see you, my darlings. JJ!" She embraced the girl tightly, planting kisses on her cheeks with a loud smacking sound.

You winced at the very sound of it, catching Spencer's eye. Your earlier comment must have scared him, because he was staring at your aunt as if she were holding an axe. She stopped, giving him a penetrating look from head to toe.

"And who’s this handsome young man? Darling sister, did you have a son I forgot about?" She laughed as if she’d told a brilliant joke. She pulled the tense Spencer towards her, kissing him on the cheek. "Of course, I’m just kidding, sweetheart. I heard JJ was bringing someone..."

When it was your turn, you reluctantly submitted to her kisses. At least this time, she didn’t have that awful purple lipstick, so there was no trace of it left on your cheeks.

“Oh my God, you really wore that for Christmas?” she almost wailed, placing her hands on your shoulders. It wasn’t that you were dressed inappropriately, just comfortably, instead of elegantly. Aunt Martha pinched you in the side. “Or maybe you’ve put on a little weight, huh? Trying to hide it? I bet college doesn’t stress you out enough to lose your appetite.”

“Actually, I have a lot of stress,” you admitted, sticking out your lower lip. It probably would’ve been better if you’d just kept quiet, but you couldn’t help yourself. “We’re putting on our first play in a real theater in January. We have rehearsals non-stop…”

“Oh, nonsense,” Aunt Martha dismissed it. “Shall we sit down at the table already? I’m starving…”

You did as she asked. The topic of your studies always came back like a boomerang, in the form of mockery. Your mom, and really no one in your immediate family, supported your choice, but at least they didn’t criticize it openly. They tried to talk you out of it, saying that after a theater degree, you wouldn’t find any work. But… you simply didn’t know what else you could do with your life. You didn’t have a logical mind or a talent for math like your oldest sister, nor the ambition or desire to help others like JJ. You were born a humanist, you liked to read, and even more so, perform all those scenes in front of an audience.

Aunt Martha just couldn’t get over it. And of course, even then, after just fifteen minutes, her eyes landed right on you.

“To be honest, I was hoping you’d drop it after the first semester. But obviously, no one has talked any sense into you yet. I’m telling you, give her a year, and she’ll come to her senses.”

You knew, you had learned that arguing with her was pointless. Soon, she would give up and latch onto someone else...

"Just look at JJ," she continued stubbornly. "She chose a respectable field, has a respectable job. Sure, her work might be a bit macabre for a woman, but at least she helps others. She’s doing something useful for others, for the world. And you?"

"Auntie," JJ gently scolded her, casting an apologetic glance your way.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Spencer setting down his fork, clasping his hands on his lap in a visibly uncertain, lost gesture. You could have gotten up, pushed your chair back with force. You could have done that, you could have even spilled your wine on your aunt's dress—your dramatic flair was enough to pull it off. And though your hands clenched into fists under the table, your knuckles turning white, you said nothing. It wasn’t worth causing a scene.

Instead, you were waiting for the end of dinner like salvation. And when it finally came, you disappeared into the garage, rubbing your chest, trying to loosen the strange tightness. The place had been empty ever since your father moved out and took his car with him. Without hesitation, you reached into your pants pocket and pulled out a pack with the remaining four cigarettes and a lighter. You felt a bit embarrassed by the fact that you were an adult, yet still hiding your smoking. Neither your mom nor JJ would approve of it. Neither would Aunt Martha.

But you needed it to calm your trembling hands after dinner.

You had barely lit the cigarette and taken a drag when someone entered through the door from the house. You quickly hid the cigarette behind your back. Jesus, you were really acting pathetic.

"Hey, it's me," Spencer said, quietly closing the door behind him.

The garage was dimly lit, and you couldn’t fully see his face. But he must have noticed the puff of smoke escaping from behind your back. You shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, uncertain of how to act. Did it concern him enough that he would tell JJ?

“You scared me,” you admitted, deciding to finally relax. You held out the pack toward him. “Did you come here to smoke too? Want one?”

“No…” he denied, clearing his throat. “I don’t smoke. I came… I came to check on you.”

“Check on me?” Surprised, you nearly choked on the smoke.

Even in the dim light, you noticed his shoulders tense up.

"I... Well... You know... those comments from your aunt were really awful," he finally said. "It was clear they hurt you."

For a moment, you were silent, your ears filled again with everything you heard that day.

"Maybe she had a point," you muttered under your breath, pausing to bring the cigarette to your lips. You tapped off the ash. "I have no idea what I’ll do after these studies. But whatever it is, it won't be as useful as what JJ does. Or you."

"You study theater, right? More important than whether what you're doing is useful is whether it makes you happy. Does it?"

You hesitated before answering, crushing the ash with your shoe.

"I think so."

Spencer was silent for a moment too, and the silence was so thick you could hear his breath.

"Okay, I have no idea how good of an actress you are. But judging by how you kept your cool during that dinner, probably brilliant. You've always wanted to be one?"

His questions took the words from you, filling you with a strange feeling. You realized that no one, none of your closest people, had ever asked you those things. They were too busy criticizing and warning you. Even JJ, though she supported you and you deeply appreciated that, mostly expressed concern rather than genuine interest.

"I can't really answer that," you said, the end of your cigarette now the only thing left in your hand. "I guess no one really knows who they are meant to be. And if someone does, I envy them. What about you?" you asked, "Did you always want to be a serial killer hunter?"

"A profiler, you mean?" he replied.

"Call it what you want."

He shook his head with a small chuckle.

"That's a tough question, I have to admit."

“See, that's too existential. Don’t you have any other questions?”

 “Hmm, I think I can come up with some,” he mused for a moment. “You mentioned you’re putting on a play in January. What’s it about?”

You told him about the preparations for Antigone, your role as Ismene. It turned out that he knew the play very well. No, he really knew it—not just fragments of information from high school lessons. Engrossed in your discussion, neither of you noticed how much time had passed or how long you’d been gone. It’s possible others were wondering where you’d disappeared to, but at that moment, you couldn’t care less. For the first time, you were talking to someone outside your university who actually knew so much about theatre. You couldn’t stop talking, your words tumbling out so fast that your cheeks turned red from lack of air.

When JJ announced that she’d invited the doctor for Christmas, it never crossed your mind that you'd find such a great conversationalist in him. You had imagined a stiff, grim man in a lab coat. Not a funny, versatile guy like him. He could be a bit awkward at times, but in his case, it was endearing.

Eventually, you returned home, to the living room. Aunt Martha had left early in the evening, and it was just the three of you left, the atmosphere relaxed.

 "Are you okay?" JJ whispered to you at one point, her lips pressed together in concern.

You nodded, genuinely. You'd already managed to push the dinner out of your mind. You were mostly thinking about... Spencer. He stayed late, and you all played cards. Everyone, including your mom. A few times, he caught you cheating, and you noticed a sharp gleam in his dark eyes, but he didn’t say a word. You tried again to draw him into a conversation as long and passionate as the one you’d had in the garage, but the presence of the rest of your family made it difficult.

They joked a lot with JJ, sometimes talking only between themselves about people and things you had no clue about. You’d interrupt then, desperately trying to steer the conversation toward something you could follow. But whenever their gazes met again, their smiles aligning at the same moment, you felt like the annoying younger sister, just a nuisance to them.

 JJ made him show off some card tricks. You wondered if there was anything he couldn’t do, anything he wasn’t knowledgeable about. In your eyes, as the hours passed, he started to become... everything.

That night, you couldn’t sleep. Dressed in your pajamas and robe, you smoked another cigarette in the garage. Though you’d only spent a few hours together, most of them not even alone, in your mind, a certain thought began to form more vividly—one both unsettling and exhilarating.

You had fallen in love.

*

Desperately, you hoped JJ might invite Spencer over for dinner again, giving you another chance to see him. But it didn’t happen. Still, Spencer filled your thoughts every single day, to the point where you couldn’t focus on your classes or the rehearsals.

Rehearsals! Everyone was incredibly stressed about how you’d perform. On a real stage, not just the small one at your university, in front of a real audience. The nerves consumed you so much that you burned through pack after pack of cigarettes, probably smelling like an uncleaned chimney. You were on the verge of asking JJ for his number and inviting him out, openly and without any pretense. Just to stop thinking about him, even for a moment...

You were given two tickets to hand out to your loved ones. One, of course, went to JJ. The other…

“Sorry, sweetheart,” your mom said over the phone, just a day before the performance. “I’m heading to Aunt Martha’s today and staying the whole weekend. She’s feeling awful, you know her heart issues.”

You didn’t know who else you could invite. Dad always grimaced at the mere mention of the word theater. And then JJ suggested she could ask Spencer if he’d like to come. You stared at her, overwhelmed by the sudden urge to kiss her. Out of gratitude, of course. No, that wasn’t enough. You wanted to fall at her feet and kiss them with tears of joy, thanking her endlessly. In your eyes, she now had angelic wings and a glowing halo around her head. 

Sweet JJ. Best sister in the whole world. 

Of course, you agreed.

But the thought of him watching your performance only intensified your stress. JJ had said she wanted to see you before the show to wish you luck. You suggested meeting both of them by the fountain near the theater—the one where you often smoked before rehearsals, either with your classmates or alone. Already dressed in your costume, you walked to the meeting spot on shaky legs. It was all about to begin. Too soon.

You lit a cigarette without giving a second thought to the fact that your sister was about to show up. Even when you heard footsteps behind you as you sat on the bench facing the fountain, you didn’t put it out. But to your surprise, when you turned around, it wasn’t JJ—it was Spencer.

“Nerves getting to you?” he asked as a greeting.

Your stomach leapt into your throat, and something inside you fluttered. You hadn’t seen him in three weeks, not long enough for him to have changed in any way. Yet, it felt like you were seeing him for the first time in years, and your joy at the sight of him was nearly overwhelming.

You swallowed, trying your best to seem casual.

“Doesn’t it show?” You raised the hand holding the cigarette, your fingers trembling visibly.

"Isn't it cold?" he asked, stepping closer and stopping by the bench. You moved over, making space for him. You were, indeed, freezing. You'd come outside in your stage costume, without any jacket or coat. Spencer looked you over carefully. "You know, I have some doubts about whether you could actually get Martens and silk dresses in ancient Thebes."

"Of course, you could. Martens, the Greek god of footwear. Haven't you heard of him?"

With amusement, he raised an eyebrow.

"This is a modern interpretation of Antigone," you explained finally, pointing again at your outfit. "Here, she's a feminist, a force of resistance against Creon's patriarchal power. These shoes paired with the delicate dress are a subtle expression of Ismene's rebellion. What do you think? Don't you like the idea? You seem surprised. Did you think it was going to be a traditional version of the play?"

"Oh, well, that's exactly what I thought," he admitted, blinking twice, lost in thought. "But I'm not disappointed or anything," he added hastily. "Actually, I'm... even more curious to see this play. Your interpretation."

After these words, he shifted uncertainly in his place, still staring at you. Finally, he sighed and began to remove his brown coat.

"Take it, okay? You're shaking, and... it's just unpleasant to watch," he said.

"No, stop," you tried to stop him, though deep down you couldn't wait for his coat to fall over your bare shoulders. "It's just for a moment, I'll go back inside soon..."

"...And you'd better not go on stage all gray and stiff from the cold. Really, you can... you can take it."

You pretended to give in. You handed him your cigarette to hold while you slipped your arms into both sleeves. At the same time, you tried not to show too much impatience. A pleasant warmth spread across your back, the protective layer, as well as the scent of his cologne.

"Thank you," you said quietly, unable to stop a small smile from forming. A similar one appeared on his face as well. You both sat in silence for a moment, not sure what else to say, as so much time had passed since your last conversation. You didn’t want to bring up your sister, but... her delay started to worry you.

"Where... where is JJ, actually? We were supposed to meet here," you asked.

"Oh," Spencer sighed, as if he had just remembered something. "Right... sorry, she asked me to let you know that she won’t be able to make it on time. She’ll get to the performance, but she'll be a little late. She had to stay at work a bit longer."

You nodded with disappointment, though deep down, you couldn’t help but feel a little pleased with how things had turned out. You could meet your sister anytime, but with Spencer? You needed a good excuse.

"You know... I'm really glad you came.”

He shrugged dismissively, avoiding your gaze when you tried to look him in the eyes.

"Don’t mention it... really. I’m the one who’s glad you agreed when JJ decided to invite me," he said.

You fell silent after his words, something dawning on you. While you would be performing on stage, the two of them would be sitting right next to each other, together. Before the show started, they’d probably talk again about all those things and people you didn’t know, from outside your world. And you wouldn’t be around to analyze every little smile, to discover what might lie behind them. Friendship, or something more? Though before, during the holidays, when you hadn’t met him yet, you had often joked that something might be between him and JJ, it was only then that it really hit you.

You pressed the cigarette to your lips, not realizing it had already gone out.

If it came down to it, who were you to compete with JJ? You loved her, but you were also painfully aware that she was everything you could never be. The perfect daughter, the pride of the family.

"I have to go," you said, your voice sounding strange, as if it came from somewhere outside of your body.

You tried to take off his coat, but he stopped you with a gesture of his hand.

"You can give it to me after the show. Honestly, I deeply hate that saying, because of how utterly meaningless it is... though maybe I just understand it too literally... anyway, break a leg."

Despite your earlier gloomy thoughts and conclusions, you let out a laugh.

JJ arrived as promised, during the performance. You were too focused on your role to notice her entrance, and of course, it was dark in the theater. The way she hugged you afterward made you feel guilty for all the things you'd thought about her that day. All the hidden jealousy, not just about Spencer, but about everything.

She suggested a dinner afterward, and the three of you spent a pleasant evening together. Not once that night did you suspect it would become a tradition. That this pair would start attending all your performances, becoming faces you could look for in the crowd. Your friends had their parents there to cheer them on, you had them. 

Around that time, your relationship started to get really strange.

As time passed, the awareness that you were in love with Spencer became a fact coded into your soul. Undeniable and constant. Always present. At the same time, you didn’t see each other alone too often. Your mom liked him enough to invite him to the family home frequently, which he accepted. A few times you went to the movies with him and JJ, once you dragged them both to an art exhibition because you were afraid that if you invited him alone, he might refuse.

He quickly became a family friend, including of course, yours. But you and he, alone, saw each other... incredibly rarely. The only moments were those before the performances. You’d wait for them by the bench near the fountain, and he would always arrive before JJ. You’d spend about fifteen minutes talking, just the two of you. In your eyes, those fifteen minutes held an indescribable, sacred weight. If you could, you would’ve built an altar for each of those minutes and laid before it every morning, on your knees, for an hour. It was starting to sound a bit obsessive, wasn’t it?

But over time, it became insufficient. Not knowing how else to fill the emptiness that his absence left in you, you started sending him messages—simple good mornings and good nights. Sometimes you'd ask how his day had gone. Once, by accident, you called him. He picked up, and you ended up chatting. You started doing it regularly. Beautiful moments, where two separate spaces were filled only by your voices, without JJ's presence.

These conversations were like therapy for you after every meeting with the two of them. Because during them...

It dawned on you how close they were. The two of them. They were connected by their work, their passion, their interests. And you had no fucking clue why that damn Ted Bundy killed people, or what the hell the reason behind it was, other than the fact that he was a psychopath. What was the actual difference between a psychopath and a sociopath? Murder and manslaughter—what was the difference there?

Of course, it wasn't that they only talked about that. In fact, they rarely touched on their work in front of you, but still, it bothered you to such an extent that over time, your apartment started to fill with criminology books, which you shoved under the bed when your sister came over. You didn’t know what you were trying to achieve—drawing his attention?

But there was one thing that drove you into true psychological devastation. The smiles Spencer gave JJ. Sometimes she’d say something, joke, tell a story, and he’d listen to her with that exact expression on his face. A discreet tenderness and... and... you couldn't keep describing it any longer. You felt like jumping out of the window just at the thought of it. Because you were sure he never looked at you that way. No matter how hard you tried to impress him, how many card tricks you learned, how many books on psychopaths you read.

He still saw you only as his little sister.

But you... you still tried. Because even though sometimes you felt like it was all pointless, most of the time you were filled with that hopeless hope. He became close to you, not just in a romantic sense. You saw in him a support you couldn’t find in your family. He was the one you could turn to with problems you faced at college; he didn’t roll his eyes or dismiss your issues, but listened with genuine concern. He made you feel like your career path might actually have some meaning.

That's why you called him that day.

There was this one particular day of the year. Especially painful. The anniversary of the day your sister took her own life. At some point, you didn't even know when, you and JJ had made an unspoken decision to spend that day apart. She took it particularly hard, claiming she needed isolation. You, on the other hand... wandered around your apartment like a ghost, unable to focus on anything, searching for some kind of embrace that could ease the pain.

“Hey,” he answered on the other end of the line, always sounding a little surprised when greeting you, as if he hadn't expected you to call. “What’s... what’s going on?”

“Spencer,” you only whispered his name, glued to the couch in your apartment, unable to move for the past hour. Saying his name alone helped a little. Spencer, Spencer, Spencer. “Sorry for calling... but…”

“But?” he asked, his tone concerned. “Is something... something wrong?”

You nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see it. It was funny, though, because it felt like you could see him. At least a vivid image of him in his apartment, a place you’d never been, but somehow, you knew how it looked. In his post-work clothes, with the longer strands of hair tucked behind one ear on one side. Those brown eyes.

“Could you come? To… to mine?”

You heard him swallow nervously.

"Sure. But... never mind, I'll be there soon. Just... wait."

He arrived, just as promised.

 You hugged him for the first time since you had known each other. You initiated it, sinking into his arms, burying your face in his chest and breathing deeply. You had imagined this moment countless times... and it didn’t meet your expectations. You probably hoped he would embrace you with some hidden strength, almost crushing you and kissing the top of your head. Instead, his hug was surprised and withdrawn.

You stepped back a step, and for a moment, you both stared at each other in silence. You weren’t really sure what to say.

"Today... today is the anniversary of her death," you finally blurted out.

Actually... you weren't even sure if he knew about it. Spencer straightened up with understanding. So JJ must have told him.

 "Oh... now I get it," he said slowly. He rubbed his forehead, still caught in some confusion, disorientation. Well, you had to admit, you had put him in a somewhat awkward position.

"That explains... that explains why JJ was acting like this today," he murmured under his breath. You gave him a questioning look. "She was very quiet. Closed off."

 "That's how she handles grief," you explained, tightening your cardigan around yourself. "She isolates herself and doesn’t want to see anyone. Not even me or Mom."

Spencer fell silent for a moment, his expression distant and blank. It hurt, and you wished he would be present, right there, next to you. That’s why you called him. Not for him to drift back to thoughts of her. It pained you, your own selfishness. Your own cruelty.

"Don’t you think we should... at least check on her?" he suggested uncertainly.

You quickly shook your head in disagreement.

 "As I said, she doesn’t want to see anyone. I think we should... we should let her have her solitude."

"Alright. You're her sister, you... I believe you know what's best for her," his tone sounded as if he was trying to convince himself that his words were true. He sighed again. "But I'm glad you decided to call me. How... how can I help you?"

You weren’t saying this out of jealousy, you honestly believed it was the best thing for your sister. For a moment, silence fell between you again. He didn’t seem convinced, but he finally sighed.

You moved your lips, wanting to say I don't know but no words came out.

 "Just," you began, swallowing. "Be with me."

He hugged you... and that hug was closer to how you had imagined it once. Much closer. Most of all, it didn't just sink into your body like a toy; he actively tried to make it clear that he was there, that he was with you, and you could rely on him. And you had no reason not to believe it.

You spent the whole evening together. Watching TV wasn’t the most ambitious pastime, but it was just a less depressing excuse to sit in silence on the couch. Lying, actually. You rested your pillow on his lap, placed your heads together. The faces on the screen blurred, you didn’t hear any sounds, you only felt his hand gently, occasionally brushing your back. He did it at irregular intervals, as if afraid you would catch him in the act. It was a short, fleeting motion, and you wondered afterward if you had imagined it.

You walked him to the door when it was time for him to leave. You said goodbye, but didn’t close the door to the apartment, standing still in it.

“Spencer,” you said, when he started walking down the stairs. Before he turned, he flinched. The air in your lungs had been gathering into one big, terribly heavy ball for some time, and you could barely release it. “You’re going to check on her, right?”

He opened his mouth, but said nothing. Finally, he lowered his head, and when he looked back at you, there was so much determination, so much sense of duty in his gaze.

"I..." he began, taking a breath. "I have to do this. Even if she doesn't want to see anyone. I wouldn't forgive myself if I found out later that I wasn’t there when she needed someone."

You understood it. You loved him for it. You were grateful. At the same time, you hated him, though it wasn't hate aimed at him. Nor at JJ.

It was hate aimed solely at yourself.

You allowed your desire to have him all to yourself to overshadow your sister.

*

The last play you performed during your first year of college was The Sorrows of Young Werther.

It was a huge event, a lot of work, rehearsals, and stress. Your contact with both Spencer and JJ suffered because you simply didn’t have the time. All of it… took a toll on your mental state. You were someone who threw herself deeply into the roles you played. You imagined the words spoken on stage as if they came from your own mouth, reflecting your true thoughts and desires. And even though you didn’t play the lead role, the suffering Werther, you began to live the play.

If woken up in the middle of the night with a slap to the face, you would’ve been able to recite the entire script, having read it so many times. You wrote on it with a pencil, highlighted passages, as if it were your personal Bible. At the same time, it filled you with a sense of patheticness. Was there anything you could do to avoid the fate of Werther?

It was evening, and you hadn’t left your apartment that day. You couldn’t even remember if you had gotten out of bed at all. Eventually, unable to look at the crossed-out script anymore, you shoved it under the bed. You had accumulated a lot of things there. You picked up a deck of cards.

You remembered that Christmas, the one where everything began. The Christmas tree and the three of you sitting on the carpet. Spencer, showing some odd trick, and you and JJ, trying to guess how he did it. You reveled in the memory of the early stage of your infatuation.

The phone rang.

"Can you come over?" JJ's voice came through without any greeting. Normally, you would have joked, asked how about a hello? “But she sounded too serious, frighteningly serious. You swallowed. "Please."

You started getting dressed before you even agreed. Because of course, you did. You knew it wasn’t about something trivial, something insignificant. That didn’t fit with JJ. Something real must have happened…

In moments like these, your complicated relationship with your sister was simplified. It was broken down into its basic elements, leaving only what was fundamental. The bond. A simple, pure sisterly bond that could be stretched but never broken.

You stepped inside, the door was open. That alone unnerved you. Your heart leaped into your throat as you heard her call you into the bathroom. JJ was sitting on the closed toilet seat, clutching something tightly in her hand.

"God, what happened? You have no idea how scared that phone call made me..."

"Can you look at this?" she interrupted, her usually tanned face was pale, just white, like snow or a blank sheet of paper.

You blinked in confusion and looked at the object she handed you. When you realized what it was, a sound escaped your lips, somewhere between a sigh and a moan.

"Are you... are you... is this...?"

"I have no fucking idea, just check!"

You took the pregnancy test from her, and it slipped from your hands.

You stared at the positive result.

JJ wasn’t trembling, her body unnaturally stiff, her face unreadable. You didn’t know what to say, you had no idea what her stance was. It didn’t seem like it was a planned pregnancy; she hadn’t even been seeing anyone… Suddenly, a wave of terror gripped your back. What if...?

She could no longer wait for you to deliver the news. You were speechless, unable to say anything. Almost ripping the test from your hand, her mouth opened in shock.

You slowly approached to touch her shoulder. That gentle touch quickly turned into an embrace.

"JJ," you whispered into her neck, still terrified of what you might hear. But you pushed all the theories aside for once, focusing only on her. "What... what are you going to do now?"

Your sister held onto the hug, but when she pulled away, her eyes were filled with tears. Happy tears.

"I’m going to be a mom."

There it was—the happy news. God, you felt like you were about to start crying too. The only thing stopping you was...

"But what about... what about... who..." The question was shockingly hard to phrase. Each version of it sounded brutal in its own way. "Who’s the father?"

“His name is Will. We’ve been together for a while… I haven’t told anyone, we haven’t seen each other much lately and…”

You sank back into her arms, happy, truly happy. For a moment, a thought crossed your mind—that it could have been someone else’s child. You didn’t know what you would’ve done if that had turned out to be true. You stayed with her for several hours, both of you behaving as though you’d lost your minds. You took turns crying—when one of you stopped, the other started.

"But... you're the first person I've told," she said when you were about to leave. "And I want you to keep this just between us for now, okay? Don’t tell Mom, and not even Spencer."

"Of course, JJ, I wouldn't..."

You were a terrible sister. As soon as you left the apartment, you quickened your pace, determined to break the promise you had made. And you had nothing to defend yourself with, except for that surreal vision that had formed in your mind. You thought… that if Spencer found out…everything he felt for JJ would have to fade away. That was the way things went: your love interest moves on with someone else, you suffer for a while, and then you move on. Or not, but in fewer cases.

In any case, you fooled yourself into thinking that once he knew, he would turn in another direction. Toward you. The one who had loved him from the first sight. Well, more precisely, from the first conversation in the garage. You dialed his number, walking through the dark city, which suddenly seemed so small. So insignificant. All those people around, who were they? You felt like a madwoman, almost running without knowing where. Or maybe you did know. Or rather, your legs knew.

The fountain and the bench right next to it, where you spent time before every one of your plays. Just the two of you. All those conversations swirled in your ears so vividly that you didn’t even hear Spencer speak on the other end.

"We need to meet," you announced, cutting off whatever he had been about to say. "Please, it’s important. I need to tell you something. At our bench, okay?"

He was silent, clearly taken aback.

"You mean... like, now?" he asked, followed by a confused sigh. "I’m not in town right now… I’m visiting my mom," he explained, swallowing hard. You’d never met her, but you knew it was a sensitive subject for him.

You came to a stop, your chest heaving as you caught sight of the fountain in the distance—the destination of your hurried march. "I really can’t today," he added.

"Tomorrow then," you decided, undeterred.

"Can you at least tell me what’s going on? Don’t take this the wrong way, but… you sound really off. I think… I think I’m starting to worry…"

"Don’t worry. It’s nothing urgent. It can wait. I just need to tell you something, and it has to be face-to-face."

On the other end, he cleared his throat, still clearly off-balance, but eventually agreed. Just before you hung up, you drew in a deep breath and blurted out more words, almost without thinking.

"It’s something I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time. I want to…" you paused, a strange laugh escaping your lips. "Confess. It’s about… my feelings."

Spencer remained silent. He didn’t hang up, just stayed quiet. You couldn’t even hear his breathing, as if he’d moved the phone away from his ear, away from his mouth. You hesitated, suddenly hit by a thought. What if you… scared him? You pulled the phone away from your own ear for a moment as well, trying to calm your breathing, which had turned uneven, almost like a sob.

“So, tomorrow?” you asked to confirm.

The silence stretched on, and you nervously started biting your nail.

“Tomorrow’s gonna rain,” he said suddenly, his voice so soft you almost missed it. You frowned in confusion, letting out a questioning hum. “Tomorrow’s gonna rain. Let’s just meet at my place instead.”

It seemed logical, but somehow you were stuck on the vision of the two of you in that specific place. That bench, where he gave you his coat when you were freezing in your Ismene costume.

“No, please. I want it to be there. The rain… the rain doesn’t bother me,” you insisted.

“Okay,” he said with a hint of resignation, sounding a bit like he was giving in. “Okay, okay. Tomorrow. Fine.”

You slipped your phone into your pocket, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

Even though you had nothing to do in this part of town, you could’ve just headed back home. Yet, you paused for a moment in front of the fountain. That’s when you realized you’d left your cigarettes at JJ’s apartment. Oddly, you didn’t care. Only one thing, one thought felt important right now.

Tomorrow. Sweet, long-awaited tomorrow.

The fountain. The water flowing through it. The water that never stopped. Just like your love—constant, despite never being returned.

You sat down on the bench, a single tear slipping from your eye. Somehow... deep down, you already knew that tomorrow wouldn’t come. Not the tomorrow you’d imagined. Not the one that would stay true to your hopes, your dreams, and your visions.

In that moment, you felt connected to another version of yourself—one sitting on this very bench, despite the pouring rain and the relentless passing of hours.

Tomorrow. The tomorrow that never came.

taglist:

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[shelovesosa]

BE A MAN, YOU MUST BE SWIFT AS A COURSING RIVER…

pairing: PRINCE!GOJO X F!KNIGHT!READER

SUMMARY! In a kingdom ruled by tradition, you are the daughter of a famed knight, fighting to prove your worth in a world that sees only your gender—not your blade. Prince Gojo, proud and untouchable, initially sees you as nothing more than a symbol of defiance. But war, fate, and stolen moments on the battlefield entwine your paths in a forbidden love neither of you dares name.

Contains: tension, gender stereotypes, gender roles, misogyny, misogynistic men, gojo is an asshole at first, ANSGT, ANGST NO COMFORT, pure tension nothing happens, yearning, love that’s too late.

cw: 10.1k

A/n: see you at the end!

The clang of steel rang out over the training yard like a challenge to the sky. You drove your sword into the ground, panting, chest heaving beneath layers of chainmail and plate. Around you, the noble sons of Astraea lay sprawled in the dirt—sweaty, bruised, and too stunned to move. None of them had lasted more than three minutes.

Their pride lay broken beside them. And still, none looked as furious as the one who hadn't lifted a blade. You heard his boots first—deliberate, soft-footed despite the polished heel. Then his voice, as clean and cutting as the edge of your sword.

“Impressive,” he said, “for a circus act.”

You turned. Standing on the edge of the sparring ring, arms crossed and expression unreadable, was Prince Satoru Gojo, heir to the throne of Astraea.

He looked down at you from behind a curtain of snowy white hair and the kind of pale blue eyes that belonged in oil paintings, not battlefields. His royal cloak of Astraean white shimmered in the sun like silk. Not a speck of dirt dared cling to it. Unlike you.

“Your Highness,” you said stiffly, nodding.

You didn’t kneel. Not here. Not in armor. You had bowed enough in your life.

Gojo tilted his head. “You didn’t answer.”

“Was there a question, sire?”

He smiled—without warmth. “I suppose not. I was merely wondering how long it will take before you’re sent home in pieces.”

Around you, the other knights chuckled. Most were too winded to speak, but a few grunted their agreement. The girl had gone too far today. Knocked down Lord Garrick’s boy, disarmed the son of the Chancellor, and split open some poor baron’s lip in a clean strike.

She wasn’t supposed to be better than them. She wasn’t even supposed to be here.

You straightened your spine. “I’ve trained for this since I was a child.”

“Yes,” Gojo drawled, “but training in your garden with wooden sticks and indulgent tutors isn’t quite the same as war. You’ll see.”

“My father was Ser Aldric,” you replied, voice sharp. “He trained me with steel. Every day until the day he died.”

For the first time, Gojo blinked. A faint pause. He said nothing to that.

But then, just as quickly, his mask returned.

“Ah, yes. The fallen knight. A man of great renown.” He glanced at the bruised nobles still catching their breath. “I wonder what he would think of his daughter bruising the kingdom’s future like spoiled fruit.”

You stepped forward. Not threatening. Just enough.

“He’d say they should learn to fight better.”

A low murmur passed through the crowd. Prince Gojo’s gaze lingered on you, cool and calculating. And then he turned his back.

“Dismissed.”

The captain of the guard—Commander Nanami—stared after him, expression unreadable. When Gojo disappeared behind the stone archway leading back to the palace, Nanami approached you.

“You didn’t make a friend today,” he said, voice low.

You wiped sweat from your brow. “I’m not here to make friends.”

“Good,” Nanami replied. “Because you’ve already made enemies.”

He paused, then added with a strange softness: “That was foolish, Y/N. But brave.”

You glanced down at your hands, still trembling faintly from the fight. “He looked at me like I was dirt.”

“He looks at everyone like they’re dirt. Don’t take it personally. He was raised to see the world beneath him.” Nanami nodded once. “Get cleaned up. You’ll be guarding his chambers tonight.”

Your breath caught.

You? Assigned to the prince’s wing?

“That’s—punishment?”

“No. It’s politics.” He lowered his voice. “The King insists you be seen. Visible. Capable. They won’t say it, but half the council wants you gone.”

You nodded slowly. You knew this. You had known it the moment you stepped onto the palace grounds.

They didn’t want a woman in armor. They wanted a story to mock. A scandal to crush. But you weren’t going anywhere. Not until they gave you a sword and called you knight. And not even then.

Night fell like a black veil over the silver towers of Astraea. You stood at the top of the marble staircase that led to Prince Gojo’s royal wing, your armor catching the torchlight. The hallway beyond was quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against your ears like a held breath.

Two guards nodded to you as they passed. Neither smiled. Your post was clear: stand outside the prince’s chamber doors until dawn. Say nothing. Do nothing unless summoned. You were not to move unless there was a threat.

But the threat had already passed hours ago—when you dared to embarrass a room full of noble sons. Now, this post felt less like a guard detail and more like a test. Or punishment.

You didn’t care. You adjusted the sword at your hip and stared straight ahead. The door creaked open behind you. You didn’t turn. Not at first.

Then his voice came, sharper in the dark than it had been in daylight.

“You?”

You turned slowly. There he was. Prince Satoru Gojo, standing in the doorway in soft linen nightclothes, hair slightly damp, a crystal glass in hand. His expression was unreadable.

“Is this a joke?” he asked.

“No, Your Highness.”

He raised a brow. “They sent you to stand guard over my chambers?”

“They assigned me here,” you replied calmly. “Commander Nanami gave the order.”

Gojo studied you in silence for a moment, then stepped forward—just enough that you could smell the clove and citrus on his skin. His lips curved in a smile that wasn’t kind.

“They must think very highly of you. Or they’re hoping I’ll throw you off the balcony.”

You didn’t flinch. “I’ve stood my ground against worse than words.”

A flicker passed through his eyes—annoyance? Amusement?

“You should be grateful,” he said coolly. “You’ve made quite the name for yourself in the span of one week. I’m sure the court is absolutely enchanted.”

“I didn’t come here for enchantment.”

“No. You came here to play knight.”

You said nothing.

“I wonder,” Gojo said, tilting his head, “what it is you’re really after. Your father’s glory? Or are you trying to prove something to yourself?”

The words stung in a way they weren’t supposed to. You looked him in the eyes.

“I came here to serve Astraea. I don’t care what you believe.”

He gave a small, disbelieving laugh.

“No. You came here to fight Astraea. The Astraea that was built by men like my father. Like me. You don’t belong here, and deep down, you know that.”

Silence stretched between you. Then, without waiting for your reply, Gojo turned and walked back inside. The door shut with a soft thud.

You exhaled slowly and returned to your position, hands resting on the pommel of your sword. The moon climbed higher. Time crawled. And yet, beneath your steady heartbeat, you could still hear his voice, echoing like a blade drawn in the dark.

Inside the prince’s chambers, Satoru stood by the window, untouched glass in hand, watching your shadow through the frost-painted glass. She didn’t flinch. Not once. He didn’t like that.

He wasn’t supposed to see you. Not the shape of your shoulders in armor, not the clean burn of fire in your voice, and certainly not the ghost of your father’s courage in your spine.

You were a symbol. An insult. And yet… somehow, you’d stood your ground.

The grand hall of Astraea was all gold and candlelight.

Long tables glittered with crystal goblets, silver forks, and the kind of soft fruits that bruised under the gentlest touch. Every chair was carved oak. Every smile rehearsed. This was not a battlefield, but it was still war. And you had arrived in armor.

Your boots echoed against the marble floors as you entered, all heads turning your way. The clinking of forks against plates slowed, then stopped entirely. You kept your chin high.

You had been summoned—not invited—by the King himself. An official decree had come that morning. One knight from the King’s Guard was to dine with the royal family and its court. They had chosen you.

Or more likely, someone had.

As you reached the long table, a noblewoman leaned toward her neighbor, whispering behind a jeweled fan. Another chuckled into his wine. Someone coughed to cover a laugh. You were led to your seat—at the very end, opposite the prince.

Prince Gojo sat at the center of it all, clad in dark silk and boredom. He sipped his wine slowly, watching you from over the rim of his glass like a cat watching a mouse that wouldn’t run.

“Ah, the Lady Knight,” someone near you said lightly. “Or do you prefer Ser?”

You didn’t respond. Another voice chimed in. “Are you here to eat, or to slay the roast with that sword of yours?”

Laughter followed. Your fingers tightened around your knife. Gojo said nothing. He did not defend you. He didn’t laugh either. He simply watched.

As the first course was served, the tension around you thickened like soup. Forks scraped. Conversations moved on—most of them about you.

"She knocked poor Lord Garrick’s boy to the ground in three strikes," someone gossiped. "I heard she trained in secret—can you believe the nerve?"

"Her father must be rolling in his grave."

“Or smiling. Who knows what kind of madman he was to teach her.”

You sat still, hands folded over your lap, armor creaking with every breath.

Only when the third course arrived did the King speak.

“Ser Y/N,” he called warmly from the head of the table. “How do you find service in the Guard?”

All heads turned to you. You rose carefully, every eye burning into you like flame.

“It is an honor to serve the crown, Your Majesty,” you said. “And I will give everything I have to protect it.”

The King nodded, satisfied.

But Gojo—still watching—finally spoke.

“Everything?” he asked.

The table fell silent again.

He leaned back in his chair, wine swirling in his hand.

“Even your pride? Even your life?”

You looked at him, steady.

“Yes.”

Gojo’s expression didn’t change. But something in his eyes did.

He looked away first.

The conversation resumed. You sat. The rest of the evening passed like a wound that wouldn’t bleed.

Later that night, you returned to your quarters.

The hall outside the prince’s chamber was empty. Your shift had been reassigned for the evening—no explanation given. You removed your armor piece by piece, each plate clattering like a defiance laid to rest.

You thought of the prince’s eyes. The way he’d studied you, waiting for you to break. He hadn’t broken you. Not yet. But something had cracked open between you. And you didn’t know what it meant.

The courtyard filled with tension before a single blade was drawn.

It was midmorning—sunlight sharp, shadows long. The royal guard had gathered in a wide circle around the sparring ring, their boots planted firm, voices hushed. Nobles watched from the balcony, draped in silk and judgment.

You stood alone in the sand. Across from you, Prince Gojo stepped into the ring with a practice sword in one hand and a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I hear you’re undefeated among the guard,” he said, casual and cruel. “Let’s test the rumor.”

You knew what this was. Not a match. A message. He didn’t just want to beat you. He wanted to break you—show everyone that the girl in iron was nothing more than a girl in costume.

Commander Nanami stepped between you both, eyes stern.

“This match ends at first blood, or when one yields. Do you both understand?”

You nodded.

Gojo’s smile widened. “Perfectly.”

Then—Nanami stepped back.

And Gojo lunged. He was fast. Faster than anyone you’d sparred with. His strikes were elegant, practiced, almost lazy—but each swing carried the weight of someone who had trained not just to win, but to perform.

The crowd watched, rapt. You blocked three blows. Then four. Your boots slid in the sand as you ducked one swing, countered another, kept your blade tight and controlled. Gojo pushed harder. You matched him.

And for a moment, it wasn’t about the court, or the crown, or the whispers in the corridors. It was just you and him. Blade to blade. Breath to breath.

Then—you saw it. He left his side open. A trap, probably. But you took the chance. You twisted, shifted your grip, and brought the flat of your blade across his ribs in one clean motion. The sound echoed—crack—through the courtyard. Gojo stumbled back. The crowd gasped. And then—it was quiet.

He straightened slowly, eyes unreadable, chest rising and falling with sharp, controlled breaths. You lowered your sword.

“I yield,” he said softly.

You blinked.

He said it again, louder this time, voice clear:

“I yield.”

The ring broke into whispers. Some disbelieving. Others, shocked into silence.

Nanami nodded, stepping between you again. “Well fought. Match ends.”

You looked to Gojo, expecting bitterness. Fury. But what you found instead was worse: Something like curiosity. Something like the beginnings of respect.

He gave you a slight nod before turning and walking off, white uniform catching in the breeze. He had come to shame you. And instead, he’d offered something rarer. Surrender.

That evening, there was a knock at your chamber door. You opened it to find no one—only a folded scrap of paper resting on the floor. One sentence, written in a hand too elegant to be anyone else’s:

“You fight like someone who’s never had a place. That’s why you win.”

You read it twice. And then, carefully, you tucked it into your breastplate. You didn’t know what he meant. But you knew it wasn’t the end.

The capital faded behind you in a blur of mist and stone.

You rode beside Prince Gojo in silence, your horse keeping steady pace with his pale steed. Guards trailed behind, but the road stretched long and empty ahead. To your left, the forest thinned into low hills. To your right, the river glittered in the light like a ribbon of steel.

The northern province of Emberkeep was a quiet, loyal stronghold—known for its trade, its iron mines, and its relentless snow. The King had sent Gojo to negotiate a winter treaty with their duke. You had been assigned to guard him.

You, of all people. Neither of you had spoken for the first hour. Then:

“You ride like a soldier,” Gojo said flatly, without looking at you.

You didn’t glance at him. “That’s what I am.”

“No,” he said. “You’re something else. Soldiers don’t stare at the trees the way you do.”

You tightened your reins. He wasn't wrong. You had grown up outside the city walls, riding along riverbanks, climbing trees with a wooden sword on your back. You knew the rhythm of the land before you ever learned court etiquette.

“You never stop watching,” he continued, softer this time. “Even when you think no one notices.”

“Isn’t that what I’m here for?” you said.

Gojo hummed. “I used to think so.”

You looked at him then—really looked. He wasn’t in silk anymore. His cloak was dark and travel-worn, his gloves leather. His white hair was tied loosely at the nape of his neck, and for the first time since you'd met him, he looked less like a prince… and more like a man pretending to be one.

“You always sound so certain,” you said.

“I have to.”

“Why?”

Gojo didn’t answer.

The road curved. Your party made camp at dusk beneath a canopy of red trees, the leaves whispering secrets above your heads.

Gojo sat across the fire from you, his sword propped beside him, legs stretched long. The other guards had drifted off to sleep or patrol. You sat sharpening your blade with slow, methodical strokes, the rhythm steadying your thoughts.

He spoke without looking up.

“Do you hate me?”

You paused.

“I don’t know you well enough to hate you.”

His mouth lifted in the ghost of a smile.

“That’s the most honest answer I’ve had in weeks.”

You watched the flames dance between you, licking at the cold.

“You tried to humiliate me.”

“I did,” he admitted.

“And now you’re being civil.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

He looked up then, and his voice lost all pretense:

“Because I saw you bleed for this kingdom before it ever bled for you.”

The wind stilled. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then he added, more carefully, “And maybe because you remind me of who I was before they told me who to be.”

You stared at him, armor cold against your skin, heart colder still. He wasn’t supposed to say things like that. Princes weren’t supposed to speak like they were unrevealing.

That night, as you lay beneath a starless sky, the space between your sleeping rolls wide but not far enough, you listened to the quiet rhythm of his breath. Not steady. Not sure. Just real.

And for the first time, you wondered if you could let your guard down. Just once.

The castle at Emberkeep loomed like a fortress carved from frost. It wasn’t beautiful like Astraea—there were no jeweled towers or silk banners—but it had its own quiet majesty. Stone walls darkened by snow, iron sconces blazing against cold stone, guards who didn’t bow so much as nod. This was a city of soldiers. And they looked at you like you were made of glass.

You stood beside Prince Gojo in the duke’s hall, armor polished, chin high. Your sword hung heavy at your hip, the weight a comfort. Gojo stood tall at your side in a dark velvet tunic and silver mantle—formal, but not royal. Not today.

Duke Arwin descended from his dais with a politician’s smile. His son, Lord Cassian, flanked him: tall, sharp-jawed, smug in the way only sons who had never been denied anything could be.

“My prince,” Arwin greeted. “We’re honored.”

Gojo bowed with just enough grace to suggest boredom. You bowed too. But Cassian’s eyes found you, narrowed, and stayed there.

“You’ve brought your court,” he said dryly. “Though I’m surprised to see one of your ladies in armor.”

Gojo didn’t blink.

“She is not a lady,” he said. “She is my sword.”

The room stilled. Your pulse thudded in your ears. Cassian laughed. “A sword with painted lips and polished nails, then?”

You stepped forward once, instinct tightening your fingers. But Gojo’s voice cut clean across the hall.

“Do you fear her, Lord Cassian?”

The noble faltered. “Excuse me?”

Gojo turned toward him with the calm of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

“You speak with the comfort of a man who has never seen war,” he said. “But I have. And I would rather have her at my back than any of your blustering knights.”

A hush fell over the court. Cassian flushed. The duke’s mouth opened—but Gojo raised a hand.

“Should we spar for it?” he said lightly. “Your best against her. If she loses, we’ll all pretend your jokes had merit. But if she wins…”

Cassian laughed nervously. “My prince—”

“If she wins,” Gojo continued, “you’ll apologize. Properly.”

Your breath caught. He wasn’t supposed to do this. Not here. Not for you. But he had.

They set the spar for sunset. You stood in the stone yard of Emberkeep’s training circle, where banners flapped above and the air smelled of smoke and steel. Lord Cassian stripped to his training gear, sword gleaming. You didn’t bother changing. Your armor was answer enough.

The crowd leaned in. Gojo stood at the edge, arms crossed, saying nothing. The whistle blew. Cassian charged.

He was fast—too fast. Sloppy. You let him come, parried once, then let him stumble on the backswing. He made the same mistake every arrogant man made: he underestimated you. Three moves in, you had him off balance. Five moves, he was bleeding from the lip. Seven— He yielded. It was over before it ever really began.

Cassian didn’t speak for a long moment.Then, red-faced, he looked at Gojo—and nodded once to you.

“I apologize,” he said. “Ser.”

Your name wasn’t spoken. But the title was. And somehow, that mattered more.

Later, as you stood at the parapets overlooking the snowy fields of Emberkeep, Gojo approached without his cloak, pale hair mussed by the wind.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said quietly.

“No,” he replied. “But I wanted to.”

You looked at him.

His voice was calm—but his eyes were fierce. Honest. He wasn’t mocking you. He wasn’t playing. Not anymore. Then, softly, like a truth he hadn’t meant to say:

“You shouldn't have to earn your right to stand beside me with blood.”

You turned away—because if you looked at him any longer, something would crack. And you weren’t ready for that. Not yet.

The wind howled through Emberkeep like a beast denied.

Snow slammed against the stone walls in thick, blinding waves. The mountain pass was gone, swallowed whole by white. No one left. No one arrived. You were stranded—along with the prince. And of all the places to take shelter, it was the old high tower.

You’d followed Gojo there after the council meeting was dismissed early. The keep was too cold, and the rooms too crowded with tension. Someone had mentioned the view from the observatory. Gojo wanted air. You wanted silence. And so you both climbed.

But when the storm hit, the trapdoor slammed shut—iced over, immovable. You tried forcing it open.

“I’d rather not die up here,” you muttered, hands braced on the rusted latch.

Gojo sat cross-legged in the center of the room, watching the snow whip past the narrow window. “You won’t. I’m too important. They’ll dig us out eventually.”

“Good to know you’re worried about yourself first.”

“I’m always worried about you,” he said, so simply it almost didn’t register.

You turned.

“What?”

Gojo didn’t look at you. “You’re the only one I’ve met who doesn’t flinch when I speak my mind.”

You crossed your arms, pacing.

“Maybe I should start.”

He smiled faintly. “Too late for that.”

Hours passed. The fire you built sputtered from an old brazier in the corner, flickering gold over stone. You sat near it, knees pulled up, cloak wrapped tightly around your armor. Gojo leaned beside the window. He hadn’t moved much—just watched the sky disappear.

Finally, he spoke.

“My father used to say love is a distraction.”

You blinked.

“I didn’t know you listened to your father.”

“I didn’t. But I remember what he said when he thought I wasn’t listening.” Gojo’s voice was quiet, almost lost in the wind. “He said a prince must never love what he cannot protect. And he must never protect what he cannot keep.”

You were quiet. Then you said, “And what do you believe?”

Gojo looked at you. Longer than he should have. Sharper than he meant to.

“I believe I’m starting to lose.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Lose what?”

His answer was a whisper.

“Myself. Around you.”

You stood quickly. Too fast.

“That’s not fair,” you said, voice shaking. “You don’t get to say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m a knight,” you snapped. “I was raised to bleed for you. Not to… not to feel for you.”

His eyes never left yours.

“And what if I’m tired of people bleeding for me?”

The room was quiet. The fire hissed low.

“I can’t be what you want,” you whispered. “I don’t even know what you want.”

Gojo stepped toward you. Not arrogantly. Not boldly. Just… carefully.

“I want the person who looks me in the eye. Who tells me when I’m wrong. Who never bowed.”

You took a breath. He reached out—and touched the edge of your armor. Not your skin. Not yet. Just the cold metal that wrapped around your shoulder. His hand hovered there.

“You wear this like a wall,” he said.

You met his gaze.

“It’s all I have.”

He didn’t say take it off. He didn’t say stay. But he didn’t move either. And neither did you.Because something between you had begun. Not with fire. Not with fury. But with stillness. And stillness, you knew, was more dangerous.

The storm passed. But the silence it left behind clung like ice in the bones of the keep. By the time you and the prince were seen again, the servants were already whispering. The guards looked twice when you passed in the halls. A noblewoman from the duke’s court stopped speaking the moment you entered a chamber.

You did not ask what they thought. You already knew. And still, you wore your armor. Still, you stood by the door at every council meeting, silent and watchful, as if the hours trapped in the tower had never happened at all.

The prince did not speak of it either.

He kept his words measured, his hands folded, his face unreadable. But every time your eyes met across the long council table or through torchlight in the corridor, something sharp flickered between you—like a sword still half-drawn.

Then, she arrived.

Princess Hana of the Southern Isles rode into Emberkeep behind a carriage of rosewood and silver, cloaked in white furs and nobility. She descended the steps with the poise of someone born in a palace and kissed the air beside the prince’s cheek with practiced grace.

“Your Highness,” she said with a curtsy deep enough to impress the court.

He offered a nod. You stood at your post, expression carved from stone, hands clasped behind your back. The herald’s voice echoed across the hall:

“By decree of the Crown, a union between Prince Gojo of Astraea and Her Highness Hana of the Southern Isles shall be forged this spring, to ensure peace and strength between kingdoms.”

A murmur passed through the room. You didn’t react. Didn’t move. But inside, something caved.

Later that evening, the armory was quiet as you worked. You oiled your sword slowly, as if the repetition could drown out the ache in your chest. The door creaked open behind you. You didn’t need to turn to know it was him.

“Is it true?” you asked without looking up.

The silence was answer enough.

“I see,” you said flatly. “So that is the cost of peace.”

“She was sent without my knowledge.”

You looked up at him, finally.

“But she will leave with your name.”

The prince’s jaw tightened.

“I never agreed to it.”

“Have you refused?”

“I’m being watched.”

“So am I,” you said. “But I don’t hide behind it.”

His eyes flickered. “This wasn’t my choice.”

“No,” you said quietly. “But it will be your crown. And she will be your queen.”

He stepped closer.

“Do you truly believe I wanted this?”

“What I believe,” you said, “is that there was a time I thought I could trust you to fight for what mattered.”

“And you do not believe that anymore?”

“I believe you are a prince,” you said, voice low. “And I am a knight. That has always been the difference between us.”

His gaze stayed on yours—blue ice over fire.

“You stood beside me when the snow came. When the world was silent.”

“And now?” you asked.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

That night, music rose from the great hall below your window—lilting and perfect. You stood alone, high above the light and laughter, as Princess Hana’s laughter echoed like bells through the stone. And across the ballroom, the prince stood beside her. Smiling. Silent. Bound by duty. And you—forgotten by name, remembered only by your armor.

The winds shifted in the east. Scouts rode through the frost-bitten gates with reports of foreign banners near the border—black and gold, bearing no known sigil, only fire. Villages near the Vale had gone silent. Trade routes shuttered overnight.

By the time the war council met, the air in Emberkeep was thick with the scent of smoke and fear. You stood at attention behind the prince as the room argued over troop numbers and grain stores, supply lines and siege walls. Your armor was newly repaired, your blade sharpened. You had made your decision before the council ever began.

When the table fell quiet, you stepped forward.

“If you need someone to lead the first deployment,” you said evenly, “I volunteer.”

The words dropped like iron. No one moved. Not even him. Then the general spoke.

“You are the prince’s guard.”

“I am the realm’s knight.”

The general looked to the prince. The prince said nothing. Only his hands betrayed him—gripping the edge of the table, white-knuckled, silent.

Later, you prepared in the barracks by torchlight, alone. You removed your ceremonial plate and packed the older armor you trusted more. One extra tunic. Two rations. The envelope in your bag bore no seal, only the word “In case.” You didn’t cry. There was no room left for softness in war.

The knock came at the door just as you sheathed your sword. You didn’t speak. He stepped inside anyway. The prince wore no crown. No guards followed him. The firelight painted his face with shadow.

“You shouldn’t go,” he said.

You turned to him. “It’s not your choice.”

“You serve me.”

“I serve this kingdom.”

His jaw clenched. “There are others—”

“Others who have families. Others who might hesitate. I won’t.”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

You stared at him.

“No,” you said. “But you also didn’t ask me to stay.”

He looked at you like something was tearing behind his eyes.

“I cannot stand beside you in war,” he said. “Not as I want to. Not as I—”

“Don’t say it,” you interrupted. “We both know it’s forbidden.”

You expected him to retreat. To drop his gaze. To leave. But he stepped closer instead.

“You keep saying you know your place,” he said. “But you don’t.”

Your breath caught.

“You were never meant to follow behind me. You were meant to be beside me. You are the only one who sees me.”

He reached into his coat—and pulled out a folded piece of parchment, stamped with the royal seal.

You frowned. “What is that?”

He held it out.

“An official royal order. I wrote it myself.”

You didn’t move to take it.

“What does it say?”

“It says you are to remain at court. Effective immediately.”

The silence between you shattered.

Your voice rose. “You would order me to stay behind like a coward?”

“I would order you to live.”

You stared at him. And he didn’t flinch. So you took the paper. Tore it in half. Then dropped the pieces at his feet.

“If I die on the battlefield,” you whispered, “I’ll do so knowing I was never yours to keep.”

And you walked past him. Out the door. Into the cold.

The battlefield was not a place for legend. And yet, your name was becoming one. It began in the southern outpost—where your battalion arrived just as the fires broke through the treeline. The enemy came in fast, mounted and masked, a brutal kind of clever. Officers hesitated. The chain of command faltered.

You didn’t. You rode to the front and raised your blade, no herald, no fanfare.

You only said, “With me.”

And they followed. Because your voice didn’t shake. Because you bled with them. Because your armor bore the same frost and ash as theirs, and you never wore the colors of the royal house—not once.

They called you the White Rose, not for peace, but for the way your cloak moved like a banner through the smoke. For the way you did not wilt. Not even when arrows fell. You fought.

You survived. But every night, when the fires burned low and the tents grew quiet, you reached for the wax-sealed parchment in your pack—the one he wrote. The one you tore. The pieces now tucked side by side, pressed flat between pages of your old field journal.

You hadn’t thrown them away. You told yourself it was for recordkeeping. You lied.

Back at Emberkeep, the prince could not sleep. He walked the halls like a ghost, ignoring courtiers, snapping at advisors. His meals went untouched. His letters, unopened. Princess Hana tried to speak with him once. She found him standing alone in the training yard, blade in hand, slicing at the air as if fighting something no one else could see.

“You shouldn’t be out in the cold,” she said gently.

He didn’t answer. She paused. “I heard news from the south. They say the White Rose leads your armies.”

He stopped.

“They say,” she added, “your knight saved over a hundred men.”

Still, he said nothing.

She offered a soft smile. “You should be proud.”

He lowered the blade.

“I’m not proud,” he said. “I’m terrified.” And walked away.

The letters arrived a week later. Written in charcoal on scraps of cloth. Stamped with ash. Smuggled in by injured soldiers who limped past the gates with whispers of victories hard-won. And every single one carried your name. The generals praised your tactics. The people praised your bravery.

But the prince—he read them alone, behind closed doors, where no one could see the way his hands shook when your name appeared again and again like a wound that would not close. His advisor warned him not to show favoritism. He dismissed the court for three days.

And then, without announcement, he descended into the royal vault and retrieved the ancestral sword—one not drawn in over a century. The guards said nothing as he walked past them.

Only the wind whispered, and the ravens watched.

They struck at dusk. Silent. Swift. Cloaked in fog that smelled of iron. You had just finished stitching a wound above your knee when the scout stumbled into camp, his armor scorched and his face white as snow.

“They’re coming,” he rasped. “From the east. Not one banner. All fire.”

You gave no speech. No commands. Only a quiet, “Mount up.”

And they followed. Because you always led from the front.

You rode straight into the heart of it—flames licking the sky, screams rising through the smoke. The enemy had doubled in number, their blades gleaming with something dark. Not steel. Something fouler. The sound of war was not thunder—it was teeth. You fought. Blade against blade. Shield splintered. Blood running warm down your wrist.

You did not count your wounds. You didn’t notice the one that mattered most—not until your knees hit the earth and your vision blurred. You tried to rise. Your hand slipped.

You heard someone scream your name. And then—nothing.

They carried your body back to camp half-conscious, your armor cracked, your pulse faint. Someone shouted for the medic. Someone else lit a torch. But the firelight was dim, and your breath came slow. And then— A rider. No banner. No guards.

Just one horse, galloping through the fog. The soldiers tried to stop him—until they saw the crest on the blade he carried: the royal sigil of Astraea, pressed into silver that had not seen daylight in a hundred years.

The prince dismounted before the horse had even fully stopped. He shoved past the healers. He dropped to his knees beside you. Your blood had soaked through your tunic. Your skin was ice. And still—your fingers twitched when he took your hand.

“Open your eyes,” he said.

You didn’t.

“Open your eyes.”

And somehow—you did. Your vision was cloudy. His face a blur. But his voice was clear.

“I told you not to go.”

You wanted to laugh, but the pain made it catch in your throat. He held your hand tighter.

“Stay with me.”

You exhaled.

“Your Highness shouldn’t be here.”

“And you should not be dying in the mud,” he said sharply. “But here we are.”

You blinked slowly. “You disobeyed the council.”

“I disobeyed everyone.”

“Why?”

He looked at you like the sky was falling.

“Because I could not bear the thought of a world where you died never knowing that I—”

But he stopped. The words were too dangerous. Even now.

He pulled you against him carefully, pressing your body close to his cloak, to his warmth.

“You will not die,” he whispered. “Not here. Not like this. Not when I’ve just begun to lose the courage to leave you alone.”

And for a moment, you let yourself rest. Not as a knight. Not as a soldier. But as something else. Something softer.

You woke to the sound of rain. Not thunder. Not steel. Just rain—soft and steady against glass. The ceiling above you wasn’t canvas. It was carved oak. Painted with stars.

You were back in Emberkeep. Alive. Your body ached in ways you couldn’t name. A tight bandage bound your ribs. Your sword arm throbbed like it had been set in fire and cooled in salt. But you were breathing. You were home.

Only… it didn’t feel like yours anymore.

A servant sat beside your bed, eyes wide when you stirred. She scurried off with a quick bow, and moments later, a physician entered—followed by a handful of royal guards who stood by the door but did not look you in the eye.

You asked for your armor. They told you it had been taken for repairs. You asked for your sword. They told you it was under lock, by royal order.

And when you asked who had brought you home— They hesitated.

“The prince,” the physician finally said. “He carried you from the battlefield himself.”

Your breath stilled. Of course he did. Of course he shouldn’t have.

The next few days blurred together.

Physicians came and went. Nobles stopped by with flowers and false concern. You nodded through every visit, said nothing. Not to the court ladies whispering about the prince. Not to the generals questioning your survival. Not to the princess who visited your chamber in silence and left with her eyes downcast.

And not to him. Because he didn’t come. Not at first.

When he did, it was midnight. No guards. No ceremony. Just him—standing in your doorway like a man who’d been at war with himself. You sat upright.

“Your Highness.”

He flinched.

“You shouldn’t call me that,” he said quietly.

“I shouldn’t do many things,” you replied. “But I was told I’m quite good at disobedience.”

A breath of something—almost a laugh—ghosted across his lips. He stepped closer. You stayed still.

“You should have let me die,” you said.

“No,” he said. “Never.”

“You’ve jeopardized everything.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“I don’t,” he said again. And there was something broken in his voice when he added, “I can’t.”

Silence stretched between you like a rope pulled taut.

Then you looked away. “The court is turning on me.”

“I know.”

“They think you’ve chosen me.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he sat beside your bed. And said the one thing that finally made you break.

“I did choose you.”

Your throat tightened.

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s too late not to.”

You turned your face from him.

“You’re betrothed.”

“It was never my will.”

“But it is your crown.”

He said nothing. Because there was nothing left to say. And yet— When he left, he pressed something into your hand.

A strip of parchment, still warm from his palm. Unmarked. You waited until the door shut to open it. Only three words were written there.

“Name the day.”

The summons came on parchment edged in red. Your name was not written in ink—it was carved. The royal court demanded your presence.

You dressed slowly. Not in your armor—it remained locked away—but in the simple wool uniform worn by squires. No blade. No sigil. Just cloth and silence.

As you walked through the marble halls, heads turned. Servants fell quiet. Nobles whispered behind gloves.

“She was carried back by him.”

“They say she bled for him.”

“No knight returns with a prince at her side.”

You kept walking. You didn’t look down.

The throne room was colder than you remembered. You stood before the gathered council like a statue, spine straight, face unreadable. The prince sat beside his father, hands folded, mouth set. He would not look at you.

Nor could you look at him. The king didn’t speak first. The High Chancellor did.

“Lady knight,” he said, voice sharp as wine, “you stand here not for failure, but for your… entanglements.”

You said nothing.

“Your proximity to the Crown Prince has become a matter of public concern.”

You didn’t flinch.

“The court must ask—has your service to this realm been compromised by personal feelings?”

Still you remained silent. He stepped forward.

“Have you or have you not shared a private vow with His Highness?”

This time, your lips parted. But only three words came out.

“I have not.”

And though your heart stammered like a broken drum, your voice did not shake. Because it was the truth. No vow had been spoken aloud. No promise exchanged beneath gods or stars. Only silence. Only longing. Only everything unsaid.

The court let you go. But the damage had already been done. Later, you escaped the stares and slipped into the lower garden—where the trees grew wild and the roses climbed marble like they meant to swallow it whole.

You thought you were alone. Until you saw her. Princess Hana stood beneath the pergola, her cloak drawn tight against the wind. Her eyes, when they met yours, were not cruel. They were kind. And that, somehow, hurt worse.

“You fight like a storm,” she said.

You paused. “I was trained to.”

“I believe it,” she said. “I’ve heard the soldiers speak of you. The White Rose of Astraea. They say you don’t bleed until the battle is over.”

You said nothing. She approached.

“I know about the letter,” she added softly.

You froze.

“The one he gave you. The one that said, Name the day.”

Your throat dried. She wasn’t supposed to know. She smiled, but it was fragile. Like something had cracked inside her long ago.

“I think he means it,” she whispered.

And then—she stepped closer.

“Do you love him?”

You couldn’t speak. You didn’t have to. She nodded.

“I do too,” she said quietly. “But I think I love the idea of him more than the boy who would throw away everything for a girl with ash on her boots.”

You looked at her then. And she at you. And in that quiet moment, two women stood before each other—not as rivals. But as mirrors. Each bound to a man neither could truly have.

“I will not stop the court,” she said. “Nor will I help them.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s already chosen,” she whispered.

Then she turned—and left, never to be seen by the palace walls again . And you were alone. But not untouched.

The palace had not been this bright in years. The ball was announced as a celebration of the southern campaign’s success. Lanterns hung from crystal arches. Musicians tuned their strings with trembling hands. The court shimmered in jewel-toned silks and hunger.

But the guests weren’t here for the music. They were here for the war hero. They were here for you. You weren’t supposed to attend. The invitation never arrived.

But a dress had been sent to your chambers anyway—stitched in deep navy, with silver trim and no embroidery. Unfeminine. Practical. A quiet message from someone who knew you would never come in satin.

You told yourself not to go. You told yourself it would make things worse. But something inside you ached. You had been the kingdom’s blade. Let them now look you in the eyes.

When you entered, the room fell quieter than music could explain. The nobles didn’t know what to do with you. You were not wearing a gown meant for flirting. Your hair had not been pinned into court-approved curls. You walked like a soldier, not a lady. But the thing that unnerved them most—

Was that the prince noticed. He turned to you the moment you arrived. As if his soul had sensed the shift in the air before his eyes ever found you. He said nothing. Did nothing. But he didn’t look away. Neither did anyone else.

You stood at the edge of the ballroom, near the colonnade where shadows clung. The dance floor gleamed beneath the chandeliers. Couples spun like clockwork—elegant, practiced, perfect. And you watched. You were not jealous. You were simply… outside. Always outside. Until—

The room shifted. Gasps rose in waves, not of horror, but of stunned disbelief. You turned—slowly. He was walking toward you. Alone. No guards. No princess at his side.

Just the prince, dressed in midnight blue, with silver embroidery curling up his sleeves like stormclouds. He stopped in front of you. Close enough to break every rule in the book of old kings. You bowed slightly, because that’s what knights do.

“Your Highness.”

But he didn’t let the title settle. He looked at you as if it hurt not to touch you.

“I should’ve done this long ago,” he murmured.

“Done what?”

And then— In front of the court.

In front of every whispering mouth, every watching noble, every scheming duke and polished lady— He held out his hand.

“To dance,” he said softly. “If you’ll have me.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t reach for him at first.

You couldn’t. You were a knight. He was a prince. And every person in that room had waited for this—for the scandal, for the fall, for you to say yes so they could say traitor behind your back.

But none of them knew the hours you’d bled in his name.

None of them knew the look in his eyes when you’d nearly died. And none of them could know the way your heart broke just to see him standing there, hand open, trembling slightly—not from fear of the court.

But from fear of you saying no. So you placed your hand in his. Slowly. Carefully. Like drawing a sword from its sheath. And the moment your fingers touched—

The music changed. A new song, low and slow and devastating.

He led you to the floor. And you danced. Not like lovers. Not yet. But like two people who had been at war with their own hearts for far too long.

Morning came without song. The lanterns from the night before still hung across the palace windows, swaying gently in the wind. But the gold had dulled. The flowers had wilted.

And in the throne room, no music played.

Only accusations.

“She embarrassed the crown.”

“She undermines tradition.”

“She is not one of us.”

The words came from every direction.

From generals in brass buttons and duchesses painted in powdered fear. From men who had never seen war, and women who had waited too long for their sons to return from it. They had not seen you on the battlefield. But they saw you on the dance floor. And that was all they needed.

The king said nothing. He watched his court erupt from the high seat, his fingers steepled, his expression unreadable.

And the prince? He stood still. Silent.

A muscle in his jaw ticking with every venom-laced word. But he did not speak. He did not interrupt. Because he knew if he did—he would be forced to choose. You or the crown. And the room was full of ears.

You, of course, were not there. You had not come to court. You had not been seen since midnight. And by the time the palace guards went to your quarters… You were already gone.

Your room had been left untouched. No signs of a struggle. No note.Only the small silver ring that once held your family crest—laid gently on the pillow. A symbol of service.

And goodbye. Your horse had been taken before dawn. No one had seen you pass through the lower gate. But the gate was open. And the wind had shifted.

The prince found the ring himself. He stared at it as if it were a blade.

“She wouldn’t run,” someone said behind him.

But he knew better. You hadn’t run. You had stepped down. So he wouldn’t have to. So the court wouldn’t force his hand.

So he could keep his crown. And you could keep your pride. He didn’t speak for a long time. Only closed the door to your chamber. And sat in the quiet. With your ring in his hand. And his heart in pieces.

The highlands were colder than you remembered.

Gone were the stone corridors and whispered judgments of the court. Here, the wind sang its own truths. You wore no crest. No title. Only your sword and silence.

The villagers in the northern provinces did not ask your name. They only saw your callused hands and the scars across your knuckles. They gave you work. Bread. A place to sleep by the fire. You took it all with quiet gratitude. And tried not to look south.

But war does not honor the quiet. Nor does it forget its soldiers.

You heard the rumors before the blood: border camps razed by rebel fires. Children taken. Lords executed. And one name—yours—spoken with reverence by those who still remembered the way you fought at the River Vale.

You had fled royalty. But they still called you knight. And when the call came—a messenger trembling on horseback, begging for help after a nearby town was taken—you did not hesitate. You buckled your blade. And rode into smoke.

The ambush came swift. Too swift. The road was narrow. The hills boxed you in. And the men who met you there were not peasants—they were trained. Masked. Paid.

You realized, too late, that this was no ordinary raid. This was an execution. Meant for you.

Your sword struck true. You fought like a cornered wolf. But there were too many. Too fast. And when the blade sliced through your shoulder, your knees finally gave out—

And the snow turned red. You fell with your hand still wrapped around your sword. Teeth clenched. Eyes blazing. You would not beg. Not now. Not ever.

You don’t remember the fire. Only the thunder of hooves. The crash of steel. The scent of a royal standard blazing in the wind. And then— His voice. Sharp. Furious. Desperate.

“Get away from her!”

You tried to lift your head. Couldn’t.

Everything blurred—until it didn’t. Because suddenly, he was kneeling over you. Not in gold. Not in velvet. But in a soldier’s cloak soaked in blood and ash.

“Your Highness—”

He shook his head. “Don’t call me that.”

“Go back,” you whispered, barely able to speak. “They’ll take the crown from you—”

“Let them try.”

His hands were on your face now, trembling.

“I won’t lose you twice.”

The battlefield raged around you, but he didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“I will burn this kingdom before I bury you,” he said. And he meant it.

You knew it in your bones. And for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—you let yourself believe… That someone might fight for you, too.

You return to Emberkeep beneath a sky the color of bruised lilac. The palace gates open not in celebration, but in silence.

No banners fly. No music greets your arrival. Only the shiver of wind. Only the guards flanking your horse, their eyes downcast. They do not chain you. But they do not look at you either. As if you are already gone.

They take you to the healer’s wing, far from the royal chambers. Your name is struck from the knighthood rolls. Your sword is locked away in the war vault. You are neither traitor nor hero now. Just a shadow with a heartbeat.

He comes in secret. Dressed in riding clothes. No crown. No titles. Just him. And the guilt in his eyes.

“You shouldn’t have come for me,” you whisper, voice raw with fever and restraint.

He kneels by your cot.

“I would come for you again,” he says. “Every time. Until they hang me for it.”

You turn your face away. “They might.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

He says your name. Not ‘knight.’ Not ‘soldier.’ Just your name, like a prayer he can’t stop saying even if it damns him.

And still— You don’t turn. Because you both know what this is. A fire waiting for air. A love born too late. A tragedy aching to unfold.

That night, the king summons him. Not as a father. As a monarch.

“You will marry the princess from Nevara,” he says. “The treaty depends on it.”

“I love someone else,” the prince replies.

“You love yourself, if you think you can have both your heart and the crown.”

He says your name. Softly. Firmly. Like an oath.

“She saved my life.”

“And now you’ll repay her by destroying hers?” the king snaps. “Do you think they’ll let her live once you break the betrothal?”

Silence falls.

Heavy.

Unforgiving.

“She’s already been sentenced,” the king says at last. “She just hasn’t been told.”

You wake that night with your chest aching—not from pain, but from knowing. Something has shifted. You feel it in the cold stone beneath your hands. In the echo of footsteps in the hall.

And when you press your hand to the window, you see it: A single royal carriage preparing at the gate. Bound for Nevara. And him— Standing beside it. Back straight. Face pale.

Eyes searching the palace walls, as if he might still see you one last time. You do not go to him. You do not call his name. Because in another life, maybe you would have ridden beside him.

In another story, maybe he would have chosen you without losing everything. But this is not that tale. And dawn does not wait for lovers. Only history.

The weeks that follow his departure are drenched in quiet. You are not imprisoned. You are not thanked. You are simply… erased.

The servants who once called you milady no longer speak your name. The knights avert their eyes. Your sword remains locked beneath the palace.

You exist like a ghost. Alive, but untethered. No longer of the court, nor of the field. A knight without a banner. A heart without a claim.

You hear whispers. He has arrived in Nevara. The princess is fair. Clever. Chosen by kings long before love was even a question.

The engagement is announced with gold leaf letters and ringing bells. Your name is not mentioned. But you do not cry. Not where anyone can see. You bleed quietly. You mourn like a soldier.

The rebellion strikes again before spring’s end. This time, they breach the border. They ride through the lowlands, leaving fire behind. The crown scrambles. The prince cannot return without shattering the treaty. The general is old. The court is afraid. And the soldier they need most— Is the one they tried to forget.

You ride out without orders. You do not ask permission. You don the armor your father once wore—the crest dulled, the steel worn thin at the elbows. You braid your hair like he taught you.

And you ride.

You ride for the village that still remembers your name. You ride for the people who left bread at your door. You ride for the child who handed you a wildflower with hands still too small to grip a sword.

You do not ride for him. You cannot ride for him. Because if you think of his eyes, of the way he looked at you across that ballroom floor, you will fall from the saddle and never rise again.

The battlefield is a ruin of smoke and iron. You are one against many. But they know your name. And still they run.

You take the hill by nightfall. Alone. Wounded. Triumphant. And when the banner is raised above your body— Torn, soaked red, trembling in the wind— The rebels vanish like ghosts. But so do you.

You are found at dawn. Lying beneath the tree where you made your stand.

Your sword is broken beside you.

Your hand is curled around a bloodstained flower. And your lips are parted as if you were whispering his name just before the end.

The message reaches Nevara three days later. He doesn’t speak. Not for hours.

Not even when the princess calls his name. He only clutches the seal on the letter, his knuckles white, and whispers:

“She was supposed to live.”

The statue stands in the courtyard now. Marble. Silent.

Carved in your likeness, though the sculptor never saw your face. Only heard the stories. Of a knight with fire in her eyes and blood on her hands—not from cruelty, but from every kingdom she tried to save.

You wear no crown in the statue. Only a sword at your hip. And a rose carved into your palm.

Each year, on the eve of the battle, a single white bloom is placed at your feet. Always fresh. Never seen delivered. And no one dares to ask who lays it.

The kingdom tells children your story. They leave out the prince.

They leave out the dance. They leave out how love is sometimes not enough. But he remembers. He always remembers. He abdicates not long after the war.

Says nothing of it. Leaves the crown in a circle of firelight and shadow, and walks away like a man shedding a second skin. No one stops him. They know better now. Some grief cannot be ruled.

The statue still stands. Unchanged. Wind-polished. Waiting.

And one day—quiet as twilight—a man approaches it.

His hair is streaked with silver. His hands are roughened by years that did not heal what they were supposed to. But he still walks like royalty. Even if he wears no crown.

He kneels before your stone likeness. And places the rose at your feet. No guards. No court. Just him. And a small silver ring he slips from his finger, placing it beside the bloom.

“I should have run with you,” he whispers.

“I should have burned it all down.”

He presses his forehead to the base of the statue. And says your name one last time. Not like a vow. Not like a prayer. But like an apology carried too long.

And when he rises— There is no triumph. No music. Only the wind. Carrying the scent of a white rose far, far across the hills.

The cottage is small. The kind of place a king would never have entered in his youth.

But he is not a king anymore. Just a man. A man who spends his mornings tending vines and his evenings writing to someone who cannot write back.

Each day ends the same. With ink. With silence. With your name.

Letter 37

I saw a hawk today, circling above the cliffs. You would have known the species. I didn’t.

I wonder, often, what else I never knew about you.

I knew the way you held your sword. The way you stood when they doubted you. The way your voice trembled only when you wanted it to—but not when you were afraid.

But I didn’t know the color you dreamed in.

I didn’t know which name you would have taken if we had ever... if I had ever...

I didn’t know how to say don’t go without betraying everything you fought to protect.

And by the time I learned—it was too late.

I hope you forgive me.

Or if not that—then at least remember me gently.

Letter 52

The sea is violent tonight.

I thought, once, that I would die in battle. Then I thought I might die beside you.

Now I think I’ll die like this. Quiet. Forgotten. Dreaming of a girl with ash on her armor and a crown in her bones.

They say you’re a legend now.

That the children touch the statue’s sword for courage. That girls whisper to it before entering training halls.

You would have hated the way they softened your edges.

You were never a symbol.

You were a storm.

And gods help me, I loved the way you burned.

Letter 96

I still wear the clothes from the day I left court.

They’re threadbare now. But they feel like penance.

Some days I wonder what would have happened if I’d spoken sooner. If I had called you back at the gates. If I had stepped down before you ever could.

But regret is a wheel I spin endlessly.

I have no crown now. No audience.

Only you.

And this old, shaking hand.

Still writing your name long after the world has forgotten it.

Letter 103

This will be my last.

The wind is colder. My legs ache more each morning.

I don’t fear dying.

I just fear dying with your voice still trapped in my throat.

There is a place beyond the cliffs where the flowers grow wild. I’ve chosen it. For the view. For the quiet.

If there is a next world—wait for me.

Not as a knight. Not as a prince.

Just as two people who once met too late.

And maybe next time, we’ll get it right.

Until then—

With all that I was,

With all that I ruined,

With all that I loved:

Yours.

Always.

A/n: whos your favorite Disney princess?! Hope you enjoyed!!!

[navybrat817]

Feel the Pulse Beat: Intro

Pairing: Old Money!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: Bucky didn't want to go to Tony's club, but he'll be glad he did by the end of the night.

Word Count: Almost 2.3k

Warnings: Swearing, frenemy behavior, family issues, bit of world building, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)

A/N: Oh, look, lovelies! A new AU no one asked for. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

“Why am I even here?” Bucky asked, eying the neon sign for Extremis. The one and only Tony Stark owned the club. A mix of people in clothes that ranged from expensive suits to revealing dresses stood in line with the hopes of getting in. “Because I have a car I could be working on as we speak.”

He could fit in at clubs, but he’d take greasing up his hands over dressing up any day. With cars, he didn’t have to pretend to be anything other than himself. There was no need to impress people who didn’t care about him beyond his name or fortune.

Steve, his best friend, sighed. “Because we promised Tony we’d show up. He’s our friend.”

“You promised, not me. He’s more your friend than mine and he acts like I wronged him in another life or something,” Bucky said. Tony didn't outright hate him, but didn’t seem to care for him and loved to give him a hard time. “I doubt he’ll notice if I skip this.”

“He will notice and he’s not that bad,” Steve said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I swear, between Tony and Sam, it’s like you go out of your way to not be friends with our friends.”

Bucky didn’t comment on Sam for the time being. “Not that bad? Tony has the biggest ego in the city. I’m surprised he didn’t call the place 'Anthony’s' or plaster his name all over the building,” he said, tilting his head. “Given the outside, it wouldn't surprise me if the inside was just as bad.”

Steve snorted, used to his humor after all these years. “You’re in a mood,” he said. Bucky didn’t deny it. “Let me guess: another argument with your dad?”

Bucky hesitated. “What else is new?” He wished he could clock the guy, but he was his old man.

George Barnes couldn’t wrap his mind around why his son preferred cars to the boardroom and networking. Or why he chose to “destroy” his body with tattoos. Or why he wasn't dating an elitist. It was like he couldn’t stand that Bucky wasn't just another version of him. Thank God for his mom who encouraged him to forge his own path and respected his choices.

And, yes, she occasionally allowed him access to the family funds if he wanted or needed them because she adored him.

“I'm sorry,” Steve said, clapping him on the shoulder.

They had grown up together, which meant they either witnessed or heard the ups and downs of their families. Steve wasn’t just his best friend, he was like a brother to him. He knew how his dad could get. And his dad was a good man most days, but he could also be a real pain in the ass.

“Don’t be. Not your fault,” he replied, looking at the sign again. “Never is.”

“It may not be my fault, but it doesn't mean I don’t care,” he said. He was lucky to have a friend like him. “Come on.”

Bucky felt eyes on them as they bypassed the line and approached the man at the door. Even if their names weren't on the list, the confidence he and his best friend carried would've been enough to pique the security’s curiosity. They also had enough money in their pockets to not necessarily flaunt their wealth, but to show that they had it. The same applied to their suits.

“Steve Rogers,” his best friend stated with just the right touch of pride. It was a fine line to walk between confidence and arrogance and he did it well. “And Bucky Barnes.”

“You’re on the list, but those aren’t the names the boss gave me and he won't let you in without them,” he said, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

“Aww, that’s too bad.” Bucky shrugged. It was the kind of shit Tony liked to pull and he wasn't in the mood to play. “Let’s go, punk.”

Steve held out an arm to stop him. “Just wait, jerk,” he said, shaking his head as he looked at the bouncer. “Golden Boy and Tinman?”

The bouncer to his credit looked thoroughly unimpressed instead of amused when he stepped aside to let them in. Bucky grit his teeth anyway, anger coursing through his veins. “That fucking-”

“Hey. It’s just Tony being Tony.” Steve trying to placate him wasn't working. “It’s better than Cyborg, right?”

Tinman. Cyborg. Tony tried to say the nicknames were because his left sleeve looked like a metal arm, but the man said in passing once that he was cold. Heartless. Just because Bucky didn’t show his emotions to people he didn't care for didn’t mean he didn’t have them.

“Tony being Tony doesn’t give him a pass to be a dick, Golden Boy,” he said, holding up a finger. “One hour. You get one fucking hour.”

“Please, don’t call me that,” Steve begged. The man with a heart of gold to match his hair and a pair of fists ready to strike for anyone who needed defending. Everyone in their circle looked to him as a man who always tried to do the right thing. “And fine. One hour.”

As they walked further into the club, vibrant energy surrounded them. Red and yellow lights cast a warm glow to create a welcoming ambience, while plush seats and sleek decor added a touch of glamor and sultriness. The bar, illuminated and inviting, beckoned patrons to select their drinks. The music was perfectly balanced, not too loud or overwhelming, allowing for easy conversation amidst the lively atmosphere.

Bucky didn’t want to give Tony too much credit and make his head swell more, but it was a nice place.

“So, where are we sitting?” He asked.

As if on cue, a woman in a smart black dress approached. Not a single hair out of place. “Pepper, good to see you,” Steve smiled at her. Bucky recognized her now. Tony’s personal assistant, had been for years. She did her job well and the man’s schedule and life would fall apart if he didn’t have her around.

“Good to see you, too. And you two are the first to arrive,” she smiled. “Right this way, please.”

Bucky looked around again as Pepper led them to a quiet VIP area flanked by a couple of guards. The space was just as bright as the main room, but above the center table hung a large, modern crystal chandelier: a focal point that hinted at the Stark fortune. The small stage set up at the back of the room surprised him. Was it for performers or merely for show?

“About time you showed up,” a voice interrupted his thoughts. Tony Stark, the man himself, sat in the middle of a sofa with a glass of whiskey in hand. With his three piece suit and perfectly trimmed dark goatee, he looked very much like the king of one of his many castles. Even had on a pair of his signature sunglasses because who didn't like wearing sunglasses indoors? “Or did it take you old men a while to figure out the names? Told Sy not to let you in without them.”

An apologetic look crossed Pepper’s face. “For the record, I told him not to do that,” she said, gesturing for them to sit. Bucky opted to sit in a chair that he didn't want to admit was extremely comfortable. “But he never listens to me.”

“You still love me,” Tony called after her as she left the area. “No hard feelings about the nicknames, right? It’s all in good fun.”

Bucky huffed as Steve took a seat beside Tony, effectively dividing them. “First the nicknames, and now you call us old men? You look older than we do,” Bucky said, pointing to Tony’s hair. “In fact, I think I see some gray you missed on your dye job.”

As Bucky got older, he had come to love the gray in his own beard and hair. It was a good look. Maybe the right girl would appreciate it.

Tony rolled his eyes. “Barnes. Always a pleasure.”

“Stark,” he said, baring his teeth in a wolfish grin. “Never a pleasure.”

“Cut it out,” Steve chastised, giving Bucky an exasperated look, which only earned him a shrug in response. Did he expect him to play nice when he didn't want to be there? “Tony, the place looks great.”

“Of course it does, Rogers. Did you expect anything less? Though it’s always nice to get a compliment from you.” Tony set his drink down and tapped the screen of his phone, causing the red and yellow lights to switch to blue and white. “That’s your cue, Barnes.”

“Nice lights,” he mumbled, leaning his chin on his hand. One hour…

Tony scoffed. “Would it kill you to give a real compliment, or are you holding back because I own it?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Does my opinion even matter? You already think it’s perfect. I’m sure everyone else has kissed your ass about it, and I don’t feel like chapping my lips.”

Tony sat up straighter. “If I really wanted my ass kissed, I’d call your little sister,” he sneered, nudging Steve’s arm. “She’s free, right?”

“Tony, stop.” Steve warned when Bucky's jaw clenched.

“What?” Tony smirked more. “I heard she just got out of a relationship and maybe I can help her get over that broken heart.”

Bucky almost got out of his seat. Becca was a sweetheart and Tony didn't deserve to breathe the same air as her. “You even think about touching her, I’ll break your fucking-”

“Hey! That’s enough.” Steve sounded pissed off enough that they shut up. “Tony, he’s not trying to be a dick. He just wanted to work on a car tonight. Doesn't mean you need to bring his sister into it,” Steve said to Tony in a calmer tone, giving Bucky another look. “And you know he wouldn't fool around with Becca. You’re letting your fight with your dad get to you.”

Bucky slowly exhaled. “I know.” He felt a pinch of guilt. He had let his dad sour his mood and dismissed Tony’s club when Tony was at least nice enough to extend an invitation. It also wasn't fair to make Steve play referee when he deserved a fun night. “And I think we’re all varying degrees of dicks here.”

Unexpected respect and understanding filled Tony’s eyes, replacing his usual disdain. “Rather tinker with something than hang out here? I get it. And asshole fathers, I get that, too,” he said, downing the remainder of his glass. Bucky had nearly forgotten that Tony had issues with his own dad. “But let’s be serious, we all know I’m the biggest dick here.”

That brought a chuckle out of all three of them. It was the closest thing to an apology. “I would drink to that if I had one,” Bucky joked.

Tony tapped the screen of his phone again in a short pattern and the middle of the table rose up to reveal a decanter and empty glasses. “Top shelf and on the house even though you can afford it.”

“We’re still going to tip. You can give it to the staff working tonight,” Steve offered, pouring each of them a glass and passing one over. “And now that we’ve gotten some of the unpleasantness out of the way, can we get on with the evening? Please?”

The men nodded, but Bucky still needed more than one stiff drink to get him through the hour. At least Tony brought out the good stuff for them to indulge. “I have to ask, where are the rest of your friends?” He expected the VIP section to be overflowing with his usual crowd instead of being nearly empty.

“On their way,” Tony said, waving a hand toward the stage. “I wanted you two to get a private show with my new star because I have a feeling you’ll appreciate her talent more than the others. And when I say this one is special, I mean it. Voice and body of an angel. Or a siren. Whatever you’re into.”

Bucky and Steve exchanged a look. A new star? That was why he wanted them to stop by? “Have you slept with her?” Steve asked pointedly. Bucky almost asked the same question. Tony had a reputation for a reason and being a member of his staff wouldn’t stop him from trying.

“Nope. Not this one. Not for lack of trying,” Tony said, checking the time before the lights dimmed. “She told me to ‘kindly fuck off’ when I hit on her and I gave her a raise because why the hell not?”

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up. “She turned you down? I like her already,” He smirked, instantly intrigued by this mystery woman who didn't fall for Tony’s charms like so many others. “I may even have to buy her a drink.”

“Just wait ‘til you hear her sing, Tinman,” Tony said, resting back against the sofa. “Even you will love her.”

A spotlight illuminated the stage when soft music began to play. The curtain opened wide enough for a stunning figure in a long red dress to step through. Bucky leaned forward in his chair, captivated by your beauty. His heart raced, and his throat went dry as your gaze met his. He tightened his grip on the glass, nearly downing it in one gulp as you moved toward the microphone, but couldn't look away as you smiled.

Where the hell did Tony find someone so enchanting?

Bucky waited with bated breath before you began to sing. One note. That was all it took. He was lost. Gone.

Yours.

Oh, I just had to end the intro there. 😇 I wonder what our reader is like and what she'll think of Bucky. @targaryenvampireslayer @yenzys-lucky-charm @ghotifishreads @tavners @holacia3 a certain edit may come into play later... 😏 Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[literaryvein-reblogs]

do you have any tips on how to write for a quiet character living a comfortable life abruptly being forced to adapt to a rowdy and somewhat violent environment?

Writing Ideas: Quiet Characters

common literary & character tropes

Beware the Quiet Ones: When the character who is hardly ever upset about something, suddenly raises their voice, the world turns upside down and seems to come to an end. There is an unleashed raging or cold speech of epic proportions that not even the most demented character in the story would want to sit through. This rage is almost always expressed verbally, though violence can also be included. Another version could be when the heroes' team is in low spirits, and The Quiet One, fed up with all the sulking, throws the table (or something else) to the side and gives a Rousing Speech to their comrades.

Elective Mute: It turns out that a character assumed to be unable to talk actually can speak, they just choose to be silent most of the time.

Emotionless Girl: An enigmatic female character who appears to be entirely emotionless. Whether she actually is emotionless depends on the story and often on her level of characterization.

Heroic Mime: A hero who never speaks.

Silent Scapegoat: Somebody who willingly takes the blame for everyone else's wrongdoings.

Suddenly Speaking: A character who was initially silent eventually reveals that they can speak after all.

The Quiet One: A character who does speak, but not as much as the other characters.

The Stoic: Quiet demeanor tends towards the brusque or outright rudeness, though there are a few polite Stoics. Some stoics may try to give the impression of a lot going on inside, cultivate an air of mystery and confuse other characters with cryptic one-liners. The Stoic sometimes displays emotion when under extreme stress or in other highly emotional situations, but their usual repertoire consists of mild boredom, detached interest, Dull Surprise or dignified disdain. The Stoics in ancient Greece were philosophers who believed that self-control is the highest virtue, and detachment from strong emotions and passion would give them greater insight in their quest for truth. They also thought that emotional reactions to the inevitable were silly; given that We All Die Someday, what is grieving over death but a judgment that the inevitable was somehow wrong? Stoics would later be criticized for fatalism and apathy.

The Voiceless: A character isn't shown speaking, but might still be capable of speech.

Tranquil Fury: This character can range from happy or stoic, but their anger is more quiet (but still dangerous). What defines this trope is the tendency to become deadly serious when it gets deadly serious.

Examples

In the story "The Six Swans", collected by the Grimm Brothers and Hans Christian Andersen among others, a Fallen Princess must make six shirts out of nettles and can't make a sound for seven years or the spell that transformed her six brothers into swans will never be broken. She manages to keep all of these conditions and gets to break the spell. This is an example of the Elective Mute trope.

Peter in Jumanji, who talks to no one but his older sister Judy ever since their parents' death by car accident. Once Alan gets out of the game and finds his parents are also dead, Peter starts talking to him as well.

Charles Wallace was an Elective Mute trope a child in A Wrinkle in Time. By the time of the later books, he has grown out of it.

Irish Mythology: The battle trance Nuada enters before the first battle of Maige Tuired is sometimes described as a battle fury. However, unlike The Riastrad, the famous "Warp Spasm" of the hero Cu Chulainn, Nuada does not become a berserker, but instead becomes exceptionally calm. This is an example of the Tranquil Fury trope.

Older Than Steam. Shakespeare's Henry V has the eponymous character's Tranquil Fury reaction to the tennis balls.

Dead Poets Society: The shy and insecure Todd Anderson spends most of the film struggling to get out two full sentences and is overlooked by the school and his parents. After his best friend kills himself, the school tries to bully him (and the other boys) into pinning the blame on their favorite teacher — and he leads half the class in an outright rebellion against the headmaster.

Don Vito Corleone from The Godfather is famously very soft-spoken, even hoarse, but an extremely menacing screen presence.

In the original novel The Godfather, both Vito and Michael Corleone were noted as young men for being soft-spoken, understated, and reasonable, especially in contrast to many of their Sicilian immigrant and first-generation compatriots. They go on to become in turn the most feared "Family" heads of their generations, while still rarely raising their voices above a normal speaking tone.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

This is already quite a specific character, and it seems you have a rough idea of your storyline. I don't want to intrude too much on your story, so I compiled tropes and examples in literature as well as other media that are somewhat related to what you described, and you could perhaps incorporate these (& edit as needed/desired) to further flesh out your specific character and plot. Consider which direction you want your story to go; what reactions you want your own character to show once they're thrust into that new environment (Will they continue to be quiet? Will they go the other end of the spectrum? Perhaps somewhere in between? Will they succeed in "adapting" in this new environment?). Do go through the sources for more information and examples. Plus these previous posts that may be useful as well:

On Shyness ⚜ On Mutism ⚜ On Introverts

Word Alternatives: Quiet ⚜ Five-Factor Model of Personality

[fushiguruuzzzz]

+ CHAPTER ONE // DON’T CRY OVER SPILLED COFFEE 

series mlist 

Tags — cursing, Toge embarrasses himself (again) Words — 1.2k

After being endlessly berated and smacked over the head with a rolled up newspaper, your friends were forced to leave. You were left alone, standing idly by the kitchen entrance as you waited for any reason to do otherwise. It was a Tuesday afternoon, business was as slow as it could get. The snowfall didn’t do much to help either, halting the usual student company that travelled by foot. You could count the amount of people inside on one hand, which you figured you could actually resort to doing once your boredom reached its peak. 

In the midst of your blank staring at the wall, the sound of the bell above the door rang. You were snapped out of your daze, clearing your bleary vision with a few short blinks before you could force your feet to move. You took your time striding across the tile floor, cluttered with tables and booths alike. 

Your gaze landed on a group of people settling into seats near the furthest window. A nearly empty diner, and they chose the most inconvenient place to sit. That seemed to be how this day was going, with every order lost in translation and the lack of self control had by your pink haired friend. 

“Hi there,” you greeted, a honey-sweet smile spreading across your face as you addressed your peers. “Can I get you guys anything to drink?” 

It took the break in chatter, the way they all looked inward to their own preferences, for you to really notice who was sitting before you. The green haired girl with a constant look of disdain on her face—you shared a class with her. Accompanying her was a timid boy with black hair and… a panda?, whom you didn’t recognize. And then there was the last one. The platinum blond, violet eyed boy who you’d seen before, and not exactly in a manner you’d consider a good first impression. All you knew of him was that he needed to work on two things: hiding his staring, and walking straight. Maybe then he wouldn’t end up sprawled out starfish position on the sidewalk because you’d made eye contact. 

The corners of your lips pulled up just a little further, something he caught. They all seemed to, based on the amused glances shared and met by annoyed, possibly embarrassed ones from him. 

“Coffee, please,” said the intimidating woman in the corner, unable to hide her smirk as she looked between you and Toge. 

You nodded in acknowledgment, glancing to the other three. 

“Pepsi,” the panda added, voice low and booming. 

A smaller, more boyish voice came next, much easier on the ears than the former. “Just water, please.” 

You looked to the last boy, the one you’d been mentally referring to as ‘cockroach’ as of late. He cleared his throat. “I uh… I’ll have coffee too. Thanks.” 

“Got it,” you said, turning on your heels and walking to the kitchen without a second thought. Realistically, it was to suppress the chuckle bubbling in your throat. Could he be any more awkward? He seemed friendly enough from third person, but the moment he looked you in the eye it was like something flipped. Probably the slip. 

Emerging from the large double doors that lead to the back, you balanced your strategically placed array of drinks on a tray as you walked to the back corner of the diner. Their conversation halted, falling more silent as they gratefully took the beverages from your offering hands. Things got somewhat uncomfortable once they’d received their orders, the unspoken memories of Toge’s clumsiness hanging in the air. You shuffled away silently, retreating to the back once again. The only thing you could do now was wait for Miwa to clock in and hope for a snippet of conversation before she was pulled away by business, and you by the homework awaiting you in your apartment. 

“That’s her!” Panda grinned, speaking so loud that Toge was sure you could hear him from across the building. 

“I think he saw that,” Maki deadpanned. “Did you see his face? I don’t think I’ve ever seen Toge so awkward.”

“I wasn’t that awkward,” Toge grumbled in response. “I don’t even know her, so why would I be so affected?” 

He lifted his cup of coffee to his lips, resisting the urge to wince. He wasn’t the biggest fan of it, but his mind had drawn a blank when he saw you and he spat out the first thing that came to mind. Truth be told, he was affected. Very much so. But he wouldn’t admit that, of course not. 

“Look! It’s yn!” Panda feigned a gasp, pointing behind Toge. Panda, being the socially unaware animal he was, had read your name tag and decided it was perfectly acceptable to refer to you by your first name. 

Toge whipped his head around, so caught off guard that he lost his grip on the mug in hand. Not only was the space behind him lacking you, he was now lacking his drink, as it was instead rapidly spilling all over the table and his lap. The now lukewarm drink bled into his pants, and he’d never been so grateful to be wearing black. 

“Shit!” he placed a hand over his mouth, grumbling under his breath as he tried (and failed) to stop the mess with a few napkins sitting to his left. Yuta gasped from beside him, recoiling away but panicking, trying to help. Panda and Maki did nothing of the sort, relishing in his humiliation and giggling into their palms. 

“It’s not hot. It’s fine,” he sighed under his breath, shooting Yuta a thankful glance. He could feel his face heating up, glancing around the diner to see if anyone had witnessed his fumble. As if the universe was working against him, you came into view. You had a bag over your shoulder, it was apparent you’d clocked out, and he almost thought he was safe. Almost, until you caught sight of him. 

You were immediately concerned, amusement only lingering in the back of your mind as you rushed over. “Woah, hey, are you okay? Was that hot? W-“ you were silenced by a small shake of his head, though he avoided your eyes as if you were Medusa. You let out a breath of relief at that, shoulder deflating ever so slightly. “Okay, that’s good. I just clocked out, but I can get you some paper towels if you’d like? I mean, it seems like the cup was full when it spilled…” you winced, glancing down at the creamy brown puddle. 

“That would be great! He’d appreciate it,” Panda cut in, shooting you what was meant to be a reassuring grin. 

When you left, Toge had gained and lost many things. He had your name, your attention, some paper towels, wet pants, and no dignity. You had homework, a wad of cash in your pocket, a smile, and the funny memory of the flustered boy in the back of your mind. Maybe work wasn’t all boring after all. 

Yes, they indeed chose that diner because of the cockroach incident

Yn was lwk giggling to herself on the way home

They started tallying the amount of times kcp (Kurt Cobain Painters) have been banned from the diner on a chalkboard in yn and Nobara’s apartment. It’s nearly full.

Their manager is never around so they just come back 😭😭

There’s like four workers total at that damn diner and its yn, Miwa, and other randoms

Save them

I’m writing this on the same day as I released chapter zero so that I have a break… (I did in fact not have a break. The next chapter is queued.) I have like four final projects in the works rn someone kill me I hate it here 💔💔 sigh camp counsellor kuroo has double the likes of this damn series after a few days not complaining tho I love kuroo 🤤

Taglist — 34/50 (inaccurate, masterlist has correct #)

@anotherwriternamedclara @ruruisru @adoresia @auroratumbles @sh0ot1ngst4r @princesa14 @soobin1437 @mystic-megumi @cinnamxnangel @lizbix @s3ns4ti0n4l @anonnieghost @s4toruz @azinniya @gumims @bubybubsters @k4ss11333 @rreveurdoll @kaged-kitty @rwura @aldebrana @laaalaaaloooppppsiiieeeee @hqnge @lloversss @h1ddenverse @good-mourning0 @daisies-and-domming @vi0let-writes @strxwberryfetish @dazaisfavgf @hearts4aloise @coolgirl458 @keyaea @jealovsie

— reminder to make sure your tag setting are working!! :)

[marlynnofmany]

Correct in Size and Opinion

So, most intelligent species get their common names by suggesting an idea themselves when they enter polite society. There’s a whole database for making sure there are no duplicates, and minimizing confusion. Sometimes their existing name for themselves makes it in, if it’s pronounceable enough for the average intelligent being (“humans”), and there’s no easily-agreed-on description for them. But usually the common name is a descriptive word (“Heatseekers”), or even a long phrase, shortened down for casual use (“The Mesmerizing Ones” / “Mesmers”). Sometimes a nickname becomes more popular than the official name. (Nobody calls Armorlites “The Mighty” unless they have to). At any rate, an intelligent race’s common name generally tells you something about the way they see themselves.

Which made it all the funnier when I found out that the gigantic elephantlike folks I hadn’t seen in ages were officially called “Those Who Are the Correct Size.” Sizers for short. They were the biggest aliens I’d interacted with personally, and it seems they had opinions about that.

“How do you suppose that conversation went down?” I asked Mur as we walked. The raised sidewalk was impressively sturdy, and I felt confident that I could carry on a conversation while carrying the package for delivery. The fact that there was a clear wall instead of railings helped. It was a long drop to the ground.

“The diplomats probably thought it was funny,” Mur said from behind me, making quiet tentacle-step sounds. “Or these folks were pushy about it, but they always seem pretty easygoing to me.”

Sizers ambled past on the main road, behemoths in shades of sunset pink, largely ignoring the smaller citizens on the walkway at head level. None moved with any particular urgency. They probably would have noticed if someone was in stepping-on range, but thankfully the architecture had been modified to reduce that risk. Raised walkways lined every building, some leading to ramps and stairways while others had their own little doors cut into the walls.

It was all very thoughtful. I wondered how many accidents had happened before those alterations were put in.

Mur suddenly said, “Grab on!” then the walkway shuddered.

I clutched the top of the railing-wall, looking about wildly for the danger. It wasn’t hard to spot. A handful of babies — toddlers the size of a city bus — had tumbled against the side of the building. The street below us was now a riot of clumsy pink limbs and flapping orange ears, the babies squalling and whapping each other with their trunks. Those trunks came in pairs, top and bottom, and their tails were similarly grabby. These little ones didn’t know how to use any of them yet.

An adult Sizer waded in and separated the children, calming them with strokes of his own trunks and with rumbling words I couldn’t hope to interpret. But the walkway was stable now.

A giant eye focused on the pair of us, then the Sizer switched to a more recognizable language. “Look, you almost made some of the littles fall. Apologize for scaring them.”

A chorus of badly-pronounced apologies drifted up to us.

I waved a hand. “Apology accepted! No harm done.”

Mur agreed, his tone a bit forced.

The adult shooed the children away down the road, keeping them corralled between his trunks in the center of the road while they stumbled eagerly.

Mur collapsed dramatically into a squidlike puddle of relief. “I am so glad they’re leaving. What absolute menaces.”

“Ah, they can’t help it,” I said. “Cute little things. Well, relatively speaking.”

“Not the word I’d use,” Mur said, pulling himself together and getting upright.

“I know, none of them are little.”

“I mean cute! What is cute about those terrors?” he demanded, pointing with a tentacle to where they disappeared in the crowd. One of the babies was spinning its top trunk like a propeller, and another had just tripped over its own feet.

“They’re adorable,” I told him. “You saw them shuffling around looking shy and saying ‘sowwy.’”

Mur squinted up at me. “You and I have very different ideas of what should be adored. Do humans always appreciate other species’ infants?”

“Well,” I said, thinking. “Probably, yes. Somebody once explained it to me that since our own young are helpless for so long, we got evolutionarily overclocked for thinking babies are cute, just to make sure we take care of them. That might have spilled over to other things.”

“That explains a lot,” Mur said. He stepped past me to lead the way. “I remember Zhee losing a bet about whether you would pet that spiny little creature a while back.”

“It was precious once it calmed down!”

“According to you.”

“It had a cute little face, and made the most charming little noises,” I insisted.

“Even though it looked nothing like your own species, huh?”

“I can’t believe you don’t think it was cute, honestly.”

The conversation lasted until we reached our destination: a door with the word “Medicinery” written somewhat clumsily above it. When Mur pushed on the door, it swung open as easily as a cat flap.

Our walkway continued along the interior wall, giving us a good view of several adult Sizers waiting patiently in line while others moved about behind a counter. It was all similar to any number of other places I’d been, just at a much larger scale.

Since the walkway only led in one direction, we went that way: down a bit of a slope to a wider platform at the end of the counter. One Sizer saw us coming and finished talking with a customer, moving over to greet us instead of the next in line. A different receptionist called over that person instead.

“Hello!” she said, deep-voiced and cheery. “What can I do for you today?”

I lifted the box. “We have a delivery for you. Medicine, I believe.”

“Oh yes, I heard we were running low on something!” She reached out her trunks for it and I handed it over, feeling like I was faced with a pair of animated engine chutes. I’d seen Mimi working on parts of our own ship this size.

While she set the box aside, I got out the payment tablet with Mur whispering unnecessary reminders of how to set it on magnified holographic mode. This particular client had no chance of being able to sign for the delivery at our scale.

She made an elegant swooping signature in midair, then typed in her other identifying information on the holographic keyboard. “There you go! Thanks for bringing this. We don’t get too many patients your size, but it’s important that we have the proper medicine in stock for when we do. Un-expired, even!”

“Yes, that part’s important!” I agreed.

She asked, “I hope the walk over was agreeable? Everything accessible and in good repair?”

“It was fine!” I told her, folding away the holographics. “Great setup you have here.”

Mur grumbled an objection, but not loud enough for the Sizer to pick up.

“So glad to hear it,” she said to me. “It’s the least we can do to keep you little folks out of harm’s way. Wouldn’t want anyone to step on your cute little heads!”

Mur made a snorting noise while I answered diplomatically. “Our cute little heads appreciate it.”

She flapped her ears and waved a trunk in body language that might have suggested she was embarrassed about her own choice of phrasing.

Mur spoke up. “I have a quick question, if you don’t mind.”

I raised an eyebrow while the Sizer encouraged him to ask his question.

“We were having a conversation on the way here about the respective adorableness of other species,” Mur said, flipping a tentacle between the two of us. “Is there a general opinion among Sizers about small folks being cute?”

She definitely looked embarrassed now, waving her trunk and glancing away like an elderly aunt who’d said something improper. “Oh, well, some definitely are if you ask me, but I can hardly speak for everyone. Some, yes! With your cute little heads and tiny eyes. Absolutely precious.”

She was looking at me. Mur’s head was shaped like a squid; hardly little.

“Anyways!” she said, standing up straighter. “That hardly factors into making sure everyone has a safe route through town, without a danger of getting stepped on. I’m very glad you found the walkways acceptable. Thank you again for the delivery!”

“It was our pleasure,” I said.

Mur added, “Have a nice day!” but she was already moving on to the next Sizer in line.

I met Mur’s eye, holding in a snicker, and headed for the door. I made it outside before collapsing into laughter.

“See, it’s not just humans!” I exclaimed. “She thinks we’re cute!”

“I can’t believe it,” Mur said. “She really does. And the others probably do too.”

I pointed a finger at him, still laughing. “And she doesn’t think you’re cute!”

Mur folded half of his tentacles, standing tall on the other ones. “That’s up for debate.”

“We have to tell Zhee. He’ll think this is hilarious.”

Mur agreed, “He really will. Pity he didn’t come today. I wonder if the Sizers would think he looks like an adorable little youngling too.”

“Probably not, if I had to guess.” I started the long walk back to our ship. “My species isn’t historically charmed by exoskeletons, and theirs may not be either. But who knows? We can always call them up and ask.”

“I am absolutely not doing that.”

“Yeah, me neither. But it would be funny.”

~~~

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book.

Shared early on Patreon! There’s even a free tier to get them on the same day as the rest of the world.

The sequel novel is in progress (and will include characters from these stories. I hadn’t thought all of them up when I wrote the first book, but they’re too much fun to leave out of the second).

[walkingnearfoxes]

Meet-and-Greet (Homelander x Reader)

You have a run-in with a disguised supe at VoughtCon. It goes better(?) than expected.

Warnings for smut, incels, and pre-season 1 Homelander.

VoughtCon.

It’s your first time going to the annual convention. When its location was announced to the public, you and your friends worked tirelessly to afford tickets and pay rent simultaneously. It wasn’t every year that Vought chose your home city as the base for its biggest convention, and you couldn’t miss the chance to see the Seven in person.

The Seven. The idea of being in the same building as the world’s most famous superheroes was unbelievable. You wouldn’t call yourself a Seven fanatic, but you certainly did well when bar trivia was on superhero lore. No one could blame you for that. Vought did an excellent job making their heroes appear larger than life, and while you weren’t sure you would ever have the confidence to speak to one of them, being in the same space as them was more than satisfactory. 

The convention halls are as glorious and overwhelming as you expected them to be. Beautiful booths line the main room in aisles upon aisles. Vendors sell products ranging from Seven plushies to hero-shaped soap to personal devices that make you glad for the convention’s 18 and older age restriction. It is all devastating to your bank account, but a wonderful sight to behold. Your friends had registered you all for a few panels throughout the day, but you’re sure the booths alone would be enough to entertain you.

At some point, you and your friends accidentally separated. They were entranced by a company selling dice, and you lost them in a sea of A-Train cosplayers. It wasn’t too horrible a fate. You would see your friends regardless at the first panel in an hour, giving you plenty of time to peruse VoughtCon at your own pace. Your steps eventually land you at a booth that crafts teas personalized for each Seven member. 

You pick up one of the bags of Homelander tea. Stars and stripes decorate the b; his name is written in bold red letters across the packaging. Underneath his name is the tea description - a crisp black tea with red hibiscus, vanilla, and clove. 

“Would you like a sample?” The vendor, a woman dressed in a stunning Queen Maeve cosplay, walks up to you with a smile. “That’s our bestseller.”

“I can see why,” You say warmly. “It sounds delicious. Would love a sample, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Of course!” She beams and turns to grab a sample from behind the booth. She carefully hands a tiny cup out to you. “Should be the perfect temperature by now.”

You take a sip. Sure enough, it tastes heavenly. You detect the vanilla first, then encounter the harsher clove. The notes blend perfectly with the hibiscus. It all cultivates into a smooth, strong cup of tea. You let out a slight hum of pleasure as you smile back at the vendor. “Damn. That’s good.”

She opens her mouth to answer, but a man beside you cuts in. “I really think the vanilla  was the wrong call.”

You blink and turn to face this conversation intruder. He is one of the many Homelander cosplayers you have encountered today, but one of the least impressive. The padding to the suit is obvious and uneven; his biceps look unnecessarily large while his legs have lost all muscle mass. His blonde wig looks stringy. Worst of all, he is giving the vendor a look that says he knows his opinion is correct. Maybe said arrogance would be more at home on the real hero, but on this half-assed version, it looks pathetic.

The vendor, bless her, smiles politely at him. “What would you change? We’re always open to feedback.”

“Get rid of the vanilla completely,” The man says, a sentence you never thought could be said so pompously. “It’s too soft. Add something like…cinnamon. More powerful.”

“Jesus Christ,” You mutter, earning a snort of amusement from a man beside you.

Cosplay Homelander takes this reaction as an invitation to speak to you. He turns to you, his hands on his hips in an obvious imitation of the real hero. On him, it’s more akin to a pouting child. “The strongest man on the planet needs something more interesting than vanilla.” He declares.

The vendor shoots an apologetic look towards you as other people come up to the booth. You smile and wave her off, allowing her to go and cater to more polite customers. This leaves you with Homelander Lite. You could probably walk away, but this man is just asking for a confrontation - and you’re in a good enough mood to provide.

“Did you actually try the tea?” You ask him, holding up your tiny sample cup for emphasis. “It’s really good.”

He scoffs. “I don’t have to try it to know it’s wrong. He needs something more complex.”

You tilt your head. “You speak for him?”

Another chuckle from the man behind you.

Fake Homelander sputters and then waves his hand. “Look, I know Homelander. He’s the fastest and strongest man alive. He broke the sound barrier when he was seven-”

“Six.”

Your interruption brings him to another stumble. His jaw drops as he looks at you. “E-excuse me?”

You shrug. “If you’re going based on canon, Homelander is six in Origins. Not seven. Remember the scene in the train yard?”

You can see each gear screeching to a halt in Diet Homelander’s head. Before he can muster up a retort, the man behind you makes his presence known. He stands beside you, arms folded across his chest as he stares at the younger man. “I think you should just walk away, buddy,” He tells him. “Can’t recover from that.”

Deflated Homelander looks between you and the man, his cheeks as red as his cape. With an incoherent and aggravated mumble, he storms off. You watch him trail away with a smile of satisfaction; sure, it would have been better if it hadn’t taken another man to get him to leave, but you’ll take the small victory. You turn to the more pleasant stranger. “Thanks for the backup.”

The man grins. He’s dressed in light jeans, a red shirt, and a blue cargo jacket - one of the few people here not dressed as someone else. “Not a problem. That was fun, he says, looking down at the tea still in your hand before looking back up at you. “So. Big Homelander fan, huh?”

You smile back and shrug. “I know enough not to embarrass myself at a con.”

He laughs. “Clearly. For the record, I like the tea too. I think it’s just perfect.”

You look closer at the man’s face. A baseball cap covers most of his hair, but you can still see some blond strands. Even in the hat's shadow, his eyes are a striking blue. You frown, your gaze drifting to one of the massive Homelander banners hanging from the high ceiling. The resemblance is…uncanny. When you look back at the stranger, his smile has turned downright devious. “Darn. You caught me.”

You clutch your sample cup so tightly you’re surprised it doesn’t crack under the strain. “You…no. You’re not…”

The man glances around the two of you. When he seems satisfied no one is listening or watching, he meets your gaze again - and this time, his eyes are a simmering red. You can feel the heat from where you’re standing. You don’t have time to gasp before he blinks them back to normal with an impish smile. “Yeah. I am.”

Your brain short-circuits. You want to ask questions. You want to apologize for existing in front of him. You want to flee. But all you can manage is a quiet voice that sounds nothing like your own. “You…look different without a cape.”

Homelander barks a laugh. “Oh, I think I like you.” Without looking, he takes the cup from your hands and tosses it into the nearest trash bin. “Follow me.”

It’s not a question. He immediately turns and begins walking down one of the aisles. You walk after him in a daze. He seamlessly bends through the crowd, no one wise to the fact that the leader of the Seven is brushing past their shoulders. Even without their knowledge, he is effortless in carving a path for himself through the crowd - and, by extension, you.

Homelander finally leads you to another, much quieter branch of the convention center. He guides you through one door, and then another, before you’re in a silent hallway. You realize each door has a name of one of the Seven on it. No security, but who would try to startle a supe? Homelander stops in front of the door with his name, The Homelander, written in bold red. He opens it with a quiet hum and steps inside. When you hesitate at the threshold, he turns and looks back at you. He looks confused at first, then settles on an amused smile. “Come on. I don’t bite unless you ask.”

Your breath stutters a moment, and by the quirk to his lips, you’re sure he heard it. You step inside anyway.

Homelander’s makeshift dressing room for VoughtCon is a maze of color. In one corner, a pile of gifts from fans has grown tall enough to rival your height. You spy dozens of bouquets, wrapped packages, letters, all yet to be opened or read. A vanity sits in the opposite corner with a mirror, various trunks and, of course, the suit. His classic suit is hanging on a black mannequin without a head, a startling contrast to the real man who led you here. The reds, whites, and blues are somehow twice as vibrant as they were on any of the cosplayers. As you admire it, Homelander removes his hat and tosses it onto the vanity chair. He brushes a hand through his hair before turning to face you. Without the cap, there is no doubting who he is. You’ve seen that stare on screens, banners, and countless pieces of merchandise. You never thought you’d find it staring back at you.

Homelander studies you briefly. “What’s wrong? Never been invited backstage before?”

You huff a laugh that sounds much squeakier than your usual laugh. “Uh…no. First time.”

“First time,” Homelander repeats in an amused murmur. He steps closer, and you resist the urge to move away. There’s something so contradictory in his presence. You find yourself wanting to go to him and run all at once. He seems to notice the inner conflict and shakes his head as if easing frightened prey. “Relax. Your heart’s pounding like a little rabbit.”

Right. Homelander can hear your nerves. You take a slow breath and look at the gift tower as a distraction. “That’s awfully impressive.”

Homelander laughs and turns to look at it, his hands falling to his hips. You remember the poor comparison to him the two of you had chased off outside. “Ah, the adoring fans. It’s a shame I can’t read through all of them, but…it’s nice to see.”

Something about those words seems to ring hollow, as though he doesn’t fully believe what he’s saying - like it’s something he’s rehearsed. You watch him for a moment before his gaze falls back to you. He notices your stare and lets out a huff of laughter. “What?”

“Why are you in disguise?” You ask, gesturing to his outfit. If you ignore the knowing glint in his eyes, he looks more like a soccer dad than a hero. “Do you do this a lot?”

 Homelander shakes his head and tugs off the jacket. His arms are strong, but he’s leaner than you expected - especially with his suit standing like a voyeur behind him. “These conventions can get real stale after a decade or two,” He explains. He turns to place the jacket alongside his hat, carefully draping it over the head of the chair. “Sometimes it’s nice to see who your real fans are.”

“And invite them back to your dressing room?” You ask with some revived humor.

Homelander doesn’t answer immediately. He instead takes the time to blatantly look you up and down. You feel a familiar heat in your stomach flicker as he steps back closer to you. This time, seeing the growing hunger across his face, you can’t help but take an unconscious step backwards. Your back hits the wall, and he follows to lean dangerously close to your face.

“Like I said, these conventions get stale,” He purrs softly. “And lonely.”

A million thoughts fight for power inside of you at once. You wonder how often Homelander has done this with other women at other conventions. You confirm with yourself that he and Queen Maeve broke up a year ago, so it isn’t an affair. Are you really moments away from hooking up with the Homelander? It can’t be real. You must be caught in a vivid imaginary scenario and will be back in the vendor aisles any second.

Then, his hand reaches out and takes your forearm. He squeezes gently, and any rational thought in you begins to flatten. His thumb brushes over your smooth skin in a circle. “What do you say?” He asks, his voice dropping further. “Want a more intimate meet-and-greet?”

It’s an awful line, but surely someone of his stature is allowed those lines more than most. You finally smile. “How could I say no?”

“You couldn’t,” He murmurs back, and presses his lips to yours. At first, his kiss is gentle. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the curves of your lips. You give yourself to it readily, returning the kiss with a sweetness that cuts a smile into his mouth. Then, when he decides he has you, he becomes hungry. He slips his tongue greedily into your mouth and takes control of the kiss as his hands reach up to cup your face. His hands are warm against your cheeks, and you can’t help your soft moan of approval. You taste his tongue, and can’t help a quiet laugh. He feels it and pulls away a bit, looking almost insulted. “What?”

You shake your head. “No, it’s just…you actually kind of taste like vanilla.”

Homelander blinks, blinks again, and then slowly smiles. This smile is different than his others. For a split moment, it isn’t guarded. “Well…ain’t that ironic?” He murmurs, then eagerly leans in to kiss you again. You respond by resting your hands on his shoulders, pressing tenderly on the tight muscles. He growls against your mouth, an animalistic sound that curls between your legs. One of his thighs slides between yours. It pins you in place against the door, and with a slight nudge, he puts pressure against your crotch that makes you gasp against his mouth. He chuckles and pulls away to begin dotting kisses along your neck. “Sensitive,” He murmurs between kisses and little nips. “Been a while, sweetheart?”

It may have been, but that doesn’t sound very sexy. “You’re just good at this,” You answer instead.

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” Homelander’s smirk is plain against your skin, even as he bites down hard. You gasp at the surprise of his sharp teeth, but he immediately soothes away any pain with a tongue circling slowly over the mark he’s left. He sucks down delicately, and it only leaves you wondering what else that mouth is capable of. He pulls back and looks at your neck to admire his handiwork. “There. A little souvenir for ya.”

You huff a laugh. “A badge of honor.”

“Knew I liked you,” He growls before kissing you hard. He doesn’t break away from the kiss as he hands nimbly finds your pants and undoes the button. He shimmies them down your legs - and your panties along with them - with a practiced ease that again makes you wonder how often he’s pulled this little trick. If he keeps touching you like this, you can’t bring yourself to care much. You aid him by arching your hips and kicking the offensive materials to the side with a little shake. Homelander wastes little time then in kissing his way down your body. He ducks his head underneath your shirt, and you feel him playfully nip above your belly button before his hands find the backs of your thighs. “Up we go.”

Homelander hooks your thighs over his shoulders. Your back is pressed against the door now, your weight entirely on him. The leader of the Seven is on his knees before you. Despite knowing the man is capable of holding up airplanes, a flare of anxiety grabs you. You curl your fingers in his hair - an action that makes him unabashedly groan - and whisper. “You don’t have to-”

“I don’t have to what? Eat you out?” He looks up at you from between your legs with an arched brow. “You’re a fan. You should know I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.”

You don’t have time for a reply before he’s licking a long stripe up your cunt. He groans first at your taste, but your moan of pleasure is quick to follow. Just like his kisses, he starts slow. He takes the time to know your taste and what flicks of his tongue make you twitch in his arms. He eats you out like he has all the time in the world. His hands eventually wander from under your thighs to your ass, squeezing your cheeks with a possessiveness that would frighten you if you weren’t so aroused. He’s vocal, frequently moaning and slurping at you like you’re his dessert. It leaves your legs shaking, and he hasn’t even sped up. Your clit throbs, and you whimper. “Homelander, please…”

He fully stands up, one hand still on your ass while the other presses to your stomach, pinning you easily to the wall. He’s now merciless against your clit, sucking with a relentlessness that has you spazzing against his hold. He’s inhuman with the way he works you. You forget everything about where you are, that several supes in this hallway can almost certainly hear your moans. All you know is that you might lose your mind if you don’t come soon.

And then he stops.

You let out a loud whine of disapproval before you can stop yourself. Homelander laughs, easing you down to bring your trembling legs around his waist. He coos at your expression. “You look like a kid that dropped their ice cream one.”

You squirm, but his one hand on your hip is enough to keep you still. “That was cruel,” You whisper, your voice hoarse.

“Oh, you have no idea,” He murmurs, and kisses you gently. He tastes like you, and you can’t help but groan before he pulls away to speak against your lips. “Don’t worry. I’ll make you come. But you’re not coming without me.”

He kisses you again. You can hear him unbuckle his belt and shuffle his jeans down. Instinctively, you tense. He shushes you, turning to brush his lips against the side of your face. “Relax, babe. Just gotta…” He whispers as he slowly thrusts into you. His cock pushes into your sopping heat inch by inch. You let out a strangled gasp at how he seems to press at each delicate point inside you. As he bottoms out, he throws his head back with a sigh of relief. “There we go…”

He’s thick, a stretch that would have been painful without his diligent prep. Instead of pain, you can’t think straight. You have never felt this full in your life. Your breath comes out in gasps, and when your eyes lock with his, he grins. “First supe dick, huh?”

You let out a shaky laugh. “First supe dick.”

“Well, hang on tight,” He murmurs. His hands cradle your hips as he thrusts up, pushing you up against the door. Your eyes fall shut, but his gaze never leaves your face. He goes harder as he feels your body adjust until he’s fucking you against the door like it’s his last night on this Earth. His hands are surely leaving bruises against your hips, but you relish it. Your head falls back in bliss, a series of moans spilling out you have no control over.

“God, so many sluts out there would kill to be where you are,” Homelander hisses against your ear. “You’re like a glove on my cock, fuck. Take it. You’re fucking mine now.”

It’s unclear if he means for you to hear all of this rambling. He mumbles most of it against your neck, and you’re both too far into this to make much sense of anything. It doesn’t matter. You orgasm regardless, your voice suddenly gone as it vibrates through your body. Homelander gasps against your skin as your cunt clenches down on his cock, and he immediately follows you in climax - as if he had been waiting for you to finish. He finishes inside of you, and it nearly triggers you to a second orgasm with how full you feel.

There’s a knock on the door.

Every muscle in your body tightens, but Homelander doesn’t move. His head is still buried against your neck as he calls out an agitated reply. “What?”

“We’re on in 10, Homelander,” The Deep’s voice calls from the hall, caught between amused and nervous. “But…uh…take your time.”

“Go away, Deep,” Homelander growls, still inside you.

You hear feet quickly walking away, but you still don’t move. Homelander initiates the move for both of you, slowly returning your feet to the ground. His hands remain on your hips as he chuckles and kisses your jaw. “Well…I’m not usually one to wham and bam, but looks like we’re on a time crunch.”

He lifts you off of his cock and deposits your feet back on the ground. He steps away from you to grab your discarded pants and underwear, tossing them to you lazily. “Hurry up.”

You listen, feeling half-drunk. Your underwear is soaked through, and you wince lightly as you pull your jeans over your shaky legs. Only when you’re fully dressed and straightening out your hair do you realize your phone isn’t in your back pocket anymore. You look up. Homelander is holding it and typing away. He looks at you with a smirk as he hands it back to you. “That’s where I’m staying tonight. Room code’s attached. I’ll be there around eight.”

When all you can do is blink dumbly at him, Homelander snorts and takes your shoulders. “Guess we have to save the banter before the orgasms, huh?” He easily spins you to the door, and pats your ass. “See you later, sweetheart.”

You open the door with your phone in hand, stepping outside back into the hallway. You turn to look at him again in your continued daze. “See you.”

Homelander winks, then closes the door. The last thing you see is him walking towards his suit.

You walk in a trance through the forgivingly empty hallway and find your way back to the convention center's main hall. It’s emptied a bit without multiple panels going on, and it isn’t long before one of your friends spots you. She runs up to your side in a hurry. “Dude, where have you been?! We’ve been looking for you!”

You blink. “I, uh…got a bit sidetracked.”

“By what…” Your friend trails off, eyes widening as she spots the hickey on your neck. She laughs. “Oh. That kind of side mission. At a con? You dog.”

Your lips twitch into a smile. Would she even believe you if you told her? 

“Give me the details on the way,” She says, taking your hand and pulling you towards another hall. “I don’t wanna miss Homelander’s opening remarks.”

You can’t help but bark a laugh. Right. You’re going to be sitting through a panel led by Homelander with his hotel room on your phone and his come soaking your underwear. 

Your friend sees the look on your face and gives you a curious look. “What?”

“I’ll explain later,” You say with another laugh. “Come on. Let’s hear what the All-American man has to say.”

[dekariosclan]

This is an appreciation post for all the grumpy pics of Gale that I see cross my dash.

Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely LOVE seeing him happy and smiling (wearing his ‘resting sweetheart face,’ as someone brilliantly put it) but whenever I see photos of him brooding or pondering a serious topic or being displeased about something, I can’t help but think about the whiplash a person would get once they actually met him.

Imagine your first impression of Gale when he’s in his battle robes, wizard staff on his back, looking breathtakingly handsome and wearing a stern expression on his face (literally looking like the photo above, from user eekeric) and all you can think is, “Oh my god, I can already tell this guy is going to be an arrogant, blunt, unfriendly asshole. He probably only speaks to people he considers ‘worthy’ of his greatness.”

And then the minute you introduce yourself he hits you with his thousand-watt smile and he’s all “HELLO :) :) :) I’m GALE of WATERDEEP! *shakes your hand vigorously, bows* I can’t help but notice you’re wearing an amulet of Animal Speaking! *chuckles* My oldest and best friend is my own Tressym companion, Tara. Our conversation topics range from roasted pigeon recipes to advice on expanding my social circle to suggestions for my love life. *raises a finger* Have you met any animals that offered you sage advice in regards to your love life or other topics? Perhaps a dolphin with recommendations for a particularly ‘FIN-tastic’ date? *laughs at his own terrible pun* May I fetch you a glass of wine? I’d love to converse further on—”

TLDR: HOW ARE THERE PEOPLE WHO CAN RESIST THIS MAN I SIMPLY CANNOT FATHOM IT