#the laws that are designed to hurt her hurt me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

enhaflixer · 3 months ago

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psh - king of tears.

Chaebol Husband!Sunghoon | Queen of Tears AU FULL FIC

📌 summary: your marriage to park sunghoon was supposed to be a fairytale—until it wasn’t. now it’s cold stares across the dinner table, separate bedrooms in a mansion too big for the both of you, and divorce papers waiting to be signed. you were ready to walk away. he let you. so why does he look at you like he’s the one who lost everything?

word count: 20K genre: angst | slow burn | second chance romance | marriage in crisis | Queen of Tears AU | SMUT ANGST FLUFF (in that order) content warnings (explicit, minors dni!): a marriage falling apart but neither of you can let go, divorce papers as a weapon but neither of you sign them first, staring at an empty side of the bed and pretending it doesn’t hurt, pregnancy, watching him struggle alone but being too proud to help, , high society pressure, and pretending everything is fine when it’s not, angst-heavy sex (sex while crying, sex while angry, sex while pretending it doesn’t mean anything) "we’re supposed to be over, so why are you still fucking me like you love me?" breathless, mentions of a miscarriage, desperate sunghoon (bc when he breaks, he breaks) sunghoon is sick, weak, exhausted—but still strong enough to pin you down "i don’t love you anymore." // "then stop moaning my name.", luxury penthouse sex but it’s tragic, a hand around your throat but it’s not just about control—it’s about possession, he fucks you like he’s trying to remind you who you belong to, aftercare that isn’t really aftercare bc he still won’t say he loves you,

The room is filled with laughter, delicate clinks of fine china and crystal flutes, and the low hum of a jazz quartet playing something elegant and forgettable in the background. The city’s elite have gathered here tonight—not just business moguls, but socialites, investors, and politicians, all dressed in designer labels, all engaged in carefully curated conversations.

The air is thick with power and wealth, a reminder of the world you and Sunghoon exist in. A world where appearances matter more than emotions, where a marriage is not just about love, but about status, about alliances.

You’re used to this now—the expectations, the smiles, the weight of scrutiny disguised as admiration. You’ve mastered the art of being Park Sunghoon’s wife.

Sunghoon stands beside you, dressed in a sleek black suit, looking every bit the composed, untouchable CEO that people admire and envy in equal measure. His features are as sharp as ever, but there’s something distant in his gaze, something almost clinical in the way his hand rests lightly against the small of your back.

To an outsider, it’s a gesture of affection. A claim. A reminder that you belong to each other.

To you, it’s just for show.

"Smile."

His voice is low, quiet enough that no one else hears. It’s not a request. It’s a command.

Your lips curl into something effortless, something practiced. It’s not real, but it doesn’t need to be.

"Ah, our favorite couple has arrived," a familiar voice calls from across the room.

Turning toward the source, you’re met with the warm but calculating gaze of Chairman Park, Sunghoon’s father. His mother stands beside him, dressed immaculately as always, a refined smile on her lips.

"We were wondering when you two would make your grand entrance," she says smoothly, reaching out to take your hands in hers.

Her grip is light, delicate. Deceptive.

"You look beautiful, dear," she adds, her sharp eyes scanning you from head to toe.

You already know she’s assessing. Cataloging. Comparing you to the polished, obedient daughter-in-law she expected you to be.

Sunghoon’s father, however, has other interests.

"You’re glowing tonight," Chairman Park remarks, taking a sip of his whiskey. His eyes crinkle slightly at the edges. "It must be a sign that we’ll be hearing good news soon."

You barely have time to process his words before another voice chimes in—one of Sunghoon’s aunts, a woman who has made it her life’s mission to interrogate you at every family gathering.

"Yes, yes!" she gushes, already leaning in as if she’s about to hear a confession. "It’s been what? three years since the wedding? We were just saying the other day how we still haven’t heard any news!"

There it is. The question that always comes, in one form or another.

The polite, well-mannered, socially acceptable way of asking: Why haven’t you given him a child yet?

You see it before you hear it—the way Sunghoon’s fingers tighten around his champagne flute, the subtle twitch in his jaw. But he doesn’t say anything.

Of course, he doesn’t.

So you do what you always do. You smile. You deflect. You play your part.

"Work keeps us busy," you say smoothly, taking a slow sip of champagne. "There’s still so much we want to accomplish first."

The aunt clicks her tongue, shaking her head. "Ah, but what’s all this success without a family to share it with?"

You feel it then—the weight of your in-laws’ eyes on you, the expectation pressing against your ribs like an iron cage.

Sunghoon’s mother hums, a soft, carefully measured sound. "Children bring a different kind of happiness," she says, voice light but laced with meaning. "Of course, it’s ultimately your decision… but I do hope you aren’t waiting too long."

Another aunt leans in, faux sympathy dripping from her tone. "There aren’t any problems, are there?"

It’s a dagger cloaked in silk. The insinuation. The unspoken judgment.

You don’t have to look at Sunghoon to know he’s bristling beside you. You can feel the tension in his silence.

Still, he says nothing.

The moment stretches, uncomfortable and suffocating. And then—

A soft laugh. Controlled. Collected.

Sunghoon turns his head slightly, his expression unreadable as he finally speaks.

"We appreciate your concern," he says, voice smooth as glass. "But when we have something to share, you’ll be the first to know."

There’s nothing in his tone that suggests anger, but the way his mother’s lips press together ever so slightly tells you she’s caught the warning beneath his words.

The conversation shifts, flowing into another topic, but you no longer hear it. You’re still holding your champagne flute, fingers gripping the stem a little too tightly.

Sunghoon doesn’t look at you. Not even once.

The meal is extravagant, an elaborate showcase of wealth and refinement. Each course is served with meticulous precision, arriving in waves of delicate flavors and carefully plated masterpieces. Crystal glasses remain full, refilled before they ever have the chance to empty, while waitstaff glide through the room with the kind of quiet efficiency that only comes from years of training. Around you, conversation flows as smoothly as the wine, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter from tables where people have had just enough to drink to let their guard down.

The atmosphere is lively, engaging. A room filled with the kind of people who measure success in numbers and influence rather than in anything tangible like love or happiness.

You and Sunghoon don’t speak.

It isn’t new.

It’s been months—maybe even longer—since you’ve had a real conversation. These events used to be something you faced together, an exhausting but necessary part of maintaining appearances in your world. There was a time when he would lean in close, whisper something wry against the shell of your ear just to make you laugh, his hand resting on your thigh beneath the table as a silent reminder that, no matter how long the evening stretched, you would leave together.

Now, his presence beside you feels like nothing more than habit. The weight of expectation.

To everyone else, you are still Park Sunghoon’s wife—flawless and poised, an extension of his success, the perfect image of a woman who belongs at his side. But to each other, you are barely anything at all.

You watch as he listens intently to the conversation at hand, nodding along as one of his board members drones on about upcoming market trends. His features remain unreadable, his fingers steady as he lifts his glass to his lips, sipping at his wine without a second thought. His ability to be present yet completely unreachable is something you once admired about him. Now, it’s something that drives you insane.

At some point during the meal, while the conversation has drifted toward a discussion on recent company acquisitions, a new voice cuts through the air.

"You remember Soojin, don’t you?"

It’s not a question so much as a strategic opening, delivered with the practiced ease of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing.

You shift slightly, already knowing where this is going before you even turn your head. Sunghoon’s mother is smiling, her expression warm and pleasant in the way that only someone raised in high society can master. It is a look that has fooled many, but not you. You’ve spent too many years in her presence to mistake it for anything but a well-placed maneuver.

Her gaze flickers toward a table across the room, drawing your attention to the woman seated there. Soojin.

She is beautiful in the way that women in your world are expected to be—polished, refined, her makeup flawless, her hair styled to perfection. The kind of woman who commands attention without even trying.

The kind of woman Sunghoon’s mother would have preferred as her daughter-in-law.

"Her father’s company just finalized a deal with ours," she continues, lifting her glass to her lips. "It’s an impressive partnership."

You say nothing.

She doesn’t need you to.

"She’s always been such a sweet girl," she adds, her smile never faltering. "Smart. Beautiful. And her family is so well-connected."

The words are light, conversational, but the weight of them is suffocating.

She doesn’t say it outright, but the message is clear.

You are not the only option.

There are women who would make the perfect Mrs. Park—women who would be better suited for the role, who would know how to uphold the family name, who would understand the responsibilities that come with being married to someone like Sunghoon.

Women who would not have made the mistakes you did.

Your grip tightens around your fork.

You keep your expression neutral, refusing to react. You won’t give her the satisfaction. You won’t let her see that the words sting in a way they shouldn’t, that they burrow beneath your skin, scraping against wounds that never quite healed.

"I’m aware," Sunghoon says, finally setting his wine glass down with deliberate ease.

Two words. Nothing more.

His mother studies him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she smiles again, as if the moment never happened.

The conversation moves forward.

You exhale slowly, setting your glass down, your fingers still curled around the delicate stem. No reassurance. No defense. No effort to correct what was just implied.

I’m aware.

A bitter taste lingers on your tongue, but you swallow it down, lifting your chin slightly as you redirect your attention to the meal in front of you.

You already know how this night will end. The same way it always does. With silence.

The moment you step inside the penthouse, the carefully constructed facade of the evening begins to crumble. The sterile glow of the overhead lights does little to ease the weight pressing against your chest, the silence between you and Sunghoon thick with something sharp, something unsaid.

You hear the quiet rustle of fabric as he shrugs off his suit jacket, draping it over the arm of a chair before undoing the first few buttons of his dress shirt. His movements are methodical, controlled, as if he’s following a script that no longer holds any meaning.

You should keep walking. You should disappear into the bathroom, wash the night off your skin, lock yourself behind a door like you have so many nights before. But instead, you linger, fingers still curled around the strap of your bag, your gaze tracing the familiar lines of his back, the tension in his shoulders.

"You didn’t say anything."

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. Your voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it, a challenge buried beneath the exhaustion.

Sunghoon doesn’t turn. "About what?"

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. "About what?" you repeat, laughter bubbling up, bitter and humorless. "About your mother. About your aunts. About all of them sitting there, questioning me like I’m some failed investment."

A pause.

Then, finally, he glances over his shoulder. "What did you want me to say?"

The way he says it—steady, detached, devoid of any real curiosity—makes your stomach twist.

"Anything," you say, because that’s the truth of it. You just wanted something.

His lips press together briefly before he turns back toward the dresser, rolling up his sleeves. "It wouldn’t have changed anything."

And there it is.

That unbearable indifference.

The quiet, unshaken finality of a man who has already made peace with his own silence.

It shouldn’t feel like a slap to the face, but it does.

"You never fight for anything," you whisper, voice barely audible over the hum of the city outside.

He doesn’t say a word, but you can feel it—the way his gaze trails over your bare skin, the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s holding himself back.

It only takes a step. One step forward, and everything snaps.

His hands are on you before you can think—gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him, the heat of his body bleeding into yours. His mouth crashes against yours, rough, unyielding, a kiss that isn’t sweet or tender, but desperate, punishing. You gasp against him, your fingers tangling in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp as he presses you back against the dresser.

"You always do this," he mutters against your lips, his breath hot, his voice sharp. "Come to me when you need to forget."

You don’t answer.

You don’t need to.

His hands slide up your thighs, pushing them apart with ease. He’s impatient, reckless, fingers slipping beneath the lace of your panties, dragging them down before you can protest. A sharp inhale leaves your lips as he presses two fingers against your clit, circling slow, teasing, just enough to make your hips jerk forward.

"Already wet," he muses, dragging his fingers through your slick folds. His tone is mocking, but his voice is hoarse, strained. "That desperate for me?"

You bite down on your lower lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. But your body betrays you, hips rolling against his hand, chasing the friction that he’s refusing to give.

Sunghoon chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. Just something bitter, something dark.

Without warning, he presses two fingers inside you, stretching you open with a slow, deliberate pace. Your breath hitches, nails digging into his shoulders as he curls his fingers, stroking the spot that makes your knees tremble.

"You can pretend all you want," he murmurs against your throat, his lips trailing down, teeth scraping against your skin. "But your body knows who it belongs to."

His free hand moves to your chest, fingers tweaking your nipple, rolling it between his fingers before his mouth replaces them, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin. You arch into him, a whimper slipping past your lips, your thighs tightening around his wrist.

"Sunghoon," you gasp, a plea or a warning—you’re not sure.

He pulls away, his fingers slipping from you, leaving you empty and aching. Before you can protest, he turns you around, pressing your front against the cool surface of the dresser, his body crowding you from behind. His hands roam your body, over the swell of your ass, down to your thighs, spreading them apart as he presses the hard length of his cock against your heat.

You exhale sharply as he grips your hips, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds, coating himself in your slick before pressing forward. The stretch is sharp, deep, and you gasp, gripping the edge of the dresser as he sinks into you, inch by inch, filling you completely.

"Fuck," he groans, his fingers tightening against your hips, like he’s barely holding himself together.

He gives you a second—just one—before he pulls back and thrusts into you again, setting a brutal, relentless pace. Each movement is rough, deliberate, the sound of skin against skin mixing with the soft, breathy moans slipping past your lips.

The dresser rattles beneath you, your body rocking with each thrust, and you can do nothing but take it, the pleasure sharp and consuming. Sunghoon grips your hair, pulling your head back as he leans in, his breath hot against your ear.

"Let them keep talking," he mutters, voice ragged, punctuated by the snap of his hips.

Your breath catches, your walls clenching around him at his words.

Sunghoon lets out a low groan, his thrusts growing deeper, sharper, his fingers moving back to your clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles. The tension coils tighter, your body burning, unraveling beneath him.

"Cum," he murmurs, his voice softer now, breathless.

And you do—pleasure washing over you in waves, your thighs shaking, your moan muffled as he presses a hand against your mouth, keeping you from making too much noise.

He follows soon after, his grip tightening, his cock pulsing inside you as he groans low against your shoulder, spilling into you with a shudder.

For a moment, there is only silence.

Then, just as expected, he pulls away.

Rolls onto his back.

Says nothing.

You stare at the reflection of yourself in the dresser mirror—flushed skin, swollen lips, empty eyes. You should leave. You should.

But you don’t.

Instead, you slip beneath the covers, curling away from him, pressing your knuckles against your mouth to keep yourself from shaking.

Because tonight, at least, you don’t want to feel alone.

The morning is quiet.

You wake up to an empty bed, the sheets beside you already cold. The absence of warmth shouldn’t bother you—it hasn’t in months—but today, it does. The ache in your body from the night before lingers, a dull, throbbing reminder of something you wish you could forget.

For a moment, you stay still, staring up at the ceiling, tracing the patterns of light and shadow that spill through the curtains. The penthouse is bathed in soft gold from the rising sun, a warmth that contrasts the cold emptiness beside you.

There was a time when mornings like these meant something. When you’d wake up tangled in Sunghoon’s limbs, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your back, his lips pressing lazy kisses against your shoulder. When the weight of his body against yours felt grounding instead of suffocating.

Now, there’s nothing but space.

You take a slow breath, blinking against the dryness in your eyes before finally sitting up. The silence is deafening, the type that only exists in places too large for two people who no longer belong to each other.

When you step out of bed, your legs feel unsteady, soreness creeping up your spine. You ignore it. You move toward the bathroom, turning on the sink, splashing cold water on your face as if it’ll rinse away the heaviness in your chest. It doesn’t.

Your reflection stares back at you, eyes slightly swollen, lips faintly bruised from the way he kissed you last night. You press your fingers against them, swallowing down the memory of his touch, of the way his hands had held you so tightly as if he could keep you from slipping away.

But he didn’t.

He never could.

By the time you make your way downstairs, the smell of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air. The sight of Sunghoon sitting at the dining table shouldn’t make your stomach tighten the way it does. He looks like he always does—effortlessly composed, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand while his other scrolls through his phone.

Like nothing happened.

Like last night was just another night.

The illusion of normalcy almost makes you hesitate. Almost.

Instead, you step forward, setting the folder down on the glass surface of the table with a deliberate thud. The sound cuts through the silence, drawing Sunghoon’s attention as his eyes flicker up to meet yours.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t react, just studies you for a moment before his gaze drifts downward to the document between you.

Divorce Agreement.

His fingers pause against the rim of his coffee cup.

"Where were you?," you say, your voice steady, carefully controlled.

"Work," he replies, taking a slow sip of his coffee.

You cross your arms, exhaling through your nose. "You knew this was coming." Your voice is measured, even, despite the tightness in your throat.

Sunghoon finally sets his mug down with a soft clink, his expression unreadable. "I did."

"Then sign them."

A long silence stretches between you. You hold your ground, standing tall, watching as he leans back slightly in his chair, his fingers idly tapping against the surface of the table. He doesn’t look at the papers, just at you.

"You really want this?"

The words are simple. Too simple.

You hate the way they make your stomach twist. Hate the way your throat tightens because this shouldn’t be hard. This shouldn’t be something that makes your hands curl into fists at your sides.

"Yes."

His lips press together briefly before he exhales through his nose. Without another word, he pulls the folder toward him, flipping it open, skimming the terms with the same impassive ease he applies to every contract he reviews at work.

For a second, your breath catches.

You almost expect him to argue, to fight, to say something—anything.

But he doesn’t.

Not when he turns the page. Not when his eyes flicker across the fine print. Not when he reaches for the pen beside him.

And then—

He stops.

His fingers hover over the paper, the tip of the pen barely touching the page. Then, instead of signing, he clicks the pen shut and sets it down.

The air in the room shifts. Your stomach twists.

"Not tonight." His voice is smooth, final.

You blink. "What?"

He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, his expression completely unreadable. "I’ll think about it."

Something in your chest tightens, frustration curling in your throat. "Think about what?" You gesture to the papers between you. "This isn’t something that needs consideration, Sunghoon. This is happening. It’s already over."

His gaze darkens slightly, but his face remains composed. "Then why are you still here?"

Your breath catches.

Because you haven’t left yet. Because some part of you still needs this conversation. Because some part of you is waiting for him to say something that changes everything.

The silence stretches, heavy and unbearable. His fingers drum against the glass once, twice, before he reaches for his whiskey glass instead, taking a slow sip. His lips part slightly, as if he’s about to say something, but then he just shakes his head.

"You’ll have them back tomorrow."

But you already know—he won’t sign.

Not tomorrow. Not the next day. Maybe not ever.

Park Enterprises runs on three things: money, power, and the ability to avoid Park Sunghoon and his soon-to-be-ex-wife in the same room at all costs.

This isn’t an official company policy, but if you asked anyone—from the executives to the janitorial staff—they’d all agree: keeping their two highest-ranking officials away from each other is the best way to ensure the company doesn’t collapse in on itself.

This is why, over the past few months, a silent, unofficial, yet highly efficient system has developed.

It begins every morning.

6:45 AM: Sunghoon arrives, coffee in hand, barely glancing at the receptionist before disappearing into his office. If he sighs immediately upon entering? Bad day. If he slams his office door? Get the emergency evacuation plan ready. 7:15 AM: You arrive, headphones in, already on a call, looking like you’re mentally preparing for battle. If you greet anyone? Good day. If you walk straight to your office without making eye contact? Avoid, avoid, avoid. 7:30 AM: Your PA, Nishimura Riki, updates the "Safe Zones" list. Any floor occupied by both you and Sunghoon is immediately deemed a no-go area.

By 9 AM, the "Daily Avoidance Protocol" is in full effect.

Incoming text: 📲 [Riki → Legal Team] 🚨 Sunghoon spotted near the finance department. Legal team, take the back elevators. DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT TAKE THE MAIN LOBBY.

Incoming text: 📲 [Sunoo → Executive Team] 🛑 Your boss is stomping through the 18th floor like a woman on a mission. She just told an intern to "never, ever look that stressed in front of her again" and I don’t think she was joking.

Incoming text: 📲 [Riki → Sunoo] i heard ur boss threw his pen at the wall this morning lol wtf did u do to him

[Sunoo]: nothing yet but im about to stir the pot for fun.

[Riki]: bet.

And then, of course, there’s lunch.

There used to be a time—back when things were different, when things were better—when you and Sunghoon would eat together. Now?

Now, entire lunch routes are planned out in advance to make sure the two of you never end up in the same restaurant, let alone the same hallway.

Incoming text: 📲 [Sunoo → Riki] Depressed male boss is heading toward the rooftop restaurant. tell ur people to evacuate the 10th floor cafe IMMEDIATELY.

Incoming text: 📲 [Riki → Legal Team] 🚨 ABORT. ABORT. DO NOT GO TO THE CAFÉ. I REPEAT, DO NOT GO TO THE CAFÉ.

By 3 PM, most employees think they’ve made it through the day safely. Until they check the meeting schedule. And realize. There’s a joint executive-legal meeting scheduled at 4:30 PM. Which means.

They have to be in the same room.

The boardroom at Park Enterprises is a high-stakes battlefield.

The executives and legal team are already seated, carefully keeping their faces neutral, their eyes trained on the reports in front of them. No one dares to speak. Everyone is pretending to be busy, flipping through documents they’ve already memorized just to avoid being caught in the crossfire of what is about to happen.

At one end of the table, Sunoo twirls his pen lazily between his fingers, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Across from him, Riki updates the betting pool on his phone, typing at lightning speed while shooting occasional glances toward the door.

It’s only a matter of time before the two storm fronts collide.

The first arrival is you.

You stride in with effortless confidence, shoulders squared, back straight, file in hand. Your heels click sharply against the polished floors, announcing your presence before you even reach your seat.

You don’t acknowledge Sunghoon’s presence.

Your team watches as you settle into your chair, flipping open your folder with a level of precision that makes it very, very clear you are not in the mood for incompetence today.

Riki immediately clocks the stiffness in your posture. He subtly pulls out his phone under the table, fingers flying over the screen.

📲 Incoming text: [Riki → Legal Team] boss lady is MAD mad. don’t make eye contact, stay low, survive.

Barely thirty seconds later, Sunghoon walks in.

He doesn’t look at you.

Instead, he exhales sharply as he takes his seat, flipping open his laptop with measured ease, his expression unreadable. The sound of his pen clicking open is the only thing that breaks the silence.

he just sighed. that’s a bad sign. let’s all start praying now.

For the first ten minutes, everything is fine.

Reports are reviewed, revenue projections are discussed, and for a fleeting moment, there’s the illusion of normalcy. You make your points with cool efficiency, and Sunghoon listens without interruption.

"The merger contract," one of the executives finally says, carefully glancing between the two of you like he’s about to light a match in a room full of gasoline.

You don’t hesitate. You already know where this is going.

"The terms still require legal review," you state, flipping to the necessary section in your file. "The current liability clauses remain too vague for approval."

Sunghoon doesn’t even look up from his laptop. "The legal team has had two weeks to finalize those clauses."

Your brows lift slightly. "And yet, they’re still a problem. Imagine that."

The temperature in the room drops.

Sunoo, who had been casually taking notes, suddenly stops writing. His eyes flicker between you and Sunghoon, realization dawning.

Riki, seated to your right, visibly winces. His grip on his pen tightens before it slips from his fingers and rolls off the table.

Sunghoon finally looks up, his dark eyes meeting yours with quiet intensity. "You’re delaying a time-sensitive deal over minor details."

Your lips curl, the faintest hint of amusement playing at the edges. "Minor details? You mean, like, the ones that could potentially cost us millions in damages?"

His jaw tightens. "There’s a deadline for a reason."

"And there’s a reason you need my approval before proceeding," you counter, tone perfectly composed. "Which, let me remind you, you don’t have yet."

The silence that follows is deafening.

Sunoo leans back in his chair, murmuring to Riki under his breath. "They’re fighting in full sentences today."

Riki nods slowly, still typing. "This is worse than last week’s passive-aggressive email exchange."

Sunghoon exhales sharply, sitting back in his chair. His fingers drum once—just once—against the table before he speaks again.

"Fine," he says smoothly, but his tone is sharp. "Take another day. No more than that."

You hum thoughtfully, feigning consideration as you flip another page in your file. "I’ll let you know if that’s feasible."

Sunoo, who is now openly grinning, tilts his phone toward Riki.

📲 Incoming text: [Riki → Legal Team] the CEO looks like he wants to kill someone but is trying to stay professional. ten bucks says he slams his laptop shut first.

📲 Incoming text: [Sunoo → Executive Team] LMFAO he just clenched his jaw so hard I think he cracked a tooth.

Your heels click against the polished floor as you walk further in the penthouse, but you don’t call out for him. You don’t need to. You already know where he is.

The scent of whiskey lingers in the air—subtle, but unmistakable. Your eyes land on Park Sunghoon, sitting on the couch in the dim light of the living room, his posture relaxed, one arm draped over the back of the cushions, his other hand resting near the glass of amber liquid on the coffee table. His tie is loose, the first few buttons of his dress shirt undone, his sleeves rolled up as if he’s been here for a while, waiting.

But that isn’t what catches your attention.

The divorce papers sit between you on the glass surface.

Untouched.

Your throat tightens as something bitter and exhausted coils low in your stomach. You set your bag down near the door with more force than necessary, the sound sharp against the silence. You’re tired—of the fights, of the push and pull, of this thing between you that refuses to die no matter how much you try to smother it.

"You haven’t signed them." Your voice is level, controlled, giving away nothing. But inside, your pulse is unsteady, your fingers curling into fists at your sides.

Sunghoon doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches for his whiskey, taking a slow sip, his movements measured, deliberate. When he sets the glass back down, the faint clink against the glass table feels deafening in the quiet room. His gaze lifts to yours, dark and unreadable, his expression betraying nothing.

"No."

The single word lands between you like a gunshot.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, nails pressing into your palms as frustration flares up in your chest. "Sunghoon—"

"Say it."

His voice is quiet, but the weight of it cuts through the space between you with an edge sharper than steel.

You frown slightly, tilting your head in question. "Say what?"

His eyes remain steady on yours, holding you there, unrelenting. There’s no coldness in them, not like there usually is, but something deeper, heavier, more dangerous.

"Say you don’t love me anymore."

The air in the room thickens, growing heavy with something suffocating, unbearable.

It should be easy.

You should be able to say it, to lie through your teeth and tear the last fraying thread between you. You’ve spent months trying to unlove him, convincing yourself that walking away is the only choice left.

But the way he’s looking at you now—the way his fingers ghost over the edge of the divorce papers but never actually touch them—it makes something sink deep in your chest, twisting into something that feels like regret.

Your jaw tightens, shoulders drawing stiff, as you inhale slowly through your nose. "Don’t do this," you murmur, voice quieter now.

Sunghoon leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, the corner of his mouth curling into something resembling a smirk, but there’s no amusement behind it. "Do what?"

Your pulse hammers against your ribs as anger rises in your throat, sharp and bitter. "Pretend to care when you never did."

Something snaps.

Fast. Brutal.

Before you can react, you’re on the couch, pinned beneath him, Sunghoon’s hand wrapped around your throat.

Your breath catches as your back presses into the cushions, your pulse stuttering beneath his fingers. The grip isn’t tight—not enough to hurt—but just enough to hold you there, to remind you exactly who he is.

His face is close, too close, his breath warm against your lips, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the tension in every muscle. His gaze flickers between your eyes, searching, burning, filled with something dark and raw.

"You think I never cared?" His voice is low, rough, dangerous in a way that sends heat curling through your stomach.

Your body tenses, then melts, as his other hand trails up your thigh, fingers barely skimming your skin, teasing, not touching where you need him to.

"You think I don’t want you?" His breath is uneven now, his fingers tightening just slightly around your throat before loosening again. His thumb brushes along the side of your neck, slow, deliberate. His body is pressed against yours, solid and warm, every inch of him so close, too close, not close enough.

Your fingers wrap around his wrist, nails pressing lightly into his skin, grounding yourself, grounding him. Your breath is shaky when you speak, barely above a whisper. "I think you don’t know how to want me without ruining me."

A muscle in his jaw ticks.

For a second—just a second—he looks wrecked.

Then, his grip tightens.

Your breath stutters, a soft gasp slipping past your lips as heat pools low in your stomach. His lips brush against your ear, his voice lower now, rough, a quiet warning.

"Tell me to stop."

You should.

Sunghoon waits, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, his fingers tightening around your waist, his grip flexing against your throat just enough to make your pulse quicken.

"You won’t, will you?" His tone is almost amused, but there’s something darker underneath, something that sounds almost like relief.

You shake your head.

And then his lips crash into yours.

The kiss is deep, hungry, filled with everything you’ve both been pretending doesn’t exist. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, pulling you closer like he wants to memorize the shape of you all over again.

Your fingers tangle into his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp, and he groans into your mouth, his body pressing you further into the couch, his knee parting your thighs. His hands slide under your dress, rough palms trailing against your skin, teasing, making you ache.

"Still wet for me," he mutters, voice dark, breathless. His fingers slip beneath your panties, dragging over your soaked folds, slow and deliberate, just to prove his point.

You whimper against his mouth, thighs trembling as he strokes you, not giving you what you need, just teasing, just pushing you closer to the edge.

"Sunghoon," you gasp, a plea, a warning.

He smirks against your skin, lips pressing against your throat, sucking at the sensitive skin before sinking two fingers into you, curling just right.

"You hate me, remember?" His voice is taunting, wicked.

Your back arches, hips rocking against his fingers, chasing more, chasing him.

Your breath comes out in shuddering gasps as you whisper the only thing you can manage. "I hate you."

Sunghoon lets out a breathless, bitter laugh.

"Liar."

"That’s not how we do things at Park Enterprises, Mrs. Park," Sunghoon muses.

He leans back in his office chair, fingers tapping against the polished surface of the table. The way he says it is deliberate, lazy, like he’s testing you.

The meeting room is as usual, closer to World War 3 (total destruction edition) than a collaborative good-vibes-only space.

You still, fingers curling slightly against the stack of legal briefs in front of you. The flicker of heat that rushes through you isn’t fondness—it’s pure irritation.

"Don’t call me that." Your tone is measured, sharp.

Sunghoon’s lips twitch, but there’s no humor in his smirk. "Habit."

Your gaze hardens, your nails pressing into the contract as you slam it down in front of him.

"Then break it."

The entire room freezes.

Sunoo, seated two chairs down, makes a sound that might be a laugh but immediately covers it with a cough. Across from him, Riki subtly slides his phone out to update the betting pool on how long this fight is going to last.

The tension only thickens when Sunghoon reaches for the contract, flipping through the pages like he isn’t remotely affected. His expression is smooth, almost bored, but you don’t miss the way his jaw tightens just slightly.

"You seem invested in this," he muses, signing his name on the margin like he’s humoring you. "Why? Worried about my financial well-being?"

You exhale slowly, forcing down the irritation curling in your chest. "No. I just don’t like being dragged into your reckless decisions when you know I’ll have to clean up your mess later."

Sunghoon’s eyes flick up to yours. There’s something there, something sharp, dark, something that makes your stomach twist.

"You always do," he murmurs. "Clean up after me."

You refuse to react, refuse to let him see that he’s getting under your skin. Instead, you push back your chair, standing with a level of poise that takes effort.

"I don’t work for you, Sunghoon," you remind him, voice cold. "I work for the company."

His lips press together, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t tell you you’re wrong.

Because you aren’t.

📲 Incoming text: [Sunoo → Riki] he just flexed his fingers like he wanted to throw the pen LMFAO ur boss literally just called him reckless in front of the entire room. this is peak entertainment.

📲 Incoming text: [Riki → Legal Team] ceo looks ready to commit murder. we might need security.

📲 Incoming text: [Sunoo → Executive Team] he just sighed through his nose. we are in DANGER.

The morning sun spills into Park Enterprises, painting streaks of gold across the marble floors of the top executive offices. Everything looks pristine, polished—exactly the way Sunghoon keeps it. But today, something is off.

You push open the heavy glass door to his office without knocking, a thick stack of contracts tucked under your arm. Your heels click against the floor with precise, deliberate steps, each one punctuating the tension lingering between you.

Without hesitation, you slam the folder onto his desk.

“You’re going to sign this,” you declare, arms crossing over your chest, voice clipped, firm.

Sunghoon doesn’t respond right away.

You expect the usual pushback—some sarcastic remark, a knowing smirk, the casual dismissal of your concerns—but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he stays where he is, leaning against the edge of his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened just enough to suggest exhaustion. His fingers press lightly against the smooth wood surface behind him, as if steadying himself.

He looks off.

Not tired—Sunghoon is always tired. But off.

You narrow your eyes. “What, no argument?”

He blinks at you, slowly, like it takes more effort than it should. His grip on the desk tightens briefly before he exhales, dragging a hand through his already tousled hair.

"Are you okay?" The question leaves your lips before you can stop it.

Sunghoon finally reacts, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—small, forced. “Worried about me now?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “I just don’t want you dying in my office.”

He chuckles, but the sound is weak, quieter than usual. He straightens up, shifts his weight slightly, but the way he moves is wrong—like he’s trying too hard to make it look effortless.

"If I did," he murmurs, "I’d haunt you."

Normally, that would be enough to pull an eye roll out of you. Maybe even a snarky remark. But something about the way he says it makes your stomach tighten.

You watch him carefully. The way his fingers flex against the desk. The slight tension in his shoulders. The way his smirk falters at the edges.

Sunghoon has always carried himself with control—measured, deliberate, never showing a single crack in the façade. But right now, standing in front of you, he looks off balance.

The last time he looked like this, the last time he held himself together just a little too well, something had been wrong then too.

Something you didn’t realize until it was too late.

The memory presses at the edges of your thoughts, but you push it down.

“Maybe you should sit down before you do something stupid,” you mutter.

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow, clearly amused, but he does exactly that. He sinks into his chair, rolling his shoulders, letting out a slow breath before picking up the contract.

“Relax,” he says, flipping through the pages. “I’ll sign your stupid paperwork. No need to get sentimental.”

Your jaw tightens, irritation curling at the edges of your concern. “I’m not being sentimental. I just don’t want to deal with the PR disaster when you inevitably collapse.”

Sunghoon lets out a quiet huff of laughter, but the way his fingers drift to his temple, pressing lightly, does not go unnoticed. He rubs at the tension there, eyes briefly fluttering shut before he shakes his head, pushing through whatever is bothering him.

“I’m fine.”

You don’t believe him. But you don’t push. Because the last time you did, you lost.

It had been late.

Past midnight. The city outside your bedroom window was still awake, alive with light and movement, but inside, the world had gone silent.

You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, exhaustion pressing into your chest like a weight you couldn’t lift. You weren’t crying. You had already done that. There was nothing left inside you except emptiness.

Sunghoon lay beside you.

Awake. Motionless. Silent.

His back was turned to you.

And the worst part, the part that haunted you even now, wasn’t that he hadn’t said anything.

It was that when you had reached for his hand, he had let you hold it.

But he hadn’t held yours back.

The memory lingers even as you push it away.

You watch Sunghoon as he picks up the contract, flipping through the pages with minimal interest. His fingers tighten slightly when he turns each page, like he’s holding back something.

Pain. Fatigue. Something worse.

"You look like shit," you say finally, leaning against his desk, arms crossed.

Sunghoon hums, barely glancing up. “Charming as always.”

"You should get checked out."

He snorts, shaking his head. “If I wanted medical advice, I wouldn’t take it from my ex-wife.”

"Not ex yet."

And for some reason, as you turn to leave, you can’t shake the feeling that you just missed something important.

The Park family never asks for favors.

Not officially, at least.

It’s always subtle, always wrapped in polite smiles and casual requests, laced with just enough manipulation to make refusal feel impossible.

Which is why you’re seated in the Park family’s private lounge, sipping tea that’s gone cold, listening to Sunghoon’s mother and his uncle discuss the delicate legal situation that has suddenly become your responsibility.

“It’s just a small thing,” his mother insists, waving a dismissive hand as though corporate fraud allegations against one of their subsidiary partners are a minor inconvenience rather than a full-blown lawsuit waiting to happen.

You keep your expression neutral, fingers laced neatly over your knee. “It’s not a small thing,” you correct evenly. “You’re looking at a serious case of financial misrepresentation, and if this isn’t handled properly, it could affect all of Park Enterprises. This isn’t something I can just sweep under the rug.”

His uncle chuckles like you’ve just told a particularly amusing joke. “Oh, we know that, dear. That’s why we’re bringing it to you.”

Dear.

You resist the urge to tense, keeping your posture composed.

Because this is what you’ve become to them.

Not a daughter-in-law. Not family.

A lawyer first, a liability second.

“You’ve always been so good at handling these sorts of things,” his mother adds, smiling that elegant, carefully practiced smile that never quite reaches her eyes. “And with your position at the company, it only makes sense for you to oversee it personally.”

Of course. Personally.

They won’t trust this kind of thing to an outsider. But they also won’t officially involve you, because that would mean compensation, responsibility, accountability.

Instead, they’ll let you handle it just enough to clean up their mess. They’ll let you do the work, bear the stress, and take the fall if things go wrong.

And Sunghoon?

Sunghoon won’t say a word.

You glance to your left, where he’s seated quietly, fingers tapping lightly against the rim of his coffee cup. He hasn’t spoken once since this conversation began.

Not to defend you. Not to refuse. Not to say anything at all.

Just… silent.

Your fingers tighten around the folder in your lap.

“I’ll review the case,” you say finally, voice clipped, controlled. “But I won’t guarantee anything.”

His mother beams, reaching forward to squeeze your hand like you’ve just agreed to Sunday brunch, not to clean up yet another one of their family’s legal disasters.

“I knew we could count on you,” she says sweetly.

Sunghoon still says nothing.

Not when his mother praises you.

Not when his uncle jokes about how lucky Sunghoon is to have married such a “resourceful” woman.

Not when the conversation finally ends, and they rise from their seats, leaving you with a stack of documents, a heavier workload, and a headache that has nothing to do with legal strategy.

It isn’t until you’re alone with him in the car, on the drive back home, that you finally let your frustration boil over.

“So that’s how this works now?” Your voice is flat, gaze fixed on the city lights outside the window. “Your family gets into trouble, and I’m the free labor you offer up to fix it?”

Sunghoon exhales, tilting his head back against the seat. “It’s not like that.”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “No? Because from where I’m sitting, it sure as hell feels like it.”

His fingers flex against the steering wheel. “You’re the best lawyer they know,” he says after a beat, like that somehow makes it better. Like that somehow makes this okay.

You turn to look at him, eyes narrowing. “And that’s all I am, isn’t it?”

He went back after dropping you off.

His mother had barely glanced up from her tea. “She’s always been so difficult,” she sighed, setting the cup down with a delicate clink. “It would be easier if she simply cooperated without arguing every little point.”

Sunghoon’s jaw had clenched at that.

His uncle had smirked, shaking his head. “Women like her are sharp, but they forget that they’re meant to—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

The room had gone silent.

His uncle blinked, raising a brow. “Excuse me?”

Sunghoon had leaned forward slightly, voice measured but laced with something dangerous. “You don’t get to talk about her like that.”

His mother frowned slightly, but the warning in his expression kept her from speaking.

His uncle, however, wasn’t as quick to read the room. “She’s my niece-in-law, I can—”

“She’s not yours anything,” Sunghoon cut in, tone sharp. “And the next time you speak about her like that, you won’t like how I respond.”

His uncle had scoffed, muttering something under his breath about being too soft on a woman who clearly didn’t respect her place, but the discussion didn’t go any further.

Because Sunghoon had stood up, buttoning his suit jacket, gaze level.

“You wanted her help?” he had said coldly. “You’ll take what she’s willing to give. And if she decides she’s done dealing with your bullshit, you won’t push her. Understood?”

The first sign that something is wrong comes in the form of silence.

For the past few days, Sunghoon has been more irritable than usual. Not outright angry, not obviously upset, just�� distant. He works longer hours, avoids unnecessary conversations, and brushes off every single instance you or his team ask if he’s okay. It’s nothing new—he’s always had a habit of overworking himself into exhaustion, pushing himself too hard, acting invincible even when he’s clearly not.

You’re used to it.

But today, something feels different.

Maybe it’s the way he barely acknowledged you in the morning meeting, his focus wavering during discussions where he’s usually sharp. Maybe it’s the way his grip tightened just slightly around his pen, like he needed to steady himself. Maybe it’s the way he looked at you—like he wanted to say something, but chose not to.

Or maybe it’s the way his entire office is empty when you pass by hours later, and his assistant, Sunoo, is nowhere to be found.

You stop in your tracks.

"Where is he?"

Riki looks up from his phone, startled by your sudden appearance at the executive floor. “Uh—meeting with finance, I think?”

You frown. “No, that ended an hour ago.”

Riki hesitates. He knows better than to lie to you. “He wasn’t looking too good earlier.”

Your stomach twists.

He’s been pushing himself too hard. You knew this would happen.

You spin on your heel, already moving before you can second-guess yourself.

When you find him, he’s exactly where you feared he’d be.

Collapsed on the floor of his office.

Sunghoon is slumped against the base of his desk, one hand still loosely gripping his chair, as if he had tried to stop himself from falling. His usually sharp, polished composure is completely gone—his dress shirt is slightly undone, his face pale, sweat beading along his brow. His breathing is shallow, his eyes half-lidded like he’s barely clinging to consciousness.

The sight of him like this—weak, vulnerable, not in control—makes something in your chest tighten painfully.

"Sunghoon," you breathe out, dropping to your knees beside him. Your hands hover over him for a second, uncertain, before you press against his shoulders, shaking him lightly. “Hey. Hey, look at me.”

His head tilts slightly, his gaze flickering to you, but it’s unfocused.

“…What are you doing here?” His voice is quiet, hoarse, like he’s barely holding onto himself.

Your heart pounds in your ears. “Shut up.” You tilt his chin up, searching his face, trying to assess just how bad this is. He’s too pale, too warm, and his breathing is far from steady.

"I’m fine," he murmurs, trying to push himself up, but his body betrays him. His limbs shake, his strength is gone, and before he can fall again, you catch him.

That’s when panic sinks in.

You barely register the way your arms tighten around him as you yell for help, your voice sharp, commanding. Within moments, Riki and Sunoo are rushing in, Sunoo already pulling out his phone to call an ambulance.

"Sunghoon, stay awake," you demand, your fingers brushing against his cheek. “Do you hear me? Stay awake.”

His lips curve slightly. Even now, he’s trying to smile.

“Bossy,” he mutters.

Your throat tightens. “Shut up and breathe.”

The hospital smells like antiseptic and exhaustion.

The waiting room is too bright, too cold, too suffocating. The dull hum of fluorescent lights buzzes overhead, mixing with the distant beeping of heart monitors and the low murmur of voices at the nurse’s station. You sit motionless, staring at the tiled floor, your arms crossed so tightly that your nails press crescents into your palms.

It’s been hours since they rushed Sunghoon in.

Riki and Sunoo are still here, but neither of them speaks. They hover nearby, their presence a quiet weight in the room, but they know better than to say anything. Everyone knows better than to say anything.

Finally, footsteps approach. A doctor stops in front of you, flipping through a clipboard. “Are you here for Park Sunghoon?”

Your breath catches. You rise immediately, ignoring the stiffness in your limbs. “Yes.”

“He’s stable for now,” the doctor says, voice calm and professional. “We ran some tests, but given his symptoms, this isn’t just exhaustion. He’s been dealing with this for a while, hasn’t he?”

Your stomach twists.

He’s been hiding this.

The doctor’s gaze softens slightly. “Are you his wife?”

The word cuts through you like a blade.

You swallow. Legally, yes. Emotionally? You don’t know anymore.

“Yes,” you say, the word tasting strange on your tongue.

The doctor nods. “Then I need to speak with you privately.”

The hospital room is suffocating.

It smells sterile, like antiseptic and something cold, something lifeless. The overhead lights cast a dim glow over everything—too bright, too harsh, too unforgiving. The heart monitor beside the bed beeps in slow, steady intervals, but Sunghoon’s breathing is anything but steady.

He looks wrecked.

His skin is too pale, washed out under the fluorescent glow. His lips are dry, colorless. There’s sweat clinging to his hairline, dampening the strands against his forehead. His fingers tremble where they rest against the blanket, curling slightly like even the fabric is too much to hold onto.

And yet, despite all of it, despite the exhaustion weighing down his body and the fever burning beneath his skin, he still looks at you with something sharp, something unyielding, when you demand the truth.

“How long have you known?”

Your voice is stretched too thin, raw from exhaustion and something deeper, something you don’t want to name.

Sunghoon exhales, closing his eyes for a second like it physically pains him to answer. When he finally does, his voice is quiet, hoarse from fatigue.

“Six months.”

The words sink into you like stones.

Your hands tighten around the metal bedrail, your grip so tight your knuckles go white. Your chest constricts, something ugly twisting inside of you, something that makes your stomach curl in on itself.

“Six fucking months?”

Sunghoon drags a trembling hand down his face, but even that looks like it takes too much effort. His body is failing him, but his voice is still there, still cutting, when he lets out a soft, bitter laugh.

“Would it have changed anything?”

Your breath catches, something sharp and painful ripping through your chest.

You let out a short, humorless laugh, something hollow and unfamiliar.

“Yes.”

Sunghoon finally looks at you, but there’s something haunted in his gaze. A long, unbearable silence stretches between you before his jaw tightens, his voice lowering, turning quiet, cutting like a blade against your skin.

“Did it change anything when I tried to hold you after we lost them?”

The air leaves your lungs.

You freeze, your entire body locking up, the grip you have on the bedrail so tight it screeches beneath your fingertips.

Sunghoon watches you carefully, but there’s no fight in his face, no anger, no bitterness.

Just exhaustion.

And pain.

Your voice barely makes it out. “You never tried.”

His breath catches.

“I did,” he murmurs, voice raw.

Your throat tightens.

“No, you didn’t.” You take a step forward, your pulse hammering, hands shaking. “You shut down. You let me—” Your breath hitches, your voice unsteady. “You let me go through it alone.”

Sunghoon doesn’t argue. He just looks away.

And that’s somehow worse.

“You acted like it never happened,” you whisper, the words barely holding themselves together. “Like they never happened.”

Sunghoon’s chest rises sharply, his fingers twitching, his breathing growing uneven again. His entire body stiffens, but he doesn’t push back.

And then, voice hoarse, shaking, wrecked,

“You think I didn’t care?”

Your hands curl into fists, but before you can say anything, before you can even process what’s happening—

Sunghoon moves too fast.

He tries to stand up, tries to close the space between you, but his body betrays him.

His IV yanks painfully, the needle shifting against his arm, and the wires attached to the monitor tangle around his wrist, pulling tighter when he moves. His breath stutters in pain, his fingers weakly gripping the sheets, but he doesn’t stop.

“Sunghoon,” you snap, eyes widening in alarm. “Sit the fuck down.”

But he doesn’t listen. He tries again to push himself up, stumbling slightly, and this time, his knees give out.

You barely catch him in time.

“Jesus Christ,” you hiss, gripping his arms as his entire weight collapses against you. His body burns under your touch, too warm, feverish, his breathing erratic. His head nearly falls against your shoulder, his body too weak to hold itself up.

His fingers clutch at the fabric of your blazer, something weak, something desperate.

And then—voice wrecked, hoarse, shaking—

“I named them.”

Your entire world tilts.

You go still.

Sunghoon doesn’t move, his forehead nearly pressed against your collarbone, his breath warm and shaky against your skin. His grip tightens, even as his body trembles.

“What?” Your voice barely makes it out, caught somewhere between disbelief and something worse.

“Every night while you were asleep next to me, I whispered their names silently. I prayed for them.”

Sunghoon exhales shakily. His legs shake beneath him, his chest heaving, his entire body drained. He’s burning up, sweat sticking to his temple, his breath shallow.

You grab him by the arms, shaking him slightly. “Say their names.”

Sunghoon winces, he shakes his head ‘no’ his face twisting like the words are physically painful to say. He exhales sharply, breath ragged.

“Say their names, Sunghoon.”

His fingers tighten around your sleeve, his whole body trembling under your touch. For a moment, he just stares at you, like saying it out loud will finally break him.

Then, barely above a whisper, like it’s being torn from him—

“Eunha and June.”

Your stomach drops.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his entire body slumping like he just let go of something he’s been carrying for years.

“I used to imagine who they’d look like more,” he whispers, his voice so thin, so hollow. “If Eunha would have had your eyes. If June would have had my smile.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

“I wondered if they would have fought like us,” he exhales shakily, his fingers flexing around the fabric of your sleeve. “If they would have been close. If they would have had your fire. If I would have been able to protect them.”

His next breath is ragged, breaking.

“They were my girls.”

Your stomach twists.

His voice isn’t just sad. It’s grief-stricken. It’s empty.

“Mine,” he murmurs. His fingers twitch at his sides, the life draining from his voice as his chest rises and falls too quickly. “Mine and yours and no one else’s.”

A sob breaks past your lips, full and desperate and wrecked.

Before you even realize what you’re doing, you pull him in.

Sunghoon immediately folds into you, his arms wrapping around your waist weakly, his face burying itself into the crook of your neck.

He’s burning up, feverish, barely staying upright.

Your hands press into his back, feeling the too-thin frame of him, the exhaustion pulling at his body, the heat radiating off him in waves.

Neither of you speak.

For the first time in years, there is nothing left to say.

You wake up feeling… off.

Your neck aches, your back is stiff, and there’s a strange, rhythmic beeping that’s far too loud for this early in the morning.

It takes a second to register where you are.

The hospital.

Sunghoon.

The entire night before crashes into you all at once. The fight. His fever. The names. The fact that you never left.

Your stomach tightens. You should have left. You should have walked out the second he fell asleep. That was the plan.

And yet, somehow—you didn’t.

Before you can sit up, the door swings open.

“Well, this is unexpected.”

You jump, blinking blearily as Sunoo steps inside, two cups of coffee in hand, his eyes scanning the room with just a little too much interest.

He doesn’t immediately say something annoying, which means he’s definitely about to.

You shift in your chair, sitting up straighter, clearing your throat. “Morning.”

Sunoo doesn’t move, just looks at you. Then at Sunghoon, still asleep in the bed. Then back at you.

Finally—he lets out a small hum. “You stayed.”

It’s not judgmental. It’s not even teasing, really—just surprised. But for some reason, it makes you feel weirdly defensive.

“He had a fever,” you mutter, shifting under his gaze. “It was high. I didn’t think he should be alone.”

Sunoo nods. “Right.”

You hate how knowing he sounds.

Before you can scowl at him, Sunghoon groans, shifting slightly in the bed. His brow furrows, his body tensing for a brief moment before his eyes crack open.

And you know the exact moment he registers Sunoo’s presence—because instead of groaning in pain like a normal sick person, he exhales sharply, eyes barely open but already full of irritation.

“The fuck are you doing here?” His voice is rough, hoarse from sleep, but still so unmistakably Sunghoon that it’s almost impressive.

Sunoo lets out a small laugh, shaking his head as he grabs his own coffee. “Ah, there he is. Same old personality, even after nearly dying.”

Sunghoon barely cracks an eye open before exhaling sharply, pressing his head back against the pillow. “Go away.”

Sunoo, wisely, does not go away.

Instead, he takes a slow sip of his coffee. “I mean, technically, I work here. It’s my job to check on the CEO.” His gaze flickers toward you. “But wow. Look at this. The dedicated wife, staying by his side all night. It’s like something out of a drama.”

You groan, pressing your fingers to your temple. “Sunoo—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he says, setting Sunghoon’s coffee on the bedside table. “I won’t tell the office too much. But, you know… people talk. Betting pools exist.”

Sunghoon slowly turns his head toward Sunoo.

And in the flattest, most deadpan voice imaginable, he says—

“You’re fired.”

Sunoo chokes on his coffee. “What?”

Sunghoon doesn’t even blink. “Pack your shit.”

“You wouldn’t survive a week without me,” Sunoo mutters, taking another sip.

Sunghoon closes his eyes, like he’s physically holding himself back from committing a crime.

You watch this exchange, unimpressed. “Are you two done?”

Sunoo gestures at Sunghoon. “Tell him. He’s the one being dramatic.”

Sunghoon’s eyes flick open again. “You barged in here at eight in the morning.”

“Nine,” Sunoo corrects. “And technically, I knocked.”

Neither of you remembers a knock.

Sunghoon takes a long, deep breath. “I still feel like shit. And the very first thing I see when I wake up is you. Running your mouth.”

Sunoo hums. “Okay, grumpy.”

Sunghoon glares.

Sunoo clears his throat, wisely changing the subject. “Anyway. You have the day off, obviously, but I have your morning reports whenever you’re—”

“I don’t care.”

Sunoo nods slowly. “Right. Well. I also have—”

“I still don’t care.”

Sunoo pauses. “…Okay, then.”

For the first time, he seems to sense that he’s overstayed his welcome. He takes a slow step toward the door, glancing between the two of you.

Then, mildly—“Try not to murder each other before lunch.”

And with that, he’s gone..

Sunghoon exhales sharply as he sinks into the passenger seat, eyes shut, head tilted back against the headrest. His body is still weak, and you know the car ride is taking more out of him than he’d ever admit. He doesn’t complain, though—he never does.

You keep your eyes on the road, both hands gripping the steering wheel, knuckles pressing just a little too hard against the leather. The silence stretches between you, filling the space inside the car, thick but not suffocating. Just there.

It’s not hostile. Not like before. But it’s not comfortable either.

For a while, neither of you say anything. The city blurs past in streaks of yellow streetlights and neon reflections, casting flickering shadows across Sunghoon’s face. His breathing is slow, controlled, like he’s trying not to let the exhaustion show.

But you see it.

You see the way his fingers twitch slightly against his thigh, how his jaw tenses every time you hit the smallest bump in the road. You see the way his chest rises and falls, slower than usual, deeper like he’s trying to regulate himself.

And then, finally—his voice breaks the silence.

“You don’t have to babysit me.”

It’s not sharp, not a challenge. Just… a test.

You inhale, eyes flickering toward him briefly before returning to the road. “I know.”

A pause. Then, quieter this time, a little more uncertain—“You don’t have to stay in the same house anymore.”

Your fingers tighten around the wheel, your stomach twisting in a way you don’t like.

“I know,” you say again, but this time, it sounds different. Less sure. Less like something you actually believe.

Sunghoon turns his head slightly, watching you from the corner of his eye. His expression remains unreadable, his voice careful.

“Then why are you still here?”

The traffic light ahead flicks to red. The car slows, the tires rolling to a smooth stop, but inside, everything still feels like it’s moving too fast.

You could answer honestly. You could tell him that you don’t know how to walk away from him yet, that you don’t know what the hell you’re still holding onto but you’re holding onto it anyway.

Instead, you let out a slow breath and shift slightly in your seat. “You wouldn’t last a week without me.”

Sunghoon huffs, gaze drifting back toward the windshield. “I’d last at least two.”

The corners of your lips twitch, but you press them together before the expression fully forms.

“Wanna bet?”

The breath he lets out is something close to a laugh—short, barely there, but real.

“Not really,” he mutters, exhaling through his nose.

Neither of you say anything after that.

But the silence that follows doesn’t feel as heavy as before.

The house is dimly lit, the soft glow from the hallway casting long shadows across the walls. The familiar scent of wood and clean linen lingers in the air, settling around you like something almost comforting, almost safe.

Sunghoon moves carefully, slower than he normally would, his fingers brushing against the wall for balance as he toes off his shoes. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t sway, but you see the way his body holds tension—too stiff, too controlled, like he’s bracing himself.

You don’t say anything.

Not until he lowers himself onto the couch, exhaling as if just the act of standing had drained him.

“You should sit down,” you say after a moment, arms crossing over your chest.

Sunghoon huffs a quiet breath, shaking his head. “You just watched me sit down.”

You roll your eyes, stepping into the kitchen without another word. He’s impossible. He always has been. The worst part is, you let yourself care anyway.

You fill a glass with water and bring it back to the living room, setting it down in front of him before dropping into the armchair across from the couch.

Sunghoon glances at the glass, then up at you.

“You’re not gonna make me drink it, are you?” His voice is hoarse, rough from exhaustion.

“I will if you keep being difficult.”

Sunghoon exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face before finally—finally—grabbing the glass. He takes a slow sip, sets it back down, and leans back into the cushions.

The silence that follows is heavy, but not the kind that threatens to break.

For a few minutes, neither of you speak. The tension sits between you, waiting, stretching until you finally say—

“You need to take time off.”

Sunghoon’s brow furrows slightly, eyes still closed.

“I already did,” he mutters.

You scoff. “No, you were hospitalized. That’s not ‘time off,’ that’s your body shutting down because you refuse to take care of yourself.”

He doesn’t react at first, but you see the way his fingers flex slightly against his knee.

“I can manage,” he says, and this time, there’s an edge there.

You lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees, voice sharper now. “That’s exactly the problem, Sunghoon. You think you can manage. You think you can push through it, that it’s just something you can ignore and work around. But you can’t.”

His jaw tightens.

You exhale through your nose, hands pressing together. “The doctors literally told you what happens if you don’t take care of yourself. You might get better quickly, but if you push too hard, it’s going to get worse even faster. You don’t have the luxury of acting like this is a minor thing.”

Sunghoon shifts slightly, dragging a hand through his hair before resting his forearm against his knee. His voice is quieter when he finally speaks.

“…I know my limits.”

The words hit something raw inside you, something that has been aching for too long.

“No, you obviously don’t,” you snap, and this time, you don’t bother holding back. “You never do. You push and push until you hit a wall, and then you act surprised when your body gives out.”

Sunghoon’s fingers tighten against his knee. “I don’t need you to—”

“To what?” you interrupt, eyes burning. “To remind you? To be here because someone has to make sure you actually listen to the doctor’s advice?”

His breath catches slightly, and you hate how sickly he looks under the dim light. You hate how tired his shoulders are, how his fingers are trembling slightly against his knee, how his skin is still too pale, too warm from the fever that hasn’t fully faded yet. But most of all, you hate that he won’t just let himself rest.

You inhale, voice calmer now, but still firm. “They told you that you can’t just ‘push through’ this, Sunghoon. You’re not invincible. The whole reason you ended up in the hospital is because you ignored the symptoms for months.”

Sunghoon drags a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. “I don’t need you to remind me of what I already know.”

“Then act like you know it.”

Sunghoon leans back against the couch, his body tense, hands resting on his thighs. His gaze flickers toward the ceiling, expression unreadable.

You watch him, watch the way his shoulders rise and fall with each slow breath, the way his throat bobs slightly when he swallows.

“Are you staying in my room?”

The words are soft. Careful. Testing.

Your fingers tighten slightly against your knee. You should say no.

You should get up, go to your own room, create distance before this turns into something neither of you know how to handle.

“Just until you’re better.”

A lie. And Sunghoon knows it too. But neither of you say anything about it.

The room is still dark when you stir awake, the faintest trace of early morning filtering through the curtains. The air is cool, the kind of stillness that comes right before dawn, when everything feels softer—quieter.

You shift slightly under the blankets, your body slow to wake, your mind still caught in the haze of sleep.

And that’s when you feel it.

The warmth. The weight. The quiet, steady presence behind you.

Sunghoon.

Your breath catches, your body freezing for a moment as reality sets in. His arm—heavy, warm, familiar—draped loosely around your waist.

Not tight. Not pulling. Just there.

Your mind races, but your body remembers.

For a second—just a second—you don’t move.

Sunghoon’s breathing is even, deep and slow. His chest rises and falls against your back, steady, the faint warmth of his breath skimming the back of your neck.

Your stomach twists.

It’s been years since you’ve woken up like this—since you’ve felt his presence this close, this natural. And for a fleeting, dangerous moment, you let yourself sink into it, let yourself feel the way his fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of your shirt, like he’s still dreaming.

Then, suddenly—he shifts.

His body stirs, his breath hitching slightly, and you realize he’s waking up.

Panic flickers up your spine, but you keep still, barely breathing, waiting—waiting to see if he’ll pull away first.

But he doesn’t.

Sunghoon exhales softly, his fingers twitching again before his hand tightens ever so slightly around your waist.

Not intentional. Not forceful. Just… like he doesn’t want to let go yet.

Your throat tightens. It lasts a second. Maybe two.

His body tenses slightly. His fingers flex. His breath catches.

He’s awake now.

Neither of you move. Neither of you breathe too loudly.

And then, carefully—too carefully—he pulls away.

His arm lifts from your waist, the warmth of him retreating as he shifts slightly onto his back. You hear him exhale quietly, controlled.

You wait, counting the seconds, waiting for him to say something, for him to make a joke, for him to act like this didn’t just happen.

But he doesn’t. He just stays there, quiet.

And after a moment, you let out a breath of your own and shift to sit up, pulling the blanket back just enough to swing your legs over the edge of the bed.

Neither of you acknowledge it. Neither of you turn to look at each other.

It’s like it never happened. And that’s the problem.

Because it did.

And for the rest of the morning, you can still feel the lingering warmth where his arm had been.

You knew this was going to happen.

You knew the moment you caught a glimpse of his laptop open on the coffee table this morning, saw the unread emails stacking up, the subtle tension in his shoulders as he read through them like he wasn’t supposed to be working in the first place.

You ignored it. You let it go, for a while. But now?

Now, it’s ten at night, and Sunghoon is still sitting on the damn couch, his laptop open, fingers typing slowly, deliberately, like he’s trying to pretend he’s not as exhausted as he actually is.

You don’t let it go this time.

“You’re working.”

It’s not a question.

Sunghoon doesn’t look up. His gaze stays fixed on the screen, his fingers still tapping against the keyboard.

“It’s just an email.” His voice is calm. Too calm.

You cross your arms, leaning against the doorway, your eyes sharp.

“Didn’t we already have this argument?”

Sunghoon sighs through his nose, his jaw tightening slightly. “And yet, here we are.”

You hate how steady he sounds, how he knows exactly how to say things just to piss you off.

Your arms tighten across your chest. “We’re not doing this again.”

“Then don’t start it,” he mutters, still not looking at you.

Your patience snaps.

You step forward, standing right in front of him, blocking his view of the laptop. “Sunghoon.”

His fingers pause over the keys. His gaze lifts to yours. And the air changes.

It happens too fast, that shift in the atmosphere. The frustration, the exhaustion, the sheer stubbornness—blending into something else.

Something tense.

His eyes flicker over your face, your mouth, your throat. His voice is lower when he speaks this time. Slower. More deliberate.

“You keep saying you’re not going to argue with me.”

His fingers curl slightly against the armrest.

“And yet, you’re still here.”

Your stomach twists—not in anger, not in frustration, but in something darker, something hotter, something that you don’t want to name.

Your eyes narrow slightly, your voice sharp when you say—“Because you don’t fucking listen.”

Sunghoon tilts his head, his expression unreadable. His gaze dips, lingering on your lips for half a second too long.

Your breath comes in shorter now.

And then—slowly, carefully—he shuts his laptop. The sound of it clicking shut feels too loud in the quiet.

He leans back against the couch, arms resting on the cushions, his legs spreading just slightly, just enough to make the space between you feel smaller.

“Go on, then.”

Your pulse hammers.

Sunghoon watches you, his gaze steady, his body too relaxed, too effortless—like he’s waiting for something.

Like he wants to see what you’ll do next.

You inhale sharply, trying not to notice the way his sweatpants ride low on his hips, the way his shirt is loose enough to show a sliver of his collarbone, the way he looks completely unaffected when you’re burning.

You hate him.

You hate how good he is at this.

You take a step forward, planting your hands on the armrest, leaning in, forcing his attention back to your face.

“If you’re not going to take care of yourself,” you murmur, “then I will.”

Sunghoon exhales slowly, his jaw flexing slightly.

The tension between you pulls tighter.

He doesn’t move away. He doesn’t blink. He just sits there, waiting.

You don’t know if it’s waiting for the fight, or waiting for something else. You don’t know which one you want more.

For a second—just a second—your eyes flicker to his mouth. And you swear—you swear—his do the same.

Before either of you can do something you can’t take back—

Your phone buzzes from across the room. The moment shatters.

You inhale sharply, stepping back, hands dropping from the armrest. Sunghoon’s eyes flicker, his breath just slightly uneven now, but he doesn’t say anything.

You turn away first. You pretend your hands aren’t shaking.

You don’t look at him when you grab your phone off the counter, checking the notification even though you didn’t read a single word of it.

The moment is over. But neither of you breathe the same after that.

You hadn't planned for this.

You hadn't planned on seeing Sunghoon in the hallway, hadn't planned on him looking at you like that—like he was about to ruin you, like he needed to.

But the moment he stepped into your space, the moment his breath ghosted over your skin, you felt the air shift. It was thick, weighted with something that neither of you had the energy to resist anymore.

"Tell me you don’t want this." His voice is low, quiet but firm, laced with something deeper than just lust—something closer to desperation.

Instead of answering, your fingers twist into the front of his shirt and you pull him in.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his restraint snapping the second your mouth meets his. He moves fast—too fast, like he's been starving for this, like he's afraid it'll slip through his fingers if he hesitates. His hands are on your waist, then your back, gripping at you like he's trying to memorize every inch.

The kiss is messy, uncoordinated, filled with teeth and tongues and frustration. Months of pent-up tension, of silent longing, of unsaid words spill into every movement. He presses you into the wall, hips flush against yours, and you feel it—how hard he is, how much he's holding back, how badly he wants this.

"You drive me fucking crazy," he mutters against your lips, his breath ragged.

"Then do something about it."

He groans, low and wrecked, before lifting you effortlessly, hands gripping under your thighs as he carries you through the house. He doesn’t stop kissing you—not when he stumbles slightly into a wall, not when he nearly knocks over a lamp.

You barely make it to the couch before he’s pushing you down, hovering over you, eyes dark with something too raw to name.

His hands move fast—too fast—pulling at your clothes, impatient, frantic. His fingers tremble slightly as he drags your shirt over your head, his lips instantly finding the newly exposed skin, teeth grazing, biting, soothing with his tongue.

"Fuck—" he exhales, hands gripping at your hips, his forehead pressing against your shoulder for a second. Like he's catching his breath. Like this is overwhelming him.

You tilt his chin up, forcing him to look at you.

"Sunghoon."

His eyes flicker to yours, something wrecked flashing across his face before he swallows hard, his fingers tightening on your skin.

"Say it again."

His lips ghost over your collarbone, his breath unsteady. You shudder.

"Sunghoon."

That’s all it takes. Then—his mouth is on you, his hands everywhere, his body pressing against yours like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin.

He whispers your name over and over, between gasps and curses, between kisses that feel too much like confessions.

And when he finally pushes inside you, his forehead drops to yours, his breath heavy, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I missed you. You were my life, you were my life."

It’s not just sex. It never was. It’s him finally admitting what neither of you have said out loud. And you don't stop him.

Because you missed him too.

The air is warm, thick with the scent of sweat and skin and something distinctly Sunghoon. His body is still pressed against yours, not with the desperation of before but with something softer, something that lingers.

Your fingers trace absentminded patterns over his back, your body still humming from him, from this, from everything.

His hand is still resting against your hip, fingers brushing against your skin, like he’s memorizing the feeling, like he’s making sure it doesn’t disappear.

You let your eyes flutter shut for a moment, exhaling slowly. You could stay like this. You could let yourself be comfortable in this silence, in the warmth of his body, in the knowledge that—for once—you both stopped fighting.

But then, he shifts slightly, pressing his forehead against your shoulder before mumbling, “We should slow down.”

Your brows pull together slightly.

Did you hear that right? You open your eyes, tilting your head to glance down at him.

"What?"

Sunghoon exhales, leaning up on one elbow, his free hand still resting on your waist, thumb rubbing lazy circles against your skin.

"I mean, we don’t have to rush this," he says, voice quieter now, more careful. His eyes flicker over your face, something unreadable in them. "I don’t want to fuck this up again."

Your breath catches slightly.

He doesn’t want this to be just about sex. He doesn’t want to let himself have you only to lose you again. He wants to be careful with you.

But you nod anyway, pretending that the way your chest tightens isn’t real. "Okay."

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow. "Okay?"

"Mhm."

Then, slowly, you shift, straddling his waist, your fingers resting lightly on his chest.

Sunghoon stills immediately.

"What are you doing?" he asks, voice cautious, his hands instinctively coming to rest on your thighs.

Sunghoon’s head falls back against the couch, his jaw clenching. He wants to argue, you can tell, but the second you grind down again, all he manages is a sharp inhale, his fingers digging into your skin.

You smirk, tilting your head.

"I thought you wanted to take things slow."

His breath shudders. His grip on you tightens. Then he laughs—low, rough, almost amazed.

"You’re a fucking menace."

You barely have time to grin before he’s flipping you over, pressing you down into the cushions, his body caging you in.

"Slow?" he repeats, voice dropping, his lips hovering over your throat.

You try to keep up the act, but your breathing is already uneven, your body reacting to him before you can think.

"Isn’t that what you wanted?" you whisper, deliberately tilting your chin up in challenge.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his lips barely ghosting over yours.

"I changed my mind."

You barely have time to react before his hands slide down your thighs, gripping, tugging, parting you for him again.

Your breath catches.

"Sunghoon–"

"No." He shakes his head, his mouth pressing against your jaw as he smirks. "No more talking."

His fingers move lower, teasing, pressing just enough to make you gasp. And that’s when you remember—he’s still recovering. Your hand shoots out, pressing against his chest.

"Wait."

Sunghoon stills, his brow furrowing slightly, his breathing uneven.

"You’re sick," you murmur, your lips brushing against his jaw. "Let me work for it instead."

His entire body tenses.

Your hands trail down his stomach, your fingers ghosting over the waistband of his sweatpants.

"You—" he tries, but his voice is hoarse now, breathless, wrecked.

You hum, tilting your head. "What?"

His jaw flexes.

Then, without another word, he lets himself fall back against the couch. His breath comes out shaky, his head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut.

"Then work for it."

It’s been a month since then and Sunghoon has finally fully returned to work.

He’s doing much better now. His energy is back, his balance has improved, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he actually looks like himself again.

You’re not sure what you expected when he came back. Maybe for things to go back to the way they were before, full of sharp remarks and tension that could snap a room in half. Or maybe for things to be awkward, unspoken things lingering between you in ways that made your employees suffer secondhand stress.

But instead? No one knows what the hell is happening anymore.

Because while you and Sunghoon aren’t exactly different, something has… shifted.

The first sign of something weird happening was the lack of fighting.

A month ago, meetings with both of you in the same room meant employees visibly sweating, taking deep breaths beforehand, and updating their wills in secret.

Now?

Now, Sunghoon pulls out a chair for you before sitting down. Now, you ask his opinion instead of shutting it down immediately. Now, he actually listens when you talk.

People are concerned.

📲 [Executive Team Group Chat] 👥 Sunoo, Riki, Jungwon, Misc. Employees

🐧 Sunoo: guys. wtf is going on.🐥 Jungwon: ??? 🐧 Sunoo: i just saw boss lady n ceo actually agree on something in a meeting. no insults. no glaring. NO ONE DIED.🐱 Riki: LIAR.🐧 Sunoo: i have receipts.

(Sunoo sends a screenshot of the meeting notes. The section labeled 'Conflict Resolution' is EMPTY. Unedited. No bloodshed.)

🐥 Jungwon: I mean. That’s… good? Right? 🐱 Riki: NO IT’S NOT GOOD. THIS IS LIKE WATCHING PARENTS WHO USED TO HATE EACH OTHER BE WEIRDLY FLIRTY. I’M TRAUMATIZED. 🐧 Sunoo: EXACTLY.

📲 [Legal Team Group Chat] 👥 You, Your Team

⚖️ Paralegal #1: So uh. Boss.⚖️ Paralegal #2: What the hell is going on with you and CEO Park?⚖️ Paralegal #3: Did we miss a memo? Is this a prank? Are you sedated?

You roll your eyes, already regretting checking your messages.

📲 [You → Legal Team]: What are you talking about?

⚖️ Paralegal #2: You didn’t threaten to resign after he questioned your contract amendments today. You just. Smiled??⚖️ Paralegal #3: YOU AGREED WITH HIM ON SOMETHING. WE ALL SAW IT.⚖️ Paralegal #1: YOU LAUGHED AT SOMETHING HE SAID.⚖️ Paralegal #2: YOU LAUGHED, BOSS. AT HIS JOKE.⚖️ Paralegal #3: Do we need to call HR? Blink if you’re in danger.

📲 [You → Legal Team]: Go do your jobs.

It happens after a late meeting. You and Sunghoon are the last ones leaving, walking toward the elevators. Everyone else is pretending to be busy, but they’re totally watching.

The elevator doors slide open. You step inside first, then turn slightly—instinctively holding out your hand. Sunghoon takes it.

Casually. Like it’s normal. Like you always do this. And then—he laces your fingers together.

The doors slide shut.

Riki visibly short-circuits.

📲 [Executive Team Group Chat]

🐱 Riki: GUYS I JUST SAW THEM HOLD HANDS. IN THE ELEVATOR. IN PUBLIC. I NEED TO LIE DOWN. 🐧 Sunoo: Riki. Riki are you there. 🐥 Jungwon: Someone sedate him before he starts screaming. 🐧 Sunoo: THAT’S IT I’M STARTING A BETTING POOL. HOW LONG BEFORE THEY GET MARRIED (AGAIN). 🐱 Riki: I CAN’T BREATHE.

The company gala had been suffocating. Hours of pretending, of schmoozing, of wearing polite smiles while the weight of Sunghoon’s gaze burned against your skin the entire night. He hadn’t touched you once. Not in front of the board members, not during the champagne toast, not even when his fingers brushed against yours as he handed you a drink.

But he was watching.

And now, in the backseat of his car, that restraint is gone.

The moment the driver pulls away from the curb, Sunghoon’s hand is on your thigh, gripping—hard. His palm is warm against the skin exposed by the slit of your dress, fingers flexing like he’s holding himself back, like he’s trying to decide how far he’ll let himself go.

He doesn’t speak.

You don’t either.

Because you both know where this is going.

The city blurs past the windows, streetlights flickering across his sharp jawline, his loosened tie, the slight rise and fall of his chest as he exhales.

And then—his hand slides higher.

Your breath catches.

"You knew exactly what you were doing tonight." His voice is low, almost amused, but there’s a sharp edge to it, something dark and controlled.

You shift slightly, not moving away, letting his fingers graze the crease of your inner thigh. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Sunghoon exhales a short laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

His hand tightens.

"You wanted me like this, didn’t you?" His fingers ghost over your clothed core, pressing just enough to make your legs twitch. "Parading around all night in this dress, pretending you weren’t soaking through your panties while you smiled at those executives."

Your stomach flips.

You don’t respond.

Sunghoon doesn’t need you to.

Because the moment you shift your legs slightly wider—silent permission—he knows.

And that’s when he loses it.

The car jerks to a sudden stop.

The driver turns slightly. “We’re at the—”

"We won’t be long," Sunghoon interrupts smoothly, his fingers already curling around your wrist.

Then, he yanks you into his lap.

You gasp at the sudden movement, hands bracing against his chest, but he doesn’t give you a second to adjust. His mouth is on yours before you can speak, rough and claiming, all tongue and teeth.

"You’re mine," he breathes against your lips, his hands gripping your ass as he pulls you flush against him. You can feel how hard he is beneath you, his cock straining against his pants, pressing against your clothed core.

"Say it."

You bite your lip, pretending to consider, just to piss him off. "Make me."

Sunghoon growls, his fingers twisting into your hair as he yanks your head back, exposing your throat. His mouth is on you immediately, biting, sucking, marking.

"My wife thinks she’s a fucking tease." His lips drag against your pulse, his voice dark, edged with something dangerous. "That’s cute."

His hands slide up your thighs, bunching your dress up to your hips. When his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, he doesn’t bother taking them off. He just pulls, fabric tearing effortlessly in his grip.

"Sunghoon—"

"Shut up."

His hand moves between your legs, fingers dragging through your slick folds. He groans, his forehead pressing against your shoulder for half a second, like he’s barely holding himself together.

"You’re fucking soaked." His fingers circle your clit, slow, teasing, deliberate. "You really get off on being treated like a brat, don’t you?"

Your breath stutters. You hate how much his words affect you.

But Sunghoon notices.

He always does.

His free hand slides up your back, gripping the back of your neck before wrapping around your throat. He squeezes—not enough to cut off your air, but enough to make your pulse stutter beneath his fingers.

"Answer me."

You swallow, the pressure of his grip making your head spin.

"I—" Your voice catches when he presses down on your clit at the same time, two fingers slipping inside you. Your body jolts at the stretch, at the pressure, at the way he fills you without hesitation.

"That’s what I thought," he murmurs, his mouth brushing against your ear. "Always such a fucking mess for me."

His fingers work you open too fast, too rough, curling against the spot that makes you see stars. Your hips roll against his hand, chasing it, and Sunghoon laughs—low and wrecked.

"That desperate already?"

You don’t get a chance to respond before he’s flipping you onto your back, pressing you down against the leather seat.

Your head spins.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your thighs, spreading you open, dragging his cock through your slick folds before he presses against your entrance.

"You want it?" His voice is strained, his jaw tight.

"Yes—"

But he doesn’t give you time to beg.

Because in the next second—he’s inside you, all at once, filling you to the hilt.

Your back arches off the seat, a choked sound escaping your throat.

Sunghoon groans, his head dropping forward, his grip bruising where he holds your hips down. "Fuck—look at you. Taking my cock so fucking well."

You barely have time to breathe before he starts moving.

No easing into it. No gentleness.

Just rough, deep thrusts that knock the air from your lungs.

"You feel that?" His hand wraps around your throat again, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur at the edges. "This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? My wife acting like a whore all night just so I could fuck her stupid in the back of a car”

You moan, the humiliation making your skin burn in the best way.

"That’s right," he grits out, snapping his hips harder, his other hand gripping your thigh, pushing it higher. "Let me hear you."

The car rocks with the force of it, every thrust sending pleasure shooting through your spine. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your body shaking, your release already close, already—

"Come on, baby," he murmurs, his breath ragged, his forehead pressing against yours. "Come on my cock. Be a good fucking girl for me."

And you do.

You shatter beneath him, your body tensing, your thighs trembling as your orgasm crashes through you.

Sunghoon follows right after, his rhythm stuttering before he buries himself deep, his groan breaking into something almost desperate. His fingers flex against your throat before finally, finally, he lets go.

The car is silent except for your uneven breaths.

Sunghoon leans forward, pressing his lips to your forehead, softer now, his breathing still shaky. His fingers trail down your side, slow, absentminded, like he’s grounding himself.

The only sound in the car is the rhythmic rise and fall of your breathing, the occasional rustling of fabric as Sunghoon shifts slightly against you. The intensity of what just happened lingers between you, crackling in the air like an aftershock, leaving both of you too warm, too tangled, too unwilling to move just yet.

He’s still inside you, still pressed close, his body a solid weight over yours, grounding, steadying. Neither of you speak, and for a while, you simply let the quiet settle, let your fingers drift absently over his back, tracing slow, lazy shapes.His forehead is against yours, his breath deep and uneven, warm against your lips.

Eventually, he exhales, the sound low, almost satisfied, before tilting his head to press a slow, lingering kiss to your temple. His hand shifts from where it had been gripping your thigh, his touch gentler now, a stark contrast to how he had held you earlier—fierce, possessive, unwilling to let you go. Now, his fingers just rest against your skin, smoothing over the curve of your waist, the warmth of his palm familiar.

"You okay?" His voice is rough from exertion, still heavy with something raw and unspoken.

You hum, nodding slightly, your cheek brushing against his. You can’t quite find the words yet—your body still feels like it’s floating, caught between exhaustion and bliss.

Sunghoon shifts just slightly, pulling back just enough to look at you. His gaze sweeps over your face, studying you carefully, before his lips curve into a small, amused smile.

"I’ll take that as a yes." His fingers trace slow circles against your hip, his touch absentminded but deliberate, like he doesn’t quite want to stop touching you yet.

You blink up at him, still dazed, your limbs pleasantly heavy, your skin oversensitive in the best way. His words barely register before he shifts, withdrawing from you slowly. A quiet whimper catches in your throat at the loss, your body instinctively tightening around nothing.

Sunghoon notices.

His gaze darkens again, his jaw flexing slightly before he exhales through his nose, visibly restraining himself. He tilts his head, one brow raising ever so slightly, smug in a way that makes your stomach twist.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice low, watching as his release slowly drips out of you, glistening on your inner thighs.His fingers trace your swollen entrance, dragging along the slick mess he’s made, spreading it just to watch you squirm.

"So messy," he muses, voice teasing but full of something heavier, more possessive.

Heat spreads across your cheeks, embarrassment creeping in at how wrecked you must look, your thighs still trembling, your breath uneven. You turn your head slightly, muttering under your breath, "Shut up."

Sunghoon chuckles, clearly too pleased with himself. His fingers move to tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze again.

"Don’t do that," he murmurs, his voice quieter now, lower, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

You frown slightly, not quite understanding. "Do what?"

His thumb presses just slightly harder, a silent reprimand, a reminder that he’s still in control.

"Act shy now," he says, watching you too closely, too knowingly. His smirk is slow, deliberate, confident in a way that makes your stomach flip. "You just let me fuck you stupid in the back of my car."

Your cheeks burn hotter, mortification creeping in. You scoff, shoving at his chest halfheartedly, but he doesn’t budge."I hate you."

His laughter is soft, low, a rumble against your skin as he presses another kiss—this time to your jaw, then lower, trailing lazily toward your throat.

"No, you love me."

You take a deep breath “I do.”

He looks surprised, shocked almost, “You– you do?”

You nod. “I do, ” you look at him expectantly, “You love me?”

He laughs deep and loud, a real laugh, grabs your face in his hands forcing you closer, “Baby, when did I ever stop?”

Before you can dwell on it, there’s a knock on the window.

You freeze.

Sunghoon sighs, clearly unfazed, barely even reacting before he reaches over to roll down the window slightly.

Outside, the driver stands with an expression so perfectly neutral it’s almost comedic, like this is just another Tuesday night for him.

"Mr. Park," he says, his tone entirely professional, unaffected. "Should I… call another car for you two?"

You bury your face in Sunghoon’s shoulder, mortified.

Sunghoon, as expected, looks completely unbothered.

"No need," he replies smoothly, his fingers absently stroking your thigh as if nothing had just happened. "We’ll be heading home in a bit."

The driver nods curtly, not even blinking. "I’ll be outside."

And then, just like that, he walks away.

You groan, still refusing to lift your head. "I can never face him again."

Sunghoon laughs softly, his hand sliding up to rub slow, soothing circles against your back.

"You’ll live, you love me." he murmurs, his voice warm, teasing, but laced with something softer. His fingers thread into your hair, tilting your head up just slightly. His lips brush against yours, slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment.

"Let me clean you up."

You blink up at him, your chest tightening for reasons entirely unrelated to sex.

"You don’t have to—"

His hand tightens in your hair, not to hurt, just to keep you still. He shakes his head slightly, cutting you off before you can finish the thought.

"I want to," he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours again, softer this time. "I take care of what’s mine. Of what I love."

Something invisible but heavy lodges itself in your throat.

Because he means it. Because this isn’t just sex, or routine, or an easy way to pass the time. This is him showing you, in the quietest way possible, that he loves you.

And when he kisses you again, when he reaches for a tissue to carefully clean the mess between your thighs, when he murmurs something under his breath about how ‘his wife shouldn’t be walking around with his cum dripping down her legs’

You don’t ever want to lose this again.

EPILOGUE

It starts the same way it did last time.

The nausea creeps in slowly—subtle at first, nothing out of the ordinary. You assume it’s from overworking yourself, the stress of handling legal negotiations, or maybe even just the exhaustion of being married to a man who refuses to listen when you tell him to take breaks.

Sunghoon notices before you do.

At first, it’s little things—the way you lean against the counter a little longer in the mornings, the way your appetite fluctuates, the way you pause mid-sentence with a sudden grimace, like something doesn’t sit right in your stomach. He watches you closer than usual, his sharp eyes following you whenever you touch your lower abdomen absentmindedly, whenever you shake your head at food that you normally love.

And then, one morning, you feel it.

The moment you stand up from bed, a wave of nausea crashes into you so violently that you barely make it to the bathroom in time.

You hear him before you see him—footsteps, the rustling of sheets, the quiet, urgent sound of his voice calling your name as he reaches for you.

"Hey—what’s wrong?" Sunghoon is kneeling beside you in seconds, his hand warm and steady against your back, rubbing slow, grounding circles as you try to catch your breath. His fingers stroke through your hair gently, not rushing you, not asking anything else yet.

You grip the edge of the sink, exhaling shakily, your heartbeat too loud, your pulse erratic.

Because this feels familiar. Too familiar. And that’s when you know. Sunghoon stills when you don’t answer right away.

"Baby." His voice is softer now, careful. "Look at me."

Something unreadable flickers across his face—shock, realization, something dangerously close to hope.

He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. Because he knows, too.

And that’s how you find yourself sitting on the bathroom floor minutes later, staring at the test clutched in your hands, the two pink lines undeniable.

Sunghoon sits beside you, his knee brushing against yours, his breathing measured but uneven. He doesn’t reach for it. He doesn’t take it from your hands.

Instead, he just looks at you.

"Are we...?" His voice is barely above a whisper, raw in a way you rarely hear.

Your fingers tighten around the test, your throat thick with emotion. You nod, swallowing hard before murmuring, "Yeah."

Sunghoon exhales, slow and unsteady, like he’s been holding his breath for years. His head tilts forward slightly, his eyes squeezing shut for a second before he lifts them back to you. His gaze is so full of something it knocks the air from your lungs.

"How do you feel?" he asks quietly.

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, part relief, part disbelief. "Like I might throw up again."

A short chuckle escapes him—not out of amusement, but out of something else, something lighter.

Then, slowly, he reaches for you.

His hands slide over your cheeks, fingertips pressing just slightly, like he’s trying to make sure you’re real, like he’s trying to ground himself in this moment. His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, his breath fanning against your lips as he leans in, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, close enough that you can feel the slight tremble in his touch.

The positive test sits between you both, abandoned on the bathroom counter, but neither of you look at it anymore. You don’t need to.

Because all you can focus on is him—the way his chest rises and falls unsteadily, the way his lips part like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how.

And then, finally, he does.

"I won’t fail you this time."

His voice is rough, barely above a whisper, but it hits you harder than anything else.

Your breath catches in your throat, your fingers tightening slightly where they rest against his shoulders. His eyes are so unbearably soft when they meet yours, but there’s something else there, too—something raw, something desperate.

"I won’t lose you. I won’t lose them," he murmurs, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you fully against him, like he can shield you from anything and everything that might try to take this from him again.

A lump forms in your throat, because this is what he’s been carrying.

This is what he never let himself say out loud.

"You never failed me, Sunghoon," you whisper, your fingers moving to cup his face, "We lost them together."

Sunghoon swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

"I should have held you. I should have been better. I should have—" His breath stumbles, and for the first time, you see it—the way his control wavers, the way the guilt still lingers, thick and unbearable.

"Hey." You press a hand against his chest, feeling the unsteady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm. "You don’t have to do this alone anymore."

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his forehead pressing against yours.

"I don’t deserve this," he murmurs, his grip tightening around you.

"You do." You don’t hesitate. "And we’re going to do this right this time."

His breath shudders. And then—he kisses you.

It’s not like before. It’s not desperate, or punishing, or laced with frustration. It’s slow, deep, lingering. It’s an apology, a vow, a promise.

When he pulls away, his lips hover just above yours, his eyes searching, waiting for something.

"Stay," he whispers. "Stay with me. Stay here. Always."

You smile, pressing your forehead against his.

"I already did."

fin.

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missadangel · 3 days ago

Text

MAKE HIM DISLIKE LOVE YOU

Harry Castillo x Reader (The Materialists)

Chapter 9: Hurt

prev chapter series masterlist

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

“Baby, just try to breathe.”

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

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

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

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

Mother-in-law.

That thought made you grin a bit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry chuckled as he introduced you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And young too," Sofia said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smiled, hoping for the same.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You fell asleep pretty much right away.

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

“You awake, baby?” he asked softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smiled at the thrill in his voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn.

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

However, his intention was not solely for cuddling.

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

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

But now he was feeling impatient.

Dangerously so.

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

Irish.

Neat.

He must’ve had about four or five shots.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A groan escaped from your lips as you came.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that was it.

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

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

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

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

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

Harry groaned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You slid your hands up his back, the outlines of his arms, biceps like faint messages under your fingertips. Harry kissed your chest, letting out a long, shaky breath against your skin. "God, I love you so much," he said, still catching his breath.

"I love you too Harry. So so much."

He lifted his head, a lazy smile spreading across his face as he gazed deeply into your eyes. Then, leaning in, he pressed his lips against yours for a slow, tender kiss.

In the morning, when Harry dropped you off at the convention center before work, he couldn't tear his eyes away from his phone. He was deep in a serious convo, his face all furrowed. You couldn't shake the feeling that something was off, but he wasn't sharing any details. Whatever it was, it felt like a dark cloud hanging over you both, even as he leaned in for that quick goodbye kiss before you left the car.

The second day of the fair turned out to be even busier than the first. You felt grateful that Zoe had taken time off from her job, as managing the booth alone was quite challenging. As much as you wanted Harry by your side, with his busy schedule, it was unreasonable to expect him to be there all day. Still, you couldn’t fault him; he had a lot on his plate at the company right now.

As the hours flew by, visitors showed a growing interest in the products at your stand. They kept asking about the shop, inquiring when it would open and expressing eagerness to visit, Zoe included.

“Have you signed the lease for the shop yet?” she asked while you arranged cupcakes on the display.

You replied, “Harry's a bit swamped at the moment, but we're just waiting to hear back from the shopkeeper about the lease terms.”

“Oh, I really hope everything goes smoothly. I can’t wait to be a waitress at your shop – my current boss is driving me crazy. He’s acting like I faked my sprained ankle to just chill on the couch all week or something,” she complained.

“What a jerk,” you said, frowning before a smile broke through. “I hope so too, girl.” You often daydreamed about the day when Zoe would be working alongside you as a waitress, serving customers the desserts you made while you managed the cash register, chatting with them and baking treats in your shop. That day didn’t seem so far off; it felt incredibly close.

You were on the verge of realizing your dream and had a wonderful boyfriend in your life. Everything was falling into place, and your life was almost perfect.

As you shared stories about how your dinner at Harry's mother's house went, two familiar faces approached your booth.

“Danilo! Bruno!” you exclaimed with excitement.

"Ciao, cara mia!” Danilo greeted you with a warm hug.

“I've missed you so much! How have you been?” you laughed, reminiscing.

“You won't believe it but Jack sent Melanie to a religious camp for young adults, and it’s been blissfully quiet at the manor. We're all finally finding some peace."

You sighed, “Damn it, Jack. He will never change.”

“Great boss, terrible dad,” he chuckled.

“Hmm, molto delizioso! Good job, cara mia,” Bruno chimed in as he sampled one of your cupcakes.

“I learned from the best,” you replied with a playful wink.

“I taught you well,” he grinned with pride.

Danilo let out an awkward laugh. “How can you claim that after just a few months? I’ve taught her countless tricks during our three years together, right, honey? I'm a master chef after all.” he said, narrowing his eyes.

You were about to respond when Bruno cut in again, “You mean a master chef at being jealous, Danilo? What she learned from me equates to five years of experience, not just three. I sped up her internship.” he added with a smug grin.

In that moment, the two began bickering in their native language. Zoe leaned closer to you. “Are they always like this?”

“I've seen them argue over the phone, but I’m shocked they are worse in person,” you chuckled.

By evening, you felt thankful for Danilo and Bruno’s company; their presence made the long day feel more bearable. You checked your phone but found no messages from Harry. Unlike yesterday, when his busy schedule hadn’t stopped him from sending silly texts that brightened your day, today was different. You opened the messaging app to find your lunchtime selfie still unread with a note:

Sopapilla pie is a hit at our booth today. Thanks for the idea ol'man.

Maybe he was just too busy to answer, you thought. Lost in your thoughts, Zoe’s voice broke through, “You need to see this,” she said, her expression anxious as she handed you her phone.

Nervously, you took it, bracing yourself. The screen displayed a tabloid article that sent your heart racing.

Is Castillofunds.co going under? Shares of Harry Castillo’s company have taken a dramatic nosedive, a major player in NYC's Financial District!

The next piece of news hit even harder.

Tense moments at Castillofunds headquarters. After the company lost shares quickly, founding CEOs Harry Castillo and his childhood friend Gerardo Armada reportedly got into a heated argument.

“Oh no. Harry,” you murmured, heart racing. You immediately dialed his cell, but it went straight to voicemail. You tried calling Oliver next, but he didn’t pick up either.

Anxiety wrapped around your entire body. What could have happened? Yesterday, Harry hadn’t said much; there hadn’t been time for a proper talk. How could he keep something so serious under wraps? Or, if he wasn’t aware, how could he fail to see the company spiraling down? Questions raced through your mind, and for a moment, you just wanted to escape and get to him. Your anxiety was overwhelming, and a sick feeling settled in your stomach. With Zoe and Danilo by your side, you asked them if they could cover for you at the booth while you stepped away. Thankfully, they agreed without hesitation.

You needed to reach Harry; you were worried about him.

As you made your way to the subway, your phone buzzed with a text message. You opened it right away, and your heart sank—it was from Alan.

Your boyfriend's downfall has begun. Just so you know, honey, this is only the beginning.

You froze, feeling a mix of anger and shock hit you as you remembered your last conversation with him.

That bastard.

Of course, he was behind this.

But no matter what he did, you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. You believed Harry's company would weather this storm.

Every company faces tough times, right?

When you arrived at the company building, you were taken aback. A furious crowd had gathered, waving banners and shouting slogans, while paparazzi filmed the chaos that was unfolding. Security was struggling to maintain control.

But things got even worse.

One of the paparazzi caught sight of you and pointed, drawing the attention of all the cameras. You felt frozen; you had never experienced anything like this before. Well, there was that one time with Melanie, but usually, the spotlight was on her, not you.

But now, the roles had flipped.

They all rushed toward you, and the questions began to come flooding in like bombs.

"Miss, is it true your boyfriend Mr Castillo's company is on the verge of bankruptcy?"

"Will this financial mess affect your relationship?"

"Did Mr. Castillo and Mr. Armada actually get into a fight?"

"Is it true that Mr. Armada is unable to pay his gambling debts and has been siphoning funds from the company?"

"What’s your take on all this?"

You swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond.

Suddenly, Oliver’s voice broke through the crowd. He reached you, grabbing your arm, and together, you hurried into the building, security guards ushering you past the relentless paparazzi and shouting crowd.

Just as the security team managed to slam the doors shut, you turned to Oliver. “Where’s Harry?”

“He's upstairs. Come on,” he replied, guiding you to the elevator.

“Ollie, what’s going on? Where did all this come from?”

He let out a troubled sigh as he pressed the button for the office floor. It was clear he was feeling the weight of the situation. “Gerardo. In Harry's absence, he got involved in illegal betting and gambling, attempting to cover his debts using company resources. He tried to bail out the company with post-dated checks, hoping Harry wouldn’t find out when he returned to NYC. But it backfired horribly. We’ve been trying to figure out how the finance and accounting teams missed this, but it seems part of the larger scheme.”

“What do you mean?”

“Alan has been deliberately concealing his identity while orchestrating the issuance of post-dated checks. The finance team, the accounting department, even the last company we did business with—he’s got them all in his pocket. It looks like he’s been plotting against us for a while. Gerardo fell right into his trap. He’s messed everything up. I can’t imagine how we’ll pull through this; we’re backed into a corner.”

Your chest tightened, and dread washed over you as the elevator reached the floor with Harry’s office.

The reminder of Alan's text kept bothering you, making you feel pretty guilty.

How did you underestimate him like that?

It all made sense now why Maria was acting so strange that day. You wished you had talked about it with Harry.

As you approached the office, you spotted Harry inside, deep in conversation with his lawyers and PR team.

Your heart sank.

It wasn't only his sad condition that concerned you; there was a wound marring the edge of his eyebrow. The paparazzi’s reports were true—he had been in a fight. Oliver slipped into the office without you noticing, as your attention was fixed on Harry's face. He leaned in and whispered something in Harry’s ear, prompting him to turn and look at you. When your eyes met, you offered him a weak smile, but it faltered as he didn’t return it.

The meeting wrapped up, and everyone filed out, looking grim. Harry stepped toward you.

“What are you doing here?”

Your hand instinctively reached out to his face, gently examining the small band-aid over his eyebrow. “I was worried. Are you okay?”

He sighed, weariness evident in his voice. “I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine,” he replied, lacking conviction. Taking your hand, he brushed your hair back with a faint smile. “Let’s get out of here.”

Making your way to the car was a daunting task; the paparazzi and remaining crowd persisted with their incessant questions and shouts until you finally managed to slip inside. As the car pulled away, you noticed the writing on the protesters' banner.

WE ARE HERE, WHERE IS YOUR CONSCIENCE?

YOU TOOK OUR DREAMS, AT LEAST GIVE US OUR MONEY BACK.

GIVE BACK OUR KIDS' FUTURE.

WE DEMAND JUSTICE.

You couldn't bear to watch any longer; it was just too frustrating. The sadness etched on Harry's face filled you with sorrow. Who knows how deeply he must be feeling all this? He chatted on the phone the whole way, but it seemed like everything was spiraling out of control. You didn't want to overwhelm him with questions, so you kept quiet; he was already struggling enough. You had asked him to take you to the fair after leaving Zoe there alone. Although you didn’t invite him to stay since he was feeling down, you agreed to meet up at home afterward. As the fair wrapped up, you should have felt happy that everything you cooked at the booth was cleared out. The attention had been great, but your thoughts were consumed with Harry. Nothing else seemed important while he was struggling through such a difficult time.

When you came home and saw him sitting at the counter, sipping whisky, you had planned to talk about the shop, but those thoughts quickly faded. Instead, your attention shifted to the glass he held. “Harry, how much have you had?”

The bottle was nearly half-empty.

"Hmm..." Looking up at you, he pursed his lips and held up his fingers—first one, then two, and finally all five on his palm. You chuckled at his expression and sighed, taking the glass from his grasp. “That’s enough, ol'man, move your ass.” He reluctantly agreed, allowing you to guide him to the couch, where you both sank down side by side.

“Things aren’t getting any better, are they?” you asked softly.

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back as fatigue washed over him. “I’m doing everything I can, but it’s incredibly tough. We have to cancel all our investment deals. We’re left with just the company’s assets to pay the employees. Even if we manage to make it work, what about the victims?Thousands of families are suffering.”

“Can’t the lawyers file a countersuit? Surely there's a way out. We could argue that this is a setup, that the post-dated checks were signed without Gerardo's consent. If we prove Alan has a personal vendetta against you...”

Hearing his name made him open his eyes in irritation. “Lawyers? They’re all in on it. Don’t you get it? There’s no way out!” he shouted, his frustration palpable.

When he noticed the shocked expression on your face, his tone softened. He cupped your face in his hands. “I’m sorry, baby, I...”

You placed your hands over his. “It’s okay. I understand how you feel; you’re angry, tired, hurt. But I truly believe you’ll get through this, I’m sure of it.”

He withdrew his hands and let out a troubled sigh. “I really don’t know; this is way worse than I thought it would be. We’ve been through tough times before, but we always made it work together. I can’t believe he’s been hiding stuff from me. I trusted him completely, and he went behind my back. I just don’t get how he could do that.”

“Alan clearly orchestrated this. He must have lured him into a trap,” you said, deciding it was time to share what you had kept from him. “Harry, I saw Maria that day, talking to Alan.” You frowned, gathering your courage to continue. “She looked upset and asked me not to tell you I saw her. I’m so sorry for not telling you sooner.” You bowed your head, hoping he wouldn’t be too angry.

He lifted your chin gently, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Baby, that doesn’t matter now. What Gerardo did happened a long time ago. And Maria was probably trying to protect her assets. She must have been thinking about Mia. But I wish you both had been honest with me.”

“I thought it was something personal for her, nothing to do with you, so—”

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “It’s not your fault, love. You had nothing to do with this. I’m really sorry, but I’ll have to delay renting the shop for now. I promise that as soon as the economy improves, I’ll make sure to get the shop and hand it over to you.”

You gazed up at him. “Harry, I don’t care about opening the shop under these circumstances. We’ll figure things out, I’m sure of it. Everything will be fine.”

He smiled, resting his forehead against yours. “Thank you. I feel so fortunate to have you by my side. You’re my strength. I love you so much.” He leaned down to kiss you softly.

“Ow, you smell like a liquor store, baby.” you chuckled, standing up and tugging at his hand. “Come on, up you get! Let’s get you in the shower, and then we can hit the hay ol'man. You know what they say—a good night’s sleep can work wonders.”

Suddenly, he swooped you into his arms, effortlessly lifting you onto his lap. “You’re the only remedy I need, mi amor.” He continued kissing you as you made your way to the bathroom together.

The final day of the fair turned out to be far worse than expected. News that had started circulating online was now splashed across TV screens, and conversations about it filled the subway and the streets. Harry was in worse shape than ever, and seeing him like that tugged at your heartstrings, making you feel as if your heart were being squeezed. When his mother, Valeria, called and invited you over to her house, you agreed and left the fair early that day.

Upon arriving at her home, Valeria enveloped you in a tight embrace, tears streaming down her face. She spoke of her concern for Harry, saying she felt helpless about not being able to reach him. You tried to comfort her, assuring her that Harry was with you and would remain close. However, you refrained from sharing too many details, as it was clear she was deeply sensitive about her son’s plight. Before you left, she hugged you one last time at the door. “I’m so grateful you’re there for my son. I’ve felt terrible for being unable to leave this house, it’s never been this tough.”

“Valeria, please don’t blame yourself. As for Harry, there’s no need to worry; he’ll be okay. I’ll be by his side and do everything I can to help him through these hard days. We’ll get through this.”

Her eyes glimmered with a mix of gratitude and sorrow as she clasped your hand gently. “Thank you, dear. It eases my heart to know you’re there for him during these days when I can’t be.” You could feel the weight of her worry—like any mother, she was deeply concerned about her son.

Leaving her house and walking down the street, you were set on doing whatever it took to help Harry feel better. You thought about whipping up his favorite dessert or putting on that dress he loved, but first, there was something else you needed to do.

You had to meet Alan.

As you arrived in front of the hotel, you steeled yourself, gathering your courage. Perhaps you could persuade him to reconsider; you weren’t sure, but you knew it was worth a shot. If you could understand his motives, it might help you steer things in the right direction. In this battle, you had to make sure your man didn’t end up losing.

You were ready to do whatever it took to help him overcome all obstacles.

The doorman greeted you with a smile, recognizing you as you entered. Learning that Alan was in his room, you took the elevator to his floor. Nerves crept in as you headed to a hotel room, but you pushed them aside, determined to present a strong front.

As the owner of the hotel, Alan lived in the penthouse on the top floor.

The elevator opened directly into his room, and while you glanced around, feeling uncomfortable in his lavish space, you reminded yourself to stay focused.

“Hello, gorgeous.”

At the sound of his voice, you turned to see him lounging at the bar area, a drink in hand and a smug grin plastered across his face. Dressed in a satin robe, he glanced at his watch. “I expected you earlier; you’ve caught me by surprise,” he said, taking a sip of his drink, then he raised it. “Care for some?”

Asshole was acting as if nothing had happened.

Crossing your arms, you replied, “No, I don’t want anything. Look, whatever you’re doing, just stop it. I get that you want revenge—I lost my mother too—but this won’t bring her back. Besides, Harry is innocent in all this, he didn't deserve-.”

“How can Harry be innocent? That woman is his mother.”

“She’s already lost a daughter. What’s hurting her even going to do for you?”

He shrugged. “At least it gives me some relief. Watching them suffer makes me feel better, just like my mother suffered because of them.”

“Alan, listen—”

“Save your breath, sweetheart. What’s coming is inevitable. The Castillo family will pay for what they’ve done.” He finished his drink, setting the glass down on the counter. “The company was just the beginning. Tomorrow, Harry will lose his penthouse with the breathtaking view due to foreclosure and debts he can’t cover. And soon enough, his mother will lose her house too.”

You frowned. "That woman can't leave her house because of her illness. You can't do that. You can't be so cruel."

As he approached you, the look in his eyes made it clear he could, indeed, be that cruel. "Do you think I care? They deserve whatever’s coming to them. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do."

“It was a mistake to come here,” you said as you turned to leave, but he grabbed your arm to stop you. "But nothing is beyond repair. Maybe you can change this."

A flicker of hope ignited within you. "Me? How? What can I possibly do?"

He smiled, a chilling grin. “Don’t underestimate yourself, sweetheart; you have no idea how much you mean to me.” He reached out, intending to touch your face, but you angrily pushed his hand away.

"Stop it. Just tell me what you want. Oh, let me guess—you want me to break up with Harry?"

He chuckled. “Nah, I’ve changed my mind. I know you won’t leave him, no matter what happens.”

You tried to mask your surprise. “So, what do you want from me?”

“One night." He locked eyes with you. "I want you to spend just one night with me.”

The way he said those words sent a shiver down your spine. The mere idea made your stomach turn. “What kind of sick bastard are you?”

"I'm offering you a choice, and it comes with just one condition, sweetheart. If you don’t comply, you’ll have to watch your man falter and see the heartbreaking news about the Castillo family everywhere. Think it over. Harry's fate is in your hands."

"Do you think I'm an idiot? How can I trust you won't pull a fast one on me?"

He chuckled and leaned closer. "What other options do you have?"

You fell silent, realizing you had none.

"I'll draft a contract between us. I’ll ensure Harry gets everything he needs to stabilize the company’s stock, and I’ll drop the lawsuit. Would that satisfy you?"

Just like that?

That seemed too simple.

"What is this, a telenovela? Will you be satisfied when I sleep with you? Will you leave your revenge just like that?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Harry's been shaken up enough, and he's going to have a hard time putting the company back together, watching his misery that's enough to satisfy me. But of course as soon as you volunteered to satisfy my needs-"

You slapped him in the face. “You piece of shit!”

He put his hand where you hit him and smiled wickedly. “So you're not accepting my offer?”

Fuckin' asshole.

You squinted at him, your whole body shaking with anger. "I would rather spend the night with Joffrey Baratheon. Yeah, I know he's a fictional character, but at least I could beat the bastard up and my night would be more interesting.” you said and turned around to leave.

“Suit yourself,” he said behind you. "But remember, whatever happens to Harry next will be your fault. And about those telenovelas... They may be exaggerated and clichéd, but know that in the end they're always have a point.”

The next day, things took a turn for a lot worse. Just when you thought it couldn't get any shitty, everything spiraled out of control. The streets outside the company overflowed with an army of paparazzi, their cameras clicking like a relentless drumbeat, while protesters shouted, their voices rising in a tumultuous chorus of anger and despair. Even Forbes magazine, which had once celebrated Harry on its cover, was now reporting that his company was teetering on the brink of bankruptcy and that he had slipped off the list of the wealthiest people. When Maria and Mia came to visit you one evening, you watched them through the door as they talked about losing their home. They were filled with sadness and desperation. You couldn’t help but wonder what else could possibly go wrong, and then it did. The Feds and the SEC even IBRC got involved.

That’s when the last text from Alan arrived on your phone.

This is your last chance to save your man.

But it wasn't just the urgency in the text that spurred you to act; it was the sight of Harry himself. He looked so lost, so deeply unhappy that your heart ached for him. Maybe it was reckless, stupid, maybe he’d come to resent you for this decision—or maybe, just maybe, this was the only way to pull him back from the brink.

He would understand eventually, wouldn’t he?

That night, as you lovingly caressed his face while he slept beside you, your mind raced with turmoil. He had increasingly sought solace in alcohol, and fatigue clung to him like a shadow. He was your everything; you would do anything for him, anything.

The next morning, after preparing breakfast—he barely touched it—you sent Alan a text as Harry left for work.

Your fingers shook as you typed, tears in your eyes.

Tonight.

That evening, you slipped into the underwear and the dress you knew you would tear them off and throw them into the trash afterwards. You wrote a note to Harry, left it on the counter, and stepped out of the house.

But first, you had to see someone.

Jack.

You needed to prepare yourself for the big fish that wanted to swallow you whole, instead of being just another fish on the line.

It was around ten o'clock when you finally arrived at the hotel. Your heart raced with nervousness; you felt like a sacrificial lamb, and the thought of what could happen made you feel disgusted. How could you allow another man to touch you, especially someone you despised?

When you caught sight of the elevator, fear gripped you so tightly that you almost turned back.

But no, you had to summon your courage.

You were doing this for the man you loved. All Alan had to do was sign the contract you had arranged through Jack's lawyer.

You were ready to pay the price for that—a straightforward agreement. Seemingly simple, but a gnawing sense of dread gnawed at you from within.

You clutched the belt of your trench coat tightly as the elevator ascended, your nausea returning. Perhaps it was simply the tension building inside you. The elevator bell startled you, and your palms were slick with sweat. As you stepped inside, you felt timid at first, but upon seeing Alan and his unnecessary smug smile, you lifted your chin and approached him with purpose.

“There you are,” he said, his victory grin irritating you even more.

Taking a deep breath, you retrieved the documents from your bag and laid them on the counter. “Sign it now.”

He glanced at the papers. “What’s this? No kissing, no hugging—this is the kind of stuff escorts ask for, or somethin'?”

You shot him a withering glare.

"Well, I already had these documents prepared, sweetheart," he said, showing his briefcase.

“I don’t trust you, which is why I asked Jack to draft them. Sign them or I’ll go back,” you stated firmly, trying to keep your expression icy and unyielding.

He chuckled. “Hmm, clever. Fine, but I’d like to read them first.” He settled onto the barstool and began examining the pages. “There are some carefully crafted clauses in this contract that will benefit Harry's company and the entire Castillo family. But what about you? Don’t you demand anything?”

You understood his meaning but tried not to care. You had already made up your mind. “Are you going to sign it or not?”

He looked at you with a serious expression. “If I have to pay a price to get you out of those clothes, then so be it, honey,” he replied, starting to sign each page one by one.

A mixture of relief and anxiety washed over you. Your heart raced at the thought of what was to come, and you felt your courage slip away.

But there was no turning back now.

Once he finished signing, he slid the documents back across the counter towards you. As you reached for the folder, he seized your hand and pulled you closer. “I’ve done my part; now it’s your turn.”

A shiver ran down your spine, and you nearly burst into tears, but you steadied yourself. Putting the folder in your bag, you turned to him. “Just one thing: Harry can’t find out about this.”

He nodded, his impatience growing. “Okay, I swear.”

You untied the belt of your trench coat, took it off and put it on the chair. You were emotionless looking at him, or tried to be.

You felt like you were stuck in quicksand and you were sinking deeper and deeper as he approached you, staring at you like a hungry wolf.

You closed your eyes tightly when he reached out and touched your cheek. You tried to suppress the urge to sob as he slid his hand slowly from your cheek to your neck, your body shaking. Suddenly he wrapped an arm around you, pulled you to him and pressed his lips hard against yours. Instinctively you closed your lips tightly, it was so disgusting. You placed your hands on his chest and pushed him away while he kissed you more eagerly.

But then suddenly he paused and pulled back. Only then did you realize that you were crying.

He looked at you licking his lips, grinning with disappointment.

“Okay, that's it.”

You looked at him with your eyes wide open. You couldn't believe what you were hearing. "Wh-what?"

He walked back to the bar, sat down and poured himself a drink. You had a lot of questions, but the first thing you thought was that he backed out of the deal because you didn't kiss him back. "You signed the papers, you can't back out now."

"I’m not backing out; that was the agreement between us. It's done."

"But you said-"

"I prefer a woman who is eager to sleep with me," he said, looking at you angrily. “I'm not a fucking rapist. Now go, leave me alone,” he said and sipped his drink.

Confused but relieved, you picked up your trench coat and put it on. He didn't even look back as you walked to the elevator. But that was good, you sighed deeply to yourself. You hadn't imagined getting out of here like this.

With a strange sense of relief.

But then you remembered that bastard kissed you. "Ugh, that's disgusting. I should wash my mouth out with soap until it hurts. Eww.” you muttered to yourself while frantically wiping your lips with a wet tissue.

It wasn’t yet past midnight when you stepped into the dim corridor leading to Harry’s apartment. The elevator ride felt surreal, each floor ticking by as hope bloomed in your chest. You were grateful to return intact, clutching the crucial documents that could save both him and the company. Everything would be fine from here on out. You just had to sweep tonight's events under the rug, even if their stench lingered.

As you pushed open the apartment door, a wave of confusion washed over you. There, shrouded in the shadows, sat Harry, motionless on the counter.

When had he returned?

Oliver had mentioned he would be out late, and the stark absence of lights only heightened the weird atmosphere. Hesitant steps carried you closer, but the heaviness of your night weighed heavily on your mind. You inhaled deeply, attempting to steady your nerves, and called out softly, “Harry?”

His gaze pierced through the dark, and it made you falter. You had expected to find him with a drink in his hand, yet he appeared unsettlingly sober. On the counter, bathed in the soft glow of the city lights, your note rested beside an ornate ring box.

Something felt off.

“Baby, are you okay?” you ventured, your voice quavered as it broke the silence.

He absently glanced at his phone, muttering, “You’re back early.”

A lump lodged in your throat as you scrambled for your thoughts.

“‘I’ll be with Zoe. I might stay with her if it’s late,’” he recited, pointing at your note.

Clearing your throat, you forced out, “Well, yes. We finished up early and decided to head home.”

“Oh yeah?” he said, showing you his phone screen.

Your heart dropped like a stone.

There on the screen was a photo of you lingering in the hotel lobby, captured just hours ago.

Who the fuck... How?

You closed your eyes tightly, willing yourself to choose right words.

“Harry, let me explain,” you began, but he silenced you, lifting the ring box instead.

“This…” he opened the box slowly, revealing a stunning antique diamond ring that sparkled amidst the gloom, “was from my mother. I had intended to give this to you, to propose... later.”

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered, awe mingling with pain.

“It is. It was. Everything was beautiful—until this night,” he spat.

“Wh-what do you mean by that?”

He stood up abruptly, his grip seizing your shoulders with a force that was both desperate and heartbreaking. “How could you go to him?”

“Harry, just listen. I... I did it for you,” you implored, your eyes wide with plea.

His eyebrows arched in disbelief as he tightened his grip. “For me?”

“Yes! Everything I did was for you.” You fished your bag and pulled out the papers, placing them before him. “I was going to give these to Oliver, but now that you know everything, they’re yours. Alan signed them all. You can save your company.”

“Fuck the company!” he bellowed, the sound echoing off the walls and making you jump. The fury in his eyes pierced right through you as he clutched your shoulders fiercely. “You were all I cared about! The company, everything else—it didn’t matter as long as you were with me. But you…” He shook you roughly, tears spilling over onto your cheeks. “How could you do this to me?”

“Harry, listen... You were so sad, and I thought—I thought I could help...” you swallowed, your voice breaking.

“What did you expect would happen? Did you really think I’d be fine with you sleeping with my enemy?”

“Please... I thought that was my only option. It was all I could think of to help you.”

He finally released you, his hands trembling as they fell away. Tears welled up in his eyes, catching the light like tiny gems. “Even if it meant losing me, everything we have?"

You sniffled, tears flowing freely now. “All I did was love you and think about you.”

“You were thinking of me? Yet you didn’t have me in mind when you went to him, did you? Maybe you were too eager,” he said, the sharpness of his words cutting deep into your heart.

In a moment of raw pain, you slapped him.

With the impact, he turned his head to the side, eyes squeezed shut, and sighed deeply.

How could he say something like that to you?

You waited for him to apologize.

But he didn't.

Did it truly not matter what you had done for him?

How could he be so cold?

With a shattered heart and a deep breath, you managed to get the words out.

“Goodbye, Harry.”

The simple farewell fell from your lips like a final breath as you turned and walked toward the elevator.

And just like that.

It was over.

He might have regain his company and his reputation, but in the end, he had lost you.

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ginnsbaker · 2 months ago

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All Of Your Pieces (18 - The Civil War)

Chapter Summary: “She shouldn’t feel like she’s a threat," you said. Natasha tilted her head slightly, considering you. “She doesn’t just feel it, Y/N. She’s been told it. Over and over. The Accords, Vision, everything. It’s going to take more than two weeks to undo all that.”

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 5k+ | Chapter Tags: Slight angst, hurt/comfort

A/N: Hell yeah I'm finally done with midterm week! So, as promised, here's an update for Sunday that I was supposed to post last Wednesday. Thank you all for waiting! // More author's notes here. GIF credits to the owner. Let me know is this is yours!

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The debate over the Sokovia Accords had always seemed like a bureaucratic exercise to you—a lot of grandstanding and red tape, destined to drag on without anything concrete coming of it. But when it ended in literal casualties, moments after the UN summit in Vienna, you realized how naive that assumption had been.

The explosion dominated every news channel, every forum, for weeks. Footage of the carnage played on a relentless loop, like a ruthless reminder that refused to let the world move on. It stoked their anger and fear of the superpowered intensifying—further solidifying the need for a regulation of some sorts.

And then there was Steve—Captain America—standing between the law and a man the world had already convicted in its collective mind. Protecting a criminal—or so it seemed at first glance. But if you squinted, if you dug beneath the hysteria, you could see the loopholes in the story.

You were taught to never take things at face value. To investigate, to question, to confirm. The video evidence of James Barnes near the scene of the bombing was damning, but not airtight. The timing was too perfect and the evidence too clean—as if it was designed to be found. And then there was the sheer improbability—someone like Barnes being sloppy enough to leave a clue, to incriminate himself by carrying out such large-scale destruction carelessly.

If it really was him, you figured, no one would know. The world wouldn’t have a name to blame or a face to crucify.

Steve believed it too. He didn’t just think Barnes was innocent—he knew it. Or at least he believed in him enough to stake his own reputation on it.

The manhunt for Barnes split the Avengers right down the middle. Tony and Natasha were working with the UN and the German authorities, pushing for Barnes’ immediate capture, while Steve enlisted Sam’s help to find him first and uncover the truth once and for all.

Which left you stuck at the compound with Wanda and Vision—because, of course, that’s just how your luck worked.

—

You’d been keeping to yourself, burying your head in books and doing whatever busywork you could find to keep from dwelling on it all. It wasn’t a peaceful kind of quiet, though—not even close. It was rife with tension, and you hated that your main orders were to stay put.

You’d seen Vision and Wanda together more lately. They were spending time in the kitchen, of all places. Vision seemed to have developed a fascination with cooking, and Wanda, for reasons you didn’t entirely understand, had decided to humor him.

That’s how you ended up at the world’s most uncomfortable dinner.

The table stretched long, built to fit the entire team, and you settled a few spots away from them. Vision had made something intricate, his approach to food as overly analytical as you’d expect. Wanda had contributed in small ways—chopping vegetables, stirring sauces—but it was clear who had taken the lead.

You sat across from them, awkwardly poking at the meal on your plate. It was good, technically. Perfectly seasoned, perfectly cooked. But the scene around the table made it hard to enjoy. Vision sat still, weirdly choosing this time not to participate in this human activity. He looked perfectly content watching his two eaters, wanting to see if he had earned their approval. Wanda wasn’t eating much. She was pushing her food around, her eyes darting toward him, then to you, then back to her plate.

“Is it to your liking?” Vision asked.

“It’s fine,” you said, knowing full well it was much better than that but not feeling generous enough to say so.

“Wanda assisted with the preparation,” he added, almost as if he thought that might tip the scales.

You glanced at her. She gave a small, half-hearted smile and shrugged. “Just chopping and stuff,” she said.

After that, the conversation died again.

It had felt like a good time to disassociate, and you let your mind drift off somewhere else. More specifically, to the growing rift between Tony and Steve. The misunderstandings were no longer petty disagreements but fundamental divides. If push came to shove, you still hadn’t decided where you stood.

You used to joke about Tony and Steve acting like divorced husbands, bickering over every little thing. Now, the irony wasn’t so funny. They were barreling toward something that resembled a real divorce, and you could almost see them dividing the team like children—figuring out who got custody of whom.

But you? You were always the lone wolf. It seemed more likely you’d walk away from them both, let them fight their battles while you disappeared into the shadows. You’d done it before, and the thought of doing it again didn’t terrify you. And maybe that was the problem.

A sharp noise from outside yanked you out of your thoughts. The sound wasn’t loud, but it was enough to put everyone on edge. Vision’s head cocked slightly, as if concentrating to learn more about what they all just heard.

“Stay here,” he ordered calmly.

“Wait—” you started, but before you or Wanda could get another word out, he disappeared, phasing cleanly through the nearest wall and leaving you both sitting in uneasy silence.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You glanced at Wanda, her fork frozen midair, her eyes trained on the spot where Vision had disappeared. Finally, you exhaled and nudged your plate aside. “This is the best meal I’ve had in a long time,” you murmured.

Wanda’s head snapped up. Then, to your surprise, a laugh slipped out of her—short, almost involuntary, like it had been startled into existence. “I could tell,” she said, her lips curving into something that might’ve been a smile.

It was angelic and utterly contagious. You smiled back, soft and unplanned, like your body decided for you. It’s the most interaction you’d had with her for a while after bringing her to the orphanage weeks ago.

God, you’d missed her.

Out of the corner of your eye, something shifted. Without thinking, you were on your feet, moving to Wanda’s side, positioning yourself as a human shield. It was a ridiculous gesture—pathetic, even—considering what she could do versus what you could offer. But instinct doesn’t care about logic. The drive to protect her overrode everything else, propelling you forward before your brain could catch up.

Clint Barton strolled toward you, bow slung over his shoulder, every inch of him looking like he was prepped for a mission. And judging by the timing, it didn’t take a genius to figure out—you, Wanda, and Vision were the mission.

“Clint?” you uttered in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

“Disappointing my kids,” he replied dryly, stepping fully into view with that familiar half-grin you hadn’t seen in ages. “Cap needs our help. Come on.”

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “Well, I’m not disappointed.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint muttered, his eyes scanning the room, barely giving you a glance. “We need to move. Both of you. Now.”

You were on your feet before he could say anything else, your hand closing around Wanda’s wrist without a second thought. It wasn’t until you felt her skin warm under your grip that you realized what you were doing. You let go just as quickly, glancing back at her with a quiet apology in your eyes.

But Wanda wasn’t paying attention to you. She was giving Clint a hard look, her feet planted firmly on the ground.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Wanda said, surprising you both.

“Wanda, you can’t stay here,” Clint said. “After Lagos—”

“I’ve caused enough problems,” she whispered. “Maybe it’s better if I stay out of sight. Out of everyone’s way.”

“You gotta help me, Wanda. Look, you wanna mope, you can go to high school. You wanna make amends, you get off your ass. Y/N, help me out here.”

You glanced at Wanda, trying to decipher what she’s thinking but you came up empty-handed. You turned back to Clint. “You let her decide, Clint. You don’t drag her onto your side—or anyone’s. She chooses.”

Clint chuckled, eyeing you like he already expected your answer before you did. “And what about you? Which side are you on?” he asked.

You opened your mouth to answer, but hesitated, not because you didn’t know the answer—you did. You just weren’t ready to say it out loud.

Because the truth was simple: whichever side Wanda chose, that’s where you’d be.

You’d told yourself you could walk away from this. From the Avengers, from the divide, from the mess of it all. And maybe you could. Maybe you would have.

But Wanda—

You wanted to look after her.

You were saved from answering altogether when Vision reappeared, phased through the far wall.

“Aw, hell,” Clint muttered, his hand twitching toward his bow.

“Clint Barton,” Vision said. “You are not authorized to be here. Step away from Wanda.”

“Yeah, see, the thing is,” he said, casually shifting his stance as he engaged an arrow, “I don’t really care about authorization.”

Clint didn’t wait for Vision’s retort. He released his arrows and triggered the traps he’d set—an electrified net sprung from the ceiling, enveloping Vision in crackling energy. For a split second, you thought it might actually work.

It didn’t.

Vision freed himself out of the net like it was tissue paper, the electricity harmlessly dissipating around him.

“Yeah, well, worth a shot,” Clint muttered, already nocking an arrow. He let it fly, but Vision caught it midair with a speed that was almost unfair.

Clint moved fast, dodging Vision’s strikes with a skill that came from years of experience. He didn’t try to overpower him—he wasn’t stupid—but he kept Vision moving, trying to distract him, to buy time.

Vision held back, almost smug—you'd think he was waiting for Clint to tire himself out, running circles that led nowhere.

“Y/N, a little help?” Clint called, ducking under a swipe from Vision that could’ve caved his skull. Before you could even think to move, Vision had Clint in a chokehold, his vibranium arm coiling around Clint’s throat. Clint's attempts to break free looked almost pathetic, his fists thumping uselessly against Vision's arm.

You froze for a split second, looking at Wanda. Was this what she wanted? Her face gave you nothing, and in that moment of indecision, Clint’s choking gasps snapped you into action.

You rushed forward, grabbing onto Vision’s arm and hauling yourself up, trying to throw him off balance. He barely budged. Desperation took over as you reached behind your back, pulling a small blade from your pocket.

Vision caught the motion instantly. His free arm shot out, grabbing your wrist and twisting it sharply. Pain shot through your arm as the knife clattered to the floor.

You gritted your teeth, trying to fight through the pain. “Let him go, Vision!”

Clint’s face was red now, his struggles weakening. You kicked at Vision’s side, but it was like hitting a brick wall.

“Vision, that’s enough!”

Vision's grip loosened for just a moment, enough for you to catch your breath, before it cinched tighter. You bit back a whimper, already feeling the marks that would bloom across your skin.

"I said, that’s enough," Wanda commanded as red energy crackled menacingly at her fingertips.

Vision moved to finish the job and the energy surged from Wanda’s hands, slamming into Vision and lifting him clean off the ground. The moment his hold broke, you and Clint crumpled like discarded ragdolls.

“If you do this, they will never stop being afraid of you,” Vision said. You opened your mouth to argue, to tell Vision he was wrong, but Wanda spoke first.

“I can’t control their fear,” Wanda murmured. Her shoulders sagged as she sighed wearily, looking like she already regretted what she was about to do, knowing it would hurt Vision. “Only my own.”

The ground opened up like a wound, swallowing Vision whole. Wanda’s power didn’t just push him down—it buried him. The compound’s reinforced flooring crumbled like dry leaves, and the sound of his descent—steel on steel, concrete splitting apart—made your stomach churn.

You sat up, head pounding, ribs screaming. Clint was coughing beside you, dragging himself upright with a hand braced against the wall. Neither of you spoke. What could you say?

Wanda stood over the crater she’d made, her hands slack at her sides, red sparks still licking at her fingertips. Her face was blank, but you knew her well enough by now to see through it. Her breathing was too shallow, her shoulders too stiff. She wasn’t fine at all.

It was a little jarring to think that just a few hours ago, they were cooking together in the kitchen.

“Wanda,” you started, still trying to catch your breath. “Is he—”

“He’ll survive,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Clint gave a weak chuckle, thoroughly impressed and a little horrified. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

—

Things happened dizzyingly fast after that.

You’d only meant to get Wanda to Clint, to make sure she was safe, but everything spiraled at the airport. You hadn’t thought past that, hadn’t considered the bigger picture or the consequences of leaving the compound with her.

The fight was brutal—friends turning on friends—and you barely kept up, trying to shield Wanda when you could. You’d been hurt, subdued like a criminal, strapped into restraints that bit into your skin. But none of it mattered. Your entire focus was on Wanda—if she was okay, if she was hurt, if she blamed you for any of it.

When they threw you in The Raft, the humiliation of it barely registered. All you could see was Wanda, restrained in that awful straitjacket, her face pale and blank, her hands trembling. It must have been harder on her than anyone else—treated like a criminal with the weight of Lagos hanging over her head. In that moment, you made your choice—Steve had your loyalty now, no matter what came next. But even that didn’t compare to how fiercely you had Wanda’s back. That was something else entirely.

Now, two weeks later, Valencia felt like limbo. A place to breathe—

—with a target on your backs, well, not really.

—

Valencia might’ve been halfway around the globe, but you treated it like hostile territory all the same. Your face—along with the rest of those who backed Steve in his fierce objection to the Sokovia Accords—had hit every newsfeed, and you couldn’t afford to relax here or anywhere else, for that matter. You dressed down, stuck to side streets, and kept your head low. It was Spain, but it might as well have been home—just another place where you were never really safe.

“Have you heard from Clint?”

Natasha nodded before turning the page of the newspaper she’d been reading since this morning. “Yeah. He’s working out a deal with the government.”

You frowned. “What kind of deal?”

“Something about a plea bargain,” she said. “House arrest, probably. It’s the only way he gets to be with his family.”

Clint had fought for all of you, risked everything to stand with Steve, to break Wanda out. It hadn’t fully sunk in just how much he’d sacrificed until now—how much he put on the line for what he believed in.

“That’s messed up,” you muttered, mindlessly stirring the honey you’ve put in your tea a few minutes ago. You’d yet to take a sip. “If Clint’s willing to sacrifice being with his family, how can Tony not see what we’re standing for?”

Natasha’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Tony sees it. He just sees something else too.”

“Like what?”

Natasha didn’t respond right away. She just looked at you, her gaze steady, like she was weighing her next words. “You weren’t there.”

For a moment, you were confused. “Where?”

“In the Battle of New York. When the sky opened up, and Earth faced the greatest threat it had ever seen—and wasn’t ready for.”

Natasha sighed and took her sunglasses off—a risky move as the cafe was in the middle of a crowded street—but she needed you to more than just hear the words out of her mouth, you needed to see how this wasn’t some trivial disagreement between two people who cared about the same thing. “Tony was at the front lines, throwing everything he had into the fight. There were so many casualties. We couldn’t save everyone, no matter how hard we tried. And the guilt of that... it doesn’t wash off, no matter how many victories come after.”

You frowned, gripping your mug a little tighter. “So his solution is what? Autocracy?”

Natasha laughed and put her glasses back on. “I wasn’t aware you knew what autocracy was,” she teased. “Though, if you really did, you’d know what Tony wants is far from it. This is an entirely different situation.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the faint smirk tugging at your own lips. “If you understand Tony so well, why are you here with us?”

“I’m not here because I switched sides,” she said simply. “I’m here because you need me more than Tony does.”

And she was right. You did. It was bad enough that Clint wasn’t here. You hadn’t realized how much they’d become your safety net until you were on your way and it hit you—you were on your own now. No longer celebrated as a hero but a renowned fugitive. Natasha’s grounding presence was the only thing keeping your nerves from unraveling completely.

“Are you going to drink that?” Natasha asked after a while.

You glanced down at your tea, still stirring the spoon aimlessly. It was cold by now. You shrugged. She waved to the waiter and asked for the bill.

“I tried to convince Wanda to go out today,” Natasha said casually, like she wasn’t sure how you’d take it. “Thought a walk might do her some good.”

You looked up from your tea, surprised. “And?”

“She passed.”

You sighed loudly. “It’s been two weeks.”

“It’s not enough time for some people.”

You didn’t say anything right away, not wanting to push or show how much that affected you. Two weeks felt like forever when you were going over everything in your head when you first got out of the country. For Wanda, it must’ve felt like a lifetime—and not in the way that healed anything.

“Did she say why?” you asked quietly.

Natasha’s lips twitched, like she wasn’t sure whether to smile or sigh. “She didn’t have to. She thinks stepping outside is dangerous. For her, for everyone. And maybe she’s not wrong.”

“She shouldn’t feel like she’s a threat,” you said.

Natasha tilted her head slightly, considering you. “She doesn’t just feel it, Y/N. She’s been told it. Over and over. The Accords, Vision, everything. It’s going to take more than two weeks to undo all that.”

—

The hotel you’d been staying at for the past three nights was tucked away from the town center, far enough that the food you’d picked up for Wanda had gone cold by the time you got back. The isolation had its perks, though. This part of town had a quiet charm, with streets adorned in LED lights strung like Christmas was a permanent state of mind here.

The team had split up to stay under the radar. Steve accompanied Bucky to Wakanda, bartering a deal with T’Challa. Sam was stationed in a modest inn on the opposite side of the city, while you, Natasha, and Wanda ended up here, in a small, charming hotel surrounded by cobblestone streets and 15th-century architecture. With no mission except to stay hidden, it should’ve been the perfect chance to soak in the city like a tourist, to appreciate the timeless beauty around you.

But instead, you found yourself standing outside Wanda’s hotel room, the takeout bag dangling from your hand. You took a shaky breath, then another, willing your heartbeat to slow. It wasn’t working. Your fingers fidgeted with the strap of the bag, the cheap paper threatening to give out at any second.

Why were you so nervous? It wasn’t like this was the first time you’d seen Wanda since… everything. But things were different now. She felt different, like she was retreating into herself more and more each day.

Another deep breath. You adjusted your grip on the bag, smoothed down the front of your jacket, and gave yourself a silent pep talk. She needed you, just like you needed Natasha. Like you needed Clint.

Finally, you raised your hand, but before your knuckles met the wood, the door creaked open.

Wanda stood there, barefoot, her frame almost swallowed by an oversized shirt that hung loosely off one shoulder. It was frayed at the hem, the fabric softened by too many washes. Her pajama pants—faded plaid—looked like they’d seen better days, one cuff slightly torn where it dragged against the ground. She looked as worn as her clothes, her hair in a messy bun with stray strands framing her face.

For a moment, she just blinked at you.

“You knew it was me?” you asked, your voice coming out thinner than you'd intended.

“I had a feeling,” Wanda said with a small, knowing smile. “You breathe a little too loud.”

An embarrassed chuckle escaped you, awkward and unsteady, and you suddenly remembered the takeout bag clutched in your hand. Her gaze followed yours, and she tilted her head slightly.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, right,” you said, your face heating up as you held it up like a peace offering. “It’s for you. Some kind of beef stew—I, uh, forgot the actual name. It’s probably cold now, though. You should—”

Before you could ramble any further, Wanda reached out and took the bag from your hands. Her fingers brushed yours briefly, and the simple touch sent you into a headspin. “Thank you,” she murmured, looking into the bag.

You swallowed hard and gave a quick nod. “You’re welcome, Maximoff.” It felt like the right moment to leave, like you’d done your part, but your feet refused to move. You stood there like a fool, heart hammering, until Wanda—thankfully—broke the silence.

“Would you like to come in, Y/N?” she asked, her voice faltering slightly, as if she wasn’t entirely sure of herself either.

Too nervous to speak, you merely nodded.

—

The room was a bit of a mess—not filthy, but definitely in disarray. Books and papers were scattered across the coffee table, a pair of shoes lay haphazardly near the door, and a jacket was draped over the back of a chair. Wanda must have noticed your gaze drifting across the space because she quickly began tidying up. She grabbed a bundle of clothes from various corners—sweatshirts, a scarf, what looked like a pair of mismatched socks—and folded them into a neat pile. With an almost embarrassed smile, she placed them on the small sofa tucked beneath the room’s single window.

“Sorry,” Wanda murmured, “I wasn’t exactly expecting company.”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, though your eyes darted back to the room despite yourself. There was something endearing about the lived-in clutter, a reminder that Wanda, for all her power and grace, for all that had happened in recent weeks—was still human in moments like these.

She gestured awkwardly toward the sofa. “You can sit, if you want. Sorry again for the mess.”

“You really don’t have to apologize. My place is worse,” you said. It wasn’t.

Wanda offered you a half-smile as she moved to the kitchenette, pulling open a drawer to grab some utensils. “I find that hard to believe,” she teased lightly.

Busted. Your room at the compound had been practically bare. Your hotel room now was even emptier. You missed your own apartment, but could only assume it had already been raided by the feds.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you shot back, and she laughed softly, the sound settling something nervous and fluttering in your chest.

Wanda set the bowl on the counter and turned on the stove. You watched as she poured the stew into a small saucepan and stirred it absently.

“You should eat some too,” she said over her shoulder. “It’ll taste better warm.”

“I already had dinner, actually.”

Wanda glanced back at you, her brow lifting in question. “With Nat?”

You nodded, feeling oddly exposed under her gaze. “Yeah.”

Her lips quirked, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “How’s she doing?”

It wasn’t the kind of question that invited much of an answer—it felt more like something to say, just to fill the space. You gave a half-shrug, unsure what else to do with it. “She’s fine.”

Wanda didn’t push for more. She settled onto the sofa beside you, tucking her legs beneath her and taking a small bite of the stew.

You wanted to ask how she was. How she was holding up after everything. But you couldn’t get any word out. You didn’t know how to ask without making it sound like pity, and you didn’t want to do that to her. Still, the question burned at the edge of your thoughts.

It had to be hard, being in the middle of all this again, being wanted—hunted—just like she was when she aligned with Hydra. You couldn’t stop thinking about how Vision was on the other side now, the person who should’ve stood with her through it all, standing with the people determined to stop her. That kind of fracture would break anyone.

You glanced at her out of the corner of your eye. She was focused on her food, but the energy radiating off her couldn’t talk you out of asking her if she was okay.

“Wanda?” you started, “Are you—”

“I’m okay,” she said, cutting you off gently, as though she knew what you were going to ask. For a moment you considered if she was reading your mind at the moment.

She set the bowl down and offered you a faint smile. “Really.”

You nodded, though you didn’t really believe her. The room fell quiet again, and you looked away, legs starting to bounce a little as you thought of what to say next.

“Has Steve come up with the next plan yet?” Wanda asked.

Her question confused you for a moment, making you feel like you’ve missed something. “Plan? Plan for what?”

She shrugged, chewing her food thoughtfully. “To come back. To clear our names. To return to…” She trailed off. To return to our normal lives.

Oh. The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. Being an Avenger never felt anything close to normal, so you weren’t sure you ever really knew what normal was.

You wanted to assure her that Steve’s working on it, but you couldn’t lie to her either. From what you heard from Nat, Steve was preoccupied with helping Bucky’s asylum in Wakanda. And that could take a while. “I don’t think that’s possible anytime soon.”

“Why not?”

“Steve and Tony…” You exhaled slowly, trying to find the right way to explain. “Their misunderstanding—it’s serious this time. It’s not something that’s going to blow over.”

“Right,” Wanda said curtly, then fell silent, turning her attention back to her food.

Without thinking, you blurted, “Do you miss Vision?”

Her head jerked up, her eyes wide like she hadn’t been expecting you to mention Vision at any point in this conversation.

“I…” Wanda deliberated. “I do.”

You forced your jealousy down your dry throat. Of course she did. What were you thinking, even asking? Vision was her lover. They were clearly going through something, and here you were, dredging it up. You should’ve left right after giving her the food—that would’ve been the perfect time to go.

“I regret what I did to him,” Wanda said suddenly, breaking through your thoughts. “Burying him w-with…with my powers.” Her hand tightened around the spoon, the metal scraping against the edge of the bowl. “I didn’t think—I just reacted. And it wasn’t just him. I hurt the others too. At the airport.”

Your breath hitched. This wasn’t what you expected. “Wanda—”

She shook her head quickly, cutting you off. “I didn’t mean to lose control. I thought I was doing the right thing. Fighting for the right side. But after everything… I don’t know if there is a right side anymore.”

Her honesty floored you. You’d spent so much time blaming Tony for losing control, for going after Bucky, that you never stopped to turn the lens on yourself. You’d had your careless moments, caused your share of injuries to civilians on missions. You were just as responsible for how things unraveled—just like Steve, Tony, and the rest of the team.

“I want to believe we’re all still on the same side,” you muttered, resting your elbows on your knees as you searched for the right words. “That we’re still fighting for the same things—for justice, to protect people, to make things better. We’ve just… messed up how we’re going about it. But that doesn’t mean it’s over. We just need to figure out how to sort it all out.”

You swallowed hard, gathering the courage to speak. “I’m sure Vision forgives you for what happened. He… he loves you. And you two? You’re going to be okay.”

Her head snapped up at that. “What do you mean, ‘we’re going to be okay?’”

You winced, awkwardly scratching the back of your neck as you tried to clarify. “I just mean, yeah, sure, it might be a deal breaker for some people—getting buried alive and all—but Vision… he’s not like that. I don’t think he’d break up with you for—”

“We already broke up.”

You froze, staring at her. “What?” was all you managed to say.

Wanda sighed, setting the bowl on the coffee table with a soft clink. “We broke up. Before Clint came to get me from the compound.”

“Why?” you found yourself asking. You thought you'd feel happy, or at least relieved, but the truth left a bad taste in your mouth. Two people you cared about—yes, you’d finally admitted to yourself that you cared more than you wanted to—had ended their relationship, and somehow, that didn’t sit right with you. “I thought… I thought you two…”

“It wasn’t working,” Wanda explained. “We wanted it to, but things between us were always… complicated. And after the Accords, after everything that happened in Lagos…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “It became clear that we were too different. He wanted peace. I wanted… freedom. And I guess we couldn’t find a way to have both.”

Wanting different things has a way of pulling two people off the same path. You wanted freedom too—but until you stopped chasing it, how could you want anything else? How could you want what Wanda wanted? But then, you’ve never aligned your interests with someone just to stay by their side, so why start now?

“I’m sorry,” you said finally, the words feeling small but all you had to give.

She gave you a small, tired smile. “Don’t be. It was mutual, even if it still hurts.”

You wanted to say something—to comfort her, to remind her she wasn’t alone—but it didn’t feel like the right time. Maybe this was a moment to sit with it, to let everything settle. So instead, you reached out, your hand finding hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. A quiet way of saying, I’m here.

It was the first time in weeks you’d touched her.

Wanda looked down at your hand, then back at you. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Your heart slowed, like it wanted to stretch this moment out, to hold onto the feeling of her hand beneath yours forever.

You gave her a small nod. “Always.”

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sunsents · 4 months ago

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Tsu-tey - The Age of Arrogance (4)

CHAPTER 4

MINI SERIES MASTERLINK

almost finished with this series 😎 i realize that I tend to use a loottt of na'vi language. lmk if it gets confusing or just...too much. i do it to reflect the culture/language/world building or whatever u wanna call it. (I hope its doing what I intend it to lolz)

➵ chapter summary: You and Tsu'tey are sent on a dangerous mission. Let's just hope your rivalry won't intervene with the goal...

➵ pairing: enemies to lovers, tsu'tey x fem!reader(no use of y/n)

➵ word count: 4k

➵ warnings: cursing, angst(?) but it's just tsutey being emotionally unavailable/confused/sexually frustrated

DON’T REPOST MY WORK

chapter dictionary

eylan - friend

palulukan - thanator

syaksyuk - prolemuris (monkey-like animal)

tewng - loincloth

torukspxam - octoshroom/fungus

yomhì'ang - insect eating plants used for medicine

tawtute - demon

yawne - beloved

tsamsiyul - warrior

skxawng - idiot

syulang - flower

"The elders are calling for you."

Neytiri stands cross-armed in front of you, expecting you to finish your early dinner.

"For what?" chewing on poorly done teylu, you lick your fingers.

"I do not know." she sighs.

"Alright...am I in trouble?"

When she doesn’t respond, you have no choice but to trail behind her similar to a guilty child. Mo'at, Ateyi, and Tunak sit in a circle in the middle of Hometree. It’s currently dinner time, and the members of the clans are seated in their designated places as they eat their weekly gatherings. You can feel a plethora of gazes linger on you when you approach the elders with cautious steps.

Strangely, Tsu’tey is in front of the bunch, chatting with his signature stoic expression. His eyes display clear respect, but it's noticeable that he'd rather be somewhere else during late afternoons. His stiff posture and impatient tail are almost laughable, he makes it evident. If you’re going down, it seemed he was going down with you, whatever the reason may be.

It was common knowledge that the clan elders were a grumpy bunch. Specifically, Tunak and Mo’at. They were constantly unsatisfied, always complaining or criticizing the life around them, and giving unsolicited advice. Neytiri pats you on the shoulder to show her support, but your nerves start to spread through your body when you stand next to Tsu’tey. Mo'at surveys you and hums, announcing your arrival. When Tsu'tey turns around to see who has just interrupted them, he takes a step back.

It was only this morning that you two had a strange and intimate interaction in the Tsahik tent. Having not spoken to him since, the uncomfortable atmosphere stretches on. You don't know what to say to him, shuffling your weight between your soles. You settle on silence, standing next to him, "Err..you wanted to see me?"

"Now that you're both here," drawls Tunak in his elderly, hoarse voice. He seems appeased by your late entrance but only makes it evident through his tone. "Tsahik Mo'at thought it best if you both venture to cave Kelkuk'tal."

You furrow your brows, and Tsu'tey maintains his stoic front. "But, why?"

Mo'at raises a hand before Tunak can answer. "The clan is out of yomhì'ang, child. Zeir and Takuk are tasked with guarding the night gatherers. Jake and Neytiri...it is best to let them enjoy the fruits of their companion." she rolls her eyes. Mo'at, as much as she loves her son-in-law, has always found Jake's rebellious attitude an unnecessary measure during duties. "Eywa has spoken. You shall go."

"Tsahik," Tsu'tey steps forward. "Cave Kelkuk'tel is palulukan territory. It is dangerous, I will go alone."

Mo'at and Tunak bark out a laugh. Ateyi's warm eyes give you a pitying look, excusing her companions' behavior. Tunak holds his chest as he speaks. "You're still far too independent, eylan. Because it is dangerous are we suggesting you go together. You cannot do this on your own."

Tsu'tey scowls. Having his ability doubted hurts his pride. Nonetheless, he bows his head in respect.

"The palulukan’s sleep at nightfall. Ateyi will give you clothes for camouflage," says Mo'at, keeping her head high.

You bow your head, "Thank you, elders."

Bidding your farewells with two fingers on your forehead, you and Tsu'tey walk away until it's a reasonable distance from the circle of people. He stops abruptly, turns around, and surveys you with disdain. You get physically dizzy by his confusing attitude. He was gripping your waist and softly looking up at you as if you were the most precious thing this evening. Now though...

Tsu'tey's voice is monotone and rough as he speaks. "We leave tomorrow nightfall. Come early."

"Roger, big guy."

You expect him to hurriedly take off and ignore you for the better half of the day—his strange antics all point in that direction, and you've got plenty good at reading him. It’s frustrating how easily he disregards what passed between you two. Electricity was zapping around—your pent-up feelings were ready to burst.

However, he doesn't leave. Pausing, he takes a tentative step toward you. You adamantly don't shy away from eye contact, challenging his next move because you itch to see it. He opens his mouth, then closes it. You blink, tilting your head questioningly.

"Do you have...something to say to me?"

Instead of answering you, he audibly gulps while his pupils dart around. You’re rendered speechless– Tsu’tey rarely lets his emotions show, lest they're confidence, anger, annoyance, or all of the above. "Yes..." his thick voice drips with a rasp. "Do not forget to bring arrows"

He takes off without looking back, leaving you motionless and confused, contemplating what the hell happened for the rest of your night. You were getting exceptionally tired of him leaving without a word– it was becoming a problem, and for the sake of your sanity, you determined to hold onto him the next time he attempted his…strange demeanor.

The next day passes too quickly for your liking. Your day is spent running from one thing to another, and before you know it, you and Tsu'tey are geared up and walking towards cave Kelkuk'tel in silence. Ateyi had kept her word and adorned you both in gear only fit to be worn by important warriors, with arm and leg pieces composed of palulukan fur, and the animal's hind skin encapsulating the better half of your legs. Not only was it a genius camouflaging technique, but the hide was sturdy and quality.

The sun has already set, leaving a purple and turquoise hue clouding the afternoon sky. The bioluminescence has started their nightly lookout, you notice, coming alight as you walk through. Tsu'tey has the habit of stopping abruptly, twitching his ears for possible danger, and when he deems it safe to continue, gesturing his hand in an overly dramatic gesture only Jake used to do back in your RDA days. He must've rubbed off on the man, you think, jumping over a log gently to keep up with Tsu'tey's agile strides.

His legs carry him effortlessly while you curse your own, trailing behind him. It was humbling how you couldn’t keep balance, even after months of training. Thankfully, your steps are quiet enough because Tsu'tey doesn't disapprove like he always does with a disgruntled scowl.

As the syuksak come alive and start their nightly bicker, Cave Kelkuk'tel comes into view. You watch Tsu'tey's back stop moving, stretched well with muscle and resembling the blue Adonis that he is. His bow is slung across his squared shoulder, down his small waist shaped by his protruding v-line. It's incredibly lewd, how you can see the line of it jut out with his every step, curtained by his intricately weaved tewng you're sure the clan women must've crafted in hopes of attracting his attention.

"____?" he whispers your name, turning.

"Y-yeah?" you clear your throat as quietly as possible. "I'm here."

"Don’t get close to torukspxam." he crosses his arms, beckoning you to stand next to his tall frame.

You roll your eyes. "Okay, that happened once. And I had the antidote with me."

"No, I don’t. I was busy covering my ears from your screeching," he smirks, proud of his comeback.

"Can we focus, I'm not in the mood for all this right now," you whisper.

"Demanding little tawtute."

Ignoring his comment, you slowly approach the cave entrance. "Let's recount the plan again, then we'll start."

"Do not forget. I am in charge."

"How can I? You remind me every single day."

"Do not get sassy with me," he grunts, then kneels. "I will go first."

You nod, "Mo'at said the yomhì'ang grows deeper down the entrance."

"Yes, but it is not very deep. Don’t wake up the palulukan." when he says this, he gives you a knowing look that appears almost scolding.

"I'm quiet…" you grumble.

Tsu'tey merely hums, then cautiously enters the cave. Darkness envelops his frame with each step until he’s fully sheathed. After a reasonable amount of time passes, you hear the yelp of Tsu'tey's imitation. With a deep, calming breath, you advance. The darkness is strong as you enter, your eyes take a few beats to adjust. Your Na'vi features assist you quickly, and you can feel your pupils dilate as Tsu'tey's smug grin becomes visible. "Ugh," you retch, quietly.

Tsu'stey gestures his head towards the deeper part of the cave. You nod, following behind him closely. The hard mossy walls cause the inside of the cave to feel much damper than the outside forest, and the strong smell of natural herbs and shrubbery cloud your senses.

As you go deeper, the bioluminescence starts to become rich and soiled, growing obscenely in size. In a matter of few steps, small glowing flowers turn into large thick roots surrounding the sizely walls of the cave. The soft buzz of the cave critters sends chills down your spine—this place is scarier at night.

"Here," says Tsu'tey, so quietly that you almost don't pick it up.

With a nod, you kneel and open your satchel that’s hung across your hip. Tsu'tey makes quick work with his skilled fingers, cutting the herb. The plant keeps its radiant glow as you collect it into your satchel, the hue bursting through the loose weavings. You glance at Tsu'tey's satchel and realize he's collected more than you. You fasten your knife with determination.

Sooner or later, which is approximately 3 seconds because you counted, Tsu'tey catches onto what you're doing and scowls. He also picks up his pace, glancing back and forth between your satchel and his. You both exchange burning looks as you collect the herb, however, you play dirty. Tsu'tey grunts in protest when you reach over to his side and snag some of his plants, then push them into your satchel. "Sxkawng!" he whispers, then applies your dirty tactic against you.

"Loser carries it all back to Hometree," you retaliate, bumping his shoulder to throw him off balance. It doesn't work, of course. You're half Tsu'tey's body weight. The new deal is enough motivation for both of your piles to double in size in a matter of minutes.

"Stop trying to win against me, tawtute." he grins.

"I could say the same for you."

You lose and as expected, Tsu'tey has no mercy on you. He dumps all the shrubbery into your bulging satchel, then tosses his empty bag at the top of the pile as well. With wobbly legs and arms tucked under the bottoms of the heavy satchels, you slowly start to make your way to the entrance. You seriously consider never competing against him again. Whenever you’re with Tsu’tey, the situation always ends up with you carrying something obscenely heavy.

The cave is quiet otherwise your deep pants, quiet shuffling, and the armory of Tsu'tey crinkling due to his swaying, muscular hips. Awkwardly angled behind him, you try to dodge small rocks alongside your struggle to carry the herb. You think it's good that you’ve gathered an obscene amount, you won't have to go back to this godforsaken cave for another nine years. Falling deep in thought, you don't notice Tsu'tey glance behind ever so often to check how you're holding up. As you take another step, you watch Tsu'tey's eyes widen. Confused, you follow his line of sight.

You come face to face with the dawning reality that you’ve stepped on a cave vine. The thing about cave vines is that - you had to learn this the hard way - they are simply too fragile. This is ironic because their entire purpose is to hold up rocks; it's an otherwise mutually exclusive relationship. You feel the thin plant wriggle and snap out, then coil up with an echoing wizz. The rumbling sound that follows is bone-chilling and loud, warning that you stepped on the mother vine which acts as a vessel for the rest.

The cave starts shaking slightly, getting more rabid as the seconds pass, and when you look at Tsu'tey, the horror in his eyes makes you live the moment in slow motion. He's suspended in time as he tackles you to the ground, rubbles falling from the ceiling and collapsing around you. You hit the ground with an oomph and hold on for dear life, and in that very moment, you start to understand why everyone seems to pray for Eywa whenever they're in dire need of help.

Smoke clouds fill the cave in its mist. Your heart pounds in your chest, and after a few moments, everything stills. It's unusually quiet except for you and Tsu'tey's heavy pants. It seems the cave critters hurriedly hid away, stilling all life. Tsu'tey's heavy body presses you to the floor, satchels tucked between your bodies. His arms cage your sides as he lays there, breathing heavily with eyes screwed shut.

You stay like that while trying to process what the fuck you've just gotten yourself and your subordinate into. With a swift move, Tsu'tey pulls you both and the sack of herbs up. Your legs wobble like a newborn deer, and he's quick to put an arm around your waist and take the satchel from your hands.

''Are you injured?'' Tsu'tey asks in a hush. His voice drips with concern and fear.

''Tsu'tey, I'm so sorry. I wasn't watching my ste-''

''Are you injured?'' he asks again, tone now sharp and just above a whisper.

You grimace, feeling awful. He was the one who valiantly jumped between you and the rocks. Just what a respectable Omatican warrior should be, he valiantly protected you, who was under his wing.

You, who caused him trouble and made a fool of yourself.

''No! No, are you?'' you're quick to ask.

''We need to leave'' he demands, completely ignoring your question.

You take a deep breath, quickly wipe away the small drop of tear that was forming from pure shame and terror, then push away from him to stand on your own. Tsu'tey starts to navigate the big boulders and large, lush greenery. As you follow him towards the exit of the cave, your stomach churns.

What if the nantang nest had woken up? What if the rocks that fell weren't as small as they were?

You would have been dead, either as big cat chow food or boulder mush. It would have been months before they found your bodies, and when they did, they would only recognize you from Tsu'tey's stupidly attractive Olo'eyktan jewelry. Or perhaps they would distinguish your poorly made head and neck pieces that took you ages to weave.

Worse, you would've brought the Omaticayan Olo'eyktan down with you. The Olo'eyktan you saved in war. The man you carried on your back for miles, wailing and gritting your teeth with sweat and tears just so he could live. All because you were trying to prove to him that you were strong and independent. You felt shame. Why were you so determined to gain his approval? How far were you willing to go? Far enough that you would both end up being killed?

Throughout your self-destructive pattern of wallowing, you had reached the exit of Kelkuk'tel. The fresh air that hit your nose calmed your nerves only slightly. You're alive. Everything was okay; you kept reminding yourself. However, you didn't notice how Tsu'tey kept looking back to check if you were okay. The worry on his face only became evident when he turned around to face you and put the satchel on a nearby tree trunk.

You quickly surveyed his body without touching him; he had a few minor scratches around his arms, but other than that, he appeared okay. He was okay. You thanked Eywa for the first time in a long time that night. You had done so when you won the war; when Tsu'tey's heart was still beating when you found him with a gunshot wound on his chest; and now, when he barely had any scratches.

Meanwhile, Tsu'tey was busy searching your body for injury. It's only now, when you're out of the suffocating cave and able to breathe that you realize his urgency. The Olo'eyktan is shaken, you notice. Watching his pupils dart around your body, you try not to react to his soft yet fervent touch. He's breathing heavily, his chest shaking with fear as he searches.

''Tsu'tey'' you call out, hoping to pull him out of his panicked state.

Your voice doesn't quite reach him, though. You call out his name again, before stepping away from his hold and grasping his wrists. Tsu'tey flinches at the contact but doesn't pull away. You can't tell if your method of soothing is effective, alas, you keep going. With a thumb stroking his palm, you repeat a mantra of "I'm okay." and "We're safe.".

You don't know why Tsu'tey's reacting the way he is, you can't quite put a finger on it either. Almost as if he'd been in this situation before; lost someone he cared for. You halt your train of thought.

Did he care for you?

You watch as his breathing turns regular. His eyes focus on your face, and he closes his eyes with a deep sigh. "I'm sorry, yawne." he whispers.

Taken aback by the unnatural name, you merely repeat "It's okay.".

"I was careless of your step." he breathes, fists squeezing. "Careless to let you carry the yomhì'ang ."

"Hey, I should've watched where I was going.". You tell him softly. "It's not your fault, big guy."

Tsu'tey finally decides to meet your eyes after what feels like minutes. Though, his expression is uncharacteristically expressive. His eyes glisten teary under the fluorescence of the surrounding shrubbery. The glow of the magnificent Pandora moon caresses his navy skin gently. The vulnerability Tsu'tey's handing out to you with his bare hands makes you stumble against your deeply suppressed emotions. It's hard not to match his honesty, and before you can stop yourself, the words pour out from your lips. "I wanted to prove myself to you. To make you accept me as one of the people."

As you go on, Tsu'tey's face morphs into one of confusion. "Why?" he asks. ''Why?'' he repeats, getting seemingly annoyed. ''I am mean to you.''

"So?" You're offended he's asking you that question. "How could I not? Mean or not, you're the Olo'eyktan of the clan."

Your eyes watch as the gears in his head start turning. He hangs his head low in shame, realizing the severity of his actions. The severity of the situation he put you under. Your chest aches with fear and fury, trying to let every single emotion get out of your system so you can finally breathe. "Ever since I've come here, I've tried so hard to be a worthy Omaticayan." You say, letting go of his hands. "Approval of the Olo'eyktan means approval of the clan. Every day, you did well to remind me that I was a tawtute. A fraud."

Your voice cracks. "And now, I-" You suddenly turn away when you feel teardrops threatening to spill. It's been well over months of you living your life in Pandora, and you realized getting Tsu'tey's approval mattered very little amongst the many tasks and relationships you've nurtured in your life. Though, you're mature enough to acknowledge your mistake. A mistake that reminds you where you came from. What you truly are; "I almost got us killed. I made a fool of myself. You were correct."

A quiet shuffling of feet; slow, calculated steps; a clash of limbs and breaths, until Tsu'tey sneaks up behind you and wraps you in his arms. His bicep presses your back deep into his chest, his heart. Your na'vi ears flicker when you hear his thundering heartbeat— the storm that's been within him ever since you and Jake entered his clan.

"I am sorry, yawne,'' he whispers. ''I am sorry.'', again and again until you feel a warm teardrop run down your cheek. ''You are one of us. I did not know you felt…this. I didn’t…” he panics. “Please, do not cry.''

He nuzzles his romanesque nose in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. Surely, he can smell your sorrow; he can sense the teardrops that threaten to spill from your eyes. The skin-to-skin contact just feels so good. So comforting and long-awaited. You realize you're crying tears of relief because his closeness and sweet words were what you've been hoping for all this time. You close your eyes and rest your head on his chest, where your ear meets his heart.

''My strong tsamsiyul. I am a skxawng. Not worthy of my title for making my syulang feel this way.''

Your eyes quickly open at his words and you pull away from his grasp to face him. Because what else could you have done when he called you this endearingly? You search his face for hints of mockery but all you find is glistening, yearning eyes. "What?" you call out in a voice that sounds unlike your own.

When Tsu’tey realizes his words, he quickly turns on his heel and strides to the discarded satchel that’s lying limp near the tree bark. He hastily throws the woven bag over his shoulder and clears his throat. "Mistake," he mutters in English, then takes off.

You scramble to catch up behind him in the glowing forest. He wasn’t getting away this time. "Wait!" you yell, sound reverberating around the quiet night. "Tsu'tey! You big oaf-"

Thump.

Tsu'tey's sudden halt causes you to crash head-first into his firm back. His lithe muscles ripple when he repositions the satchel. “Will you stop running away!”

"I misspoke."

"How could you misspeak...that."

He gives you no answer– simply continues his hurried strides towards Hometree. "We talk about this after the mission is complete." he commands in his gruff voice, and you realize that's all you're getting out of him verbally. In a haze of confusion and nerves, you try to read his body language. His white freckles seem to be glowing more than usual, and the tips of his ears glow a deep purple. He's embarrassed, you realize, and the notion is enough to make you chuckle.

You sport a shit-eating grin throughout the entire walk, of course– your mind entertaining hopes of a more intimate relationship with the Na'vi man walking ahead of you. He had called you his flower, his strong warrior. His own.

His.

Remembering the interaction causes an embarrassing rush of butterflies to flood your stomach, yet again. Your face feels hot, and the forest breeze does nothing to cool off your disposition. This would surely mean that he desires you as well...surely.

With silent steps and lingering glances, you finally arrive at the common area. With bated breath, you wait for him to say something. In classic Tsu’tey fashion, he quickly leaves towards the tsahik tent without saying goodbye, or goodnight, or anything, for that matter. As you watch him get away from you like his life depended on it though, you fight back another heart-clenching wave of tears try to wash over you.

Have you disgusted him so much that he irked to get away from you this relentlessly? You can hear your heart shattering into a million pieces. The shards travel through your body and sting your insides; because your body wanted him. Your na’vi instincts yearned for his care, and the physical distance he constantly put between you was painful.

You wistfully watch his figure fade away until the night is still and serene. You crave a sense of stability on your own, so, then and there, you decide to give up on him.

#avatar the way of water #avatar #avatar twow #avatar angst #avatar au #tsu'tey x y/n #tsu’tey te rangloa ateyitan #tsutey #tsu'tey x you #tsu'tey x reade #angst #avatar fanfiction #avatar 2009

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bia-wayne-west · 1 year ago

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Mornings and waffles – Clark Kent x Reader

Characters: Clark Kent [Superman], Jon Kent [Superboy], Conner Kent [Superboy] and fem! Reader [You]

Synopsis: You have been married to Clark Kent for 12 years, and you live in the farmhouse in Smallville. You have two children, Jon Kent and Conner Kent. On a sunny morning, her two children jump on the bed to order pancakes and good morning kisses. You couldn't have a more perfect family.

Warnings: Superboys being super cute. N/A: I thought about doing something similar to Batmom but Superman. I always imagined what it would be like to be the mother of two super boys. Hope you like it. I hope you like it and that you feel how cute Superboys are. I'm a Latina girl who doesn't speak fluent English, so I want to apologize for any writing errors you find. Feel free to correct me.

Requests are open waiting for you

MASTERLIST

The sun was shining on the farm. The light came in through the window, but you didn't bother because you were hugging your husband's huge body. Clark used to sleep completely clinging to you, so the sun didn't hurt him.

You were about to wake up, but you could have a few more good minutes for you and Superman in bed together. Well, you planned to stay in bed until you decided to leave, but your children didn't want to contribute to your wish.

You felt two heavy bodies jumping on the bed, on top of you. Your eyes snapped open, and you sighed wearily when you saw Jon's bright blue eyes staring back at you. He and Conner were in bed, trying to wake their parents.

“Waffles!” Jon yelled, jumping on you.

Jonathan was ten and Conner was eighteen, but they still liked to jump into their parents' bed on a Sunday morning to order coffee. They could just ask Martha or wait for you to wake up, but it was more fun to jump on you.

“Jon it's still five in the morning, go to bed.” You grumbled, running your hand through your youngest son's hair.

“It's time for coffee, Mom. And the father has to fix the barn again.” This time it was Conner who spoke. He was hunched over Clark's body, who kept his eyes closed, was awake, but still didn't open his eyes.

It was hard to get Clark to accept Conner. At first, he treated the boy with utter contempt and it broke your heart. There were hours of conversation, and he only accepted his eldest son after having a conversation with Bruce, which made your husband open his mind.

Conner suddenly came into your life, but you can't imagine a complete family without their pretty boy. It took Clark a few years to accept the clone as a son and call him that, but when he called the boy son for the first time, your heart was full of love.

“And we want waffles.” Jon said again, sitting up in bed. He was in his pajamas with a dinosaur design on it and his hair was totally disheveled, and his face was crumpled up from sleep.

“Then let's make waffles.” You said, giving up. Their children uttered an exclamation of joy, making a high-five between them. “There will be waffles for you too, Mr. Kent.” You whispered in the ear of your husband, who now had his eyes open and smiling at Jon.

“Come on, Jon. Whoever gets to the table first will get the most coffee.” Superboy suggested, getting out of bed in the field. Jon also got up, and the two ran to the kitchen, betting on a race.

You let out a weak moan, hugging your husband again. He hugged you back, pressing a soft kiss to your neck.

“Let's get up, we have to feed the two beasts.” Clark joked, taking off the blanket so he could put his feet on the ground.

You smiled, repeating your husband's act and going to the bathroom. Within minutes, you had washed your face, brushed your teeth, and changed your clothes.

You were already in the kitchen, putting the batter in the machine to turn it into a chocolate waffle. Jon and Conner already had their mouths covered with so much chocolate, but they still wanted to repeat four more servings.

Martha, your mother-in-law, was helping you make coffee. She was by his side, frying eggs and bacon. She smiled at you, with that sweet face that only she had.

“They're very gluttonous.”

You both laughed, and smiled even more when you saw that Jonathan was frowning, probably because you heard his grandmother's comment.

“I only ate seven waffles and three pieces of bacon. I didn't even eat that much.” He confessed, making a cute pout.

“Okay, so, since you're not eating much, that portion of bacon and eggs goes to your dad.” You joked, putting the fresh food Martha had just prepared on your husband's plate, who thanked you with a kiss on the cheek.

Conner groaned. After you and your mother-in-law finished cooking, the two of you joined them for a nice family breakfast.

You laughed at each other, talked about silly topics, and showed how much you loved each other.

“We have a perfect family.” Clark confessed, running his hand gently over his arm. “A completely loving and amazing family.” He concluded with a smile when he saw Martha lightly pat Conner's hand gently as he tried to grab one of his grandmother's bacon.

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pearlywritings · 2 years ago

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Remarkable comparisons

synopsis: you just never seize to surprise him - your words make his heart flutter as you find the new ways to admire the parts of him.

prompt: 20

requested by: my dearest @lunargrapejuice

pairing: Diluc, Kaveh, Neuvillette x fem!reader

tw: fluff, established relationship, Diluc has thick eyebrows (because I love Rae's (@bobaboob) design of him), tiny mention of injury in Kaveh's

word count: 2.3k+ words in total

a/n: check my Token of appreciation writing event!

Diluc

“Congratulations, Kaeya,” you smile, saluting the Cavalry Captain with your drink. “Maybe this is a sign and you should really start dating someone.”

“One letter with a confession is all it took you to give me this piece of advice? Why, I am very honored to receive one,” the man teases, cheek supported by a hand and the fingers of the other drumming against the bar counter as he’s waiting for his own treat for tonight. “Not to mention, you getting together with Diluc in the past didn’t really solve the exactly same problem, am I correct?”

There is a grumbling sound coming from the bartender’s throat, and you snicker, knowing that the redhead is certainly rolling his eyes.

“Careful, Kaeya, or you might get your drink dumped into the sink.”

“Surely my brother wouldn’t do something like that to me,” your friend decides to pay your words no mind, turning to look at your husband instead, “right, ‘luc?”

“Oh, I actually might.”

“Ouch, you wound me.”

Diluc gives him a half-hearted glare, and you shake your head, too used to their quarrels over nothing. Tuning out their voices, you close your eyes and try to relax, enjoying your favorite beverage - always courtesy of your beloved - and humming the melody the bard is singing further into the room. The evening can be called unwinding, and if it continues to be so, it won’t be a hard task to wait Diluc’s shift to be over, to help him close the tavern and make your way home.

“Hey, hey, Y/n,” but of course Kaeya has to disturb your just established peace and quiet, and when you open your eyes again, there is already a full glass in his left hand. Looks like the tavern owner was convinced not to throw it away as he threatened to do.

“What is it, Alberich?”

“You decided to hurt me too,” he gasps painfully, clutching his chest and mimicking the face of a kicked puppy. “My favorite sister-in-law is bullying me with my last name.”

“I am your only sister-in-law. I get the privilege.”

It doesn’t escape you how Diluc snorts at your answer. Kaeya only grimaces.

“We’ll come back to it later. Now I am more curious, how did you handle all those love letters my brother received? I don’t believe you’ve ever told me.”

“I probably didn’t,” you agree, putting your empty glass down, only for it to end up in the redhead’s hands a minute later. “But that was fun.”

“...fun?”

“Yeah, fun. Ever since Diluc started courting me and I returned his affections, he’d come to me with every letter - sometimes with a whole pile of them - and we would sit down and read them together.”

The star-shaped pupil darts to the unfazed man and meets with the gaze of crimson eyes - it is as if he knew that his brother would question his reaction.

“I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea,” he states while pouring you another drink. “Just throwing or burning the letters without any prior explanation could leave some trace behind and cause misunderstanding, so I decided to tell her of the very first one I got when in a relationship with her. She found it so entertaining that ever since she demanded to read every single one of those.”

“You can call it my own research on the creativity of his suitors’ compliments,” you grin, thanking your lover for the new drink, leaning up to plant a kiss to his cheek. “I’ve counted around 120 comparisons of his eyes or hair to anything related to fire, a little bit more than 60 saying of his wisdom and owlishness, something like 46 cases of titling him a ‘prince’... But there were original ones too - ‘locks like waterfall of Fontaine’, ‘the dark master of my dreams’, ‘the perfect father for my children’”, Kaeya chokes, while you simply shrug your shoulders. “Yeah… I have a whole list somewhere actually. I can show you later, just remind me the next time you visit the winery.”

“You are the menace, my dear. Diluc, I can’t believe that after all those…fluttering words you were blushing over that compliment your now wife gave you about your eyebrows!”

“I mean,” Diluc clears his throat, furrowing the aforementioned brows, “They’ve just grown back after that accident with my vision…”

“And I jumped on him, kissing all over those beautiful thick bushy lines atop his mesmerizing eyes. I really missed them,” you sigh dreamily and the Cavalry Captain isn’t sure if you are serious or exasperated.

“It… it was the first time I'd heard them described that way. Or mentioned at all,” Almost unconsciously your husband reaches to move the fluffy fringe to the side. You can’t help but raise your hand and smooth the thumb over his eyebrow. Archons, your man is handsome.

“It was the first time I used such words too. I tried to be romantic. And creative. Creatively romantic.”

“I guess it worked…” Kaeya mumbles averting his eyes from the display unfurling before him. Maybe staying single wasn’t so bad.

Kaveh

“My love, you should be more careful with them, you know?” Softly caressing the bandaged knuckles with your thumb, you scoot even closer to your sulking husband. Your shoulder is immediately occupied with his golden-copper head, cheek flush to your bare skin and you can only assume that he is staring at the lock of your hands.

“Of course I know,” he sighs, turning his palm up and gently grabbing your fingers to draw the back of your hand to his lips. “My hands are basically the source of my income. But accidents happen at the construction site. It’s just that this time I am the one who ended up hurt. Thank the Dendro Archon no one else was affected.”

You want to scold him for being so dismissive of his own health, you want to scold him for not treating the injury well enough right away and jumping back into work again, you want to scold him for diminishing the role of his hands - his own role - to a simple instrument of making mora.

But you almost instantly push those thoughts away - after all, Kaveh knows all these things very well, and you are not about to ruin his mood even more.

“I hope they’ll heal soon,” you offer instead, turning your head and kissing the top of his. “Your hands are very important!”

“They are?” The blonde finally looks at you and there is an unmasked interest in them. “You mean, more than for drawing blueprints?”

“So much more! No other hand can hold mine. No other fingers can push a strand off of my face when the wind is too playful. No other palm is as perfect as yours to plant kisses upon. No wrists can compare to the work of art that yours are - also perfect for kisses.”

“I don’t know, birdie,” you are so beautiful in your pretense of playful hesitation, gleaming eyes averted and lips pursed. “What if this emotion doesn’t suit me so well?”

“But my muse,” the corners of his lips tug in a smile, akin to a shy morning sun, “all these things and so much more I can still do even with my hands bandaged.”

“I know, Kaveh, I know. But, there is something else, and, quite honestly, I might get shy if I say that outloud.”

“Oh?” Yes, that Kaveh-like lilt is back in his enchanting voice, and now he is sitting with a straighter back, half-turning to face you, but keeping your hands together on your knee. “Now I really want to know.”

“Come on, tell me~” And he is pushing his forehead against yours, gently butting, eyes full of determination staring in yours. “I wanna know what else my sweet loving wife thinks of my hands~ Or I might just attack you with kisses!”

“Wait, I joked-” and you erupt in giggles, when the architect surges forward to shower your smiling face with pecks big and small.

“...and what if I want it?”

“Then you shall receive.”

“Alright, alright! I surrender! I see your hands as the creators of our future home!”

The attacks abruptly stop. The pretty pink padparadscha eyes blink a few times, mind processing the words of your sacred confession. And while he is at it, you decide to elaborate.

“I adore the place we are currently renting. But I hope that one day we’ll build our own house - based off your blueprints, based off your vision of our home, cozy and full of light. So,” you reach your free hand to take his second one to lovingly hold them in your grasp, “for me your hands are also the creators of our future home, if you ever wish to share my idea.”

“I… Wow, Y/n, you caught me off guard,” the gaze full of wonder falls to his hands, currently wrapped in white bandages and looking imperfect in his own eyes. “It… it's the first time I've heard them described that way.”

“It's the first time I used such words too, my dear husband.”

You want to protest when his palms slide out of yours, but as they cup your cheeks and draw your lips to his - you eagerly close the distance, putting your hands on top of his.

Something tells you that Kaveh very much shares your idea.

Neuvillette

Your lover’s shrewdness has always been a well-known fact, an unprovable wrong at that. But even he at times could get stuck on a tangled case, especially in a moment of lacking some crucial details - though the public is never aware of it, because when the Iudex of Fontaine takes his rightful place in the courtroom there is no doubt that he knows more than enough to start the trial.

Only you and the melusines have ever witnessed him in a state of stalling as he is analyzing the information he has again and again until the missing piece is discovered. Today is exactly one of these days. No trials are scheduled for the day, so Neuvillette can dedicate his full attention to looking over the cases he will be taking care of tomorrow. Admittedly he never feels annoyed or discouraged when his thoughts reach a deadend, but having you in the same room always brings him comfort even though it was unnecessary in the first place.

You came earlier in the afternoon and brought him lunch, knowing that he’d barricade himself in the office till the late hours of the evening, and decided to stay, promising to handle any issue his subordinates could end up visiting his office with. The man has his full trust in you and your abilities to take care of the administrative part of his job - you’ve spent many decades by his side and involved in his field of work and possessed much empathy towards humans.

Same empathy you hold for him. It’s clear to you, as his beloved, his mate, that your partner needs a break. It’s been some hours since lunch and the desk in front of him has been getting crammed with more and more thick folios. If Neuvillette was a mek, there would be gears turning into his head intensively.

Oh!

Suddenly an idea pops into your head.

Putting away the reports Sedene delivered half an hour ago, you quietly rise from your spot on the plush sofa. The carpet muffles your steps as you move closer to the desk and round it, stopping right by the chair, putting your hand on its back. Your lover doesn’t even lift his head, too used to your presence, never questioning your actions. You admire the parts of him that are in your sight - his long, silky hair, thrown over the left armrest - a habit he developed, too tired to sit onto his own locks; then there is some of the skin of his neck is opened, transforming into the sharp jawline which you suddenly have desire to kiss; the broad shoulders that look even wider because of his coat and you put your free hand on his elbow, bending down.

And then there is his ear - pointy and delicate, it becomes the center of your plan.

Neuvillette’s whole frame shudders when you hum against the shell of it and then press the side of your head to his. It takes a moment to realize that it’s your ears that are touching and you lean into him even further, finally breaking his focus, eliciting a confused sigh out of him.

“Beloved? What’s wrong?”

“Mmm, absolutely nothing, darling,” you hum again, yet do not move anywhere from your spot. “It’s just your thoughts were running so fast in your head that I thought I was hearing the crashing of the waves.”

“...pardon me?” Now the confusion is in his voice too and you draw your face away to look at him with a glint of amusement in your visage.

“Well, you know, they say ‘a shell of an ear’. And if you press your ear to a seashell you’ll hear the sounds of a distant ocean. Come to think of it,” your finger touches the pointy edge and travels the length of it, sending another shiver - this time a pleasant one - down the man’s spine, “your ears look like the prettiest shells.”

When your digit stops its ministration it’s his own gloved hand that reaches up to touch the place you’ve just been tracing.

“It… it's the first time I've heard them described that way,” his voice is soft, inhuman eyes closing as a tender smile graces his lips.

“Well… It's the first time I used such words too, my love. I am glad the comparison is to your taste.”

“It is indeed,” the chair is pushed away and in a moment your lover is standing, fondly looking at you and offering his hand. “How do you feel about a walk at the shore?”

“Wow, if complimenting you will always result in taking a break from work I should start making more of those,” you can’t help but tease, eagerly taking his hand though. “I feel positively about it. Let’s go.”

#pearlywritings appreciation event #token of appreciation #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #diluc x reader #diluc x fem!reader #diluc ragnvindr x reader #kaveh x reader #kaveh x fem!reader #neuvillette x reader #neuvillette x fem!reader #genshin impact fluff

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kcflowers · 6 days ago

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Of Course Homura Cares!

Every post that says Homura doesn't care about the other ignores her grief so thoroughly it hurts.

In Rebellion, Homura recalls that "[Mami] would always put on a strong front and push herself too hard, despite having the softest heart of any of us." She says this, right before fighting Mami to try and right her dreamworld in killing Bebe.

"It always felt too cruel exposing the truth in front of her."

It's fairly evident to me that this is not a judgement of Tomoe Mami; it's sympathy. Homura has to do the same, putting on the brave, cold facade to try and prevent Madoka from contracting. She is, at her core, still a scared girl trying her best.

Kyoko she runs to in Rebellion when the world feels off. The orphan who knows hardship, Homura unable to shake the feeling that her being happy, and Kyoko being happy... is wrong. it's uncomfortable, it's out of character.

She sees herself in Kyoko even in a dreamworld of her own design, for they both have scars that made them, no matter how prickly the thorns are.

Even Sayaka, Madoka's knight, the one who calls her a demon at the end of Rebellion... is the magical girl we see her apologize to in her death, right before lobbing a pipe bomb at her.

She doesn't want to hurt her, but the also is in an impossible situation. Homura wants to protect Madoka, and Sayaka's worldview is so black and white, good and evil, that there's no room for nuance in countless attempts to right the wrongs.

After all, Homura Akemi is the demon to her position as an archangel to the Law of Cycles.

Even then, she has to perform an act to get her to cooperate in the subterfuge. She doesn't believe herself (as seen with the tomatoes), as she tries to get Sayaka to behave in her best interests.

After all, in her dream world, in her labyrinth... all of the quintet members get along. They get to be with their loved ones, their families. They get happiness. A gilded cage, for sure, but a cage nonetheless.

Homura's nightmare realm still gives her closest friends, peers, rivals, all get a chance to live.

In short? Of course Homura cares. Her paradise lost is still one where her friends get to be happy, free of the rules and obligations of the Law of Cycles.

She just struggles to recognize and celebrate the same parts in herself. After all, it might interfere with her role as "Evil". The Devil doesn't get nuance, at least on her own stage.

#pmmm #pmmm theory #akemi homura #being meguca is suffering #homulilly #she still wants them to be happy #kaname madoka #sayaka miki #sakura kyoko #she's not cold #she's distant because she has to be

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liennka · 9 months ago

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Another tragedy in your pitiful collection of plays

Interview with the Vampire characters x gn reader

Summary: you witness the tragedy that happened that day in the Theatre des vampires and tell your side of story to Molloy…(s2e7)

-> This one is pure angst and rage, I am open to any criticism (be nice pls) and I hope you like it :)

I just wanted to say that I am not the owner of this show, but I did make this story, so don't copy it without my knowledge, thank you.

I've never been so scared. As if the whole world pressed against me, its weight crushing my chest, squeezing my heart. As if I was suffocating, my lungs empty, squeezing my windpipe. One look at the stage and my heart threatened to burst, yet I couldn't tear my eyes from their faces. Madeleine's blank gaze, her pale skin covered in blood darker than her lipstick. Claudia's resigned sneer, her mouth open, always ready to defend herself. Louis' furrowed brows, one eye slightly swollen. The smell of blood everywhere. Just another batch of strawberry syrup with dye for the people watching, even for me in other situations, but today it was the blood of my friends. Reeking of metal and bitterness, flowing straight from their hearts, poured onto the floor from their mutilated heels.

I could not hear what they were saying. What made Claudia stand up and gasp with pain, what made Luis fall to the ground. No pre-written words from Santiago, no laughter from the people, no retelling of Lestat's life, no music. My head was silent, only Armand's whispering, a voice that was familiar, a voice that lulled me to sleep. His powers that immobilized my body, his pity, his reassurances. My mind was clouded. Inside I was aware of what was happening, the fear and disgust, I wanted to scream, wanted to get out. But Armand did not. I could feel tears streaming down my face, but not my muscles… Then all the whispering stopped.

"Banishment!" The crowd shouted in unison, in unprecedented desperation. The sound broke my hypnosis. What happened? I scanned the audience carefully, glancing at the man next to me. He sat behind the bars, giving the impression of a prisoner, but I knew very well that the only one holding him captive was himself. His inner self-degradation, his way of avoiding guilt. Why did Armand let me loose? What took his attention that even his love could not keep? Was it an unpredictable course of the play? Did the audience disappoint him? He didn't move a hair, his eyes didn't flicker, his hands didn't clench. Still, someone had manipulated the crowd. If it wasn't him, then who? Lestat's ear was bleeding, his hand was shaking, and his eyes were red. It was him. Lestat. Armand wanted Luis dead.

"Is this what you wanted? Another tragedy in your pitiful collection of plays? Another reminder of your endless suffering?" I finally regained my voice and snapped at him, my hand gripping his arm.

I've never been so mad. As if the whole world was laughing, its ignorance signing the death penalty for these three vampires, the audience enjoying the show. As if they wore sunglasses while their skin burned. No, I was not mad at those fools in those seats, I was mad at the fool in my coupé, in a cage he designed himself. Watching a play he wrote himself.

"Louis!" Claudia yelled, clutching his shirt in despair, though there was nothing she could do to prevent it.

"You can still end it. This time you can say No", I begged Armand, I always begged. He just shook his head. "Not to the laws," he whispered. Luis's screams filled the backstage until it ceased altogether, stifled by the doors.

"Is this a revenge on Lestat? Is this a way to regain the power over your coven? Is this revenge on your coven?" I took a breath "This is not the way! For once, do not let others trample over you, swallow your wounded pride and let it go. This plan of yours will hurt all of us, not just them! This is a mistake!" my voice wavered, I was desperate. Out of the corner of my eye, Santiago was talking to the humans, warning them. So did I, warning Armand, pleading with him, threatening him.

"Stop," his cold tone pinned me to the ground again, literally.

"Let them live," I cried, unable to move.

"They broke the law, they committed a crime. You are being irrational" he looked into my eyes.

I knew they were criminals, but more importantly, they were my friends, two girls doomed from the moment they were born. If anyone deserved to live, it was these two.

"They don't deserve this, please!" The burgundy tears fell from my cheeks onto my white blouse, forever testifying my misery.

"'There's nothing I can do," he shrugged and turned towards the performance.

"Coward."

He did not react. The stage fell silent, all the actors retreating, pushing the two vampiresses forward, holding onto each other till their last breath. I do not know what their last words were, it belonged only to their ears.

The dark curtain began to draw . Claudia looked up for the last time, meeting my gaze and smiling. "I'm so sorry, Claudia," I sniffled, not accepting what was about to happen. "It's okay," I heard in my head, her voice rough but sweet. "'s not your fault." I choked on a sob. She was like Joan of Arc, ready to die, knowing she was right, knowing they had misjudged her, yet she did not give up on her ethics, kind till the end. She stopped smiling and glared at the whole room. "Follow the bouncing ball!" she mocked them, gently embracing Madeleine.

When the sun's rays hit them, Claudia shielded Madeleine with her body, but the newborn vampire did not know daylight, did not know the pain of a sunburn, because Claudia loved her, she never let her suffer like Louis and Lestat had let her. With a shriek, she fell to her knees, the ash from her body swirling through the air. Claudia's singing led Madeleine out of this world, and then herself.

I've never felt such pain. As if the whole world ended, the lights went out, the music stopped. As if my heart had turned to stone, fallen out of my body, shattered into a million pieces. But the world didn't end, only their lives. The lights didn't go out, only their eyes, the music didn't stop, only their screams. They turned to dust, the dust we'll all turn to one day, human or not.

I dropped on my hands and knees, nothing holding me down, but I stayed there anyway. My choked cries, muffled by the vampires watching, turned to wheezes and wheezes turned to screams. I had never screamed that loud before, not on stage, not as a human, never. It was so loud my eardrums were bursting, I could feel my own blood on my tongue and my vision darkened. I heard the cracking of glass, the clattering of shards as they scattered across the floor, all the glass in the hall shattered. That was the power of vampires. I hope Claudia saw it somewhere, and I hope I made everyone in the hall deaf. The last thing they would hear would be a cry of pain, haunting their conscience.

The people fell silent, waited, and then began clapping. They applauded death, they applauded violence, they applauded Armand's writing. How humorous. He frowned at me.

"Are you all right?" He asked.

No, I wasn't all right. I wanted to gouge out his doe eyes, break every bone in his body, make him suffer, but I still cared about him.

"How can you even ask?!" I growled at him, waving my hand at him. My fingernails left scars, sure, they would heal, but my words won't. "I hate you! You should have stayed a slave, not ruining people's lives!" I didn't mean that, did I? I don't know. I do know that Armand took it seriously.

"That's enough." He grabbed my hand and then I didn't feel a thing. He shut me down, just like in the restaurant.

“Thats how it happened mister Molloy” I sat in a cafe with the interviewer.

“And tell me, how did you know he directed the play?” he asked, recording my voice again.

"In the café. He stood up and headed for another drink, but ended up at the door, I think. I found it odd, so I followed him. Followed his gaze as Santiago entered." I glanced down at my hands, mindlessly fiddling with Claudia's green necklace.

"They took my friends by force and covered their heads with sacks. They were shouting, I was shouting too. I demanded an explanation from Armand, to stop the madness. Instead, he embraced me, pulled me close, and told me to stop fighting. That he was saving us, saving himself. I asked...and I remember it like it was yesterday:'So you've chosen...you've chosen to suffer again?' and he said, 'Yes'. He said he wrote a play that would make everything right again."

“He didn't lie to you about the play? He never told Luis, you know?” Molloy asked

"Honestly, I don't know. I think he always saw himself as my brother, he knew that I could not leave to live on my own. That I would stay by his side. That I would always forgive him" I smiled a little

“Did you?” he smirked

“No, not this time. I do think he can be redeemed, but never forgiven, not by me.” I looked into Molloy’s eyes. “So, if you see him again, tell him to find me, it's been 70 years and we have stuff to discuss”

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snailsgoingdowntown · 5 months ago

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Help, I Reincarnated as the Female Lead’s Sister-in-Law!

Story Masterlist

Chapter 2

'Slight' Yandere! Dion Agriche x Fem! Reader

Arranged marriage AU.

Warnings: implied child abuse by Lant, a male doctor checks out your privates for health reasons, dried vaginal blood, a bit suggestive but the Reader hates it, a little hint of depression, vaginal pain. Please tell me if I miss anything. Dion also doesn’t show up in this chapter.

Disclaimer: I do NOT condone any of the harmful and dangerous actions/behaviors that take place in this piece of FICTION. These actions/behaviors should not be normalized or romanticized as they are extremely toxic and dangerous.

This blog writes and interacts with DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT/DARK CONTENT

MINORS/BLANK BLOGS/BLOGS THAT DO NOT REBLOG FANART/FANCTION DNI.

Chapter summary: you expected to wake up alone… just not to have a doctor walk through that door while your mind is scrambled.

Word Count: 2688k

Slightly edited.

===

When you woke up, the sky was still dark, and you were alone.

Instead of your new husband, a throbbing headache is what greets you once your eyes flutter open. It feels like you were bashed in the head with a metal bat, left to suffer and die alone. In your new prison that was disguised as a mansion, designed to eat away everyone’s sanity.

Taints their morals black, dripping until they’re all bled out. Leaving nothing but a sadistic bitch, any hope of a better personality, a good worldview, broken before it could even form. But you’re not like them.

You were not raised here. You weren’t groomed into being daddy’s little weapon – not used as a means to an end. Not viewed as an object, nor were you expected to seduce the son of an enemy to get information. You were not raised in fear but with love, soft touches and words of genuine praise and concerned frowns.

Your mother wasn’t one of many wives. She didn’t cower in fear if your father was upset. She didn’t treat you as a stepping stone, guiding you into becoming something that would almost guarantee she wouldn’t be disposed of. Or treat you like a trophy only to throw you away once you lose meaning, didn’t have to fear that one day, your father would decide that you held no purpose, thus killing you off. She was a kind mother who didn’t turn a blind eye to her children’s suffering.

You had no beef with your siblings, either. There was no need to fight a bloody battle for the throne; no need to rise above each other to ensure you would see another day. No ‘teachers’ that would quickly kill you if you ‘failed’ in your father’s eyes. And despite the petty arguments and cold shoulders, your bond was strong – held together like glue.

Your father wasn’t perfect, but he was fair. He was loyal to a fault – didn’t let his eyes wonder. Neither did he raise his children to become thieves, contact killers, treat them like trash and objects. He saw beyond your ‘usefulness’ – saw a person and not a tool. He was gentle and loving.

Your family wasn’t perfect, nor will they ever be. But they were warm.

But that warmness is turning cold.

Just thinking about it hurts.

The banging inside your skull rips you away from your thoughts, tightly shutting your eyes as if it would take away the smothering pain. If anything, the extra pressure just makes it worse, like a hammer was bashing your skull open while ripping your skin.

Something hot and wet streams down your cheeks.

“Hic…hic… I want to go home…” quietly sobbing, you shove your face into the pillow. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise, not having your new husband here. If he was…

‘… you look cute when you cry.’

“Ugh!” Muffling your shriek of frustration and horror with the pillow, you curse the man in question. You can’t even cry in peace! Not when that idiotic, possibly incestuous, dense brute of a man is your husband. A husband who likely would want his bride to cry instead of smiling so brightly it could rival the sun!

Knock, knock

Your head snaps up at the sound of the knock. Ah, right. They most likely want to check the sheets, if they haven’t already. You bite your lip. How many hours has it been since the deed was done? The sky was still dark, so maybe only a few hours. Or maybe it’s around the time the sun will start to show its face in just a few minutes.

Forcing yourself to rest on your knees, palms pressed against the mattress, you see the red stains beneath you. With heavy eyes you also look between your thighs – sticky blood that you didn’t bother washing away. Not that you could, there was no water nearby after the… event.

“Please excuse me, my lady.” A woman calls from the other side of the door, carefully opening it with a creak. The sound makes your ears bleed.

“Oh, you’re up,” she observes with surprise; it was obvious that she only called out by habit. You nod, unable to find your voice.

Her grey eyes rake over your nude form, from your puffy eyes to your bloodied inner thighs. You wonder how you look in her eyes. The nervousness only starts to kick in once she makes her way to you, her maid uniform swishing with each step. You sensed neither pity nor malice from her – she was simply doing her job. What exactly her job was you didn’t know.

Then, deep shame washes over you as she requests that you bare yourself to her. You felt dirty, tainted as you showed her the mess left between your legs and on the white mattress that will be replaced later today. Still, there was slight doubt clouding her eyes. You were told by both your mother and sister that the checker will always look at you with doubt, especially if your husband was nowhere in sight.

Even more so if there was no dried up white between your legs.

Your hand tingles in disgust as the memory of jerking him off resurfaces. You never want to go through that again, never want to sleep with him again. Forgetting having a child – you can’t even take him.

“My lady,” she starts after some hesitance, “may I call the doctor in?” Balking at her you don’t answer. Call the doctor. Why? Was it bad? Did it look fake? Did they want to open you up and make sure that the blood was from your vagina???

Just to see if you fucked that good for nothing bastard??

“M-may I ask why?” You stammer out, clenching the sheets below you. Did they really doubt you that much? Just because your forced-on-you husband left immediately afterwards.

The audacity.

Especially when they were the ones who called him away.

You hold your tongue – she wasn’t your maid. You weren’t in your family estate now; you were in theirs. Like a parent waiting on their toddler to settle down, she remains quiet.

Once you’re of sound mind – as much as you could be – she answers with, “To check that everything went smoothly, my lady.” You don’t buy it. You can’t buy it when she looks at you expectedly, head held high and shoulders straight. After a beat of pause, you sigh out a ‘yes.’

“I’ll be right back. I’ll warm up a bath for you as well. It’ll help with the soreness.” And with that she’s gone, the door shutting behind her. Your shoulders slump as you stare at the door.

Will Dion return?

…. probably not. He didn’t even spare you a second glance after he had cleaned himself. He had left without a word.

Besides, what would you do if he came back? Greet him like a loving wife? Hide underneath the covers like a ‘coward’? Sneer at him like he wronged you?

Knock, knock

“My lady,” the maid has returned, yay. “I have brought the doctor. We are coming in.” She doesn’t even wait for your permission. Hah. Then again, why would she? You weren’t her master.

What you see surprises and makes you wary.

The doctor – a young man with long red hair that was tied up, bangs framing his face – introduces himself as Ash Katopodis. He bows while apologizing for coming, stating that the only woman doctor was on leave for her pregnancy. His honey brown eyes only show kindness.

You question it mentally. Why call in a male doctor for this sort of thing? Usually, at least back home, your parents would call for a woman doctor when it concerned…private matters. Sure, in your old, modern world, gynecologists could both be male and female. But this world is set in a different era.

Still, he’s most likely here to make sure the blood was yours and came from your nether regions.

Why else would he be here?

“It’s… nice to meet you. apologies for the um… mess.” Voice getting smaller with every word, you close your legs and wrap your arms around your chest. It was natural, you tell yourself. Who wouldn’t feel uncomfortable being seen in the nude by the opposite sex?

You look to the side. Soft rays of light start to light the room; it seems that the sun has woken up.

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Ash gives a gentle smile as he walks to you, placing a suitcase on the floor next to the bed. Behind him the maid watches like a hawk. This family was known for employing strong personnel. Was she one of the strong ones?

Would she pin you down if you made a run for it?

“If you don’t mind, could you please lay on your back and spread your legs?” Despite yourself, you follow his instructions, wanting to get this over with. While he readies his supplies or whatever, you ask him, “Are you checking to see if I faked it?”

“Fake what?” He questions back, confused.

“Losing my virginity.”

He coughs as saliva gets stuck in his throat, dumbfounded. At what, do you wonder.

“N-no, my lady. It’s clear that…” you could feel his stare at your sore core. “…that you, erm, had an…. eventful night.”

“Then why…?”

He coughs into his fist, not willing to answer. Silence falls over the room as the gears turn in your mind. Was this actually… a checkup? To ensure your ridiculously large husband didn’t rip and tear something open? Did the Agriche family care about such matters?

Tilting your head, you give it thought.

Lant has ten wives with multiple children. That was the reason he married them all, no? To produce children, little kids he could forge into weapons. To feed into his own ego, thinking that having more than one wife meant he was better, more desirable than other men.

If his wives suffered any physical damage to their nether regions, they wouldn’t be able to give birth.

You guess… It makes sense.

“Alright,” you break the silence while taking deep breaths to ease your mind. Accepting your theory as fact, you force your legs to relax. Everything is done for their sake, you remind yourself. To make sure that his favorite son hadn’t ruined your insides was to ensure that you could be kept around with a purpose. Right.

“…if I may ask,” you hear the doctor rummaging through his suitcase. “How painful was it?” There’s uneasiness in his voice, cautious with his tone.

Truthfully, you don’t want to answer. You don’t even want to remember it.

“…it felt like I was being cut in half,” you answer. You jolt when you hear the snap of gloves. Was there going to be pain?

Subconsciously your legs close.

“My lady, do there is no need to worry; Master Lant’s wives have gone through the same process. It will be quick if you cooperate.” Right, right. Just relax. You need to relax.

It’s easier said than done when you feel something poking at you before spreading your folds open.

Ash left with a black eye and ice pack, not blaming you for what happened.

---

Even in the hot bath, you can’t force your hands away from your face.

You had kicked him! That poor man… to be fair, the gloves were cold. He wasn’t your husband, of course you’d react that way. It’s normal, right?

To kick someone in the face as they inspect your privates. Especially when you were still sore and mentally torn. Even more when he kept asking those embarrassing questions-!

‘Do you recall how long the pain lasted?”

‘Did the young master prepare you, physically? Hm, how?... you know, the usual with fingers and such.’

‘Did you tense during ‘it’? If so, then there’s a possibility that it could have added to the pain.’

“…Why?” Your hands still cover your face even as the maid – you learned her name was Hana -washes your back with a rag. She treats you like you were made from glass, ready to crack at any moment.

“Why what, my lady?” She questions before ushering you to raise your harms. You only do so to get out of the water quicker. While nice, you were considering drowning yourself.

“Well… why must…” a wince is pulled from you as she helps pull you up; time to clean the dreaded area properly. You suck in a breath as she wipes down your inner thighs. The blood itself was cleaned before you even entered the bath – however, she was going to go in a second time. Just to be careful, she told you.

She doesn’t comment on the purple bruises on your hips. Or the dried blood that was underneath your fingertips – Dion’s blood, to be exact. She doesn’t comment on anything. Just going about her day, doing what she was paid for.

“I-I… I’m just wondering why… it hurts so much…,” it’s a half lie – you’re also wondering why you were married to him.

Hana takes a minute to answer. “Biology,” is what she tells you. Well, she’s not wrong, but still…

“…Hana,” your head turns towards her once she has you sit back down. The warm water swishes around you as you settle down. “Tell me, do you know what type of person he is?”

“Who, my lady?”

“Dion.” It’s hard to call him your husband out loud. It’s still hard to wrap your head around it. (Name) Agriche. The sound of it makes you sick.

Hana blinks at you owlishly, caught off guard. She opens her mouth only to close it immediately. Seems that she doesn’t know how to describe him. Which is fine, but you’d still rather hear her opinion. From reading the novel and webtoon, you know how Dion Agriche is supposed to be.

But things aren’t following the novel and webtoon. At least, not completely. You’re unsure of how the events will unfold now that you entered the scene. He still looks young, and Cassis Pedelian attended the wedding as well. Meaning that the beginning of the series hasn’t started yet.

Where are you in the timeline?

“Young master Dion…” she trails off, trying to find the words. “He’s… he’s a good swordsman, and the most likely to become the heir of the Agriche family. He always comes out on top within the siblings. He is not the affectionate type, I’m afraid.”

Ugh. Like you would want any of his affection to begin with. You just want to be left alone. You hate the way he looks at you.

Like he knew you.

And the way he treated you… he should have been completely dismissive. Ignoring you after kissing you when the vows were said - you can still feel his cold, repulsive lips.

The shudder that takes over your body doesn’t go unnoticed. Hana dips her fingers into the bath water to check the temperature. She nods her head in satisfaction after retrieving them.

You wait for her to continue but she doesn’t. Guess that’s all you’re going to get out of her.

“I see. If I may ask…, do you know the reason for our marriage?”

“I believe it is because Master Lant wanted to strike a deal with your father, my lady.”

It should surprise you; you should have gotten up and screamed, and asked her what she meant. Demanded that she tells you everything. But you don’t.

Instead, your eyes flutter close as you recall your conversation with your mother.

‘(Name), whatever they tell you… There’s more to it than that.’

You regret not asking what she had meant by that.

Now that your mind has settled, Ash’s snarky and whispered comment fills your head -

‘That brute… couldn’t he have been more gentle?’ It’s too late to ask him what he meant by that - if anything, you had pretended you didn’t hear it. You need to wipe the memory away and never recall it again.

You sigh through your nose, worn out. Hana pours water over your head and readies the shampoo. The scent is familiar. Like lavender, your mother’s favorite that she passed onto you. It reminds you of home, back when you were a child, a teenager and finally, the seventeen-year-old girl you were months ago. Before news of a fiancé broke to you on your eighteenth birthday.

Your father didn’t tell you who it was right away. But the uneasiness in his eyes and the way his hands trembled while holding your shoulders should have worried you. But at the time you were too shocked to notice his odd behavior.

This familiar scent helps you relax. And you take the opportunity- after all, you’re in enemy territory. Black Agriche.

From here on out, your survival is a priority.

“Oh, that’s right. My lady.”

“Hm?”

“Young master Dion will be joining you for dinner.”

Why can’t lightning strike you down right now?

#dion x reader #dion agriche #dion agrece #dion agrece x reader #dion agriche x reader #twtptflob #roxana #the way to protect the female lead's older brother #twtptflob x reader #yandere dion agriche #yandere twtflob #male yandere

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terras-domain · 1 year ago

Text

Hell for Most, Heaven for Me

Prisoner Y/N / Sister JiU (Kim Minji - Dreamcatcher)

Tags: VIOLENT STORY (murderer background y/n), prison au,prisoner y/n (reader), nun JiU, rough sex,losing virginity, dub con, sex in VERY inappropriate places (please do not do this ;-;), hint of breeding I guess

Words: 3.8k

terra's note: helloooo terra here. This one was in my mind to do for so long, I wanted to make it but I was so worried if this is allowed or nah, cuz well, for some reasons. And an extra note I kept losing my works here and there i have no idea why ;-; But anyways, I hope this I a good read for you and as always, hope you have a nice day and love you all <33

"I hereby sentence you to 10 years of life in prison, and no parole" were the words echoing through my mind, after being convicted with murder. The bus, the last vehicle I'd probably ride for another 10 years, taking me to my new home. Looking through the dusty window, I could see the cold breeze blowing east, trees bending to the right, pointing to the gigantic grey building, lacking in life in joy. "Have a good look inmate. That's your new home" the guard, sitting across the bus, looking into my eyes, knowing the emotions I'm feeling all too well. He's sent plenty of people like me here.

Get in, check into your 5 star suite and wear your fancy orange jumpsuit; that was the process I was brought to, registering myself as the new inmate in a jail I don't even want to remember the name of. Dragged like a dog towards my cell, the guard slammed the door shut, leaving me alone with my thoughts. "Enjoy your stay, maniac." A stern voice echoes the area, the guard laughing as he walks away, making me curl up on my bed. The murder, the death and crimes I did, as much as they were right to call me a monster, it was deserved. Seeing my own wife cheating with my brother, nothing in my life could prepare me for that. The kitchen knife was just conveniently close to me, it took me less than a second to have it in my hand, and another second for it to be covered in their blood. I've lost it, yet I couldn't care any less. "Fuck that bitch."

Morning arises, the guards will usually brutally beat a bell to wake us up, forcing us to hard labour, often times picking up trash on the streets whilst supervised by them. "Quit slacking, y/n! You think I'm blind?" One of the guards yelled, her voice could easily break my eardrums, it hurts. What hurts more is the fact she's a woman, the same damn species that bitch, that cheating bitch was. I clicked my tongue, looking back and was on the brink of snapping, but my conscious got the best of me. "Yes ma'am." I obediently nodded, surrendering as I continued my community service, being a mere slave to the law. I was restless, my body could barely contain the anger. A sight of a woman in itself infuriates me. Getting a little rest in the restroom, washing my face was a right call. Looking into the reflection in the mirror, staring at the wet face of a man who's fallen down a rabbit hole of hatred. My eyes darken, my body slowly shrinking yet swollen, it just didn't make sense. "What am I doing?"

My restlessness needs answers, or at least, something to sooth myself. After community service, the guards let us have our own private time, wandering around the prison to do what you want. I stumbled upon the prison's church, seems like a good place to recuperate. It's like they always say, when in doubt, find God, or I hope they do. Entering the small room, it looks nothing bigger than 4 of my rooms, and my room looks like it was designed to fit a rat. There's probably not many visitors around here, it's a home for criminals. I sighed as I sat on one of the multiple free benches, crossing myself as I began to pray. My wish to find myself inner peace, my wish to fully heal myself from my sins, and most importantly my wish to have courage to forgive what has happened in the past. My prayers were going smoothly, but it was quite bothered when I heard footsteps. "Who the fuck goes to church, whilst being an inmate?" I monologued, looking behind myself to see the figure that was walking in the holy space, and that's when my eyes felt revived, seeing something so beautiful, my mind went blank.

"Welcome child. What brings you here?" Her voice alone made me lose my tension, it felt as if I was on a cloud. I was too stunned to speak, my mind couldn't process her beauty, let alone process human words to speak. "Forgive me, is everything okay? Or-" she paused, stuttering as if she's afraid of the next words coming out of her gorgeous lips. "...are you mute per chance? I know some sign language to communicate if so." She eventually found her best words to form a sentence. Looking from her expression, it seems like she's trying her best not to offend me. Unlucky for her, my mind cleared out the clouds of delusion, behind that beauty, lays a species of humanity I would despise till my grave. "Oh no! I'm not disabled or anything. I was just, spacing out..." My eyes wide open, the sight of a maniac is what could describe my face right now but my voice sounds ever so lovely, as if my past self was doing the talking, the goody two shoes that let myself marry such a wicked bitch. My eyes scanned through the curves of the nun in front of me. Despite her body well covered, I could see how curvy and hot she is, not too thick but she definitely is an eye candy. "Oh I see. Well forgive me for bothering your prayers child. I was not here to disturb your conversation with Him. May your prayers be replied and may your life finds itself towards the right path." She gives a short bow, before moving towards the pillar, the symbol of what I believe is the place where she usually carries out her religious speech, that is if anybody is going to her speeches. What's more important though is her walk, the way her hips move left and right, showing how curvy her ass is. I couldn't hold it, my mind doesn't want to keep imagining. It wants to live it.

My legs starts to move, marching towards her from behind as I grabbed her from the back, my left arm wrapping around her midriff whilst my right on her ass cheek. "ngh- what are you doing?! Do you know where we are right now, inmate??" She questioned, her voice sounds timid as my arms venture around her body, feeling the smooth cloth of her body hiding the treasures underneath. "I prayed for lots of things, sister. Seems like God answered the call pretty soon~" I grinned, my arm groping her ass, making me grunt from pleasure, oh how long have I waited to touch a woman's ass. That bitch of a wife wouldn't let me for months, eventually I found out that cheap slut's ass is for other guys. No worries, I'll take this nun's big ass now and fuck it the way I like it!

It was heaven for me, two days in prison felt like forever, and that forever bores me. With this bitch of a nun in my hands, I can do whatever I please. "No- Aaah! Please stop, this is not the place for such vulgar actions," the woman pleads. But unfortunate for her I don't take orders from women any longer, not anymore. Rubbing my cock underneath my pants while she grunts and tries to move away. Makes me want to have her even more. Despite my joyous time enjoying the body of the hot nun, there's always things that makes things complicated. "Y/N? Where are ya? You gotta get back to your cell!" A voiced shouted from a distance. It's the guards, I thought. I had to let the nun go, letting her pure body free this time, but I'm damn sure this isn't over. The guard steps in the holy space, seeing me stand in front of the nun, smiling at her. "Y/N, your times up, get back to your cell!" He ordered, before shifting his gaze to the curvaceous woman. "Sorry Miss Minji, he's new. I guess he spent too much time praying huh?" He giggled, completely oblivious to the fact I was groping her before he crashed the party. "It's okay, sir. The inmate was just....asking me some questions. It seems he is just starting his journey to find God." She explained, and obvious lie for the both of us, but to that stupid bastard of a guard had no idea. "Oh, I see. Well hopefully this rascal doesn't bother you too much, Miss Minji." The guard laughed it off, in his face reflects confusion as he took his baton and smacks my head, making me start walking out to head back to my cell. "Now that's enough learning for today Y/N, back to your little mansion you go!" He exclaimed, making me take my steps back towards my cell.

In my own cell, my legs are crossed while I rest on the crusty old mattress. Sure it feels like I'm laying on a rock, but in my mind I couldn't felt more relieved. In my mind is only Minju, I didn't even think a second of my late wife, the horrible woman that made me commit the crimes I do today. In fact, that crime is the sole purpose I have this opportunity, and I couldn't miss it for the world. "Minji....you will be mine!"

JIU POV

Getting home to my convent, my mind simply could not brush away the thoughts of y/n. He was a sinful man, and what he did couldn't be said any worse. But for some reason, my heart is racing, it screams for more of that. Is that what sexual pleasure means? Being a holy child of God, I was never interested into indulging myself into such filthy acts, but that was too much for me to resist. Resisting in bed that night I made sure to lock the rooms of my own room, hoping the rest of the sisters to not find me in this state, in heat and about to perform such sinful acts. My body naked without a thread, as I look down, my shaven pussy dripping wet. I gulped, my thoughts conflicting between each other, but eventually it was no longer in my head. I start to slowly touch my clitoris that made me instantly let out a moan. "Aaah~!" I covered my mouth, turning down the volume of my sexual voices as I touch myself, wishing nobody will see me. My fingers kept moving on its own, now penetrating into my pussy, fingering myself. I could yelp and scream, but my hand muffled the sounds to ensure it doesn't reach anybody's ears to listen. My fingers slide in and out of my pussy, touching myself as my body tingles, it couldn't last any longer. "nghhh- noooo...aaah!" Eventually my body gave up, spurting cum all over my mattress, making me moan out load for a few seconds as my urges got the best of me. I panted, looking around my room, nothing really catches my eye, only the fact my body was so into the pleasure of getting groped and touched by a dangerous criminal who so happens to hate women. But somehow with all those issues regarding him, I want to see him again, and I want all of that again.

Y/N's POV

Days gone by, and that hot nun just couldn't leave my mind. How I want to absolutely ruin her and use her as my own personal toy, I just couldn't stand it. Unfortunately, this isn't a lavish life where everything goes my way. Prison life is as horrible as it sounds. Humiliating tasks to complete, food that even rats wouldn't dare to touch, and to top it all off, the annoyance from the shouting yappers they call guards just makes life so tense. Luckily enough, I made acquaintance with a guy that sells cigarettes for some dirty money, and it's my only pathway to maintain my sanity in this new life.

With a blunt between my lips, my footsteps move towards the holy room, a place where it's expected to find the hot chick in prison area. Creaking the door open, I could see her stood in the room just as expected, cleaning the church area. Putting out the spark on my cig, I threw it to the nearest trashcan as I drop my footsteps towards her. "Missed me, Sister Minji?" I smirked, as my footsteps echoes the room. No reply, not surprised by that. I would expect her to actually make me leave or call the guards on me to make me go back to my cell. "What you did the other day....was a sin, my child." She responded after a minute of silence. She didn't flinch nor make a step back, making it more inviting for me to come closer. As we reach closer, only an inch apart of each other, holding her shoulders as I caress them a bit. "My wife was a complete asshole, Minji..." My voice speaks out, almost like a whisper to her ears. "...and I need you, to repent her sins." As I finished, my hands pulled her in, attaching my lips on hers. Kissing her deeply, my mouth tries to get a reply from the nun, hoping she opens up a bit more. "Mmmh...nghhhh~" Minji sounded her restrains, trying to resist. Eventually however, her lips part ways as she opens up, giving me a chance to make out with her deeply. "Mmmmh~ just like that Minji. Such a good girl" I groaned, enjoying my mouth on her innocent lips. After a while of making out, I pulled away and looked into her eyes, giving her space to breath. "God, please forgive me for my acts." Her face blushes, looking down, ashamed of her acts. "God won't hear nothing from you today. Might as well just use that mouth for something better."

I held her tight and guided her to fall to her knees. With zero resistance from Minji, it was easy for me to put her down. "You wanted this, don't you?" I grinned as I undo my pants, letting down the lower half of my jumpsuit to reveal my hardening boner. "It's not like that. I-I" she was hesitant. It was obvious in those pretty cat-like eyes her mind is going back and forth trying to get an answer. Unlucky for her, no is never an answer here. My cock is already out, twitching on her face as I rest it on her smooth pale skin. And I need her innocent body to relieve all the tension building up in me. "Suck." I ordered, but her small face shook in rejection, making me sigh in disappointment. "Guess I have to do it myself huh?" I grabbed the back of her scalp, gripping it hard enough to make her yelp in the bit of pain as I stuff her mouth with my cock, pushing it as deep as I possibly can in one push. "Nghhhh~! Accckk..!" Minji screamed, muffled by my member between her pretty lips yet echoes through the room. The muffled gags and chokes excites me, making my cock grow bigger in her tight throat as I plunge in deeper. Despite being her first time doing oral sex, taking it rough the first time too, she's doing well to stay awake. Even though tears running down her eyes and her face filled with her own spit and precum, the sight is such a beauty, it made me enjoy the whole process of my hips moving back and forth skullfucking her innocence out.

A few moments of thrusting in and out of Minji's face, I finally decided to pull out, letting her have time to breathe. "Bwaaah.... aaaah, goodness." She gasped for air, trying to gain her conscious, then moving away as she expected my little game is over. "Oh Sister Minji, where do you think you're going?" I grabbed her small forearm, stopping her movements. Her eyes widen, shocked from the revelation, and her tight body was immediately brought to one of the benches in the church, where I made her hands on the seats, bending her over. If it were up to me, I would've torn her garments apart and ravish her. But that would probably cause trouble for me with the guards, so I just took off her maxi and reveal her curved ass, only covered by her white panties, stained with her own wet juices. "Look at you~ so wet down here already~" I giggled as I gave her a firm spank, making her grasp the bench and scream out a moan. "I- It was too much for me to resist." She responded, her voice sounded so fragile and submissive, making my cock throb in excitement. My hand pulled down her white panties to her ankles. Now her untouched treasure fully exposed to me, I couldn't resist the urge to give a touch on her wet entrance. My soft touch on her pure innocence made her let out a sensual moan, resulting in a big grin on my face. It's a sign she's giving in. I keep exploring, increasing my pace on her touch-craving pussy, circling around her wet clitoris, where she constantly twitched and grunted from the sensation. "Aaaah...y/n..." Her voice sounds more sensual as her body looked weaker and could barely last. That's when I start to go rough on her again, pushing my index and middle finger inside her pulsing walls. Immediately as my fingers pushed in, she immediately screamed and moaned, enjoying the sensation as her body vibrates from pleasure. "OH GOSH Y/N NOOOO!" Her reaction only prompted me to go faster. "You like it, don't you? Being a slut in God's holy space? Showing off how much of a slut you are~!" I teased, my fingers reaching as deep as they could, while her moans escalated. "No...please do not say that...it is- aaah!" The moment she started to talk back, I immediately went faster and rougher, touching her sensitive parts to cause her to create a scene in the church with her moans echoing through the room. "No- nghhhh... I can not hold it any longer! Forgive me My Lord....I'm, kyaaahhh!" Her screams ignites her climax, cumming on my fingers and wetting herself as her juices drip down her thighs.

"Haa...haaahh" The gorgeous lady panted, laying on the bench as her mind process the depurification of her body unfold in such a holy area. But her eyes kept staring at mine, not with anger nor grudge, but confusion. As if she's having a war between herself, trying to pick up words of what she might decide to do after all this. I kneeled down, my eyes level to hers as I gave her a rub on the scalp. "Tell me, Sister. What is it in your mind?" I asked, as my cock throbs, waiting for more action. Minji gulped, her mind racing around looking for a decision. Or maybe she already does, yet too shy to ask. "P-please...please have sex with me more, Y/n." She muttered, sparking joy and lust within me. "Then in position, bitch!" I ordered, giving her face a firm smack to show her where she stands now, nothing more than a little slut for me, my entertainment in my 10-year sentence. She nodded obediently, her back now on the bench as she spread her legs to show her soaked cunt. And oh God, what a sight, a religious woman completely offering her pussy to a prisoner like a cheap slut she is, nothing makes me happier. I stroked my cock as I get closer to her pussy, slowly sliding my tip in. I looked at Minji's face looking at how she's taking my tip, since this is her first time. "Aaaah.....it's so big y/n" She whined, but eventually got used to my size as her breathe starts to ease out. "Seems like you're ready for the next step." I was never planning on going easy on this ass, and I won't change my mind. My hips immediately buck back and forth, fucking her tight cunt as hard as possible. "Aaaah! Wait no ngaaaaah you are- God too rough!" Minji screamed, feeling my cock plunging in and out of her tight virgin pussy, no mercy for her first time. "Fuck do I care, Minji? You wanna get fucked don't you? Then fucking take it!" My hips got into a faster pace, going rough on her with no sign of mercy, making her scream. Although her screams were getting louder, she didn't seem to want to stop. Her arms on my shoulders, holding on me tight.

With her arms now on me, it gives me a good excuse to hold her tight and carry her up, holding her tight body whilst my cock stays inside her sweet cunt. "Fuck- you're clingy aren't you?" I grinned as I humped her body upwards, making Minji move up and down my cock, with gravity helping drag her body down to take every inch of me. "Nghhh- forgive me y/n....I can't resist it any longer. I need your penis even more now!" The way her lips moved while she speaks, it turns me on, it drives me crazy. I brought ourselves near a wall, making the slutty nun's back face the wall. It gives me an easier pathway to thrust, fucking this bitch as rough as I want while holding her by her ass cheeks. "Aaaah~! Y/N it feels so good, gaaaah~!" her moans felt like music, a sensation I longed for so many years after my wife turned into the cheating bitch she was. Those memories can now be buried, a new sensation arises, with this tight slut being mine, and mine only. My lips now crashes onto hers, kissing her deeply whilst she took my hard cock in and out easily now after a lot of rough strokes. "Mmmmh~! Fuck- Minji, I wanna cum...I wanna cum in your fucking pussy!" I grunted, my cock couldn't hold it any longer as my shaft yearns to unload itself. "Wait no- that's too dan-" without waiting her to finish speaking, I already reached my limit, my cock starts to let loose, shooting ropes of cum deep inside her pussy, filing up her womb. "Aaaaah...kyaaaah!" Minji held me tight, accepting my rewards and my sign of marking, an officiation to being my slut. It wouldn't be enough to mark her insides, my mouth aims towards her neck, kissing and sucking on it before biting on it, my fangs leaving a purple mark, a hickey as a sign of ownership. My member took her time to finish, emptying myself in her womanhood. I panted, barely feeling my legs as I quickly walked towards a nearby bench to sit, with Minju still on top and my cock still inside her. I didn't want to say a word, and so does she. Our only exchange of communication were our lips kissing, tongues clashing between on one another. Our eyes interlock as we know from this day forward, heaven felt so distant, it's beyond reachable. But this sensation, for now, is our heaven.

#kpop smut #kpop nsft #female idol smut #dreamcatcher smut #jiu smut #kpop x male reader

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eintausendschoen · 4 months ago

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They grow up so fast.

Rhea's and Cronos's kids. Yes, all together for one pic. No, they didn't fight, I didn't bribe them, no one was hurt this was a peaceful affair I am totally fine and I totally did not stitch single portraits together because it was less of a hassle.

Oh, a few of them transitioned their appearance growing up. They have their reasons.

👀 Detail below from left to right (with a few shoutouts) 👀

Poseidon Enosichthon (Enesidaone) Themeliouchos — The pale, lively kid with the always busy hands. What happened to him? A younger brother and his detached father, basically. He's excited about life in general, but still very bad at saying no to his family (or anything else), so he'll end up doing everything at once and trouble always finds him. Being the middle kid ain't always easy.

Big shoutout to @rin-sith for the huge inspiration her Poseidon design was for his clothes and armour pieces. My Poseidon doesn't believe in clothes, usually.

Demeter Sito Thesmophorus — Though she isn't technically the big sister, she always took to the task of keeping her arms open for her siblings, no matter the grief it brought her. Always will she be singing songs, in part to forget the lot bestowed on her by her brothers and her father and keep on – but also in part to give the joys of life to gods and mortals who walk her realm and feel at ease with her. As Rhea's kid she'll uphold tradition gently and firmly, and feed everyone who comes to her table, even if it costs her.

Hestia — She might be gentle, but she can never be forgotten. To all that come to her hearth she will listen and grant them protection, even if this sacred solemnity cost her the arms of a lover. She is a lover to none, and loved by all, first she receives sacrifice. Herons gave her their wings to stoke flame, brush out cold cinders. She would rather her skin be stained white by flour than black by soot, though. Her baking is still the very best.

Zeus Olympios Panhellenios — Wide are the shoulders of this son of titans, and they carry burdens of judgement across all Greece. Over the years he aquired a thick skin on them, but never do the troubles of his family wear him down for long, although the same family has brought him to the brink of constant paranoia. The jewellery he chose to wear on the day Typhon cleared out Olympus is something he will never again take off, like the memory and fear of defeat it is part of him, conductor to lightning and passion.

A big grateful nod to @justcommander for the long and wonderful talks about Typhon, he is part of all my thoughts about Zeus now.

Hera Syzygia Alexandros — The sharp eyes of this queen of queens will trace you through darkest night. By her fathers sickle and her great veil she safeguards and upholds sacred laws and traditions and unions, and as protector of men her word triumphs. A guardian of women, she neither tolerates betrayal nor does she hold the cutting edge of her jealousy back for the sake of those who must obey discriminating law against those who the same law allows to overstep a hallowed bond of two. The shade of Baphomet suits you, honey.

Hades — In form and might and character he outgrew his father by far. He is still the same quiet and thoughtful person, but despite the darkness, he, too, is a guardian of life, a keeper of flames. In his gentle hand rests the light of life, on his other arm coils the means to give it, to take it away. Fiercely he rules over the line between realms, allowing hardly any crossing, but on a late summers evening he'll walk the golden shaded groves among the company of all flowers of the earth, too.

See, lovely @ruthlessness69 , how confident he has grown? The kindness of your Hades helped him. A lot! Ask Persephone, though, she'll tell you that he can solve his beloved crosswords without extra light, because he is still a big glowing kid in his heart.

All designs by me. Rhea's aspects come with a broader frame, more pronounced colours and animal traits, and no fear to show skin. Cronos shows in matters of lines, contrast and temper, and a certain tendency towards introversion.

So, what do you think? Next level eldritch? 🖤

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babyboyhotchner · 4 months ago

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PRINCESS ⋆ CASEY NOVAK

YOUR HONOR, MY PRINCESS

description: casey loves calling you her princess. pairing: casey x fem!reader. wc: 3.8

The first time you met Casey Novak, it was in a courtroom - two opposing forces, both relentless, both unwilling to back down.

You had walked in late, not because you were unprepared, far from it - but because you understood the power of an entrance. The soft click of your designer stilettos echoed against the marble floors, drawing more than a few glances from the jury and even the judge. You were dressed in a blush-coloured, curve-hugging dress, the kind that some might have called inappropriate for a courtroom setting. But you knew better. It wasn’t just fabric - it was armour, a weapon, a carefully calculated statement.

Casey had looked up from her neatly organized legal pad, her emerald eyes narrowing slightly as she assessed you. She was the very picture of discipline, clad in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, her auburn hair pinned back in a way that was both practical and devastatingly elegant. There was no reaction on her face, no raised brow or flicker of amusement - just sharp, professional scrutiny. And then, just for a second, something else. A flicker of intrigue, perhaps, before she quickly masked it with her usual stoic expression.

“Your Honor,” you said smoothly as you reached the plaintiff’s table, sliding into your chair with effortless grace. “Apologies for the delay. Traffic was murder.”

Judge Petrov barely spared you a glance over his reading glasses. He had seen your theatrics before. “Cut the dramatics, counsel. Proceed.”

From the defense table, Casey let out a barely audible scoff. “Glad to see your priorities are in order,” she murmured just loud enough for you to hear, eyes still fixed on her notes.

You turned your head slightly, a slow smirk creeping onto your lips. “Why, Casey, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were jealous of my grand entrance.”

She didn’t even look at you. “I’m just wondering if you plan to present a legal argument at any point today, or if we should just sit back and enjoy the performance.”

Oh, she was good.

The courtroom quickly became your battleground.

Casey was calculated and methodical, every argument laid out with impeccable logic and precision. She wielded legal precedent like a scalpel, dissecting opposing arguments with brutal efficiency. There was no room for theatrics in her world - only the unshakable foundation of the law.

You, on the other hand, thrived in the unpredictable. You spoke to the jury like they were old friends, weaving emotion and narrative into your arguments in a way that made them forget they were even listening to a legal proceeding. Where Casey relied on hard facts, you built stories, turning cases into living, breathing things.

“You can’t seriously expect the court to entertain this,” Casey said one afternoon, irritation evident in the slight crease between her brows. The case was a heated one, and you had just made a rather unexpected move, throwing in an argument that wasn’t in any of your filings.

“Why not?” You tilted your head, the picture of innocence. “Afraid they might agree with me?”

She let out a slow exhale, her lips pressing together in a way that told you she was trying very hard not to lose her temper. “I’m afraid they might mistake your performance for substance.”

You feigned a wounded expression, placing a delicate hand over your chest. “Ouch, counselor. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to hurt my feelings.”

The judge cleared his throat, clearly unimpressed with your back-and-forth, but the jury? They were eating it up. And, if you weren’t mistaken, so was Casey - whether she wanted to admit it or not.

Outside the courtroom, the tension only grew stronger.

Your paths crossed constantly—at depositions, in courthouse hallways, at late-night coffee shops where you both stopped to refuel after hours of casework. At first, your conversations were all barbed wire and sharp edges, each of you poking at the other’s weak spots, testing limits. But slowly, something shifted. The teasing became less about cutting each other down and more about… something else.

One evening, after a particularly brutal case, you found yourselves alone in the courthouse hallway. The trial had been grueling, and though Casey had technically won, you had made her fight for every inch.

“You fought hard today,” she admitted, surprising you.

You turned to her, watching as she leaned back against the cold marble wall, arms crossed but not in a defensive way. She looked tired, her usual perfectly polished demeanor slightly frayed at the edges.

“Well, I had to give you a challenge,” you said, offering her a small smirk. “Wouldn’t want you getting bored.”

She exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You’re exhausting.”

“Yet you keep showing up.”

Casey glanced at you then, her green eyes lingering just a little too long. Something unspoken passed between you, something charged and dangerous and completely inevitable.

She looked like she wanted to say something else, but instead, she just sighed, pushing herself off the wall. “Don’t stay too late,” she murmured before walking away.

But you both knew that wasn’t the end of it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The room felt suffocating with heat, the heavy scent of leather-bound law books and aged whiskey mixing with the intoxicating aroma of her presence. The golden glow from her desk lamp cast long shadows, emphasizing the sharp angles of Casey’s face, the way her lips curled in that dangerous smirk.

"You really shouldn’t look at me like that," she murmured, her voice low, warning-laced, but still with that signature authority. She leaned back against the desk, arms crossed, her loosened tie hanging carelessly, enticingly, around her neck.

"Like what?" You took a step closer, smirking, the air between you thick with unspoken tension. The subtle, yet unmistakable scent of your perfume curled around both of you, only amplifying the growing heat.

"Like you want something from me."

Your fingers brushed over the edge of her tie, trailing deliberately down its length. "And if I do?"

Her breath caught for just a moment. You saw it in the way her eyes narrowed, how the composure she worked so hard to maintain cracked just a little, revealing the smouldering hunger beneath.

Casey’s voice dropped, thick and rough. "You’re such a goddamn tease." Her grip tightened on your wrist - not rough, but firm - holding you in place. Her thumb ran circles against your pulse, each movement sending a shockwave of heat through your body.

"You like it," you whispered, eyes locking onto hers.

A wicked chuckle escaped her lips, low and dark, and she pulled you in closer, her body just a breath away from yours.

"I fucking love it," she confessed, the words rougher now, heavy with need. There was no distance anymore between you, only heat, the kind that burned, the kind that could never be sated by anything but each other.

"But you’re not in control here, Princess."

The nickname fell from her lips like a challenge, a command - a reminder.

Her hands slid down your dress, slow and deliberate, as if to savor the fabric beneath her fingertips, as if she wanted to leave a mark, to claim you.

"You wear this just to drive me insane, don’t you?" Her voice was barely a whisper against your ear. "Wearing my favorite color, knowing exactly how to make me lose control."

The air around you felt charged, every word heavy, every gesture deliberate. The tension that had been building between you for months was finally snapping.

"You should have better self-control," you teased, but your voice betrayed you - thin, breathless, caught in the web of her pull.

Casey’s smirk was dark, knowing. "Oh, sweetheart. You’re the one who’s going to be begging me soon."

Her hands gripped your hips, pulling you hard against her, the edge of the desk digging into your thighs as she closed the remaining space between you, her thigh pressing firmly between yours.

"I’ve been patient for months," she growled, her voice a low rasp as her lips brushed against your ear. "Watching you parade around, flaunting yourself, taunting me in front of everyone." Her breath was hot against your skin. "Flirting with me in front of the whole damn courtroom, just to see if I’d crack."

Her grip on your throat was sudden, firm, but not enough to choke, just enough to remind you of her power.

You gasped, the weight of her touch sending a thrill racing through your veins.

"Guess what, Princess?" she murmured, her lips hovering just over your ear. "You win."

And then, suddenly, urgently, her lips crashed into yours. There was nothing soft about it. Her kiss was a demand, taking everything from you, claiming you, pulling you deeper and deeper under her spell. Her teeth grazed your lips, nipping, pulling, urging you to respond, to surrender, to melt.

And you did.

You didn’t just kiss her back - you submitted.

When she pulled back, there was a brief moment of clarity. Her eyes were molten with desire, a cruel, predatory hunger dancing in the depths. Her fingers found your jaw, tilting your face up, forcing you to look at her.

Her thumb brushed over your lips, her gaze locking with yours.

"Pathetic," she muttered under her breath, a slight shake of her head as she looked down at you.

Before you could react, she gripped your chin, forcing your mouth open with surprising force. Your pulse quickened, heart hammering in your chest, breath caught in your throat. You stared at her, wide-eyed, and before you could fully comprehend what was happening, she leaned in - slowly, deliberately - and spit into your waiting mouth.

It was warm, slick, and thick, a tangible mark of her ownership, her control over you.

For a heartbeat, you froze.

Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she waited, her grip still tight on your jaw, forcing you to swallow.

"Swallow," she commanded, the word sharp, final.

You obeyed.

A thrill ran through you as the taste lingered in your mouth, a reminder of who you were with. Who you belonged to.

"Good girl," Casey murmured, her voice low and rough as she leaned in to kiss you again - this time softer, slower, savouring the moment. But there was nothing gentle in it. It was a reminder, a claim, marking you as hers.

You were breathless, your knees weak beneath you. The sensation of her lips on yours was dizzying, overwhelming.

Her voice dropped even lower, the words curling in your mind, leaving an imprint.

"By the time I’m done with you, you won’t remember how to stand, let alone how to breathe."

Her fingers slid back to your throat, pressing, not hard enough to crush, but enough to make your pulse flutter, enough to steal your breath.

"You’re mine now, Princess."

And you knew, deep down, that tonight - Casey Novak would ruin you.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The drive to her penthouse was suffocating in its silence, every second dragging out in unbearable tension. The atmosphere in the car was thick with unspoken words, heated glances, and the lingering electricity of what had happened in her office earlier. You could still feel the imprint of her touch on your skin, the way her voice had dropped low and dangerous as she’d leaned in close, her presence leaving you breathless. Now, as you sat beside her, the soft fabric of your dress brushing against your thighs, you couldn’t stop the restless movement of your fingers in your lap. Each stolen glance at her - the tight set of her jaw, the way her knuckles whitened against the steering wheel - only made the ache between your legs worse.

When she finally pulled into the parking garage, the tension between you was palpable, like a coiled spring ready to snap. She didn’t say a word as she stepped out of the car, her heels clicking sharply against the concrete floor. You followed her lead, your heart hammering in your chest as you hurried to keep up with her determined strides. The elevator ride to her penthouse was no better, the enclosed space amplifying every subtle shift in her stance. You could feel her heat, her restrained power, as she stood beside you, her lips pressed into a thin line.

By the time you stepped inside her penthouse, the heavy click of the door shutting felt like the finality of a lock snapping into place. The second the sound echoed through the space, she turned to you, her eyes blazing with intensity. Her lips were on yours in an instant, her kiss hot, demanding, and utterly consuming. There was nothing soft about it - her teeth tugged at your bottom lip, her tongue invading your mouth with a ferocity that left you gasping. Her hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against her, the cool leather of her jacket pressing against your arms as her knee slid between your legs. The pressure against your core was enough to make you whimper, the sound swallowed by her relentless kiss.

When she finally pulled back, her lips were red and swollen, her breath coming in heavy pants. Her hands didn’t loosen their hold on you, her nails digging into your skin just hard enough to send a delicious shiver down your spine. “You’ve been teasing me all fucking night,” she growled, her voice low and dangerous, each word vibrating against your lips. “That little dress, the way you crossed your legs in front of me like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing. But it’s over now. You’re mine.”

Her grip on your wrist was firm as she led you toward the bedroom, the pace of her steps leaving no room for hesitation. The fabric of your dress brushed against your thighs as you stumbled after her, your heels clicking against the hardwood floor. You barely had time to take in the room - the sleek lines of the furniture, the muted tones of the décor—before she spun you around, her hands gripping your shoulders as she backed you up against the wall.

“Strip,” she ordered, her voice slicing through the charged silence like a whip.

You hesitated for a fraction of a second, caught off guard by the raw authority in her tone. But the look in her eyes - sharp and unyielding - left no room for defiance. Your fingers moved to the zipper at the back of your dress, the soft hiss of the fabric splitting filling the room. The dress slipped from your shoulders and pooled at your feet, leaving you in nothing but the lace panties and heels you’d chosen that morning without realizing just how much they’d matter now.

“Faster,” she snapped, her gaze fixed on you like a predator sizing up its prey. “I don’t have all night.”

You hurried to obey, kicking off your heels and peeling the delicate lace down your legs until you were completely bare before her. The weight of her stare was almost unbearable, her eyes raking over you with a hunger that made your skin burn.

“Good girl,” she murmured finally, a slow, predatory smile curling her lips. “So fucking perfect. But not nearly perfect enough. You’ll look better covered in my marks.”

Before you could respond, she was on you again, her hand gripping your chin and tilting your head back to meet her gaze. “You don’t speak unless I tell you to,” she said, her voice a low growl. “Understand?”

“Yes, Casey,” you whispered, the words trembling on your lips.

Her smirk widened, and she leaned in closer, her breath hot against your ear. “That’s what I like to hear.”

She pushed you back toward the bed with an unrelenting force, her hands rough and purposeful. When the backs of your knees hit the mattress, she shoved you down, her strength undeniable.

“Lie back,” she commanded, her voice brooking no argument. “Hands above your head.”

Your heart pounded as you complied, your body trembling with anticipation as you stretched out beneath her. The cool air brushed against your skin, making every nerve ending come alive.

She climbed onto the bed, her knees bracketing your hips, her hands gripping your wrists and pinning them above your head. The weight of her body against yours was intoxicating, her power undeniable as she leaned down, her lips brushing against your ear.

“You don’t get to decide anything tonight,” she whispered, her voice a dark promise. “Not how hard, not how fast. You’ll take whatever I give you, and you’ll fucking love it.”

Her words sent a shiver down your spine, your body arching beneath her as her hands trailed down your arms and over your chest. When her fingers reached your throat, she wrapped them around it, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch. The sensation was heady, the mix of pleasure and control making your pulse race.

“You like this,” she murmured, her lips ghosting over your jaw. “Being at my mercy. Knowing you’re completely mine.”

Her hand slid lower, her nails dragging over your skin and leaving faint red trails in their wake. When her fingers finally slipped between your thighs, you gasped, your hips bucking involuntarily against her touch.

“Pathetic,” she sneered, her voice laced with mockery. “So fucking desperate. You’ll beg for it, won’t you?”

“Yes, Casey,” you moaned, your voice barely audible as she pressed her fingers against your slick heat.

Her smirk widened, and she leaned down, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispered, “Good. Now, let’s see how much you can take.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Casey’s fingers slid between your thighs, unapologetically exploring the wet heat there, her touch firm and unrelenting. She didn’t hesitate, parting your folds with an ease that had your back arching off the bed. Her lips curled into a smug smile as she felt how soaked you were, the evidence of your need coating her fingertips.

"Look at you," she murmured, her voice dripping with condescension. "So fucking wet already, and I’ve barely touched you. You’re practically begging for me to ruin you."

You whimpered, your legs trembling as she pressed her fingers deeper, teasing your entrance but not giving you the satisfaction of her full touch. She was deliberate, controlled, and maddeningly slow, her fingers circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your hips jerk, but not enough to send you over the edge.

"You’re such a needy little slut," she growled, her free hand sliding up your body to cup your breast, her thumb brushing over your hardened nipple. "I bet you’ve been dripping for me since the moment I told you to strip. Haven’t you?"

"Yes," you gasped, your voice shaking as her teeth grazed your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you cry out.

"That’s right," she hissed against your skin, her lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your throat. "You fucking love being at my mercy. You’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?"

"Yes, Casey," you moaned, your voice breaking as she slid a single finger inside you, the intrusion making your breath hitch.

"God, you’re so tight," she muttered, her tone rough with desire. "I could fuck you with my fingers all night and still never get enough of the way you squeeze me."

Her pace quickened, her finger pumping into you with an unrelenting rhythm, curling just right to hit that spot inside you that made your vision blur. When she added a second finger, you couldn’t stop the shameless moan that tore from your throat, your body writhing beneath her as she fucked you deeper.

"That’s it," she purred, her thumb pressing against your clit in perfect tandem with her thrusts. "Take it like the good little whore you are. Don’t you dare hold back - I want to hear every filthy sound that comes out of your mouth."

Your head fell back against the mattress, your hands still pinned above you as she worked you with ruthless precision. Her mouth was everywhere - biting, licking, sucking - leaving marks in her wake that you knew would linger for days.

"Look at you," she sneered, her voice filled with mockery as she pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. "So fucking desperate for me. You’re a mess, you know that? Pathetic and perfect, all at the same time."

Her free hand gripped your jaw, forcing you to look at her as she increased the pace of her fingers, the slick sounds of her movements filling the room. "You’re mine," she growled, her breath hot against your lips. "Every inch of you. Your body, your mind, your fucking soul - every part of you belongs to me now."

Her words sent you hurtling toward the edge, your body trembling as the pressure built inside you, threatening to break. You could barely think, barely breathe, every nerve ending focused on her and the way she was unraveling you piece by piece.

But just as you felt yourself tip over the edge, her hand stilled, her fingers pulling out of you entirely.

You whimpered in protest, your hips bucking in search of relief, but she only smirked, shaking her head. "Oh no, Princess," she said, her tone dangerously low. "You don’t get to come until I say so. Beg for it."

"Please," you gasped, your voice desperate as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. "Please, Casey, I need it."

She laughed, a dark, wicked sound that sent a fresh wave of arousal through you. "That’s not good enough," she said, leaning down to press her lips to your ear. "I want to hear you beg like the filthy little slut you are. Tell me how badly you need me to make you come."

"Please, Casey," you whimpered, your voice breaking as you looked up at her, your cheeks flushed and your chest heaving. "I need it. I need you to fuck me, to make me come. Please, I’ll do anything."

Her smirk widened, her teeth flashing as she leaned in closer, her breath ghosting over your lips. "That’s better," she murmured, her fingers slipping between your thighs once more, this time with an unrelenting intensity that had you crying out.

"Now, be a good girl and come for me," she commanded, her tone laced with dark satisfaction as her fingers worked you with ruthless precision.

And when you finally shattered beneath her touch, she didn’t let up, her hands and mouth dragging you through wave after wave of pleasure until you were trembling and utterly wrecked beneath her.

"You belong to me," she whispered against your skin, her voice a dark, possessive promise. "And I’ll make damn sure you never forget it."

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gripefroot · 4 months ago

Text

Docked (Part 1)

Not even wooden shutters with rags stuffed in the slats to keep the draft out, charmingly framed by yellowed lace curtains, keep the noise out.

Curiosity piques with the patter of running footsteps past the musty old house, but you keep your eyes on your, hopefully, customer. The old lady picked up and put down every dish you’d brought over the course of the last half-hour. With a courtesy cup of tea you’d poured yourself at her command long gone, with only the chipped old cup left in your hand with the dregs of tea leaves, the blasting horn of a ship shakes the house on its timbers.

The old lady doesn’t hear. She hears very little.

“This does remind me of my wedding crockery,” she says, picking up a painted blue teacup again, holding it to a lamp. That’s all the light she allows in her house. The windows are stuck shut to prevent her from catching a cold. Yes, even in late summer, when you’re on the verge of heatstroke if you don’t feel a cool breeze soon.

“And this one—” a pink, flowery design “—is so like my late mother’s . . .”

The horn blasts again. A shiver goes up your spine, curiosity gone fevered. It sounds like his horn, doesn’t it? Could he have arrived? Could he be there? Used to hearing the horn from your cottage in the hills, hearing it from town right by the harbor makes it a deeper bray, nearer and more thrumming. There’s no way to know for sure if it’s him . . . besides going to the harbor to see.

“But I just don’t know which to buy,” the little lady frets. Her hands shake, the cup thankfully soon nestled again amongst the straw in the crate.

“Take your time,” you’d told her upon arriving, but that had been hours ago, and Law could be there. There would be no repeat of the reassurance.

Through the blocked window, people pass. Your ear tilts toward their conversation, hoping for a clue that it might be him, it could be him.

“—crane from the mill—”

“—mumblemumble new rope—”

What could that mean? What could that mean?

Scooting to the edge of the overdressed chair, you set the teacup on its saucer on the table holding your crate. Of all the days to be asked to bring samples to the house-ridden! She’s a dear old lady, truly, but her tug on your heart is nothing like Law’s. Even the thought of Law holds a firmer sway than anything else. That it could be him. It could, it could.

“Oh! I forgot that I made sandwiches for you.” The old lady primly brushes her skirt, gray curls bobbing around her face. “Would you fetch them from the kitchen? That’s a sweet girl, you are . . .”

It isn’t until the afternoon is nearly gone, with the crate under one arm where a receipt is tucked for the old lady’s long-awaited order, and a sandwich quarter in your mouth and two more in your hand, that you’re released from the stuffy prison. It could be days until the scent of patchouli leaves your nostrils, but that’s quickly forgotten as you dash down the dirt road toward the harbor.

No ships. Not a single one. Not even a dingy or a buoy, bobbing in the waves that drift into the natural harbor from the sea. Skitting to a stop, you swallow a bite of sandwich thickly, misery pricking your eyelids. Well, it isn’t the first time you’ve been disappointed, but it won’t be the last . . .

The bay is flanked on both sides by hills, reaching into the soft blue sky devoid of clouds. The summer greens the slopes like a painter’s brush, only the briefest tint of gold in the very tops of the highest trees hinting at change. It’s always been lovely, but then and there, it hurts like a weight in your belly. The horn could have been any passing ship . . . it could have resupplied and moved on twice over in the time you’d been delayed making a sale. If it had been Law, he would have stayed longer. So it hadn’t been him at all. Only a wish and a dream and now, it’ll be a lonely night on the bluffs with supper for one.

Well, it’s nothing new.

Turning from the barren harbor, you sigh, taking another bite of sandwich. It tastes of ash. And then your feet stop moving, stuck in place at the scene unfolding in front of your eyes.

The lemon-yellow globe of the Polar Tang: not in the harbor at all, but lifted by a crane and secured on the earth with wooden stakes and numerous cords of rope. The reason it was hoisted from the sea is immediately obvious. The outer shell bears a deep scrape, the long shape reminiscent of a cat’s claw defending itself. White-suited crewmen dot around the ship; some around the scrape and some using brooms to clean algae from the belly of the Polar Tang. But among them, you don’t see Law. Was he—could he have been hurt? Or killed? Was the scrape deep enough to have flooded the ship with seawater? Or had the gushing pressure pulled him out?

Sand drags at your feet, slowing your path to the Polar Tang until firm dirt and flattened grass replace it. Crockery clatters in your crate, which you set down beneath a tree for safekeeping, stuffing the last bit of sandwich into your mouth.

“Shachi!”

Shachi, mid-scrubbing a patch of darkened algae, stops, head turning until he sees you. He smiles, waving. “Did you hear the horn? Captain said you’d come and help clean up the ship.”

“Oh, did he?” Irritation—a fluttery, aching version of it—makes saying something clever or useful difficult. So he wasn’t hurt, or drowned. Relief overtakes the irritation. “Where’s Penguin?”

“Getting kerosene for Ikkaku to start welding this shut.” Shachi jerks a thumb at the giant scrape.

“What happened?”

“Sea monster.” He says it in a grim voice. “We were lucky to escape. Thought we were goners.”

“You must have been close to this island,” you say. “You couldn’t have gotten far in that condition.”

“Nope. We were headed here anyway. Captain had something he . . .” Shachi’s face goes visibly blank beneath his hat, as if thinking very hard, and apparently comes up short.

“He what?” you prompt.

“I’m not sure.”

With that helpful tidbit of information, you grimace. Shachi whistles too loudly and too obviously as he dips his broom again into a bucket of suds to resume scrubbing the algae.

“Where is the Captain, Shachi?” you ask in a drone.

“No idea.”

“Did he go into town?”

“Could’ve.”

“Is he on the ship?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Did you see him walking away?” Frustration makes your question shorter than intended. Shachi is likeable, as is everyone on the crew, but the vagueness of his answers while he was obviously hiding something tickles your temper.

“No,” Shachi says, and you can’t tell if it’s a lie or not.

You make it three stomps away, ready to start screaming for Law if he doesn’t magically appear, before Bepo appears, black eyes shining from his tufts of white fur.

“Help us!” he pleads, clasping his paws together in front of him. “Pretty please, oh, please!”

“How much will you pay me?”

“Anything, anything!”

Of course, Bepo wouldn’t pay anything. Pay was decided by a ship’s captain. And this Captain was nowhere to be seen, nowhere to be bargained with. Besides, flirting about payment was reserved for Law and Law alone. A burst of laughter broke out between crew members (one of which soaked the other and then got a bash on the head from a broom in return.) With a sigh, you unbutton your jacket.

“It looks like fun,” you tell Bepo. And sooner or later, Law will come back, and I want to see him.

Without the skill to repair the tear in the ship’s hull, you’re regulated to a broom and soapy bucket. Boots stick out from beneath the ship, where it’s lifted by the wooden supports. Algae must be growing there, too. But you find a place far from Shachi to start scrubbing, wondering what exactly is directly inside the ship from where you are . . .

Autumn might kiss the hilltops but the sun still beats the valley. Heat radiates from the metal ship, worsening the sweat that comes from hard work. The algae is stubborn, too, or the soap is weak. Other crew members work nearby, uniforms stripped to the waist in the heat; easy to talk to and easy to laugh with. Very few ask questions about you, and on the occasion that your eyes move from the ship to your companions, odd glints or curious tilts are visible in their visages.

They know who I am. Or, they suspect something.

But why be embarrassed? It’s Law that should be embarrassed.

With each portion of the Polar Tang back to shining yellow, you pick up your bucket and move to the next section. And the next. And the next. The blue of the sky darkens, the sun finally dipping beneath the hills to give some relief to your baked skin.

“Has anyone got a ladder? A ladder?” But all the ladders are in use. You puff out tired breath, staring at the patch of algae higher up on the hull. The broom won’t reach it.

He owes me for this. Big time.

It’s different from Law helping with Fire Night. You aren’t sure how, yet, but it must be.

“No ladder,” Bepo says regretfully, arms full of metal sheets meant for the welders. “But I can lift you up.”

“May as well,” you say, preparing in your mind a speech to ask for gold bars or chests of jewels or something else a merchant captain wouldn’t be able to afford, just so he can think he wins when you settle for something simple.

Bepo is a soft seat, mounds of warm fur around your legs where you sit on his shoulder. He holds your ankles in place, yawning loudly as you scrub, scrub, scrub the blasted algae.

For no other reason, I will never own a ship.

“It had giant yellow eyes,” Bepo says, a contented storyteller while he has the excuse of ‘helping’ in the basest sense of the word. “And I counted the fins on its belly—not two, or four, or six. Eight! Eight fins!”

“Did it bite the ship, then? Is that what happened? “Oh, no, it had terrible long arms and legs with claws longer than spears. Sharp, too. Fastest bugger I’ve ever seen. Couldn’t outrun it. Captain set a tricky little trap for it, but it barely worked, and if it hadn’t, we’d be halfway through the monster’s intestines by now.”

Bepo describes the trap; a sizable room that the monster had unwittingly swam into and consequently had its head severed from its body with its jaws wide open to bite the Polar Tang in half. It’s a gruesome scene, playing around in my mind, but with each close call fervently described, your stomach turns from what could have happened.

“—only a few injuries, too,” Bepo says. He categorizes each one, the injured crew members taken to the doctor in town as soon as they’d docked.

“Couldn’t your captain have healed them?” you ask.

“Usually, but this time he was injured, too.”

Injured?

Shachi had said nothing of injuries! Suddenly Law’s absence makes sense. Suddenly, your annoyance that he hasn’t made an appearance and you’ve been cleaning his ridiculous lemon of a ship isn’t so important. Without realizing, your scrubbing ceases, and it isn’t until Bepo glances up that you startle into the present.

“Uh, are you done?”

“Let her take a break already, Bepo.” A voice drawls from some distance, away, your heart skipping a beat. Bepo turns, taking your wobbly balance with him. Beneath the shady leaves of a tree, Law is stretched out. His hat lays on the grass next to him, fingers laced behind his head. Floppy, black hair hangs in front of his forehead and around his ears. Bandages stick out from his tank top. But he mustn’t be in mortal danger, if he’s snoozing beneath a tree.

“How long have you been there?” you squawk. Bepo lowers you to the ground, rubbing the back of his furry neck once you’re firmly on your feet.

“Long enough,” Law says.

“And you didn’t say anything?” The broom clenches in your fist. Much like a weapon, if you knew how to wield one. But you could wield a broom, and that might be threatening enough. Stalking toward the tree, you scarcely notice the hive of crew around the ship going on with the chores.

His eyes are slits, through which the gleam of his black eyes follows your approach. Something akin to a smile lifts one side of his mouth.

“I was taking a nap,” he says. “Doctor’s orders.”

“You are the doctor!”

“Well, I’d better take my advice, hadn’t I?” Law yawns, covering his mouth with one tattooed hand. He winces when he lowers it. But his injuries are driven from your mind when you see what he’s laying on.

“My pillow!” The shriek in your voice would embarrass you, another time, but fear and annoyance make those sorts of things seem unimportant. “Where did you get that?”

“From your bed, of course.” Law settles back into your pillow, against the tree. “An injured man like me can’t be expected to find bark comfortable, now can he?” He eyes the broom in your hand.

“But my—but my—” Your voice trembles. “Where’s my crate of crockery?” This is the same tree you’d left it beneath. It was nowhere in sight.

“At your cottage.”

“But—”

Now Law smiles, really smiles, but it isn’t the sweet smile that he gives you in private. It’s a wrenching, coy thing. “I thought you’d thank me for lugging that pottery up to your cottage for you.”

You snort. “You haven’t lugged a day in your life.”

“Well, I saved you from lugging it, then.” Law pauses. “I have a gift for you.”

“You owe me two,” you tell him. “I’ve been working for hours scrubbing your dumb ship.”

“Oh, I’ll pay you back for that.” The low tone of his voice skitters across your skin. “But I need you to be patient with me. You can be patient, can’t you? I’m a bit laid-up at the moment.”

“Your attitude seems to be in fine shape,” you say, dropping the broom.

“And yours is unusually snappish. Didn’t you like Bepo’s company?”

“I like Bepo just fine. But I didn’t come looking for him.”

“Oh?” That insinuation is in his voice again. “Well, I’m looking for something myself, too. Doctor’s orders, and all that.”

“Something? Not someone?”

He means to tease, and unfortunately, he succeeds. The smirk makes his features arrogant. “Doctor says I need a real bed to rest in.”

“There’s a hotel in town.” You bend over, reaching for your pillow—it’ll be covered in dirt now, the wretch—but Law pushes all his weight into it, and you try unsuccessfully to pull it free. His smirk is gone, eyes drifting to the neckline of your tank top.

Hmm.

Grabbing the pillowcase with both hands, you pull again, lighter this time to mimic real effort. The action pushes your breasts closer together, bulging over the neckline. Success: Law’s throat bobs, eyes gone half-focused. Some of his weight loosens from the pillow. The tip of his tongue wets his lips. Bingo.

One final yank frees the pillow. Law’s eyes widen when his back hits the trunk of the tree. Smiling, one hand on your waist and the other tossing the pillow over your shoulder, you laugh.

“You’re easier to best than you think,” you tease.

“I let you best me,” Law counters. He’s smiling, too, with a tinge of that secret sweetness.

“If you’re going to crash in my bed, which I assume you mean to, you’ve dirtied your own pillow,” you tell him. “I get the clean one.”

“I can live with that.”

You hold out a hand. Law stares, then reaches for it. With a heavy grunt he gets to his feet, swaying slightly as he clutches his middle.

“Was it the sea monster?” you ask in a low voice. You want to reach out and touch the bandages; to see what damage is beneath, but he grips your hand too tightly.

“No.” Irritation snaps his dark brows together. Then, grudgingly, he says, “A shelf fell on me while I was dealing with the sea monster.”

His obvious mortification turns your amusement into hilarity. Laughing, you wrap his arm around your middle (for support, no other reason.) He leans against you, lips tight in a sign of long-suffering.

“I won’t tell anyone,” you vow.

“Yeah, but you’re gonna laugh about it every day for a week.”

“I like to laugh. Thank you for giving me a reason.”

Law is here. The bubbling joy of it makes laughter easy. Matching steps so that Law isn’t jostled too much is a tricky dance, but by the time the main road through town comes into sight, the pair of you are making better time.

“Where will your crew stay?” you ask. “Or can they still bunk on the ship?”

“They can bunk on the ship,” he says. “Or beneath the stars—the weather is fair enough.”

“And the other injured?”

“At the hospital in town.”

“You didn’t want to stay at the hospital?”

“I don’t like watching other doctors work.” Law tries to shrug, but mostly he bumps you. “Telling them what they’re doing wrong makes them angry and angry doctors don’t take care.”

He pants in your ear, walking clearly an effort. His face is pale, paler as night spreads across the sky.

“Kinda glad that monster got us,” he grunts. The road grows rockier out of town, the path winding up the hills. “I was expecting to have to leave in the morning, but since the ship’s got to have her maintenance until she’ll sail smooth again, we’re stuck here a while.”

“Oh, no,” you say sympathetically. “I am so sorry. What a disappointment for your plans to fall apart like that . . .”

Law growls. You laugh.

“What’s my gift?” you ask.

“At your house.” A few more heavy steps up the hill. “I thought you’d be home. That’s why I went straight there. I wasn’t avoiding you.” The lack of harshness in his voice makes it more real—his sincerity. He’s trying to explain himself. Why you had to wait so long to see him. Why he wasn’t there when you were. Away from town, away from his crew—all that honesty comes easier out of him.

And that heals a lot of wounds.

“You don’t have to bring me presents, you know,” you tell him. “I only tease you about it because—because I only want to know that you think about me when you’re not here.”

“Of course I think about you.” Law says it like it’s obvious. He sees it differently. He’s not the one that stays in one place, reliant on the other to come back, time and time again. He doesn’t know the fear of not knowing if there will be an again.

But sweet words and tender assurances don’t flower. It’s not his way. But when his body presses against yours and his breath tickles your ear and his fingertips press into your waist—words aren’t needed. Not really. But words remain longer than touches, and he only visits a few times a year . . .

The cottage is dark. You hadn’t lit a fire before going into town early that morning, expecting to return long ago. Law sinks onto the edge of the bed with a soft groan. Starlight comes through the open window, making the angles of his face harsh. His eyes are closed.

“I have tea for pain,” you say. Sure that he won’t topple over, you go to the fireplace first, to strike a flint against tinder. Golden light fills the cottage, driving out the night.

“I’m fine.”

Rather than argue, you prepare the tea: carrying the kettle outside to fill at the water pump, then hang on the iron crane bracketed into the brick around the fireplace. Dinner will be needed, too. Law stretches out on your bed, punching the dirty pillow into place beneath his head before slinging an arm over his eyes.

“If you were in that much pain, you could have transported us here with that silly power of yours,” you tell him, crumbling willow bark into a mortar to grind into tea.

“Wasn’t in pain then. Walk did me in.”

“What kind of shelf was this, anyway?”

“Heavy one.”

“When I imagine you in my bed, I don’t daydream nursing you back to health.”

“Lucky you.” His head tilts, favoring you with a smile across the cottage. Weak as he was, his smile is as potent as ever, and you nearly grind your thumb into the tea leaves. “But don’t worry. I’ve already thought about how we can get around this.”

“Oh?”

“You can sit on my face.”

“Oh, I see,” you say. Steam rises from the kettle, flames licking the bottom of it. “You’re expecting me to do all the work because—am I getting this right?—a little shelf just grazed your ribs.”

Law’s laugh is hoarse. You dump the tea into a mug.

“I miss you when you’re not around,” he says.

Silence.

“You don’t have to leave every time,” you say.

More silence.

With a rag wrapped around your hand, you lift the kettle to pour a stream of water into the mug. Woodsy willow-scent fills your nose. Law doesn’t reply, not even when you carry the mug to the bed. His eyes are hooded, but they meet yours fearlessly. Stubborn man, but not so stubborn he refuses you. He sits up, face contorting in discomfort.

“Let it cool for a little while,” you say, and that’s that.

He’s out cold before the soup is done. Pity makes your stomach a heavy stone, watching firelight flicker on his pale face. One arm is draped over his middle, blankets pulled to his waist. His neck is kinked. What has he gone through, since the sea monster attack? Could this be his first prospect of uninterrupted sleep?

Yes, that’s most likely. A ship damaged as the shredded Polar Tang would need the captain to get it safely into harbor, not to mention his injured crew. Poor thing.

He doesn’t move, while you prepare dinner and eat. He doesn’t move when you close the shutters and curtains and bank the fire. And he doesn’t move when you crawl into bed beside him, taking advantage of his silence to lay close to him. Not so close to bother any part of his body that might be hurting, but close enough to feel his warmth and presence, soothing the ache in your bones; the yearning for him.

A/N: I have so much fun writing this pair that this particular "one shot" got out of hand lmao. The next part is half done already so it shouldn't be too long of a wait. LMK if you like it!

#one piece #trafalgar d law x reader #one piece fanfiction #trafalgar law x reader

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