Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
I just love the way San gained insane popularity by bouncing his tits and became a gay awakening for many a man and is now announcing a new YouTube channel with his husband boyfriend bandmate Homotron 9000 with whom he has wild levels skinship and matching tattoos and they've literally kissed in public before
hardworking at their own expense. both take on too much responsibility & are reluctant to accept help
a product of being so responsible: they’re both great cooks!
apples
stubborn to a fault. so used to relying only on themselves, they do only what they think is best in every situation. fix the problem first, apologize later
both have grandmas (varying stages of life)
due to a combination of their inhuman strength and heroic good deeds, they’re basically microcelebrities
would make so much sense for caleb to have a working dog like applejack does. he has to share the burden with someone
sylus as rainbow dash
daredevils by nature
masters of snarky, sarcastic wit
act like they're too cool for stuff, then happily engage in it anyway
both have lofty ambitions & do whatever it takes to meet their goals, even if it means putting their bodies on the line
can sometimes tease too much and make others upset. guilt eats them alive afterwards
can be awkward or naive in delicate social situations due to inexperience
confident on the outside, vulnerable on the inside. neither pays their own feelings the attention they deserve
sylus would totally have a pet turtle
xavier as fluttershy
soft-spoken, but stern when necessary. when they’re mad, duck
under tense circumstances, might momentarily morph into an all-powerful being
they get discounted for their quiet, unassuming exteriors, but are both admirable leaders underneath
both nature and animal lovers. disney princess levels of random animal encounters, and they tuck their plants in every night before bed
both always get roped into helping people with their problems (too polite to say no)
jeremiah is angel bunny
valko as pinkie pie
sweet tooth, frequently to the point of sickness
incredibly friendly and caring. often try to make others comfortable at the expense of their own dignity
can get very anxious and a little unhinged if they feel like someone they love is mad at them/has replaced them
so down to earth, people almost forget how intelligent and perceptive they are—until they call someone’s bluff right to their face with a smile
their actions raise eyebrows sometimes. what are they doing, why are they doing it. but that’s just the way they are! eccentricities and all
while i personally do not believe this is the case, i believe that valko is someone who believes that he could have a pet alligator and everything would be fine
rafayel as rarity
creatives with supreme attention to detail
extremely passionate about their crafts
misunderstood to be haughty or pompous; in truth, they care more than anyone
doctorates in theatrics, sharp tongues for days
never afraid to stand up for what they think is right. more than willing to make a scene—especially if it means protecting their loved ones
their studios are their sacred spaces. do not disrupt the peace
i know rarity has a cat. pretend it’s a fish
zayne as twilight sparkle
well-read with a thirst for knowledge
both sacrifice their health for their obligations (despite people urging them otherwise)
every day is a lesson and chance to improve themselves
both longtime loners who, at first, think they’re better off that way. they don’t realize the value of friends until they have them
hold themselves to impossibly high standards! could always benefit from a break
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
jason todd x reader. they are friends, but he'd like to change that. jason pining for reader. 2.2k words.
Jason walks down the snowy streets of Gotham, a bag full of books in one hand and the other stuck warmly in the pockets of his bomber jacket.
Your apartment isn’t far from where he parked his bike, but enough snow falls for it to lie on his hair, adding some more white strands to the black ones.
The idea of frequenting a book club sounded like fresh bullshit when Dick proposed it: “I can talk with you about them.” He snapped back at the time, just for Dick's usual melodic laugh to reach his ears, “You’d rather bite your tongue off than share your hobbies, or let alone your thoughts with us.” He grumbled, but Jason knew that Grayson was right.
And it wasn’t a bad experience. Even if the debate on the first day got intense immediately. But that brought you closer. “Excuse me,” You told him during the break, “My friends made me notice I was a bit too intense, and I think they are right. Truce?” You held your hand out to him, and he took it; yours much softer and gentler than his has ever been.
Jason soon found out that, other than being a firecracker when you want to defend your opinion, you can also be soft and understanding. And you never got scared when he got a little more intense, still trying to control his emotions better.
It’s not the first time he has visited your house. If anything, it became sort of a habit after you invited him once to show him your bookshelf. Jason accepted, a bit stunned by your bold request, nerves usually calm during way more stressful situations are suddenly overwhelmed, making his hands sweaty. That night, you truly showed him your book collection. Your living room was made almost entirely of bookshelves, and even if, after seeing Bruce’s library, nothing could compare, he still found it pretty awesome. You also owned a fair amount of both comic books and mangas; they caught his eye, but he never investigated much about your taste in them.
That night, Jason found out that he felt effortlessly at ease in your presence.
And that your house is always crazy cold.
“I just got here because I got a new job and the rent is cheap-” You told him, dressed with various layers of pile, while holding a fox shaped cover for him to take “But the gas bill is crazy high anyway, so I warm up only the bathroom and keep the door open so my room which is in communication warms up a bit.” You continued, “Warm choco?”
He shook his head that time, and you spent the evening on your bed talking about various theories and plot holes. Jason had fun, and soon enough, he added your meet-up at your house to his schedule.
He is now at your door, wiping his wet boots on the doormat. The cute dog printed on it is slowly fading, the little hole on his nose is getting bigger and bigger; he should gift you a new one. He knocks twice, strong enough for the sound to echo in the hallway. “It’s me, Jason.” And here you are, appearing from behind the door, smile big and charming, happiness reaching your eyes.
It makes his heart skip a beat, the idea of you being so happy just thanks to his presence warm his body; at least he knows it won’t reach his cheeks like some little boy dealing with his first crush.
He hopes.
“Come in! Today, outside is even colder than usual.” You greet him inside. He notices you are wearing the hoodie in technical fabric that he gifted you during the Secret Santa at the book club. The sigh of relief he let out when he read your name was heavy enough to get him knowing looks from the other members; after all, you are the only person he was able to form a deep bond with.
The budget was max 10 dollars.
“Jason, this is too much! No way you got it for 10 dollars!” You told him, surprised and ashamed, that your gift for him (because yes, you picked up his name) was simply a keychain you found in the artist valley of one of the cons you like to visit.
“Don’t worry, I swear I didn’t exceed the budget much.” He replied with the most charming smile he could muster. After all, it didn’t cost him anything to use Bruce’s card, and Jason is sure that the billionaire won’t even check for that small amount.
Jason removes his boots at the entrance, a pair of fuzzy slippers, his fuzzy slippers waiting for him. Jacket is soon hung on the coat hook, but not before putting his bike keys on the entryway table.
“Let’s go to my bedroom; it should be warm enough.” Jason nods, bringing with him the bag full of books you wanted both to read and discuss together.
He memorised your bedroom the first time you let him in. There is a large window, and under it is your bed. “It is a bit draughty, but there was no other place to put the bed.” You chuckled the first time.
“More than the draught, you should worry about your safety.” Jason wanted to reply, but he bit his tongue just in time. You don’t know anything about his vigilante activity, about the endless amount of fights he lived through; you just think he is a mechanic. A comment like that could sound a bit too apprehensive and suffocating. And it’s not like he can buy you a new house or sleep every night with you; at a friend's house. Just the idea of calling you simply a friend leaves a sour taste in his mouth.
“Put your stuff on the bed together with mine. I’ll go one sec in the bath.” You tell him, going towards the door on his right.
Jason nods, white strands now clinging to his forehead, snow melted. He pushes them back, trying not to wet either his or your books, already sprawled on the bed, some open with cute, colorful post-its. He sits on your fluffy cover, the one with white sheeps jumping, the warmest you own.
But in that moment, the cover rises from the ground, and something catches the man's eyes.
“Umh?” The first thought is that one of your comic books fell after you fell asleep. He stretched back a little, arching his back, and two of his thick fingers pinched the corner of the volume, lifting it.
His eyes curiously scan the cover: it seems some kind of romance? The colours seem soft for anything action-related.
“Hey Jason, I also brought an-” He looks at you with the corner of his eye, the towel in your hand slips to the ground. Jason thinks, hopes, you react that way because he looks handsome, in all his wet glory, tight shirt, and...scars? Once Tim said scars make you look more manly; obviously, he was joking, but maybe you are the type to like them? If it wasn’t the case, you probably would have been scared by his mug the first step he took when he entered the bookstore.
“Give it back immediately!”
You jump on the bed with the intensity of a wild animal going for the prey's neck. It’s truly instinctive for Jason to put the comic out of your reach, muscle memory of too many fights with his brothers. What his muscle memory doesn’t expect, and that puts him in immense shame, is your elbow hitting the bridge of his nose.
“Fuck!” His hand finally opens, making your comic fall on the bed and fuck.
That fucking sting. A lot.
It burns way too much, and soon he feels a liquid, goopy and warm running down from his nose. You sigh, pushing your comic against your chest, relief evident in your face.
“Thank God...Wait! Jason, what happened??” The relief in your voice is suddenly washed away by worry.
“You broke my fucking nose.” Jason groans, cold green eyes piercing your skull, warm tears forming at the corners of his eyes. Blood is already running down his chin, staining his black shirt.
“Shit, shit, let me grab the towel! I’m so sorry, I swear!” At least, a voice in Jason’s head says, the worry and the anxiety in your voice seem real.
But you are still clinging to that comic like a damn koala.
“I’m gonna grab an ice package. Lie down and press this on your nose.” You told him, your face on top of him, hair so cutely framing your face that for a moment, Jason almost forgave you.
When you came back, your comic had suddenly disappeared, but you returned with a cloth that must have contained the ice.
“Here, I wanted this to be a nice afternoon, I’m such a mess, I’m so sorry.” You keep blabbering, no filter. Jason doesn’t dare to tell you it was nothing, because it clearly isn’t, but the shame and tremble in your voice made him want to soothe your anguish.
“I wanted to use the towel to dry your hair, not your blood.” You pout, your soft hands brushing into his salt and pepper hair with an ease that fits a role different than friend, but Jason bites the inside of his cheek at the thought.
He has better stuff to think of, like how he couldn’t avoid your hit. If any of his brothers knew about that, they would never let him live it down. Not to talk about literally anybody who knows him even a little.
The big bad Red Hood got his nose broken by a civilian who probably weighed as much as one of his dump.
His green eyes return to your face, lips wobbly, eyes showing immense remorse.
“You know you hit pretty strong for someone who never stepped a foot in a gym.”
“And your reflexes are pretty shitty for someone who spends his time training-” He doesn’t let you finish, one of your pillows hit you straight on the face, “Don’t you dare finish that phrase.” Jason snaps, index pointing at you, voice menacing like a mother giving the last warning to her rebel kid.
“Hey, it hurts!” You say, hands covering your nose.
“Now we are even.” He replies, shrugging his shoulders.
You seem to think it over, head tilting a bit. “Well, I guess I’ll take it over a broken nose.”
You lie next to him, falling like a dead weight, making both your bodies jump a bit.
“How do you feel?” You ask, looking at him, your thumb lifting the ice bag slightly to understand how swollen it may be.
“It still stings, but nothing to worry about.” He smirks at you “These scars should tell you I went through worse.” Jason looks up, saying that in a sigh.
There is silence, it’s long and embarrassing. Embarrassing enough that it makes Jason turn to look at you.
Your eyes are wet and shiny, and suddenly, Jason feels a pang in his chest, like he said something hurtful.
“Can I touch them?” You whisper. Jason nods at your request, positioning the ice bag on his side of the bed, head tilting towards your little fingers.
You are delicate, there is care in your touch as you caress his scarred face. For a moment, Jason thinks that with your touch, you could heal them, heal him.
“I hope I never make you suffer as these scars did.” You whisper softly. Jason lets out a breath he didn’t know was stuck in his throat. His Adam’s apple bobs, but he gulps on nothing.
“You can’t.” Yeah, truly impossible to go twice what he went through.
“Even if I broke your nose?” The back of your index finger swipes away a droplet of dry blood from his Cupid arch.
He scoffs. “It hurts like a bitch, but nowhere close to these.” He says drawing a circle in front of his face, trying to include all of the scars, little and big, littering his face.
You nod, a little smile gracing your face. He prefers to see you like this, smiling and serene.
“Can I hug you?” He doesn’t even reply, pulling you in his embrace.
“Feel better?” You nod.
“And your nose?”
“Better than before.”
“Good, because I couldn’t break your nose and kick your ass in today's book discussion. I wouldn’t be able to let you win.”
He pushes you away, an outraged gasp leaving his body.
“Oh, don’t worry darling. Lady Luck wouldn’t have kissed you twice today.”
“What are you talking about? I don’t need luck to prove I am right-” You chuckle.
Soon, the heavy feelings of a past still not resolved cleared in Jason’s heart, at least for tonight. Soon, another intense, but way more enjoyable battle will take place.
And your comic? Or better, your manga that started this situation? It’s safe in a nook of your library.
No way you could let Jason see your old men yaoi collection...
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
the pinkish sun lights your path as you trudge downstairs and toward the kitchen.
looking too put together for six in the morning, zayne stands at the counter, sipping water and going through yesterday’s mail.
as always, there’s majesty in his simplicity. so much that you nearly trip on the very last step, entranced by the subtle flex of his forearms. you’ve been together for months now, yes, but you’ll never get used to this view.
his gaze is already on you before your almost-tumble. the only change is, your misstep brings a ghost of a smile to his lips. “good morning,” he greets, reaching out to steady you. but you keep stumbling past his outstretched arm.
for a moment, he questions if you’re sleepwalking—before you fall forward and thunk your head into his chest. “morninf,” you mumble.
wobbling from the impact, zayne recovers quickly and gently peels you off of him. “is something wrong?”
“no.” you try to dive back in, but you’re halted by an impromptu examination. he feels your forehead, checks your lymph nodes, and puts a hand over your heart. at first, you think he’s only toying with you. but when he moves to inspect your nostrils next, you cut the checkup short with a scandalized grunt.
“are you sure you’re alright? you can hardly walk straight.” his eyes narrow slightly. “and before you say that i’m to blame, that was every bit what you asked for last night.”
“stop,” you groan. like a magnet, the crown of your head finds its way back to his chest. “i’m fine. i saw a video of a cat headbutting its owner and thought it was cute. it’s how they show affection. i wanted to try it, but you keep getting in my way.”
repositioning yourself, you settle over his quickening heartbeat. his pectorals freeze against your forehead before finally relaxing, and he gives in with a chuckle.
“i see. in that case, it’s only right that i return the gesture.” zayne curls one hand around your waist, bringing you impossibly closer. with his other, he cups your cheek gently, warmth from his large palm flowing into your skin. when he leans forward, you can’t help but close your eyes in anticipation.
a force you can only compare to a heavyweight bowling ball knocks into your skull. the thunk sound echoes through the kitchen.
suppressing a yelp, you rear backwards and try to blink the dizziness away. on the counter, the water in his glass ripples from the aftershocks.
the human hardhat in front of you looks pleased with himself—until he sees the grimace on your face, that is. confused caution turns his pink cheeks a deeper red. “is that how cats do it?”
“uh-huh,” you lie. “that was great. it’s just…i’m glad a brain as brilliant as yours is under such elite protection.”
he furrows his eyebrows. “what do you mean?”
rubbing the knot forming on your skin, you touch a finger to his skull. “your head is so hard.”
an isekai romance but you're the comedic relief side character who was born in the book setting and remains in the book setting. you just want to know what the fuck is up with the main character's sudden + complete 180, and you won't rest until you get to the bottom of it.
and you were handling the investigation just fine on your own! until handsome prince shouto—the main love interest—crouches down behind you in the garden hedge and asks you what you're doing.
Married off to a feared king to secure peace, you expect cruelty. What they find instead is distance.
He does not touch you.
He does not claim you.
He barely even looks at you.
But in a palace full of watching eyes and quiet betrayal, you begin to realize something unsettling he has been protecting you all along.
Pairing: Choi Jongho x Reader
Genre: Royal AU, Political Drama, Slow Burn Romance, Emotional Angst
Tropes: Arranged Marriage, He falls first, Cold x Observant, Only soft for her (eventually), Misunderstood Male Lead, Court Intrigue / Hidden Enemies
Featuring: all of ATEEZ
Main Masterlist | Jonghos Masterlist
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
This is Part 1
They dressed her in silence.
No laughter. No hushed excitement. No lingering hands adjusting fabric for the sake of admiration. The women moved around her like shadows with purpose, their expressions neutral, their voices low and restrained when they spoke at all. It felt less like preparation and more like ritual.
Like something inevitable.
The gown was heavier than she had imagined.
Gold thread stitched into layers of pale fabric that caught the candlelight and reflected it in muted glimmers. The sleeves fell long over her wrists, the bodice fitted too tightly for comfort, pressing against her ribs in a way that made it harder to breathe deeply. Each added ornament seemed unnecessary, excessive, as though the weight of it all was meant to remind her of something she was not allowed to forget.
She did not belong to herself anymore.
One of the maidens adjusted the collar, careful fingers brushing against her throat. The touch lingered just a moment too long, as if checking for a pulse.
She resisted the urge to pull away.
“Lift your chin,” the woman said softly.
She obeyed.
The room smelled faintly of oil and dried flowers. The windows had been opened earlier in the morning, but the air that drifted in carried no familiarity. Even the breeze felt foreign here, colder somehow, sharper against her skin.
A week.
She had been here for a week and still everything felt wrong.
The castle was too vast, its corridors stretching endlessly, lined with guards who did not speak unless spoken to. The servants kept their eyes lowered. The nobles she had glimpsed from a distance watched her with quiet calculation, as though assessing something that had yet to prove its worth.
She had not seen him. Not once.
The king of this land. The man she was to marry.
She had been received by officials, guided through formalities, instructed on customs she was expected to follow. Every step had been carefully controlled, every interaction measured. Even the meals were delivered to her chambers rather than taken in the grand hall.
She was not a guest.
She was a transaction.
“Turn.”
She turned slowly as instructed, the skirts of her gown shifting with a soft, dragging sound across the stone floor.
One of the maidens stepped back, studying her work. “It will do.”
It will do.
The words settled somewhere deep in her chest, heavy and unyielding.
She caught her reflection in the polished surface of a tall mirror across the room. For a moment, she did not recognize the person staring back.
The girl in the mirror looked composed. Regal, even. The gown fit her perfectly, the delicate embroidery framing her figure with deliberate elegance. Her hair had been arranged carefully, pinned and woven with small gold accents that shimmered faintly.
There was no trace of the girl who had left her home.
No trace of the warmth of familiar halls, of laughter echoing through corridors she had known since childhood. No trace of the friends who had clung to her hands in the days before her departure, their voices filled with forced optimism.
“He might not be as bad as they say.”
“You’ll be safe. That’s what matters.”
“You’re saving all of us.”
She had smiled for them then. She had told them she understood. She had told them she would be fine.
Now, standing in a room that did not belong to her, dressed for a ceremony that felt more like surrender than union, she wondered if they had believed their own words.
Or if they had simply needed her to believe them.
“Princess.”
The voice came from behind her.
She turned.
A guard stood at the doorway, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed somewhere just past her shoulder. “It is time.”
Of course it was.
She nodded once.
The maidens stepped aside without another word, their task complete.
No one offered comfort. No one wished her well.
There was nothing to say.
The walk to the great hall felt longer than it should have.
Her footsteps echoed softly against the stone, swallowed by the vastness of the corridors. The guard led the way, his pace steady, unhurried. Two others followed behind her, their presence close enough to be felt without needing to turn and confirm it.
She was not walking toward something.
She was being delivered.
The thought settled coldly in her mind, uninvited but impossible to ignore.
Like a pig being led to slaughter.
The image was vivid, unwelcome. She could almost hear the distant sounds of it, the quiet murmurs, the final stillness before the inevitable.
Her fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her gown.
She forced herself to breathe evenly.
This was her choice. No one had forced her.
The agreement had been laid before her kingdom, the terms clear and unyielding. Peace in exchange for union. Stability in exchange for sacrifice.
She had stepped forward before anyone else could speak.
Before her father could hesitate. Before her advisors could argue.
She had known what it meant.
She had known what she was offering.
Her life for theirs.
Her future for their safety.
The memory of that moment flickered through her mind as they approached the towering doors of the great hall.
The way the room had fallen silent when she spoke.
The way her father had looked at her, something breaking behind his carefully maintained composure.
“You do not have to do this.”
“I do.”
There had been no doubt in her voice then.
There was no room for it now.
The doors opened.
The great hall was filled.
The first thing she noticed was the sound.
Low murmurs, shifting fabrics, the quiet rustle of movement as heads turned toward her. The weight of attention settled over her instantly, pressing down in a way that made it difficult to focus on anything else.
She stepped forward.
Each step felt deliberate, measured.
The aisle stretched before her, lined with nobles whose faces blurred together in a sea of unfamiliar expressions. Some watched with open curiosity, others with thinly veiled disdain. A few looked almost amused.
No one looked kind.
The air was colder here.
Or perhaps it only felt that way.
Her gaze remained forward, fixed on the figure standing at the far end of the hall.
The king.
For a moment, everything else faded.
The whispers. The watching eyes. The suffocating weight of the room.
All of it became distant as she focused on him.
He was not what she had expected.
That realization came quietly, but it struck deeper than anything else.
He was younger.
Not a boy, not by any means, but younger than the image she had built in her mind. The rumors had painted him as something almost untouchable, a figure carved from cruelty and authority, hardened by years of ruling with an iron hand.
The man standing before her did not fit that image.
He stood tall, his posture straight, his presence commanding in a way that did not rely on movement or expression. His features were sharp, defined, his face composed to the point of stillness.
Handsome.
The word surfaced before she could stop it.
It felt misplaced.
Irrelevant.
His expression did not change as she approached.
There was no flicker of curiosity. No hint of interest.
Nothing.
His gaze was steady, fixed on her with a calm that bordered on indifference.
It was not cruelty she saw there.
It was something colder.
Control.
Complete, unwavering control.
Her steps slowed slightly as she neared him.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
Enough for her to feel it.
This was the man she had been given to.
This was the man who held her fate in his hands.
She stopped beside him.
Up close, the details became sharper.
The way his jaw was set, not tightly, but firmly. The stillness of his shoulders. The absence of any unnecessary movement.
He did not look at her the way men often did when presented with something meant to be admired.
He looked at her as though assessing.
As though measuring something unseen.
The officiant began to speak.
His voice carried through the hall, formal and practiced, reciting words that had been spoken countless times before in ceremonies just like this one.
She barely heard them.
Her awareness remained fixed on the man beside her.
Choi Jongho.
The name settled in her mind with a strange weight.
She had heard it before, of course.
In whispers.
In warnings.
“He does not hesitate.”
“They say he executed his own advisor for treason without a second thought.”
“He has no mercy.”
Her friends’ voices echoed faintly in her memory, their expressions caught somewhere between fear and fascination as they repeated the rumors they had heard.
She had listened. She had accepted it. She had prepared herself for cruelty.
For anger. For arrogance. For something she could understand, even if she could not accept it.
This… was different.
There was no anger in him.
No visible cruelty.
Only distance.
A distance so complete it felt impenetrable.
“Do you accept this union?”
The question pulled her back.
Her gaze shifted forward. “I do.”
Her voice did not waver.
She did not look at him as she spoke.
She did not need to.
The same question was directed at him.
There was a brief pause.
Not long enough to draw attention.
Long enough for her to notice.
“I do.”
His voice was low.
There was no emotion in it.
No hesitation.
The words were spoken with the same precision as everything else about him.
Like a statement of fact. Not a choice.
The ceremony continued.
Words were exchanged. Vows spoken. Rings placed.
Each action felt distant, like something happening around her rather than something she was part of.
Until it was done.
Until the final words were spoken.
Until the murmurs rose again, louder now, filling the space that had been held in tense silence.
She turned slightly, uncertain of what was expected next.
Jongho moved first.
Not toward her.
But toward one of the nobles who had stepped forward.
A man she did not recognize.
The noble began to speak, his tone polite but edged with something sharper beneath the surface. “Your Majesty, I trust this alliance will prove… beneficial to both parties.”
There was something in the way he said it.
A subtle implication.
A challenge, perhaps.
Jongho’s gaze shifted to him.
It was a small movement.
Barely noticeable.
And yet the effect was immediate.
The noble’s expression faltered.
Only for a second.
“It will,” Jongho said.
Nothing more.
No elaboration.
No reassurance.
The conversation ended there.
The noble stepped back.
Silenced.
She watched it happen.
Watched the way the room seemed to adjust around him, the subtle shift in tension, the quiet acknowledgment of authority that required no force.
It was not loud.
It was not overt.
But it was absolute.
Her attention returned to him.
He had not looked at her again.
Not since the vows.
Not since the moment she had stood beside him and tried to reconcile the man before her with the stories she had been told.
A flicker of something stirred in her chest.
Not fear.
Something sharper.
Something that felt dangerously close to curiosity.
And beneath it, quieter but persistent.
Surprise.
Because this was not what she had expected.
Not at all.
The celebration began before she could prepare for it.
Music filled the great hall, softer than she expected, but constant. A steady presence beneath the layered voices of nobles and courtiers who seemed far more at ease now that the formalities had passed. Servants moved between them with practiced precision, offering wine, arranging dishes, adjusting anything that needed tending without drawing attention to themselves.
She sat beside the king. Her husband.
The word felt unfamiliar. It settled uneasily in her thoughts, like something that did not quite belong.
Jongho had not spoken to her.
Not after the ceremony. Not when they had been led to the long table at the front of the hall. Not even when he had taken his seat beside her, his presence close enough to be felt without ever truly acknowledging hers.
He had not looked at her either.
At least, not that she had noticed.
His attention remained on the room, on the people moving within it, on conversations that did not include her. When others approached him, he answered. When they spoke, he listened. Every response he gave was measured, precise, leaving no room for interpretation or unnecessary familiarity.
He ruled even in silence.
And she sat beside him like an ornament.
Still. Composed. Silent.
Exactly what they expected.
Her hands rested in her lap, fingers lightly intertwined, the fabric of her gown pooling around her like something meant to anchor her in place. She kept her posture straight, her expression neutral, her gaze drifting just enough to avoid staring at any one person for too long.
No one spoke to her.
She felt their attention, though.
The subtle glances. The quiet assessments. The curiosity that lingered just beneath the surface of polite indifference.
She was new. Unknown.
A variable in a place that did not tolerate uncertainty.
A servant placed a glass before her.
She did not reach for it.
The music continued.
The conversations flowed.
And still, she sat.
Detached.
Like she was watching something unfold from a distance rather than being part of it.
It would have been easier if Jongho had been cruel.
If he had dismissed her openly, spoken harshly, given her something tangible to react to. Something she could understand, even if she did not accept it.
This quiet distance felt worse.
Because it left her with nothing.
Nothing to push against.
Nothing to define him beyond the rumors she had carried with her.
Until someone took the seat beside her.
“I was beginning to think they would not allow me the chance to meet you.”
The voice was warm.
Too warm.
It cut through the steady rhythm of the hall in a way that immediately drew her attention.
She turned slightly.
The man beside her did not look away.
He was smiling.
Not broadly, not in a way that could be called friendly without question. There was something sharper beneath it, something observant, calculating.
“Kim Hongjoong,” he said, inclining his head just enough to acknowledge her status without diminishing his own. “Advisor to the king.”
A pause. “And, on occasion, his friend.”
She studied him.
He did not lower his gaze. He did not soften under her attention.
If anything, his expression seemed to sharpen, as though her silence was something to be examined rather than respected.
“You have been here for a week,” he continued, his tone conversational, almost light. “And yet we have not crossed paths.”
“That was not my decision.”
The words left her before she could reconsider them.
His smile widened. “Of course not.”
There it was.
Interest.
Measured, deliberate interest.
She felt it then.
The purpose behind his presence.
He had not come to welcome her.
He had come to assess her.
To determine what she was.
What she might become.
What threat she could pose.
Her fingers tightened slightly against her gown.
“And what should we make of you?” he asked, tilting his head just slightly, his gaze never leaving her face. “A princess from a rival kingdom, now seated beside our king. A symbol of peace, perhaps.”
Perhaps.
The word lingered between them.
She met his gaze fully then.
If he wanted to see, she would let him.
“You can be relieved,” she said.
His brows lifted slightly.
A flicker of curiosity.
“The only thing I want is to be safe,” she continued, her voice steady, controlled in a way that mirrored the man seated on her other side. “And for my people to be safe.”
Hongjoong said nothing.
He listened.
She continued.
“I will be a good wife,” she said. “A quiet one.”
There was a shift in her tone then.
Subtle. Sharp.
“I will sit where I am told. Speak when I am spoken to. Smile when it is expected.” Her lips curved faintly, but there was no warmth in it. “I will look pretty and do nothing at all. Certainly nothing that would require using my head.”
The words settled between them like something fragile.
And then Hongjoong laughed.
Loudly.
It cut through the surrounding conversations, sharp enough to draw attention from those nearby.
She did not flinch.
His laughter did not feel mocking.
It felt… genuine.
“I like you,” he said, still smiling as he leaned back slightly in his seat.
Then he turned his head.
Toward Jongho.
“There is more here than we were led to believe,” Hongjoong added, his tone shifting into something unmistakably smug. “You will have quite the handful to deal with.”
For the first time since she had sat down Jongho reacted.
It was small.
Barely anything.
But it was there.
He turned his head.
His gaze landed on her.
There was no anger in it.
No clear emotion at all.
But there was something new.
Something she had not seen before.
Attention.
And, for a brief moment surprise.
“Haha.”
The word left him flatly.
Completely devoid of amusement.
It was not a laugh.
It was a dismissal.
Hongjoong only seemed more entertained by it.
Y/n sat very still.
Her gaze shifted between them.
Confusion settled slowly in her chest.
Because she did not understand what had just happened.
Not fully.
Not the way Hongjoong seemed to.
Not the way Jongho had reacted.
It felt like she had stepped into something she could not yet see.
A conversation beneath the one that had just taken place.
And she had been part of it without knowing the rules.
The music continued.
The hall remained filled with voices.
But something had shifted.
Even if she could not name it.
The celebration lasted longer than she had expected.
Long enough for the candles to burn lower, their light softer, more uneven. Long enough for the conversations to grow louder in some corners and quieter in others. Long enough for the weight of the day to settle fully into her bones.
By the time she was led away, the hall no longer felt suffocating.
Just distant.
Like something already fading.
The corridors were quieter now.
The sounds of the celebration did not reach this far.
Only the echo of her own footsteps remained.
She did not ask where they were taking her.
She already knew.
The maidens were waiting.
The same ones from earlier.
They moved around her with the same efficiency, the same silence, removing the heavy layers of her gown piece by piece until the weight of it was gone.
It should have felt like relief.
It did not.
They dressed her again.
This time in something lighter.
Something that did not hide as much.
The fabric was thin.
It fell loosely against her body, sheer enough that she could see the faint outline of her own skin beneath it. The sleeves slipped from her shoulders too easily, the neckline lower than anything she had worn before.
She did not comment.
There was no point.
This, too, was expected.
When they were done, they stepped back.
Just like before.
She did not look at herself this time.
The room was quiet.
Larger than the one she had been given during the past week. Warmer, though that might have been the candles placed carefully around the space, their light steady and soft.
The bed stood at the center.
She sat at ist edge.
The fabric beneath her hands was smooth, unfamiliar.
She folded her fingers together, resting them in her lap.
Her posture remained straight.
Her thoughts did not race.
They did not scatter or spiral.
She knew what would happen.
This, too, had been part of the agreement.
Part of the unspoken understanding that came with everything else.
Her gaze lowered slightly.
She focused on the faint patterns in the fabric beneath her hands.
The door opened.
She did not look up immediately.
She heard his steps.
The door closed behind him.
Silence followed.
She lifted her gaze then.
Jongho stood near the entrance.
For a moment, he did not move.
His eyes settled on her.
Took in her appearance.
The thin fabric. The way she sat. The stillness of her posture.
There was no visible reaction.
No shift in expression.
Nothing that betrayed what he thought of it.
Then he looked away.
He moved past her.
He reached for the fastening of his outer garments, removing them with practiced ease, his movements precise, efficient. Each layer was set aside without carelessness, without hesitation.
He did not look at her again.
Not once.
She watched him.
She could not help it.
The way he moved.
The way he carried himself even in something as simple as undressing.
When he was done, he crossed to the bed.
He lifted the blanket.
And lay down.
Turning his back to her.
The space beside him remained untouched.
Her breath caught.
Only slightly.
She had expected…she did not know what she had expected.
Not this.
“Sleep,” he said.
The word was simple. Firm.
“That is all that is required tonight.”
She did not move.
Her fingers tightened slightly against the fabric beneath her.
Silence stretched.
“I will not touch a woman,” he continued, his voice just as steady as before, “who did not choose this herself.”
The words settled over her slowly.
Carefully.
As if they needed time to be understood.
She stared at his back.
At the line of his shoulders beneath the fabric.
At the distance he had placed between them.
The mattress dipped slightly as she moved, lifting the blanket and slipping beneath it. The space was warm, though that might have been from the candles rather than him.
She lay down.
Facing him.
Or rather facing his back.
She studied it.
The shape of him.
The stillness.
The absence of any tension that might suggest expectation or impatience.
He was not waiting.
He was not pretending.
He meant it.
Her thoughts shifted again.
Not as heavy this time.
Not as certain.
Because this did not fit.
Not with the rumors.
Not with the man she had prepared herself to meet.
Her gaze lingered.
She did not realize how long she had been looking until the quiet stretched into something softer.
Something almost… calm.
He was…The thought came uninvited…surprisingly attractive.
It felt misplaced.
Unnecessary.
And yet she did not look away.
Not immediately.
Because for the first time since she had arrived, she did not feel like she was waiting for something inevitable to happen.
She simply existed.
In the quiet.
Beside a man she did not understand.
And that, more than anything else, unsettled her.
She woke to silence.
It was the first thing she noticed, even before she opened her eyes. The quiet sat differently in this room compared to the one she had been given during her first week. It was deeper, more settled, as though the walls themselves were accustomed to holding it.
For a moment, she did not move.
The events of the night before returned slowly, not in sharp fragments but in a steady, almost reluctant awareness. The ceremony. The hall. The way Jongho had turned his back to her without hesitation.
The way he had told her to sleep.
Her fingers shifted slightly against the sheets.
They were cool.
Her eyes opened.
The space beside her was empty.
The blankets had been disturbed, but only slightly. There was no lingering warmth, no sign of how long he had been gone. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours.
She pushed herself up slowly, the thin fabric of her nightgown settling against her skin as she moved. The room was still lit by the pale light of morning filtering through the tall windows, soft and almost indifferent.
Her gaze drifted to the small table beside the bed.
A folded piece of parchment rested there.
She stared at it for a moment before reaching for it.
The paper was smooth beneath her fingers, the edges clean, deliberate. When she unfolded it, the handwriting was precise, almost rigid in its neatness.
You may take your meals in your chambers or in the dining hall, as you prefer.
A maid has been assigned to you.
You are free to spend your time as you wish.
Nothing more.
No greeting.
No name.
And yet, she knew it was from him.
She read it again.
The words were simple, almost detached, but there was something beneath them that she could not quite place. Not kindness. Not exactly.
Consideration, perhaps.
Or obligation.
She set the note back down.
Her gaze lingered on it a moment longer than necessary before she turned away.
A knock came at the door.
Soft. Measured.
“Enter.”
The door opened carefully, just enough for a young woman to step inside. She carried a tray balanced steadily in her hands, her posture straight but not stiff, her gaze lowered in quiet respect.
“Good morning, my lady,” she said, her voice gentle.
She set the tray down on a small table near the window, arranging it with practiced ease before stepping back.
“I am Hana. I have been assigned as your personal maid.”
Y/n studied her.
She looked young. Not much older than herself. There was something calm about her presence, something that did not feel as distant as the others she had encountered since arriving.
“Hana,” she repeated.
The name felt grounding in a way she had not expected.
“Yes, my lady.”
There was a pause.
It stretched slightly longer than necessary, filled with something unfamiliar.
Opportunity.
Y/n rose from the bed, moving slowly, still adjusting to the quiet weight of the morning.
“You may speak freely,” she said.
Hana hesitated.
Only briefly.
Then she nodded.
“Thank you, my lady.”
Y/n moved to the table, her gaze drifting over the food laid out before her. It was simple but carefully prepared. Bread, fruit, something warm that still carried the faint scent of herbs.
She sat.
For the first time since arriving here, she was not alone.
The realization settled quietly, but it shifted something inside her.
She reached for a piece of fruit, turning it slightly in her fingers before speaking.
“How is the king?”
The question felt strange on her tongue.
Hana blinked.
Surprised.
Not by the question itself, but by the fact that it had been asked so directly.
“The king…” she began carefully, choosing her words with thought rather than fear. “He is kind.”
Y/n’s fingers stilled.
Kind.
It was not the word she had expected.
“He is not… easily understood,” Hana continued. “Many believe him to be cold. Distant. But he is not unfeeling.”
Y/n listened.
“He keeps himself apart,” Hana added. “But there are those he trusts.”
“How many?”
“Seven.”
The number came without hesitation.
“Seven advisors,” Hana said. “They are closest to him. The only ones he truly allows near.”
Y/n considered that.
Seven people in an entire kingdom.
Seven people who had managed to reach him.
“And his friends?” she asked.
Hana’s lips curved faintly.
“They are the same.”
That made sense.
Her gaze lowered briefly to the table before lifting again.
“Kim Hongjoong.”
Hana’s reaction was immediate.
Her eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across her expression before she could hide it.
“You know his name?”
Y/n shrugged lightly.
“He introduced himself yesterday.”
Hana exhaled softly, something close to relief slipping into her posture.
“That is… not unusual for him,” she admitted. “He is curious. Always watching.”
That, at least, matched what she had seen.
“He is one of the seven?”
“Yes.”
Y/n nodded slowly.
It fit.
Everything about him had suggested it.
The confidence. The way he had spoken to Jongho without hesitation. The ease with which he had occupied the space beside her.
The days that followed blurred together. Not entirely.
But enough that time lost its sharp edges.
She explored.
At first cautiously, guided by corridors that still felt too vast, too unfamiliar. The castle revealed itself slowly, not all at once, as though it required patience to understand its shape.
Gardens hidden behind stone archways.
Quiet courtyards where the air felt lighter.
Libraries filled with shelves that stretched higher than she could reach.
No one stopped her.
No one questioned her presence.
The freedom Jongho had given her in that note remained unchallenged.
She could go where she wished.
Do what she wished.
And yet she always returned to the same place.
His chambers.
Their chambers.
Night after night.
The pattern formed without discussion.
Without agreement.
He would come late.
Always after her.
She would already be there, seated or lying quietly, her thoughts settled into the familiar rhythm of waiting.
He would enter.
A glance.
Brief. Acknowledging.
Nothing more.
He would undress with the same controlled precision, set his garments aside, and take his place in the bed.
Turning away.
“Sleep.”
The word became routine.
Expected.
She did not argue.
Not at first.
She slipped beneath the covers beside him, leaving the same careful distance between them. Close enough to share the space. Far enough to respect the boundary he had drawn.
Days turned into weeks.
Nothing changed.
He did not touch her.
He did not speak beyond what was necessary.
He did not treat her with cruelty.
But he did not treat her as a wife either.
She existed beside him.
That was all.
At first, she accepted it.
It was easier that way.
There was no fear. No uncertainty about what would happen when night came.
No obligation forced upon her without her consent.
She told herself that was enough.
More than enough.
But acceptance did not last.
It shifted.
Slowly.
Subtly.
Until it became something else.
Frustration.
It began as a quiet thought.
A question she did not voice.
Then it grew.
Each night adding to it.
Each morning reinforcing it.
Because she did not understand.
Not him.
Not his reasons.
Not the distance he maintained with such unwavering consistency.
If he had been cruel, she could have resisted.
If he had been indifferent, she could have ignored him.
This careful restraint it unsettled her in a way she could not ignore.
A month passed.
And she had enough.
She did not plan it.
She should have waited.
That thought crossed her mind the moment she stepped into the room. But it was already too late to retreat without drawing attention.
Jongho stood at the table, one hand resting against the edge, the other holding a document he had clearly stopped reading the moment she entered. Around him, the room was occupied. Men she had only heard about until now.
The seven.
Their presence filled the space in a way that made it feel smaller, sharper. Every gaze turned toward her, measuring, curious.
Hongjoong leaned casually against the side of the table, his expression already shifting into something dangerously entertained.
Y/n felt it all.
And ignored it.
Her focus stayed on Jongho.
“You’re busy,” she said.
It was not a question.
His gaze held hers, steady, unreadable.
“I am.”
The answer was simple. Dismissive in ist calm.
It should have ended there.
It didn’t.
“Then I won’t take long.”
Something in the room shifted at that.
Subtle. Not enough to interrupt. Enough to be noticed.
Jongho set the document down.
His attention remained fixed on her, as though waiting to see how far she intended to go.
“And what is it that cannot wait?” he asked.
His tone was even.
It irritated her more than if he had sounded annoyed.
She took a step closer.
Not enough to close the distance completely, but enough to make it clear she was not backing down.
“You,” she said.
A pause.
His expression did not change.
“Be more specific.”
The words were quiet.
There was something beneath them now. Not emotion, something sharper than before.
She felt it.
And pushed anyway.
“It has been over a month.”
Her voice was steady, but there was tension beneath it now, threading through every word.
“I spend my days alone, wandering halls that do not belong to me, surrounded by people who watch but never speak.” She took another step forward. “And every night, I return to a husband who does not even acknowledge me beyond telling me to sleep.”
The room had gone completely still.
No one interrupted.
No one moved.
Jongho’s gaze did not waver.
“You are given freedom,” he said.
“I was given space,” she corrected immediately. “There is a difference.”
Silence stretched.
He tilted his head slightly.
A small movement.
Barely anything.
“You prefer otherwise?”
The question landed heavier than it should have.
Because there was something in the way he said it.
Something that suggested he already knew the answer.
Her frustration sharpened.
“I prefer understanding what this is,” she said. “Because it is certainly not a marriage.”
That did it.
Something in his expression shifted.
Not much.
But enough.
“You knew what this arrangement was before you agreed to it.”
“And I accepted it,” she replied. “I did not expect affection. I did not expect warmth.” Her voice tightened, just slightly. “But I did expect you to treat me as something more than a stranger who happens to share your bed.”
A quiet breath moved through the room.
Someone shifted.
Hongjoong, perhaps.
She didn’t look.
Jongho’s gaze hardened…not in anger, but in something more contained.
“You are treated with respect,” he said.
The calm in his voice made something in her snap.
“Respect?” she repeated, a short, sharp sound leaving her that almost resembled a laugh. “You do not speak to me. You do not look at me. You do not touch me.”
There it was.
The word settled between them.
“And yet,” she continued, stepping closer still, closing the distance enough that the tension between them became something tangible, “you expect me to sit quietly and accept it.”
His jaw tightened.
Just slightly.
“You are not being forced into anything.”
“That is not the point.”
“Then what is?”
The question came faster this time.
Sharper.
It was the first time he had stepped toward her, closing the space she had already begun to erase.
They stood closer now.
Too close for the room they were in.
Too close for the audience they had.
She could feel it.
The shift.
The way the air changed.
Her pulse quickened.
Not from fear.
From something else entirely.
“I am your wife,” she said.
The words were quieter now.
But they carried more weight.
“And yet you treat me like I am not even worth the dirt under your shoes.”
His gaze dropped.
Just for a moment.
To her lips.
Then back to her eyes.
It was brief.
So brief she almost thought she imagined it.
Almost.
“You are not owed effort,” he said.
The words landed harder than anything else he had said so far.
Something inside her flared.
Hot and immediate.
“Then what am I owed?” she demanded.
He did not answer.
That was it.
That was what broke whatever restraint she had left.
“Fine,” she said, her voice rising despite herself. “Then I will say it clearly since you seem determined to avoid it.”
She did not care about the room anymore.
About the men watching.
About the consequences.
“I will not sit around all day married to a king who cannot even take my virginity properly.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
It crashed down over the room, heavy and suffocating.
She realized it then.
Fully.
What she had just said.
Heat rushed to her face, sharp and immediate.
Too late.
Far too late.
For a fraction of a second, no one moved.
“Leave.”
Jongho’s voice cut through the silence.
Low.
Commanding.
Not loud.
It did not need to be.
The men moved immediately.
No hesitation.
No lingering comments.
Even Hongjoong, though slower than the others, pushed himself off the table with clear reluctance, his gaze flickering between them with poorly concealed interest before he finally turned and followed the rest out.
The door closed.
The room felt different now.
Smaller.
More dangerous.
Y/n stood frozen.
Jongho moved toward her.
Each step was measured.
But there was something else beneath it now.
Something that had not been there before.
He stopped in front of her.
Close.
Closer than he had ever allowed himself to be.
Her breath caught.
She did not step back.
Could not.
“You think that is what you want?” he asked.
His voice was lower now.
Quieter.
It did not need volume to hold weight.
Her pulse pounded.
She held his gaze.
“I—”
The word faltered.
Because she did not know how to answer.
Not like this.
Not with him standing this close.
Not with the way he was looking at her now.
Something in his expression had changed.
“You wouldn’t,” he said.
Not a question.
A statement.
His gaze flickered over her face, searching, assessing in a way that felt different from before.
More personal.
More dangerous.
“You are not attracted to me.”
The words were calm.
Too calm.
Her breath hitched.
Because that was not entirely true.
And she hated that he had said it like it was.
He stepped back.
Just slightly.
The distance returning, but not completely.
Not the same as before.
“I will not touch someone who does not want me,” he continued. “Not because it is expected. Not because it is required.”
There was something firm in that.
Her frustration returned, but it tangled now with something else.
Something she did not want to examine too closely.
“Then what am I supposed to do?” she asked, quieter now.
“Leave.”
The word came without hesitation.
Not harsh.
Not raised.
But absolute.
She stared at him.
For a moment, she thought about arguing again.
Pushing further.
But something in his expression stopped her.
Not anger.
Not dismissal.
Something heavier.
Something that made it clear, this was not a conversation she would win tonight.
Her jaw tightened.
She turned.
This time more controlled.
More deliberate.
And walked out.
She did not remember the walk back.
Only fragments remained. The echo of her own footsteps. The way the corridors seemed longer than before. The faint sting still burning in her chest, refusing to settle into anything she could name.
By the time she reached their chambers, the silence had returned.
Heavy.
Unforgiving.
She closed the door behind her more carefully than necessary, as though even the smallest sound might shatter whatever thin control she had managed to regain.
It didn’t.
Nothing did.
Her gaze drifted across the room, landing on the bed for only a moment before she looked away again.
She could not lie there tonight.
The thought came without hesitation.
The space felt different now. Not unfamiliar, but… unbearable. As if the distance he had always kept between them had finally taken shape, something real enough that she could no longer ignore it.
Her steps carried her instead toward the sofa near the window.
It was smaller. Less comfortable. Not meant for sleep.
It did not matter.
She sat first, her hands resting loosely in her lap, her thoughts still moving too quickly, too sharply. The remnants of their argument replayed without mercy, each word sharper in memory than it had been in the moment.
You are not owed effort.
Her fingers curled slightly.
A slow breath left her.
She leaned back.
Then, eventually, she lay down.
The fabric of her nightgown clung lightly to her skin, too thin to offer warmth, too sheer to offer comfort. She had not thought to bring anything with her. Had not thought at all, beyond the need to put distance between herself and that bed.
Between herself and him.
The sofa was narrow. The cushion beneath her unforgiving.
Her back faced the room.
She curled slightly, more from instinct than intention, her arms drawing closer to herself as though that might make the space feel less vast.
It didn’t.
The quiet stretched.
And then the tears came.
They slipped free slowly, steadily, tracing warm lines across her skin before disappearing into the fabric beneath her. She did not try to stop them.
There was no one here to see.
No one to hear.
Her breathing remained even, though it felt tighter now, each inhale catching just slightly before settling again.
She did not sob.
She did not make a sound.
The frustration sat deeper than that.
Heavier.
Because she did not understand him.
Because he refused to let her.
Because every time she thought she had found something to hold onto, something solid, it slipped away again.
She pressed her lips together, her eyes closing.
The tears did not stop.
Time passed.
She did not know how long.
Long enough for the room to grow colder. Long enough for the quiet to settle back into something almost still again.
Then the door opened.
She froze.
Instinct.
Her breathing steadied immediately, controlled, measured. She did not move, did not shift, did not give any indication that she was awake.
She listened.
Jongho’s steps were familiar now.
Even. Unhurried.
He entered the room, the door closing quietly behind him.
Silence followed.
She could feel it.
His presence.
It settled into the space differently than anyone else’s ever had. Not loud. Not overwhelming.
But undeniable.
He stopped.
She could tell without looking.
There was a pause.
Long enough that it felt deliberate.
As though he had noticed.
Her position.
The sofa.
The absence of her presence in the bed.
Her pulse picked up.
Just slightly.
She kept her eyes closed.
Kept her breathing steady.
Waiting.
Then movement.
Each step measured.
He stopped near her.
The distance between them narrowed to almost nothing.
For a moment, nothing happened.
The silence stretched again.
But this time it felt different.
Not empty.
Heavy.
She felt it before she understood it.
The hesitation.
It lingered in the air, quiet but unmistakable.
The faint sound of fabric.
And suddenly warmth.
A blanket settled over her.
It covered her shoulders first, then the rest of her, the weight of it grounding in a way she had not expected. The cold that had settled into her skin eased almost immediately.
Her breath nearly faltered.
She forced it steady.
As though she truly slept.
A quiet exhale followed.
Not quite a sigh.
But close enough.
He stepped back.
She heard him move across the room, the familiar rhythm of him undressing returning, each movement precise even now. There was no hesitation in it anymore, no pause like the one he had allowed himself at her side.
The bed shifted as he lay down.
The mattress dipped slightly under his weight.
Then stillness.
The room returned to quiet once more.
Y/n kept her eyes closed.
The blanket remained wrapped around her, warm, grounding, impossible to ignore.
Her thoughts did not settle easily.
They moved, slower now, heavier, circling something she did not want to name.
Because it would be easier.
So much easier, if he were cruel.
If he had been what she had expected from the beginning.
Cold in a way that hurt.
Distant in a way that made sense.
Someone she could hate.
Her fingers curled slightly beneath the blanket.
Her breath softened.
Because this quiet consideration.
This restraint.
This distance that still somehow made room for something else. It left her with nothing to hold onto.
Nothing to fight.
And nothing to hate.
And that, more than anything else, made him impossible to understand.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Like seriously though this is so much funnier when you put everything together.
This is HIS WIFE. His Eternal love.
The only reason he even found her is because she came gunning for him HERSELF thanks to a traitor in his criminal empire blowing up grandma and the incesty bestie (I'm kidding I was way too proud of the rhyme not to make the joke its almost 4 am I'm unhinged) while he was away on other business.
And because "How to Train your dragon" over here was so dead set focused on having his Wife remember him….that he almost completely fucked her current version's impression of him BEYOND REPAIR
How is that not the most comedic thing ever? The man is so stoked to have his wife back that he keeps trying to express their bond through hand holding and MC is just like "The fuck is he doing running his hands all over my wrists and interlocking our fingers to resonate?!"
And the more it doesn't work the more amped up and frustrated he becomes because this is an obstacle that must be defeated..... until the above scene plays out and it FINALLY clicks that he's being a colossal dumbass.
Alright Fuck it I'm just going to keep adding to this because I think all the boys are hilarious in their own unique ways.
Rafayel is Sus and I love him for it.
Don't even get me started on MC's interactions with Rafayel because..... it is SUPER funny that the MC doesn't immediately question.... hey so like.... Zayne has an ice evol and he's a doctor that is frequently deployed to combat zones so that's why he's trained to use his ice powers to fight, Xavier is a Hunter like me so he has swords, Sylus is a super duper mega criminal so violence is his thing and Caleb's a military dude.
Why the fuck does the "I'm gonna cry and puke if you stop paying attention to me" baby boy artist KNOW HOW TO USE DAGGERS LIKE AN ASSASSIN?
Rafayel in general is just hilarious because from his perspective? You're his waifu for lifu but that means something different when one of you is an immortal god of the tides and your wedding gift to him was to combo forget/abandon his ass like it was nothing. HE IS THE GOD OF THE SEA AND YOU BROKE HIS HEART. YOU ARE HIS WOMAN AND HE TOOK HIS VOWS SERIOUSLY.
So what does he do? Stalks you across multiple lifetimes and the conclusion he's come to is that Powerful in control Sea God Ra'el? Not your type. Clearly that man bored you.
So he needs to be interesting. Vivacious. Playful. ANYTHING to better hold your attention and affections.
Screw dignity he's going to cause a scene.
Dudes, that's not even getting into how the whole "Miss bodyguard" thing is clearly him trying to rekindle how your past self fell in love with him originally. By saving him from drying out on a beach.
Homeboi straight up playing into that "Life debt? Oh no honey you saved me which makes me your problem ~forever~"
AND the fact that he is EXCEPTIONALLY worried that he can't keep his current persona going forever which is why he keeps asking MC in multiple memories if she will still love him if he becomes someone different. A lot of his cards play with identity and him taking on different personas as the need arises.
Catch 22 Rafayel is probably MUCH closer to his actual true personality, as after becoming a Praedator his civilian personality no longer held any strategic value which is why he discarded it by pretending to have amnesia and that is deeply fascinating.
MC says that his file states he FORGOT who he was after becoming a Praedator but that is clearly a lie because the bad end states that he still remembers his "Promise" with the MC. The one he made as Ra'el.
Oh and he TOTALLY fell on you on purpose when you met him at his house. I'm like halfway convinced all his 'fall related accidents' are done intentionally because you don't live 800 years by being clumsy. It is not a coincidence all those trips and falls either end up with you two in a bathtub together or his dramatic ass in the hospital where he tries to convince you that he really did get hurt saving a kid from a car and that he didn't totally rip the scene that kicked off the plot of Yu Yu Hakusho so he could be a big hero.
Homeboi has the honor of being the childhood friend who DIDN'T turn into a massive fuck off yandere.
And at first you're like wow this dude is just closed off and kind of normal an-
PSYCHE BITCH HE'S FUCKED UP TOO.
Why? Well you see once again, knowing MC ruined a man's life.
Long ago there was an icy demigod who was the Foreseer of Super mega bitch I mean Mega God Astra.
His name was Zayne.
Basically he sat around giving out divine prophecies locked away in a tower far away from the trivialities of mortals because he had the power of God and Anime on his side.
So naturally a version of MC eventually rocked up to his abode to fuck up his peace and quiet.
Looooooong story short Zayne chooses his love of MC over his duty to Astra to save her life.
To say this pissed off Super Mega God would be something of an UNDERSTATEMENT.
Astra: Cool you love her? Great. Fantastic. Good for you bestie.
Also Astra: Oh by the way, I'm going to force you two together in every lifetime just so you can fall in love with her and then watch her die.
But see Astra is, unfortunately for everyone involved, a BIT more creative when it comes to cruelty. Zayne doesn't ever remember his past lives or past MCs. That's not why he's closed off or haunted like the other dudes...
What actually Fucked up our current version of Zayne was two things.
-Almost killing his childhood crush MC when they were kids with his out of control Evol, which is why he and his family up and moved away suddenly out of shame.
-and what I'd like to call "Astra you Supreme Motherfucker"
See there is a 'shit's gone sideways' timeline version of Zayne called Dawnbreaker who exists in a world without his own MC.
This dude is technically a serial killer who is offing people that are about to turn into wanderers because of EVER's bullsht. I say technically because he is putting them out of their misery.
Instead of having our Zayne remember any of his past lives or MCs, Astra decided to do a little trolling and cursed his ass to dream of the Dawnbreaker timeline WITHOUT ANY OF THE CONTEXT... and this has been going on since he was like twelve.
So his whole life has been spent dreaming of himself killing men women and children over and over again without mercy or guilt after he almost killed the girl he was in love with.
For. Years.
Naturally Zayne's completely rational response to this was to literally speedrun medical school so he could save MC from her heart condition and to save as many other lives as possible to try and escape the horror of his nightmares as some sort of fucked up penance.
The man is absolutely petrified that if he ever loses control, he could turn into the psycho monster he sees every night. THAT is why he is so reserved and responsible at all times and why it is such a big deal for him to show any vulnerability or weakness EVER.
And you'd think that would be bad enough, but you see the reason I call it "Astra you Supreme Motherfucker" is because IT'S A TWO WAY STREET.
Dawnbreaker's suffering isn't that he's just living in a world without ever knowing MC. That wouldn't be fucked up enough for Astra.
No, he has to know what he's missing for it to count.
So he dreams of our Zayne's life............... with MC.
Let me reiterate.
Astra has doomed this man to dream of a wonderful relatively normal life with a woman he can never have outside the realm of sleep....and he is hopelessly in love with her. He is literally traveling through the wasteland of his world looking for the remnants of places Zayne and MC have been to in his dreams. To prove to himself that she is real but forever existing beyond his reach.
Every date she has with Zayne, every plushie caught, every game of kitty cards, every single lovely memory and tender embrace.... an ever yearning Dawnbreaker is watching through Zayne's eyes, wishing it was him with her instead.
So in summary Fuck Astra, none of my homies like Astra.
tangentwithtanner
amandla
discoholicmusic
jimmyeatworldofficial
pixelskylines
theartofmadeline
areudirty
stormborns
