#if not for yourself now. then maybe for a future you who will remember this. then maybe for the past you that you look back to.
Text
Bad Boys Bring Roses - G.S.
Synopsis. You’ve never dealt with the yakuza - not once. So why is the future head of the Gojo clan suddenly coming up to you, demanding that you marry him for 30 days?
Pairing. Yakuza boss! Gojo Satoru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem! reader, yakuza! au, fake marriage, annoyances to lovers, elders suck, mentioned k*lling (not reader or Satoru), Satoru is INSANE and SO down bad, one bed trope, praise, biting, oral (fem receiving), fíngering, unprotected, créampie, spitting, overstim, flower language, kníves, bit dark, HAPPY ENDING, pet names, swearing.
Word count. 9.1k (whoopsies)
A/N. I just HAD to get this out of my mind like I wanna write an entire book series on this. Spent too long researching rose language as well so see if y’all catch that hehe.
You thought the wedding invitation was a joke when it had arrived - a delicate, lacey little card that you’ve probably read over a million times by now. It had been stuffed haphazardly into your mailbox, along with a ridiculously large bouquet of purple roses. Seemingly inconspicuous when you first tore into the thick envelope, wondering which one of your friends was getting married now.
And it was - that is, until you saw your name at the very top - right where the blushing bride’s was supposed to be.
We hereby formally invite you to the marriage of…
What?
No return address. No date. No groom’s name either. Only yours, written in beautiful, golden writing - inviting you to your own wedding, exactly a week from now.
You remember perfectly the way you’d flipped it over and over in your hands, the gears turning in your head as you tried to crack down on the motive behind this invitation. A threat? A joke? Texting all of your friends about what a cute prank that was - only to get a shared confused reaction, and a few “April Fool’s has already passed, y’know.”
Hell, you’d even cornered the mailman, desperate to get to the bottom of this. But that wasn’t particularly helpful when he was only able to shake his head in protest, pale as a sheet, and trembling ever-so-slightly as he sped away from you. Weird.
Without a clue as to who sent the letter, or even a follow-up in the days after, you stuffed the invitation somewhere deep in the back of your closet and handed the bouquet to your mother. Not bothering to tell your parents where it was from - because who’d worry over a stupid prank like this? It was probably one of the kids from down the street that’d gotten their grubby lil’ hands on a printer.
You, however, had more important things to focus on - like trying to help your father revive his failing diner. It was a family business, a quaint, hearty little shop. One that was quickly, and dangerously, losing both customers and employees with the brand new fast food place that’d popped up right across the street.
Which is why you found yourself here - working overtime on a Saturday night, looking over the empty chairs and stacks of boxes from behind the counter. Whatever, it was only a few weeks until relocation anyway.
You heave out a sigh, eyes flitting to the clock beside you - 11:21pm.
Nine minutes more, you drum your fingers in boredom, maybe you should just close up early. Because sure as hell no one else was-
“Oh? Still open?”
“Ah- Uh, yes, welcome!” Jolting out of your reverie, you stand up ramrod straight, taking in the customer standing at the door. He wasn’t one of the regulars - no, you think you’d remember if he was. Cloudy white hair, piercing blue eyes that twinkle from above his shades, even in the dim light of the diner. He was so very tall, taking up almost all of the doorframe, only getting more and more imposing as he walks up to you in quick, long strides. Magnetizing.
And if you dared let your eyes wonder, you caught a few tattoos peeking out from his unfairly snug button-up, clashing with its flashy blue color. Dragons? Trees? Or were they flowers - roses?
“Roses.” the man in front of you answers your unspoken question, voice so very deep, and melodic - tinged with something playful in it that you wouldn’t have expected at first glance. At your raised brow he continues with a wink, “Could tell ya were checkin’ me out, sweetheart.”
“F-forgive my rudeness, sir.” you sputter, face burning. You look away from the way his muscled ripple as he crosses his arms, immediately turning to fumble with the menus, “Please take a seat and I’ll be there with you shortly.”
You’d expected him to take up a booth, or maybe head towards one of the good tables around the corner. What you did not expect was for him to plop down on the stool right in front of you, flashing you a playful grin before humming, “S’alright, m’just waitin’ for someone.”
Oh. Well, it made sense that someone like him would be taken. Swallowing, you hand over the menu, before giving him a close-lipped smile, “A lover?”
Resting his head on his palms, not bothering to even glance at the list of dishes before him. “My fiancée.”
“Congratulations, Mr…”
“Gojo Satoru.” he tilts his head, looking way too happy with himself. “Please, call me Satoru.”
You nod softly, picking up your pen and notepad to get this conversation over with - and maybe to also avoid his heavy stare that made something hot and uncomfortable coil in your stomach. “Right, Mr-” at his disappointed whine, “Satoru. Congratulations, must be one heck of a thing to plan.”
“Oh I’m having fun with the wedding planning.” He waves off your words with a chuckle, missing - or pointedly ignoring - the way you were waiting for his order. “How’s it going for you?”
What?
You narrow your eyes at the way Satoru was batting those long lashes up at you, deceivingly innocent and waiting for your answer. “I’m sorry- Me? Did you mean with the diner relocation plans or-”
“No no no.” he laughs, loud and boisterous. And usually you’d have a thing or two to say at someone interrupting you if you weren’t so mesmerized by that little dimple at the corner of his grin. One that moves as he plows on, “M’asking how wedding planning is going for you, wifey~”
There’s a beat of silence. One. Two. With you gaping at the pure audacity as Satoru quiets down to little titters, seemingly studying your reaction in amusement. Which slowly, but surely, drains from his face as you grit out a sharp, “I’m gonna have to ask you to leave, sir. We’re very busy and don’t have time to entertain your pick-up lines.”
Those widened blue eyes sweep the painfully empty diner, letting out a low whisper. “I can see that.” you let out a strangled noise of embarrassment at that. “But you’re really gonna ask your husband to leave?”
Huffing in frustration, “I don’t have a husband.”
“...you do.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I don’t. And who the fuck are you to tell me I do?”
“What?!” Satoru jumps out of his seat in shock, fast enough that the stool clatters to the floor with a deafening clang! Hands slamming on the counter as he leans over it - so close that you could feel his minty breath fanning your face with each hurried, shrill word that tumbles out of his lips. “What do you mean you don’t have a- I’m gonna kill those fuckin’- After I bought Canva premium just to make that invitation? Did the flowers come at least?”
And while Satoru is panicking, words spilling out of his mouth a mile a minute - only one of those rings in your mind - invitation.
“You.” you hiss, barely audible over meltdown in front of you. Pointing a finger accusingly, “You’re the one behind that prank with the dumbass roses.”
That seems to snap Satoru out of his dramatic monologue - and you’re glad it did. Because he looks up to meet your glare, “Hey! You didn’t like the roses?”
And for the first time, you see Satoru more serious than he’d been ever since stepping into this diner. Eyes somewhere behind you, ablaze and almost…frightening. “Didn’t you ask him?”
You whirl around to see your father, who’d apparently rushed downstairs at the commotion. Baseball bat to fight off the intruder hanging in midair as he stands frozen, taking in the scene before him - but more importantly, that man in front of him. “You.”
---
And, well, it’s not everyday that you’re having late night tea with your parents and one of your father’s…business associates. Even rarer when said business associate is…you gulp, praying to whoever’s above that this is all some sick dream you’ll wake up any second from.
“So, let me get this straight…” you sigh, pinching your nose in frustration. It’s been an hour or two of trying to understand whatever this was. Giving a stern look at the two men squirming across from you in the booth. “My father was conned by one of your-” you gesture your head at Satoru, which only makes his smirk grow, “-men to take a loan from your um-”
“Family, yakuza. Anything goes.” he supplies helpfully.
You wave him off, trying as quickly as possible to brush off the ‘yakuza’ bit that makes your stomach lurch. “And now he owes you a favor of…what exactly?”
Satoru leans across the table, t-shirt opening tantalizingly. Voice dropping to an almost-pleading murmur, “Look, I just need you to pretend to be my doting, loving, charming, gorgeous-” backtracking at your withering glare, “...Anyway. I just need a fake wife for a few months, convince my family to get off my back about arranged marriage n’ carrying the Gojo legacy. Then bam! you stomp all over my heart, we divorce and I’m too heartbroken to ever get married again. Easy.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
You bet Satoru’s disappointed groan echoed across all 23 words of Tokyo, because it was definitely ringing in your ears amongst whirlwind thoughts of marriage? To a yakuza? Completely, and utterly ridiculous. And from his talks of “carrying the family name” it seemed like he was some sort of future head as well. Though, he definitely wasn’t acting like it right now.
“Alright. Plan B, then.”
Oh? You couldn’t help but think that maybe he wasn’t that much of a manchild as sits up from where he’d been splayed all over the table in tragedy. Lacing his fingers together before turning to your father, continuing in a more diplomatic tone, “But I want the cash you took. In full. Now. Gonna hafta disguise my best friend as my wife, n’ dresses for a six foot man aren’t cheap.”
Your mother looked like she could faint right then and there. Choking out a noise of surprise, “B-but we’ve deposited it all for the relocation- Please, can’t we pay any other-”
At the firm shake of his head, you stammer, “Now? Aren’t you some yakuza nepo baby, can’t you just ask your parents for money?”
“No.” Satoru chuckles, in a tone which told you that he probably could but might just lose his head for it. Only further supported as he muses, “Not unless I want a finger cut off for dealin’ money on the side. Seriously, sweetheart, why did you think I sent you the invitation last week?”
“Take me instead.” you father cries, trying to negotiate above Satoru’s half-joking mutters of “Ugh, I’m not into ol’ men dumb enough to sign yakuza contracts.”
It was all too much. You couldn’t take out the relocation deposit - it was a new start, possibly the only thing to save your family. Nor do you have enough in savings to pay back the loan. And if Satoru’s warning was anything to listen to, then you knew that dealing with the yakuza could be dangerous. Why you? Why you? Why you?
“Fine.”
The moment that word leaves your lips, it’s like the whole world freezes. Everyone in the room - including yourself - unsure of whether they heard you right. “I’ll do it.” you clarify, voice hesitant but firm. Eyeing the way Satoru’s eyes begin to sparkle, the beginnings of a smile curling his lips. Raising a finger to shush your father’s protests, “But for a month, until we leave this place. After that m’going with my family and you’re never to contact us ever again. Deal?”
And oh Satoru seemed over the moon, reaching out to grasp your hand in a handshake - so warm, and softer than you’d imagined. “Swear on m’life, wifey. You can kill me if not.”
He was so intimidating - and intimidatingly exhilarating.
Only an hour more of arguing and a quick phone call later, men - yakuza, you assume - were flooding your family’s little diner. All tattooed and burly, looking somewhat comical as they carried your few packed-up suitcases outside. Well, at least they stayed for a late dinner.
And ended up being witnesses to a very rushed, very rushed signing of marriage agreements. Evidence to really show up your alleged marriage. It barely even lasted a few minutes before, well, that was that - you were married, to the son of a yakuza head.
You say a quick goodbye to your teary parents, soothing them with promises of “I’ll be back before you know it. One month. That’s all.”
“And don’t worry about a thing,” Satoru sing-songs, coming up behind you. “If there’s anyone she’s safe with, it’s me.”
“You better keep your mitts off of my baby.” your father warns, raising the baseball bat still clutched in his hand menacingly.
“I won’t lay a hand on her, father-in-law. And anyone that even thinks about it…” he cackles, breath hot against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “I’ll kill.”
Prancing off to hold the door of that shiny black Mercedes parked outside open for you. “Ladies first.”
With another quick hug to your parents, you hastily make your way inside. Feeling extremely out of place amongst the overly luxurious interior in your slightly-stained work uniform. God, the covers on these cushions themselves probably cost more than your house.
“Like the car? I can buy you one. Or four, as a wedding gift.” Satoru grins.
Oh, right. You weren’t in here alone - you were here with your new…husband. The word felt so strange to even wrap your head around, instead you turn to meet his easy smile. Clenching your jaw as you grit out, “So how do we act m-married?”
You swear he brightens up impossibly, scooting closer to you on the seat. Heart lurching as he raises his eyes to meet yours, dizzy with the heat of his proximity, he promptly pulls out his Notes app.
“Well, you see. I forgot to send this with the invitation so you better memorize this before we get home.” flashing you a long, long list of likes and dislikes, “Here’s my favorite color and my favorite Digimon and-”
That car ride could not have been longer. Because in addition to arguing with Satoru about who the best Digimon was, you had to fill out your own version of his overly extensive list. “So we can be foolproof.” he’d whined. And you’d been so engrossed in the process that you barely noticed the looming estate out the window.
“We’re here, young master and madam Gojo.”
It took a second to register that the driver was talking to you as well as Satoru, immediately pushing your face against the window to take in the scenic site before you. Heavy wooden doors - probably taller than an average house - opening to reveal sprawling gardens. Koi ponds and rose bushes lining a pathway that led to a traditional Japanese house - all power and glory. You half wondered whether you were still in Tokyo.
“Home sweet home.” Satoru grunts. “Such a beautiful hell, huh?”
Your home, for the next month. At least.
And if you had any doubt that Satoru was in fact the future yakuza head, that all went out the window at the welcome you got. Men lining the wooden hallway, bowing at the waist while your all-new husband wraps a hand around your shoulders, pointing out the various rooms and ornaments as he led you in.
“-and this is going to be our room.” he brings you in front of a large tatami room, one the size of your entire diner.
“Ours.” you repeat. Walking unhurriedly to the king-sized bed in the middle - the only bed. Heart pounding as you take it all in.
“Ours.” Satoru echoes, happily. And if he was any bit as affected as you are, then he doesn’t show it, instead pulling out a blue yukata from the closet, a golden Gojo emblem stamped on the back. Made with such a pretty, delicate fabric that it made you shiver to think how much it cost. “Now, I had these made jus’ for you last week. You can give me a lil’ fashion show tomorrow, so make sure you get some rest, wifey.”
It’s only when he says the word “rest” that you realize exactly how tired you are. Your long shift and the entirety of this having your eyes feeling heavier than usual.
“Um…” you start, risking a glance at the bed.
Satoru jolts, “Ah- don’t worry, sweetheart. You take the bed.” beginning to saunter outside to meet his team. “Got some work, so I’ll be sleeping in my office. Dream of me~”
And, really, you almost felt bad splaying yourself out on the crisp navy sheets. Sinking into the heady smell of fabric softener, and something so so Satoru. Addictive. Like an expensive cologne that made your head spin, one that wafted through your mind as you dreamt of summer weddings, and blue, blue skies.
“Ichiji.”
“Yes, young master.”
“See to it that the madam is safe. Anyone try anything funny and you bring them back alive. I wanna be the one to play with them, okay~?”
“Of course, young master.”
---
Admittedly, you probably have the best sleep of your life at the Gojo estate- or, it would’ve been if your husband didn’t burst in every morning at 7am. Handing you a ridiculously big bouquet of white roses, straight from the garden, before dragging you outside.
Milling about the estate, Satoru was never too far behind, chattering away. Letting you hold onto his strong arm crossing the bridges, occasionally having you show up to yakuza meetings as his plus one. Relishing in the rumors spreading all through the yakuza syndicates in Tokyo. Gojo Satoru, and the commoner wife he’d do anything for.
Weirdly enough, some strange little part of you thinks he puts in a lot more work than necessary for some pretend relationship…
“I think that stupid plan is really working, y’know.” you muse to him after a few days of this. Dipping your fingers into one of your favorite koi ponds with a nod at the figures watching you from a distance - Gojo clan elders, you assume. “Those old coots hate being within a five mile radius of me.”
Satoru huffs out a laugh, “That so? S’probably the method acting then, huh? Taking good care of me, wifey?” he wiggles his eyebrows, nudging you from where he was holding an umbrella beside you.
Furrowing your brows mockingly, “S’funny for you to say, they don’t even look at me. But they follow me around everywhere.”
“Do they annoy you, must I do my duty as a husband and gouge their eyes out?”
He…didn’t sound like he was joking.
Rolling your eyes, you pointedly ignoring the way your heart lurches at the word “husband.” Still so jumpy at the idea. “Speaking of, your parents give up the marriage proposals, yet?”
At this, Satoru clenches his jaw. “Still nagging, but they’re finally considering you as my actual bride rather than some hijink.” he spits out, seemingly recalling whatever conversation they’d had before. “And they want to have some family ‘dinner’, but it’s going to be awful and you don’t-”
“Let’s go.” you interrupt, nodding determinedly. “The realer this marriage seems, the faster we can divorce, no?”
He blinks at you slowly, “That’s…true. For the divorce, then?”
“For the divorce.”
And, well, that was settled - you were to meet your new in-laws. The ever-elusive heads of the Gojo clan. Also one of the most powerful yakuza in all of Japan, but, semantics really.
You spend the evening cooped up with Satoru in the library, poring over the bloody history of the yakuza - with the Gojo’s heading them all. The only time he actually leaves your side is a few hours before the dinner.
“For you.” he’d murmured, lips ghosting your ear, slipping something cold onto your finger. You look down to see one of the most beautiful rings you’ve ever seen - gold, with delicate blue and white diamonds encrusting it, cut in the shape of roses. “Can’t be married without a wedding ring, huh? Think of it as a good luck charm for tonight.”
And with that he’s swept away in a flurry of bodyguards and ruffled men, and you’re left standing there all alone. Cheeks burning, wondering how the hell he knew your perfect fit.
You worry longer about the dinner than you spend actually preparing for it. Though, that’s probably because of the group of stylists that come into your room to help you dress. Wordlessly fussing around you despite your weak attempts at conversation, eyes averted. Almost like they were…scared of you.
But there wasn’t much time to think of that - not when you’re being marched off in the direction of what you remember Satoru had called the family dining room. “More like a fuckin’ meeting room for those hardasses.” he’d snarked.
The moment you step in, all eyes turn to you - the only ones you recognize being Satoru’s, who immediately stands with a smile. “Ah, wifey! Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” pulling you into a tight hug. His voice drops into a low, raspy murmur in your ear, “Ya look fuckin’ gorgeous in my colors, y’know.”
Traitorously, jolts of electricity run down your spine. Especially at how fucking gorgeous he looked in traditional wear. Whispering back, “Playing up the doting husband bit, huh?”
“Only for you.”
Pulling away, you drink in his dangerously handsome state. Hair so effortlessly styled, tattoos winking at you from just above his yukata - blue, to match yours. So pretty.
Stammering out, “Corny.”
“Only for-”
“Now that the girl is finally here, may we begin with dinner?” A stained voice sounds from behind Satoru, old and tinged with a tone that years of customer service told you did not bode well. Craning your head, you look over his broad shoulders, meeting the eyes of several disapproving elders.
Shit. Some of the most dangerous people in this country right now.
Gathered here - for you.
Automatically, you knew which ones were his parents - painfully upright, and hauntingly beautiful in a cold, calculated way. Sat right at the head of the long table. With a jolt, you realize that you two are seated right opposite them.
“So.” his mother starts, as you take your seat with a bow. Satoru doesn’t waste any time on niceties, plopping down right next to you, scooting closer than necessary. “Congratulations on the…wedding, my son.”
My son. You ignore the way both parents pointedly avoided looking at you. Your husband, however, does not. “What~ Not gonna wish my dear wife as well?”
It’s a silent staredown - one that has the entire room on edge. You don’t realize that you’re clenching your fists in tension until Satoru untangles them, slipping his larger hands into yours. Gaze still alarmingly intense and locked on the other side of the table.
He wins.
“Congratulations. Let us begin now.”
You breathe out a sigh of relief, the tension only slightly broken as butlers stream into the room, carrying decadent trays of food. Well, at least the food might make up for how appalling this dinner is going to be.
It’s only 15 minutes in that you realize how very, horribly wrong you are - because the elders of the Gojo estate really don’t hold back, do they? Thank God you memorized every part of that stupid likes and dislikes list.
Besides picking apart every aspect of your relationship that they could manage to squeeze out of you between the appetizer and the main course, the main scrutiny tonight seems to be you. But in that icy, subtle way that has Satoru’s jaw clenching tighter each second.
Lips curling, Gojo senior eyes you over his wine glass. “So, dear,” voice dripping with underlying venom despite the pet name. “Is it true our Satoru missed an esteemed marriage meeting with the Zenin group to ambush you at some rundown old diner?”
You fight to keep the smile plastered onto your face, painful and cracking under the pressure. A hand squeezing under the table to stop Satoru from opening his mouth to retort, you answer instead, “Well, ambushed wouldn’t be the word. You could say we fell in love over the counter - at my family’s diner.”
“A waitress, she said?”
“Now we know why it was this rushed. Probably pregnant.”
“The scandal. How far the Gojo name has fallen.”
The few stifled gasps from the other end of the table are so dramatic that you could almost laugh. But you don’t. Breath hitching as Mrs. Gojo chuckles, “Marrying the daughter of a lowly diner owner? How... quaint.”
“Mother, be quiet or-”
“What?” she throws her hands in exasperation. “Can’t I say anything around here. Honestly, Satoru, I’m just trying to make conversation with your new wife.”
Before either you or Satoru can react, his father speaks up, apparently not done with the interrogation. “You understand that we’re just worried, right, dear? Especially with marrying into prestigious families, of course.” The emphasis on “prestigious” is not lost on you.” And it drives you insane.
Steeling yourself, you train your eyes on the untouched food below you. “I understand.”
Plowing on as if trying to infuriate you, “And you understand that this position is dangerous? You’ll be targeted.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? Don’t be swept up in our Satoru’s charm and wealth, dear, my son just wants a way out of duty.” tone dripping with disdain, Satoru’s grip becoming tighter and tighter on yours. “The Gojo syndicate owns half of this city, we could bulldoze over that little diner of yours with only one phone call”
“My wife and I are leav-”
“I said I fuckin’ understand.” Your words hang in the air like a foul stench, and you raise your head to glare. If looks could kill, all the elders in this room would be six feet under and you’d be dancing on their graves already. “Neither me, nor my husband would ever let that happen because he knows a thing or two about respect, unlike you.” Lacing your fingers tighter with Satoru’s. “So shove your mighty family up your wrinkly asses. I don’t give a flying shit.”
Eyes wide, jaws dropped, the old couple opposite you finally seems stunned into silence. And if it was any other situation you could’ve almost laughed at how similar they looked to Satoru when he found out you thought his proposal was a prank.
His father adjusts his glasses. “Perhaps that is so.”
Ah, if only the rest of the table would be quietened just as easily.
“Not only is she a slut she’s a-”
Thud!
It all happens so fast you’re not even sure if your eyes are playing tricks on you. Because in a split-second, the knife that was at your side is suddenly embedded, deep into the wooden table - barely even an inch away from the elder that had spoken up.
“You’re lucky I’m matching with my wife n’ didn’t want to dirty this new yukata.” a voice sounds from your side. Melodic and so so eerie that you don’t realize for a second that it’s Satoru - your Satoru.
He loops an arm under your legs as he stands up. Easily maneuvering you into a princess carry, forcing you to cling onto his robes for dear life as your feet dangle from the floor. You look up - maybe to snap at Satoru to put you down - only for the words to die in your throat at how absolutely fucking feral your husband looked. Eyes wide, aura menacing. A grin gracing his features, not the familiar one which had your heart racing, no - something so dangerous and cold.
“Now,” he hums. Turning his back to the room, gaze still locked with the shocked heads inside, “My lovely wife and I will be retiring. Won’t you all say goodnight to your future madam?”
You don’t know what shocks you more - the way everyone in that room mumbles out a disdainful little “Goodnight, ma’am.”, or the way Satoru cackles as he carries you to your shared bedroom. Laying you gently on the mattress with a quiet, “Be right back, sweetheart.”
What the fuck happened?
He could’ve killed that man. And looked like he wanted to.
Your brain yells at you - run away run away run away- But you weren’t…scared? In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever been less fearful in your entire life. Especially not when Satoru stumbles back into the room, clearly rushing. Something warm spreading in your chest at the trays of food in his hands.
“Dinner’s better without a bunch of fossils on my kill list.” he grins. Settling right next to you on the bed, setting out the dinner he’d brought for you. And, well, you didn’t doubt that they really were on his kill list.
“Hey, wifey.” Satoru speaks up after a few moments of silence, satisfied with the food laid in front of you. “M’sorry for putting you through that. No more family dinners from now.”
You inch closer to lay your head on his sculpted shoulder, a hand bringing up the food to his pretty lips. He smelled so good, faintly like pine, and clouds. It made you so dizzy. “Eat, Satoru.”
That’s all which is said, because maybe that’s all that was needed. And for a second there, you almost forget that this is all pretend.
---
“Hey, uh- mister. You alright?” you call out, voice barely audible over the rain.
The sullen figure didn’t react at first, soaked through and eyes trained on the ground. Unmoving, even when you hesitantly drew closer, umbrella quivering in your hands.
You should turn around - walk away like everyone else on the sidewalk was doing. But no, something about the way he sat alone, stoic to the storm around him made you inch closer. “Here.” you hold out your umbrella. “S’our diner’s, but you look like you could use this more than I do.”
He jolts, as if hearing you for the first time. A flash of blue, so quick you almost think you miss it. Still not raising his head fully, the man’s snowy hair tousles as he jerkily closes around the handle. Pretty. And so so sad.
“It’ll be alright.” you nod.
And with that, you turn, running back in the rain to the haven of the diner, where your father was waiting impatiently - he’d just bought the boxes to start packing up for relocation. Fingers still burning ever-so-slightly where his hand had brushed against yours. How strange, you wondered his name.
---
Satoru stayed true to his word over the weeks that followed. His parents seemed well and fully intent on avoiding you. And, well, other than a few disdainful remarks, the elders mostly scurried away in fear at your very sight.
The only thing that made your skin prickle was that the housekeepers had a penchant for peeping in on the two of you. Increasingly following you - they always did, but now…honestly, it was a bit disconcerting.
But other than that, it was almost…peaceful. You wake up every morning to a large bouquet of burgundy roses at your bedside table - and a husband. Because Satoru had taken to sleeping on the little couch at the corner of your room every night - saying something about not wanting to rouse suspicion because if he actually had a wife he’d be “taking her to bed every night”. Somehow, you didn’t doubt it.
“Funny how it’s getting close to a month of being married, but you haven’t even kissed me yet.” you deadpan. Looking down at where he was resting his head in your lap, sprawled across the soft grass in the garden.
Something else also happened - something different.
Because Satoru was a bit touchier, a bit closer. Like right now, preening into your fingers carding through his soft hair. “Oh~? Why, wanna take me to bed, wifey?”
“You wish.”
“Maybe I do.”
Your hands still, pulse racing as your eyes bore into Satoru’s, trying to figure out what sort of bad joke this was. Subconsciously, you find yourself leaning down closer - too closer. Close enough that you could count every shade of blue in his hungry gaze. But by the grace of whoever was above-
“Young master, please excuse the intrusion but you have-”
Sitting up abruptly, addressing the newcomer in a stone-cold tone. “How many fuckin’ times have I not told you to never bother me when I’m with my wife?”
The servant bows apologetically, sputtering out apologies as you move to get up. Flashing a smirk at Satoru’s dramatic pout, “I have to catch up on some reading anyway. See ya, Satoru.”
“Noo~ my sweetheart don’t leave me~”
You stifle a laugh at his little tantrum, so different from when he was serious. He was so….dizzying. “You’ll be okay, Satoru.” Glancing up nervously to meet the servant’s intense stare, studying the scene before him, how different his master was. “I’ll be at the library now.”
And Satoru notices - of course, he does. He sees that tiny flash of concern in your eyes. One that you might not have noticed yourself. He lowers his voice as you walk away, so you don’t hear him speaking behind you. Words dripping with a similar venom he always heard from his parents, “Now, tell me who you’re spying for. Names, first and last.”
Satoru doesn’t join you in the library that day, the first time in weeks. And you find yourself missing him more than you should. It’s dark out by the time you’re raising your head from the books, joints aching from poring over them for hours. The house seems a lot quieter. Somewhat bigger.
Something was wrong. Something was wrong. Something was wrong.
Scratching the back of your head, you wander through the wooden hallways to your bedroom - wondering what was amiss. Your feet take you there as if on autopilot, thankful for Satoru’s meticulous tours.
“Hey,” you smile softly at a servant making your bed, “Where are-”
Your question dies in your throat at the way she yelps at your words, hurrying down the corridor with a jerky bow. Weird. Leaving you all alone, and confused, muttering to yourself, it’s only then that you notice the flash of red by your bedside table.
Not a bouquet. Only a single, red rose - a note tied around the stem, something you’d never gotten before.
“The marriage proposals have been revoked, your contract is fulfilled, my ex-wife.”
Oh, reading that hurt more than it should’ve. You should be happy at being free, a few days earlier than expected at that - but it was over - just like that. You didn’t want to leave him. You didn’t want to leave him.You didn’t want to leave him.
Were you going insane?
Clutching the flower like a lifeline, heaving out a sigh, “Maybe Satoru knows…”
“Thinking of me?”
Startled, you whirl behind to face your husband. In the dim-lighting, making out the stoney expression on his face, eyes wide and a little duller than they had been earlier today.
“Satoru?”
His eyes light up at the mere sound of your voice - then you’re engulfed in him. Wrapping you in his arms, bowing his body into yours, so tight that it almost hurts. But you let him, fisting the fresh yukata in your hands - and that’s when you realize, he’s changed his robes since this morning. “Are you okay?” you whisper into his shoulder. Drinking in the smell of his cologne, and something faintly metallic.
Every cell in your body is screaming at you to take the opportunity - to run away from this yakuza and his slaughter and whatever this was. But how could you? Staying rooted to the spot, not even a speck of fear.
Satoru heaves out a heavy breath, tickling the hairs at your nape as he pulls you impossibly closer. “Those nosy elders won’t be bothering you anymore, sweetheart. You’re free to go.”
A shudder runs down your spine at his words, and you didn’t want to think too hard about what they meant. Instead, you guide him to your bed - and, surprisingly, he allows you to. Letting the two of you sink into the plush mattress. With Satoru still in your arms. He repeats, “You’re free to go.”
Run away. Run away. Run away-
There it was again - that strained little manta. You stare right into his eyes, voice thick at the sinking feeling in your stomach. “My 30 days aren’t over yet.”
“Leave. Please.” he grunts into the crook of your neck, like your hands drawing patterns down his back had broken some dam. “M’not a good man.”
You press your lips to his forehead, searing and a desperate attempt to soothe the man. “I think I’ll be the judge of that.”
“I’m yakuza, sweetheart. Doomed to follow my parents here.” he mutters, strained and voice more unsure than you’ve ever heard. And once he started, it was like Satoru just couldn’t stop, rambling into your skin, “I hate it here, and you should, too. All these fuckin-”
“So go with me instead.”
“What if-”
“Toru.‘ you cut off his words, slurring and spilling out of his mouth. Gently, you pry him away from his little haven, reeling back to take a good look at the face he’s been hiding for so long. Hair mussed, curtaining his whirling eyes - all disheveled and vulnerable where he was once so suave.
Your eyes bore into his, unwavering. “It’ll be alright, Toru.”
And then he’s kissing you - and you’re kissing him. Only when his lips meet yours, soft, and so so sweet, do you realize that this is everything you ever want right now - possibly these past few weeks. “Y’can kill me if you don’ want his.” he mutters into your open mouth.
It’s so desperate - a messy clash of teeth and saliva, Satoru was drinking you in like you were the last drop of water on Earth. He tasted so sweet, like candy almost, and the gentle caress of a lover. You were addicted like you could do this forever and ever and-
And then he’s pulling away. A disappointed little whine leaves you involuntarily as he parts, delicate strings of saliva snapping in the space between you two. Satoru’s mouth drops into a soft oh! at the noise, surging forward minutely like he was about to kiss you senseless again. Only to halt with a pained grunt, just a hair’s breadth from your lips.
“M’sorry.” Claiming your lips once again, like a man possessed. Drinking in your breathless gasps. Like he never wanted to let go. “F-fuck, sweetheart. Y’don’t know how crazy you drive me.” he pants.
“Why did you pick me?” you blurt out, a question that had been nagging at the back of your mind every time Satoru slipped his hand in yours, introducing you as his loving wife. “Was it just the debt?”
He’s kissing your pulse now, canines hovering over the erratic little cadence. Breathing you in like you were intoxicating. “No.” he’s licking a long, languid stripe up your neck. Pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down every inch of skin he could reach.
“Then why?” your words come out in almost an embarrassing plea. But by the way his breath hitches, you know that Satoru loves it.
“Because.” he breathes, “You treated me like a human.”
He’s capturing your lips with his again, nipping at your bottom lips. You squeal as he pulls, suddenly wanting him to tease you like this everywhere. To have him absolutely ruin you like you know he could - treat you like the wife he claimed you were.
But Satoru wasn’t done yet - far from it. He chuckles, kissing down your neck, fumbling with the ties of your yukata, “Remember that night? You probably don’t, was rainin’ so hard I thought I’d drown out there.” Worshiping the valley between your breasts as he hastily unbuckles your bra. “That night was when the marriage proposals had come in. They said I’d either carry the legacy or be forced to leave the family. Kicked out of my own home.”
And you’re reeling from both his words and the way Satoru was rocking his hips into yours now, something hot, and so achingly hard pressing in the damp area between your legs. “Thought I was gonna take ‘em all out that night.”
“Take them all out?” your breath hitches.
“Every. Single. One.” Fingers dancing across the hem of your panties. “Wouldn’t have felt bad about it either.”
Satoru’s licking down your navel now, humming in confirmation into your skin. “But then…” he groans, taking in the first fucking sinful sight of your drenched panties. So flimsy and already dripping for him - and after just a few kisses, really? You were heaven on Earth. “But then along came you. So pretty and all worried f’me. The daughter of that diner owner I’d loaned money too.”
You watch, heart racing as Satoru swallows in awe. Darkened gaze locked on the way your slick beads out of your pussy, bare thighs trying to close - give yourself some semblance of dignity. But no- how could you? When Satoru’s holding them apart.
“And then I knew…” he’s sliding his index underneath your panties up and down, grazing your swollen folds. Pooling your sweet sweet juices on his fingertip before popping it into his mouth. Eyes fluttering shut at the taste, and you’ve never seen him look so blissful. “I just had to have you.”
Rip!
The cold air brushes against you before you even know it - only when you feel Satoru’s hot breath against your dripping cunt does it hit - this bastard just ripped your panties off. And he was dangling it like a badge of honor, breathing in your juices so animalistically.
Your lips wobble as he just admires your pussy, the way it glistens and clenches around nothing. “Hah- please.”
“Please what?” he grins, and you can feel him licking little circles around your inner thigh. So close. “The wife of a yakuza boss has gotta know how to use her words.”
“You’re awful.”
“And yet you married me.”
With such a cute lil’ whine that makes Satoru’s cock twitch so painfully, you buck your hips closer to his hot mouth. “Wan’ your mouth on me, to eat me out. Please, Toru.”
He lets out a shuddering breath, “There’s my girl.”
You gasp when he surges forward, burying his pretty face nose-deep in your pussy. Holding your breath as he lazily licks up your folds - long, sloppy movements of his tongue all the way from your base to your swollen clit. Swirling deftly around the sensitive nub.
Drunk off your pussy with the way he’s so messy - seemingly unable to decide between sucking harshly on your poor, ravaged clit to dipping into your sloppy hole. And it’s driving you mad, keening and pulling at his soft locks. You haven’t been touched this good in ages, and Satoru was well and fully intent on ruining you.
“Shhh, don’t worry, wifey.” words muffled into your cunt, “Your husband’s gonna take care of you.” He’s throwing your legs over his broad shoulders.
“Real good care of you.” Then he’s plunging knuckle-deep in your plushy pussy, the tips of his long fingers massaging your plushy walls. Messy enough that your slick is trailing down his wrist. Roaming for that one spot he knows will have you moaning deliciously. Pressing down, hard. “Found it. Gonna have you screamin’ my name til’ the entire estate hears.”
You tug on his hair, urging Satoru’s mouth towards your cunt - partially because you wanted him there, partially because you really needed him to shut up right now.
And shit how could he ever say no to his pretty wife?
Satoru is grinning, you can feel it on your throbbing clit as he wraps his pretty pink lips around it. Pumping his fingers in and out, hitting that little spot each and every time. Looking like he was absolutely in heaven as he rolls and swirls his tongue against your clit over and over and-
“Sh-shit. Toru-”
“Mmm, yes- fuck, love it when you call me that.” he groans. And oh he’s looking at you like he wants to devour you - eyes half-lidded, such a pretty blush disting his cheeks - and making out with your pussy just as much. Tilting his head back, back, back so that your juices slide down his throat. “Feels good? Ya like when m’ruining your pretty pussy?”
“Yes!” you squirm. Shaking, bucking your hips into his touch so desperately. “Wanted it s’bad.”
He’s becoming frenzied now, drinking in your cute little whimpers like he was addicted. But it wasn’t enough - it never was and fuck Satoru wanted more more more-
“Move your hips, yeah- jus’ like that.” Satoru’s grunting and smacking his lips against your own. Letting you pull and angle him just as you please.
“Gonna be the best fuckin’ husband you’ll ever have. N’ anyone that says otherwise, m’gonna fuckin’ kill.” The vibrations have your body jerking violently. “Make you cum harder than y’ever have. C’mon, say yes.”
And with that, he’s alternating between lapping at your clit and bullying his tongue through your swollen folds. Stretching you, thrusting in and out of your sloppy hole. Jaw grinding deeper into you as he eats you out like his last meal. “Ngh- fuck, yes yes yes-”
“Beg for it, beg for your husband.”
“Wanna cum- Ah! Please, wanna cum, Toru.”
One hand so messy toying with your dripping entrance - not having the patience or the sanity to even draw circles anymore. Just quick, hurried patterns to get you off. The other digging into your hips, so hard you were sure it’d leave marks for tomorrow. Making you drag your sloppy pussy senselessly all over his mouth. Using him.
“Hngh- Toru! Ah- fuck fuck Toru Toru T-” You’re shaking - crying out as you cum. A guttural, strangled moan of your husband’s name. So violent, and hard that you don’t even realize at first. Just that you’re rocking your hips into Satoru, white-hot pleasure behind your eyes, blood roaring in your ears.
And he doesn’t stop - not even once. If you were in any better state of mind you’d wonder whether it hurt - whether his fingers were cramping up, and his tongue was tired. If they were, he didn’t show, only letting you chase your high as roughly as you want.
Greedily lapping up all your juices. Even when you’re blinking your vision back, chest heaving as you try to regain our breath. “S-Satoru.” you mewl, stars behind your eyes with each flick of his tongue.
“Jus’ a bit more. Wanna taste all of you.”
You weren’t going to make it out alive.
Big, fat tears pricking at your eyes from the overstimulation as Satoru finally rises from what you almost worried would be his favorite seat. “All done. Now, keep that pretty lil’ cunt on display f’me, my girl.”
And your cunt is clenching in- fear? Anticipation? As your husband finally unties his yukata, letting it slide off those milky, toned shoulders. And shit he was such a fucking masterpiece. The dim-lighting bouncing off every curve and dip of those carved abs. Delicate swirls of his tattoo inching from his collarbone, down, down, down, hugging Satoru in a way that made you so half-lucidly jealous. All the way till the last inky thorn meets the neat tufts of white hair peeking up from the hem of his underwear.
“Touch me.” he groans into your ear. The words barely leave those pretty lips before your hands are everywhere. Dancing down his tattoo, groping at this pecs - too much to worship, not enough time.
“Toru…” you trail off, hand reaching out to brush his waistband. Tugging just enough that his throbbing cock springs out, hitting his sculpted abdomen. Red, and so so angry, fat tip weeping down his length, already so soaked in precum. He was so intimidatingly long - longer than anyone else you’d had before. Thick enough that you wondered whether you’d hurt yourself.
And he sees right through you.
“Now now, none of that.” he tuts, pushing your bare thighs as far apart as they’d go. He spreads your cunt so shamefully with his thumb. Spitting once, twice. Some of it splatter against your thigh as Satoru mixes his saliva with your slick. “Don’t worry, wifey, m’gonna make it feel good for ya.”
You flinch as he uses you like some object. Dangerously liking it more and more as he drags his fat head down your folds. Wetting himself, all the preparation he was going to give you because fuck Satoru needed to be inside your pretty lil’ pussy right now.
Then you feel like you’re being split apart - as if Satoru’s cock was pushing all the way to your lungs as he presses through the first ring of muscle.
“Ah! Ngh- Toru, s���too big!” you yelp, eyes locked on the way your lips were stretched so lewdly around his tip. Clamping and quivering as he keeps pushing in, inch by fucking inch. No mercy. Absolutely none at all.
And while he sounded like he was on cloud nine, you were having your head spin, torn between wanting to run away from his massive cock and just push yourself down for more more more. His lips claim yours - absolutely animalistic because God he needed to shut up your pretty whines or else Satoru was going to cum right here right now.
“Breathe, sweetheart, breath. Ngh- You can take it.” Satoru pants into your mouth, fucking into you in mindless, shallow little thrusts just to fit inside your snug cunt. Sounding like he was losing his sanity each time your heavenly walls milked him. “So fuckin’ tight. Jus’ relax f’me. Oh yeah, jus’ like that. You can take it you can-”
You gasp for air when he finally bottoms out inside you, tears streaming down your face and clawing at his back.
Satoru only coos, letting you mark him up all you want. Pace increasing relentlessly, “Aww, my good lil’ wife. Taking me so well, huh?” Starting to rock his hips just a bit faster into yours, “Always knew y’would.”
“Can y’feel me, right-.” Balls smacking against your ass, his finger tracing an invisible line halfway down your tummy. “-here?” Thumb stroking where he could feel himself bulging inside you, pressing down. Hard.
You almost sob at the pressure, jolting - you should’ve expected that the yakuza boss would fuck so mean.
And shit you can just do nothing but take it, hips jerking wildly as Satoru pounds into you with reckless abandon. Clutching at his shoulders, the sheets, his hair - just anything.
“C’mon~ Don’t run away from me,” he grunts, strained like he’s struggling to maintain restraint. Lacing his fingers on top of your head to slide you impossibly deeper onto his cock. “Jus’ fuckin’ got you, so don’t you dare run away.”
You can only nod. Eyes glazed, cockdrunk and letting him thrust so sloppily. “Won’t run away Toru…” you babble, “Wan’ you to make me yours.”
“Mine? Gonna be all mine?”
“All yours, Toru.”
And maybe you were an idiot, maybe you were a mastermind - because with a choked out little moan of what sounded like your name, Satoru’s pulling you both to sit up. The gravity makes you bury his cock deeper and faster into your tight pussy.
With the new angle, your husband’s hitting all the right spots easily, almost as if he knew your body better than you did. Veins rubbing so deliciously against your walls, shifting around your hips to fuck up into that poor, abused spot.
“Ya like this, huh?” he groans, fingers now toying with your ravaged clit. Rolling it around harshly between two fingers. “Always knew this cute pussy could take me s’well. Just didn’t know it would feel this fucking heavenly.”
Faster, sloppier. Bouncing you on his rock-hard cock like he was claiming you from the inside. So, so desperate and debauched.
And exactly where you wanted to be.
You leave delicate pink bites down this pale neck, alongside those roses - marking him in your own way as you edge closer and closer. It was too much. Everything was too much.
“Toru-” you sob. And he already knew what that meant. With how your voice breaks so adorably and the way you’re clenching around him hard enough that it’s almost difficult to ruin that cute pussy.
“Close?”
“Mhm…”
“Well then.” thrusts getting sloppy, with no reason or rhythm now. Grip on your body tightening like a vice. “Cum f’me like a good lil’ wife, then.”
And that makes you throw your head back in ecstasy - it makes you cum. Thighs quivering, jolts of electricity running down all the way from your overstimulated cunt to your hazy mind. It has you chanting Satoru’s name like a lifeline while his teeth dig into your flesh. Hard enough that you distinctly wondered whether he was out for blood.
Letting out low, muffled moans into your neck while he cums as well. Hot ropes of seed filling up your poor, bloated pussy, painting your walls such a sinful white. Cumming and cumming so hard you wondered whether you’d make it out alive.
And because of the obscene position, you could feel the way it dribbled down your legs. Thick globs landing in a pool on the overpriced sheets below, smearing so lewdly between you two. Hips still fucking up into you - not even thinking about it as he pushes his seed deeper and deeper.
You managed to raise your eyes, still dazed to meet his - exhausted, and dark with lust and something else that you really weren’t in the right mind to decipher right now.
And then Satoru’s lips find yours again, biting and tugging lazily. Tasting so unfairly of candy and sweet, sweet trouble. Body melting into you like all the worries have been lifted from his shoulders. He’s looping his arms tighter around your waist, crushing you into an almost-painful hug against him.
Something soft. Something new. Something that makes a little part of your heart twinge to break the kiss and pull away mere millimeters. “We better not divorce after this.”
“Of course not.” He chuckles into your lips, resting his forehead against yours like he was trying to map the constellations in your eyes. “I haven’t even given you my wedding gift yet.”
Smirking, you lock your legs tighter around Satoru’s toned waist as he lets the two of you fall back into the mattress. Sinking into it - and each other - with both exhaustion and something of a quiet, unspoken little fondness. Batting your lashes up at him, “Mhm, I remember someone talking about giving me four mercedes as a wedding gift and I’m leaving if not.”
“Well then, better get to it. Four for my in-laws to get on their good side, too,” he nuzzles the bite mark on your neck. “Because I plan to stay like this for a long, long time.”
A/N. Plagiarism not authorized.
#gojo x reader#gojo smut#gojo x you#jjk x reader#jjk smut#jjk x you#gojo satoru x reader#gojo satoru smut#gojo satoru x you#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen smut#jujutsu kaisen x you#jjk#jjk fic#jujutsu kaisen#gojo satoru#tonywrites
5K notes
·
View notes
Text
We Have Now
Pairing: Nika Mühl x Reader
Warnings: lil bit of angst, suggestive content
Summary: The season is over, the seniors have graduated and the summer has begun. The future holds a lot of uncertainty, but your feelings for Nika have never been uncertain. Is it too late for you?
A/n: I just can’t resist summer themed fics. Also I’m ngl this is NOTT my best work so I’m sorry for that… enjoy anyways.
“Holy shit!”
Through the window of your bedroom you can see the sunset has turned outside an entrancing mix of tropical colours. Pink, purple, orange and yellow mix in the clouds and paint the world around you for a moment, and you know you need to see it up close.
You rush down the stairs and past the living room, where the rest of the team is sleeping on the couch with a movie on in the background.
It had been a long day for everyone, the team had planned to spend a couple days of July at an airbnb in Rhode Island back in February, and the plan thankfully took off.
The day had been filled with a long car ride, various TikToks, loud music, unpacking, swimming and barbecuing. Everyone was exhausted.
When you rush out to the deck you’re encapsulated by the scenery. Sunsets were beautiful, but even better by the beach. The white sand and deep ocean water against the rich setting sky was something out of a book.
After taking about a hundred photos and videos, you put your phone away and just stood in astonishment.
Playing basketball with these girls at Uconn was one of the biggest blessings you’d ever received in your life, and you were going to miss them so much. You often found yourself swimming in old memories at night, memories of locker room conversations, late night drives, shared playlists, loud Friday night parties, shared looks, useless yearning and post game tears.
You’d already gone through your sad feelings at graduation though, and the draft had brought some more light to the situation. You had no regrets whatsoever about your college career, except for maybe one thing. And that thing was on the beach right now.
Nika was laying on the sand, just far enough from the ocean to avoid getting hit by the high tide. She didn’t say anything when you laid down beside her, the both of you just stared at the darkening sky as the sound of waves filled the silence.
“Remember how different things were when we first met?” You finally say after some time.
Nika quietly laughs. “How could I forget?”
You roll your eyes playfully. “Gosh, I thought you were so weird.”
“You were weirder.” She grumbles.
“You just thought all Americans were weird.”
“Because you guys are! I never saw so many overly confident basketball players who were so bad till’ I came here.”
The two of you laugh together for a moment, then it’s quiet again.
Your hand is excruciatingly close to hers, but neither of you move closer.
“Everything’s so different now.” Nika mumbles, almost to herself.
You turn your head to face her. Nika’s side profile is strong, prominent nose, perfect lips, sharp eyebrows and expressive eyes. Her cheeks are pink from being out in the sun. You have the urge to make them pinker, but you shake the thought away.
“Yeah. Everything is different…but that’s a good thing”
Nika nods solemnly, but you can tell she’s thinking hard.
“Niks, don’t worry too much okay? Things work out if they’re meant to.”
She brings a hand to her face, covering her eyes and muffling her voice, which slightly wavers when she says. “What if I don’t make it?”
With this you give in and take her hand, squeezing it tight for a moment.
“Baby they’re lucky to have you. One day with you and they’ll know you’re needed on that team. Everyone else knows it for sure.”
“Says who?” Her eyebrows furrow. “I can’t just assume this’ll work out. What if it doesn’t? What the fuck do I do then? All my work will have been for nothing.”
“If Seattle doesn’t see you as an asset to their team, then I assure you there’ll be another team just waiting for you. Everyone here knows how valuable you are as a player, and the internet wouldn’t let anyone forget.”
She isn’t very convinced, but she turns her head to meet your gaze. Her eyes remind you of a puppies eyes. “Thank you.” She says, sincere and slightly embarrassed. Her hand is still in yours and your noses are almost touching. You wonder if she’d ever talk to you again if you kissed her.
At the thought of that, your stomach sinks. You sit up suddenly, hand breaking from hers. You don’t see how her face drops when you do it.
“I-“ you start, but hesitate. You didn’t want to regret anything like this again. You wanted her to know every thought in your head, even if it had a chance of going sour. “I’m really gonna miss you Nika. More than anyone else, I think.” You finally manage to get out.
She sits up now too, her brown hair blowing in the salty wind, her almost hazel eyes glinting from the reflection of the water, or perhaps something else, something like hope.
“More than anyone else?” She questions you.
“Yeah.” You say, turning to meet her stare. “I’ve always liked you more than the others.”
“Hm.” She says, as if she was expecting more.
The silence is eating at you, you just want to scream out how badly you want her. You know it’s too late, when this trip is over everyone splits. You to your hometown, Aaliyah to Washington, Nika to Seattle, Paige and the others to Connecticut. Still, you didn’t want to live with this in you forever.
“I had a massive crush on you during freshman year.” You utter as confidently as possible.
Nika’s lips part in surprise “You- you did?”
“Yeah. Major.” You scoff. Those days were almost pathetic in hindsight, obvious to everyone but Nika and yourself.
You watch as Nika draws swirls in the sand with her finger. You can practically hear the gears turning in her head.
“And…when did this crush fade away?” She finally asks you.
You let a beat pass before sucking it up and saying. “It didn’t.”
Nika’s eyes really widen now. You hold her gaze as best as you can. “I never stopped liking you. It just got stronger overtime, actually.”
You almost recoil when she scowls at you.
“Fuck you.”
“What?”
“Fuck!” She rubs her face, exasperated. “You- urgh, I wish you told me. I wish you told me way, way earlier.”
You don’t say anything.
“I wish I knew. Don’t you get it?” She whines, almost pleadingly. “God, if you’d told me way earlier we could’ve…maybe we would’ve..” she trails off.
Finding out that Nika Mühl, your best friend and longest love, also loved you should’ve been the best moment of your life. Instead it had you thinking of everything that could’ve been.
“I was scared.” You mutter. “I was so, so scared, I don’t know why. I wish I’d just told you, but you know me. I never take chances. I pass the ball, I don’t make the shot. I just…I wouldn’t have been able to take it if you didn’t feel the same. So I never did anything.”
She’s close to you now, hand on your knee, face flushed.
“What are we gonna do?”
You stare at her face, eyes darting from her eyes, then lips, the her eyes again.
Her eyes are beautiful. Honey brown, golden in the sun but piercing now at dusk, eyelashes long and fluttering as she tries to make sense of this situation.
You’ve wanted her more than you’ve wanted that ring at the end of the National Tournament every single year. The thought of you wasting time that could’ve been spent pressed next to her, skin to skin and soul to soul? It was sickening to you.
Still, here she was. Eyes begging you for something you’ve dreamed of. The sky now staining the beach a violent pink.
When your mouth meets hers it’s everything you’ve fantasized about. Her lips are full and soft, fitting perfectly against your own. You can feel her lashes tickle your face as you tilt your head just right, her arms get goosebumps when you fiddle with her hair.
Pulling away from her, you can’t help but melt at the satisfied smile on her face.
“I’ve wanted to do that for so long.” Nika says. “I just wish it could’ve happened earlier.”
“I’m tired of wishing.” You say, putting a hand on her face gently. “We can’t change anything now. It’s over. But we have today.”
She drinks in the feeling of being this close to you. “We have now.” Nika whispers.
Your kisses are sweet and chaste at first, but it’s getting colder out and you need her warmth. She changes the pace, clashing into you with a sense of urgency now. When her mouth slightly opens and you feel her tongue against yours you know it’s over for you. She can have whatever she wants.
Nika finds herself straddling you now, and you’re suddenly hyper aware of everything that’s happening.
After four years of thinking of her before bed, before letting your hands take care of yourself night after night to the thought of her, here she was in all her glory. Body toned and breathing hard, hair sprawled against her tan skin, fingers untying her bikini top.
She leans into you, but instead of kissing you she puts her mouth to your ear. You can feel her smirk against your skin.
“How much of the past four years do you wanna bet I can make up for in one night?
#Spotify#fanfic#fanfiction#uconn wbb#light angst#angst with a happy ending#rpf#nika muhl x reader#nika muhl#nika mühl#uconn women’s basketball
183 notes
·
View notes
Text
getting emotional about splatoon again. god. that fucking squid makes me feel things about my own life im crying all over my yogurt
#pov youve been into splatoon since the first game and in splatoon 3 theres the new capn and thats YOU. thats you those years ago.#thats the kid that saved up their money to buy a wii u. opening it up the first time digging for the splatoon download code hoping it works#ans then it does and then youre in this new colorful world full of whimsy and. and then you got splatoon 2 and a switch for Christmas#and now this lonely teen gets to experience that joy again.#of opening up the switch and putting in the cardridge and inputting the online subscription code hoping it works. and then it does.#and youre back in inkopolis.#and you get yourself octo expansion after watching a playthrough while abroad visiting your family. and you get to pick the looks of agent 3#and the game asks you because thats you. thats the kid those years ago. thats the teen playing right now. thats you.#and now youre an adult. you preordered splatoon three. you played it on the bus drive home. and you enter the story mode.#and youre faced again with yourself.#that kid finding joy in this world when home wasnt the best.#that teen finding community and frienedship n this game when they had noone to talk to#and you realize how far youve come. and youre proud of yourself. and youre happy youre alive#and now youre an adult who doesnt know exactly where to go from here. but will keep trying.#if not for yourself now. then maybe for a future you who will remember this. then maybe for the past you that you look back to.#and im not even mentioning all the transgender stuff#im not normal about this game guys#fishbrain thoughts
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
manifestation, baby! | tom blyth
summary: fans find out tom’s girlfriend has an old youtube channel where she reviewed the ballad of songbirds and snakes (and she definitely manifested her life)
an: the way i thought about this idea and quickly wrote it down so i didn’t forget it. i used to have an app that made those fake tweets but i’m just tired to make fake profiles 😭 maybe i’ll change it later idk
for the purpose of this imagine, let’s pretend tbosas book was published between 2017-2019
liked by zeglerslove, 444_bri and 35,377 others
tomblythxsnow apparently tom’s girlfriend has an old youtube channel where she reviews books and she reviewed the ballad of songbirds and snakes and she literally manifested her future 😭
lucymygf WHATTT WHATS HER CHANNEL NAME
tomblythxsnow it’s yn’s book corner. she hasn’t posted since 2019 ngl i need her to review a little life because that book destroyed me
nat76_ omg i used to watch her videos!! i’m still subscribed to her 😭 i remember only buying and reading the books she liked because i wanted to be her so bad
j4ckaszlol “if someone ever makes a movie adaptation of this book and casts someone attractive to play snow then i am sorry for the person i become” REALLLLL
graybairdsmockingjay dude the part where she said “i’m calling it now whoever plays young snow will be my boyfriend. movie studios always cast someone attractive as the younger version of a character!” MY JAW DROPPED SHE NEEDS TO TELL ME HER WAYS
“guess what rachel just sent me.” you heard tom say when he arrived to your shared apartment.
“wedding invitations?!” you gasped as you almost stood up from the sofa since you were watching reruns of criminal minds, but tom stopped you.
“no, it’s better!” tom sat beside you and showed you his phone. “why didn’t you tell me you had a youtube channel?” on his phone screen was your review of the ballad of songbirds and snakes, which had become a very popular video over the past couple of days.
you hid your face with a pillow and groaned. “don’t remind me. i just wanted to talk about my books and my family didn’t care. don’t watch it! it’s embarrassing!”
“i think it’s cute. aw look, your dog made a cameo!” he pointed at your old dog you used to have that walked into the frame.
“indi! no, come sit right here. oh . . . and she’s walking away. okay, anyways.” your younger self said in the video
“indi? why Indi?” tom asked you even though you were still hiding from embarrassment.
“after indiana jones. my dad and i loved those movies and he gifted me indi as a birthday present.” you confessed.
“love, don’t be embarrassed. i think it’s cute that you manifested your life according to the comments on instagram,” tom paused the video then cuddled up to you. “i won’t watch it if you don’t want me to.”
“it’s fine, i just didn’t think anyone would find it. we can watch it together.” you uncovered yourself and sat down properly to watch the video with tom. before he pressed the play button and together you watch your younger self review the book.
“i’ve read all the hunger games books at least four times and this one did not disappoint. but i do hope whoever ends up being cast as young snow is someone hot. i’m sorry it’s the rules! and they will be my boyfriend, i’m calling dibs.”
tom smirked at you. “if only younger you could see you now.”
“she would definitely think ‘wow, how did we pull this beautiful man?’ then be confused as to why the hunger games and fnaf is trending in 2023.”
liked by tomblyth, rachelzegler and 1,377,389 others
ynlovesbooks told ya. love you tomblyth ❤️
rachelzegler she is THAT girl
ynlovesbooks no u
everdeenx12 bestie he’s EVIL
ynlovesbooks he’s a walking red flag but my favorite color is red 😍
chamaletproblems pls tell me how you did this
ynlovesbooks i figured out who they were casting and kept him hostage until he agreed to be my bf
tomblyth true
#tom blyth one shot#tom blyth fanfic#tom blyth imagine#tom blyth x reader#tom blyth#coriolanus snow#the hunger games#the hunger games the ballad of songbirds & snakes#tbosas
3K notes
·
View notes
Note
Idk if u take requests rn, but if you do, could you write fluffy moments with jjk men (pls include toji, i rlly wanna see him w fluff because there is like none) you fav would be cuddling, but you do whatever you want <3
Also, don't stress yourself when writing i, and please take breaks <33
JJK MEN + FLUFFY MOMENTS (๑ > ᴗ < ๑)
featuring. toji fushiguro, gojo satoru, nanami kento x reader
warnings. jjk men being softies
note. i just read the most heart wrenching nanami fic, i think i'm not okay at all </3 but hi anon, thank you for requesting this — this is exactly what i needed after reading angst. i apologize if it took a long time to get this out omg, i hope you like it.
and guys, omg???? 700+ followers? i genuinely never expected my works to be recognized by so much, and meeting new writers here and there, making friends, makes me so happy (i'm not crying) i love u all so so so so much, u guys rock, ily all <;33
TOJI FUSHIGURO
hated talking about the future, but ever since he met you — he rambles about it.
toji has always thought his future was nothing interesting, he kills people for a living, gets money off of it and he gambles. that's about it, so what was there to think about in the future?
meeting you was the firsts to a lot of things in his life.
toji grew up in a loveless household full of anger, and lust for power. which is why he is who he is today. distant, aloof, detached. people tell him he'd be nothing without his strength and face, there is no denying that toji fushiguro has a face card. he knows that.
so when he first met you, all he expected was like every other day. people caring about his face, and only that — and he'd play along although he's had enough of it, but no; you didn't care about all that.
face, money, strength. none of that.
he vaguely remembered the first time you spoke to him: "hey, mind helping me grab that box of cereal?" and he expected you to hit on him after, but you left it at that, muttering out a thanks and then leaving him in the aisle alone.
then for some reason he meets you again, the very next month. asking him the exact same thing, asking for help to take the cereal box which happened to be on the very top of the shelf. god knows why, both you and him just made it a routine every month after that. no communications about meeting and all. you both kind of just, met right in the cereal aisle on one particular day in the month, and then leave.
on the fifth month, he finally asks for your number.
"toji, is that your way of asking me out? because if it is, i'm disappointed."
"maybe."
and then you both kind of just sealed it; you're dating. nothing much changed, every month both you and him still go to the cereal aisle — he still helps you with grabbing the box from the shelf. the only difference was that now the two of you leave together.
toji hates talking about his future. but with you? he could go on for a whole day. he rambles about what he thinks and what he wants in the future with you.
"i wan' to get married. i wan' to marry you," did it caught you by surprise? yes. yes it did, "i wan' to have a family with you, a nice little family. i wan' to have a son so i could throw him around — but a girl is okay too, i can protect her from boys, i'll love them both equally. but i don't think i'll be a good dad to them. i'm scared they won't like me."
"toji, what? where did that come from?"
his back was pressed to your chest as you both lay down on the bed, one of your leg draped over his torso and he has his hand on your plush thigh, squeezing it every once in a while.
"i don't know. just a thought, i never talked about my future with anyone before," his body vibrated as he grunted, leaning his head back a bit, "i just don't think i'll be a good father, y'know?" he squeezed your thigh.
"why do you think so?" you asked him, placing your chin on the crown of his head.
"i just think so."
"stop thinking then," you chuckles, draping an arm around his neck, caressing his throat so softly it made the male shudder under your touch — but he didn't mind, he took comfort under your skin.
"can't." his voice was not stern or bold, it was soft and serene. he laced his fingers with yours, kissing your knuckles gently, "i can't believe 'm saying this, but 'm worried about my future. 'm a little scared."
just the fact he was admitting that he's scared about something was mind boggling, because the toji fushiguro? who kills people? was admitting that he was actually terrified of something, which wasn't even the strongest sorcerer. it's his future.
you were silent, letting him talk because when else would he be able to be like this?
"'m terrified. 'm scared i won't make you happy. what if i don't make you happy? what if my kids hate me?" so many questions that you don't even have the answer to, but you placed your hand over his lips, shutting him up.
toji grumbled, he swiped his tongue over your palm.
"ew!" you laugh, wiping your hand on his shirt, "but why're you suddenly talking about this all? which videos have you been watching again?"
"nothing, can't i think about my own future with you?" he shuffles, turning to face you, prepping an arm under his head as he stares down at you. not in the condescending way — he stared at you with so much desperation for love, he slowly blinks, the glint in his eyes never changing.
"why out of the blue?"
"jus' because."
you poked his cheek, "liar."
he sighs, latching his hand onto your hips, pulling you close. he buries his head into your shoulder in content, "jus' worried about it, i never think about my future in the past. but now — with you, i jus' worry about it because i didn't think i'd make it 'till now."
you chuckled, rubbing the back of his head lightly, "you remember that one time in the park when you see that little boy crying over spilled ice cream?"
he hums softly.
"and you bought him another ice cream, but asked me to be the one to give it to him because you were scared you'd scare him off instead?" you ask him, your fingers tangling with his hair lightly.
"yeah."
"you'll be fine, toji." you tell him.
"y'think so?" he retorts back, squirming a bit.
"i know so."
GOJO SATORU
he has to know about everything that you like, he needs to know why you like them. every. single. thing.
gojo chased after you. you were one tough cookie, he likes a chase. he's so used to people fawning over his looks that when you didn't — he just has to know your name.
the curiosity to know your name ended up pulling him in a spiral of this little thing called "love". gojo swore it was just curiosity, but everyone else besides him thinks otherwise, he promised himself and people around that he didn't like you, he was just, well, curious.
but curiosity doesn't look like that. gojo finds himself asking people about what type of boys you like, and when he finds out about it — he tries his best to be your type. he promised he was just curious.
gojo tries finding out what your favorite flower is, and when he finds out about it, he's out there sending big bouquets of it to you. he promised he was just curious.
gojo tries finding out what your favorite genre of music is, and when he finds out, he listens to them so he could talk about it with you. he promised he was just curious.
gojo tries finding out what your favorite series or movie is, and when he finds out, he watches them all intently so he could talk about them with you and hate on characters together with you. and he still promises that he was just curious.
he was just curious, he kept telling that to himself. so why does it bother him when you were out with another guy? another guy that's not him. not gojo satoru.
gojo asks you about who it was, and when you tell him it's nobody important, he gets upset about it.
"why are you so upset?"
"i'm just..curious."
"it's none of your business."
he left it at that. his whole week was ruined, he couldn't stop thinking about it. about you. and then he finally realizes, he wasn't curious — he was in love. so there he was, in front of your door at two in the morning.
"what?"
"who was that guy?"
"gojo, you're still onto that?" you ask him, tired, "i said it's none of your business. you're here at two just to ask me about that?"
"it's my business because i'm in love with you, damn it!"
gojo was half grateful when you told him it was your distant cousin, but half embarrassed as well. all's well ends well. he gets you in the end, and he doesn't have to worry about anything else — nothing in the world matters to him but you.
"baby, what do you recommend?" was one of the most spoken phrases he has delivered to you.
in restaurants, dessert bars, convenience store, movie theaters, anything you could recommend him, he'd ask for it.
"why do you always ask? don't you have your own preference, satoru? i'm not even sure if you'll like my recommendations though," he smiles at you, tracing small circled on the back of your hand.
"i want to know about everything that you like, and why you like them. i want to know everything about you," you look at him and smiled, honestly, what did we ever do to deserve him?
"why?"
"because i love you." yeah, he wasn't just curious. he's in love. and deep.
NANAMI KENTO
he always orders food that you like, and shares some with you — even if you didn't ask for it.
nanami never expected to be in relationships. in fact, relationships was the last thing in his mind — but when he met you, he just kind of felt attracted. he seeks for your comfort whenever he's tired, and when you weren't there, nanami just sort of drowns in himself until he could see you or hear your voice.
at the beginning of your relationship, nanami was never the one to initiate things because he wasn't an experienced male in relationships. you ask him and he just sort of do it without any other complaints.
but as time goes on, he get the hang of it. what he should do and what he shouldn't — it's adorable, he's started doing things that he never thought he would do in his life, but here he was sitting by your side; peeling apples for you because you wanted them.
"kento, eat some. it's going to be finished by the time you finish peeling every one of them," you joked, your legs on top of his thighs.
nanami hums softly, "it's okay. as long as you like it."
nanami doesn't realize the weigh of his sweet words sometimes, he does it and asks himself to why you were reacting like that. sweet talk is his vocabulary. he says it with no worries, telling you things you've always wanted to hear but never say.
but one thing that always stuck to him and you from the first time you got close up to now was: nanami always orders things that you like. you never understood the reason behind it, and when you tried asking him about it, he just tells you he was craving it.
it didn't seem odd at first — but as time goes on, his whole taste was just an exact copy of yours.
if you get something different than your usual menu, nanami will get your usual menu because he knows damn well that you're going to end up wanting them. although you don't tell him when the food comes, nanami makes it his job to share with you. and that's really sweet of him.
but when you get your usual menu, nanami orders something with elements that you like in them and shares them with you even without you asking for a bite. and not only that, he didn't share a spoonful — he shared a lot.
"ken, you don't have to share with me. i have my own food." you tell him, despite your heart tugging you to just let him share because you were too shy to say that you wanted a bite.
"it's alright sweetheart. i'm a little full." he lies. he ends up snacking on something on midnight, and it's now a routine.
so in exchange for that, you always make it your job to stock up foods ranging from small snacks like biscuits, chips, up to instant or pre-heated food. even cutting up fruits so nanami could snack on it, and he caught on to it pretty quick.
but he didn't complain, he likes it when you do it.
"ken, i cut out some mangoes and dragon fruit. you can eat them if you're hungry."
"thank you y/n."
mutual wins.
© CHURIPU 2023 , DO NOT COPY OR REPOST ANYWHERE
#jujutsu kaisen#jjk x reader#jujutsu kaisen fluff#jujutsu kaisen x reader#fluff#jjk#jjk fluff#gojo fluff#gojo satoru#gojo satoru x reader#toji fushiguro x reader#toji fushiguro#toji fluff#toji#nanami kento#kento nanami#nanamin#nanami kento x reader#nanami#i love nanami and i miss my pookie bear
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
a wish your heart makes
a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader
words: 1.4k
summary: (established relationship) The one where you share dreams, burn cookies, and it still reminds him of home. You try to do something nice for your boyfriend and everything goes wrong, or so you think. Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader
a/n: I thought about May Castellan, alone in her kitchen, baking cookies and making sandwiches for a son who would never come ho—OH FUCK OFF, UNCLE RICK. sidenote this haunted me.
(posted 1/26/24 unbetad)
—
Luke’s dreams were always different from yours.
Both when he’s awake and holding your hand up until sleep finally rips him away from your earthly embrace, he’s always been certain of who he was and what he wants to achieve. To be a hero providing salvation for the needy, to be a half-blood son worth the love of a god, and to be a fierce soldier, leading his troop into battle for glory. These are the thoughts he routinely pounds into his brain, so much so that anyone who knows him knows of his aspirations.
You don’t think you’ve ever met anyone so insistent on wanting to be remembered. Luke wants to leave a legacy worth dying for, worth talking about for millenia to come. And your boy persists, despite the trials of life, the ignorance of his father, and the strings of the Fates.
Your dreams, however, were always much simpler.
Cuddled under your covers and brushing your lips against Luke’s forehead to quell the growing unease that occupies his brain, you whisper what you deeply wish for.
“We’re getting old,” you mumble, and the breath of his laugh tickles your ear. He lazily runs his nose against the slope of your collarbone, sighing when he finally hears the steady beat of your chest, “We’ve definitely surpassed the average life expectancy of a typical demigod. Look at us…” he jests.
Your breath jumps in amusement as you feel his lips against your sternum, and then your boyfriend is smiling against your heart, using you for comfort as you both pass the time waiting for Hypnos to come calling.
“In a year, we’ll be nineteen…And I know you never wanted to stay here forever, so… What’s next?”
You hold in a bated breath, always unsure of where to place yourself in rank of his priorities. Who were you if not his biggest supporter?
Luke contemplates for a moment in the silence of your bedroom. It’s much easier to think and have more adult… conversations… without the many meddling children of cabin 11 always asking for one more lullaby, one more glass of water, and one more tuck-in goodnight. Here in the privacy of your room, he gets to be a boy void of his responsibilities besides hiding under his girlfriend’s duvet, giving her another shirt of his to wear, and kissing her until Apollo’s rays of light gently help you wake.
“You tell me, trouble. What does the future have in store for us?”
Us.
He’s sweet to indulge in your fantasies like this, and you stroke your fingers through his curls as you speak, ‘I think it’d be nice to go to college. Made it this far, so maybe being normal won’t be so hard…”
A soft noise leaves his throat, urging you to continue as you bite your lip and smile.
“Maybe someday, we could get a house. One on top of a hill. I don’t need much, something like the Big House, but one we can call home.”
You can feel the teeth of his sleepy grin against your skin as he whispers the next words into your heart.
“We could do that. House with big bay windows, and the smell of my mom’s chocolate chip cookies in the air. Sounds nice, baby.”
And it does.
Luke’s eyes flutter shut shortly after, but your mind is awake with how to make the dream you now share a reality. Perhaps you couldn’t give him glory, or pray hard enough to Hermes so that he’d talk to his son, but you reckon that chocolate chip cookies would be easy enough.
—
At least, it was supposed to be—until you set off the smoke alarm again.
“Oh for fuck’s sake!”
Clouds of grey are billowing from the communal kitchen oven after your multiple attempts of trying to get this right. The dryads had both partially given up on the havoc you wrecked upon their workspace as well as your increasing frustration towards them. It wasn’t their fault, you knew that—but as a perfectionist who followed the recipe to a t, how was it possible that everything was still going wrong? The first batch, you got too excited and mixed all the ingredients together, making them lumpy and inconsistent. The second batch was over-creamed, and you had to scrape them off the tray, and with this one… well you had the oven setting on a bit too high.
You sigh deeply, pressing the palms of your hands into your eyes as you try to will away the mania creeping up your neck. Being the daughter of the god of insanity was hard, having to consistently control your emotions for the sake of others. Taking a shaky breath, you stare blankly at the darkened cookies, close to being burned to a crisp. The jingle of the windchime against the door rings across the room and you barely hear it until you feel Luke’s hands skate past your waist to go open a window.
“What’d you get into now, trouble? Been looking for you,” he says, coughing lightly from the smoke.
You groan, trying to cover the mess behind you on the counter and accidentally catching your arm on the hot tray, making you flinch.
“Ow! Ugh, babe, you’re not supposed to be here yet! I thought you were still sparring…”
Your boyfriend approaches you, squeezing your arm to examine if you’ve gotten hurt and tugging you towards him.
“That was an hour ago—how long have you been here, baby?” Luke pulls you into his arms, placing a kiss on your warm wrist, instantly soothing your anxiety until you see his eyes meet your latest failure.
“You bake now?”
“Clearly not, Luke, I’m sorry…I tried but I kept getting it wrong and then I got mad at myself for fucking up something so…” your voice weakens, tears welling in your eyes again thinking you’ve disappointed him.
Luke steps away from you and towards the kitchen counter, warm cookies browned to a crisp. He reaches out to pick one up before you can stop him, crunching down on it, the bittersweet taste filling his mouth as he sniffs.
Just like his mother would make them, through her madness and all.
He’s transported back to a memory of a house with big bay windows, kind of like the one you two dreamt up last night, but he’s nine and sitting at the kitchen table drinking Kool-Aid while his mom makes peanut butter sandwiches. May Castellan forgets the cookies in the oven again, and for a moment, Luke forgets that the last time he saw his mother was a lifetime ago.
He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he feels your fingertips brushing away the saltwater from his cheeks.
“Didn’t mean to make you cry, angelface, I’m sorry…” you mumble, but stop speaking when you see him take another bite.
“They’re great.”
“What?”
He chomps on another singed cookie, his lips quirking into a soft smile. Luke’s not going to let you throw the rest of this batch out. Chuckling weakly, he lifts you onto the kitchen counter as he slots himself between your legs, rough hands patting your thighs.
“Well, they’re not great. But they’re perfect. Just the way I remember them,” he smiles, kissing the furrow in your brow. You don’t bother trying to comprehend his statement, happy that you didn’t mess up a memory he holds dear.
Luke wonders if maybe he’s been blessed by his father after all, to have such extreme luck to exist at the same time as you. He doesn’t answer to the gods, to fate, but he does answer when you call his name, and settles into your arms. Love is an action after all, uncontained by just words, and he knows you tried your best, which makes it more than enough.
“She would’ve loved you, I’m sure of it,” he says rubbing his nose against yours before you can interject again, “I love you, so I know she would’ve too.”
Luke presses a tender kiss against the palm that caresses his jaw, before meeting you in the middle and finding your lips. It’s a dance you two have memorized, sweet and breathless as you meld both of your grins together. To him, you taste like chocolate chips and feel like home.
“I love you too, angelface. Almost burned the kitchen down for you,” your chuckle is cut off when he goes to press against your pout again hungrily, tracing patterns against the soft skin of your thighs as he just eats you up. The sound of your moans escapes between kisses as you wind your legs around his waist and it dampens the sound of the kitchen timer when it goes off.
(You forcibly have to detach from Luke’s embrace, much to his displeasure so that you don’t burn the next batch too.)
—
"Your name is humming inside my chest. I think this is what it means to love. I think this is what it means to be living." -Emma Bleker
ask to be added to general/luke taglists!
luke taglist (some won't let me tag, turn on my post notifs?): @kissingyourgrl @dorcas4meadowes @lorarri @andrewgarfldsgf @noodlesketchbook @10ava01 @poppysrin @ashisabitgay @timhalamet @liv1104 @leeknows-wife @mxtokko @bugcuti3 @luvvfromme @midmourn @2hiigh2cry @yuminako @niktwazny303 @lukecastellandefender @intergalactic-padawan @iliketopgun @annybah @dangelnleif @thegrinningghost @alyssajunelle @obxstiles @m00ng4z3r @visndcaitswhore @b0ok-lover @elegant-face-tree @this-barbie-is-having-breakdowns @amortencjja @idonevenknow1359 @maliaaaa @targaryenluvs @sakyira @dhdjdjjdhsjdiri @number-onekidqueen @nininehaaa @bradynoonswife @stevenknightmarc @hoodedhavok @happy-mushrooms @homebyeleven @anotherblackreader @too-deviant @liviessun @lilacspider @theadventuresofanartist @sucker4seresin @simpforsunwoo @zanzie @starrystormwritings
#luke castellan x dionysus!reader#luke castellan x reader fanfic#luke castellan x reader#pjo x reader#percy jackon and the olympians#luke castellan fluff#made by ma1dita ♥︎#trouble!verse#thank you for reading my love ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
868 notes
·
View notes
Text
For All the Mary Janes
summary; 'in every other universe, gwen stacy falls for spider-man. and in every other universe, it doesn’t end well'. what about the mary janes, then?
or, in which you're the mary jane to miles's spider-man
pairing(s); e-1610! Miles Morales x reader, e-42! Miles Morales x reader
warning(s); i didn’t have any specific gender or race for r in mind while writing, but rio calls r ‘mija’ once and i think that’s ab it
maybe some incorrect usage of Spanish? Spanish speakers who can respond to my weird questions pls hmu
maybe ooc but it’s been in my drafts so long i just wanted to get it out tbh
implied/mentioned parental issues with reader, not proofread, written (mostly) at ao3 hours
You and Miles were always joined at the hip. Your parents knew each other well, so your families were together a lot. Mr. and Mrs. Morales saw you like their own daughter, often joking that you and Miles would be engaged when you got older with the way he could never leave you alone.
At least, up till around two years ago.
You and Miles started to grow apart when you got into Visions Academy. He thought it was a stupid school full of stuck-up rich kids who only cared about making connections that would help them along further down the line. You thought it was a good school that had a good track record of producing students that had a lot of success in what they wanted to do.
Some things were said the day before your transfer.
Since then, the two of you rarely texted or called. Mrs. Morales would often come by for coffee with your mom, tell you about how her son was doing and gush over 'how much you've grown' from last Tuesday, but that was about the only way you knew the vague outline of what he was up to.
You'd admit you felt lonely for a while. After all, Miles had been your best friend ever since you could remember. But you also weren't going to go running to him after everything he'd said.
I mean, was it really that bad to want a good future?
Soon enough though, you felt like yourself again. You met new people, made new contacts, and actual friends. Because contrary to popular belief, the people there weren't all mini business men and heartless CEOs in the making. They were just kids, after all.
And then, Miles won the draw. Just a few weeks before the start of the new semester, your parents mentioned that he'd be going to your school from now on in passing.
You didn't think much of it at first. I mean, everyone has that one childhood friend that they fell apart with, right? For the first week or so, you didn't even see his face much. In fact, you didn't see him at all, not even a glimpse in the halls.
That was about to change drastically.
Short story shorter, you caught a glimpse of him walking on the side of the school with pigeons stuck to his hands. A month or two later, Spider-Man climbed through your dorm window, ripping off his mask and ranting about some villain of the week.
"I couldn't even catch the guy-"
"Miles?"
"...You're not Ganke."
The two of you made up that night. He apologized, admitting he was being unfair and was upset that you were leaving his school. It didn't exactly clear everything, but it was a start. The two of you caught each other up on everything they had missed. In the end, the sun was about to come up and the both of you realized you hadn't gotten a minute of sleep on a school night.
From then on, the two of you get closer again. He went to you for the occasional rant or patch up, and he actively sought you out in school now, relieved to see a familiar face in the halls. Gradually, you got close to the point you'd call him one of your best friends and vice versa after around a year of radio static.
Everything was great. He was cute, funny - in an awkward way, but hey, he made you laugh - he looked out for you, and when he talked to you he did this cute little thing where he would play with the strings of his hoodie which he somehow always managed to layer on with like two other jackets and—
Oh yeah, did we mention the crush you had on him?
Because there was one.
Big huge one, right here. Materialized out of thin air looks like.
Which should have been fine. You were perfectly capable of hiding a crush. I mean, come on, it's high school. You would've been eaten alive if you couldn't.
Normally, you would even be confident that you could make your crush like you back. I mean, why wouldn't he?
Two words. One person.
Gwen Stacy.
It was like he could never go even one conversation without mentioning her.
Slight exaggeration? Maybe. Maybe not.
"Oh yeah, that's cool! Y'know, Gwen told me one time that—"
"You got an A, I knew you could do it! I told you so. Did you know Gwen got A's in—"
"Oh hey, you got your hair cut! Reminds me of that time when me and Gwen—"
At first, it was bearable. Sure, she came up annoyingly often whenever you talked, but she had just left this dimension, never to be seen again. Of course he was gonna miss her.
You laughed at all his stories, listened to every one even though he told the same six or seven ones over and over again. You even grew to like Gwen, as if you'd known her for the short amount of time Miles did, too.
But then two months passed. Then six. Then a whole year. Before you knew it, a year and four months had passed since the departure of Gwen Stacy.
And he still. Wouldn't. Shut. Up.
You had tried to understand. You really did.
But you can only hear the same damn jokes so many times before you get a migraine.
Pick any story. You could list off every variation of how Miles would tell it off the top of your head.
Gwen Stacy became the daughter of one of your mom’s friends, so to speak. That one girl in the neighborhood you couldn’t help but envy.
And worst of all, it was like he wished you were her.
Whenever you did something, he would tell you how Gwen could do it better. He would ask you whether or not you thought Gwen would like certain trinkets he found around town, and kept a collection of them in one of his drawers so he could give them to her one day. He was even studying quantum physics instead of art so that he could make his own multiversal gateway - a safe one, so that he could unlock the multiverse, possibly for good.
It hurt when he zoned out while you were telling him about you, thinking about her; your day, what you wanted to study, how your parents were fighting a lot again lately and you were struggling because of it, how you'd joined a new band—
"A band, huh?" Miles suddenly perked up, finally looking up from his sketchbook. "Did I tell you Gwen's in a band? It's called the Mary Janes—"
"Miles would you please stop?"
A pause, both of you mildly surprised at how you'd snapped at him.
The two of you were at your dorm, seated side-by-side on the bed with your legs folded in front of you. It was Friday, the day before Mr. Morales’s pre signing-in party.
The boy looked at you, a questioning look on his face. "What's wrong?"
And that tilt with his head - he really didn't know, did he? You couldn't decide if that was better or worse.
"Miles, I know Gwen's in a band," He tried to say something, but you didn't let him speak before you continued. "I know she's a drummer, I know she does ballet, I know she had to shave half of her head because you couldn't control your powers - hell, the whole school knows that—"
"C’mon, don’t bring that up—"
"—I know every single story she told you while she was here, and I know every single detail of what you two did and how you did it. And I know she does everything I can do and she does it better. I’m tired of hearing it, Miles." His eyebrows furrowed, a slightly hurt look flashing across his face. "I’m sorry you miss her and I’m sorry she’s gone, but I just can’t be around you if all you’re gonna do is compare me to her."
A moment of silence settled in the air. You hoped Miles would understand. Surely, he’d see how tedious this was getting.
"All I’m asking is for you to tone it down."
Another beat passes without a word from the boy. He’s looking into your eyes, but it doesn’t seem like he’s all there. Like there’s a world past your irises that he’s seeing for the first time.
"I- I’m sorry, y/n, I can’t do that." Miles finally says, his gaze turning away from yours and to the sketch he’d been working on for the last hour. You glanced down at it as well, the bright blue eyes of the one and only Gwen Stacy meeting yours.
"You’re the only one I can talk to on this," he said quietly, softly closing the sketchbook and tapping a finger nervously on the cover.
"Ganke?"
"Ganke’s fine, he’s great, he’s just.. not someone I can go to for these things."
You took a deep breath, the guilt of having to tell him ‘no’ building up in your chest. You knew his relationship with his parents were complicated at the moment, and he didn’t really have friends outside of you and Ganke. But still.. it was like he wasn’t at all interested in what was going on in your life ever since your initial reconnection.
It wasn’t like you expected a complete 50:50 give-and-take in relationships, but honestly you felt like you were talking to a robot with very limited audio cues.
"Miles, you don’t listen to me anymore. The only time you actually respond to anything I say is when it’s something even remotely related to Gwen."
"That’s not true!" Miles protested. You watched as he tried to find something to argue his point, only to come up empty. His shoulders sagged a little.
"But you gotta understand, Gwen - I’m not gonna see her again, at least until I figure out.. everything." He said in a quiet voice. "I need to talk to someone. Can’t you understand?”
"I’m not trying to shut everything down, I’m just asking you to pay attention to me every once in a while." You sighed. "And if you’e not willing to do that… do you even think of me as a friend?"
-
Miles left your dorm not long after that little talk, sneaking out the same way he snuck in; through the window. You dug your nails into your palms, breathing in and out in a steady rhythm to push down any sadness you may have felt. It was the second time you and Miles had grown apart, this time maybe your fault a little more than his. It felt like it, anyway.
Still, you felt like you’d done the right thing.
You hoped so, anyway.
-
It was an hour before Jeff Morales’s technically-not-captain-yet-but-will-be-soon celebration. Your dad and yourself had come early to prepare everything and set up all the decorations. Your mom apparently ‘couldn’t make it’. It was the third time in the last two weeks she cancelled on plans that your dad was involved in.
You stacked red plastic cups on one of the tables, a cooler full of ice and two-litre soda bottles to your left. Miles’s parents had insisted they didn’t need any help, but your dad had insisted right on back that the two of you wanted to. You didn’t mind. You’d cleared your evening for the event anyway, so it’s not like you had anything better to do.
The one thing that made you kind of regret coming was your lack of a jacket. It’d been really sunny in the morning, so you’d figured it would be a warm night. A breeze picked up and sent a light chill through your body, causing you to just barely shiver.
"Mija," Mrs. Morales called, coming up from behind you and laying a hand on your shoulder. "You’re freezing."
"Oh, I’m fine, mama," you replied, smiling at her. She gave you a look that said ‘we both know that isn’t true’.
"Miles might have something in his room," she suggested, "I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you borrowed one of his clothes."
You thanked her but refused, claiming it might get warmer once the guests started to arrive and the party was at full swing. She must have noticed something was off when she mentioned Miles, because she raised an eyebrow and shook her head lightly before asking,
"What did he do now?"
Either you’re really bad at hiding things from her or her motherly sixth-sense worked on you too. You hesitated, but decided it wouldn’t hurt to tell her. After all, Rio had always been like a mom to you.
"We had a fight - if you can even call it that, anyway, about a girl," you said, fiddling with a plastic cup. "We’re not on real good terms right now, I don’t think…"
Rio looked slightly surprised for a moment, then something seemed to click into place. She sighed and put her hands on your cheeks. "He’s a little bit slow," she said, giving you a sympathetic smile. "But he’ll get there. Eventually."
She then squished your face before immediately letting go, making you laugh. "Now go get yourself a jacket. I don’t want my only daughter to freeze to death."
You held your hands up in surrender as she pointed to the stairs, swiftly making your way down to the Moraleses’ flat. You had a spare key that Miles’s parents had given you a long while ago, when your parents used to have full on screaming matches in the middle of the living room every other day.
Within a couple minutes you’d grabbed one of the dozen coats, hoodies and jackets strewn about Miles’s closet, pulling the soft material over your shoulders as you took a glance around his room. Everything was about the same as you’d seen two or three weeks ago, save for a few new stickers laid about the desk.
There was an all-too-familiar sketchbook on the bed, one similar to what Miles had been scribbling in last night in your dorm, just in a different color. This one looked a bit more used, so you supposed he’d gotten it and packed it full of Gwen Stacy just after she left this reality. The thought put a bitter taste on your tongue.
-
A half an hour into the party, Miles still hadn’t showed up. He was supposed to be here at least twenty minutes ago, and you could tell his parents were getting both worried and annoyed. Rio asked around for her son as Jeff chatted with some colleagues. Suddenly, an auntie shoved a mic into Mrs. Morales’s hand, drawing everybody’s attention to her by clinking her glass. Jeff looked away in what could only be described as complete horror.
"Um, hi…"
You grinned as she continued with embarrassing stories about her husband, from little anecdotes from when they were dating to how he was almost 10lbs as a baby. It was then that Mr. Morales jumped in, quickly taking the mic away from her and giving his own speech.
"—And to my son…"
You grimaced as he raised his cup, looking around for someone who wasn’t there. The two of you met eyes instead, and you shook your head to tell him he hadn’t showed with an apologetic look. He turned to his wife, only for her to do the same. He cleared his throat before continuing.
"…The reason I do any of this in the first place. So.. I love you Miles."
Afterwards, the DJ put the records on again. People are talking, laughing, congratulating, creating a warm, buzzing atmosphere. You’re dragged away by a few little kids to play with them over by a small cluster of barrels, which they’ve decided is their ‘lair’. You play make believe with them for a little while as their parents stand a bit away with your own dad, occasionally glancing over at you to make sure the kids are behaving.
It’s then that Miles finally shows up, pushing the door open with two boxes in his arms. You follow him through your peripheral vision as he tries to avoid his parents, ultimately failing. You’re not sure what they’re saying, but it doesn’t seem to be going that well. He shows them the contents of his boxes, which doesn’t seem to impress them too much.
After a couple more words, Mr. Morales raises his voice, the DJ trying to divert people’s attention away by upping the volume but ultimately giving up.
"What do you got to tell me so bad?"
"You know what? Never mind."
Miles walked away, pulling his hood up as his dad yelled after him about him being grounded for two months. Must’ve been really bad, huh?
You waited for the music to come back on before you made your way to the exit, ruffling one of the little kids’ hair as he skittered away with his sister. You’re just going to check on him for a minute, just to see if he’s okay. You can do that… right? I mean sure, it might be awkward since things had ended like that last night, but still.
No one else was going to.
You let yourself into the flat once again, approaching Mile’s room with soft footsteps. You’re just outside the door when—
"Are these your drawings?"
You stop dead in your tracks. Your heart freezes right along with you. For a moment, you felt like a deer in headlights.
A feeling crawls its way under your skin, cold and slippery. You don’t know how you know, but you’re absolutely positive.
"Missed you too."
Gwen Stacy.
-
You’re on your way home, your hands rubbing up and down your arms to try to warm yourself up during the walk. You lived a little while away from Miles’s place, but it’s nothing you can’t walk.
You’d left the jacket on the Morales’ couch, turning on your heel and leaving the moment you heard her voice.
Damn it.
When had she gotten back? How had she gotten back? What was Miles’s reaction?
What were they doing now?
…Did you really want to know?
As your brain clouded over with questions, you took a wrong turn. Maybe two. Or three. Honestly, you didn’t know. Once you realized that this definitely wasn’t your neighborhood, you stopped yourself mid-step, looking around to see if anything was familiar at all.
Your eyes settled on a building, as there really wasn’t anything other than that around here other than some roads and bridges. One of the windows were glowing.
Then the whole structure began to rumble.
The ground beneath your feet started to turn… black…?
Wha—
-
You fell.
Not for too long, but you did.
You dropped around six feet onto hard concrete, twisting your ankle in the process. You cried out in pain and surprise.
"What the—?"
"Y/n?"
You looked up at that. You knew that voice.
Except, you didn’t.
The first thing you noticed is that this definitely was not the place you were in before. This place was more narrow, more dark. Light rain pattered on your skin as your hands supported your sitting position, wondering what the hell was going on.
The person who’d said your name was at the entrance to the alley you’d been.. teleported? to.
They took hesitant steps over to you, and, for some reason, you didn’t feel scared that this complete stranger had cornered you in a place you’d never even seen before.
Maybe the voice is what made you think it was alright.
Or maybe it was his face, which made your heart stop its primary function for the second time today.
"Miles?"
But he wasn’t Miles. At least.. not your Miles. This one was skinnier, just a little shorter. His accent had more of a Spanish touch to it and, most of all, his hair was braided into two sections that reached just below his shoulders.
No. He was very much not your Miles Morales.
Nevertheless, you knew he wouldn’t hurt you. There was something in his eyes — regret? Happiness? Sadness? Anger? Confusion? Probably all of the above.
He got closer, and closer, and closer. Once he reached where you were half-laying, he crouched down and tilted his umbrella until it sheltered your body more than his.
"…Are you hurt?" He asked, giving you a once-over. You just nodded, still putting all the pieces together.
Had you—
Did you—?
The boy in front of you studied your face for a little while, but then ultimately shook his head and shrugged off his jacket, handing it over to you.
"Come on. It’s cold outside."
#across the spiderverse#miles morales#anti writes spiderverse#across the spiderverse x reader#earth 42 miles morales x reader#miles morales x reader#earth 42 miles#prowler miles#miles 42#miles morales x you#prowler miles x reader#prowler miles morales#earth 42 miles fluff#miles morales fluff#miles morales angst#earth 1610 miles fluff#earth 1610 miles morales x you#earth 1610 miles angst#earth 1610 miles x you#earth 1610 miles morales x reader#miles morales 1610#1610 miles x reader
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
all that you are | part 1 [mafiarry]
authors note: okay it's here!! part one of this mini-series, it is a long one and there's lots of violence (and will be in all parts of this series), i will list all warnings so if you’re not comfortable reading, i totally understand!! if you are, grab yourself some snacks and get comfy cos you're in for a long ride! i really hope you guys love this series like i do <3 p.s. this used to be an oc fic, i have edited to make it reader instead, so if you come across any certain descriptions of the readers hair colour, skin etc. let me know as they were all supposed to be edited out!
word count: 19,592
warnings: mentions of blood and violence, sexual themes, mentions of r*pe, swearing, arranged marriage, mentions of alcohol and drug use
summary: y/n is thrown into her new life as harry’s wife, and harry has to learn and prepare himself to take over the new york famiglia.
//
Her tears have dried, though they still threaten to spill from her eyes. Eighteen is supposed to mean a party and your first sip of alcohol for a woman of the mafia.
Not for Y/N.
It’s an engagement party and her final social activity as a free woman. As if she could ever have been considered free. Women are never free. Only free for men to fuck and abuse whenever they please.
Y/N has never liked parties and she doesn’t exactly like people, either. Well, the only parties she’s ever attended are those of strict rules and professionalism and, maybe, being locked away your whole life does that to someone; makes you socially awkward and nervous in the presence of boys.
She shivers at the thought of a boy even noticing her, and now she’s engaged to the most attractive Made Man she’s ever heard of.
Her mother stands behind her, stern face and dressed in a tight lavender dress. She zips up Y/N’s cream dress and admires it in the mirror for a moment.
It’s form-fitting, small ruffles across the waist and it ends a few inches above her knees. It’s the most daring and revealing dress Y/N has ever worn, and it bubbles nerves and excitement within her.
Gaia gazes at her through the mirror with a distant look in her eyes. She can remember when she was Y/N’s age, married off to Giovanni. She can remember the fear and terror that consumed her body… that still does.
Y/N frowns. “Are you okay, Mother?”
It’s meant to come out much louder than it does. She sounds like a frail child. She is. Gaia snaps out of her trance and plasters on a smile, but it’s the same smile she uses after Giovanni finishes beating her. It doesn’t sit well in her daughter's stomach.
“You look absolutely gorgeous, figlia,” she tells her.
Y/N keeps her back to her and continues to admire the dress in the tall mirror. At least she’ll look pretty. Gaia brushes the top of her shoulders and twirls her curled locks around her finger.
“Behave tonight. This is more than just an engagement party. We can’t have Stefano changing his mind.” She warns.
She isn’t thinking about the heartache and pain Y/N will have to endure, she’s thinking about the countless nights that Giovanni will abuse her if this wedding doesn’t happen. Y/N nods her head, nerves bubbling in her stomach.
In thirty minutes, she’ll be surrounded by strangers as they judge and prod her. In thirty minutes, she’ll be meeting her future husband; one of the youngest, most dangerous Made Men in New York.
She’s known for two months now, since she got home from school and Giovanni broke the news. She spent the night fighting, sobbing and kicking and begging him not to throw her away like that. Begged for him not to hand her over to a man of such power, who will beat and hurt and abuse her.
Though when she thinks about it, it’s not much different from her current home life. She gave up fighting after he beat her bloody and blue. Her lip is still swollen from it and a soft bruise is hidden under her eye.
It’s lucky Gaia knows how to apply makeup. Y/N supposes she’s had enough bruises and scars of her own to hide over the years.
She thinks she should consider herself lucky, really. Most girls in Y/N’s position never even meet their husbands before their wedding day. At least she will have an entire night to find out who her sick father has chosen and have three years to prepare herself. But it doesn’t make it any easier.
Her eyes meet Gaia’s in the mirror. She hopes to find a hint of sadness in them, a flicker of guilt that she’s allowing her husband to do such a thing to their daughter. Y/N can’t hate her, no matter how much she tries. Gaia doesn’t have a choice in the matter. This is business between her father and the New York Famiglia. She’ll only get a black eye and a bollocking if she tries to intervene.
“Where’s Bruno?” Y/N asks softly, voice hoarse from the way she cried herself to sleep the night before.
She hasn’t seen her brother in almost a week, and she’s beginning to wonder if he’s actually going to show up at the party tonight. She needs his support—not that he’ll ever really offer any. He’s too far up Giovanni’s ass.
Bruno Saccaro is his father's son. Dirty, loyal and merciless. He’s only three years older than Y/N, but every inch of his black heart serves for one thing only.
Murder.
He was initiated at thirteen, just two days after his first kill, where he tortured and maimed a man twice his age before stabbing him in the side of the head with his beloved knife. He’s sick, just like Giovanni.
Though when they were children, he was her protector, the second he took his first kill, he became blood-hungry and protecting his baby sister was at the bottom of his list of priorities. Y/N’s sure she isn’t even on the list anymore. The only thing Bruno cares about is pussy and the Famiglia. She wouldn’t be surprised if Bruno was the one that suggested marrying her off in the first place.
“Business,” Gaia responds. “He’ll be at the party later, don’t worry.” She must sense her discomfort, but even her words don’t soothe her.
Y/N can’t imagine what her brother will be like at the party. Will no doubt have his cock buried in some girl within the first ten minutes. The thought makes her heave. He’s not the brother she used to have. He’s just like their father now.
A soft tap on the door breaks Y/N from her daze and Maria pops her head through the crack in the door. Short pink hair is the first thing she sees and a relieved smile breaks onto her face.
Maria Saccaro. Y/N’s first and only cousin, barely three weeks younger than her and the only descendent of Romero Saccaro, Giovanni’s younger brother and Y/N’s Uncle.
“Auntie Gaia, can I have a moment with Y/N, please?” She asks softly, like butter wouldn’t melt on that pierced tongue of hers.
Y/N almost rolls her eyes at the girl. Her bright pink hair gives away everything anyone needs to know. Maria doesn’t obey rules, she breaks them and finds loopholes just to piss her father off.
Y/N remembers one night when they were ten, when Maria told her she purposely did stupid shit in hopes of giving her father a heart attack so he’d finally die. Six years later and she’s still unsuccessful. Though, Y/N did hear that her Uncle Romero has to watch his cholesterol. Maybe her cousin's insolence is finally paying off.
Gaia hums and leaves the room, not sparing a second glance at her niece, keeping the door ajar and Maria rolls her eyes, flouncing down onto the chaise lounge.
“God, your Mom is such a drip,” she scoffs.
Y/N stifles a laugh and stares at her reflection in the mirror. Her mother may be good at makeup but nothing will ever cover up the insecurity in her eyes and three weeks of sleep deprivation under them.
Y/N shakes her head and turns to her cousin. “What did Uncle Romero say about your hair?” she asks, concern swimming in her eyes and Maria lifts her bangs from her face.
There’s a thick purple bruise across her temple and an angry line of stitching down the centre of it. Y/N gasps, hand covering her mouth with wide eyes. Maria shakes her hand in dismissal.
“He clubbed me with his fucking ashtray,” she sighs. “The look on his face was totally worth it, though,” she tries to break out in a grin but Y/N sees right through it.
Maria may act like she doesn’t give a shit, but really, she’s just as scared of her father as Y/N is of hers.
Romero Saccaro, Consigliere to his older brother, Giovanni, and widowed father to Maria. He’s been married twice already in his lifetime. His first wife was killed by his own hands and his second by suicide.
Maria could never blame her Mother for taking the easy way out. She often contemplates it herself. It’s a surprise that he hasn’t tried to marry Maria off yet to form an alliance. Though perhaps it’s for the best that no one has tried. She’s too temperamental, too disobedient. Her husband would get tired of her and give her back.
When an arranged marriage occurs, the husband is promised a beautiful, unscathed wife. While Maria is incredibly beautiful and just as much of a virgin as Y/N, she’s also gobby and dominant. She fights back, and that kind of attitude will get her killed. Maybe Romero does care for his daughter after all. Or maybe his ego is too big for his daughter to ruin.
“Can’t believe you’re meeting your future husband today. Happy fucking birthday,” she mutters out, words laced with venom.
Y/N sighs, shoulders sagging as the nerves come back with full force. “He’s worse than Father. Harry Dellucci kills for fun. At least Father waits until he has good reason to murder somebody… not that it makes it any better,” she mumbles.
Maria stares at her cousin with an incredulous look. “Uncle Giovanni is a fifty-year-old fuck-tard with bigger tits than me,” she begins, trying not to laugh at Y/N’s grimace. “Harry Styles-Dellucci is a twenty-two-year-old God, with a body of a God, the voice of a God-“
“Okay, I get it. He’s God-like,” Y/N cuts her off through a burst of laughter, cheeks flushed and Maria howls that maniacal laugh with her.
“Who’s God-like?” A thick, northern voice booms through their laughter and the room falls silent.
Y/N jumps in her skin out of fear, shrivels into herself as she turns on her feet. A tall, brown-haired man stands before them, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips in a cynical yet playful manner and Y/N’s heart plummets to her knees.
In all of his 6 foot glory, Harry Styles-Dellucci stands tall, thick body clad in a typical oxford suit and Y/N gulps at the hard sight of him.
Harry eyes his future bride. Soft hair curled and twisted into an elegant updo, gentle makeup on her brazen features, but the look in her eyes screams terror. She’s tiny. He knew she was only eighteen, but God, he hoped she’d be somewhat of a woman already. But she isn’t, she’s a child, and Harry struggles to keep that smirk on his lips.
She’s a child.
Mike stands beside him, eyes focused on Maria and her bright pink hair. She catches his intense gaze, the flirtatious smirk on his lips that screams mischief and she blushes, returning the look with false confidence.
Though she may try, even Maria is a blushing mess in the presence of mafia men. No amount of hair dye and secret piercings in the world can ever change that.
“Does Uncle Giovanni know you’re up here?” Maria quips and Harry turns to her, brows raised.
He knows who she is, who all of Y/N’s family and her tiny group of socialites are. He did his homework. He takes in her pink hair, the attitude in her eyes and the way she pops her hip out with a hand resting on it. Definitely the troublemaker.
“Giovanni sent me up here. I want to be alone with my fiancée for a moment before the celebrations begin,” he tells her.
God, his voice drips sex and the sound of it alone has both fear and comfort setting in Y/N’s stomach, and an unrelenting pulsing between her legs. She knows that feeling all too well, though she’ll never admit to it.
Y/N bites back a gasp and clears her throat. Harry watches her nervously twiddling her thumbs. “Is that even allowed? You’re not married yet.” Maria reminds him.
And thank God, Harry thinks to himself. She’s just a child.
“Maria, it’s okay. If Father sent him up, it’s okay. I’ll see you in a little while,” she nods to her cousin but Maria doesn’t want to leave her alone with the notorious Made Man and his right-hand man.
Harry notices her hesitancy.
“Mikey, why don’t you escort Maria downstairs.” His eyes never leave Y/N as he speaks in a slow, dulcet tone, but her eyes remain glued to the floor. Goosebumps break out onto her skin, but she isn’t cold.
Mike silently escorts the young girl out and closes the door behind him, leaving the soon-to-be couple alone. Harry squints at her. She’s curled into herself, fear dripping off her body in waves.
He takes a tentative step toward her, hands in his pockets and retrieves a small velvet box. Harry opens it and offers it to the girl.
“Happy birthday,” he whispers.
With arms around her middle, Y/N finally looks up at him and his breath is lodged in his throat. She’s beautiful, absolutely gorgeous. Bright eyes and soft, gentle skin that he wants nothing more than to caress. If she���s this gorgeous now, Harry can’t comprehend what she’ll be like in three years time.
Being so up close, he sees her properly. The perfect slope of her nose, the sparkle in her distant eyes. He can see the sparse dotting of freckles across her nose and cheeks beneath the thin layer of makeup, the twitch in the arch of her shaped brows, the fullness of her painted lips.
Y/N takes the box from him slowly. The golden band stares right back at her, a thick diamond sitting in the centre and she lets out a shaky breath.
“It’s beautiful,” she forces herself to mutter out but Harry can see she’s trying to bite back a sob.
It is beautiful… but it’s plain, generic. A wedding ring should be personal, should mean something. Harry takes it from the box and gently reaches for her hand. Her skin is warm, even softer than it looks and his lips twitch. Y/N purses her lips. His fingers are rough and cold as he slides the ring onto her finger and just like that, she’s his.
The ring hangs heavy on her hand. A golden cage. She bites back another cry.
“Thank you,” she mumbles, hands close to her chest again and Harry tilts his head.
He can read her body like a book and he’s only known her for a few moments. There’s fear in the way she holds herself, but now her eyes are void of emotion, like she’s suddenly completely coming to terms with what will happen. Like she’s accepted it — like she’s empty.
Y/N looks back down to her feet and a strand of beautifully curled hair falls into her face. Harry reaches to brush it back, wonders if it’s also as soft as it looks, but she flinches back and he stills. Harry frowns. What has Giovanni done to the girl?
“Y/N,” he speaks softly, regarding the girl with a tone he’s only ever shown to his mother and sister.
The sound of her name slipping from his lips has her peering up at him, crystal eyes boring into his emerald ones and his heart leaps.
So fucking beautiful.
He reaches a hand against her face again and caresses her warm cheek. She flushes under his touch but doesn’t flinch away.
“Are you scared of me?” He asks.
Y/N gulps and lets out a shaky breath. “You’re a Made Man. You kill and you torture. Of course, I’m afraid of you,” she breathes and it’s the first proper sentence she’s directly said to him… that she’s afraid.
Harry remains quiet, letting himself revel in the sound of her voice. Silky soft, just like her skin and hair.
He dips his face down so he’s level with her. Even with her four-inch heels, he still towers above her, Y/N’s eyes level with his clavicle.
“I kill and torture those who deserve it, those who betray me,” he tells her. “But you are going to be my wife, Y/N. And fear has no place in a marriage.”
She dares to gaze up at him, his face stoic as she notices the sparse hairs that coat his chin and upper lip and she wishes she could read what he’s thinking, like he can read her. Her eyes are dazzling up at him, thick and dark lashes fluttering beneath the thin coating of mascara on them.
Fuck, she’s beautiful.
“I’ve never not been afraid,” she admits and she isn’t sure why she’s telling him.
What if he uses the knowledge to prey on her? What if he laughs in her face? She doesn’t know why she tells him, but the bubbling in the pit of her stomach stops when she does. The confession burns something in the pit of Harry’s stomach and it’s only now that he notices the subtle discolouration beneath her left eye.
Bruises.
His thumb brushes over the soft skin and she shudders, tries to shy away but he keeps her head in place.
“He won’t hurt you anymore.”
Harry’s cocky smirk is gone as he peers down at her, a promising glint in his eyes and she’s never heard anything so tender and honest. She wants to believe him, that he won’t hurt her anymore. But she isn’t Harry’s wife yet, so Giovanni still has free reign over what he does to his daughter, no matter what Harry tries to promise.
Y/N nods her head and takes a step back. She avoids his gaze and Harry knows she doesn’t believe him. The wedding isn’t for another three years. Three years of being under Giovanni’s hold and dreading the day they’re bound for life.
He never asked for this marriage either, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to make his wife’s life a living hell. He’s seen the pain and torture Stefano inflicts on his Mother and in early years, on his sister too, and he’d rather be slaughtered than to inflict that same pain on another so undeserving.
He always promised himself that whether he marries for love or for the Famiglia, he’ll never lay a hand on his wife. Never do anything to hurt her.
Harry wishes to change many things when he becomes Capo, but what men do to their wives can never be one of them. Once married, the woman becomes the man’s possession, and not even a Capo dei Capi can decide what husbands do to their wives. Willing or not.
Y/N doesn’t say anything on the matter though, she knows how it works and she’s too couped up in her own thoughts. She doesn’t want to argue back, so she bites her tongue and remains silent.
She doesn’t want to be one of those submissive housewives that keeps a nice house and their husband's bed warm. She doesn't want to be silent like her Mother. But she has to be realistic, and in her unfortunate luck, she’ll never be able to marry for love. She'll never have the freedom of going anywhere without a guard, or have a job or go to college. She'll never make friends with women her age, or go clubbing and sleep around a little.
She’s his possession.
Her life was signed away the day she was born. Hell, Giovanni started seeking eligible husbands when she was still in the womb, it didn’t matter that they were already in their 20’s at the time. She’s considering herself lucky that Harry is only four years older than her.
She’s come to terms with it. Of never being able to make any decisions for herself. Of never having freedom. Of never feeling loved or safe. She’s spent her whole life in denial, hoping, praying that a fairytale Prince would crash into her life and sweep her off her feet, take her away from the mafia and the pain. She’s always known better, but maybe now it’s only just sunk in.
She glances back down at the golden cage on her finger. A beautiful ring to bind her to a lifetime of misery.
“Our fathers think it’s best if we arrive together.” His rugged voice cuts through the silence again.
Y/N clears her throat and nods her head, patting down the soft material of her dress and it clings to her body even tighter than before. Harry stifles a groan at the sight of her round hips and straightens his back. The longer he watches her, the less childlike she looks.
He offers his hand to her, palm outstretched and Y/N gawks at it like it’s from another planet. His fingers are adorned with intricately styled rings and he almost forgets she’s probably never held a man’s hand before.
He’ll be her first everything and the thought alone makes him twitch in excitement. She takes his warm hand with a hidden blush on her cheeks.
When they arrive at the doors, all eyes are on him and her. Hushed whispers echo through the ballroom, talk of her beauty and how he’s going to corrupt and break her. Harry smirks at the attention, he always has been one for the spotlight, but Y/N cowers into herself.
Her grip on his hand becomes tighter but she doesn’t notice it. Harry doesn’t say anything.
He tightens his hold on hers just enough for the reassurance she needs. Harry leads them both into the ballroom, soft music playing from the little string quartet in the corner and it looks like a fairytale wedding.
But it’s not.
It’s a forced engagement party for an arranged marriage that she doesn’t have a choice in. Harry had the choice of who he could marry, he wasn’t going to complain about the situation when she wasn’t given the same.
//
The party consists of uncomfortable dancing, heavy alcohol and Y/N and Harry’s families subtly digging at the other. She’s been tucked under his heavy arm for over an hour, a third glass of champagne in her hand and she bravely ignores the warning look on Giovanni’s face.
He told her before the party she was allowed two glasses at most. She knows what happens when she disobeys him, yet she finds herself finishing the third glass and reaching for a fourth.
Harry notices, too. He squeezes her hip each time she finishes a glass. It’s not a warning, nor a recommendation to stop. It’s a reminder of what Giovanni will do if she continues. It’s his way of trying to protect her while he can’t just yet. She ignores it, nonetheless. Maybe a good beating might make her feel a little more alive.
As his cousins leave their side, she lets out a deep breath and her shoulders relax with her exhale. Before Harry can say anything else, a broad figure is making its way over and he feels Y/N stiffen beside him again.
He reaches down for her hand, their fingers bumping and he loops his pinkie finger around hers. The touch doesn’t go unnoticed by the guest as he holds his hand out for Harry to shake.
“Congratulations on your engagement,” his gruff voice speaks and Y/N peers up through her lashes.
Dante Vitiello, The Boss.
People quaked in Harry’s presence, but in Dante’s? There were hardly any survivors. He’s a ruthless killer, initiated at the age of 11 after he killed a man with his bare hands. Y/N supposes that’s where he got his nickname from; Dante ‘The Vice’ Vitiello. She shudders under his gaze. She doesn’t know the man, only the stories that brave souls dared to chatter.
But Harry… Harry knows Dante. He trained with him when he was younger and they both thought themselves as friendly colleagues, a few stressed nights often sharing one another's company in Harry’s club, surrounded by a few women that they tended to pass around.
They had a bond, one Harry knew would always secure his position as future Capo and Dante always knew Harry would come through. Then there’s that one thing they both have in common; a mutual hatred for the fucked system their ancestors put in place; arranged marriages, the presentation of the sheets, disrespecting women.
Harry thanks him as Dante addresses Y/N, palm barely open as he offers a soft hold. She takes his hand and Dante brings it to his lips, kissing her knuckles. He can feel her body stiffen further but it’s tradition. He drops her hand gently and she curls closer to Harry again. Even in the mere hours of knowing him, she seeks comfort in his embrace.
Harry says nothing.
Dante doesn’t look back at her. Though she appears much older than just eighteen, he’s nearing thirty and the last thing he wants is to make her even more uncomfortable. Besides, he remembers how he felt when the last Boss kissed his fiancée’s hand and eyed her up like a piece of meat, all those years ago.
“I’m sure Stefano and Giovanni will talk to you later about the arrangement but I’d like to let you know in advance,” Dante begins.
His accent is much thicker since the last time Harry saw him. He’s a typical Italian man. Tall and broad, dark hair, structured face and a well-maintained stubble.
“The wedding is set for October 16th…” he turns to Y/N, “... two weeks after your twenty-first birthday. The wedding will be here, again, and after the formalities and traditions, the next day you’ll both go back to New York.” All three wince at the sugar-coated mention of the bloody sheets but Y/N is the only one that makes it known.
She zones out after that, too caught in her own thoughts. Harry’s attractive, undeniably, but it doesn’t make the idea of having to sleep with him on their wedding night any easier.
Maybe if he was a family friend that she grew up with and was forced to marry, it wouldn’t be so bad. She’d have that bond of trust and familiarity with him, but that’s not the case. She doesn’t know him, therefore she can’t trust him. Every man in her life has beaten and abused her. Every man apart from Gomez.
Her eyes flutter across the hall in search of him. Now that she’s thought of him, she doesn’t remember seeing him since he came with her to the Saccaro Mansion. She searches and searches until she finds him standing off to the side, hands folded in front of him.
His dark blond hair is swept back in a formal quiff and his suit is tight on his body. Y/N doesn’t shudder when she looks at him, instead, she finds a sense of relief and safety wash over her.
Antonio Gomez has been by her side since she was born. He was Giovanni’s right-hand man when he first became Capo and was trusted with the job of protecting his little baby girl when she was born.
Gomez was only twenty when he was trusted with her life and had vowed to himself to always protect her. She still remembers the first time Giovanni hit her. She was five and had dropped her water on the rug.
She remembers the sting of her Father’s hand across her chubby face and the way Gomez ran for him, pinned him against the wall. But she remembers the sound of Giovanni’s gun exploding as he put a bullet in Gomez’ thigh as a warning. He never protected Y/N from him again, despite how much he wanted to.
“Y/N?” she hears Harry’s drawled voice call her name and she snaps her eyes away from her guard and back up to her fiancée.
“I need to speak with my Father. Would you like to come or join your family?” he asks her quietly and she reaches up to scratch at the bridge of her nose, a nervous habit, when she realises their pinkies are still linked.
He lets go and she clears her throat, taking a small step back and patting down the dress that hasn’t given her the confidence she hoped it would.
“Uh, I’ll go see Maria,” she mumbles with pursed lips and awkwardly walks past him, not standing around long enough for him to reach down and kiss her cheek in a polite manner.
Instead, he watches her walk away to her gushing, pink-haired cousin who has definitely drunk at least two bottles of champagne in the past hour. He waits until Y/N reaches her and he sees her shoulders relax, then a hand sits on his and he turns, his Father already by his side.
“She’s a real beauty, Harry. Don’t know how you can wait another three years for your wedding day.” Stefano’s perverted voice leaks through his ears.
Harry tries not to grimace or put a bullet in his leg for his comment. “I like my women with consent,” he mumbles, eyes back on her curved frame as she nervously wrings her hands while listening to Maria.
Stefano barks out a laugh, like not wanting to rape someone is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Suit yourself.”
He thinks that’ll be the end of it, that no more will be said about his fiancée, but Mike joins them both, eyes alert and posture sturdy. He reaches Harry and stands beside him, hands folded across his chest.
“Pretty little thing you got over there,” he remarks teasingly, though his voice holds no threat. He’s just stating facts but it still doesn’t sit well with Harry.
Mike has been his guard for three years now, and was one of Stefano’s soldiers beforehand. Harry and Mike have always been close, always shared too much between them both and Harry’s right-hand man and best friend, Jeff.
The three of them often spend their nights at the club, fucked between six or seven girls with strobe lights flashing. It’s a much more regular occurrence than when Harry does it with Dante.
He supposes there won’t be any more of that when he’s married.
He hums. Y/N’s eyes find him as she listens to something Maria says. She holds his gaze but something is off. Her body is rigid as she stands straight but her shoulders are slumped. Harry stares at her for another moment, eyes squinted when he notices hers are void of emotion.
She stares at him, like he’s not even there. Her face is blank, an expression that his soldiers have taken years to master. Harry gulps down something he doesn’t understand.
He hopes he hasn’t already broken her.
//
When the evening is over and the guests have left, Y/N and Harry are standing idly by the exit. Their separate cars are waiting for them as they say their goodbyes, families watching from their cars. She hasn’t relaxed much as the night progressed and now that she’s standing back by his side, her shoulders are stiff again and there’s a lump in her throat.
She knows she won’t be seeing him for another three years, that this is a temporary goodbye. Her heart begins to thump. Is he going to kiss her? Is he allowed? They’re not married yet but they will be.
Harry senses her quarrel and reaches for her hand, pulling out a little flip phone from his inner jacket pocket and turns her palm upright, sitting it in her hand. Y/N frowns, fingers closing around the old device and she looks up at him with pinched brows and an upturned lip.
“Um… what…” she doesn’t quite know what to say, doesn’t know how to ask him why he’s giving her a brick burner phone.
Harry reaches for her other hand and brings it over the phone, covering it and holding her hands in his. “My number’s in there and so is Mikey’s in case ya can’t reach me. I don’t know if your Father allows you t’have one, but now you do,” he explains briefly.
She doesn’t tell Harry that she’s never been allowed one, that she’ll no doubt get a black eye and a bloody lip for hiding it from Giovanni.
Instead, her tongue swipes across her lower lip and she nods. “Thank you.”
She isn’t sure what she’s thanking him for? It’s an old burner phone with two numbers on it. She can’t access the internet, can’t play games. No doubt all other numbers are blocked and she’ll only be able to call him and his guard, but she still feels a sense of relief? Maybe because he gave her that little bit of freedom… could it even be considered that?
“If he lays a hand on you in these next three years, I want you to promise you’ll tell me. I don’t care what time it is, you tell me.” His face is stoic, stern and set jaw.
She can see the seriousness in his eyes and she nods, like she’s hypnotised by the way his concern and worry flitters in his eyes. Maybe she is, she’s never seen that look directed to her before, at least not for a very long time.
“I promise,” Y/N swears, her eyes on his, and for a moment, she forgets the whole arrangement, that he’s going to be her husband for the rest of her life.
Because for that fleeting second, she feels like a shy girl in front of a handsome man that makes her heart flutter. For a blink of an eye, she feels normal as he gazes down at her with a look she can’t point. But that’s all it is. A moment and a look.
He doesn’t expect her to actually tell him, not when he can tell how embarrassed she feels when it’s mentioned. So when he’s on the private jet back to New York that night and he gets a text, his heart sinks to his feet. He’d left her for three hours and Giovanni had his grubby hands on her already, punishing her for something she didn’t tell him.
From: Y/N
What was it that you said? That he wouldn’t hurt me anymore?
He calls her immediately, but before the first ring can sound through his ear, the call is ended. His grip on the phone tightens and it takes everything in him not to throw it across the fucking plane. He can’t afford Stefano pressuring him about what’s wrong, he can’t have him knowing that he wants to protect Y/N. He can’t show that weakness.
Mike sits beside him, clicking his tongue as Jeff sits across from them. No one says anything, they don’t need to. Harry always took pride in his stoic expressions in times of agitation or fear, but the boys know him better than that.
They grew with him, watched him master that monstrous cold exterior that refuses to falter when he was beaten and tortured. Harry has been forced to bite his tongue in worse scenarios, so why is something so minuscule so difficult for him?
“This isn’t going to end well. You’ve met her once and you’re getting attached,” Mike says quietly, lips barely moving so as to not attract Stefano’s attention while he talks on the phone to Harry’s Mother, no doubt scolding Anne for something he did wrong.
Harry’s knee is bouncing, a nervous tick he hasn’t shown in years. He’s pissed that Stefano wouldn’t allow Anne and Gemma to the engagement party, Harry wanted his mother and sister to meet his fiancée, needed that support, even if he would never admit that out loud.
Jeff reaches over and kicks Harry’s ankle, stopping the jitters and he gnaws at his inner cheek, nostrils flaring and gently shaking his head.
“Not getting attached, Mikey. Just don’t like the idea of her Father laying a hand on her,” he seethes quietly through gritted teeth and Jeff squints.
He’s known Harry his entire life, knows how he feels about the lack of respect women receive in mafia families, how much he fucking loves his Mum and Gemma. And he knows he’s never seen Harry this pissed over some girl before, much less some girl he’s met once and hasn’t even touched.
Nothing else is said on the matter and in the following sixteen months, he doesn’t hear from her. He calls often and most nights the call ends before it rings, and others, all it does is dial in his ears.
He knows she’s kept the phone on, that she’s been reading the two-weekly check-in texts that he makes. He can see every call she makes and texts she sends, but she doesn’t send or receive any. Only from him.
He’s found it difficult. He’s never believed in affairs or homewrecking, call him old fashioned, and being in an engagement to a woman he doesn’t know or love has taken its toll. He knew he’d never be able to marry for love, that he would have had to marry for the Famiglia, for power and status. And he truly thought he’d have no problem in remaining faithful to his future wife, that whether they grew to love each other or not, she would be able to quench his thirst.
But Harry didn’t expect to have to wait three years after getting engaged and for his fiancée to be only just legal when they first met. To him, a four-year age gap is nothing, but remembering she’s now just turned nineteen and he’s almost twenty-three, he feels a bit funny about the whole situation.
He’s cut down on his fucks of the week. No more endless nights at the club with Mike and Jeff, fucking six or seven of the dancers between them. He’s been re-acquainted with his hand and on the odd occasion that it isn’t enough, he’s found himself in one of the private rooms in the back of the bar with Lily, one of his favourite dancers and fucks, just like tonight.
It’s been a long day of calls and fights and bullets and blood, and he needed to fuck his frustrations out somewhere. It’s no surprise to him when he comes much sooner than usual, but Lily doesn’t seem to be complaining.
Harry always had a knack to make her cum long before he did. She’s panting and giggling, pushing those bleach blonde locks from her face as she readjusts her outfit and spins on her heels, dazed eyes and drunken smile.
Harry doesn’t need to look at her to know. She watches him tug off the condom and shove his softening, yet still impressive length back in his pants with a smirk, bottom lip caught between her teeth as he fixes his suit to a more presentable standard.
It’s when he’s tucking his shirt in that she notices the silver band around his ring finger and she’s reminded he’s engaged. Lily isn’t stupid, she’s been in the business long enough to know it’s an arranged one.
“You get married in a few months, right? Wonder if she’ll be able to satisfy you like I can… though you are here now, so I suppose she can’t,” she snickers, eyes dark like she thinks Harry is about to laugh and agree, like he’s pleased with his infidelity.
He isn’t. His eyes darken and not in the way she wants them to, bile rising to his throat. He’ll be damned if he lets anyone talk about his fiancée like that.
“Probably not, I hear she’s a little virgin anyway. But hey, maybe her Dad broke her in for y-”
Her back is smashing against the wall, air knocked out of her before she can finish her sentence. Harry’s got his ring-clad fingers gripping her chin and jaw, nose pressed to hers and he’s seething.
“You better watch your fucking mouth, Lily. Just because we fuck, doesn’t mean you can get away with shit. Have a little respect, or I won’t go so easy on your old man next week when he doesn’t have my fuckin’ money.”
He doesn’t stand around long enough to see the fear in her eyes grow. Instead, he lets go, grabs his gun and leaves the girl standing in shock, silent tears rolling down her rosy cheeks and a trembling jaw.
Harry’s never laid a forceful hand on a woman until now and he thought he’d hate himself for it, but right now, all he can think about is Y/N. Of the disgusting things Lily said.
He texts her when he gets to his car, his usual ‘just checking in, how are things?’ and he grows impatient when she doesn’t respond immediately. But she never responds immediately; usually, she never responds at all. He’s speeding his way back to the penthouse, knuckles white as he grips the wheel and it only takes the usual 20-minute-drive just six.
By the time he’s storming into the elevator and punching in the security code to get to his floor, his phone is vibrating in his pocket and he fishes it out quickly, shoulders tensing when he sees Maria’s name after he made it very clear to only contact him if it was an emergency for Y/N. He unlocks the phone and reads over the message.
From: Maria
He found the phone.
Harry’s blood runs cold, sweat dotting at his hairline and for a second, he feels an unfamiliar lump climb up his throat. All he sees is red and his chest is heaving. He hasn’t felt this angry in a long time, so rageful. Harry shakes his head, teeth gritted and jaw set hard. How fucking stupid does Giovanni think he is that Harry wouldn’t find out? That he wouldn’t have given another phone to Maria in case something like this happened? How fucking brave is he, laying a hand on something that belongs to Harry? How fucking dare he.
Harry’s dialling numbers before his mind can even catch up to his action and after the first three rings sound through his ears, he lets out a growl and seethes through his teeth.
“Move the wedding forward. I want her with me now.”
//
It feels like déjà vu, standing in front of the same curved mirror with her mother standing behind her, pulling the same distasteful expression.
The flowers decorating the bride’s suit are the same; beige carnation bouquets with baby’s breath scattered sparsely between. The same, stupid classical music plays from the same scratched record, and the same golden cage is still wrapped tight around her ring finger.
The only thing that’s changed is her.
She’s grown a few inches taller and she’s filled out nicely. Her hips have rounded well and her breasts are full and perky. The chubby cheeks left sometime six months ago and her facial structure is strong and defined.
Her eyes are different now, not the same as they were two years ago, and she’s cut most of her hair. It sits just below her shoulders now, gappy bangs long across her forehead.
She got Maria to cut it on her birthday.
Gaia is struggling behind her daughter, lacing the back bodice of her wedding dress. It’s pretty—gorgeous, actually; a long mesh train with embroidered roses and petals across the hem of it.
A perfect fit across the top, a generous amount of suitable cleavage and as it meets her hips, the embroidery fades and the dress gently puffs out, accentuating her curves just a little more.
She feels pretty, like a Princess, but she silently reminds herself this isn’t a fairytale wedding, no matter how badly she wishes it was. Y/N watches herself in the mirror, short hair curled and pinned perfectly, wavy bangs framing her face and she looks ethereal.
She doesn’t have a black eye beneath the makeup like last time, nor does she have a busted lip.
Gaia tugs at the back of the dress again.
“Succhialo, figlia,” she scolds and Y/N rolls her eyes but she sucks her stomach in even more, nonetheless.
The last few months leading up to the wedding have been gruelling, to say the least. Y/N has been poked and prodded by several tailors and designers and she’ll be happy once this whole thing is over with.
She’s also had time to think. With Harry’s insistent texts and sporadic calls, she’s felt a little more at ease about the situation, like she was starting to get to know him a little better through the blank messages.
But as she stands in front of the mirror again, her nerves are ten times bigger than two years ago.
Giovanni only told her three months ago that the wedding was being moved forward—that she’ll be a married woman before her both her 20th and 21st birthday.
She didn’t question it, not when by the looks of his face, it definitely wasn’t his idea and he didn’t have much of a say in the matter.
When she found out, a part of her was thankful, like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders because Giovanni wouldn’t be able to hurt her anymore. He hasn’t laid a hand on her since the night he found the burner phone.
She stupidly left it on the bed while she showered and Harry had texted her. She didn’t hear the message alert, nor her Father waiting for her in her room.
She did, however, know about the mistake she made when she left the bathroom in a towel and his fist kissed her cheek in a brisk greeting.
A lump rises in her throat at the memory. It didn’t stop there, why would it. She cried herself to sleep that night and every night after for three weeks.
She was unrecognisable for twelve days, bloody and bruised and banned from leaving the house. She tried to end it all that night, after he left her sobbing on her floor, naked and vulnerable.
Maria had stopped her just in time, snuck into her bedroom through the window and held her until she passed out.
She hasn’t looked her parents in the eye since. Gaia had stood by and watched it all, face stoic and void of emotion. Bruno ignored her screams of terror and begs of mercy.
And Gomez?
Gomez was shot in the foot for trying to intervene. She’s only had one thing giving her the will to power through this, to marry a monster.
Fear has no place in a marriage.
Maybe this arrangement will be her escape.
Y/N zones out as Gaia finishes lacing the back of her dress, too busy trying to calm the erratic thumping in her chest and will the pooling tears away. She blindly follows her mother out of the suite and down the stairs, holding her dress gently bunched in her hands.
It’s like everything moves in slow motion and all sounds are white noise. She can hear her heart thumping against her rib cage, can feel the sweat growing between her fingers, the lump forming in her throat as she notices Giovanni waiting for her outside of the chapel doors.
She stands behind him silently, not daring to make eye contact as Gaia takes a side entrance to join the rest of the guests.
They wait, Giovanni watching his daughter with cautious eyes. She’s too busy staring at the dark oak doors, knowing her future is waiting on the other side, another ring to bind her angelic soul to his tainted one.
Y/N feels her eyes stinging with burning tears as Giovanni loops his arm around hers and the double doors slowly open.
“You look beautiful, figlia,” he tells her through a strained whisper, like the words any normal father would shower his daughter with were burning his lungs.
The lump swells back in her throat. Of all her eighteen years of life, he’s never once said something so fatherly.
She can feel her chest aching, the idea that maybe seeing his little girl marry a stranger is hurting his heart like it’s hurting hers, but as she peers up at him for the first time in months, she sees a smile pulling on his lips.
His heart isn’t hurting. He’s just happy to get a power boost.
Y/N doesn’t pay attention to the piano ballad that begins to play softly as her father guides her through the arch of the chapel. She doesn’t acknowledge her family and his standing from their seats and cooing at the gorgeous young woman she’s turned into.
She stares at her feet as they take their first step into purgatory, before her eyes find the devil.
Harry freezes from his view at the altar. Clad in a slick red suit with ungodly curls, his mouth runs dry and knees almost buckle.
She’s fucking gorgeous.
He can feel his heart thumping in his chest as she gets closer, can feel the anger bubble in his blood at the sight of Giovanni’s arm looped around hers.
His hands are tensed into tight fists in front of him, jaw ticking and teeth gritted. But then he glances back at his bride and his heart skips a pulse.
She doesn’t have a veil over her head and he can see just how gorgeous she’s become. He hasn’t seen her in two years and now he feels speechless.
She dodges his gaze as her father kisses her cheek briskly, leaving her to walk the little step of the platform and stand before their families.
She turns to Harry, hands trembling as she picks at her nails. His gaze wavers from her face, drinking her in and as he eyes her generous chest, he notices the little green emerald that sits across her neck.
The emerald necklace he gifted her for her birthday two weeks ago.
Neither of them pay attention to the priest as she looks up at him through fluttering lashes. He’s grown even more attractive in the past two years and it’s intimidating.
She feels small under his soft gaze, but not unsafe. Maybe she just feels uncomfortable knowing what’s to come between them, what will be expected of her as his new wife.
Over his shoulder, Bruno stands tall with a cocky smirk and shimmering eyes. He doesn’t watch his baby sister be sold off to a killer. Instead, his eyes are on a blonde from Harry’s family, a dirty smirk on his lips.
Mike stands behind him, stuck out like a sore thumb. The only redhead in the entire chapel yet he fits right in.
It’s Mike behind them both that catches Y/N’s attention. He’s watching her closely, just like Gomez has for years but there’s something off in the way he observes her; like he’s memorising every tick and nerve in her body.
Her eyes land back on Harry but he’s been watching her the entire time. He doesn’t need to look over her shoulder to know his Mother is gleaming and sister picking her nails in boredom. He doesn’t need to look to know how apprehensive Maria is.
Neither of them can focus on what the official says. Y/N doesn’t dare look anywhere besides his face, trying to gauge his reaction, his mood.
He’s stoic as ever but a hint of a smirk tugs at the deep corners of his pink lips and his eyes are twinkling with a thrill of the unknown.
Hers are swimming in tears.
She tries to master his same expression, to prove she feels emptiness––but while her heart thumps shallowly in her chest, her eyes sting with the realisation that this is the end.
“You may now say your vows.”
The words drum through her ears and Harry nods, taking her hands in his open palms. Neither of them look away and Harry knows his Mother is trying to bite back a cry.
She always wanted her boy to marry for love, not for this.
Their official holds a small cream cushion, two pretty bands sitting on the velvet and Harry reaches for Y/N’s, lining it with her ring finger.
“With this ring, I take thee to be my lawfully wedded wife. I promise to love and care, and cherish every inch of your body and soul. I promise to protect and provide and stand by your side through light and dark. I promise my soul and heart to you, to our future children. I promise to love you until my final breath.”
Y/N feels a piece of her heart break as he slides the ring down her finger, greeting the engagement and promising their unprecedented future.
Her facade doesn’t falter and her mind draws blank.
She doesn’t think about her childhood, when Bruno used to carry her around the house on his back, when she and Maria painted each other's nails, when Gaia taught her Italian for the first time, or when Giovanni taught her how to tie her shoes.
Y/N’s mind rolls blank, like the person she was before is dead. Like she’s just been rebirthed into another life.
She reaches for the cushion and takes the band between her fingers, crowning it over Harry’s first knuckle as she looks back up at him.
An arranged marriage takes two, but she knows she’s in this alone.
“With this ring, I take thee to be my lawfully wedded husband. To have and to hold, to love and support. I promise to stand by your side through the dark and the light. I offer my heart and soul, my body and mind. I promise to be eternally yours, until my final breath.”
And as she slides the ring past his second knuckle and the official pronounces them man and wife, the shaking begins.
Her body screams, igniting in a blazing fire, eyes frantic in terror and uncertainty.
But Harry gently cups his palms around her soft cheeks and with eyes on her, he kneels just enough to press his soft lips to her full ones and the uncomfortable burning eases into a welcoming warmth.
Her screams are silenced as his kiss offers a sense of comfort, like a mother and child’s first touch.
Y/N Saccaro dies a coward, but Y/N Styles-Delluci is born a survivor.
//
When they stand outside the chapel, she doesn’t have time to think about anything. She gripped his hand tightly as he led her down the aisle, ignoring the cheers of praise and excitement for the two.
They stand in the little entryway, side by side with Gomez a few steps to her side and Mike a few steps to Harry’s.
Giovanni and Gaia are the first to follow the newlyweds into the entryway, shaking Harry’s hand before moving along a few steps to shake Y/N’s.
Her parents look at her like she’s a stranger, no pained smiles or familiarity in their eyes. They move along as quickly as they came and Maria follows, her Father close behind.
She shakes Harry’s hand timidly before moving to her cousin, eyes watering and chin trembling.
Y/N doesn’t hesitate to pull her into a quick embrace, arms strong around one another and Y/N can feel her cousin’s heart thumping against her chest.
Romero is who pulls them both apart, offering his niece a firm handshake before a tight clasp on Maria’s shoulder pushes her away from the couple.
Y/N’s eyes are glued to them, wild in fear of what will happen to her best friend now she won’t be home to protect and comfort her.
Harry reaches for her hand, notices her worry and loops his pinky around hers, squeezing just enough to get her attention. When she turns back to him, she blinks back tears and her blurry vision settles on three bodies that stand by Harry’s side.
Stefano stands in front of the two women, shaking his son's hand with a proud smirk before he moves along to his daughter-in-law, reaching for her hand and kissing her knuckles. There’s a dirty smirk on his lips and Y/N squeezes Harry’s finger.
“Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re a Delluci now,” he grins.
She slips her hand from his hold and takes a tentative step closer to Harry’s side.
“Styles-Delluci,” Harry corrects him, jaw set and eyes gleaming a fire he’s desperate to burn.
Stefano grits his teeth behind closed lips and walks on, allowing Y/N to take a brief breath of relief before she’s quickly introduced to the rest of his immediate family.
Anne stands in front of the girl, eyes regarding her with concern and kindness. In a cream dress, she reaches for both of Y/N’s hands and smiles kindly at the young woman.
“My name is Anne, I’m Harry’s Mum,” she introduces herself.
Y/N looks back to her mother-in-law; a beautiful woman with kind eyes and a welcoming smile. Every inch of her screams maternal natures, something she’s lacked all her life.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she replies politely, allowing Anne to pull her into a cautious embrace, close enough to ensure warmth, but far enough to not warrant fear.
She squeezes her softly, lips finding her ear.
“You’re safe with him, I promise,” Anne swears and Y/N can do nothing but nod.
When they pull away, Gemma stands by her mother with a gleaming smile and she sticks her hand out for her sister-in-law to shake.
“I’m Gemma, Harry’s little sister… and you're really pretty,” Gemma grins through chubby cheeks, a silent squeal of excitement.
She doesn’t understand the full extent of the marriage, Harry and Anne have always tried to shield the fifteen-year-old from the harsh truths of the world she was born into.
Y/N’s eyes widen and a shy smile tugs at the corners of her pink painted lips. She can feel her heart flutter in her chest and she reaches to shake Gemma’s hand softly.
Part of her nerves seems to falter around the Delluci women and Y/N misses the way Harry watches the exchange with thin lips but sparkling eyes.
“It’s nice to meet you, Gemma. And you’re very pretty, too,” Y/N tells the young girl, a soft smile on her lips and the youngest Delluci blushes under her gaze, looping her arm around her mothers.
Harry reaches down slightly, bending to his mother’s level and pressing a kiss to her temple before turning to his sister to set his lips to the top of her head.
“We’ll see you both in there,” he tells them.
Y/N watches with curious eyes, can’t take her gaze off him as he stands by her side and their fingers brush again. This time, neither of them link their pinkies.
“They’re nice,” she finally speaks, gaze fluttering to the ground when Harry cranes his neck to look at her.
He hums with a small nod.
He doesn’t say anything else as the rest of the hundreds of family and friends filter their way through the little entrance, shaking the hands of the couple and offering words of congratulations to Harry.
Between great uncles and underbosses, Dante greets the newlyweds again. This time, he isn’t alone. There’s a gorgeous blonde on his arm, tucked in his side with a loving smile as she stares up at The Boss.
“Harry, Y/N, congratulations,” he shakes Harry’s hand first then reaches for Y/N.
He clasps another hand over her knuckles and nods politely. The blonde hugs Harry as he thanks her for coming and she turns Y/N, a bright smile on her lips.
“You make such a beautiful bride!” she gushes. “My name's Daigle, I’m Dante’s wife.”
Y/N’s eyes widen as she’s pulled into a warm embrace and another bundle of relief is whispered in her ear.
“You got lucky with Harry.”
When she pulls away, Y/N’s eyes are swimming with tears of relief and gratitude. The couple congratulates them again as they make their way toward the banquet hall.
As Y/N’s about to say something to her husband, to tell him she didn’t know Dante had a wife, his hand sits at the bottom of her back and pulls her to his side, effectively cutting her off before she can even start.
“Congratulations my boy, what an impressive little bride you’ve got yourself,” a dark voice rattles through her ears and Y/N feels herself coil into Harry’s side.
The man is a little shorter than her husband, dark hair on his balding scalp and a slight podge to his lower stomach. He looks at the young bride with a sickening grin that awakens something in the pit of her stomach.
This is what she’s used to.
The lingering looks from pervy uncles and passers-by. Being subjected to nothing but a pretty face, even since she was young.
“Uncle Salvatore,” Harry greets through pursed lips and gritted teeth.
Salvatore’s eyes are glued to Y/N’s chest and Harry’s blood is boiling, knows he’s going red in the face and the vein in his neck is no doubt ready to pop.
Salvatore reaches for Y/N’s hand and kisses her knuckles, gazing up at her with a creepy stare but it doesn’t make her squirm in discomfort. This is the look she’s grown accustomed to over the years.
She’s mastered her poker face when old men hit on her, touch her. For Y/N, this is the norm. What she isn’t used to and what does make her curl into Harry’s side, is Salvatore’s son.
“Nino Delluci…” he begins, eyes wonton as they reach the bride, “... And you are a sight for sore eyes. What in Hell are you doing with my cousin?”
She doesn’t break eye contact when he smirks down at her with hungry eyes, gnawing on his bottom lip. She doesn’t break eye contact when he reaches for her hand and kisses her knuckles.
Twice.
She only breaks eye contact when he hums something incoherent along the lines of ‘I’d love to make you bleed’ under his breath, while taking her in.
Harry’s grip on his wife’s side tightens.
“Can we go inside now?” she asks softly, a hand reaching up to rest on his chest.
Harry squares his shoulders, eyes firm on his cousin which only encourages Nino’s smug face. She doesn’t notice the small boy that gazes up at her with a lovestruck smile from Nino’s side, nor does she notice Salvatore smirking grimly by the door.
“So soon, baby? Don’t you wanna get to know your new family a little better?” Nino taunts, taking a step toward her but Harry’s quicker.
He gently nudges Y/N behind his towering frame and squares up to Nino, nostrils flared.
“Back the fuck off, Nino.” Harry’s jaw is locked in place, lips pursed.
His cousin chuckles to himself, hands up in surrender.
Gomez and Mike remain still in their positions. They know not to interfere unless it’s completely necessary. Nino walks away, the young boy following as Salvatore holds the door open for them.
Harry doesn’t let his posture fall as they walk through the door, and Y/N lets out a shaky breath, skin breaking out in goosebumps as she rolls her shoulders and twists her neck.
Harry turns back to her, eyes cautious as he tilts his head to get a better look. He knows Nino shook her up, that she’s used to the unwanted attention from older men, but never from men so close to her age.
But what he doesn’t realise is while Y/N heard him raise his voice, her mind was sent into turmoil. Will he shout at her like that? Should she feel safe because she knows he can protect her? Would he use that same tone with her if she doesn’t do what he wants?
“Your cousin’s a little forward,” she coughs out nervously, shaking her head to rid the thoughts. Harry’s heart ticks and he scoffs a laugh.
“My cousin’s a cunt,” he corrects her.
Y/N’s eyes widen as she stares up at him, innocence swimming in her features. Harry forgets again that she’s been raised a young lady, that she’s never been around much potty mouth, and he realises just how much he’s going to corrupt her in this marriage.
As much as Harry wants to protect his wife, he won’t pretend to be someone he isn’t for the sake of an arranged marriage. His potty mouth is just one of the things she’ll have to get used to.
“Stay away from Nino. You may think I’m a monster, but I have my morals. Nino is merciless and evil. He will do whatever he wants and take whatever he pleases. No matter the consequences,” he warns her, his voice timid.
Y/N doesn’t say anything. She thinks her father is the same, so what could someone two decades younger do to scare her?
She listens, though; takes what he said into consideration. Y/N doesn’t have any desire to talk to Nino ever again.
//
Her fork has scraped across her full plate for almost forty minutes now. She’s not hungry, not even in the slightest.
Harry’s been watching her, peering over to his side and often gently nudging his elbow into her arm, nodding to the plate which only makes her shoulders slump.
Y/N hasn’t listened to any of the speeches from their families, nor has she acknowledged much of what Harry’s said to her all evening.
But Harry has hardly looked away.
He isn’t angry, he couldn’t be. But she’s only eaten a few mouthfuls of the meat and she’s almost drunk her body weight in champagne and rosé. He’s a little worried. Her eyes have been drooping for over fifteen minutes and her vibrant skin looks sickly grey.
The last thing he wants is for her to embarrass them both and throw up all over the head table.
“The potatoes are good,” he murmurs slowly in her ear.
She slowly turns her head to look at him, blinking slowly. She cranes her neck and purses her lips together. He’s handsome, that much she can’t deny, and in her hazy, drunken state, she wonders what her lips would feel like on hers again.
He is her husband now, surely she could just… reach up… connect their lips…
“And now for the first dance!” Y/N sinks back a little more in her chair and she suddenly feels sick for even considering kissing him again.
He’s dangerous and he’s a monster.
He doesn’t love you, he doesn’t care for you, Y/N, stop this!
Harry raises from his seat as all eyes find the couple.. He’s danced drunkenly with his Mother enough times to know how to cover up her alcohol intolerance.
She’s tucked in his side, their fingers intertwined as he guides them both to the dancefloor. The lights are dim, a twinkle from the fairy lights that are wrapped around wooden beams and looped across curtains illuminating the stuffy room.
With her hand in his, he raises it above her head and gently nudges her hip to spin beneath his arm. She falls gently into his chest with a soft ‘oof’ and Harry wraps his arms around her.
Y/N’s head rests against his hard pecs as he slowly begins to dance with her. She can’t keep up, though, the heels are too high in her drunken state and her knees start to buckle.
She feels her cheeks warm in embarrassment and she knows all eyes are on them. Harry hears her whine softly in his chest and with one arm around her waist, he gently lifts her so her feet sit on his.
He guides her arms around his neck, slowly stepping in a slow dance and she dares to peek up at him, innocent eyes and swollen lips. Harry cranes his neck down to meet her gaze, and those gorgeous eyes are swimming with threatening tears.
He doesn’t understand that she’s grateful for something as little as saving her from embarrassment. He doesn’t understand that she can’t understand her own thoughts.
Neither of them pay attention to the beautiful ballad that plays through the hall, nor do they appreciate the piano or string quartet that carries their dance.
Instead, she stares at him like it’ll be the last time she ever sees his handsome face, and he watches her with wonder and curiosity while his heart begs his mind not to break her like he knows he inevitably will.
For a fleeting moment, all of her doubts slip from her mind. She lets herself believe that he will protect her from pain and anguish, that he will love and cherish her, that she will be able to trust him for the rest of her life.
For a fleeting moment, she forgets again that this isn’t a marriage bound by love, but one bound by honour and duty.
Then the music stops and Salvatore takes a step forward, raising a half-empty glass in the air to gain the attention of the other guests.
“You wed her, now bed her!”
And just like that, the entirety of the male wedding party is chanting those same words. The pair pull apart and Y/N’s wide eyes are scanning the crowd for an escape. She knows she can’t run but fuck, does she want to.
“Wed her, now bed her! Wed her, now bed her!”
“Make a masterpiece on those sheets for us, Harry.”
“Make your wife bleed!”
“Wed her, now bed her!”
Her frantic eyes find those of her mothers, but Gaia looks away, head tilted and chin up like she can’t bear the thought of looking in her daughter's desperate eyes. Y/N begins to panic, chest rising and falling in terror and she finds Maria.
Her cousin stares at her in shock, jaw slack and she tries to run for her, to pull her away from Harry but Mike stands in her way, blocking her from Y/N and ultimately escorting her out of the hall.
Gomez watches, swallowing the bile that crawls up his throat. He knew this day would come, that one day Y/N would be married off and forced into a new life she never agreed to.
He just hoped it wouldn’t hurt so much watching it happen. With a tentative hand on her back, Harry leads Y/N out of the hall. The party follows, cheering them on as she holds her dress and wanders up the thick spiral stairs.
Their room is at the very far end of the hall, away from all the others where they can’t be disturbed… or heard.
Her heart thumps sporadically and the alcohol feels like it’s worn off, and she’s far too aware of what’s supposed to happen now.
Because now, she has to give herself to him. Every inch and fibre of her entire being is about to be his, by choice or not, he’s going to take it all.
He closes the door behind them as they wander in and the frantic terror begins, surges of confidence smacking her.
Harry turns to face her, face stoic as ever and she stumbles over her feet, hands reaching out to steady herself and she shoves at his chest. Harry can smell the alcohol on her breath. He doesn’t know if it’s the first or third bottle of champagne.
He cocks a brow at her bravery and she glares up at him through droopy eyes.
“Just because I’m a woman, doesn’t mean I’ll bow down to your every order.” She slurs, almost losing her footing.
Harry holds her up by her elbow.
He’s shocked by her sudden change in attitude and he has to bite back a laugh. Was this the real Y/N breaking through?
“Is that so?”
There’s an amused grin on his lips. He finds it fucking hilarious. He’s never been turned down by a woman before, but it’s too amusing to watch her in her drunken state for him to take her refusal as a punch to his ever-growing ego.
He was never going to take advantage of her in such a vulnerable state. Maybe that’s why he’s so amused by the situation.
Y/N stumbles again.
“If you so much as force yourself on me tonight, I’ll make your life a living hell.”
It’s an empty threat, Harry’s sure of it. He squints his eyes at his wife, but she doesn’t show any signs that she’s unsure of her own words. He thinks the seriousness of the situation is starting to sober her up and she’s brave, too brave.
“Think you’re forgetting who the Capo is here, princess.” He warns.
She holds her glare as he dips his head closer to her face. He expects her to look away, to cower under his gaze like every other woman, but she doesn’t. She holds her chin high.
“You’re not Capo yet. But when you are, I will make deals impossible, I will run and believe me, I can run. I will burn you and your stupid Famiglia.”
Something flashes in his eyes, and it’s not amusement. He no longer finds her insolence funny. It’s anger. Anger that she thinks she can talk to him like that and get away with it.
But he’s conflicted. He knows she’s scared, that she’s shaking as she grits her teeth and stares in defiance.
“Then I’ll just have to torture you like all the other traitors.”
Lies. Big fat lies.
He’d never lay a hand on a woman, traitor or not. But his blood still boils at Y/N’s stubbornness. He never intended on taking what is rightfully his without her permission.
Y/N coils in disgust, a sardonic laugh slipping past her lips. Her sad smile falls as quickly as it had appeared, and she’s back to looking stoic.
“Do it, I dare you. Because I’ll just keep rebelling. I’ll publicly humiliate us both, just to see you fall.” She threatens, and Harry wants to believe it’s an empty one.
He doesn’t think he’d ever go against his own morals, but she’s beginning to wear his patience thin, not that he’s ever had much of it.
“Then I’ll put a fucking bullet through your skull.” Another fucking lie.
She steps closer, alcohol thick on her breath but she looks as sober as the day they first met.
“Baby, I’ll be pulling the trigger. My life ended the day I was born. Killing me would do us both a favour. You might as well just get it over with.”
Harry regards the girl for a moment as her voice breaks. He tries to read her, to get a glint of any flicker of emotion he can. But there’s nothing. Plain emptiness. He knows that resolve would fall under the touch of a blade or pliers pulling off her painted fingernails.
The thought of someone even touching a hair on her perfect head sends fury through his veins.
He doesn’t notice just how angry the thought makes him until the metallic taste of blood lingers on his tongue, a taste all too familiar. He’s bit into his lip.
“Forget what I said on your birthday. Fear has every place in a marriage and I hope you’re fucking terrified.”
He spits blood on the white sheets, his saliva turning it pink as it soaks into the fabric. “There, you saved your virginity for the night.”
She stares at him, shoulders sagging just an inch as she wobbles on her feet. It’s like the alcohol is making another appearance as she grimaces at him.
“Who said I was a virgin?”
//
When dawn breaks and light filters through the musty room, Y/N stirs from her slumber with a groggy head and unsettled stomach.
At first, she doesn’t recall the night before, but from the dull throbbing across her temples, she knows alcohol had a strong play in the evening.
It’s when she shifts in the bed, that she realises something is off.
Her bed isn’t this soft… and the sheets in her room are definitely not white cotton. She turns her head, eyes meeting the sleeping face of the notorious mobster, and she shrieks, startling him from his light slumber.
Y/N falls off the bed in an attempt to flee the situation, but when she stands, she realises she’s not in her heavy wedding dress anymore and she feels light.
Bile crawls up her throat at the realisation that she’s in his dress shirt, that she isn’t wearing a bra and while the shirt ends mid-thigh, she’s only got on those sheer panties underneath.
Harry watches her gaze trail over his body–his very naked body, besides his black boxers. She gulps at the sight, shaking her head and trying to ignore his thick thighs and toned abdomen.
Her mind conjures up the worst.
She slept with him, he took what innocence she had left.
Her thoughts are only confirmed when she notices the dark pinkish spots of blood on the sheets and she feels sick, lightheaded – and she knows it’s not from the hangover.
Harry watches her freak for a moment, watches the regret and fear flood her eyes and he quickly realises she doesn’t remember a damn thing.
He doesn’t do anything to reassure her. Doesn’t remind her that he spat blood on the sheets, or that the reason she’s in his shirt is because she struggled too much to get out of her dress and didn’t have any other clothes to change into, so he gave her his shirt.
He doesn’t tell her that he didn’t lay a hand on her, that he waited until she was asleep before laying beside her peaceful body.
“You were willing, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he breaks the silence, voice rugged and he rubs the sleep from his eyes.
She doesn’t dare look at him, arms wrapped tightly around herself and she feels ashamed, so fucking ashamed. She believes him, though. He may be a monster but he’s known to be an honourable man, a man of his words, not a liar.
“And even if you weren’t…” he stands from the bed as an insistent knocking begins to pound on their door.
“You’re my wife now, so I have the right to take what I want.”
He doesn’t believe a word he just said. He’d never force himself on her or any other woman, no matter what. That’s one thing he’ll always stay true to.
Y/N backs into the wall at his words. She ignores him opening the door with a tired grin, ignores the gossiping women of the family flooding through the room and whispering about the frail wife.
Her mind is on such an overdrive that she doesn’t see the truth right in front of her. She doesn’t realise that her thighs don’t ache and her core isn’t tender. She doesn’t notice that she doesn’t have any bruises decorating her soft skin, that Harry’s back isn’t littered in claw marks like it should be.
She believes the worst because it’s all she’s ever known.
They take the sheets with giddy smiles and gushing giggles as Harry steps into his dress pants from last night.
There’s no robe for her to cover herself with and unless she wants to wear the wedding dress that carried her into her new, caged life, she’ll have to go downstairs in Harry’s shirt and her panties.
She keeps her distance from him as they descend the staircase, arms still tight around her middle and she curls a little, just to make sure the shirt covers everything.
Everybody is watching as they enter the hall again, waiting for the bloody sheets to be presented for men to howl at and women to blush over.
Y/N keeps her eyes glued to the ground, wiggling her painted toes and biting back a cry that wants to tumble from her trembling mouth.
She ignores the cheers of pervy uncles and distant cousins, pretends she doesn’t notice the praise Harry gets and the pity looks she recieves with jealousy glares from the women.
It isn’t until the fuss dies down that she dares to look up with tear-stained cheeks and a quivering chin. Gaia still refuses to look at her from across the hall, but Maria doesn’t waste a second to see her cousin when Harry turns to talk to Mike.
“Y/N…” she breathes softly, reaching for her cousin’s arm but Y/N shy’s away from her family's touch and clears her throat, blinking back tears.
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” she mumbles hoarsely, shaking her head and looking away from her concerned eyes.
Maria frowns, glaring up at the tall man beside her and pointing a jabbed finger in his face.
“Hope you’re fucking proud of yourself,” she seethes.
Harry stares at the young girl. Her hair is blue now and her nose is pierced with a hoop, something he didn’t notice last night. He doesn’t entertain the girl, though. Instead, he shoves a hand in his trouser pocket and reaches for Y/N with the other.
They’re both shocked that she doesn’t cower away from his touch when he rests his palm on the small of her back.
“Let’s go get ready, then we can say goodbye. Jet leaves for New York in two hours,” he tells her.
Y/N doesn’t say anything about a honeymoon, doesn’t question why they aren’t going on one. She’s thankful they’ll only have to be on that plane for 4 hours together, there is no way in hell she could survive two weeks in complete isolation with him.
She gets ready in the bathroom, legs jelly as she changes from his shirt and her underwear. She throws the panties in the bin, not ever wanting to see them again.
She’s about to dress in what her mother packed; a beige pencil skirt and a flowy white blouse with four-inch heels, when she notices another small bag beside it.
She doesn’t need to wonder where it came from, she knows Maria found a way to pack her something more comfortable after a bad night and in preparation for a 4 hour flight.
So instead, she dresses in a pair of black leggings and an oversized grey sweater. Her hair is tied in a quick ponytail and her face is void of makeup and emotion.
She feels shy when she leaves the bathroom, wearing something so simple and looking so vulnerable. He’s dressed in another suit when she comes back into the bedroom, a simple black one with a white shirt and he’s strapping a gun to his chest when he notices her.
She looks tired, simple. She looks normal. He knows for a fact Gaia did not pack that outfit.
“You look comfy,” he mentions.
She swallows visibly and raises her chin, lips pursed as she stares at his forehead. He knows that trick. He knows she’s pretending to look him in the eye. He bites back a smile. She’s trying to hide her discomfort.
“The jet’s ready when you are. Would you like to say goodbye to your family now?”
A leather duffle bag hangs in his hand and her tongue pokes at the inside of her cheek as she shakes her head.
“Um… actually, I don’t… want to say goodbye…” she admits quietly.
It’s silent for a moment as Harry’s brows bunch and he tries to figure her out.
“You know we’re not just going to New York for a weekend away, right? You’re going to be moving there, to live with me. I don’t know when you’ll next see them again,” he reminds her carefully, his words slow like he needs her to comprehend them properly.
But Y/N nods her head and relieves a breath.
“I know,” she tells him, her voice the most confident he’s ever heard and he nods once, agreeing.
“Okay, then let’s go.”
//
She’s been sitting beside him the entire time, curled up against the window. Neither of them have said a word, both too in their heads.
For Harry, he thinks about how he’s lied to her, how he’s letting her believe he took her innocence. He thinks about her desire to leave without saying goodbye to her family, about what was said on their wedding night, how empty she looked.
For Y/N, she thinks about her new life. She wonders if it’ll be better or worse. When she was at home, Giovanni took his frustration out on her, was cruel and abusive if she or someone else annoyed him.
She wonders if Harry will be the same when they’re back on his land, in his territory. She only remembers one thing from their wedding night. Fear has every place in a marriage, and I hope you’re terrified. She hopes he didn’t mean it.
It’s only the newlyweds on the plane and sleep comes quicker to her than she expected. The others had taken another jet, insisting that Harry and Y/N needed more time alone together. Really, it was just Anne's way of making sure Y/N didn’t feel overwhelmed on a plane full of Delluci’s.
Harry doesn’t wake her when they stop midway to get fuel. She wakes hours after he sleeps beside her, but she doesn’t wake him. Instead, she observes him for a little while; acknowledges the twitch in the corner of his lip, the little movement behind his eyelids, the gentle snores that tumble through his throat.
She appreciates his dark lashes fanned across his cheekbones, his ungodly waves. This version of him doesn’t look scary, doesn’t look monstrous. This version of Harry looks approachable, soft… dare she think… vulnerable. His jaw isn’t set and his lips aren’t pursed.
She wants to reach forward and caress his cheek, maybe one day she might.
When they land back in New York, a car is waiting for them; tinted windows and bulletproof glass. Y/N isn’t silly. Harry helps her with her bags, piling them into the trunk and they both clamber inside.
A partition separates the couple from the driver as the journey begins again. Y/N is looking out of the window, the soft evening consuming her but she already misses the Californian views.
“I recently had the penthouse redecorated to give you some sense of home there,” Harry tells her and when she turns, his eyes are already on her face.
“I want you to remember that it isn’t just a place that you live in. It’s your home now. I want you to treat it as such,” he says.
Y/N nods but she doesn’t know what she’s supposed to say. How do you treat a place like a home when there’s no sense of safety?
“And as for security,” he catches her attention again before she can focus her gaze back outside the window.
“Mike will be your new guard. I’ve known him for years and he’s good. I trust him. If you want to go anywhere and I’m not around to go with you, Mike needs to be by your side.” Y/N can’t help the frown that grows on her face.
Not only is he entrusted with her life, but she doesn’t know him, she can’t trust him.
“Why can’t Gomez still be my guard? Why can’t he come here and guard me?” she questions, brows knitted.
Harry scratches his nose.
“Because while your Father trusted him in his territory, I wouldn’t trust him to protect you in mine. Where you go, Mike goes. No arguments.”
First order.
Neither of them say anything else for the remainder of the drive, but when the driver pulls up to a stop, Y/N’s eyes are wide as she stares out the window in awe.
A fifty story building stands tall before her, tucked between two slightly shorter builds. Her parents' home is massive, but this is something else.
This… this was an apartment building?
Harry doesn’t say anything as he walks her inside the lobby; everything is all white and pristine. The blonde receptionist behind the desk offers Harry a flirty smile that Y/N watches him completely ignore and something flips in her stomach. In the elevator, he reaches for the code and shows her the seven digits he punches in.
“We’re in the penthouse, right at the top. That’s the code. Only a select few know it, so don’t go telling everyone,” he warns, standing back as the doors close.
When they arrive at the penthouse, Y/N doesn’t know what to expect, but softwood undertones and fluffy rugs are not it. He guides her inside as she takes it all in.
The entirety of the first floor is open planned, white walls with gorgeous art hanging across them. The kitchen is huge, black and white and Y/N feels her heart flutter at the thought of all the baking she’ll be able to do.
She isn’t given much time to admire it before Harry leads her through the kitchen towards a staircase.
“There’s a library and a gym up here and our bedroom, my home office is up here too,” he says, leading her up the stairs and into a dark room.
He flips on the light as she follows him inside.
“Our room? You mean we’re going to share the bed every night?” there’s a twinge of panic in her voice.
Harry doesn’t think anything of it other than she’s innocent, nervous about sleeping with his body so close to hers every night. But that’s not it, at least, not all of it.
Really, Y/N doesn’t understand why he even wanted to sleep with her on their wedding night in the first place, and now he wants to share a bed with her for the rest of their lives?
She thinks it’s a pride thing, to have his wife sleep in the same bed as him. That has to be it. Because compared to Harry’s past lovers and flings that Maria graciously told her about, Y/N is repulsive – doesn’t compare.
“Yeah… why? Is that a problem for you?” he asks softly.
Y/N shakes her head quickly, clearing her throat and pulling her sweater sleeves past her hands.
“No, not at all… just didn’t think you’d want me in your bed, is all,” she admits, but she doesn’t mean it in the way Harry takes it. He smirks to himself though.
“You’re my wife, Y/N. I’ll always want you in my bed,” he flirts, watching as her cheeks blush in realisation of how she made her statement sound.
She clears her throat awkwardly and Harry places her bag on the bed.
“Anyway, make yourself at home. I have some business to attend to, so Mike will be around, but remember if you want to leave, he goes with you.”
He brushes past her without another word or a kiss to her forehead like he usually would to his mother or little sister. Y/N thinks nothing of it, she much prefers the space.
It isn’t until she begins unpacking one of her bags that she notices a wrapped gift on her nightstand with her name written on a note that sits on top of it.
You’re not a prisoner anymore x
With furrowed brows, she tears the paper off the gift and opens the box. A phone sits waiting for her, her family’s phone numbers saved along with Harry’s, Mike’s and Anne’s already. She feels tears sting her eyes and with a trembling thumb, she calls Maria.
//
In the week of Y/N’s new life, she’s grown accustomed to her new place of residence. She’s gotten used to the penthouse by now, knows where everything is if she needs anything.
She’s spent a fair amount of time in the kitchen (after the first few days of refraining from using anything), making cookies and brownies for her and Mike to snack on.
She’s mainly tucked herself away in the library, often draped across the chaise with a soft blanket and a good book.
That’s about all she’s grown accustomed to, though. She hasn’t seen her husband, at least, not properly. She’s been asleep when he gets home and asleep when he leaves.
Y/N tries to consider herself lucky. She’s thankful that she hasn’t had to interact with him, save for the two days in passing when he offers her a tightlipped smile before scurrying out of the door.
She doesn’t know why his lack of presence brings a sense of uneasiness, not after she’s gotten to know Mike just a little bit over the past seven days.
Y/N tries not to dwell on the fact that she knows Mike’s favourite frosting flavour but has no idea what her husband’s birthday is. She doesn’t know why part of her wishes to know Harry better, wishes for some type of emotional intimacy between them both.
Y/N knows she needs to accept the fact that she’s safe with how things are, not wish for possible problems that could endanger her in the long run.
But then, she supposes she’s never not been endangered, so what does she know? Maybe she wishes for the sense of comfortability with her new spouse because he’s already offered her something she’s never had before: safety.
Maybe she supposes safety and comfortability are meant to come hand-in-hand. Or maybe she’s just lonely, craves the intimacy she no longer has with her cousin.
Either way, she doesn’t get that relief of intimacy from Harry. Instead, she learns an odd quirk of Mike’s every couple of days and loses herself in the stories that occupy her mind.
The library has become somewhat of a safe haven. And despite having the means to remain in contact with Maria, Romero tends to keep his daughter on a tighter leash now and Y/N often worries with the wonder if it’s her fault.
She thinks Giovanni may have said something to intervene, and she’s been letting blame sit idly on her shoulders as the week slowly strolled past.
It’s been hard for Y/N. She’s been confined to the many walls of the penthouse, despite having the ability to leave (with Mike, of course, something Harry made very clear). But she doesn’t want to leave her new home with her guard.
She wants her husband to show her around and maybe show a little attention to her. She tells herself it’s because she needs the reassurance that she hasn’t done anything wrong, that she hasn’t upset him.
She needs him to do something that suggests he doesn’t have a reason to hurt her.
It’s fucked and she knows it. That hearing nothing is considered bad news to her. Y/N hates not knowing, hates uncertainty. She should be well used to it by now, that’s all her life has ever been.
But things are drastically different in New York with Harry, even if it’s only been a week and she hasn’t seen him.
It doesn’t matter that she feels lighter at the fact of no longer being in Giovanni’s reach or hold. She needs Harry to communicate. She needs to know she’s not doing anything wrong.
But Harry’s a busy man, has business to attend to and bullets to fire. He doesn’t have the time right now to reassure his virgin wife of anything.
And why should he?
Not only did she directly disrespect him but she somehow, someway crawled under his skin and made him grow defensive of the frail woman. Weakness is something he can’t afford.
But it’s not that he hasn’t wanted to.
Women cowering under his influence has never been something Harry has enjoyed, but she isn’t just any woman anymore; she’s his wife, bound by love and honour and duty, she’s his wife.
Perhaps she’s in the same boat. Putting a label on a relationship tends to force some sense of kindred feelings on people.
A marriage is the union between two undying souls, for kindred lovers and harnessed spirits. A marriage is a symbol of devotion, trust and love. Everything their relationship is not.
Maybe that’s why he silently observes her while she sleeps, making sure her breathing is steady and comfortable, and why she misses his presence when he’s gone and wants to know more.
Stories of other lovers are what seem to take her mind off things best, but also have her brain reeling and mustering up impossible scenarios in the light of day, encouraging them to run wild through her head in the dead of night.
Y/N doesn’t know whether to be thankful of them or not--whether it gives her a sense of false hope or weightless relief.
Today is no different from the past six. She wakes alone with no idea where Harry is or what he’s doing.
After her shower and getting ready for the day, she finds herself in the library, lounging across the chaise with Jane Eyre in her hands, but she can’t seem to grasp the words on the first page.
It’s with a sigh that Y/N puts the book back and allows her fingers to brush against the spines of endless stories and fantasies.
There’s not a speck of dirt on the pad of her finger when she comes to the end of the shelf and she wonders if it’s because Harry secretly loves to read or because a maid frequents.
She can’t help but suppose it’s the latter. The thought of Harry reading is somewhat amusing to Y/N, but she knows it’s not something she can just rule out. She doesn’t know the man.
She’s huffing with boredom when she’s ready to leave the room, but as her eyes flitter effortlessly across the clinically white bookcases, she catches something golden that’s tucked away at the far end of the room, shoved beneath a lip at the bottom of a case.
With a tilted head and gently furrowed brows, she goes to inspect it, pulling out a large photo album.
It’s dusty, looks like it hasn’t come out to reminisce old times in a while and Y/N blows the thick coating of fine powder off. There’s nothing but soft, intricate golden leaves designed and embroidered across the expanse of the outer book and it feels heavy in her hands.
Maybe not the weight of the book itself, but the weight behind it.
She doesn’t know what compels her to leave the library with it wrapped in her arms, what forces her to sit on the couch with it out in the open on the coffee table in front of her.
Y/N feels sick at herself for even opening it, she knows old photos are precious past memories that she suspects someone like Harry would not particularly wish to share with his new wife.
It doesn’t stop her from looking, though – doesn’t stop her heart from aching and swelling at the sight of a three-year-old Harry wandering around butt-naked in a backyard with a cheesy grin on his lips and a green bucket hat on his head.
She keeps looking; flipping the pages with a gentle smile but it quickly fades with one of slight confusion.
The only people in the almost hundred photos are the same three: Harry, Anne, and a mysterious man. Y/N’s never seen him before but he looks familiar, she can’t help but see traces of Harry in him.
She supposes maybe it’s Harry’s uncle; maybe even a family friend and Y/N’s just thinking too deep into it. She needs to stop allowing her mind to think everything to be a fucking conspiracy.
She wants to appreciate the pure vulnerability she’s able to see in regards to Harry, even if it is just through photos that are almost twenty years old – older than her.
She doesn’t know whether she’ll get to see a side of him that isn’t stone cold and doesn’t absolutely petrify her.
Knowing some part of him used to be young and innocent offers a sense of relief, a reminder that he has some sanity about him; whether he wants to admit it or not.
She gets to the end of the photo album when she learns the strange man's name. On the back of a photo of the unfamiliar face and Harry digging dirt in the garden, dressed in overalls with a beer in the man’s hand and a sippy cup in Harry’s, there’s a little note written in what she supposes is Anne’s calligraphy.
Danny and Harry -- summer 2000 x
Y/N finds herself mumbling his name under her breath, brows furrowed as she scours her brain. She’s heard that name before, she’s sure of it.
She doesn’t have much time to continue her mindful search before the creaking of the living room floorboards quirk in her ears and Mike is slowly swaying into the room.
He’s dressed in a slick suit, something that Y/N has tried to tell him isn’t necessary and he has ignored, and his hands are stuffed in his pockets with a stoic expression on his regularly threatening face.
“Where’d you find that?” his low voice asks and even though it’s just about audible, it manages to sound through the room and ricochet against the walls and beams.
Y/N nearly jumps in her skin, despite already knowing of his presence.
She feels no threat from Mike--she knows he’s here to protect her and both he and Harry have made that very clear--but he’s still very intimidating in the way his posture holds him and his general blank expression.
It’s something about his eyes. Icy blue but she knows something dark burns behind them.
She clears her throat and quickly closes the book, tucking loose curls behind her ear. Y/N pushes the album to the centre of the coffee table and sits further back on the couch, as if to make a point--she’s just not sure what point she’s trying to make or prove.
She clears her throat.
“Uh, I found it in the library,” she explains lamely and Mike notices she can’t make eye contact with him.
He also knows she isn’t lying.
Over the week he’s been guarding her, he’s learnt all her ticks and tells. Y/N isn’t a liar, she’s just constantly in fear and silently requires the reassurance that she hasn’t done anything to upset anyone.
Mike hums, nodding his head, knows she has more to say; he knows what photos are in that book.
“There’s uh, there’s a lot of pictures of Harry with his Mom and some man… Danny,” she says carefully, articulating her words in a way that isn’t going to seem out of place or something he’ll consider mentioning to Harry to have her scolded and punished.
“That’s for Harry to explain, if he ever wishes to,” he responds cooly, hands still shoved in his pockets but Y/N’s eyes are fixed on the book and she wonders if she has the balls to try and push further.
“It’s just… he looks like him, you know? Looks like he could be a relative,” she speaks freely, though her throat feels like it’s being constricted.
She tries to word it casually, like she’s making an innocent observation but they both know it’s more than that. Mike doesn’t say anything for a few moments, allowing her to understand that he isn’t about to say anything in regards to the photos.
“Are you missing yours?” He asks, her eyes meeting him with a frown and he shifts his weight from his feet, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed against his chest.
He clears his throat.
“Your family, I mean… are you missing them? I know it's a long way from sunny California,” he tries to lighten the mood for her sake; he doesn’t particularly want her to grow agitated with him for not telling her part of Harry's past.
Y/N purses her lips and maybe keeping quiet would’ve been a better idea but Mike tends to run his mouth before really thinking out situations that involve sad emotions.
“Not really. I feel safer here than I ever have back in Cali,” she admits through a pathetic laugh, like she’s trying to cover up the hurt.
“Your Dad?” he asks in a gentle tone, one she’s never heard before but she’s only known him a week.
She smiles weakly, nodding her head and Mike hums, adjusting his suit as he stands taller. Y/N’s gnawing at the inside of her cheek and picking at the skin around her nails -- nervous habits, Mike’s come to learn -- so he takes a step closer to her and clears his throat once more.
“Come on. Let me take you for lunch and show you around New York a little,” he offers, a hint of a smile on his lips but Y/N thinks she might be seeing things.
She isn’t used to this type of kindness from men of any ages. She frowns harder.
“Is that a good idea? Won’t Harry be mad?” she twists her hands nervously.
“Harry entrusted me with your life, Y/N. I’ll always keep you safe when he’s not here. And you’re not a prisoner anymore. He’ll never treat you like one.”
//
It’s a little after three when Harry feels a nervous twitch in his cheek and a tick in his fingers. He’s been gnawing on his bottom lip for the past twelve minutes and both Gemma and Anne have noticed.
His mother is concerned for him while his younger sister offers a look of disgust and is five seconds away from chastising her brother about how chapped his lips will be.
“As much as your sister and I want to stay, Harry… we can’t. You’re going to have to prove to Stefano that you can do this. We believe in you.”
Her gentle voice tries to coax him back into the room but the only thing that does is when the elevator sounds just seconds later and he stands from the couch.
Harry doesn’t fucking know what’s gotten him in such an aggy and irritated mood. His palms are sweaty and he doesn’t know why. He tells himself it’s because Y/N’s never been out before and that she and Mike have been gone for almost three hours.
It’s not that he doesn’t trust either of them; he trusts Mike with his life and he trusts that Y/N won’t try something stupid. Ideally, Harry would have liked to have been the one to take Y/N out first, maybe to prove something to the people watching his every move, he’s not sure.
Part of him feels a little guilty. He hasn’t seen her for more than five minutes since she moved to New York and he feels a little bit sick. He’s taken her from her family and everything she’s ever known.
As her husband, it should be his duty to care for her and ensure she doesn’t feel alone in this transitioning time. But Harry has to remind himself that this isn’t any regular marriage and there are no loving feelings shared between the two beneath their label.
But that doesn’t make it easier for Harry to try and understand why he feels the way he does about the matter.
When the elevator doors slide open, she’s got a shy smile on her lips and her shoulders are drooped in a relaxed state. The sight is a jolt of relief to Harry.
Wife or not, he never wants a woman to feel unsafe or intimidated in his presence or his men’s. He takes a brief moment to quickly get a good look at her.
She seems a lot lighter in the way she carries herself since she arrived at her new home. In a pretty beige pinafore with a ribbed white turtleneck underneath, she looks pretty -- very pretty.
Her hair falls in loose curls that sit just past her shoulders and her plump lips are painted pink with a subtle gloss.
When her eyes flitter up from her feet, she finally notices him watching her, a warmth rising to her cheeks and she shuffles in the penthouse behind Mike.
Her eyes are too glued on Harry, worried she may have done something wrong, for her to notice the presence of Anne and Gemma.
It isn’t until Anne is cooing at her and pulling her into a motherly embrace that she breaks her nervous gaze on her husband and shakily returns the hug to her mother-in-law.
“Was worried we wouldn’t see you before we left, love. Mike took you out for lunch, Harry said,” she smiles warmly, holding the girl by her shoulders and Y/N nods, lips pursed inwardly.
“Before you left? Where are you going?” she asks, ignoring the latter part of her question but she doesn’t mean to… she wonders if Harry will scold her for it when they leave.
Anne lets out a soft huff.
“Back to England, love. Now you’re married, Harry’s got his trial period as Capo to prove himself in the event Stefano is no longer able to reign as Capo,” she explains briefly, hands waving a seemingly dismissive manner, like she doesn’t much care for the topic.
But Y/N sees the glimmer of fear in her eyes.
She nods her head and smiles softly at the youngest Delluci who’s already gleaming up at her. Y/N doesn’t know what it is, but knowing Gemma appears to like her makes her feel a little more at ease.
“Will we be seeing you soon?” Y/N queries shyly, wondering if Anne can sense her need of having them around.
She does, and she reaches for the young girl's hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze.
“I hope so, darling.”
She zones out as Harry kisses their cheeks goodbye and sees them to the elevator, she’s too busy twiddling her thumbs and preparing herself for the numbing loneliness she'll be forced to face again tonight.
“Mike, you’re off for the night,” Harry’s low voice squeaks in her ears and Y/N’s head perks up, brows furrowed with sweaty palms.
“Do you not have work?” she blurts out before she can even think about what she’s doing.
Her face pales, head lowering as her gaze fixes on the floor. If she spoke like that to Giovanni, he would’ve kicked her to the ground by now.
Harry hates the way she quickly reels into herself, a vile taste on his tongue at the thought of her thinking he’d ever lay a hand on her like that.
He shakes his head and lowers his voice to a softer tone, ignoring the squinted look Mike gives him.
“Not tonight, I figured we could spend some time together,” he starts, dipping his head slightly as Y/N slowly raises hers to look up at him through mascara-coated lashes.
Mike bites back a smirk. In all his life, he’s known Harry to only ever use that soft tone with the women of his family: his mother and sister. He leaves the couple without another word and when Harry hears the elevator doors close again, he continues.
“I feel bad for not spending any time with you and leaving you all alone since we got here.”
Y/N feels part of her heart swell at his confession and she feels her cheeks blush harder than before. She offers a shy chuckle and shrugs her shoulders.
“Not all alone, Mike’s kept me a little company,” she’s nervous and she wonders if this is actually his way of making sure he gets laid tonight.
She doesn’t want to sleep with him again, doesn't want to go through the pain of remembering it this time.
She can feel herself beginning to panic, the sweat in her palms increasing by the second. Maybe if she plays along it won’t hurt so much, maybe he won’t be so hard on her.
She doesn’t want to think of him as such a person to do such a thing, but he’s a Made Man and Y/N is his wife. Her permission doesn’t matter.
He seems to notice her apprehension and takes a tentative step closer, trying to sag his shoulders to make himself look smaller; less intimidating.
“I thought maybe we could cook together? Get to know each other a little more,” he suggests and with a brief second of her gnawing on her inner cheek, she agrees.
They settle for making pizza. Harry’s kneading the dough as she stirs the tomato puree in a small bowl. She’s cut the pepperoni and mushrooms, a little plate full of peppers and spices ready to be sprinkled on when the dough is thick enough.
Y/N takes her time to admire Harry.
He’s got his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tie long forgotten on the couch and the first few buttons by his collar are undone, dark and sparse chest hair peeking through.
He looks good, she can’t lie about it. And there's something about seeing an easy smile on his lips that makes him seem all the more normal, she finds herself feeling comfortable in his presence, safe.
In the hour of prepping, they’ve learnt little bits of information about each other. Harry learnt that Y/N’s favourite colour is yellow because it brings her a sense of light. She told him that her favourite movie is Romeo and Juliet, “Cliche, I know,” and that ever since she was little, books have been her little escape from how bad her home life has always been.
He learnt about her relationship with her brother when she was growing up and how it all fell to shit when he was initiated, when he sided with their Father and left her alone.
It isn’t all one sided with learning new information. Y/N learnt about Harry’s ability to hold his breath for seven minutes, how he taught himself to play the guitar at a young age, and as much as he was tempted to tell her he once killed a man with his guitar string, he didn’t.
He lets her revel in the innocence he offers her in sheltered childhood memories. Like how he used to read Gemma bedtime stories and train with Mike and Jeff every evening.
It’s when he mentions how he once made homemade pizzas with Anne when he was younger and she thinks he’s opening up to her.
She doesn’t understand that he only tells her these things to make her feel a little more comfortable. She mistakes his consideration for trust.
“I uh, I found some old photos in the library this morning. A bunch of ones of you and your Mom,” she begins in a shaky tone and Harry hums, sprinkling the cheese over the tomato based path she created for him.
She dares to snatch a peek at his face, fearing the worst -- but he’s calm and concentrated as he evenly distributes slices of pepperoni in the cheese’s wake.
“And there was a man in them, too. You look kinda like him, you know,” she continues, fiddling with a couple of olives between her fingers and she’s too caught in the way they roll against her fingertips to notice his mood falter and body stiffen.
So she continues.
“Is he your uncle? I didn’t see him at uh, at the wedding,” she cranes her neck just enough to wince at his reaction and he’s sprinkling chopped onions and mushrooms with a little more force than he did with the cheese.
Y/N swallows.
“No. He was my father,” he tells her.
His voice is rough and short -- a quip, less than a casual reply. Y/N frowns at his bluntness and the new information, dropping the olives in the ceramic bowl and twisting to face him.
“What?” she asks, brows furrowed. “But I thought that—“
“That Stefano is my Father? No, my step-father. Why else do you think you and I are Styles-Delluci?”
His replies are short and blunt and he doesn’t miss the way she sinks into herself out of fear and embarrassment. Nothing more is said on the matter, Harry opting to change the subject and attempting to lighten the mood to the best of his ability, but Y/N doesn’t budge.
He’s come to learn that when she fears she’s upset someone or gotten herself in some kind of trouble, she tends to bottle herself up and doesn’t allow forgiveness upon her.
Or maybe it’s that she doesn’t believe the forgiveness is ever genuine and Harry starts to wonder if she’s ever even been forgiven before. The thought rattles something unsettling within the pit of Harry’s stomach.
They wait for the food to cook in silence and eat in silence, opposite ends of the dining table. Y/N keeps her gaze on her food while Harry keeps his gaze on her, but neither says a word.
Harry cleans the dishes while she showers and as they climb into bed together for the first time since she’s been there, their backs stay faced to the other as sleep consumes them.
//
omg please do let me know what you think so far of the series? the next part is out next week and it's another long one, too. feedback is massively appreciated!!
#harry styles#harry styles imagine#imagine harry styles#harry styles x you#harry styles smut#harry styles x reader#harry styles oneshot#harry styles fic#harry styles angst#harry styles imagines
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
Beneath the Ashes of Our Broken Oaths — Part Three
Pairing: Morrigan's Sister!Reader x Azriel
Summary: After abandoning the refuge of Velaris, you, Morrigan’s twin sister, returned to the forsaken Hewn City fueled by a vision for a better future. Now, your estranged family seeks your help when rumors of rebellion spread at a time of utmost inconvenience. Torn between your anger and a desire to protect the good, you begrudgingly agree and are forced to face memories of a past life and the unsettling presence of Azriel– the first man you ever loved.
Warnings: depictions of physical injuries, alcohol use, mention of drugs, Rhysand being a condescending prick, reader being shady
Word Count: 5.5k
← Part Two
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
Your nose was broken.
This you were sure of. So was your right leg. And your arm.
Your father was a thorough, thorough man.
There was a nauseating metallic taste in your mouth, a darkening in your vision. You couldn't see much. Eyes too fat, too swollen. Your mouth wasn't any better. Busted, bruised. You couldn't make out the silhouette in front of you--- but you smelled her.
"You shouldn't be here," Evadne said. "Why did you come back?"
You felt her hands on you, tender and soft, examining you, assessing the best way to help. Her hands were warm against your cold skin.
“For you,” you whispered. Your voice is ragged, broken. You weren't sure how you managed to speak. You continued. “I couldn't leave you.”
A heavy sigh. Her arms wrapped around you. A flickering sense of pain spreading throughout your body. You slumped against her.
"That heart of yours will get you killed," she murmured softly.
A cough. Liquid trickled from your lips. The taste of iron flooded your mouth. Blood. You leaned against her, heartbeat in your ears.
“Then I’m already dead.”
“Gods, you look like hell.”
You groaned, slowly lifting yourself up from your sprawled-out position on the worn leather couch. As you blinked away the remnants of sleep, your eyes struggled to adjust to the harsh glow of the day, slowly leaking in through the opened windows— Evadne’s work, you assumed. They were closed last you remembered.
Lifting your hand to shield your eyes, your gaze settled on your best friend who stood over you with her arms crossed over her chest, brows furrowed as she stared down at you.
“Did you sleep on your couch all night?”
Your eyes shuttered as you let your hand fall back down, a deep sense of exhaustion settling heavily upon you. “Maybe,” you said, your voice hoarse. “Yes.”
With a gentle shuffle, Evadne made her way around the piece of furniture, her footsteps muffled against the worn carpet. She tapped lightly at your legs, silently urging you to make room as she settled herself beside you. You complied, maneuvering yourself into an upright position as she took her place at your side.
Her brows furrowed, gaze sweeping over your disheveled appearance. She leaned in, soon pulling away with her nose wrinkled in disgust. "Did you drink a whole damn bar?”
It had only been a few days since Rhysand and Azriel visited you, a few days since you’d practically sold them out to your father. You couldn’t sleep, your mind plagued by visions of your family — of Azriel. At first, you welcomed them, embracing them as a refuge from your normal nightmares. But soon, those new images became worse, more volatile, more painful. You let out a sigh, slowly turning your head to look at Evadne.
“I had no mirthroot left.”
“Y/n.” She widened her eyes. “I just gave you that. It’s supposed to last you weeks.”
“Well, I’ve been under a lot of stress recently,” you retorted. Your tone was sharper than you intended, the stress of your situation festering into a reactionary annoyance. She let out a small sigh and a sense of guilt chewed at you for your flippant response. You deflated.
“I’m sorry,” you said, “I’m just on edge. I don’t mean to snap at you.”
Evadne shook her head gently. There was a moment of silence as she looked you over.
"How do we live in a city of decay and you're still the most depressing thing I've seen today?"
There was a glint of amusement in her dark brown eyes.
“Bite me,” you shot back, managing a weak smile in spite of yourself. The corners of your lips twitched upwards as you looked at her. A second passed. You both let out a small laugh.
Evadne had this effect on you, the ability to make you feel like you were in your body again, like your anger wasn’t consuming you the way you always felt it was. Headstrong, funny, kind… she was all the things you wanted to be – all the things your sister was, once upon a time.
Her smile softened into a smaller, more gentle expression. "Do you wanna talk about it?" she asked, her voice filled with a genuine care that made you want to cry— out of desperation, if anything. Out of a longing to be freed of the worries that now plagued you.
You shook your head. You didn’t have to look in a mirror to see what Evadne was worried about, to know why her eyes kept carefully scanning your face. The impact of everything, the lack of sleep, the stress, the alcohol, the mirthroot, it was all no doubt evident in every line etched into your face, in your sluggish movements.
“It’s all falling apart.”
“No,” she replied. “We planned for some complications.”
You let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and empty in the quiet of the room. “Yeah, complications, not my nosy cousin and an even nosier spymaster,” you grumbled bitterly.
Evadne fixed you with a pointed look. “So we’re refusing to even say names now?”
You shot her a glare, annoyance boiling up inside you. The feeling quickly simmered when you met her gaze, patient and unwavering. It had gotten worse recently, your ability to keep your emotions in check. It was all the stress, all of this faith being put in you. It was smothering you. But you couldn’t admit it– after all, you’d brought it on yourself. Eventually, you let out a weary sigh, feeling the fight drain out of you as you slumped against the worn cushions of the couch.
"Fine," you muttered, the resignation evident in your voice. "We didn’t plan for Rhysand and Azriel."
Evadne mirrored you, falling back further into the couch. “Maybe it's time,” she said with a simple shrug.
You frowned, looking at her with knitted brows. “Time for what?”
“To confront that past of yours.”
Your reaction was instant, your body shooting upright, pointed and stiff. You rose from the couch, taking a moment to gather your thoughts.
“No,” you said sternly, turning around to look down at her. There was a deep sense of anger churning in your stomach, a sense of betrayal that had been unearthed from the depths of your being—you didn’t want to dwell on it, didn’t want to go deep diving into the black hole that was your family history.
Evadne didn’t back down, though, blinking slowly. She met your gaze with a calm resolve, eyebrows lifted ever so slightly as if she had anticipated your reaction, as if she viewed it as nothing more than a momentary outburst– a child throwing a tantrum. “Y/n,” she began.
“No,” You said again, your voice firm and resolute. “There's nothing I need to confront," you threw the word back at her emphasizing it with a shake of your head. "Don't treat me like I'm some child."
Evadne let out a heavy sigh, a sense of frustration rolling through her body as her shoulders sagged. She shook her head slightly. "Y/n," she began, "I'm not treating you like some child."
With a fluid motion, she rose from her seat, her movements graceful, purposeful. Meeting your gaze, she continued, "I've never seen you so rattled." She paused for a moment. "And you've dealt with a lot worse than two pretty boys."
You stood there, unmoving, lips pressed together into a thin line, your eyes fixed on the worn floorboards beneath your feet. With a subtle tilt of her head, Evadne attempted to catch your lowered gaze, her own expression still soft, still determined.
"This anger," she began, as you lifted your eyes to meet hers. She furrowed her brows, a flicker of sadness passing through her eyes, she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "Your anger, it is killing you."
With a small exhale, you shook your head, a tightness in your jaw evident as you clenched your teeth. "No," you asserted, the word resonating with a sense of defiance. "It's fueling me." Your eyes bore into hers.
Evadne didn’t move, didn’t look away. Instead, she simply tilted her head, reaching forward to grab your hands in hers. The crease in her eyebrows deepened. “It is still killing you all the same.”
You stilled, your face falling at her words. She was right. She usually was. You’d spent so long harboring your grudges, holding onto them at night like they were warm bodies, like they were things that could comfort you, fill the holes of the people they used to be. But the grudges only made you bitter, made you angry— and you were the only person that felt that anger. Not them. Never them.
You looked down, your gaze falling to where her hands gently held yours. It was then you caught a glimpse of her arms under the long sleeves of her dress, wrists decorated with a plethora of gold bangles. You tilted your head, taking in the glimmering sheen of the metals. Evadne loved her jewelry— loved her gold. It made her feel like a queen, she had told you once, reminded her of her worth. But she was always very careful about parading such shiny things around. Shiny things were noticed in a city of gloom. Shiny things got you hurt.
You pulled her hands up to eye level, a fast and swift motion that had her letting out a small gasp, your name falling from her lips in protest. You ignored it, fingers pulling up her sleeve, pushing the bangles up her arm.
A surge of icy rage flooded through you, coursing through your veins like a bitter chill. The feeling mingled with a fiery anger that simmered in your stomach, a volatile concoction that left you breathless, left you seeing red. Clenching your jaw tightly, you lifted your gaze to meet Evadne's.
“I’ll kill him.”
She looked at you for a moment, holding your intense gaze. Her eyes then flickered down and she gently pulled her hands away from you. She observed them for a moment, the dark bruises that marred her delicate wrists, stark against the golden hue of her skin. Then, she carefully slid her bracelets to their original position, pulling down her sleeves to cover any evidence of her hurt.
“No,” she said calmly, “But I will, one day. Like we’ve planned.”
"Evadne..."
You looked at her, taking in the beauty of her features, illuminated by the soft glow filtering through the windows. She was beautiful, so beautiful. And she was trapped here, in this city of filth, of ruin. You imagined a different future for her, a future where she lived in a place full of life— a place in the Day Court, perhaps, filled with sunshine and fresh air. A life where she could wear jewelry for the sake of their beauty, where she could be treated like a queen. A life that she deserved. Another wave of rage hit you. Evadne noticed, instantly leaning in to catch your eyesight.
"Y/n, It’s okay," Her voice was calm, collected. She reached out, her hand resting gently on your arm. "You keep your family busy. I’ll stick with the plan."
You nodded your head slowly, taking a deep breath as the fiery storm of rage slowly subsided within you. "Okay, I can do that," you said, "Are you sure?"
You searched Evadne's eyes for any sign of doubt. But all you found was an unwavering resolve, a fierce determination mirrored in her gaze. She smiled, a small laugh escaping her lips. “Yes, I’m sure. We just need to buy time.”
Your fingers trembled slightly as you anxiously ran a hand through your hair, your head still nodding at her words. You made your way across the room to where your liquor collection sat, the bottles gleaming in the light.
“How many do you think we have for tonight?” You asked, throwing the question over your shoulder. You heard her let out a small breath, footsteps following as she walked towards you.
"Not a lot,” she admitted. “Less than half.”
You let out a sigh, the tension in your muscles releasing slightly as you poured yourself a drink. The amber liquid flowed smoothly into the glass.
“They’re scared. Rhysand visiting is enough to unnerve them, but visiting you?”
“I know.” You felt a sense of guilt nag at you, tightening your stomach. You grabbed the crystal class in your hands turning to face Evadne. She glanced at you, then at your glass, and frowned.
“Are you sure you’re okay for tonight?” you asked her, your gaze momentarily falling down to where she held her hands together.
She met your eyes with a flat look. "Of course I am,” she responded. “I always am.”
You wanted to press further, to ask what else her golden dress was concealing, what else he had done to her, but you held your tongue, storing away your anger for when it would be useful, for when it could be power.
There was a thickness in your throat that wouldn’t move. Instead of replying, you lifted your brows at her, pulling your cup to your lips. Evadne moved before you could blink, grabbing the cup from your hands.
“What the hell?” You asked with a pinched expression. She merely stared at you, head tilted, eyes narrowed.
“They need a leader tonight, not a drunk," she asserted, her gaze steady upon you.
You met her eyes with a tightening of your jaw, a subtle crease forming between your brows. "Fine," you muttered, begrudgingly.
Without hesitation, Evadne downed the cup’s contents before placing it back in your hands. "Pull yourself together," she said firmly, her voice leaving no room for argument. You kept her gaze for a moment, and then her eyes were softening, her lips curving upwards, corners of her mouth lifting in a tender yet somber expression.
“They are not worth you falling apart."
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
It was dark when you returned home, your cloak hanging heavily on your shoulders. Your limbs protested with every step, heavy and achy, beads of sweat along your brow. Tonight had given you a release, a time to channel all your energy into something useful. But even then, there were too many things to think about, too many new factors to take into account. It exhausted you— your mind had never been so active, so anxious. You let out a defeated sigh as you opened the door.
You paused in the doorway, your heart stiffening at the sight of him, all fatigue momentarily forgotten. You were too caught up in your thoughts, too distracted to notice the other presence in your home, the other scent that filled it.
Rhysand’s gaze fixed expectantly on you, sitting in a chair that faced the entrance of your home. There was an eerily calm sense to him, an unnerving comfort in his body language. If you didn’t know him, if you weren’t aware of your relationship, you could've mistaken him for a man in the comfort of his own home, sitting at his own table.
You looked at him for a moment, taking in his appearance— a picture of regal confidence, a relaxed posture that was still commanding, still poised. He was alone tonight, no figures hidden in darkness, no smooth slithering of shadows. Azriel wasn’t with him. There was a squeeze in your stomach.
"Do you ever knock?" you spat, your voice sharp with irritation as you closed the door behind you with a forceful thud.
He remained unphased by your display of frustration, watching as you moved across the room, settling to lean against the backside of your couch. You crossed your arms, glaring at him.
"I did," he replied, his voice smooth and unruffled. "You weren't home."
With a sharp exhale, you scoffed, the sound laced with annoyance. Every second spent facing him filled you with an itching irritation, an anger that seeped through your skin. Deep in the back of your mind, an aching appeared– a tiny part of you that longed for his company, that craved for some resolution. You shoved it away, breaking it apart into pieces.
"So what? You just let yourself in?"
"Yes," he replied, his tone nonchalant. "I didn't want to wait outside. It's dangerous. You should really find a new place to live."
The condensation in his tone flowed out smoothly, a habit that almost appeared like second nature. His casual demeanor only fueled your irritation, each word he spoke like a taunt– pompous, arrogant, asshole. You tightened your arms together.
"Did you have a reason for coming here, Rhysand?" you snarled, the words punctuated by a simmering rage. There was a clear disdain in your voice, pointed and sharp. "Or do you just find pleasure in being an arrogant prick?"
Rhysand's facade of confidence faltered for a moment, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features before he composed himself once more. His shoulders sagged slightly, a movement so small you almost missed it. The air of authority around him diminished— as if he was transitioning from High Lord to something else, something smaller. He blinked, and then he let out a sigh.
"You're right. I'm so-" he began, but then stopped abruptly. You felt a prickling sensation crawl up your spine. There was a brief pause as Rhysand scanned you, his eyes falling from your head to your toes as he took in your appearance– sweat-dampened leathers, a cloak draped haphazardly over your shoulders. Your heart thudded anxiously in your chest. Rhys met your gaze once more, his brows furrowed now– in confusion, curiosity, or suspicion, you couldn’t tell. It unnerved you.
"Where were you?" he asked.
You felt a surge of defensiveness rise within you.
"I wasn't aware I needed to report my extracurricular activities to High Lords who break into homes," you shot back, the words dripping with sarcasm. You took a moment to break away from your outer layer, quickly throwing the cloth on the couch behind you.
Rhysand remained rooted in his seat, his posture stiffening before he eased back into the chair with a sigh. His movements were deliberate, calculated, betraying a sense of resignation beneath his surface. As he spoke, his hand gestured towards you.
"Is this really how it's going to be, Y/n?" he questioned, his voice laced with a hint of exasperation. "We don’t have to be uncivilized."
Your initial shock dissolved into a burst of incredulous laughter, your mouth falling open in disbelief. "You storm into my home uninvited– twice may I add," you emphasized, your voice rising slightly, "and then call me uncivil when I refuse to drop everything for you?"
Rhysand's tone shifted, his eyes narrowing. "Oh, please, Y/n," he said, "I didn't ask you to drop everything. I asked you to hear me out and you wouldn’t even do that."
His audacity cut into you like sharp knives. You almost winced at his tone; so condescending, so arrogant. It was hard to look at him, to attempt to find the boy that you used to know. Rhysand, your cousin Rhysand, would have hated the prick standing in front of you– would have despised his superiority complex. The thought made you sad— but only for a moment. It quickly faded.
"Has being a High Lord truly given you such a lack of class?" you challenged, your voice rising with indignation. You didn’t bother to hide your contempt, didn’t bother to collect yourself. "How dare you think I owe you anything, even the time of day?"
Rhysand met your gaze, violet eyes burning into yours. They were darker now than they were years ago, more fury in them. More broken.
"We are family, Y/n. I would think it's the least you owe me."
You recoiled at his words, a bitterness rising in your throat like bile. You’d spent so many of your days reminding yourself that your family didn’t care, spent so many nights wishing that they did. Here, sitting in front of you, was proof that the former was correct. You were only their 'family' when it was convenient for them— and you hadn't been convenient for centuries.
"There you go, using that word again like it should mean something.”
You were clenching your jaw so hard you could have sworn it was going to break, that a tooth would snap– that you would snap. Rhysand didn’t back down.
"It should," he insisted, his voice steady.
"It doesn't."
Your voice was cold and unyielding, to a point where Rhysand felt a wave of discomfort come over him. His jaw ticked and he let out a deep sigh, his chin falling slightly. There was a clear frustration in his body as he leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table and bringing a hand to his face. His fingers settled under his chin while the other hovered near his lips as he shook his head. A moment passed as you watched him, and then he turned to look at you again, his hand falling flat on the table.
"I don’t understand you, Y/n,” he said, “I just- I don’t understand.”
Because you’ve never made an effort to. The exhaustion on his face, the frustration that you could see– even smell, it made your stomach sink. The anger in your body felt like something else, like sadness, like grief. Maybe Evadne overestimated you, maybe you couldn’t handle being around your family. If being around Rhysand made you this emotional, you didn’t want to think about what it would be like to face all of them, to report to them.
"It shouldn't take you over 500 years to understand that people don't owe you anything," you stated, pushing yourself off the couch. You walked towards the front door of your home, reaching it as you spoke, "Get out of my home."
Rhysand's voice faltered, his expression softening with a touch of desperation. "Wait, Y/n, wait,” he said as he stood up.
There was a tinge of desperation in his voice, something you were sure he didn’t realize was showing. Maybe you recognized it because, once upon a time, you had known him– truly known him. Perhaps it was the lingering effects of that familial bond. Or, maybe, Rhysand was faltering in your presence because for the first time, he wasn’t being feared.
If Rhys was struggling to keep a calm facade, there was something deeply wrong going on — something with you, or something outside of this city. You thought back to his words from before, I'm dealing with a larger threat that has me on the defense. You furrowed your brows, eyes settling on him with a scrutinous gaze.
"Why do you need my help so bad?"
Rhysand hesitated for a moment before responding, his words measured. "I told you. There are rumors about an u—"
"An uprising. Yes, I remember," you interjected, cutting him off.
Rhysand's brows furrowed, his patience wearing thin as he searched your face for any hint of relenting. He found none. “Then why are you asking me?”
You met his gaze head-on. "Because there are always rumors here," you repeated, emphasizing each word with a pointed stare. "And every time, you, and now Feyre, swoop in to quash them with a well-timed visit, a show of power. So forgive me if I find it curious that this time, you're suddenly in need of my assistance."
A flicker of frustration crossed Rhysand's features, his jaw clenching briefly before he regained his composure. "Our methods may have been effective in the past," he conceded, "but this situation requires a more delicate touch."
There was no evidence of regret in his tone, no acknowledgement of the fear-mongering that he used with his people. You weren’t sure why you expected it, why you looked for it. Of course Rhysand wouldn’t show signs of guilt regarding his treatment of Hewn City. Why would he? He didn’t feel guilty, at all.
You raised an eyebrow skeptically. "And what exactly makes this situation so different?"
Rhysand's expression tightened at your insistence, his eyes darting away momentarily before meeting yours once more. "Nothing you have to concern yourself with," he hedged, his tone cautious.
There it was again, the sense of audacity he held, the superiority he wore like a cloak. There was something in his tone, in the way he spoke to you, that made you feel small, foolish. You hated it.
You narrowed your eyes, a sense of frustration bubbling within you. "If I'm going to stick my neck out for you, and potentially betray my people, I need to know why.”
Rhysand's discomfort flashed across his features. His lips parted, emitting a breathy laugh tinged with disbelief. "Your people," he repeated, a hint of mockery lacing his tone, as if the very idea amused him.
"Yes. My people.”
Rhysand's jaw tightened visibly. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he relented. "Koschei.”
You blinked.
Koschei, Koschei.
You recognized the name, memories of childhood tales flooding your mind. Koschei was a name thrown around, starring in stories whispered by mothers to keep their children in line, to warn them of the consequences of misbehaving. But you knew better– all adults did. Koschei wasn’t a real threat, he was somewhere far, somewhere unreachable.
However, the look on Rhysand's face told a different story—a story of genuine fear, of a threat far more tangible than mere folklore. The mighty High Lord of the Night Court was worried, on edge. It filled you with a sense of dread that momentarily wiped away any sadness, any anger. "Koschei?" you repeated, the name feeling heavy on your tongue
"He is taking steps to free himself," Rhysand said, "I'm working to ensure that doesn't happen."
You eyed him cautiously, scanning him for any sign of deceit. You found none. He took your silence as an invitation to keep talking, to explain further.
"That means I do not have time to sift around this city and find the origins of these rumors– to waste time discerning if they are legitimate.”
You paused for a moment, your mind racing now. Perhaps this was a stroke of luck. Koschei's looming threat could align perfectly with what you needed. You needed Rhysand distracted, needed him vulnerable enough for your father— needed your father to be vulnerable enough for you. Surely, Koschei wouldn’t be a lingering threat. Rhysand was right, it wasn’t something you needed to concern yourself with. Keep them busy, Evadne had said.
"Isn't this Azriel's specialty?" you asked, "The feared Spymaster?"
A tick in Rhysand’s jaw.
"Azriel's reach is limited," he explained. "These rumors may be quiet, but they are there."
He needed someone who wouldn’t call attention. Someone who knew how to work this city. Someone like you.
”Where is your guard dog, anyway?”
The words slipped out of your mouth before you had a chance to catch them. Rhysand stiffened at the question. He bit down the anger that formed in his throat.
”I thought it would be best to come alone.” He shifted on his feet. "In truth, my intentions were to come and offer an apology," he confessed, his voice carrying a weight you hadn't anticipated. Meeting his gaze, you found a flicker of vulnerability in the violet of his eyes, a softening in his features.
You weren’t sure if you should feel angry or touched. It certainly seemed like Rhysand expected the latter, his brows slightly furrowed, awaiting your response. But, instead, your reaction was disbelief, almost scoffing at his attempt at reconciliation. His intrusion into your home, his condescending demeanor, all of it burned into your skin. "Certainly didn't feel like one," you remarked, a bitterness lacing your words.
"I know,” he admitted, pushing his hands into his pockets. “I shouldn’t have approached the situation in the manner that I did. I apologize.”
His voice was genuine, filled with remorse— its presence was fainter that you would have hoped for, but it was there. Noticeable. While you appreciated the gesture, and your heart held onto the regret he showed, you said nothing in response, not wanting to give him the clear forgiveness he was hoping for.
“So, I’m coming to you again, properly. We need your help.” A pause. “I need your help.”
You sighed, running your tongue along your teeth. "Fine,” you relented, “What do I have to do?"
Rhysand visibly relaxed, a wave of relief washing over him. Then, he straightened his posture, dusting off his shoulders before he began walking towards you, towards the door. "Azriel will come to you. You both can work from there.”
The name made your stomach drop, and your eyes widened in response, brows furrowing.
"Azriel?"
Rhysand paused mid-stride, his gaze locking with yours. "Yes," he said, his eyebrows raising ever so slightly. "You said it yourself, this is his territory."
The crease between your brows deepened as you frowned.
"And you said he was unable to work with it. That's why you need me.”
Rhys narrowed his eyes, scanning over your face before letting out a small breath.
"We do need you,” he replied, “To work alongside Azriel."
Your stomach clenched further. To work alongside Azriel. Azriel, Azriel, Azriel.
“You didn’t say anything about working with Azriel.”
Rhysands eyebrows fell as he narrowed his eyes at you.
“Will that be a problem?”
Anger simmered beneath your skin. Rhysand's insistence on involving Azriel was a direct affront to your capabilities, a direct showing of distrust. You knew, logically, that you weren’t allowed to be so angry– he shouldn’t trust you. But the reality of it, a clear reminder of how far you’d drifted, hurt in a way you couldn’t ignore.
“Yes,” you responded, your voice firm, “I don’t need someone watching over me.”
He let out a deep sigh, his face scrunching in with annoyance.
“That is not wha-”
“Oh, please,” you replied, “It’s definitely part of it. You don’t trust me.”
Rhysand didn’t reply, didn’t even acknowledge your words. Instead he simply shrugged. The nonchalance of his movement only added fuel to the fire, and you clenched your jaw to suppress the rising frustration.
"Azriel is our court’s Spymaster. He knows what needs to be done," he stated dismissively.
A surge of frustration rose within you. The room felt stifling, suffocating. You could keep them busy, could work with Rhysand distracted, with him worried about Koschei. But having Azriel around, a looming presence, someone overseeing you, would make things more complicated. And it was Azriel. Even the thought of it made you feel sick, nausea forming from the mix of emotions in your chest.
Silence enveloped the room like a heavy fog. You remained still– jaw clenched, eyes still on Rhysand as he walked past you, hand reaching for the door. He stopped, falling still in his place. Then, he looked at you. The expression on his face wasn’t one you were familiar with– it seemed like one he used to wear when you knew him, a softer version of himself. Kind.
"I'm sorry about Caladan.”
It hit you like a punch to the gut. You weren’t sure what hit you harder, the apology, laced with a deep sincerity you hadn’t expected, or Caladan’s name– on Rhys’ lips, of all people. You hadn’t heard his name in so long; Evadne was always so careful. It was a pain you thought you had grown accustomed to, buried beneath layers of duty and obligation. But it was resurfacing, rising with a raw intensity that left your chest tight.
For a fleeting moment, you felt the urge to lash out, to reject Rhysand’s words and the sympathy they carried. But beneath the anger and resentment, there was a small flicker of something else— of gratitude. With a heavy heart, you met Rhysand's gaze. You couldn't move, couldn't speak.
"I meant to give you my condolences when I first came." Rhysand’s voice was soft. “I know he was special to you. I should have reached out when I heard."
Green eyes. “This is good, Y/n,” he smiled at you, a dimpled, soft smile. “It’s all coming together.”
You blinked the image away. After a beat of silence, you nodded slowly. "Thank you," you murmured. The anger was still there, the bitterness towards Rhysand, towards your family. But you accepted his words, letting them ease some of the sizzling resentment.
Rhysand bowed his head in acknowledgment. With one final glance, he turned and left.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
a/n: guys i promise after this azzy will be in every chapter. now we begin the angsty forced proximity trope that i LOVEEE 🫶🏻🫶🏻
(i’m prewriting chapters rn so lemme know if there’s anything you’d love to see👀👀 always open to ideas)
taglist:
@kalulakunundrum @janebirkln @thelov3lybookworm @secretlyhers @nightcourt-daydreaming @sidthedollface2 @gorlillaglue25 @abysshaven @historygeekqueen @acourtofbatboydreams @justdreamstars @darling006 @inloveallthetime @dr4g0ngirl @makeagoodnamethen @kht1998 @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @rhysandorian @llovelydove @minnieoo @cassianswh0reeee @anuttellaa @hnyclover @sfhsgrad-blog @carlandonorri-s @gingerblood @inesven @emptyporsche @itsswritten @tele86
#azriel#azriel fanfiction#azriel shadowsinger#azriel acotar#azriel x reader#azriel fanfic#azriel fic#azriel x y/n#azriel x you#azriel angst#a court of thorns and roses#acotar#acotar fanfic#acotar fanfiction#acotarfandom#beneath the ashes of our broken oaths#baobo#about baobo
485 notes
·
View notes
Text
Blood And Pressure
Part one
Yandere!Pjo x Fem!Grisha!reader. (Platonic Yandere gods) (romantic!various characters)
-♡ Chapters: Previous // Next
-♡ characters: Percy Jackson, Luke Castellan, Clarisse La Rue, Grover Underwood, Annabeth Chase.
-♡ this is a shadow & bone slight crossover. Reader is a heartrender and that’s all really (maybe more in the future!)
-♡ Please note that all characters are aged appropriately, so all characters are older versions of the book characters. So 17-19 characters for these, you can choose any of them really. Just that they are older teens.
-♡ warnings: short, yandere behaviors, obsession, stalking, slightly sick love, possessive, manipulative, gaslighting, platonic yandere too, blood powers, powerful powers but not godly, and future warnings when more chapters come out.
No one knew the power you held when you entered camp. You stayed in The Big House at camp with Mr.D and many of the campers knew nothing but a few things when you walked by. You were a person of few words but spoke in glances, or at least to them you were.
You spent your days talking to Mr. D and Chiron since they didn’t like you to leave the house or their side.
“It’s just too dangerous to be around the little kids,” Chiron talks ever so soft to you.
“I mean, I don’t care if you hurt them or not but they know nothing of you— we barely know anything of your kind. So you stay with us.” He was a bit harsher when it came to you but he was also fun to be around.
No one noticed when you’d glance into a room while a patient was sick and in bed. And no one knew you visited Percy too.
You heard whispers when he arrived and wanted to check him out for yourself. His heart was beating fine and healthy but a little to high for your liking. He was having a nightmare and you could calm him down.
When you placed your hands together and calmed his heart, then his eyes open just a bit. He remembers seeing annabeth but you were new. You wore dark red and silver clothes making him wonder about you, you almost looked like royalty to him…and your beautiful.
“Sleep percy,” As soon as you spoke he was out like a light as you controlled his body and decreased the anxiety he felt. You wanted to stay there and help him but you knew you could get caught at anytime so you left. He wasn’t the only one you helped, and he wouldn’t be the last.
Another day you found yourself playing cards with Mr. D, he got too angry at you beating him that he took a break. He rests his eyes while you read a book, a very old and run down book but you refused to let it go. And that’s when the boy you helped walked in with confusion on his faces.
It was your favorite part to see someone new get welcomed.
Percy seemed to not notice you at first when his announce stayed on the god you knew, obviously he wasn’t aware of who he was talking to…and when he did he didn’t seem to care either. After a few minutes of them talking, he finally noticed you as you flip the page of your book.
“What are you looking at her for?” Mr. D tried to pull his attention away from you but he just kept staring.
“You…you were in my room that night.”
You shake your head and sit back under the gods suspicious glare. “No, no. Must have me mistaken.”
“I recognize that pin on your jacket, it was definitely you.”
“Okay kid, that’s enough now got get me that wine.” He snaps his fingers and Percy finally turns his gaze. Thankfully Chiron got there in time before Percy fell for his trick.
Percy was getting to explore the camp, train and fight and win glory. You hated how tight your at stomach got in jealousy of him. You’ve been here for two years and yet you haven’t stepped off the porch of the big house.
You stood up from your chair causing them all to turn to you. You slammed your hands on the table and started to demand that you would be going with them. You’ve had enough.
“I wanna see things too. Just for once let me see the camp, it’s cruel to keep me here.”
“You know the rules, you stay here!” Mr. D was always the one to fight with you when you threw your fits.
“Your rules suck! Let me go on the tour!” Your voice was so loud percy thought that the whole camp could hear you. Your final hope was to look at Chiron with begging eyes since he was so easy to guilt.
And like every time. He caves.
“Maybe we should. They have shown no signs of hurting anyone and it would be good to get a bit of fresh air, stretch their legs.” He tried to reason with him. You begged and prayed in your mind for it to work.
“Fine— whatever. But if anyone so mush as touc-” he was cut off by you squealing and hugging him. He was caught of guard since you’ve never do that before. He felt pride, the other gods wanted you to come to Olympus or the underworld but he got you. No one could take the smirk on his face.
Percy was happy to see you smile. It caused his mood to lighten greatly and he didn’t really know why but you seemed so familiar to him. Like he’d do anything to keep you smiling, to hold your hand…
“Come along, we have a lot to explore.” You both trail behind the centaur to take on the new adventure. Maybe this was fate.
You didn’t know it but many eyes would begin to follow you everywhere.
Next chapter
-No Taglist because idk of people want this to be tagged in (I will add you if you ask! Just my normal ones I don’t wanna spam them with notifications if they don’t want this)
#yandere percy jackson#percy Jackson x reader#book percy jackson x reader#annabeth chase x reader#yandere annabeth chase#yandere annabeth chase x reader#yandere luke castellan#luke castellan x reader#yandere luke castellan x reader#shadow and bone reader!#yandere Greek gods#yandere Percy Jackson x reader#older percy jackson x reader
545 notes
·
View notes
Text
Fractalize (part 1)
Title: Fractalize
Fandom: Hunter x Hunter
Summary: Lack of hope creates a strange kind of numbness.
Word count: 3700+
Characters: Chrollo x Reader (female)
Notes: yandere Chrollo, kidnapped, depressed and miserable Reader, Reader is dissociating a lot, morbid pondering, suicidal thoughts, explicit/triggering language/words, Reader's thoughts on possible sexual assault in future.
Part 2
Fractalize - making things into smaller copies of themselves over and over again.
Sometimes you stand in front of a mirror and try to picture yourself in another timeline. One where your life didn’t take this specific turn. You try to imagine a different setting, a different apartment - perhaps the one you had before Chrollo started moving you around like a luggage bag. Maybe living in a cottage by the sea or an old farmhouse. Someplace rural, peaceful. With a garden and fresh air, far away from the city noises.
It's difficult at first, your reflection keeps slipping through your mental fingers every time you think the image is set in place. But with practice it becomes easier, sort of, so you can now see yourself clearly as you brush your hair - not here.
A blue dress on, made for nights at parties with friends. Laughing until your stomach hurts and eyes become sore. Making silly faces over alcoholic beverages. Or you can wear your favourite jeans with a high waist and head out to the pub, the same one with crooked stools and a broken sign. Drink cheep bear, eat greasy peanuts from a little bowl, listen to some small band play unknown and unheard songs.
Leave intoxicated, and everything is too fast and vibrant and wonderful until you're back home.
It's your favourite pastime now: imagine, remake and slip.
Imagine. Remake. Slip.
You don't quite remember the last time you laughed, a month ago maybe. Maybe more. Lack of hope creates a strange kind of numbness, dull, cold, you would compare it to a winter plastered all over your insides, but it's almost colder than that. It freezes everything and turns it into icicles hanging off the roof.
Remake, slip.
You have new vocabulary now.
"Mm" - is for when he asks you if you like a dress or a top and it doesn't matter how you actually feel about it, because it's going to end up being worn anyway.
"Okay" - is for when Chrollo sets another fancy meal for you on a dinner table and "Eat, don't be shy".
"I'm not hungry" - doesn't work with him, even if it's the truth. You always eat what's put in front of you, that's the rule, because he's not above shoving the spoon into your mouth, so you spare yourself the tears and sobs that will probably come with that. It's so bizarre: how much effort he puts into keeping you alive when you're anything but.
"Whatever you want" - is for when he asks you something that requires a choice, between two or three options usually. He's not one for an extensive list.
"If you say so" - for everything else.
You used to delude yourself with the idea that if you managed to appear pleasant enough, pleasant-talking, pleasant-listening, smiling a bit here and there, it would gain you some privileges and perhaps a bit more freedom. It did. But never where it really mattered. Those little things were absolutely inconsequential in the grand scheme. Yes, you can have that sweater, dear. No, you can't have your own bed. Yes, you can come shopping with me, if you give me a kiss. No, you can't take walks without me holding your hand.
Yes this and no that.
Those moments were fragile and so very takeable that they didn't give you any sense of accomplishment, just a short respite and bitter aftertaste that made you feel pathetic.
Wasn't worth it.
***
"Do you like animals, dear?" Chrollo asks out of the blue one day. He's reading something on his tablet while you're curled up on the couch, watching TV.
It's a new series that's been on the major channels for a few weeks, a mystery drama about a girl who moves into a house she inherited from her grandfather. The picture provides a distraction enough to have you forgetting where you are for a brief period three times a week.
You pull the blanket higher. "I do."
He knows it.
The girl on the screen finds a mysterious box hidden in the attic. Perhaps there's something valuable inside. Or information about her grandpa; your fingers tug on a loose blanket thread without much thought.
"What kind?"
Or maybe it's just a time capsule with photos and postcards and random objects collected over the years.
Or-
You had a cat before he took you. A foster grey ragdoll with blue eyes who liked to rest on your belly and bump her head against your chin. You called her Miss Whiskerton and kissed her little nose, because she did act like a proper lady - poised, dignified and entirely too proud to eat food mixed with medicine. The worst enemy Miss Whiskerton has ever had in her cat life was the corner of your couch. When you weren't paying attention, she would dig her claws into the fabric and leave thin lines. You hope that someone took her in.
She probably thought you abandoned her.
"Cats."
Chrollo hums in acknowledgment and continues scrolling through whatever he's looking at - maybe news or auction listings, you don't know nor do you really care. You shift under the blanket, pulling your legs closer to your body.
"We can get one, if you'd like."
"No."
Your answer is immediate and short, without thinking. You know it, you know him by now - there's nothing Chrollo does out of spontaneous generosity, it always benefits him in some way. And you've studied him enough to figure that any pet would only be a tool to keep you tamed and compliant. Puppies make life better. Happier, lighter, with goofy smiling faces and wiggling tails. Cats make life better with soft purrs and paws stomping on your chest. They're too easy to love.
"Why not?" There's a sound of tablet set on a wooden surface.
The girl on the screen is trying to solve a combination lock on the box when the TV switches off and your little world of carefully shot scenes and scripted lines vanishes. You don't need to turn around to guess where's the remote.
She almost had it, but now you won't know what's inside until Thursday evening.
Your reflection stares back from the dead screen, blank-faced and with a blanket pulled up your nose. It tickles a bit. "Because I don't want one."
A chair creaks. "Why?"
You close your eyes shut for a moment before opening them again. This is tiring. Always probing, digging, pushing. Trying to find chinks in your armor, but all you're wearing is just a flimsy dress with thin straps and a blanket you wish could swallow you whole.
"Don't need it."
"You said you like animals," Chrollo sits next to you and places a hand on top of your covered legs. He squeezes your thigh and you stare ahead, wishing he would just leave you alone tonight.
"I do." Your fingers twitch under the blanket, nails scratching at the fabric.
Strange. Sometimes it feels like he understands perfectly that you want to be alone, have time for yourself and don't want his constant physical presence. At the same time Chrollo brushes this all aside like old tin foil wrappers - insignificant. He pulls the blanket down and you cling on it stubbornly for a few seconds before letting go. His thumb and index finger grasp your chin and turn your face towards him so you have no choice but to meet his eyes.
There's such still intensity within him that made your skin crawl whenever he looked at you with this much focus and attention. You don't know what he saw there most times, it used to be fear or anger or sadness - right now it's none of these things. Everything inside you feels jammed and stiff.
"We should get a fish then," he continues, brushing hair out of your forehead. "You can watch it swim around, wouldn't that be nice?"
Chrollo talks to you like this sometimes, as if you're a child who needs to be convinced to eat veggies or take medicine. Like you're simple-minded and he's reasoning with you out of good will. It's sickening. You hate it.
"I don't want a pet," you repeat the words slowly. "If you're going to give me something only to take it away, then I don't want it."
His finger leisurely stroking your chin pauses at the edge of your bottom lip. Something flickers behind his eyes, it's barely noticeable but you've become good at catching those minuscule shifts. He smiles, yet there's nothing joyful about it. "Take it away? Why would I do that, dear?"
"Because that's what you do. Because that's how you are." You don't try to pull free from his hold, he'll only tighten it; not enough to hurt, no, he is too suave and polished for that - or wants to appear so - but enough for you to feel trapped under his palm.
There's something off about you, you can tell, but are not quite able to discern what or where. It sits in the very structure of your bones and eats away with ravenous appetite. An imbalance in the gut. Fever-warm body, cold fingers. Thoughts like potholes.
"And how am I exactly, according to you?" His voice is light, playful, a stark contrast to his eyes that study you with unnerving precision. Chrollo rarely loses his temper and never gets violent with you (yet, you correct yourself), but he has other ways of expressing displeasure, and they're petty, ugly and cold.
"Cruel," the word rolls off your tongue so effortlessly that almost frightens you; it's easy to tell the truth when you're this numb.
He looks taken aback for a split second, and the smile freezes. His hand stops midway to your hair. Then everything's gone.
Chrollo releases you and leans back into the cushions, almost thoughtful, like your observation is something that requires careful consideration.
"I suppose, it depends," he says finally.
"On what?"
"On how you choose to see things. Your perspective is bound to be biased, dear."
You don't respond.
To continue this conversation would be pointless and circular, like running on a treadmill, like everything else between you and Chrollo, really. He simply has too many answers to any possible argument, and no matter how convincing you manage to make them sound, he'll poke holes into each one. You don't want a fish. Or a cat. Or a dog, a bird, anything that moves and breathes and looks at you with big, trusting eyes.
Chrollo is cruel. Not in a way that's straightforward and brutal. Not in a way of someone who'd tear your limbs apart or rip off a fly's wing to see it wiggle. You have no doubt that he is capable of such a thing, but that would be uncouth. Cruelty in his case is a quieter, more delicate affair - in a way of a sculptor who'd chisel off everything unnecessary and unneeded, no matter the size or significance, to produce something entirely his.
His hands are soft, his voice is always composed, and he wears well tailored clothes. But the rest is sharp, clean and merciless.
"I think I'll go to bed," you say and push away the blanket.
"It's early."
"Mm."
He takes your hand just as you're about to slide off the sofa. Chrollo's always faster than you, always ahead and always observing, and that little realization while bitter is not so shocking anymore, more like another fact that you file away from your interactions.
You watch him. Wait.
"You're distraught," he says. "But you should know by now that there's no need for that."
Your hand remains in his grasp, limp and heavy.
"I don't enjoy seeing you upset, dear. Even more if you make false conclusions."
You turn to see the expression on his face - and there isn't one, at least not the type that most people would make. There are no frowning eyebrows, no clenched jaw that would indicate irritation, nothing like that.
"You're giving me too little credit," his tone is quiet as he runs his fingers up and down your wrist. "My intentions are not to hurt you. They are much, much sweeter than that."
"But you would," you say quietly and lean closer, ignoring the obvious implication behind his words. There is a hollow sensation inside of your head that prompts you to speak, everything is hollow - body and mind, heart, the space in your guts, your throat. "You would hurt me, if that's what you thought was necessary. Rip me apart and leave me deformed beyond repair, to fit into whatever framework you've laid, you would do that."
You're not being deliberately cryptic or fatalistic. These are your observations, based on a period of months spent together. They take root in no one being there for you anymore, in your phone which is long gone, in your closed accounts, your missing laptop and old clothes, the entire previous life in the city that has been discarded for something new. Chrollo was very methodical, you can give him that.
He doesn't listen, he studies your responses. Every single word. He has a talent for that, for absorbing everything about you while hardly ever letting you glimpse his interior - all that you know about him are tiny slivers which you picked up through living together, observation, accidental bits.
You expect him to contradict your statement, to offer a logical explanation why you're wrong, but instead Chrollo brings your hand to his lips and presses a kiss against your knuckles. The touch is light and dry.
"You're not entirely wrong, dear," he says and moves closer until you can smell his aftershave, something fresh.
His proximity is uncomfortable, it always is and probably always will be.
"I'm right then," you say.
"No," he keeps your hand in his grasp. "But you're not entirely wrong either. That's what makes you interesting."
There's a strange kind of fondness in his voice, it's subtle, yet undeniably present. You've never felt less interesting in your life, in a dress with thin straps that's too fancy for a lazy day at home and your bare feet and tangled hair.
"If you say so," you respond and slowly tug your hand free. "I really want to sleep now."
You get up, and he lets you go without another proposition. The blanket falls off onto the sofa, and before you slip into the semi-darkness of the bedroom, he says,
"Not beyond repair. But I like to believe we can both agree it doesn't have to come to that."
***
The drive feels endless. Houses and streets blur in a mix of colors, shapes and people, which soon change to an empty highway with greenery on both sides. Trees and fields, tall grass swaying gently in the wind and rare cars passing you by. Chrollo's hand is resting on your leg; he hasn't moved it since the car started, but you choose to ignore it in favor of your regular pastime, the one that's made of imaginary worlds and places where the timeline stretches differently.
Mostly it's just you and the layout of your fake apartment.
Imagine, remake, slip. Repeat the steps until it becomes muscle memory.
You have this daydream on loop now. Wooden floor and wide windows, lots of sunlight. Books everywhere, comfy clothes and not a single skirt in your closet. A cup of tea with honey in the morning, and Miss Whiskerton curled into a soft grey ball on your lap. You feed her salmon in a shiny bowl, occasionally she catches a lizard outside and drops the tail on your doorstep as an offering, looking immensely proud of herself.
A smile slips on your face without meaning to, a wobbly thing; you promptly wipe it off.
It would be a crime to show such blatant joy. This fantasy has become so sweetly personal that every fiber of your being resists even acknowledging it in front of Chrollo. He can sense a stray happy thought from miles away, like a hound, and will never stop prodding until everything is raw and tender. You've learned to say less in his presence, especially if it's something that has you invested. Chrollo knows how to pick things apart.
You lean your cheek against the glass. This world would never happen, never in a million years, but dreaming doesn't hurt anyone, does it?
Your grandma, wearing an apron, sets a tray filled with fresh pastries on a table, because she's amazing like that. She fusses and worries and pretends to scold you. For not calling enough, for not coming sooner, for not eating well. For leaving.
"Dear."
You almost jump.
Chrollo's voice brings you back where his hand is heavy on your leg, you're wearing a dress above the knee and aren't allowed to use scissors or knives.
"Mm?"
"That frown of yours," he says, turning into a small road. The surroundings change again, it's quiet here, not a soul in sight. "It's been there for fifteen minutes now."
You sit up straight and move your hair out of your eyes. Chrollo's a perceptive one, so this is a reminder not to sink too deep around him, unless you absolutely need it.
"Was just thinking."
"You do it a lot lately," he states and looks at you from the corner of his eye.
True, but you have no intention to confirm it. First, he won't like the reason behind these thoughts. Second, he will dig and try to worm his way in. No. Most of what you've been fixating on, staring out of the window like a mindless drone, or reading and rereading pages that you barely grasped, would fail to create anything more complex in his heart than desire to pull it out.
For whatever twisted reason, Chrollo cares for your well-being, or, more precisely, your acceptance of his advances. Yet his way of caring isn't nurturing in any sense.
Chrollo's interest (you don't dare call it love) is crushing, too heavy to carry - he'll find what troubles you and "fix it" in way that will twist it into something pathetic. Something that shows how you have nothing else to cling on but him. You're not stupid enough to keep falling into this trap. Being a slow learner doesn't mean you don't learn at all.
He's done it before. He'll do it again. So you reply, "I haven't noticed."
His thumb rubs circles on your thigh; you press your shoulder against the car door as if hoping it might open. It doesn't, much to your disappointment.
"What was on your mind then?"
Something you shouldn't tell him, that's for sure. Chrollo's watching you, even if his eyes are trained on the road.
"Random stuff," you say. Half-truths, half-truths are safe. "A weird dream I had this morning."
If you bothered to look, you'd see a raised eyebrow and the faintest hint of amusement at the corners of his mouth. You don't.
"Tell me."
You hate when he does that.
"It was boring."
"I'm interested in anything that made you so pensive."
Chrollo likes conversations with you, even if they're short. You can tell that he does, or he wouldn't be trying to make you talk and getting subtly frustrated when you choose not to. It never shows outright, Chrollo is very gifted at keeping his calm exterior, but there are certain giveaways like the slight tightening of his hand, an emphasized "dear", a pause here, or a quiet exhale through the nose. You could make a list out of these.
If you ignore him, he gets quiet and handsy or petty enough to throw away the only dress you feel comfortable in. Stop bringing you new books. Take you to places you hate.
It's always the small things that kill you, not the big, dramatic ones. The devils in the details.
"There was a lizard," you begin, and he hums in response, prompting you to continue. "It was cute with brown spots and a tiny tail."
Lies weave themselves easily, intertwine with truths and turn it into something that resembles a story.
"It was sitting on my windowsill and I wanted to pet it. A cat came out of nowhere and almost ate it, then I woke up. It's a silly dream."
There. Nothing to dissect here, not that you can see. Just a nonsensical dream, filled with random happenings and strange emotions.
"And that's why you frowned for fifteen minutes?"
"Yes, I got sad."
Yes, you think. Yes, Chrollo. I frowned, because I care for the damn lizard that doesn't exist, an animal from a dream. A stupid musing, nothing special, a very mundane and simple thing, because people do have silly dreams sometimes, and it's not a crime. It's not a crime and has nothing to do with that fact that I have a whole dream world where I'm not with you in my head.
"How peculiar. You never struck me as the type to get upset over something like this."
"You never asked," you respond flatly and Chrollo's hand on your thigh moves an inch.
It brushes up, closer to where you really, really don't want it to be, so you squeeze his fingers hard and redirect them to the curve of your knee.
"True," he says after a pause, not sounding too bothered. A month ago you would've brushed his hand off completely, probably that's why. Chrollo is convinced that with enough patience and effort he'll be able to close that final barrier between you both. Time, coaxing, a dose or two of endearment, some carefully calculated touch - but you'd rather stick a knife through your ribs than have sex with him. Or his patience will simply run out and he'll rape you. You're not delusional. Not a fool. "Well, that can be fixed. I'll make sure to ask about your dreams more often, dear."
You lean back into the seat and stare ahead, this time without anything pleasant on your mind. Of course he will. Of course he'll take this as a sign to dig deeper and invade that small bit of solace, Chrollo can't simply co-exist. He wants it all.
"Mm," you say.
Your new vocabulary is such a handy thing.
#hunter x hunter#chrollo lucilfer#yandere chrollo#yandere chrollo lucilfer#yandere#hunter x hunter fanfic#chrollo lucifer x reader#shalott fanfiction
647 notes
·
View notes
Text
Where Do We Go Now? || alexia putellas x reader
alexia putellas x reader
Part 1
prompt: Friends with benefits situation ended in flames. Will they make their way back to each other?
warnings: angst, smut, begging, oral, fingering, top!Alexia with bottom!reader
It was roughly a quarter after midnight and you were up thinking about Alexia. I mean, who else would you be up late at night thinking about? She invaded all of your thoughts. She had left such an impact on your life in the short time you knew the girl. It almost scared you how much you had fallen for the girl when you didn’t even realize it. Now wanting so desperately to go back and confess your love, but surely she didn’t love you back. Right?
Staring at the ceiling as if something might change. You can hear the wind howling outside through your open window. As it seemed sleep was not in your foreseeable future, your thumb hovered over the green call button. But you couldn’t get yourself to click it. She had found someone else. Someone who wasn’t you.
Nothing happened in the way you wanted. It was as if you wished you could take everything back. Go back and not leave the bar the night when you first met Alexia. It was all a bad idea to begin with.
Everything became blurred so quickly. One minute Alexia was guiding your body towards a release, and the next you were in your bed, alone. Alone and craving her.
It was more than sex though, you missed her soft but dominant nature, her voice, her witty personality, everything about her was lovable. But isn’t that what got you in this situation in the first place? Love.
The worst of all of it, other than the obvious, was that no one knew what you and Alexia had. No idea of why it hurt so much and what you lost. So when you threw yourself straight into your work and ignored your friends on any occasion they invited you out, you were even more alone.
Alone with nothing to do but reminisce. You had lost Alexia, right when you had realized you loved the midfielder. But did you even have Alexia to lose her to begin with? It was all a jumbled mess. Alexia was probably off with her new girl. But you can’t even seem to get over the girl who you hadn’t even dated.
For Alexia, the coffee shop barista was nice and charming, but she wasn’t you. She longed for the nights you spent in her tight grasp and the random conversations that you two dove into post-sex. She especially missed your body and the euphoric noises that left your mouth. She needed you emotionally and physically.
She wanted to call you but for some reason the way you abruptly left her home that night she told you that she was talking to someone confused her, to say the least. It was almost as if maybe you wanted to say something more, something to her.
But you left so quickly that she couldn’t even get a word out. She wanted to ask you how you felt about it, and if for some possible reason, maybe you didn’t want her talking to someone else. Maybe, just maybe, confessing feelings for the Spaniard. But surely you wouldn’t, it was just a friends-with-benefits situation for you. You hadn’t fallen for Alexia like she fell for you. Right?
_______
After much convincing, you were headed out to the bar with your friends. The dreaded bar in which you had met Alexia in, the bar you thought you would never step in again. Desperately praying and hoping she wouldn’t be there. The last thing you needed was to see Alexia when you still were not clearly over her. Simply just wanting to dance the night away.
Alexia tried sleeping with other people. But nobody felt like you, nobody touched her like you did. She tried to forget about the ache in her heart when she thought of you. She remembers the night she met you at the bar. She needed a night out, but more than that, she needed you. She would return to the bar tonight hoping you might be there.
The bar was loud, people fluttering in in large groups, looking for some fun. You were looking for a release. Maybe you would try to take someone home, someone to forget about someone else. The drinks were flowing, a wave of confidence and warmth entered your body. Friends pulled you over to the dance floor.
Alexia entered the bar with one mission on her mind, try and find you. It was a reckless attempt, what were the odds you would actually be here tonight, but Alexia had to try. It was her last chance.
Maybe it was fate? Maybe it was luck? But out of the corner of her eye, she saw you. Swinging your hips along to the beat of the music, talking to a woman who wasn’t her. The woman had her hands on your lower back as you grinded back into her. The realization hit Alexia like a million bricks. Yes, you were at the bar, but she hadn’t come soon enough, you had found someone else.
Overwhelming emotions hit Alexia, she was too late. She can feel the tears brimming in her eyes as she walked to the bathroom. She didn’t want you to see her. She would freshen up and leave. Leave you to be with a woman who wasn’t her, it broke her heart.
Dancing to the beat of the music, you found yourself gravitating towards a stunning brunette who was locking eyes with you. She swung your body around, pushing you into her chest. The music was just right, the alcohol streaming through your body was just right, everything was just right. Except one thing. The one thing you couldn’t seem to let go of. She was not the brunette you wanted. She was not Alexia.
You can feel yourself getting worked up. The emotions you kept trying to put on the back burner coming out front and center. You quickly pull away from the girl and make your way to the bathroom to collect yourself. Pushing the door open you run into a figure.
”Oh I am so sorry!” you immediately tell the girl.
Looking up to see just who you ran into, you are met with her eyes.
“Alexia” you chocked out. You feel as if the wind was knocked out of you, unable to breathe properly.
You could tell she had been crying. Your heart broke.
She can tell you were crying. Her heart ached.
“Are you okay?” is all she asked. She took her thumb and stopped the tear from falling farther down your cheek.
The bathroom was silent. There was no set in stone rules for when you run into someone of Alexia’s nature, yet alone in the same bar where you had met her. So many questions ran through your mind but never left your lips.
“Why are you here?” finally leaving your lips. Alexia was supposed to be talking to someone. She chose her and not you. So the reason she cornered you in the bar bathroom confused you immensely.
“I want you.” Alexia’s hand lingered on your face, thumb now brushing back and forth on your right cheek. You wanted to shout out that you wanted her to, but Alexia chose her path.
“I thought you were talking to someone.” Taken aback by her words, a mixture of anger and confusion.
“It’s over. She’s not you. What about the girl you were dancing with” She asked you.
"She's not you."
You're not really sure who leaned in first but suddenly your lips were on hers. She gently pushes you back towards the sink as her tongue enters your mouth. She easily lifts you up slightly so your ass is on the sink. She’s attacking your lips as she is standing between your legs. You’ve missed her, bad. Your hands have found home in her hair, treading your fingers through her scalp earning small soft moans from Alexia.
You moan into her mouth as she pushes her hips into your core. Whispering between breathes, “Lock the door Alexia.”
She swiftly turns and bolts the door shut, returning her lips to yours in no time.
Still in the searing kiss, her large hands have found your chest and pulled on your top hinting for you to remove it. You remove your top and bra all together, eager for Alexia to touch you, eager to make up for lost time.
Her tongue swirls around each of your nipples, it was euphoric. She then licks a long hot line down the valley of your chest, kneading your breasts with each of her hands until each of your nipples are perked and red. She treads her thumbs over the now raw skin.
Her long fingers hover over your pants on your hips, keeping you stationed in place. She makes quick work and discards your pants all in one quick swift. Grinning into another kiss as she notices the small circle of wetness on your underwear. She knew what she was doing to you. She knew you missed her just as much as she missed you.
Rubbing soft circles on your clit through your underwear as she went back and forth kissing your thighs. It was just not enough, you needed more, you needed her inside you now. Your hips bucked upwards to find some sort of friction, some sort of pleasure but Alexia forced your hips back in place. Your head was spinning, endorphins running through your brain.
“Ale please.”
She removes your underwear slowly and spreads you wide on the sink with her hands on your thighs. You were on full display for her. Your cunt pulsed waiting as Alexia took her time, taking a mental image of you. Desperate and needy but all for her.
On her knees, she is immediately attacking your clit, circling your sensitive bud with her pointer finger. Running her long tongue up and down your slit before she is inside you, pushing her tongue back and forth. The moans leaving your mouth spurred her on. She had missed your pussy, her pussy. You tasted amazing to her. All you could do was simply just throw your head back in pleasure.
With her tongue working your body up, she places her two middle fingers in your warm mouth. Wetting them with a string of spit that leaves your mouth when she pulls them out and into your needy cunt.
“God” you begin to yell out as Alexia pulls you in for another kiss. She picks up her pace and pounds her fingers into you, using a forward upward motion to hit every inch of you. She uses her other hand to hold down your left hip as you buck unwillingly.
Whether it was how needy you had been the past few days or the way Alexia was working your body, you were dangerously close. Alexia knew your body like the back of her hand, knowing which part of your neck was sensitive or how you liked clit stimulation while she fingered you senseless.
“Ale I’m going to cum.” you breathed out. Your legs ached in the wide position they were currently in and your core muscles were pulsating waiting for Alexia’s permission to orgasm. Your hands now were stationed above your head on the cold bathroom wall behind you with Alexia's strong grip on your wrists.
She could feel you tightening on her fingers, she knew you were teetering on the line of release. She quickens her pace and uses her thumb rubbing side to side on your clit for additional pleasure.
The words “Let go baby.” left Alexia’s mouth as your body huddles over in pleasure. Alexia holds you tight as your legs spasm and your body shudders as you orgasm.
She slows her pace on her fingers inside you as she pulls you in for another kiss, but this one is soft. It was slow as your lips rhythmically moved together. It was the warm lips you had missed on those lonely nights. Pulling on her wrist that was connected to the fingers inside you, you lick her fingers clean with dead eye contact with Alexia. Her eyes were dark, pupils dilated as she watched you.
Another wave of silence feel over the bathroom, collecting your clothes and putting them back on. Almost like it was routine.
Breaking the silence, Alexia said “Come home with me.” You knew what it meant and so did she.
You knew there was a conversation to be had. But right now it could wait. You interlaced your hands with Alexia’s as you bid your friends goodbye and went home with Alexia.
#woso x reader#woso community#woso fanfics#woso imagine#woso#woso one shot#woso soccer#woso blurbs#womens soccer#woso couples#woso smut#alexia putellas x reader#alexia putellas x y/n#alexia x reader#alexia putellas#barca femeni#barcelona femeni
554 notes
·
View notes
Text
Channelled Messages 💌
Channelling messages from your: Future Spouse, Closest Friends, Spirit Guides, and Future Self
Note: Please DM me if you want a reading I am going to be putting a discount on all my readings because I am in a rough spot financially and need to pay money for my room which I was not aware of earlier and could be kicked out if I don't at the earliest.
Book a reading || Tip me! (Ko-fi)
♡ Future Spouse
♡ Closest Friends
♡ Spirit Guides
♡ Future Self
Future Spouse
💌 Pile 1
My Love,
I imagine us walking hand in hand through the seasons of life, supporting each other through every victory and challenge. Together, we will create a collage of memories, painting the canvas of our shared life with love, laughter, and endless adventures.
I promise to be your biggest cheerleader, your confidant in times of doubt, and your unwavering support through thick and thin. I vow to cherish and respect you for the unique individual that you are, appreciating both your strengths and your vulnerabilities.
You are scarred right now but theres no reason to be. You are so filled with love and light and everything good, just because someone else cannot see it does not mean it doesnt exist. If I could bring you the moon and the stars I would in an instant. I don't think there has ever been or will ever be someone who is as bright as you.
Please take care of your health, you cannot make excuses for bad habits and keep living life like that, no matter how stressful work or life is please make time for yourself. We still have a while to meet so take care of yourself for both you and I.
Song: It's a Shame - The Spinners
💌 Pile 2
Hey Darling,
Our connection, I believe, will be deeper than words can express. It will be built on trust, respect, and a genuine desire to see each other flourish. While I can't predict the future, I am steadfast in my commitment to cherishing every moment we have together.
We have met before, I don't think you remember me, but I do. your beauty had me stunned and so did your mannerisms. I admire the way you carry yourself, with so much dignity and poise, as if the personification of grace itself were standing in front of me, sweeping me off of my feet.
I will shower you with anything you want, praise, adoration, gifts, love, time, energy, and be there whenever you need. Life is probably fun for you right now, unfortunately for me the road is a little rocky. Enjoy this time with your friends and family, your loved ones truly care about you and want what's best for you even if they can't articulate it well.
Stay strong butterflly and look for me in your dreams, I promise to be a frequent visitor. hope you likfe sunflowers, lillies, and magnolias angel.
Song: Mango bananas - Flyana Boss
💌 Pile 3
Hi sweetheart!!
I have a feeling that when we finally meet, there's going to be a bell that rings making us instantly know like it did in Your Name, also hope you like animation because I love it, I also really like drawing and art, do you? Please say yes!
Life seems to be going too fast for you right now so you need to make sure that you don't lose yourself in the hustle and bustle of everyday life. Calm down and do things you enjoy, maybe you'll like pottery!
But beyond the laughter and silliness, I want you to know that I'm dead serious about creating a remarkable life together. We'll support each other's dreams, even if they involve opening a cat cafe or becoming professional trampoline testers (hey, it's a thing, right?). We'll navigate the ups and downs of life hand in hand, and I promise to be your rock when you need it most.
Song: Glue Song - beabadoobee
xoxo
Closest Friends
💌 Pile 1
Life has been quite the rollercoaster lately, filled with its usual ups and downs. I've had my fair share of challenges, but there have also been some incredible moments that I wish I could have shared with you in person.
I often find myself reminiscing about the good old days when we used to spend hours talking and laughing about anything and everything . Those memories are some of my most cherished, and I truly miss you.
Please know that no matter where life takes us or how much time passes, you will always hold a special place in my heart. Your friendship has been a source of strength, laughter, and endless support, and I'm incredibly grateful for that.
Let's make a promise to catch up soon, whether it's over a cup of coffee or a long, heartfelt phone call. I genuinely look forward to hearing how you've been and sharing all the stories we've missed out on.
With love,
Initials may include: R, P, W, Q, L
Song: Window - Still Woozy
💌 Pile 2
Leaving behind the place we've called home for so long is both exciting and bittersweet. While new opportunities wait and adventures call, it's hard not to feel a tinge of sadness at the thought of being farther away from you.
Although physical distance may separate us, please know that you will always hold a special place in my life. Our bond is not defined by geography but by the strong connection we share.
And the internet exists so we'll be fine right? You promise to not lose touch with me even when we're both busy? I promise I will remember to call you, if not daily then weekly, please don't forget me.
I wish you could join me and we could embark on this together but life has its ways of separating the best people we've met so that we are forced to widen our horizons and social circles lol, hope it's not too much for either you or me.
Will miss you,
Initials pulled: A, J, M, S, K
Song: Missin something - Zach Templar
💌 Pile 3
I love the days we've shared and I wish to share so many more with you in the future, god I am so so so excited for everything thats to come!
Do you remember that time we decided to go on that impromptu road trip? No plans, no GPS, just a car full of snacks, good music, and an unshakable belief that we'd find our way eventually. We got lost more times than I can count, but it was so much fun and truly unforgettable.
And how about those late-night conversations that somehow turned into early-morning confessions? We've solved the world's problems over a cup of lukewarm coffee more times than I can recall. The neighbors must have wondered if we were running a 24-hour café.
As I sit here reminiscing about these and countless other memories, I can't help but smile. Our friendship has been a rollercoaster of laughter, silliness, and genuine connection. And I wouldn't trade a single moment of it for anything in the world.
Sending you a virtual high-five and a whole lot of fond memories, here's to hundreds more, and don't forget about the promise we made about the weddings okay?
Your platonic soulmate,
Initials may include: G, H, B, L, T
Song: Right Here, For Now - Bakar
xoxo
Spirit Guides
💌 Pile 1
Embrace change with an open heart and a curious mind. Life is a series of shifts and transitions, and it's in these moments of change that growth and self-discovery thrive. Trust in your ability to adapt and evolve, for you possess the resilience needed to navigate uncharted waters.
As you progress in your career, always remember that your passion and purpose are the compass that should guide you. Pursue work that aligns with your values and fulfills your soul. Don't be afraid to explore different paths and take calculated risks. Each experience contributes to your growth and wisdom.
Learning is a lifelong journey, and each lesson learned is a stepping stone to your personal and professional development. Stay committed to your goals, and never underestimate the power of continued learning.
There may be moments of doubt or uncertainty along the way, but listen to your heart's desires and the quiet whispers of your soul, for they will guide you toward your true purpose.
Above all, be patient and compassionate with yourself. Success is not defined by a straight path but by the lessons learned along the way. Embrace each setback as an opportunity to grow stronger and wiser.
Song: Everything Has Changed - Taylor Swift
💌 Pile 2
In matters of the heart, we see the longing in your soul for a deep and meaningful connection. First and foremost, we urge you to be patient with yourself. Love is a delicate dance, and it often takes time to find the right partner who truly understands and appreciates you.
As you seek love, remember the importance of self-love. Nurture your own well-being, both physically and emotionally. Don't be insecure about your quirks and imperfections, for they are the qualities that make you beautifully you. When you love yourself wholeheartedly, you become a magnet for the love you desire.
When it comes to romantic relationships, let go of preconceived notions and allow yourself to be pleasantly surprised. Love can appear in unexpected places and forms. Stay open to meeting new people and exploring connections that may not fit your usual "type." Sometimes, the greatest love stories are the ones that defy expectations.
Communication is the foundation of any healthy relationship. Be brave in expressing your feelings, needs, and desires. Equally important, listen to your partner with an open heart. True intimacy is born from understanding and genuine connection.
Whoever, you're thinking of, is not the one, set the standards high and do not settle for something that does not align with what you can give as well.
Song: Scared - Jeremy Zucker
💌 Pile 3
Know that you are never alone. We are always by your side, watching over you, and guiding you in subtle ways. We see your potential and your inner light, and we are here to help you recognize and nurture these gifts.
Trust in your intuition, for it is the voice of your soul and the channel through which we communicate with you. In times of uncertainty, turn inward and listen to the whispers of your heart, for they will lead you toward your true path.
Embrace the lessons that life presents, for they are opportunities for growth and self-discovery. Challenges are not obstacles but stepping stones on your journey to becoming the best version of yourself.
Surround yourself with positive influences and kindred spirits who uplift and support your journey. Let go of relationships that drain your energy and hinder your growth. Create a circle of love and support that nurtures your soul.
Find joy in the simple pleasures of life. Take time to savor a cup of tea, watch a sunrise, or feel the grass beneath your feet. These moments of presence are where true happiness resides.
Song: July - Noah Cyrus
xoxo
Future Self
💌 Pile 1
Darling, I cannot even start to tell you how good life is right now for me, and eventually for you. I know you are currently going through a rough patch, and as cliche as this sounds, I want you to know that every storm you're weathering now is bringing you closer to the sunshine that awaits you.
In my time, I've seen how the challenges you're facing today have shaped you into the resilient, compassionate, and wise person I've become. The setbacks you're experiencing are not roadblocks; they are stepping stones leading you to the life you've always dreamed of.
You may feel lost, uncertain, and at times overwhelmed, but trust me, these moments are your greatest teachers. They are guiding you towards a deeper understanding of yourself, your purpose, and the incredible strength that lies within you.
One day, you will look back on this period of your life and realize that it was a transformative journey, a cocoon in which you underwent a profound metamorphosis. You'll emerge from it stronger, wiser, and more in tune with your inner self.
The relationships you're nurturing now, the lessons you're learning, and the self-care you're embracing will all become pillars of the beautiful life that awaits you. You'll find yourself surrounded by a supportive and loving community that cherishes you for exactly who you are.
Song: See you Again - Tyler, The Creator
💌 Pile 2
I am sorry, but things are not going the way you would have hoped they would. However, rejection is just redirection, okay? Although things are looking rough for me right now, which, for you, is in the future, I want you to know that this tough phase will lead you to a place of strength and growth.
Life can be incredibly challenging at times, and I wish I could spare you from some of the hardships I'm currently facing. But remember, every setback, every disappointment, is an opportunity for growth and learning. It's through these tough moments that we discover our resilience and develop the wisdom to make better choices in the future.
I want you to hold onto hope, even when it feels like all hope is lost. Believe in yourself and your ability to overcome adversity. Surround yourself with supportive friends and loved ones who will help you weather the storm.
Stay patient and kind to yourself. It's easy to be critical during challenging times, but self-compassion is crucial. Treat yourself with the same love and understanding that you offer to others.
I am working on something thats a dream of ours right now, and I am seeing signs that it may end up succeeding soon or at least kick off, and I still love designing and art as much as you do right now, although I barely have time for myself right now.
Song: Not in that way - Sam Smith
💌 Pile 3
Okay, so maybeee we should reel it in a little with how much you are overworking yourself because it is having a bad effect on me, aka future you. Yep, I'm here to tell you that all those late nights, skipped meals, and stress-induced hair-pulling moments are not doing us any favors down the line.
I get it, you're hustling, chasing dreams, and making things happen in the here and now, and that's commendable. But trust me, I've been there, done that, and I can assure you that I'd appreciate a little less burnout and a lot more balance in our past.
You see, life isn't just about reaching goals; it's about enjoying the journey too. So, let's make a pact to take breaks, breathe deeply, and relish the simple pleasures. Remember, it's not all about the destination; the detours and pit stops are just as important.
And don't worry, I'm not trying to cramp your style here; I just want us to have the best possible adventures together, full of energy, laughter, and great stories. So, let's find that sweet spot where hard work meets self-care, and where the future "us" can look back and be happy about the past "you" for making wise choices.
Also please stop pulling all nighters its not doing any wonders for our skin, and even an extensive 10 step skincare routine does not do as much as a good nights sleep can.
Song: While we're yound - Jhene Aiko
xoxo
#pick a card reading#pac reading#pick a pile#tarot daily#tarot#intuition#pac#readings#intuitive readings#intuitive#tarot readings#tarot cards#tarotblr#tarot reading#divination#daily tarot#tarot spread#🩵 PAC 🩵
933 notes
·
View notes
Text
Frozen Blossoms
Frozen Blossoms Pt. 7
Last part here
Bi-Han x F! Reader
Tags and notes: Arranged marriage AU, SFW (but some suggestive themes), exploring emotions, Pre-MK1/MK1 AU
Warnings: NSFW, violent thoughts kinda?
As you returned, you had fallen asleep in Bi-Han’s arms, so you don’t exactly remember when you got home. Everything seemed like a blur as you tried to make sense of what happened, all the while medics had been tending to your sustained wounds. Most of the lacerations were minor. A few cuts, some scrapes, and unsightly bruises were present, but you didn’t consider it that alarming. Then there was the sprain your ankle sustained, which would be unpleasant to manage. But that would heal within a few weeks, as long as you rest, that is. You could manage the physical wounds. That wasn’t the main thing that was bothering you. It was more so trying to grasp what had just happened, the stress, and the plethora of other emotions that came wrapped up with it.
Sometime after all the commotion you found yourself lying on your bed, cleaned up, and with a change of clothes. You appeared much better, truly you were anything but. Your head was aching, you felt almost nauseous as you replayed the sequence of events over in your head again and again. It was as if you were working yourself into feeling ill. It was odd, you didn’t want to think about it, you wanted to pretend that it didn’t happen. That it was some type of horrid dream. Yet your brain drifted back to it almost constantly; going over what had occurred and what you could’ve done to avoid it.
A part of you felt ashamed. You felt as if you caused such a hassle. And maybe you felt embarrassed too, you started your training here shortly after you married, and yet when you needed it, you couldn’t put any of your knowledge or training to use. How were you supposed to live up to your status? Did the rest of the clan think less of you?
You didn’t think any of this could be a possibility when you had gotten married. It just never occurred to you. You should’ve thought it over more seriously before marrying him. But back then you were actively trying to avoid thinking about the marriage altogether, you were running away from your impending future. How foolish of you. Maybe you would have been more mentally prepared if you had been realistic and rational. It was an unspoken expectation to expect risks in your position, and now you are suffering more than you would have, had you taken the time to process that fact.
But you’re tired now, and you don’t want to think about it. You want it to stop. So you try to sleep. You close your eyes and hope this is all a bad dream.
——————————
This wasn’t a dream.
It was more like a nightmare, that’s what it felt like for Bi-Han. It all happened too quickly. Nothing he considered suspicious had occurred when he accompanied you. And he had thought that slipping away for a moment would be fine. He was so focused on trying to find the perfect gift for you, something that would suit you, that he didn’t realize what had happened until a fire erupted. Screams and the commotion of fleeing civilians took over his senses as he scanned the area for you. He had helped some people avoid injury, leading and practically pushing them away from harm. Maybe he could have been more considerate but he wasn’t particularly focused on them. Perhaps it was selfish, but he was solely concentrated on finding you.
But you disappeared quickly, and from that point on, he knew the fire was a calculated distraction. He rapidly returned home to recruit his brothers’ assistance in locating who could have stolen you away from him. And he was quick to deduct that a rival clan had kept you as a hostage. At least that’s what he hoped. Because he knew rivalries were rarely kind affairs. And that the quicker you were killed, the faster new bridal prospects would be offered up to secure new alliances.
He doesn’t want that, he doesn’t want to think about it. That’s why he wastes no time tracking you down. He leaves Kuai Liang and Tomas to collect notable evidence as they rampage through the worn-down building. He’ll need it to quell any problems that may arise from the bloodshed he is about to partake in. He is devoid of mercy as his bloodlust takes over his every action, allowing it to steer him like the strings of a puppet. His heart beats widely, Kuai Liang and Tomas have gone ahead of him, searching for you. And he’ll have to thank them after this is over. He needs you to be alive. You have to be, but a part of him is fearful as he breaks through the door where his brothers’ voices filter through.
And there you were. Alive, scared, and disheveled.
He hasn’t felt such an odd mix of relief and sadness before.
So when he gathers you up in his arms to return home, he tries to remain calm, like he is composed, even though he is anything but. He is glad you felt comfortable enough to doze off as he carried you back home, but as he thinks back on it, you were more than likely just exhausted. When he handed you off to the medics you had woken up abruptly, gripping his arm with such desperation that it made his stoic face finally falter. He couldn’t hide the frown that made its way to his face as he tried his best to comfort you, assure you that he was in the room, that he was not going anywhere, and that the medical staff had to make sure you were okay. And when he reluctantly let you go, he couldn’t help but feel that he disappointed you.
He keeps a watchful eye as your wounds are tended to, and when you’re being bathed and dressed by a few select maids he slips away to fill in the Grandmaster on what has happened. On his way there, he pulls the hairpin from his pocket, eyeing it for a moment before hastily shoving it away. He doesn’t want to look at it right now.
——————————
The days pass by, some more quickly than others. Your wounds slowly healed, although a few of the cuts manifested into unsightly scars. Thankfully your ankle was healing in a timely manner.
And Bi-Han was at your side through it all. Ever the dutiful husband. He was attentive, keeping an eye on you, tending to any need before you even had the chance to ask. He was patient with you. His hands were gentle whenever he helped change any bandages or the binding on your ankle.
But he was quiet. More so than usual.
You would try to make conversation, but he seemed adamant about keeping your verbal interactions brief. You asked if he’d want to drink tea with you in the mornings and evenings. He used to say yes and you two would converse, even if he was busy. Now you were met with quick and polite refusals. You’d ask him about his day, he’d be to the point, barely elaborating on anything the way he once did. You felt as if the only times your conversations were extensive were when they revolved around your injuries and healing process. The sense of intimacy you both shared seemed to be rapidly deteriorating as well. The other night you lazily turned to him in your bed. He was looking at you, not a word left his lips. You whispered a simple goodnight and leaned it slightly, just to place a chaste kiss on his skin. But he tilted his face down, slightly away from you. You figured he was tired, yet you feared it was something else.
It perplexed you. He maintained the same level of kindness, but you felt as if there was a disconnect. Was he angry at you? Or maybe disappointed? It wasn’t your fault, it’s not like you had asked to be kidnapped. But maybe if you were better equipped, better prepared, then it would’ve never happened. And if it never happened maybe you two could have been closer by now. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so far away even when he’s in the same damn room as you.
His demeanor had added to the myriad of thoughts that circled through your mind like clockwork. It was exhausting. You placed a hand on your forehead as you lay in your bed. You wanted so badly for it to stop, but these thoughts always lingered in the back of your head. And tonight was no different. On occasion it seeps into your dreams, conjuring up different scenarios of what could have been. Scenarios where Bi-Han didn’t come to your aid in time or where he explicitly makes his distaste of you known. It makes you wake up in a cold sweat. To which Bi-Han would promptly awaken as well. He would reassure you that you were safe within the Lin Kuei’s walls and that he was by your side before urging you to go back to sleep.
If this one event was enough to rattle you, it made you wonder if Bi-Han ever had any nightmares. He had seen and endured far more than you ever had. Did it ever bother him? Did it ever disturb his sleep? Now that you think of it, he only ever fell asleep after you were sound asleep. Other than the past days, you rarely ever woke up in the middle of the night, so you weren’t aware of him dealing with any nightmares, if he did suffer any at all. Some semblance of guilt settled in your stomach. Maybe you should be more attentive in that way, or at least check up on him more often. This incident opened your eyes to the reality of his line of work. Of course, you knew the Lin Kuei are a fierce clan but it was different when you had experienced it firsthand. You didn’t know how gruesome their outings could be, it made you worry for him more than you did before.
At that moment, the image of Bi-Han coming to your rescue comes to mind. He was doused in the shade of red that day. You could scarcely see the blue and black shades of his clothing. Splotches of blood had been splattered across his cheek and forehead. When he carried you back you had noticed the dried blood stuck under his fingernails, was that his blood or someone else’s? You had a feeling it wasn't his. He was capable of a level of brutality that you weren’t fully aware of prior. And the image of your husband practically soaked in someone’s else blood is seared into your mind.
Although, it didn’t scare you as much as you thought it would.
Was that a bad thing? You couldn’t tell.
——————————
Bi-Han thinks that you haven't been yourself lately, but he doesn’t blame you. You always seem lost in thought, your facial expressions oscillate between concentrated or dissociated. You often had a headache or just didn’t feel well. He thinks it’s still the shock of the incident getting to you.
And today is no different.
A migraine had taken hold of you today and so staying confined to your bed seemed all too enticing. It was becoming a bad habit. Technically your body was healing and you should be getting back into the regular flow of your lessons, but you couldn’t bring yourself to get right back to it. You know you should, it’d help you be better prepared for future endeavors, and maybe it would serve as a good distraction. But lately, your motivation has been lacking. So again you’ve found yourself isolated, staying in your room more often than not.
But your head hurts and you feel slightly nauseous, so it’s more comfortable to stay in bed than venture out. The majority of the day is spent going in and out of sleep.
Bi-Han enters the room quietly. He’s been busy lately, trying to better himself. Taking up more responsibility from his father in managing the clan, and training more often.
It’s for your sake, really. That is what he tells himself.
But he’s taking a break from his busy schedule. He just wants to see if you’ve eaten yet. Much to his dismay there is a tray of untouched food at your bedside, while you lay buried under a layer of cotton blankets.
You were falling asleep again, trying not to mull over the same worries that had been eating away at you for days. Your eyes were closed but you felt a dip in the bed and a hand brush up against your forehead before it gently pet your hair. You knew it was Bi-Han. It was comforting when he was near, you felt far safer with him than you did with anyone else. You didn’t open your eyes, your eyelids felt too heavy and your body was being lulled to sleep, but a small smile briefly graced your lips. He caught sight of it.
He was satisfied that you were getting some sleep at the very least, he’d often have to soothe you back to sleep after you’d wake up in a panic from nightmares plaguing you in the dark of night. Every time you endured another nightmare, he felt his guilt increase. However, you currently looked peaceful, and seeing your smile just now gave him a sense of satisfaction, or rather what he’d come to know as just plain happiness.
But did he deserve that happiness?
It scares him that he was undoubtedly close to not being able to see you smile again. He retracts his hand, and you don’t react. He figures that you must be asleep now. His back leans against the headboard of the bed, while his eyes drag down to take in your form.
He has not spent much time with you since that day. Part of him yearned for you, and yet part of him was keen on avoiding you.
He didn’t realize he would take such a liking to you when he married you, but he grew weak to your presence. Soon enough he found himself intoxicated with you. The small delights of your smile, your touch, your softly spoken words, they had taken hold of him. You had become precious to him. And when softening his heart towards you, he failed to realize the anguish he would suffer had you ever been taken away from him.
It’s as if he could feel himself shutting down. Building up a wall against the harm you might do to him. Because the fact that the very things he adored about you were finite, that you would not be here forever, terrified him.
Pathetic.
He wanted to avoid the hurt. Shield himself from an uncertain future. It wasn’t his intention. He didn’t even notice the visceral response, at first anyway. Of course, he took care of you, but he limited himself. He didn’t speak to you as often, as if to punish and protect himself simultaneously. He was hesitant. Why attach himself any more than he already was? It only posed a greater risk to him. And now his own lack of competency reveals a rotten core that causes him to be egocentric yet again. To slowly start pushing you away again despite your needs and despite the desires that lay in the crevices of his heart.
For a lingering moment, he thinks of his father. How his father must’ve hurt when his mother died.
His father really loved his mother, didn’t he?
He misses his mother.
She was a strong woman, honorable and resilient. As a child, he always thought his mother would be there. He was exposed to the concept of death at a very young age, but he never thought it would pertain to his family. As he grew older he understood that perhaps there would be a risk of death in battle. He’d seen his clanmates perish and witnessed his father slaughter their enemies and those who threatened Earthrelm. And then he partook in those activities himself when he was just barely blooming into adolescence. He never anticipated death to come to him or one of his loved ones through illness. And yet he was served just that. No matter how strong his mother was, no matter how mindful she was, she was betrayed by her own body. And he was powerless to stop it. He felt as if she slipped through his fingers. He hated watching her wither away bit by bit. He despised how helpless and fearful he had felt back then. He hadn’t felt that type of despair until that fire erupted and you disappeared from his sight.
And after his mother passed, nothing ever felt the same anymore. His father said time would heal their wounds. But he found his father to be dishonest because not a day went by where he wouldn’t ponder the fantasy of a life where his mother lived a healthy life.
Some reality where his mother didn’t frantically scold him for weeping about her misfortune. Where his father didn’t push him exponentially harder than his brothers. Where he didn’t have to watch his father fall apart in private. Where he didn’t have to bear the burden of his father’s anguish-fueled training, and where he didn’t have to tend to Kuai Liang’s sadness at the expense of his own grieving process. He buried that grief within him, and it somehow found its way to seep out of him.
Maybe it wasn’t just grief.
Some immature, boyish part of him was angry. Upset that his mother left him to bear so much on his own.
Anger was such a familiar emotion to him, But this anger felt different. Taking root and creeping out of a part of himself that he seldom shows anyone.
He was angry that his mother left him. And he was furious at himself for still being hurt over it. It was immature and unbecoming of him. Perhaps that was the same anger he felt towards you, he abhorred the fact that you had grown to be of such importance to him. He hated that you could cause him to delve into that ever-familiar fear and worry once more. He hated that you could have left him.
But truly, it’s all misguided, and deep down he knows it.
If he is being honest, he detests himself for feeling the way he does.
There’s a rustling of the bedsheets and Bi-Han is pulled out of his thoughts when he hears you gasp.
“What is it?” he asks in a rather urgent tone.
Your eyes flutter open and you move to slowly sit up, you take a few deep breaths and instinctively grip his forearm, his hand is slow as he moves to place it over yours. The sudden nature of your awakening leads him to believe you must’ve experienced a glimpse of another nightmare, and he can’t bring himself to ask you if you’ve dreamt about the incident again. If you’re dreaming about his shortcomings again. He knows he is tactless. If you bring up the nightmare, he will assure you again that it will not happen, as he has done in nights prior. It’s almost amusing that as many times as he has reassured you, his own confidence falters bit by bit.
If you do not bring up any distressing dreams, he will not push you to disclose anything.
“Are you hurt?” he mumbles. You shake your head, but wince when you try to move your foot. “The wraps on my ankle are bothering me, I just want to take them off for a little while,” you say softly and lean forward but Bi-Han lightly waves his hand. “I will do it.”
You lean back and Bi-Han raises your foot as he unwraps the binding. He moves your foot from side to side slowly, as he’s no stranger to a sprained ankle. “The binding is bothering you more because you haven’t been elevating your foot enough. The more often you keep it elevated, the less swollen it’ll be,” he says and grabs a small pillow to place under your foot.
“Thank you,” you respond and shoot him a smile. “I appreciate all the help.”
“It’s my duty, is it not?”
You bite your lip. You appreciated his help, but you thought by now he’d give you a different answer. Something that alluded to a suggestion of care or affection. You thought he would ask if you’ve had another nightmare (you did). But you awoke to his presence and it is comforting enough to know that he is by your side. Yet the air feels thick in your lungs as you acknowledge that his words are minimal. He asks no questions despite the knowing look in his eyes.
You sigh quietly, “Duty is everything, hm?”
His eyes meet yours for an uncomfortable moment. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
You properly sit up now. “You know when we married I initially performed out of duty. But now it’s out of care. I care about you Bi-Han.” You want to say more, add a more potent word to showcase your feelings for him, but you bite your tongue.
“And you think I don’t care about you? Why else would your well-being concern me?” He tosses the wraps to the floor and you can’t help but think your statement has struck a nerve.
You cross your arms, “do not twist my words.”
He looks towards you, a small frown forms on his face, but it disappears just as fast. “Haven’t I proven myself to you? I watch over you day and night, I take care of you.”
A retort lays at the tip of your tongue but you refrain from speaking. Technically, he was speaking the truth. Yet you desired something more. Maybe you were misconstruing things? But no. You knew something was off. So you hold his gaze and shake your head. “Yes, you have. And I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” You’re hesitant for a moment. “Is everything alright?”
The question catches him off guard. Have you noticed any change? He has attempted to maintain the air of normalcy as much as possible. “Yes.”
You wanted to give him a chance to voice his concerns. “Are you sure?” You ask quietly. You know something is off, but how much were you meant to push him on the subject? Bi-Han places his hand on your shoulder “I am certain.”
You lay your hand over his and squeeze it gently, “If you say so.”
You don’t believe him.
——————————
There’s a full moon that just barely shines through the window of the kitchen. You’ve always found it lovely, a peaceful and comforting sight. It’s a stark contrast to the tea kettle screeching above a small flame on the stove.
You take longer than usual to remove it from the heat.
You’d much rather be in bed right now, but you’d woken up in the middle of the night to find your bed empty. You were waking up in the middle of the night less often as time went on. Bit by bit your fear of being snatched away began to decrease. Yet the unease of your husband’s behavior fueled your overthinking. And the fact that this was the third time this week that he had disappeared in the middle of the night did nothing to help you. You suspect that he went to train on his midnight excursions, as you’d often stir awake when he’d return. You’d catch glimpses of him heaving and glistening with sweat.
Bi-han’s behavior leads you to think he is not being entirely honest. Now you do have to hand it to him, he is extremely skilled at concealing his unrest when he really wants to. But the longer you two have been married, the more of his habits you’ve picked up on. When he is angry or upset the training grounds become his second home, he becomes reckless; more scrapes and bruises grace his hands. He refrains from drinking his preferred tea of oolong and instead opts for something more bitter. He doesn’t converse as often anymore. You know it’s not as noticeable as before, but its lack still lingers. It irks you, it feels like such an odd step back. You do try to be patient, but you thought you were past this. You thought you were at a point where true comfort could be found with one another.
You worry about him. He had slowly opened up to you, but not to the degree you long for. You felt like you were always longing for more, when would you finally get it? You wonder if Bi-Han feels the same, and you wonder if he struggles to articulate the desire just as you do. You suspect that if you bluntly ask him what is troubling him, he will brush off the question. So you will have to devise an alternative strategy.
You carefully pour two cups of tea and now you wait. It’s in the late hours of the night. You assume the others are asleep. Your ears are attentive to your surroundings and hear the echo of footsteps getting louder and louder as they resonate through the hallway. You choose this moment to ambush your husband.
Bi-Han abruptly comes to a stop, if you didn’t know any better you’d say he was startled. He looks at you the way a disappointed superior would. “What are you doing up at his hour? And what of your ankle? Go to bed.”
You shake your head. “No, I couldn’t sleep and it seems that neither can you. So I made tea for the both of us”
He sighs and rubs his knuckles lightly, they’re red. “No, I am fine without tea.”
You try not to roll your eyes. You were attempting to remain neutral but here you were already beginning to lose your patience. Or perhaps that was a side effect of feeling tired.
Your hand makes its way to grab his forearm. “I already made it, you might as well drink it.”
He looks down at your hand and figures that arguing more at this point wouldn’t do him any good. He follows you to the small table in the kitchen, pulling out a chair for you to sit on before he sits down himself. So he joins you, sipping his tea quietly so as to not disturb you. However, he is mistaken because his silence is perplexing you to no end.
You sip your tea as well, it’s too hot. “You know I’ve missed our conversations, I feel as if we barely have time to spend together, let alone have a conversation.”
His gaze meets yours. The desire to be defensive is there, but all he does is return his eyes to his tea. He misses your chats too, in the morning, midday, the evening, but he can’t bring himself to say it. He doesn’t deserve your company if he has failed at protecting you, one of the main fundamentals of being a husband. “I’ve taken on more responsibilities recently.”
“Do those responsibilities include avoiding me?” You ask plainly and raise an eyebrow at him.
So much for subtlety.
His eyebrows furrow and that ever-familiar crease emerges on his forehead. “Whatever I do, I do for your benefit.”
“The lack of your presence does not benefit me.”
He clenches his jaw. He won’t voice it, but he is exhausted, he doesn’t exactly want to address this right now. “Am I not by your side whenever my schedule allows me the time? Have I not checked up on you throughout the day? Do I not aid you whenever necessary?”
Your resolve falters briefly. That was true, he still cared for you, physically anyway. “That’s not what I mean.”
He knows what you mean, and he is simultaneously impressed yet shamefully irked that you have taken notice of it. He is unwilling to speak on it.
“Let’s go to bed.”
You cross your arms. Of course, he would avoid the topic, he was a stubborn man, you knew that by now. “Fine, you can go to bed.”
Bi-Han finishes his tea in one quick gulp before getting up and looking at you. “Finish your tea, let’s go.”
“No I’d rather stay here, I’ll come to bed later.”
“Wife, it’s late, I’d rather not leave you here alone.” You could hear the shift in his voice, from polite to politely annoyed, and maybe a hint of underlying concern.
“You left our bedroom in the middle of the night to train anyway.”
He supposes you’re correct. “You were asleep when I left. I was getting in more practice, and our bedroom is one of the safest places in the Lin Keui’s Palace.”
“In my opinion, the kitchen is safe enough. Goodnight.” You return to drinking your tea and Bi-Han does not move. You wonder when he’ll leave the room, but the second you finish the tea you feel your chair being swiftly pulled backward and before you know it, your husband has taken you up into his arms. You briefly grasp at his shirt from the sudden movement. “What’re you doing?”
“Your ankle hasn’t fully healed yet. I’m taking you back to our room.”
“My ankle is almost fully healed. Put me down.” Even though you speak your request, part of you wants him to deny it.
“No.”
You try not to focus on him as he brings you back to your shared bedroom. You keep your eyes averted from his face, and he notices. He places you down on your side of the bed.
“So stubborn,” he mumbles under his breath.
Your head snaps back up to look at him. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” he responds gruffly and proceeds to let his hair down. You pinch the bridge of your nose “You’re far more stubborn than I am.”
“Oh, am I?”
“You know you are.” You pause and lay down in your bed facing the opposite direction before pulling the sheets up to your shoulders. “Pushing me away won’t help anything and we both know it,” you mumble.
“I’m not in the mood to quarrel with you, I’m going to bed. You should too.”
You close your eyes, trying not to focus on the sounds of your husband maneuvering around the room, and hoping that sleep falls upon you quickly.
——————————
Your hair is being particularly troublesome today as you try to style it. You need something to pin it back. Maybe it’s because the air is thick, but you can’t decipher if that’s due to the placebo of your own tense thoughts, or if the usually frigid climate has a touch of humidity. And maybe you’re mulling over minor peculiarities to convince yourself that it’s all a sign to move forward.
Today you’ve pushed yourself to try and engage with your regular schedule again, at least when it came to your lessons. So as you sit in front of your vanity you take a deep breath and try not to let your mind wander. But that was easier said than done. You had to look presentable today, how long would you be allowed to wallow in your room? Even if they let you keep to yourself for days, it wouldn’t exactly display a good impression. You had to become acclimated to moving forward despite what you dealt with. Everyone else in the clan seemed capable of doing it, so you should be too.
One particular strand of hair fails to stay in place as your hand traverses your jewelry box. You are looking for a clip or pin to match your clothing for today, but nothing seems to suit your tastes. A sigh of frustration leaves your lips and you start rummaging through the drawers nearby. Now Bi-Han kept some of his belongings in the bottom drawer and you knew that. You rarely saw him open it and in the process of hastily checking each one, you open his. Now you’re not one for snooping around, you respected your husband’s privacy. But technically, what’s yours was his and what’s his was yours, isn’t that what married couples always said? Or at least the ones that had been around you growing up had uttered the phrase here and there. Your eyes quickly scan the contents of the drawer before coming to a halt. Hidden away in the back corner of the drawer is a small blue box adorned with gold lining. You raise a brow, you don’t think you’ve seen Bi-Han with any pieces of jewelry before, not after your wedding day. You carefully pick up the box and examine it before opening it.
What you find perplexes you.
‘What is that?’
A lone pin sits at its center. It is simple, silver, with a shimmering blue gemstone at its core. You delicately pick it up. This was a pin suited for a female. Was this for you? It must be, right?
Although wouldn’t Bi-Han have given it to you by now?
You told yourself you’d try to maintain a sound mind today, and yet your husband’s distance delves your brain into overthinking again. What if the pin was for someone else? What if he didn’t see you fit for the role of his wife any longer?
No.
You cannot allow your thoughts to wander any longer like this. You were already mentally exhausted and you refuse to add this to your list of worries. Still, it concerns you that you had found this hidden away, or what you assumed to be hidden anyway. Perhaps this was against your better judgment, but the pin was simple and beautiful. To be fair even if it didn’t entirely match your outfit, it did match your necklace.
If this accessory was meant to be a surprise you don’t understand why he would take so long to give it to you. No holidays were near, nor was your birthday coming up.
A hypothesis forms within your thoughts as you pull back a portion of your hair and hold it in place with the hairpiece. If Bi-Han sees the pin and becomes aggressive, then it must be for another. If he sees the pin and leaves it, it must be for you. Now you would expect a minor scolding, maybe you’d be reprimanded for ruining a surprise, but if the gift was for you anyway, you wouldn’t consider it a big deal. You stare at your reflection in the mirror and take a deep breath. Your eyes fall to the necklace you are wearing. Bi-Han did have good taste when it came to picking out things for you. He was attentive in that way. A twinge of guilt seeps into you, he has grown warmer towards you since you had married. Maybe his distance wasn’t a fault of your own, but an outcome of what had happened to you.
Maybe it had shaken him up as well.
You decide you will speak to him this evening.
——————————
Your tutors were happy to meet with you today, and due to your lack of consistency with attending your lessons, you had a lot to catch up on. You did not mind it very much. Truthfully it helped to keep your brain from wandering. You’ve seen Bi-Han throughout the day in passing, he would stop by the room you were in and eye you up and down before asking if you were feeling okay. You’d give him a curt “yes,” or just a nod of the head to indicate that you were busy.
You don’t think he believes you.
The day goes by quickly for you and soon your tutor is advising you to join your family for dinner, but you calmly decline. Conjuring up an excuse that convinces your instructor to leave you be. You’d probably grab a snack to satiate you later on. For now, you just wanted time to think. Approaching your husband after dinner concludes seems like a decent idea. You don’t think Bi-Han noticed your new little accessory and based on last night’s sour conclusion, you didn’t want to suffer through an awkward dinner with your in-laws present. You yawn and lean back in your chair while stretching out your arms. Maybe you can go relax for now, you think you deserved it after all that work.
——————————
Bi-Han wasn’t all that hungry right now, he told Kuai Liang that he’d dine later on as he had something to take care of. Honestly, he didn’t want to face you just yet. Nor did he want to maintain the guise of a happy couple who hadn’t argued the prior night. Engaging in theatrics for his clan’s pleasure was much easier when you two had first married, but now a simple argument had him uneasy. He knew you were still upset and he knew he was partially at fault.
He slowly makes his way through the halls of his home as his mind wanders. To be fair, he thought you were partially to blame as well. You just had to keep prying no matter how many times he had refuted your remarks. His walking comes to a slow halt as he thinks of what you said the night prior. Was his absence affecting you that much? A selfish part of him is satisfied with your longing for him, yet he again feels frustration when he thinks of his attachment to you as well. And it stings to think that he is once again failing as your husband. He should’ve been attentive, he knows you need it. And yet he is mindfully absent for his own heart’s sake, or maybe for its penance. He sighs as he opens the door to find you already there. He is about to utter your name as you turn around until his eyes catch sight of the jewel that adorns your hair. His breath hitches and his heart beats a little faster.
Before you can even greet him, his voice clamors through your room.
“Take that out of your hair and put it back where you found it. Now” he hisses.
You narrow your eyes, so he did notice it although you weren’t expecting such a visceral response. “No.”
He clenches his jaw and steps forward, you take a step back. “Why do you want me to take it off?” you say in an accusatory tone. ‘So much for resting.’
“Because I am your husband, and I am asking you to remove it” he responds. You raise an eyebrow, you can tell he is trying to maintain an undisturbed aura but it is not working. “And I am your wife, telling you I am not taking it off,” you respond and smile up at him. “Maybe if you told me why you want me to remove it so badly, I’d be more inclined to do so.”
He sighs as if he is tired and you speak up again, “Because if you don’t, it makes me wonder if this was a gift for someone else.”
His jaw practically drops, “Do you think so low of me?”
“What else am I supposed to think when you’ve hidden this pin away?” You hastily take off the hairpin and flash it in front of him. He steps forward and reaches to take it but you take another step back. You know he could snatch it right out of your hand before you even had a chance to realize that he’s done so. Therefore some part of you appreciates his failure to do so.
You cross your arms with the pin still in hand, “Bi-Han, why would you hide this away?” You bite your lip out of nervousness.
He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “You’re fretting over things you don’t understand.”
“Then help me understand.”
You can tell how frustrated he is by the way he clenches his fists and the deep breath he takes. But you watch how his face changes, from frustration to disdained haughtiness. He steps forward once more and by now your back is against the wall.
He eyes you up and down and his eyebrows furrow. “Give me the hairpin.”
You sigh, he does look slightly unnerving to you, but you will not allow such tactics to sway you. “Intimidate me all you want, we both know it won’t work with me, I know you well enough by now.” If you were honest, this whole ordeal made you feel like you didn’t know him at all.
Bi-Han’s hands come to rest on your shoulders. “You don’t know me.”
You let out a defeated laugh. How were you supposed to spend the rest of your life with someone that refused to communicate? The very thought unnerved you. “Then help me fix that!” you respond in an exasperated tone. “And here I am again, begging you to help me understand. What am I missing here? And do not lie to me. How long would you have us both dance around this unspoken issue?”
He shakes his head in a defeated manner, it doesn’t suit him, “Don’t concern yourself with such things.”
You shoot him an angry look, “I concern myself because it involves us. I am your wife and I can’t read your mind,” You hiss and motion towards yourself. “What is it? Are you ashamed of me? I’m sorry.” You tried to maintain a calm demeanor but your voice is shrill by now. You shove the hairpin into his chest and attempt to push him away from you, but the pin falls to the floor as his hands wrap around your shoulders. The look in his eyes screams of intensity, while yours remain seeped in anger.
‘Sorry?’
Why would you be sorry? It’s his fault. He hated to even acknowledge the fact, but it was true. Had he been present, had he been there, none of this would’ve happened. Had he been a proper husband, he would’ve kept you safe.
Just another task he’s failed at.
“There is nothing to apologize for.”
“Yes, there is,” you respond stubbornly.
He stares at you, his look has now become unreadable to you. “I am the one who failed you.”
That statement of his brings you pause. You tilt your head up and lean forward rather confused. You would never take him as one to admit failure of any sort.
“Failed me at what? What do you mean?” Your throat feels dry as you await a response. What could he possibly be going on about? Your hand moves up to squeeze his hand gently, urging him to continue. His eyebrows are still furrowed, and you hear him gulp before he speaks. “If I had been more watchful, you would not have been taken or injured in the first place.”
Oh.
He had saved you, you were living and breathing before him, yet that’s what had been on his mind. Your resolve falters a bit. You didn’t realize it was that, and here you were worrying that he was ashamed of you. Perhaps you’ve thought too little of yourself. You had taken the increasing distance for a perpetual disking, not quiet insecurity.
“I- I thought it was something else. I thought it was me, or the state of our marriage-”
He cuts you off, “What do you mean.” His voice is a little quieter now.
“Bi-Han.”
“Answer me.” He sighs in a tone that echos remorse, “please.”
You gaze up at him as his eyes lock on yours. His heart is beating fast, and he hates it. His facade is crumbling before you.
He hates it.
“We were married off too quickly, I didn’t think things through, I did not realize what I was getting myself into.” You look back at him now, searching for a hint of emotion in his face, but he does his best to remain stoic. Still, you place a hand on his cheek, and the sensation of his jaw clenching is felt on your fingers.
You feel his hand cover yours, you wonder if he’s trying to remove your touch.
“Are you attempting to imply that you’re not happy with our arrangement?-“ he cuts himself off. He was about to snap at you. Say that he can bring you back home to your original clan if that’s what you desire, that he’d end things amicably. However he knows he could never do that, he’d rather keep you locked away for himself. Would that be another sentiment of his selfishness? It is. He’s been pushing you away, but the thought of you actually leaving strikes fear into his heart.
You shake your head vigorously, “No, I was uneasy initially, but I’m happy when you are actually around.” You drop your hands and clutch at the fabric of your own dress. “I want you around. I feel safer with you around. I miss you.” You say softly. You almost feel like a child, confessing feelings of fondness. Surely you’ve told him you missed him before? But this is different. His hand comes to rest against your cheek, drawing your attention back up to him.
You miss him. And truthfully, he misses you too. You will not live forever, neither will he. Your time together is finite. He desires your time. He desires your affection, your presence. Why in the world has he been depriving himself of something you’ve been so willing to give? He knows, but his burning inhibitions are beginning to quiet down as he looks back at you. The look on your face has morphed into something sincere, so genuine. You reach out to him with open arms, offering up a place of solace that he’s been desperately craving since he was a boy. He engulfs you in his arms and buries his face into the crook of your neck, almost as if he’s trying to shield himself from his own shortcomings. It’s against his very nature, but he can’t help himself, not anymore.
The words spill out like vomit. Repulsive to him. But it’s soothing to your ears, it serves as an assurance that you’ve yet to lose him.
“I endangered you. I nearly lost you.” His tone is so wrath with what you liken to regret, that it pains you.
“I should have known better, I should have kept a better eye on you. What if you had gotten gravely injured? What if you were killed? It’s my fault. How am I fit to be your husband when I’ve failed at the simplest of duties? If I can’t even keep you out of harm's way, how am I to be cognizant of the safety of my clan?.” His voice falters the slightest bit as he speaks.
“It’s not your fault. If it weren’t for you I would not be alive.” You say quietly.
Neither of you faces the other as you speak, only hiding away in the embrace that shields each other to some degree. But you can’t bear it anymore. You attempt to pull away, to look at him face to face, and guarantee that he believes you when you vocalize your assurance. But he doesn’t let you. His grip on you is firm, his fingers dig into your sides as if he’s trying to keep you from disappearing. “Don’t.” He speaks so quietly, it’s unlike him. Your fingers graze the back of his neck before you find yourself petting his hair, you’re content when he doesn’t pull away.
“I-I am inadequate. I just didn’t think about how dangerous your line of work is. It didn’t occur to me until I was caught up in the middle of it. If I had been more aware of my surroundings, or if I had trained harder then maybe I wouldn’t have been in such a vulnerable situation.”
“Don’t speak of yourself that way.”
You shrug your shoulders lightly, “I’m only stating how I feel. And we both know that’s true.” You murmur.
“What good do you get out of blaming yourself?”
“Couldn’t I ask you the same thing?”
He doesn’t respond and you gently tug at his hair, “Bi-Han?”
“It’s not the same.”
“What do you mean?”
“How can I not blame myself? I foolishly let my guard down, when I’ve been trained to never do so.”
You’re quiet for a moment. That day had been enjoyable for you both, you wouldn’t expect him nor yourself to have predicted the unfortunate events of that day.
“You’ve acknowledged that it’s happened, but as you said yourself, what good will constantly punishing yourself do? What’s done is done, and I am thankful that you kept me from greater harm.” You hold onto him tighter as you speak. “I see how you’re punishing yourself, don’t you understand that hurts me more than whatever happened that day?” You mumble quietly.
You hear his breath hitch. “That is not my intention.”
“But that’s what’s been happening.” You try to tear away from his grip, and he reluctantly lets you go so that you’re able to face him. You cup the sides of his face within the palms of your hands. “I care for you, we’ve been bound by marriage and I take that commitment seriously. I want to bear your burdens with you, haven’t I shown that I want to be by your side as we endure this life?”
His hands come up to grip your wrists as if he were to remove them from his face, but he refrains from doing so, “You don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“But I do,” you counter. You find yourself leaning closer. “I’ve experienced what risks come with your line of work now, and that is by no fault of either of us. Do you not think that I would have fled back to my clan had I truly wanted to leave? I’ve seen you drenched in the blood of your enemies and I still crave your presence. You’ve been deluding yourself.” You take a deep breath. “I vowed to remain with you through times of sickness and in health, through prosperity and devastation. Until my last breath.” Your hands move to the base of his neck and you tug him to get closer to you, he leans down slightly as you speak again “I expect you to vow the same. And to uphold those vows as I do.”
Maybe it is the haziness of words finally spoken, or the surge of warmth and tenderness coursing through his once cold veins, but before you can finish your sentiments you feel lips crashing into yours and desperate hands grasping at your waist. There’s a messy fervor to the kiss, an accumulation of unbridled longing and lingering frustration. Your teeth clash in between gasps and the colliding of lips. He pulls away briefly and you see the red tint emerging on his swollen lips. You find it enticing. Your fingertips brush up against his lips, “swear the same to me.” His hand rests on the back of your head as his lips make their way to trail from your jaw and down your neck. “I vow to remain by your side in sickness and in health, through prosperity and devastation.” Your breathing picks up, and you grip his shoulders.
“For how long?” You mumble.
“Until my final breath.”
His knee is pushing forward as he speaks, coming to rest in between your thighs and you slowly feel as if it’s becoming harder to maintain your composure. His hands encase you and before you can protest, he’s laid you on the bed. You prop yourself up on your elbows as he looms over you with both of his hands resting at your sides. In this moment you are reminded of how imposing his stature is. Excitement and nervousness blend into a sensation that makes your heart beat frantically. You look up at him, and he shifts his eyes from your gaze. You reach up and lightly tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear.
“Are you sure you wish to do this?” He says in a formal tone. His seriousness almost makes you chuckle.
Although you didn’t expect the evening to lead to this, you’re far too eager to refuse.“I am,” you respond as one of your hands trails his bicep. Meanwhile, his hand undoes the sash tied around your waist. His fingers move slowly, almost methodically now as he begins to remove your dress, you’re left in your undergarments and you feel butterflies in your stomach.
Bi-Han slows down the pace and wonders if you are at all as nervous as he is. He excels at whatever he pursues and he thinks this should be no different, but when he’s not purely acting on instinct and has a moment to think, his mind wanders. He wonders if he will live up to your expectations. He tries not to speculate on if you’ve done this before with someone else, the very thought makes his blood boil. But these thoughts dissipate when your hand begins to undo his belt. He swiftly grabs your wrist and you give him a lazy smile, “I don’t want to be the only one undressed, I’d rather we be on equal footing.”
That was an excuse, you were actually eager to marvel at his physique.
He lets go of your wrist and sits back as he takes off his shirt. Your hand runs down his chest and abdomen. Bi-Han’s body appears as if it was sculpted, harboring the finest architecture. His skin is somewhat dry, but cool to the touch. As your hands drift along his torso you attempt to commit every curve and crevice to memory. Soon enough your arms wrap around his neck and you drag him down with you as you press your lips against his again and again. His hand slips to your back, attempting to undo the pesky layer of clothing shielding your chest from him. When he does get it off, you watch him toss it aside. You’ll scold him later about being so careless with your clothing. But your thoughts return to the activity at hand when, suddenly his hands are exploring your chest. His hands are rough and calloused against your skin, a stark contrast to your own. You can’t help the gasp that escapes you. You feel him smile against your lips but you pull away again and he takes the opportunity to drag his lips along your throat.
Your eyes are still closed as you run your fingers through his hair. It’s been so long since you’ve engaged in any form of physical intimacy, and to indulge to this degree with him is still so new to you. “I’m still somewhat mad, you know.”
He’s quiet for a moment as his lips traverse down your chest and stomach, occasionally allowing his teeth to graze your skin. “I would not fault you for it, allow me to make amends.”
“And how will you do that?” you mumble. He shifts his position downwards, hooking his fingers into the sides of your underwear, and just like that, the last piece of clothing veiling your body is gone. His gaze is greedy as he eyes your exposed form and you instinctively shut your legs. Only to have your husband take hold of your thighs and spread them apart. He allows his fingers to explore uncharted territory. And he takes note of your expressions as he does so. He drags a finger down your slit, intentionally lowering his body temperature so that you tremble at his touch. You want to grab something, and so your arms reach out towards him instinctively and there’s a sense of satisfaction that settles in his soul, watching you grasp at him when you’re so vulnerable like this. One of his hands takes hold of both of yours, kissing them. He runs his thumb across the scar on your left wrist, and he realizes it must be from the rope that day. It must have burned when it continuously chafed against your skin to the point of drawing blood.
“BI-Han?”
Oh.
He hasn’t realized he’s stopped the movement of his fingers, and that he’s been focused on your wrist more than he should be at this moment. He places one more kiss against the scar. You smile hesitantly, “So that you remember, I’m not upset about that.”
You are far too kind, too forgiving towards him. He does not respond but returns to his endeavors between your legs. You feel two of his fingers enter you and gasp in response. He maintains a constant motion, catching you off guard when his thumb moves to caress a certain bundle of nerves.
Maybe this is his desire to please you, to make amends for his behavior somehow, or maybe it’s his need to excel, to prove that he’s the best you’ll ever have. He doesn’t know exactly. He doesn’t know when such inclinations formed within him. He thought he’d be more concerned with chasing his own pleasure, but for now, it’s an afterthought. And before he knows it, his lips are brushing against your inner thigh.
A high-pitched gasp leaves your lips when he begins. You cover your mouth, surprised not only at the sounds that have left your mouth but additionally at his skill. You feel his hand reach up only to roughly tug at your arm, “do not hold yourself back,” he says gruffly. You can’t even bring yourself to respond. The man works wonders with his tongue. Your brain allows you to focus on nothing but your husband’s oral expertise.
Until your notation of his skill causes you to wonder.
You grab a fistful of his hair and pull it lightly. Causing him to grunt and look up at you. His lips are slick.
“Where did you learn to do this?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
You groan and pull his hair a tad harder. A small laugh leaves his lips, he will spare you for now.
You’re thinking about how you like the sound of his laughter when he responds. “You need to pay attention to your belongings.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been reading your novels. They are descriptive.”
You feel even more heat rush up to your face as he returns to his venture between your thighs. You didn’t realize he’d been reading those books, part of you is embarrassed at him being aware of some of the content you prefer. However, if he puts his newly gained knowledge to use, you don’t mind him snooping on your reading material.
Tension begins to build but your husband deprives you of reaching that peak of pleasure just yet. You laugh breathlessly, “You’re being cruel. Was this meant to make amends or punish me?” His fingertips take hold of your chin, forcing you to look up at him. “Patience, wife.”
The longing look in your eyes only fuels his desire for you. His arm hooks around your waist to drag up back up toward the front of the bed. And perhaps he’s become too eager, the growing ache in his pants is becoming harder to ignore. You watch as he hastily removes his remaining clothing. Your eyes travel downwards and you’re happy to find that your original suspicions were correct, he was well endowed. Bi-Han catches your line of sight and grabs your chin to make you look up at him again. “Shameless.”
You smile, “Can you blame me? I’ve been curious since our wedding night.” He raises an eyebrow, he supposes you were equally as curious as he was back then. You reach out a hand to touch him, touch it, but he catches your wrist, using the opportunity to quickly pin you back down to the bed.
“You must learn restraint.” Bi-Han knew he was teasing you but he was just as guilty. His eyes drank in the image of your exposed form. His hands move to travel down your body, groping and grasping at the flesh displayed before him. Your skin is oh-so-soft, and his fingers return once again to the heat between your legs. The sounds leaving your mouth make him feel dizzy with desire and he finds himself impatient. “Spread your legs.”
Before you respond, his hands grip your thighs to spread them apart.
He leans down and his cold breath mingles with yours as you gently take hold of his face in your hands.
He doesn’t speak. The situation almost doesn't seem real to him. Words would not be able to articulate what his feelings are at this moment, so he entrusts his touch to convey his affection and desire for you. Between kisses pressed to your lips and the connecting of your flesh, he finds bliss between your legs. His body acts on instinct, the feeling is maddening. Is this what he has been lacking in life? For a brief moment, he recalls tales of war and battles raged for the sake of woman’s love, for her affections and touch. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he can understand that reasoning.
But he is brought out of his trance when you let out a shaky breath and grasp him hard enough for your nails to leave red indents. He pulls back to see your face contort into pain and quickly removes himself out of a mix of embarrassment and concern.
He was hurting you.
In the past, perhaps he wouldn’t have cared, but he does now. He cares that he’s hurt you, and a part of him is ashamed that he became so lost in his own pleasures. Guilt is evident in the way he scowls and turns his face. You sit up and reach out a hand before he can even think to come up with a retort or retreat.
“It’s normal, stop it.” You practically tug him back on top of you. You know in the past, you wouldn’t make the effort to assure him, you wouldn’t long for him like this, but you do now. His arms rest on either side of you again and his eyebrows furrow when you graze your lips against the corner of his mouth. “Go slow at first, please.” And so he complies. The stinging emerges again and you scare him when your eyes shut in what appears like distress to him, prompting Bi-Han to halt his pace again. “… Are you positive you wish to engage in this with me.” His tone of voice is timid almost, a stark contrast to what you’re used to hearing.
“I’m certain.”
And so he continues, and soon the pain begins to delve into pleasure. You find yourself lost in ecstasy. Briefly, you think of how carefully his hands hold onto. How hands capable of killing could hold you so close. His hips continuously collide with yours and you wrap your legs around his waist, drawing him nearer. Obscene melodies echo throughout the room prompting your husband to pick up the pace. You know there’s a possibility that your voices might leak into the hallway. You know your nails are digging into his skin as you hold onto him for leverage, and you are aware that your skin will be littered with bruises and bite marks. But you could care less right now. Those will be problems to address later. For now, the physical sensation is all you can bring yourself to focus on.
Had Bi-Han known this is what consummating your relationship truly felt like, perhaps he would have taken you on the wedding night. But no, it wouldn’t feel this passionate, this consuming. You draw him in and the pleasure makes him practically feel intoxicated The sounds that escape your lips only heighten the experience. The way your nails drag down his back only reinvigorates him. His hands tangle in your hair and you feel his breathing pick up. His teeth graze your neck and you feel a distinct pressure building up within you. You assume he does as well when the grip he has on your body tightens enough to leave imprints. You’re left panting when he finishes, his seed dripping from your core and staining your thighs.
He seems as if he’s in a daze, breathing heavily as his eyes drag ever so slowly up your form. The image of you breathing heavily while sprawled out in front of him is one that he’d like to commemorate to memory.
But now the euphoria delves into exhaustion. His body weight becomes increasingly difficult it holds up as if his soul is luring him to rest. And before he knows it, he’s not bothering to hold himself up anymore. He’s lying against you, and he can feel your arms wrap around him once more. But the feeling is short-lived.
“You’re heavy, get off.” You groan. Maybe it’s the endorphins running through his veins, but he finds your annoyance endearing. He lazily rolls off of you and watches the rise and fall of your chest as you attempt to catch your breath. Sweat glistens on your skin.
You catch his gaze and cross your arms over your chest. “How shameless,” you tease.
He reaches over to move your arms out of the way, and you allow him to.
“You seduced me, take it as a compliment.”
You chuckle lightly, “Noted.” You shift onto your side to face him. Bi-Han still looks effortlessly flawless. He hasn’t even broken a sweat in your recent activities, at least it looks that way to you. You move closer to him, enough so that you’re able to rest your head against his chest. “Aren’t you tired?” You inquire. Your husband shakes his head, “somewhat.” His movements are languid as he drapes an arm over your shoulder and presses a kiss to your forehead.
You let out a small chuckle. “What is it?” He asks.
“I could never imagine you behaving in such an endearing manner when we first met.”
“I’ve exceeded your expectations then,” he says in a factual tone of voice.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you reply jokingly.
He raises an eyebrow, “is that a challenge?”
And suddenly he’s maneuvered himself to loom over you once more. His lips hover over yours as he awaits your answer. Your body is worn out, you can feel a dull ache blooming between your legs, and perhaps your response is against your better judgment.
“Yes.”
——————————
The sunlight casts a warm glow as it enters your bedroom, and in time it nudges you awake. As your eyes flutter open slowly, you find your husband watching over you. “Good morning,” You say and smile as you reach out a hand to caress your husband’s cheek. He lays his hand over yours. “Good morning.” He takes your hand and presses a small kiss to your knuckles. “Did you sleep well?”
You chuckle lightly, “You put me right to sleep last night, I am well rested.” You try to shift your position but grimace at the soreness residing between your legs. “I may spend all day in bed.”
A smirk flashes across your husband’s face and you shoot him a pensive look, albeit lightheartedly.
You move to rest against him but stop when you remember the hairpin. “Bi-Han-“ you start off, but it’s as if he could already anticipate your question before you had a chance to ask. He holds the accessory between his fingertips. “In the chaos of the evening, it was displaced.” He appears the slightest bit hesitant but hands the pin back to you. “It was for you, or rather it is for you.” You smile faintly “It matches my necklace perfectly.”
“That’s why I selected it that day.” His voice trails off slowly. His silence echoes his sincerity and you smile softly at him.
“I’ll cherish it. Thank you.”
Your simple acknowledgment is enough to put him at ease now, but he still appears contemplative.
“What is it?”
These words seldom leave his mouth, but when conversing with you, the words now flow with ease. “I am sorry, I pushed you away and laid the brunt of my problems on you simultaneously.”
“I won’t hold it against you.” You move to lay your head against his chest. “I’ll allow you the rest of our lives to make it up to me. You swore to stay with me til death, after all.”
“Of course.”
You smile and soon enough you find your eyelids feeling heavy again. You close your eyes, and the sensation of your husband’s hand gliding up and down your back accompanies the calming rhythm of his heartbeat. You know that this life won’t be easy, but something tells you that you will be okay.
That you both will be okay.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
This is the last chapter as far as things go right now. Maybe in the future I'll post some one shots that take place in this fic's universe though. Thanks for sticking around and bearing with me for taking so long with this upload. And of course, thanks for reading 💙
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Taglist: @jjmoonjj @ailujsenutna @weepingwillowswilly @sadsackssss @isa-gami @leonkennedy27 @darkraven01 @violetisdabest @tazahan @ackersolace @glitterywastelandwasteland @cassiecasluciluce @ghastlyrider @mmeerraa @diormnce @anotherdyedhair @naria18 @oneandonlyizabelle @assasello @chicken-little-but-duck @fandom-garbage @shakespear-picaso-lovechild @just-sheherazade @genesiswrld @mmeerraa @gengar-r @bobjonesbones @aarkhamkknight @emmbny @sumaykaworld @ilovemesomebigmen @saumspam @weskerslvt
Some of the tags aren't working
#mk1#bi han mk#sub zero x reader#mortal kombat 1#bi han x reader#bi han sub zero#bi han x you#bi han fanfic#i hope i caught all the typos#i'm posting this at 2:20 am lol
323 notes
·
View notes
Text
Wrong Tardis (Ninth Doctor x M!Reader/ Tenth Doctor x M!Reader)
I'm not a huge fan of Nine but I'm slowly going back and watching his episodes and he's kinda growing on me.
Not sure if he's ooc here (though I'm like 90% sure Rose is) but whatever. I'm super excited for tomorrow's special and really wanted to write more for this series.
If you have any requests for this series send me an ask! (just keep in mind I have my own plans for big episodes like Silence in the Library or End Of Time.
Wordcount: Just over 1k
Series masterpost
The Tardis was old, like really old, like when the Doctor stole it it was already in a museum old. So occasionally it glitched, nothing too big. That is until it glitched and teleported you you to Cardiff 2005.
That was a whole earth year before you even met the Doctor. On the plus side the glimpse of his face you saw before you were teleported told you he would find you and come to pick you up, it was only a matter of time so you walked around.
You had yet to be in Cardiff in 2005, you'd been in to Cardiff circa 1910 but not 2005 so you look around, you saw the sights, you people watched for a bit and then you saw a familiar blue box.
"About time" You told yourself as you walked in.
"Did you fix the timezone processor?" You asked, happy to be back. By your calculation is had been about 3 hours.
"Who're you?" Asked a blonde woman who'd put herself between you and the Tardis console.
You blinked.
You may have jumped to conclusions.
Looking around the inhabitants of this Tardis were very much not the inhabitants of yours. You only recognized one face. Captain Jack Harkness (Though he wasn't traveling with you when you'd been teleported away).
"You're Rose Tyler" You said to the woman who stood in front of you and she nodded.
"Yeah, and who are you?" She asked again. By now Jack and the Doctor, or the man you assumed was the Doctor were looking at you wearily.
You looked to the Doctor, his hair was darker and buzzed close to his head, his forehead creased in ways your Doctor's didn't and his ears were definitely larger than you remembered them being. Looking into his eyes calmed you though, because those were definitely the eyes of the man you loved. Though perhaps a few years younger.
This was the Doctor before you'd met him. before he knew you existed, maybe even before he destroyed Gallifrey.
"Well? Aren't you gonna answer her?" Asked Jack all three were looking at you expectantly.
"I'm an anthropologist" You finally said.
"An anthropologist?" Rose asked and you nodded.
Both Jack and Rose looked at you intently, not really buying it.
"Is that your name?" Rose asked wearily.
"No" You answered honestly, "But I can't tell you my name. I'm sorry." You told her and once again looked at the Doctor. He hadn't said anything yet.
"What do you mean you can't tell us your name? Why?" Rose asked.
"Because he's from the future Rose" The Doctor finally said, climbing down from the ladder he was perched on when you burst in.
"Aren't you?" He asked and you nodded.
"You're from my future" He said and you smiled almost sadly.
"Inquisitive as ever Doctor" You told him.
"I should go" You said, slowly turning around.
"Wait, if you're really from the future how come you were so shocked to see us? Don't you know us? Like, the future us?" Rose asked.
"He can't tell you anything Rose, it could put the whole timeline at risk" The Doctor said.
"He's right, I really shouldn't even be here. I thought this was my Doctor's Tardis coming to finally pick me up."
"Finally? How long have you been here?" Jack asked.
"About three hours" You told him.
"Does that mean there's another version of the Doctor wanderin' around Cardiff right now?" Rose asked and you chuckled a bit.
"No, we had a bit of glitch—"
"With the timezone processor?" The Doctor asked.
"I can't tell you that" You said but he smiled at you with the cheeky little smile that only this face must have because you'd never seen it before and you sighed, "Yes with the timezone processor".
"What's a timezone processor?" Rose asked.
"It's what keeps all occupants of the Tardis in the same time bubble in flight" Both you and the Doctor said together, the two of you looked at each other.
"It's going to be your fault you know. You don't check the timezone processor enough and at some point it's going to act up. I want you to remember me saying this when I see you again. It's your fault" You told him but your voice held no malice, quite the opposite, it was loving teasing and both Rose and Jack could tell.
"I'm gonna go meet Mickey at the train station" Rose said and she grabbed Jack with her as she left. Leaving you and the Doctor alone but not before looking at the Doctor one last time, smiling and giving him a big old wink.
With just the two of you left the Tardis was quiet except for the soft whirring of the engine as it fueled up.
"How do you know what a timezone processor is?" The Doctor asked.
"I can't tell you" You said.
"When are you from?" He asks.
"I can't tell you that either" You repeat.
"Then can you tell me why you're looking at me like that?" He asks.
You step closer to him and gently cradle his face in your hands.
"I've never this face before" You simply say.
"What are you to me?" He asks.
"One day you'll find out. One day you're going to look at this face and smile and you're going to call me brilliant and when you do you're going to remember this and who knows, maybe I'll see this face again" You told him and kissed his cheek.
The wheezing sound of the Tardis landing could be heard faintly from beyond the wooden doors and you smiled widely.
"See you soon" You said and turned around, walking out to hopefully find your Doctor waiting for you.
Outside the Tardis stood another blue police box with the door open and the Doctor stood outside.
"There you are! We've been looking all over for you!" He said. His face was covered in oil and grease.
"Did you fix the timezone processor?" you asked.
"Eh, eventually" The Doctor said.
"And was it sparking because of a loose wire from when we crashed on Auros?" You asked, admittedly somewhat condescendingly.
"Yes" The Doctor mumbled and you rolled your eyes.
"I told you to check it" You said as you walked inside. The Doctor closed the door behind you.
"Y/N" He said, calling your name and you turned your attention from the Tardis console to him.
"Yes love?" You asked.
"Have I told you that you're brilliant?" He asked and you smiled.
"Not recently, no" You said.
#ninth doctor#9th doctor#9th doctor x reader#ninth doctor x reader#doctor who reader insert#doctor who x male reader#doctor who x reader#doctor who x timelord reader#reader insert#male reader#tenth doctor x reader#tenth doctor#10th doctor#10th doctor x reader
559 notes
·
View notes
Text
Yandere Smiling Critters x male child reader[pt. 2]
Requests from Tumblr and Wattpad—!, but not really
(Minus the fact I didn't include you being turned)
—☆You are a human in this
Sadly, you couldn’t stay here forever.
You are home now. Adopted. You did spend your time at Playcare for a couple of years though, everybody knew you, everybody in Playcare that is. The critters and kids knew you, the staff knew you, Miss Delight knew you.
So you had a mark on the place when it was time for you to leave. To get your own house. You were happy to get a home, but sad you had to leave your friends behind.
Maybe you could revisit this place again. Come back. But you couldn’t.
Something happened.
8/8/1995
You don’t know what happened that day, but you guess it was something pretty bad. It caused the whole company to shut down. You no longer saw any commercials of the toys.
Rumors were spread around, maybe somebody died, maybe a toy hurt somebody, maybe.. Maybe an experiment happened.
Anyways. There was a letter. A letter in the mail, something that related to your old home. Find the flower?
.
.
.
Sure. Why not, you were seventeen, you can handle yourself.
Which is something you shouldn’t have ever thought, after what you’ve been through.
It’s been scary. You haven’t died yet, but death has wanted to shake your hand a few times.
You almost bumped your head on a metal pipe while passing through a dark hallway, nearly broke your leg because you wanted to jump off a platform, wanting things to go by faster.
You’ve been chased through vents, and ended up at a dead end. You didn’t know what to do. You almost got shredded. But, were spared.
“.. Huggy?” He stared at you, maybe he recognizes you, even after all these years.
He didn’t kill you. He let you down on the second level of the metal stairways with his arm, and went back to where he originally was.
Then you were solving puzzles, with a particular doll following after you.
But the doll got snatched up, by a spider. Mommy Long Legs. She did remember you, you were the one who wasn’t so good at the games..(for the sake of your life in this story)
But she thought you left her to die, so she still forced you to play the three games. The first game has Bunzo! He was hesitant to kill you, you were the kindest kid to him when you lived here.
And for the first time, you actually beat the game! He was so proud of you! He wasn’t proud of his unfortunate fate in the future, but at least he didn’t need to kill you.
Then the small Huggies. They also remembered you, so they were sparing you. You also beat that game! They were happy, letting out tiny purrs at your success.
Then Pj— Wait. Since when were you so good at these games? The last I checked, you failed every single one of them! Fine. I’ll just sabotage the game for you, to make sure you never leave.
You could see Pj coming out of his pug-a-pillar hole, and you were sweating a little. Hopefully he remembered you too.
He did, once he saw you he stopped in his crawling tracks, taking a pause. He missed your younger adorable face when he gave you a small bump on your back, signifying that the ‘game’ was over.
But he unpaused at the start of the music playing.
You escaped. Out of there. That’s fine. I could just chase you myself
Three chases. You got chased THREE times. How desperate was she to kill you?!
You were putting the blue hand on the scanner, when you heard Mommy’s quick steps towards you.
You looked behind you— Eyes widening from her abrupt appearance. For the fourth time.
The door opened! And.. Mommy got killed, by you, by your hands.
A hand crept out from the thin crevice of a metal door. It took Mommy’s left over body, to wherever. You didn’t know what it was. Where it took her. But thanked god(or not, depends on your thoughts) at the fact that you weren’t Mommy at this moment.
Now you are somewhere. The train crashed, and you could feel the back of your shirt being picked up. You were sliding down a pipe, into somewhere.
You don’t know where it was, but you needed to get out, fast.
Doing some parkour, you looked around, and saw a long tail(plus paws) crawling up inside a vent.
“... Catnap?”
You went through some doors, and ended up seeing where the crashed train was. Going somewhere, you could see the recognizable entrance you went to at age 5. The way to Playcare.
You could hear the sounds of steps. Hurrying up you went inside the much smaller train compared to the one you were originally in.
“My name is Elliot Ludwig.”
Hm. Those words you could remember.
“When you look around at the world today,” You repeated after him.
“what one thing do you think it needs more of?”
“Playcare!”
Even at seventeen years, you were still mesmerized by what was shown.
You looked down, and could see 3— no. Five creatures walking or crawling around, resembling the Smiling Critters.
“Oh.”
Some of the critters could hear Elliot’s voice continue about Playcare, eyeing the moving train.
They saw your shadowed figure. Not knowing who you were. But a light is shown on your face.
Bubba, Dogday, Kickin, Hoppy, and Bobby saw your face. You’re back?
No. They must be seeing things. You were gone. Away from them.
But Dogday could recognize those eyes. Your skin, your curiosity, your hair(if your hair changed colors, or texture after growing up, then.. Yea, he still remembered you).
“Angel?” (Even if you didn’t really save him, he’s going to call you Angel. Because I needed a nickname for you. Y’know, because I can’t list every single name of the people who’re reading this?)
The other critters heard his whisper. … Maybe it was you.
The train stopped. But you were kind of scared, were they like Huggy or Mommy? Were they going to chase you down?
“Ah shit.”
‘Language.’ Dogday thought, dogs have good hearing y’know!
You were trying to find a way for two possible outcomes of being down here.
A) Try to make the train go back if the critters try to kill you
Or
B) Somehow reminisce in meeting your old friends
B sounded a lot more better than A.
And.. B did happen!
The 5 critters went over to the train, while you were standing there. Waiting for whatever will happen to you.
Dogday crawled over to you, it was you! Your scent!
He gave you the biggest hug while his tail wagged(really fast, it’s kind of crazy).
He was still fluffy even after these 10 years.
“Angel I missed you so much—!”
You were trying to hug him back, but a little too scared because of the critters staring into your soul.
Dogday noticed their silence and spoke up—
“Guys! This is Angel!! You don’t recognize him??”
Silence.
“THE ONE WHO WAS HIDING BEHIND PICKY..??”
“OHH”
“YOU’RE BACK?!?”
“I was thinking that it was him but I wasn’t sure…”
“ANGEL!?!?!?”
You were escorted out of the train, and were greeted by a bunch of animals pawing at you.
You couldn’t get a word in!
Picky, Crafty and Catnap came over, hearing all of the excited animal noises.
Now you were crowded by a bunch of animals. You were so tiny compared to them, so they had to be gentle.
So much noises were going on that even the smaller critters came over to see the commotion.
You were back home!
Now you can’t leave.
#poppy playtime#poppy playtime x reader#smiling critters#male reader#m reader#dogday#dogday x reader#catnap#catnap x reader#bobby bearhug#bobby bearhug x reader#craftycorn#craftycorn x reader#kickin chicken#kickin chicken x reader#hoppy hopscotch#hoppy hopscotch x reader#picky piggy#picky piggy x reader#bubba bubbaphant#bubba bubbaphant x reader#yandere smiling critters x male child reader
333 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
ht-doodles
HT Doodles
ask-arc-and-mastermeme-blog
Master of Memes
katvaldezwriter77
Author
lilomedjourney
Lilo’s Blog✨
mook800
Untitled