#what lies beneath review

[holidayjoecoffee]

What Lies Beneath (2000)

Suspenseful thriller with Michelle Pfeiffer and Harrison Ford. Dark secrets haunt this Vermont couple. Not much more to be said without spoiling it. This is a well made whodunit with chills aplenty, and great moody atmosphere and music. Robert Zemeckis directs.

[enhaflixer]

CHERRY TREES

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is everything alright?" he asked quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The moment, whatever it might have been, evaporated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not once did anyone ask if you were happy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's not what I meant."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And since then?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Do what?"

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

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

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

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

The revelation stunned you. "Then why—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had no answer, and his silence was damning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where are you going?"

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

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

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

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

Instead, it was Jungwon.

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

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

Another message appeared below the first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your phone buzzed with a message from Jungwon.

Are you coming down?

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good for you," Leah said firmly.

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

"And what did he say?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

Are you coming down?

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

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

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

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

The irony wasn't lost on him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jungwon tensed. "How did you—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't you dare hang up on—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

Between what is said and not meant,

And what is meant and not said,

Most of love is lost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I practice conversations with you in my head

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

Really look at me

But when you enter the room

My words evaporate like morning dew

And we speak of dinner parties and business associates

Never of stars or dreams or why your eyes

Sometimes follow me when you think I don't notice

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

Another poem, dated just two months ago:

Your fingers brushed mine as you handed me a glass

Accidental touch that burned through my skin

I wonder if you felt it too

That current between us, electric and dangerous

Or if I imagined it, desperate for connection

For any sign that beneath your perfect suit

Beats a heart that could want me

As much as I want you

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

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

One year of marriage

Three hundred sixty-five nights of lying beside him

Listening to his breathing

Wondering if he's awake

Wondering if he ever thinks of touching me

Of breaking through the invisible wall between us

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

Sometimes I think if I just reached for him once

If I was brave enough to cross that divide

But what if his rejection destroyed the last piece of me

That still believes I'm worthy of being

Wanted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sounds like someone's having a breakdown."

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

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

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

"Want me to come with you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing could have prepared you for what you found.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes locked with yours, their intensity almost unbearable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Stand up," you said softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

"Exactly."

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

-

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

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

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

Instead, he surprised you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Let them talk," Jungwon said simply.

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

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

You squeezed his hand. "You were perfect."

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

"We are," you replied simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"May I kiss you?" he asked softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

It was the hunger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were already soaked, trembling.

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

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

“I don’t think I could if I tried.”

He broke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you did.

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

And Jungwon?

Did. Not. Flinch.

He nodded, breath shaking, and said—

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

And he meant it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He paused. Smiled against your neck.

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

-

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

Jungwon couldn’t stop touching you.

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

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

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

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

You gave in to him every time.

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

You didn’t hear him approach.

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

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

“That’s what I come home to?”

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

He was already unbuttoning his sleeves.

Already breathing too hard.

“Jungwon—”

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

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

“What was that for?”

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

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

You trembled.

He pulled you closer.

“I refuse to waste another fucking day.”

The peonies were forgotten.

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

His jacket hit the floor first. Then yours.

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

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

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

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

You moaned, breath hitched.

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

You were dripping by the time he pushed inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what do you think?”

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

Then smiled.

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

A pause.

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His rhythm stuttered—hips faltering, jaw tensing.

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

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

“No. Quite the opposite.”

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

“I’m amazed that all of this—”

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

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

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

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

You whimpered, breath catching.

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

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

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

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

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

The need in his voice made your toes curl.

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

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

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

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

His hips snapped, and your whole body trembled.

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

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

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

He kissed you then. Deep. Unrelenting.

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

You’d never seen the real Jungwon before this.

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

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

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

Epilogue: Aegean Dreams

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I lived behind walls so high

Even I forgot what lay inside

Until your voice broke through

And light flooded places

I had kept dark for so long

I had forgotten they could shine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But your work—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once I thought perfection meant control

Now I know it's the moment you laugh

Head thrown back, eyes dancing

Completely unguarded in my arms

The sound of your happiness echoing

Through rooms once filled with silence

This is the music I want to hear

For all my remaining days

fin.

-

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

[ddarker-dreams]

A Deal's a Deal II.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, descriptions of anxiety and emotional/mental manipulation. Word count: 4.1k.

Prev

You met Chrollo at an old hole-in-the-wall bookstore that housed archaic texts. 

There was little information on your condition, but what material did exist hid itself beneath allegory and ciphers. The best leads came from high strangeness circles. They expanded on Jung’s concept of the collective unconscious, drawing parallels between historical records across cultures and periods that all implied some system that transcended physical limitations. Whether it came from alchemists like Paracelsus, mystics like Crowley, or authors like William Blake, hints of this system can be found sprinkled throughout history. 

Chrollo informed you that this system is commonly called ‘Nen.’

Before him, the nomenclature eluded you. You simply regarded it as a phenomenon best kept to yourself. The world’s a weird place, filled with inexplicable things that the human mind can’t always comprehend. This handheld device, which you nicknamed Instant Replay, is the foremost example.

You were always aware that you knew things you shouldn’t have. As a child, it perplexed you. Why do people sometimes sound weird? A few trips to the audiologist proved your hearing is perfectly fine. When this avenue didn’t provide answers, you ended up in counseling, where you reenacted the dilemma with dolls. For a while, you insisted that what you heard was real. It frustrated you to no end that the adults in your life either dismissed you or offered bromides. 

As an adult yourself in the present, you can’t blame them for being at a loss. 

You smartened up eventually. What you once blabbed about to anyone who would listen, you kept to yourself. This eased the tensions at home. Your parents seemed happy that the issue had ‘resolved’ itself and you maintained the illusion. Playing pretending could only do so much — the core problem remained. Your mind made the connection that when another was being dishonest, that’s when their voice would sound strange. After you realize that, there’s no going back. The epiphany changed how you interacted with others for better and for worse. 

“You want to get rid of your ability?” he sounded surprised when he asked. 

“How could I not?” you replied. “People lie… a lot. Friends, family, strangers. And, okay, that might not seem bad, but imagine always being aware of it. It— It eats away at you. Wears down your ability to trust. I have to act like I’m none the wiser, knowing full well someone just lied to my face. I don’t want to know! I’m tired of knowing!” 

“You’re unable to control when it’s active?” 

“Instant Replay lets me ‘review’ audio, both in real-time and after it’s been recorded. I have control over the latter, but that’s it.”

Your antagonistic relationship with Nen fascinated Chrollo. According to him, most people were intentional when it came to crafting their Hatsu. There are very few cases like yours where Hatsu is subconsciously given shape and form. You wish your subconscious had created something more useful, like a sword. That would’ve been cool. 

“Could I learn a new ability to oust Instant Replay?” you wondered. 

“Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way,” Chrollo dismissed. “In theory, it is possible to learn different abilities, although your inexperience would make that difficult. There’s no way to erase an ability either. You can, however, lose access to it. For instance, there’s my predicament, or…” 

He leaned in close and whispered: 

“... Someone could steal it.” 

-

Chrollo looks out of place in your apartment.  

It’s a cozy, lived-in space, full of trinkets that he thoughtfully examines as if he were in the Louvre. Meanwhile, you prepare two cups of tea. Chamomile with honey for you and Earl Grey for him. After setting the timer for five minutes, you realize there’s not much else to do but wait. The silence is unusual and unnerving. Anticipation thrums through the air like an electric current. You feel it coursing through your blood; tingling along your skin. 

The barstool you’ve chosen as your perch groans against the wooden floor as you pull it out.

Chrollo picks up a picture for closer inspection. You crane your neck, curious about which snapshot captured his attention. It’s from a night out with friends. Empty plates and drinks littered the table and each of you crowded in close to fit into frame. Since the restaurant was high-end, you were dolled up, adorned in an outfit that rarely saw the light of day. 

“Swarovski?” He sounds amused. 

“I’ve been known to splurge on the occasion,” you huff. “The necklace was on sale and the earrings were—” 

You cut yourself off, although you’re unsure why. It shouldn’t be a taboo topic. Nonetheless, beneath the weight of his gaze, you couldn’t get the word out. 

“—From an ex?” He offers. 

You nod. 

He returns the picture to its proper place, a cryptic smile on his lips. “So even you aren’t above materialistic impulses, hm?” 

“There’s a difference between rampant consumerism and buying yourself something nice on occasion,” you retaliate, disliking the edge of mockery in his voice. “I don’t need to hear this from the dude wearing a silver Rolex watch.” 

“It’s white gold.” 

You roll your eyes. “A camel through the eye of a needle.” 

“‘First cast out the beam out of thine own eye.’” 

“Do you seriously have the entire King James version of the Bible memorized?” 

“It was one of the most accessible texts in my youth,” he says, his smile softening into something pensive. “The missionaries were far more generous with those showing signs of ‘progress.’ I tried helping my companions memorize the more significant passages, but they weren’t what you’d call ideal pupils.” 

Missionaries? You purse your lips and consider the implications. Had Chrollo grown up in destitution? Come to think of it, you know very little about him or his background. Unlike you, he never volunteered the information. He skillfully maneuvered around any inquiry into his past. The most you’ve gleaned is that he’s a traveling antiquarian who, in pursuit of valuables, made some enemies along the way. 

The shrill shriek of the timer rips you from your thoughts. 

Chrollo accepts his mug with a “thank you” and sits on the rightmost side of your coach. After plopping two ice cubes into your concoction, you join him, leaving ample room between you. The nerves from earlier return. He’s an easy man to converse with, but when his mind is preoccupied — as it most certainly is now — you’re at a loss. Do you try reinitiating banter? Opt for a completely different topic? Or should you let him initiative, squirming around until he breaks the thickening tension? 

“Have I held you in suspense long enough?” Chrollo asks while holding his hand out. A book with a handprint on the cover appears, the pages flipping too fast for you to gauge their contents.

The quality of his aura temporarily stupefies you. This must be the difference between a novice like yourself and a genius. You can muster up enough aura to summon Instant Replay, but that takes considerable effort. To him, managing the flow of aura comes as easy as breathing. You scooch closer to study his technique. How long would it take you to match his expertise? Years? Decades? 

“I’ll get bashful if you keep staring at me like that.” 

“Liar,” you accuse without any real malice. 

He chuckles.

“Give me your hand.” 

Heat rushes to your face as you recall what happened when you last parted. “D-Do I have to?” 

“Yes.” 

Hesitantly, you do as he requests. He maneuvers your hand against the conjured book’s cover. You gnaw on your bottom lip, trepidation brewing inside your soul. You thought you’d feel relieved when this moment came. There’d be some butterflies, yes, but that would quickly give way to relief and exhilaration. The thorn that’s been in your side all these years is finally coming out. Your quid pro quo has reached its conclusion; this is your reward, your ticket to a normal life. 

“I like you too.” 

“I’ll be there whenever you need me.”

“It’s okay if you come.” 

“I promise I won’t tell anyone.” 

“We’ll always be together.”

Yes, people lie a lot. Sometimes, you’re unsure if they’re even aware of it themselves. They lie to you, the people they love, the people they hate, and themselves. Fate decided you’d be made witness to their folly, sewing your lips shut and eyes wide open. The wounds it left behind are intangible and incurable. How do you heal what you can’t explain knowing to others? How do you explain your hesitation, shift in demeanor, and inadequate coverup? 

The sound of Instant Replay whirring reverberates throughout your skull. 

Chrollo speaks your name softly. You startle, realizing that you’re blinking back tears. 

“I—” 

“It’s alright,” he reassures. The words sound crisp — genuine — soothing your budding concern that you’re inconveniencing him somehow. In an instant, the hardcover dissipates, leaving your hand flat against nothing. Chrollo takes the opportunity to come closer. When you don’t protest, he completely closes the distance, until you’re thigh to thigh. 

He smells good. Intoxicatingly so. 

“Show me the ability you despise so much, dear.” 

Dear? You think to protest the emergence of this nickname, yet you can’t bring yourself to. Instead, you follow his order, mechanically lifting your arm and summoning your ability much like he had. 

“Good. It’s almost over with,” he brushes the wetness away from your eyes with his knuckles. Your heart leaps at the contact. “Finally, I have to ask about your ability. There are so many possibilities… what to choose, what to choose… ah.” 

With the same hand that wiped away your nascent tears, he cups your cheek.

“Do you trust a man like me with such a dangerous ability?” 

“I have my reservations,” you respond. You don’t miss the amusement he derives from your candidness. “This sounds bad, but… at this point, I guess I just don’t care.” 

For a moment, all is still. There’s no odor of sulfur, maniacal cackling, or declaration that the ritual is complete. You didn’t have to sign a contract in blood or swear an oath to an infernal being. Your overactive imagination ran numerous scenarios through your head. The lack of flair over this life-defining moment is almost underwhelming. You frown, fearing that there was an error somewhere along the way. If there was, he’s given no indication, yet you’ll remain restless until the results are confirmed. 

“Chrollo?” 

“Hm?” 

“Did it work?” 

“It did, love.” 

“Could you, um,” you lick your lips, a motion that draws his attention. “Make something up so I can know for sure?” 

This request amuses him.

“How will you know if I’m being honest to mess around with you or not?” 

At this, you give him a light shove. Given his apparent playfulness, you expected him to move back, but he doesn’t budge an inch. It felt like trying to move a concrete building. 

“Make it an obvious lie, then.” 

“An obvious lie, hm?” He mulls over your suggestion. “Very well. How about this: I don’t want you beneath me.” 

You gape at him, dumbstruck. 

“I find it easy to control my urges around you.” 

He keeps going. 

“I’m unmoved by your beauty…” 

He gently pushes your shoulders until you’re lying down. 

“... Your wit…” 

He hovers above you, tracing the outline of your lips with his pointer finger. 

“... And boundless charm.” 

Chrollo tilts your head up by your chin. “Well? Do you believe me now?” 

Slowly, as if in a daze, you nod. Your heart lurches, the organ beating loud enough to hear in your ears. You feel uncomfortably warm, like your heater’s been cranked to the highest setting. Gradually, the violent joy you expected to accompany your liberation abounds, starting at your chest and overflowing outward. You’re smiling, breathless, your corporeal form barely able to contain the glee. You see your reflection in Chrollo’s eyes. There’s a manic quality to your countenance; you barely recognize yourself. 

You’re free, you’re free, you’re free— 

His lips find yours. Your cognition short circuits, leaving you in a reverie where you can barely understand what’s happening. He handles you so carefully that it’s easy to forget you’re physically trapped. He carries on, either failing to notice your apprehension or disregarding it. 

On some level, you’ve always sensed this underlying attraction. You remained purposefully obtuse. There was too much at stake — jeopardizing your aims for a fling felt counterintuitive. On paper, he’d make for the ideal partner. He’s devilishly handsome, charismatic, and intelligent to a fault. Aside from some dubious morality, you couldn’t ask for a better suitor. 

And still, hesitation prevailed. 

Every now and then, there’d be glimpses of some great, existential threat, beneath the fissures of his porcelain mask. These glimpses gave you pause. You think he could’ve tried harder to hide these damning qualities, yet chose not to. Where’s the fun — the thrill — in always playing nice? You needed his help more than he needed yours. His connections spanned continents, whereas yours were shallow and easy to uproot. 

How many of your convictions would you compromise? 

How far would you let the poison spread to cure another affliction? 

How can you look down on him if you’ve fallen to the same level? 

When he pulls away, you avert your gaze, fearing what stares back. 

“... So you are afraid of me, then.” 

Chrollo lets you wriggle out from underneath him. When your eyes make brief contact, it feels like he’s inspecting you, as if you were a specimen in a petri dish. It isn’t the reaction you’d expect from a rejected man. Nonetheless, you’re on edge and longing for a menial task to occupy yourself with. Recalling the state of the kitchen, you decide that will suffice. 

He remains seated as you wash and dry the implements used to make your tea. 

This uncharacteristic silence unsettles you further. The only audible sound in your apartment is your faucet, the water running over silverware that’s plenty clean. You scrub at it harder, wondering what you should do next. Originally, you intended to thank him for his pivotal role in removing your burden. You never would have made it this far without his assistance. Even with this strange atmosphere, your gratitude remains unwavering. 

You’ll be able to live life like anyone else now. It’s an accomplishment worthy of celebration, regardless of the twists and turns along the way. Maybe he misinterpreted your body language or acted on an impulse. These mistakes can happen when emotions run high. 

Okay, you think, psyching yourself up. This doesn’t have to be weird. I can—

“Have you given much thought over last week’s unpleasantness?” 

Your heart skips a beat and your shoulders droop. 

“I assume you haven’t,” he says. “That’s fair. It must’ve been frightening… I wish I could have spared you such an experience.” 

The appreciation he previously instilled in you desiccates, drop by drop. 

“Will you please get to the point?” 

Under different circumstances, you would’ve been more patient with his preamble, but this is a sore subject. A buried corpse like that shouldn’t be exhumed. His reasoning, though elusive to you now, doesn’t inspire warm sentiments. 

“That incident won’t be the last of its kind.”

You turn around as he approaches, sipping his tea. He leans against the counter and eyes you over the cup’s rim. 

“In truth, we should’ve left hours ago, but I was feeling sentimental.” 

“‘We?’ Chrollo, what are you talking about?” 

“Had it not been for your role in getting my Nen back, Hisoka would’ve killed you,” Chrollo says this so casually that you question if you’re hearing him right. “Now that you’ve done your part, he has a vested interest in doing so.” 

You no longer have a way to verify if he’s telling the truth or not. It’s so stupid, so unfair, that you almost laugh. Instant Replay no longer heeds your call. You surrendered it to a new master, who, before taking it from your willing hands, all but told you he was the worst person you could’ve picked. 

Chrollo continues, “He’s a peculiar case. All he cares about is fighting formidable opponents, and, with my Nen returned, I am one.”

You take a step back.

“That business is between you two. I fail to see how this involves me.” 

“I have preparations to finish before I face him,” Chrollo explains. “He doesn’t feel like waiting any longer. Harming you is an excellent way to speed things along. Even I don’t know what I’d do if you were fatally injured.” 

You shake your head. “I— you’re not serious. There’s just no way. I’m moving past all of this bullshit. Nen, Hatsu, whatever; that has nothing to do with me anymore. I’m done.” 

“I’m sorry, dear.” 

“No, you aren’t!” Your voice raises in pitch, pulled as taut as a bowstring. “You knew, didn’t you? That this would be a problem? Oh, oh, you had to, why else would you have acted all weird when you saw him? Stop looking at me like you care, like you’re sorry, 'cause this is the best-case scenario for you!” 

You pace back and forth, your mind racing. This was a mistake. Walking up to him because you recognized the book in his hands was a mistake. Is he bluffing? And if he is, does it matter? You can’t put up a fight. You don’t think you could even make it to the door. If he was a regular man, you’d have options. You could yell for help, call the cops, and inflict some damage, minor as it may be. All those tactics turn to ash before an oppressive, incomprehensible force like this. 

You snap your head in his direction. “Aren’t you going to say something?” 

“I don’t see how that will help.” 

You prepare to spew vitriol his way, when a dreadful thought shoots through you like a bullet. 

“My family. What about them? Won’t they be in danger too?” 

“They aren’t on his radar.” 

“How do you know that?” 

“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Chrollo sets the cup down. “The suffering of your loved ones wouldn’t elicit a reaction from me, so he won’t bother. Targeting you is the wisest option.” 

Words fail you. Is this it? The depravity he kept subdued finally let loose, so dense in its quality that it threatens to suffocate you? All you wanted was a semblance of normalcy. Normal relationships, interactions, and problems. Has the path you’ve treaded brought you further away from this humble aspiration? Or is there still a way, some faint silver lining that you must find and latch onto? 

“What about after?” 

“Hm?” 

“After Hisoka is dealt with,” you clarify, tapping your foot repeatedly. “You’re not going to let him live, are you?” 

“That’s rather dark.” 

“Chrollo,” you implore. 

“No, I won’t,” he confirms. “As for what comes next — I intend to persuade you.” 

You regard him with suspicion. His tone and the implications sink into you like a venomous bite. He exudes quiet confidence, indicating that nothing you’ve said will influence him in any meaningful way. Dread sticks to your stomach, making your body feel heavy. You hug yourself, clenching your upper arms with shaky fingers. Any lingering excitement from earlier has vaporized, leaving behind a profound hollowness. 

“I suppose this can go a few ways,” you murmur. “I could cause as many headaches for you as possible, or, I could be decent enough.” 

“I’m listening.” 

“I’d like to have Instant Replay back,” you say. He quirks an eyebrow. “Just for a bit. What? I’m assuming if you can steal something, you can give it back, right?” 

“You’d be correct. Still, that begs the question; what are you intending to accomplish with this little scheme?” 

“Nothing that’ll inconvenience you in any major way.” 

Chrollo falls silent. You dig your nails into your flesh as the seconds drag on, awaiting his verdict. If he had your ability activated, he should’ve been able to discern your honesty. Then again, he’s aware of the workarounds. To ensure your words wouldn’t register as untrue, you had to remain vague and subjective. What you consider an inconvenience could differ drastically from him. 

“I’m sure I won’t regret this.” 

Your eyes widen. That dissonant timbre is unmistakable, he returned your ability! Filled with newfound resolve, you stride toward him, your eyes blazing. This is your chance. You need to make the most of this opening before it’s gone forever. He could choose not to answer any of your questions, but something tells you he won’t, like it’d injure his pride. You issued him a challenge and he’s intent on meeting it. 

“Did you have anything to do with what happened last week?” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Did Hisoka?” 

“No, he just happened to be observing you from afar.” 

“Why?” 

“For his personal amusement, I’d wager.” 

“He’d really kill me just to… agitate you?”

“It’s in line with his character.” 

You swallow thickly and press on. 

“And if you’re wrong?” 

“Then I’m wrong. Regardless, you’ll be alive and well.” 

“Can you win against him in a fight?” 

“Yes.” 

“And if you somehow lose, what happens next?” 

“My companions will hunt him down and kill him.” 

Now that you’ve gotten your most pressing inquiries out of the way, you decide to wade through dangerous waters. Chrollo likely saw the benefit in assuaging your doubt, these next questions provide him nothing substantial. His willingness to humor you is undoubtedly finite. Keeping this in mind, you consider the possibilities. You may never have a chance like this again. Is there anything that can give you an advantage? You’ll take anything, no matter how small, even if all it offers is an illusion of control. 

Chrollo glances at his watch in a not-so-subtle motion. 

“Who sealed your Nen?” 

“Now this is more what I expected,” he hums. His eyes take on a bright, unsettling shade. “An individual with a longstanding grudge. Your paths will not cross, I suggest adopting another plan of attack.” 

He saw right through you. You knew it was a long shot, but collaborating with this mysterious figure would have proven advantageous. They must be powerful in their own right to have bested Chrollo. Should you try pressing for more information? Then again, Chrollo doesn’t seem keen on sharing more, much to your chagrin. 

What does that leave you with…?

“How do you plan on ‘persuading’ me?” 

“You’re better off not knowing until we get to that point.” 

You frown. If that didn’t register as a lie, it must be what he genuinely believes. Curiosity plagues you, dredging up anxiety. You have but a few grains of sand left in the hourglass remaining. It’s suspended midair, poised to drop at the most ill-timed moment. The approach of the end is worse than its inevitable arrival. You now have the chance to hasten its onset, at the risk of being debilitated by the impact. What lows would he resort to? Are you actually better off remaining ignorant?

“Alright, let’s—” 

“Does it hurt to know I’ll never love you?” 

Up until this point, he’s fired back with a near instant response. This time, however, he hesitates, the invasive nature of the inquiry necessitating careful thought. You finally found an effective ‘attack.’ It’s too late to do you any lasting good, but you greedily devour it nonetheless. When dealing with a person of Chrollo’s caliber, it’s easy to forget he possesses the same human qualities you do. You might be unable to stop his heart from beating, but you can make the organ ache. 

“I can live with it, dear.” 

You pinch your eyebrows together, thrown off by his voice’s clarity. Is the knowledge that inconsequential to him? Have you misjudged his attachment? While considering this, you flex your fingers, concentrating your aura there. You can’t repeat his words back since Instant Replay wasn’t recording, but you still decide to conjure it. You’ll record what remains of this conversation to ensure you don’t miss anything else. 

The flow of your aura halts at your wrist, refusing to take form. Frowning, you try again, only to realize he must have reclaimed your ability. 

When did that happen? Was it before or after his response? 

Chrollo says your name, regaining your attention. “I fulfilled my end of the bargain. Will you do the same?” 

After playing the role of the interrogator, you’re back to being an inmate. You meant what you said — when you said it, that is. This is yet another loophole to subvert Instant Replay. What’s true to you in one instant can change in the next. It’s frightening how fast he’s learned these nuances that took you years to test and discover. He’s already making the most of your ability, turning what was a thorn in your side into a full-fledged dagger. 

“What choice do I have?” 

“There’s always a choice,” Chrollo asserts. “You just have a habit of making the wrong ones.” 

A delirious laugh leaves your lips. 

"... I suppose you're right."

[searchingforserendipity25]

like.

lawrence's thing about being clocked by the old pope as a manager and not a shepherd, about being taken as inoffensive and unambitious and politically-unmotivated by most anyone at the beginning of the conclave. is that.

okay, he's a manager, he's the backstage admin making sure the curia goes on, he's a paper pusher. but you can't convince me this guy didn't paper push a whole lot of insane papers.

you don't end up with a reputation for dogged integrity, easily forgotten influence and selfless reliability as the second most influential person in the vatican like that by being boring or normal. or at least boring in a normal way.

innocent xiv in his second first day of office being given the super secret cardinal cvs and nodding along to everything, with a few surprises. until he gets to t. lawrence, dean of the college. and it's just. this gigantic fold out of stapled documents that goes over his knees and keeps unrolling on the floor.

he's merely a manager, alright. it's just that he's been managing literally everything, step by step, all the way up the ladder.

this man could bring down the church in half an hour w a few phone calls. this man could bring down several establishments, and it is not entirely clear, reading between the lines, that he hasn't, indirectly, unveiled a number of scandals in his time.

and it's not that lawrence thinks of himself as a bona fide politician, as anyone influential. it's not that he seeks out power, exactly, that he hunts down corruption on purpose. he's not a detective; he's not a cynic.

it's just that he is competent. that's his calling, in a sense; it has been his calling, to be competent for god, in god's service.

he is very, very, very good at his job, which has, from what the paperwork relies, been that of middle-upper management everywhere he has ever been, from his catholic youth scouting group days, to his seminary years, to canon law teaching, to bishorship, and beyond.

his loss of faith is threatening enough, at the start of the movie, that he has come to a point where he wants to leave his work. he cannot do, without faith, because it is his faith. without prayer to guide him, how can he possible do it?

everything that happens during the conclave is like a nightmare build custom made for him. the culmination of a career built on the foundations of pretending to himself he is keeping well out any undue influence to correct procedure, while in fact determining what correct procedure should look like.

there is a difference, a fine difference, between making sure events and places and concepts as vague and complex as the bride of christ run smoothly; and then there is infighting, which is petty, and political, and not any of his business.

any accountability review process will simply have to wait, and ideally be someone else's responsibility. there's a time and there's a place, and lawrence has lived his life very much keeping to his own time and place.

this determination, as it happens, does not last very long. lawrence has live his life keeping to his time, and place, and that is, unfortunately for his peace of mind, wherever and whenever there is something wrong with the machinal workings of the responsibility in his charge.

the cognitive dissonance + all revealed secrets + the continued choice to take part in the world of politics is at last strong enough to unbalance his belief in his own mediocrity. which had, while being a decisive part of his sense of self, also been chocking him w resentment a bit.

turns out, he is as able of holding a desire as anyone else, just because he refuses to hold to an agenda beyond his obligations.

he is neither beneath nor above; being discreet about the power he holds does not make it any less real, or any less his responsibility to wield it openly to break tradition and make sure there is a structure. checks and balances. that what is rotten is not hidden beneath gilt, that the bride of christ is not cheated or lied to.

that the living principles they swear to are upheld in truth and not just in ideal, that the weaknesses of men in power are admitted. and that includes his own ambitions, his own hypocrisies and human frailties.

he is, after all, a manager. this work is what he is for.

it is possible he is dealing with this growing self-awareness received via exploding sistine chapel to the face with some grace. possible! perhaps not likely.

what is clear, to innocent, is that the church as it stands has been quietly, diligently, unassumingly managed over the decades into the shape of what thomas lawrence's church ought to be. in the image of his integrity, the mark his service leaves behind. no one has noticed; it is possible his predecessor made sure no one noticed.

the late holy father, it has to be said, was quite fond of his secret weapons hidden in plain sight.

a more suspicious man would think that the fact that he went underestimated for so long was part of a deliberate farce.

but no. he's not a great tactical genius, he's just like that. t. lawrence, there it is on paper. through the years, a whole bursting folder of different grains and colours of cheap office paper, a long scroll of good works, of work as faith, all the way to cardinal-dean of the college of cardinals. and now?

and now he's innocent's extremely competent manager to manage, and it is not entirely clear how well the curia might hold on, without him. possibly it might not.

no pressure tho. it's not like he's asked to retire before or anything.

his scouts group is recorded as having organized a fully-functioning food kitchen during his administration, btw. it's still open, and funded by the dean of the college of cardinals. if you even care. innocent cares so much.

[rose24207]

When mom looses her cool

Summary: You finally snap after you catch your kids lying about a party and afterwards teach them a lesson about responsibility.

Genre: Mafia!Lando, Dad!Lando, angst, fluff

TW: Mafia, lying

A/N: wow I haven’t post about the mafia Norris family for so long! Anyways Amelia is 17 and Jacob is 16! English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Masterlist

The Norris household was usually a place of balance, despite the unconventional family dynamics. Lando Norris, the head of a vast, shadowy empire, had a knack for handling chaos with an iron fist cloaked in charm. You, his wife, were the gentler counterbalance to his commanding presence—a source of love and calm for the family.

But every calm sea has its storm, and this storm had been brewing for weeks.

Amelia and Jacob were no strangers to pushing limits. They loved to test boundaries, usually with harmless antics. However, this time they had crossed the line in a way that even Lando couldn’t immediately smooth over.

It began with a lie.

“We’re staying over at Olivia’s house,” Amelia had said casually at dinner the night before, her fork poking at her salad.

“Yeah, her parents are hosting a movie night for us,” Jacob chimed in, nodding a little too enthusiastically.

You raised an eyebrow but said nothing, trusting them. Lando, ever the observer, leaned back in his chair, his gaze flickering between his children. “Just don’t get into trouble,” he said simply, his voice calm but laced with warning.

The kids had nodded eagerly, but their plan was anything but innocent.

Hours later, instead of watching movies under the supervision of Olivia’s parents, Amelia and Jacob found themselves in the middle of an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. It was a full-blown underground rave, complete with deafening music, strobe lights, and an eclectic mix of people who had no business being there.

Jacob had been reluctant at first, but Amelia, ever the instigator, convinced him. “Come on, Jake! We’ll just stay for an hour. No one will find out.”

Famous last words.

Back at home, you were in bed reading, while Lando was reviewing some work on his laptop. A ping on his phone drew his attention. He frowned as he read the text.

“Security team flagged something,” he said, his voice calm but tight.

You looked up. “What?”

Lando held up his phone, showing a blurry image of Amelia and Jacob entering the warehouse. “That’s not Olivia’s house.”

Your blood boiled. For once, you didn’t feel calm or understanding. You felt betrayed.

“I’m going to call them,” you said, reaching for your phone.

Lando placed a hand over yours, his voice steady. “No. Let them finish digging their hole. We’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

“But—”

“They’re teenagers. They’re going to screw up,” he said, his tone even. “It’s how we handle it that matters.”

You took a deep breath and reluctantly agreed, but the anger simmered beneath your calm exterior.

The kids stumbled into the kitchen the next morning, looking worse for wear. Amelia’s eyeliner was smudged, and Jacob’s usually pristine hair was a mess. They clearly hadn’t slept much.

“Morning,” Amelia mumbled, heading straight for the fridge.

“Rough night?” Lando asked casually, sipping his coffee.

Amelia froze, the milk carton halfway to the counter. Jacob shot her a panicked look.

“Uh, no. Just stayed up late watching movies,” Amelia said, forcing a smile.

“Is that so?” you asked, your voice unusually sharp as you entered the kitchen.

Both kids turned to you, their smiles faltering. You placed your hands on your hips, leveling them with a glare that could shatter glass.

“Olivia’s house must have a rave room now,” you said, your tone dripping with sarcasm.

Jacob’s eyes widened. Amelia, ever the bold one, tried to play it cool. “Mom, it’s not what it looks like—”

“Oh, really?” you snapped. “Because it looks like my children lied to my face, snuck off to an illegal party, and came home thinking they could get away with it!”

Amelia winced. Jacob looked like he wanted to disappear.

“We didn’t mean for it to get out of hand,” Jacob tried, his voice small.

“That’s your defense?” you shot back. “Jacob, you could’ve been arrested. Or worse!”

Lando, who had been quietly watching from the corner, finally spoke up. “Alright, let’s all take a breath.”

But you weren’t done. “No, Lando. I’ve had enough of their reckless behavior. This isn’t just a mistake; it’s disrespectful!”

Amelia blinked, stunned. You rarely raised your voice. Seeing you this angry was new territory, and she didn’t like it.

“We’re sorry,” she said quickly.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” you replied. “You lied to us, put yourselves in danger, and then had the nerve to come back here and act like nothing happened!”

Amelia and Jacob were marched into the living room, where you laid out the consequences.

“No phones for two weeks,” you began.

“What?!” Amelia protested.

“And you’ll both be spending your weekends helping out at the community center,” you continued, ignoring her outburst.

Jacob groaned. “Come on, Mom, that’s not fair.”

“You’re lucky we’re not grounding you until graduation,” you shot back.

Lando, sitting on the couch with his arms crossed, finally chimed in. “Listen to your mother. She’s being generous.”

The kids fell silent, exchanging a glance. They had expected their father to be the hardliner, not you.

The silence in the house was palpable for the rest of the day. Amelia retreated to her room, while Jacob sulked in the den. Lando found you in the kitchen later, leaning against the counter with a cup of tea.

“You handled that well,” he said, his tone amused.

You shot him a look. “Don’t start.”

He chuckled, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “It’s good for them to see this side of you. Keeps them on their toes.”

“They need to understand that their actions have consequences,” you said, your voice softening. “I’m tired of them thinking they can get away with anything.”

“They’ll learn,” Lando assured you. “Trust me. They’re more scared of you than they’ve ever been of me.”

Later that night, Amelia knocked on Jacob’s door.

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled.

She flopped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. “I can’t believe Mom yelled at us.”

Jacob sighed. “I know. I think I’d rather deal with Dad’s lectures.”

“Same,” Amelia admitted. “She was scary.”

They sat in silence for a moment before Amelia added, “Do you think we went too far this time?”

Jacob glanced at her. “Yeah. We screwed up.”

Amelia nodded. “We should probably apologize.”

“Yeah.”

The next morning, you and Lando were in the kitchen when Amelia and Jacob shuffled in.

“Mom?” Amelia began hesitantly.

You raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“We’re sorry,” Jacob said. “For lying and…everything else.”

“We know we messed up,” Amelia added. “It won’t happen again.”

You studied them for a moment before nodding. “Thank you. But this doesn’t mean you’re off the hook.”

“We know,” they said in unison.

Lando smirked. “Smart kids.”

You shot him a look, but your lips twitched in a small smile. Maybe, just maybe, they were learning.

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @ipushhimback, @ladyoflynx, @lewishamiltonismybf, @cmleitora, @hxxi3, @same1995, @amatswimming

[blueiscoool]

Egyptologists Clash Over ‘Underground City’ Beneath Pyramids

Claims that an “underground city” exists beneath ancient Egyptian pyramids have caused a row among experts.

Researchers from Italy say they have uncovered giant vertical shafts wrapped in “spiral staircases” under the Khafre pyramid.

They said on Sunday that they found a limestone platform with two chambers and channels that resemble pipelines for a water system more than 2,100 feet below the pyramid, with underground pathways leading even deeper into the earth.

But the claims – which have not been published or independently peer-reviewed – were labelled “false” and “exaggerated” by fellow Egyptologists.

Researchers claim they have discovered eight cylinder-shaped structures below the Khafre - Khafre Project.

Prof Corrado Malanga and his team from the University of Pisa used radar pulses to create high-resolution images deep into the ground, similar to how sonar radar maps the ocean.

In a statement, he said: “When we magnify the images [in the future], we will reveal that beneath it lies what can only be described as a true underground city.”

The scientists have also said there is “an entire hidden world of many structures’’ and that “the Pyramid of Khafre might conceal undiscovered secrets, notably the fabled Hall of Records”.

The Hall of Records, a concept popularised in ancient Egyptian lore, is believed to be an ancient library beneath the Great Pyramid or the Sphinx, with vast amounts of information about the ancient civilisation.

Prof Lawrence Conyers, a radar expert at the University of Denver who focuses on archaeology, told the Daily Mail it was not possible for the technology to penetrate that deeply into the ground.

He said the idea that it proves an underground city existed is “a huge exaggeration”.

But he said it was conceivable small structures, such as shafts and chambers, may be present from before the pyramids were built.

He highlighted how “the Mayans and other peoples in ancient Mesoamerica often built pyramids on top of the entrances to caves or caverns that had ceremonial significance to them”.

The work by Prof Malanga and fellow researchers Filippo Biondi and Armando Mei was previously discussed during a briefing in Italy last week.

The project’s spokesman, Nicole Ciccolo, shared a video on Saturday of the trio discussing the findings that are yet to be published in a scientific journal.

Tomographic images could indicate internal artificial structures under the pyramid - Khafre Project.

The team focused on the Khafre pyramid, which, along with Khufu and Menkaure pyramids, make up the three in the Giza complex.

The pyramids are thought to have been built some 4,500 years ago and sit on the west bank of the Nile river in northern Egypt.

The vertical shafts identified below the ground were about 33 to 39 feet in diameter, located at a depth of at least 2,130 feet, the researchers said, adding that they may support the pyramid, which needs “a strong foundation, otherwise it may sink”.

The team showed an image created by using the pulses which they claim includes “a complex, luminous structure with distinct vibrations” they believe is “an actual underground city”.

“The existence of vast chambers beneath the earth’s surface, comparable in size to the pyramids themselves, have a remarkably strong correlation between the legendary Halls of Amenti,” Ms Ciccolo said.

A 3D model displays the structures inside the central part of the Pyramid of Khafre - Khafre Project.

Prof Malanga and Mr Biondi published a separate peer-reviewed paper in October 2022 in the scientific journal Remote Sensing, which found hidden rooms and ramps inside Khafre, along with evidence of a thermal anomaly near the pyramid’s base.

The new study used similar technology but with extra help from satellites orbiting Earth.

Radar signals from two satellites about 420 miles above Earth were directed into the Khafre pyramid.

The experts then monitor how they bounce back and convert the signals into sound waves, which allows them to “see” through the solid stone and map out underground structures in 3D.

Prof Malanga claimed the results had been “completely consistent” and using two satellites ruled out the chance of “misinterpretation”.

By Michael Searles.

View of the ancient crypt inside the Great step pyramid of Djoser, Saqqara. Cairo.

[hqbaby]

eighteen — just wanted you know to know

mess it up — gojo x reader & sukuna x reader

⁀➴ when i told you i’m fine, you were lied to. when the love of your life falls for someone else, you decide to move on—by pretending to date your best friend, the campus fuckboy.

previous — masterlist — next

word count. 2.4k content. profanity, everyone’s bad with feelings

Satoru was having a lovely day. Although “lovely” would be a relative term considering the fact that finals season has descended upon the general student population and he is one of its many victims. Still, he woke up on the right side of the bed, he managed to find some clean clothes, and the barista at the coffee shop down the road wasn’t as mean to him as he usually is.

Overall, his day had gone fairly well. As he walked over to the library, he didn’t dread finishing the mountain of papers he had to write or the problem sets he had to review. He even texted Suguru to come join him in his study session so that they could compare notes—something he usually steers clear from because the man always distracts him.

Overall, Satoru was having a lovely day.

Until that asshole showed up.

There he goes, with his usual lazy smirk, walking over to a table with his friend. They’re chatting—about something shitty, Satoru suspects—and laying their books out on the surface, pulling laptops and notes out of their bags. Satoru wonders what would happen if he just walked over, grabbed the guy and—

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Satoru looks down at his hand where a pencil has already snapped in half. You should really just get a mechanical one, your voice echoes in the back of his mind, the hint of a laugh bubbling beneath your words.

“Satoru.”

He looks up.

Shoko.

“Hey,” he says, flashing her that grin of his. As if he wasn’t just trying to stare your boyfriend to death. “What’s up? Wanna join me?”

The girl rolls her eyes, obviously seeing through his nonsense. “Why are you looking at that guy?” she asks, glancing over at the table where Sukuna is gesturing frantically as he explains something to Choso. “You into him or something?”

Satoru scowls. “That guy is dirt,” he says. “Worse than dirt actually. He’s the scourge of the earth.”

Shoko watches him with an amused look as he directs his attention at Sukuna, sending daggers at the guy that he obviously can’t feel at all. She’s known Satoru for a while, since they were freshmen. He’s usually the kind of guy who tries to be nice to everyone. He calls it being a nice person. She calls it being a people-pleaser.

She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him look at anyone the way he looks at Sukuna. He usually hides his disdain until the other person is out of his general vicinity. So this, him looking at the poor guy like he wants his whole family dead, is both ridiculous and completely strange.

“What did he do?” she asks, sitting down at the table. She takes a sip of her coffee as Satoru wills himself to rip his gaze away from Sukuna. When she realizes it might take a while, she busies herself by digging through her bag to grab the things she needs to study. “Did he steal your girlfriend or something?”

The silence that her question meets leaves Shoko curious, glancing up at Satoru as he turns away looking a little defeated.

“Oh shit,” she says. “Really? That’s why you broke up?”

“No,” Satoru tells her. He groans, slumping onto the table. “I don’t know, okay? All I know is that one moment she’s breaking up with me, the next she’s with that guy.”

Shoko looks back at Sukuna, waiting until she finally recognizes the man. Her eyes widen. She didn’t know who he was before, but now she definitely does.

“That’s the best friend!” she whispers to Satoru like it’s some big secret. “He’s the one you told us about!”

Satoru sticks his tongue out. “Yeah. Duh.”

She swats his shoulder. “Don’t be a fucking brat,” she says. “I can’t believe she jumped ship like that. What a bitch.”

“Don’t call her that.”

“Well, I’m a bitch, so I know when someone else is being a bitch.”

“Shoko.”

She raises her hands in apology. “Fine, fine. Sorry,” she says. She takes one more look at Sukuna then sighs. “You know, at least you’re free of all that now. You and Kimi seem great.”

That seems to cheer him up.

“We do, don’t we?” he says, beaming. “She’s just the best, you know. Lights up every room she walks into.”

Shoko curses herself as Satoru launches into a whole spiel about how great and wonderful Kimi is. She knows that she brought this on, she knows that the best way to distract her friend from his melancholy thoughts of you is to get him to talk about his new girlfriend, but fuck does it make him annoying.

“She does this little thing when we kiss, where she takes her hand and she—”

“Holy shit, please stop!” Shoko says. “I don’t wanna know about that!”

Satoru smirks. He knows just how much this annoys Shoko. It’s half the fun.

“She grabs my butt.”

He gets a well-earned smack on the arm.

“Hey, why are you starting the violence without me?” Suguru slides into the chair beside Satoru, beaming at Shoko as she glares at him. “What did he do?”

“He was being annoying,” she tells him, slouching in her seat. “I brought up his girlfriend once and off he goes on a whole tangent. ‘Oh, Shoko, you should see her eyes! You should smell her hair!’”

Satoru shrugs. “Not my fault you’re painfully single.”

“I’m pre-med, I don’t have the time,” she says like she always does. “I’d also like to point out that you fall in love way too easily. It’s gross.”

“I do not!” he gasps. “I’m very careful with my heart, you know.”

“Nah, I have to agree with Shoko on this,” Suguru chimes in, oh-so-helpfully

“You have to agree? You don’t have to do anything!”

He pats Satoru on the back. “Why don’t we just study like you said we would?” he says. “Take your mind off your fickle heart.”

“I’m gonna throw you into a dumpster,” Satoru says, glaring.

“After my finals, buddy. After my finals.”

It takes a while, but they do manage to get Satoru back on track and start working on his papers.

At a table a few feet away from them, Sukuna is trying to focus too. And failing miserably of course.

“Shut up,” Choso says without even looking up from his laptop.

“I haven’t even said anything.”

“But you were going to.”

Choso sighs. “Dude, I swear I’m gonna leave if you don’t let me focus.”

Sukuna pouts, trying his best to put on the best whole “woe is me” performance of his life. “But I have something really important to ask.”

“I have something really important to study for.”

 “You don’t want me to fail, do you?” Sukuna asks. “If I don’t get this off my chest, I may just flunk out of here.”

“Okay,” Choso nods. He waves at Sukuna. “Bye, dude. It was nice having you here.”

“Choso!”

“Seriously, man! We can talk all you want after we die from our exams, okay?”

“Fine,” Sukuna says, clearly not fine at all. He gets up and grabs his belt bag. “I’m gonna go take a smoke.”

Choso raises his brow. “I thought you quit.”

“Yeah, well, I’m stressed,” is all Sukuna says before he marches out of the library, completely unaware of the fact that he’s just walked past your ex-boyfriend who has not only noticed him but decided—against his friend’s wishes—to follow him outside.

Technically, no one is allowed to smoke around these parts of campus. But technicalities haven’t seemed to stop the group of distressed students camped out behind the library, heads in their hands as they all ignore each other and take their misery out on the ozone layer.

Sukuna leans against the brick wall, fishing a pack of cigarettes out of his bag. He’s just about to light it when someone scoffs at him. Now what piece of shit would do that?

“She hates those, you know.”

Oh, that piece of shit. Of course.

“What do you want?” Sukuna says, his voice as cold as steel as he meets Satoru’s eye. He lets the cigarette dangle from his fingers. Yeah, you wouldn’t like this at all. “Come to beat me up? Your little girlfriend not around to stop you?”

Satoru doesn’t budge, just continues to stare him down. “Have you told her?”

“Told her what?” your boyfriend spits. “That you’re a creep who can’t seem to get out of his ex’s life?”

“If you don’t, I will,” Satoru tells him. He runs a hand through his hair and crosses his arms over his chest. What is he doing? He knows that Sukuna’s right. That he should just let you live your life. Make the mistakes you want to make. It’s not like you didn’t cause them.

But he can’t do that. He could never do that to you.

“Listen, I don’t know why she chose you,” he says, the venom dripping from his tongue. “But the least you can do is not treat her like shit.”

Sukuna rolls his eyes. He lets the cigarette drop to the ground. “How do you know how I treat her?” he asks. “This is getting pathetic, man. You have a girlfriend, don’t you? Why don’t you just move on like any other sane person would.”

“You fucking ass—”

“She doesn’t want you,” Sukuna whispers. His voice is low and threatening. Any other man would be scared shitless.

But not Satoru.

His lips curl into a smirk. All smug and cold and heartless. “She misses me, you know?”

Sukuna sneers. “Oh, yeah? Who told you that? Your fucking delusion brain?”

“No. She did,” Satoru says simply. “I ran into her a few weeks back and she told me.”

“Oh, please.” Sukuna tries to maintain the stoic facade he’s put up, but that bugs him. Did you really tell him that? Why? “You’re insane.”

He pushes past your ex and heads back into the library.

When he plops back into his chair, Choso shoots him a confused look, but he just ignores it, turning back to his notes. He tries his best to read through his scribbles about something, but he can’t help his mind from drifting to you.

He knows he should tell you about the party. It’s not like the two of you were actually together yet, and you did tell him you didn’t mind if he kept fucking seeing other girls. You’re not vindictive. You’d be just fine with it—all he has to do is tell you.

He reaches for his phone and stops short of calling you.

You wouldn’t care. You would be fine. The two of you would be fine.

But would you? Things between you are so new. So fragile. You’ve barely just crossed the line between friends and an actual proper adult relationship. Everything is still hanging in the balance. Sukuna knows that one wrong move could wreck it all. He just doesn’t know what that move is.

And then there’s Satoru.

“She misses me, you know?”

What would possess that man to say something like that, Sukuna will never know. Maybe he’s just jealous. Maybe he’s just trying to get in Sukuna’s head. Maybe he just wants to mess with your relationship so that you come running back to him.

But maybe he’s right.

You wake to the feeling of your phone buzzing somewhere on the floor of your living room. It’s the middle of the day, but you, Maki, and Nobara have managed to pass out in the middle of your studying. Figures. If you had the choice between sleep and school, you definitely know what the three of you would pick.

You lift your head and pat the space around you until it finds your phone. Your eyebrows furrow when you see the contact name on the screen. You answer.

“‘Kuna?” you say, voice a little hoarse from sleep. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah!” he answers immediately. “I just wanted—were you sleeping?”

You chuckle, placing a hand on your forehead as you rest your head back on the floor. “Yeah, we needed a break,” you tell him. “Why are you calling?”

The other line is silent for a moment. You can already picture the way he looks right now, rubbing his thumb over his lower lip as he considers his words carefully.

“Sukuna, what is it?”

You hear him exhale. “Nothing,” he tells you. “I just wanted to let you know that I miss you.”

“We saw each other yesterday,” you say teasingly. You wish you could leave the conversation there, but you know there must be some other reason why he’s decided to call you out of nowhere. You know Sukuna. You know that there’s something going on. “What did you really call me about though?”

“Nothing,” he says again. You can tell that he knows he’s not convincing you. “I just thought… you remember when we snuck into that reservoir?”

You groan at the memory. The two of you were stupid back then, trying to escape the realities that you lived in. But you have to admit it was fun.

“Of course I do,” you tell him. “You called me just to remind me of that?”

He laughs, the memory apparently just as fun for him as it was for you. “That was when I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“You’re really gonna make me say it?”

You frown. “Sukuna, what are you talking about?”

You hear him sigh. Hear him ruffle something. Probably his hair. “That’s when I knew that I loved you,” he tells you softly.

You nearly drop the phone. “Oh.”

“You don’t have to say it,” he says. “I just thought you should know.”

Now, it’s your turn to be all jumpy. This is just like Sukuna to drop something on you like that. To drop the fact that he loves you, just like that. The fact that he’s apparently loved you for a while now.

“I love you too.”

The words hang in the air for a while. You’ve told him you loved him before, but that was always different. Always spoken beneath the cover of your friendship. Never something that meant anything important.

But is it really different this time?

You try to keep the thought out of your mind.

“‘Kuna? You there?”

“I’m here.”

You clear your throat. “Is that really why you called?”

“Yeah…” he says. “I just—yeah. I just wanted you to know that I love you.”

notes. me while writing this: *just sweats profusely*

[fushigurokogane]

❝𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐦❞

Royalty AU || Crown Prince Megumi x Reader || Part 3

"Either way, you weren’t supposed to catch the eye of the Crown Prince. But you did — not because you tried to impress him, but because you didn’t."

wc: 3.4k

authors note: HAIIII im back!! alr so this is kinda long?? idk. but im having so much fun adding to this plot tbh so i hope you enjoy and if your new, PLEASE read the first 2 parts first, it'll help you understand the storyline better :)

warnings: fem!reader, crown prince! megumi, forbidden romance, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, and political pressure

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masterlist

They didn’t ask questions at first.

The nobles, the court, the whispers behind fans and wine glasses — they all saw you once and dismissed you. A curiosity. A blip. Another face swept into the tide of courtly games.

But then they saw you again.

At the edge of the solarium, where the Crown Prince stood just a little too close. On the second terrace, where his eyes tracked your exit even while a visiting duchess tried to flirt with him. In the south garden, at dusk — a place no one went unless they wanted privacy.

And suddenly, it was a pattern.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

You told him that, more than once. In the flickering dark of the archives, where lanterns hummed like fireflies and your knees touched beneath the reading table. In the old chapel where no one dared go except ghosts and people pretending not to be in love. In the silent corners of the palace kitchens, hands brushing over teacups and smuggled fruit.

“This is dangerous,” you whispered once, the night his fingers found yours behind the velvet curtain of the observatory.

He didn’t say anything.

He just looked at you.

The kind of look that felt like a vow.

Like if anyone found you in that moment, he’d set the world on fire to keep you safe.

But fire makes smoke.

And smoke draws attention.

The first time you were summoned, it was under the guise of a simple interview. Routine, they said. Just part of an “internal security review.”

You weren’t stupid. You’d seen wolves wear sheep’s clothing before.

They asked strange questions.

How long had you known the Crown Prince? What was your family’s profession? Had you received any… unusual gifts lately?

You lied, carefully. Just enough truth to keep from slipping.

When you told Megumi later — behind the carved wood of a forgotten study — his jaw clenched so tightly you heard his teeth grind.

“They’re watching you now,” he said.

You didn’t ask if he meant they or he — because the answer was the same.

You looked at him, and you saw the storm coming.

He was different now. Not colder, but harder. Like steel forged under pressure. Every move measured. Every glance weighed.

He’d stopped leaving you notes. Stopped appearing in public anywhere near you.

But you still found each other.

In the space between dusk and nightfall, just before the bells rang the final hour, you met in a room that didn’t exist on the official floor plan.

Stone walls. Dust. A broken mirror no one had bothered to fix. It was perfect.

You were already there when he arrived, boots silent on the old tile.

“Megumi..I missed you,” you said, voice barely more than a breath.

“I missed you too. A lot." he replied.

Then his hand was at your jaw. Fingers tilting your face upward. His thumb brushing the line of your cheek like he was trying to memorize the way you existed.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

You didn’t.

So he kissed you.

Not tentative. Not unsure. But like someone whose leash had finally snapped — restrained for too long, now moving like a tide pulled forward by gravity and grief and longing.

It was the kind of kiss that meant something. The kind that leaves bruises behind your ribs.

But when he pulled away, his expression had already changed.

Not regret. Just reality.

“They’re forcing a decision,” he said.

You already knew what he meant.

A political marriage. One that would “strengthen alliances,” “preserve tradition,” “ensure the future of the realm.”

The usual excuses for arranged betrayal.

“Who?” you asked.

“Lady Hisakawa.”

The name made your stomach turn. Not because of jealousy — but because she was cruel in the way polished things often are. Beautiful and hollow. Sharp behind the smile.

“I don’t have a choice,” he said, low.

“Yes, you do,” you whispered.

“No,” he said, and the weight in his voice nearly broke something in you. “I have duty.”

You didn’t cry. Not in front of him.

But you reached out. Held his hand like it might keep the world from spinning off its axis.

“I won’t stay here,” you said.

His gaze snapped to yours.

“If I watch you marry someone else, I’ll lose everything good I’ve ever been.”

Silence.

“Then I’ll never marry.”

You stared.

“I’ll delay. Strategize. Break rules they thought unbreakable. Whatever it takes,” he said. “If they want a performance, I’ll give them one. But I won’t give them you.”

Your chest ached. Every word was a wound and a balm.

“But if they find out…”

“They already suspect. And I don’t care.”

“You will,” you said. “When they come for me.”

His jaw tightened. “They’ll have to go through me first.”

And for once, you believed it.

That night, you left the palace through a side gate no one guarded anymore.In your pocket, you carried another violet. This one dried. Fragile. Pressed flat between the pages of a stolen royal ledger.

It wasn’t a promise.

It was a warning.

Because the palace walls weren’t made of stone. They were made of glass.

And glass only holds until it shatters.

It had now been a few days, the palace whispered.

A tapestry tugged at the seams, delicate threads coming loose under the weight of secrets. Servants changed routes. Guards took new posts. Doors once left ajar began locking behind them. No one said your name, but it lingered in the air like smoke: known, unspoken, dangerous.

And Megumi was more careful now.

Not distant. Never that. But sharper. As if he walked through each day counting steps and knives. As if he knew that one wrong move might unravel everything.

You saw him less, but when you did, it meant something.

A glance across the throne room during an open council. A single brush of fingers beneath a shared parchment in the library. A quiet moment in the garden just before dawn — when the sky was still indigo and the world hadn’t remembered to be cruel yet.

You didn’t speak of the marriage again.

Not aloud.

Not after that night.

But the threat of it hung over everything, a sword waiting to fall.

Three weeks passed.

You kept to shadows, wearing quiet like a cloak. The shopkeeper missed you. The capital streets missed you. But you’d become part of the palace’s undercurrent — a ghost no one saw unless they looked too closely.

And people were starting to look.

Lady Hisakawa was the first to make it known.

She wasn’t subtle. The court never was.

She found you alone in the conservatory one evening, pretending to admire the frost orchids while you waited for a servant to slip you a message.

“Pretty things don’t survive long here,” she said, voice lilting like it was dipped in honey and edged in venom.

You didn’t respond.

She stepped closer.

“You don’t belong, you know. Whatever fantasy you’re indulging in — it ends badly. For people like you.”

You met her eyes. “Is that a threat?”

She smiled, slow and deliberate. “It’s tradition.”

And then she walked away, trailing lavender perfume and poison in her wake.

The message never came.

You didn’t see Megumi again until the Midwinter Gala.

You hadn’t planned to attend. It was too public, too exposed. But the invitation arrived in silence — a single envelope bearing only your name, slipped beneath your door with no seal at all.

Inside, one sentence:

You said you wouldn’t watch. But what if I want you to see me fight?

You frowned, you didn't know what it meant. You wanted to know what it meant.

So you went.

You borrowed a gown from the wardrobe of a sympathetic court musician — deep navy with silver threading, the colors of dusk. You wore no jewelry. No mask. Only your resolve.

The ballroom gleamed. Light caught on ice sculptures and velvet drapery, casting stars on the marble floor. The nobles danced. The royals mingled. Everything was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

Until he stepped forward in full ceremonial attire — sword at his hip, crown band gleaming like forged moonlight — and walked to the center of the room.

He didn’t call for silence.

He didn’t need to.

The crowd quieted on instinct.

Megumi looked at the gathered lords and ladies, eyes like winter storms.

Then he spoke.

“There’s been speculation,” he began, voice even but edged. “About my intentions. About the future of the realm. About alliances.”

He looked toward Lady Hisakawa, who stood near the dais, already lifting her chin with anticipation.

“There is truth in what you’ve heard,” he continued. “I have made a decision. But not the one you expect.”

A ripple moved through the crowd.

“I will not marry for power,” he said.

A gasp.

“I will not bind my life to politics. I have seen what love becomes when it’s used as currency. I refuse to bleed it dry.”

His voice cut like a blade now — controlled, lethal.

“I will not announce a bride tonight. Because she already knows who she is.”

And then he looked at you.

Not a flicker. Not a glance.

A look so direct, so defiant, it lit the entire room on fire.

You didn’t breathe.

He bowed his head, a silent vow in a room made of silence.

And the court exploded.

You were gone before the storm hit.

You slipped out through the west corridor, skirts lifted above your ankles, heart thundering like hooves on stone. Footsteps followed. Voices. Chaos in the wake of his truth.

But you didn’t stop running until someone grabbed your wrist and pulled you into an alcove.

Megumi.

His breath was ragged. His collar undone. He looked like a man who had just set fire to everything and didn’t regret it.

"You look so beauti-"

“Are you insane?” you hissed.

“Yes,” he said. “For you.”

“You’ve just undone a decade of strategy!”

“They’ll fix it,” he said. “They always do.”

“And what if they come for me?”

His hand framed your jaw again, tender and furious. “Then they’ll find you gone.”

Your breath caught.

“What are you saying?”

“I made arrangements,” he said. “Safe passage. A place outside the capital. No one knows but me.”

“Megumi—”

“If you stay, they’ll use you. To hurt me. To control me. I won’t let that happen.”

“And what about you?”

“I’m the Crown Prince. I can’t run. But I can protect you. Even from here.”

Tears pricked the edge of your eyes.

“I don’t want protection,” you whispered. “I want you.”

He kissed you then.

Fast. Desperate. Like he knew it might be the last.

Then he pressed something into your hand — a key, worn with age and silver-etched.

“There’s a gatehouse in the mountains,” he said. “It’s yours now. Go tonight.”

You stared at him.

And then, slowly, you shook your head.

“No.”

“Don’t be stupid—”

“No, Megumi. I won’t run unless you ask me to.”

Silence.

Then, his hand closed over yours.

“I won’t. Not yet.”

“Then I stay.”

His mouth trembled, just once.

And he let go.

The fallout came fast.

Whispers turned to accusations. Nobles turned on each other. The king grew ill. The court tried to rewrite the story in real time, but the damage had been done.

Megumi stood his ground.

And you?

You watched the kingdom crack beneath the weight of two people who refused to let go of something real.

A dangerous, impossible love.

The kind that shatters kingdoms.

The kind that builds them too.

@obsessivestrawberrysimp

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

compos mentis 10

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, chronic health issues, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: After a long court case, your mother stays attached to her lawyer, bringing even more contention into your life.

Characters: Andy Barber

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You turn the dial and watch the wheel on the screen. The high-tech washer is a bit intimidating. It’s not like your mom didn’t insist on having everything with redundant features, but this is something else. You tap start on the touch screen and the machine shows a smiley face over the word ‘fill’. 

You shut the door of the laundry room as you carry out the empty shopping bags. You enter the kitchen where you hear Andy. He has his back to you as he reads something. 

“Got everything sorted. Colours first,” you say, then let out a strange wheeze. You’re not out of breath but you just feel like you should be. You’re still adjusting. 

“That’s good,” he says as he puts down the canister and turns to you. “I was just about to start some dinner.” 

“Dinner?” You repeat. “Could I... help?” 

“You wanna?” He sounds surprised. 

“Sure, I... before... I never got to do anything,” you take a deep breath.

He frowns, “are you okay?” 

“Yes, I just... it’s weird not having the air,” you shrug and look down at the bags. “Where can I put these?” 

“We can reuse them. Just in this cupboard.” 

He crosses the kitchen and opens a lower cupboard. There’s a plastic crate with folded cloth bags and the like. You near and bend to tuck the other ones beneath. He doesn’t move back but you don’t think he realises he’s crowding you. 

“So...” you stand straight and face him. He is very close. You didn’t notice the little silver strands in his beard before. “What are you making?” 

“We’re...” he corrects you, “making some fried chicken. Or trying to. I still haven’t perfected it but I found a recipe online.” 

“Oh. Fried chicken?” You say. 

“You don’t like it?” His brow furrows. 

“No, no, I... I can’t remember if I like it. Mom never let have any once I got sick. She said it was bad for me.” You look down. “She lied. Just like everything.” 

“Oh, honey,” he puts his hands on your arms, startling you. Even so, you don’t pull away. He’s being kind, you don’t want to offend him. “I’m so sorry. I know it must be hard but... try not to think about her. She doesn’t deserve your energy.” 

You nod and sniffle. “I’m trying. It’s just... hard.” 

“I know,” his thumbs rub against your sleeves. “Do you want a hug?” 

You flinch and look up at him. Your brows squiggle and your blink in a flutter. You don’t know how to answer that. You remember the few times you tried to hug your mom and she shooed you off, saying she didn’t want to get tangled in your tube. 

“You seem like you need it,” he coaxes. 

After all he’s done for you, you feel guilty refusing him. And you’re not quite sure either way. It might not be that bad. Not if he’s offering, right? 

“Okay,” you answer. 

He slides his hands around your arms and encloses you in an embrace that has your head against his chest. You turn your ear to him and hear his heartbeat. He rubs your back. His firm palm sends warmth through you, along with a strange chill. Something not quite cold, just tingly. 

You stay like that. Rigid at first. Then, feeling awkward, you move your arms around him. 

He holds you for a bit longer then slowly releases you. His hands trail up and down your arms as he looks down at you. Your cheeks are flush with heat. 

“You give great hugs,” he says. 

“I... do?” 

“Sure,” he smiles. 

“Um. You too.” You utter. 

He runs his hands down to your hands, clinging to them for just a second, then lets you go completely. He clears his throat and looks away. “So, are you hungry or what?” 

“Yeah, actually,” you shuffle over to the counter as his steps are more certain. 

“Alright, to start... By the way, I use the air fryer. Deep drying is so bad for you.” 

“I don’t mind,” you assure him. “Mom used to by these frozen dinners I just put in the microwave...” 

“She didn’t cook for you?” He asks. 

“Not really,” you shrug. “I was always too light-headed to stand that long...” 

“Right.” He stiffens as he opens a cupboard and takes down a large bowl. 

You squirm, “I didn’t mean to talk about her. Or upset you.” 

“You didn’t upset me. She does,” he insists as he uncaps the canister of breadcrumbs. “I just—thinking what she did. How she tricked all of us, but you especially. She made you think--” He stops himself. “I won’t get into it. I’m sorry.” 

“I feel bad she dragged you into this,” you hang your head. 

“I don’t,” he intones as he shakes crumbs into the bowl. “If she didn’t, she’d still be hurting you. I wouldn’t have been able to help you.” 

“Oh...” 

“Do you want to grab the flour, sweetie? It’s just in that cupboard.” He points in front of you. 

You open the door and find the sack of flower. You grab it and offer it to him. 

“You go ahead. About half cup for now.” He directs. 

“Oh, I...” 

“Just guess. Doesn’t have to be exact,” he assures. 

You nod and carefully unroll the top of the bag. You tip it over the brim and tap the side to get the powder out. You think you poured too much. You turn the bag upright. You fold it down again. 

You put it away as Andy spins the spice rack. You watch him pick out several jars. You rub your fingertips, dry from the flour. 

“Andy?” you eke out. 

“Yes, sweetie,” he says as he seasons the crumbs and flour. 

“You didn’t... didn’t just help me, you know?” You turn and twiddle your fingertips together. “I think you saved me.” 

His cheeks dimple and his blue eyes flick over to meet yours. “I’d like to think so, but...” 

“But?” 

“But it took me so long,” he shakes his head. 

“But you did! Andy. You really did.” 

His lips slant and he shrugs, “I don’t know.” 

“Andy, if you—if you never stood up to her, I wouldn’t have,” you frown. “I’m too weak for that.” 

“You’re not weak,” he insists. “You just never got a chance. She took that from you.” 

“Maybe...” you drone. 

“She did,” he says, his eyes clinging to you. His expression softens and he narrows his eyes. 

“What? What are you looking at?” You touch your face in panic. 

“You,” he smiles, letting the tension slake away. “I said it before but you really do look so beautiful.” 

“Beautiful? You didn’t say... that,” you blush. 

“Didn’t I?” He wonders. You shake your head. “Well, I’m sorry because you do. You are really beautiful.” He blinks and pokes his tongue into his cheek, turning back to the bowl as he pushes the contents around with a wooden spoon. “I don’t wanna stop looking at you.” 

“Andy,” you gasp. “You don’t have to say that.” 

“I have a bad habit of telling the truth,” he chuckles. “Sweetie, you mind getting the chicken out of the fridge?” 

“Yeah, I can do that,” you say. 

You go to the fridge and open the left-door. You find the package of drumsticks and shut the door. As you glance at Andy, he’s staring. Again. 

“I’m not trying to gawk,” he says as he takes the chicken from you. “Really. I just... can’t help myself.” 

“Andy,” you squeak again. 

“Don’t be afraid to tell me to cut it out if I keep staring,” he laughs. “But I can’t guarantee I’ll listen.” 

You smile. You can’t think of another time when anyone called you beautiful or said anything nice. It was always bad news or reprimands. The doctors were annoyed and just wanted you gone. Your mom was the same. But Andy. Andy has no obligation to you and yet you don’t feel that. You feel... wanted. 

You chest tightens and your eyes burn. The realisation is a bitter as his compliments are sweet. You turn away. 

“Do you mind if I just... check the laundry?” You ask quietly. 

There’s a lull before he answers. You can feel his gaze again. “Go ahead. You know if you need anything, you can just tell me.” 

“I know, Andy,” you traipse away. “I’ll be right back.” 

You flee into the hall and don’t stop until you’re in the laundry room. As much as you want to cry, you won’t. You wouldn’t be able to hide the evidence. No, you can do this. Just take a breath. Deep; in then out. Isn’t it wonderful how easy it is? 

🩷

Sleep nips at your eyes but you can’t quite sink beneath the surface. You’re adjusting. This house is still strange to you. Just like everything else. 

You turn onto your side, then roll the other way, back and forth as your insides stir. You can’t get them to stop. Or your brain. 

When you’re not thinking about your mom, you’re thinking about the doctors, and when you’re not thinking about them, you’re thinking about the people and things you never knew. All those missed opportunities. You blame her but you blame yourself too. You let her do this to you. 

When at last you can shove aside the memories that make you cringe and shudder, you think of Andy. He’s so nice but you think you know why. He feels bad for you. Just like those people who used to see with your tank and offer you their seat or hold the door for you. 

You think of all he’s done and how you could pay it back. How you can’t. It’s a rotten feeling to owe someone. That’s how you always felt with your mom. She never failed to remind you about everything she did for you. 

You sit up, your stomach brewing. You can’t settle down. You’re trying but the more you do, the worse it gets. 

You linger on the edge of the bed and try to figure out what to do. You need a distraction. You stare at the peek of the moon visible between the curtains. 

The house is quiet. You don’t want to wake Andy but if you stay upstairs, you’re certain you will. You get up and listen at the door. You hope he doesn’t mind... 

You go out into the hall. The house is dark. You tiptoe to the stairs and slowly put your foot down the first step. 

You’re sure you’ll get through one rerun of Law and Order and be ready to pass out. It always does the trick. As you come down to the first floor, you notice the haze from the front room. The flicker of colours along with the low buzz of voices draws you forward. 

Andy beat you to it. He’s watching The Andy Griffith Show. You remember the actors from when your grandma used to let the episodes play in the background. The last time you saw her, you were six. She’s gone now. 

You hide behind the door frame and look back at the staircase. You could try again. 

“Can’t sleep?” Andy’s voice startles you. You yelp. 

You sniff, “uh, yes. Sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry. I can’t either,” he says. “You wanna watch something? Doesn’t have to be this?” 

You turn and peer through the door. You shrug, “if you don’t mind. You don’t have to change it.” 

“I don’t mind at all.” 

You cross the room and go around the couch. He's in a tee and a pair of shorts. They might even be boxers. You try not to stare.

You sit on the opposite corner. He offers you the remote. 

“No, please, you pick,” you wave it away. 

“Really, go ahead,” he wiggles it at you. 

“I... okay.” 

You take the remote. You look down at the buttons and reluctantly push the Guide button. You flick through, searching for something that isn’t too niche. 

“I’m just happy to have someone around,” he says as he leans back. “It’s been a long time since I that’s been the case.” He shifts a little closer. “I didn’t realise how much I missed that.” 

You keep your eyes on the screen and select Law and Order. You rest the remote on the armrest and chew your lip. You’ve always been alone but you’re starting to realise how miserable that was. 

[knoepfl]

A Gift Beneath the Waters

11/24

Characters

• Silco: The calculated and ambitious leader of Zaun, a man hardened by betrayal and responsibility. Beneath his stern exterior lies a rare softness reserved for someone he deeply trusts and values.

• Reader (You): Silco’s partner, someone who sees beyond his intimidating demeanor and strives to bring warmth and care into his life, even amidst the chaos of Zaun.

Trigger Warnings

• Themes of power and control: Silco’s characterization includes his struggles with trust and vulnerability.

• Melancholy atmosphere: The narrative carries a subtle undercurrent of Silco’s burdens and the harsh realities of Zaun.

Masterlist

Words: 768

Christmas.

---

The underground city of Zaun shimmered faintly under the glow of chem-lights and softly glowing trinkets hastily strung along the edges of dilapidated buildings. The air was thick with the usual tang of chemicals, but there was a strange warmth in the atmosphere—a warmth that had nothing to do with the city’s harsh environment.

You weren’t sure how much Silco cared for such traditions. He was a man of ambition and strategy, and he rarely allowed sentimentality to cloud his thoughts. But tonight, you couldn’t help but feel a flutter of excitement. After all, you had gone to great lengths to prepare something for him, a small token to show him that, despite the weight of his responsibilities, he wasn’t alone.

Clutching the carefully wrapped box in your hands, you made your way through the winding corridors of his base. The guards let you pass without question, their stoic faces softening slightly at the sight of you. Silco had made it clear to everyone that you were someone he valued—a rarity in his life.

Pushing open the heavy doors to his office, you found him seated at his desk, a cigar smoldering between his fingers as he reviewed a stack of documents. The faint light from the large window behind him cast an ethereal glow around his silhouette, highlighting the scar that marked his face.

“Busy as ever, I see,” you teased, stepping into the room.

Silco glanced up, his mismatched eyes softening when they met yours. “And what brings you here, my dear?” he asked, his voice smooth, though a hint of curiosity laced his tone.

You held up the box, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “I come bearing gifts.”

He arched an eyebrow, setting his cigar in an ashtray. “A gift? For me?”

“Well, you are the man who runs all of Zaun,” you said, walking closer. “You deserve something special.”

Placing the box on the desk in front of him, you stepped back, your hands clasped nervously behind your back. Silco eyed the package with a mix of intrigue and amusement before carefully peeling back the wrapping.

Inside was a sleek, silver pocketknife, its blade engraved with intricate patterns that resembled the flow of water. The handle was smooth and dark, etched with the unmistakable shimmer of hextech.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured, picking it up and examining it under the light.

“There’s more,” you said softly, gesturing for him to look closer.

He turned the knife over and saw the inscription on the blade: ‘For the man who fights the tides and rises above.’

Silco’s lips parted slightly, his fingers brushing over the words. For a man who had built his life on strength and control, there was a flicker of vulnerability in his expression, a momentary crack in his armor.

“I thought…” you began, your voice faltering slightly. “I thought you could use something personal. Something just for you.”

He set the knife down and rose from his chair, his sharp eyes locking onto yours. “You went through all this trouble for me?”

“Of course,” you replied, your cheeks warming under his intense gaze. “You do so much for everyone else, Silco. You deserve something to remind you of how extraordinary you are.”

A slow, genuine smile curved his lips—a rare sight, reserved only for you. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek.

“You continue to surprise me,” he said, his voice low and filled with a depth that made your heart flutter. “In a world filled with betrayal and greed, you bring… light.”

You laughed softly, leaning into his touch. “Don’t go soft on me now, Silco. It’s just a knife.”

“It’s more than that,” he replied, his thumb brushing against your skin. “It’s a reminder that I am not alone. That I have you.”

Your breath hitched as his words settled over you, heavy with meaning. You reached up, covering his hand with yours.

“You’ll always have me,” you whispered.

For a moment, the chaos of Zaun faded into the background. Silco leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, then another to your lips—a kiss that spoke of trust, admiration, and something deeper, something he rarely allowed himself to feel.

“Merry Christmas,” you murmured against his lips.

“Merry Christmas,” he echoed, his voice a quiet promise.

The night passed in a rare stillness, the two of you wrapped in the warmth of each other’s presence. And though the city outside churned on in its endless struggle, here, in the glow of his office, Silco allowed himself to feel something he rarely did: peace.

---

[petew21-blog]

A 5 star review

"Ok, Luke and one final question. A very well known and feared movie critic, Marcus Montoya, in his latest review for one of your films, has called you stiff and boring for a gay guy. What would you respond to him if he were here right now?"

"I would tell him to come see me at Lotus club tonight and we'll see which one of the two of us is the boring one. Haha"

"Ok, thank you for answering and have a great day"

Lotus club, Friday 10:14 PM

Luke:"Oh look who we have here. I really didn't think you would show. A straight gay in here. And you actually look bored."

Marcus:"Bored from watching you and your movies"

Luke:"Look, I don't know what you have against me, but it seems personal. If you wanna talk about it, spit it out. If not, then let me show you how gay people have fun. What do you think?"

There was a slight change in Marcus's expression that showed he wasn't really gonna talk, which Luke immediately noticed. Luke smiled and grabbed his arm and took him to the dance floor. They danced and drank for hours.

Luke:"So you're not into me. You're not gay and I haven't done anything bad to you. Why do you hate me then?"

Marcus:"It's my job to say mean stuff about people. It tends to bring out the best in them."

Luke:"That's a stupid theory. So, why coming here?"

Marcus:"I wanted to see if you can have fun"

Luke:"Oh I can show you even more fun"

Marcus stopped dancing and leaned Luke's ear.

Luke:"Oh don't worry honey. I won't tell a single soul. Let's go"

They arrived to Luke's appartement. Still drunk. One a bit hornier than the other.

They kissed all the way to the bedroom.

Luke:"Wanna top?"

Marcus:"I don't even know what that means."

Luke:"Jesus, you straight guys. I'll walk you through it."

Luke positioned himself on top of Marcus. Flexing for him

Luke:"You like these guns?"

Marcus stayed silent. He looked like he was concentrating hard enough to stay hard.

Luke felt dominant. He was fucking his tormentor. It didn't matter who had dick in whose ass. It mattered that his tormentor was now beneath him. His straight tormentor.

He could already feel his dick pulsating inside of him. He didn't wear a condom. Luke knew that this guy wasn't the type to transmit anything. Besides, he wanted all the cum inside of him. He wanted to feel all of it

Luke collapsed on the bed. Except Luke now felt a bit heavier and there was a very hunky man breathing heavily next to him

Marcus:"I really didn't think I'd convince you for having sex with me. Damn, for a gay sex this was a thrill. But I don't think I'll be doing that ever again. Or atleast for some time necessary."

Luke:"How did this happen? How did you do this?"

Marcus:"Relax. It resets back after we have sex again"

Luke:"So we're not stuck like this?"

Marcus:"Calm down, man. You'll get to have sex with yourself. Not everyone gets that chance. Now tell me where can I get some water?"

Luke still perplexed:"The... Kitchen. In the kitchen. There is filtered water."

Marcus got up with his new borrowed body. Luke was observing his new hairy and not very well maintained body.

Luke looked up as he heard footsteps coming back from the kitchen

Marcus:"I kinda lied about the sex part"

BANG. One bullet shot from the gun held by Luke's body

Marcus was now standing in his own appartement, clean from all the blood he had to scrape from his new body. Getting rid of his old body turned out to be much harder than he thought.

He went through all the steps in his head, just to figure out if he didn't forget anything.

"Honeyyy? Are you finished?" a voice echoed from the hall behind the door

"Yeah. Come in, love. No need to be ashamed. It's still me." Marcus answered with joy

His wife entered the bathroom.

Jessica:"Oh looking good, sir. I'm almost blushing from looking at you. I feel like cheating."

Marcus grabbed her by the waist and sat her down on his lap while sitting down on the toilet.

Marcus:"As if we haven't done this many times now. So, how do you like my new body?"

Jess:"Very handsome, very sexy. But... I'm not feeling so comfortable about all this gay stuff. Are you sure it wouldn't be easier to find someone... more normal?"

Marcus:"Oh honey, I'm queer now. You can't say that shit in front of me"

Both of them laughed out loud

Marcus:"I'll mention in another interview that God showed me the right way or some other bullshit. Can't let all the people know what really happened to Luke."

"Now, let's introduce this dick to your pussy. I have to beat that thought of fucking ass out of my head."

Another story request from inbox

Could you do a story where a straight movie critic swaps bodies with Luke Macfarlane?

Btw don't be like this fictional Luke and WEAR A CONDOM 😁

[mindblowingscience]

After decades of dreaming of Jupiter’s moon Europa — and the vast ocean that probably lies beneath its icy surface — scientists are now weeks away from sending a spacecraft there. NASA confirmed yesterday that its Europa Clipper mission will launch on schedule, following a scare that it might have to be significantly delayed owing to possibly faulty transistors installed on the US$5-billion spacecraft. “We are confident that our beautiful spacecraft and capable team are ready for launch operations and our full science mission at Europa,” Laurie Leshin, the director of NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL) in Pasadena, California, said at a 9 September press conference. With a mass of more than 3.2 tonnes, a height of roughly 5 metres, and a width of more than 30 metres with its solar panels fully unfurled, Europa Clipper is the largest spacecraft that NASA has ever built for a planetary mission. Yesterday, the mission passed what’s known in NASA parlance as ‘key decision point E’ — the final review hurdle that needs to be cleared before proceeding towards launch. The spacecraft’s launch window opens on 10 October.

Continue Reading.

[bluecloudsandpinksnow]

strawberry milk (akabane karma x reader)

summary:

He likes it. It’s his favorite brand and you are so good at this ‘communicating’ thing. You’re pretty sure Karma said something after that, but currently, you are on cloud nine and you can barely process the words over your feelings of success.

You would have fist pumped and yelled ‘sublime’ too, had he not waved a hand in front of your face in concern.

“Hey, are you okay? You’re acting kinda- weird?”

Okay, you did not respond fast enough, what did he even say before that? You shake your head and prepare the fastest, most soundproof response you can muster.

“Sorry, I fell down the stairs this morning.” fandom: Assassination Classroom by Yûsei Matsui pairing: akabane karma x gender-neutral! reader warnings: none, unless you count second hand embarrassment notes: - cross posted on ao3 under the same name - first fic ever posted for me, i have more plans n drafts for this universe already but that depends on my motivation lmao - i hope you have as much fun reading as i had writing --- START ---

Mustering up the last bits of courage you can, you pull the two tetra packs from your bag and abruptly stand up.

Unfortunately for you, your chair screeches against the floorboard from the force, and all of your classmates look in your direction.

You could feel the heat creeping up your neck as you quietly mutter out an apology. Thankfully, no one makes a big issue of your disruption and they all return to their own activities.

Now to face the daunting task that’s been plaguing your mind ever since this morning at the train station, where your whimsical decision-making had you convinced that you should totally, definitely, get something for Karma.

You briskly walk across the room, over to where the aforementioned red-headed boy was conversing with Nagisa about some topic you couldn’t process at the moment.

All you want to do is to get to know him better, that’s it. No underlying motives, whatsoever.

“Hey, this is for you.”

You shoved the strawberry milk carton into his hand. A flash of innocent confusion crosses Karma’s face, and you almost let yourself think about how cute of a look it was for someone like him. Before you get to entertain that preposterous thought, he tilts his head in amusement, waiting for an explanation.

“So, uhm- The vending machine! I got lucky, cause it, uhm- it broke, so I got two instead of one- Not that it’s lucky that it broke of course! That’s bad, that has some very bad implications. Uh, you know?” you wave your hands around in an attempt to explain, gesturing to your milk carton as if it would suddenly start talking in your defense.

From the corner of your eye, you see Nagisa giving you a sympathetic smile before grabbing his notebook and gesturing to Karma of his intent to review for the next class.

You were thankful at first, until the realization sunk in that you now have to explain yourself to Karma.

Alone.

No verbal or social support from your peers.

This will be fine. You convince yourself this before the urge to backflip out of the classroom window can overtake you.

“Thanks, I guess? Why the sudden gift, you like me or something?” He teases, because of course he does, and now you have to come up with the reply or he will know that you lied about the vending machine and that there’s some dubious reason as to why you got two strawberry milk cartons that just so happen to be his favorite brand.

Karma cannot know. He absolutely cannot.

“Huh? Psh! Of course not, I just wanted to thank you for helping me last week, you know? Math isn’t my strongest subject and I- what you told me, that shortcut? It just- it’s cool! It really helped me and I felt like I had to thank you. Yeah?” you ramble, and a part of you wishes the ground would collapse beneath your feet just so you could escape this tragedy of a conversation.

You stare awkwardly at Karma, anticipating his response. You swear he looks like he wants to ask what on earth is wrong with you, but maybe it’s just the nerves.

He shrugs, “No biggie. You didn’t need to go through the effort of buying me something just for that one tip.”

He hates it. He thinks you’re weird and over the top. It’s time for you to exile yourself.

“Thanks, though. How’d you know I like this brand anyway?”

He likes it. It’s his favorite brand and you are so good at this ‘communicating’ thing. You’re pretty sure Karma said something after that, but currently, you are on cloud nine and you can barely process the words over your feelings of success.

You would have fist pumped and yelled ‘sublime’ too, had he not waved a hand in front of your face in concern.

“Hey, are you okay? You’re acting kinda- weird?”

Okay, you did not respond fast enough, what did he even say before that? You shake your head and prepare the fastest, most soundproof response you can muster.

“Sorry, I fell down the stairs this morning.”

‘WHO SAYS THAT? WHY DID I SAY THAT?’

You need to pass out right now. Maybe if he thinks you have a concussion you can still salvage your reputation in his eyes. Karma’s eyes widen in concern and you can’t help the butterflies ricocheting in your gut.

“Woah, maybe you should go have that checked with the nurse? I can take you there, I wanna skip class anyway.”

In normal circumstances, you would have reprimanded him for even suggesting that he skip classes and use you as a reason. However, now it is different. Now it is very different when you feel these very dreadful, un-platonic feelings for the redhead.

‘Calm down butterflies, he just suggested a friendly gesture of good, normal, regular, concern.’ You reassure yourself, because if you don’t, you might just blast off into the stratosphere like you were Koro-sensei being complimented by a pretty barista lady.

Karma puts his hand on your shoulder.

‘ÆÆÆÆÆÆÆÆÆÆÆÆÆÆÆ'

You imagine swatting away the butterflies to keep yourself sane, and you try your best to collect an actual, reasonable response this time.

“No, no, it’s fine. Thanks for the concern. A lot of things just happened today, and I’m just a bit overwhelmed. I’m sorry if I’m acting strange.” you speak slower than you did prior, and you find yourself more composed.

Well, as composed as you can be considering Karma still has his hand on your shoulder. You bow your head in shame, not being able to meet his eyes.

He scoffs in amusement, “Hey, don’t worry about it, and really, thanks for the strawberry milk.”

You look up at him and sigh in relief, thankful that he doesn’t think you’re completely insane. He gives your shoulder another pat before moving his hand off to pry the straw from the back of his tetra pack.

“No problem! Thanks again too, for helping me last week.”

A big part of you is relieved that he took his hand off of your shoulder so your heart rate could normalize itself, but a tinier, more delusional part of your brain feels disappointed that he had to pull his hand away at all.

You move to turn and walk away, but Karma speaks again.

“Hey, if you’re still feeling overwhelmed, you can always skip class with me. We can just tell Koro-sensei you weren’t feeling well.” he offers, and it takes every ounce of sense in you to not just accept it then and there. Especially not when you meet his eyes and see them light up with mischief.

You have to be reasonable. Doing so just to entertain your silly little infatuation would disappoint Koro-sensei and tarnish your good record. You can find more excuses to spend time with him without breaking the school rules.

“No thank you, it’s okay. I think I’ll just go to the bathroom and wash my face. I appreciate the concern though.” You nod your head and flash Karma a light smile, to which he shrugs and moves to sit at his desk, drinking the strawberry milk you gave him.

You move to make your way out of the classroom, and you see Nakamura smirk at you. She was probably watching you make a fool out of yourself in front of Karma, and you know for a fact she will tease you about that horrid display of human interaction later. You squint your eyes at her, daring her to laugh or say something, to which she just smiles at you wider and you swear you can see devil horns form on her head.

Nakamura held her phone up while you were walking past. You gape slightly in frustration as you realize what she had shown you.

She had recorded your god awful attempt at giving Karma the strawberry milk. There was physical evidence of it for others to witness.

The worst part? There was physical evidence of it for Koro-sensei to witness.

You quickly stomp into the bathroom and turn on the sink, shoving your face into your hands before you let out an exasperated groan.

There was no living this down for you.

You just hoped Karma wouldn’t take the news so harshly if he found out.

---END---

Thanks for reading! :DDD

[redbatchedcumbermayned]

20 questions for writers

I was tagged by @leadflowers. Thank you so much, Ghani <333. And I'm tagging @holylustration @theevilscribbler and @pycnolite

How many works do you have on ao3?

8. I only started writing fanfic in January last year, when a certain Heinrix van Calox stole my heart.

What’s your total ao3 word count?

335,058 words, most of it part of my long fic Much Ado About The Lord Captain

What are your top five fics by kudos?

Much Ado About The Lord Captain - A Comedy of Terrors by a loooooong shot

Snow waits where love is – a RT gift exchange fic

A leap into the void – another RT gift exchange fic

The Observer – an Achilleas x Heinrix fic with an experimental narrator

To be alive beneath cherry blossoms – the companion fic to MAATLC, set more than a decade before the events of the game

What fandoms do you write for?

So far, only the RT fandom, and I can’t imagine branching out much into the world of fanfiction. I’ll return to romance novel writing (and publishing if the agents and my old publishing contacts are willing) with a Gothic romance stealing a certain Interrogator for the plot…

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I love comments, and I love striking up conversations in the comments. I made a few friends over the last year just by chatting to the people commenting on my stuff. And with how rare comments have become, I think engaging with the people who take the time and leave a short message on your writing is important. It's certainly more pleasurable than having to read reviews of your novels where you can’t respond to the author, either because it seems like you are currying favours or picking a fight.

What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Goosh, without going too deep, the ending of MAATLC will probably be very angsty. Otherwise, Even More Ado About the Lord Captain (working title 😉) would have nowhere to go, and the ending of that fic could count as extremely angsty…

What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

That depends on where you land with your interpretation of the last chapters of Even More Ado About the Lord Captain (working title 😉) – I consider it a happy ending, but see above.

Beyond that, all my other fics end on a happy note, and since most of my other fics are gift fics, I tailored them to the expectations of my giftee, and none so far wished for a bittersweet or tragic ending.

Do you get hate on fics?

So far, not. I hope it stays that way. I heard about snidey comments through the grapevine, though, but I pity the people who can only hint at stuff and not come out with their opinions. They are inconsequential in the end, as would hate comments be. Hate reading means you still engage with my creative output. 😉

Do you write smut?

Yes. I am a proud smut writer. I am a prolific smut writer. Queen of blowjob descriptions (per my readers). Love me some smut, but I can’t write Porn without Plot or character development. Started the Heinrix wanks in the shower trend 😉

Do you write crossovers?

Nope, and don’t think I’ll ever start.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of…

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Again no. I just know some people use a translator to read my stuff.

Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

Another no, but I once considered an epistolary Heinrix x Argenta fic with Aparima until her interests mostly whisked her away from the RT fandom. I still think about that LI Heinrix x Argenta fic fondly…

I would always co-write something with the lovely Holy.

What’s your all time favourite ship?

Heinrix x RT, especially Heinrix x Isha. Before another game romance can swipe me off my feet like that one did, a lot of time will pass.

What’s the wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I hope I finish MAATLC and still have the drive and energy to finish the post-game fic since the ideas are jumbling in my mind no-stop and I must get them out somewhere, but if I’m still as devoted and motivated in a year? Idk

What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue. Emotions. Keeping narrative tension always exactly at the right amount throughout the story. Evocative storytelling through subtle little narrative tricks. Being proficient in a few genres and capable of incorporating them into one long fic. Writing music and dance scenes. Fight and action scenes (I hate them but I write them well).

What are your writing weaknesses?

Perhaps I should employ more vivid imagery for descriptive prose and give more insights into my characters' heads, but then I hate spelling everything that my characters do and think on the page. Perhaps because I enjoy reading dramas and plays more than novels, I let a lot open for interpretation for my readers, perhaps sometimes too much.

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in a fic?

If one is somewhat proficient in that language go ahead otherwise perhaps think again.

First fandom you wrote for?

Rogue Trader

Favourite fic you’ve ever written?

Much Ado About the Lord Captain (Even More Ado will take that spot once it's written).

[alexanderwales]

Game Review: Factorio: Space Age (pt 2)

This is the second part of my review of Factorio: Space Age, covering the planets. This will have more spoilers than the previous section, but also include more cohesive thoughts on the expansion as a whole.

Vulcanus

Once you've built a spaceship, you have a choice of three planets to go to, and you can do them in any order you'd like. Each planet comes with its own researchable rewards, which require you to build up a base on the planet capable of making a science pack and shipping it into space (or alternately, to remake all sciences on the planet, but this is stupid and pointless given what lies further down the tech tree).

I chose Vulcanus first. There are five resources here, three of which can't be found anywhere else: coal, sulfuric acid, calcite, tungsten ore, and lava. Lava gets used to make anything having to do with copper and iron using the foundry, which is most of the things in Factorio. Sulfuric acid gets used with calcite to make water, which is one of the notable things missing from Vulcanus, along with oil. Plastic requires a long chain to make: coal liquefaction into heavy oil into light oil into petroleum into plastic. Because rockets require plastic twice (LDS and blue chips), you eventually need to set up a fairly sizeable build for this.

I didn't find any of this to be too interesting. Infinite resources are at least different, but there was nothing that fundamentally changed how I view the game, and I ended up setting up a bus with more fluids than usual, mostly making on-site plates, pipes, steel, etc. The art for it is cool, and impassable lava is at least a little constraining, but I didn't feel like it was all that great.

Tungsten ore is the main material from Vulcanus, and it's defended by the other major thing that makes the place unique, the worms. Each worm has a territory, and until you've killed your first worm, you don't have access to a tungsten ore patch, only loose scraps that have been laying around.

The worms are long and segmented, very distinct from the biters. They disable electronics with their attacks, making fountains of lava beneath you, and overall I think they're cool ... except that they're a little too easy to defeat. I set up a grid of 50 turrets with armor-piercing ammo, and that proved sufficient.

This is a boring solution. I wish it didn't work. It was the first thing I tried, and afterward I thought ... well, what was the point of that? I don't have a good solution to what you'd want to do to stop this from working, but I do think this is sort of bad design, since it's a "more dakka" solution. I've also seen that you can build a tank and take one out with a single uranium shell, which is even worse design. What I wanted was a fight were I needed to use poison capsules, land mines, strategically placed turrets, etc., some kind of mixed-asset offensive package, and what I got was fifty turrets in a stupid grid. I really do try to not be one of those players that optimizes myself out of having fun, but it's hard to motivate myself to do something the pointlessly hard way when there's something simple, easy, and foolproof.

The other thing about demolishers is that they have their own territory, and that territory never changes. This means that if you want to expand beyond a relatively modest starting patch, you need to kill them ... but unless you're going for a megabase, you don't need to kill more than three or four of them across the entire time playing the game, and since they only attack if you build in their territory, those worm encounters become like 1% of the Vulcanus experience.

I would have liked if the worm territories changed. I think it would have been cool if they fought each other for dominance over an area in a way you could capitalize on, or if they would expand into places that no one had claimed, or places a dead rival had left behind. It would have been cool to require the player to build up some do-nothing machines or other infrastructure to keep the worms back, like a sort of "build this at the edge of your territory to be in constant motion to convince the worms that it's occupied" type of thing. But instead, you just kill the worms and that's that, you never see them again unless you go hunting them. According to my end-of-game statistics, I killed 8 small demolishers and 2 medium demolishers, which was probably 5 more worms than I needed to kill, since I ended up with a lot of empty space I didn't do anything with.

So overall, Vulcanus is the weakest of the planets for me, and I think that's at least partly down to the under-use of the worms and the simplicity of the "new" mechanics.

Fulgora

Fulgora contains the ruins of a vast civilization, and there are no resources except the heavy oil between islands and the scrap that's left behind. Solar is terrible on Fulgora, but there are lightning storms at night, and lightning towers can collect it into accumulators to power your base.

Scrap gets "recycled" into a bunch of different things, and so it quickly because a nightmare of sorting things out, dealing with excess products, and turning complex materials into simple ones. There are no iron plates, those need to be recycled from iron gears. There are no copper platers, those need to be recycled from copper wire. Blue chips, which in any other circumstance need to be jealously guarded, are found in abundance.

I found this to be great fun. The challenge is certainly unique, turning the production chain on its head, but it has a nice "ramp" to it, as first you get a pile of crap, then you turn it into things, then you uncover excesses that are gumming it up, and the problems keep coming, but they usually come after you've solved some other problem.

When I started, I did a sushi belt (ed. - a sushi belt is a belt that contains multiple unsorted good, controlled by circuit conditions which allow certain limits of each item to go by, named after conveyor belt sushi restuarants), which was good enough for the short term and got me all the basic technologies, but ran into all the problems that come with a sushi belt, and switched over to a belt-based sorting system of splitters that could handle two full green belts of scrap input.

There is, for me, one big miss on Fulgora, which is that the lightning storms are basically not a challenge at all. You set up a grid of substations, each with a lightning rod, and that protects your base. You set up accumulator fields on one tip of the island, and this is a pretty boring solution. If you went to Gleba first, you can instead set up heating towers that burn the fuel you get from scrap, but this doesn't seem like it saves terribly much more space, and either way you need the lightning towers, so I'm not sure it's worth anything, and I never implemented that plan.

One of the other big challenges of Fulgora is that it's a set of islands, and there's no way to place anything on the oil sands. Additionally, there are two types of islands, one with a fair amount of space and minimal scrap, the other with tons of scrap and almost no room. In theory, this encourages a rail world, but in practice, the first island I plopped down on was the one I stayed on the entire time, and my rail network, such as it was, extended to only two of the smaller islands to guarantee all the scrap I would ever need. I think I rolled high on one of those islands: 63M scrap is a ton, but that's what I ended up with on default settings. With the drills from Vulcanus, expected output is double that, and with the legendary drills I can now produce, it would be 787M. There's simply not a need to place rails elsewhere.

I do feel that Fulgora would have benefitted from some enemies of some kind, either those that lived on the oil fields, so you'd have to build defenses on the edges of the islands, or some kind of robot enemy that you needed to kill to take islands from. Given the setup of an abandoned high-tech planet, and the electrical weapons you unlock there, it would have been nice to have some reason or chance to use them. I've definitely played Factorio scenarios with bot opponents and buildings that can be captured after the AI's defenses have been breached.

Still, the scrap sorting puzzle was a good one, with many solutions, and Fulgora was a ton of fun.

Gleba

Gleba is a swampy fungi planet. There are no conventional resources except for stone, and pretty much everything else is derived from two plants, jellynut and yamako, that get broken down.

The main mechanic of the planet is spoilage, where materials break down over time. Jellynut and yamako last for about an hour, the products you get from them are much less, a material made from both of them, bioflux, lasts a lot longer, and nutrients, which are fed to the new building, the biochamber, last hardly any time at all.

Spoilage is cool because it requires a very different mindset. Normally in Factorio, you're building up big buffers to minimize downtime. On Gleba, you want as little buffer as possible, just constant rivers of materials flowing by to be as fresh as possible, because if anything stays still for too long, there's a chance it'll spoil, which will stop the machine trying to take the ingredient, which can create a spoilage cascade.

My initial plan was to have some kind of circuit-based just-in-time system, where every machine would be monitored in order to see what ingredients it needed, and everything would be made fresh-to-order.

I ended up not doing this, mostly because demand stays relatively constant, and where it doesn't stay constant, you can just eat the spoilage costs. There's so much abundance that you really don't need to care about half your crops going to waste.

The other reason I didn't end up going with this is because unfortunately, the "river of goods" solution has essentially no complications to it, and you can simply dump everything into a recycler/incinerator at the end. In some of the Factorio overhaul mods, this concept is called "voiding", a way of dealing with byproducts, and if you make voiding easy, you essentially remove a logistical challenge, which means less gameplay. I kind of get why they made this easy, but ... I don't know. I did kind of want something that would require a big, complicated solution, a factory that dances on the edge of clogging itself up.

I ended up with a completely belt-based system, with a belt of jelly and mash, then a belt of bioflux, all nutrients made on demand, and production lines in defined blocks. The final build does 520 science/minute, which becomes 2Ks/m with full-prod biolabs, most of which goes into the trash, since it's not actually consumed all the time.

One of my favorite little puzzles of Gleba was the metals, which are produced with bacteria that spoil in a minute, becoming ore. There's a process, with bioflux, of having bacteria make more bacteria, but if the bacteria ever stop flowing (if, for example, you have enough ore), then they spoil and die, and the whole production line stops. So you need to build in a little kickstart system that will inject new bacteria if it's needed, and I found that to be delightful to work on.

The other major thing on Gleba are the enemies, which are pentapods. Pentapod eggs are necessary to make biochambers and science, but after you have one, you can set up breeding, which is dangerous given they can make more of themselves, but definitely the way to go. There are three forms of pentapod, all with their own weaknesses, and ...

Look, I went to Gleba last, but I put up a defensive wall fairly early on using only materials that I had gotten from Gleba, and then basically never had any cause to think about the pentapods again. Because I slapped this down with blueprints, it took all of ten minutes, most of which was spent fixing the kind of scuffed corners (skill issue). So I would say the amount that I actually got to experience the pentapods was pretty minimal. I also shipped in four artillery turrets that are crowded around a box of ammo, supplied by site-made shells using imported tungsten, and the circle almost entirely contains my pollution cloud, so in theory it's just an easily solved problem.

It might have been different if I had gone to Gleba first, I don't know and can't say without actually doing that, but I would have liked a little more of a challenge, and this might be where being a veteran hinders me.

Overall, I really enjoyed Gleba, the mechanics were new and unique, the little puzzles inherent in design were interesting, and I thought that overall it had the best art direction of the four planets, which is saying something, because I think they're all great on the front.

Aquilo

On every other planet, a "cold start" is possible, building up from just what you find laying around. Aquilo is different: it's a planet with ammonia oceans and some scattered liquid vents, and part of the point of it is that you need materials from outside, including anything made from iron, copper, or stone. You can't softlock on other planets, but you can softlock on Aquilo.

Aside from requiring pretty solid planetary logistics, Aquilo's main mechanic is heat. It's cold enough there that bots don't work very well, and everything has to have a heat pipe near it for it to function, including pipes and belts. To heat up a heat pipe takes either nuclear, fusion, or the heat towers that burn up fuel, and if the heat ever stops flowing, everything will seize up, requiring heroic efforts to get running again.

There's not all that much to Aquilo. You pull up slurry from the ocean, split it into ammonia and ice, use them together to make ice platforms, import concrete, and then combine oil and ammonia to make rocket fuel, which is used to both launch rockets and to toss into heating towers for power and heat to keep everything running.

The science pack is easy, though it require imported holmium plate, and my entire 200 science per minute production line was run off a tiny cluster of buildings that would have been pretty trivial to expand.

It seems to me that Aquilo is at least partly inspired by Seablock, an infamous mod where you start with almost nothing on a tiny island that you have to expand with the mineral sludge you dredge up with an offshore pump. But Seablock is a very long mod, one that typically takes hundreds of hours, and here ... well, there are a handful of challenges, and they're not all that challenging. I think I could probably list them out now.

Making ammonia also makes ice. You can void excess ice through repeated recycling, but ammonia can't be voided except by combining it with crude oil to make solid fuel, which can then be put in an incinerator. I solved this problem with a simple circuit condition.

Science and some crafting uses coolant, which must be cooled back down after use. If you just keep making coolant, eventually the system will seize up, since you won't be able to put more hot coolant into the system. But because this is a lossy cycle (you lose half the coolant) you can just hook a pump up to a tank and only inject more hot coolant into the system when below a threshold.

Outposts need their own heating for the pumps to work, and those outposts are, on default settings, quite far away. This requires setting up a self-sufficient little heating module that's either serviced by train or which runs entirely with materials found at the outpost. I ended up doing two different modules, one for oil outposts and the other for everywhere else ... but I never actually had to use them, because there were sufficient resources for tens of thousands of resources right next to the starting area.

As the "final boss", I am underwhelmed, and even as one of four planets I find myself a little underwhelmed. I don't know how much postgame stuff I'm going to do, but I can't see that there's going to be much challenge in going large on Aquilo, except that I might have to build another ship for moving in materials (as currently I have a single ship that makes a circuit of the solar system for materials and also handles shipments of science).

There is also, again, a lack of enemy. Once the rocket fuel setup was done, I had a single scare when ammonia backed up and stopped ice production, which shut down the water chem plant, which killed the turbines and stopped power to the entire base. But that didn't even freeze anything out, and it was fixed pretty easily from a restart module I'd built earlier, and after that, the ammonia issue was fixed to never have that problem again. If the cold is the enemy, it's not enough of one for my tastes.

Integration

With each planet you conquer, you get a new science pack, which opens up new technologies, and in theory you, can use them on other planets. These buildings are very powerful, and so there's some incentive to return to old factories, rip up old designs, and install new ones using the better buildings.

I did eventually do this, but I'm not sure how much I actually needed to. My furnace stacks were replaced by the foundries from Vulcanus, supplies by a hauler ship exclusively for calcite, though I did make an abortive attempt to just harvest calcite from space using a stationary space platform.

(I made four of them before giving up on the project, and found out only later that asteroid spawn rates depend on how many chunks large the ship is, so the ideal build has asteroid collectors on very long arms, and there's nothing in the game that tells you about the asteroid spawning thing, so ... whatever, it's opaque and very gamey hidden stuff, of the kind that I hate.)

I replaced my circuit production areas with the EMP, which saved vast quantities of resources and also made more circuits at a much faster rate within the same blueprint. I upgraded most belts to green.

I didn't end up using the biochambers much, in part because they need nutrients to run, and 50% prod with more module slots is great, but not so great that I wanted to set up a biter egg farm that could potentially blow up in my face.

Cryochambers just came too late for me to implement them anywhere, though I probably would if I kept playing to the megabase stage, or if I'm gunning for an achievement that requires updating Nauvis.

So I think, strangely, when considering how the planets impact each other, they ... kind of don't all that much? Yes, having foundries on Gleba means that you can make all your belts and things at a fraction of the cost, but how much doesn't that really impact anything? It meant that my ore production areas could be smaller, I guess. Is that worth anything? I kind of don't think so, if I'm considering the main gameplay to be in terms of design and decisions. Foundries saved me from having to lay down a furnace stack. EMPs saved me from having to have expansive red circuit lines to get the blue chips necessary for rocket launches.

Ideally, I would have liked one or two killer techs that mostly work through combining each planet's "thing". Like imagine that there was a combination recycler and foundry that melted down whatever was put into it, giving you molten copper and iron in exchange, creating a whole new kind of problem in exchange for ... I don't know, much much faster recycling, or less loss from recycling, or maybe a recipe that allowed true voiding. Or if you went to Gleba and then Vulcanus, and were able to bring biochambers that would allow the cultivation of some new specimen specific to that environment, maybe something that would allow better plastic production, or could pull water out of the air, both of which are kind of a pain in the ass on Vulcanus. Couldn't there be some kind of new bacteria swimming in the oil sands of Fulgora? Not something that would trivialize any challenge, something that would be a reward for having two flavors of research from two different planets. Ideally, there'd be six of these in total, allowing for each pair to benefit each other pair, but at that point I start to feel like I'm just asking for new content.

I cracked my game back open to check the tech tree, and all the Aquilo techs require all three planets. The are two techs that require mixed packs: Rail Support Foundations, which simplify rails for Fulgora, and Railgun Damage, which increases the power of the railgun. That's it. This screams missed opportunity to me.

So in terms of how the planets and their mechanics interact with each other ... I would say that they mostly don't, which is a bit of a shame. The biochamber in particular requires nutrients, which makes it effectively unusable on Vulcanus and Fulgora ... unless you're shipping in heroic quantities of bioflux, I guess, though I don't think that I could ever see myself doing that. I guess maybe on Vulcanus, which has the aforementioned plastics problem? But it feels like the kind of thing that would mostly be done for a stunt rather than because it was actually the right thing to do. And potentially on Nauvis, but it does seem like a megabase thing to do, rather than normal play. I will have to do the math, this too might be a skill issue.

(Real quick: 1 Bioflux makes 8 nutrients in a standard biochamber, which is 12 with prod, which is 24 MJ. A biochamber consumes 500kW, so with no spoilage nutrients allow 2 crafts of the 2 second oil cracking recipes, which means that every Bioflux can, at most, turn 960 heavy oil into 1080 light oil rather than the 720 light oil it would normally crack into. But obviously since the Bioflux has to be shipped in, it ends up being less than that. This is obviously more effective than shipping over oil itself, but ... man, I don't know, this seems very weak, even with adding in productivity to other steps. I guess the use case in Nauvis, where you're in theory shipping Bioflux anyway in order to feed captive biters, but that's still premised on an oil shortage that I never actually experienced.)

I do also want to say that quality had very little impact on my play. I tended to carry around some high quality quality modules and use them when crafting infrastructure, but in most cases it just wasn't much to write home about. It's most important for the ships, and for personal stuff, but it never felt that important.

And finally, I do want to give a shoutout to how easy and effective remote viewing was. One of the things I'm going to eventually do, after a Factorio break, is the 40 hour achievement run, and I have to imagine that a lot of that is just landing on a planet, doing the unlocks, building a rocket to get back, then having starter bots do all the actual base building for me, which is pretty cool.

Conclusion

Space Age took me about 140 hours, and I would say that about 10 of that was idle time while I was waiting for legendary ship parts or for a buildup of materials. The Jacknape-class ships have an issue with ammo production where they can more or less keep up with rockets, but the belt buffer goes from the front of the ship to the back, meaning that it empties from where it's needed most, rather than emptying where it's needed least, and yeah, having a fully stacked buffer takes a hot minute of waiting. Similarly, the quality module I made works over sufficient time scales, but especially while waiting on quality quality modules, there's a real temptation to just leave it running rather than actively playing.

130 hours for a veteran player is a long time for an expansion, much longer than I would have expected, even knowing what I knew about the expansion going in. Some of that time I don't count as expansion time, like all the parts where I was just doing normal Factorio stuff, and I did end up building adapted malls on each of the planets, which added on more time that could have been cut out by making an effective blueprint the first go-around, and which I don't really count as expansion time, because there's not much that's unique about making the new malls. But even if I'm arbitrarily cutting things out, that's still a ton of time.

Overall, I'm extremely happy with it, and I think I'll be more happy with it once there's another round of iteration, QoL, changes based on feedback, and modding. The modding scene for Factorio is really really good, and I have to imagine that the expansion is only going to make it better, particularly some of the changes that were made to implementation.

But I do think that it could have been more, and maybe this is just coming from a guy with more than a thousand hours in this game and multiple overhaul mods under his belt. It's very possible I would have had a better time with it if I'd chosen a higher difficulty, though of course that's very hard to know ahead of time. Certainly there were some design misses for me, and at least some of that is because I have enough experience that I can fix things with circuitry, plan a base that doesn't immediately become spaghetti, and see the deadlocks coming. I'm not saying that it wasn't hard, because parts of it certainly were, and I'm not saying that I made a bunch of perfect bases with no major flaws, because there were designs that needed to be ripped out and belts that needed to squeak through. But I think I would have preferred more complexity, more problems, more more more, and I'll have to hope that mods can give it to me.

All that said, this is the best expansion I've ever played, they put a ton of work into making sure that every planet was truly different from the others artistically and mechanically, and it's a 10/10 from me.

(I do plan on getting all achievements ... eventually. The "win in 40 hour" achievement seems very doable, and that's the hardest of the lot, though the others might take some significant time. It took me multiple years to finally getting around to doing the last green chip achievement, so I'm in no rush.)

[theragethatisdesire]

CONGRATS ON THE 1K DKFJSKDJF

can i get levi with the stay with me tonight prompt o.o (#8 i think :3)

HEY KAT HEY!!!! thank you so much jdkfaljdl i remember when you hit 1k and i was just so immensely proud of you and so happy to be moots and i still am!!! so thrilled to see you here<333

yeah you absoLUTELY can you are officially the first person to get me to write a levi drabble/fic and ofc it would be you that pulls it out of me

-

Reluctantly, you sit up, grimacing slightly at the scratch of the Survey Corp-issued sheets against your bare, oversensitive skin, at the ache deep in your bones and beneath your legs from a long day of training and a long night with him.

He's your Captain, you're his subordinate. It's inappropriate beyond measure, could easily ruin his career, but at this rate, you're not sure who needs this arrangement more. You aren't sure when it started, whether that be during sparring practice, pinned underneath him in full view of your comrades, on those long missions outside the walls watching each other be illuminated by a campfire, the one time you snapped back at him to the chagrin of everyone else around.

It started at some point, but you only know where it ended up, with you continuously sneaking out of your barracks and into his private captain's quarters, sliding beneath the sheets and letting him work sounds out of you that would make a prostitute blush.

You jump at the light pressure of a hand on your spine, not pressing, but a feather-light touch.

"What time is it?" Levi grumbles in that tousled, unbuttoned tone he gets only in moments like these. You relish it, love that for now, that voice is only for you, not for anyone else.

"Close to 1:00," you answer, eyes flicking over to the clock on the wall, "long day tomorrow?"

"Moreso for you than me," Levi props up on his elbows, and you make the mistake of turning over your shoulder to look at him, look at the way his muscles ripple under porcelain skin.

Your eyes draw to a particular scar on his ribs, the one you had hesitantly asked about on your first night together, the one you now know makes him shudder if you run your tongue over it. You avert your eyes instantly when a slow throb starts to build between your legs, despite the wreckage that already lies there.

"Why is that?"

"ODM review," Levi's eyes soften ever so slightly, an apology, "I have meetings with the Commander most of the day, so I need you and the squad to head over to the training area and teach the cadets how to check their ODM gear properly. There's been too many close calls during their training. Commander Erwin suspects that they weren't properly taught how to check their gear before heading up."

You groan, rubbing at your tired eyes. "I wish you would have told me that before I came over here. I'm exhausted."

"I'm sorry," Levi's voice is quiet, a little wounded. You can only sigh, knowing that trying to assure him that it was worth it, that you'd go weeks without sleep, without food, if it meant you could lay here with him only a few hours longer is fruitless.

"It's okay," you find yourself leaning over, pressing a tender kiss to his cheek. It shocks both of you, you pulling back with wide eyes, a blush rising to the tips of Levi's ears. "Um, okay, well...I'll head out then. Sounds like we both need the rest."

Levi's lips tighten into a thin line, and he nods curtly. This is the pitfall of your arrangement with the Captain; eventually, the sun has to rise, and the moment has to be end. With certain death looming over your shoulder at the start of each day, you don't have the guts to tell him how you really feel, that it's all so much more than a stress-relieving hookup for you, especially when you doubt the Captain feels that way for you in return.

You slide out of his sheets, feeling incredibly exposed, and scrounge around on the floor for your uniform. Just as you're sliding the unbelievably un-sexy standard-issued underwear over your legs, Levi speaks again, rattles you to your core.

"Wait."

"Wait?" You turn to him, nose scrunched in confusion. Levi's eyes flit around the room, searching for anything that isn't your confused, naked form.

"Stay with me tonight." Even his posture as he says it is anxious, uncomfortable in a way you've never seen.

"Stay with you," you repeat slowly, "here?"

"Yes, here," Levi can't help but roll his eyes, "you need to catch up on your sleep. I wake up before everyone else on base, I can make sure you get back to your quarters without being seen. Stay with me."

"Why do you say it like it's an order?" You're stunned initially, your surprise eventually winding down into suspicion.

"You don't have to, I just- I- I want you to. Get some rest, I mean." Levi's face is hard, but his eyes are pleading. That same little flush is rising from his cheeks to his ears, betraying him. You raise an eyebrow at your Captain, trying to shove off the prickly, exciting feeling erupting all over your body.

"Okay."

"Okay?" Levi eyes you, eyebrows lifting in just the smallest admission of astonishment.

"I'll stay with you," you let your underwear fall back down your legs, clamber back into the bed with him, "for tonight."

Levi lets an arm fall around your waist, curls his body around yours, makes you shiver at the intimate nature of your position together. Just as your eyes begin to flutter closed, you feel the lightest little kiss on the nape of your neck.