#please take it before i lose my marbles

[auraboo]

No masters or kings when the ritual begins There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin.

Ren'i could use a bit of getting worshipped. As a treat.

(In case anyone's wondering, yes, this series does get spicier eventually. You know, once they stop being dumb and get their shit together.)

[enhaflixer]

CHERRY TREES

arranged husband!Jungwon x trophy wife!reader - confronting cold arranged husband on your first anniversary.

ENHA HARD HOURS 18+ MDNI, Angst, fluff, a second chance, the smut is crazy im ngl to u but the angst is worse, he actually goes insane like insane he loses it.

-

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed five times, its deep resonance echoing through the marble corridors of your estate. Without opening your eyes, you knew Jungwon was already awake. The mattress dipped slightly as he carefully extracted himself from beneath the Egyptian cotton covers, his movements deliberately gentle to avoid disturbing you. You kept your breathing steady, maintaining the pretense of sleep as you had so many mornings before.

Through barely-parted lids, you watched his silhouette move through the predawn darkness. Jungwon's routine never varied—not on weekends, holidays, or even the morning after your anniversary celebration when he'd had perhaps one glass of Château Margaux too many. Five a.m. meant feet on the floor, regardless of circumstance.

He disappeared into the expansive en-suite bathroom, closing the door with practiced quietness before the shower began to run. You rolled over to face the floor-to-ceiling windows, abandoning the charade of sleep. Outside, the manicured gardens remained dark and still, mirroring the atmosphere that permeated your mansion despite its immaculate decoration and luxurious furnishings.

One year of marriage. Three hundred and sixty-five mornings of this same choreographed dance.

By the time Jungwon emerged from the bathroom, you had straightened your side of the bed and donned your silk robe. He nodded in acknowledgment, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

"Good morning," he said, voice pleasant but neutral. "Did I wake you? I'm sorry."

"No, I was already awake," you lied, the response automatic after months of repetition. "Will you be joining me for breakfast on the terrace today?"

He checked his watch—the elegant Patek Philippe you'd given him on your six-month anniversary. "I have an early meeting. I'll grab something at the office."

You nodded, expecting this answer. Despite your chef preparing an elaborate breakfast spread every morning, Jungwon rarely sat down to eat it. You'd long since stopped taking it personally, instead viewing it as simply another aspect of your peculiar marriage.

"Madame," came a soft voice from the doorway. Your personal maid stood waiting respectfully. "The blue gown has been pressed for tonight's charity auction, and Mrs. Yang called to confirm your appointment at the salon at two."

"Thank you. Please tell the chef I'll be down shortly."

Jungwon's expression softened momentarily with what might have been gratitude. "The blue gown is a good choice. It matches the sapphires."

The brief warmth in his eyes vanished so quickly you questioned whether you'd imagined it. He dressed efficiently, selecting the navy suit you'd suggested earlier in the week. You busied yourself reviewing the day's schedule on your tablet, giving him space while maintaining the illusion of comfortable domesticity.

"I'll send the car for you at six," he said, adjusting his tie in the mirror. Perfect Windsor knot, as always. "The auction starts at seven, but your mother-in-law suggested we arrive early to greet the host committee."

"I'll be ready," you assured him. "The blue complements the sapphires your family gifted me last Christmas—perfect for the society photographers."

He nodded approvingly. "Perfect. The Yangs must maintain appearances."

The phrase hung in the air between you, a reminder of what truly bound you together. Not love or passion or even friendship, but appearances. The Yang family name and reputation, upheld through generations and now entrusted to Jungwon—and by extension, to you.

Before leaving, he stopped at the bedroom door. "The new arrangement in the grand foyer—the one with the peonies and orchids. My mother asked for the name of your florist."

"I'd be happy to share their contact information," you replied, surprised that he'd noticed the flowers at all.

He hesitated, as if considering saying something more, then simply nodded and left. Moments later, you heard the soft purr of his car starting in the circular driveway below.

The suite fell silent, save for the continuing measured tick of the antique clock.

By eleven, you had completed your morning inspection of the household: reviewing the dinner menu with the chef, approving the landscaping plans for the east garden, and confirming that the linens for Friday's dinner party had been properly pressed. The mansion operated with clockwork precision under your supervision, a showcase of domestic perfection that visitors frequently praised.

Your phone chimed with a text message from Mrs. Yang—your mother-in-law.

The charity auction tonight is a perfect opportunity to connect with the Singhs. Their daughter returned from Oxford and has taken over their foundation. Jungwon could use their support for the new community project.

You typed a gracious reply, assuring her you would make the introduction. This was part of your unspoken role: social facilitator, network cultivator, the charming counterbalance to Jungwon's more reserved demeanor in public. Mrs. Yang had explicitly voiced her approval of your social graces during the marriage negotiations, though she'd phrased it more delicately at the time.

In the solarium, you sipped tea and reviewed correspondence on your tablet. The household staff moved efficiently around the estate, their presence indicated only by the occasional distant voice or the soft closing of a door. This cocoon of luxury and service had become your domain—a gilded cage, perhaps, but one you managed with impeccable skill.

The charity auction venue sparkled with crystal chandeliers and the gleam of expensive jewelry. You stood beside Jungwon, your hand resting lightly in the crook of his arm as he conversed with an important international investor. Your blue gown complemented the subtle blue in Jungwon's tie, a coordinated detail that Mrs. Yang had encouraged early in your marriage.

"And what do you think of the market's new direction?" the investor asked, unexpectedly turning to include you in the conversation.

Without missing a beat, you offered a thoughtful response based on fragments you'd gathered from Jungwon's rare comments about business. Your husband's arm tensed slightly beneath your hand—in surprise or approval, you couldn't tell.

"You've got yourself a perceptive wife, Yang," the man laughed, clearly impressed. "Better be careful or I'll recruit her for my advisory board."

Jungwon smiled, a genuine expression that transformed his handsome face. "I'm very fortunate," he agreed, turning to look at you with apparent pride.

For a moment—just a moment—the warmth in his eyes seemed real. Then a passing waiter offered champagne, and the connection broke as he reached for two glasses.

The evening continued in this manner: introductions, small talk, strategic conversations with selected guests, and the careful maintenance of the image you projected as a couple. Jungwon's hand occasionally rested at the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd with gentle pressure. To anyone watching, the gesture appeared intimate and caring.

"Your work with the children's literacy foundation has been inspirational," commented Ms. Singh as you were introduced. "My father is quite impressed."

You played your part flawlessly. Laughed at the right moments. Showed appropriate interest in business discussions. Made mental notes of important names and connections to record later in your planner. You orchestrated the introduction to the Singh family that appeared completely spontaneous, fulfilling your mother-in-law's request with such subtlety that even Jungwon seemed unaware of the manipulation.

During a lull in the event, you excused yourself to visit the ladies' room. Standing before the mirror, you studied your reflection: perfectly applied makeup, not a hair out of place, the picture of a successful young wife. Other women came and went, exchanging pleasantries, complimenting your gown or asking about upcoming social events.

"You and Jungwon always look so happy together," sighed a fellow socialite as she applied fresh lipstick. "My husband can barely remember which events are on our calendar, let alone coordinate his tie with my outfit."

You smiled politely. "Jungwon is very attentive to details."

When you returned to the main hall, you spotted your husband across the room, engaged in conversation with the Singh patriarch as you had arranged. His posture was relaxed, confident, his expression animated as he discussed something that clearly interested him. You rarely saw that expression at home.

As if sensing your gaze, he looked up and met your eyes across the crowded room. For a brief moment, something unreadable flickered across his face. He excused himself from the conversation and made his way to your side.

"Is everything alright?" he asked quietly.

"Of course," you assured him. "Mr. Singh seems interested in your project."

He nodded. "Yes, thank you for the introduction. He mentioned you'd spoken highly of the initiative."

"That's what wives do, isn't it?" you replied, the words emerging more wistfully than you'd intended.

Jungwon studied your face, his brow furrowing slightly. "Are you tired? We can leave if you'd like."

"No," you said quickly. "Your mother would be disappointed if we left before the final auction lot."

The mention of his mother was enough to settle the matter. Jungwon nodded and offered his arm again, leading you back into the social whirl. The rest of the evening passed in a blur of smiles and small talk, your practiced responses on autopilot while your mind drifted elsewhere.

The mansion was quiet when you returned just after midnight, though a few lights remained on for your arrival. The night butler opened the door as the car pulled up.

"Welcome home, Madame, Sir," he greeted with a respectful bow. "May I bring anything before you retire?"

"No thank you," Jungwon replied, loosening his tie. "That will be all for tonight."

As the butler disappeared, Jungwon turned to you in the grand foyer, its marble floors gleaming under the soft chandelier light. "Successful evening," he commented, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "The Singhs have invited us to their summer compound next month."

"That's wonderful," you replied, slipping off your heels with a small sigh of relief. "Your mother will be pleased."

He set down his keys and looked at you directly, something he rarely did at home. "You don't need to keep mentioning my mother. I'm capable of recognizing business opportunities on my own."

The unexpected sharpness in his tone surprised you. "I didn't mean to suggest otherwise."

He sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, disheveling it slightly. "I'm sorry. That came out wrong."

The apology hung awkwardly between you. Jungwon rarely expressed irritation, maintaining the same polite distance whether discussing dinner plans or household accounts.

"It's late," you said finally. "We're both tired."

He nodded, the momentary crack in his composure already repaired. "I have some work to finish. Don't wait up."

You watched him retreat to his home office, the door closing firmly behind him. In the kitchen, you found the chef had left a covered plate of small desserts and a pot of tea keeping warm. The thoughtful gesture—understanding your tendency to skip dinner at formal events—brought an unexpected lump to your throat.

The mansion was beautiful—spacious, elegantly decorated, with every luxury and convenience. The marriage looked perfect from the outside: handsome, successful husband; accomplished, supportive wife; respected families united through a beneficial alliance. You wanted for nothing material.

And yet.

Upstairs, your nightwear had already been laid out and the bed turned down. In the adjoining bathroom, you methodically removed your jewelry and makeup, the familiar routine requiring no thought. Your reflection stared back, younger without the carefully applied cosmetics but somehow sadder too.

When you finally slipped between the cool sheets, Jungwon's side of the bed remained empty. You knew from experience that he might not come upstairs for hours. Sometimes you woke briefly in the night to feel the mattress dip as he joined you, maintaining a careful distance even in sleep.

As exhaustion pulled you toward unconsciousness, you wondered—not for the first time—what thoughts occupied your husband's mind during his late-night work sessions. Whether he ever questioned the arrangement that had brought you together. Whether he ever wished for something more than this immaculate, empty performance you both maintained.

Outside, a gentle rain began to fall against the panoramic windows, drops catching the moonlight like silver tears against the darkness.

-

The first anniversary dinner had been your mother-in-law's idea.

"A small celebration," she'd said during your weekly tea. "Nothing extravagant, of course. Just family to commemorate the successful first year."

You'd nodded and smiled, playing your part. "I'll coordinate with the chef for a special menu."

A successful first year. The phrase echoed in your mind as you supervised the staff arranging peonies and orchids in the dining room—Jungwon's mother's favorites. The crystal gleamed under the chandelier light, the silver polished to mirror brightness, the napkins folded into perfect swans. Success measured in appearances, in business connections forged, in social obligations fulfilled.

Not in moments of genuine connection, in shared laughter, in the casual intimacy of a hand brushing hair from your face. Those metrics of success remained conspicuously absent from your marriage ledger.

"The wine selection has been brought up from the cellar, Madame," said the butler. "And the chef has prepared the appetizers exactly as you specified."

"Thank you," you replied, adjusting a place setting minutely. "Mr. Yang will be home by seven, and his parents will arrive at seven-thirty."

The butler nodded and withdrew, leaving you alone in the perfect dining room of your perfect mansion in your perfect marriage that was, somehow, entirely empty.

Jungwon arrived precisely at seven, as predictable as the sunrise. You heard the familiar sound of his car, followed by his measured footsteps in the foyer. When he appeared in the doorway of the dining room, he was already dressed in the suit you'd laid out—the charcoal gray Tom Ford that his mother once commented made him look distinguished.

"Everything looks lovely," he said, surveying the room with appreciative eyes. "You've outdone yourself."

"Thank you," you replied, accepting the compliment with practiced grace. "Your mother mentioned Mr. Kim might join them. I've set an extra place just in case."

Something flickered across Jungwon's face—annoyance, perhaps. "He wasn't mentioned to me."

"He's the family attorney. Perhaps there's business to discuss."

"On our anniversary dinner?" The edge in Jungwon's voice surprised you. "Some things should remain separate from business."

You studied your husband's face, wondering at this unusual display of emotion. "Would you prefer I call your mother and inquire?"

"No," he said, composure returning like a mask sliding back into place. "It doesn't matter."

But it did matter, and the tension in his shoulders told you so. This was new—this momentary crack in the facade. You wanted to press further, to understand what had triggered this response, but years of social conditioning held you back.

Instead, you said, "There's time for a drink before they arrive. Would you like something?"

He nodded, following you to the sitting room where the bar cart awaited. You poured him two fingers of the Macallan 25-year he preferred, your movements precise and practiced. When you handed him the crystal tumbler, your fingers brushed his—an accidental touch that shouldn't have felt significant but somehow did.

"One year," he said quietly, staring into the amber liquid.

"Yes," you agreed, pouring yourself a small measure of the same. "It's gone quickly."

The silence between you stretched, filled with all the words neither of you knew how to say. Jungwon seemed on the verge of speaking when the doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of his parents.

The moment, whatever it might have been, evaporated.

Dinner progressed with the same choreographed precision as every family gathering. Mrs. Yang complimented the decor, inquired about your recent charity work, and dominated the conversation with updates on various family connections. Mr. Yang, stern and reserved like his son, contributed occasional comments about business or politics. And Mr. Kim, who had indeed accompanied them, observed it all with the calculated interest of someone evaluating an investment.

"The first year is always the most challenging," Mrs. Yang declared over the entrée, smiling at you and Jungwon with evident satisfaction. "And you two have managed it beautifully."

"Indeed," agreed Mr. Kim, raising his wine glass in a small toast. "The Yang family's standing has only strengthened. Your partnership has proven most advantageous."

Partnership. Not marriage. The distinction wasn't lost on you.

"And the foundation gala last month," Mrs. Yang continued. "Several board members commented on how impressive you both were. The Choi family was particularly taken with you, dear." She directed this last comment at you. "Mrs. Choi mentioned how fortunate Jungwon is to have found such an accomplished wife."

"I am fortunate," Jungwon agreed smoothly, the response automatic. He didn't look at you as he said it.

"Now, about the expansion into renewable energy," Mr. Yang began, turning to his son. "The board is meeting next week to discuss the proposal."

Business at the anniversary dinner, just as you'd predicted. You caught Jungwon's eye across the table, a silent acknowledgment passing between you. For once, it felt like you were truly on the same side, united in your recognition of the situation's irony.

As the men discussed business, Mrs. Yang leaned closer to you. "You know, dear, I've been meaning to ask... it's been a year now. Any news you'd like to share? Any... expectations?"

The delicate emphasis made her meaning clear. You felt heat rise to your face, embarrassment mingling with a deeper discomfort.

"Not yet," you replied quietly, maintaining your composure despite the intrusive question.

"Well, there's still time," she said, patting your hand. "Though of course, an heir is important for the Yang legacy. My husband's grandmother used to say, 'A tree without new leaves withers.'"

You nodded politely, taking a sip of wine to avoid having to respond further. Across the table, you noticed Jungwon's shoulders tense, though he gave no other indication of having overheard.

The rest of the evening passed in a similar vein—discussions of business, thinly veiled inquiries about family planning, and reminiscences about the wedding that focused primarily on its beneficial outcomes for the Yang family interests.

Not once did anyone ask if you were happy.

After seeing his parents and Mr. Kim to the door, Jungwon returned to the sitting room where you were nursing a final glass of wine. The house felt unnaturally quiet after the departure of the guests, the air heavy with unspoken thoughts.

"My mother was pleased," he said, loosening his tie and pouring himself another whiskey. "She said the dinner was perfect."

"Of course she did," you replied, a hint of bitterness seeping into your voice despite your best efforts. "Everything about us is perfect on the surface."

Jungwon looked at you sharply. "What does that mean?"

The wine, the emotional strain of the evening, the accumulation of a year's worth of silences—something inside you finally cracked.

"It means this," you gestured between the two of you, "isn't a marriage. It's a business arrangement with living quarters."

His expression hardened. "That's unfair. I've given you everything you could want."

"Everything except yourself," you countered, your voice rising slightly. "We live in the same house, sleep in the same bed, but you might as well be a thousand miles away."

"I don't know what you expect," he said stiffly. "We both understood the nature of this marriage from the beginning."

"Did we? Because I didn't agree to a lifetime of politeness and distance. I didn't agree to be nothing more than the perfect hostess and social coordinator for your business connections."

Jungwon set down his glass with careful precision. "You've never complained before."

"When would I have complained, Jungwon? During the three minutes of conversation we have each morning? Or perhaps during our public performances where we pretend to be a loving couple?"

He ran a hand through his hair, disheveling its perfect arrangement. "I thought you were satisfied with our arrangement. You manage the household, attend the events, fulfill your responsibilities—"

"Responsibilities?" The word struck like a match against your accumulated frustration. "Is that all I am to you? A set of responsibilities to be fulfilled?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean? Please, enlighten me about my role in this arrangement, since clearly I've misunderstood."

His jaw tightened. "You're my wife."

"Your wife," you repeated, the word suddenly sounding hollow. "And what does that mean to you? Because from where I stand, I might as well be your assistant or your housekeeper for all the genuine connection between us."

"You're being dramatic," he said dismissively. "Perhaps you've had too much wine."

The condescension in his tone was the final straw. A year of suppressed emotions—loneliness, frustration, yearning—erupted like a volcano too long dormant.

"Don't you dare dismiss me," you snapped, rising to your feet. "I have spent a year of my life walking on eggshells, trying to be perfect, trying to please you and your family, and for what? A thank you when I select the right tie? A nod of approval when I make the right business connection?"

Jungwon stared at you, clearly taken aback by your outburst. "I don't understand where this is coming from."

"Of course you don't! You've never bothered to see me as anything more than a convenient addition to your perfectly ordered life. Wake up at five, ignore wife, go to work, come home, work more, sleep. Repeat until death."

"That's not fair," he protested, but his voice lacked conviction.

"Isn't it? When was the last time you asked me about my day? Or shared something personal about yours? When was the last time you looked at me—really looked at me—not as the 'Madame' of this house or as an accessory at a business function, but as a woman? As your wife?"

The color drained from Jungwon's face, but you were beyond stopping now. The floodgates had opened, and a year's worth of unspoken thoughts poured forth in a torrent.

"We haven't even consummated our marriage, Jungwon! One year, and you've never once reached for me in the night. Never once kissed me with anything resembling passion. Do you have any idea how that feels? To lie beside someone night after night, wanting to be touched, to be desired, and meeting nothing but polite distance?"

His eyes widened in shock at your bluntness. "I—I thought you preferred our current arrangement. You never indicated—"

"Indicated?" You laughed, the sound brittle. "Would it have mattered if I had? You barely look at me when we're alone together. You keep yourself locked in your office until I'm asleep. Tell me, Jungwon, are you repulsed by me? Is that it?"

"No!" The vehemence of his response surprised you both. "That's not it at all."

"Then what? What keeps you at arm's length? Because I can't live like this anymore—this half-life of appearances and politeness with nothing real beneath it."

You moved closer, anger giving you courage you'd never had before. "How do you satisfy your desires, Jungwon? Do you have someone else? Some mistress in an apartment downtown who gets to see the real you? Who gets to feel your touch, your passion?"

He looked genuinely shocked. "There's no one else. I would never—"

"Then what?" Your voice broke slightly. "Are you simply that cold? That disconnected from your own body, your own needs? Because I refuse to believe a healthy man in his prime feels nothing, wants nothing."

Jungwon's jaw tightened. "This conversation is inappropriate."

"Inappropriate?" You were nearly shouting now. "We're married! This is exactly the conversation we should have had months ago! Do you have any idea what it's like to wonder if there's something wrong with you? To lie awake wondering why your husband never reaches for you? To start believing that maybe you're fundamentally undesirable?"

"That's not—" he began, but you cut him off.

"I've started inventing stories in my head, Jungwon. Elaborate scenarios to explain why my husband treats me like a porcelain doll. Maybe you're secretly in love with someone from your past. Maybe you prefer men. Maybe you have some medical condition you're too embarrassed to discuss. I've considered everything because the alternative—that you simply feel nothing for me—is too painful to bear."

His face had gone pale. "It's none of those things."

"Then help me understand," you pleaded, anger giving way to raw vulnerability. "Because the silence is killing me. The wondering is killing me. Are you like this with everyone? This... removed? This contained? Or is it just me you can't bring yourself to touch?"

Jungwon paced away from you, his composure cracking visibly. For a moment, he looked like he might retreat to his office—his usual escape—but instead, he stopped at the window, staring out at the darkness.

"I live in my head," he said so quietly you almost missed it. "Always have. Physical... intimacy... doesn't come naturally to me."

"Have you ever let yourself feel something?" you asked, your tone softer now. "With anyone?"

He was silent for so long you thought he might not answer. When he did, his voice was strained. "There was someone in college. It ended badly. I lost control, became... emotional. My father said it was embarrassing. Unbecoming of a Yang."

The confession surprised you. This tiny glimpse into his past felt like more intimacy than you'd experienced in a year of marriage.

"And since then?"

"Since then I've learned to be careful. Controlled." He turned to face you. "I thought I was respecting your space. Your independence."

"Respecting my space?" You stared at him incredulously. "There's a difference between respect and indifference, Jungwon."

"I'm not indifferent to you," he said quietly.

"Then what are you? Because from my perspective, I might as well be living alone for all the emotional connection between us."

He turned away again, his shoulders rigid with tension. "I don't know how to do this."

"Do what?"

"This." He gestured vaguely. "Marriage. Intimacy. I wasn't raised for it."

"Neither was I," you countered. "But I'm trying. I've been trying for a year while you've been hiding behind work and politeness and duty."

You moved to stand beside him at the window, close but not touching. "Do you ever look at me and feel anything, Jungwon? Anything at all? Because sometimes I catch you watching me when you think I won't notice, and there's something in your eyes that disappears the moment I turn toward you."

He swallowed visibly. "I notice everything about you," he admitted, the words seeming to cost him. "The way you arrange flowers according to your mood. How you always leave the last bite of dessert. The small sigh you make when you're reading something that touches you."

The revelation stunned you. "Then why—"

"Because wanting leads to needing," he interrupted, his voice suddenly raw. "And needing makes you vulnerable. My father taught me that. The moment you need someone, you've given them the power to destroy you."

The silence stretched between you, heavy with the weight of truths finally spoken aloud. When Jungwon finally turned back to face you, his expression was uncharacteristically vulnerable.

"What do you want from me?" he asked, and for once, the question seemed genuine.

The simplicity of the question momentarily deflated your anger. What did you want? It was a question you'd asked yourself countless times during sleepless nights.

"I want a husband, not a housemate," you said finally. "I want to know the man behind the perfect facade. I want to feel wanted, desired, known. I want the possibility of love, even if it's not there yet."

Your voice cracked on the last words, and you felt tears threatening. "Sometimes I think if I sleep with you once and let you get me pregnant, at least I won't be so damn lonely. At least I'd have someone who needs me, truly needs me, not just for appearances or social connections."

"A child deserves better than to be born from desperation," Jungwon said softly, surprising you with his insight.

"And a wife deserves better than emotional abandonment," you countered. "I look at other couples sometimes—even the arranged marriages in our circle—and I see moments of genuine tenderness. A hand on a shoulder. A private smile. Small intimacies that say 'I see you, I choose you.' We have none of that, Jungwon."

He flinched as if struck. "Is that what you think? That I only see you as a means to an heir?"

"How would I know what you think?" you demanded. "You barely speak to me about anything that matters. For all I know, you've mapped out our entire future in that methodical mind of yours—the optimal time for children, their education, their role in continuing the Yang legacy—all without once considering what I might want, what I might need as a woman, as a person."

"That's not true," he protested, but his voice lacked conviction.

"When have you ever shared your fears with me, Jungwon? Your hopes? Your dreams beyond the next business deal or family obligation? When have you ever asked about mine?"

He had no answer, and his silence was damning.

"I can't do this anymore," you said, suddenly exhausted. "I can't keep pretending that this empty performance is enough. I need more than politeness and perfect appearances. I need connection. I need intimacy. I need to at least feel that there's the possibility of love someday."

"And if I can't give you that?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

The question hung in the air between you, a challenge and a plea at once. You met his gaze directly.

"Then this marriage is already over, regardless of what we show the world."

The words fell like stones into still water, ripples of consequence expanding outward. Jungwon's face paled, and something like genuine fear flickered in his eyes.

"You would leave?" he asked, the question revealing more vulnerability than he'd shown in a year of marriage.

"Not in body, perhaps," you replied. "The scandal would devastate both our families. But in spirit? I'm already halfway gone, Jungwon. Every day of polite distance pushes me further away."

He sank onto the sofa, looking suddenly lost. This wasn't the composed, controlled man you'd lived alongside for a year. This was someone else—someone real and raw and unsure.

"I don't know how to be what you need," he admitted finally.

"I'm not asking for perfection," you said, your anger giving way to a profound sadness. "I'm asking for effort. For honesty. For the chance to build something real together, even if it's difficult. Even if we don't know exactly how."

Jungwon stared at his hands, his wedding ring catching the light. For a long moment, he said nothing. When he finally looked up, his eyes held a complexity of emotion you'd never seen before.

"I need time," he said. "To think. To... process all of this."

The request was reasonable, but it still stung. Even now, faced with the potential collapse of your marriage, he couldn't give you an immediate response.

"Fine," you said, suddenly bone-weary. "Take your time. You know where to find me."

You turned to leave, your body heavy with emotional exhaustion, when his voice stopped you.

"Where are you going?"

"To the blue guest room," you replied without turning. "I think we both need space tonight."

He made no move to stop you as you left the sitting room, your anniversary dress rustling softly with each step. The grand staircase seemed longer than usual, each step an effort. Behind you, you heard the clink of glass—Jungwon pouring another drink, perhaps, or simply moving restlessly in the silent house.

The blue guest room was immaculate, as was every room in the mansion, but it felt cold and impersonal. You sat on the edge of the bed, still in your evening dress, too tired even to cry. The confrontation had drained you completely, leaving nothing but a hollow ache where hope had once resided.

From the nightstand, your phone chimed with a message. Mechanically, you reached for it, expecting perhaps your mother-in-law with some post-dinner comment.

Instead, it was Jungwon.

I do want you. I always have. That's what frightens me.

You stared at the screen, the words blurring slightly as you read them over and over. A text message—that was what it had taken to finally glimpse the man behind the mask. Not a conversation, not a touch, but characters on a screen.

Another message appeared below the first.

I'm sorry. I should have said this to your face.

I'll be in the study when you're ready to talk. No matter how late.

The formality, even now. The careful distance maintained even in apology. You placed the phone back on the nightstand without responding, a weariness settling over you that went beyond physical exhaustion.

For a moment, you sat motionless on the edge of the guest bed, the weight of the past year pressing down on your shoulders. The perfect house with its perfect furnishings suddenly felt suffocating—every object a reminder of the performance your life had become.

You rose and moved to the window, pressing your palm against the cool glass. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the night remained dark and close. The mansion grounds, usually so meticulously maintained, seemed oppressive in their perfection. Even the garden paths were laid out with mathematical precision, every plant and stone exactly where it should be.

Like you. Exactly where you should be. The proper wife in her proper place.

The realization came suddenly, with absolute clarity: you couldn't stay here tonight. Not in this guest room, not in this house, not with Jungwon waiting in his study for a conversation that would likely end with more careful words and measured promises.

You needed air. Space. A place where you could remember who you were before becoming Mrs. Yang.

With deliberate movements, you changed out of your evening dress and into simple clothes. Packed a small overnight bag with essentials. Found your personal credit card—the one not connected to the Yang family accounts.

You hesitated only when it came time to write a note. What could you possibly say that wouldn't be misinterpreted or dismissed? In the end, you kept it simple:

I need space to breathe. Please don't follow me. I'll contact you when I'm ready.

You left it on the bed, where it would surely be found when someone came looking for you. Then, silently, you made your way down the service stairs and through the side entrance—avoiding the main foyer where you might encounter Jungwon.

The night air hit your face as you stepped outside, cool and clean and startlingly fresh. You took a deep breath, perhaps the first real one in months, and felt something inside you loosen just slightly.

You didn't call for the driver. Instead, you walked down the long driveway and past the gates, your heartbeat quickening with each step that took you farther from the mansion. Only when you reached the main road did you order a rideshare, giving the address of an old friend—one who predated your marriage, who had no connection to the Yang family circle.

As the car pulled away, you glanced back at the house—a magnificent silhouette against the night sky, lights burning in the study window where Jungwon waited for a conversation that wouldn't happen tonight.

Tomorrow would bring complications, explanations, perhaps reconciliation. But tonight, for the first time in a year, you were choosing yourself.

Your phone buzzed with a message from Jungwon.

Are you coming down?

You turned off the notifications and watched the mansion recede in the distance, growing smaller until it disappeared from view entirely.

-

The city lights blurred through your tears as the car wound its way through the quiet streets. The driver, sensing your distress, maintained a respectful silence, occasionally glancing at you in the rearview mirror with concern. You kept your face turned toward the window, watching as elite neighborhoods gave way to more modest surroundings.

When the car finally pulled up outside Leah's apartment building, you sat motionless for a moment, suddenly uncertain. It was past midnight. What if she wasn't home? What if she had company? What if—

"We're here, ma'am," the driver said gently, interrupting your spiraling thoughts.

"Thank you," you managed, gathering your small bag and stepping out into the night.

Leah's building was nothing like the Yang mansion—a six-story pre-war structure with a faded charm that stood in stark contrast to the sleek modernity you'd grown accustomed to. You hesitated at the entrance, then pressed her apartment number on the intercom.

After a long moment, a sleepy voice answered. "Hello?"

"Leah," you said, your voice cracking slightly. "It's me. I'm sorry it's so late, but—"

"Oh my god!" The sleepiness vanished instantly. "Are you okay? I'm buzzing you up right now."

The door clicked open, and you made your way to the third floor, each step feeling heavier than the last. Before you could even knock, Leah's door swung open, revealing your oldest friend in mismatched pajamas, her curly hair wild around her face.

"What happened?" she demanded, then stopped as she took in your appearance—the elegant makeup now streaked with tears, the designer clothes hastily exchanged for whatever you'd grabbed, the overnight bag clutched in your trembling hand.

"Oh, honey," she said, simply opening her arms.

Something inside you broke. You stumbled forward into her embrace and the tears you'd been holding back for months—perhaps for the entire year of your marriage—finally erupted. Great, heaving sobs that shook your entire body, that made it impossible to speak or breathe or think.

Leah didn't ask questions. She simply guided you inside, closing the door behind you, and held you while you fell apart. Her apartment was cluttered and lived-in, books stacked on every surface, half-finished art projects leaning against walls—the complete opposite of your sterile perfection at the mansion.

"I can't—" you tried to speak, but the words dissolved into more tears.

"Shh," she soothed, leading you to her worn but comfortable couch. "Just breathe. That's all you need to do right now."

You don't know how long you cried—long enough for your eyes to swell, for your throat to grow raw, for Leah's shoulder to become damp with your tears. Eventually, the storm subsided enough for you to become aware of your surroundings again. Leah had wrapped a soft blanket around your shoulders and was pressing a mug of hot tea into your hands.

"Small sips," she instructed, settling beside you. "It has honey for your throat."

You obeyed, the warmth spreading through your chest, momentarily calming the chaos inside you.

"I left him," you said finally, your voice hoarse from crying.

Leah's eyebrows shot up. "Jungwon? You left Jungwon?"

"Just for tonight. Maybe a few days. I don't know." You shook your head, struggling to articulate the tangle of emotions. "I couldn't breathe there anymore, Leah. In that perfect house with its perfect things and its perfect emptiness."

"I always wondered," she said cautiously, "if you were really happy. You stopped talking about the real stuff after the wedding. It was all charity events and dinner parties, but never... you know. The actual marriage part."

"There was no marriage part," you confessed, fresh tears threatening. "That's the problem. We live side by side like strangers. Polite, distant strangers who happen to share the same address."

Leah reached for your hand, squeezing it gently. "Did something specific happen tonight?"

You nodded, the evening's confrontation flashing through your mind in painful fragments. "We had our anniversary dinner with his parents. And after they left, I just... broke. All the things I've been holding back for a year came pouring out."

"Good for you," Leah said firmly.

"Is it?" You looked at her, uncertain. "I said terrible things, Leah. I accused him of seeing me as nothing but a showpiece, a means to an heir. I asked if he was repulsed by me. If he was sleeping with someone else."

"And what did he say?"

"He was shocked, mostly. I don't think anyone's ever spoken to him like that before." You took another sip of tea, gathering your thoughts. "But then he said something about... about wanting me but being afraid of needing someone. Of being vulnerable."

Leah nodded thoughtfully. "That actually makes a strange kind of sense. Your husband always struck me as someone who keeps himself under tight control."

"You've met him twice," you pointed out with a watery smile.

"Twice was enough." She grinned briefly, then grew serious again. "So what happens now?"

You shook your head, feeling utterly lost. "I don't know. I just knew I had to get out of there tonight. To remember what it feels like to be... me. Not Mrs. Yang, not the society hostess, just me."

"Well, you came to the right place," Leah said, gesturing around her chaotic apartment. "Nothing perfect or polished here. Just real life in all its messy glory."

For the first time that night, you felt a small laugh bubble up. "I've missed this. I've missed you."

"I've been right here," she reminded you gently. "You're the one who got swept up into the Yang universe."

The observation stung because it contained truth. After the wedding, you had gradually withdrawn from your old friendships, immersing yourself in the role expected of Jungwon's wife. It hadn't been a conscious choice, but rather a slow submersion into a new identity that had eventually consumed the person you used to be.

"I don't know who I am anymore," you confessed, the realization dawning as you spoke it. "I've spent so long being what everyone else needed me to be that I've forgotten what I actually want."

"Then maybe that's what this time away is for," Leah suggested. "To remember."

You nodded, exhaustion suddenly washing over you. The emotional release had drained what little energy you had left after the confrontation with Jungwon.

"The guest room is a disaster area right now—art supplies everywhere," Leah said apologetically. 

"The couch is perfect," you assured her, overwhelmed.

"Shut up, you'll sleep next to me,"

-

Jungwon sat in his study, crystal tumbler of whiskey untouched beside him, as he stared at his phone screen. The message showed as delivered, but not yet read. He refreshed the screen again, a gesture he'd repeated dozens of times in the last hour.

Are you coming down?

The timestamp mocked him. It had been nearly two hours since he'd sent it, and still no response. Unease had gradually transformed into concern, then alarm when he'd finally ventured upstairs to find the blue guest room empty, save for a handwritten note on the perfectly made bed.

I need space to breathe. Please don't follow me. I'll contact you when I'm ready.

The words had hit him with physical force. He stood there staring at the note, reading it over and over as if the sparse sentences might reveal some hidden meaning. Space to breathe. Had he really been suffocating you all this time without realizing it?

Now, back in his study, Jungwon fought against his instinct to act—to call security, to track your phone, to send drivers searching the city. You had asked for space. Following you would only prove that he couldn't respect your wishes, your independence. The very thing he'd convinced himself he'd been protecting all this time.

The irony wasn't lost on him.

Jungwon picked up his phone again, debating whether to try calling. His thumb hovered over your contact information before he set the device down with a sigh of frustration. What would he even say if you answered? The right words had eluded him for an entire year of marriage; they weren't likely to materialize now, in the middle of the night, after the worst fight of your relationship.

A relationship. Was that even the right word for what you had? You had called it a "business arrangement with living quarters," and the brutal accuracy of the description had left him speechless.

Jungwon ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it completely. The careful composure he maintained at all times had crumbled the moment he'd found your note. Now, alone in his study, there was no one to witness his distress, his uncertainty, his fear.

Fear. That was the emotion he'd denied for so long, burying it beneath layers of control and duty. Fear of needing someone. Fear of being vulnerable. Fear of repeating his father's cold, loveless existence.

And in trying to avoid his father's mistakes, he had made his own. Different in method, perhaps, but identical in result: a wife who felt unseen, unwanted.

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed two in the morning. Jungwon hadn't slept, had barely moved from his position at the desk. The silence of the mansion pressed in around him, no longer the peaceful quiet he'd always preferred, but an emptiness that echoed your absence.

On impulse, he rose and left the study, walking through the darkened house toward the master suite. Inside the bedroom, everything remained exactly as you'd both left it hours earlier—your perfume bottle on the vanity, your book on the nightstand, your robe draped over a chair. He moved to your side of the bed, sitting down carefully on the edge, and picked up the book you'd been reading.

A collection of poetry. Jungwon hadn't even known you liked poetry.

What else didn't he know about the woman he'd married? What interests, dreams, fears had you kept hidden—or worse, had tried to share only to be met with his characteristic reserve?

He opened the book to where a silk bookmark held your place. The poem was circled lightly in pencil:

Between what is said and not meant, And what is meant and not said, Most of love is lost.

The simple lines struck him with unexpected force. Jungwon stared at the words, wondering how many times you had tried to tell him what you needed, how many signals he had missed or misinterpreted.

From his pocket, his phone buzzed with an incoming call. His heart leapt as he fumbled to answer, but the caller ID showed his father's name, not yours.

"Father," he answered, struggling to keep his voice even. "It's very late."

"Where is your wife?" Mr. Yang's voice was sharp, cutting through the pretense of pleasantries.

Jungwon tensed. "How did you—"

"Mrs. Park saw her getting into a taxi. Alone. After midnight. She naturally called your mother with concerns."

Of course. The gossip network never slept. "She's visiting a friend," he said carefully.

"In the middle of the night? Without you?" His father's skepticism was palpable. "Do you take me for a fool, Jungwon? What's going on?"

A familiar pattern attempted to reassert itself—the urge to placate his father, to maintain appearances, to ensure the Yang family reputation remained unsullied. For a moment, he almost slipped into the expected response.

But the circled poem caught his eye again. Most of love is lost. He couldn't lose any more.

"We had a disagreement," Jungwon said finally, the admission feeling like ripping off a bandage. "She needed some space."

"A disagreement?" His father's tone grew icier. "Serious enough for her to leave the house? To risk being seen by others, creating speculation? What were you thinking, allowing this?"

The word "allowing" ignited something in him—a flicker of the same defiance he'd felt when his father had demanded he end his college relationship.

"I wasn't 'allowing' anything, Father. She's my wife, not my subordinate. She made a choice, and I'm respecting it."

The silence on the other end of the line was deafening. Never in his adult life had Jungwon spoken to his father with such open opposition.

"This is unacceptable," Mr. Yang said finally. "You will resolve whatever childish spat has occurred and bring her home immediately. The gala next week—"

"Is not as important as my marriage," Jungwon interrupted, surprising himself with the firmness in his voice.

"Your marriage? Suddenly you care about your marriage?" His father's laugh was without humor. "For a year you've treated it exactly as I advised—as a beneficial arrangement. Now you're telling me you've developed feelings? Become sentimental?"

The contempt in the older man's voice was unmistakable, but instead of cowering as he might have in the past, Jungwon felt a strange calm settle over him.

"Yes," he said simply. "I have feelings for my wife. I always have. And I've been wrong to hide them."

"This is disappointing, Jungwon. I expected better from you."

"I'm beginning to think your expectations are precisely the problem, Father." Jungwon took a deep breath. "I need to go now. It's late, and I have some thinking to do."

"Don't you dare hang up on—"

Jungwon ended the call, staring at the phone in mild disbelief at his own actions. Then, with deliberate movements, he silenced the device and set it aside.

Returning to the poetry book, he carefully noted the page number of the circled poem, then moved through the house to your closet. There, among the designer clothes and accessories, he searched for some clue to the woman behind the perfect facade—the woman he'd married but never truly allowed himself to know.

In the back of a drawer, he found a small wooden box, simple and clearly personal. For a moment, his ingrained respect for privacy warred with his desperate need to understand you. Privacy won—he couldn't begin rebuilding trust by violating it—but the box's existence gave him hope. There were parts of yourself you'd kept separate from your arranged life, a core identity preserved despite the pressures of being Mrs. Yang.

Jungwon returned to the study, his earlier paralysis replaced by a growing resolve. He wouldn't chase you—you'd asked for space, and he would respect that. But he could prepare for your return, could begin the work of becoming someone worthy of a second chance.

The task seemed monumentally difficult, decades of conditioning standing in opposition to what he now knew he needed to do. He had no model for the kind of husband he wanted to become, no example of vulnerability balanced with strength.

But for the first time since you'd walked out, Jungwon felt something like hope. If you gave him the chance, he would find a way to be better. To be real. To tear down the walls he'd built over a lifetime of emotional suppression.

Dawn was breaking outside the study windows when he finally drafted a message, simple and without expectation:

I understand you need space, and I respect that. I'll be here when you're ready to talk—whether that's tomorrow or next week. I'm sorry for a year of silence. I'm listening now.

He sent it before he could second-guess himself, then set the phone down and moved to the window. Outside, the gardens were beginning to emerge from darkness, the first light revealing dew on the perfectly manicured lawns.

For once, Jungwon didn't see the perfection. Instead, he noticed how the morning light caught in a spider's web between two branches, transforming the fragile structure into something beautiful and strong. Perhaps there was a lesson there, in vulnerability's unexpected resilience.

As the mansion gradually woke around him—staff arriving, coffee brewing, the day's preparations beginning—Jungwon remained at the window, watching the light change and wondering if you, wherever you were, might be watching the same sunrise.

-

The mansion felt impossibly silent as Jungwon moved through the darkened hallways, your poetry book clutched in his hand like a lifeline. Sleep had become not just elusive but impossible, the vast emptiness of your shared bed a physical manifestation of what had been missing between you for a year. The sheets still carried your scent—a subtle perfume that he'd never properly acknowledged until now, when its absence made the fabric seem cold and lifeless.

He couldn't bear to remain in that room, surrounded by the ghosts of a thousand nights spent in careful distance. Instead, he found himself back in his study, the room that had been his refuge from intimacy for so long. Now it felt like a prison of his own making, walls lined with business achievements that suddenly seemed hollow.

With trembling hands, he placed your book on his desk and opened it once more to the marked page, the one with the circled verse that had first pierced his carefully constructed armor:

Between what is said and not meant,

And what is meant and not said,

Most of love is lost.

His fingers traced your handwriting in the margin—small, delicate notes that revealed more about your inner thoughts than a year of careful conversation had. Next to this poem, you'd written simply: Us? with the question mark trailing off like a fading hope.

One word, followed by a question mark. So much longing contained in those three small letters. Had you written this recently, or months ago? Had you been silently questioning the emptiness between you while he maintained his facade of contentment?

Jungwon turned the page, discovering more of your markings. Some poems had stars beside them, others had entire stanzas underlined. Some had exclamation points, others question marks. It was like finding a secret language, a code he should have deciphered long ago.

A poem about two rivers running parallel without ever meeting carried your annotation: This is what marriage feels like. So close yet never touching.

His breath caught. When had you written that? While lying beside him in bed, bodies carefully not touching? While sitting across from him at breakfast, exchanging polite comments about the day ahead?

He continued reading, unable to stop himself now. Each page revealed more of your hidden inner life. A poem about seasonal changes had reminds me of childhood summers before expectations written in the margin. Another about distant mountains carried the note wish we could travel together somewhere without his family or business associates.

Each annotation was a window into desires you'd never expressed, dreams you'd kept hidden. Why had he never asked what you wanted? Where you longed to go? What made you happy?

The night deepened around him, but Jungwon barely noticed. He was falling into your world, glimpsing for the first time the woman behind the perfect wife he'd taken for granted.

Then he found a page with the corner folded down, a poem about physical love:

I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

Your handwriting beside it was more hurried, almost feverish: too much to hope for? would he ever lose control enough?

Jungwon's throat tightened painfully. All those nights lying beside you, maintaining a careful distance, while you marked poems about passion and wrote desperate questions no one would see. How many nights had you lain awake, wanting him to reach for you? How many times had you considered reaching for him, only to retreat in fear of rejection?

He turned more pages, finding increasingly intimate selections. Next to Pablo Neruda's words:

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, the sovereign nose of your arrogant face, I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes

You'd written: I dream of his mouth on my skin. Would he be disgusted by such thoughts?

The pain that shot through him was physical. Disgusted? How could you think that? But then, what else could you think when he'd maintained such careful distance, when he'd retreated to his study each night rather than face the vulnerability of desire?

Another poem, this one about hands tracing the geography of a lover's body, carried your note: I've memorized the shape of his hands during dinner parties, imagined them on me instead of on his wine glass.

Jungwon looked down at his own hands, remembering all the times they'd almost touched you—passing dishes at dinner, handing you into the car, the brief contact when giving you a gift—and how he'd always pulled back just slightly too soon. What would have happened if he'd let his fingers linger? If he'd given in to the urge to trace the line of your jaw, to feel the softness of your skin?

Hours passed as he lost himself in your secret thoughts. Some poems had tear stains, barely perceptible wrinkles in the paper where droplets had fallen and dried. Those broke him most of all—the tangible evidence of your solitary tears, shed perhaps just feet away from where he sat working, oblivious to your pain.

One poem about loneliness had simply: I am disappearing inside this house, inside this marriage, becoming nothing but "Mrs. Yang" scrawled across the bottom in handwriting that shook with emotion.

Dawn found him still at his desk, eyes burning from reading and from tears he hadn't realized he was shedding. The morning staff moved quietly through the house, shocked to see him disheveled and unshaven, the immaculate Yang heir looking like a man undone.

He ignored their concerned glances, your poetry book still open before him. But it wasn't enough. One book couldn't contain all of you. He needed more.

"Sir," the housekeeper approached hesitantly as Jungwon emerged from his study, still in yesterday's clothes, "would you like your breakfast now?"

"No," he replied, his voice hoarse from a night without sleep. "I need to see all of Madame's books. Every book in this house that she's ever touched."

The housekeeper exchanged a worried glance with the butler. "All of them, sir?"

"Every single one. Novels, poetry, anything with her handwriting in it. Bring them to the library."

He moved with feverish purpose to the library, pulling books from shelves himself—any that showed signs of your touch. Dog-eared pages, bookmarks, the slight cracking of spines that indicated frequent opening to favorite passages.

Throughout the day, the staff delivered more and more books—novels from your nightstand, reference books from the sunroom shelves, journals from your writing desk. Jungwon created careful piles around him, transforming the library floor into a map of your mind.

He found a travel book about Greece with dozens of Post-it notes marking specific locations. The private cove where no one would expect Mrs. Yang to swim naked read one note that made his heart race. Another, beside a picture of a small village: No social obligations, no family expectations—heaven.

You'd been dreaming of escape. From the mansion, from the Yang name, from him? The thought was unbearable.

In your copy of Jane Eyre, he found your underlining of Rochester's passionate declaration: "I have for the first time found what I can truly love–I have found you." Beside it, your handwriting: To be truly SEEN by someone. What would that feel like?

"Oh god," he whispered, the words escaping involuntarily. "You've never felt seen."

How could he have failed so completely? He, who prided himself on his attention to detail in business, had missed everything that mattered about the woman who shared his home, his name, his bed.

As afternoon turned to evening, Jungwon discovered a small leather journal tucked between larger books on a bottom shelf. He hesitated, knowing this was crossing a line from reading your notes to reading your private thoughts. But his need to know you, to understand what he'd missed, overrode his sense of propriety.

The journal wasn't a diary but a collection of poems you'd written yourself, clumsy in places but raw with emotion:

I practice conversations with you in my head

Witty things I might say that would make you look at me

Really look at me

But when you enter the room

My words evaporate like morning dew

And we speak of dinner parties and business associates

Never of stars or dreams or why your eyes

Sometimes follow me when you think I don't notice

Jungwon felt his careful composure—the mask he'd worn his entire adult life—shatter completely. You had seen him watching you. Had known there was something beneath his polite facade. But he'd never given you enough to be sure, had never been brave enough to let you see his wanting.

Another poem, dated just two months ago:

Your fingers brushed mine as you handed me a glass

Accidental touch that burned through my skin

I wonder if you felt it too

That current between us, electric and dangerous

Or if I imagined it, desperate for connection

For any sign that beneath your perfect suit

Beats a heart that could want me

As much as I want you

He had felt it. Every accidental touch, every brush of your hand, every moment when you stood close enough that he could smell your perfume. He had felt everything and denied it all, retreating into work and duty and the expectations drilled into him since childhood.

The worst entry was the most recent, written just days before your anniversary:

One year of marriage

Three hundred sixty-five nights of lying beside him

Listening to his breathing

Wondering if he's awake

Wondering if he ever thinks of touching me

Of breaking through the invisible wall between us

One year of perfect Mrs. Yang While the woman inside me slowly suffocates

Sometimes I think if I just reached for him once

If I was brave enough to cross that divide

But what if his rejection destroyed the last piece of me

That still believes I'm worthy of being

Wanted.

Jungwon closed the journal, his vision blurred with tears. You had been silently begging for him to reach across the divide while he had been congratulating himself on respecting your independence. The magnitude of his failure crushed him.

He didn't eat that day. Didn't change clothes. Didn't acknowledge the increasingly concerned staff who hovered at the library's periphery. Instead, he immersed himself in your hidden world, learning you through the books you'd loved, the passages you'd marked, the words you'd written when you thought no one would see.

Dawn arrived, but Jungwon had lost all sense of time. The library floor was covered with open books, each one containing fragments of your soul. He had read himself into a state of emotional exhaustion, discovering more and more evidence of your loneliness, your desire, your gradual loss of hope.

A desperate energy seized him. Reading wasn't enough. He needed to act, to change, to create physical evidence of his awakening before you returned—if you returned.

He summoned the head gardener, ignoring the man's shocked expression at his disheveled appearance.

"I need every peony on the estate moved to the front garden," he announced, his voice rough from disuse. "Every single one. From all the gardens, the greenhouse, everywhere."

"Sir, that would be hundreds of plants," the gardener protested. "And the formal design—"

"I don't care about the design," Jungwon interrupted, thinking of a note he'd found beside a picture of a wild garden: Why must everything be so ordered? So perfect? I long for beautiful chaos. "I want them arranged naturally. The way they would grow if they chose their own placement."

"But sir, your mother's landscape plan—"

"Is no longer relevant." Jungwon's eyes flashed with an intensity that made the gardener step back. "The peonies were always her choice, not my wife's. I want a garden that reflects what she loves."

"This will take all day, possibly longer," the gardener warned.

"Then start immediately. And I need something else. The bookshelves from the east parlor—bring them to the east garden. All of them."

The staff exchanged alarmed glances, but Jungwon was beyond caring about their concerns. He continued issuing instructions, driven by the need to transform the mansion—to break the perfect mold that had trapped you both.

"Sir," the butler ventured cautiously when the others had gone to carry out these strange orders, "perhaps you should rest. You haven't slept or eaten—"

"How can I rest?" Jungwon's voice broke with emotion. "Do you know what I've discovered? She's been living here for a year, lonely and unfulfilled, while I congratulated myself on being a proper husband. I've failed her completely."

The butler, who had served the Yang family for decades, had never seen the young master in such a state. "Sir, if I may... it's never too late to change course."

Jungwon looked at him sharply. "Have you seen her? Has she contacted anyone?"

"No, sir. But knowing Madame, she's not one to leave matters unresolved."

With renewed determination, Jungwon returned to the library. He selected dozens of books containing your most revealing notes and had them brought to the east garden. As the shelves were positioned on the grass, he began arranging the books, creating a physical testament to what he'd learned.

The gardeners worked throughout the day, transplanting hundreds of peonies to the front garden in a naturalistic arrangement that would horrify his mother but, he hoped, would speak to you. The once-formal approach to the house transformed into an explosion of your favorite flowers, arranged with the organic randomness of nature rather than the rigid precision of Yang tradition.

By late afternoon, Jungwon had created an outdoor library in the east garden—the private corner of the grounds where you often walked alone. He placed books on the shelves and opened others on the grass around him, creating a circle of revelations.

He had sent the staff away, needing to be alone with the evidence of his awakening. His phone buzzed repeatedly—his father, his mother, business associates all demanding attention. He ignored them all.

Instead, he picked up your poetry journal again, reading and rereading your most vulnerable confessions. The precise handwriting becoming more jagged with emotion. The careful Mrs. Yang breaking through to the woman beneath.

As sunset painted the sky in shades of pink and gold, Jungwon sat amidst the books, surrounded by the fragments of you he'd collected, feeling more alive and more terrified than he had ever been. What if it was too late? What if you had already decided that the year of emotional solitude was too high a price for the Yang name and fortune?

He wouldn't blame you. How could he? He had offered you everything except himself.

Night fell, and still he remained in the garden, under stars you had once described in a margin note as witnesses to all our silent longings. He read your words by the light of lanterns the staff had silently provided, losing himself in the labyrinth of your unspoken desires.

In the faint light, he reread the poem that had started his journey—the one about love lost between what is said and not meant, what is meant and not said. He traced your question mark with his finger, feeling the slight indentation in the paper where you had pressed the pen, perhaps harder than you intended, the physical evidence of your frustration.

"I see you now," he whispered to the empty garden, to the books that held pieces of your soul. "I see you, and I'm terrified it's too late."

The night deepened around him, but Jungwon remained among the books, keeping vigil, waiting, hoping you would come home—and fearing you would not.

-

Five days since you'd left. Five days of freedom from the perfect imprisonment that had become your life. Five days to remember who you were before becoming Mrs. Yang.

On the morning of the sixth day, as you sat on Leah's small balcony with a chipped mug of coffee, your phone lit up with a text from Jungwon's personal assistant.

Mr. Yang has canceled all appointments for the foreseeable future. The household staff reports concerning behavior. If you could contact them, they would be grateful.

You stared at the message, rereading it several times. Jungwon never canceled appointments. Even when he'd had the flu last winter, he'd conducted meetings by video rather than reschedule. His schedule was sacred, immovable.

"What's wrong?" Leah asked, noticing your expression.

You handed her the phone. She read the message and raised her eyebrows.

"Sounds like someone's having a breakdown."

"Jungwon doesn't have breakdowns," you said automatically, then paused. The man you'd confronted before leaving—the one who'd admitted his fear of vulnerability, who'd texted you his feelings rather than say them aloud—perhaps that man did have breakdowns after all.

"Are you going to go check on him?" Leah asked.

You sighed, setting down your coffee. "I have to, don't I? At the very least, I need to get more of my things." You'd left with only a small overnight bag, having no plan beyond escape.

"Want me to come with you?"

"No," you said, more decisively than you felt. "This is something I need to do alone."

As you showered and dressed, you tried to prepare yourself for what awaited. Would Jungwon be coldly angry, his moment of vulnerability already locked away? Would he have summoned his parents, ready for a united front to convince you of your duties? Or would he simply be absent, buried in work as a shield against emotion?

In the rideshare on the way to the mansion, you rehearsed what to say. You would be calm but firm. This wasn't about blame anymore but about whether a real marriage was possible between you. You needed honesty, vulnerability, true partnership—not just the performance of marriage you'd endured for a year.

But as the car approached the gates of the estate, your carefully prepared speech evaporated. The formal gardens that had always greeted visitors with mathematical precision had been transformed. Instead of the orderly rows of seasonal blooms, there was a riot of peonies—your favorite flower—planted in natural, wild groupings that looked almost as if they had grown there spontaneously.

"Wait here," you told the driver. "I may not be staying."

As you walked up the long driveway, your heart hammered against your ribs. The front door opened before you reached it, the butler appearing with an expression of profound relief.

"Madame," he said, bowing slightly. "Thank goodness you've returned."

"I'm not staying necessarily," you clarified, stepping into the foyer. "I just came to—" You stopped, noticing more changes. The formal floral arrangements that always occupied the entryway tables had been replaced with wild, exuberant bouquets of peonies and wildflowers. "What's happening here?"

"Mr. Yang has been... making adjustments to the household," the butler replied diplomatically. "He's in the east garden. He's been there nearly two days now."

Two days? "Is he... is he all right?"

The butler hesitated. "I believe he's waiting for you, Madame."

You made your way through the house, noting more changes as you went. Books that had always been perfectly arranged on shelves now sat in haphazard stacks on tables, many open to specific pages. Your books, you realized, from your private collection.

When you reached the doors leading to the east garden—your favorite part of the grounds, where you often walked alone—you paused, gathering your courage.

Nothing could have prepared you for what you found.

The garden had been transformed into an outdoor library. Bookshelves stood on the grass in a semicircle, filled with books—your books—many open to display specific pages. And in the center, sitting cross-legged on the ground surrounded by open volumes, was Jungwon.

You'd never seen him like this. His usually immaculate appearance was completely undone—hair disheveled, several days' stubble on his jaw, clothes rumpled as if he'd slept in them. He was reading intently from what you recognized as your private poetry journal, his expression a mixture of pain and wonder.

He looked up as your shadow fell across the page, and the naked hope and fear in his eyes made your breath catch.

"You came back," he said, his voice rough as if from disuse.

"What is all this?" you asked, gesturing to the surreal scene around you.

Jungwon carefully closed your journal and set it aside. He rose slowly to his feet, a man moving carefully so as not to shatter something fragile.

"I've been trying to find you," he said. "The real you. The one I should have been looking for all along."

You stepped closer, picking up one of the books from the grass. It was your copy of Neruda's love sonnets, open to a page where you'd scribbled Would he ever touch me like this? in the margin.

Heat rose to your face. "You've been reading my private notes?"

"Yes." Jungwon didn't try to justify or excuse it. "I needed to understand what I'd missed, what I'd ignored. I needed to see you—really see you."

You should have been angry at the invasion of privacy, but something in his broken expression stopped your protest. This wasn't the controlled, perfect Jungwon Yang you'd married. This was someone else entirely—raw, desperate, real.

"Do you have any idea," he continued, taking a step toward you, "how much you've wanted? How much you've needed? All these books, all these words you've underlined, notes you've written—they're full of longing I never acknowledged."

You remained silent, unsure what to say as he moved closer, stopping just short of touching you.

"I found your poem about lying beside me at night, wondering if I was awake, wondering if I ever thought about touching you." His voice broke slightly. "I did. Every night. I lay there wanting you, terrified of reaching for you, convinced that maintaining distance was the same as showing respect."

Your heart pounded so hard you were sure he must hear it. "Why are you telling me this now?"

"Because I almost lost you." The simple truth hung in the air between you. "Because I realized that the thing I feared most—vulnerability, need, the possibility of rejection—was nothing compared to the emptiness of letting you walk away without ever knowing how much I want you. How much I've always wanted you."

To your shock, Jungwon suddenly dropped to his knees before you, looking up with eyes that held none of his usual composure.

"I don't deserve another chance," he said, his voice raw with emotion. "I've been a coward, hiding behind duty and family expectations. But if you're willing—if there's any part of you that believes we could start again—I swear I will spend every day trying to be worthy of you."

You stood frozen, overwhelmed by his declaration, by the sight of Jungwon Yang—heir to an empire, always in perfect control—on his knees before you, walls finally shattered.

"I want to build a life with you," he continued, the words spilling out as if he couldn't contain them any longer. "A real life, not this performance we've been trapped in. I want mornings where we don't pretend to sleep through each other's routines. I want to hear about your day and tell you about mine. I want to take you to that cove in Greece where no one would expect Mrs. Yang to swim naked."

Your cheeks flamed at the reference to your private note in the travel book.

"I've read every word you've written in the margins," he confessed, his voice dropping lower. "I've memorized your poetry. The ones you circled, the ones you starred. Neruda's words—'I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees'—I understand them now. I feel them in my veins."

His eyes locked with yours, their intensity almost unbearable.

"I dream of you. Of being inside you. Of knowing nothing but the depth of your eyes when you look at me. Of drowning in your skin until my mind forgets every lesson in restraint I've ever learned." His voice shook slightly. "All those nights I lay beside you, rigid with control, while you wrote of desire in book margins—it was never indifference. It was fear. Fear of how completely I would surrender to you if I allowed myself a single touch."

You couldn't breathe, couldn't speak as he continued, years of suppressed desire breaking through the dam of his composure.

"I found where you wrote 'would he ever lose control enough?' The answer is yes. God, yes. Every moment of every day I've wanted to lose myself in you. To press you against walls, to taste every inch of your skin, to hear my name in your voice when I'm buried so deep inside you that we can't tell where I end and you begin."

He trembled visibly now, hands clenched at his sides to keep from reaching for you.

"I want children who know their father can feel, can love," he went on, his voice breaking. "I want to be the man you deserve—not the perfect Yang heir, but a husband who sees you, hears you, wants you exactly as you are."

Tears welled in your eyes, but you blinked them back. This was what you'd wanted—wasn't it? The real man beneath the perfect facade. But now that he was here, raw and vulnerable, you found yourself terrified of your own power to hurt him, to be hurt again.

"I don't know if I can trust this," you admitted softly. "What happens when your father calls? When your mother visits? When business demands return? Will you retreat back behind those walls you've built over a lifetime?"

Jungwon nodded, acknowledging the fairness of your question. "I already told my father I won't be controlled by his expectations anymore. I hung up on him—" He gave a small, disbelieving laugh. "I actually hung up on him when he tried to order me to bring you back for appearances' sake."

Your eyes widened. In the Yang family hierarchy, defying the patriarch was unthinkable.

"I can't promise I'll never struggle," Jungwon continued. "A lifetime of conditioning doesn't disappear in a week. But I can promise to try. To talk instead of withdraw. To let you see me—all of me, even the parts I was taught to hide." He swallowed hard. "And I can promise that no business meeting, no family obligation, nothing will ever be more important to me than you are."

The morning sunlight filtered through the garden trees, casting dappled light across his face, highlighting the exhaustion in his eyes, the vulnerability in his expression. In that moment, all the trappings of wealth and status fell away, leaving just a man asking a woman for another chance.

"I love you," he said quietly, the words clearly strange on his tongue. "I think I have from the beginning, but I didn't know how to show it, how to say it, how to let myself feel it without fear."

Your carefully constructed walls began to crumble. The honesty in his eyes, the tremor in his voice—this wasn't another performance. This was real in a way nothing between you had been before.

You took a deep breath, making a decision that would change everything.

"Stand up," you said softly.

Jungwon rose slowly, uncertainty in every line of his body. He stood before you, not touching, waiting.

"I need time," you said finally. "Not away from you—I think we've had enough distance. But time here, together, building something real. Day by day. No quick fixes, no grand gestures, just... honest effort."

Relief washed over his face. "Anything. Whatever you need."

You reached out slowly, your hand trembling slightly as you placed it against his cheek. The stubble was rough under your palm—a tangible sign of his unraveling, his transformation.

"We start again," you said. "As equals. As partners. As two people choosing each other every day, not just fulfilling an arrangement."

Jungwon covered your hand with his own, his eyes never leaving yours. "Yes," he agreed simply. "That's all I want. The chance to choose you, and to be chosen by you, every day."

You stood there in the garden surrounded by the evidence of his awakening—the books, the wildflowers, the breaking of perfect order that had defined your lives together. Nothing was resolved yet, not really. The real work of building a marriage would take time, patience, courage from both of you.

But as Jungwon's fingers tentatively interlaced with yours, you felt something you hadn't experienced in a very long time: hope.

Not the desperate hope that had led you to mark passages in poetry books, dreaming of connection. But a quieter, stronger hope built on the foundation of truth finally spoken, of walls finally breached.

A beginning, at last, after a year of beautiful emptiness.

-

The transformation didn't happen overnight. Real change never does. But it began with small, deliberate steps—each one a silent promise, a brick in the foundation of what you both hoped would become something genuine and lasting.

The first week was tentative, both of you navigating an unfamiliar landscape of honesty. You moved back into the master bedroom, but Jungwon slept on the chaise lounge across the room, respecting your need for physical space while closing the emotional distance. Each night, you talked—sometimes for hours—about everything and nothing. Your childhoods. Your dreams. The books that had shaped you. The places you longed to visit.

"I never knew you wanted to see Greece so badly," Jungwon said one evening, sitting cross-legged on the chaise, looking younger and more relaxed than you'd ever seen him. "We could go. Whenever you want."

"It's not just about going," you explained, hugging your knees to your chest as you sat against the headboard. "It's about going somewhere simply because we want to, not because it's expected or beneficial to the family business."

He nodded, understanding dawning in his eyes. "A trip just for us. No schedules, no business meetings disguised as vacations..."

"Exactly."

Two days later, you found a travel guide to the Greek islands on your pillow, with a note in Jungwon's precise handwriting: Pick the places that call to you. No expectations. No time limit. Just us.

-

The second week brought the first real test. Mrs. Yang arrived unannounced, sweeping into the foyer with the authority of someone who had never been denied entry.

"I've heard disturbing reports," she announced, eyeing the wildflower arrangements with thinly veiled distaste. "The garden completely rearranged. Appointments canceled. Your father says you're not taking his calls. And now this..." She gestured to the informality of the house, the books scattered on surfaces, the general disruption of the perfect order she'd helped establish.

In the past, Jungwon would have immediately adjusted his behavior to appease her. You braced yourself for his retreat back into the perfect son role.

Instead, he surprised you.

"Mother," he said calmly, "we're in the middle of some changes here. I should have called to tell you it's not a good time for a visit."

Her eyes widened. "Not a good time? Since when do I need an appointment to visit my own son's home?"

"Since now," Jungwon replied, his voice gentle but firm. "We're working on our marriage, and we need space to do that properly."

Mrs. Yang turned to you, expecting you to be the reasonable one, to smooth over this unprecedented friction. "Surely you understand that family obligations—"

"Are important," you finished for her, "but not more important than our relationship. Jungwon and I are learning to put each other first."

Her mouth opened and closed, momentarily speechless. "This is your influence," she finally said to you, her voice sharp. "My son has never been so disrespectful."

You felt Jungwon tense beside you, but before he could speak, you placed your hand on his arm. A silent communication—I've got this.

"It's not disrespect to establish healthy boundaries," you said, maintaining a respectful tone despite the accusation. "We both value you and Mr. Yang, but we're building something here that needs protection and care."

Mrs. Yang looked between the two of you, noting the united front, the way Jungwon stood slightly closer to you than necessary, the casual intimacy of your hand on his arm. Something in her calculation shifted.

"I see," she said finally. "Well. Call when you're ready to rejoin society. The foundation gala is in three weeks, and people will talk if you're absent."

"Let them talk," Jungwon said simply.

After she left, you turned to Jungwon, studying his face for signs of regret or anger. Instead, you found him looking almost relieved.

"That was the first time I've ever said no to her," he confessed with a shaky laugh. "It feels... terrifying. And right."

You squeezed his hand. "You were perfect."

"Not perfect," he corrected. "Real. There's a difference."

-

By the third week, physical barriers began to dissolve. Jungwon moved from the chaise to the bed, though always maintaining a careful distance. But one night, half-asleep and cold from the air conditioning, you instinctively shifted closer to his warmth. Without fully waking, he draped an arm over you, pulling you against him with a contented sigh.

You froze, suddenly wide awake, your heart racing at the casual intimacy. His breathing remained deep and even, clearly still asleep. Slowly, you relaxed into the embrace, allowing yourself to feel the solidity of him, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the warmth that radiated through his thin t-shirt.

It was the first time you'd slept in each other's arms. In the morning, when you both woke to find yourselves entangled, there was a moment of awkward uncertainty before Jungwon smiled—a genuine, unguarded smile that transformed his face.

"Good morning," he said softly, making no move to pull away.

"Good morning," you replied, marveling at how natural it felt to be here, in this moment, with him.

That day, the staff noticed the shift between you—the lingering glances, the casual touches as you passed each other, the private smiles. The mansion seemed to exhale, as if the building itself had been holding its breath, waiting for life to finally fill its rooms.

-

A month after your return, Jungwon came to you with a proposal.

"I've been thinking about the house," he said over breakfast, which you now took together every morning before he left for work. His schedule had been completely reorganized, with strict boundaries between work and home time. "It's beautiful, but it's never felt like ours. It's been my family's vision of what our home should be."

You nodded, understanding immediately. "It's always felt like living in a museum."

"Exactly." He pushed a folder across the table. "What would you think about this?"

Inside were architectural plans for a new house—smaller, more intimate, designed around shared spaces and natural light.

"You want to move?" you asked, surprised.

"I want us to build something that belongs to us," he clarified. "Something that reflects who we are together, not who everyone expects us to be."

You studied the plans more carefully, noting the library with two desks facing each other, the open kitchen designed for cooking together, the master bedroom with windows that would catch the sunrise.

"There's room for a nursery," you observed quietly, looking up to gauge his reaction.

His eyes softened. "I thought... someday... if we decided..." He took a deep breath, steadying himself. "I want children with you. Not for the Yang legacy, but because I can't imagine anything more beautiful than creating a family with you. But only when we're ready. Only when our foundation is solid."

You reached across the table, taking his hand. "I'd like that. Someday."

He squeezed your fingers, a simple gesture that had become precious in its newfound ease. "So, the house?"

"Yes," you decided. "Let's build something that's truly ours."

-

Two months into your new beginning, you attended your first social event as a changed couple. The charity auction—ironically, the same type of event where you'd played your roles so convincingly before—now became the stage for your authentic selves.

When you entered on Jungwon's arm, the subtle changes were immediately apparent to the careful observers of high society. The way his hand rested at the small of your back—not for show, but because he liked the connection to you. How he kept you within his sight even during separate conversations. The private smiles you exchanged across the room, small moments of complicity in the public setting.

Mrs. Singh approached you during a lull in the evening. "There's something different about you two," she observed shrewdly. "You seem... happier."

You smiled, watching Jungwon across the room. He was engaged in conversation but looked up at that exact moment, as if sensing your gaze, and smiled back with undisguised affection.

"We are," you replied simply.

Later, when the dancing began, Jungwon led you to the floor. Unlike the choreographed movements you'd performed at countless events before, this time he held you closer, his cheek occasionally brushing against your temple, his hand warm and secure against yours.

"Everyone's watching us," you murmured, feeling the weight of curious eyes.

"Let them," he replied, his lips close to your ear. "Maybe they'll learn something."

The evening continued, but unlike before, you weren't simply playing a part. The genuine connection between you was unmistakable, and as the night progressed, you felt something shift in the atmosphere around you. The calculated social maneuvering gave way to something more genuine, as if your authenticity had granted others permission to drop their own facades, if only slightly.

When you returned home that night, the tension that had always accompanied these performances was absent. Instead, there was a shared sense of accomplishment, of having navigated the social waters together without losing yourselves in the process.

"That wasn't so bad," Jungwon admitted as you both prepared for bed. "Being real in public."

"It was actually nice," you agreed, sitting at your vanity to remove your jewelry. "Though I think your mother nearly fainted when you declined the board seat Mr. Lee offered."

Jungwon laughed, the sound still new enough to delight you. "The old me would have accepted immediately, even though we both know it would have meant even less time at home." He moved behind you, meeting your eyes in the mirror. "I have different priorities now."

He reached for the clasp of your necklace, his fingers brushing against your skin as he helped you remove it. The simple intimacy of the gesture—one that might have seemed ordinary in most marriages but was revolutionary in yours—made your breath catch.

When he finished, his hands remained on your shoulders, thumbs gently caressing the exposed skin above your dress. Your eyes met in the mirror, and the desire you saw there—no longer hidden or denied—sent heat cascading through you.

"May I kiss you?" he asked softly.

It wasn't your first kiss since the reconciliation—there had been gentle pecks, cautious explorations—but something about this moment felt different. More significant.

You turned to face him, rising from the vanity bench. "Yes."

He cupped your face with reverent hands, studying you as if committing every detail to memory, before leaning in slowly. The kiss began gentle but deepened as months of carefully banked desire kindled between you. His arms encircled your waist, drawing you closer until you could feel the rapid beating of his heart against yours.

When you finally separated, both breathless, Jungwon rested his forehead against yours. "I love you," he whispered, the words no longer strange or difficult but natural, necessary.

"I love you too," you replied, the truth of it filling every part of you.

That night, for the first time, you truly became husband and wife—not through social obligation or family expectation, but through choice. Through desire. Through love that had fought its way past barriers of conditioning and fear to find expression at last.

-

Six months after your confrontation, the new house was completed. It stood on a hillside overlooking the city, modern in design but warm in execution, with natural materials and spaces designed for living rather than showcasing wealth.

The move was symbolic in more ways than one—leaving behind the mansion with its rigid expectations and cold perfection, stepping into a home created specifically for the life you were building together.

On your first night there, after the movers had gone and the essentials were unpacked, Jungwon opened a bottle of champagne, pouring two glasses as you both stood in the expansive living room, floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the city lights spread below.

"To new beginnings," he said, raising his glass.

"To us," you added, clinking your glass against his.

After you both drank, he set his glass aside and reached for your hand, his expression turning serious.

"I want to ask you something," he said, leading you to the sofa. When you were both seated, he took both your hands in his. "This past year—these six months especially—have been the most transformative of my life. I feel like I'm finally becoming the person I was meant to be, not the perfect heir my father designed."

You squeezed his hands encouragingly. "I'm proud of you. The changes you've made, the boundaries you've set—none of it has been easy."

"It's been worth it," he said simply. "And I want to keep growing, keep becoming better. With you." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. "Which is why I want to ask you to marry me. Again. For real this time."

He opened the box to reveal a ring nothing like the elaborate diamond he'd given you during your engagement. This one was simpler, more personal—a band of intertwined gold and platinum with a small sapphire that matched the color of your favorite flowers.

"Our first marriage was arranged for us," he continued. "I want this one to be chosen by us. No families planning, no strategic alliances, just two people who love each other deciding to build a life together."

Tears filled your eyes, but unlike the lonely tears you'd shed in that first year, these were born of joy, of wonder at how far you'd both come.

"Yes," you whispered, watching as he slipped the ring onto your finger, alongside the formal engagement diamond you still wore. The contrast between them—one chosen for appearance, one chosen for meaning—perfectly symbolized your journey.

"I thought we could have a small ceremony," Jungwon said, pulling you close. "Just us and a few people who truly care about our happiness. On that Greek island you've been reading about."

You laughed through your tears. "Your mother would never forgive us."

"She'll survive," he said with a smile. "This isn't about the Yang family or social connections or business advantages. It's about you and me, choosing each other. Every day. For the rest of our lives."

As you kissed to seal this new promise, you marveled at the journey that had brought you here—from empty performance to authentic partnership, from silent longing to expressed love, from arranged marriage to chosen commitment.

The road hadn't been smooth. There had been setbacks, moments when old patterns threatened to reassert themselves. There would be more challenges ahead, more work to maintain the vulnerability and honesty you'd fought so hard to establish.

But looking into Jungwon's eyes—eyes that now held nothing back from you—you knew with absolute certainty that the difficult path was worth it. That true connection, once found, was worth fighting for. That love, real love, could grow even from the most barren beginnings, if only given the chance to breathe.

-

The most shocking transformation in your renewed marriage wasn’t the tenderness.

It was the hunger.

Jungwon, who used to sleep with a polite space between your bodies, now touched you like he couldn’t bear even a millimeter of distance.

The man who once bowed his head before kissing your hand now dropped to his knees and begged to taste you.

It was as if years of restraint had finally snapped—like some tight, internal knot had come undone—and he was feral from the release.

The first night you truly became intimate, you realized just how much he’d been suppressing.

His hands, once always tucked in his lap, now gripped your thighs like a lifeline, dragged you down onto the sheets with a growl. He shook when he touched you, but not from nerves—from sheer fucking relief.

His mouth, which had always only spoken in formal tones and quiet dinner conversation, now whispered against your skin—

“I’ve dreamed of spreading your legs and living between them.”

You gasped. He kissed lower. His breath hot between your thighs.

“Every night beside you, pretending I didn’t hear how you breathed heavier when I got too close. I wanted to fuck you so bad I used to take cold showers just to stop myself from humping the fucking mattress.”

You were already soaked, trembling.

You cupped his face, forced him to look up. “You don’t have to hold back anymore.”

His pupils were blown wide. He licked his lips, nodding.

“I don’t think I could if I tried.”

He broke.

He devoured your pussy like it owed him rent. Like it was his first and last meal.

No teasing. No patience. Just his tongue, buried deep, moaning into you like your taste was the only thing that ever made him lose his composure.

You came once on his mouth—fast and loud—and he didn’t even let up.

“Again,” he groaned, “fuck, again, I want to feel you fall apart.”

And when he finally hovered over you, flushed and trembling and naked between your legs?

“Tell me,” he whispered, cock dragging through your soaked folds, “tell me what you want. What you’ve been aching for. Let me ruin you the way I’ve dreamed about.”

So you did.

You told him all of it. The fantasies. The positions. The filthy little things you’d only ever written down in notebook margins when he was still cold and distant.

And Jungwon?

Did. Not. Flinch.

He nodded, breath shaking, and said—

“You want to be face down? Crying? Begging? I’ll give it to you. Just know when I start, I won’t stop until you’re fucked stupid.”

And he meant it.

He took you face down on the mattress, hips locked in place by his grip, his cock slamming into you so deep you saw stars. He growled things you’d never imagined him saying—

“This pussy’s mine. All fucking mine. You think I don’t know how wet you get when I talk like this?”

“Look at you—slutty little wife, dripping down your thighs like you’ve been waiting to be treated like a whore.”

“How many times you make yourself cum thinking about me breaking like this, huh?”

You choked on your moans. You were sobbing by the time he made you cum again, legs shaking, jaw slack, vision blurry.

He kissed your spine afterward. Slowly. Tenderly. Like he hadn’t just rearranged your insides.

Pulled you into his arms and whispered, “I used to leave the room when I got too hard just looking at you. I thought wanting you like this made me weak. My father always said a Yang man should control his urges.”

He paused. Smiled against your neck.

“I’ve never been so happy to disappoint him.”

-

In the weeks that followed your first night together, the shift between you became impossible to ignore. And impossible to contain.

Jungwon couldn’t stop touching you.

He didn’t even try. His hand found yours under the breakfast table.

His palm slid across your lower back when you walked past him in the hallway—lingering there, possessive.

He stole kisses while you were brushing your teeth, while you answered the door, while you loaded the washing machine.

It was as if his body was always reaching, always chasing, making up for a year of self-denial all at once.

You gave in to him every time.

One afternoon, he came home early from the office to find you kneeling in the garden, soil smudged on your knees, digging holes for the last peony bush you’d saved from the mansion.

You didn’t hear him approach.

But you felt it—the change in the air. The heat behind you. The sound of breath catching.

Hands on your waist. A sharp inhale. And a low, devastating voice.

“That’s what I come home to?”

You turned your head, startled—and then flushed under the weight of his gaze.

He was already unbuttoning his sleeves.

Already breathing too hard.

“Jungwon—”

He hauled you to your feet. Didn’t flinch at the dirt. Didn’t care about the sunlight.

Just gripped your waist, pulled you close, and kissed you like you’d been killing him in his dreams. You gasped against his mouth, hands braced on his chest, heart pounding.

“What was that for?”

His eyes were black with need. He didn’t let you go.

“Because I can,” he said. “Because I spent a year not touching you. Not letting myself want you. Not letting myself want to bend you over every surface in our house.”

You trembled.

He pulled you closer.

“I refuse to waste another fucking day.”

The peonies were forgotten.

He dragged you inside, dirt on your hands, sweat beading on your spine—and kissed you again against the door.

His jacket hit the floor first. Then yours.

Then his belt, as he backed you into the living room like a man possessed.

When your knees hit the rug, he dropped with you.

Didn’t even bother removing your clothes properly—just shoved your dress up and pulled your underwear down like it offended him.

“Here,” he growled, palming your ass as he pressed you forward onto all fours. “Here on the floor, where I can see every inch of you. Where I can fuck you raw and you can scream for me.”

You moaned, breath hitched.

“God, I wanted to do this the first night I married you. I wanted to wreck you. I wanted to see what sounds you’d make with my cock in you.”

You were dripping by the time he pushed inside.

No teasing. No patience. Just one smooth thrust that made you cry out, already clenching.

“So fucking tight,” he hissed. “So wet and hot and mine.”

He fucked you hard, fast, hips slapping against your ass as your moans echoed through the empty house.

You didn’t care. You let him take everything.

He gripped your hips, pulled you back onto him harder, chasing your high like he’d been dying for it. You came shaking on him, and he groaned, low and broken, before following with a curse buried into your shoulder.

You collapsed to the rug in a tangled heap, both of you breathless, glowing in the afternoon sun. Later, still half-naked, your cheek resting on the rug, he lay beside you—head on your stomach, smiling like a teenager.

“My father would be appalled,” he murmured. “The Yang heir behaving like this. Desperate. Loud. Fucking his wife on the floor.”

You laughed, running your fingers through his sweat-damp hair.

“And what do you think?”

He tilted his head. Kissed your bare hip, then lower.

Then smiled.

“I think we should do it again in the kitchen.”

A pause.

“Then the stairs. Then the study. Then maybe the floor again.”

You didn’t even get a chance to answer. Because his hand was already sliding between your legs again.

-

What amazed you most was his attentiveness. Jungwon, who had once seemed completely disconnected from physical needs, now anticipated yours with an almost uncanny perception. He noticed when tension gathered in your shoulders and appeared with warm hands to massage it away. He registered which touches made your breath catch and revisited them with deliberate intent. He cataloged every sensitive spot, every preference, every response with the same meticulous attention he'd once reserved for business reports.

"How did you know?" you asked one evening when he drew you a bath exactly when you needed it, complete with the lavender oil you preferred when tired.

"Your left eyebrow tenses slightly when you're exhausted," he explained, kneeling beside the tub to wash your back with gentle hands. "And you roll your shoulders every few minutes. Plus, you've been on your feet all day with the interior decorator."

The fact that he noticed such small details—that he paid such close attention to your physical comfort—moved you deeply. This wasn't just passion; it was care, consideration, genuine desire for your wellbeing.

One night, as you lay tangled together in the afterglow of particularly intense lovemaking, Jungwon traced patterns on your back with his fingertips, his expression thoughtful.

"I used to think that needing someone physically was a weakness," he confessed. "That it gave them power over you. My father warned me about it—how desire could cloud judgment, make a man vulnerable."

"And now?" you prompted, propping yourself up to look at him.

A slow smile spread across his face, transforming his features in a way that still took your breath away. "Now I think vulnerability is its own kind of strength. The courage to need someone, to show them exactly how much you want them..." He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I've never felt stronger than when I'm completely undone in your arms."

-

The physical transformation in your marriage rippled outward, affecting every aspect of your lives together. Jungwon, once rigid in his schedules and plans, now embraced spontaneity. He would cancel meetings to spend the day in bed with you, laughing as you expressed shock at his newfound willingness to prioritize pleasure over work.

"The company won't collapse if I take a day off," he said, pulling you back under the covers when you suggested he shouldn't neglect his responsibilities. "And this—" he kissed you deeply "—is a responsibility too. To us. To what we're building."

Even in public, the change was evident to anyone with eyes to see. Though still mindful of appropriate boundaries, Jungwon couldn't seem to stop himself from small touches—his hand at the small of your back, his fingers laced with yours, the way he would occasionally lean down to whisper something in your ear that made heat rise to your cheeks.

At a corporate gala, Mrs. Yang cornered you by the refreshment table, her eyes narrowed in disapproval. "Your husband's behavior has become rather... demonstrative lately," she observed acidly. "It's unseemly for a man of his position to be so openly affectionate."

You smiled, watching Jungwon across the room as he spoke with investors. Even engaged in business conversation, his eyes sought you out regularly, as if making sure you were still there, still his.

"I disagree," you replied calmly. "I think it shows remarkable strength for a man to be secure enough in himself to express his feelings openly."

Your mother-in-law's lips thinned, but before she could respond, Jungwon appeared at your side, his hand automatically finding yours.

"Mother," he greeted her with polite warmth. "I see you've found my wife. I hope you'll excuse us—this is our song."

There was no song playing that held any special meaning, but Mrs. Yang couldn't know that. With a small bow, Jungwon led you to the dance floor, pulling you closer than was strictly proper for such a formal event.

"Rescued you," he murmured against your ear, his breath sending delicious shivers down your spine.

"My hero," you teased, relaxing into his embrace. "Though your mother might never recover from the shock of seeing the Yang heir so besotted with his own wife."

"Let her adjust," he replied, his hand splayed possessively against your lower back. "This is who I am now. Who we are together."

Later that night, he touched you like he’d been holding it in all day—like the hours of careful, public restraint had coiled inside him, pressing tight under his skin, begging for release.

Now, with you spread beneath him in your shared bed, every breath he took seemed heavy with need.

His thrusts were deep, deliberate, dragging moans from your throat with each slow roll of his hips.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t look away. He studied you.

His dark eyes locked onto yours, watching every flicker of expression, every twitch, every gasp, like he wanted to memorize the exact second you shattered.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, voice low, tight, lips brushing the corner of your mouth.

You blinked up at him, dazed, overwhelmed. “That I hardly recognize you sometimes.”

His rhythm stuttered—hips faltering, jaw tensing.

His brows drew together. “Is that… disappointing?”

You couldn’t help the breathless laugh that escaped you. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist and pulled him closer, arching up to meet him.

“No. Quite the opposite.”

Your fingers slid into his hair, your voice thick with wonder and arousal.

“I’m amazed that all of this—”

Your hands trailed down his chest, to where your bodies met, to the heat and slick and stretch between your legs,

“—was hidden inside that perfect, restrained man.”

Relief washed over his face, followed by a crooked, mischievous smile—so at odds with the version of him you’d once known that it sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through you.

“I have years of self-control to make up for,” he said, lowering his mouth to your throat, his voice a warm rasp against your skin. “You don’t think I’ve imagined this? Every night. Every day. Watching you walk around like you didn’t know how badly I wanted to fuck you into the mattress?”

You whimpered, breath catching.

“You think I didn’t notice how soft your thighs looked in those dresses? Or how your voice changed when you said my name?”

His tongue flicked over a sensitive spot just below your ear, and your back arched without thinking.

“I used to jerk off in the shower,” he whispered, filthy now, “biting my lip so you wouldn’t hear. Palming my cock like a coward while I imagined you moaning for me just like this.”

You gasped as he pinned your wrists above your head, not rough, just firm—controlling, possessive. His other hand slid between your bodies, fingers circling your clit with devastating precision.

“You’re mine now,” he said against your collarbone. “I don’t have to hide it anymore. Don’t have to pretend I don’t want you crying and shaking under me every night.”

The need in his voice made your toes curl.

“I don’t think anyone could be prepared for this version of you,” you managed to gasp, hips bucking as his thumb pressed harder.

He chuckled darkly. “Good. I like catching you off guard.”

Then his lips ghosted over your pulse, and he murmured:

“I like knowing no one else gets to see you like this. Just me. The mess. The begging. The way you moan when I hit you right there.”

His hips snapped, and your whole body trembled.

“I like owning this version of you. The version that melts under me. That asks for more even when I’m already inside.”

The sheer possessiveness in his voice—raw and reverent—nearly undid you.

Your whole body clenched, eyes wide, breath gone. “Only you,” you whispered, completely wrecked. “Always you.”

He kissed you then. Deep. Unrelenting.

And when you came again, shaking apart in his arms, you knew:

You’d never seen the real Jungwon before this.

Afterward, as you drifted toward sleep in his arms, you reflected on the journey that had brought you here. From polite strangers sharing a bed without touching, to lovers who couldn't bear even the smallest distance between them. From a marriage of appearance to a union of body, heart, and soul.

Jungwon's arm tightened around you, even in his sleep unwilling to let you go. The man who had once feared needing someone now embraced that need without reservation, transforming what he'd been taught was weakness into his greatest strength.

As you snuggled closer to his warmth, you silently thanked whatever courage had prompted you to finally break the silence between you, to demand more than the empty performance your marriage had been. The risk had been terrifying, but the reward—this man who loved you without restraint, who showed that love in every look and touch and whispered word—was beyond anything you could have imagined.

Epilogue: Aegean Dreams

The light breeze carried the scent of salt and wild herbs through the open French doors of your villa, perched on the cliffs of Santorini. Dawn had just begun to paint the horizon in shades of gold and rose, the Aegean Sea below reflecting the spectacle like a mirror. You stood on the private terrace, wrapped in a silk robe, drinking in the view that had once been nothing more than a wistful note in a travel book margin.

Warm arms encircled you from behind, and Jungwon's lips found the curve where your neck met your shoulder.

"I woke up and you were gone," he murmured against your skin. "For a second, I panicked."

You turned in his embrace, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his face. No product kept it in place here—just like no tailored suits or carefully crafted personas had made the journey to this small Greek paradise.

"Just wanted to see the sunrise," you explained, smiling at the vulnerability he no longer tried to hide. "Old habits. Though I'm not used to you noticing when I slip out of bed."

"I notice everything about you now," he said, tightening his hold. "Especially when your warmth disappears from beside me."

Two years had passed since that fateful anniversary night when everything had broken open between you. Two years of learning each other, rebuilding trust, discovering what it meant to truly choose one another every day. The small, intimate wedding you'd held on this very island six months ago had merely formalized what your hearts had already decided.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Jungwon asked, noticing your contemplative expression.

"I was just thinking about that travel book," you said, leaning into him. "The one where I marked all those Greek islands, never believing I'd actually see them."

"And now you've seen five of them in three weeks," he replied with a smile. "With three more to go before we have to think about heading back."

The itinerary for this trip had been deliberately open-ended—a luxury neither of you had ever permitted yourselves before. No business calls, no social obligations, not even a fixed return date. Just the two of you moving at your own pace through the islands you'd dreamed of.

"Remember that cove I mentioned in my notes?" you asked, a mischievous glint in your eye. "The one where 'no one would expect Mrs. Yang to swim naked'?"

"How could I forget?" Jungwon's voice dropped lower, his hands sliding down to your waist. "It's circled on the map in our bedroom. I've been wondering when you'd bring it up."

"The boat captain said he could take us there this afternoon. Completely private, accessible only by sea."

His eyes darkened with desire—a look that still thrilled you, even after months of uninhibited passion. "I'll tell him we'll double his fee if he drops us off and doesn't return until sunset."

You laughed, stretching up to kiss him. "Always the efficient businessman."

"Only when efficiency serves pleasure," he countered, deepening the kiss until you were both breathless.

When you finally pulled apart, the sun had fully crested the horizon, bathing the white-washed villa in golden light. Jungwon led you to the small table on the terrace where he'd already set up breakfast—fresh fruit, local yogurt, honey, and coffee prepared exactly the way you liked it.

"I have something for you," he said, reaching into the pocket of his linen pants as you both sat down.

He placed a small package wrapped in simple brown paper on the table between you. His expression held an endearing mix of anticipation and nervousness that reminded you how far he'd come from the controlled, emotionless man you'd married.

"What's this for?" you asked, picking up the package. "It's not my birthday or our anniversary."

"Do I need a reason to give my wife a gift?" he countered with a smile. "Open it."

You carefully unwrapped the paper to find a leather-bound journal, its cover soft and supple. When you opened it, you discovered it was filled with poems—some typed, others handwritten in Jungwon's precise script.

"I've been collecting them," he explained, watching your face closely. "Every poem that made me think of you. The ones that helped me understand what I was feeling when I didn't have the words myself."

You turned the pages, eyes widening as you recognized some of the poems you'd once secretly marked in your books, now preserved in this new collection. But there were others you didn't recognize—contemporary pieces, older classics, even what appeared to be original works.

"Did you... write some of these?" you asked, looking up in surprise.

A flush crept up his neck—the unguarded reaction still so different from the controlled man he'd once been. "I tried. They're probably terrible, but..." He shrugged, a gesture of vulnerability that would have been unthinkable in the old Jungwon. "I wanted to find a way to tell you what you mean to me that wasn't borrowed from someone else's words."

You found one of his original poems, dated from the early days of your reconciliation:

I lived behind walls so high

Even I forgot what lay inside

Until your voice broke through

And light flooded places

I had kept dark for so long

I had forgotten they could shine

Tears pricked your eyes as you continued reading. The progression of the poems—from hesitant early attempts to more recent, confident expressions—mirrored the journey of your relationship.

"This is the most beautiful gift anyone has ever given me," you said finally, closing the journal and holding it against your heart.

"There's one more thing," Jungwon said, reaching across the table to take your hand. "I've been thinking about what you said last week, about not being ready to go back to real life yet."

"I was just being silly," you assured him, though the thought of returning to schedules and obligations did fill you with a certain dread. "We can't stay on vacation forever."

"Why not?" He smiled at your startled expression. "Not forever, but... longer. I've been working on something." He pulled out his phone—rarely used during the trip except for taking photos—and showed you a property listing. "It's a small villa on Paros. Nothing extravagant, but it has a garden for you and a study for me with a decent internet connection."

"You want to buy a house here?" you asked, stunned.

"I want us to have a place that's just ours. Not tied to the Yang name or business or social expectations." His eyes held yours, serious despite his smile. "A place where we can come whenever we need to breathe. Where no one expects anything from us except being ourselves."

"But your work—"

"Can be managed remotely for extended periods," he interrupted gently. "I've been talking with the board about restructuring my role. Less day-to-day management, more strategic direction. It would mean fewer hours, more flexibility."

You stared at him, processing the magnitude of what he was suggesting. The old Jungwon would never have considered stepping back from his corporate responsibilities, would never have prioritized personal happiness over professional ambition.

"What about your father?" you asked, knowing that Mr. Yang would view such a move as a betrayal of family duty.

"He'll adapt," Jungwon said with surprising calm. "Or he won't. Either way, I'm not living my life to meet his expectations anymore." He squeezed your hand. "What do you think? Not about him—about the villa."

You looked out at the endless blue of the Aegean, then back at the man who had transformed himself for love of you—who continued to transform, to grow, to choose your shared happiness over prescribed obligation.

"I think," you said slowly, a smile spreading across your face, "that I'd like to plant bougainvillea along that terrace wall in the photos."

His answering smile was radiant. "Is that a yes?"

Instead of answering with words, you stood and moved around the table, settling onto his lap. His arms came around you automatically, holding you as if you were the most precious thing in his world—which, you knew now, you were.

"It's a 'you make me happier than I ever thought possible,'" you said, framing his face with your hands. "It's a 'I love the life we're building together.'"

"Even if it scandalizes my mother?" he asked, laughter in his eyes.

"Especially then," you replied, leaning in to kiss him as the Greek sun climbed higher in the sky, warming your skin, illuminating the future stretching before you—unplanned, unprescribed, and gloriously your own.

Behind you, the pages of the poetry journal fluttered in the sea breeze, open to the last entry, written in Jungwon's hand just days before:

Once I thought perfection meant control

Now I know it's the moment you laugh

Head thrown back, eyes dancing

Completely unguarded in my arms

The sound of your happiness echoing

Through rooms once filled with silence

This is the music I want to hear

For all my remaining days

fin.

-

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

[rowdydevs]

Can we get dilf!rafe and milf!reader? Max lets it slip to rafe that his buddies ogle and find milf!reader so hot when they saw her pick up Max and Winnie from school a few times? You can choose how it goes afterwards!! I love your writing of their fam saurrrrr much

awe thank you bb 💕 I'm so glad you like it 🤭🤭🤭 sorry this one got a little long—but I hope you enjoy 😋💕 This story is meant to be read either alone or with the rest of the au.

+18 -> smut

𝓭𝓲𝓵𝓯!𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮 𝓬𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓸𝓷 𝔁 𝓶𝓲𝓵𝓯!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

c/w: teenage boys being gross, jealous rafe, swearing, ownership kink, possessive rafe, pet names, multiple orgasms, overstim., squirting, fingering, unprotected p in v, mirror sex, dirty talk, spanking, lots of cum, female oral (post-shared climax)

cameron kids= Max (18), Winnie (17), Rory + Poppy (4)

You lean into the counter, absentmindedly squeezing lemon after lemon into the glass pitcher. Cold juices run down your fingers, sticky as it slips into the creases of your palms and drips to your wrists. The whole kitchen smells like sugar and citrus, with that warm, buttery hint of cookies still cooling behind you.

The plate’s already half gone, devoured by teenage boys lounging in the common space: tall, tan, loud, sprawled across your furniture like they own the place.

“Sugar, please?” You ask, gesturing toward Kelce’s son, perched in front of the one cabinet you need.

“Yes, ma’am,” he hums, flashing you a grin as he hops down to grab it.

His hand brushes yours as he passes it off. You smile, polite and sweet as ever, returning to stir the mix.

“Fuck, she wants me,” he mutters to Max—just out of earshot.

Your son groans, tipping his head back against the cabinet. “Fuck off, Tripp.”

“Why else would she be in here squeezin’ her lemons?” Tripp groans, dragging the sentence out like it’s a double entendre.

“You’re still goin’, huh? Not scared?”

“M’not scared of shit—”

Before Max can answer, the door opens with a thud.

“Hi, Mom!” Winnie calls, sandals slapping the marble as she breezes in. Her boyfriend Jackson’s behind her, arms full, carrying the twins, still damp from the sprinkler, dressed like they’re headed out.

“Is it cool if we take the twins out for ice cream?” Winnie asks. Her tone’s breezy, but she looks sharply toward one of Max’s friends eyeing her up.

That same boy yelps when Max nails him in the arm. “M’gonna fuckin’ kill you,” he mutters, while the kid doubles down, clearly unbothered, shooting his shot at your daughter like it’s all just part of the game.

“Of course, sweetheart,” you say, crossing the counter for your purse.

“Mrs. Cameron, really—I’ve got it,” Jackson says, voice firm.

“That’s very sweet. But not necessary… Thanks for taking them off my hands.” You kneel in front of the twins gently brushing back your daughter’s curls; cupping your son’s cheek lovingly. “You two be good for your sister and Jackson, okay?”

You lean in to kiss their cheeks, and without realizing it, your sundress shifts. The neckline dips, your breasts press softly together, the hem lifts just enough to tease. You linger, whispering something about sprinkles and chocolate.

Behind you, the room goes silent.

One boy swallows hard. Another just stares—slack-jawed—like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

“Max… Dude. This is your life?”

“Didn’t I tell you to shut the fuck up?” Max mutters, jaw clenched.

“I’d move in tomorrow,” Tripp grins. “Be your stepdad today.”

“Bet she tastes like sugar—”

“I said shut up,” Max snaps, louder this time.

Just then, another boy walks in from the hallway, Trevor. He catches sight of you, still bent low in front of the twins, and freezes. Smiling like the goddamn Cheshire Cat, he lifts both hands like he’s gripping your hips and starts thrusting the air behind you in slow-motion silence.

The other boys lose it—coughing, choking on laughter, trying and failing to keep it together.

You straighten up, sundress swaying back into place as you smooth it down with both hands, blissfully unaware.

“All right, go have fun,” you sing out, waving them toward the door.

You turn back to the pitcher, lift it to the sink, and flip the tap without thinking.

Water churns—lemon juice and sugar swirling, rising to the rim—as your gaze drifts out the kitchen window. And then you see him. Rafe…

His white t-shirt’s soaked through, hose in hand as he rinses down the G-Wagon. Sunlight turns the spray to glitter. Water drips down his arms, soaking the cotton clinging to every curve and cut of his chest and abs.

He turns, flipping his hat backward with one hand, jaw flexing as he wipes his brow.

Your thighs press together. Grip tightening on the pitcher just as the lemonade spills over, cold and sticky down your wrist. You fumble the tap, blinking fast, but your eyes don’t leave him.

His shirt clings to his back, practically painted on, while his blue swim trunks ride low on his hips and high on his thighs.

One hand coils the hose, and the other grabs the wash bucket. His chest flexes with every move, muscles rolling under wet cotton like sin in motion.

“Have fun, boys,” you call out, pouring lemonade into a glass, still watching him.

The front door clicks shut as you step outside barefoot. The grass is crisp beneath your feet; sun shining hot on your shoulders.

Rafe looks up the second he hears you. His mouth curves into a slow, knowing smile. “Oh shit, pretty,” he drawls, eyes dragging down your body. “That for me?”

“Mhmm,” you hum, offering him the glass—but he doesn’t take it. He steps closer, warm, wet arm curling around your waist, pulling you flush to him like he can’t help it. His mouth finds yours instantly—hot and slow. Your fingers hook behind his neck, greedy for more.

You giggle into the kiss, breathless. “How much longer?”

Rafe pulls back just enough to smirk, water dripping down his temple “What? You want somethin’, baby?”

ᝰ.ᐟજ⁀➴ 15 minutes earlier…

The garage is quiet at first—just the clatter of golf clubs and the squeak of a sponge as Rafe scrubs the green off his chipping wedge. The radio hums softly from the corner, low and easy. But that peace doesn’t last.

Beer bottles clink inside the fridge; ice rattles in the machine. And just around the corner from where Rafe sits, the boys start talking their shit like they don’t have a care in the world.

“I’m done,” your son mutters—tone flat and fed up like he’s been saying all day.

“Not my fault your mom’s hot as fuck, Maxi.” One of the boys fires back, voice deep and smug. “M’just waitin’ for the day she gets stuck in the washer. I’ll pound her shit right there—”

“Fuck you,” Max hisses. There’s a sharp thud and a groan; Max hits his friend hard enough to give him a moment's peace from him, but it doesn’t stop the rest of them.

“Did you see her in that swimsuit the other day? Playing with the twins? That bikini? She’s still got an ass on her. Those tits too?” Trevor chimes in, practically drooling. “I wanna play with her twins. Slide my dick right between ‘em—”

“I’ll fuckin’ kill you,” Max growls.

“Hey, you fucked my sister, Max. Both of ‘em. Think I get to tug one to your mom… every night—”

“She’s so hot, bro. Like stupid hot,” another pipes up. “Your dad doesn’t deserve that. He can’t keep up. Can’t handle all that. His stamina’s gotta be shot.”

“She made me cookies like it was foreplay,” one of them says, breathy and laughing. “You think she ever looks at us and wonders…”

“She made cookies for my dad,” Max mutters.

“Yeah. That’s what I said—”

And then Rafe clears his throat, loud and measured. The sound slices through the room like a blade. So quiet you could hear the soft clink of a stolen beer cap hitting the concrete.

The boys scatter like mice out the side door and back into the house. Their smug laughter from moments before dies on their lips, replaced by frantic whispers of “do you think he heard” and the squeak of boat shoes skidding across the floor.

“Come here,” Rafe says, low and calm.

Max exhales hard, stuffing his hands in his front pockets. His shoulders drawn up to his ears as he drags himself across the garage floor.

“You wanna explain what that was?” Rafe asks without looking at him, voice steady as he cleans his club.

Max shrugs, sullen. “I mean, you heard it.”

“Yeah… I heard everything—”

“Every fuckin’ day,” Max mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Anytime we’re at the house. I try shutting it down—it’s impossible.”

“They were talking about your mother,” Rafe says. “You just gonna let that fly?”

“They’re fuckin’ idiots,” Max scoffs. “Just givin’ me shit. They’re not gonna do anything. And what am I supposed to do, huh? Beat the shit out of every guy who opens his mouth about mom?”

“Nah,” Rafe says, smiling without humor. “They’ll get the hint some way or another.”

“Well that’s not horrifying,” Max mumbles, giving him a side-eye—because he knows damn well Rafe might handle this himself.

“She’s not just your mom, you know. She’s my wife,” Rafe says, nodding toward the garage door. “So yeah. I know exactly how hot she is.”

“Ew.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Rafe grins. “I just had to listen to that perverted pissin’ contest over your mother. And Trevor’s sister? Really?”

“…Sisters,” Max murmurs, not meeting Rafe’s eye.

He cringes, face twisting in the exact same way his son’s had moments earlier. “Aren’t you dating Top’s daughter?”

“They’re Trevor’s sisters,” Max repeats. “Doesn’t count.”

Rafe stares at him. “And what’s the math on that? It doesn’t count? You serious?”

Max shrugs, then deflects. “Hey—remember who the enemy is here, alright? He was talkin’ about Mom.”

That earns a dry laugh. Rafe crosses his arms, leaning back against the wall, still giving Max a look like this conversation’s not over.

“I like that excuse better,” he breathes. “Y’all headin’ out?”

“Mhmm,” Max hums, already inching toward the door like he’s trying to disappear. “Just gonna grab some snacks.”

“Yacht Club?”

“Mhmm,” he confirms, eyes on the exit.

“Be safe,” Rafe says, a little quieter now.

Max mumbles something back as he pushes into the house, and the door shuts behind him with a soft thud.

Rafe doesn’t move. He just stands there for a second, staring at nothing, letting the quiet settle. He knows what he feels. Always has. He just doesn’t always want to name it.

He used to love the attention. The looks. The envy. Part of him still does. When you were younger, his friends couldn’t keep their eyes off you. Couldn’t help the comments, the sideways glances. And he loved it—loved knowing that no matter how many mouths whispered your name, it was his bed you came home to.

You were his. All his. Always. But this? This was different. Hearing that kind of shit from teenagers—his son’s idiot friends, their mouths full of his food, beers stolen from his fridge, spending long, lazy days on his boat—no. It didn’t feel flattering. It felt like a fucking insult.

The way they talked about you was like you were some option. Like if given half a chance, they’d step right into his role. As if they could touch you. As if they could handle a woman like you. His wife. It pissed him off. And he knew it shouldn’t—not like this.

It wasn’t new. It wasn’t shocking. But today? It got under his skin in a different way. Raw and hot and fucking personal.

He let out a sharp breath, dragging a hand through his hair. This is what happens when your wife is you. People want you. They always have.

He laughs under his breath—half at himself, half at the absurdity of it all—and reaches for the sponge and bucket again. He wasn’t gonna fight them. He didn’t need to. There were better ways to remind them where they stood.

They wanted to act grown? Act like they could love you, care for you, fuck you like a man? Fine. Let them watch. Let them see what a real man does.

Rafe lets the door swing shut behind him and strolls across the drive, relaxed, deliberate. His gaze lifts straight to the window above the sink—and there you are, stepping into frame like you were waiting for your cue.

Rafe squeezes the hose handle, blasting water against the side of the G-Wagon. He shifts a little closer, just enough to let the spray bounce back misting his skin, ricocheting off the glossy paint.

The sun is hot, but the water is cool against his skin. The soaked fabric clings to the muscles of his chest and abs. He tugs his shorts a little higher on his thighs, watching the droplets slide down his body.

Then he smiles again—cocky and quiet—as he pulls the oldest trick in the book: flipping his cap from front to back like he’s not thinking about it at all.

Next, his shirt. He peels it off slowly and casually and tosses it aside, revealing his tan, chiseled frame. The gold chain with your initial catches the light.

“Five… four… three…” Bang. The door claps shut. He chuckles to himself, smug, reading you like a favorite book. He doesn’t even have to look to know it’s you. But he does.

Rafe glances over his shoulder as he hears your bare feet brushing through the grass; sundress swaying in the summer breeze. And then he sees you, glass of lemonade in hand, eyes already locked on him like he’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted.

“Look at you,” he mutters, watching you float closer. You took the bait. You always do. And he lives for it.

He spots movement through the glass, Max’s friends still inside, lingering, pretending not to watch.

Rafe praises you as he always does, a breathy “mhmm” buzzing past your lips is the only thing passing before he’s kissing you deep, hot, and possessive—right there in the driveway, letting them see. Letting them know who you belong to. How good you fit in his arms. How easily he could take you wherever and whenever he wanted.

He pulls back just enough to breathe you in; Rafe brushing his lips across yours like he can’t stop touching you. His big hand drifts lower, sliding over the slight curve of your back before grabbing a handful of ass—firm, slow, and so intentional it makes your breath catch.

Heat rushes to your cheeks. You laugh quietly, barely holding it in. His shirt’s been tossed somewhere behind him, skin warm and bare against yours, that heavy gold chain glinting faintly against his chest.

The teenage boys barrel out of the house, faster than usual. Lugging the cooler through the grass as they look anywhere but at you.

“Where are you headed?” Rafe calls out, still holding your waist.

“Told you—yacht club,” Max grits, like a chore.

“Yacht club, huh?” Rafe echoes. “Sounds real productive. Why don’t y’all finish cleanin’ the car before you go burnin’ my gas?”

“Dad, seriously?” Max groans, letting the cooler drop to the grass with a thud.

“You’re about to torch another five hundred dollars of fuel,” Rafe says, grinning as he jams the sponge into one of the boys’ chests hard. “Don’t even get me started on yesterday. Three-fifty in food, six bottles of cheap-ass liquor—none of which I’d let past my lips or hers… It’s the least you can do.”

“Pretty sure that was all Winnie—”

“Spare me the bullshit,” Rafe drawls, his Southern accent soaked in judgment, cutting like his smirk.

“Since when are you washin’ cars anyway?” Max mutters, dunking a sponge into the soapy bucket. You try not to giggle but you can’t help it. Rafe’s flair for the dramatics is so visible in Max it’s like looking in a mirror.

Rafe laughs as well, already turning back to you. He reaches up, wiping a drop of water from your cheek with his thumb, pressing a kiss to your lips—gentler this time, like he’s taking back the moment before their arrival.

“Now what did you need, baby?” Rafe murmurs as the boys start scrubbing the truck. You glance up at him, feeling nothing but butterflies. Rafe bites his lip slightly, head tilted slightly, making your brain short-circuit. “Name it, princess,” he mumbles, thumb tracing slow, possessive circles on the small of your back.

“You.”

That one word has him grinning, dark and knowing. “You want me, huh?” He mutters, voice dropping an octave. “Alright. Do somethin’ for me.”

“Anything…”

“Go on back inside. Head to the guest room. Get on the bed, just like this. Don’t take a single thing off,” he adds. “I wanna take it off you. You think you can do that for me?”

“Yeah… yeah, baby,” you murmur, lifting up just enough to press your mouth to his.

He leans in, lips lingering like he’s already counting down the seconds. “Beautiful,” he mutters, voice low, that crooked grin spreading as his hand lands on your ass with a lazy smack. “I’ll be right behind you— ”

“Love you, Max! Have fun, boys. Be safe,” you call out, voice bright and sweet as you disappear toward the house.

The driveway shifts the second the door closes, all the sunshine snuffed out the second you’re gone. The boys go silent, scrubbing like their lives depend on it.

Rafe’s shadow stretches long across the driveway. He folds his arms over his broad chest as he surveys the group, his gaze unreadable—far colder than anger.

“Yacht club, huh?” He says, nodding toward the cooler. “Gonna load up the boat? Burn my gas, drink my liquor, make some memories? I hope y’all have fun,” Rafe adds, and if they didn’t know any better, they might think he means it.

“Thanks, Mr. Camer—”

“Maybe you’ll even get lucky,” Rafe cuts in, clean and easy. “Pick up a few country club girls: pearls, spray tans; the kind who won’t notice your hands shakin’ while you fumble with their bras.”

A nervous chuckle slips out, quickly catching Rafe’s glare, his lips curling into a fake smile.

“You’ve seen my wife, yeah?” He asks casually. “Beautiful. Fuckin’ stunning actually. Prettiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

He looks back at the house giving the boys a moment to breathe before shifting his sights to them again.

“I’ve been working since I was eighteen. Built this house. That boat. Everything you boys use like it’s yours.” He leans in slightly, voice tightening. “And even after all that—I don’t deserve her.”

That hits. You can see it land—all of them blinking like they’ve just been slapped across the face.

“So what makes you think you do?”

“We were just joking, Mr. Cameron. I swear—”

“That’s my wife,” Rafe snaps. The words hit like thunder in their chests. “Mine. Always has been. Always will be. And I don’t give a shit if you go home and jerk off thinkin’ about her—hell, that fantasy’s older than any of you.”

His smile returns, slow and razor-sharp. “But if you say another word—if you breathe another comment about something you’ll never fuckin’ touch…”

He steps forward, and they shrink; stepping toward Max is self-preservation. His eyes zero in on Trevor. The kid nods before Rafe says another word, like he’s praying it’s enough to stay alive. “I’ll make sure the only thing you’re sliding into is a fuckin’ ditch. We clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Trevor stammers.

Rafe claps a hand on his back hard. The slap echoed through the grounds, making the boy stumble forward with a wheezing gasp.

Then, just like that, Rafe turns and walks away. Calm and steady, like it didn’t happen. He passes Max on the way back to the house, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Love you, kid.”

“L-Love you too,” Max mutters, the lot of them holding their breath until he’s gone for good.

ᝰ.ᐟજ⁀➴

You shift on the bed the second he walks in, soft and shy, biting your lip as your eyes meet his. His gaze darkens instantly, heat rolling off him like a wave.

“I know I changed…” You murmur, voice gentle as a pout tugs at your lips.

The robe’s already falling off your shoulders. Just hanging there. Lace underneath—barely visible, but that’s the point. One leg crossed, stockings tight on your thighs, garters showing just enough to make him stop breathing.

Rafe’s tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip as his eyes roam over you like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again.

He’s already hard, straining against the front of his swim trunks, jaw tight as his fists curl at his sides—like it’s taking everything in him not to rip that robe off you.

“Baby… Don’t apologize. Not when you look that fuckin’ good for me.”

Rafe steps closer, making your thighs part without thinking, giving him room, inviting him in. His hands slide up your legs—rough palms dragging higher—his thumbs hooking under the garter straps, snapping them against your skin.

“You bought this for me, didn’t you? Knew I’d lose my mind over this. Fuck, you know me too well…”

Your pussy clenches at the raw need in his tone. You toy with the satin belt at your waist, slowly teasingly letting the knot fall loose. The robe slips open completely as you lean back, arching your back, tits round in the pretty lingerie.

“Fuck... You don’t even realize what you do to me. The way you picked this out thinkin’ of me? Wantin’ me to see you like this?”

He kisses you, soft and slow, then starts to trail lower—his mouth brushing along your jaw, every touch unhurried, deliberate. His hand glides up your thigh and grips tight, spreading you open. His eyes are sharp, blue, and hungry—fixed on yours.

“Rafe…” You whine, already feeling your thoughts blur.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you for them,” he groans, hardly holding himself together. “Make sure they never look at you the same. Make sure they know it’s me in your head when you close your eyes. You know what they’ll never have?” He whispers, breath fanning across your lips.

“This. This soft little mouth. These legs wrapped around them. This sweet pussy drippin’ for them.” His voice drops even lower. “All mine.”

You blink up at him, a little crease forming between your brows like you’re trying to figure him out

He lets out this low breath, almost a laugh, but not really. “Fuck, you’re perfect… You don’t even see anyone else, do you?”

“Who, baby?” You whisper.

He scoffs, low and humorless as he tugs down his trunks, tossing them to the floor. “You should’ve heard what they were sayin’ about you.”

“Rafe…” You blink. “Is everything okay?”

Your words tip up into a gasp as he pushes you back suddenly, one knee sinking into the bed, his body climbing over yours. “Those boys,” he mumbles. “They want you.”

“Max’s friends?” You gasp as your face twists in disgust; eyes flicking toward the door.

Rafe grabs your cheeks, forcing your focus back to him. His fingers slip under the lace and he groans—low and guttural—when he feels how wet you are.

“Already soaked,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’ve been sittin’ here all sweet and innocent, like nothin’s goin’ on—when your pussy’s this fuckin’ desperate for me. Say you're mine… Who do you belong to?”

You whimper, breath hitching as he slips your panties to the side and drags two fingers through your slick slowly, savoring every second.

“Say it,” he demands, his forehead pressing to yours; hand working you open.

“You,” you whisper. “I belong to you—”

“That’s right… Mine to spoil. Mine to love. Mine to fuck.”

You go to touch him, but he grabs your wrists before you get the chance. Forces them up over your head, holding you there. His body presses into yours and when his hand slides down your thigh, it pulls a shiver straight out of you. “Uh-uh, angel. Not yet.”

His fingers curl just right, pressing into that spot that makes your hips jolt off the sheets. He keeps it slow, steady—watching your face with quiet adoration. He’s memorized every flutter of your lashes, every soft gasp that slips from your swollen lips. He knows what it takes… what you crave. And he knows you’re close.

“You’re gonna come for me, pretty,” he murmurs. “Just like this—”

You nod rapidly, falling apart not a moment later. “Fuck, Rafe,” you cry out, trembling as your pussy clenches around his fingers.

But he doesn’t stop. He keeps working you through it, fucking you with his fingers until you’re gasping into his mouth, thighs twitching, hips jerking away from the overstimulation. You reach for his wrist, gripping tight, trying to slow him down—but he groans against your lips, loving how little it takes for him to unravel you.

He catches the lace of your panties and rips them clean off, the tear sharp and sudden. The sound snaps through the room, and your legs twitch from the jolt.

Rafe pulls you off the bed, guiding you right where he wants you, not wasting a moment. “Hands on the glass,” he says, voice rough as he unhooks your bra with one practiced flick. His other hand clamps around your waist, steadying you.

You press your palms to the glass, cool beneath you. Your reflection stares back: hair a mess, lips wet, chest rising fast—tits bare as you beg for more, fighting to keep your eyes open already as they flutter shut.

“Eyes on me,” Rafe whispers roughly, his chest pressed to your back now; hips flush against your ass.

He pushes into you slowly, giving you every delicious inch, your greedy pussy pulling him in. “Shit, baby… You’re tight.” Rafe grinds in deeper, hand splayed across your stomach as he holds you there, impaled on his thick cock. “This,” he pants, dragging back and slamming in again. “This is my pussy. My house. My fuckin’ wife.”

Rafe sets a brutal rhythm, hips snapping against your ass with each thrust. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, lewd and filthy. He spanks your ass, hard enough to make you jolt forward into the glass.

“Let ‘em hear it,” he growls. “Let those little bastards outside hear what I do to you.”

Your body trembles with every ruthless thrust; the mirror rattles under your grip, the sharp slaps of skin echoing round the room.

“Gonna cum for me, baby?” Rafe grits out, voice rough and hoarse.

“I’m gonna cum,” you gasp, voice breaking as the knot in your belly coils tight, ready to snap.

“Yeah?” He growls, dragging you closer, rough hands holding you right where he wants you. “Then fuckin’ give it to me.”

One arm binds around your waist while the other slips down, fingers working your clit in rough, relentless circles that make your legs shake. “Show me what I do to you.”

Your mouth drops open in a silent scream as your body jerks—cunt clamping down around him. You peel your eyes open, desperate to see him. And there he is in the mirror behind you: jaw tight, lip caught between his teeth as his hips slam into you again and again.

“Good girl,” he snarls, not letting up for a second. “You ain’t done yet.”

Rafe yanks you upright, chest to back, one big hand wrapping gently around your throat, thumb stroking just under your jaw as he fucks you deep and hard—so deep it’s almost too much.

You break with a choked sob, another orgasm tearing through you so hard your vision blurs. You go limp in his arms, legs shaking, body spent. He doesn’t let go. Just grunts out a rough “Fuck, baby,” right against your neck as his hips pump forward. One last thrust and he’s coming, cock throbbing inside you, breath hot on your skin.

You feel every pulse of it, thick and messy, spilling deep as he holds you there, buried and shaking, not ready to move.

Rafe nuzzles into your cheek, soft kisses dusting your jaw as your breath comes out in shattered little gasps. He listens to every sound. “You still with me, baby?” He murmurs, peeking over your shoulder with a teasing smirk.

“Barely,” you whisper, still catching your breath as you slump into his chest.

He lets out a soft laugh, mouth skimming the edge of your lips. “That smile,” he mutters, voice thick. “Prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”

You let your eyes fall shut, head resting against him.

He slips out of you slow, gentle to the last second, then gathers you up without a word. Carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing, sets you down easy, and smooths your hair from your face with the back of his hand. Just stands there for a beat, staring like he can’t believe you’re real.

“Rafe…” you breathe, voice soft and pathetic, so sweet it nearly breaks him. He smiles, crawling between your thighs. “You gonna tell me you can’t take another?” He whispers, hands sliding under your knees, pushing your thighs open wide. “Yes, you can… You always do.”

Rafe kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other, mouth warm against your sex. His stubble drags across your skin, rough enough to make your lip tremble.

Your hands shoot to his hair the second he dives between your thighs. His tongue works you over, lips locking around your clit as he sucks hard. You cry out, fingers gripping his hair, and he groans into you, the sound vibrating so deep it makes your legs shake.

Rafe’s fingers slide inside without warning, drilling his cum back into you until your back bows and your eyes blur with tears.

You sob, thighs quivering as your heels dig into the mattress, your body barely able to take it anymore; your brain not able to think of a single coherent thought.

“Give it to me. Let ‘em know who owns this fuckin’ bed, aight. You and me… You. And. Me.” A scream rips from your throat, so cock-drunk you cum without warning, soaking his hand, his face, the sheets beneath you, everything drenched in the proof of your pleasure.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” Rafe sighs in relief, licking and kissing through the mess, savoring every drop. He slaps your pussy once, firm and wet, just to hear the sound of it. “Atta baby. That’s what I fuckin’ needed… So damn good to me.”

He drags his mouth up your body. Every touch lingers, every breath shared. He settles over you, wrapping you up in him.

You reach for his face, thumb stroking along his slick jaw. He leans into your touch, his mouth just a breath from yours.

“I love you,” you murmur, voice barely there.

Rafe’s leans in, resting his forehead against yours. A quiet smile breaks across his face.

“I love you more, sweetheart,” he says, low and steady. “Always have. Always will.”

ᝰ.ᐟજ⁀➴ the next morning

“I warned you,” Max mutters.

Tripp doesn’t reply—just stares into the void like something sacred was taken from him last night. Trevor’s slumped next to him, hoodie up, eyes hollow, chewing his thumbnail.

“Warned us?” Tripp breathes, voice shot. “About the wet bed? The screaming? The headboard hitting the wall like a metronome set to ‘destroy pussy’ all night long?”

Knock. Knock. Knock. Bauer adds, thumping his fist against the kitchen table. “All damn night.”

Max shrugs, calm as ever. “I told you not to talk about my mom.”

“…She was crying about it,” Bauer mutters. “Crying about dick—”

“Enough,” Max snaps.

Tripp rubs both hands over his face. “I’ve got PTSD. Did you sleep?”

“You think I slept?” Trevor huffs.

“You could’ve knocked,” Max says casually, sipping his orange juice.

All heads turn to him fast. “Knocked?” They spat in unison.

Max shrugs again, scrolling aimlessly on his phone. “Could’ve asked to crash in my room. I slept great.”

You walk in like it’s any other morning—light on your feet, humming under your breath, dressed in a tiny pajama set that has no business existing in a house full of teenage boys. Your tank’s stretched snug across your chest, love bites just barely visible where your robe slips open at the collar.

You pull the cinnamon rolls out, set them on the counter, steam rising fast. Without thinking, you grab the icing, swipe some with your finger, and lick it clean. You smile, small and sleepy, still feeling kind of floaty from the night before.

And for the first time in god knows how long they sat there in silence.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” Tripp whispers as heavy footsteps echo down the hall.

And then—Rafe.

No shirt, just his signature gold chain catching the light as it rested against his chest. His skin was tanned, muscles cut sharp, and those sweats hung low on his hips like he’d just rolled out of bed—or hadn’t bothered to pull them up all the way.

“Mornin’, baby,” He murmurs, already reaching for your waist.

“Good morning,” you hum, letting him pull you into him—cinnamon roll tray still in your hands—as he kisses your skin; fingers curling around the handle of the fresh cup of coffee you poured him, steam rolling over the rim of the handmade Daddy mug from a Father’s Day past.

“For me?” He asks softly, like the entire house isn’t holding its breath.

You giggle, warm and syrupy. “Made your favorite.”

“Already had my favorite last night.” It’s a whisper meant just for you, but every boy hears it.

Rafe grabs a roll, swipes his thumb through the icing, and licks it clean like he’s still tasting you. He sips his coffee slowly, his focus unwavering.

“Breakfast on the porch, baby?”

“Yeah,” you smile like he asked you on a date.

Then finally, with one last glance at his house, his wife, and the group of broken boys who will never forget last night, he mumbles, smug as ever…

“Ya’ll have a great day. ”

new tag list

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[heyimkana]

Come Home to Me (2/2)

Read Part 1 | Read it on AO3

Pairing: Sung Jinwoo X Female Reader

Genre: Marriage AU, fluff, smut, hurt/comfort

Summary: Your husband notices how worried you are about him going on another raid, so he stays for a bit longer to convince you that no matter what happens in the future, he will come home to you.

Word Count: 8K (I wrote too many banters I'm so sorry)

Content Warnings: Semi-public sex, swearing

“Beru, take my daughter inside. I need to be with my wife. Alone.” 

The sudden solemnity that befell your husband’s face and the way his voice, low and heavy, resonated in the air around you smeared goosebumps upon your skin. His tone carried a breath of possessiveness, imbuing life to the slumbering butterflies within your stomach.

“Certainly, my liege,” came the shadow soldier’s immediate response. Shortly after he performed a deep bow, Beru walked into the house with your daughter held tight in his arms, closing the front door behind him to offer you the freedom to speak what your heart truly felt—except you couldn’t. You were scared for a thousand different reasons.

The sun had sunk low enough below the horizon for the darkness to gather, a stroke of purple hue tinging the vast orange sky, ready to wrap the stars with its velvety quilt. Jinwoo might appear nearly transcendent under the evening sun, but nothing embraced him better than the night’s cloak, a fitting companion to a man who carried the undead within his steps. Standing before him in this quietude, you felt like you slowly returned to your old self. Abashed, nervous, losing your tongue in front of a man so handsome, he made your heart ache.

Jinwoo turned to you, his face unreadable, guarded, but there was undoubtedly a gleam of concern residing in his deep blue eyes. He took a stride toward you, his movement soundless against the marbled floor of your porch, the same way death approached those who wished to harm the only person he could call home. “What is it?” he began in a voice so soft, it was almost zephyr-like. His lean fingers circled your wrist like a bracelet, cool to the touch. “You’ve never looked this perturbed before. Did something happen?”

“No,” your answer—your lie—came almost instantly, flawless to anyone’s ears. “Nothing happened.” Behind your clamped teeth, your mind endlessly screamed the words your tongue was itching to say, a desperate plea you tried to veil with everything you had.

Don’t go, Jinwoo, please, just this one time. I have a terrible feeling about this, and I know I can’t prove to you why, but it’s eating me alive. I feel it stronger today, this fear of losing you, of losing the other half of me. I know you want me to bid my farewell with a smile the way I always do, and I’m trying my best to do it even now, but there’s only so much I can keep to myself. I don’t want to say goodbye to my husband, not knowing if it will be the last time I can see his face. So, please… Please stay… Don’t leave me. Don’t go. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

Although these thoughts remained unspoken, in Jinwoo’s eyes, they manifested vividly on your face. But he wished to hear them directly, to see them flow past your lips, so he could capture each sentence and turn them into words of comfort. 

“Sweetheart,” he repeated, his voice tender yet authoritative at the same time. “Don’t make me leave you like this. Don’t make me worry about you more than I already do. Tell me. Tell me so I can help.”

He’s right, you thought. Keeping this from him will only make him worry. He can’t afford to get distracted, not now. But when you still kept your lips pressed tight, trying to collect the words, his two fingers framed your chin, leaving you with no choice but to meet his scrutinizing stare. 

He seemed upset. No, more than that, he looked… angry.

The air seemed to shimmer around him as his emotions slowly climbed to the surface, his gaze darkening as his desire to protect you gripped him like a vice. “Did someone hurt you?” Jinwoo questioned you, his voice a deep rumble, crossing through the nearly infinitesimal space between your lips and his like an impending storm. 

You fidgeted. “N-no—”

He tilted your face higher, not letting you break free from his gaze. “I would be able to tell in a heartbeat if someone laid a hand on you, but if there was something that I didn’t know, some clues that I missed, someone who made you feel even slightly unsafe.” His eyes began to gleam; the shadows beneath his feet trembled in fear in the presence of his restrained rage. “I want their names. Now.”

You gulped. This side of him never failed to make shivers crawl down your spine. Jinwoo had always been so gentle and loving with you that it was easy to forget just how vicious and merciless he could be when his protectiveness over you took form. Your husband had killed for your sake before, more than you could possibly count, and he’d take another hundred lives within a blink of your eyes should you ask him to. 

As you released your shuddering breath, you twined your fingers around his wrist. “No.” You tilted your head to the side just enough for your lips to press a soothing kiss against the blue and red rivers of veins under his pasty skin. “It’s not like that. No threats, nothing. I’m safe.”

Relief washed over him, albeit only faintly. “What is it, then?”

You tarried, trying to mince your phrases as best as you could. “I know you can handle anything,” you only began, yet your voice was already cracking with emotions. “I know that, and I believe in your strength. But I saw you, Jinwoo, just like everybody else. I saw the way your enemy stabbed your heart and tore open your chest. You survived. By some miracle, you did. But the sight of it… It haunts me."

You took a breath before you continued. "I find it impossible to sleep at night when you’re not next to me. My mind keeps drifting back to you no matter what I do, wondering if you were fighting for your life again, trapped in a battle you couldn’t win. Sometimes I look at you and…” You laid your hand above his beating heart, your fingers tracing over it as your eyes grew vacant. “I remember the way the beast’s claws pierced through your chest, right here, all five of them. Your body may have healed, and there are no traces of those wounds left on your skin, not even a scar, but… I can still see them. I’m still scared of them. And I can’t help but think… What if it happens again? What if your luck runs out this time?”

Jinwoo continued to stay mute, listening to you intently as if you were the only voice in the universe. He only reacted once quivers ran through your fingertips, seizing your hand and pressing it harder against his chest, as if to remind you that beneath those translucent scars, his heart still remained the same—still alive, beating, racing, because of you, only for you.

You curled your fingers, still couldn’t wash away the dread. “I know you can’t change who you are,” you continued, your voice laced with tears. “And I know you have no other options but to do your duty, which is why I always try my best not to stop you from leaving. But today, for some reason, I feel anxious. It almost feels the same as how I felt on the day I almost lost you. It’s probably nothing, but… Right now, it’s suffocating me.”

The tension was palpable between you, leaving you to ponder whether you had spoken too much. Perhaps it would’ve been wiser for you not to speak at all. You blinked back your tears, wiping the ones that already crossed the edges with the heel of your palm. You felt mortified for baring your feelings out in the open, for being so theatrical about it. 

“I’m sorry. I’m being so dramatic, aren’t I?” You forced out a laugh; the desire to flee the scene was almost too tempting to refuse. It didn’t help that he hadn’t spoken a word, leaving you shrouded by your own perception of his feelings. Have you upset him? Troubled him? Or maybe even hurt him in some way? Just the thought of it brought more fresh tears to emerge in your eyes. 

“I—” You cast your face to the side. “I should go check on our baby—”

Your husband caught you by your wrist, stopping you before you could escape, his touch firm but far from painful. His eyes were hidden underneath the curtain of his raven strands, but the way he pressed his lips so tautly together, enough for them to grow white, clearly indicated how much he took your words seriously.

“I’m scared, too.” 

His confession, spoken barely above a whisper, left you stunned. Out of all the things you thought he’d say at this moment, that was never one of them.

You pivoted around to face him. “Jin… woo..?”

It took him a moment to compose his words as if he lacked the bravery to come clean, to showcase his vulnerability. It was as if he had spent an eternity trying to keep these words all to himself, fighting back all the intentions to reveal this frail side of him to you, afraid of how you’d react, if he’d sadden you with it.

“I’m terrified, Sweetheart,” he repeated, quiet, almost breathlessly. “Not of death, but leaving you.” The lines of his face were strained, filled with consternation. “I know how it feels to lose those important to me. No matter how strong I get, no matter how hard I try, I still can’t protect everyone. I’ve lost my friends in battles. I’ve lost my father. And I nearly lost my mother and my sister, too. I know exactly how it feels, and it haunts me every day more than you could imagine.” 

His face twisted in sadness, almost in agony at the recollection of the precious lives that slipped through his hands, but that amount of pain felt small in comparison to how he felt when he added, “But you…” His fingertips trailed an invisible path down your cheek. “You and our daughter… You’re beyond that. You’re not just my family; you’re fragments of me. The hardest part of my mission is never about dealing with my enemies. It’s this moment right here, right now, bidding you goodbye and watching you smile back at me with your heart breaking in your eyes, thinking that you’d never get to see me again. You’re constantly on my mind, Sweetheart, every second of every day. And I always worry that something will happen to you while I’m gone. That you won’t be here to meet me at the door when I come home. That I’d be too late, and I wouldn’t be able to find you, to save you, even if I searched the whole world for you.” 

His throat felt parched, his voice so close to shattering. “With my power, no matter where you are, no matter how far you are from me, I can run back to you the moment I sense danger around you, but it will take me a second, and a second could change everything. You saw what happened with Jinah, didn’t you? I managed to save her right on time, but if I had arrived only a second later, I would’ve lost her. And if I… If you were in the same position… And I was a second too late on my way back to you… If I lost you forever…” He took one last step toward you, and he crumbled, his body sinking forward, his head falling to your shoulder. “I wouldn’t know how to live my life anymore…” A shaky breath escaped him. “Not without you…”

The amount of fear that radiated through his body was almost appalling. It was hard to believe someone so strong could tremble like this at the thought of losing you.

Jinwoo lifted his head, gathering your face in his hands, his eyes carrying the weight of a broken man. “I know it’s hard for you to watch me leave…” He pressed your foreheads together, his eyes closed in the sliver of bliss from being so close to you, but his eyebrows remained furrowed, tense from the pain and the horror of being separated from the other half of his soul. “And I will never make light of your feelings, but you also need to know just how unbearable it is for me to walk away from you…” 

You squeezed your teeth together behind your lips, your vision blurred by your tears. You could only offer a shaky nod in response, afraid you’d be sobbing if you let a word slip out of you.

“It tears me apart just to kiss you goodbye, Sweetheart.” He returned the small distance between you, gently brushing your tears away with his thumb. “Every single time I leave, it’s like cutting off a piece of me, and you don’t know how much, just how much I want to stay and be with you right now—to spend every second of my life with you, so I can stop you from looking at me with those eyes. So I can put your heart at ease.” He lifted your face just enough to meet your crystalline eyes. “Don’t ever think I want to choose my duty over you. You are always, always, the most important thing in my life.”

It was the first time you saw him so fragile, so exposed, and you could feel just how much your presence in his life affected him. You were his weakness, his only weakness. 

You quickly collected yourself, desperate to assure him. “I know…” Speaking in your softest voice, you reached out to touch him, to cup his cheek, to do anything you could to soothe him even when you, yourself, were so close to breaking. “I know how much you care about me—about us—and I’m happy, Jinwoo. You don’t know how glad I am to have a husband like you. So strong” —you brushed a featherlight kiss on his cheek—“yet, so kind”—on his jawline—“and so, so gentle.” You planted the last one on his lips, as soft and tender as how you whispered his name. “And yes, of course, I understand how hard it is for you. This is why I didn’t want to say anything at first. I didn’t want to make you feel this way. I didn’t want to make you worry more than you already did. And I’m…” You caressed his cheekbone with your thumb. “I’m sorry for speaking my thoughts out loud just now. I shouldn’t have said anything, at least not now when you’re about to leave.”

He let out a sigh under your comforting touch, almost yearning. Covering your hand with his own, he sank his face further into your palm like a child leaning to his mother’s touch. “No, don’t be sorry,” he shook his head, his lids shutting at the feeling of your warmth seeping into his pores. “I’m glad you could be honest with me. Thank you. I can breathe easy now, knowing that you’re safe.”

When he stared down at you, your smile for him was the softest, the sweetest it had ever been. It reminded him almost of his mother’s, the way it carried so much love, affection, adoration, and, most importantly, appreciation. As someone who held nearly limitless power, the constant efforts he made to save the world were never overlooked. Still, more often than not, people chose not to express their gratitude, saying he was merely doing his job as an S-Rank Hunter, taking everything he did for granted. You had seen just how cruel the public voice could be when they spoke ill of him, not long after the Jeju Raid ended.

Hunter Min Byung-Gu’s life could’ve been saved if Sung Jinwoo had appeared sooner! Yeah, where the hell was he anyway? Why didn’t he join the raid from the start? Was he scared? Hey, hey, I heard he refused to join the raid at first. Does he not realize his responsibility as an S-Rank Hunter? Embarrassing, right? S-Rank Hunters are supposed to be selfless heroes! Sung Jinwoo is not one of them!

Your husband never let these derisions get to him, but they got to you. It pained you, angered you to see these words spreading online like wildfire, but you couldn’t do much to change their opinions, and even if you could, it wouldn’t have mattered. Jinwoo never cared about them. He cared about you, about what you think of him, and fortunately for him, you were always there to appreciate every little thing he did. He didn’t have to save the world to impress you. You were already grateful for his presence, even just by seeing him plant a little kiss on your daughter’s head. 

“Thank you, Jinwoo,” you softly said, “for making the world a better place for me and our daughter to live in. But more than that, thank you for all the efforts you made as my husband and as the father of our child. For making time for us even when you were losing sleep, drained after all the raids. I’m sure your baby is grateful, too, for all the tea parties you had with her.”

He laughed a little, still carrying a hint of melancholy. “She can be quite demanding sometimes.”

“Yes, she can, but you’re always patient with her, and I adore you for that.” You stroked his cheek. “You’re a hero to us in more ways than one. You’re everything we want you—need you to be, and for that, I’ll always be grateful to you.”

His jaws clasped together like a floodgate, preventing his emotions from bursting beyond control. He nodded once, a bit bashful but visibly delighted by your lines. With a quiet giggle, you kissed the tip of his nose. “What, getting shy now?”

He responded with a chuckle, pretty roses blooming in his cheeks. “No, I’m just happy. You always know what to say to lift the weight off my shoulders. And I wish I could say something to ease your mind, too, but…” He broke away from your touch, returning your gaze. “I don’t know what the future holds for me. I can lie to you and tell you that nothing could harm me, but I know you wouldn’t want that. So, all I can offer you right now is my promise.” He brought your hand closer to his face, his lips engraving the words directly to the bumps of your knuckles. “I promise that I will do anything, everything within my power, to come home to you.”

Your heart still splintered, but it wasn’t nearly as agonizing anymore. Perhaps it was all due to his vow. Or maybe you’ve learned how to withstand the pain, to welcome it as a part of you, knowing it was something you couldn’t chase away, something that would only be repeated in the future. “Jinwoo—”

A pair of soft lips captured your own, your face held, your words stolen. The sudden kiss was chaste, almost innocent, just pure romance beneath the bitterness of a farewell. Jinwoo pulled away but only barely, the tip of his nose still grazing your cheek. 

“I love you,” he whispered, his warm breath, sweet and intoxicating, fanning your lips. “I love you so much, Sweetheart, more than I could bear.”

You looked up at him, your heartbeat roaring in your ears. “I love you, too.” 

Another kiss, another soft touch from a man you’d sworn to love unconditionally. But the gentleness of your colliding lips, the innocence of it, could never last long, always replaced by something more arduous. A hint of his longing for you, his craving, showed in the way he molded your lips beneath his, and within seconds, his kiss turned deep, controlling, consuming. His arm slithered around your waist, pressing your body close against him, tight enough for you to wonder if you could just melt into him, be a part of him. Perhaps then, you could be wherever he was. A world where you don’t have to bid him goodbye… Wouldn’t that be wonderful?

His breathing turned uneven by the time he ended the kiss, enthralled and far from satisfied. And just like him, you couldn’t do much but stare at the shape of his pretty mouth in your haze.

“You asked me if I’d let the world burn for you.” His voice turned raspy, hoarse with need, his eyes watching the way his thumb glided over your slicked lips. He pressed down on your bottom one, and you parted your mouth in response, an act so natural, it made his gaze heavy with lust. “I’d do it,” he said, stealing your breath with it. “I’d watch the world burn to the ground just to be with you for a second longer. All you need to do is say the words.”

Your eyes turned round, your heart thrashing inside your ribcages. You could see the conviction in his eyes, giving you as much joy as the fear that dawned upon you. 

The safety of the world did not lie in Sung Jinwoo’s hands. It was in yours. 

Your ardent love, intense and overflowing, rushed to your hands, crumpling the front of his coat as you brought him back to you for another taste of his lips. You pulled your husband down to you, to where he belonged, to where he should stay, your mouth meeting his in a searing kiss. You were the gravity that pulled him in, the spark of fire to reignite the flames within him. And you wanted to kiss him forever, to have his hands on your body, to be close enough for you to—

Jinwoo suddenly stiffened in your arms, breaking off the kiss so abruptly that it left your mind reeling for a second. A frown sketched over the lines in his forehead, irritation glinting in his eyes. 

Your heart plummeted, unsure of what you did wrong. “W-what is it?”

“Nothing,” he sighed exasperatedly, massaging the bridge of his nose. “I just heard Igris talking in my ear, reminding me of my schedule. What time is it now?” He lifted his wrist, glancing at the silver watch. “Damn it.” He clicked his tongue; his vexation doubled. “I guess I really have to go.” But his eyes, like always, found their way home to you, and he took you in once more, this breathtaking view of you with your face flushed, your lips all red and bruised and glistening with his spit. “And it’s probably better if I leave now before I get, umm…” He noticeably swallowed, trying to rein in the desire to take you here against the wall. “Carried away.”

With flames kissing your cheeks, you tossed your stare to the floor. “Y-You’re right. Sorry.”

“‘Sorry?’” Jinwoo tittered, the sound soft and wonderful in your ears. Lifting your face by the chin, he tilted his head slightly to the side, adoring you. “It was my pleasure, Sweetheart.”

His smirk, his voice… He seemed so effortlessly sexy when he said it that it turned you sheepish. You removed yourself from him. “S-so, umm… When will you be back again exactly?”

“Six days from now. A week, maybe.”

Your shoulders sagged. He could’ve said six years, and it would probably sound just as torturous. “Okay…”

“Come on, baby,” he smiled softly despite his heart breaking just the same. “Don’t be like this.” He rubbed his knuckles against your cheek before he poked you lightly with his finger, making you giggle from it. “I’ll make it up to you once I get home, okay? Anything you want me to do—anything at all—I’ll do it.”

“Anything?”

His previously impish smile fully morphed into a devilish grin. “Anything.”

“Hopefully, it’s not something sexual,” you narrowed your eyes playfully at him.

“Hopefully, it is.” His chuckles didn't last long, followed shortly by a heavy sigh. “Can I hug my wife one last time?”

You stilled, your breath caught in your throat. “It’s not the last time.” 

He blinked before he understood his mistake, sadness coating the soft bow of his lips once he did. “Sorry. Poor choice of words.” He spread his arms wide, waiting for you to return to his warmth with the softest smile on his face. “I mean, can I hug you one more time before I go? And touch you endlessly once I get home?”

Contentment suffused you at once, and you answered him by carving the shape of your smile against his lips, your fingers coiled against the front of his coat. You made sure to keep your kiss light, not wanting to repeat the same mistake of drowning in desire. You weren’t sure you could escape it should it happen again. But even so, when you parted from him, you couldn’t deny the tension between you. Like magnets, you were drawn together. Just the slightest brush of your skin meeting his could turn it into a force beyond your control.

You tried to distract him—or rather, yourself. “H-hey, you said Igris talked to you before. Does that mean he… saw what we were doing?” This was the first time it happened, as Jinwoo had always been careful in the past not to let his shadow soldiers witness your intimate acts. Whenever you two were together, your husband would always command his army to shut down all their senses for a moment, to give you the privacy you needed. You weren’t sure why Igris could see you now, but the thought horrified you. “I’ve always been awkward with him because he doesn’t talk much and seems so… noble. If he saw us kissing like that, I… I don’t think I could face him again. Especially after…” You kept on rambling, driven out of shame, submerged at the thought of seeing the dark knight again after he witnessed everything that happened between you and his master.

Unbeknownst to you, Jinwoo’s eyes darkened, completely lost in the view. Seeing you like this, standing so small and fidgety before him, looking so flustered that you couldn’t handle meeting his eyes when you spoke—

God, I want to ruin her. 

I want to make her all mine again. 

His nails scraped against his palm as he tried to find restraint, his throat burning with the desire to claim you, to taste you, to drink everything you give him. You were asking him a question, weren’t you? Something about Igris. Fuck, he couldn’t remember it. He couldn’t pay attention to any of the lines you said, watching how your mouth shaped the words but not registering them. Your voice was a whisper in his ear, easily drowned by the filthy thoughts that grew even more vehemently with each second passing by.

“Honey?”

At your call, he averted his gaze. One more second looking at you, and he would’ve succumbed to his needs. “Hmm?”

“I asked you if Igris saw us.”

��Huh? Oh, right. Yes, they saw it.”

“Wait—They?”

“Yeah, the entire army, basically.” Though he wanted to seem apologetic, his grin betrayed him. “I was too absorbed with you that I forgot to tell them to close their eyes.”

You gaped, colors draining fast from your face. “Jinwoo! ”

He laughed quietly at your reaction, catching the little punches you threw to his chest.  “Baby, relax. So what if they saw us kissing? You’re my love.”

Your stomach somersaulted at the word he chose. He could’ve just said my wife instead of my love. It would've been easier for your heart. “Well, I don’t want them to see that…” Another pout, another wild urge he had to chase away before he bruised your lips with his own. You exhaled. For some reason, you felt exhausted. “Though it’s… sweet how Igris tried to keep you from running late. That should’ve been my job. Did he just pop up, tell you to go, and then disappear again?” The vision of it looked funny in your head because surely, he must’ve been embarrassed seeing us like that, right?

“Actually, he told me to stay.” Your husband wound his arms around your waist, drawing you closer before he rested them on your curves. “He said that I should just send him there and let him take care of the gate for me. So I can be here with my queen.”

“‘Your queen?”’ You repeated, couldn’t help but feel amused even though you were touched by how caring the dark knight was to your family.

Scarlet tinged his cheek. “His words, not mine.”

“I see. So, I’m not your queen, then?”

The shade deepened as he tossed his face to the side. “Of”—he cleared his throat, his voice reducing to a mumble—“Of course, you are.”

You giggled, and your husband softened into another smile, staring at you affectionately. He seemed glad that you’d rediscovered the strength to throw a jest or two. 

“Well, as much as I don’t wish for my king to go,” you dawdled with your words, building expectations as you glided one hand up his chest. You could feel the ridges of his lean, taut muscles underneath his shirt. A wave of desire pooled inside your stomach, threatening to resurface if you weren’t being careful. “The world needs him. Even if I keep you to myself now, you’re bound to leave for another mission sooner or later. I’ve come to realize that…” You paused to gain control of your emotions, your hands fixing his collar in your attempt to seek distraction. “The best way to deal with this is by getting myself used to it. Get used to this feeling that you leave me when you kiss me goodbye. I have to teach myself to be patient, as it will only be a matter of time before my husband returns. I think that’s what I have to do,” you smiled at him, shy amidst the mischievousness that you previously displayed. “As your queen.”

His heart thawed at your lines, cradling you close enough by the shoulders to bury his face in your hair, breathing in your scent, memorizing it so he could recall this sense of peace you gave him when he was miles away from you. Even without words, you could tell just how proud he was of you. “Thank you,” he murmured against your temple. He kept you this way for a moment, his nose nuzzling against your strands until he remembered how time would never be merciful to him. “I really have to go, baby…”

“I know…”

But when he pulled away, he couldn’t find the strength to detach his gaze from you, caught in a conflict between his feelings and his responsibility. “I’ll be…”—he traced your cheek, his gaze falling to your lips—“back soon, okay…?”

You nibbled at the corner of your lip, causing him to nearly groan at the sight. You didn’t mean to entice him; you were just nervous under his hooded gaze, your body brimming with anticipation. You knew he wanted another kiss, another touch, and you wanted thousands of them, but— “Okay…”

Jinwoo moved closer, as close as he could be, his face hovering merely a few inches from yours. Nothing but desire resided in his eyes, his voice low and husky when he spoke, “Don’t miss me too much…”

It was like the air crackled between you, invisible hands drawing you together. Your fingers twined a little tighter around the front of his coat, itching to tug him down and erase the millimeters of space separating your lips. “I’ll try…” You replied with shivers in your breath, and in a moment of weakness, your gaze cascaded to his lips.

And seeing that, he snapped.

All shadows. Leave us. Now.

“Jin—mmph!” You were pushed back against the wall, your body lifted to your toes, and your lips devoured. He couldn’t do it. Whatever battle he was fighting inside, he lost it the moment he realized you wanted him just the same, and he didn’t care. You were still his prize to claim, your taste was his to consume, your warmth was his to take, and he drowned in you almost instantly, his fingers possessively grabbing your face, leaving you with no choice but to accept his kiss, to accept whatever it was he planned to give you. 

Without wasting a second, he wedged his knee between your legs, parting them open and having his thigh pressed firmly against your core. You gasped against his mouth, your body clinging onto him, shuddering at the thrilling sensation. “J-Jinwoo—”

“I know,” he replied shortly, almost in a growl, breathless against your mouth. “I need you, too, so just—” He pressed your body tight against him, his lips placed upon yours again with such urgency as if being separated from you for merely a second deprived him of all the oxygen he needed.

The last thread of restraint in your head forced you to place your hands on his chest. Despite your aching need to rub yourself against his thigh, you voiced your thoughts aloud between lustful kisses. “Wait—we shouldn’t—mmph—”

With a grunt, he removed your hands from him, pinning them against the wall as he ceaselessly devoured your mouth. He kept you that way, trapped and caged within his hold. “Y-you have to go,” you managed to whimper out, your body tensing as he trailed open-mouthed kisses down your throat.

Jinwoo finally broke away, his face flushed, painted over with nothing but ardor. “Want me to stop?”

Your heart thrashed wildly inside your chest. The huskiness in his voice, the way his breathing turned heavy at the sight of you—what women would say no?

“Come here.” You pulled him back to you, begged him for another kiss, a wish that he was so eager to comply. Struggling to match his pace, you found yourself clawing at the back of his trench coat, one of your legs hooking around his thigh as he pushed your dress up to your stomach, revealing more soft skin and supple flesh for him to grip and sink his nails into. He grunted against your neck, a string of expletives among sinful praises, and you shut your eyes, head thrown back at the thrill of having him act so needy, so desperate for you. 

You couldn’t care about anything, not anymore, but your memory recalled the sour look he made when he checked on his watch a moment ago. How much time do we have until he really needs to go? “Jinwoo—ah—” You felt his teeth grinding not so gently against your skin, marking you as if he wanted to leave something for you to remember him by, to ache for in your wake. “W-what time should you be leaving—”

His fingers circled your throat, holding you dominantly in his grip. “Ten minutes ago. Open your mouth.”

He deepened the kiss as soon as you parted your lips for him, moaning at the burst of your taste on his tongue. You welcomed his taste with a gasp, your hands now crawling up his nape, his hair, making a nest out of his strands the same way he made a mess out of you. His tongue delved inside, begging for a sliver of your sweetness, but you wanted to give him everything, and you did, your tongue sliding against his own, kissing him as if this was your last time to remember just how amazing he felt against you, lips to lips, tongue to tongue, body to body. All the fear you had over his departure, all the love you held for him, they dissolved into one, into this burning ache that permeated your core, the need to have him close.

And God, you wanted more, wanted him so badly, it felt like torture.

“Fuck,” Jinwoo groaned, followed quickly by a low moan of your name. He was really trying to hold back, to only settle down for a kiss or two, but— “Why do you have to be so goddamn irresistible all the time?”

He was suffering just the same, one hand slamming against the door to maintain his distance, to keep him away from crushing you, from becoming one with you. It balled into a fist, evidence of what was left of his self-control; his fingers clenched so tightly that it painted his knuckles white and his palm crimson. His other arm snaked around your waist as his mouth sucked bruises on your collarbone, his nails clawing against the fabric of your dress, eager to tear it apart right then, right there. Rough, sinful noises continued to stream past his lips as you brought your lower half even closer to him, the sound low and deep; it was almost primal. 

“Ngh, baby, please—” He pleaded with his eyebrows sewn together, his jaw slackening at the sensation of you pushing your hips back, grinding on him. You could feel just how hard he was beneath his pants, the contour of his cock nudging deliciously against your clothed heat. It excited you, your heart swelling in satisfaction at how fast you could turn the most powerful man in the world into a desperate lover with only a few touches. Only you had this power over him, and he made sure to worship you for it.

His body reacted instinctively, rocking his hips against yours, quickly taking over control. Somewhere in the labyrinth of your mind, a voice reminded you to stop, he’s already late as it is, and you can’t do this here, not outside, not for everyone’s eyes to see, but when Jinwoo caught your earlobe between his teeth, his voice dangerous and guttural when he said, “God, Sweetheart, you don’t know how much I want to be inside you right now,” all you could think was—

Yes, please.

You smashed your lips against his, your fingers tugging hard at the roots of his hair, robbing another shameless moan out of him. He welcomed your burning passion, reciprocating it by doubling the intensity. None of you gave a damn where you were or what time it was; none of it mattered, not anymore. You just needed him, and he needed you. Not just want. Need.

Jinwoo unclasped his belt with one hand while keeping hold of your face with the other; his movements rushed, lacking the usual grace that he normally exuded. You were sure he didn’t mean to tear your lingerie apart, but even if he did, it would’ve only added more fuel to the shimmering flames inside you. Now that your bottom half was bare and exposed, he took himself out of his confinement, holding his length in one hand, his tongue gliding over his bottom lip as he rubbed his tip against your protruding clit.

You shivered, your hips swaying on their own, begging him to just ram it inside. “Jinwoo, please.”

“You’re gonna make me lose my mind,” he growled, lifting your body higher on the wall, making you hold on to nothing but him to fight back gravity. “Arms around my neck,” he commanded, his mouth hot against your jawline. His coat slid off his shoulders as he positioned himself over your entrance, pooling around his elbows.

But then, Jinwoo slowed down amidst the heat of your passion, just for a moment. Even as his desire consumed him from within, your consent remained a top priority. He needed to make sure that he wasn’t hurting you or, worse, doing anything you didn’t want him to. Your husband took a second to look at you, wanting you to give your permission out loud even when all his heightened senses and perceptions had found their answer a while ago. “Can I have you?”

Your reply came in the shape of you carding your fingers through his locks again, your mouth colliding with his as you spread your legs a little wider. “Yes,” you breathed out. “I need you, please—oh!” 

You felt him pushing himself inside the second your plea left your mouth, stretching all of your walls at once. 

“Ah, fuck,” Jinwoo groaned deep and loud, slamming one hand against the wall, the vein in his neck popping from beneath his pale skin. His reaction was almost as if he’d never experienced such pleasure before, his body trembling at the feeling of your heat tightening around him, so drenched inside that you could take him—his everything—all in one go. “God, you feel so good.” He locked your lips together again, moaning at the feeling of being shrouded by your warmth. He moved his hips tentatively to ensure your comfort, but he surrendered immediately after the first try. “Sorry, Sweetheart, I don’t think I can—ngh—hold back—” 

He began to move, his teeth nibbling on the skin of your shoulder to contain his grunts, his hips thrusting fast and rough, sliding himself in and out of you in the desperation of a heated beast seeking a release. Just like him, you were feeling it much more than anything you’d ever done with him. Maybe it was the place, the sensation of doing something so indecent, so out in the open. Maybe it was because you were both trying so desperately to comfort yourselves, to forget your upcoming separation, even only for a moment. Or maybe it was simply because you loved him so ardently, the same way he did about you. 

Now that the sun had sunk entirely below the horizon, the night was nearly pitch black. No stars were in sight, as if they grew too shy to witness something so obscene. Detecting the darkness around you, the lights around the house switched on automatically, illuminating the entryway and the lush garden around you with a warm, romantic glow. The magical view of the scenery usually brought a sense of serenity to your heart, but no, not that night. Not when you were stuck in a very compromising position with your husband. The worst one of all was the three pendant lights shining brightly above you, dangling from your high ceilings, exposing the way your bodies rocked together in rapid, rhythmless motions for the whole world to see.

You couldn’t help but be distracted by them, your body tensing. If anyone were passing by, with the way your husband had you pinned against the wall, your heels digging to the small of his back, your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, they would discover you in a heartbeat. 

“J-Jinwoo—wait—the lights—”

With his lips sucking hard bruises on your neck, Jinwoo lifted one hand in the air and clenched his fingers into a fist. All the lightbulbs shattered at once, their sounds piercing the air, stealing a surprised yelp out of you, which he silenced immediately with his mouth. The same invisible force shielded you from the pieces of glass raining down from the ceiling, leaving your heart rattling in your chest but your skin uninjured.

You were embraced by the darkness again, though it was never as thick as you would love it to be. The silver moonlight still bathed your skin, and the golden shine of the bollard lights surrounding your garden remained bright enough for you to discern your husband’s features, but at least, you no longer felt like you were standing under the spotlight. You still couldn’t entirely chase your anxiety away, however, and noticing that, Jinwoo captured your face, his fingers pressed firmly on each side of your jaw.

"Focus on me,” he said, palm plastered against the front of your throat. Although pain was absent from his touch, his hold on you was firm, controlling, his voice commanding. “I don’t want you to think about anything else. Keep your eyes on me. Focus on how I’m making you feel right now.” 

And it felt good. He made you feel so damn good that by the time he plunged himself deep into you again, you found yourself crying out against his mouth, clutching onto him like a lifeline. Jinwoo was just as deep in rapture as you were, unintentionally ripping the top buttons of your dress in his desperation to taste more of your skin. He was beyond aggressive, unrestrained, and impatient, and God, you loved it. You couldn’t remember the last time he was like this, and the feelings brought you quickly to ecstasy. 

You were close, your pleasure building up faster than it ever did. “Jinwoo, I’m—”

“I know,” he moaned against your shoulder, his teeth just one pressure away from sinking into your flesh. “I’m close too, angel, just a little bit… ngh… more…”

He quickened his pace, taking his cock completely out of you only to drive himself back to the hilt, each thrust hard enough to knock the breath out of your lungs. You fell over the edge with your lips parted in a silent moan, your nails scraping against the back of his shirt, your legs shaking, tautening around him as you reached cloud nine.

The sensation of your walls closing in around his cock was almost too much to bear, but he needed that one single push, just one sweet moan from you in the shape of his name, to make him grasp that vigorous wave of euphoria. “Sweetheart, please—”

Knowing exactly what he was begging for, you embraced him closely by the neck, gripped his soft locks beneath your fingers, and whispered the words he’d been dying to hear right against his mouth.

“I love you, Jinwoo.” 

He shuddered, his skin breaking into goosebumps, and he finished inside you with a deep, gravelly groan erupting from the back of his throat. His hips stuttered, slowing down but not yet stopping until he finished spilling everything inside. His breaths came out raggedly, hot against your neck. His left hand was still glued to the wall beside your head. 

As your tremors began to dissipate, your husband carefully placed you back on your feet, holding you close until you could stand on your own. Your legs felt like jelly beneath your weight, your strength leaving you after experiencing what might be one of the most mind-blowing orgasms you’d ever had.

“That was… intense,” Jinwoo tittered breathlessly, his hair all tousled, his face the prettiest shade of pink. It mesmerized you just how stunning he looked like this, and it satisfied you more than anything to know that you would always be the one—the only one—who could see this side of him, who could bring this side of him into view. Little did you know he was thinking the same thing about you. The way you stood there, gazing up at him with your starry eyes slightly watery from your orgasm, your dress torn and crumpled, your skin marked and claimed. He could easily go for another round—or three—if you let him.

“You okay?” He asked as he swatted the stray strands out of your eyes, helping you with your dress before he fixed his own attire. You nodded a bit drunkenly, and he let out another chuckle before planting a soft kiss on your temple. “I’m sorry for ruining your dress.”

“And my panties,” you added, snatching the torn fabric away from your heel. You stared flatly at it, your tone monotonous when you said, “Unbelievable. This is the third time, Jinwoo. Three times you’ve done this to me."

He was embarrassed by it. So cute. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not sorry,” you teased him with a poke on his cheek. “Buy me another one? The dress, I mean. I don’t trust you with my lingerie after what you bought me last time.”

He laughed softly at the memory. “I’ll buy you the prettiest one. Promise.” Brushing a light kiss on your temple, he spoke his worry once more. “How are you feeling? Did I hurt you?” 

The genuine concern in his tone caused your joy to unfold. In all honesty, yes, he did, but every pain was welcomed—no, every pain was desired, and you wished you could have more. More consuming kisses that left your lips swollen. More love bites on your neck that would last until he returned home. More bruises on your hips and thighs from how hard he was holding you. It felt nice to be dominated, to be owned, to be so wanted by your husband that he lost control of himself, of his mind. 

“What?” Jinwoo raised a brow, looking at you funny. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“Nothing,” you replied with a sheepish smile, stroking his cheek. But with him looking at you with such confusion in his eyes, you felt like you owed him the truth. “I just realized you never fucked me this way before, and it scares me just how much I enjoyed it.”

He blushed at your words, so fervently that you wondered if this was the same man who had just mounted you like a beast in heat a moment ago. But then he laughed, the sound so delicate and pretty in your ears. “I was going to apologize for being carried away, but…” He bent his head down, bringing himself to your eye level as a smirk crept up his lips. “If that’s what you’re into, then I have so much more in store for you.”

You swallowed, your skin tingling with excitement at the thought. “W-we can try that after you get home. Don’t you have a plane to catch?”

“Shit, you’re right.” As unbelievable as it was, he had truly forgotten about it. Jinwoo hastily rummaged through his pocket for his car key, racing against time. “Okay, I’ll be leaving now.” He kissed you quickly, almost making you stumble from how fast he was grabbing your face. “Goodbye, love. I’ll see you soon.”

“Jinwoo, wait,” you giggled, tugging him back by his arm. “You got my lipstick all over you.” You rubbed your thumb over his lips, trying to wipe off the red stain. “And your hair’s mess. Do you have a comb with you?”

“It’s all right, I love it like this.” He tossed you a boyish smile. “It feels like I’m carrying a part of you with me, like some kind of proof that reminds me of what we just did.” He then continued in a whisper, his smirk grazing your earlobe. “The same way you’re carrying a part of me… inside you.”

You grew mortified, all due to his words and the feeling of his essence seeping out of you. You could feel it trickling down your thigh before you squeezed your legs together, face aflame. “Leave. Now.” You whirled his body around, shoving him forward. “And tell your shadow soldiers to help me change the lights. I can’t believe you used your skill for that.”

He tossed you a grin over his shoulder. “Gotta make the best use of what I have, Sweetheart.” 

“I don’t think Igris would be happy to know that you’re using Ruler's Hand for sex.”

“Oh, baby, trust me, if I were planning to use Ruler’s Hand for sex, bursting lightbulbs would be at the bottom of the list.” His smirk carried the promise of something lewd, something naughty. “And also, if I’m happy, all my soldiers are happy, Igris included. And I’m definitely happy right now, all thanks to my sweet girl.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” you snorted despite heat filling your cheeks. “Now go before Jinho kills you.” 

He chortled softly, “Yes, Ma’am.” 

You watched him stride away with your hands on your hips, sighing despite the way your lips curved up in amusement. You were going to miss these little banters you have. Some parts of you still refused to let him go, but when Jinwoo rolled down his window, giving you one last smile with one hand on the steering wheel, all you could say was, “Come home to me, darling.”

“I will, baby.”

And as he drove into the night, disappearing from your sight and leaving your heart lamenting in your chest, you knew you had no choice but to put your faith in him. This wouldn’t be the last time you see him. It would never be. Jinwoo would make sure of that.

Because if he had to watch the world burn for it, for you, then so be it. 

Heaven or hell, Gods or the Devils, I’ll destroy them all.

As long as I can come home to you, Sweetheart, nothing else matters. ***

[sloaneispunk]

“love is a losing game”

frontman! (hwang in-ho) x you

what if frontman had joined the first games with gi-hun? in-ho seeked thrill and decided to become a player in the first games, meeting you. when it was time to play ‘marbles’, he was caught between a dilemma of letting you or his cover go

· · · ──── 𖣠𖣠𖣠 ──── · · ·

‘this game will be played in pairs. please find a partner and shake hands to indicate your pairings’

in-ho was the first to look at you. “y/n, play with me.”

you looked at him stunned, “you want me? what if it’s a game that needs strength?”

“you’re the strongest person i know here, so it’s a yes?” he smiled, waiting for you to shake his hand.

then, you looked to gi-hun who was watching the two of you expectantly as his face dropped. when he saw the worry on your face he shook his head. “no, you two go ahead, i’ll find someone else to play with.”

you gave him a sympathetic smile before turning back at in-ho, taking his hand.

when the timer came to an end, everyone moved towards the next room.

“ah! y’all bastards, play with me please! you need me!” player 212 pleaded as the guards started to approach her. she was the only player that hadn’t found a partner.

her screams and pleads pierced your ears as you looked back at her being dragged away by the guards.

“don’t look.” in-ho said, using his hand to gently turn your head away from the sight.

· · · ──── 𖣠𖣠𖣠 ──── · · ·

you and in-ho followed the guard to your assigned places. it was the porch of a small wooden house, just like yours when you were younger. despite the fake set up, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of nostalgia, taking in your surroundings. small trees encircled the house, its leaves seeming as real as ever.

“i wonder what game they’re going to make us play.” you wondered aloud as you sat on the porch steps.

‘the game is marbles. each player will be given ten marbles, you are to play any game of your choice. the winner will be determined by having all twenty marbles’

your eyes shot to in-ho. “that means…”

“there can only be one winner.” he finished, looking back solemnly.

your distress was rising quickly as the tension between the two of you thickened.

you rushed to the guard, “can we switch partners, please? i can’t play with him!”

“y/n-”

“please.” you sobbed, but the guard remained unfazed.

“hey, it’s okay. we have time, let’s just sit down and talk.” he gave you a smile, taking your hand leading you back to the porch steps.

“in-ho-”

“so what movies do you like?” he cut you off, that stupid smile still bright on his face.

after a brief moment of silence, you answered. “i-i guess i like the marvel movies.”

“yeah? do you have a favourite superhero?”

“black widow.” you let out a suppressed laugh. “as a kid i looked up to her, she was strong.”

“she’s pretty badass, isn’t she?”

you chuckled. “yeah, she is.”

even though it was obvious that in-ho was simply trying to uplift the mood it felt like it was working. if you were going to die here, it might as well be with in-ho.

· · · ──── 𖣠𖣠𖣠 ──── · · ·

time passed and now you only had five minutes left on the clock, anxiety bubbled in your stomach.

“what do you want to do when you get out of here?” you asked in-ho, your head now rested on his shoulder.

he pulled you closer, making sure you were nice and comfortable before he replied. “i guess, pay off my debts and start a new life… maybe a nice apartment with a dog.”

“i like that.” you agreed.

“what about you?” he asked, looking down, placing a kiss on your head as he did so.

“find my family. we’ll all live together again, i’ll buy a big house and we can all be happy.”

“that sounds nice.” he whispered.

“we should play a game.” you sighed, lifting your head. you pulled your legs together, crossing them as you turned to face him, marbles in hand.

“we can play rock paper scissors, winner takes all.” he suggested.

“i really don’t want to play against you.” you said barely above a whisper, looking down.

he smiled, lifting your head up with his finger. “it’ll be okay. on my count okay?”

you nodded hesitantly.

“rock, paper, scissors, shoot.”

you threw scissors.

in-ho threw rock.

but he knew better, quickly changing it to paper right before your eyes.

without a word said, he gave you his ten marbles.

“no! in-ho, you can’t do that!” you shouted, tears flooding to your eyes.

“ah, i knew i should’ve threw rock.” he laughed to himself, acting oblivious.

you got up, kneeling down before him as you grabbed his collar.

“let’s play again, that wasn’t fair!”

“no, the rules were that. i guess i lost.”

you started to weep at his feet. in-ho had been there for you ever since the first game of red light, green light, taking you under his wing.

he would spend the nights keeping watch over you as you slept, pairing with you in every game so he could win for the both of you. he even kept the ridiculous goons away from you when you were being threatened by them, and now you were going to lose the only person you trusted in the game.

he was your best friend and your lover, he couldn’t possibly be stripped away from you just like that.

“y/n, please don’t cry, you’re going to make me cry.” he tried to laugh it off, but he felt his eyes stinging.

he gently scooped you up from the ground, making you face him as he pulled you close, your head on his chest as he shushed, rocking you back and forth.

“you’re okay.” he cooed, “you’re a strong girl, you’re going to make it out, right?”

you shook your head ‘no’.

“yeah, you will. you’ll leave the game with the money, find your family and live a happy life.”

“not without you.” you cried. “i can’t do this without you, in-ho, please. i need you.”

his heart broke into a million pieces. this whole character of his was a facade but it suddenly felt all so real for a moment.

in-ho realised that he too couldn’t live without you, but as frontman, he didn’t have a choice. for now, he could only give you the comfort and company you needed.

“look at me, y/n.” he said softly as you lifted your head once more.

“you’re the most beautiful, compassionate and the toughest girl i’ve ever met. you’ve got what it takes to get out of here… my strong girl is still right inside here.” he pointed to your heart, making you sniffle. “i’ve had the best moments of my life playing these games with you.”

“me too.” you admitted.

he cupped your face, pulling you in for a first and last kiss.

it was full of emotion, relief, joy but also grief. when you pulled away, he nodded, asking you to leave as the timer reached your last ten seconds.

without a choice, you slowly walked out into the corridor, leaving in-ho behind. you couldn’t bear to look at him again, tears still streaming down your face as you were escorted to the exit.

then, there was a loud bang. a gunshot.

‘player 002 eliminated.’

it felt like a part of you had died along with him.

· · · ──── 𖣠𖣠𖣠 ──── · · ·

when he had made sure that you made it through the exit, in-ho glared at the guard.

“dickhead, do you know how close that was to my feet?” he scolded, pushing past him as he walked towards the backdoor.

yes, he felt awful about the whole faking his death thing. but what choice did he have? he knew that he couldn’t let you die on his behalf, he was going to get out of the game either way.

but a part of him was filled with overwhelming sadness, because this meant that meeting you would just be a memory now. there was no way he could face you again.

he sat alone in the dark back in his control room, whiskey in hand as he tried to drown the pain.

· · · ──── 𖣠𖣠𖣠 ──── · · ·

when you met up again with gi-hun, you ran up to hug him but your tears wouldn’t stop flowing. you sobbed the entire time, it didn’t a genius to immediately know what had happened.

he stayed with you the whole night. even when you jerked awake from nightmares, gi-hun made sure to calm you down, ensuring that you got enough rest.

during meal time when you could only stare at your food, he ensured that he kept the food, just in case you ever got hungry in the middle of the night.

little did you know, in-ho kept watch too from behind the screen.

there was a sense of comfort as he watched gi-hun treat you as if you were his very own daughter. he knew that you were in safe hands… for now.

but he knew that sang-woo had turned completely cold-hearted. he was going to be a threat to your safety.

in-ho picked up the walkie talkie on his table, “keep player 455 safe, whatever it takes.”

but how was he going to keep sang-woo away from you?

· · · ──── 𖣠𖣠𖣠 ──── · · ·

a little angst couldn’t hurt anyone.

[euphoria-looney]

Astro!

Yan!Batfam x Neglected!Reader Squid Games!AU

m. list|next

"And goodness knows, The Wicked's Lives are lonely. Goodness knows, The Wicked die alone. It just shows, when you're wicked, You're left only, on your own." 'No One Mourns The Wicked' by Wicked the Musical

Divider creds: (?) and @dollywons

As a kid, all I longed for was someone to play a game with me that didn’t require some form of technology to keep both of us entertained.

Well, be careful what you wish for, because I have reached an all-time low, willing to kill people with children's games to earn money.

How much longer will I spend in this twisted game before getting killed? Maybe this is better whether I win or lose, I still gain freedom.

One choice is just the better option. 

That’d be losing winning.

Sure I would feel immense guilt, but I’d be free from debt… and then what? No longer needing to slave anyway from the amount of money I receive.

What then?

Could therapy even help? They’d probably send me off to a mental ward. 

Who's going to believe I won millions from playing some children’s games?

I looked around and saw the old man again from earlier, sitting alone in a space, I approached him, and he accepted to play with me.

“When I was little, this was one of my favorite games as a child.” The old man told us while we were walking into an open area.

“Really? I’ll be honest, I’ve never played this game before.”

As we finally found a point to play the game, we conversed.

—

“Did we do this to make a pact?”

He held out his hand, his pinkie and thumb sticking out, I laughed, wrapping my pinkie around his, pressing our thumbs together.

“Sir, no my gganbu- I think that’s what they called a really close friend right?”

—

Eventually we went all for nothing, this was the funniest game I ever played… I almost forgot the fact that I was going to die at the end.

“Ah, guess you won, betting all my marbles for your single one. Didn’t see that one coming.” I chuckled sadly.

He held my hand and placed the last marble in my palm.

“Take it, it’s yours anyway.” I looked up at him in shock, I could feel tears welling up in my eyes.

“We are gganbu aren’t we? Remember we swore on it. And Gganbu always shares everything no matter what. You made this all possible.” My shoulder shook, as I could only stare at my shoes, my eyes felt like facets at the point. 

And then I felt these same hands embrace me, and I felt like a child all over again.

“What a great way to go.”

He pulled away, making me face him.

“Thank you. I had a good time.”

I hugged him once again, my tears overflowing on his shoulders.

He let go and I walked out of the gates.

Sniffles were all I could do before I heard the voice behind me.

“I remember my name now. My name is Il-nam. Oh Il-nam.”

I kept walking then flinched when I heard a ‘bang’ go off.

Surrounded by all these dead bodies, and these empty emotions, I pushed forward.

[Player 1, Eliminated]

—

Despite everything, I’m still having these selfish thoughts of staying alive.

We had just played ‘glass bridge’ leaving three of us here, dressed in suits, and eventually I was talking with Penelope, she’s the one that helped me out of the restraint we were in after we left for the first time.

“Hey, [name], just in case either of us can actually make it out of this hellhole, promise that we will take care of each other's loved ones, okay?” 

“Don’t say that, we’ll be okay.”

But she took more damage than any of us once the glass had shattered and was losing blood fast.

“Stay where you are, I’ll go get someone.”

I left and went to the guard or whatever they were, to beg, plead, for a doctor, maybe one that could’ve been on standby, but instead they walked past me with a coffin.

I could only stare at my once best friend standing over her bed.

I ran over there and held her body up, shaking her for some sign of hope.

“No, Penelope, please, no…”

—

Approaching the end game, we ate a feast, so fresh and nicely made, I felt the need to puke.

We place in the field shapes surrounding us, to resemble a squid, this was, Squid Game.

The rain soaking both of us, gray skies, and a single guard on the side.

Astro’s shirt still soaked in blood, his suit back on. He spoke before the game began, a knife in hand.

“I ended her suffering. You know she would have died anyway.”

The tears that once stained my face had been washed off by the rain, and now I could only feel disdain for the man I once knew in front of me.

“That’s bullshit, stop lying. She could’ve survived, they could have treated her.”

He retorted.

“I know what you’re like, you’re the reason I had to kill her. I knew you two would stop all this, so she didn’t die there. Even though we’ve gone so far, just to quit?” 

It seemed so similar to the time back at the manor.

—

“Damian had a lot happen to him as a child, are you going to blame him for this?” Dick sighed Damian behind him with no remorse for the fact I had slashes on my arm, not deep but painful. And though they wouldn’t leave scars, would that really matter?

He held a weapon against me while all I had was a stack of books now discarded and torn on the ground.

“[name]. You’re older than him, he’s still a child. You are the reason for this, it could’ve been avoided if you didn’t egg things on. Don’t blame Damian for your faults.” Egg him on? All I did was try and avoid him.

It wasn’t fair.

—

Now, if it wasn’t high before, my blood pressure had to be spiking. For that petty reason? Simply because he didn’t want all of this going to waste?

“Was that it? You killed someone because this might end?” My voice trembled.

“Yeah! You and that girl would have been the majority you needed to get out! Going home without anything! I couldn’t live with that!”

“And you think that means anything?! What?! one more life on top of the others you’ve stolen isn’t enough, and won’t be enough until you receive something?! You’d rather have one more dead than for all three of us to leave and somehow find another way to bring something, anything home?!” I shouted back at him.

I took my knife out of my pocket.

“It's over…”

“I won’t let you leave here with the money.”

3RD POV

While the VIP’s finally stood up to watch this entertaining last game.

Two people who have developed over time physically and mentally, once friends, were squabbling, fighting with very small amounts of energy, but a passion to win.

Both stabbed the other when eventually, player 456 was able to get the other on the ground and punched him over and over again.

The Waynes couldn’t help but be relieved this was it, they’d never let her go again, they would make up for everything starting with making sure she would be okay.

“Found the location heading there soon!” They heard Cassandra on the other line.

Late, but they would make it.

—

[name]’s POV

I held my knife, before stabbing it into the field, next to his face, before limping over to the goal point, it felt miles anyway, the guard had his gun loaded and aimed at Astro.

There before me was the practical finish line.

I can’t… No, I refuse to if anything, playing this game has fucked me other the head, but I refuse for one second to let this game be the last thing I ever see Astro at.

“I wanna end here.” I face the guard walking back to them.

“Clause Three of the agreement. The players are able to end the game when the majority agrees, so if we both give up,  you have to end it right?” I stumbled over.

The guard spoke on the walkie-talkie while I gazed back at Astro.

“Astro.”

“Back when we went to the same school, we’d hang out together and study before leaving chasing after our purpose that called out for us. Nothing's calling anymore.” After all this time, he still is.

I smiled at him, that once gummy smile I adorned, one that I hated so much.

“Let’s go”

I extended my hand to him. 

“Let’s go together.”

He slowly lifted his hand.

“[name], I’m sorry.” 

And before I could react, he took that hand and grabbed the knife that I put right next to him, and impaled himself in the neck with it. 

Blood gushed out and he choked out blood.

I quickly went to his side, stabilizing his head.

“Astro! Astro!”

“[name]..”

“No, no, don’t speak! Hang on!” I was panicking, this can’t be the end of us.

“M-my mother, please take care of my mom. And…”

“I love you.” That made me freeze my erratic movements, I was sure he could’ve seen my eyes widen.

“Loved you since meeting you.” With that, he closed his eyes and I could only call out his name, and held onto his body, it was getting colder fast.

[Player 218, Eliminated. Congratulations, Player456]

—

3rd POV

“Believe in Jesus or go to Hell!” A guy holding two signs chanted outside in the rain, strangers walking past each other, a white limo rolled up on the side of the street, dumping a bruised and exhausted body on the sidewalk, the same guy chanting untied the girl.

“Believe in Jesus.”

The girl was in the bank depositing 4.56 billion dollars before withdrawing some out. Her hair a mess, eyes sullen and eye bags that dragged down her face, she seemed exhausted. Walking back to the store she once worked at, a sign stated ‘SOLD’ and next to it a reef, “Rest in Peace, Conny Claire, Died too soon, old shop owner that meant so much to many people.” Flowers that surround the message.

The girl that came there for a snack could only sink to the ground in shock, hands rising to cover her face, body shaking and quivering.

Walking down a store alleyway, Astro’s mom approached the girl.

“How have you been, here take some food for the road after losing…” She sighed, and patted the girl's back, walking back to her shop.

“Have you heard from… Nevermind.” 

The girl opened her run down apartment where she once lived and went to see all the old photos in the yearbook of classes she had with Astro and in all of the group ones featuring her, her classmates, and Astro she noticed how in each one he was looking at her, with those fond eyes.

She could only fall onto her bed, her tired state crept on her before she fell asleep.

Some time later, the girl kept her promise to Penelope and helped out her family, then left them with Astro’s mom, leaving a wealthy sum of money, they became a family… somewhat of a replacement for the other's loved one, and the girl left paying off whatever debt any of them had.

The girl was sitting alone at the pond, drinking some alcohol. Before an old woman approached her, a flower basket in hand, it seemed she needed to sell them immediately before they wilted away. The girl reached into her pocket, handing her some money before the old woman went off. 

Picking up the nicely wrapped flower, a card appeared, making the girl stumble at picking up the card before reading it.

Approaching a hospital, card in hand.

It was the old man.

“What is this… Who are you?”

“Pour some water for me. Please, [name].”

And there she sat, anger rising in her, but she couldn’t do anything against the man who made the games.

She sat listening to the man talk, about the homeless guy below them, about how everything he said about himself was true, how he missed the old days, him and his friend used to have the time of their lives, and how no matter if you're homeless or rich both lives are no fun. Then a clock struck.

She looked at the machine to see that his heart was no longer beating, instead a flat line appeared. Getting up, she closed his eyes.

That’s when she finally started her life again. She got it together.

So, at the first place, her life changed at the same bus stop, well across from it, the skies were clear and the sun was glaring into the area. It had been a regular day for her, working at her own company and all.

Maybe that’s why when she unlocked her car and stared right in front of her at that same place, she was shocked to see her father, Bruce Wayne, and his family.

That’s it for this part of Astro! Did you like it?

Also, unlike Squid Game, soon after [name] left, everyone that participated in Squid Games got arrested, which made it on the news, but was looked past after a few months, [name] made gravestones for Penelope and Astro.

Ofc the Batfam got the credit and got even more famous for uncovering this incident, which is also why they hadn’t ‘visited’ [name] and now are just getting to it.

Not the update you expected, but I hope you like it.

Any comments, advice and corrections are appreciated!!!

-ILoveeeMoney

Taglist time! ❤

Also, I love the idea and from fic from both @jellyfishmoon97 and @not-weirdoshrek and a new addition that I'm super happy I bumped into @alilobsessive.

@holysoulsweets @sh4rk-k1d @sillysealsies @loomspuddle @cantfindmelol @alwaysholymilkshake @leitor-sonolento @randomlyappearingartist @beyondblissxoxo @sirairi @yhin-gg @frankie-moon3 @welpthisisboring @yokesmam @bat1212 @enchantingarcadecreation @twismare @delias-stuff @ladylupuscrow @ferchu0406 @c4xcocoa @cruzerforce4256 @anonymoushehehehe @godoreo22 @blerp-22 @facelessisnthere @sirenetheblogger @themightybee4067 @boredselkie @tiffyisme3760 @random4137 @midnightgrimoire @mybones537 @chaoticmoontimetravel @jsprien213 @crazycaoticsimp @elfollaburras3000 @czarinera @tiffyisme3760 @exactlynumberonekryptonite @gwyneveire @k-anaru @a-lurking-fae @nxdxsworld @ryuushou

I think that's everyone who wanted to be tagged, I hope I didn't spell anyone's name wrong and tag the wrong person.

[pucksandpower]

Until Next Time

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: in which two soulmates are destined to always find each other only to be torn apart lifetime after lifetime after lifetime … until finally, they’re not (aka the reincarnation AU)

Mycenae, 1208 BC

The sun beats down mercilessly on the marble steps of the temple. You stand at the top, your white chiton billowing in the warm breeze. Your eyes scan the crowd gathered below, searching for one face among the sea of onlookers.

“Where is he?” You whisper, your heart pounding.

A firm hand grips your shoulder. “It’s time, princess,” your father’s voice rumbles behind you.

You turn to face him, eyes pleading. “Father, please. This can’t be the only way.”

The king’s face is a mask of stone, but his eyes betray a flicker of sorrow. “The gods have spoken. We must obey.”

As he speaks, a commotion erupts at the base of the temple steps. Your breath catches in your throat as you spot Max pushing through the crowd, his face contorted with desperation.

“No!” He shouts, his voice carrying over the murmur of the crowd. “You can’t do this!”

Two guards grab him, restraining his arms as he struggles against their grip.

“Let me go!” Max yells, his eyes locking with yours. “She’s innocent! Take me instead!”

You start to move towards him, but your father’s grip tightens. “Don’t,” he warns.

“Max,” you call out, your voice breaking. “It’s okay. This is my duty.”

Max shakes his head violently. “No, it’s not! This is madness!”

The high priest approaches, his ornate robes rustling as he walks. “The sacrifice must be made,” he intones. “The gods demand it.”

You feel a chill run down your spine despite the heat. The priest’s eyes are cold as he regards you.

“Please,” Max begs, still struggling against the guards. “There has to be another way. Let me speak to the oracle. Maybe-”

“Silence!” The priest snaps. “The decision has been made. The princess will ensure a bountiful harvest for our people.”

You swallow hard, trying to steady your voice. “Max, listen to me. I need you to be strong.”

His struggles subside slightly as he focuses on your words.

“Remember what we talked about?” You continue. “About the stars?”

Max’s brow furrows in confusion for a moment before his eyes widen in recognition. “The cycle,” he breathes.

You nod, forcing a smile. “This isn’t the end. We’ll find each other again. I promise.”

“No,” Max shakes his head, tears streaming down his face. “I can’t lose you. Not like this.”

The priest clears his throat impatiently. “We must proceed.”

Your father gently guides you towards the altar. You resist the urge to look back at Max, knowing it will only make this harder.

“Wait!” Max calls out. “Just ... just let me say goodbye. Please.”

The king hesitates, then nods to the guards. They release Max, who rushes up the steps towards you.

He reaches you, cupping your face in his hands. “I love you,” he whispers fiercely. “In this life and every life to come.”

You lean into his touch, memorizing the feeling of his skin against yours. “I love you too. Always.”

Max’s lips crash into yours, desperate and salty with tears. For a moment, the world fades away, and it’s just the two of you.

Then rough hands are pulling you apart. Max struggles, but the guards drag him back down the steps.

“No!” He roars. “You can’t do this! She’s everything to me!”

You force yourself to look away, focusing on the altar before you. The priest approaches, a gleaming dagger in his hand.

“Oh great gods,” he begins to chant. “Accept this offering and bless our lands.”

You close your eyes, trying to block out Max’s anguished cries. You think of stars, of cycles, of promises of reunion.

The dagger plunges, and pain explodes through your body. As darkness creeps in at the edges of your vision, you hear Max’s voice, raw with grief.

“I’ll find you,” he vows. “In the next life, and the next, and the next. We’ll be together again. I swear it.”

As your consciousness fades, you cling to that promise. This isn’t the end, you tell yourself. It’s just the beginning of a much longer story.

Your last thought before the world goes black is of Max’s eyes, filled with love and determination. Somehow, you know that this is not goodbye — it’s just until next time.

London, 1542

The heavy oak door of your chambers creaks open, and you look up from your embroidery, heart leaping at the sight of Max slipping inside. His eyes dart nervously around the room before settling on you.

“My lady,” he whispers urgently, crossing the room in quick strides. “We must speak.”

You set aside your needlework, rising to meet him. “What is it? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

He takes your hands in his, his touch sending a familiar thrill through you despite the gravity in his expression. “It’s worse than that, I’m afraid. I’ve heard whispers in the court ...”

Your breath catches. “What kind of whispers?”

Max’s jaw clenches. “Accusations. Terrible ones. They’re saying you’ve been unfaithful to the king.”

You gasp, shaking your head vehemently. “That’s absurd! I would never-”

“I know,” Max interrupts, squeezing your hands. “But the truth matters little when it comes to Henry’s jealousy. You know how he is.”

A chill runs down your spine as you remember the fate of the king’s previous wives. “What am I to do?”

Max’s eyes blaze with determination. “We’ll run away. Tonight. I have friends who can help us reach the coast. From there, we can sail to France or-”

The sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor cuts him off. You both freeze, staring at the door in mounting dread.

“Quick,” you hiss, pushing Max towards a tapestry-covered alcove. “Hide!”

He resists for a moment. “I won’t leave you-”

“You must,” you insist. “If they find you here, it will only make things worse.”

Reluctantly, Max ducks behind the tapestry just as the door bursts open. The king’s guards pour in, led by Thomas Cromwell himself.

“My lady,” Cromwell says with a cold smile. “I’m afraid you must come with us.”

You lift your chin, summoning every ounce of royal dignity. “On what grounds, Lord Cromwell?”

His smile doesn’t waver. “Treason, my lady. His Majesty has evidence of your ... indiscretions.”

“That’s impossible,” you protest. “I’ve been nothing but faithful to the king.”

Cromwell gestures to the guards. “Search the room. Thoroughly.”

Your heart pounds as they begin tearing through your belongings. You silently pray that Max remains hidden and undetected.

“This is outrageous,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “I demand to speak to the king himself.”

“His Majesty has no desire to see you,” Cromwell replies. “The evidence speaks for itself.”

One of the guards approaches, holding a folded piece of parchment. “My lord, we found this hidden in her jewelry box.”

Cromwell snatches it, his eyes scanning the contents. His smirk widens. “Well, well. A love letter, it seems. Quite damning, wouldn’t you agree?”

You shake your head in disbelief. “That’s not mine. I’ve never seen it before!”

“A poor defense, my lady,” Cromwell tuts. “Come now, we mustn’t keep the Tower waiting.”

As the guards move to seize you, Max bursts from his hiding place. “Stop!” He shouts. “She’s innocent!”

Cromwell’s eyebrows raise in mock surprise. “And who might you be, young man?”

Max stands tall, his gaze unwavering. “I can vouch for the queen’s innocence.”

“Can you now?” Cromwell’s tone is dangerously soft. “And how, pray tell, would you know such a thing?”

You see the trap too late. “Max, don’t-”

But he’s already speaking. “Because I’ve been watching over her. Protecting her. I would know if she had been unfaithful.”

Cromwell’s eyes glitter with triumph. “Watching over her, you say? How ... intimate. Guards, seize him as well.”

“No!” You cry out as the guards grab Max. “He’s done nothing wrong!”

“On the contrary,” Cromwell replies. “He’s just confessed to an inappropriate relationship with the queen. That’s treason, my dear.”

Max struggles against the guards. “It’s not like that! I love her, yes, but we’ve never-”

“Enough!” Cromwell snaps. “Take them both to the Tower. His Majesty will decide their fate.”

As the guards drag you from the room, your eyes meet Max’s. In that moment, a strange sense of déjà vu washes over you. You’ve been here before, somehow. Torn apart by forces beyond your control.

“It’s happening again,” Max says softly, his eyes wide with realization.

You nod, a sad smile touching your lips. “The cycle continues.”

“What are you two babbling about?” Cromwell demands.

Neither of you answer. What could you say that he would understand?

As you’re led through the winding corridors of the palace, Max’s voice carries to you. “I’ll find a way to save you. I swear it.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” you call back, your voice catching.

“I kept the last one, didn’t I?” He replies. “I found you again.”

Memories flood your mind — hazy images of another life, another time. A temple, a sacrifice, a vow made in desperation.

“So you did,” you whisper.

The journey to the Tower passes in a blur. Before you know it, you’re being locked in a cold, damp cell. Through the small barred window, you can see the executioner’s block in the courtyard below.

Days pass. You pace your cell, alternating between fear and a strange sense of calm. This isn’t the end, you remind yourself. Somehow, you know it to be true.

When they come for you, you hold your head high. As you’re led to the block, you scan the crowd, searching for Max’s face. You spot him, restrained by guards, his face a mask of anguish.

“I love you,” he mouths.

“Until next time,” you reply silently.

As you kneel at the block, you close your eyes. You think of stars and cycles, of promises kept across lifetimes. The axe falls, and darkness descends.

Your last conscious thought is a mixture of sorrow and hope. This chapter may be ending, but your story with Max is far from over. In another time, another place, you’ll find each other again. The wheel turns, and the cycle continues.

Florence, 1633

The flickering candlelight casts long shadows across the cluttered study. You pace nervously, your skirts swishing against the worn floorboards. Max hunches over his desk, quill scratching furiously across parchment.

“Max,” you plead, “please reconsider. It’s not too late to recant.”

He looks up, his eyes bright with fervor. “I can’t, my love. The truth is too important.”

You move to his side, resting a hand on his shoulder. “More important than your life?”

Max covers your hand with his, his touch warm and familiar. “Some truths are worth dying for.”

“And what about living for?” You counter. “What about us?”

He stands, pulling you into an embrace. “Everything I do, I do for us. For a world where we can live freely, without the shackles of ignorance.”

You bury your face in his chest, inhaling his scent of ink and parchment. “I fear those shackles are stronger than you think.”

A sharp knock at the door makes you both jump. Max moves to answer it, but you grab his arm.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “It could be them.”

Max’s jaw sets stubbornly. “If it is, hiding won’t change anything.”

He strides to the door and throws it open. A young man stands there, panting heavily.

“Master,” he gasps. “They’re coming. The Inquisition. You must flee!”

Max’s face pales, but his voice remains steady. “Thank you for the warning, Giovanni. You should go before they arrive.”

The young man nods and disappears into the night. Max turns to you, his expression grim.

“You should go too,” he says softly. “There’s no reason for both of us to face their wrath.”

You shake your head fiercely. “I’m not leaving you.”

“Please,” Max implores. “I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you because of me.”

“And I couldn’t bear to abandon you,” you retort. “We’re in this together, remember?”

A ghost of a smile touches Max’s lips. “Always.”

You help him gather his most important papers and instruments, working quickly in the oppressive silence. As Max secures the last of his writings, you hear the ominous sound of marching feet approaching.

“It’s too late,” you breathe.

Max squares his shoulders. “Then we face them with dignity.”

The door bursts open, and armored men pour into the small study. At their head is Cardinal Bellarmine, his face a mask of righteous anger.

“Apostate,” he intones. “You stand accused of heresy against the Holy Church.”

Max steps forward, his voice calm. “I stand accused of seeking the truth, Your Eminence.”

The Cardinal’s eyes narrow. “You spread dangerous lies. You claim the Earth is not the center of God’s creation!”

“I claim only what the evidence suggests,” Max counters. “The movements of the heavens themselves tell us-”

“Blasphemy!” Bellarmine roars. “You would elevate your flawed observations above the word of God?”

You can’t stay silent any longer. “My lord Cardinal, surely God gave us minds to seek understanding. How can the pursuit of knowledge be heresy?”

Bellarmine’s gaze snaps to you. “And who is this who dares to question the Church’s judgment?”

Max steps protectively in front of you. “Leave her out of this. She’s done nothing wrong.”

“She defends a heretic,” the Cardinal sneers. “That alone is cause for suspicion.”

You feel a chill run down your spine, but you stand your ground. “I defend a good man who seeks only to understand the wonders of God’s creation.”

Bellarmine waves dismissively. “Take them both. We’ll sort out her involvement later.”

As the guards move to seize you, Max erupts into action. He grabs a heavy tome from his desk and hurls it at the nearest guard, then pushes you towards the window.

“Run!” He shouts. “I’ll hold them off!”

You hesitate, torn between fleeing and staying by his side. In that moment of indecision, a guard grabs you roughly by the arm.

“No!” Max cries out, lunging towards you.

Another guard intercepts him, slamming the butt of his halberd into Max’s stomach. He crumples to the ground, gasping for air.

“Stop!” You plead. “We’ll come peacefully. Just don’t hurt him.”

Bellarmine smirks. “A wise decision. Though I’m afraid it’s too late for leniency.”

As the guards bind your hands, you lock eyes with Max. There’s a strange, sad recognition in his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I thought this time would be different.”

You shake your head, a bittersweet smile on your lips. “It’s not your fault. It never is.”

Bellarmine looks between you, confusion evident on his face. “What nonsense is this?”

Neither of you answer.

You’re led from the study, through the torch-lit streets to the forbidding walls of the Inquisition’s headquarters. As you’re separated and thrown into different cells, Max’s voice carries to you.

“I’ll find you again. I swear it.”

“In this life or the next,” you call back, your voice breaking.

Days blur together in your dank cell. You’re questioned relentlessly about Max’s work, about your involvement. You reveal nothing, clinging to the hope that your silence might somehow spare him.

When they finally come for you, you know it’s not good news. You’re led to a small courtyard where a pyre has been erected. Your heart sinks as you see Max already tied to the stake, his face bruised but defiant.

“Heathen,” Bellarmine proclaims, “you have been found guilty of heresy. Do you repent your sins?”

Max’s eyes find yours in the crowd. “My only sin,” he says clearly, “is loving truth more than dogma.”

The Cardinal’s face darkens. “Then may God have mercy on your soul. Light the pyre.”

As the flames begin to lick at Max’s feet, you can’t contain yourself any longer. You break free from your guards and run towards the pyre.

“No!” You scream. “Max!”

He looks at you, his eyes full of love and sorrow. “Until next time, my love. We’ll get it right someday.”

The guards grab you, dragging you back as the flames engulf Max. His agonized cries pierce the air, but his gaze never leaves yours.

As the light fades from his eyes, you feel a piece of your soul shatter. But deep within, a tiny spark of hope remains. This isn’t the end, you tell yourself. It can’t be.

Somewhere, somewhen, you’ll find each other again. The wheel turns, the cycle continues, and your love endures beyond death itself.

Atlantic Ocean, 1912

The grand ballroom of the Titanic thrums with life, an orchestra playing a lively waltz as couples twirl across the polished floor. You stand at the edge of the crowd, your gloved hands fidgeting with your beaded gown. Your eyes scan the room, searching for one face in particular.

“Looking for someone?” A familiar voice asks behind you.

You turn, a smile lighting up your face as you see Max, dashing in his tailored suit. “There you are! I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost.”

Max grins, offering you his arm. “Even on a ship this size? Never. Though I must admit, I did take a wrong turn or two.”

You laugh, taking his arm. “Well, I’m glad you found your way eventually. I’ve been dying to dance with you all evening.”

As Max leads you onto the dance floor, a strange sense of déjà vu washes over you. You’ve danced with him before, you think. In grand halls and humble taverns, across centuries ...

“What’s that look for?” Max asks, pulling you from your reverie as he places a hand on your waist.

You shake your head, smiling. “Nothing. Just ... happy, I suppose.”

He beams at you as you begin to waltz. “As am I. Being here with you, it feels ... right. Like everything’s fallen into place.”

You nod, leaning into him slightly. “I know exactly what you mean.”

As you dance, the world seems to fade away. It’s just you and Max, moving in perfect synchronicity. But the spell is broken as a violent shudder runs through the ship.

Max steadies you as you stumble. “What was that?”

Around you, other passengers are looking around in confusion. The music has stopped, the musicians exchanging worried glances.

“I’m not sure,” you reply, a sense of unease growing in your stomach. “Perhaps we should-”

Your words are cut off as a ship’s officer bursts into the ballroom. “Ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm. We’ve struck an iceberg, but there’s no immediate danger. As a precaution, we ask that you all put on life vests and make your way to the boat deck.”

A ripple of nervous chatter sweeps through the crowd. Max’s grip on your hand tightens.

“We should go,” he says urgently. “Now.”

You nod, allowing him to lead you through the increasingly panicked throng. As you make your way through the corridors, the ship’s list becomes more pronounced.

“This is bad,” Max mutters, helping you navigate a particularly steep section. “Much worse than they’re letting on.”

You reach your cabin, quickly donning life vests over your evening wear. As you step back into the corridor, you’re met with a tide of frightened passengers.

“We need to get to the boat deck,” Max says, his voice steady despite the fear in his eyes. “Stay close to me.”

You push through the crowd, the ship’s groans and creaks growing louder with each passing moment. When you finally reach the deck, chaos greets you. Officers are struggling to maintain order as passengers clamor for spots in the too-few lifeboats.

“Women and children first!” An officer shouts over the din.

Max turns to you, his face pale but determined. “You need to get on a boat.”

You shake your head vehemently. “Not without you.”

“Please,” he begs, cupping your face in his hands. “I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

A memory flashes through your mind — Max saying those same words in another time, another place. Always trying to save you.

“And I couldn’t bear to leave you,” you insist. “We stay together. No matter what.”

Max’s eyes search yours for a long moment before he nods. “Together, then.”

As the night wears on, it becomes clear that there won’t be enough lifeboats for everyone. You and Max help where you can, assisting women and children into the boats. The temperature drops, your breath visible in the frigid air.

“I think that’s the last one,” Max says as you watch the final lifeboat disappear into the darkness.

You look around the rapidly tilting deck. Those who remain are a mix of resigned, terrified, and in denial.

“What do we do now?” You ask, your voice small.

Max takes your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours. “We face it together. Like we always have.”

As the ship’s stern begins to rise, you and Max make your way towards the railing. The screech of twisting metal fills the air as the Titanic starts to break apart.

“Max,” you say, your voice trembling, “I’m scared.”

He pulls you close, his arms strong around you. “I know. But remember, this isn’t the end. Not really.”

You look up at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you feel it?” He asks. “The familiarity? Like we’ve been here before?”

As you stare into his eyes, flashes of memory assault you. A temple in ancient Greece. A Tudor court. A Renaissance study. Always you and Max. Always torn apart.

“The cycle,” you whisper.

Max nods, a sad smile on his face. “We’ll get it right someday. I promise.”

The ship lurches violently, and you cling to each other as you’re thrown into the icy Atlantic. The shock of the cold water drives the breath from your lungs.

“Max!” You gasp, struggling to keep your head above water.

“I’m here,” he calls back, swimming towards you. “Hold on to me.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, your limbs already growing numb from the cold. Around you, the cries of other passengers pierce the night.

“It’s so cold,” you murmur, your teeth chattering.

Max holds you tighter. “I know, love. Just stay with me.”

As the minutes tick by, the cries around you grow fewer. You can feel your strength ebbing, your grip on Max weakening.

“Hey,” Max says, his voice hoarse. “Stay awake. Look at the stars with me.”

You force your eyes open, gazing up at the crystal-clear sky. “They’re beautiful,” you manage.

“Just like you,” Max replies. “In every life, in every time.”

You smile weakly. “You always were a charmer.”

“And you always saw right through me,” he chuckles, the sound turning into a cough.

As your vision begins to dim, you summon the last of your strength to speak. “Max? Promise you’ll find me again?”

His lips, blue with cold, press against your forehead. “Always. In this life and the next, and all the ones after.”

The cold fades, replaced by a spreading warmth. As consciousness slips away, your last thought is of Max’s eyes, filled with love and the promise of reunion.

The wheel turns. The cycle continues. And somewhere, in another time, another place, two souls prepare to find each other once more.

Washington DC, 1968

The air is thick with tension and the acrid smell of tear gas. You stand at the front of the crowd, your hand tightly gripping a homemade sign that reads “MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR.” The chants of the protesters around you swell and ebb like waves crashing against the shore of the Lincoln Memorial.

“Hey,” a familiar voice calls out. You turn to see Max pushing his way through the crowd, his shaggy hair falling into his eyes. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

You smile, relief washing over you. “I was starting to worry you wouldn’t make it.”

Max reaches you, his hand finding yours. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away. Though the police barricades nearly did.”

You squeeze his hand. “I’m glad you’re here. This feels ... important. Like we’re on the brink of something.”

He nods, his eyes scanning the growing crowd. “I know what you mean. It’s like the whole world is holding its breath.”

As if on cue, a new chant starts up. “Hey, hey, LBJ! How many kids did you kill today?”

You join in, your voice blending with the thousands around you. Max’s deeper tone resonates beside you, sending a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the autumn chill.

Suddenly, there’s a commotion at the edge of the crowd. You stand on tiptoe, trying to see what’s happening.

“What is it?” Max asks, concern etching his features.

“I’m not sure,” you reply. “It looks like ... oh no.”

A line of police officers in riot gear is advancing on the crowd, batons at the ready.

Max’s grip on your hand tightens. “We should fall back. This could get ugly.”

But you stand your ground, shaking your head. “No. We can’t let them intimidate us. We have a right to be here, to make our voices heard.”

“I know,” Max says, his voice tight with worry. “But I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

As the police line gets closer, tensions in the crowd rise. Someone throws a bottle, and it shatters at the feet of an officer. In an instant, chaos erupts.

“Disperse immediately!” A voice booms over a megaphone. “This is an unlawful assembly!”

But the crowd doesn’t disperse. If anything, the chants grow louder, more defiant. You feel Max tugging at your arm.

“Come on,” he urges. “We’ve made our point. Let’s go before-”

His words are cut off by a loud bang. For a moment, you think it’s a firecracker. Then you see the tear gas canister arcing through the air.

“Gas!” Someone shouts, and panic ripples through the crowd.

Max pulls you close, covering your mouth and nose with his bandana. “We need to move, now!”

You nod, coughing as the acrid gas begins to sting your eyes. Together, you push through the panicked crowd, trying to reach the edge of the park.

But the police are closing in from all sides. You see batons swinging, hear the cries of pain and anger from your fellow protesters.

“This way,” Max says, pulling you towards a gap in the police line.

You’re almost there when you hear a scream behind you. Turning, you see a young woman on the ground, an officer standing over her with his baton raised.

Before you can think, you’re moving towards them. “Stop!” You yell. “Leave her alone!”

“Y/N, no!” Max calls after you, but you’re already out of his reach.

You throw yourself between the fallen woman and the officer, your arms outstretched. “Please,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “She’s not a threat. We’re peaceful protesters.”

The officer hesitates, his baton still raised. For a moment, you think he might listen. Then you see his eyes harden behind his visor.

“I said disperse!” He shouts, bringing the baton down.

You close your eyes, bracing for the impact. But it never comes. Instead, you hear a grunt of pain and open your eyes to see Max in front of you, taking the blow meant for you.

“Max!” You cry out as he crumples to the ground.

You drop to your knees beside him, cradling his head. “Max, can you hear me?”

He groans, his eyes fluttering open. “Are you okay?” He asks, his voice weak.

You nod, tears streaming down your face. “I’m fine. Why did you do that?”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Couldn’t let you have all the fun, could I?”

Despite everything, you can’t help but laugh. “You idiot,” you say fondly.

The moment is shattered by another round of tear gas canisters landing nearby. The acrid smoke billows around you, making it hard to breathe.

“We need to get out of here,” you say, trying to help Max to his feet.

But as you stand, you feel a sharp pain in your side. Looking down, you see a growing red stain on your shirt.

“Y/N?” Max’s voice sounds far away. “Y/N, what’s wrong?”

You stumble, your legs giving out. Max catches you, lowering you gently to the ground.

“Oh God,” he says, his face pale with shock. “You’ve been hit.”

You look down again, seeing the bullet embedded in your side. The pain is distant, almost unreal.

“It’s not so bad,” you try to reassure him, but your voice comes out weak and shaky.

Max presses his hand to the wound, trying to stem the bleeding. “Help!” He shouts. “We need a medic!”

But his cries are lost in the chaos around you. The world seems to be fading, growing dim at the edges.

“Max,” you whisper, reaching up to touch his face. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head fiercely. “Don’t you dare apologize. You’re going to be fine, you hear me? We’re going to get through this.”

You smile sadly, a strange sense of déjà vu washing over you. “We always say that, don’t we?”

Max’s brow furrows in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Every time,” you murmur, your strength fading. “We always think this time will be different.”

Understanding dawns in Max’s eyes, along with a deep, aching sorrow. “The cycle,” he whispers.

You nod weakly. “But it’s okay. We’ll get another chance.”

“No,” Max says, his voice breaking. “Not again. Please, Y/N, stay with me.”

But you can feel yourself slipping away. The pain is gone now, replaced by a spreading warmth.

“Find me again,” you breathe, your eyes starting to close. “Promise me.”

Max’s tears fall on your face as he leans close. “I promise. In this life or the next, I’ll always find you.”

As consciousness fades, your last thought is of Max’s eyes, filled with love and the weight of lifetimes. The wheel turns, the cycle continues, and somewhere, two souls prepare for yet another chance at forever.

Monaco, 2024

The soft morning light filters through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the bedroom. You’re curled up against Max, his arm draped protectively over your waist. The steady rhythm of his breathing is a comforting constant, one you’ve grown accustomed to over the years.

A gentle weight lands on the bed, followed by a soft meow. You open your eyes to see Jimmy padding across the duvet.

“Morning, Jimmy,” you whisper, reaching out to scratch behind his ears. He purrs contentedly, settling down in the small space between you and Max.

The movement stirs Max from his slumber. He blinks sleepily, a smile spreading across his face as he focuses on you. “Good morning, schatje,” he murmurs, his voice still rough with sleep.

You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “Morning, champ. Sleep well?”

He nods, pulling you closer. “Always do with you by my side.”

As if on cue, another weight lands on the bed. Sassy makes her presence known with a demanding meow.

Max chuckles, reaching over to pet her. “Good morning to you too, princess.”

You can’t help but laugh. “I think someone’s jealous of all the attention Jimmy’s getting.”

“Can’t have that, can we?” Max says, scooping Sassy up and placing her on his chest. She immediately starts kneading, purring loudly.

You watch them with a fond smile, a wave of contentment washing over you. “I love this,” you say softly. “Just ... all of this.”

Max turns his head to look at you, his eyes filled with warmth. “Me too. Sometimes I can hardly believe it’s real, you know?”

You nod, understanding completely. “I know what you mean. It’s like ... we’ve been waiting for this for so long.”

“Lifetimes,” Max agrees, a hint of something ancient in his gaze.

You both fall silent for a moment, lost in memories that feel more like dreams — flashes of other lives, other times, always reaching for each other but never quite able to hold on.

Jimmy stretches, breaking the spell. You laugh as he nearly pushes Sassy off Max’s chest in the process.

“Alright, you two,” Max says, gently moving the cats aside. “I think it’s time for breakfast.”

As if understanding his words, both cats leap off the bed and head for the door, meowing insistently.

You groan, burying your face in Max’s shoulder. “Five more minutes?”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You know they won’t let us rest until they’re fed.”

“True,” you sigh, reluctantly sitting up. “I suppose we should get up anyway. Don’t you have that interview today?”

Max nods, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Yeah, in a couple of hours. Nothing too intense though, just a quick chat about the next race.”

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, stretching. “Want me to make coffee while you feed the furry overlords?”

“Sounds perfect,” Max says, getting up and pulling on a t-shirt. He pauses at the door, looking back at you with a soft smile. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

You feel a warmth bloom in your chest, the same feeling you get every time he looks at you like that. “You might have mentioned it once or twice,” you tease. “But I never get tired of hearing it.”

Max crosses the room in two quick strides, pulling you into a deep kiss. When he pulls back, you’re both a little breathless.

“I love you,” he says, his forehead resting against yours. “More than I ever thought possible.”

You cup his face in your hands, thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “I love you too, Max. Always have, always will.”

A loud meow from the hallway breaks the moment. You both laugh, the spell broken but the warmth lingering.

“Duty calls,” Max says with a wink, heading out to tend to the cats.

You make your way to the kitchen, starting the coffee maker and pulling out mugs. As the rich aroma fills the air, you can hear Max in the other room, talking to the cats as he fills their bowls.

“There you go, Jimmy. Easy, Sassy, there’s plenty for both of you.”

You smile to yourself, struck once again by how perfect this all feels. It’s not just the quiet moments like this morning — it’s the way Max lights up when he talks about racing, the pride in his eyes when he brings home another trophy. It’s the way he holds you after a particularly rough day, or the sound of his laughter when you’re goofing around together.

Max joins you in the kitchen, wrapping his arms around you from behind as you pour the coffee. “Smells amazing,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your neck.

You lean back into him, savoring the moment. “The coffee or me?”

“Both,” he chuckles, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

You turn in his arms, handing him his mug. “So, what’s on the agenda after your interview?”

Max takes a sip of coffee, thinking. “Not much, actually. I was thinking maybe we could have a quiet day in? Watch a movie, order takeout?”

“Sounds perfect,” you say, your smile widening. “I’ll even let you pick the movie this time.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Even if it’s another racing documentary?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Even then. Though I reserve the right to fall asleep on your shoulder if it gets too technical.”

“Deal,” Max grins, pulling you close for another kiss.

As you stand there in the kitchen, coffee in hand and cats weaving between your legs, you’re struck by a profound sense of rightness. This is what you’ve been searching for, life after life. This quiet, domestic bliss with the man you love.

“What are you thinking about?” Max asks, noticing your thoughtful expression.

You smile, leaning into him. “Just ... how happy I am. How perfect this all is.”

Max’s arms tighten around you. “It really is, isn’t it? Sometimes I wonder if I’m dreaming.”

You pinch his arm lightly, laughing at his mock-offended expression. “Definitely not dreaming.”

“Good,” he says, his voice soft and sincere. “Because I never want to wake up from this.”

As you stand there in the morning light, surrounded by the life you’ve built together, you silently thank whatever force has finally allowed you and Max to find your happily ever after.

The wheel has turned, the cycle has ended, and at last, your souls have found their home.

[skeltnwrites]

Bad Cop - Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: You wake to a call from your boyfriend Eddie who asks you to bail him out of jail. 

Word Count: 2.2k

TW: interactions with police, mild injury, talk of fighting and bullying, sexual innuendos 

A/N: I might be a little late to the Eddie Munson party but I’m here now! :D

“This is a collect call from Edward Munson at Hawkins Police Station. Will you accept the charges?” 

You clear your throat but your voice still feels raw when you speak, “Yes.” 

“Please hold,” the operator says. 

A trilling sound as you wait, twirling the phone cord anxiously. You’d been tucked in bed a minute ago, dead to the world. The phone rang loud enough from the kitchen to startle you awake. You caught the time on the alarm clock on the nightstand as you kicked the blankets off, just after one in the morning. 

“Y/N?” His voice is soft under the crackle. 

“Edward.” It’s not angry per se but you never use his real name which is telling.

“Please don’t be mad.”

“Are you okay?” you sigh, tipping your head till your forehead meets the wallpaper. 

“I’m sorry— I’m fine. I just, can you bail me out please.” 

“What happened, Eds?” 

“Just a stupid fight. Nothing serious, I promise.” He pleads like you won’t believe him and doesn’t give you a chance to press for details, “There’s cash in a shoebox on the top shelf of the closet. On my side, all the way in the back.” 

You want to scold him but you're still kneading sleep from your face, irritated now that you know he’s okay. You bite your cheek, considering the possibility of an argument. Knowing that it shouldn’t take place through a phone. 

“You’re sure? It’s enough?” 

“Swear.” 

“Okay, on my way.”

He apologizes again before the line clicks. 

You shuffle through the band tees he’s grown out of and have since been neglected to the back of your shared closet. You make a mental note to remind him to drop some off at Goodwill. Under a stack of vinyls, you locate the box with a rolled wad of twenties held together by a rubber band. You snap the band, biting your lip. It’s enough to buy something expensive, really expensive. You jam your heel into a laced sneaker and do not bother to change out of your pajamas. The money is pushed deep into your pocket along with the house keys. You shake away arising questions as you start the van. 

Cold air smacks your bare arms as you push open the station door. You blink rapidly at the fluorescents. An officer hands you a clipboard, you sign two dotted lines, and fork over most of the cash. He retreats to a separate room without a word, presumably to retrieve your boyfriend, leaving you alone in the lobby. 

Your arms pillow your head on the counter until a familiar set of steps rounds the corner. His eyes, big and sorry, find yours instantly. But your attention quickly shifts to the marbled purple and blue highlighting the arch of his cheek. The stern speech about bar fights and bail payments you’d rehearsed on the way flees your throat. He brushes past the counter to hug you and you spot a split lip too. Your shoulders deflate as you meet him halfway. 

“Thank you,” Eddie mumbles into your crown. 

You give his waist a quick squeeze before pulling back. His hands chase the goosebumps from your skin as you scan his face. His curls are frizzy which is typical but more disheveled like he’s been running his hands through them. Your nail traces his lower lip where it was clearly cracked open but is now glazed over with a layer of dry blood. “Lose any teeth?” 

He smiles, pearls still intact, and you can’t bring yourself to be mad. His breath smells faintly of alcohol as he says, “You look tired.”

“I am so tired,” you admit. 

He grits his teeth guiltily, “I’ll make it up to you.” 

An officer clears his throat and passes Eddie a brown paper bag with ‘Munson’ scribbled on the front. He snatches the bag with a wink. The man offers nothing but a blank stare, maybe mild disapproval as Eddie pivots and jogs toward you, already at the door. He fishes for his lighter from the bag, kissing and pocketing it as you step outside. 

“Can I drive?” Eddie reaches for the keys in your hand. You always let him drive. 

You snatch the carabiner to your chest, elbowing his side, “Are you trying to get a DUI too?” 

“I had one beer,” he scoffs as you unlock the door. 

You believe him but pretend not to as you hop in the driver's seat. “You’re a criminal now. Can’t be trusted!” You yell playfully before slamming the door as he jogs around the hood. 

“Very funny,” he mutters as he climbs in. 

You sling your arm over his seat to back out. The streetlight accentuates the bruise when you glance past him. 

“Does it hurt?” 

“Hmm?” 

You point at your own cheek. 

“Oh, no. It’s fine. Should’ve seen the other guy,” he chuckles. 

“We’ll ice it when we get home,” you pull out onto the main road before settling your gaze back on him. “So who was the other guy?” 

His eyes roll in your peripherals, “So Shelly Watkins was there—“ 

“You hit Shelly Watkins?” 

“Jesus! No! Her stupid boyfriend Rob Perry.” He groans in disgust. “You remember him? He was such a dick in high school!” 

You shake your head, trying to recall. 

“He’s a couple of years older I think. Well anyway, Shelly was blabbing her big mouth, as usual, about Robin and her new girlfriend.” 

“What was she saying?” You interrupt, curious but inferring already. 

“Nasty shit. And she’s talking so loud the whole bar can probably hear. I mean, I couldn’t not say anything, babe. And hey,” he throws his hands up in surrender, “All I said was ‘Seems like what other people do in their spare time isn’t your business.’” 

You smirk, knowing it was not as polite as he made it out to be. 

“And Rob is all ‘What did you say?’” Eddie teasingly lowers his voice, foot hiked up in his seat to face you with a finger curled under his nose like a mustache. 

You steal glances from the road to watch the theatrics as he retells the story, making sure to emphasize when he punched Rob square in the nose so hard it broke. 

“Did you win?” You ask, attempting to hide your proud grin by checking your blind spot. 

“Oh yeah.” Eddie crosses his arms, accidentally nicking the wound on his lip with his nail as he retracts the faux finger stache. He winces, tapping the cut to assess the damage. Fresh blood coats his finger; he’s quick to press his whole hand over his mouth as he fumbles through the glovebox with the other. A deck of fast food napkins you’d organized spills out. You catch one before it falls, crumpling it into his free hand and swerving back into your lane. He replaces his hand with the thin sheet, wiping his fingers on another napkin off the floor as you pull up to a stoplight. 

He tips his head like a puppy when he catches you staring. You lick your thumb, smearing a stray drop crawling down his chin. Your palm lingers on his skin, rubbing circles behind his ear as the light flicks green. 

It’s not long before you pull into the driveway and unlock the front door. Eddie holds a third napkin to his face. You consider going to the ER for stitches as you toss the keys on the counter and snatch a Ziploc bag from the cabinet. 

Two lines of light form a skewed L in the hall from the cracked bathroom door; A silent message that you are allowed to come in. It squeaks familiarly loud on its hinges but Eddie doesn't acknowledge you. 

He focuses on his reflection as he peels the napkin away hesitantly. The blood has stopped but his lip looks swollen and angry. You hook a finger through his belt loop, tugging him until he turns. You nudge the bag of ice to his cheek and he flinches grasping your hand to pull it away. 

“‘s cold.” 

You tug the hand towel off the sink and wrap the plastic, pushing it back to his cheek. You hold it there caressing his lash line with your pointer. He leans into the touch, rubbing his eyes with ringed fingers. Eddie pulls the thick silver off one by one, setting them on the counter. 

“Sit,” you tell him. 

He perches on the edge of the toilet lid obediently. You pick a washcloth from the drawer and run it under the sink. He parts his knees as you approach him, hands snapping into place at your hips. You cup his chin, pushing up until he tilts it toward you. Cool water cleans his lips where you brush. He doesn’t flinch, even when you accidentally dig too hard. You progress down to his jaw, where blood is smeared dry, and flaky. 

 “Think I’ll have a cool scar?” His breath fans your chin as you work cautiously. 

“No,” you say. He toys with the strings on your pants, happy to be taken care of. “But you don’t need it. You’re cool already.” 

The corners of his mouth lift fondly. He fights the urge to smile, hoping you’ll work longer if he sits still. You swipe in slow strokes, also secretly loving the time and touch. 

You give his face a once over before tossing the rag to the counter. He searches your expression for a diagnosis. But words are slow to find your mouth, too enraptured with the long lashes that bat his cheeks sweetly. “I love how eager you are to stick up for the people you love,” you start. 

“But?”

“But, we can’t afford you getting arrested over something like this.”

“I know,” he groans and headbutts you gently in the stomach. His hands cup the backs of your thighs and his hair drapes around his face like a curtain. You comb a handful of it over his neck and he tilts his head so you can see his eyes. “I don’t regret what I did, though. He’s always been such a bully. He deserved it, you know?” He sighs, gaze drifting away, “I felt like I could finally stand up to him after all these years.” 

Your fingers trail down his shoulder to smooth out the tee riding up his back. “I don’t doubt that he deserved it. I know you just want to do the right thing. But still, he can probably afford it, we can’t.” You hesitate to ask, “Where did you get that money anyway?” 

He hugs your middle, muttering into your belly, “Been saving.” 

“For what?” 

He shrugs and says what you believe to be, “Something special.” You are curious but lean on your trust rather than insecurity. He most likely intended to surprise you with something if you didn’t know.

“Sorry, you had to spend it.”

“Not your fault.” He peers up at you as if to ensure you know that and you brush his bangs back. 

“Still, sorry.” 

He blinks slowly up at you like a cat waiting for more pets. Then, he shoots up, back stiff, eyes wide. “You have work tomorrow,” he realizes out loud. 

“Oh, you didn’t hear?” you pull his arm until he stands. “I actually have come down with a real nasty cold,” you force a cough into your fist. 

“Oh yeah?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“Yeah, not only that but there's this criminal that won’t leave me alone. Think I might have to file a report at the station tomorrow.” 

He laughs, flicking the light off as he follows you to the bedroom. The ice pack is left to melt in the sink and the stained washcloth to dry on the counter, a mess for tomorrow you’ve decided. You’re quick to crawl under the covers and he’s even quicker to shed his clothes and join you. 

Eddie pecks the sliver of collarbone poking out of your shirt, making his way up in a dotted line. He presses gently to your lips, and you break away mindfully, aiming for the corner instead. 

“You know?” Your eyes are closed but you feel his stare. 

You hum.

“I think it’s kinda sexy when you call me a criminal.” 

“Oh my God!” You throw an arm over your burning cheeks, “You are so horny.”

He laughs into your wrist but moves it aside to cradle your cheeks firmly. He pulls one eyelid open gently with his thumb when you refuse to engage. You release the smile you’ve been keeping. He mirrors it, teeth bright in the moonlight spilling in. “Think about it, I already have handcuffs so you can play bad cop and—“ 

You grope for a pillow to push into his face and then another when he chucks it off the bed, giggles overlapping. 

“I’m going to call the police on you, have them arrest you again. Take you to horny jail.” 

“Now you get it,” he releases his grip on your wrists to sit back on his heels and in a voice that is not his own he fawns, “Oh, officer! I promise to be a good boy from now on!” 

You roll over, groaning wildly into your pillow. “Go to bed!” 

He settles behind you, his heart races where it's thumping against your back. Yours isn’t far off. A final kiss is planted on your nape where he tickles you with his hair as he wishes you a good night.

[minikoko-a]

general relationship headcanons —proxies x fem!proxy!reader

including: ticci toby, masky, hoodie and kate the chaser (individually)

suggestive mentions, mentions of murder, creepypasta masky and creepypasta hoodie (but with some features of MH tim and brian).

i'll make a distinction between Tim and Brian from MH and Tim and Brian from Creepypasta, if i'm writing of both and i don't mention if it's the creepypasta version, then it's from Marble Hornets! but in this case, i mentioned that is their creepypasta version (if it's said like that? (⁠ᗒ⁠ᗩ⁠ᗕ⁠))

i did my best with my proxies characterization, hope you like it! 💗⭐

Masky/Tim Wright

oh Tim my beloved.

one thing is to interact with Tim outside of work and another one to interact with Tim as Masky while working.

he's protective way too much.

please understand him, everything is already very fucked up and even more to being controlled by Slenderman.

y'all live in cabins in the woods! and even though you have your own, you tend to spend a lot of time in Tim's cabin.

since you started dating, you both made one thing clear: private relationship.

and to be honest, helped you quite a bit.

it didn't suit either of you for others to know exactly what's going on.

when y'all aren't deeply under his command, Tim is more soft and more talkative. his sarcasm makes you smile and he then sometimes initiate some kisses and physical contact.

but you are more of the one who initiates it.

when he has missions where the two of you don't go together, he tries to bring something to you.

but when you both go together on a mission, you take things and he covers them up and also you both deviate a little from the path or take a little longer to return (if you understand me wink wink)

but it isn't so common that you deviate from the path.

use honey, dear or your name

he holds your hand when you are together.

sometimes he wants to be alone but he always tells you before you give him space (something that he had to learn and it's difficult for him but he tries to do it to avoid arguments between you, he is an exhausted guy).

when this happens you go back to your cabin or take a walk nearby until Tim is the one who comes to find you.

his jealousy is more of a pessimistic comments to himself.

he loves you and he doesn't want to lose you.

he genuinely cares about others despite his reserved demeanor.

when you go shopping, even if he says that only what is just and necessary, he buys you what you like without anyone knowing.

but when he's Masky.

well... it's almost the same attitude.

he doesn't soften his voice to you.

just wants to do the mission, finish it and leave.

but also, that everything goes well and ends well.

he actually talks more than Hoodie.

more reserved.

he doesn't hold your hand at all.

but his protective attitude is still there!

if you get hurt during one of the missions, he will help you.

says your name, no nickname, no pet names.

but in the end, he knows you are his partner and his girlfriend.

"look at her, i would die for her, i would kill for her" vibe.

"older sis of her family x older brother of his family" vibes/trope

his kisses are long but with a strong charge of emotion.

he's a soft dom.

and again, the difference between when he's outside of work and when he's at work is not much, it's just that he acts more distant and less expressive, but for the rest, he is still a big protector.

he also values autonomy!

don't get him wrong, he just enjoys seeing his girlfriend being self-sufficient, especially with the life y'all lead.

it's between Toby or Brian that teases both of you.

Kate doesn't care much.

he loves it when you squeeze his shoulders! even though your hands hurt from how tense they are.

please give him words of affirmation and quality time :(

his love language would be acts of service and quality time!

your dates are going to the nearest city or town or just hanging out inside his cabin or yours.

there are times when it's already daylight but he doesn't let you go, for him, you're the only that can keep him putting up with that shit any longer.

and vice versa.

the sound of leaves colliding against each other thanks to the gentle gust of air was the background noise of the scene.

your head was resting gently on his shoulder, somewhat snuggled into him being greeted by the strong smell of coffee and cigarettes, his arm around your body to be more in contact with you. Tim's breathing was a little slow, you thought maybe it was because of all the cigarettes he smoked or the scene was really peaceful, a calmness that you always appreciated.

"Tim, honey..." your voice brought him out of his thoughts.

"yeah, dear?" you opened your lips, thinking a little about the words you would say. "if we get through this, will we be able to live far away and have a life together?"

your question made him go back into his thoughts, that question was so sad but Tim knew the answer for a long time.

"honey, we both already have a life together and when we least expect it, we will be living in a house somewhat away from the woods."

"love you" your lips joined together forming a beautiful connection and dance, that words were not enough because of how much you loved each other.

although you both know that it's increasingly a distant dream but he couldn't say no to his future wife.

Hoodie/Brian Thomas

ALRIGHT HEAR ME OUT.

Brian is a great boyfriend.

Hoodie absolutely not lol.

i started with Brian outside the power of the operator/slenderman.

brian is a golden retriever vibe, something in his past remains present and that is his charisma.

although his charisma is later interrupted by more sarcastic tones. after all, he's not the same as years ago.

the first to know about your relationship with Brian was Tim.

after all, he's his friend.

then the next to know it was Kate and Toby almost at the same time.

Brian does the best he can, knowing the shit y'all live, he tries to make sure to have at least some good moments within that... exhausting reality you both live in.

use honey, babe and love.

the kind of give you some flowers that are picked up in the forest.

remember when i say y'all live in cabins? well, he also has his own but he's constantly in yours.

his love language is words of affirmation and quality time!

he's not a jealous type at all, yeah sometimes he is jealous but he's more the kind of "yeah, she's my girlfriend, all mine, look at her because that's the only nearest thing that you're going to have something about her" "proud that she's my girlfriend, so what?"

your relationship is also private!

your dates consist in going to the nearest city.

a great kisser (i still hc that he's the top 1 among them lol)

an absolute service dom.

when he sends both of you on missions, he tries to do the hardest parts (although you don't care much about that later and end up doing too).

the cool aunt and cool uncle couple vibes.

but when he's working as Hoodie... well

you missed your Brian when he's not completely under the slenderman's control.

i mean y'all are completely but when he put y'all to "work".

when he's as Hoodie, he doesn't speak.

he just sighs, pants, grunts but doesn't say a word.

but those sounds sound different, because he carries a voice changer inside of his hoodie and balaclava.

Hoodie just treats you as an equal like the other proxies.

kind of stubborn (but not as toby)

Hoodie genuinely cares for you, if you go the wrong way, he grabs of your clothes and pulls you back to the right path.

there aren't many displays of affection when he's in the mission, to be honest.

but it doesn't mean that he doesn't do it completely, he is, along with Toby, the one who mind the least about showing affection (knowing the current situation everyone is in).

but he adores you, and even though you're under Slenderman's command, he's afraid that he will do something against you.

your footsteps that made the old dry leaves scattered on the dirt ground crunch made Brian turn his head to you.

"hey babe" he showed you a smile, revealing his small tooth gap.

"i didn't know you had arrived" the sound of crushed leaves began to get closer to Brian, you stopped your walk when you were already next to him. "Tim told me you got injured"

there was no response from Brian, he kept his gaze in the direction where you were but without seeing you as such, appreciating the green grass with brown tones due to dryness. the only thing he could enjoy about this shit was nature in its purest state and you by his side.

he let out a small chuckle and looked away, now looking at the lake in front of you. "just a little scratch".

your mouth curved into a smile, taking your hands out of the pocket of the large and thick jacket you were wearing, you ran your hand over his abdomen, causing him to press his lips together. "you got me, you got me" now you let out a little laugh.

there was a brief silence, the sound of leaves rustling against each other from the gusts of wind that appeared was the only noise between you and him. his hand slid down your back, at the height of your waist, curling his fingers at the end of.

"hurt or not, i'll always come back to you, love" he murmured near your temple, placing a kiss. in response, you tilted your head to his shoulder, still not losing your smile.

one thing you both know is, wounded, healthy or dead, you will always come back for each other.

Ticci Toby

OH THIS BOYY

being with him everything is a box of surprises.

he's so spontaneous, seriously.

and stubborn.

when you accepted to be his girlfriend, that same day everyone already knew it.

"hey, can you tell your boyfriend it's his turn to take out the trash?" "how do you know- nevermind"

"I LOVE MY WIFE!!!" vibes

laughs and jokes will never be lacking!

he has a terrible diet and terrible habits, but you help him improve it!

he really tries hard to make the relationship work (and he achieves it very well).

for Toby, you make him live his teenage romance (although he's no longer a teenager).

he says things directly and, well, someone said that truth hurts.

it's not his intention (sometimes it is) but he doesn't know how to be "delicate" with what he says.

he tries it but after a while, he does it again.

when you go on dates, he wears a mask and something to cover his wound. all to prevent everything from spilling out when he's eating or drinking.

after all he's been through, he would never dare treat you badly or hit you. he lived with an abusive father and he saw what his mother and sister were suffering, including himself.

but it doesn't exempt him from the fact that he can fuck up on some occasions.

sometimes he leaves you on seen, sometimes he forgets to go see you at your cabin, sometimes he tells you something and can hurt you his words (by the way he said it), that kind of things.

he has not filter when saying things, to be honest.

uses princess, babe, love, honey or a nickname of yours.

i dare to say he's the one who doesn't mind showing affection at all.

"Toby! you stink of blood!" "just another kissss c'monnn"

he's a switch.

can't keep his ass in just one role.

when he's working under Slenderman's control, he is much less careful.

even with you.

if you fucked up something, he will tell you much more directly.

if you get injured, he'll bring you or will be healing you without much care.

doesn't measure his strength.

he spends more time in his cabin than yours.

his love language would be words of affirmation and maybe physical affection, but the last one would be when he has too much trust in you.

he's the most jealous of the four.

but just like Tim, his jealousy would be self-sabotaging.

and maybe a little finishing off those who are in your way, OH! who said that?

his kisses are kinda sloppy and with tons of little smiles between kisses to kisses. just sloppy and passionate.

he just hopes that you both will get away from that life and still living in the woods, without being tied to him.

the thick sheets that were impregnated with the aroma of fresh oak managed to lull you more and more in your sleep.

your mind was blank, you were eternally grateful for that, genuinely missing dreaming. your chest rose and fell calmly until you quickly became alert when you felt the sheets lift slightly, quickly you turned around pulling a dagger out from under your pillow but it was stopped by Toby's hand holding onto your wrist with a smile on his face.

"what are you doing, honey?" he smiled making short sounds with his tongue, pretty amused how your muscles seemed to have memory.

"sorry, love" his arms quickly caught you, leaving you lying on his chest and his back being hugged by your soft pillows. the dagger was left on the nightstand. "why aren't you this quiet when we're on our way to missions?" you said playful.

"i don't want to" you chuckled. he didn't say anything, he just held you in his arms.

"babe, i want to live with you" "well, you can come to my cabin-" "not that way, du-dumb"

you looked up, could see a beard just trying to emerge from his skin, his pale skin looked similar to the moonlight and then, he sighed.

"i mean far away, where we are not tied to this" he lowered his gaze to you "would you promise to be with me?" "ye-" "forever" "forever"

both lips collided in a slightly rushed kiss but you could feel his feelings on the surface of the skin of his lips.

this is forever.

Kate The Chaser

MY GIRRRL KATEEEE

"toby i'm lesbian" "i thought you were american"

the majority of your dates are at dusk and at night.

sometimes she tells you about Lauren and Chris but just a little of what she can remember.

actually she's pretty good at drawing!

usually draws you recycling pages.

be patient with her, she isn't very familiar with relationships, not romantic ones.

but still, she's a sweetheart!

she goes to your cabin very often.

every time you go out of the woods to go shopping or just to go on a date together, she tends to hold your hand or be very close to you.

although most of your dates are inside the cabin or near the forest.

the first to know it definitely was Toby and it was by accident.

he saw you kissing behind a tree and almost got killed by him thinking you both were intruders.

and then Brian and Tim knew.

praise her please.

sometimes she just walks away and leaves you, when she does that you know he's starting to torment her.

when she is on his mantle, you don't say a word, she just nod and sigh.

then she holds you, she wants to confirm that you're real and not another hallucination of Slenderman's part.

when the both of you go on missions, you're quite fast, which is why there isn't much interaction between you.

but when she comes out of that trance she asks you if she was ever too harsh with you.

she loves you, like, way too much!

you both have an engagement ring (don't ask where she got it).

when she's with you, the mask is freely removed.

how is she going to kiss you with the mask on?

use love and honey.

there are times when she snuggles up on your chest when you're lying down.

her jealousy is just like Tim's, it's self-sabotage and tends to grab you with more intensity.

the relationship is private but the affections are obvious.

her kisses are slow and shy.

her love language is definitely quality time and words of affirmation.

tell her you love her and spend time with her, she has been through so much.

she's a switch.

although she's more a top but she's beginning to accept receiving.

the kind that brings you many objects that remind you.

often lend you her clothes.

although your lives are no longer part of you, you both have each other's hearts.

the large, rough trunk of the tall tree behind you made abrupt contact with your back. you had leaned on it without much care, watching as Kate desperately cleaned the fresh blood from her hands.

"love, you did it amazing" you tilted your head slightly without receiving a response from her.

"how can you be so calm and, i mean, how can you get used to it?" now you were standing next to her as she looked up to you, she didn't have her mask on and her reflection could be seen faintly in the lake thanks to the sunset.

"because it's not like we can leave and he won't find us" you stopped for a little moment. "apart from that, the only thing i'm grateful for is that i was able to meet my fiancée" you extended your hand showing the ring. you finally achieved your goal, a soft smile curved on her lips.

"do you think this will end at some point?"

"i hope not" she looked at you again. "because I know i couldn't be with you" now you were both looking at each other. "and if it ends, i would go with you, no matter what"

your voice was silenced along with your lips as you felt Kate's lips on yours, she's fast definitely. her hand descended, passing through your abdomen until it reached your waist as your hands made a short journey between her shoulders, neck and ending on her cheeks.

you both separated with your breathing agitated but the sweetness in both eyes made a genuine smile appear, reuniting again in a much slower kiss.

you couldn't say if you were sure that this control and nightmare was going to end, you and Kate wished to know the answer but it was almost impossible.

but what you both were sure of, was that you didn't want the relationship to end.

[limerlove]

divine intervention, a higher power, some type of god looking above us threatening to crush human kind with an obedient hand — it’s what you think of as violet brushes her teeth in front of your bathroom sink— the mirror showcasing her god-esque reflection. flourished by love, renewed by white roses and promise, renewal of optimistic promise floods her with every look she throws your way.

cursed by perfection by the gods who created us. the muscles of her back contract with each slight of movement, the black ink mesmerizes your line of vision, she quickly catches your eye as you step out of the shower, body glistens from steam, droplets falling on the blindingly white marble floors.

easily, you ditch the towel hanging on the metal hook before stalking violet as if she's the prey you desperately need to sink your teeth into.

“we’re supposed to be leaving soon.” but violet doesn’t believe it, not when you’re giving her that in-disposable gaze, eyes saturated with lost as the need revives within you like gasoline on raging fire.

bare as the day you were born, you hop onto the counter top, vi spits the remainder of toothpaste coating her breath minty fresh. “or we could not.”

carefully, spreading your legs open for her, vi groans, not caring when her towel loses it’s hold around her waist, exposing the pink bush coming from her the muscular v-shaped line, leading you into what you’re craving most.

“we’re already gonna be late as it is. this isn’t helping, princess.”

“but all i wanna do is help.” you pout, feigning concern as vi slids herself between your legs and just like that she’s caught in your venus fly trap.

“baby, that’s nice but, ahhh—”

fingers she should have been prepared for glide over her slick pussy, your digits gathering the golden honey wealth, coating your skin thicker with each stroke.

“shit, you shouldn’t, we have to—”

“what? go? or come?” vi curses at herself before she drops her damn strands of pink against your shoulder, whimpering as you slide two fingers inside her soft walls, “two every different things, violet. i’ll give you a third option, yeah? how does me staying inside work? is that good for you, baby?”

“yeahhh, you know it is.” violet crumbles, hips bucking forward as she reaches down, playing with her clit as your fingers make home in her soaked pussy as she falls under your spell. each slight of your hand is a hex to her psyche, a reminder of what belongs to you, what only you can do.

what only you can make her feel.

“you’re just too pretty to not to fuck, baby. do you know that? how much i adore you, how much i treasure you — that i would do anything to make my babygirl happy?”

the words feel like a symphony to violet, her clit throbbing intensely as you flick her hand away, circling dramatic circles against the the pearly bundle of nerves. the tables have shifted, you have her right where you so damn well please, and violet submits to you with all the love her heart possess.

a tidal wave of reassurance coats her skin as the comfort of your wave wraps her up, as soothing as a warm blanket on a frosty night. the ice within her is gone and all she feels is warm, saturated heat. violet sobs into your neck as you fuck her through the impossible high, powder-blue eyes sob find a flood within them and the dam releases when you tell her much you love her. pussy and heart in harmony as affirmations of love are whispered in her ear, all else is forgotten.

it's all it takes for two infinitely promised lovers to melt for the other, transcending anything full of purpose, a pair of futures blending into an uncontrollable tsuamni of unknowns, trapped in the iron fist of nothing more than reduced to a blinding heat until a trail is discovered, a soulmates path to intertwined perfection.

violet's stuck and begging for more as she rides out each thrust of your fingers, a cracked shred of her whimpers echo throughout the walls. for a moment, you wonder if it's phantom, a moment plucked from your imagination but the skin of her inner thigh feels softer than her calloused hands. it's welcoming each graze of your blunt fingertip, begging for more of whatever she's willing to give.

almost as if your knees bend at the pew in a cathedral, she pleads for mercy, sharp teeth marking your shoulder with territorial need. then, violet falls. every sturdy and strong muscles becomes limp, blindful trust full of passionate love surrounds her heart until she has nothing else to give. this is all she's ever wanted.

to be truly yours.

[reignpage]

Basketball captain!Toji

Atlanta Hawks: catharsis

warning: 18+ mdni, blowjob, face fucking, spanking, teasing, dirty talk, nipple pinching, passing out, unprotected sex, not proofread

basketball captain!toji has you at your wits’ end. it’s been three weeks since he last fucked you and you couldn’t possibly take more. you’re losing sleep, you’ve got huge circles under your eyes and hearing your friends talk about their recent sexcapades has you twitching like a madwoman. 

so you decide enough is enough. 

especially because playoffs are tomorrow and if you don’t do something about this drought he’s forced upon you now, you fear you’ll actually die of dehydration before the team gets to the court. 

basketball captain!toji is at home and his roommate is off terrorising children no doubt. now is the perfect time to strike. you’re going all out and pulling out the big guns. letting yourself into their apartment once more, you surveil the area. the tv’s running, playing one of the games in which they lost, and your boyfriend’s in the kitchen cooking dinner. 

tiptoeing like your life depends on it, you sneak up right behind him and tackle him into a bear hug (as close to one as you can considering his enormous size). he doesn’t even glance back at you. the bastard knew the entire time you’re here. 

“hey ma, hungry?”

running a hand up his shirtless back, you admire his muscles. all the training and gym sessions has made him even bigger and tougher-looking. god, his back muscles are ripping with every move and every breath, tensing and softening with your touch. 

“toji,” you whisper against his skin, “i miss you.”

he huffs a laugh and turns to wrap a heavy arm around your shoulders, tucking you into his side with a kiss to your head. “’m right here, ma.”

basketball captain!toji is being uncharacteristically sweet. you hate it. he’s softening you up, distracting you with his boyish grin and teasing kisses to your hair. but you must stand your ground. you’ve got a game plan. 

with a warning bite to his bicep, you fall to the floor with grace and yank down his joggers with much less grace. your jaw drops. he’s hard, fully hard, the tip an angry red leaking so much pre you almost thought he came already. basketball captain!toji isn’t even wearing boxers. 

that bastard. 

you look up at his face, feeling irritated by the rise of his brow, as if faking a look of shock. 

“you ain’t gonna buy me dinner first, baby?”

maybe it’s the shit-eating grin basketball captain!toji has or maybe it’s the mocking tone of his voice, but whatever it is, it has you gripping the base of his throbbing cock with much more force than he expects. he stiffens. 

you don’t waste time; you open wide and take as much of him as you can. he tastes slightly salty and musky, like hard work and late nights. it’s been too long and your jaw has gotten too comfortable in the interval. you wince at the stretch and feel a prick of fear at how your pussy’s gonna fare when he’s plowing between your legs without mercy. 

god, you’re soaked at just the thought of it. 

basketball captain!toji fists your hair and thrusts into the back of your throat without warning, feeling empowered by your gargles. he doesn’t have rhythm, he’s just thrusting as he please, and you know you have him. 

motherfucker wants this more than you do. 

“ha, this what you wanted for dinner?”

you roll your eyes at the same time as you roll your tongue over his slit, rejoicing in the hiss you pull out of him. he narrows his eyes at you and pulls you off, lifting your head up slightly by the makeshift ponytail he’s made.

“don’t sass me, ma. i was gonna fuck you nice and slow but you changed my mind.”

both of you know damn well he’s lying through his teeth but before you can voice that, he’s spinning you around and pinning your face to the cold marble surface. he’s lifted your skirt up, flicking it over and he pauses at the sight that beholds him. 

you’re wearing a thong with his name on it.

smiling, you shake your hips like a temptress, egging him on, daring him to say and do something.

basketball captain!toji is palming your ass, his thumb rubbing the flimsy string between your cheeks. you can’t see what face he’s making but that just makes you wetter. 

is he impressed? is he mad? or both? neither?

you yelp. he’s slapped your ass and the sting is gonna leave a mark. 

“you got this for me, ma? ha, you missed me that much?”

the pulsing between your legs, the wetness running down your thighs, his monstrous grip groping and pinching all over, it was making you delirious. you laugh, a cackle that escapes you and doesn’t register in your head. 

then he’s pushing aside your thong and sheathing himself in one thrust. you both moan. oh, it’s so good. the burn’s making you drool, the way his head’s rubbing against that spongy part inside of you again and again and again. it’s all too much. 

basketball captain!toji has one hand holding your hips and dragging you back and forth on his unbelievable length whilst the other is holding your tit captive. he’s twisting your nipple and sucking your neck, leaving a wet trail of apologies to your ear. 

“ha, was mean, wasn’t i? sorry baby, shit!”

you aren’t even listening, too focused on that pleasurable ache between your legs as he pummels your poor pussy like you’re just a wet hole. twisting your neck, you meet his lips in a clash of tongue and teeth. it’s messy and chaotic but it makes you clench down on him. 

“fuck!” he spanks your ass, eliciting a whine from you. “gonna -ngh- milk me too early, ma.”

basketball captain!toji speeds up his thrusts, rubbing your clit with a ferocity that steals your breath, all while hitting that same spot inside of your wet tunnel.  over and over again. 

you have no idea how long it’s been, maybe thirty minutes, three hours or mere seconds. time escapes you, so caught up in what you’ve been chasing for weeks, you don’t want to miss a single second on this rapture. 

you’re climbing higher and higher, voice pitching and moans so broken you probably sound demonic. his hands are so big, pressing warmth into your skin whilst his sweaty skin blankets your back, the weight so reassuring, so heavenly you hope he never leaves. 

“right there, yes! pleasepleasepleaseplease!” 

the tsunami of euphoria that washes over you, erasing all of your frustrations and grievances against the man, makes you black out. for a solid minute you lose your bearings, grappling for a tether as your legs shake. he’s still fucking you through it, groaning in your ear from the repeated clenches you’re making on his cock. 

“glad you’re here ma, wanted to empty my — shiiiiiit — balls before the game. such a good girl, helping me out.”

when you come to, it takes you a second to realise he hasn’t cum yet, just making shallow thrusts whilst he…

basketball captain!toji is eating his dinner whilst still inside of you, ignoring the way you’re genuinely spasming, tongue-tied from the strongest orgasm you’ve ever had, courtesy of his three weeks long tortuous experiment. 

basketball captain!toji notices your disbelieving glare and flashes you a wolfish grin, his scar stretching in an annoyingly delectable way. 

“want some?”

[megalony]

Merciless Wrath- Part 2

Here is a follow up for my latest Emperor Geta imagine, this was requested by a lovely mututal.

I hope you will all like it, please let me know what you think.

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Main Masterlist

Part 1

Part 3

Summary: Geta loves how timid his wife is when it comes to watching the Gladiators. But Hell rises when one of the fighters decides to shoot an arrow and hits the Empress.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Having an entourage of people crowding around him had never felt so daunting and irritating before. Geta used to love having people following him around like a shadow cast by the sun. He used to think it was encouraging and powerful to have people watching his every move and observing him like they thought he was a God walking amongst men.

But this was different. Geta didn't like having people crowding into the drawing room like this. He didn't like the nervous look plastered across the guard's faces. He didn't like the servants jittering from foot to foot, waiting to be told what to do and where to go. He didn't like people looking at him now because right in this moment, Geta didn't have any answers or orders for them.

He didn't know what to do when all he could feel was an overwhelming sense of betrayal and agonising fear.

Fear that he was going to lose the woman in front of him. The one who had taken his heart since the moment he first laid his eyes on her. She was the one with the pure heart of gold that was more valuable than any of the riches in Rome. (Y/n). (Y/n) was the purest soul here and now Geta was in danger of losing her.

If her wound didn't heal, if it got infected or she began to lose blood internally. If she didn't recover from this and Geta lost her, he would succumb to a worse state of madness than that which was slowly taking hold of his twin. Geta would be lost and the world would be at the mercy of his vengeance if he lost (Y/n).

With a deep rooted sigh, Geta pushed up from where he had been sat on the end of the sofa rather like one of the many marble statues that littered the palace. He couldn't sit in here any longer. He had to move, he had to do something, but he couldn't stray far from his wife. She needed him.

He turned around so he was crouched down beside the sofa (Y/n) was laid on. The healers had already explained things to him. They would be giving her more opium so she wouldn't wake until sometime tomorrow. Geta didn't like the thought of (Y/n) falling into an endless sleep, but her being asleep was the best way to let her body calm down and begin to heal, at least according to the best healers in Rome.

And by tomorrow the worst of the pain would have been dulled down by the opium and her body would have started to better itself. The pain would be bearable by the time she woke tomorrow. If indeed she woke from this at all. Geta prayed that she would; he couldn't imagine a scenario where she wouldn't.

With his knees pressing into the edge of the sofa, he hovered over (Y/n) and began to move her, little by little. He made sure both her arms were crossed safely and resting over her waist before he eased her head up from the cushion and leant her cheek against his chest instead.

"Sire?"

Geta spared a sideways glance towards the healers, all of whom were now watching him with a burning intensity in their eyes and confusion plastered across their faces.

"She isn't staying here." His snappy response had them all biting their tongues at any disapproval they might feel.

They weren't going to argue, they didn't feel able. And (Y/n) would have to be moved at some point, Geta was just moving her now rather than later. (Y/n) couldn't stay here in the drawing room, it wasn't practical and Geta wouldn't have her spending the next day or two laid on his sofa. If she was going to be induced into slumber by opiotes then she would do so in the comfort of her own bed in her own room. Where he could properly sit with her and keep watch over her.

Once her head was safely lolled against his shoulder, Geta slid his arms beneath her frame and eased her up into his arms bridal style, the same as how he had frantically carried her an hour earlier when he brought her here.

Only this time Geta felt much calmer. He didn't feel like each step he took was causing the world around him to crumble into dust. He didn't feel like he was running towards a bright light that was going to snatch his wife away from him. He wasn't rushing to find help or feeling her body go limp and lifeless in his arms.

This time, he walked with slow determination and his eyes constantly casting down to his beloved. It didn't matter that Geta could feel her softly breathing against his neck. He wanted- no, needed, to see that slow rise and fall of her chest. He needed to see her body working and be reassured that she wasn't about to stop breathing or suddenly slip away from him. He had to make sure she wasn't leaving him, for anything.

"Move." That one word was enough to frighten everyone in his path and have the guards slinking off to the sides to allow him to pass by.

Geta stormed out of the drawing room and began walking slowly down the hall towards the nearest set of stairs.

He could feel the entourage following behind him. Caracalla being the closest behind him. Followed by at least four guards with heavy steps and clattering swords against their hips just waiting to be used and weaponised against anyone. He was sure the healers were following too along with the few servants who had filtered into the drawing room to see if they could help.

Geta hated them all. He hated how they were following him as if this were some grand procession rather than him trying to take his wife somewhere else to keep her safe and rested and comfortable.

He hated that he needed them all to follow. He hated that he needed the healers close by in case his wife took a turn for the worst. And how he needed the guards to ensure no one else tried to harm her like this. And his brother's presence to keep the last bit of sanity he had. And the maids and servants to be nearby to tend to his wife who was now motionless and unconscious in his arms.

He didn't want them following, but he needed them all the same.

His eyes cast down to his wife once again as he began his ascent up the stairs. He could see how her skin was starting to swell even more now. It wasn't just the tenderness beneath the bandages around her chest. He could see swelling rising to her right shoulder making the skin tense and push against the bandages wrapped around her frame.

He hated the pale blue tinge to her parted lips that showed she had a lack of oxygen and possibly too much opium in her system than was really good for her.

And what hurt him more was the fact that it wasn't just one wound. It was two holes torn through her skin. It was a stitched up hole through her chest and one in her back too. It was the right side of her chest that was swelling and sore and meant she wouldn't be able to move her arm for a while.

And the fact that her dress had been stained and torn beyond repair irritated Geta even more. No one else but him should be able to cast their eyes on his wife's beautiful silky skin, and yet everyone in that room had seen her chest and had a dangerous view towards her cleavage when her dress had been pulled down to expose her wound.

Even now while she was laid in his arms with her golden dress stained dark rouge, the fabric was barely covering her chest. It was hooked over her left shoulder but pulled off her right arm to make the wound visible. Geta had readjusted the material half a dozen times already to make sure her cleavage was covered to spare her the indignity.

He didn't realise his nostrils were flaring and his breathing had turned ragged until he was almost towards their shared chamber and he found his chest heaving with frustration and unfiltered fury.

He didn't wait for anyone to open the chamber door when he got there. With it being partially opened, all Geta had to do was slam his foot into the base of the door and it swung wide open for him.

He stormed into the room, ignoring the sounds of dozens of footsteps following swiftly behind him.

He passed through the main room that they used as a joint study, a reading room that (Y/n) frequented more than Geta, and he blundered through into the bedroom.

The sight of the golden sunlight streaming through the open windows was irritating. Geta didn't like the dark orange glow as the sun was halfway towards setting behind the sand. He didn't like how warm and iridescent the room looked compared to how dark, cold and gruelling it should have looked after what had happened to his wife today.

But he ignored the bright sun in favour of rounding the side of the bed. He didn't want to set her down. He had been holding her for long enough that Geta simply wanted to keep her here, safe in his embrace until his arms snapped and his body dropped. He wasn't tired or aching from carrying her, rather the opposite. He felt himself growing angrier and more protective the longer she was in his arms.

He pressed his knees into the edge of the bed and carefully eased forward until he could set (Y/n) down in the middle of the bed.

Once she was laid down, Geta perched on the side of the bed with one hand pressing into the pillows so he could lean over her. And his other hand carefully began brushing tendrils of hair away from her face, one at a time while he took the time to glide his fingers across her cheek and along her neck.

He didn't like how motionless and unresponsive she was, this wasn't normal.

He bent forward to press a tender kiss against her temple that was flushed with sweat and radiating heat enough to rival the sun in the hottest days. His lips stayed against her temple for a few moments, maybe a few minutes, while he listened too the sound of her soft breathing.

When he finally lifted his head, he cast his eyes towards the doorway where two maids were meekly stood. They had their hands clasped together in front of them and their eyes cast down towards their feet, not wanting to intrude or face Geta's frustration if they had somehow overstepped any marks.

He trailed his fingertip along (Y/n)'s chin and down her neck before he sighed to himself and climbed off the bed.

He approached the maids with a look of distaste on his features and every part of his body shaking, seething with anger. But the way he took a slow, calming breath and silently pointed his hand behind him towards his wife showed a small air of relief as he tried to calm down just a little.

"Change the Empress and make her comfortable. I want that dress burned."

Both maids nodded their heads and finally dared to lift their gazes to look at their Emperor. He looked rabid and his expression was dangerous, but there was also something caring hidden within those eyes.

He wanted them to be careful when they looked after his wife. He wanted them to treat her as if she were something fragile that was about to break. He wanted them to touch her as if she were a petal, so delicate and beautiful and close to ruin if handled without care.

And he wanted that golden dress to be thrown on the fire and burned to ash and dust. Geta didn't ever want to see that dress again. He didn't want to see that dress or the blood stains that reminded him of what had happened, no matter if that was his wife's favourite (and his favourite) dress. It couldn't be salvaged and therefore it had to go so it didn't serve as a memory for the Empress when she eventually awoke.

Just as the maids went to walk past him, Geta reached his hand out and clamped his cold fingers around the younger girl's arm. He wrenched her closer and tilted his head down to sneer in her ear. "Be careful."

The young maid nodded her head frantically and tried her best not to burst into fits of tears. Not only had the Empress who the maid adored been hurt but now she was tasked with tending to her. The maid felt too inexperienced to be looking after the loving Empress who didn't deserve this kind of anguish. And she didn't want to do something wrong and be subjected to the Emperor's wrath.

Once they were both tasked with helping (Y/n), Geta left the room and closed the door behind him. He wouldn't have anyone trying to look in and spectate and watch. The only people going into that room would be Geta, the healers and the few servants who Geta approved. No one else would see the Empress while she was in this state.

An overwhelming headache crashed through Geta's temple and flooded his head behind his eyes when he approached the adjoining study and saw everyone crowding in. He didn't want any of them in here. They were useless and getting in the way.

"I don't need three of you. Out." His hand pointed menacingly towards the healers. He wanted the elder gentleman who had attended to (Y/n) in the drawing room. (Y/n) wasn't dying, Geta didn't need three healers stood twiddling their thumbs in here, he only needed one.

He wouldn't let that healer leave until (Y/n) was fully recovered. The healer could be set up in a room on this floor and he would be called on day and night if needed. The healer had already agreed to stay here at the palace and be ready to tend to the Empress, when and if she should need him.

Once they departed the room, Geta turned to look at the guards. "Why are you in here? My wife has been shot and you've been no help at all. Do you're jobs out there before I'm the one shooting arrows. All of you get out!"

His voice rose higher and higher until he was roaring so loud that his face turned as dark as (Y/n)'s stained dress and spit froffed from his lips. He waved his hand at everyone in the room. The guards, the servants and the maid. He wanted none of them in here.

The servants weren't needed. The guards didn't have to be in here; what were they going to protect Geta from within his own chamber? They should be out in the hall, patroling and making sure no one got up to this floor and got anywhere near the Empress. Standing in here watching Geta wasn't going to help or do anything useful.

Everyone rushed to leave, pushing and shoving one another until they were all blundering out of the door and only Caracalla was left in the room.

He looked disgruntled. He didn't know what to do with himself or how to settle because this had never happened before. Caracalla knew his presence alone would be helpful to his twin, in times of desperation and panic they always found and clung to one another. He wasn't going anywhere and the tender look in Geta's otherwise unhappy face told Caracalla that his presence was indeed welcomed and needed.

"She will be well?" Caracalla's words sounded more like a question than a reassuring affirmation.

He had grown fond of (Y/n). In his outbursts of anger, she had often soothed him and calmed him down. When he became disgruntled and confused, she gave him clarity and she treated him like a friend rather than a nuisance. And she was fond of Dondus.

Caracalla didn't want to lose her and he didn't want to deal with the broken pieces that would be left of his brother if he lost her.

Both their heads turned to look towards the doorway when it creaked open. geta was ready to shout at whoever dared to intrude and waltz back into the room, but he stopped himself short when he realised who it was.

General Acacius.

He had departed when Geta demanded they find the gladiator who had caused this mess. Hopefully his return meant they had found the man responsible. Geta wanted to make an example of him. He wanted to attack the man who had done this and unleash a new wave of Hell upon him.

"Emperor…" Acacius dipped his head in acknowledgement as he stepped into the room and stood before both Emperors.

Geta stayed standing, too riled to even try and sit down and hold himself still when all he wanted to do was trash the room until only broken pieces were left to resemble how he felt on the inside. While Caracalla remained unusually still, sat up straight with his hands fiddling with the belt around his middle to try and give some stimulation and stop himself from mooching about the room like a bored child.

"Did you find him? The one who did this?" If so, it hadn't taken them very long to find him. But then again, none of the Gladiators would have been able to escape the colosseum so it shouldn't have taken too much brains to work out which one had shot the arrow. Only one gladiator had been given the bow and arrow to begin with.

"We found him, and he's talking."

"Talking, what does he say exactly? Do not tell me he's boasting."

Geta's words were fuelled by anger and displayed how volatile he was. If the gladiator was indeed boasting then Geta would begin burning the city to show his rage. He would unleash torment onto his citizens and dismember every gladiator held within that colosseum if one had been boasting about harming the beloved Empress.

"No, no… he says he was paid to target the Empress." Acacius didn't want to be the one delivering this news. He knew how unstable both Emperors could be, especially without (Y/n) stood here to calm them and be the voice of reason.

And he knew this news wasn't going to go down well with Geta. It wouldn't settle well with Acacius if he found out that someone had been paid to try and harm and kill his own wife.

"Paid?" Gladiators often died in the arena, most succumbed to death than found their way out of the colosseum. Why would one take a bribe and accept money when his life wasn't guaranteed? Why be paid to do something so trecherous when he could be mauled to death the next day if he was chosen to fight in the arena?

"His family have fled Rome, probably with the money he was offered. He was paid and promised his freedom if he hurt the Empress… from what he says, someone wanted her dead."

Acacius did well to steady his frame and hold still when Geta lashed out. He clasped his hands tightly behind his back and steeled his frame, closing his eyes so he didn't have to bear witness to Geta's anger.

A horrible grating scream left Geta's lips as he reached out for the vase of flowers on the table beside the sofa. He launched the white and ocean blue vase with as much strength as he could muster, watching as it flew like a bird through the air before colliding with the far wall.

Pieces of dried clay splintered across the floor like the first fall of snow and a soul shattering echo vibrated around the room when the vase broke apart and the fragments bounced across the marble floor.

Flowers laid on the floor, some snapped, some in tact and most with their petals fallen and loose leaving them bare and effectively dead, melting into the puddle of water that soaked them up.

"Who?!"

Geta roared with all his might as his lips turned beet red and his eyes became bloodshot and narrowed. His hands trembled in tight fists at his sides and he felt like stomping his foot in anger when he didn't receive a response right away.

Who would do this to (Y/n)? Who would order her death and execute a plan like this? Why would they do this to her?

She was the light of Rome. Geta knew of no subject in his capital who held one ounce of hatred towards his wife. She was loving and fair to all and as soon as Geta announced his engagement to her, the people seemed to rejoice. Geta and Caracalla had gained numerous favour with the people by bringing (Y/n) to the throne.

"Macrinus." Acacuis could well believe the old Senate had been the one to do this. He was power hungry, he strived for greatness and power and control and Rome was next on his list to conquor.

He would do anything to get his way and he would bend anyone to his will in order to better himself. Macrinus was a man who had once been a slave, a man who fought for his life and scrambled his way out of the colosseum by the skin of his teeth and who had made something of himself. But he had gotten to the highest point he could. Macrinus couldn't further himself any more unless he used force and broke the rules to get himself on the throne and be the person with the most power and control in Rome. In the world.

Geta's expression changed from a look of fury to the look of a broken man.

One of their own Senates, someone who had risen through the ranks and who they trusted. Someone like that who had power and authority, had thrown it all away by coming up with such a devious, haneous plan to kill the Empress. Geta's heart and soul.

Geta wasn't a very well-learned man. He had spent more time learning about war and governing Rome than reading passages and poems and scholars. But he did remember one thing that had stuck with him.

You do not have a soul. You are a soul, you have a body.

He thought there was something justified in that, until he met (Y/n). Then he disbelieved. Geta truly felt that he was a body, a vessel and his heart and soul had been given away to (Y/n) to protect and nurture for him. He wasn't complete unless he had her by his side.

And Macrinus had tried to take her from him.

"Why?" There was clear fury boiling over in Caracalla's voice, even if he hadn't quite fit all the pieces together yet. He was still furious that someone they trusted had tried to sabotage them and harm (Y/n) in this manner.

"To get to me," Geta's voice was no more than a whisper and his expression stayed oddly blank as he seemed to stare down at the marbled floor. "To send me into a state of madness."

Acacius nodded grimly.

Marrying (Y/n) had redeemed Geta for all the bad things he had done, the people he had killed, the mercy he never showed to people and the harm he had brought to Rome for seeking new liberties for her.

But when he married (Y/n), it brought back a popularity to Geta and to Caracalla too. They were favourable in the public eye. (Y/n) was loved by the people and she had earned their respect, the people seemed to think she was a gift from the Gods, Geta's thoughts exactly.

The people saw how (Y/n) calmed Geta down, how she guided him and helped hima nd how good she was to him and for all of Rome. By killing (Y/n), it would cause Geta to spiral into a state of despair and he would become vulnerable to someone using his anger and tormented grief as a means to gain power and manipulate him.

Macrinus could easiky sway Geta to his advantage and use him to further himself if Geta was maddened with grief and on the verge of burning his Kingdom to the ground and wanting to lose himself in the process. Geta couldn't survive without (Y/n) and Macrinus had clearly worked that out. He knew how to play the game, but Geta wouldn't let this continue.

"There are to be no more games; I want this barbaric hound in the colosseum tomorrow. He will be executed."

Geta wouldn't allow any more games to continue. They had been scheduled all week but they would be cancelled now. No one should celebrate after what had happened to the Empress.

But tomorrow wouldn't be a game, and it wouldn't be a spectacle like the rest of the games. Tomorrow would be an execution for all of Rome to witness. They could see their traitor be punished for his crimes, for what he had done to their beloved Empress.

Geta turned on his heels, about to walk back into the bedroom but he paused after a second thought and glanced over his shoulder to look at Acacius. "Find Macrinus. He can join his barbarian in death."

***

A subtle shaking began to overtake Geta's body as he began to pace the length of the viewing box in the colosseum.

Everything was capturing his attention.

It had been only yesterday that the attack on (Y/n) had taken place and there had been very little time for the servants to clean up in here and make it look presentable once again.

They hadn't removed the chair. Geta could see the large hole in the exquisitely carved wood from where the arrowhead had lodged itself there. He could see the blood that had stained the lacquered wood in a large streak down the back and onto the cushioned seat. He could see the remnants of his wife's blood soaked into the stone floor in a puddle that couldn't be cleaned away. Not yet. Not without vigorous effort and a lot of vinegar and cleaning supplies.

One or two remnants of fruit were dried up on the floor from when Geta had snatched the cloth to use on (Y/n)'s wound and subsequently took the knife to cut her free from the chair she had been pinned to.

And clenched in his right fist, was the arrow that had been impaled in his wife yesterday.

Geta had spent all of last night lying awake, vigil by his wife's side with that wooden arrow resting on his bedside table. He stared at it when sleep evaded him. He praised his wife's sleeping body for surviving having such a horrible instrument impaled through her delicate skin.

He nursed her when she tremored and shook and broke out in a fever, he gave her more opium to keep her asleep and rested and he helped turn her every few hours to prevent sores and keep her circulation flowing.

And now he was here, back at the scene of the haneous crime with his brother and the General. Back to commit vengeance on behalf of his beloved.

He could see that Caracalla seemed too bewildered and unsettled to sit back down in his seat. His rightful throne. He couldn't sit there when only yesterday his sister had been punctured to her own throne by that arrow. Sitting down felt like he was setting himself up for the same fate or somehow dismissing what had happened to her.

Caracalla settled on standing at the corner of the royal box with his hands resting on the balcony so he could lean forwards and stare down into the arena. He didn't look too far, in fear of toppling forward or finding an arrow or a sword flying his way.

And at the back of the box stood Acacius, hidden by drapery. Both hands clasped together in front of him while he bowed his head in respect. He was here as a curtesy and for protection. But he wasn't sure what kind of reaction the crowds would give to todays events.

Finally, Geta stopped pacing and stepped forward towards the balcony so he could leer down and observe.

He hadn't been able to watch the fight. He couldn't watch that hound, that vicious, selfish gladiator who had shot the arrow now clasped tightly in his hand. Geta couldn't watch him try in vain to fight for his life that he surely knew Geta would not spare, not for anything in the world.

Nor could he look down upon Macrinus and see that deceitful, spiteful arrogant man fight like he used to when he was once a slave to Rome.

He watched them both fight well against five gladiators who were there simply to outnumber them and provide a show before the execution.

Geta had told Acacius not to tell Macrinus that today was his execution. He was invited to the palace last night and kept under watchful eye until dawn when Geta approached him and asked him why he would come up with such a scheme.

Macrinus as good as admitted what he'd done and that was enough for Geta. He let Acacius bring the scorned senate here, but he was under the impression he could fight his way to victory and be spared like before.

Well, not today.

A glimmer of glee mingled with spite lit up Geta's eyes as he stared down into the arena that had streaks of blood mingling in with the golden hues of sand.

Both the barbaric gladiator and Macrinus were now knelt in in the centre of the arena, their heads cast up towards the viewing box to see what their fate would be. It seemed the gladiator had already accepted that his punishment would be death; Geta could see that all-knowing, sorrowful look building in his eyes. Whereas Macrinus looked hopeful, and that made Geta's anger soar.

His hands pressed down into the smooth stone balcony and he leaned over to stare down at them with the arrow pinned between his palm and the stone.

"You took it upon yourselves to try and take Rome for yourselves. You tried to murder your Empress. The attack on her was planned and executed by your hands. Now all of Rome shall see your demise."

His fingers began to tap against the stone, but he moved his right hand over the edge and held the arrow. He knew the crowds wouldn't be able to see what he held and he knew both Macrinus and the gladiator would have a hard time distinguishing what was in his hand, but they would work it out. They would see the tip stained in blood and the thin wooden shape and they would know.

They would know that this was now Geta's token. This was something he was going to keep. It was going to fuel his anger, his fire and his rage and the protectiveness within him to keep his wife safe. And this token was going to be used to threaten anyone in Rome to keep them in line and keep them away from the Empress.

"The Gods have spoken, and you have enraged them. While the Empress lives, you cannot."

Lifting his hand, Geta stuck his thumb out and slowly twisted his wrist until his hand was angled down. His lips twitched into a sickening snarl and his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth started to grate and grind down against one another.

He would never let either of them live. He wouldn't allow them to live in Rome or be exiled to a nearby nation. They couldn't survive when they had almost robbed (Y/n) of her life. They had tried to rob Geta of his beloved, of his sanity and his heart and soul. That was an act that was unforgiveable and had to be punished. The price was their lives.

General Acacius stepped out of the shadows just enough to look at the scene as both men were impaled with arrows. More than five arrows each, into various parts of their body. The symbol they had tried to use to kill (Y/n) had now ended their own lives.

He was prepared. He was waiting to escort both Emperors out of the box and through the colosseum to get them back to safety. He was anticipating the crowds roars, their screams of anguish and terror as a highly praised Senate was executed without mercy.

But he wasn't prepared for the cheers.

The crowds were smiling. They were tossing rags and remnants of food and even stones down into the arena. They were throwing their fists in the air, their voices were overwhelming and surging and uplifting.

Almost no one in the colosseum was sad to see these men be put to death. They were cheering.

A toothy grin splintered across Caracalla's face showing off his golden tooth as he stepped forward, grinning and revelling in the cheers of their people. They were praising them for showing no mercy. This is what both Emperors had always wanted, the support of their people when they became ruthless.

something righteous bubbled up inside of Geta as he finally allowed himself to smile and bask in this victory that was his and his alone.

He tilted his head back, aiming his chin high while his fractured smile stayed splayed across his face and his narrowed eyes watched both men fall into the dirt where they belonged. He watched the life drain out of them as the blood soaked into the arena floor that would have to be swept and scrubbed and gritted with fresh sand to cover the leftover pieces of their deaths.

The crowds were clapping. They were all in agreement.

The people truly did love their Empress; they wanted to watch her attackers bend at the knee and pay the price for their crimes. There had been outrage in Rome yesterday when people heard and witnessed what happened to their beloved Empress. And now, only one day later, they were satisfied that their Empress was indeed alive and now she would be safe with these men put to death.

There would be no riots for what had happened here today, only celebration. Encouraging cheers and rounds of celebration that Rome's beloved Empress was safe and her attackers were no longer a threat.

***

Geta felt an overwhelming sense of love when he opened the bedroom door. It was the way (Y/n) looked at him when he walked in. With those big round eyes and that sparkle that had come back to them now she wasn't dosed to the heavens with opium.

It was the way she smiled when she saw him like he was the light in her life and she thought that Geta was the sun bringing her light and a source of life.

She still looked terribly unwell and unsettingly weak, but that smile was enough to bring a light to Geta's shrouded heart.

He watched as Lucilla and the maid carefully eased (Y/n) forward so they could help her sit up. Her right arm was laid limp across her lap, still able to move but not without significant pain. The healer had told (Y/n) the moment she became lucid that she should refrain from moving her arm until her stitches were taken out and her wound was fully mended.

Her hair fell in unruly waves around her shoulders and Geta noted to himself that he would brush her hair for her later, he knew she would hate to get knots and tangles.

The discomfort was clear on her face as she winced and shuddered, but once she was leant back into the pillows, (Y/n) stretched her good arm out and curled her fingers. Softly motioning for Geta to come over to her. She hadn't been properly awake or lucid this morning before he left, but Lucilla had taken residence at her bedside and helped nurse her for the morning. And she had filled (Y/n) in on what was happening today and what had happened at the colosseum this morning.

Both Lucilla and the maid excused themselves when Geta approached and they left the room, closing the door behind them to give the couple some privacy.

The moment he sat down on the bed, (Y/n) looped her left arm around the back of his neck and tugged him closer. She sighed contentedly when he tucked his face into her neck and the feel of each breath fanning across her throat was surprisingly soothing. Her fingers latched into his hair and her cheek nestled against the top of his head while Geta bound his arms around her waist.

He made sure to keep his arms low around her abdomen, not daring to even brush his skin against her wound in fear of inflicting any sort of pain onto her by mistake.

"How are you, my love?" His words were muffled against her throat but (Y/n) managed to hear him just fine.

"Okay now."

He knew what she meant, and it made him grin. She was okay now that he was back.

When he lifted his head from her neck, he kept one arm around her back while the other cupped her face. He brushed his thumb along her lower lip and down her chin before he kissed her. He tried not to devour her lips and nestled his nose against hers, letting her pull back for air rather than pushing her down and inhaling all the air from her lungs. He didn't want to overwhelm her when she wasn't well.

He scanned his eyes around the room once he pulled back and instead attached his lips to her temple where he could stay for seconds, minutes, hours if he wanted without overwhelming her or stealing her breath away.

The plate of dried fruits and bread were untouched and the pitcher of water was still mostly full. She hadn't managed to eat anything or drink very much yet, but there was still time. Geta would help her gain back her strength, he would nurse her back to health.

"Lucilla said this- this was planned." (Y/n) couldn't help but shudder at the thought of what had truly happened yesterday. "That Macrinus orchestrated it."

Some of the day was blurred, it felt like a feverish dream that was fading before (Y/n)'s very eyes. She could feel Geta's hands gripping her skin, she could feel the way his pulse seemed to pound through her skin too and the frantic tone of his voice telling her to look at him, stay with him, listen to him.

She could feel his hands on her burning skin, she could feel the tonic trickling through her system and making her fall into horrible dreams, even if it did take the horrendous pain from her shoulder and chest.

But knowing that everything that happened yesterday was deliberate hurt (Y/n)'s mind and crushed her heart.

She never thought that someone would stoop so low as to hurt her like that, to try and kill her because they knew Geta's love for her was so unconditional and widespread that he would simply cave without her. That they thought they could use her death to control her husband, it was despicable.

Tears were already glistening in (Y/n)'s eyes at the thought that just a few inches to the left and she wouldn't be here. A better aim, if she had sat at a different angle, and she would be in the chapel waiting to be laid to eternal rest with the Gods.

Geta tilted his head down when he felt something wet against his throat and his upper lip curled into a tortured snarl when he realised (Y/n) was crying.

He sat up straighter beside her, moving his hand around to cup the back of her neck while he began kissing her temple with fever. "Shh, shh it's alright my love. You're alright now."

He felt her left arm loosen from around his waist and he waited, intrigued, as she slid her hand up his abdomen until she had her hand clenched in his tunic in between their chests instead. She leaned into his touch, relishing in his words and kisses that were being peppered against her temple while she closed her eyes and tried to calm down.

He was right. (Y/n) was okay now, she was going to recover from this and heal and get better. She had been so lucky to escape the ordeal with her life when she could have easily passed away from her injuries. If Geta hadn't of thought and acted as quickly as he did, she wouldn't be here.

"He's no longer a threat to you. I've dealt with them both, and Rome rejoices."

"Thank you."

Geta tried to smile against her temple, but when he tilted his head to the side and peered down at her, he could feel his chest bubbling with that familiar sense of rage that kept getting out of control.

The maids had dressed (Y/n) in a thin nightgown that undid with strings at the front. Something very easy to remove for when they had to change the bandages and bindings around (Y/n)'s chest and so the healers could attend to her wound and check the stitches.

Right now, the gown was hanging off her right shoulder and it allowed Geta to see this mornings fresh bandages. He could see how her skin was still swollen and how the bandage had to be wrapped around her upper chest, beneath her arm and around her shoulder and collar bone to keep it tight and in place. He dreaded to think what her wound looked like.

When the wound had been checked in the early hours of the morning, Geta had witnessed. Partially to make sure (Y/n)'s modesty was preserved and so he could witness the damage. Swollen, discoloured skin. Tight stitches that looked far too harsh and degrading to be punctured into (Y/n)'s silky skin. Dried patches of blood glued to her skin where the wound leaked and oozed.

Geta was just waiting for it to become infected and for the healers to tell him his relief had been short-lived.

He had already told the guards that tomorrow, as long as (Y/n) was okay, he would be taking pilgrimage to pray to Juno, the Goddess and protector of women. Geta wanted to make sure the Gods understood that he was eternally grateful that (Y/n) had been spared, but he wanted to ensure her health. He wanted to pray to Juno to keep watch over (Y/n) and keep her safe.

If his prayers worked then Geta would never again think it stupid to pray at a Gods feet when he was the Emperor of all Rome. He would take pilgrimage and pray much more often if they watched over (Y/n) and Caracalla for him.

"For now, I don't want you anywhere near the Senates, none of them. And I need you to remain here in the palace, where you're safe."

(Y/n) nodded against his chest without really taking his words in at first, but when she realised what he was saying, she couldn't help but feel relieved. She didn't want anything to do with the Senates. She didn't want to attend any meetings or visit the Senates and engage in conversation, not when one of them had tried to have her killed and so many others could want to do the same to gain control over all of Rome and her entities.

If Geta wanted her to stay in the palace then that was what (Y/n) would do. She knew she was safe here with all the guards and servants, and she knew Geta wouldn't be leaving her side for a while yet. It was going to take time for her wound to heal and she couldn't move her arm too much until that happened. (Y/n) wasn't likely to go out until her arm was back under her control and she was no longer crippled with pain.

"I don't want you in the public eye either, until I'm assured your safety is guaranteed. I won't have this happening to you again. I can't lose you."

Geta felt (Y/n) hum against his throat and he bound his arm just a little tighter around her waist.

He couldn't have (Y/n) out in the public. The people of Rome might love her like she were a Goddess walking amongst them, but there might still be people out there who wanted to harm her.

Until the guards could guarantee that they could stop any other murderous attempt on (Y/n)'s life, Geta wasn't having her walk out of the palace. He was having her where he could see and protect her at all times.

Geta couldn't come that close to losing her again. Ever.

[kosije]

sins in silk

c/w ★ ׂ duke!miguel ohara x princess!reader, they are from different kingdoms, mentioned age-gap, forbidden love aspect, pregnancy kink, mentions of masturbation, unprotected sex, creampie, mutual head, fingering, size kink, art cred: kammie_arts1903

"Princess, the Grand Duke is here. May I bring him in?"

"Show him to the study for now. Tell him I will be right out. Be sure to thank the Grand Duke for his patience."

"Yes, Princess."

"Oh, Will?"

"Yes, Princess?"

"After you inform the Duke, please excuse everyone to their chambers, yes?"

"But princess, you know if the king found out we had left your side, even with the Grand Duke we could lose our-"

"I will not let that happen. So please, Will, do this for me."

All though apprehensive, your servant bows and disappears from your room, in long strides to the Duke.

It's the 5th time this month he has come to the estate. Always with the intention to see the King and ruminate. And despite him being so much older than you, your father's closest friend and strongest connection to the 2099 kingdom, and is only to wed a woman from his territory, each time he has come has left you tangling a hand in your silk sheets, hushed cries of the Duke's name left to fall from your wet lips in a silent plea.

Every time he drops by unannounced, talks to your father, and leaves. Every time he has his salt and pepper sprinkled brown hair combed back away from his face, showing the wrinkles on his forehead. Every time his eyes have focused on you, running over you like the pretty oil portrait that hangs above the study's mantle as his jaw flexes brows furrow, something in you ignites and the yearning becomes almost palpable.

Never does he say more to you than a few words, only acknowledging you after with how his body tenses when you're around. He runs as cold as the marble under your feet as you move to your vanity to reapply your perfume and shift your dress to expose enough of your collarbone without looking intentional. You're buzzing at the thought of seeing him, taking the rollers out of your hair with bubbling anticipation. This is the first time he's come amidst nightfall and the first time you two will be alone. With your hands resting to your front, you walk to the study well aware of how low your neckline is dipping while high pillared walls with paintings of cherubs and past battles trail you illuminated by ivory candles.

When you push past tall burgundy doors, you're greeted by the sight of Grand Duke of 2099, Miguel O'hara, who's stretching his back with two large hands on his hips. The deep groan he lets out makes your skin flush, and when his cold gaze meets yours you almost shiver. His eyes drift from your face to just right where your dress exposes a bit of the fat on your breast, and you smile when you hear him suck in a breath.

"What do I owe the pleasure, Your Grace?" His eyes tear from your chest as he focuses on the crackling fireplace.

"Just here to see your father, is he near?" He asks, brown eyes fixing back onto yours. Your smile only widens.

"I'm afraid the King is away, but he should be returning soon, you are more than welcome to stay 'till his return."

"I shouldn't-"

"Humor me, Your Grace. After all, I am a bit lonely without my father to talk to." you say, batting your eyelashes at him bashfully.

Apprehension is so clear on his face, but still he nods, straightening his white button up and waiting for you to go on.

"Follow me," you say, walking back down the hall until you reach your room.

"Princessa, I will not go further, this is inappropriate. A young lady shouldn-"

"'M not as young as I was before. Surely you can agree, no?"

"Even so," He coughs. "That is not the point-"

"You should have no trouble entering. I have already given my permission."

He doesn't look convinced.

"Do you not trust me? Have I done wrong by you?"

"That is not it, Princessa-"

"Then please, my duke, time is slipping right past us." you whisper, slipping through the doors, intentionally brushing your hand across his thigh. You grin when you hear his shaky breath, and hear your door not only close, but lock.

"What is it that you have here that we couldn't be anywhere else for?"

"Are you putting on an act," you ask him, turning around to face him still at a distance. "Or are you truly this aloof, Your Grace?'

"I’m sorry?-"

"I have a confession," you say. walking closer and closer until his breath is caught in his throat, and your lips are just a nudge away from his.

"My father won't be returning anytime soon." And suddenly, it seems it has clicked in his head, as his eyes darken.

"This can not happen."

"You're right," your hand is pressed up against his chest.

"Someone could hear us," He whispers, making no effort to push you away.

"I've already dismissed everyone to their chambers."

"If your father ever found out there could be a war," he tries to argue, but his head is still dipping down, ghosting over your lips.

"We have all night to just the two of us."

And just a second after saying that, he kisses you. His lips are hot, hungry, and experienced in the way they move against yours, swallowing your every breath. His hands find your waist, but he hesitates and you can tell he hasn't given in completely. And something about that excites you.

You pull away from his lips, leaving him noticeably confused until your hand reaches down and palms his cock, happy at the way he's already hard.

"Do you know just how long I've been wanting this?" You ask shifting him around you.

He doesn't say anything, only shakes his head "No."

"Ever since the day you came back to visit, I haven't been able to think of anything else." When you push him down on the edge of your bed, he shivers when you drop to your knees and play with the button on his slacks.

"Every night, I touch myself on these sheets to the thought of you." You confess, finally free him from his pants, leaving him in the thin fabric of his underwear, painfully soaking up the front of them with his pre.

"Princessa," He finally says in almost a whine. "If you say things like that I'm afraid I won't be able to hold back."

And dipping your hand under his waistband to grip his cock, you savor how thick and heavy he feels and the groan he lets out with a kiss to his base. You can't deny the bit of worry that flushes through you when you see just how big he is. Thick beads of cum pulse out of him that you lick up hungrily, humming at how you can feel hus veins on your tongue.

"Then please, Your Grace. Give me everything."

That seems to shatter his self control, because suddenly he has a hand in your hair and a hand on his cock as he forces your lips over his angry brown head.

"You're such a damn tease, you know that?" He gritts out, bullying his cock all the way to the back of your throat and then some. You gag and choke around him, already feeling your throat burn and eyes well up.

"Always coming around me with your father with your body on display in those cute little gowns, batting those pretty little eyes at me when you talk. What would your father think if he knew all of that was because you were trying to get my attention?" He coos between groans while using your face like just a vessel to get off, and your cunt starts dripping. "Just so I could fuck your pretty mouth like this?"

You can't do anything but moan around him, croaking out gasp when he finally lets you catch your breath before immediately pulling you back down onto his dick rapidly as snot mixes in with tears, spit, and cum starts to drip down your jaw and onto your floor. He begins to unbutton his shirt, before tearing it off completely, leaving buttons to fly across your room. Looking up through teary eyes you take in the way his usually combed back hair sticks to his sweaty forehead messily, as his abs tense and relax with every rapid breath as his mouth lulls open with lidded eyes, moaning when he sees just how well you swallow him.

Swiftly, you run your tongue over the slit of his cock, hearing him whine, and feeling the grip on your hair tighten enough to burn your scalp. Your throat aches with every heavy thrust that only spurs on the throbbing between your thighs as your hands play with his balls and he stutters in your mouth, shooting his seed down your throat, midst mumbling praises.

Without word or warning, he flips you over, effectively pinning you down to your bed once he's come down from his high. His large calloused hand runs up and down your thigh before tossing your nightgown up, and he groans at the sigh.

"You needed me so bad you didn't wear anything under this frilly thing? What a filthy girl." He grins, slapping your dripping cunt and drinking up your moan in a kiss.

"Your Grace,"

"That's not what you should be calling me." He grits, crouching down to his knees to lick a stripe up your throbbing pussy.

"M-miguel,"

"Yes, Princessa?"

"Please."

"Please what, Princessa?" He says, licking another stripe, but slower.

"Please...don't tease me." You whimper, muffling your moans with the back of your hand.

"And what shall I do instead?"

"Kiss me harder, please. I need it, Mig-" and your sentence is cut off by the feeling of his nose kissing your clit as he buries his face into your sopping heat, groaning at the way you suck his tongue in. You're writhing at the feeling, but when you feel one of his calloused fingers push through you, you lose your vision for a second.

"Fuck- you're even tighter than I thought you were," he groans, and you feel your body ignite at his admission.

"You'd think of me?" You ask with such a worn out voice, Miguel's hips buck up in search of any friction at all.

"All the damn time. Would fuck my hand everyday over those pretty eyes and lips, imagine how pretty you'd look all happy and spent, with the image of my love spilling out of you." He confesses, speeding his assault on your hole, hitting spots with his fingers you could only dream of, before latching his mouth back on and fucking you with his tongue and fingers. The arousal in you was rushing through you like a wave and just after a strangled moan it blows out of you in pleasurable burst that leave you flushed. He hungrily drinks you up like a starved man until you're whining from the sensation.

When he rises from the floor he doesn't bother wiping your slick from his mouth, only laughs at your fucked out expression, and runs his lips over yours, amused by how you trail after him. Annoyed, you wrap your hands around his collar and pull his lips onto yours, gasping and licking into his mouth. Between the taste of you on his tongue, his rock-hard cock rubbing against your puffy folds as your hands run through his sweaty hair.

"Gonna give me one more?" He asks, voice low like gravel.

"I'll do anything for you, Miguel. Anything you want."

He kisses you again, a passionate thing as you both whine at the feeling of him bullying into you.

"'Ts too big, Mig- oh! S-slow down!" You cry, but his hand slaps the fat of your thigh and grips it, hitting you even deeper at a fast pace. The pain is still there, but feeling of pleasure is much more intense. And it only skyrockets when you hear his voice.

"Sshhh sweetheart. You're-fuck-already taking me so well. so damn tight around me. Be good and take what I give you. So I c-can tell your father what a nice cunt his perfect little girl has." He rasps, pounding you even deeper than before, and your nails dig up the fabric of your sheets, leaving fabric frayed in long scratches. One hand grips your thigh as the other moves up your dress to tweak and grope your breast, making you clench down around him. He drawls out a curse as his head falls into the crook of your neck, inhaling the smell of your sweat and perfume that makes him impossibly more needy to where he's plowing through you in quick hard strokes that move your bed to knock against your walls, shaking the shelf above you.

His teeth sink into your neck, almost as a mark of ownership, before sucking a bruise into your skin, continuing his markings lower and lower to focus them on your breast. Your back arches at the sting and you cry out at the imposing feeling building up inside you.

"Such a pretty girl," he says, leaning over to look you in your eyes, studying the gaping of your mouth and tugging on your brows as your orgasm builds up. His eyes are trained on you, as he throbs inside you, stimulating you further.

"I'm close-" you whimper, voice cracking as he licks a stripe up your neck.

"Yeah?" He asks, smirk practically audible as he hums in your ear. "Do it. Squeeze me, sweetheart."

It only takes a few heavy strokes to hit your sweet spot before you are gushing around him, making his thrust sporadic and moans louder.

"Yes-shit- let me fill you up. I'll give you an heir, and then I'll-hah- fuck you again, and again, and again."

"Yesyesyes, please." You think you exclaim, but can't tell if you said it out loud or just in your head because of how overestimated you are. His hand rubs circles on your clit, and your toes curl as your heels dig into the muscle of his back.

"Fuck- I'm gonna-" He spits out, just before spilling his seed into your cunt, carefully riding out his orgasm inside you while pushing his cum deeper into your womb. His palm stretches over the expanse of your chest as he leans down to kiss just above your belly button. The room is quiet now that he is still inside you, and you watch Miguel lean down to kiss you once more, in the form of a soft peck to your swollen lips. Once he pulls back, he leaves you briefly before returning with a warm damp cloth that he wipes you down with. Once he is done, he discards it into a bucket and lies himself down next to you.

"If we continue to do this," he says, carefully pulling out of you. "We will eventually have to tell your father."

"You're right," you whisper scared, but when you feel his strong arm pull you flush against his chest, hope surges through you and you bury your face into his warm body.

"We'll need to get up early, the maids would appreciate finding us like this."

"We'll be fine. After all, a pregnancy will shock them far more than this."

"I'm sure it will," he laughs, kissing your forehead.

Since envelops the two of you, as you notice his breathing deepen.

"Your, Grace-"

"Miguel," he corrects, eyes dancing across your face with a small smile.

"Miguel, my father will be gone on the next full moon."

"The next full moon, huh?" He asks no one at all, pushing your hair behind your ear.

It’s bittersweet asking him to sneak around with you again. And yet, all he says is a simple "Okay," placing a kiss to the palm of your hand, and you understand what the gesture is:

A promise.

[internetdaddy98]

Uncharted Territory

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist]

Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!SeniorResident!Reader Summary: Robby and Y/N attend a Thanksgiving dinner at her family’s home. As they arrive, Robby notices Y/N’s slight nervousness, the first time he’s seen her unsure since their relationship became personal. 

Word Count: 2.2 K Content Warning: Mentions of death

Robby had never been to a Thanksgiving dinner like this.

The driveway was long and winding, the trees on either side stretching their bare branches toward the sky like hands reaching for the clouds. He had parked at the end, under a single light, watching as you walked ahead, your posture confident but the slightest hint of nerves in your step. It was the first time he’d seen you so unsure since you’d crossed the line between professional and personal. Usually, it was the other way around, he was the one second-guessing himself. But today, it was you.

Your hand brushed his for a second, a silent reassurance. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around yours, giving it a quick squeeze, the gesture a promise.

“You don’t have to do this,” Robby said, his voice low as they walked toward the front door.

“I want you to be here,” you replied, not looking at him, but your smile was soft. “I need you to be here.”

He could tell there was more behind those words than just simple affection. You were giving him more than he thought he deserved. Robby swallowed, feeling that familiar tightness in his chest, the same tightness he had when he thought about the people he loved most in his life, and how easy it was to break them, to lose them.

But today, he wasn’t going to lose you. Not now, not ever.

They reached the front door, and you took a deep breath before knocking. The door swung open before you even had the chance to touch the handle. A woman in her late sixties—tall, with a warm smile and brown eyes that mirrored yours—stood in the frame, a welcoming expression lighting up her face.

“Y/N” she exclaimed, pulling Sheridan into a tight hug, one that Robby could only watch. “You made it! And you brought Robby. It’s so nice to finally meet you!”

Robby was caught off guard. He had expected to be introduced with some level of distance. Not as a boyfriend. Not yet.

“Mom, Robby is my—,” you said, your voice steady, though Robby noticed the way your chest rose and fell slightly faster. “My… my partner.”

Robby held out his hand instinctively, shaking the woman’s with a firm grip. “It’s good to finally meet you, Mrs. Sheridan.”

Mrs. Sheridan’s eyes softened as she held on to his hand for just a second longer than usual. “Y/N’s told me so much about you. Please, come in. Dinner’s just about ready.”

Robby stepped inside, feeling like he was crossing into foreign territory. The house was beautiful in a way that was distinctly you—comfortable, clean, yet filled with little hints of personality. There were photographs on the walls of her as a child, laughing with a brother Robby hadn’t met, and a few older shots of her with her parents, always with that same earnest, kind smile.

The decor screamed wealth—polished hardwood floors, an impressive chandelier overhead, and even the scent of the house—rich and almost intoxicating—spoke of affluence. Robby couldn’t deny the sense of unease creeping up his spine. He had always lived a life of simplicity. This was something different entirely.

“Baby, why don’t you take Robby to the kitchen? I’ll finish setting the table.”

Robby glanced at you as your mother bustled off toward the kitchen, and you caught his eye. There was something about the way you were looking at him, an almost shy smile on your lips, that made the tension in his chest increase.

“Let’s go,” you said, leading him through the house to the kitchen.

The space was stunning, a large, open room with marble countertops and soft, ambient lighting. Your father was at the counter, chopping something with precise movements, his back to them.

“Daddy,” You called out, her voice soft yet strong, a tone Robby couldn’t help but notice. “This is Robby.”

Her father turned around with a kind smile that mirrored his wife’s, but Robby could tell there was something more in his gaze. Like he was sizing Robby up. A quiet challenge that he didn’t know how to address. “Nice to meet you,” he said, shaking Robby’s hand without hesitation. “Y/N’s told me a lot about you.”

“Likewise, Mr. Sheridan,” Robby replied, his voice steady, even if his heart was racing. “It’s good to be here.”

They chatted for a few minutes as Mrs. Sheridan finished up in the kitchen, and Robby found himself settling into the easy rhythm of the conversation. It wasn’t awkward—not like he had feared. In fact, he felt comfortable, at ease in a way he hadn’t thought was possible when he first thought about spending a holiday with your family.

But every now and then, he would catch you looking at him—those moments when your eyes met across the room, and everything else seemed to stop. He couldn’t explain it, but something shifted in those moments. The way you saw him now wasn’t the same as before.

You weren’t hiding anymore. You had introduced him as your partner—not your mentor. And for the first time in months, Robby allowed himself to believe it. He wasn’t holding back. And neither were you.

Dinner was served with an easy familiarity, the table brimming with food, laughter, and the sounds of family. But through all of it, Robby couldn’t help but notice the subtle but undeniable ways your relationship had shifted. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you. Every little gesture you made, the soft laugh you let slip when your father told a terrible joke, the way you corrected him when he tried to grab your plate without asking.

She was home, and he was a part of it now. A part of her world that had been so carefully tucked away.

After dinner, as the dishes were cleared and dessert was brought out, you and your mother left the room, giving Robby a moment to speak with your father. The conversation felt easy, relaxed, but Robby noticed the lingering tension in the older man’s eyes when he looked at him.

“You’re good to her, Robby,” Mr. Sheridan said quietly, his voice almost conspiratorial. “I can see that. She’s been through enough. Don’t let her down.”

Robby swallowed, nodding. “I won’t.”

And then, as if the moment wasn’t heavy enough, Mr. Sheridan placed a hand on Robby’s shoulder. “You hurt her, and I’ll break your legs. Understand?”

It wasn’t a joke, and it wasn’t a threat. It was a promise. Robby respected that.

He didn’t answer, just met the older man’s eyes and nodded. But deep down, Robby was certain that this was just the beginning. He couldn’t just have you in his life, he was already in too deep. She was already his, and everything else, every piece of his life that hadn’t been hers before, was already shifting to make room for her.

Robby had already begun to feel the weight of her world, her family, the house, the wealth, and all that it implied. The evening had been a strange blend of feeling out of place and yet completely at ease, thanks to the small, quiet moments shared with you. It wasn’t the grandeur of your home that left Robby uneasy, though; it was the knowledge that there was more to you than what you showed the world.

The conversation had moved into a natural silence after dinner, and the family had retreated inside, leaving Robby and you alone on the back porch. The air had grown crisp as twilight settled in, and Robby found himself looking at you in a way he hadn’t before, your eyes soft in the fading light, your posture relaxed, but something about you seemed distant.

Your eyes were trained on the streetlight across the yard, but they were unfocused, as though you were seeing something far away. It was as if you had become someone else entirely.

“Sher?” Robby asked quietly, stepping closer, his voice threading through the cool air between them.

You blinked, as if snapping out of a trance, and turned to face him. “Sorry. I was just… thinking.”

“About?”

You hesitated, lips pressed together, as if weighing the decision to open up. Robby could feel you pulling away, not physically, but emotionally, and something inside him shifted. He knew that silence. It was the silence of someone preparing to say something important, something painful.

“I wasn’t always… like this,” you said finally, your voice quieter than before, as if you had just invited him into a room you had kept locked for years. “I used to be a different person. I used to be scared all the time. I wasn’t always so... steady.”

Robby nodded slowly, never breaking eye contact, his hand instinctively moving toward yours. “You don’t have to explain anything if you’re not ready,” he said, his tone soft but firm.

Your gaze fell to your intertwined hands, and then, after a long moment, you spoke again. “When I was ten years old, my brother died in a car accident.”

Robby’s heart tightened, the words hanging between them like an invisible weight. He had known there was something in her past, some unspoken tragedy, but hearing her voice the words brought a sharp clarity to the pain she had carried for so long.

“Ethan, He was eight” you continued smiling fondly, her voice shaking just slightly, but still, you pressed on. “My family, my parents, we were in the car, and we crashed. I don’t remember exactly what happened, but I remember the way the car felt when it flipped. The way it… crumpled.” You paused, your lips pressed together as if bracing herself.

Robby didn’t know what to say. There were no words for something like that. He couldn’t begin to understand the weight of what you were saying, the guilt she must’ve carried all these years. He moved closer, instinctively, his fingers brushing her hair in a silent offer of comfort.

“The worst part,” You said, your voice barely above a whisper, “is that I remember it all. I remember waking up, trapped in the car with him, and I remember how they weren’t moving. I was so scared, but I had to get out, had to get help. I freed myself, and I called for help.”

You let out a sharp breath. “But I couldn’t save him. I was just a kid. I couldn’t do anything but watch him die.”

Robby’s chest tightened, and a coldness spread through his limbs. Your eyes were closed now, like you were trying to erase the memory of it, to block out the flood of emotions that always threatened to resurface. He could feel the heaviness of the moment pressing on him, but he didn’t move away.

“You were just a kid, Sheri,” Robby said, his voice hoarse. “You did everything you could. You didn’t fail him.”

But you shook her head, her eyes opening to meet his. “I should’ve done more. I should’ve saved him. I couldn’t even hold him, Robby. He was gone by the time help arrived.”

The guilt in your voice struck him with the force of a fist. Robby knew then that what you had been carrying wasn’t just grief. It was guilt—painful, suffocating guilt that you had never been able to shake.

“I can’t imagine how that feels,” Robby whispered, his hand sliding from yours to rest gently on your shoulder. “But I do know this: you’re not to blame. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you quickly wiped them away, offering him a small, broken smile. “I don’t talk about it. My parents don’t either. They’ve never asked how I’m doing with it. I don’t know if they even think about it anymore.”

Robby’s heart ached for you. It was clear that her family’s way of dealing with the tragedy was to sweep it under the rug, but you had been living with it, trying to carry it alone.

“I can’t even imagine how hard that must be,” he said softly, his thumb brushing your shoulder, offering a silent understanding. “But you don’t have to carry it by yourself.”

You gave him a faint, grateful smile, your hand resting over his. “I’ve been pretending for so long, Robby. But with you… it feels like I don’t have to.”

He squeezed your hand tighter. “You don’t. You’re not alone.”

The words hung between them, heavy with unspoken promises. For the first time, Robby felt the full weight of your past—of your life before him—and he knew it wasn’t just about the trauma of the car accident. It was about the loss you had never fully healed from, the grief that had followed you in every step, every decision, every relationship.

And as the night deepened around them, Robby realized that the woman standing before him was more complex than he could have ever imagined. But she was also the woman he wanted to hold, to protect, to love in ways she hadn’t allowed herself to believe possible.

The pain she carried didn’t scare him. If anything, it made him want to pull her closer, to make her feel safe in a world that had taken so much from her. And maybe, just maybe, he could be the one to help her carry it, piece by broken piece. ———————————— Want to join the taglist? shoot me a comment! @rosiepoise88 @nosebeers @andabuttonnose @luvr4miya @cannonindeez @hagarsays @captainoates @lemonlime09 @delicateflorencia @iceb1ink1uck @moonshooter @qardasngan @penbridgertonn @foreverchangingfandoms @msdariaknight @kmc1989 @trustme3-13 @ilikestuffs-stuff @letstryagaintomorrow @steviebbboi @jazzimac1967 @foolishseven @catmomstyles3

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Could you do another Antinous x fem!reader please your my fav writer 18+ 🫣 (you can ignore if wanted)

A/n: you're so sweet! Thank you and enjoy!

Thunder rumbled across the sky as rain pelted the stone terraces outside. The hearth burned low, casting golden flickers over the silk of the marital bed, where you lay waiting—wrapped in nothing but shadows and the faintest sheen of anticipation.

Antinous stepped through the doorway, soaked from the walk across the courtyard. His black cloak clung to his shoulders, raindrops trailing down his sculpted frame. The firelight kissed the lines of his jaw, the edge of his scarred cheekbone. A soldier’s body. A king’s command. But when his eyes landed on you—bare, soft, his—his whole being shifted.

He locked the door behind him.

“You’re waiting for me like that?” His voice was low, frayed with want. “You know what that does to me.”

You sat up slowly, the sheet slipping down your chest. “I wanted to remind you what you came home to.”

He didn’t hesitate. In a heartbeat, he crossed the room, dropping his wet cloak, boots, and blade. His hands reached for you before his knees even hit the edge of the bed.

He kissed you like a man starved. Lips hot and unrelenting, hands roaming your waist, your thighs, your hips like he needed to relearn you. You moaned into his mouth, tangling your fingers in his damp hair, and he groaned—deep.

“You drive me mad,” he rasped against your skin. “The gods could offer me kingdoms, immortality, and I’d still choose your body over all of it.”

He lifted you with ease, laying you back against the pillows, eyes devouring every inch of you. You were flushed already, aching with the promise of what was coming.

And when he knelt between your legs, spreading them wide with two firm hands, you realized something else:

Antinous was worshipping you.

He kissed your inner thigh like it was sacred ground. Trailed his lips up slowly, dragging his tongue along your skin, teasing the softest spots until your hips bucked and your fingers fisted the sheets.

Then he devoured you.

His mouth on your cunt was like fire and prayer—tongue stroking your clit in slow, devastating circles, his hands holding you open like he needed to feel every tremble, every moan. You gasped his name, voice already shaking as he sucked you into his mouth, groaning like you were the one ruining him.

“Come for me,” he murmured, voice dark and reverent. “Let me taste what’s mine.”

You shattered, thighs clamping around his head as your orgasm ripped through you, and he didn’t stop—not until you were begging, whimpering, too sensitive to breathe.

He kissed up your body slowly, savoring your taste on his lips, your arousal slick on his chin. “So beautiful when you break.”

He lined himself up, the blunt tip of his cock brushing your soaked entrance—and paused.

“You still want this?”

You looked up at him, eyes half-lidded, mouth swollen. “I want you. All of you.”

He pushed in slow—deep, thick, stretching you open inch by inch. You gasped, hands gripping his arms as he filled you completely. He was big, and he knew it—but he also knew your body. How to move. How to pull sounds from you like music.

He started to thrust, slow and controlled, burying himself in you again and again, each time hitting that spot that made you cry out his name.

“Louder,” he growled, snapping his hips harder. “Let the whole palace know who owns this cunt.”

You obeyed.

He fucked you hard, deep, the sound of skin against skin echoing off the marble columns. Your legs wrapped around his waist, dragging him deeper as he picked up speed, panting against your throat.

“You take me so well,” he moaned. “Every inch. Every thrust. You were made for me.”

Your second orgasm hit fast, his name ripped from your throat as you clenched around him, nails digging into his back. He groaned, thrusting harder, losing himself in the feeling of you falling apart underneath him.

Antinous gripped your hips, fingers digging into your soft flesh as he continued to snap his hips. A gift, only his.

He buried himself deep and came with a shout, spilling inside you in long, hot pulses, holding himself still until you felt the warmth flood your core.

When it was over, he collapsed against you, lips pressed to your shoulder, his breathing shaky.

But he didn’t pull out.

He stayed inside you, softening slowly, keeping you full.

“You’re my home,” he whispered against your skin. “My heart, my love, My Antinous”

You held him close, your fingers threading through his hair,running down the scar over his eye, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure and love.

[hederasgarden]

nunc scio quid sit amor

Summary: Lucius tells your son the story of how he fell in love with you.  Pairing: Lucius Verus x F!Reader Word Count: 1.7K Rating: 18+ only.  Explicit smut (PIV), mentions of breeding kink and pregnancy, and just a lot of fluff and happiness.  A/N: Thanks to @ryebecca of beta’ing. This is part of Lucius and the Fisherman’s Wife Series. Based on this request. Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Gladiator Masterlist ♡ Masterlist

“If I have to listen to Senator Aelius drone on about the price of grain one more time, I will lose my senses,” Acacius mutters. “I grow tired of their endless petty quarrels.”

“I know,” you commiserate, thinking of the day-long session you both endured with the senators. Your back aches from sitting in the stiff marble chair in place of Lucius. “They need to come to a decision about the aqueduct repairs soon. It has been delayed far too long already.”

Acacius lets out a heavy sigh. “Lucius could always issue a decree...”

You shake your head, knowing full well that your husband would never override their authority. He agreed to take on the mantle of Emperor only until the Senate could function properly on its own, and despite the inevitable bumps along the way, they have indeed made progress under his and Acacius’ guidance.

“Yes, yes,” he grumbles dismissively, waving you off. His frustration is palpable and you share it, rubbing your belly absently.

You take his arm as the two of you continue walking, the familiar comfort of his presence settling over you. Felix, ever your loyal shadow, follows just a few paces behind. While there is no need for his protection in the palace he never strays far from you. He’s been by your side since the days when you and Lucilla were hidden away on the coast, and though you don’t truly need guarding now, you always feel safer with him nearby. Still, you can ask for no better protection than Acacius, even if today he wears the Toga Praetexta of a senator and carries no sword.

You pass through one courtyard and then another, the sound of your husband’s low baritone and your son’s light, rising voice filtering through the air. Acacius catches your eye, a smile shared between the two of you as you stop to watch the scene before you. Maximus, your son, is seated on the edge of a shallow pool, his small hands trail the surface of the water, leaving ripples behind. Silvery fish glide lazily beneath the lily pads, vanishing into the shadows each time the water stirs.

“Tell me again how you met Momma?” Maximus asks, his ever-inquisitive face intent on your husband

"That is a complicated story," Lucius replies.

"Did you love her when you first saw her? Like Avus Acacius and Avia?" Maximus asks eagerly. "Avus Acacius said it was like...a bolt from Jupiter!" he adds, eyes wide with excitement.

You glance at Acacius beside you, who can’t help but grin, his chest puffing out with pride. It's clear he's still pleased by the story he shared about his and Lucilla’s first meeting. 

“I thought you were a soldier, not a poet,” you whisper to the man beside you, amused.

“I have hidden depths,” he replies with a playful wink. “And I love entertaining my grandson.”

The two of you stand in silence, watching Lucius, who seems to be carefully measuring his words. One day you'll tell Maximus the full story of how you and Lucius came to be, but not yet. He’s still too young, his world still so simple, untouched by the complexities that shaped your lives.

 “It was not quite like that for us,” Lucius finally says.

The answer clearly disappoints your son who deflates, a small frown tugging at his sweet features.

Lucius glances down at him, his expression softening as he continues. “Our love was more like a seed — one we didn’t even know we had planted. It was nurtured slowly over time, carefully, until one night, it bloomed unexpectedly.”

“Ugh, that is boring,” your son replies. Then he jumps to his feet, suddenly energized by a new idea. “I want to be struck by Cupid’s arrow!” he announces, mimicking the gesture and flopping dramatically onto the floor, hard enough to make you wince in sympathy.

“Sometimes the best kind of love takes time,” Lucius says, “growing inside you so slowly you don’t even realize it’s there.”

Maximus pauses for a moment, considering his father's words. Finally, he nods and sits up with renewed curiosity. Resting his small arm on his knees, he looks at Lucius with wide, innocent eyes. “Maybe,” he says, his voice thoughtful. “But you thought Momma was very pretty, did you not?”

To your surprise, Lucius looks up at you then, his gaze steady and warm, locking with yours. A soft smile forms at the corners of his lips, barely visible beneath his thick beard. “More beautiful than I have words for,” he says.

“Tell me about being a Gladiator!” Maximus demands suddenly, clearly growing bored with this topic. "Avus Acacius says you were the best."

Lucius gives a long suffering sigh as he shoots a look at his stepfather. "Avus Acacius likes to exaggerate.”

“I do no such thing!” Acacius declares with a wide grin, his voice booming across the courtyard as he steps from the shadows. You follow him into the sunlit space.“I speak only the words Veritas commands me to!”

He lets out a playful growl and suddenly charges toward Maximus. The moment catches your son off guard, and a burst of delighted laughter escapes him when Acacius scoops him up into the air, lifting him high above his head.

“Momma!” Maximus suddenly shouts, his voice ringing out as if noticing you for the first time. 

Without a second thought, he rushes over to you once Acacius sets him down, his tiny feet thumping against the stone floor. You bend down slightly, kissing him on the top of his head. He smells of sun and sweat, the familiar scent comforting. He pats your belly, your bump still small but growing every day. 

“Hello little sister,” he declares. 

“We do not know if the babe will be a boy or a girl,” Lucius reminds your son. 

Maximus looks up at him with wide, serious eyes, his small chin jutting out in defiance. He stomps his foot with determination. “It will be a girl,” he declares, his voice confident and unshakable. “I have asked Juno Lucina.”

A small, amused smile tugs at the corners of your lips, and you exchange a fond look with Lucius, who raises an eyebrow.

“The gods do not always grant our wishes,” you say gently. “We must wait and see what the fates have planned.”

Maximus pouts for a moment, clearly disappointed, but then his face brightens when a new thought occurs to him. “Well, a brother would be just as good I suppose. We can play gladiators together.”

“A fun prospect,” Acacius agrees, taking hold of his wrist. “Come, let us practice so you will be prepared to best him once he arrives.” Maximus follows his grandfather eagerly as he chatters with excitement about the gladiator battles he would soon win.

When they move further into the courtyard Lucius steps closer to you, his presence solid and warm. Without a word, he draws you into his arms. You rest your head against his chest, and he leans down to capture your lips in a soft kiss. The touch is gentle at first but it soon deepens, becoming more insistent, a slow burn that ignites something within you. Lucius groans, his tongue seeking entry to your mouth that you permit with a little gasp. 

“Maximus will be entertained for quite some time,” he whispers, pushing you back until the warm light of the courtyard fades and your figures are swallowed by the shadows of the hallway. 

These are your private quarters, and with Felix guarding the door, there is little risk of being discovered. Yet, despite the security, it still feels wrong to let Lucius have you here. Your weak protest is quickly silenced by your husband’s insistent fingers parting your dress and dipping between your thighs. These days it takes so little to make you ready for him and you groan, the cool stone a relief against the heated skin of your back. 

“It has been too long since I have felt your warmth,” he whispers. 

Your chuckle of amusement turns into a moan as he lines himself up and sinks inside you slowly. Pleasure blooms in your chest and you roll your hips in response, needing him deeper. “You had me this morning,” you remind him breathlessly. “Twice.”

“It is not enough,” he groans, urging you to wrap a leg around his hip. You teeter on one foot, your balance already unsteady with your growing belly, and clutch his shoulder for support. “I should be inside you every hour. Every minute.”

His words make you shudder and the burn of desire and pleasure intensifies within, an inferno that threatens to consume everything. You work with his rhythm, feeling frantic.

“More,” you gasp into his mouth. 

His next thrusts nearly lift your remaining foot from the floor and you throw your arms around his shoulders. His warm breath fans across your face and you exchange a desperate kiss, holding on while he jostles your body with each eager snap of his hips. A moan, loud and wanton, bursts from your chest as you come undone, your vision fading out. Lucius growls and his hand falls to your backside. He grabs your flesh and pushes himself deeper than you thought possible, the action edging on painful if it weren’t for the powerful waves of pleasure washing over you. 

“My love,” Lucius groans. 

The shudder that passes through him as he comes makes you throb around him, sparking another wave of pleasure. You hold on to one another as your ecstasy ebbs away, sharing the same warm air. When Lucius sets you back on your feet you tremble. He slips from your body and eases a hand over your belly before capturing your mouth in a long kiss. Your thighs are sticky and sweat gathers at the back of your neck but you’ve never felt more content. 

“Perhaps we should retire to the bathhouse,” he suggests. 

“Only if my Emperor commands it,” you reply with a playful smile, laughing at the intense look Lucius gives you in return.

“Perhaps he does,” he murmurs, rubbing his nose against yours. “Perhaps he also commands you to spend the rest of the day relaxing with him.”

“Oh, well if he commands it, I must comply,” you whisper, kissing him again.