#my legacy needs a follow-up

[anomalyaly]

[exercise-of-trust]

every six to nine months i remember how check please handled the whole kent parson storyline and i get so mad i could spit

[welcometoteyvat]

daydreamed enough sethos and cyno parallels and solo sethos headcanons to properly write a draft outline of a character study-ish thing it's so over for me

also realized i blacked out almost everything in the sethos and cyno conversation before they duel. rewatching the quest im like why did they write it like that man head in hands

[infamousbrad]

I warned you.

About 15 years ago, I had a minor moment of Internet fame when I wrote a lengthy essay series on LiveJournal called "Christians in the Hand of an Angry God." In it, I argued that right-wing evangelical "Christianity" was literally Satanic by scriptural standards, was literally the cult of anti-Christ that Jesus prophesied in Matthew 25:31-46, that they were literally worshiping a made-up guy with the same name to justify cruelty, just like Jesus predicted they would the week before the crucifixion.

And at least half of the people who read it and praised it called it excellent satire. They saw my point, thought I was onto something, but couldn't take seriously that I literally meant what I literally said.

"Do not commit the sin of empathy."

Jesus' prophesy that these people were coming was not especially miraculous, in hindsight. No philosophy or theological movement becomes a large organized church, let alone a majority faith of a nation, without needing rich people's money, and/or government funding, to pay for it all.

And rich people in general, and right-wing governments in general, get to be the way they are by believing that the poor and the down-trodden can never be shown anything but cruelty, should never be rewarded, or else they'll lose all motivation to obey, to work hard, to be good. (By contrast, they believe that the same thing would happen to rich, powerful, popular people if they were ever punished in any way, if they were ever anything but rewarded.)

And rich people and governments are not going to subsidize your church foundation funds, your church repair funds, et cetera if you tell them that they're evil. But someone definitely will come along and offer to take that money. The people who take that money and conform won't even all be lying psychopaths; if you truly believe that your organization matters, is doing irreplaceable good in the world, you'll sacrifice any principle of your faith to keep the bills paid, you'll look away from or excuse any sin. It's that or see it all shrink and crumble into irrelevance.

I've come to the conclusion that it may not actually be possible to be a good person while practicing the majority faith of the land you live in. Or, if it is possible, well, like the man said, "straight is the gate and narrow is the way, and few there be that find it."

The Episcopal Church has its own legacy of sin, they've long overlooked a laundry list of crimes to pay their own bills, so don't rush to congratulate a mainline bishop for preaching mainline Christianity or take too much pleasure from Trump and his fascist followers being surprised that that happened. But do remember this:

From the mid-1970s to the present, right-wing billionaires have poured a LOT of money into church expansion and maintenance conditional on them distorting the Bible's teachings to make it appear that Jesus was pro-fascist. "To deceive, if it were possible, the very elect." So when honest theologians tell you that this is literally anti-Christ, literally checks every box in the Bible's description of the future cult of anti-Christ, you need to hear us.

The modern book and movie image of "the Antichrist" was a well-funded propaganda campaign to distract you from the plain language of the scriptures. The biblical anti-Christ is not some socialist liberal peacenik. The biblical anti-Christ is everyone who tells you that Jesus wants you to be cruel to "the least of these, my brethren" so that they'll straighten up and fly right.

[jaesblogstuff]

Here me out (mentions of pregnancy) From the moment Simon put a ring on your finger, you’ve been bent over every surface in the house. kitchen counter, dining table, even the washing machine mid-spin (i make myself laugh LOL) So it’s no surprise you ended up knocked up. Honestly, it was kind of the point. He wanted to see you like this. Full. Round. Swollen with his baby.

Now, months later, your back aches, your belly's heavy and your husband’s hands are right there, soothing, lifting, holding you together with a kind of reverence that makes your knees weak.

Because if it was his goal to get you like this… then it’s his job to take care of you now that you are.

-------

From the moment Simon put that ring on your finger, he made a quiet, devastating promise with his body as much as with his words.

You’d been bent over every surface in the house. The kitchen counter, hallway wall, the back of the couch, his lap in a dining chair, gasping his name into the crook of his neck, legs trembling while he kept you right there.

It was no surprise, really, that you ended up pregnant.

He'd wanted it. Wanted you round and full with it—his. Not out of ownership, but out of something deeper. Legacy. Healing. The need to build something softer than the war-torn world he came from.

Now, months later, your belly swelled gloriously with the proof of all that want. His want.

And tonight, it hurt.

Your back screamed from the weight, pressure clinging low and stubborn as you leaned over the kitchen counter in the dim glow of the fridge light. You were trying not to cry, not to wake him. But Simon always knew.

You heard his footsteps before you felt him, that quiet shuffle down the hall. And then—

“Back again?” came the rasp, sleep-heavy and warm behind you.

You nodded without turning. “It’s… too much tonight. I can’t get comfortable. I feel like she’s pulling my spine apart.”

Simon stepped closer, hands coasting over your hips, then around to your belly. He didn’t ask, just moved with quiet knowing, slipping his hands beneath the curve of your stomach and slowly lifting the weight off your aching back.

Your knees buckled slightly from the release, from how the ache dissolved under his touch. A long, broken sound fell from your lips, something between a sigh and a whimper and you melted into him completely.

“Oh my God,” you exhaled, your head tipping back to his shoulder. “Simon…”

Simon didn’t say anything at first, just held the weight of you both in his hands. His lips pressed to your temple, then down to your cheek.

“You carry her all day,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Let me carry you.”

Your heart ached in the best way as he held you there, hands beneath your belly, supporting all the strain, all the pain. You let yourself sag into his body, trusting him completely.

“You’re so good to me,” you whispered, arms curling back around his waist.

Simon was quiet for a beat, his voice soft as velvet when it came. “You gave me a home I didn’t know I wanted. You gave me this…” His hand splayed gently across the side of your belly, where your daughter shifted softly beneath the skin. “I’d do anything for you.”

The silence that followed was heavy with love. The kind that needed no words.

Eventually, he helped you back to bed, slow and careful, cradling your body like a sacred thing. And when you curled into his chest, belly pressed to his side, you swore you heard him whisper thank you into your hair.

Like he still couldn’t believe he got to have this. Got to have you.

[ganondoodle]

(and for a few days now, apparently, one of the main guys is going around reddit and twitter and defending the show to anyone that voices criticism, making everything worse bc hes both saying the show is perfect and no ones every done it like them/him, telling people how they felt watching it -as in telling you how you are feeling about it(??)- and also said that viktor is asexual, not to add representation for ace people but in an attempt to invalidate the EXTREMELY popular ship of viktor and jayce bc he doesnt like it, .. haha ... )

arcane season two only had 3 writers left at the end ................. yeah it shows, the more i think about everythign the worse it gets

and if they fumble the whole class divide stuff of piltover and zaun THIS badly ... then oh boi are we in for a ride, cant wait what shit they come up with for the other regions (derogatory)

[alygator77]

motherhood and matrimony

ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader

ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, smut, masturbation, enemies (annoyances) to lovers, opposites attract, fake marriage, marriage of convenience, slow burn, fluff, little angst, mentions of death (satoru's father).

a/n. tysm for another follower milestone! as a thank you, here are some ceo! satoru headcanons for my ongoing fic motherhood and matrimony. this can kinda be considered as a teaser for those that haven't read the series. for those that have read the fic, this fleshes out the circumstances between satoru and reader a bit more, giving us a bit of insight from satoru's POV (and showing how down bad he is, hehe.)

ceo! satoru, who walks into meetings ten minutes late, just to prove he can. he never rushes—the clock bends for him, so does the room. postures straighten, laptops shift, conversations hush—eyes flicking away like they weren’t just whispering about the latest tabloid headline with his name in bold.

he doesn’t give them the satisfaction of reacting—never does. because he’s used to the attention. the scrutiny. the weight of being watched.

whatever… he never asked for this. he’s the heir of gojo corp, he just has to exist… right?

ceo! satoru, who doesn't read half the reports placed in front of him—rolling his eyes during company briefings, doodling dicks into the margins of billion-yen contracts. he slouches in a chair that cost more than most people’s rent—twirling a pen, daring someone to scold him. it’s always his father. it’s only ever his father.

“take this seriously satoru. you need to grow up. have you found a wife yet?”

the pressure of his legacy comes dressed in politeness, in tightly-wound ties and family dinners that feel more like interviews. it’s never ‘what do you want?’ only ‘what will you become?’

people think he’s lazy. arrogant. detached. 

eh… maybe they aren’t wrong? 

and yet, for all his mockery, he still shows up. still puts on the suit. still plays the part with a half-smile and his middle finger tucked just behind his back. because maybe, if he doesn’t take it seriously, it can’t hurt him the way it was always meant to.

ceo! satoru, who keeps people at arm's length, especially women. they whisper his name like a prize—because everyone wants something from him: money, attention, his title, a seat at the table. so? he gives them nothing—flirting without intent, touching without feeling, fucking without consequence. 

love is a transaction. intimacy? a liability. and gojo satoru? he’s tired of being collateral.

so, he stays perfect on paper—sharp in the spotlight, hollow behind closed doors. if he gives them nothing, then there’s nothing to take. 

untouchable, unbothered, and lonelier than he’ll ever admit.

ceo! satoru, who notices you the moment you don’t notice him. you’re new—his father’s latest hire. just another name slipped into a calendar invite he didn’t read, another title he forgot before the ink dried. nothing remarkable. not at first glance. you keep to yourself, all neutral tones and clean lines. head down, posture straight, buried in your work like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered. 

boring, uptight. 

that’s his original impression of you. 

until he makes some offhand comment in a meeting—low, careless, designed to make the room laugh. but this time, you glance up, meeting his eyes with a scowl.

“...are you finished?” you mumble. cold. quiet. unamused.

the fuck? 

it’s always his father. it’s only ever his father. and yet here you are—desk-bound and barely blinking—making him feel like he’s overstayed his welcome—in his own kingdom, mind you.

oh. he’s gonna give you hell.

ceo! satoru, who makes it his personal mission to get under your skin. so, he starts dropping by your office more often. for no real reason—papers he could’ve emailed, questions he already knows the answers to. 

“hey miss secretary,” he drawls, dragging the words like velvet across glass. “miss me?”

he pushes. you push back. he reroutes your calendar and you reroute his meetings. he leaves three unsigned forms on your desk just to watch you chase him down the hallway with your heels clicking like gunfire.

“try doing your job sometime,” you hiss. 

satoru lives for the moments you slip. he’s used to women shrinking beneath his name. you don’t shrink—you scowl. and it’s addicting. because all that politeness you wear in front of his father is paper-thin around him, and your patience is stretched tight over something sharper. 

ceo! satoru, who notices you’ve been late three times this week. not by much—seven minutes, ten at most. but still, late. unusual for someone like you.

you—who normally arrives fifteen minutes early. you—who color-codes schedules and double-checks logistics like it’s second nature. you—who never lets a single thread unravel.

“this company runs on discipline, not excuses,” his father lectures you. “apologies sir… my babysitter has a habit of running late.”

and just like that, the room changes. 

ceo! satoru, who said nothing at the time—just watched. you’re a single mom? he’s thinking about the way you never mentioned a child. the way you never once asked for accommodations. the way you kept your head down and your performance sharp, even when your personal life clearly wasn’t giving you much room to breathe. and for the first time, he wonders if he’s been looking at you all wrong.

because it’s easy to call someone uptight until you realize they’re holding the world together with both hands and no help.

you square your shoulders, taking his father’s lecture like you were used to it. why did it seem like you had practice with swallowing apologies you didn’t owe? that doesn’t sit well with him…

ceo! satoru, who didn’t see it coming. not really. one moment his father is mid-sentence, gesturing over untouched steak and quarterly projections. the next, there’s a tremor in his voice—a hand that doesn’t settle, a breath that doesn’t finish. silver clattering to the floor. staff rushing in. panic rising in the air like heat.

he doesn’t remember the walk to the ambulance, only the stillness of his own father’s body.

ceo! satoru, who knows the answer before the doctor speaks. it’s in the look. the way the nurse steps back. the way no one can meet his gaze.

“it was a heart attack… i’m sorry. he didn’t make it.”

he nods. once. what is he supposed to do—to feel? he doesn’t know what to mourn. the father he feared? the man he resented? the stranger who lived down the hall of his own childhood? the man who spent his entire life, trying to mold him—now undone by something even he couldn’t control. 

there was no grand ending. no dramatic farewell. just silence. 

and satoru—left with all the noise that came after.

ceo! satoru, who stares down at the stipulation in his father’s will like it’s a ghost. and honestly? maybe it is. maybe this is how his father haunts him—not with memories, but with demands.

to inherit full control of gojo corp and the family estate, satoru must be married. with a child. within one year.

he blinks once, then laughs—quiet, disbelieving. of course. of course the man who never trusted him in life wouldn’t trust him in death. control, even from the grave—his father’s final move, final manipulation.

ceo! satoru, who isn’t prepared when it’s you who offers a solution. no dramatics, no buildup—just a simple, “let’s get married.” it takes him a full breath to process it. a fake marriage. a clean deal. a contract that helps you both. 

you—already a mother, already the picture-perfect illusion his father wanted him to build. you—who has everything the will demands, and nothing he’s ever had to pretend to want. for a moment, he’s stunned into silence. because you’re not offering him love, you’re offering him freedom.

ceo! satoru, who doesn’t trust easily, but maybe he trusts you? because you’ve never wanted anything from him, never asked for his attention. you’re practical. smart. tired in the same way he is (he’s just better at hiding it).

and sure, maybe what you’re offering isn’t customary. no emotional attachments, no strings. just terms, signatures and survival. it’s not what his father would have wanted. but fuck it, that’s the point.

ceo! satoru, who is not prepared for the way you kiss him at a public event. he tells himself it was just the heat of the moment, knowing you only kissed him to play your role. he tries to conveniently ignore the way your lips part first, slipping your tongue in, sighing against his mouth, leaning into him like you’re his—like he fucking owns you.

but… this is just a charade, marriage of convenience—nothing more. shit. then why the fuck is he rock hard remembering the taste of you?

ceo! satoru, who only meant to jerk off to you once—just to get it out of his system, okay?! clearly that’s all he needs right? he lasts maybe five minutes before he’s groaning your name, hips lifting as he’s spilling cum all over his abs, shuddering as he fucks his own fist thinking about you. 

there. that’s it. out of his system—no more, right? (wrong)

ceo! satoru, who doesn’t know what’s worse—the fact that it happens again, or that it happens easier. it doesn’t take much now—just the sight of you leaning over the dining table in a robe, a bare leg bent, hair tangled from sleep. the curve of your neck when you tilt your head. the flash of skin when you reach for something too high.

what the fuck is wrong with him?!

you’re not even doing anything. not really. you’re just there—folded into his space like you belong there. moving barefoot through his estate in oversized sweaters and quiet hums, curling up on the couch without a clue what you’re doing to him.

ceo! satoru, who’s never felt this out of control. not in boardrooms. not in interviews. not even in the middle of his father’s most ruthless lectures. but with you? with you, it’s all unraveling—you’re like gravity.

and now it’s routine—fucking his hand to the thought of you, slipping into his bedroom, pants pushed down, fist tight around his twitching cock, muttering curses into his palm to keep from moaning too loud, because you’re always asleep in the room next door.

it’s just stress relief, he tells himself. a coping mechanism. a release.

taking care of a kid is harder than he expected. the pressure’s always building as ceo of gojo corp. and you—you’re always close. always soft. always there.

ceo! satoru, who imagines you on your knees, in his office, tucked under his desk like a dirty secret. he’s slapping his dick gently against your cheek, rubbing his precum all over your pretty little mouth, encouraging you to part your lips before feeding you his cock, inch by inch.

schlick. schlick. schlick.

his filthy faps echo off the bedroom walls—sprawled out on expensive sheets, cock flushed and leaking down his knuckles as his wrist works faster, panting, groaning, lost in the addicting image of you.

“s-shit—fuck—” he breathes, head tilting back, hips rocking forward. “j-just like that… so good f’me, baby… so fuckin’ good—”

your muffled moans would sound so cute, gagging around his cock, drool dripping down your chin as you blink up at him, teary and beautiful. he’d stroke your hair back, whispering praise, thrusting lazily down your throat.

“fuuuck—look at you, so pretty—s-shit…” he’s fraying at the edges, nearly breaking as his strokes grow faster, messier. “p-please—fuck, need it—need your mouth, please… just wanna—nngh…”

ceo! satoru, who fantasizes about cuming across your tongue—your eyes fluttering closed as he tells you to swallow. and you’d swallow it all, wouldn’t you? looking up at him with ruined lips, cum streaking your chin, smiling all coy with those pouty lips he dreams about every night.

“fuckfuckfuck—” his voice cracks, stomach tensing, cock jerking in his hand. “‘m gonna cum— ‘m gonna—fuck—" he gasps, hips lifting off the edge of the bed as his orgasm crashes through him like a tidal wave.

and it wrecks him.

cum spills over his fist in hot, desperate spurts, leaking between his fingers, dripping down his wrist, painting his abs, his shirt, his thighs in thick creamy streaks.

“g-god… yes… f-fuck, baby… f’you, all f’you…” he whimpers, eyes fluttering shut as your name slips from his lips, over and over again like a prayer.

ceo! satoru, who lies there afterward, sweating and spent, staring at the ceiling like it might tell him what the fuck he’s doing. you’re not actually his—you were never meant to be.  sure, you’re his wife, but only on paper, nothing more. so… why do the lines keep blurring? thinning. you’re already under his skin. already in his sheets. in his head. on your fucking knees every time he closes his eyes.

and it’s not just lust anymore.

it’s the sound of your voice when you’re half-asleep. the way you talk to your daughter in that soft, maternal tone, tugging at something deep in his chest. the gojo estate used to feel like a museum. all cold marble and high ceilings, every corner echoing with the absence of something warm. he never realized how empty it felt until you started filling it. slowly. quietly. without trying.

now there’s a pink toothbrush beside his in the bathroom. a collection of tiny socks and hair ties on the entryway table. a soft giggle in the morning light and the scent of syrup in the kitchen air.

your daughter’s toys spill out across the living room rug. your coat hangs next to his in the foyer. your voice carries down the hall like it belongs here.

he wants you like a home he never thought he deserved.

and... that’s the most terrifying part of all.

love is a transaction. intimacy? a liability. if he gives you everything—his time, his trust, the bruised, aching thing in his chest he swore no one could touch—what would you do? would you break him?

a/n. awww... for those that have read the fic it was fun to go back to the start of this story to see how far this pair has come 🥹 i figured ceo deserved his own headcanon, i love my pookie. chapter 10 is in the works. if you enjoyed this teaser consider checking out this fics full masterlist here! i will also be reopening this taglist.

taglist:

@geniejunn @fortunatelyfurrygiver @rosso-seta @acowboykisser @mikyapixie

@shokosbunny @fire-child-kira @aluvrina @laviefantasie @kurookinnie

@poopypipi @painted-hills @stillserene @mira-lol @k-kkiana

@sebastianlover @blueberrysungie @kalulakunundrum @doireallyhavetonamthis @lingophilospher

@ichikanu @artist1936 @christianacj27 @watermelon-online @jkbangtan7

@angelina7890 @aruraa @han11dh @jonesmelodys @k1ttybean

@a-trashbag @jotarohat @khaleesihavilliard @tsukistopglazer @elliesndg

@maskedpacific @that-redheadd @lovelyartemisa @eolivy

@valleydoli @voids-universe @sukunadckrider @aishies-stuff

@saccharine-nectarine @ilianasau @pinksaiyans @gojoslefttoenail

[cbeargyu]

跡継ぎの妻 – the heir’s wife

summary: you marry a stranger in silk—his lips stained with blood and tradition. what starts as a marriage of convenience between a yakuza heir and a public figure spirals into something neither of you were prepared for: protection that tastes like devotion, duty twisted with longing, and kisses that come too late to be innocent. in a world where bullets speak louder than hearts, love might be the most dangerous vow of all.

pairing: yakuza heir!yuta x model fem!reader

genre: mafia/yakuza au, arranged marriage, slow burn, angst, romance, family legacy, redemption arc, forbidden desire, emotional healing, found family, power couple dynamic, smut-heavy, character-driven.

warnings: blood, gun use, mentions of injury, dom/sub dynamics, power play, mature themes, violence, blood, weapons, grief, guilt, trauma processing, complex power dynamics, yakuza activity, arranged marriage, emotional manipulation, emotional dependency, toxic loyalty, gender roles, tattoos/irezumi, canon-typical violence, knife imagery, psychological tension, mention of lingerie photos, political manipulation, clan dynamics, betrayal, male dominance themes (non-toxic), smut in later chapters.

wc: 12,1k

notes: hellooo!! i'm so excited because i seriously loved the idea for this fic and i spent two whole days writing it nonstop hahaha💀 i have to confess that the story had so much potential that i ended up preparing a second chapter and an epilogue🥹 also, i'm taking the chance to celebrate hitting 1k followers!!🥳🎉 i'll be posting them soon so stay tuned!! leave a comment if you want to be added to the taglist 👇 thank you all so, so much for your support, i seriously adore you 😭🫶🏻 thank you for loving and enjoying my fics, i put so much love into them for you and it makes me so happy to know that you like them 🩷🩷

part ii. epilogue

taglist: special dedication to this anon.

@beestvng @bamtor1sss

osaka, japan — summer, 1995.

the streets of osaka never slept. even at midnight, they pulsed with a quiet rhythm — the flicker of neon lights, the hum of motorcycles in alleyways, the unspoken codes exchanged between men in tailored suits with tattoos hidden beneath white shirts. it was a city built on layers of tradition and violence, elegance and blood.

at the heart of it all stood nakamoto yuta.

he wasn’t supposed to be the head of the kansai syndicate. not yet. at twenty-eight, he was too young, too bold, too unpredictable in the eyes of the elders. but when his uncle — the revered oyabun — was assassinated in a dispute gone wrong, the family needed a name to rally behind. yuta had the bloodline. the legacy. and the audacity to wear the crown before it was polished for him.

his rise had been swift and ruthless.

they called him "the camellia snake" — beautiful, dangerous, impossible to read. he smiled with his mouth, not with his eyes. where his uncle led with honor and hierarchy, yuta ruled with precision and power. under him, the organization evolved. businesses bloomed. territories expanded. and those who doubted him learned to fear him.

but fear didn’t keep the police away.

by march, a whisper reached his ear: one of his shell companies — a modeling agency, ironically — had been flagged for financial inconsistencies. anonymous money transfers. duplicate bank accounts. income without origin. nothing damning yet, but close. too close. if the audit moved forward, questions would come. and yuta, for all his brilliance, had no clean answers.

the police weren’t idiots. they’d been watching. too young, too rich, too many homes, too many cars, too many women. they knew. they just needed a crack in the mirror.

“get married,” takuya said.

his second-in-command. older, level-headed. loyal since the days they’d fought with knives in parking lots. “marry a girl with a clean record. a civilian. preferably someone local. someone easy to explain.”

yuta stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “you want me to lie to the japanese government?”

takuya lit a cigarette, eyes narrowing through the smoke. “you’ve lied to worse.”

“i can handle this,” yuta muttered. “negotiate. bribe. threaten. same as always.”

but takuya didn’t flinch. “not this time. they’re smarter. they want to bury you, yuta. not just investigate you. a wife changes the story. you become a man protecting a family, not a criminal building an empire.”

he hated how logical it sounded.

it wasn’t about love. it wasn’t even about appearances. it was about strategy — the illusion of normalcy. the illusion that nakamoto yuta, feared oyabun of the kansai underground, was just a young man in love with his wife, running a few successful businesses to keep food on the table.

he refused, at first. of course he did. he didn’t do relationships, let alone legal ones. but then came the call — a low-level member, breathless, talking about his cousin. “she’s perfect,” he said. “twenty-three. a model. new in the industry. she needs exposure. you need a wife. she’ll agree if you ask.”

yuta didn’t answer. not immediately.

but that night, alone in his penthouse, staring out at the osaka skyline, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

a marriage of convenience. temporary. strategic. two strangers helping each other survive.

he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious.

he’d be lying if he said the idea didn’t thrill him.

the studio smells like cigarettes and desperation masked with luxury perfume — the kind of place that pretends to be high fashion but rots from the inside. you’re standing in the middle of it, arms crossed over the thin silk robe they threw on you, jaw set like stone, fire smoldering in your eyes.

“i said no,” you bite, voice sharp enough to draw blood. “i’m not posing in fucking lingerie.”

people freeze. assistants pause mid-step, makeup artists exchange wary glances, and the photographer pretends to adjust his lens to avoid the tension thickening the air like fog. but they’re all waiting — for your manager to handle you.

hitoshi exhales the way someone does when they’re trying not to scream. “we already talked about this,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. “it’s just lace. it’s not porn.”

you arch an eyebrow, slow, deliberate — the kind of look that used to make men melt and now makes them pray. “lace?” you echo with venom. “what part of ‘lace’ makes it okay to be half-naked on a cheap set so some sweaty assholes can jerk off to the catalog later?”

he flinches. good. but he doesn’t back down — you’ll give him that. he’s known you long enough to know you’re a storm, but he still walks into the rain.

“you signed a contract,” he reminds you, the words clipped and quiet. “we don’t have the money for legal shit, y/n. not now.”

you hate him for being right. hate the pit in your stomach, the taste of swallowing your pride. but most of all, you hate this world — the one where your beauty opens doors only to lead you into cages. you clench your jaw until it aches.

“fine,” you snap. “but if i see one of those photos on some sleazy magazine, i swear to god, hitoshi, i’ll make sure everyone in that room regrets being born.”

no one dares to breathe.

fifteen minutes later, you’re on set in nothing but black lace and stockings. your heels click against the floor as you move — slow, poised, deadly. you don’t pose, you dominate. your eyes burn through the camera lens like a challenge. they want sexy? they’ll get it. but not soft. not sweet. nothing about you is for free.

the next set is red. sheer bra, matching panties, white heels. you hate it. hate the way they look at you like you're a product. hate the heat under your skin that isn’t from the lights. you don’t even know where these photos will end up. probably sold to men with thick wallets and no self-control. the thought makes your stomach twist.

by the time you leave, your throat’s dry, your body aches, and your pride feels scraped raw. you slam the door of hitoshi’s beat-up toyota and fold your arms, staring out the window like it owes you something.

he doesn’t say anything. he knows better.

you came to osaka with nothing but a suitcase and fire in your blood. your parents were farmers in a dead-end village near nara — small, quiet, and too slow for someone like you. you always knew you were different. prettier. sharper. when the boys confessed their love at school, when the village chose you for beauty pageants, when you learned that your smile could buy things, you understood one thing: you were made for more.

so you left. for the city. for a future with lights and power and your name in people’s mouths. you stayed with your aunt — kind, clueless — and her son riku, who was trouble dressed in denim and secondhand cologne. only twenty-one and already tangled in shadows.

you never asked where the bruises on his knuckles came from. didn’t ask about the money he brought home, or the whispers on the phone late at night. his life wasn’t yours.

but that night changed everything.

you’d just slipped under your futon, the smell of setting powder and studio sweat still clinging to your hair. your body ached. your pride ached worse. you weren’t even sure what this was all for anymore — modeling? fame? the slow grind of selling yourself in pieces?

the knock at your door startled you.

sharp. insistent. not loud, but not calm either.

you sat up, frowning, crawling over to the sliding door and opening it just enough to peek out.

riku stood there. panting. pale. eyes wild.

“we need to talk,” he said.

your spine stiffened. you stared him down, unimpressed.

“what did you do?”

“nothing,” he lied too quickly. “just... just hear me out, okay?”

you didn’t move. your body was still. cold. waiting.

“someone wants to meet you,” he continued. “it’s important. serious. could change everything.”

you narrowed your eyes. “if this is about some fucking hostess job, i swear to god—”

“it’s not that,” he snapped. “this is... different. big. maybe dangerous.”

your stomach turned. not from fear — you don’t do fear — but from something colder. something real.

you didn’t say yes. not yet. but something shifted that night. something irreversible.

and you knew, deep down, that whatever was coming… it wouldn’t be something you could control.

not this time.

the room smelled of smoke, incense, and old leather — thick with heat from the summer bleeding through the cracked windowpanes. the shoji doors were shut, sealing the quiet inside, broken only by the soft sound of ice shifting in a glass and the subtle drag of a lighter sparking flame.

takuya stood with arms crossed, the rigid set of his shoulders mirrored in the furrow of his brow. yuta sat behind a lacquered black desk, half-shadowed by the golden glow of the hanging lamp above him. his red hair, slightly tousled, shimmered in the dim light — a harsh contrast to the dark ink crawling up his neck and arms, vanishing beneath the crisp sleeves of his black silk shirt, buttoned down just enough to glimpse the coils of dragons etched across his collarbones.

“we’re being watched,” takuya said, low and direct. “again.”

yuta didn’t look surprised. he never did.

he reached for the sake bottle near his elbow, poured into the small cup with graceful fingers tattooed in black kanji. the designs slithered with meaning, oaths made in blood. he drank slowly, as if considering the weight of every word that came next.

“and your genius solution,” he said, voice rough but eerily calm, “is for me to get married.”

before takuya could answer, riku stepped forward, his palms already sweating, his jacket too big, like a boy playing adult. he held something clutched in both hands — crumpled magazine pages, ripped roughly at the edges.

“not just anyone,” riku said, unfolding them with exaggerated care. “her.”

he laid them on the desk like an offering. photos of you — stretched in lace, seductive, sharp-eyed and radiant. black set first, your gaze commanding, then red — a different flavor of temptation. hair voluminous and curled, thighs wrapped in stockings, eyes cold and untouched. it wasn’t just sex appeal. it was danger wrapped in satin.

takuya blinked, barely disguising his surprise. he leaned forward slightly to examine the photos.

“where did you get these?” he asked.

“they’re from a catalog,” riku admitted, his voice too eager. “she just shot them a week ago. she’s my cousin. moved here from a town near nara, lives with my mom and me. she’s... she’s the most beautiful girl back home. people used to say she was blessed by the fox spirits. twenty-three, smart, proud... she’s probably still a virgin.”

yuta’s head turned — slow, deliberate.

his eyes, dark as a crow’s wing and twice as sharp, pinned riku like a nail to the floor.

“probably?” he echoed, voice like a blade.

riku swallowed, color draining from his face. “i... i just meant she’s not... she’s not like the others. she’s not easy.”

“watch your mouth,” yuta said, softly, but it landed heavier than a gunshot. riku bowed his head.

takuya cleared his throat and straightened his spine.

“i don’t think this is a joke,” he said. “the tip came from above the osaka division. someone’s pulling strings beyond our usual channels. if they open a formal audit, we’re fucked. this girl — a marriage — it makes you untouchable. at least for now. appearances matter. even in this world.”

yuta didn’t answer right away. he leaned back, eyes never leaving the photos, but unreadable behind the icy calm he wore like a second skin. the only movement was his thumb running across the edge of the page — just once — over the curve of your hip.

“and if she doesn’t agree?” he asked.

“she will,” riku blurted, then shrank under takuya’s glare. “i mean... she doesn’t know yet. but she will. she’s ambitious. proud as hell, yeah, but smart. she’ll see the opportunity.”

yuta tilted his head slightly.

“opportunity,” he repeated.

there was a silence then — long and thick. the kind that made men sweat and regret.

outside, a cicada screamed in the heat.

finally, yuta reached again for the sake. filled the cup. brought it to his lips.

“bring her tomorrow,” he said, setting it down. “at dusk.”

he looked up then — first at takuya, then at riku.

“and tell her to wear white.”

takuya nodded once. riku, visibly relieved, almost stumbled backward in his rush to bow.

as they left the room, the door sliding shut behind them, yuta looked back down at the photo still sitting on his desk. his fingers hovered over the image of you — red lace, pale thigh, that scowl on your face like you were ready to burn the world if it ever tried to touch you the wrong way.

he smiled — slow, dangerous.

“white,” he murmured to no one, then leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if trying to see the shape of fate through the plaster cracks.

the car wasn’t riku’s.

you knew it the second you saw it — black, polished, long, too luxurious for someone who still owed his mother rent. it looked like something out of a movie, the kind where people died halfway through and the boss never smiled.

you frowned as you slid into the passenger seat, the leather cold against your thighs, the hem of your short white dress riding up just enough to make you tug it down with nervous fingers.

“riku,” you asked, casting him a sidelong glance, “whose car is this?”

he didn’t meet your eyes. just gripped the wheel tighter, the metal of his cheap watch catching the evening sun.

“i’ll explain when we get there,” he said.

“you sound like someone in trouble.”

he didn’t laugh. that was your first clue.

the streets blurred past — familiar for a while, then increasingly foreign. houses turned to alleys, alleys to shadowed roads, until you found yourselves in a part of town you'd never even noticed on the map. old-fashioned, silent, wealthy in the kind of way that kept its secrets buried deep.

“ever heard of the nakamotos?” riku asked, voice low.

you shook your head. “no. who are they?”

he exhaled, like the name alone weighed something in his lungs.

“they’re... old blood. powerful. my uncle used to say they ran osaka before politicians even had names. people think they’re just a legend. but they’re not.”

“you’re talking about the mafia.”

“i’m talking about something older than that,” he corrected. “this isn’t like the shit you see in movies. they don’t wear suits and flash money in clubs. they wear silence. control. fear.”

you opened your mouth to ask him what the hell you were doing here when the car slowed.

he turned into a narrow stone path, flanked by perfectly trimmed hedges and lanterns that hadn’t lit up yet. at the end stood a traditional japanese house — wide, quiet, beautiful... and terrifying. the kind of place that wasn’t a home, but a domain.

the wooden gates opened without a word. two men stood guard — massive, bald, shirtless under their haori coats, with black ink swirling over their arms like sacred maps. their eyes followed the car without blinking.

your stomach tightened.

you knew those tattoos. old-style irezumi. yakuza.

riku parked, shifted the car into neutral. before you could ask anything, the door beside you swung open and his hand wrapped around your arm.

“come on,” he said, voice softer now. “and... don’t say anything unless spoken to.”

you stumbled out, the white heels you’d chosen digging slightly into the stone pathway before he hissed, “shoes off.”

quickly, you slipped them off, your bare feet meeting the cool wood of the engawa. your dress clung to your skin — tight, delicate, lace-trimmed with a little bow between your breasts. thin straps barely held it up, and the ruffled hem danced halfway down your thighs. it wasn’t the kind of thing you wore to meet strangers. especially not dangerous ones.

especially not him.

your curls spilled down your shoulders like a waterfall, wild and untamed. you felt their eyes on you — the men lounging inside, smoking in silence, watching you pass like a prize being paraded.

riku walked ahead, brought you before a closed shoji door, and then — without a word — dropped to his knees.

you blinked. “riku—”

he grabbed your wrist and tugged you down beside him.

“kneel,” he whispered.

your heart thudded hard as your knees touched the tatami.

the air inside felt heavier. sacred. strange.

riku cleared his throat. “nakamoto-san... i’ve brought her.”

a pause.

then a voice — low, smooth, commanding.

“enter.”

the doors slid open.

and there he was.

seated cross-legged behind a desk, bathed in golden light, red hair glinting like fire under the lamp. tattoos peeked out from the open collar of his black shirt, curling over the base of his throat like serpents. his eyes were the first thing you noticed — black, deep, emotionless. like looking into the sea at midnight.

he didn’t stand. didn’t smile. didn’t offer a single greeting.

he just looked at you.

like you were something being weighed.

and you — still on your knees, barefoot, trembling slightly in your white nightdress — felt it.

something shift.

like the world you knew had just ended at the doorstep, and whatever lay beyond was his to shape.

the room was quiet.

no clocks ticking, no voices murmuring beyond the walls. just the sound of your own breathing, unsteady and too loud in your ears, and the faint crackle of incense burning somewhere in the corner — sandalwood, rich and smoky.

he hadn’t said anything.

yuta sat there like a statue carved from shadow and fire, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to the elbows, revealing more of that swirling ink that marked him as untouchable. the tattoos weren’t flashy; they were traditional — dragons and chrysanthemums, waves crashing across his forearms like they were alive. his hair, a deep blood-red, was slicked back slightly, letting you see the clean, sharp line of his jaw, the slight scar on his brow, the disinterest in his eyes.

he looked at you like a man who didn’t waste time.

like someone used to getting exactly what he wanted.

and right now, his eyes were on you.

you sat on your knees, legs folded neatly under you just like riku had instructed. your white dress — thin, ribbed cotton that hugged your curves — felt suddenly far too revealing. the lace along the neckline dipped just low enough to expose a teasing amount of cleavage, delicate and feminine. a tiny satin bow rested between your breasts, and the hem of the dress stopped a few inches below your hips, ruffled and sheer at the edge. the room was warm, but your skin prickled.

your golden choker gleamed in the soft light, a simple band resting at the base of your throat like a brand.

and yuta noticed.

his gaze flicked to it, then back to your eyes.

you swallowed hard.

“you wore white,” he finally said, voice quiet but firm — the kind that made people listen the first time. “good.”

you glanced at riku, who kept his head bowed.

“stand,” yuta said.

your breath caught.

he wasn’t talking to riku.

you.

he meant you.

with shaky hands, you rose slowly, careful not to trip over the hem. your bare feet touched the cool tatami as you stood in front of him — exposed, nervous, but refusing to shrink.

yuta’s eyes roamed, slow and unapologetic. he took his time, letting the silence stretch as his gaze slid down your body — over the slope of your shoulders, the soft lines of your thighs, the little tremble in your fingers.

when his eyes finally returned to yours, something shifted in them. barely.

interest.

“turn around,” he said.

your cheeks flushed, but you obeyed.

you turned — slowly — letting him see the dip of your back, the way the thin straps clung to your skin, the curve of your ass under the short white dress. the silence behind you was heavy, and though he said nothing, you could feel his stare like heat down your spine.

then:

“enough.”

you turned back, your eyes meeting his once more. his expression hadn’t changed. unreadable. unreadable and yet so incredibly present, like he was already taking possession of something without needing to lift a finger.

“how old are you?” he asked.

“twenty-three,” you replied quietly.

his gaze narrowed slightly.

“virgin?”

your heart dropped. riku visibly tensed beside you, but didn’t say a word.

you didn’t answer.

yuta arched a brow.

“i asked you a question.”

you hesitated, voice barely above a whisper.

“yes.”

a pause.

yuta leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers wrapping around a ceramic cup of sake, lifting it to his lips. he drank slowly. thoughtfully. then set it down with a soft clink.

“good,” he murmured.

you didn’t know what that meant.

but you could feel it — your fate shifting under your feet.

“leave us,” he said.

just as riku began to bow his head to excuse himself, yuta raised his hand with a single flick of his fingers.

“call takuya,” he said, not taking his eyes off you.

riku froze for a second — like he’d forgotten something crucial. “yes, sir,” he mumbled, then bowed quickly and disappeared behind the sliding door.

and now you were alone.

alone with nakamoto yuta.

his eyes were darker now, more focused. he didn’t smile. didn’t move.

“come closer,” he said.

and something in you — something curious, frightened, and strangely drawn — obeyed.

as soon as the door slid shut behind riku, you exhaled, but it came out shaky — barely holding together the storm brewing inside you.

you turned toward yuta, cheeks burning. “what the hell was that question?” you blurted, voice tight and sharp, almost cracking.

he didn’t flinch.

he didn’t apologize either.

he simply looked at you like he was watching a child throw a harmless tantrum.

“i needed to know,” he said coolly, fingers tapping once against the rim of his sake cup. “that information changes things.”

your eyebrows shot up. “changes what?”

“your value,” he said, flat and emotionless.

the words hit you like a slap.

you blinked at him, stunned. “i’m not... some kind of—”

“i didn’t say you were,” he interrupted, still calm. still infuriatingly unbothered. “but where you’re going, who you’ll be playing... details matter.”

you pressed your lips together, heart pounding. his gaze was steady, unwavering. there was no cruelty in his tone — but also no softness. just facts. just business.

like you were already part of the machine.

“you’re here for a reason,” he said, sitting forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze locked on yours. “riku says you’re smart. obedient. pretty enough to catch a man’s attention, but not enough to be seen as a threat.”

you almost flinched again. almost.

he noticed.

“don’t take it personally,” he added. “the role needs someone forgettable. invisible, at first glance. someone no one would look at twice — until it’s too late.”

you didn’t know if that was a compliment or an insult.

you were still kneeling, toes curled into the tatami, your white satin dress clinging lightly to your thighs. the hem brushed against your skin every time you shifted, your bare shoulders cold beneath the dim lantern light. the gold choker around your neck felt heavier now, like a chain instead of an accessory.

you finally turned to look at him. “are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

yuta leaned back in his seat, the tattoos along his forearms catching the light where the sleeves of his dark yukata had slipped. he looked at you like he was reading something only he could see.

“there’s pressure from the police. not just local. national,” he said. “they’re watching us. they want to bring me down.”

you blinked. “so... what does that have to do with me?”

his voice didn’t change. still cold. still even.

“if i marry a civilian woman — someone clean, untouched by our business — it changes the narrative. i stop being the yakuza heir. i become a husband. a man trying to build a quiet life.”

you stared at him.

“you want to marry me.”

“i need to,” he corrected.

“and you expect me to just—”

before you could reply, a soft knock echoed from the other side of the room.

“enter,” yuta called.

the sliding door opened quietly, and in stepped a man in his mid-thirties, sharp as a blade in both posture and gaze. he wore a dark suit with no tie, and even though his arms were hidden, you could still feel the same kind of power rolling off him as the men outside.

“this is takuya,” yuta said without looking at him. “the one who came up with the plan.”

takuya bowed briefly, his eyes scanning you once. no reaction. just cold calculation.

“pleasure,” he said flatly, then got straight to it. “we're currently facing heat from law enforcement. not just the division — higher up. there's a task force building a case. they’re using the press, community outreach, whatever they can. they want to paint yakuza like common criminals. it’s not just raids anymore. they’re aiming for image. public perception.”

you swallowed.

takuya continued, unfazed. “they need something scandalous to latch onto. something to justify pushing deeper. but if we give them a distraction — a different narrative — the pressure dies.”

he looked you in the eye now.

“a marriage,” he said. “to a local girl. innocent. untouched by crime. beautiful, with roots in a quiet town. the kind of story the papers love. the kind of woman that turns a red-haired, tattooed leader into a ‘reformed’ man.”

your heart skipped a beat.

“you want me to marry him?”

yuta’s silence confirmed it before either of them spoke.

“the marriage will be legal,” he said, bluntly. “we’re filing the papers through a lawyer we trust. it’ll hold weight. that’s the point.”

your breath caught.

“we need legitimacy,” takuya went on. “you’re the key to that. the girl from the countryside. beautiful. clean. no record. no history. the media will eat it up — especially when they realize you’re marrying someone like him.”

you looked down, at your dress — soft white, with lace trim over the chest and a satin bow between your breasts. the kind of thing that screamed innocence. riku had made you wear it. said it was yuta’s favorite color on women.

your cheeks burned.

“and what do i get?”

“money, comfort, protection,” takuya said immediately. “you’ll live in comfort. you’ll be kept safe. no one will touch you. not the police. not enemies. not even our own men without permission.”

his gaze hardened. “money. more than your village’s mayor makes in a year. and attention. the kind you can use.”

you glanced at yuta, who was watching you with unreadable eyes. the flames of the oil lamp caught the glint of the gold chain around your neck and the soft shine of your white satin dress, making you look even more delicate — and out of place.

you were barefoot, knees pressing into the tatami, curls spilling down your back like ink on silk.

“so... i’m supposed to pretend to be your wife,” you said, eyes locked on yuta now. “while you do what, exactly?”

he finally spoke again.

“live,” he said. “lead. and make them believe i’ve changed.”

you weren’t sure if it was insane or brilliant.

but deep down, something about the idea — the promise of safety, of being wanted in such a specific, strategic way — pulled at a place inside you that you weren’t ready to name yet.

you didn’t look at takuya when he bowed out, only waited until the door slid shut behind him. silence fell again, thick like smoke in your lungs. you hated it — being spoken about like an asset. like a pawn on some expensive chessboard. like a clean little civilian girl they could dress in white and parade in front of the press.

you crossed your arms.

“you’re a fucking piece of work,” you said, eyes locked on him. “you don’t even ask. you just... tell me i’m getting married. to you. like i’m supposed to be flattered.”

yuta tilted his head. his eyes — those cruel, unreadable eyes — didn’t move from yours.

“if you weren’t angry,” he said slowly, “i’d be disappointed.”

“what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“it means i don’t need a quiet, obedient wife,” he said. “i need someone with fire. someone who doesn’t flinch when men like me enter a room.”

you scoffed. “so you want a wife or a weapon?”

he smirked — just barely. almost not at all.

“both.”

you stood, not bothering to hide the defiance in your posture. your dress flowed around your legs as you stepped closer, barefoot, jaw tight.

“i come from a farm in fucking wakayama,” you snapped. “my parents grow vegetables and wake up before the sun. i crawled out of that life by sheer force of will. i didn’t come to osaka to be anyone’s doll.”

he watched you with an unnerving calm. your temper didn’t faze him. if anything, he seemed... intrigued.

“then don’t be a doll,” he said. “be the woman who stood next to the devil and didn’t blink.”

your chest rose and fell. the white choker around your neck suddenly felt suffocating.

“and what do you get out of this?” you asked. “besides a pretty distraction.”

“peace,” he replied, finishing his sake. “for now.”

you stared at him, still furious — but your fury no longer felt out of place. it felt... necessary. expected. wanted.

he stood slowly, and you couldn’t help but notice the curve of muscle beneath the dark fabric of his yukata, the tattoos peeking out over his chest and wrists like whispered warnings. like stories he didn’t need to tell with words.

he came closer, and stopped just short of your space.

“tomorrow,” he said. “we’ll register the marriage. we’ll make it real.”

your heart thudded — not with fear, but with something heavier. something hotter.

“wear white again.”

“you’re a controlling asshole,” you muttered.

he leaned in, just enough that you could feel the ghost of his breath against your temple.

“good. you’re learning.”

you didn't sleep the night before.

not from fear — you weren’t some trembling girl marrying her first crush. it was the sheer weight of it. the permanence. the fact that when you woke up the next morning, you would legally belong to the red-haired devil with tattoos snaking across his chest. the one who barely flinched when you cussed at him, who told you to wear white like it was some kind of silent power game.

riku arrived at dawn in a black car — another luxurious model that reeked of expensive leather and cigarettes. in the back seat was a garment bag, pristine and white, and a lacquered box wrapped in silk.

“these are from yuta,” he said, handing both over carefully. “he said to wear the western one for the ceremony.”

you pulled the zipper down.

the wedding gown inside looked like it had stepped out of a bridal magazine. dramatic off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, pearl buttons down the back, and a full, billowing skirt that would swallow your legs whole. the lace was delicate, vintage, almost royal. your fingers hesitated at the embroidery.

“jesus christ,” you muttered. “this must’ve cost a fortune.”

“probably did.” riku rubbed the back of his neck. “he doesn’t half-ass anything.”

you didn’t respond, only moved to open the silk-wrapped box next. inside: a traditional shiromuku kimono — heavy white silk with detailed cranes and chrysanthemums embroidered in silver thread. beneath it, folded with exact care, was a note in black ink.

you’ll wear this tonight. we need photos for the papers. — n. yuta

you rolled your eyes and slammed the lid shut.

the ceremony was held at a historic ryotei garden estate outside osaka. the kind of place used for tea ceremonies and old-money weddings. white lanterns floated on the koi pond, and flower arrangements shaped like clouds lined the stone walkway leading to the altar.

your heels clicked sharply against the path, dress trailing behind like a whisper. makeup perfect, lashes heavy, lips painted a soft cherry red. around your neck, a thin golden choker — delicate, expensive-looking, chosen by someone with taste. your hair was still curled and loose, spilling down your back in waves like the night before.

you held your head high. eyes straight ahead.

the photographers swarmed the entrance. local reporters lined the gate. and there he was — standing at the altar in a black montsuki haori, crimson hair tied loosely back, tattoos just barely visible where the robe dipped at the collar. yuta nakamoto looked like a villain out of a storybook. untouched. untouchable.

you stopped beside him, and only nodded once.

he didn’t smile. didn’t blink.

only said, “you look beautiful,” without moving his lips too much.

“you better,” you muttered, “after dropping this much cash.”

the ceremony was both legal and traditional. papers signed first, in front of witnesses — then the vows, recited with low, steady voices. you said them with a precision that almost sounded sarcastic. yuta repeated his in a tone that made the back of your neck tingle. like he was promising more than the words on the paper.

when the priest announced the kiss, you almost flinched. but the cameras were already flashing.

you turned.

you placed a hand on his chest.

and you pulled him in — slow, confident, unflinching. lips pressed to his with calculated pressure, just enough to look like passion, just enough to keep your pride intact.

he didn’t pull away. his mouth stayed still for a second longer than necessary. enough to make you feel heat bloom low in your stomach.

you stepped back first. wiped the edge of your lip with a fingertip. smirked like a queen who always won.

the reporters clapped. someone whistled. riku looked like he wanted to throw up.

you didn’t look at yuta again until after the ceremony, when he leaned in close during the photo op and said under his breath, “i knew you’d make it look good.”

you didn’t answer.

but part of you hated how your heartbeat stuttered anyway.

the reception was held back at the traditional house — the one you'd visited with riku only the day before. everything felt familiar, but colder now. more official. more yours.

the room smelled of sake, tobacco, and incense. a soft string quartet played somewhere in the background, a luxury reserved only for special occasions in this part of the country. long tables were filled with men in black suits, most of them tattooed beneath the fabric, their voices low and respectful. the atmosphere wasn’t celebratory — it was ceremonial. serious. like the birth of a deal.

you sat beside yuta on a low wooden bench, legs tucked beneath your heavy white kimono, the weight of the fabric grounding you. yuta had changed into a darker formal haori — simple, elegant, his hair still tied back, a few strands falling around his face. you tried not to glance at him too often. he didn’t speak much, only nodded at greetings, poured you a cup of tea when the cameras weren’t looking.

the group photo was taken near the engawa, under a blossom tree, everyone lined up behind you both — riku awkwardly stiff behind you, takuya beside him with arms crossed, unreadable. yuta’s hand rested lightly on your knee for the shot. your posture was perfect. expression unreadable.

then came the second photo — just the two of you. you stood side by side on the engawa, backs straight. he tilted his head just slightly toward you, eyes calm. you didn’t lean into him. not yet. but your hands brushed once.

you hated that your skin remembered it.

later that night, in the room they had prepared for you both — a wide, clean space with tatami floors and a low table still holding untouched tea — you sat at the edge of the futon, kimono folded neatly beside you, hair pinned up. your western dress had been carefully stored away. the silence stretched between you and yuta like a tight wire.

he stood by the window, back to you, sleeves rolled up slightly to reveal part of the ink on his forearm.

“you should tell your parents,” he said suddenly, voice calm. “so they don’t hear it from someone else.”

you blinked. “i will. but it’s not that easy.”

he turned slightly toward you. “why not?”

you gave him a tight smile. “you forget where i’m from, city boy. that town barely has working lights. my parents don’t have a landline.”

he paused. then, slowly, walked to a small desk in the corner and pulled out a set of paper, brush, and ink.

“write a letter. i’ll send someone to deliver it in person.”

that startled you more than anything.

“…seriously?”

“i don’t joke about family,” he said, gaze steady. “especially now.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. instead, you took the paper and sat cross-legged to write. your fingers trembled slightly at the start, but you found the words. told them you were safe. told them you were married. left out the politics.

you left out the man standing by the window again, quiet as a ghost.

after you sealed the envelope, yuta finally stepped closer. but he didn’t reach for you. didn’t touch you.

“you’ll sleep here,” he said, voice low. “i’ll take the room next door. just for tonight.”

you looked up at him, surprised.

“what, not going to consummate the deal?” you asked dryly.

his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. “you’re not a deal.”

you held his gaze a second too long. then turned away.

“…thanks,” you muttered.

he paused by the door, then added, “you looked strong today. people noticed.”

you snorted. “damn right they did.”

he left without another word.

you lay back, eyes wide open. married. protected. still you.

and for some reason, that scared you more than anything else.

you woke up to the smell of garlic and soy sauce.

it was a gentle aroma, not overwhelming, but enough to stir you from sleep as sunlight trickled through the wooden blinds. you stretched beneath the soft, white sheets, the unfamiliar futon beneath you barely creaking. your limbs were heavy with yesterday’s weight — the ceremony, the stares, the quiet glances exchanged in front of too many eyes.

slipping out of bed, you pulled the red silk robe from the edge of the futon, tying it lazily around your waist. it clung to you with that subtle sheen, smooth against your bare legs. your hair, still slightly tousled from sleep, was swept into a loose bun, a few strands curling at your nape. barefoot, you padded quietly down the hallway.

you found the chef in the kitchen — a tall, polite man with graying hair tied at the nape. he bowed when he saw you.

“good morning, miss. breakfast will be ready shortly.”

you blinked at the formality, then cleared your throat. “where’s yuta?”

he didn’t look up from the pot he was stirring. “the young master is in his office.”

of course he is.

you murmured a quiet thank you before turning and making your way down the same corridor from last night — where yuta had disappeared into quiet work and you had gone to bed alone.

you knocked once. no answer. you slid the door open.

yuta was seated behind a long wooden desk, papers laid out in front of him, a cigarette resting on a small tray by his elbow. he glanced up when he saw you — and something in his gaze caught, like a moment of surprise he didn’t know how to mask.

you were barely dressed for conversation. the robe hugged your waist too perfectly, a flash of your leg peeking out as you shifted your weight. your lashes curled softly above your half-lidded stare, arms crossed beneath your chest. you didn’t try to hide how comfortable you looked. or how dangerous that made you seem.

“i need to make a call,” you said simply. “it’s important.”

he nodded once, motioning toward the landline on the sideboard.

“go ahead.”

you paused. “can i have privacy?”

that earned you a look — half amusement, half disbelief. then, without a word, he stood and walked past you, sliding the door closed behind him.

as soon as the click echoed in the room, you exhaled. you opened the small leather agenda you always kept in your bag — fingers flipping to the back page where hitoshi’s number was scribbled in your handwriting.

you dialed. it rang twice.

“y/n?”

his voice was frantic, breathless. “where the hell have you been? i’ve been trying to reach you for days—i even came by your aunt's house. it’s empty. what the fuck is going on?”

you bit your lip. “…i got married.”

silence.

then—

“WHAT?”

you pulled the phone slightly away from your ear.

“what do you mean married? married to who?! when? are you even—y/n, are you conscious of what you’re doing?! you have a career, a whole future about to start. you can't just—”

you cut him off gently. “look at the news, hitoshi. or tomorrow’s papers. the answer’s there.”

“but—why?!”

you leaned against the wall, voice calm. “because it was necessary.”

he was pacing. you could hear it in the rhythm of his breath. “y/n, you have contracts. endorsement deals pending. you know what the clauses say—you’re supposed to be single.”

you sighed. “don’t worry about the money. that’s not a problem anymore.”

his voice dropped. “what does that even mean?”

you didn’t answer that.

instead, you softened. “i’ll explain in person. let’s meet soon, yeah?”

after a beat, he agreed. you hung up quietly.

then, without turning, you said, “you can come back in.”

the door slid open slowly.

yuta stepped inside, eyes lingering on your silhouette — the curve of your hip, the smooth dip of your shoulder beneath the robe. your nails, painted white, contrasted sharply with the red fabric as you crossed your arms. you looked the part now. a dangerous, elegant wife. someone who belonged in a room like this — and maybe even someone who could command it.

his voice was lower this time. unreadable.

“who’s hitoshi?”

you raised an eyebrow. “what, jealous already?”

his jaw tightened. “just answer.”

“he’s my manager,” you said firmly. “and i needed to let him know about this situation.”

“you seemed close.”

“don’t start,” you warned, stepping forward, your tone sharp, impatient. “not everyone in my life is someone you need to size up. especially not him.”

he stared at you a moment longer.

and then, quietly — like it surprised even him — he said,

“…you look like you were made for this.”

you didn’t reply.

but you didn’t look away either.

you ate breakfast with your legs crossed under the wooden table, the silk of your red robe brushing softly against your thighs. the chef had prepared grilled fish, miso soup, rice, and a delicate tamagoyaki roll — a traditional spread that felt both luxurious and grounded, like something too refined for a newlywed girl still adjusting to this new life. you picked at your food in silence while the staff moved quietly around you.

yuta joined you ten minutes later, dressed in a dark pinstriped yukata, his sleeves loose, the scent of cologne and cigarettes lingering faintly as he sat across from you. he didn’t say much. didn’t need to. the silence between you wasn’t cold — not quite — but it felt suspended, like a string pulled tight between two people who hadn’t decided what this thing between them was going to be.

you finished eating first. he watched you dab at your lips with the napkin, watched the subtle way you moved, always confident, always so sure of your space in the room. you weren’t the type to wilt, not even under a house full of men who whispered your name like a warning.

“i’ll be in my office,” he murmured as he stood.

you only nodded.

the days passed with a strange kind of rhythm. mornings were quiet — breakfast, then long hours where you wandered the compound’s grounds or stayed in your room, reading, journaling, waiting. there were training sessions in the garden, men bowing to yuta like he was a god, and you saw it clearly now — what kind of man he really was. the way they followed him. the way even takuya never questioned a command. you were living in the center of something vast and ancient and quietly violent, and yet… you didn’t feel afraid.

not really.

yuta treated you with distance, but not cruelty. he gave you space, but not indifference. and in the quiet moments — a shared glance at dinner, the brush of his fingers when handing you a cup of tea — there was something else, something harder to define. tension, yes. desire, maybe. but also… possession. like he was slowly convincing himself that you weren’t just here for the show.

you noticed it most when riku came to inform you of your meeting with hitoshi.

“i’ll drive you there,” he said, pulling keys from his coat pocket. he led you outside to where a glossy black toyota century sat gleaming beneath the trees — a 1994 model, clearly imported with care. it looked like power and old money. when the door opened for you, you slipped inside with practiced ease, dressed in a simple black fitted skirt and a white blouse, minimal makeup, but still polished.

yuta stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching.

“she said he’s her manager,” takuya said from behind him, tone casual. he was smoking again, the end of the cigarette glowing orange in the dusk. “why are you so tense?”

yuta didn’t answer at first. his gaze stayed locked on the vehicle, unmoving.

takuya smirked. “don’t tell me it’s jealousy. i thought this was just a business arrangement.”

yuta’s jaw flexed.

“it’s not that.”

“hm,” takuya exhaled. “then what is it?”

“i’m a man,” yuta said simply, his voice low and firm. “and she belongs to me now. any man would hate the idea of someone else touching what’s his.”

takuya gave a short, quiet laugh. “you’re not very good at pretending, you know.”

the car pulled away.

inside, you kept your eyes forward, legs crossed, fingers resting lightly on the leather seat.

“are you nervous?” riku asked, his voice softer than usual.

“no,” you said simply. “but he might be.”

the meeting spot was a quiet café tucked in a side street near the train station. it was almost empty — just a few people scattered inside. you stepped out of the car and walked in like you owned the place.

hitoshi stood as soon as he saw you.

his expression was pure disbelief.

you sat down without a word.

“…you really went and did it,” he said eventually. “you married someone. just like that.”

“i told you,” you said, tilting your head. “you could’ve checked the papers.”

“oh, i did. believe me, i did.” he ran a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. “but nothing in those headlines explains why. or who. they only say that you married into the nakamoto family, and if you think i don’t know what that means—”

“you’re overreacting.”

“am i?” he leaned forward. “y/n, do you have any idea what you’ve gotten yourself into? these men aren’t just businessmen. they’re criminals. this… this is dangerous.”

you met his gaze evenly.

“i’m safe.”

he scoffed. “he’s got you brainwashed already.”

“hitoshi—”

“no,” he cut in. “you can’t just throw your career away for this. you had a film audition next month. a music contract on the table. i worked for those.”

your voice dropped. “i didn’t ask you to.”

his face froze.

you leaned back slowly, expression unreadable.

“you’re good at your job,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly. “but you don’t own me.”

he stared at you. your tone was cool, sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk. it was the version of you he rarely saw — the version you hid beneath stage smiles and rehearsed charm. the version that came out when you were pushed.

he sat back.

“…so, what now?” he asked. “you going to disappear into his shadow forever?”

you smiled faintly.

“i don’t disappear, hitoshi.”

he watched you for a long moment.

“…i want you to be happy,” he said finally, quieter now. “but i just hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”

“i do.”

he nodded.

then, reluctantly, “i’ll wait for you to call.”

you stood, and he didn’t try to follow.

when you returned to the car, riku opened the door for you again. the ride back was silent. you stared out the window, your reflection ghosting across the glass.

yuta was waiting when you arrived.

he didn’t speak right away.

but his eyes moved slowly over your figure — your blouse now slightly unbuttoned from the heat, the black skirt hugging your hips, your heels clicking softly against the wooden floor as you stepped inside. your hair was tied in a neat twist. you looked untouched. but not untouchable.

“how was it?” he asked at last.

“expected,” you said.

he didn’t respond.

so you turned, arms crossed, leveling him with a look.

“don’t look at me like that.”

his brow lifted. “like what?”

“like you think he’s more than what he is.”

“and what is he?”

you tilted your chin.

“not your problem.”

the corner of his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. not quite anything.

he stepped forward until you could smell his cologne again, feel the weight of his presence wrapping around you like gravity. you didn’t move.

“you’re mine,” he said simply, his voice low, almost soft. “whatever this started as… it doesn’t change that.”

you met his eyes without flinching.

“then act like it.”

you stepped past him, your heels clicking down the hallway like a challenge.

he watched you go — and for the first time in days, he didn’t know whether to follow or fall harder.

the soft knock on the door came just as you were adjusting the strap of your black dress in front of the mirror. the fabric clung to your body like it had been molded for you, emphasizing every curve, every subtle sway of your hips. lips painted red, a delicate gold chain around your neck, hair styled effortlessly to frame your cheekbones—you were the picture of elegance. the kind of elegance that didn't ask for attention, but demanded it nonetheless. when you opened the door, yuta stood there, his dark eyes sweeping over you with an unreadable expression. the faintest smirk curled on his lips.

“you’re ready,” he said, his voice deep, smooth like aged whiskey.

you nodded. “always.”

it was the first time you stood beside him like that—visibly, publicly, as his wife. the police visit had been scheduled days ago, supposedly a routine check. they had heard whispers, rumors about illegal movement, weapons, maybe more. but when the door opened to reveal you—immaculate, poised, clean as paper—their tone shifted. and when they saw the documents, the legal marriage certificate, your name listed as the new owner of multiple boutiques and cosmetic shops around the city, they exchanged glances.

“mrs. nakamoto?” the inspector had asked, uncertain, skeptical even.

you nodded politely. “yes. is there a problem?”

he glanced at the paper again, then at yuta, who remained calm, arms crossed, watching the interaction in silence. eventually, they left. the marriage had erased all suspicion, at least for now. your spotless reputation had become a shield, and yuta had used it like a blade.

that night, as you stood alone on the engawa of the traditional house—the same one you were brought to the first time—watching the moon dip behind the clouds, something inside you felt hollow. it wasn’t about the marriage. it wasn’t about the danger. it was the way he hadn’t come home.

you didn’t want to admit it, but his absence gnawed at your nerves. the house felt too quiet, too still. the shadows stretched in strange ways. your heartbeat was louder than the wind rattling the trees. you remained near the front, robe tied tightly around your waist, sandal-clad feet tapping restlessly against the wooden floor.

a screech of tires shattered the silence.

your body tensed, instinctively stepping toward the door. “yuta?” you called out, voice unsure.

“don’t turn on the lights,” he growled from the darkness, his voice uneven. strained. almost guttural.

you froze, your breath caught. “what—what happened?”

his silhouette appeared under the dim light of the porch. he stumbled, one hand pressed hard to his side, the other braced against the wall. he was bleeding. thick, dark liquid was spreading across his shirt, staining it in ominous blotches.

“yuta—oh my god.” you rushed forward, catching him as he lost balance. your arms wrapped around him, struggling to hold up his weight. something warm and wet seeped through your robe, making your skin crawl.

“it’s fine—just... just a scratch,” he muttered, clearly lying.

“shut up,” you hissed. your fingers trembled as you pressed them against the open wound. blood poured out over your hands, slippery and terrifying. you couldn’t see clearly. your head spun. you were shaking, overwhelmed, but you weren’t going to let him die here.

you pulled off your robe, leaving yourself in nothing but your underwear, and pressed the fabric hard against his abdomen. “stay with me, do you hear me? stay the fuck with me.”

his eyes moved to you, barely focused. but they lingered. his bloodied fingers brushed your arm, slow, reverent. “you look like a damn goddess,” he whispered, his breath hitching.

“you’re delirious,” you snapped, voice cracking.

you bolted into his office, found the notebook with contacts, and dialed takuya with shaky fingers. “it’s bad,” you said as soon as he picked up. “he’s hurt—stabbed—bleeding. hurry, please.”

minutes later, engines roared into the driveway. several men stormed inside. one, enormous, bald and covered in tattoos, barked orders. “get him in the car. now!”

you stood frozen, blood staining your legs, your stomach, your hands. you hadn’t even realized you were crying until takuya’s hand cupped your shoulder. “he’s gonna be fine. it’s not his first time.”

your head snapped toward him, anger flashing through your tears. “what the fuck is that supposed to mean? like that makes it okay?”

he sighed. “you married a yakuza boss, sweetheart. this... this is the life.”

they carried yuta out on a stretcher, still conscious, his eyes locked on you until the car doors slammed shut.

you ran to your room, changed into the nearest jeans and a sweatshirt, your skin sticky, heart pounding, nerves frayed. you were supposed to be used to this. you weren’t. you never would be.

but you’d made a choice. and for better or worse, this was your world now.

“you’re not coming with us,” takuya said firmly, standing between you and the door like a wall. “we don’t know if it’s safe. the ones who did this could still be out there.”

you clenched your jaw. “i don’t care.”

he sighed, exasperated. “you should. if something happens to you, he’ll lose his fucking mind. he’s already half-dead—don’t give him another reason to bleed out.”

just then, another man stepped inside the house, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black coat soaked at the hem. his eyes flicked briefly to you—blood still crusted on your arms—before turning to takuya.

“send a team,” the man said coldly. “find the ones responsible. they laid hands on the boss—i want heads rolling before sunrise.”

your heart skipped. the temperature in the room dropped several degrees. these men didn’t play. and neither did you.

takuya stepped aside, distracted by his phone. in that split second, you slipped past him and out the door.

your legs carried you before your fear could stop you. you flagged the first car outside and ordered the driver to take you to the hospital. he hesitated at first, but the blood on your body, the tremble in your voice, and the fire in your eyes convinced him otherwise.

the ride felt endless. your thoughts spiraled. images of yuta, pale and breathless, leaning on you like he had nothing left to give. the way his blood soaked your robe. his whisper: you look like a damn goddess. you pressed your hand to your chest, trying to steady your breathing, but it only made you more aware of the ache blooming inside.

the hospital was surrounded—unmarked cars parked along the curb, men in black stationed near the entrance like statues. you walked past them, eyes forward, not daring to look weak. no one stopped you. maybe they recognized you. maybe they just knew better.

when you reached the emergency wing, takuya was already there. he turned sharply when he saw you, brows drawn tight.

“you don’t fucking listen.”

“and you don’t get to keep me away from him,” you snapped. “i’m his wife, remember?”

he hesitated.

“where is he?” you demanded.

after a long pause, he pointed down the hall.

room 304.

you stepped in quietly. the lights were dim, the room cold and too clean. yuta lay in the bed, shirtless, wrapped in gauze, an IV attached to his arm. bruises spread like ink under his skin, and the bandage around his abdomen was already faintly stained.

he looked up when he heard the door click. his lashes fluttered, expression softening as he saw you.

“you’re here.”

“of course i’m here,” you said, voice cracking. “i wasn’t going to let you go through this alone.”

his head rolled slightly on the pillow. “told you not to come.”

you approached slowly, sitting at the edge of the bed. your fingers brushed his, and his hand immediately gripped yours, tight, desperate.

“they’re looking for them,” you whispered. “the ones who did this.”

he hummed. “i figured.”

you stared at him, really stared. even beaten and bruised, he was still beautiful. painfully so. his lips were cracked, his hair damp with sweat, and yet when he looked at you like that—like you were the only light in the room—something shifted in your chest.

“you could’ve died,” you said, barely above a whisper.

“i didn’t.”

“you’re not invincible, yuta.”

his thumb traced your knuckle, slow and deliberate. “i’ve survived worse.”

“doesn’t mean i want to watch you do it again.”

he blinked slowly. “are you worried about me?”

you looked away, ashamed by how quickly your throat closed up. “of course i fucking am.”

a silence settled between you, charged and heavy. then, softly, he tugged your hand.

“come here.”

you hesitated, then shifted closer until you sat beside his torso. his free arm moved, gently pulling you down, guiding your head to his shoulder. you melted into him, careful of the bandages, heart thudding wildly in your chest.

“you smell like blood,” he murmured against your temple.

“your blood.”

he exhaled, a sound between a laugh and a groan. “you shouldn’t have come.”

“shut up,” you whispered. “i couldn’t stay away.”

his hand slid up your back, slow and warm, fingers curling lightly at the nape of your neck. it wasn’t sexual—not yet—but it was intimate in a way that made your skin burn.

“you’re shaking,” he said, voice low.

“i’m not,” you lied.

he tilted his head slightly, enough to catch your eyes. “you were scared.”

you didn’t deny it.

then, so softly you almost missed it, he said, “i’m sorry.”

it knocked the breath out of you. not just because it was rare, but because it sounded real. raw. like he meant it.

you buried your face in his neck, breathing in the scent of saline and blood and yuta. “just... don’t make me lose you.”

his fingers tightened against your spine. “you won’t.”

and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. you just lay there—his body battered, yours tense, your heartbeats syncing in the quiet. his touch grew bolder, fingertips tracing the line of your waist where the sweatshirt had ridden up. not enough to be indecent, just enough to remind you that you were both alive, still tethered to this moment.

his lips brushed your forehead.

“thank you,” he whispered. “for disobeying.”

the days passed slowly, quietly, like smoke curling in still air. yuta remained in the hospital, recovering from the attack—each morning his color improved, each night you still woke up drenched in cold sweat, the memory of his blood staining your hands refusing to leave you.

you visited him every day, sometimes for hours, sometimes just to bring him something sweet from the bakery he liked. he hated the hospital food. tastes like regret, he’d mumbled once, wincing at the scrambled eggs.

you would laugh. he liked hearing your laugh. said it sounded like it didn’t belong in a world like his. too soft. too clean.

on the third morning, you received a call from hitoshi.

“i know it’s sudden,” he said, voice crackling with low urgency, “but they need you for the ad. the set’s already built. we’re behind schedule.”

you hesitated, looking over your shoulder at the clock. 8:42 a.m. visiting hours started at nine.

“it’s the commercial,” he added, softer this time. “the one with the energy drink. the ‘neon burn’ campaign.”

you exhaled, one hand gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. “i’ll be there.”

the shoot was loud, hectic, and full of neon lighting. they’d dressed you in a vibrant 80s-inspired athletic bodysuit—electric purple, turquoise, and hot pink, with high-cut sides. mesh leggings hugged your thighs, and scrunched leg warmers clung to your ankles. your hair was teased and pinned high, lips painted with a glossy coral shade, eyes framed by metallic blue shadow.

it was absurd.

and yet you killed it.

even with your heart split in two, you danced, posed, ran down the fake gym set and delivered your lines with energy that felt impossible to fake. the crew clapped. the director smiled. hitoshi looked almost proud.

but you heard them. behind the camera, behind the mirrors.

isn’t that the girl who married a nakamoto?

she’s still working? i thought she’d go into hiding after that shooting...

you didn’t flinch. not once. your back stayed straight, chin tilted, eyes cold and far away. you’d learned that from yuta—how to carry chaos like it was perfume on your skin.

when the shoot wrapped, you slid into hitoshi’s car, pulling off your earrings and tossing them into your bag.

“take me to the hospital,” you said quietly.

he didn’t argue, but he didn’t hide the concern in his tone either.

“you keep walking into fire,” he muttered, one hand on the wheel. “one of these days, you’ll get burned.”

you turned to look out the window, slipping on your sunglasses. “then i guess i’ll burn.”

by the time you arrived at the hospital, the sun had reached its peak. you wore a soft beige set—trousers that hugged your hips, a cropped blazer, and low nude heels. your makeup was subtle, elegant, and your dark glasses concealed the weariness in your eyes.

no one stopped you. they knew you by now.

room 304.

you entered without knocking.

yuta was sitting up in bed, finishing the last bite of toast. he wore a plain black shirt, one of the ones you brought from home, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, bandages still visible underneath. he looked better. less pale. a little annoyed.

“what’s with the shades?” he asked, swallowing.

you took them off and placed them on the windowsill. “blinding lights. needed protection.”

he eyed you, amused. “you look like you walked out of a magazine.”

you shrugged. “it was the commercial shoot. energy drink. eighties gymcore fantasy.”

“so you wore... what, a fluorescent leotard?”

“and leg warmers. don’t forget the leg warmers.”

he smirked. “should’ve been there.”

you smiled faintly, then crossed the room, pulling the chair closer to his bed. he watched you in silence, a hand resting loosely on his stomach.

“you okay?” you asked softly.

“better,” he said. “doc says maybe two more days.”

you nodded, fingers curling slightly over your knees.

“you really went to work in the middle of all this?” he asked, voice low.

“i didn’t want to,” you admitted. “but i needed to remember i still exist outside of this. outside of... bleeding walls and bodyguards and hospital beds.”

he looked at you, really looked. something in his eyes flickered—guilt, maybe. or admiration.

“i heard the crew talking,” you continued. “they think i’m crazy. marrying into this family. being seen with your name wrapped around my finger.”

“they’re not wrong,” he muttered.

you reached into your purse, pulling out a folded napkin. “i brought you something.”

he raised an eyebrow.

you handed him a pastry, soft and still warm. almond filling. his favorite.

“see?” you said, a little teasing. “not a complete mistake.”

he chuckled, biting into it. his shoulders relaxed. for a moment, he looked like any other man—wounded but human, soft around the edges.

“i missed this,” he said suddenly, voice quieter. “us. when it’s... normal.”

“this isn’t normal,” you whispered, eyes flicking to the IV, to the faint red stains on the gauze at his waist.

“no,” he agreed. “but it’s ours.”

you felt something catch in your chest.

“you scared me, yuta,” you said. “that night. i thought—i thought you were going to die in my arms.”

he swallowed. “i know.”

you reached for his hand. he let you.

“and it made me realize... it’s not just about the blood. or the danger. it’s you. it’s always been you.”

he stared at you for a long time, as if trying to memorize your face in this moment—sunlight casting gold along your cheekbones, shadows pooling at your collarbone.

“you were shaking,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “you wrapped your robe around me like it was the only thing holding me together.”

“it was.”

he leaned forward, slow, careful. his face inches from yours.

“i’ve had men take bullets for me. i’ve had people beg to die in my name. but no one’s ever looked at me the way you did that night.”

you exhaled shakily, heart hammering.

“how did i look at you?” you asked.

“like i was worth saving.”

you swallowed hard.

his fingers slid under your chin, tilting your face toward him. you saw the softness in his gaze war with the fire in his touch, that unspoken hunger blooming between you like a bruise. his lips brushed yours—not quite a kiss, not yet—but the weight of it stole the air from your lungs.

“i’m not letting you go,” he whispered. “not now. not after that.”

you didn’t reply.

you didn’t need to.

you just leaned in, lips brushing his again, as if sealing a quiet, dangerous promise.

he came home just as the cicadas began their evening song, the sky burning orange behind the high walls of the estate.

the front gates creaked open, and the commands were already lined up along the stone path, kneeling, backs straight, heads bowed in perfect silence.

the black car door opened. yuta stepped out slowly, his movements still deliberate, recovering. he wore a dark yukata, fabric loose at the collar, bandages still hidden beneath the folds. the sound of his geta against the stone echoed like a heartbeat.

“welcome home, young master,” they murmured in unison.

one of the higher officers stepped forward. “the men who orchestrated the attack have been dealt with. the one responsible… was eliminated last night.”

yuta said nothing at first. his eyes closed, head dipping just slightly, as if acknowledging not just the words but the weight of everything they carried.

you watched from the genkan, leaning lightly against the doorframe, arms crossed. your orange summer dress caught the dying light, soft fabric clinging to the curve of your hips, fluttering just below your knees. your hair was down, loose and warm like the air, and you felt his gaze linger on you even through his exhaustion.

you didn’t say anything. neither did he.

you didn’t have to.

he passed by you slowly, the smell of sandalwood and blood and quiet victory still clinging to him.

the house returned to stillness once he disappeared down the hall toward his room.

later, you stood barefoot in the kitchen, elbows propped on the counter, chatting aimlessly with the chef. he was old, bored, fond of telling stories that made no sense and pretending to hate you even though you knew he liked your company.

“you’re hovering again,” he muttered, chopping scallions. “what, worried i’ll poison him?”

“i just want it done right.”

“it is done right.”

“then let me take it.”

“you don’t need to—”

“he’s my husband,” you said sharply, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. “i’ll take it.”

he blinked at you, then snorted. “possessive little thing.”

“i’m just not decorative,” you said, grabbing the tray.

on the wooden surface, you laid everything carefully: a bowl of miso soup, grilled fish, pickled vegetables, and a small porcelain cup of green tea. nothing too heavy—he still hadn’t regained all his strength. you added a folded cloth napkin and a pair of dark chopsticks.

the corridor was quiet when you made your way toward his room. the sliding door stood closed, warm light flickering through the paper panels. a couple of his men were stationed outside, standing stiff as statues. they glanced at you as you knelt gently before the door.

“yuta” you said softly. “i’m coming in.”

their eyes widened slightly—you hadn’t waited for permission.

inside, yuta sat reclined on his futon, his yukata slightly loosened, revealing the smooth, pale line of his collarbone. his head rested on his hand, elbow propped on a cushion. he was absently tossing a temari ball into the air and catching it with lazy precision, the silk threads glinting in the warm lamplight.

when you entered, he caught the ball midair and raised a brow.

“is this what i get for nearly dying?” he said, voice rough but amused. “a pretty wife and a home-cooked meal?”

you stood, holding the tray. “don’t get used to it.”

“but i like this version of you.”

“the barefoot maid version?”

“the worried wife version.”

you walked over and set the tray in front of him. “you’ll be serving yourself the moment you can stand without wobbling.”

he chuckled low in his chest. “you’re all thorns tonight.”

you sat beside him on the tatami, tucking your legs under your body. he reached for the bowl of soup, pausing to inhale the scent.

“this smells like my mother’s,” he murmured.

you looked over. “really?”

“mm. not exact. hers was saltier. but close enough that it stings.”

your voice softened. “was she strict?”

he took a sip of tea before answering. “no. not with me. she was tired by the time i came along. my sister got most of her anger. i got the leftovers.”

“you don’t talk about them much,” you said, careful not to pry.

he rested the cup on the tray. “there’s not much to say. my parents are gone. my sister left years ago. changed her name. ran away from the family.”

“where did she go?”

“fukushima, maybe. i’m not sure anymore. she hasn’t contacted me since…” he paused. “six years.”

you went quiet. the weight of that silence filled the room, not heavy—but sharp, like the moment before a storm.

“sorry,” you said. “i didn’t mean to—”

“it doesn’t matter,” he interrupted, glancing at you. “i don’t need her.”

he picked up a piece of fish, chewing slowly before he added, “i have you now.”

you looked at him. his voice wasn’t teasing. there was no smirk, no game behind his words. just truth.

you smiled, faint but genuine. “we’re not really a family though, are we?”

he didn’t flinch.

“maybe not yet,” he said. “but marriages evolve. even the fake ones.”

you scoffed lightly, looking away. “you really think this can become something real?”

he shrugged, finishing his tea. “i’ve seen stranger things.”

you let the quiet settle between you again. somewhere outside, a wind chime jingled in the warm breeze.

you stood, brushing your dress down over your thighs. “i’ll let you rest.”

“you could stay.”

you looked over your shoulder.

he wasn’t smiling now.

just watching you, the temari ball still between his fingers.

“stay,” he repeated, softer. “we don’t have to talk. just sit.”

you hesitated, then walked back and sat near his futon, close enough that his hand brushed against the hem of your dress.

he didn’t move it.

neither did you.

you stayed like that until the tea cooled, until his breath evened out into sleep, until you felt the strange ache of something tender begin to bloom—soft, patient, dangerous.

you didn’t dare give it a name.

not yet.

[sukunas-wife]

Being Sukuna’s Pregnant Wife and being worshipped as a diety because you were able to conceive the four armed hulking cursed child, you must have the blessing of fertility

Having a shrine erected in your name because barren women believed you’d bless them with fertility despite your legacy starting with the child of the curse that torments them all

Telling your hand maids “Don’t bring me my clothes, bring me one of the kings robes.” The hand maids flinching and wanting to protest out of fear of taking the King of Curses robes

The poor naive young hand maid that had grown a crush on the king excitedly rushing if it meant she could enter the private bed chambers,

Scoffing with a malicious smile to your loyal maids when they shook their heads with Sympathy, they learned long before at such a request it would be foolish to go alone, at least 2 or 3 of them would need to go in your name, preferably the ones your husband recognized to be by your side the longest. But you didn’t like this new girl, she was too enthusiastic to work at the palace only to have a complete change in character when she learned she was assigned to work for you

“It’ll serve that poor girl right” you looked away from the door when your loyal hand maids brought out a wooden box with one of Sukuna’s folded Kimono’s they helped you dress your swollen belly accentuated by the belt the kimono tailored to fit your husband left you with extra space and length, it was far more comfortable then the Kimono’s and robes you were, the lingering smell of your husband with comforting as your rubbed your belly hands barely peeking from the massive sleeves

“Let’s go see my husband.” Was all you said as you started your walk, the maids followed close as you made it to the bed chambers, the door was open, you looked in, Sukuna sneering down at the girl laying in a pool of blood, Uraume was making quick work of the mess

Sukuna’s snapped to you and his arm’s opening in an unusual display of affection, you walked around the mess to reach him, he pulled you into his left side, one hand on your waist the other making you face him, bring his right hand up he rested his hand on your stomach “Some of your maids need a lesson on how to speak to their king,” he looked away from your face to your stomach as he started to move his hands in circles “So swollen with my child, it’s no wonder you send your maids to steal my robes.”

You smack his shoulder with a playful smile and he chuckled “Don’t say it like that you make me feel bigger than i am.”

“Now,” he looked up at your face again, “why are you here.”

You tilted your head to the side, “I started contractions this morning, I’ve been in pain all day and I’m barely standing, my new maid wouldn’t stop speaking so highly of my husband accomplishing having a child when I was at my worst pain level getting ready to push out YOUR child that I HAD to carry. Anyhow I came to get you because he is ready to come.”

Sukuna stared down at you confused “How do you know it’s a boy?”

“I’m his mother,” he watched as you placed your hand over his stilling his rubbing of your stomach, “I knew he was a boy from the day your seed took.”

Sukuna smirked “Is that so? Then let’s see this boy.”

🖤❤️❤️❤️🖤❤️❤️❤️🖤❤️❤️❤️🖤❤️❤️❤️🖤

After an hour of fighting the doctor tending to your birth you gave birth to your lively son, born screaming without needing stimulation to cry form the doctor. Your husband couldn’t help but laugh when he saw his child in his full glory, he was a boy indeed.

The help immediately gave you your son and you cooed at him when he took to your breast, your husband taking blankets from the maids and covered your son also covering you in the process as you struggled a bit to pass what came next. Your son a spitting image of his father, your breathy laugh caught Sukuna’s attention as he came back to your bed side stroking your hair and rubbing your stomach the way the help had been doing.

“What amuses you?” He watched his son slowly close his eyes as you coddled him closer.

“I’m the one who had to carry him for so long, and the ingrate took nothing from me.” You smiled and shook your head before looking up at Sukuna.

Soon the doctor left after clearing you of any possible issues and checking your son. “His name?” You looked at Sukuna and he sighed “Yuji”

The look of adoration in your eyes was something Sukuna would’ve wanted to capture forever if he could express the sentiment. However for now he’d settle for memorizing every detail of today. His wife birthing his first heir, the name she had chosen he permitted.

Maybe just maybe this world wasn’t so bad

[spideyjimin]

Bloodlines entwined: I | jjk

⤷ having a baby alone was supposed to be easy. but an accidental twist of fate pulled you into a hidden world of werewolves, and ancient bloodlines. navigating your already complicated life becomes even harder as you uncover your past; one tied to a legacy you never knew existed. and in the middle of this chaos stands jungkook, the werewolf king… and the father of your child. 

—  pairing: werewolf!jungkook x female reader 

—  genre: strangers to lovers, parents-to-be au, royalty au, werewolves au, soulmates au, angst, fluff, and smut 

— rating: 18+ 

—  words: 7,213

—  warnings: strong language, mention of death, mention of murder, mention of loneliness, mention of blood, several mentions of abortion, and crying

—  author’s note: here it is the first chapter of this series! <3 i’m actually very excited about this entire universe, i’ve been working on it for a little while already & i’ve been taking my time to write each part 🤗 the beginning is inspired by Jane the Virgin and the Flash as they are both my favorite shows ✨ i hope you’ll enjoy this part & don’t hesitate to let me know what you think 😊  

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Chapter I: when worlds collide

SERIES MASTERLIST | next

Sitting in your car, you’ve been looking blinkingly at the windshield, hands trembling against the steering wheel. For ten whole minutes, you’ve been frozen like this as if moving would shatter the fragile sense of calm you’ve barely managed to hold together.

Your life is about to drastically change; you know it deep down.  

“The deed is done,” you whisper to yourself.

You let out a shaky breath, and your reflection in the rearview mirror catches your eye. You look exhausted, your eyes wide and glistening.

For two years, this moment has been building. You have thoughtfully considered having a child on your own. At first, it was just a random thought that crossed your mind, a curiosity born on one of those quiet, lonely moments where life felt both too much and not enough. Then, you deeply thought about it. The idea rooted itself deep within you, anchoring into something raw and tender: a longing to create a family on your own terms. 

After much research and consideration, you decided to go for it.

Many people couldn’t understand your choice, but honestly, you don’t give two shits about others’ opinions. What did matter to you was the support of close family and friends.

Felix, the man who raised you after your parents were stolen from you, proposed to accompany you to the fertility clinic, but you gently declined his offer. This was something you wanted to do by yourself. Well, you just came alone to be inseminated. Other than that, he has been by your side every step of the way.

He helped you to go through the countless donor profiles, and every document needed for this adventure of yours.

The process was a bit long and emotionally draining. The first steps were more like an evaluation, mostly for the clinic to understand your reasons and ensure you’ve deeply thought about all the aspects. Having a kid alone isn’t just about fulfilling your dreams but also about building a life for a child.

Once you’ve successfully completed those steps, you had to choose the donor. There were a lot of choices; it was like going grocery shopping. You were handed a catalog of potential donors with their medical histories and first names. It felt odd to be choosing the progenitor like this. After going through every profile, one of them stood out.

Following the donor selection, your cycles and hormone levels were tracked. When all was good, you’d get inseminated on your ovulation period, which technically is happening this week.  

So, ten minutes ago, you walked out of the clinic after being artificially knocked up.

If your egg is fertilized, in nine months, you’ll welcome your very much desired baby. A tiny human who will call you mom. You already picked the names, one for a girl, one for a boy. You simply can’t wait to welcome a tiny human in your life. Hopefully, the life of your baby will be better than yours.

You lean your head against the steering wheel, closing your eyes as the ghosts of your past surface.

Twenty years ago, your life was turned upside down when a terrible murderer put an end to your parents’ lives. Nobody ever found him or her; it’s like the person completely vanished into the night. That person left behind a little girl with questions nobody could ever answer and scars nobody could understand.  

Since you didn’t have any family left, you were raised by your father’s best friend, Felix. Over time, he became like a second father to you. Even though you were full of anger when he took you over, he stayed by your side and helped you navigate this sad reality; one where your parents weren’t part of anymore.

His daughter, Lexi is your age. You were already so close, and living under the same roof brought you even closer. She’s your super best friend, almost like a sister today. A smile grows on your face as you think of her. Your life would have been a nightmare without her.

Lexi was the first person to be aware of this desire to become a single mother. She even pushed you to do it as soon as you could, and she has encouraged you like nobody else. She also helped you select a donor; she even made fun of the names of some of them.

Your phone buzzes; the name and picture of Lexi appearing on the screen.

“Hi,” you say when you pick up.

“Soo,” she says. “How did it go?”

“Good, I guess?” you say with clear hesitation. “The doctor just inserted a thin catheter, looked at the screen, and said it was done,” you explain. “Now we just have to wait.”

Waiting is now the worst part, especially since you decided not to take any pregnancy test until the next appointment. Meaning, you have to wait two full weeks.

“Let’s hope the donor’s little swimmers are good ones,” she says.

While you always wanted to have a kid, Lexi never wanted one. You and her are total opposites but that’s what helped create such a strong bond between you. “Yeah, let’s hope for that,” you smile.  

Two weeks later

A couple of days ago, you took a blood test, and now, you’re in the waiting room, patiently waiting for the doctor to call you up.

These past two weeks, you’ve been internally battling to take a pregnancy test. It’s been hard to fight the urge to discover beforehand if you’re expecting or not. On your way to the clinic, your heart was beating extremely fast with nervousness. Even the music playing in the car didn’t seem to calm you down.

Even though you’re extremely nervous, a part of you knows. You can’t explain it, but you feel it deep down. Two nights ago, you were lying in bed completely exhausted after an intense day at work. The rhythm of your heartbeat was rocking you to sleep. Amidst the thrum of your own heart, you swear you could hear a faint, smaller, and quicker rhythm.

You instantly opened your eyes, scanning the room. The sound wasn’t coming from outside. It felt like it was inside you. You stayed perfectly still, listening to that tiny sound. That night, you were rocked to sleep by that new rhythm.

The morning after, as you caught your reflection in the bathroom’s mirror, something felt off. Your brows furrowed as you noticed your own scent was different. It felt like it was mixed with somebody else’s scent, but it wasn’t as strong as yours or any other living human. It was extremely odd.

After a little while, the doctor says your name, and with shaky legs, you walk to her office. Your heart is beating at a very crazy pace, ready to burst at any moment. This is so stressful; it feels like time is moving so slowly.

“Hello yn,” the doctor smiles at you while you’re entering the room. “How have you been feeling?” you now take a seat.

“I’m good, thanks,” you smile back at her.

She sits down at her desk and takes a look at her computer.

“So, did you take any pregnancy test?” she asks.

“No, no,” you answer. “I wanted to keep the surprise for today.”

“I see,” she looks again at her screen before taping on her keyboard.

She seems to quickly read something before her smile widens. Your heart is going completely crazy. It really makes you nervous, and you try to mentally prepare yourself to receive the bad news as well. It’ll definitely break your heart but you’ll try again.  

This entire process is quite expensive, but the payment can be spread out over time rather than made in one shot. With this first payment, you have the right to three attempts. If pregnancy isn’t achieved after those attempts, you’ll have to go through another round and pay for additional attempts.

The doctor mentioned that usually, it takes about three to six attempts to achieve a successful pregnancy. Hopefully, you’ll get pregnant within those first three tries. You’re not entirely sure you’ll be able to afford another round of insemination.   

“Well, it looks like it only took you one try to conceive,” she informs you.

And right there, your heart bursts with joy. There’s indeed a little human being growing inside you. You’ll become a mother in nine months. You can’t believe it.

A little tear runs down your face as you hear the good news. It’s such a relief. You won't have to worry about coming back for another round.

“That’s good news,” you clean the tear on your cheek.

“It is indeed,” she says. “In four weeks more or less, we’ll plan an ultrasound to confirm the embryo’s implantation and check for a heartbeat,” she adds.

Well, you’ll still get worried about that because maybe until there, your baby will not survive. But you need to remain positive. No need to start stressing about it; you promised yourself that you’ll try to remain calm the entirety of the process and pregnancy so you’ll offer a great beginning of life to your baby.

“I’m very hopeful everything will go well because both you and the donor are in good health,” she says.

“Let’s hope for that,” you answer.

You then proceed to schedule the next appointment in four weeks. You can’t hide the immense smile on your face. This is the best news you got today. Nothing else will ever be possible to ruin this day.

When you leave the clinic, you instantly call Lexi.

“I AM PREGNANT!” you scream with excitement.

“Yeeeah,” she screams as well. “I’m going to be an aunty!” she adds.

“I’m so relieved that this first attempt was successful,” you admit.

Once you get inside your car, you touch your belly to caress it.

“That baby is so lucky to have you as a mother,” she says after. “And even more lucky to join our family.”

For sure, your family will extremely love this baby. It’s such a desired baby, and everybody has been so excited.

“They’ll be so loved,” you reply.

“There’s absolutely no doubt,” she says. “Dad will be so happy about this news; he’s been so excited to become a grandpa.”

Felix has expressed lately that he couldn’t wait to welcome a baby and become a granddad. This man has raised you for twenty years, and you consider him as a second father. There’s no doubt that your baby will see him as their grandfather even if, biologically speaking, he isn’t.

When you hang up, you stare into the void for a couple of minutes. In this moment, you wish your parents would be here. They would have been so happy to become grandparents, but they won’t be by your side for this new chapter of your life.

They are also the reason why you’re doing all of this. Since they passed, there’s been a tremendous emptiness inside you that even the love of Felix couldn’t fill in. This void stems mostly from the fact that you were left alone when they were killed. You’ve been feeling so lonely since then.

Throughout your life, you tried to fill it with relationships but they all failed. As far as you can remember, you wanted to follow the traditional path to build a family. However, it never worked out. Then, one day, you saw a brochure about single mothers, and you’ve been thinking about it since then.

You’ve seen motherhood as a role that will fill this emotional void you’ve been carrying for years. Plus, you’ve also seen it as a way to finally control your life. Twenty years ago, someone decided for you what your life would become. This wasn’t fair.

And you also want to give your baby the life you never got. You want to give them a loving family that won’t disappear the second the parents die. Outside of your parents, you didn’t have a family. Based on what Felix told you, your grandparents were against your parents' relationship so they moved into another city to live freely and build a family.

Life hasn’t been fair for you, but you want to make it fair for your baby.

Two weeks later

The clinic called you this morning to urgently come in the afternoon, only making you grow concerned during the day. You kept wondering what the reason for such urgency would be. Did they notice something when they did the blood test? Did they get the wrong blood test? Are you even really pregnant? 

However, you’re a hundred percent sure you’re carrying a life inside you. You haven’t had the ‘normal’ early symptoms yet, but you can feel your baby inside you. The faint heartbeat can still be heard, and there’s still that subtle scent interwoven with yours.

For the past two weeks, you’ve repeatedly inhaled this new scent, almost to make sure you weren’t hallucinating. Most of the time, you wondered if it wasn’t something like blood, sweat, or the smell of your new shampoo. It was definitely an earthly one. One that only a human can possess.

Once inside the clinic, you’re instantly installed in the doctor’s room. Your heart is crazily beating inside your chest; you’re so nervous right now. Seconds later, a man joins you in the room.

At first glance, you’d think he is the CEO of a huge company. He’s fully dressed in a black suit with a white shirt underneath, his hands casually placed in his pants pockets. This man is extremely charismatic; something about him draws you in.  

The man looks at you while frowning, his eyes moving from your eyes to your belly. By reflex, you cover your stomach with your hands. He’s making you uncomfortable with his intense stare.

He has a very strong bestial scent, it predominates his cologne. Everything about him is imposing, even the way his heart beats; it’s so calm while yours is completely erratic. The man’s eyes are clued on you.

The doctor arrives right after and closes the door behind her. Her face is quite serious; she even seems concerned.

“Miss y/l/n,” she takes a seat at her desk. “Mister Jeon,” she looks at the man behind you. “Please take a seat.”

The two of you sit down next to each other with apprehension. You can hear his heart beating a little faster, but he remains extremely calm on the outside.  

“There’s been a mistake,” she starts saying.

The words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. The doctor pauses, giving you time to absorb the gravity of the statement. Her tone is gentle, but at the same time professional.  

The sterile, cold walls of the room seem to close in around you as the doctor’s words pierce through your thoughts.

“There was a mix-up with the sample…” your breath is caught in your throat, your hands trembling. “We were supposed to inseminate you with the donor sample you selected. We still don’t know how but you got inseminated with Mister Jeon’s sample.”

Your eyes look at the man sitting next to you. All you can see in his eyes is the same disbelief that reflects your own. So, this is your child’s father.  

Many questions cross your mind, but they remain unspoken, lodged in your throat.

“We truly apologize for our mistake,” she says. “We were totally aware you both wanted to have a child alone.”

You desired nothing more than being alone in this adventure; you didn’t want a present father. That was the whole point of a donor. Now, you know the father of your child, and he’d probably like to be present.

For the past months, you went through a series of questions regarding the fact that you’ll raise your child alone. They asked you many times how you’d explain to your child that they don’t have a father. This now feels like a complete waste of time.

“We understand the nature of this situation. We will refund the totality of the treatment’s costs. We can also terminate the pregnancy if you both wish.”

Those words seem so heavy and yet, they represent the reality of the choice you now have to face. A knot tightens in your stomach at the thought of undoing something you wished for so long. The baby is now growing inside of you, you’ve got used to falling asleep with their tiny heartbeat. The only thought of not having it anymore breaks your heart beyond comprehension.

Right now, everything—your carefully constructed plans, your hopes, the small life growing inside you—seems to be slipping through your fingers.

Mister Jeon is silent beside you, his hands clenched into fists on his knees. He seems as stunned as you, but you can’t help but think that there’s something else there too. Something deeper and darker.

You ignore if he’s thinking the same thing as you, but you can feel it: the strange twist of fate pulling you both into an unknown world, one you both hadn’t planned for.

“You still have some time to decide, of course,” the doctor’s voice is still very soft.

Time seems irrelevant now. There’s a choice you need to make; a choice you didn’t expect to face. You swallow hard, your heart racing inside your chest. Your hands caress your belly through your shirt while you only hear the baby’s fragile heartbeat.

This isn’t supposed to happen. This can’t be real.

Jungkook’s face went pale as the doctor’s words sank in.

“There’s been a mistake,” she starts saying.

Just like you, the room’s white walls feel suffocating, the air thick with a tension he can’t shake. A mistake. His mistake. He tried to avoid this situation. He was supposed to go through surrogacy to guarantee a child that would uphold his lineage. His werewolf lineage, pure and untouched by human blood.

“There was a mix-up with the sample…” the doctor’s words hang up in the air like a death sentence. “We were supposed to inseminate you with the donor sample you selected. We still don’t know how but you got inseminated with Mister Jeon’s sample.”

His eyes quickly look at you, and he notices how much you’re shaking. It seems like you’re in a more devasted state than he is.  

“We truly apologize for our mistake,” she says. “We were totally aware you both wanted to have a child alone.”

Jungkook blinks, trying to absorb what is happening. A human child. Nonetheless, his child. Having children with humans isn’t just a personal choice; it’s a fundamental rule of the werewolf society. The very foundation of his power as the king depends on the purity of his bloodline. To break the rule is to risk everything.

He knows better than anyone what happens to the werewolf-human hybrid kids together with the parents. They are killed by the pack. Being a king doesn’t make him the exception to the rule. If this pregnancy goes to full term, not only will he be killed, but the baby and the lady sitting next to him will too.  

You didn’t ask for any of this. You don’t deserve to die because of a mistake. 

His gaze filled with frustration and panic moves toward you once more as his pulse quickens. He wanted control over the situation. He never intended to father a hybrid child. And now, not only is he involved in this pregnancy, but the child is going to carry his blood mixed with human genetics. God only knows what can happen to this kid, genetically speaking.

“We understand the nature of this situation. We will refund the totality of the treatment costs. We can also terminate the pregnancy if you both wish.”

‘This can’t be happening’, he thinks.

His eyes move back to the doctors, his hands clenched into fists. The thought of the entire werewolf community learning of this is unbearable. And what is his mother going to think of this?

She was the first person to support him in this surrogacy journey. She knew how important it was for him to have a child as soon as possible because he’d been struggling to find someone with whom he’d mate. Having an heir is the first thing a king should do to ensure the legacy.

Now, he’s about to have a child with a human. That’s not possible. This child won’t have a pure bloodline, this child can’t ever be an heir.     

“You still have some time to decide, of course,” the doctor’s voice is still very soft.

The idea of termination seems dreadful, but the possibility of a hybrid child heir seems even worse. His responsibility as king, and the traditions that have been in place for centuries don’t allow for such breach. To raise a kid with human blood would mean instant disgrace, not only for him but for his entire family. How could he even be respected after this?

His entire world is slipping through his fingers. His position as king is now in jeopardy. This baby will destabilize the entire werewolf community. Nobody will respect him and will only see him as weak. Weak for having a human child.

There’s no going back. His mind tries to find a solution to fix this, or how to undo this. The idea of raising a child with a human—no matter how much it is his responsibility—is unthinkable. He never desired this and hasn’t even considered it. He has been so focused on maintaining his bloodline that the idea of a mistake happening never crossed his mind.

Your presence beside him destabilizes him beyond comprehension. He can see the confusion in your eyes mixed with disbelief. You can’t comprehend the extension of this entire problem. You can’t even comprehend the danger of mixing bloodlines, because you aren’t a werewolf.

Jungkook stands in silence for a moment, his mind racing with thoughts. Terminating this pregnancy isn’t something he desires, but having a child with a human is simply impossible. His heart beats too crazily, and he can hear yours beating just as fast. His heart and duty are pulling him in two different directions.

Finally, his eyes meet yours. His voice is soft but it carries a heavy weight. “We need to decide. This affects both of us.”

After what felt like an eternity, you both leave the room completely shaken up by the news you just got. How could this be happening?

As you’re both walking in the clinic in the parking lot’s direction, none of you dares to speak. You’re a complete stranger to Jungkook. All he knows is that you’re a human carrying his child. 

“I can’t have that child,” he finally breaks the silence.

His words cause you to stop.

“It’s too early for me to consider terminating this pregnancy,” you admit. “I need time.”

Jungkook understands your perspective. It’s not a decision you lightly take, especially if you’ve come to this clinic to have a child. It’d be completely absurd to abort after going through this entire process.

“Of course,” he says. “But I want you to know my point of view.”

You nod, understanding his perspective as well. This is such a horrible situation. Jungkook wanted to have an heir while you simply wanted to have a child on your own. On top of that, he doesn’t look like the donor you selected.

“So if I decide to keep it, would you be out?” you ask.

Jungkook considers your words. There’s a possibility that the baby could still exist, but he wouldn’t be part of their life. He’d still be losing because he wants a child, but at least this way, his position wouldn’t be jeopardized, and no one would get hurt or killed.  

“It’s possible,” he honestly answers.

You nod once more. Even though he decides not to be part of his child’s life, he’d still know that he has a kid somewhere. He wouldn’t have any trouble finding you; he already knows your smell, and he has the means to find you.

“Okay,” you say.

Jungkook watches you take a pen and paper from your purse before writing something.

“This is my phone number,” you hand him the piece of paper. “In case you change your mind or take a decision.”

The man takes the piece of paper while you give him a small smile. You start walking away, his eyes following you until you disappear inside a car.

In this situation, he definitely would like to ask his mother for advice, but he can’t. He already knows the answer she’ll give him. ‘This baby can’t exist.’ And she’s right, but he can’t force you to terminate the pregnancy. It’s your body after all.

In the eventuality that you decide to proceed with the pregnancy, he guesses he’ll let you be a mother alone and pretend like this kid doesn’t exist.

You’ve spent the last two days crying in bed. The conversation with the doctor and this mysterious Mister Jeon has been playing over and over in your head. You can still picture everything so clearly; the white walls of the doctor’s room, the apologies from the doctor, and Mister Jeon’s piercing gaze.

‘There’s been a mistake,’ ‘There was a mix-up with the sample,’ the words still echo in your mind.

You’ve been trying to make sense of how such a monumental mistake has happened. But nothing seems to make sense. The clinic did this; the clinic took control over your decision. This chapter of your life was about you gaining control, but once more, someone decided for you. It’s been making you angry.

You’re furious at the clinic and their negligence. You trusted them with your project of building your own family. However, they decided otherwise.  

But underneath that anger, there’s another fury; one directed to yourself. You were so focused on having a child on your own terms that you didn’t stop to consider the what-ifs. You didn’t stop to consider that something might go wrong. And now, you are here.    

You’ve been staring at the ceiling for hours now, your mind trying to find a solution. Do you keep this baby? Do you terminate the pregnancy?

This choice feels impossible. It feels like no matter what your life will completely change.  

But deep down, you somehow feel some kind of relief. Because when Mister Jeon—this intense and charismatic man—said there was a possibility he’d walk away, that he’d leave you to raise this child alone, you felt lighter.

His potential absence is appealing. It aligns with your original choice, to be a single mother. A choice where your child is yours, and yours alone. But then, there’s also a possibility where he stays, or that he comes back later. What would happen then?

You press your hands against your face while a guttural growl leaves your lips. This is so damn frustrating. This should be simple. Because now, you’re left wondering what you want. Do you want to walk away from this and stick to the original plan? Or do you want to embrace this chaos, and see where this might lead?

Your hands slide down to your stomach, caressing it while you hear again the tiny heartbeat. This sound comforts you which makes you close your eyes.

For now, you don’t have any answers to all your questions. You’re not even sure you’ll have them tomorrow. For now, you’ll let yourself breathe. You’ll let yourself feel. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll find the answers.  

The sound of your phone ringing pushes you out of your own thoughts, informing you that you received a message. You sit on your bed before grabbing the phone on the nightstand. You received a message from an unknown number. By curiosity, you unlock your phone to read it. To your surprise, it’s the famous and mysterious Mister Jeon.  

From unknown: hi miss y/l/n, this is jeon jungkook, the father of your child. i’d like to meet you to discuss the matter. would you be free tonight?

Your heart hammers inside your chest, ready to burst at any second. He contacted you sooner than expected. You were thinking that you wouldn’t hear anything from him for at least a week. You thought you’d have more time to make a decision before meeting him. Now, it seems you don’t, and that you’ll have a very interesting conversation with him tonight.

With shaky hands, you start typing your answer.

To unknown: hello mister jeon, we could meet tonight

When you press ‘send’, you stare at the conversation, waiting for an answer. Mister Jeon responds instantly to your message, proposing to meet in a town square. You accept the suggestion and quickly go to your clothes cupboard to pick up an outfit.

The man seems very impressive, and you want to be presentable. He’s after all the progenitor of the life growing inside you.

A couple of hours later, you take the road to the meeting point. Surprisingly, you’ve remained calm for the entire drive. Driving is actually the only thing able to calm your tormented soul. Whenever you go through something very intense, you just drive to clear your mind.

However, since this pregnancy thing, even driving hasn’t been able to help you out. You tried to drive yesterday, but it only made things worse. So it definitely surprises you that you’ve been able to clear your mind before meeting Mister Jeon.

When you arrive, he’s already there waiting for you. He’s not wearing a suit, quite the contrary. His outfit is only made of a grey sweater with a blue pair of jeans. His hair isn’t perfectly pushed back as it was two days ago. It feels like you’re meeting a completely different person.

When he sees you, he stands up. As he does so, you notice he holds a box in his right hand. It’s a small one, but it still intrigues you.

“Good evening, miss y/l/n,” he says.

“Good evening, mister Jeon,” you say back.

His presence is still very imposing, but the fact that he isn’t wearing a suit anymore changes it a bit. He seems more approachable than he was in the clinic.

“Please call me Jungkook,” he offers you a small smile.

It’s the first time you see him smiling, and it feels like a very warm one. Beneath it all and in the midst of the city noise, you can perceive his heartbeat. It’s quite rapid which makes you tilt your head. Is he nervous?

“You can call me yn as well,” you smile back at him.  

“I’ve brought you a box with some pastries,” he hands you the box. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like.”

Your smile grows wider at his simple but heartwarming gesture. This wasn’t expected, but it lightens the mood. Jungkook seems to be a nice person which contrasts with the cold and unreadable person he seemed two days ago.

“Thanks,” you say while grabbing the little box. “You didn’t need to,” your eyes look up at him.

After that, you both sit down on the bench he was on before you arrived. By the way he rubs his hands on his tights, you can tell that he’s a bit nervous. You try not to overanalyze him, because you know your mind will go crazy, full of questions.

“What is happening is really crazy,” he admits with obvious nervousness. “I never imagined things would go this way,” you nod.

Jungkook looks everywhere, except at you. It seems like he isn’t brave enough to face you, almost like a teenager confessing his love.

“As I told you two days ago, I can’t have this child,” he finally speaks. “I really would love to, but I’d put the three of us in danger.”

Your heart starts beating rapidly. What does he mean by ‘putting you in danger’? Does he come from a crazy family? Is he part of the mafia? This is scaring the hell out of you.

“We didn’t know each other up until two days ago, and you don’t deserve to be put in danger because of a stupid mistake the clinic did,” he seems angry when he mentions the mistake. “But I can’t force you to terminate the pregnancy, it’s your body, and it was also your wish to have a child. I can’t take that away from you.”

It kind of surprises you how respectful he is. Any other man in his position could have forced or paid you to put an end to this pregnancy. It’s really admirable.

“In case you want to keep going with it, I just want you to know that I’ll step away, and I will never come back to reclaim a role I refused from the beginning.”

You wonder what the reasons behind his decision could be. This man desired to have a child but is now refusing to have one with you because of a mistake.

“To be honest with you, I don’t know what to do,” you admit.

His piercing eyes finally look at you. For a split second, you can swear that they were red. Red like blood. This destabilizes you, and you furrow your eyebrows. You’re not sure if you’re being delirious or if this is real.

“I wanted to become a mother, but not like this,” you continue, still destabilized by what you just saw. “So it leaves me wondering what I should do. But if you walk away, I’ll be more tempted to keep the baby because, in the end, it’ll go as I planned.”

In an unexplainable way, this man puts you at ease. It feels like you can confess how you truly feel about this situation without being judged by him. This man exudes serenity which draws you even more to him.

“I get that,” he says.

For a brief moment, you only look at him while your heart peacefully beats in your chest. His dark eyes stare right into your soul, and it feels like the world completely stopped. There’s just the two of you. But Jungkook breaks the contact, looking in another direction.

“If you decide to keep the child and need any financial help, I can give it to you,” he speaks.

This man definitely seems like a good guy, and you wonder even more why he’s walking away from this.

“I won’t,” you answer. “I wouldn’t have done this if I didn’t have any means to take care of the baby.”

For sure you need financial stability to be a single mother, and you would have never embarked on this adventure without having it.

Jungkook runs his fingers through his fluffy hair, avoiding still your gaze. “Can I ask why you want to become a single mom?”

The question catches you off guard. You weren’t expecting this man—this stranger—to be interested in you.

“I didn’t have an easy life and I grew up without my parents,” you confess. “Motherhood was something I aspired to have in my life since I’m very young, and I’ve desired to give to my child everything I didn’t have. No matter if it was with someone or alone.”

Your eyes shift from Jungkook to the square full of people. It’s never easy to express out loud and to a complete stranger why you embarked on this adventure. Mentioning your parents is actually never easy; even after all this time.

Suddenly, you feel Jungkook’s gaze on you, but he doesn’t say anything. He just stares at you in complete silence. For once in your life, people’s heartbeats and scents don’t suffocate you. You can hear and smell them, but it’s like it doesn’t matter.

For as long as you can remember, you’ve had those developed skills. You can hear stuff from afar, and you can strongly smell people’s natural body’s scent. Since it’s kind of ‘normal’ to you, you got used to it; but sometimes, and especially when you’re in the middle of heavy crowds, it suffocates you. It becomes simply too much.

This is something you never told anyone, too scared to be judged. Undoubtedly, people would say you’ve gone crazy due to the trauma of losing your parents. Not even Felix or Lexi knows about it. They just think you’re agoraphobic.

However, lately, you’ve been trying to go to some crowded place to overcome this suffocating feeling. You ignore why you’ve been doing it, but you’ve been doing it. It’s still too much, but today, next to this complete stranger, it doesn’t feel like it.

“I’m sorry you lost your parents,” he whispers.

You turn to look at him to offer him a little smile.

“Thanks,” you mumble. “Can I also ask you why you’re doing this?” you dare to ask.

Jungkook nods before looking away once more. It definitely looks like it’s hard for him to hold your gaze.

“In my world,” he starts saying. “I have heavy responsibilities, and having a child is one of them. But I can’t have one with anybody. I’m very limited in who is the biological mother so that’s why I can’t have one with you.”

You almost feel offended by his words. In which kind of world can’t you be the mother of his child? It’s completely crazy!

“Oh,” you simply say.

“You could have been the surrogate…” you can hear some kind of chuckle. “But never the progenitor.”

“It’s seems like a tough world.”

His eyes look again at you; you can see that he seems to hesitate with the answer.

“It isn’t,” he finally says. “But it is with me.”

Obviously, he carefully chose his words.

“Well, I hope you’ll find the right mother for your child,” you offer him once more a little smile.

“Thanks,” he smiles back at you.

The two of you look back again at the people walking in the town square. They are walking around you, ignoring totally what you’re going through, what tough decision you have to make. They ignore everything about you, just as you ignore everything about them…  

“I’m sorry about all of this,” he adds.

“It’s not your fault,” you answer. “It’s the clinic’s.”

Jungkook shifts uncomfortably, his gaze fixed on the people walking in front of you. His heart is racing and piercing through your ears. He’s even more nervous than he was before, and it concerns you a bit. But you don’t say anything, too afraid to scare him off if you reveal you can hear his heartbeat.  

“Yn…” he starts. “There’s something you need to know,” his voice is deep and low at the same time. It’s so low that it almost drowns out by the distant chatter of people passing by.

You turn to look at him, your brow furrowing. “Okay,” you whisper.  

Jungkook takes a deep breath, his jaw tightening before he exhales. His eyes don’t meet yours immediately, but when he does, there’s an intensity that makes your stomach twist.

“When I said my world is different,” he swallows with difficulty. “I don’t mean it in a metaphorical sense. My world, my reality is not the same as yours.”

You frown even more, confusion plastered all over your face. You’re definitely incredibly confused. How could his world be different than yours? You live on the same planet, and breathe the same air. How could it be not the same?  

“What do you mean?”

Jungkook gets closer, his voice dropping even lower, barely audible. However, you still hear it perfectly.

“I am not entirely human, yn.”

Your breath catches in your throat, your heart skipping a beat. You stare at him while waiting for him to elaborate. However, Jungkook just stares at you, waiting for your reaction.

“What do you mean by ‘not entirely human’?” you tilt your head.

For a couple of seconds, he doesn’t speak, almost as if he’s scared to reveal his true nature to you.

“I’m a werewolf.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and impossible to ignore. It leaves you wondering if this man is of sound mind. Right now, you’re slightly concerned about his mental health, and the future of your child, if you keep them.

Your first reaction is to laugh, dismissing his words as if it is some kind of twisted joke. But the look on his face tells you that he’s deadly serious. This isn’t a joke.

“A werewolf?” you repeat to make sure you hear it well.

Jungkook nods. He looks tense and he maintains his deep glance on you.

“It’s why I can’t have this child,” he starts to explain. “In my world, bloodlines matter. Werewolf bloodlines are sacred, and the continuation of my lineage isn’t just about having a child. It’s about having the right child with the right kind of mother.”

The weight of his words crashes over you like a tidal wave. You stand up, your hands running through your hair. Your mind is spinning, and your pulse thunders in your ears. This is something you definitely weren’t expecting to hear today.

Werewolves? You’re carrying the child of a werewolf?

This sounds like it comes straight from a fantasy movie.

“This doesn’t feel real,” you whisper to yourself but Jungkook hears it.  

“I didn’t want you to be dragged into this world, but you deserve the truth.”

You keep your back turned to him while you cross your arms against your chest.

“This is something you need to consider if you decide to keep the baby.”

At his words, you freeze. Instinctively, your hands down move to your stomach. Jungkook’s eyes follow your hands.

“Is this…” your voice trembles. “Is this a viable child?”

If you want to keep going with this pregnancy, you need to know if this baby can survive.

“There wouldn’t be any reason why this child wouldn’t survive because of mixed blood,” he stands up and gets close to you. “But as they grow up, they’ll develop werewolf abilities. And, one day, they’ll probably turn into one. It’s pretty unpredictable, though. There’s never been a human-werewolf hybrid before.”

Damn, this is leaving you speechless. How can this be real? Werewolves are supposed to exist in movies, not in real life.   

“This is insane,” you rub your hands on your face. “This can’t be real.”

Jungkook steps closer. His presence is grounding but nonetheless overwhelming.  

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” you demand, your voice filled with panic.  

Before you can blink, he gets even closer to you. He’s in front of you in an instant, his hand gently grabbing yours. Your eyes look down at his hand as you notice it changing. His fingers elongate, his nails sharpen into claws, and the texture of his skin turns into something more beastly. Slowly, your eyes look up, and what you see completely freezes your body.  His eyes glow a deep, predatory red, and there’s something undeniably wolfish about them.

You take a step back while setting your hand free. As you do so, Jungkook shifts back, his hand returns to its normal form, and his eyes fade back to a human form. The transformation is so quick that it almost feels like you imagined it.

“So what happens now?” you ask.

Jungkook’s gaze softens at your words.

“That depends on you, yn.”

Please note that the taglist is closed

[astroxrion]

Your Hidden Abilities based on your 10th House:

(Status,Legacy,Reputation,People Presenting)

Aries in the 10th

You were built to dominate but your hidden skill is resilience under pressure. When shit falls apart you get sharper. You lead when everyone else freezes. You’re the one that makes chaos follow your direction. Authority isn’t optional. It’s who you are under fire.

Taurus in the 10th

Your power is in consistency but your hidden edge is silence. You build behind the scenes so steady no one sees it coming. By the time they notice you it’s too late to catch up. You win by outlasting everyone who moved faster but meant less.

Gemini in the 10th

You sound like chatter but your real power is information warfare. You know what to say how to say it and when to make it land. You can talk anyone into a yes and outthink any room. Influence is your baseline. Mind games are your specialty.

Cancer in the 10th

They see nurture but miss the strategy. You read people and predict moves like a psychic in a suit. Your ability to lead with emotion is your weapon. You make people trust you then take the throne while they’re still thanking you for caring.

Leo in the 10th

Your shine is loud but your hidden power is loyalty. When you commit to the vision nothing can move you. People think you want the attention but what you want is legacy. You’re building something that outlives applause. That’s what scares them.

Virgo in the 10th

You look quiet but you control everything. Your hidden skill is precision under pressure. You see mistakes before they form and solve problems before others notice. You lead through detail. Your perfection isn’t pretty. It’s surgical.

Libra in the 10th

You look soft but you move like a diplomat with a knife behind your back. Your hidden power is negotiation. You know how to get what you want without ever raising your voice. People follow you because they think it’s their idea. That’s the trap.

Scorpio in the 10th

Your presence alone shifts the room but your true power is control. You see what’s not being said. You play long games. You don’t move often but when you do it’s permanent. You’re feared for a reason. You never lose. You just wait.

Sagittarius in the 10th

You joke and charm but your hidden weapon is vision. You see beyond the moment. You map futures. You know how to move a crowd and shape culture. You teach what frees people and make it profitable. You make expansion look easy.

Capricorn in the 10th

Everyone sees the grind but your hidden power is discipline so ruthless it scares people. You will outwork outplan outlast without flinching. Your name becomes law because you built the system that runs it. You’re already in control.

Aquarius in the 10th

You look detached but your mind is five steps ahead. You invent systems before the world knows they need them. Your hidden skill is innovation that can’t be copied. You don’t lead the room. You rewire it. The future answers to you.

Pisces in the 10th

They underestimate you because you’re soft spoken. But you move through intuition like a ghost. Your hidden power is influence through energy. You can read a room and bend it. You lead without force. You make people follow what they feel.

Get an Astrology Reading With me : https://www.tumblr.com/astroxrion/784631769533136896/o-my-readings-the-rion-code-o?source=share

[sparrows4bats]

Inheritance AU

What if after Ras died, Damian accidentally inherited the League?

As in, he wakes up one day to an army of Assassins following him around like ducklings.

Damian didn't intend to become the Demons Head, not since he joined his father and embraced a life of heroism alongside his family.

His brief time at Lazarus Island and subsequent possession had only harden his resolve.

But the death of his grandfather and his reconciliation with his mother had made him start to reconsider how he is most useful to the world and the weight of the legacies he has carried since birth.

Damian grieves a lot of things. His grandfather and the relationship they could have had, Respawn, his biological brother and how he never got to know him properly, Alfred and how Damian caused the death of his greatest supporter and sometimes, on his worst night, he greives the child he never got to be.

But he's dealing with it.

Maybe.

It's sometimes hard to resist the urge to flee Gotham again and head back to the island where everything was simpler.

But his father and siblings keep a close eye on him now because apparently entering a death tornament was not an appropriate grieving process. Which he finds ironic coming from the people that became vigilantes because of their own experiences with death.

All of this is to say that Damian is back to living as normally as he can, with school and crimefighting, and so far, it has been uneventful.

Until he wakes up to find five Assassin's in his bedroom.

Damian prepares to fight for his life and grabs the sword that he keeps under his mattress and the dagger he keeps under his pillow, only for cloaked figures to kneel before him.

"We are here to pledge our loyalty, Demon Head."

That is not what he expected. At all.

"I am not the Demon Head."

"According to your grandfather, mother, and aunt, you are. The man that defeated the Lazarus demon and the true heir to the Al Ghul."

He was going to kill his mother. "I was disinheirited when I came to Gotham."

"Not officially, your grandfather even rewrote you into the line of succession before his death."

"My mother is much more suited to the role, would you really rather follow a vigilante?"

"The Demons Daughter has her own interests, the League of Assassins follows the Al Ghul, and you are the most worthy Al Ghul."

Damian doesn't know what to say to that. "I am no longer an assassin, I do not take lives anymore."

One of the dark figures moves forward. "We are aware sir, you need not sully your hands not when we shall do it for you!"

"No! No killing people for me!"

"But sir-"

"I said no."

"Is that an order sir?"

Damian groans and decides he can't deal with this. He goes to the Batcave, and the gaggle of Assassins follow him.

Batman is very confused by the deadly men that are in his home, following his youngest son like loyal puppies.

Unfortunately Father is not much help. The Assassin's claim they are the royal guard a d cannot leave Damians side. They are very polite and promise not to start trouble.

The bat doesn't trust them, but everytume they try to kick them out, they come back like a bad penny.

Damian gives up after the eighth attempt.

They try to get in touch with Talia only for her every contact to tell them she is on vacation and not to be disturbed.

Nyssa isn't any help either. She pledges her allegiance to Damian with a shit eating grin while handing him a stack of paperwork.

Apparently, the League of Assassins keeps a very detailed paper trail. Damian puts his business management and finance education to use very reluctantly.

Damian then tries to foist his new kingdom on his cousin Mara. She laughs in his face and gets the entire Demons Hands to give him oaths as well.

His family, apparently unaware of the fact Damian was a literal prince before coming to them, have a break down.

What do you mean the League is the size of a all country and you are it's leader?

No wonder Damian thought Bruce was poor when he first got to Gotham.

After a while, Damian starts to accept it, unfortunately. His guards never leave his side, even when he tries to ditch them. He still doesn't know where the tracker is.

When he is in school, they hang outside the windows or in the rafters. Damian has to actually behave so they don't attempt to murder his teachers for scolding him.

When he shops, they shadow him. They all get a taste for boba and Damianbuys them little treats on hard days.

Damian can't believe how often he has to stop them from killing people who attack him on patrol.

Dick and Bruce laugh at him and call it payback.

Damian has regrets. Many regrets.

Especially when Steph starts to befriend his guards.

Jon laughs at his predicament even as the Assassins try to assess his worth as their leaders partner.

Damian actually calls himself the Demon Head in order to get his guards to save a group of children.

And Damian has a realisation that maybe, just maybe, he could use the League as it was originally intended.

To Save the World and the Innocent.

And if his army of Assassins aren't happy, they should at least leave him alone.

Nyssa gathers paperwork and allies, and they slowly reform how the League operates.

They fund humanitarian missions, environmental research, and conservation.

They use centuries of Ras Al Ghuls medical research to create pharmaceuticals, surgeries, and treatments. They cure so many diseases and prevent others through free vaccination programmes.

Damian gets his mother to run that side of things while he earns his own medical degree as is family tradition.

Damian puts the League almost unlimited wealth to use lobbying for taxing co operations and creating accessible green energy.

He does alot of good and instead of the organisation crumbling under the changes he makes, it grows.

The Justice League signs an official alliance.

Damian earns undying love and loyalty from his grandfather's followers by doing good.

What he doesn't realise is that any that disagree or pose a threat to the new Demons Head are quietly taken care of.

Damian is slowly turned into a proper royal once Talia, Nyssa, and Mara force him into better clothing and jewellery befitting his status.

Jon chokes when he sees Damian dressed in Silk and gold for the first time.

Damians guard dogs eye him suspiciously, and Jon has to force himself not to touch his best friend.

He starts going on diplomatic mission and living in the public eye, much to everyone's fascination and his families distress.

When the topic of marriage comes up, Dick panics when he overhears Talia discussing an arranged marriage with Nyssa and suitable candidates.

In that panic, he talks to Jon Kent.

Jon knows Damian is for all intents and purposes a king, but it hadn't hit him what that means.

And if he was honest with himself, the idea of a snobby little royal marrying Damian felt like a stab to the heart.

So the Super flies to Damian to ask who he is marrying, much to his confusion.

Damian never agreed to an engagement. Couldn't have, he is already in love with the jealous fool in front of him.

When he tells Jon this, he doesn't expect to get kissed for his efforts or for his guards to stab Jon with Kryptonite.

They go through the official courting process after that. Talia insists upon it.

[arayapendragon]

how i shift 🦉

it took me years of experimenting, trial and error to realize i don’t need methods, subliminals and guided meditations to shift. while i do agree that these tools can help you shift, because they do work for many people, my recent experiences have helped me understand that all you truly need to shift is yourself, nothing else. and nothing can ever change that. 

you simply need to have an awareness, which you obviously do ahahaha. to shift, you just need to align that awareness to your desired reality. here’s how i do it:

i decide where i want to shift to, and think about that reality for a while

i acknowledge the fact that my desired reality exists somewhere in the multiverse, and that it is possible to become aware of it

i embrace a “fuck it, whatever happens, happens” mindset and let go. i detach from the outcome (to shift)

i become equally open to both waking up in my cr and waking up in my dr. i put neither event above the other, i am okay with either of them happening. if i shift, that’s great. if i don’t, that’s okay. i can always try again. i have all the time in the world to do so. 

i decide that i will wake up in my dr and fall asleep

i wake up in my dr 

i've noticed that each time i used this technique, i shifted successfully. its helped me with 2 intentional shifts, and several other shifts to one-off dr’s and random realities in the past, so i can assure you that this works! :) this is a simple technique for overthinkers or people who don’t like methods. it helps you embrace your natural talent, and proves how easy, effortless, and natural shifting can be. 

here’s my 2 success stories from using this technique:

last october i was taking an afternoon nap and spontaneously decided to shift to my hogwarts golden trio era dr. i fell asleep while affirming "i am" and woke up on the train to hogwarts, exactly as i'd scripted! i was standing outside the compartment, and all my senses were present in that reality. i could hear the train horn, the sound of the people talking, i could see the interior of the train in front of me, and felt the chugging of the train beneath my feet.

this image is very similar to what i saw during that shift

2. i wanted to shift to my hogwarts legacy dr yesterday night. while falling asleep, i decided that i was going to wake up on the hogwarts express, but was also equally open to waking up in my cr. i didn't mind either outcome. i let go and fell asleep. as i woke up, something felt different. my eyes were closed but i was no longer lying down - i was sitting upright. i was no longer in a still and silent environment - i felt the chugging of the train engine beneath my feet. i quickly realized that i had in fact shifted to my hogwarts legacy dr and was on the train to hogwarts. i shifted back after a minute as i was quite dazed and disoriented, but i shifted nevertheless!

my advice 

don’t try to follow someone else’s steps. do what resonates with YOU, its your journey. 

embrace the process and each step of your shifting journey. demotivation is normal, you’re only human, it won’t stop you from shifting. 

realize that you don’t need anything to shift but yourself. if guided meditations and subliminals work for you, then keep at it! but if you’re not making any progress with them, its time you rely on yourself rather than external aid to shift. the power lies within you, its always been there. 

there's no need to put in effort while doing your method 

simply thinking about your dr and deciding that you want to be there can help you shift

go with the flow, be spontaneous and have fun

stop doing things that aren’t working for you

detach from the outcome of shifting, it will happen eventually, don’t focus on it happening too much

happy shifting! 🩷

[momotonescreaming]

8x18 coda, set post episode . Bucktommy. No character bashing, but I wanted to explore Buck and the 118's strained dynamic a little.

"Hey! Buck!" Chimney calls — Captain Han now — lightly jogging across the station floor towards him. "I haven't seen anything come across my desk, but I need something in writing that you're not transferring anymore soon, or it'll be too late."

He looks lighter. Happier. Starting to settle into the role of Captain, into the shoes Bobby left behind. Figuring out the paperwork, his legacy, how to run a team. He's doing well, Buck has no problem admitting. He'll be a good Captain. Just maybe not for Buck.

He takes a deep breath.

"I-I'm not rescinding my transfer request." Buck says, trying to keep his voice steady and not to waver. He tries to remind himself that he's not being selfish. That he isn't being mean. That this isn't a personal attack. That he's not taking this back just because Chim gave a speech. "It was a nice speech, but, uh, I need to do this."

He adjusts the weight of his duffel bag on his shoulder, breath stuttering in his chest, and tries not to falter.

When Chim gave that speech, addressed to everyone but very pointed at him and a little bit at Eddie — he felt guilty. That sickly coil of guilt and shame writhing in his gut. He was making everything about him again. He tried to follow Bobby's last wishes for him — look after the 118 — but it turns out they didn't need him. They didn't want him. And only now, once they're healing and piecing the crew back together that they need him to fill the gap.

But he stays strong. The 118 is just a number, it's just a station. Chimney will always be his brother-in-law, he just won't be his captain.

He's not going to rescind his transfer request.

"Buck, c'mon," Chimney starts, sighing, gesturing with his hands. "We're a team, we can honour his legacy together, all of the 118. Together means everyone."

"Sure hasn't felt like it," Buck mutters, low enough that he doesn't care if Chim hears him or not. He barrels on, voice louder. "I've made my decision Chim, so don't try to change my mind."

"What's this really about, Buck?" Chim asks, exhaling. Buck's fingers fidget and tap against the strap of his duffel bag, and he hopes he doesn't look as uncomfortable as he's starting to feel. That Chim can see him struggling against retreating into himself. "That we didn't do your little grief assessments? That Eddie left? That we were grieving? Come on, what happened to being a team sport?"

"Me?" Buck replies, the word falling out automatically. His heartbeat starting to race, brow furrowing. "I tried to be there for you all because Bobby told me to. Down there in that lab, he said the 118 would need me."

He can feel his face heat, anger lacing his words. He doesn't want to do this, but first they don't want him around, he's exhausting — and now they won't let him leave. Buck takes a deep breath, and a step back. Lets himself calm. "But apparently Bobby was wrong. You don't need me. So I'm doing what's best for me. The 118 will never be the same, I-I'm not stupid, I know without Bobby things have changed and have to change. But I want a fresh start."

Buck takes another deep breath. "So thank you, Cap. I expect to hear back about my transfer soon."

And then he ducks into the locker room.

---

"Do you think I'm making the right decision?" Buck asks, voice slightly muffled from where he's pressed into Tommy's side. Tommy, his not quite ex, not quite boyfriend, but one of the only people who's been there for him. They're talking, working towards something, both in agreement about where they want to head. So Buck's curled up on Tommy's plush couch, leaning into his side, crocheted throw blanket over their legs. "About transferring?"

"I can't tell you what to do, or what to think," Tommy starts, and Buck's stomach sort of drops before Tommy starts absently rubbing his thumb in calming little circles. He shifts — only slightly — and rests his head on top of Buck's. It's nice. He takes a slow breath, breathing in the scent of Tommy's detergent and that daily cologne he wears. "But do I support it? Of course I do."

And oh, Buck didn't realise how much he needed — or wanted — to hear that until he did. He was always going to transfer, once he set his mind on it, once he put through the request that was it — but it's nice to be supported so outright. Tommy says it so casually, so plainly, as if supporting Buck is the best and easiest thing he's ever done.

"The 217 was my fresh start, maybe this will be yours." Tommy says with a small shrug, trying not to jostle them too much.

Buck turns, and presses a gentle kiss to Tommy's clothed chest. He feels, more then he hears — Tommy's breath hitch. He hopes Tommy gets what it means. Thank you, I love you, I needed this. Thank you for letting me be selfish.

"Did you miss it?" Buck says, turning back and adjusting his hold in Tommy's arms. "The 118?"

"I did, yes. Bobby had started family dinners, had started to open himself up a bit and bring us all closer together." Tommy starts, sounding a little wistful. "And I knew no other station would have that. But I knew before I left that it already wasn't the same."

And oh, doesn't that sound familiar.

"My partner had been suspended and reassigned to another station — he's captain of the 122 now, by the way." Tommy continues. "—and I was coming to terms with the fact that I was gay, and I was trying to be less of an asshole. In the end it felt like I had too much baggage there. I needed a fresh start. So I asked for a transfer. I also wanted to fly again, so it worked out well."

"Thanks for telling me," Buck starts, voice low as he gently squeezes Tommy's side. They've been doing a lot of that now too — opening up, acknowledging it, thanking the other for it. It was working for them. They didn't want to rush it. "It helps. I-I'll always miss the 118, what Bobby built, but I think I need to do this. I want that fresh start, where people don't have the image of probie-Buck hanging over their heads."

"Exactly," Tommy says, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, lips soft against his curls. Buck relaxes into it.

[aphrodicci]

ꜱᴀᴛᴜʀɴ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ'ꜱ ᴋᴀʀᴍᴀ

I DON'T CONSENT FOR ANY OF MY POSTS TO BE COPIED ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND TO BE COPIED INTO ANOTHER LANGUAGE.

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"𝐝𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐦𝐞, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐮𝐞 𝐦𝐞."

⟶ saturn in astrology is the main commodity in the spirituality that governs karma that the child inherits from their father. saturn is the teacher in astrology and in Greek Belief, can be seen as kronus.

♱ if you don't know of kronus' story, he was told that a child of his would be able to inherit his status and over take him. thus, he began to eat his children, and when zeus was born, gaea fed him a stone a size of a child and hid zeus away until he was strong enough to take down his father and save his siblings.

♱ and after his take down of kronus, zeus inherited his father's status and began to rule mount olympus. in this lesson, we can see jupiter as the good you get after the defeat of inherited karma.

♱ we can see an example of kronus eating his children and zeus having the inherited karma to have many children.

SATURN IN THE SIGNS AND HOUSES ⬎

♇ SATURN IN ARIES/1H ⟶ father might've been someone who had too much of an ego, father might've been someone with a strong temper, and you having this saturn placement means you have to be someone who learns how to control your anger and even libido. this placement could indicate that your father might've been a lazy person and didnt strive for the potential he could've had, so now you have the responsibility of being someone "who has to make it", and even being someone who is pioneering and successful. could feel ashamed easily when you dont see yourself progressing in life. could also have the karma of being someone who thinks more clearly and not "do first and think later". your father also could've been overly dominant, so you have the karma of being someone who has to be less power-hungry.

♇ SATURN IN TAURUS/2H ⟶ father might've been someone who didnt know how to handle finances. might've been someone who spoke over people and dismissed the opinion of others. could've been someone who was too lazy to make money, and too stubborn. your father might've been someone who couldnt keep it in their pants as well, and wasnt really grateful for the things in his life. so you have to be someone who needs to find your value, a stable way to make money. having to be someone who is patient with other people, and even being close to your family members. this placement can imply that you could have the karma of being the one who is the money-maker in your family. could even have to find a healthy life style with food.

♇ SATURN IN GEMINI/3H ⟶ like the taurus/2h, your father might've been someone who spoke over people and didnt consider the opinions of others. your father might've been someone who spoke poorly behind other people's back and even might've stolen from other people. whether is be possessions and ideas. so you could have the karma of learning how to speak in a healthy way with other people, being someone who has to develop critical thinking and going through trials and tribulations where you are held accountable with much things you do. people with this placement might find themselves always going through something, so doing the most small ill thing to someone could cost you a lot. could go through a lot of stalling moments in life because you might have to rid of your two-faced ways. could also mean might find it hard coming up with ideas as you have to learn how to be original.

♇ SATURN IN CANCER/4H ⟶ this placement can imply that your father figure might've been someone who was distant with their family and even absent. might've been someone who was manipulative and not emotionally caring, your father figure might've been someone who didnt leave a legacy, so now you are finding yourself being the person who has to work towards greatness and leave a legacy and will for the descendants. and might even not want to have children because of how you were brought up. could have a fear of children or having a family. could have the karma of having to have a family and not repeat the same mistake as the father, doesnt need to be your own family. could be found family. this placement could also mean you have to learn to be emotionally intelligent and mature. if you want your own family, there's a lot of generational curses you have to stop.

♱ SATURN IN LEO/5H ⟶ saturn in the fifth house can imply that your father might've been into infidelity, could've been someone who wasnt as present in your childhood. with the leo influence, could be someone who might've restricted the fun out of other people, even their goals. could've been someone who was too arrogant and didnt care about the feelings of others. currently, you could be someone who could be struggling to reach your goals and knowing how to let loose. this placement could mean you could have the karma of not repeating bad habits onto your future children, if you do want some. or could have the karma of not getting into much relationship because "badness" normally comes out of it. might have to learn to not be controlling of others, and running away from romantic partners who could be very controlling.

♱ SATURN IN VIRGO/6H ⟶ similar to the 5h and leo section. this placement can insinuate that father might've been controlling towards other people, might've been someone who didnt care about their own health or the physical or mental health of others. might've been someone who allowed obstacles to stop them from reaching who they're supposed to be. now you could have the karma of having to overcome slothness, having to be someone who has to fight through much daily problems, and even having to be a health-freak because you could be someone who is easily sick. this placement can even indicate of having to suffer through bad co-workers.

♱ SATURN IN LIBRA/7H ⟶ once again, similar to 5h. saturn in both libra and in the seventh house could indicate that your father might've been someone who has destroyed homes and relationships. a player a cheat. could've been someone with a bad reputation, and might've been harsh and mean to other people. could've taken the advantage of other people as well. and for you, this could mean you could the karma of being someone who doesnt get into much relationships, or almost every relationship you get into is karmic. there could always be this circumstance where you always have to prove your goodness to other people, and meeting people who are unnecessarily mean to you. people from your father's past disliking you as well.

♱ SATURN IN SCORPIO/8H ⟶ your father might have been someone who was too overly dominant, might've taken stuff from other people and even abused their power onto other people. this placement could also mean your father might've been someone who was too intense and even too dangerous. so, with you, you have one of the biggest karmas compared to other people, having to learn how to stand up for yourself because sometimes you might feel like you can allow people to walk over you. having the karma of not getting inherited money and having to build that for yourself. could also mean could feel undervalued, and trying not to feel valued through sex and even drugs. this could mean you might attract lethal company, having to strengthen your discernment so you know who to run away from.

♇ SATURN IN SAGITTARIUS/9H ⟶ saturn being in either the ninth house or sagittarius shows that your father might've been someone who forced their beliefs onto you or other people. might've been over-domineering with their views in the world, and might've been someone who disappeared in your life a lot, or was just very immature. you could have the karma of going through a lot of things, might've met life's roughness and cruelty early in your life. you could the karma of struggling faith in others, yourself or even in your faith. could also be someone who might find it hard to debate with other people. so, knowing how to stand your ground could be something you had to learn.

♇ SATURN IN CAPRICORN/10H ⟶ saturn being in the tenth house shows that your father might've been someone who was disconnected from their responsibilities, could've been a dead beat. could have been someone who was controlling of other people's goals and careers, might've been a restrictive person in general, and might not even be really liked by the public, [or family community you belong to]. this could mean you have to make a lane for yourself, and even having to go through the burdens of having people misinterpret your character without even knowing who you are. having to feel like you have to work ten times harder than the people around you so your success and achievements could be acknowledged by other people. could also have the habit of wanting to get validation from other people. might feel like you get exiled by everyone one you know.

♇ SATURN IN AQUARIUS/11H ⟶ saturn being in the eleventh house or in aquarius means that your father might've been someone who didnt express their creativity. could've been someone who was considered a mean friend and even someone who was too conservative. might've been someone who looked down on other people, and might've been someone who detached themselves from other people all the time. so right now you could be someone who struggles to make friends or have a stable friendship group. could have to go through obstacles of friends who attempt to walk all over you, this can also mean you could be someone who struggles to express their self-identity, individuality and even creativity. being your own person is something you have to learn how to be.

♇ SATURN IN PISCES/12H ⟶ this placement could mean your father might've been someone who was disconnected with reality, might've projected onto too much people, might've jinxed themselves a lot. could've been someone who became obsessed with faith and might've been extreme to the people around him. could mean your father figure could have been someone who might've had struggles with drugs and alcohol. so you could be going through the karma of going through your own addictions, whether it be drugs, sex or money, could be someone who feels like you're exiled no matter where you go, so you have to go through this period of having to find your community, your tribe. being someone who doesnt get your hopes to high because life would hit you with reality all the time. could be someone who has to be idolising other people, chiefly people in your real life, because you could end up becoming disappointed with them.

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[riddlesrizzler]

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙋𝙧𝙤𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙘𝙮

summary: please, i've been on my knees. change the prophecy. characters: mattheo riddle, reader warnings: none word count: 1.1k a/n- week three of festival of aus!!!

The silence in the bridal chamber was suffocating.

Thick velvet curtains blocked out the morning sun, drowning the room in muted blue light. An enchanted fire crackled in the hearth, more for appearance than warmth. You stood before the gilded mirror, motionless, watching the rise and fall of your chest as though your reflection belonged to someone else.

The gown was beautiful-ivory silk stitched with ancient runes, delicate lace climbing up your collarbones like frost. It fit like it had been made for you, because it had been. You were dressed like a queen, but you felt like a lamb draped in finery, led toward a fate carved out centuries before you were born.

The stylists had left hours ago, but their perfume still lingered in the air. Lilac, rosewater, smoke. You hated it. You hated the stillness, the silence, the spellwork sealed into every fold of fabric.

You hadn’t cried. Not yet.

Because crying would mean accepting it.

You heard the door open behind you-a soft creak, followed by the measured sound of his boots against the polished stone floor. You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to. His presence filled the room like shadow curling at the edges of candlelight.

Mattheo.

He moved slowly, as if unsure of his place in this room, in this moment. In your life.

He didn’t speak right away. You could see him in the mirror’s reflection-dark hair tousled, black robes sharp against his pale skin. His tie hung untied around his neck like a noose that hadn’t been pulled tight yet.

“You look…” he began, his voice low, rough, and a little hoarse. “Like you’ve made peace with dying.”

You held his gaze in the mirror, face unreadable. “Funny,” you murmured. “I was going to say the same about you.”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. He looked tired-too tired for someone about to be wed. His hands stayed in his pockets as he leaned against the wall, watching you like he was trying to figure out if this version of you was real, or just another illusion.

“They’re waiting,” he said after a long pause. “Best not to keep the gods bored.”

You turned away from the mirror, your fingers brushing the embroidery at your waist. Tiny runes hummed beneath your touch-protection, union, permanence.

No escape.

You walked past him without a word. The smell of clove smoke and something darker-ancient magic, maybe-clung to him like a second skin. You didn’t look back.

The ceremony was held at dusk, beneath the carved stone archways of the Riddle ancestral estate. The air tasted like old magic and colder promises.

They’d draped the space in deep greens and silvers, woven with floating candles that hovered like stars caught mid-fall. Guests watched with wide eyes and polite smiles, draped in their own silk chains of duty and legacy.

You stood across from Mattheo, your hand in his, your pulse thudding behind your ribs like a caged bird.

A priestess recited the binding spell in a language older than death. Your names echoed through the hall like thunder on glass. You repeated the vows like you’d practiced-each word a stitch in a seam you could no longer rip.

Mattheo said his lines without flinching, but there was a tightness in his jaw. His fingers were warm but unmoving in yours.

Then came the kiss.

Brief. Pressed lips, nothing more. No spark, no fire, no tenderness.

A formality.

They applauded. You smiled.

You drowned.

That night, the manor was too quiet. Too clean. You padded through its endless halls like a child in a stranger’s home, every candle flickering with spells you didn’t know.

You found him in the drawing room, sitting in the high-backed leather chair by the fire, a crystal tumbler of firewhisky in his hand. He didn’t look up when you entered, but he gestured silently to the bottle on the table.

You poured yourself a glass and sat across from him. The chair was too big, the fire too hot. The glass too full.

You stared into the flames for a while, the silence stretching between you like a spell with no end.

Then, barely above a whisper, the words escaped your lips like a prayer:

“Please. I’ve been on my knees. Change the prophecy.”

His head turned slightly. You felt his gaze even before you saw it.

“You think I wanted this?” he said, voice soft, but sharp enough to cut.

You didn’t look at him. “Does it matter?”

A long pause. Then he drained his glass and set it down with a gentle thud.

“No,” he said quietly. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

Sleep didn’t come easily after that.

You roamed the manor like a ghost in a cursed painting-bare feet against stone, fingers tracing the cracks in ancient wallpaper. You found the west wing at dawn, the ceiling a dome of enchanted glass showing the sky above, clouds drifting slow like forgotten dreams.

You tilted your face upward, eyes stinging.

“Just someone who wants my company,” you whispered to the stars. “Let it once be me.”

Days passed like pages being turned too quickly.

You and Mattheo shared meals in silence. Attended functions together. Stood close in public, careful to smile, to brush hands as though it meant something.

But at night, your hands remained still.

He was never cruel. Never touched you without consent. He didn’t mock, or threaten, or lash out. He simply existed near you-close, but impossibly distant. Like a moon circling a planet it could never touch.

You caught him once in the study, sitting by the window, a letter clutched in one hand. His other rested on the arm of the chair, fingers twitching like he’d been gripping a wand or a knife or maybe just an old memory.

He looked up when he noticed you.

For a moment, the mask slipped. You saw something raw flicker in his eyes-pain, maybe. Or guilt.

You said nothing.

You simply left.

You dreamed of him sometimes.

Not the man with the cold hands and sharp eyes, but someone softer. Someone who might have read poetry in secret, or loved the wind on his face, or kissed someone because he wanted to.

In those dreams, he reached for you.

And in the morning, your pillow was damp with tears you never let fall while awake.

They said soulmates were real.

But no one told you they could be arranged.

You laid awake that night beside him, both of you staring up at the canopy ceiling like it held the answers.

No words.

No touch.

No warmth.

Only silence, and the sound of fate laughing in the dark.

And as your eyes drifted closed, you realized the truth of it, carved into your ribcage like a spell you never asked for:

We were strangers in matching rings.