To mend two shattered hearts.. (part1?)
Remarried soft yandere! old potter x Chubby cat hybrid reader wife
Warning: Mature content warning, mention of past rape, non con, abusive husband, mention of violence after drinking, forced sexual act etc..
Authors note: sorry.... I don't know what came to me.... But I wrote it from my heart...
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She was a soft, chubby cat hybrid who adored her husband. She loved watching him work, his strong hands shaping clay with practiced skill. You were forced to marry him after you were violated.. And you don't even want to remember the day when it happened. You had cried hard for help but that man didn't heard it while he violated her..... To not let her die alone as no one wants to marry her.. the village chief choose the old widow potter as her groom.
She was so happy!! In this world no one loved her she knitted soft stories of love in her brain.. she tried hard!! Even though she wasnāt strong enough, she always tried to help, rotating the potterās wheel, smoothing little pieces of clay, making tiny trinkets to sell. But she was clumsy, fragile, her hands too small to move the heavy wheel properly. Whenever she faltered, he would hit her calf with a stick, a silent command to try harder. So she did.
She never asked for much. Cooking his meals, cleaning their little hut, making sure his tired muscles were massaged after a long day..... these things made her happy. Her world revolved around him.
He was an honest man.... He had a wife.... A pretty one... They had not much.. but it was enough... Then she got pregnant..... They were over the moon. But as if the world cannot hide it's dissapointment that accident happened she was gone he asked the villagers everyone.... But never find her then a few days later he found her body.. clothes torn murdered....
The village chief his the matter called it accident , that the wild animals mauled her... But animals don't rape... He knew who was the one who did this... He saw the chiefs son snicker... But he can't do anything... He can't lost the only place his ex-wife with him...... And now with her.... His new wife... He can't help but blame himself for not being able to save her. He was afraid that if he loves her.. fate would take her away too... Like his ex wife..
On her birthday, he gave her a small clay jewellery box. It was defective, a piece he couldnāt sell, but to Y/N, it was the most precious thing in the world. She held it carefully, running her fingers over the rough edges, smiling brightly. That night, she cooked him a feast, massaged him with even more care, grateful for the simple gift.
The next day, she shyly asked if he would buy her something small to put inside the box. Nothing expensive..... just a few tiny hair clips. He had grumbled but agreed.
But that night, he came home drunk. He was filled with anger.. he was doing fine alone but now?? With her... A useless waste of space another stomach to fill.... Before she could greet him, he swiped the jewellery box off the table. It shattered against the floor.
"Useless," he spat, his words slurred with alcohol. "You canāt even rotate the damn wheel properly."
She barely felt the slap, only the cold realization that the one thing she cherished was gone. Later, as he snored, she sat on the floor, gathering the broken pieces with shaking hands. She didnāt cry. She just cleaned.
He never allowed her to call him husband she never slept in the bed with him... She still always smiled she has a old torn mat by the corner she hugged her self to sleep... Her small ears trembling still hoping...
Next day came she still smiled he felt disgust... That day he came home late too drunk.... The last thing he remembered was her silent crying ..her own hands on her mouth. And then blank.
He didnāt remember what he did last night.
The memory was a blur of liquor and rage. The only thing left behind was the pain in his fists and the sticky guilt crawling along his spine. Heād sworn never to touch her like that. Not in bed, not that way. Not when she was crying. Yet, he did. He used her. Fucked her raw, slapped her when she cried, called her a burden, told her to die.
And still, when morning came, there she was.
His little wife.. limping, her fluffy tail dragging behind her like a broken, ruined ribbon. One arm bent awkwardly, eyes dull with fever, ears limp against her head. She didnāt whimper. She didnāt ask why. She didnāt even look at him.
She just packed his lunch bundle with her good hand. Quietly. Carefully. Every movement like walking on broken glass. He wanted to scream at her, just to see her react.
But she didnāt. She bowed. She smiled... forced.... and went back to cleaning the soot-stained floor.
And that evening... she wasnāt there.
Not when he returned. Not when the food lay prepared. The empty hut echoed his heartbeat. For one terrifying moment, he thought she ran away.
But then... the door creaked open.
She entered, soaked in sweat, holding vegetables in one hand, legs bruised, barefoot and trembling.
āI worked in Lady Remaās fields today,ā she said softly. āShe paid a coins and some greens.ā
She counted them. Separated them. Half for his drink. Half for food. Nothing for herself.
From that day, her giggles stopped.
The next morning, they went to the market. He pointed at things, asking if she wanted anything. She only shook her head, carrying the heavy sacks of supplies by herself. Even when he touched her shoulder, she flinched. Her mind was elsewhere, calculating meals, making sure their groceries would last.
That night, he watched her counting grains of rice, whispering ingredients under her breath. Something about the sight made his chest ache.
So that night he layed on the mat on the floor beside her.. touched her, pulling her close, trying to reassure himself that she was still his. That he could still make her warm beneath him.
But she only lay there, silent and still, her hands limp at her sides. And for the first time, he realized... he hadnāt just broken the jewellery box. He had broken her.
She didnāt scream anymore. He came running when he heard she had fainted on the fields ..She didnāt even cry now.
Her ears barely twitched. Her eyes stared at nothing.
He carried her home when she passed out..half from pain, half from feverand laid her gently on the bed.
For the first time, he noticed how small she looked. How thin. Her cheeks were hollow, her belly empty, her fingers callused from work. Her fluffy tail once twitched with curiosityā¦ now limp and lifeless.
She slept with her arm curled tight, protective, whispering broken thoughts into the dark.
ā...half coin for wheat... if I skip lunchā¦ maybe he wonāt yell...ā
ā...maybe if I sell the blanketā¦ā
ā...canāt ask for moreā¦ he needs it... to drinkā¦ā
He sat there. Silent. Tears rolling..
She only whispered in sleep, ā...maybe if I donāt eat todayā¦ heāll stop hittingā¦ā
And that broke something inside him. He sat at the foot of their bed, watching her breathe. He didnāt want food. He didnāt want sex. He wanted her eyes to look at him again.He wanted her to hate him, even. Anything but this lifeless, careful obedience.
He pulled her close one night, buried his face in her soft hair, and whispered hoarsely, āPleaseā¦ say something. Hit me. Hate me. Justā¦ donāt go quiet.ā
But she didnāt respond. He never felt as helpless as he watched her mumble through her fever, heard how he was all she thought about.... even in dreams. She only whispered, even in sleep, ā...how much more money... to fill his belly...ā
For her this marriage was not love anymore. It was Just survival.
She never asked for anything.
Not ribbons, not sweets, not even warmth. She only asked if his dinner was enough, if he wanted more tea, if he wanted her to wash his feet on cold nights. She served him silently, loved him quietly.... even when he came home smelling of liquor and sin, even when her ears bled and her tail trembled.
So when he sold a batch of clay pots in the market, he expected nothing more than to fill his pockets with silver and head straight to the tavern.
But that day, he saw something strange.
A woman tugging on her husbandās sleeve, whining, pouting, clinging to his arm. āJust buy it for me! Pleaseee.... look how pretty it is!ā
She was pointing at a shiny hairpin.... cheap, gaudy even. The husband laughed, kissed her nose, and bought it with a dramatic sigh.
The potter stared at them blankly.
And for a second.... just a second... he remembered the way his kitten's eyes had once sparkled when she picked a single wildflower from the hill and tucked it behind her ear. No pouts. No asking. Just joy, so easy, so small.
That night, he didnāt buy liquor.
He walked past the tavern. Past the gambling dens. Past the alley where he usually found cheap warmth.
And at a little corner stall, under a dim lamp, he found a simple pair of earrings shaped like a lily.
He came home late. She was already asleep, curled like a kitten near the hearth with a half-mended apron in her lap. Her ear still had the faint scar. Dried blood..He placed the earrings beside her folded hands.
And for the first time in yearsā¦ he watched her sleep without anger in his chest. Just silence. And a guilt so sharp, it couldāve split him in two.
She woke with the faint morning chill brushing against her cheek. The crackling of dying embers in the hearth... and something cold against her fingers.
Silver. Shaped like a lily.
Her first thought wasnāt wonder or joy. It was fear.Did he bring a mistress home last night? Did he forget she left this?
She swallowed hard and gently set the earrings aside, saying nothing. Her heart ached, but she moved like always..... kneading dough, boiling tea, sweeping the doorway before he woke. The earrings stayed untouched, tucked beneath a folded cloth.
That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, he came home earlier than usual. No stench of ale. No red-eyed glare. Just him...standing there with a small paper bundle in his hand and something strange in his eyes.
āYou didnāt like the earrings?ā he asked, voice lower than sheād heard in years.
She looked up, startled. ā...Itās not mine.she must have forgotten it . ā
He blinked. Then, he laughed softly.... a sound that didnāt mock or sting.
āIt is. For you.ā He stepped forward, awkwardly offering the bundle. āThis too.ā
She hesitated, fingers trembling as she untied the string.
Inside was a dress. Pale blue, soft, simple..... but beautiful. Nothing like her usual worn-out aprons. Her ears twitched again, confused.
āTry it on,ā he murmured. ā Please... Just once.ā
She obeyed. Quiet as always.
When she stepped out, uncertain, the potter..... rough, scarred, and bitter as heād always been.... smiled like a man seeing spring for the first time.
She turned, slowly. The hem fluttered around her knees.
And when she faced him again, he pressed something into her hands.... calloused, warm.
All the coins heād earned that day.
āFor you,ā he said. āBuy anything. Or nothing.....it's on you... sorry .. I know it can't stop all the pain i already gave you.... but from now it's all your....my everything .... my self including...ā
He didnāt touch her that night.
Just sat by the fire, watching her sew, the silver lily finally resting in her ears.
And for the first time in her quiet, broken little worldā¦ she didnāt tremble.
Not when he smiled at her like she was more than just a wife....... but something he wanted to keep safe.
She didnāt spend the coins on trinkets or sweets.
Every coin he handed her at the end of the day, she slipped beneath a loose floorboard. Quietly. Secretly. Even as he began coming home sober, bringing her cloth and sweet buns. Even as he started sleeping beside her without rage in his breath.
Two seasons passed. Her scarred ear never fully healed, but she no longer flinched when he looked at it. He touched her gently now, as if afraid sheād break for good.
One rainy morning, she took his hand and led him down the road, far beyond the market. To a small, empty cottage near a river.
Old, but strong. With a garden behind it and a roof that didnāt leak.
āI bought it,ā she said, ears twitching nervously. āFor us.ā
She looked away, thinking maybe sheād done something wrong. āItās okay if you donāt like it. I...I can stay here, and you.... the old lady liked me so so she lets me pay little by little...ā
He dropped to his knees before her, arms wrapped around her waist, face buried against her belly like a boy whoād lost everything and just now found it again.
That night, he didnāt drink. He drank her instead.... her scent, her skin, her breathy gasps as he worshipped her like a goddess heād once hurt and now couldnāt believe he still had.He cried that night hard...She cried too when he held her after. Not from pain this time, but because for onceā¦ it felt like love.
And she kept building. She bought paints with the leftover money, colors heād never even touched before. Bright blues, gentle pinks, deep golds.
She painted the pots while he shaped them.
Butterflies, vines, sleepy rabbits.
He now took her to market too on weekends.. they sold the pots together her humming the songs he can't understand.... him braiding her hair that she said she didnot how to ... When they brought the the painted pots to market, they sold in minutes. People praised the delicate work..... the combination of his skill and her touch.
And when someone asked if they were a husband-wife team, she glanced at him shyly.
āYes. Sheās my wife.ā
Then he added, quietly, like a confession to the gods: āShe saved me.ā
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