probably procrastinating

wc: 12,6k

notes: hi! here’s the second part of yuta’s story 🫶 i noticed a lot of people were interested in it and the response was really sweet, which made me super happy! someone asked me how i write so fast 🤣 the thing is, with this story (and most of them tbh), i usually write and prepare everything in advance when i have free time. i don’t publish them right away though, because i usually plan them in parts. so i keep them in my drafts, then i write the next parts, revise everything, adjust the flow, and once i feel like the timing is right, i post them lol. it’s kind of like "scheduling" my fics for delivery hahaha. alsooo i was kinda waiting for the anon to reply so i could tag them, but they never did 😭 if they’re reading this, please reach out to me 😭 jsjsjjs

part i. epilogue

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the steam clung to your skin like silk as you stepped out of the ofuro, towel wrapped loosely around your body, the faint scent of hinoki wood still clinging to your damp hair. the house was quiet—too quiet. you had grown used to the soft murmur of voices, the distant shuffling of feet as the men moved throughout the property, but tonight, silence held the hallways in a tight, heavy grip.

you dried yourself slowly, slipping into a soft ivory nightgown that barely brushed your thighs. it wasn’t intentional—just the first thing your hands grabbed in the dimness of your closet. you weren’t trying to look a certain way. you weren’t trying to think of him.

you tied your hair up in a loose bun and padded barefoot to your room. the warmth of the ofuro had relaxed you, almost lulled you into sleep already… until you heard it.

a sound—wet, harsh. a sharp exhale. a broken word.

you froze.

then came the strangled gasp. a thud. and finally, a shout.

“no—!”

you bolted down the hallway before your mind could process it, your feet silent on the wooden floor. you didn’t knock. you slid the door open sharply and found him tangled in his futon, drenched in sweat, breathing like he’d run miles barefoot through a battlefield. the moonlight spilling through the shoji window cut pale angles across his face, highlighting the way his brows furrowed in panic, lips parted in a grimace, chest heaving.

"yuta," you whispered, dropping to your knees beside him. “yuta—wake up, it’s just a dream—”

his hand shot out, blindly reaching. you caught it, squeezed it tight.

“hey. you’re okay. i’m here.” your other hand cupped his cheek, brushing away the sheen of sweat with your thumb.

his eyes finally opened, unfocused and wild, then slowly zeroed in on your face. his lips parted but no words came out. just another heavy breath, a tremor, and then—without a word—he leaned forward and collapsed against you.

you sucked in a quiet breath as the full weight of his upper body rested against your chest. your nightgown stuck to your damp skin, thin cotton against bare muscle. he was burning hot, trembling, but you didn’t pull away. your hands found their way into his hair, gently combing through the messy strands as his breaths began to slow.

“it’s okay,” you whispered again. “you’re safe.”

his arms didn’t wrap around you, but his head tilted just enough that his cheek pressed against the curve of your breast, and you felt his lashes flutter with each exhale.

after several long minutes, he finally spoke. voice hoarse, barely a breath. “i saw you bleeding.”

your hands froze in his hair. he continued, still not looking at you. “in the dream… you were lying on the floor. screaming my name. i couldn’t get to you. there was blood. so much fucking blood.”

you swallowed the knot rising in your throat.

“but it wasn’t real,” you said softly. “i’m here. see?” you took his hand and pressed it flat against your ribs, just under the swell of your breast. “no blood.”

he let out a shaky breath. “i thought i was going to lose you.”

you didn’t answer. couldn’t.

then, after a beat—

“stay,” he said.

your heart kicked up a notch. “here?”

he lifted his head slightly to meet your eyes. “just tonight.”

your mouth opened to answer, but nothing came out. your cheeks were already burning. the word hung between you like a secret.

you nodded.

he eased back onto the futon with a quiet wince, making space. you slipped under the blanket beside him, heart pounding, unsure where to place your arms, unsure of everything. it felt like you were intruding.

you turned your back to him at first, unsure if it would make things less tense. but before long, you felt the warmth of his body draw closer. not touching—just near.

"you’re tense," he murmured behind you.

you tensed more. “no i’m not.”

he chuckled, voice low, still slightly raspy. “i won’t do anything you don’t want.”

you spun to face him, cheeks aflame. “i wasn’t thinking that!”

his brows rose, amused. “sure you weren’t.”

you smacked his arm gently, earning another soft laugh from him—warm this time. honest. he reached up and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek.

“you look pretty when you’re mad.”

you scowled, even as your heart twisted into a knot.

you stared at each other for a long second, breaths mingling in the dark.

"does it still hurt?" you asked finally, nodding at the faded bandages on his side.

"only when i breathe," he joked, then sighed. "i’ll be fine."

you hesitated, then reached out and placed your hand gently over his abdomen. he tensed—but didn’t stop you. the heat of his skin under your palm made your fingers tremble.

"you're warm," you whispered.

"so are you." his eyes dropped to your lips.

you should’ve pulled away. should’ve turned back and faced the wall again. but you didn’t. neither of you did.

"this is weird, isn’t it?" you said softly. "we’re married and this is the first night we share a bed."

"we should’ve done it earlier," he said.

you looked up at him sharply, but his expression was unreadable. somewhere between a smile and a storm.

"why didn’t we?" you asked, more to yourself than him.

he tilted your chin up slightly, his thumb brushing your jaw. “because maybe now it means something.”

you felt your breath catch.

you didn’t kiss. not yet. but your faces stayed close, breath to breath, until sleep finally claimed you both—your fingers still tangled in his shirt, his hand resting protectively over your hip.

you didn’t dream that night.

but if you had, it would’ve been about him.

meanwhile, the world outside moved on without you.

the studio lights were too bright. the camera flashes too cold. you smiled on cue, tilted your head just so, changed outfits and pretended to care when the makeup artist fixed your lip gloss for the fifth time.

hitoshi didn’t speak much anymore. not unless it was absolutely necessary. not unless someone was watching.

you wanted to ask him if it was because of yuta.

you didn’t.

outside, everything felt disconnected. like you were walking through someone else’s life. fake laughter. fake perfume. fake nails. fake smiles.

but inside the walls of yuta’s house, something real was happening.

something warm. dangerous. inevitable.

that night, as you returned home past sunset, the hallway lights dimmed low and the scent of jasmine still lingering from the garden, you saw him standing at the end of the corridor—shoulders relaxed, arms crossed loosely, watching you with that look again.

not hungry.

not gentle.

just... aware.

you stopped walking.

he didn’t say anything.

neither did you.

but the glance lasted longer than it should have. held heavier than it ought to. like both of you were waiting for something to snap.

and you looked at each other.

not in the way married people are supposed to look at each other. not with comfort. not with affection.

with need.

the kind that simmers in silence. the kind that thickens the air between two people until it’s unbearable.

he took one slow step toward you.

you didn’t move back. you couldn’t. your knees felt like they were made of glass and breath was suddenly a conscious effort. his gaze flicked down your body once—just once—but it was enough to make your pulse trip over itself.

“come here,” he said.

not commanding. not tender. just… hoarse. low. like the words had scraped their way out of his throat.

you didn’t answer.

you stepped forward.

one step. then another.

you could see the strain in his posture. the tightness in his jaw. he was trying to control it, whatever it was burning under his skin. trying not to ruin this moment. but his fingers flexed at his sides, and you knew he was one breath away from snapping.

you stopped right in front of him.

your eyes met, closer now—so close you could see the way his lashes cast shadows over his cheeks, the way his mouth parted like he was going to speak and then thought better of it.

“this…” he began, but didn’t finish.

you shook your head slowly, voice barely above a whisper. “don’t ruin it with words.”

he didn’t.

instead, he reached.

a hand at your waist first—careful, grounding, his thumb pressing into the silk of your robe. your breath hitched. he exhaled shakily. then the other hand lifted, slow and deliberate, fingers threading through the hair at the nape of your neck. he didn’t pull—he just held. like anchoring you there, like making sure this wasn’t a dream he’d wake from.

“i don’t know what this is,” you murmured. “but i feel it.”

his brow furrowed like the words hurt. like they exposed something he wasn’t ready to admit.

“i do too,” he said, voice barely audible. “i’ve been trying not to.”

“me too.”

and then, as if your bodies had grown tired of waiting for permission, you leaned in at the same time.

the kiss wasn’t soft.

it wasn’t rushed either. it lingered, pressed, took. there was no awkward pause, no hesitation—just the raw electricity of mouths meeting after too long, of breath mixing, of hands finally allowed to hold.

his fingers slid deeper into your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss, to taste more of you, to pull a sound from your throat you hadn’t meant to make. you clung to him—hands gripping the collar of his shirt, sliding up the back of his neck, curling into the short strands of his hair as if anchoring yourself to him.

his other hand tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. you could feel the way his chest rose and fell rapidly, how he was still fighting the instinct to take too much too soon. but the tremble in his breath gave him away. this was unraveling him. you were unraveling him.

you kissed like you were trying to understand it. to confirm it. to make sense of this pull between you, the way nothing outside these walls felt real anymore. how everything out there felt empty, cold, meaningless—except this. except him.

his mouth left yours just barely, brushing the corner of your lips, then your jaw. “this wasn’t supposed to happen,” he whispered, but he didn’t sound regretful. he sounded undone.

you swallowed hard, lips brushing his again. “i don’t care.”

he kissed you again—this time slower. not because he was hesitant, but because he wanted to memorize. the shape of your mouth. the sighs you gave when he sucked your lower lip just enough. the way your nails pressed into his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt. it was indulgent, shameless, intentional.

and it wasn’t like your wedding kiss.

that one had been staged, timed, performed.

this one was the truth.

when he finally pulled back, both of you breathless, your eyes stayed closed a moment longer, your forehead pressed to his.

his voice was rough. “if i kiss you again, i won’t stop.”

your pulse pounded in your ears. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

he laughed once—short, bitter, sweet. “because it is.”

your hands slid down his chest, slowing at the center where his heart beat fast beneath your palm. “then don’t.”

for a moment, he didn’t respond.

but his hand at your waist tightened again.

and his lips ghosted your cheek.

and he whispered, “stay with me tonight. just like this. just… stay.”

you nodded.

you didn’t go back to your room. you didn’t need to.

you had crossed a line now. one neither of you would be able to step back from. and even if the world burned down around the two of you, you knew this was real. raw. dangerous.

you didn’t turn the lights on. he didn’t ask why.

something about the dark made it easier to admit this was real.

yuta pulled you toward the futon slowly, not by the wrist or hand—but by placing a gentle touch on your lower back, guiding you like the space beside him was meant for you and had always been. his bed smelled faintly like cedar and something warmer, something him. the sheets were cool, but his body wasn’t.

he laid back first, propped against the pillows.

you hesitated—only for a second—then climbed in beside him, curling on your side. facing him.

he was already watching you. soft. open. like his edges had finally stopped cutting, like this was the only moment he didn’t have to be the heir, the boss, the legend. he was just a man. and for the first time, he looked free.

he reached for you. slowly. deliberately. a hand on your cheek, thumb brushing lightly beneath your eye as if checking you were really there. you leaned into it. eyes fluttering shut.

and then the kiss came again.

it was different this time.

slower. deeper.

not needy—but full.

the kind of kiss that asked questions instead of demanded answers. lips moving with intent, his hand sliding into your hair again as you leaned closer until your chest brushed his, until your breaths tangled and the space between you no longer existed.

he kissed you like this could heal something in him. and maybe, somehow, it did.

your fingers curled lightly at his nape, then trailed down the curve of his shoulder. you rested your forehead against his between kisses. he pressed one to your temple. then your jaw. then your collarbone. nothing rushed. nothing expected. just the hum of electricity, of presence, of him holding you like the world outside could go to hell.

at some point, you settled with your head on his chest.

his arm wrapped around you without hesitation. his thumb moved slowly along your upper arm, a rhythm so tender it made your throat ache. you could feel his heartbeat under your ear—steady, loud, real.

"i forgot what this felt like," he murmured into your hair.

you didn’t ask what he meant.

you just whispered back, “me too.”

he kissed the top of your head. and you kissed the skin at his collarbone.

you didn’t speak again for a while.

not because there was nothing to say—but because silence was finally safe.

and when sleep came for you both, it didn’t feel like surrender.

it felt like belonging.

the steady hum of the car wheels against the gravel-covered road filled the silence as the black sedan made its way through the outskirts of osaka. moonlight filtered through the dense tree line, shadows flickering like ghosts against the windows. yuta sat beside you, calm and composed in his midnight blue kimono embroidered with black cranes that symbolized protection and vigilance. your kimono was a delicate shade of plum, tied tightly at the waist, accentuating the soft curves of your form. your hands rested on your lap, fingers curled in, hiding the tension that had nested in your chest since you left the house.

"are you nervous?" yuta asked without looking at you, eyes scanning the road ahead like a man who had lived too many lives in one.

"should i be?" you replied, your voice even, but not cold.

"always," he said. and that was it.

the meeting with the clan elders was held in a countryside estate hidden among the pines. flickering lanterns lit the stone path leading to the large wooden structure. the air was thick with incense, and the heavy scent of sandalwood made your head feel light. as you entered the main hall, dozens of eyes turned your way. you held your chin high.

yuta introduced you with the calm pride of a man who owned everything in the room. you stood beside him as if born to be there, even if your heartbeat betrayed you. the meeting began as expected, with slow exchanges, nods of agreement, and passing cups of sake.

but it changed in seconds. the loud crack of wood splitting came from behind. yuta’s body tensed before the masked attackers even burst in. everything blurred—yuta grabbing your arm, shielding you behind his body, the clang of steel, the echo of gunfire.

you reached for the small pistol hidden beneath the folds of your obi. you never thought you'd use it. but tonight, you did. your hands shook at first, but when one of them lunged at yuta, instinct won. you pulled the trigger.

the assailants dropped one by one. yuta moved like wind and water—silent, fatal. but one shot grazed him. your scream was lost in the chaos.

once it ended, silence fell heavy. bodies lay sprawled on the polished wooden floor, blood pooling like ink.

in the car, as you both escaped back into the cover of night, you turned to him. "take off the top half of your kimono."

"it’s nothing," he muttered, though his breathing betrayed the sting.

"take it off, yuta."

he obeyed. his chest, usually smooth and unmarred, had a long, thin scratch from a bullet that had barely missed its target. you pulled cloth from the glove compartment, soaked it with the small bottle of water you had, and began to clean him. your fingers worked gently, but your eyes held fire.

yuta didn’t speak. he just watched you. eyes wide, confused, as if no one had ever treated him with such... tenderness.

when you finished, you pressed your palm against the uninjured part of his chest. his hand came up to cover yours.

"thank you," he said, voice low.

"you’d do the same for me."

he didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to.

the days after, something shifted. without a word, he started sleeping in your room. not in your bed. just in the same space. but at some point, the futons ended up closer. and at some point, your nightly kisses, born of adrenaline and intimacy, became ritual. nothing more happened—but the heat that bloomed beneath your skin every time his mouth met yours grew.

each night, his hands lingered a little longer on your waist. yours tangled into his hair. his breath warmed your collarbone. it was a slow burn that neither of you seemed ready to extinguish.

then came the whispers.

inside the tatami-lined war room, takuya stood before the clan’s council, arms crossed. yuta was beside him, silent.

"this arrangement is a distraction," takuya said sharply. "she was supposed to serve a purpose, nothing more. you’re losing focus."

yuta's jaw clenched. "say what you really mean."

"i mean," takuya snapped, "that you were supposed to be leading us into negotiations with the osaka-hyogo factions this week. instead, you're sitting at her bedside cleaning wounds and playing husband."

"i am her husband."

the room fell quiet.

takuya laughed. it was hollow. "a husband for six months. that was the deal. we marry her, used her image of being the perfect, respectable woman and move on. this... this is becoming a problem."

"she’s not the problem," yuta said slowly. "you are."

outside the room, you stood hidden behind the shoji screen. the words cut into you like glass. you hadn’t known the full extent of the deal before. six months. and now, takuya wanted to end it early.

you clutched your sleeves tighter. your chest burned—not with anger, but something deeper. pain. disappointment. a foolish part of you had started to hope.

to believe.

yuta had risked everything for you that night—stood in front of you when the bullets flew. defended your presence when his oldest ally called it a mistake. you couldn’t repay him by making him choose.

the clan or you.

so you didn’t say anything. you didn't confront him that night. instead, you kissed him like nothing had changed. like your world wasn’t slowly crumbling beneath your feet.

because if he had to choose, you'd rather he never knew there was a choice to make.

and that was the cruelest love of all.

one you couldn’t name. one you couldn’t keep. but one that lived in every stolen breath, every bruising kiss, every silent night shared under the paper lantern glow.

the garden was quiet.

too quiet.

even the wind seemed to hesitate, brushing past the trees like it didn’t want to disturb what was unraveling beneath the summer sky. soft lanterns flickered along the stone path, their warm light casting long shadows across the grass, but none of it reached you. not really. you were already somewhere else — deep in your own thoughts, drowning in the things you couldn’t say.

yuta stood a few steps away, his jaw tight, his shoulders stiff beneath the expensive black jacket he always wore when things felt heavy. he had one hand tucked in his pocket, the other hanging loosely by his side, fingers twitching like he wanted to grab something but didn’t know what.

maybe your hand.

maybe your throat.

you had just told him the truth — or part of it. that you weren’t going to stop modeling. that your work mattered to you in ways he could never understand. and he had laughed. not cruelly, not loudly, but with that sharp edge that always cut you when he didn’t know how else to feel.

“if it’s not about money,” he said, his voice low, “then what is it? huh? tell me.”

you blinked. “it’s about my dream, yuta. it always has been. the reason i left my village, the reason i stayed here. i need to feel like i’m building something for myself. like this... this isn’t all there is.”

his eyes narrowed. “and hitoshi? he’s part of that dream too?”

you didn’t answer.

your silence was like a gunshot.

his jaw clenched tighter. “so that’s it, then.”

“that’s not what i said,” you muttered.

but he was already shaking his head. not fast, not dramatic — just slow, like someone accepting the kind of truth they never wanted to hear.

“you didn’t have to say it,” he said. “i see it every time you come home smelling like him.”

you flinched. “i don’t—”

“don’t lie to me,” he snapped.

his voice cracked, and that scared you more than the accusation. because yuta didn’t break. not in front of you. not ever.

he took a step closer, and even in the fading light, you could see the tiredness in his eyes. not just from the long nights or the weight of his title — but from you. from this. from the fact that every time he reached for you lately, you felt a little further away.

“do you ever look at him the way you looked at me?” he asked quietly. “do you think about him when i’m not home?”

“no,” you whispered, barely audible. “never.”

but he didn’t believe you.

and honestly, maybe you didn’t believe yourself either — not because you wanted hitoshi, but because the distance between you and yuta had become a chasm neither of you knew how to cross anymore. it had started slow — missed dinners, hushed calls, unspoken things. then it became routine. avoidance. resentment.

and now here you were, standing in the garden of a man who once held you like you were fragile and holy, now looking at you like you were a betrayal wrapped in lace.

“when this is over,” he said, his voice colder now, controlled, “when the contract ends… will you run to him? will he be your safe place?”

you stared at him.

and said nothing.

because you didn’t know what to say. because even if the answer was no — even if hitoshi was the furthest thing from your heart — you couldn’t find the words fast enough. couldn’t reach him in time.

his eyes dropped for a second. then he turned.

the movement was simple, quiet, deliberate. he was walking away.

and for yuta, that was your answer.

you didn’t chase him.

you stood there, trembling, breath stuck in your chest. you watched his back retreat across the stepping stones, his figure melting into the shadows of the engawa, swallowed by the darkness of the house that had once felt like safety. and something inside you cracked open.

you wanted to run after him. wanted to scream that he was wrong, that he was the only man you had ever truly wanted. that hitoshi could disappear tomorrow and you wouldn’t blink, but if yuta left... if he really left...

you would never recover from it.

but your feet didn’t move. because what was the point?

you both knew how this story ended.

you were a contract bride, a girl wrapped in white silk and political lies. and he was the king of a blood empire, trying to build something clean on top of a foundation soaked in violence. there had never been a version of this where you got to stay.

you pressed a hand to your chest, felt the weight of your own heartbeat, heavy and uneven.

he doesn’t know.

he didn’t know that the thought of hitoshi touching you made your skin crawl.

he didn’t know that the only time you felt beautiful was when yuta looked at you like you were something rare and breakable.

he didn’t know that every time you came home, you searched for his scent first. that your pillow still smelled like his cologne. that you hadn’t thrown out the blood-stained robe from the night he almost died, because it reminded you that you’d saved him.

he didn’t know that you were still in love with him.

you collapsed onto the wooden bench at the edge of the garden, the soft fabric of your skirt folding under you, your hands trembling in your lap. somewhere in the distance, a wind chime rattled. your eyes burned, but you didn’t cry.

not yet.

the moon had started to rise, silver and low, bathing the garden in cold light. the flowers yuta planted last spring were starting to wilt — their petals curled, fragile from the heat. and it hit you then: maybe you were wilting too.

you whispered to the night. not a prayer, not a plea. just his name.

“yuta...”

but he didn’t come back.

he didn’t hear you.

or maybe... maybe he did. and chose not to answer.

you hadn’t spoken in two days.

not really. not more than clipped sentences passed during breakfast or muttered greetings when your paths crossed in the hallway. the silence between you and yuta had settled like fog — dense, stubborn, refusing to lift.

but that night, something cracked.

you couldn’t sleep. not in your room. not with the weight of his absence pulling at your ribs. so you bathed — slow, methodical — letting the heat of the ofuro melt the tension in your limbs. you scrubbed your skin until it felt new. until the scent of steam, jasmine oil, and longing clung to your every pore. then, without thinking, you slipped on a silk robe. pale cream, nearly translucent, tied loose at the waist. nothing underneath.

you didn’t wear perfume. you didn’t need to.

your hair was still damp, falling in soft waves down your back, glistening under the dim lantern light as you padded barefoot across the wooden hallway toward his room.

you had never knocked before.

but tonight, you did.

a soft, uncertain sound — two knuckles against paper and wood.

inside, you heard movement. fabric shifting. then a pause.

“come in,” he said.

your fingers tightened around the knot at your waist.

you slid the door open slowly.

he was sitting on the futon, shirtless, the blanket draped low over his hips. moonlight spilled through the paper panels behind him, cutting his body in shadows — the ink of his tattoos shifting over his arms, his chest, the sharp lines of his abdomen rising with every breath.

his eyes met yours instantly.

he didn’t say anything.

but his gaze moved — slow, deliberate — taking in the new robe, the way it clung to your damp skin. the light shimmer of moisture on your collarbones. the bare soles of your feet. your hair, dripping soft against your shoulder.

you stepped inside. silent. calm. and then you turned, sliding the door shut behind you.

when you faced him again, he hadn’t moved.

he was waiting.

you met his gaze. held it.

then, slowly — with fingers that didn’t tremble — you reached for the tie of your robe.

you pulled.

the silk slipped apart. loose. effortless.

and then it fell.

your robe hit the tatami floor in a whisper.

you stood still — completely nude, your arms resting gently at your sides, your legs pressed close together, breath quiet but deep.

“there’s only one way to show you that i want no one else,” you said, your voice soft, unwavering. “and it’s this.”

yuta didn’t speak.

he didn’t blink.

his eyes dropped — slowly, reverently — trailing down your body like a prayer he didn’t know how to say out loud.

he took in everything.

your breasts, soft and full, nipples already taut under his gaze.

the curve of your waist.

the line of your hips, the small patch of skin between your thighs where heat gathered.

your thighs. your knees. the delicate arch of your feet.

you stood there for him. only for him.

and for a long, still second — he said nothing.

then he moved.

fast.

the blanket was gone, flung aside. his body was on you in an instant — heat, hands, hunger. his mouth crashed into yours, open and gasping, desperate like he’d been holding his breath for days. you moaned against him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, fingers diving into his hair.

he lifted you.

you wrapped your legs around his waist, felt the hard press of him already thick and ready between your thighs.

he carried you to the futon like you weighed nothing.

and then he laid you down.

“say it again,” he growled, mouth at your throat, his hand sliding up your side, rough and trembling.

“i want you,” you whispered. “only you.”

he groaned — low, guttural — and kissed you again, his lips bruising yours, his teeth dragging gently over your jaw. one hand cupped your breast, thumb teasing your nipple until you arched beneath him. his other hand slid down — over your stomach, between your thighs — and when he found you wet, bare, aching...

he hissed.

“fuck,” he muttered, pressing his forehead against yours. “you’re already this wet for me?”

you nodded, your voice breaking. “been like this since the garden... since you left.”

his fingers teased you, slow circles that made your thighs twitch.

“you should’ve told me,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “should’ve told me you were still mine.”

you spread your legs wider for him.

“i’m telling you now.”

he slid two fingers inside you — thick, slow — and you gasped, hips rising to meet him.

“yuta,” you whimpered. “please...”

he growled softly, pulling his fingers out, licking them clean.

his breath caught, chest rising and falling as he hovered above you, his body flushed with heat, with want, with restraint. your legs trembled beneath him, thighs soft and parted, glistening with your arousal — and yet, your eyes betrayed something else.

uncertainty.

fear.

innocence.

and he remembered.

you were his wife, yes. you had given yourself to him in every way but this. and he had known — from the beginning — that when the moment came, it would have to mean something.

it couldn’t just be hunger.

it had to be reverence.

his hand slid up the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek with the gentlest touch.

“look at me,” he said softly.

you did. your lips trembled. your eyes shone with unshed tears.

“this is your first time,” he whispered. not a question. a truth. a weight he would carry with care.

you nodded, your voice caught in your throat.

“i know,” he breathed. “i know, baby.”

he kissed your forehead first. then your cheek. then your mouth — tender, slow, lips moving over yours like he was memorizing the shape of your fear, your surrender. his hands explored your body without pressure — just warmth, just presence — sliding over your waist, your hips, your thighs.

“you tell me to stop,” he murmured, lips ghosting along your jaw, “and i will. i mean it.”

“don’t stop,” you whispered. “i want you.”

his heart nearly broke in his chest.

he reached between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance — thick, hot, hard — and brushed the head of his cock slowly through your folds, spreading your slick over himself, teasing your clit just enough to make your hips twitch.

then he paused.

his gaze dropped to where your bodies met.

you were so tight. untouched. the soft pink of your folds glistened with heat and nervous want, trembling slightly under his fingers.

he lined himself up with careful precision, the thick head of his cock nudging against your entrance, and when he began to push — just barely — he felt your whole body tense.

“breathe,” he whispered. “just breathe for me.”

you nodded, clutching his shoulders, fingernails digging into his skin.

he eased forward — slow, excruciatingly slow — parting your body inch by inch.

you gasped.

pain bloomed, sharp and full, stretching you in ways you’d never known. your thighs shook, your hands flew to his chest, and your eyes widened, glassy with sudden tears.

“yuta—” you whimpered, voice fragile. “it hurts.”

his heart clenched.

“i know, i know, baby,” he soothed, kissing your jaw, your temple, your trembling lips. “you’re doing so well. so fucking perfect.”

he stopped moving, giving you time. his thumb stroked your cheek, catching one of the tears that had slipped free.

“you’re taking me so good,” he whispered. “you’re the tightest thing i’ve ever felt, sweetheart. you feel like heaven.”

you whimpered again, your legs instinctively tightening around his hips.

“relax for me,” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath. “just a little more.”

you tried.

you breathed in deeply, exhaled slowly.

he kissed you again.

and then, with a long, gentle press, he sank the rest of the way in — sheathing himself fully inside you.

you cried out softly, overwhelmed. your walls stretched around him, pulsing, resisting, your body struggling to accommodate his size. the pain was there — raw and real — but so was something else.

fullness.

intensity.

connection.

yuta stilled inside you, arms shaking from holding himself back.

“fuck,” he rasped. “you’re mine. all mine.”

his forehead rested against yours as your bodies trembled together.

he didn’t move yet. not until your breathing slowed. not until your nails relaxed against his chest. not until your legs loosened their grip.

“you’re okay?” he asked gently.

you nodded. “still hurts... but not as much.”

he kissed your lips — soft, slow, sacred.

“i’ll make it better,” he promised.

and he did.

he began to move in slow, careful thrusts, pulling out just an inch before sinking back in, watching every flicker of sensation cross your face. his hands cradled your jaw, his mouth praising every breath that left your lips.

“so beautiful,” he whispered. “you’re so beautiful like this.”

you whimpered, your body adjusting, the burn easing into a dull throb — and then something more. something electric.

pleasure.

he moved a little deeper, a little fuller, the stretch still sharp but starting to pulse with warmth, with friction, with heat.

“i can feel you opening up for me,” he murmured, voice husky. “you’re letting me in.”

your mouth fell open in a gasp as his hips rolled against yours, his cock brushing something deeper inside you.

“y-yuta...”

he groaned, forehead pressed to your collarbone. “say it again.”

“yuta... please... don’t stop.”

he lifted himself onto his elbows, looking down at you.

your hair spread like silk across the futon, your cheeks flushed, breasts rising with every breath. the sheen of sweat on your skin made you glow in the moonlight.

“fuck,” he whispered. “you’re a fucking goddess.”

he kissed down your body — your throat, your chest, your breasts — taking one nipple into his mouth and sucking gently, rolling his hips into you with a rhythm that made your toes curl.

you moaned loudly, the pain all but forgotten now.

he worshiped you.

his hands never stopped moving — stroking your hips, your thighs, your stomach. his lips pressed reverent kisses across every inch of skin. and when he fucked you, it was with slow, deliberate strokes that grew deeper, firmer, more intense as you moaned louder beneath him.

“so tight,” he groaned. “so wet for me. you were made for me, weren’t you?”

“yes,” you gasped. “yes, yuta — i’m yours.”

his thrusts quickened, your slick coating him now, your pussy fluttering around his cock as he hit that spot again and again, each thrust pulling a louder cry from your lips.

your legs wrapped around his waist, urging him deeper.

“don’t hold back,” you whispered, eyes locked with his. “i can take it.”

and he did.

he fucked you harder, faster, driving into you with a hunger barely leashed, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the quiet room.

“come for me,” he growled. “come on my cock.”

your body tensed.

the pressure snapped.

your orgasm hit you like a wave — deep and intense, your pussy clenching around him, your cry sharp and breathless. he groaned loudly, thrusting harder as you came, chasing his own high.

“i’m gonna fill you up,” he moaned. “gonna come inside you, baby. is that what you want?”

“yes,” you whimpered. “fill me, yuta — please.”

he grunted, hips stuttering as he buried himself deep, his cock twitching inside you.

he spilled into you in hot, thick pulses, his breath ragged, his body trembling over yours.

for a long moment, neither of you moved.

his body collapsed slowly over yours, his weight grounding you, comforting you.

his arms wrapped around you tightly, his lips brushing the top of your damp hair.

“you’re mine,” he whispered again. “no one else. only me.”

you nodded, your voice soft. “only you.”

and for the first time in weeks, your heart felt full again.

you woke to warmth.

not just the kind that lingered on your skin from shared heat, but the kind that lived deep — quiet and golden and whole. for the first time since you’d entered that house, you didn’t wake alone. no empty sheets. no cold side of the bed. just him.

yuta was still asleep beside you, one arm draped across your waist, his face turned toward yours. soft strands of his red hair fell across his brow, tousled and wild from the night before. he looked younger like this. not the man who ruled osaka in silence and steel — but the boy who whispered your name into your mouth like it meant something sacred.

his breath was slow. deep. steady.

his hand flexed slightly against your skin.

you didn’t move.

you just watched him.

you let yourself memorize every detail in the pale light of morning — the faint scar near his left brow, the small freckle on the side of his neck, the way his lips parted just enough to make your chest ache.

he was beautiful.

but more than that — he was real.

and last night, he had made you feel more than wanted. he had made you feel chosen.

your fingers moved before you could stop them, brushing the edge of his jaw, feather-light.

he stirred.

a low hum escaped his throat. his brow furrowed for a moment, then his lashes fluttered open. dark, still a little hazy, but focused on you within seconds.

he blinked once.

then again.

and then he exhaled like he’d been holding that breath all night.

“you’re still here,” he murmured, voice raspy, rough with sleep.

you smiled faintly. “where else would i be?”

his hand on your waist tightened. not possessively — just sure.

“wasn’t sure,” he whispered, eyes studying your face like he didn’t want to miss a single second. “after what i said… in the garden. i thought maybe you…”

you shook your head before he could finish.

“i meant what i said last night. i wanted you to know. really know — that it’s only ever been you.”

he was quiet.

his gaze dropped for a second. then returned to yours.

“i didn’t deserve that,” he said. “your honesty. your body. you. not after doubting you.”

your throat tightened.

“you were hurt,” you said gently. “and i didn’t make it easy. i let the silence grow between us.”

he turned onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, looking down at you now — the blanket slipping lower on his hips, his chest bare, skin still warm against yours.

“i don’t want silence anymore,” he said. “not with you.”

you reached up, fingers brushing against his chest. “so talk to me, then.”

he hesitated.

his brows drew together slightly — not from anger, but from fear. it was strange, seeing that expression on a man like him.

“i never planned to fall for you,” he admitted. “this started as protection. strategy. and then... you walked into my world like you were born to burn in it. and i couldn’t stop watching. couldn’t stop wanting.”

you bit your lip.

“i wanted to hate you,” you confessed. “wanted to resent this marriage, the way it forced me to pretend. but it never felt like pretending. not with you.”

his hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb tracing your bottom lip.

“tell me what this is,” he whispered. “for you.”

you didn’t hesitate.

“it’s home,” you breathed. “it’s terrifying and messy and too much sometimes — but it’s home.”

he closed his eyes briefly, as if your words were too heavy to hold in open air.

then he leaned in and kissed you.

soft. slow. reverent.

not hungry like the night before. not claiming. just... grateful.

his forehead pressed to yours when he pulled away.

“if i lose you,” he murmured, “i’ll burn this entire fucking city down.”

you smiled. sad, soft.

“then don’t give me a reason to leave.”

he nodded, just once, but it felt like a vow.

“from now on,” he said, “you’ll never doubt your place here. in this bed. in my life. in my heart.”

“good,” you whispered, eyes stinging. “because i already gave you everything.”

his mouth found yours again, a little more urgent this time — and just like that, the morning turned into something golden, something sweet.

you stayed wrapped in each other until the sunlight painted your bodies in warmth, until the silence between you was no longer heavy — just peaceful.

and for the first time in weeks, the war was over.

takuya stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the compound like it could offer answers he didn’t already have. yuta was behind him, still barefoot from the room upstairs, wearing only loose black pants, a cigarette burning between his fingers.

the tension was thick. too quiet.

he didn’t greet yuta.

just stood with his arms crossed, eyes unreadable, spine stiff as stone.

“we need to talk,” he said.

yuta didn’t flinch.

“then talk.”

he watched him for a long, long second. then gestured toward the sliding door. “not here.”

yuta followed him into the garden, silent steps on the stone path, the air still carrying the lingering scent of summer rain and night-blooming jasmine. the same place where him had once walked away from you. now you were walking into something else — not heartbreak, but confrontation.

he turned to face him once the path ended.

his jaw was clenched.

“you’ve changed.”

yuta’s gaze didn’t flinch. “good.”

“no. not good. you’re softer. distracted. emotional. you think with your chest now. not your head.”

yuta crushed the cigarette in the tray. stepped forward.

“you think i’m weak because i love her?” he asked, voice deadly calm.

“i think you’re human. and in this world, that’s a liability.”

yuta tilted his head. “she’s not a liability. she’s the only reason i’m still standing.”

takuya didn’t speak. the silence stretched.

yuta took another step, closing the space between them.

“this marriage? it was supposed to be for appearances. a shield. a tool.” his jaw tightened. “but it’s not ending.”

takuya raised an eyebrow. “you sound certain.”

“i am.” yuta’s voice didn’t shake. “she’s loyal. she’s stronger than half the men we command. and she’s mine. i’m not letting her go.”

“she’s not from this world.”

“and yet she’s survived it better than most.”

takuya’s expression hardened. “i’m telling you to think with a cold head.”

yuta stepped close. too close.

“and i’m telling you — this isn’t about control anymore. this is about truth. about grounding. she’s good for me, takuya. not because she makes me soft — but because she makes me still.”

takuya studied him for a moment, something unreadable in his eyes.

then, finally — a nod.

slow. reluctant.

but real.

“then stand by it,” he said. “and make damn sure no one doubts it.”

despite yuta’s firm confrontation with takuya, life didn’t shift all at once. there were no grand gestures, no dramatic changes in tone. just subtle things. quiet things.

a few days later, you returned to his —or maybe now, your room—, room and found it gutted. the futon replaced by a wide, luxurious queen-sized bed, draped in black sheets and lined with down pillows. the floor had been redone, dark polished wood. new lighting. warm, soft. a space not just made for sleeping — but for sharing.

your old room, however, hadn’t been discarded.

instead, it had been transformed into a closet.

an absurdly large, obscenely modern closet — velvet benches, full-length mirrors, recessed lighting, and drawers that slid open at the touch of a finger. racks of high-end clothing lined the walls: silk, cashmere, leather, tailored and imported. you’d lost count of how many designer tags you saw before the nausea hit.

“you used clan money for this?” you asked one night, mouth still agape.

yuta had only shrugged from the bed, shirtless, flipping through a magazine. “technically it’s our money.”

“that’s not how money works, yuta.”

“that’s how my money works.”

you weren’t supposed to find it.

the drawer in yuta’s private study was always locked. it wasn’t forbidden — just quietly off-limits. you never questioned it. never tried. but that night, he’d left in a rush, forgetting to grab his keys. and when you went in to bring him a new set, the drawer was already cracked open.

you told yourself not to look.

but you did.

inside: a black lacquered box, unmarked. inside the box: a bundle of old photos, yellowed with time. beneath those, a sheathed tantō blade — older than the one used in your wedding, its hilt worn, stained. and finally, a letter, folded so many times the edges had nearly fallen apart.

you opened it with trembling fingers.

the handwriting was messy. a mix of japanese and english, written like it had been scrawled during a storm.

“he died because of me. i told him not to take the other road. i said i’d handle it. i was wrong.”

beneath the words: a name. shotaro.

you sat there for a long time. silent. still.

when yuta returned home hours later, his jacket still damp from the rain outside, you were waiting in the study. the letter on your lap. your eyes unreadable.

he stopped in the doorway.

for the first time since you’d known him, he looked afraid.

“where did you find that?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“you left the drawer open,” you said quietly. “i wasn’t searching.”

he closed the door behind him.

slowly.

“shotaro was your brother,” you said. not a question.

his silence was answer enough.

you stood, walking toward him. you placed the letter gently in his hand.

“you’ve never told anyone?”

he shook his head once. “takuya knows some. but not everything.”

“why hide it?”

he exhaled, fingers tightening around the paper. “because i failed him. i told him i’d protect him. and he died for me instead.”

you stepped into his space, palms pressed to his chest, voice steady.

“you carry so much. alone. but you don’t have to anymore.”

he looked down at you — eyes shadowed, face unreadable. but something in him cracked. not loudly. not visibly.

just enough.

his hands came to your hips. gripped tight.

“say it again,” he whispered.

“you don’t have to carry it alone.”

his lips crushed into yours before the words fully left your mouth.

and everything exploded.

he pushed you back against the nearest wall, mouth devouring yours, hands sliding under your clothes, yanking your kimono open like it offended him. his body was hard, heavy, desperate against yours, and when you whimpered, he growled — deep, low.

“strip.”

you obeyed immediately, eyes wide, breath shallow.

he watched you undress, step by step, until you stood naked in the soft light of the study, the shadows of your tattoos dancing across your bare skin. his eyes raked over every inch, jaw clenched, cock already hard and straining against his pants.

“on the desk,” he ordered. “face down. hands flat.”

your heart pounded as you obeyed, the cool wood chilling your skin, your thighs trembling in anticipation. you heard the sound of his belt coming undone, the low hiss of his zipper.

then silence.

“do you even realize what you do to me?” he asked, voice rough.

you opened your mouth to speak, but he grabbed your hips, yanking you back so your ass arched up perfectly.

“don’t answer,” he growled. “just listen.”

his cock slid between your folds — thick, hot, teasing — rubbing through your slick without entering.

“you walk around this house like you don’t know you own me,” he murmured against your spine. “you sit in my meetings like a queen, and you think i don’t see the way they look at you? the way they fear you?”

he pushed the tip in — just barely — and you gasped, fingers curling against the wood.

“but you know who owns you, don’t you?”

“y-yes—”

he slammed into you in one brutal thrust.

your cry echoed through the room.

he didn’t wait. didn’t ease you in. he took you — hard, deep, merciless — one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip so tight it burned.

“who fucks you like this?” he growled. “who makes you scream like you’re mine?”

“you, yuta — fuck — only you.”

his pace was relentless, hips snapping into yours, the sound of skin on skin loud and obscene.

“that’s right. and you’ll take every drop of my cum like a good little wife. won’t you?”

“yes—please—fill me—”

he bent over you, teeth scraping your shoulder.

“you want me to breed you, don’t you?”

you moaned so loud it broke into a sob.

“say it.”

“i want it. want your cum—inside me—wanna be full, yuta, please—”

he bit down softly on your neck, thrusts growing erratic.

“then take it.”

you felt the heat building in your core, body shaking, his cock pounding your g-spot over and over. your orgasm hit you like lightning — thighs trembling, vision white, a scream ripping from your throat as you clenched around him.

he cursed loud.

and then came.

deep inside you.

hot, thick ropes of cum spilling into your pussy, his grip tightening as he rode out every wave, buried to the hilt, panting against your skin.

you stayed like that — bodies locked, his cum dripping from you slowly, warm down your thighs — until your heart slowed.

he pulled out gently, and you turned, breathless, sweat-slicked, aching in the best ways.

he cupped your face.

kissed your lips.

then rested his forehead to yours.

“you know everything now,” he whispered. “there’s nothing left to hide.”

you smiled faintly.

“good. because i already gave you all of me.”

his lips brushed your ear, voice low and full of reverence.

“and now i’ll never give you back.”

you found riku by the back steps of the house, his phone in hand, legs pulled up to his chest, eyes scanning something you couldn’t quite see. he didn’t hear you approach. or maybe he did and was just pretending not to.

the late afternoon light filtered through the trees, casting a warm haze over the garden stones. it smelled faintly of earth and chamomile, and for a moment, you let yourself breathe before breaking the silence.

“we need to talk,” you said gently.

he looked up, startled for a second, then shrugged. “if it’s about the shoes i ordered on your card—”

you gave him a look. “riku.”

he sat up straighter. serious now. “okay. what’s up?”

you sat beside him, folding your hands in your lap, your yukata sleeves pooling at your wrists. you took a breath, choosing your words carefully.

“you need to go back to school.”

he blinked. “what?”

“you heard me. i already spoke to the headmaster. they’re willing to let you re-enroll next term. and you need to talk to your mom. properly. you’ve been avoiding her.”

riku looked away. jaw clenched. “she wouldn’t understand.”

“she doesn’t need to understand all of this,” you said softly. “but she deserves to know you’re alive. and trying. you think you’re protecting her, but disappearing from her life like this… it’s not fair.”

he didn’t respond at first. his gaze drifted out to the garden wall, and you could almost hear the gears turning behind his silence.

“this life,” you continued, “this world we’re in now — it’s not safe. you know that. and i can’t help worrying that something might happen to you, and she’ll never even know why. i’ve accepted the risks of being here. but i never wanted them for you.”

his shoulders tensed. he stayed quiet, but his eyes looked glossy, like he’d blinked just a second too late.

“you still have a chance to choose,” you whispered. “and i want you to choose something that won’t kill you.”

he finally looked back at you, a long exhale dragging out of his chest.

“i’ll call her,” he said quietly. “and i’ll apologize. properly.”

you smiled, reaching over to squeeze his hand.

but as you did, your eyes caught the edge of something just beneath the sleeve of his jacket — a strip of white gauze wrapped tightly around his forearm. when your fingers brushed it lightly, he flinched.

you pulled the sleeve up.

the bandage had been carelessly wrapped. fresh ink peeked through the gaps — intricate black lines, a dragon’s claw, maybe, or waves, the skin still slightly raised and tender.

your stomach twisted.

“riku…”

he winced. “it’s nothing. i mean… it’s just a little piece. it’s not even done yet.”

you stared at it for a long moment.

“do you have any idea what she’s going to do when she sees this?”

he rubbed the back of his neck. “probably cry. or throw a pan at me.”

“or both.”

“...at the same time.”

you sighed, but your lips twitched into a small smile. still, your chest felt heavy. not angry — just afraid. he was walking deeper into the world you were only now beginning to understand, and it made your role in it feel even more complicated.

you didn’t say anything more. you just wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him into a sideways hug, holding him there for a few seconds longer than either of you wanted to admit.

that night, after too many glasses of sake and a long evening spent in each other’s arms, the bed was a mess of sweat and tangled sheets.

you were lying on your stomach, your hair stuck to your back, body exhausted and humming. yuta was sprawled on top of you, chest pressed to your spine, his arm tucked under your ribs, his face buried in your neck.

you groaned, voice muffled into the pillow. “you’re heavy.”

“you love it.”

he was right.

he kissed the back of your shoulder, a lazy drag of lips against damp skin.

“you’ve ruined me,” he murmured.

you laughed breathlessly. “you say that like you weren’t already unfixable.”

“i mean it,” he said, shifting slightly so he could look at you. “i didn’t expect this. any of it. you… being here. being mine. and still choosing to stay.”

your eyes softened.

“you’re not an easy man to love, nakamoto.”

he smirked. “but worth it?”

“every headache.”

he leaned over the side of the bed, rummaged through the drawer, and returned with a small velvet box — navy, square, simple.

you blinked. “what’s that?”

he sat up slightly, straddling your thighs, hair messy, chest still flushed. the box opened with a click.

inside was a ring — gold, sleek and bold, with a marquise-cut diamond set sideways, surrounded by a halo of tiny black sapphires. the band was engraved with delicate detailing, traditional japanese patterns etched into the metal like hidden promises.

it gleamed even in the low light. expensive. beautiful. utterly yuta.

you sat up, stunned.

“you’re asking me to marry you right after we’ve had sex?” you asked, laughing.

he shrugged. “i was inspired.”

“you’re unbelievable.”

“you’re naked and gorgeous and mine. i panicked.”

your laughter caught in your throat, replaced with a tightness that swelled in your chest as you stared at the ring. your eyes watered, lips parting, voice shaky.

“is this real?”

he nodded, his voice quiet now. “i don’t want the kind of marriage we started with. i want one that means something. to both of us. no contracts. no politics. just us. in front of the clan. in front of the gods.”

your fingers reached out, barely brushing the edge of the ring.

“i want to do this right,” he whispered. “let me show you.”

you swallowed hard.

and smiled.

“then yes,” you said, voice thick with emotion. “ask me a hundred times and the answer’s always going to be yes.”

his grin broke wide.

and this time, when he kissed you, it wasn’t about hunger.

it was about forever.

the second wedding was nothing like the first.

the first had been arranged in cold hallways, behind doors that clicked shut like iron, signed with blood and pressure and the unspoken rules of the underworld. the first had been necessary — a move on a chessboard.

but this one?

this one was chosen.

held in the shrine courtyard of the nakamoto estate, under the quiet watch of ancestors and gods alike, it began with the low beat of taiko drums and the scent of incense curling through the crisp morning air.

you stood at the center of it all.

dressed in a white shiromuku, the traditional bridal kimono of purity and rebirth. its silk trailed the floor, heavy and immaculate, embroidered with phoenixes and cranes in shimmering thread. your tsunokakushi — the white head covering meant to conceal ego — crowned your head, soft and still.

beside you stood yuta.

his posture was straight, proud, the black crested montsuki haori and hakama hanging from his frame like armor. he looked every bit the oyabun — the head of a family — and yet his gaze never left you, like nothing else in the world demanded his attention.

behind you, rows of men and women knelt on tatami mats — the inner circle of the nakamoto clan. some bore tattoos beneath their sleeves, others scarred hands, others cold eyes trained by violence and loyalty. but in this moment, they were still. silent.

they were bearing witness.

the priest began the shinzen kekkon — the wedding before the gods — by purifying the space with shide and sake, then guiding you and yuta to the front of the altar. a sacred tree branch, tamagushi, was placed in your joined hands. together, you offered it to the kami, bowing low.

this was no contract.

this was devotion.

your palms touched. warm. sure.

and then came the san-san-kudo — the sharing of three cups of sake, each one drunk in three sips: first you, then him, then together. nine sips in total. three-three-nine. an old number. a sacred one.

you drank slowly, your lips brushing the rim, the liquid sharp and ancient on your tongue.

when he drank, he didn’t look at the cup.

he looked at you.

as the final sip passed between you, the priest intoned words of binding.

not legally.

spiritually.

eternally.

and then yuta turned to you, voice low but clear.

“i married you once for duty,” he said. “now i marry you for truth.”

your throat tightened.

you bowed your head and replied, voice steady:

“and i vow to walk beside you, not behind.”

there were no claps.

no applause.

just silence.

respectful.

reverent.

a world watching its king choose something sacred.

when you stepped away from the altar, hand in hand, a man approached from the side.

takuya.

he bowed.

deeply.

then, with solemn hands, presented the ceremonial dagger — tantō — wrapped in white silk. a symbol of acceptance into the family. not as a pawn.

but as one of them.

yuta took it, unwrapped it, and turned to you.

“kneel,” he said softly.

you did.

without fear.

he placed the blade across your palms.

“you carry the weight of my name,” he said. “from now on, no one questions your place.”

you bowed low, touching your forehead to the hilt.

when you stood again, your eyes met his — and something ancient passed between you. a vow older than paper. stronger than ink.

hours later, after the feast, after the toasts, after the smoke and laughter and low bows from men who once called you nothing but ‘the girl from the village’...

you were lying on your stomach in the private room upstairs, your white kimono loosened and draped to your waist, exposing the pale skin of your back and arm.

the tattoo artist sat beside you, focused and quiet.

the hum of the needle filled the room.

yuta was there too.

he sat behind you, shirtless, cross-legged on the floor, watching the design bloom across your skin — a dragon and peony motif interlaced with fine black wind bars, each line tying you deeper into their world. the colors were subtle, but fierce.

the design stretched from your shoulder down to the start of your wrist.

a mirror to his.

not identical. not copied.

complementary.

his hand rested on your calf, thumb drawing lazy circles as the artist worked. you winced once, and he leaned forward, kissing your spine.

“almost done,” he murmured.

you nodded, breath steady.

when the final line was inked and the cloth wiped away the last trace of blood, the artist stepped back.

yuta stood.

he offered his hand.

you took it.

the photograph was more than a picture.

it was a statement. a declaration. an immortal moment suspended in monochrome — raw and reverent. in it, you sat with your back to the camera, your legs drawn close, arms resting lightly over your chest, the cropped sarashi wrapping your torso like a ribbon of quiet power. the light caught the shine of your new tattoo: a sweeping sleeve of mythical creatures and chrysanthemum blooms, still fresh, still red at the edges, but already a part of you. you wore it like a second skin, regal and unbothered, your chin slightly lifted, your hair pulled into a loose knot at the nape of your neck, strands framing your face. behind you sat yuta, shirtless, composed, his own tattoos a war map of history carved into muscle and bone. he sat in seiza, arms resting on his knees, head turned just slightly toward your shoulder, not in possession — but in respect.

the image held no smiles. no forced emotion. it was calm. deliberate. powerful. and when it was printed, framed, and placed in the tokonoma alcove of the clan’s primary meeting room, no one questioned it. it hung higher than the weapons displayed on the walls, higher than the scrolls of bloodlines and signed treaties — at the very center of the room, commanding the eye.

to those who entered from the outside, it was a symbol of unity between worlds: tradition and transformation. loyalty and love. ink and intention.

but to those who belonged to the nakamoto clan, it meant something more.

it was the moment they stopped seeing you as “the outsider.” the girl in the white dress from a village none of them could name. the contract bride. the quiet one who used to bow too deeply and speak too little.

now, you sat beside yuta during meetings — not in silence, but in observation. not hidden behind him, but at his side. when younger wives or girlfriends were brought into the compound — nervous, uncertain, too afraid to speak — you were the first to greet them. you created rules to protect them. gave them space to breathe. and over time, it wasn’t uncommon for high-ranking members of the clan to glance your way during decisions, silently asking for your read. your word.

sometimes, you gave it. calmly. decisively.

and when you did, yuta never interrupted.

he listened. he agreed. he trusted.

your presence became part of the structure — not ornamental, but foundational. the quiet balance to yuta’s fire. the logic behind his instinct. you were his shadow when it was needed, and his shield when he left himself exposed. and though some still whispered in the dark corners of old ways, they never challenged you. not after the photograph. not after the wedding. not after the way yuta looked at you when he thought no one was watching.

he looked at you like you had saved him.

because you had.

that night, long after the meeting room had emptied and the halls had quieted, you found yourselves in the sanctuary of your shared space — warm lamplight casting soft amber shadows across the tatami mats, the scent of cedar and sandalwood lingering in the air. your yukata was folded neatly on the bench, your body bare beneath the sheets, still warm from the bath, hair damp against your shoulders. you sat cross-legged on the futon, eyes closed, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the new lines of your tattooed arm. it ached — not painfully, but as a reminder. of everything you now carried. of everything you had chosen.

yuta entered quietly, still in his black hakama, his haori open at the chest. he watched you for a long moment, leaning against the doorframe. no words. just breath. reverence.

then, slowly, he crossed the room.

he knelt in front of you, hands resting on his thighs, gaze fixed on your face. when you opened your eyes, he was there — so close, so still, as if moving too fast might shatter something fragile between you.

“i see you,” he said quietly, voice low and full. “not just as my wife. not just as my lover. i see the whole of you. and i want you to know… i trust you with everything. with this clan. with my life. with myself.”

your throat tightened, your chest blooming with something deep and unspeakable. you reached for him, cupping his face with your inked hand. his fingers curled around your wrist, not to stop you, but to hold you there.

he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the inside of your palm.

then another to your wrist.

and then, slowly, he laid you down.

his body followed, not with urgency, but with worship — every kiss placed like an offering, every touch a vow. he undressed with no rush, peeling away the layers of cloth until only skin remained between you, until he could feel the curve of your thighs against his hips, your breath against his throat.

he kissed the dragon on your shoulder, then the soft underside of your arm, the delicate line of your ribs. when he reached the curve of your waist, he paused, resting his cheek against your stomach.

“i’ve never bowed to anything but blood and blade,” he whispered. “but for you… i kneel willingly.”

you ran your fingers through his hair, the pads of your thumbs brushing over the scars on his back.

“you don’t have to kneel,” you whispered. “just stay.”

he did.

that night, he didn’t take you roughly. he didn’t claim. he shared. his lips traced every new line on your body as if learning them for the first time. he kissed the places where you winced, and moaned softly when you melted beneath him. he held your hands above your head, not to restrain — but to ground. to feel your pulse against his palms, the heartbeat he’d promised to protect.

when he finally pushed into you, the stretch was deep, familiar, perfect. no pain now. no hesitation. only breath. only movement. you gasped his name against his mouth and he shuddered, whispering yours back like a confession.

he moved slow.

steady.

deliberate.

your bodies rocked in time with the sound of distant wind through the paper doors, with the beating of your own hearts. he watched your face the whole time — every arch of your spine, every flutter of your lashes, every whisper that spilled from your lips.

and when you came — trembling, wet, full of him — he followed, murmuring words into your neck, words you couldn’t remember later but felt deep in your bones.

afterward, you lay tangled in silk and sweat, your inked bodies glowing under the flicker of dying lamplight.

he pulled you close.

kissed your forehead.

and whispered into your ear with a voice only meant for you:

“you’re not just the woman i love. you’re the one who made me real.”

and in the silence that followed, you smiled.

because you believed him.

completely.

the journey was quiet.

no guards. no entourage. just you and yuta in the back of a black car, the windows fogged slightly from the spring rain outside. he hadn’t said much since you left the house — just held your hand loosely in his lap, his thumb tracing slow, endless circles against your skin. the route took you far from the city, past rice fields and roadside shrines, into the kind of silence that belonged to memory and ghosts.

when the car finally stopped, you stepped out into a small mountain cemetery — tucked into the hills, moss-covered, serene. the rain had eased into a mist, the scent of wet earth and cedar wrapping around you like incense.

the cemetery was quiet in the way only mountain cemeteries could be — the silence not empty, but full, brimming with memory, with weight, with things that still hovered in the air long after breath and body had left the world. above the hills, the late spring sun filtered through a haze of low clouds, casting a soft, muted light over the moss-covered stones and uneven steps. you walked beside yuta, your fingers lightly wrapped around his, your pace steady and deliberate, each step more a ritual than a motion. the path curved slightly as it climbed, the gravel crunching underfoot, and the scent of pine and damp earth rose in slow, solemn waves around you, the kind of scent that felt ancient, like it had always belonged to places like this.

he didn’t speak as you walked. he hadn’t spoken much all morning, and you hadn’t asked him to. you knew what this day meant. what it carried. what it demanded of him. when he finally stopped, it was without warning, his body going still as if something inside him had met resistance — not fear, not hesitation, but reverence. you followed the direction of his gaze and saw it: the gravestone set slightly apart from the others, modest in size, but so immaculately kept that the stone still gleamed beneath the faded sky. the characters were carved deep into the black granite, bold but elegant:

nakamoto shotaro 1972 — 1989

you stared at the dates for a long time, feeling the years settle into your bones. he had been seventeen when he died. seventeen and full of the kind of impossible plans that only younger brothers had — plans to run, to rebel, to protect someone taller than him with his own small body if it meant taking some of the weight off his shoulders. you didn’t know him, not really, not in voice or laughter or presence. but you felt him now — in the way yuta’s hand tightened around yours, in the way the breeze shifted at your ankles, in the way something unspoken hovered just above the earth.

yuta knelt slowly, his knees pressing into the gravel, the sleeves of his haori brushing the edges of the stone as he reached forward with both hands and gently set down a bundle of fresh white chrysanthemums. he didn’t rush. he adjusted each stem until they sat perfectly balanced, then bowed deeply, his forehead nearly touching the stone. you stayed behind him, giving him the space to let the moment breathe, your heart tightening in your chest with each passing second.

when he finally lifted his head, he exhaled slowly — a sound that wasn’t just breath, but release, something old and painful and buried long enough that it had become part of his spine. his voice, when it came, was low and quiet, spoken more to the grave than to you.

“i couldn’t come before,” he said. “i didn’t know how.”

the wind stirred slightly, catching the edge of his hair.

“i ran. i thought if i built something powerful enough, loud enough, cold enough… maybe it would drown the guilt. maybe i wouldn’t see your face every time i closed my eyes.”

he glanced back at you then, and you met his gaze, offering him nothing but presence.

“but i never stopped seeing you,” he continued, turning back to the stone. “and i never stopped thinking — what would you say if you could see me now? if you knew what i’ve become?”

he reached into the inner fold of his robe and pulled out a photograph, carefully wrapped in a cloth. he unfolded it slowly and set it down beside the flowers, weighing it with a smooth black stone.

you recognized the image before you saw it fully.

it was the photo.

the one of you and him — back to back, inked and bare, solemn and unbreakable.

“this is her,” he whispered. “the one who brought me home. my precious wife.”

you stepped forward then, kneeling beside him. you didn’t speak. instead, you pressed your palm to the stone, fingers splayed. it was cool beneath your skin, rough at the edges, and yet it vibrated faintly, as if warmed by something deeper than sunlight. in that moment, you felt him — not just yuta, but shotaro too — and it struck you how alike they must have been. same blood. same defiance. same loyalty.

yuta turned his head toward you, his voice steadier now, softer. “i told you once that i had a sister,” he said. “but i never told you why i stopped speaking to her. it wasn’t just grief. it was shame. she raised us both after our parents passed away, and i failed her. failed him.”

you looked at him, your expression unreadable, your voice gentle.

“but you didn’t fail him, yuta. you survived. and now you’re honoring him in the only way that matters — by living differently. by loving differently.”

his eyes closed for a moment, and when they opened again, they were wet.

not broken.

not defeated.

just full.

he took your hand and kissed the back of it slowly, then stood. you rose with him, brushing gravel from your knees. together, you bowed one last time to the stone, deeper than before, not as farewell but as acceptance — of loss, of memory, of love that had changed its shape but never its place.

John’s got a smug mouth — he wields it with a deft expertise, as well-honed with making offhanded quips as he is throwing around his shield. Arrogance bleeds from him like an open wound, cocksure with a constant desire to be right.

It’s a constant clash of retorts and smarmy banter that occasionally grates on the nerves of the team, including yours, even if you’re in a relationship.

Sometimes, he still speaks to you as if you’re still indifferent, when it couldn’t be further from the truth. It agitates you, but you’ve learned to pass it off as something innately harmless.

Despite the mutual agreement to conceal your newfound romance from the team, a sliver of you longed to scream it out into the open.

Instead, you resorted to stolen glances during breakfast, quick kisses in the corridor, and sneaking off at night like two teenagers.

Today, he’s wearing that peacocking attitude on his sleeve, remarks like teeth wrapping around a wound, taunting. It’s biting; beneath it are good intentions, but they’re lost to his condescension.

“You’re still leaning right.”

In the center of the training room, you’re squared up with a boxing bag, knuckles split and raw, beads of sweat glittering against your temple. Beneath your breast, your heart skittered at an accelerated pace, muscles burning with exertion.

Postured behind the heavy bag, John’s visage is one of obvious disgruntlement, jaw pulled tight, his arms folded over his chest. Blonde tresses are a touch disheveled, brows creased together.

The spandex shirt he wears occasionally distracts you, corded muscle glaringly present. He’s painfully handsome, and you want to hate him for it, especially in the moment. It’s difficult to concentrate.

It might’ve been a mistake to ask your boyfriend for hand-to-hand combat instruction; he got mean when he taught. It wasn’t malicious, but it wasn’t how you needed to learn.

Survival was a second skin to him, self-preservation interwoven into years of rigorous military experience. His instruction seemed more akin to a drill sergeant than a man trying to teach his girlfriend something new.

For John, it was ‘be stronger or die, fight or succumb’; he cared about you too much. Despite your abilities, close quarters was where you seemed to falter, and he was determined to whip you into shape.

“I don’t think so.” Composed, your gaze floats to him, standing behind the bag, blonde brows furrowing together. Flexing out an arm, you notice the tick of annoyance in his jaw.

“You don’t think so?” John echoes, countenance a half-grimace of determination. Stepping out from the bag, he mimics your boxing stance, though you’re convinced he’s exaggerating your hypothetical right lean. “This is what you look like.”

Indignant, your mouth falls open with a brief huff, as if the idea is simply preposterous to you. It doesn’t make any sense, but you concede to him, brows knitting together. “Fine. I’ll fix it.” You sigh, knowing he’s too stubborn to disagree with.

He’s taking this training aspect a little too seriously for your liking, even if the intent behind it is meaningful. “Go again.” He grits, reassuming his position behind the bag, gaze appraising your form.

A dull burn paints your sternum, breathing a touch hoarse from running drills, and his were less than forgiving. Regardless of his agitation, you prepare to go again, hands hovering around your face, body posturing against the bag.

With a soft huff, you begin again, hands pounding against the sandbag with noisy thwacks, knuckles raw, bruised from the leather’s rough exterior.

Muscles scream with a dull ache, unaccustomed to being used in such a violent manner. Fighting is something you aren’t exactly fond of; it never brings you any peace or comfort. Though, you understand the importance of learning, John is too zealous.

Stone-faced, John’s stern glower inspects your stance, following every swing of your hands, every clash of the bag. You’re still off-kilter, body teetering to the right side again, swinging with minimal momentum.

“Still leaning right,” John quips, listening to the irritated huff that tears past your lips. “Fix your stance, stop relying on your front leg.” He can taste the annoyance as it rolls from your being, but it’s necessary; he wants you to get it right.

“I’m not leaning right.” You protest, growing discouraged with your lesson. The footwork was something you could practice, but you felt as if the rest of your stance was formidable enough; maybe John was testing you.

A derisive laugh split his throat, sardonic enough to make you bristle, hands lowering to your sides. “You’re leaning to the right. Do it again, and you’ll fall over — do that in a real fight, you’re dead.”

Disdainful, your frustration only seemed to grow from there, marked by an unpleasant curl of your mouth, body running hot. The tepid haze of the training room was beginning to go to your head, air stale and arid.

“This isn’t a real fight,” Arguing over the semantics of a boxing lesson seems pathetic, but his attitude is grating on you; more so than usual. “This is practice, and you’re taking it too seriously.” You mumble, stooping to pick up your water bottle.

John scoffs, bewildered by your attitude. He doesn’t see it as practice; he sees it as a training scenario, and if you can’t properly defend yourself, he’s terrified that he won’t be able to save you in time.

He couldn’t save Lemar, couldn’t save his teammates in the desert; the thought of losing you too became a constant nightmare.

In his dreams, he was in Latvia, his shield stained with crimson, blood on his hands — sometimes it’s your blood.

His jaw twitches, the nightmare hanging fresh within the recesses of his mind, clawing its way to the forefront, as if to make the sting worse. John isn’t used to having someone care deeply about him, and vice versa.

Stepping away, you’re eager for a reprieve. “What, just like that and you’re giving up?” He’s pushing you, prodding; it isn’t right, toying with your vulnerability, but he wants you to be strong, to be capable.

“John, you’re being mean.” Within your softer cadence lies a stern warning for him to stop, as if attempting to quell his attitude before it gets worse. Cold water trickles down your throat, flesh matted by perspiration.

“I’m being realistic.” With a gritty counterpoint, John steps out from behind the bag, muscled arms folded tightly over his chest. “You need to know this stuff — if the mission gets too dangerous …”

“I can’t know it if you’re being like this.” Beneath the rugged, rough exterior, is a man who wants to ensure that you know how to protect yourself. You understand to some extent, but his demeanor is beginning to get to you.

Deciding that you’ve had enough of his lessons for the day, you walk toward the bench, retrieving your towel as you wipe sweat from your neck.

“I’m not going to coddle you,” John’s still going, attempting to make you understand where he’s coming from. “You asked for my help, and I’m helping you.” He’s already regretting the way the words sound; he’s being harsh.

Through an exasperated sigh, your brows furrow together, hands wrenched tightly into the towel as you try and relieve some of your anxiousness. Turning on your heel, you face him, chin jutting out with mild defiance.

“I don’t want you to coddle me. I just want you to drop the attitude and train me.” Despite the cordiality within your tone, you’re trying to avoid an unnecessary argument. It all feels so trivial, bickering over this.

“I don’t have an attitude,” Akin to a petulant child, his cadence is remarkably reminiscent of someone who has an attitude. Realizing how he sounds, he concedes, trailing after you as you make for the door. “Are you finished?”

“For today, yes,” Still, you’re calm, feeling him nipping at your heels all the way to your room. He doesn’t leave, much to your surprise, even as you open the door and clamor inside. “Do you have another retort to add?”

Once the both of you have privacy, the asshole demeanor begins to dissipate, as if he’s dissolving all on his own. Behind closed doors, he gets soft — and you’re the reason why.

Through a clenched jaw, John doesn’t say anything at first, watching as you dab the cloth over your brow. He cares about you so much that his chest begins to burn, despite himself.

A hush falls between, and he knows it’s a fight he lost; glaringly obvious, too. He resorts to standing by the door as you kick off your tennis shoes, a damp splotch of sweat around your collar, tresses matted against your temples.

A flicker of realization begins to dawn on him; he was being too much. You had a point with him taking it too seriously, but it was all done with the best intentions. He wanted you to learn the right way, and be safe.

John’s eyes momentarily screw shut, tension unfurling from his shoulders. “I’m sorry.” Apologizing used to feel like a weakness, but he knows it isn’t — he’s learned to accept that.

Expecting you to be smug or bite back with vitriol, you lift your head, countenance softening as you meet his gaze. “I know your intentions, and they’re good — but I’m your girlfriend, too. I want your help, but I don’t want the callousness.”

Conceding, John nods, a simple jostle of his head, blonde tresses disheveled. Even when slick with sweat and frustrated, he’s still handsome, painfully so, careworn palms rough from years of hard work. “I’ll be gentler.” He utters, sincere.

The bravado and grit wears off, as if it’s some skin he’s shed, revealing the rawness of the man underneath it all. In truth, he wants to make sure that you know how to protect yourself — eases the worrying, eases the fear.

There’s an inner turmoil he’s wrestling with; he wears it openly with you, less so with others. Vulnerability is still a concept he’s untangling, deciphering as he works through his own labyrinth of sins.

With every mission, he fears losing you — not fast enough, not strong enough, not man enough to protect you. The toxic values instilled to him by years of government propaganda are being unraveled; it’s a slow process.

“John.”

Through the shroud of his insecurities, you shatter it like sunlight through shadow, chasing away the swarm of darker thoughts that plagued him. A brief exhale escapes him as he focuses on you, his smile threadbare.

“I can’t think of a better teacher,” Truthfully, he’s incredibly skilled in all ways imaginable; he’s intelligent, too. There’s plenty to learn from him, despite his rougher methods of tutelage. “Just work on your teaching voice.”

With a bemused huff, his smile morphs into a characteristic smirk, charming — it ensnares you without a shred of effort. “I’ll work on it,” You know he will, too. “Are you okay?” He inquires, hoping that he didn’t kill your mood.

You slip off of your bed, tugging at the collar of your shirt, as it uncomfortably sticks to your skin. “I’m great, really,” Reassuringly, you smile at John, placating his brief tangle of nerves. “How are you not sweaty?”

John withholds the urge to make a flirtatious insinuation, uncrossing his arms as he watches you rifle through for clean clothes. “Watching you in those leggings did make me sweat a little.” He teases, subject to your grousing stare.

“Stop it.” You mumble, smiling despite yourself as he raises one hand in faux defense. A soft chuckle shakes his shoulders, a rarer sound that fills your bones with warmth.

Bridging the gap between you, his hands find your hips without pause, lightly tracing over the small of your back. “You’re pretty when you’re frustrated with me.” John murmurs, savoring your flustered expression as you press a hand against his chest.

“It’s a constant thing, you should be used to it.” He gets under your flesh and buries himself there, too sure of himself, mouth slacked into a gregarious smirk. Though, you like it more than you care to admit.

John attempts to kiss you, but you playfully turn at the last second, bearded mouth falling against your jaw, instead. You’re tormenting him because of the boxing thing, and he knows it.

Wriggling from his grasp, you shuffle backwards, padding toward your bathroom instead. You stop in the doorway, framed by a tranquil glow. “Are you coming?” You muse, catching him off-guard, much to your own amusement.

“What?” John’s mildly bewildered, but it seems to die down when he realizes what you’re propositioning. Hunger reveals itself with a snarl and yearning, arms flexing as his posture straightens up.

“Shower,” Despite the innocuous nature of your tone and the pretty smile, there is a hint of an ulterior motive. You squirm within your sweat-laden shirt. “I feel disgusting.” Peeling your top aside, you toss it onto the floor.

John bites back a grin, scratching at his beard before trailing after you, masking his enthusiasm. “Yes, ma’am,” He muses, kicking off his shoes beside the door, following you into the bathroom. “Want some help?”

You don’t need it, but you want it anyway, warmth spreading over the back of your neck as you turn, back facing him. Switching on the shower, you stay that way, feeling his calloused fingertips brush over your spine.

He’s unfastening your bra with a disarming tenderness, focused, warm breath pluming over the back of your neck. His musculature is firm against you, spandex t-shirt pulled taut over his chest, biceps tempting you.

Rough hands mold themselves to your body, mapping every muscle-deep bruise like a constellation, planting a kiss against your shoulder. It’s apologetic, sweet — John doesn’t have to say anything that you don’t already know.

Slowly, you turn, wedged up against the marble countertop, his body cornering yours. Wordlessly, your fingers drag to the hem of his shirt, curling into the fabric before easing it upward.

John removes it all in one smooth motion, fluid, physique raw and sinewy, corded with thick muscle, chest layered in a light dusting of blond hair. Heat wafts from his skin, peppered in days-old bruises, faded scars.

Whatever you wanted to say turns to ash in your mouth, gaze doe-eyed, adoring. It’s a look he’s still growing accustomed to, sitting with the notion that you genuinely wanted him.

“I really care about you,” Little more than a whisper, your admittance is saccharine, doing little to mask your affections for him. “Smug mouth and all.” You muse, feeling his hand dip to cup your hip, thumb tracing circles over your leggings.

“Smug mouth, huh?” John taunts with a smirk, cerulean hues burning with a desirous intensity, lips shifting to plant a kiss over your jaw. The scratch of his beard has quickly become one of your favorite sensations.

“The worst.” Your mumble is disarmingly sweet, your smile suppressed beneath an expression that attempts to veil your true feelings. Even then, he breaks through your barriers with ease.

Through a bemused huff, John’s mouth explores your throat, hands snaking down to tease the waistband of your leggings. “You don’t have anything to say about it when we’re in bed.”

The fiery quip sends a shockwave through your stomach, a stab of heat, tangling around your nerves like ivy. “John …” There is little warning in your tone, save for desperation. He’s being unfair.

Urging against your leggings, you’re subservient, letting his fingers hook into the spandex, easing you out of the garment altogether. He’s suave, cocky — that familiar arrogance is present again, but you find it attractive this time.

Steam begins to float through the bathroom, water sputtering overhead as you careen into his embrace. Stepping out of the thin fabric, you’re standing in your underwear, eager to slip beneath the hot water.

Nails idly trace over his abdomen, drawing little circles as he plants a string of kisses to your jugular. A soft exhale warbles through your nose, lips parted as you glance toward the shower.

“You’re getting distracted.” You murmur, visibly smitten as he lifts his head, hand greedily groping at the back of your thigh. John’s lips twitch into that visage of sardonicism, head cocking to one side.

“Can you blame me?” Smooth, his reply sets your nerves ablaze, something hot stirring within your belly as you sidestep toward the shower. You’re sliding out of your panties, and he’s right on your tail, kicking out of his clothes.

Stepping into the shower, a column of steaming water drizzled over your skin, washing away the sweat that clung to you. Reaching for your soap, you immediately begin to work on cleaning off.

Soothing the dull throbbing of days-old bruises and aching muscles, you sigh, stealing a glance at John.

He’s maddeningly well-endowed; annoyingly impressive like the rest of him, something you’ve told him before, and it all seemed to go to his head. He smooths a hand through his blonde tresses, slicked by water.

A delicate shade of pink clung to his cheeks; splotched, dappled over his skin, sunkissed and blanketed in a layer of freckles. Muscles flex and contort, cast in the dull glow of the bathroom, beaded droplets rolling over his abdomen.

“Are you done staring?” Ripping you from your thoughts, his snide inquiry makes you jump, caught in the act, but you’re unperturbed by it.

“No,” It’s easy to bait him by batting your eyelashes, gaze round and doe-eyed, catching the terse tick of his jaw. Your tongue scrapes over your bottom lip, soap suds gliding down your back. “You’re so handsome — just really attractive.”

The teasing lilt in your tone has dropped, replaced with a sweeter sincerity that makes his heart nearly come out of his chest. John’s gaze shifts to something heady, eclipsed by desire, festering with the shadow of want.

“Yeah?” Closer, he’s seizing your hips, lips crushing against yours in a bruising kiss. It stings, ripping every wisp of air from your lungs, leaving you burning for more. His beard scratches ragged, fingers pressed into pliant flesh.

A ragged sigh snares within your throat, manifesting as a mere hum, body vibrating with exhilaration. His pearlescent teeth briefly scrape over your bottom lip.

Eager digits clamor to sink into his chest, nails digging light crescents into his skin, a sting he thoroughly enjoys. “John,” A moan floats from your mouth, body humming with a muted buzz. “Want your mouth.”

He’s grinning, a cat who just caught the canary. That sharp tongue is already winding up with something devious to say, something agonizingly audacious.

“Thought you said it was the worst,” John grunts, remark branded against your mouth, hot and vainglorious. Impatient with his incessant teasing, his mask slips when your hand reaches to fist at the nape of his neck. “Shit.”

A flicker of surprise flutters over his features, secretly reveling in the way you’d roughly grasped at his hair. His growing arousal pulses heavily against your thigh, oozing heat, proof there for you to feel.

Mouths clash again, an amalgamation of teeth and tongue, ripples of pent-up repression oozing into each kiss. John wants you terribly, more than he ever thought possible, cock beginning to throb when you whine into his lips.

“Please,” Desperate, you’re craving him, hungry, letting it crawl over your flesh like some white-hot wave of heat. “I want you.” You say it again, pleading this time, digits threading into his hair, pulling with another wanton tug.

John is unable to deny you, gaze half-lidded, throat bobbing as he swallows the groan threatening to split through his chest. There’s some foggy, lust-ridden haze he wades through, succumbing to baser instincts.

Before another pathetic whine can burst from your mouth, he’s pushing you up against the shower wall, strong palms keeping you steady. “Jesus,” He groans into the warmth of your mouth, kissing you until your chest feels tight. “You’re killin’ me.”

His Georgian drawl tapers off with certain syllables, gooseflesh icing your spine as you let one hand caress his abdomen. He shudders, brows pinched, countenance wrought with concentration.

Water cascades over his back, an incandescent light that highlights his musculature, legs wobbling as he gets down onto his knees. His mouth paints kisses over your thighs, lifting one leg up over his shoulder.

The hand that continues to fist at the base of his skull makes him shiver, savoring the sensation as he bullies his way between your legs. Cerulean hues stay fixated on your face as his mouth makes contact with your slick cunt.

He shuts up quickly when he’s eating you out, you’ve noticed; the satisfaction flows through you in one smug wave. A scruffy beard scratches ragged against your thighs, prickling your silky flesh as his tongue drags over your slit.

The flat of his tongue rakes embers across your cunt, pulling a delighted gasp from your mouth. Everything feels hot, unbearably so, bodies tangled beneath the shower’s heated pressure.

Bracing against his body, his own musculature supports you without breaking a sweat, one hand molded to your thigh, the other firm atop your hip. “You’re so good at this.” You whine, knowing how much he savors your praise.

John growls into your cunt as if he’s some beast on all fours, tongue greedily splitting past your folds, caressing over your sensitive flesh.

He grips you like a vice, caging you firmly against the wall, nose grazing your mound. Keeping you anchored to his mouth, he’s consuming you like a man starved, deprived of sustenance.

Fingers flex through blonde tresses, tugging and pulling, coaxing him closer as your hips jolt unexpectedly. The friction isn’t unwelcome, and he treats you to a barrage of enthused laps, tongue possessing a mind of its own.

The cocksure demeanor diminishes when his mouth is preoccupied; he doesn’t complain, thoroughly getting off on letting you ride his face.

With slow, eager laps of his tongue, John made sure to savor you, letting the flat of his tongue fall heavy across your clit. His name plumes from your mouth like a prayer.

The short, dizzying gasp that tore past your mouth spurred him on, as he pressed another string of kisses against your slit.

“J—John,” Raw, the noise splits through your diaphragm, heaving with labored sighs, cunt pulsing with spasms of pleasure. “Fuck, plea—please don’t stop!” A whine coagulates within the back of your throat, ceaselessly needy.

You urged him closer, hips rolling into the fervent heat of his mouth, thighs quivering as he treated you to a lap of his tongue. Circled strokes dance over your cunt; once, twice, three times.

This barrage of bliss assaulted your body with such intensity, molten heat churning within the pit of your stomach, oozing between your thighs.

Bittersweet arousal swarmed his lips, the taste of you, something he craved. His mouth is a thing of perfection, pleasuring you as if it’s his sworn duty, tongue lapping at every inch of your cunt.

His ministrations are gentle, disarmingly so, careworn palms caressing into your hips, keeping you slotted against his face. Lapping openly at your core, you shiver, feeling his nose graze your clit.

The scruff of his blonde beard scratches ragged over the inside of your thighs, sandpaper to silk, the sensation pleasant. You’re writhing, a tangle of nerves and mounting ecstasy, leg rattling beneath his hold.

His name emerges from your mouth again, desperate and wanton, breathy as you squirm. Lips climb from your heated core to your clit, pressing a string of kisses there, tongue brushing over the clutch of nerves.

John’s mouth is voracious, tongue endlessly greedy, eating you out as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Circling around your clit, he begins to lap over your pearl, feeling your legs tremor around him, muscles spasmodic, twitching.

“So handsome like this.” A ragged sigh is pulled from your diaphragm, ecstasy sown by John’s own need and determination. The remark is enough to make him ache, your body vibrating around him.

Daring to look down, your heart nearly bursts from your chest when you realize he’s watching you, smirk palpable, cerulean hues burning.

Through a shadowed stare, eyes blown with lust, he’s got you pinned, sucking the air from your lungs as if he owns you. He wants to say something, but he’s too absorbed with eating you out.

Rendered speechless beneath his incendiary gaze, your stomach churns with molten heat, body on fire, a ceaseless throbbing pulsing between your legs.

Your cunt pathetically clenches around nothing at all, hips absently grinding into his mouth. “John — fuck — please, m’close!” Slurred, you’re trying your best not to smother him.

As if to tempt you further, his lips purse around your clit, taunting, catching the blissed-out look in your eyes. It’s that damned doe-eyed stare he’s hooked on, sucking on that bundle of nerves with a twinge of passion.

Teetering on the precipice of an explosion, you’re rattling, shaking like a leaf, thighs tensing on either side of his head.

He presses you further, a low hum tumbling from his mouth, still fervently revolving around your clit.

White-hot spots blind your vision, jaw unhinged, a myriad of moans leaving you, unrestrained. The noise evokes a throaty groan from him, chest reverberating, sending tingles through your spine like spikes of heat.

John’s still buried between your thighs, interchanging between suckling your clit and broad, flat strokes of his tongue. Each caress, every lap of his mouth sends you into some frenzy, hips urging forward.

A white-hot rush of ecstasy swarmed you, voice tapering off into incoherent praises and wanton moans, filling the shower with your delighted cries. Half-babbles, whimpers, strangled whines emerge from your throat.

Feeling your body pulse around him, a low grunt splits his diaphragm, your legs trembling, muscles twitching in the aftermath. Even still, your mind is foggy, shrouded by a haze of desire.

Conceding, he plants another kiss to your core, followed by a rough lap of his tongue, beard soaked by both water and your arousal.

Unlatching his mouth from your cunt, he exhales, visage splotched with scarlet, pupils expanded with lust as he moves upright. Your lips press a lingering kiss to his collar, a flicker of mischief in your eyes.

His cock throbbed incessantly, the pressure coiled within his abdomen, unexpectedly seizing when your hand wrapped around his length. “Chr — Damn, easy.” John groans, sudden and wanting, hands seizing your hips.

It gets under his skin, how easily he succumbs to you, and with a mere flick of your wrist, he’s prepared to come undone in your hand. Flushed and frustrated, his mouth clamors for yours, biting at your bottom lip.

He’s painfully hard in your palm, bleeding heat, slick within your grasp as you give his cock several sluggish, gentler strokes. There’s a tension prevalent in his shoulders, one that unfurls when you make him cum.

John shudders, mouth dropping to the hollow between your throat and shoulder, maiming it with snags of teeth and bruising hickeys. A low whine escapes you, hand vigorous as you pull him into his release.

Your name spills from his tongue, hoarse and husky, warmth spreading over your body like an encroaching wildfire. It’s quick, but he was riled up already from eating you out.

Blissed-out and satiated, John’s brows pinch together, countenance a thing of unbridled satisfaction as you finish him off. After a few languid strokes of your hand, he’s looking relaxed.

“Jesus,” John forces a laugh, trailing a hand through his soaked tresses, reaching behind you to shut the water off. “Feeling better?” He remarks, unable to bite back the grin that curls the corner of his mouth.

Nodding, you’re smiling, smitten as he drapes a towel around you, planting a slow kiss against your jaw. “Mm-hm.” Humming, your hands are fumbling with the towel, drying yourself off before stepping out of the shower.

With a cheshire smirk, his hands grazed over your waist, lips molding themselves to the back of your neck. “That’s it? Just mm-hm?” He gruffs, his pride mildly wounded, hoping you’d have plenty to say.

Pillars of steam wisp from the bathroom, clouding through your quarters as you search for something comfortable to wear. “If I say what’s on my mind, you’ll brag. I’m keeping you humble.” You tease, lashes fluttering.

“Right,” John huffs, though you know it’s a mutual banter you’ve maintained, playful teasing that’s become incredibly soft. He doesn’t mind; he likes it, really. “When you’re begging me again, I’ll remind you of this conversation.”

Despite the theatrical, pointed glare you give him, you’re smiling; flustered, truthfully. He’s a cocky bastard, obnoxious, but he makes you feel protected, warm. He makes you feel wanted, when you always thought otherwise.

Some of his clothes have made it to your room after one too many nights together; he’s gotten used to it. A pair of black shorts sit on his waist, musculature bared for you, mostly.

John gawks, a brief huff escaping him when he realizes what shirt of his you’re wearing; it’s a callback, for sure. Custer’s Grove High School football, with the emblems of a bear on the front.

“Where did you find that artifact?” He scoffs, blonde brows furrowing with intrigue as you swivel around, clad in your underwear-and-his-shirt combination. You must’ve been digging deep in his wardrobe to find it.

“Underneath your dress shirts,” You remark, lips pulling apart. “I can take it off if it …” Trailing off, John silences you with a chaste kiss, playfully patting your leg, briefly squeezing at the pliant flesh of your thigh.

“No, keep it,” John’s cadence softens, cerulean hues clinging to a distant memory which seems to dissipate as quickly as it appeared. “You look beautiful.”

As he settles along the edge of your mattress, you’re climbing into his lap, eliciting a sarcastic chuckle from him, visibly perplexed. Lips softly tangle together, tender, and he feels himself steadily getting worked up again.

Evening the score, his hands wander toward your haunches, molding themselves to your flesh, palms squeezing and groping. Your digits are in his damp tresses again, tugging, visage riddled with a stern warning.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” John grunts, feeling your lips curl into a smile against his mouth. He withdraws, only to get a good look at you, prettier than anything he’s ever seen before. “I’m serious.”

“I’m serious.” As if invoking a challenge, your countenance pinches into a look of stoicism, though you’re poking fun at him simultaneously.

“Fine.” His voice is low and raspy, a delicious husk that fills your bones with fire. He fires off, strong enough to manhandle you onto your back, bullying his way between your legs, kissing you ragged.

You’re rendered immobile by morning.

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

Some might call you intense or insane.

A little crazy, definitely.

There’s a fire in you, always has been, and when it comes to your daughter, you didn’t play around. Every aspect of her life was important to you, especially her Saturday morning soccer games.

Though you didn’t know what intense was until you saw that dickhead across the field. Blonde hair, a trimmed beard, built like he probably hits the gym four times a week. His biceps flexed under his white shirt every time he threw his arms up at the ref, which, to be fair, was often.

If he weren’t so obnoxious, you might even find him hot, but you totally don’t find him hot. He was pumped up, red in the face, and just as invested in the game as you were. Pacing like a coach who got fired but still showed up anyway. He was shouting directions, clapping like his kid was about to be scouted, and cheering like it was the World Cup and not just a rec league game on a patchy field behind a middle school.

He was showing you up, so you started cheering louder for your kid. Because if this is a competition, you're damn well not losing it.

“That’s it, Lily! Give ‘em hell!” You shout, your daughter just smiles at you and goes back to playing, used to your competitive nature.

The man takes notice of you and looks at you like he isn’t also acting like a lunatic before cheering even louder. That rubbed you the wrong way. What gave him the right to look at you like you were the problem?

Then it happens.

You watch as your daughter gets slide-tackled for no reason.

And the ref? Doing fuck all about it.

“What was that call, ref?” you shout, already on your feet.

“I—” the ref starts, backing up as you approach. 

You trudge towards him, angry but trying to maintain a look of composed fury, like you weren't two seconds from setting the field on fire. 

The ref was used to your antics, and now every time he saw you storming towards him, he’d be sure that he’d be going home with a headache.

“No yellow or red card? She got slide-tackled,” you bark.

“It’s—”

“She didn’t even have the ball!” you snap, the words ripping out of you like they’ve been waiting. You’re so fired up, so high on rage and love and disbelief, you swear you could take flight.

“It was an accident, so there’s no need for that,” a voice cuts in, calm and condescending in the worst possible way.

You turn, and it’s him, the guy from across the field. The look on his face, the matter-of-fact tone, the casual smugness oozing off him like cologne. You hate him instantly. It was that easy.

“I’m guessing that was your son that ran over my daughter,” you say, each word clipped like you’re trying not to launch them at his face.

“Ran over?” he snorts. “Talk about an exaggeration.”

“It’s soccer, these things happen. You don’t have to throw a tantrum just because your kid's team is down two,” he adds, smirking like he thinks this is witty banter and not a declaration of war.

You scoff, hands on hips, already stepping into his space. The ref backs off like a man realising he’s standing between two charging bulls. This wasn’t a sideline spat; this was two planets colliding, and he wanted no part of the fallout.

“Listen here, Captain Suburbia,” you sneer. “Anyone with two functioning eyes could see your kid bodychecked mine like it was hockey practice.”

“Well, the ref didn’t see it that way. So move on,” he snaps back without missing a beat.

“Absolutely not! This is about accountability.”

“There’s no need to give my kid a red card just because your kid—” John starts, hands gesturing like he's trying to explain away a traffic ticket.

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” you fire back, jabbing a finger at his chest. “If you even imply that she was overreacting, I swear I’ll—”

He holds up his hands, that smug look never leaving his face. “Hey, relax. Just saying, maybe things wouldn’t get so dramatic if you stayed on your side of the field.”

You narrow your eyes. “Funny, I was just thinking the same about you.”

“That’s it! Take this off the field,” the ref finally blurts, hands up, voice cracking. “The kids have a match to play!”

You exhale sharply and hard through your nose, fists clenched at your sides. You try to calm yourself down, jaw tight, heart pounding. You sit and look out at your daughter, brushing grass off her knees and already back in position. 

She's tougher than you give her credit, but that didn’t change the fact that you wanted to put that guy’s head in the ground. 

After the game, her team, the Honeybees, lost after a few missed goals and lots of questionable calls, but your daughter was still laughing with her friends, unfazed in the way only kids can be.

You, however, were still stewing in quiet indignation when you spotted the world’s biggest jackass, in your humble, entirely accurate opinion, making his way toward you.

“Oh. It’s you,” you say, arms crossed automatically.

“I just wanted to congratulate you on your loss,” he says, all fake sincerity, like he wasn’t two seconds away from being shoved into a juice box cooler.

“How mature.”

“I try,” he replies with that same maddening, self-satisfied grin.

You narrow your eyes, ready for whatever condescending nonsense he might say next. If he says “good effort”, you’re swinging. Choosing not to let him fuck with you, you tell him what’s what. 

“Your team only won because of the ref’s bad calls,” you say, arms still crossed, tone sharp enough to slice fruit.

“Oh really?” he replies, lifting an eyebrow like he’s genuinely amused. Like this is his idea of foreplay.

“Yeah. My kid was dynamite out there.”

“So was mine,” he says back instantly.

“I mean, sure, but my kid has the most assists on her team,” you say, trying to keep your cool, even as your voice edges higher.

“Assists,” he echoes, nodding slowly. “Not goals.”

You blink at him. “Are we seriously doing this?”

“I’m not doing anything,” he says with mock innocence, hands raised like he’s never been petty in his life.

You press your lips together, biting your tongue so hard it might bruise. You didn’t want to, you really didn’t want to, but it slips out anyway.

“My kid can out-pass, out-hustle, and outplay any other kid on that field.”

He grins like he’s been waiting for this.

“Well, my kid can run circles around your kid while tying his cleats.”

Your jaw drops slightly. “Alright then, my kid was able to run a full field drill without missing a pass when she was five.”

“Well, mine could do cone drills backwards while coaching his teammate through theirs.”

Your eye twitches at that and he delights in seeing you so bothered.

“Lily has a killer left foot and once scored a hat trick with a stomach bug.”

“And Tommy is a human wall on defence.”

“Oh, please. Lily once did a bicycle kick and landed on her feet. What’s Tommy got?” You say, crossing your arms. 

“Perfect attendance and a clean penalty record.”

You wanted to roll your eyes at ‘clean penalty record’ but you keep it moving.

“Lily brings orange slices for the whole team.”

“Tommy brings strategy diagrams and pep talks.”

You pause, blinking. “Are we… bragging about how nice our kids are now?”

“Seems like it.”

You both go quiet for a beat, then he adds with a smirk, “Still doesn’t mean your kid’s better. I think you should admit to defeat.”

You step forward, just enough to make a point. “I’ll admit defeat when the Honeybees start losing because of their own mistakes, not because your future linebacker throws elbows like he’s in a bar fight.”

He actually laughs, and it’s a little too charming for your liking. Before you can wrestle with what that means, you hear a voice. 

“Dad!” his son calls from across the field, waving dramatically. “Hurry up, you promised we’d get ice cream!”

He glances over his shoulder, then looks back at you with that same smug glint in his eye.

“Again, enjoy your loss,” he says, already turning. “And get used to it. The season’s still young.”

You narrow your eyes. “Until next time, Captain Suburbia.”

He chuckles and starts to walk away, but pauses, turns back with a smirk plastered on his face.

“John,” he says. “My name is John.”

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

“Uh, what are you doing?” 

“Hiding.”

“From?” Your friend, Ava, says as she looks around for the apparent danger. 

“John.”

Ever since that day, you were livid with the dickhead you knew as John Walker. You had never hated someone so much from just one meeting. You never wanted to see him again, but you did while shopping.

Ava takes a peek, “Oh, the hot soccer dad? Which one is he?”

You never described him as hot but Ava figured from the way you were kidding your mind over him, you thought he was. 

“Blonde, beard, tall and wearing a blue shirt.”

Ava sees him in the fruit and veg aisle and hums in approval, “Is he single? He’s right up your alley, no?”

You nudge her arm. “I don’t know. I mean, I didn't see him with anyone at the game…” You say your voice drifting off before you're back to your senses. “Whether or not he's single is irrelevant! He’s a complete asshole.”

“Just because he's an asshole doesn’t mean he’s not good in bed.”

The death glare you give her is intense and could be considered lethal, but she laughs it off. 

“Let’s be honest, if you weren’t attracted to him, you wouldn’t be so riled up.”

“Oh, please, I’m not into evil blonde men.”

Is he hot? Yes. But his evilness outweighs the hotness. 

“Well, the evil blonde man is coming your way.”

You look towards the end of the aisle to see that Ava was right, so you immediately duck down behind a tower of soup cans. 

“Please come out from over there,” Ava whispers but you protest, hoping you can camouflage yourself and become one with the cans.

Ten seconds pass, and you hear your name in that familiar voice and know you’ve been caught.

“Oh. Hi.”

Your attempt at being nonchalant is honestly pitiful, but not more pitiful than him knowing you were hiding from him.

“Don’t mind me, go back to whatever this is,” He says, gesturing to your hunched-over, goblin-like stance. He reaches over you and grabs a can off the shelf, walking off without another word. 

“See? No need to panic. He was perfectly civil,” Ava chimes in.

“Only because he caught me in a state of weakness. He has the upper hand, and he’s already plotting against me. I can feel it.”

“He’s a soccer dad, not a supervillain,” Ava sighs, helping you off the floor, concerned about the effect he was having on you, but then again, she was always concerned about you. You regularly lose your mind at your daughter’s soccer games so she has just cause. 

“I need to grab the wine, I’ll meet you at the checkout,” Ava says, and you nod, letting her walk off. 

You had to circle back around to get the limited edition coffee you had become obsessed with anyway. You get to the aisle and your eyes widen when you realise that there’s only one left. Your hand flies to grab it, you can already imagine it in your trolley, and it looks good. It looks happy, like it's ready to be at home in your pantry.

But at the same time, another hand wraps around it, the hand belonging to John, because fate was still playing in your face. 

“You.”

You thought you were done with him for the day. Clearly, the universe had other plans.

John raises an eyebrow, not letting go. “Come on. Be a gentleman and give it to me,” You say, trying to force a smile. 

Your grip tightens, so does his.

“I don’t think so,” he says smoothly, as if he weren’t just on the verge of sparking a full-blown aisle standoff. “It’s the last one.”

“I know.”

“I’ll have to go across town for another,” You say, your eyebrows knitting together. 

“Cry about it.”

You tug on it a little, but he doesn’t budge. The item wobbles dangerously between your hands.

“Are you even trying?” he asks. He was so good at being a smug bastard, you wonder if he was born like this or if he honed this craft. You open your mouth to really let him have it, but you don’t even get the chance. 

Without another word, he snatches it clean from your hand in one smooth move, drops it into his trolley like he just won Olympic gold, and starts walking away, whistling.

You stand there, mildly offended but mostly impressed.

“Oh no, you did not just—” you march after him.

“Too slow, sweetheart,” he calls over his shoulder without turning around. “Better luck next time.”

“I hope it’s expired!” you shout after him.

You stop walking and watch as he struts off with your coffee like he was the King of Aisle Seven, you were planning his downfall in at least three different ways.

And two of them involved shopping carts.

After the grocery store incident, you were looking forward to having a reprieve from John Walker. But it was like fate or something more evil was forcing the two of you together. You have a PTA meeting the next night, and who do you see there but John, who was now becoming a permanent fixture in your life. 

You sigh and sit beside the only empty seat, which was next to him.

“Let’s not even speak,” You suggest you say as soon as your butt hits the seat.

“Fine with me,” John replies as he crosses his arms, looking away from you. 

You sit there tapping your foot. It was almost painful being silent when everyone else was having conversations. Especially when you were next to a thief. You didn’t even get the opportunity to yell at him properly for swiping your coffee.

You finally break, “What you did yesterday was shitty.”

“And I thought we weren’t going to speak.”

“I’ll be sick if I don’t call out injustice when I see it.”

John laughs, and you want to strangle him. “You’re still thinking about that? I’m constantly on your mind, aren’t I?”

You shift in your seat, feeling the heat climbing up the back of your neck. How dare he even suggest that? Yes, you were thinking about him, but only about all the ways you wanted to destroy him.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snap under your breath.

The meeting starts before he can muster up a comeback. You catch yourself zoning out as the agenda drags on, filled with tedious updates about the bake sale and a desperate plea for chaperones for the 3rd-grade trip to Lake Maribelle.

You swing your leg absentmindedly and accidentally bump his shin. It’s genuinely an accident.

“Did you just kick me?” he whispers.

“Well, maybe if you weren’t taking up half the space with your big—”

“You’re unbelievable—” He interrupts, turning his body to face you.

“Gangly legs, then you wouldn’t have gotten hit,” You whisper your sentence over his.

Your whispered bickering is only interrupted by the teacher at the front calling both your names.

“You’ll help chaperone the trip to Lake Maribelle?”

With all those expectant eyes on you, how could either of you say no?

“Yeah…”

“Of course…”

You both reply sheepishly at the same time.

“Great, I’ll sign the two of you up.”

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

Stepping onto the bus, you watch as Lily disappears to go sit with her friend, leaving you with a slight pang of loneliness. You head to the front and slump into your seat, next to who else but John, because you can’t even be surprised. You really needed to start arriving at places earlier to avoid sitting next to him, but here you were.

It’s a four-hour ride, and you can already feel your exhaustion creeping in. You try to keep yourself alert, but your eyes are heavy. Before you know it, your head tilts to the side, falling onto his shoulder.

John glances down at you, noticing how tired you look. He’s always been perceptive like that. He doesn’t say anything at first, just shifts slightly to give you more space. But when he feels you drift further, he gently shifts, adjusting his posture. His shoulder feels like a small slice of comfort amidst the exhaustion.

He lets you use his shoulder the whole ride. You looked quite peaceful when you weren’t trying to rip his head off, quite beautiful too. John catches the thought and tosses it out. He couldn’t be caught slipping, you were his mortal enemy after all.

The bus reaches the camp, and suddenly, it jerks to a stop. Your head flies forward, but before you can react, John’s hand shoots out, catching your forehead in the palm of his hand just in time.

“Thanks,” you mumble, a little embarrassed but too tired to really care.

He just hums in response, his fingers lightly grazing your skin for just a second longer than necessary. “Quick reflexes.”

Hoping off the bus, you notice the camp leaders waiting to greet the kids. You stand off to the side ensuring everyone gets off the bus when you notice one of the teachers, Miss. Lucas, sidling up next to John, laughing a little too loudly at something he barely said. Your eyes narrow without even realising it, and your fist subconsciously tightens. It’s like a sudden surge of irritation hits you.

The worst part is that you don’t even know why you're so bothered. You’re pretty sure it's just your general distaste for him as a person, and anything he does seems to irritate you. That felt like the easiest explanation. No need to dig deeper into that nagging feeling in your chest, like someone’s poking it with a stick. You shake it off, willing yourself to focus on something else, anything else.

After you get the kids all settled in for the first activity, though, it hits you like a ton of bricks. The exhaustion. You’re winded in a way you don’t remember being before. You try to shake it off, but it’s clear that you’ve reached your limit for the day. This trip wasn’t as easy as you thought it would be, and now, even a simple walk feels like you’ve run a marathon.

You take a deep breath, looking around for a moment to regain your composure. There's no need to make a bigger deal out of it. Just power through, you tell yourself. But it’s harder than you expected, and you can’t help but wonder if it’s more than just the physical exhaustion that's weighing on you.

But at least John was out of sight. You didn’t have to see him on the nature walk or the obstacle course, but you’d have to supervise the canoeing together. You make it out there first, sitting on the dock as the kids are getting in the canoes with the instructors. A smile tugs at your lips as you see how excited Lily is, her face lighting up as she waits for her turn, then spotting you in the crowd. She waves enthusiastically, and you wave back, your heart swelling just a little at the sight of her so happy.

“Nice day out,” John says, looking out at the water. You’re shaken to your core. Not just because you didn’t hear him walk up, but because of what he said. What was this? A normal conversation starter?

You open your mouth to respond, but you're cut off by Miss. Lucas' syrupy voice slicing through the moment like a dull butter knife.

“It really is, and John, you really should wear sunglasses. With how blue your eyes are, the way the sun hits them is just distracting,” she purrs, twirling a lock of her overly straightened hair.

It’s laced with flirtation and just enough condescension to make your skin crawl.

You roll your eyes — hard.

John notices.

“What? You don’t like the sun?” he asks, amused now, that sharp gaze flicking to you like he already knows he’s poking the bear.

“I like the sun,” you answer evenly.

“Then what were you rolling your eyes at, huh?”

You’re so tempted to say exactly what’s on your mind. To call out Miss. Lucas’s thinly veiled thirst trap of a compliment, but you catch yourself. The last thing you need is her holding some petty grudge against Lily over adult nonsense.

So instead, you force a too-sweet smile and say, “None of your business.”

He chuckles, clearly entertained.

Miss. Lucas doesn’t seem to notice any of it. She’s still lingering like a wasp at a picnic.

John tilts his head, a grin still playing at his lips. “Touchy.”

Stepping into your space, he does that thing, that infuriating thing, where he leans in just enough to make your breath hitch but not enough to break any rules.

You guys just couldn’t seem to be near each other without someone stepping over the invisible line.

“And you’re observant,” you shoot back, voice low. “Someone might think you’re a little obsessed.”

His brow lifts. “Is that right?”

“You know what? I’m sorry, I'm being rude. Let me ask you this,” you say, your voice sweet and dangerous all at once, “Do you like water?”

“What kind of question is—?”

Splash.

He never finishes.

You shove him clean off the dock, and he crashes into the freezing lake with a satisfying crash. A few heads turn at the sound, followed by laughter, mostly from the kids.

John surfaces, sputtering, slicking his hair back with both hands as he glares up at you like a betrayed golden retriever.

“It’s freezing!” he shouts.

“Oh no,” you gasp dramatically, hand to your chest. “Is it? I had no idea.”

He blinks the water from his eyes, slow and deliberate, before gripping the edge of the dock with both hands and pulling himself up in one smooth, effortless motion.

It’s… a problem.

You might hate the man, scratch that, you definitely hate the man, but God help you, he had the audacity to look good doing literally anything. The sunlight caught the drops of water rolling down his arms, his shirt plastered to the ridges of his abs and the degenerate part of your brain wanting to see them with his shirt off. 

His hair dripped, tousled and messy in a way that looked too perfect to be accidental. It was like watching someone climb out of a cologne commercial.

You bite your lip instinctively, then immediately cover it up with a cough and a scowl.

He strides toward you, soaking wet, every squelching footstep a declaration of petty war. You’re forced to crane your neck to meet his eyes as he stops in front of you.

“You’re lucky,” he says, water still dripping from his sleeves, “that one of us knows how to act like an adult.”

You raise your eyebrows, lips twitching despite yourself. “You sure it’s you?”

He huffs a humourless laugh, then turns and walks down the dock toward the cabins, leaving behind a trail of wet footprints and a hundred silent thoughts you’re too proud to say out loud.

You watch him go and tell yourself it’s because you want to see if there’s the off chance he falls in. 

Definitely not because of the view.

You’re watching your back the rest of the day, fully expecting some form of petty revenge. A frog in your shoe, a cold fish under your pillow, maybe even your toothbrush mysteriously tasting like lake water. But nothing happens.

No pranks. No payback.

You’re in the clear.

Now, sitting by the campfire, the sky a hazy lavender above the treeline, things feel… calm. The kids are running wild around the open field, fireflies blinking to life as marshmallows roast and someone strums a guitar softly in the distance.

“Hi,” a small voice says beside you.

You turn and see Tommy, John’s son, standing there with a hesitant smile.

“Hey, having fun?” you ask, shifting to make room.

He nods and sits next to you, pulling his knees up to his chest. “The nature walk was pretty cool, and me and my friends loved  the obstacle course. And the canoeing was fun too… even though you pushed my dad in the lake.”

You groan lightly, a hand going to your face. “Yeah, about that…”

The guilt hits, a pang of embarrassment. You knew your behaviour was juvenile. Funny, sure, but maybe not your finest moment, especially in front of the kids.

You laugh under your breath and shake your head. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It was pretty funny,” Tommy admits, “And I know you and my dad have problems.”

You feel even more ashamed that it was bleeding into your kids' lives too.

“My dad can be a lot,” he says, kicking a pebble with the toe of his shoe. “But he’s just… I don’t know. He tries really hard. Especially for me.”

It helped you understand John a little better. The bluster, the sarcasm, the stubborn streak a mile wide… It wasn’t just pride or ego. It was effort. The kind that comes from someone trying to do right, even if it comes out messy. You could appreciate that because you were the same way.

And if he’d raised such a polite kid, then he couldn’t be all bad. Not even close.

“Have you seen him, by the way?” Tommy asks.

“Not lately,” you say, then gesture toward the table behind you. “But you can have some marshmallows while you wait, if you want.”

“Sure!” he says, lighting up as he grabs a stick and starts roasting.

John comes back to see something he wasn't expecting. The bane of his existence, laughing with his son and roasting marshmallows. Tommy didn’t warm up to most people that easily, so when he sees him lighting up with you, his opinion of you shifts. Maybe you weren’t an evil witch. 

You still got a bucket of freezing lake water poured over you the next morning, though. 

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

You’re out running errands, finally—blissfully—alone. Lily’s spending the weekend at your parents' place, which meant you had time to catch your breath, clean without stepping on glitter, and maybe finally recover from the whirlwind that was the school trip.

You understood John better. You still thought he was annoyingly smug, sure, but maybe not completely irredeemable.

But you weren’t getting ahead of yourself. He was still the same cocky asshole you met yelling across a soccer field... right?

Just as you’re mulling that over, tongue in cheek, deciding if you’d imagined all the softness, you feel your car begin to slow down.

“What the—?”

You frown, tapping the gas. Nothing. A few panicked beeps. Then a sputter.

You manage to pull off to the side of the road just as the engine completely gives out, your car coasting to a reluctant stop.

“No, no, no!” you shout, slamming your palms against the steering wheel.

This couldn’t be happening. Not today. Not when you finally had a few hours of peace and you were this close to getting Thai food and going home to binge terrible reality TV.

With a heavy sigh, you get out and open the bonnet, even though you have no idea what you’re looking for. Wires? Steam? A glowing red light labeled you’re screwed?

You’re standing there, staring blankly into the guts of your car, when you hear it, a car slowing down behind you and parking behind you. 

You barely glance back, already waving them off. “Thanks, I’m good—”

But then you hear a too-familiar voice say, “Well, that doesn’t look promising.”

Of course.

You turn around slowly.

And there he is.

John Walker, ladies and gentlemen. 

“Need a hand?” he asks, already strolling over like he’s been waiting his whole life to rescue you.

“I uh…” You start becasure you’re so tempted to say “I got this” but the moment your eyes look back at whatever the fuck is going on in your car, you sigh.

“Do you have a toolbox?” he’d asked.

“Yeah, it’s in the boot,” you’d said, thinking nothing of it.

Then he came back, popped the hood, and casually peeled his shirt off with a warning: “Don’t read into anything. I just don’t want grease on my shirt.”

“I didn’t say anything,” you replied, a little too quickly.

You didn’t say anything, but that sure as hell didn’t stop you from watching. Because damn. The man was all broad shoulders, and strong arms that had no business looking that good twisting bolts.

You could’ve watched him work all day.

“Try starting it,” he called, interrupting your horny thoughts.

You slid back into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and the engine roared to life. It’s a miracle.

“Thank you, seriously.”

He leaned over the hood, smug smile fully loaded. “No problem. That should get you moving, but you definitely need to take this to a garage. I can come with you, if you want.”

Seeing the way your face contorts, he follows up with an explanation before you start berating him again. 

“You’ll need a ride home after, won’t you?”

“Oh, true… I guess I’ll take you up on your offer. I mean as long as I'm not keeping you from Tommy, am I?” You say as you watch him put his shirt back on.

“No, he's at his grandparents’ place.”

“Oh same with Lily,” You admit.

“Guess we have some errands to run together then.”

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

You arrive back home in his car and say “Home sweet home,” because you didn’t know what the fuck you were talking baout. Ever since you watched him fix your car, haggle down the price of your repair with the mechanic and drive you home, you’d been in a bit of a daze. A ‘John Walker is the perfect man’ daze to be exact.

“Do you ... wanna come in?” You say, the words escaping you, but what you didn’t expect was his reply.

“Sure.”

You welcome him in, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest as John casually walks around your house. 

It was clean, for once and cosy too, filled with little signs of your life with Lily. Pictures lined the walls: school plays, messy birthday parties, soccer games. Her drawings were stuck to the fridge with mismatched magnets.

“This you?” John asks, voice tinged with amusement.

You turn to see him holding a framed photo from the shelf, a younger you, maybe around Lily’s age, standing proudly in a baseball uniform, cap askew and a dirt-smudged grin on your face.

You roll your eyes but smile. “Yeah. I peaked in Little League.”

He chuckles, eyes still on the photo. “You look like you were about to take someone out at home plate.”

“I probably did.”

He glances over at you, that familiar smirk on his face. “Not much has changed then.”

You snort. “Are you calling me aggressive?”

“I’m saying I’d definitely want you on my team,” he replies, setting the photo down gently. “You were a force to be reckoned with, no doubt,” he says with a chuckle.

“Always.”

“Are there more?” he asks, leaning a little closer with that annoyingly charming glint in his eye.

You cross your arms, sitting back a little as you narrow your eyes. “Nuh uh. We are not going through my baby pictures.”

“Yes, we are.”

And five minutes later, you were both on the couch with a photo album spread across your lap.

“You even look like a soccer ball in this one,” he teases, pointing to a photo of you in a puffy striped onesie.

“I bet you were an ugly baby,” you fire back, sticking your tongue out at him.

“I’ll have you know I was adorable. Practically a Gerber baby.”

He flips a page and pauses. “Is this you or Lily?”

“That’s Lily,” you say, your smile softening.

“She looks just like you.”

“I like to call her my twin,” you laugh. “And she hates it.”

Time ticks by, and you barely even notice it. The room has dimmed with the setting sun, shadows creeping in, and a warmth building low in your stomach. You’ve been flipping through photo albums for what must’ve been hours, laughing and teasing each other like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Then you hear it, John’s stomach growling, loud and unmistakable. You glance at him, and he’s already giving you a sheepish smile. Clearly, you’re both thinking the same thing.

“I was going to order Thai,” you say casually. “If you wanted to stay for dinner.”

He hesitates for only a second. “I’d like that.”

Later, the two of you are curled up on the couch, takeout containers spread between you, Real Housewives playing in the background. The chaotic drama on screen contrasts with the quiet ease between you.

It had been so long since you’d just relaxed like this with someone—someone who wasn’t Ava or Lily. And it felt good. Easy. Right.

“I have a suggestion, feel free to say no.”

“Hit me,” John says, leaning back against the couch, one arm draped over the cushion behind you.

You bite back a grin. “I have a bottle of whiskey that’s begging to be opened. Wanna throw on some music and help me put it out of its misery?”

He lifts an eyebrow, a slow smile creeping onto his face. “Why not?”

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

You shouldn’t drink around him. At this point, you were touchy and honestly just saying shit for the sake of saying shit. You’re not too drunk but definitely tipsy enough to say whatever comes to your mind. 

“I haven’t seen Tommy’s mom around. Did you guys split up?” you blurt out, half-curious, half-dreading the answer. You feel a drop in the atmosphere as his hands seem to tighten on the glass. 

“Sorry, you don’t need to answer. That was weird of me to ask…” You're trying to backtrack as quickly as possible.

“Oh no, it’s okay, she uh,” he says quietly. “She passed a few years ago.”

You pause, your posture softening. “I’m so sorry…”

“It’s alright,” he says, voice low but steady. “Still tough without her, but we manage.”

He glances down, like he’s trying to ground himself before continuing.

“I’d like to say I was a good husband, but I was always away in the army. I could’ve been better before she…” He trails off, eyes now solely focused on the liquid swirling in his glass. 

You stay quiet, wanting to listen rather than rush in. 

“When I came back from my last tour, she was already sick. But for a while, we were okay. We were happy. Then she got worse. It was hard seeing her like that when she was so full of life before I left. I felt like I had missed so much, and when she…” He pauses again, his voice catching in his throat like he was being choked. 

“Tommy’s the only thing that kept me going after. I’m always scared I’ll mess things up with him and miss the important stuff. That I already am.”

He exhales sharply, almost laughing at himself. “Shit. Sorry. I’m rambling.”

“Not at all,” you say gently, shaking your head. “And I can tell you’re a good dad. Anyone can. He's such a sweet kid and he adores you.”

He looks at you then, and for once, there’s no smirk, no one-liner. Just quiet gratitude.

“Thanks,” he says. “That means more than you know.”

You both take another drink, the burn lingering in your throat like something you don’t mind holding onto for a while.

“What about you? I noticed there aren’t any pictures of Lily’s dad around,” he asks, voice softer now, like he’s not just making conversation anymore.

“We got divorced ages ago. He was a total disaster.”

You let out a dry laugh, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

 “We got married too young, had Lily, got divorced two years in and… I honestly can’t even remember the last time he showed up for her. No birthday messages, no calls. Nothing.”

You pause, trying not to let the anger twist your words.

“It’s a shame because she’s so amazing,” you add, staring into your glass. “And her dad doesn't give her the time of day and never has. She deserves so much better than that, and I wish I could be everything for her, but I…”

John’s quiet, listening. Really listening, giving you the space that you gave him. 

“It’s hard doing it on your own,” you say, looking up at him. “I know you get that.”

He nods slowly, then offers a small, warm smile. “It’s his loss. She’s a kick-ass kid with a pretty kick-ass mom.”

You laugh, the real kind this time.

“I genuinely thought you were about to fight me the day we met,” he says, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

You grin. “I was about to fight you.”

“Very hot.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling and, for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel exhausting to let someone in.

“Okay, Mr. Tight-White-Shirt,” you tease, raising an eyebrow.

He smirks instantly. “Ah, so you were ogling me that day.”

Damn. You walked right into that one.

“A woman can’t appreciate the male form?” you say, all mock innocence.

John laughs, shaking his head as he takes another drink. The music shifts, a different song now, low and smooth, some classic jazz number that’s always sounded like warmth and memory and late nights.

You perk up instantly. “John, we have to dance.”

He blinks. “What?”

“C’mon!”

Before he can argue, you’re already pulling him to his feet drunkenly. He hesitates for half a second, then relents because, of course, he does. His hands find your waist, cautious at first, and you wrap your arms around his neck as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I can’t remember the last time I slow danced,” you murmur against his chest.

“Same,” John says quietly. “In all honesty, it was… probably my wedding.”

 “Damn, me too,” You let out a low laugh. “Did you go all out?”

“We tried,” he nods. “We had lessons and everything. I remember practising in our tiny apartment, knocking over chairs and swearing a ton.”

She grins. “I bet you were shit.”

John, very much in ‘John’ fashion, gasps. “Correction, I was the shit.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, and I’m gonna show you. Get ready to be dipped.”

Your eyes widen as you look up at him, suspicion written all over your face. “No way. You’ll drop me.”

He smirks. “I won’t. Trust me. I’m strong and very capable.”

Before you can protest again, he spins you, just fast enough to make your stomach flip. And you squeal, laughing as you come back into his arms.

“See?” he says, proud as hell. “Didn’t hurt a hair on your pretty head.”

You’re still laughing, slightly breathless, heart thudding in your chest for reasons that have very little to do with the dancing.

“I hate to say it,” you murmur, “but that was quite smooth.”

“Careful. Keep talking like that, and I might think you like me.”

You look up at him and realise, you’ve never been this close to him, unless you count getting in his face at a soccer match, but this was different. It was a whole new type of tension. 

“Whatever…” you say, but it comes out with no bite. Not even close.

Maybe because you’re tipsy, but under the dim lighting of your living room, with the jazz still murmuring in the background and that stupid, crooked smile on his face.

You reach up, fingers brushing his cheek before you even fully realise what you're doing.

“I like your beard,” you blurt out, your thumb lightly grazing the line of it.

He blinks, surprised, not because of what you said, but because of how gently you said it.

“Yeah?” he says, voice a little quieter now.

He’s not able to get another word out before you’re kissing him, soft and tender. His hands cup your face as he kisses you like there’s a magnet pulling you to him. Your hands roaming over each other’s bodies, hands desperate to touch skin. He lifts you off the floor, your lips not breaking contact. You wrap your legs around his waist and his hands cup your ass as he walks you over to a wall. Pressing you against it and kissing your neck like he’s trying to consume you. “Oh, John…”

Breathing heavily and looking into each other’s eyes.“Upstairs, first door on the right.”

Your back hits the wall again, but gently this time, his lips brushing over yours before pulling back just enough to ask, “You sure?”

You nod, breathless. “Go.”

He carries you like it’s effortless, one hand steady beneath your thigh, the other gripping the bannister as he takes the stairs two at a time.

Reaching the top, he kicks the door open with his foot. The room is dim, the late evening light bleeding through the curtains, but neither of you cares. You pull his shirt over his head and toss it aside. His mouth is on yours again before it hits the ground.

You fall into the bed together, tangled and wild and urgent, but with something else beneath it all. Something tender. Like every kiss and touch is catching up on lost time you didn’t even know you missed.

“Mind if I leave marks?”

“You can,” You gasp out and he goes to work, biting and sucking your skin. In all honesty, your drunk brain needed a memento, a way to remind sober-you that this wasn’t some sex dream. 

You feel his strong hands wrap around your wrists, and he squeezes them. Not enough to hurt, but enough for you to feel his presence. 

“I want you,” John breathes and it sounds so good hearing it. Like you had both finally done away with pretense and given in to what you wanted to do since you met which was rip your clothes off and fuck eachother senseless. 

He starts kissing his way down your body, taking  his sweet time in making you feel good. Reveling in the way you react to him.

When he reaches your panties, he doesn’t hesitate to tug them off his teeth and the sight of him doing that nearly kills you. 

He starts eating you out like a man possessed, his beard tickling your inner thighs. He needs your pussy on his face and he needs it now. As he licks and sucks, driving you insane, your legs start slowly closing, trying to shy away from how good it felt. He catches them, prying them back open. 

“Keep them open for me.”

You nod but he wants more than that.

“Tell me.”

“I’ll keep my legs open for you,” You say and you think you’d do the splits on his face if he wanted. 

“Good girl,” he smirks before going back to ruining you. It had been too long since you felt like this, but even then, you had never felt like this. You were feverish and sensitive, fighting to keep yourself sane. You never recall feeling like you were dying of happiness when anyone else had gone down on you. Must be the John Walker effect.

The more you struggle and shake, the more pressure he applies. His hand rests on your stomach to hold you in place as he sucks on your clit.

Feeling the pleasure growing, you instantly try to muffle your moans with your fist. He moves his mouth away from your aching core and reaches up with one of his hands, moving your fist away. You look at him with reverence and surprise.

“You don’t need to hide…” He says, his other hand still moving inside you, “I want to hear you.”

You don’t speak right away. You just look at him, this man who had once driven you absolutely insane, who now felt like the only person who could see through all the armour.

“I’m not used to being seen,” you finally whisper.

“I know,” John says, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. “But I see you.”

He moves back into position between your legs, and you let him have every moan you have. 

“John!” 

You finish, back arching, legs trembling and clenching down on his head with your thighs so hard you’re scared you might kill him. 

But he doesn't stop, instead going faster. “H-hey!” You moan out as you kick your legs around, which he clearly takes as a challenge.

Wrangling your legs and pinning them over your head, your body now in the shape of a backwards C.

“You’re lucky I’m not tying you up,” John comments and you shiver at how good that sounds. 

He gets up on his knees, continuing to lick at your trembling folds as he fingers you even faster, adding a third finger that had you moaning in desperation.

It's like he's set your whole body on fire, the feeling of your lost orgasm threatening to push you straight into another one.

“John, it’s so…” You croak, your eyes focusing and unfocusing. “Think I’m gonna cum again.”

At this point, your voice is hoarse, each touch he’s giving you making you scream and cry out like you’ve never done before. 

“Yeah? You wanna be a good girl and cum for me?”

You nod, your eyes gassy with tears, “Wanna be your…your good girl.”

You could feel something coming, as he goes back to sucking on your clit, his fingers massaging your G-spot. 

It only takes a few moments before you're letting your body relax and squirt all over his fingers, the pleasure washing over you in waves. You’re too undone to make a noise, breathing heavily and choking on air. There are a few seconds where you think you’ve died.

He unfolds you, and you lie back down on the bed, needing him instantly. 

“John,” You whine, reaching out for him, and he’s right there, pulling you into his arms and taking care of you.

“What about you?” You ask. He had just about taken you to heaven and believe me you wanted to return the favour.

“Next time.”

Your heart flutters with the thought of a ‘next time’.

“Okay,” You snuggle against him and fall asleep together in pure bliss.  

You wake up in the morning, expecting to feel John’s arms around you. But there's no one there. You sit up and look around, but find nothing. No note explaining where he was and his car's no longer in the driveway.

You came to the conclusion, he woke up, saw you and decided that it was a mistake. It was disappointing but you’re used to being disappointed.

So much for ‘I see you’. 

So much for ‘next time’.

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

The next couple of days are a blur, it’s back to business as usual. Soccer practice, laundry, answering emails with a fake sense of urgency. To anyone else, it seemed like nothing had changed, but not to your daughter.

“I saw Tommy yesterday,” she says casually as she sets her backpack down.

“Oh? How is he?” you ask, trying to sound neutral.

“Great, but his dad didn’t look too happy…”

Your ears perk up at that. He was also miserable? Good. It was his fault anyway… wasn’t it?

“You don’t look happy either.”

You flinch at how blunt she is. You should’ve known, there was no hiding anything from her. She might only be a kid, but she could read you like a book.

“Lily…” you start, but she cuts you off with the maturity of someone far beyond her years.

“Just be adults and talk to him…”

“It's not that simple,” Your voice is shaky with uncertainty. You're not even sure you'd be able to speak if you were face-to-face with him again.

“Well you need to especially since I’m going over to Tommy’s today.”

“You what?” you say, nearly falling out of your chair.

“You said I could,” she adds quickly. “Last week, before… whatever this is.”

Damn it. She was right. You had completely blanked on that. It was before the whole thing with John went bust.

You were conflicted with how you felt about John, but you wouldn’t let your issues affect her. 

“Fine, go get your stuff. We leave in five.”

You drive over to his place, your heart dropping lower and lower as you get closer to his house. Your fingers grip your steering wheel like it’s your lifeline. 

“You’re not coming in to say hi?” Lily asks almost incredulously.

“I think it’s best I don’t. I’ll be here at 6 to pick you up. Have fun!”

Lily doesn’t say anything at first; she just looks at you, brows raised, lips pursed like she’s debating whether or not to push. Was that what it was like to be on the receiving end of one of your judging looks? You didn't like it one bit. 

But in the end, she sighs, unbuckles her seatbelt, and grabs her bag. “You two are so dramatic.”

He sees her first, ruffles her hair, then his gaze shifts past her, locking with yours through the windshield. It only lasts a second, but it’s enough. You look away first.

Then you drive off, trying not to think about him. 

Hours pass, John is very much on your mind the entire time, and before you know it, you’re back at his house to pick up Lily. Walking your way up the driveway, you feel your nerves creeping in. You hesitate a second before ringing the doorbell.

“Hey,” John greets you, opening the door—and he looks just as good as the last time you saw him, maybe even better.

“Hey yourself,” you reply awkwardly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

There's the sound of footsteps thundering down the stairs, and then Tommy appears, greeting you with a wide grin.

“It’s time to go already?” Lily calls from behind him, voice dripping with faux innocence. She was laying it on thick.

Before you can answer, Tommy jumps in. “Can you and Lily stay for dinner?”

“I don’t know…” You start, unsure how to say no politely.

“Dad, convince her. We’re having your famous spagbol,” Tommy adds, eyes hopeful.

You catch the look on his face—so earnest, so excited—and then turn to John. An easy smile creeps onto your face despite yourself. 

“Famous, huh?”

John smirks. “It’s pretty good, if I do say so myself.”

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

By the time dinner is ready, it feels easy with him, dangerously easy. You sit around the table with him and the kids, laughing between bites of spaghetti, the kind of domestic quiet that used to feel foreign now curling around you like a blanket. It felt so right. But still, there’s that persistent whisper in the back of your mind — If he wanted this, really wanted this, he would’ve stayed that night.

Before you can spiral too deep into your own thoughts, Tommy pipes up brightly, “Can Lily and I have a sleepover?”

You glance at John, caught off guard. “Lily and I should really get going, plus Lily doesn’t have anything to change into.”

“I brought clothes and my toothbrush,” Lily says far too quickly.

You narrow your eyes. “And why did you do that if you were just supposed to stay for the afternoon?”

Lily and Tommy exchange a look — a guilty, sheepish look that screams we planned this.

John chuckles under his breath, clearly catching on. “I wouldn’t mind,” he says, glancing at you. “I could set up a spot for Lily in Tommy’s room.”

“You should stay too!” Tommy adds enthusiastically, eyes shining with innocent matchmaking energy.

“I don’t have any pyjamas to sleep in, Tom,” you say, raising an eyebrow.

“You can borrow my dad’s!” he says like it’s the simplest solution in the world.

You blink. These kids were really committing to the bit.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude…” You begin, your voice a little quieter, your gaze flicking to John.

“You wouldn’t be,” he says, meeting your eyes. “I have a guest room. It’s yours if you want it.”

His voice is calm, but there’s something soft in it. An invitation. Like he wanted you to stay. 

“It’s decided then,” Your daughter interjects before you can try to squirm out of it.

You had been tricked by two 9-year-olds; this was a new low. 

The hours drifted by as you sat in the living room, all watching a movie together.

Your eyes were fixed on the screen, but all you could think about was John. The fact that sitting just a few feet away, but still felt so far away. 

Though if you had turned your head to look at him, you would’ve seen him looking back at you. His gaze would tell you everything you wanted to hear, but alas, that isn’t fate’s plan. 

The movie ends, and the kids groan when John tells them it’s time for bed. It’s a whirlwind, as they rush around tuckering themselves out. Entering Tommy’s room, you go over to Lily, who’s already in bed, ready for you to tuck her in. You pull the blanket up to Lily’s chin, smoothing her hair like you do most nights, your voice soft in the dim glow of the bedside lamp.

“Remember, be an adult,” Lily says, reminding you not to be a coward, essentially. 

“Goodnight, Lil,” You reply before kissing her forehead. Maybe, just maybe, you’d consider her words. 

“Goodnight, Mom,” she murmurs, already half-dreaming.

You stand slowly, and as you turn to leave, you notice Tommy looking at you. His eyes are peeking out from under his blanket, lids heavy but alert.

You pause. “Do you want me to tuck you in, too?”

He hesitates, then gives the smallest nod, like he’s not quite sure he should, but wants to anyway.

You gently and carefully tuck him into his covers like you had with Lily. “There,” you whisper. “Comfy?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, rubbing one eye. “Thanks, Mom.”

You’re shocked hearing him call you ‘Mom’. You glance down at him, already drifting off, lashes fluttering against his cheeks, completely unaware of the weight his words carried.

You swallow and manage a quiet, “Goodnight,” brushing his hair back gently before slipping out of the room. What you don’t know is that on the other side of the hallway, just out of sight, John is standing perfectly still.

He’d heard it too.

He didn’t know how to respond to it either, wasn’t sure what it meant or what came next, but for now, he was just… happy. Happy that his son felt safe with you. 

Later that night, you lie flat on your back, staring at the ceiling of the guest room, your thoughts louder than the quiet hum of the house. The shadows shift with the streetlight outside, but your mind stays frozen. You were wearing his shirt, and he was on your mind. It smelled like him, and you could imagine his arms around you. You bury your face in it, wishing that he was with you and not in a room down the hallway. 

You needed to confront what happened that night. You hadn’t talked about it since. It lingered like static between you, unspoken but never forgotten. And you couldn’t keep pretending it didn’t matter, not when it meant everything. 

You needed to know if he wanted you when you’re both sober.

So, gathering every ounce of courage, you throw off the blanket, slide quietly out of bed, and make your way down the hall to his room. The floor feels colder than you expected. Or maybe that’s just your nerves.

You stop in front of his door.

Raise your fist.

And then… freeze.

You stand there for what feels like forever, five minutes, at least, your knuckles hovering midair. Your heart pounds loud enough to fill the silence, your thoughts racing. What if he didn’t feel the same? What if that night was just a mistake?

Suddenly, the door swings open, and it startles the living hell out of you — your fist, already midair, connects squarely with his face.

“Oh fuck,” you whisper-shout, eyes wide as John stumbles back, one hand instantly flying to his nose.

“Shit,” he groans, squinting in pain and trying to blink away the surprise. “You can throw quite a punch.”

“Oh my god, John. Holy fuck. I am so, so sorry,” you ramble, panic surging through you as you hover uselessly in front of him. “Let me get ice, I’ll fix it… just, don’t die.”

You spin around and scuttle off toward the kitchen, trying to keep your footsteps light even though your heart’s thudding like a drum solo. The freezer is a disaster. No ice trays. Who doesn’t have ice trays?

You spot something. Grab it.

Moments later, you return with a sheepish expression and a frozen bag clutched in your hand.

“I couldn’t find an ice tray,” you mutter, pressing the bag gently to his face, “so I got peas.”

You sit down with him on the bed, holding the bag of peas to his nose. “That won’t bruise or anything, right?”

“No, I’ll be okay. Worried about my handsome face, are you?” John jokes, and you’re just glad he has a sense of humour about it. 

You groan and drop your forehead onto his shoulder, mortified. “This was not how I pictured this going.”

His hand gently touches the small of your back. “You were coming to talk to me, right? About… us?”

You nod against him. “Yeah. Before I assaulted you.”

“Let’s start there,” he says, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes with a crooked smile. “Because I was kinda hoping we’d finally talk about it too.”

“Really? It didn’t feel like that since you ran,” you say, voice low. You were trying not to sound hurt, but you were. He weighs like the weight of the world is on his shoulders and moves his bag of peas off his face to look at you.

“You’re right to be mad. I just… I panicked when I woke up next to you.”

“You were regretful,” you say, attempting to finish his sentence. His eyes widen, and his mouth parts like he’s about to protest.

“No, no—that’s not it at all. I was scared. That if you saw me when you woke up, you’d think it was a mistake.”

He takes a breath, shuffling closer. “You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met. You’re such a pain in the ass, always calling me out and keeping me on my toes. But also kind, and funny, and you make me feel so… alive.”

His hand lifts gently, your cheek resting against his palm. It feels perfect, like this is what fate had in store all along.

“I'm an idiot for running but I do like you. I’m falling for you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smile, heart racing. “I’m falling for you, too, John Walker.”

Pulling him in, your hands still cold and wet from holding the bag of peas, but he doesn’t care. You kiss him like it’s the only thing keeping you upright—like if you stop, everything might collapse around you. 

The two of you pull your clothes off each other's bodies but there's no rush. Each layer that comes off brings you that much closer together.

Now completely naked you sit in front of him and you can see why he has all that confidence. His fingers tangle in your hair and he's about to kiss you when you stop him.

“Will they hear?”

“There's a couple rooms between us, they won't hear as long as you're not too loud.”

“We both know that's going to be a challenge,”You say, recalling the way you were hollering when he ate you out. Your surprised that none of your neighbours issued a noise complaint.

“You need to try or I'll have to find something to gag you with,” John suggests, his voice low and sultry.

“Don't threaten me with a good time.”

He pressures you back into the bed and bites your neck hard enough to leave a big mark.

“You better hope no one asks about that.”

“Let them ask, you can explain to them exactly what I did to you.”

The marks don't stop there. By the time he's done you look like you've been attacked by a wild animal. Hickeys and love bites littered all over your skin, each one a testament of John's desire for you.

“Need you inside me,” You pant out already guiding him towards you with your legs. 

He looks down at you with hooded eyes the anticipation eating you alive before he wraps his arms around you and crarryignyou off the bed.

“Where are we—?” You start but don't finish as you notice he's plopped you down right in front of a mirror.

It's the perfect solution for when someone wants to fuck you from behind and see you fall apart of their cock. Thank everything for whoever invented mirrors.

He lightly kicks your feet apart, hands gliding up your body before resting on your boobs.

You getting back against him, trying to feel him and needing him to fuck the daylights out of you. It had been long enough and you were tired of waiting. 

“Impatient, aren't you?”

“I just need you. Don't make me suffer,” You pout, the mirror capturing the needy look in your eyes. 

“Well, who am I to say no to you?” He says before lining himself up with your entrance and pushing in.

Anticipating the screen you were about to let out, he covers your mouth with his hand.  Only the sound of his hips slapping against your ass echoing in the room. 

“Look at yourself, look at how quickly you feel apart for me,” John whispers against your ear. And he was right. You were a complete mess after only a few thrusts, eyes watery as your neck arches into him.

“So good,” You manage to get out without screaming. He grabs you by the hair, exposing your neck too him as he gives you a few more hickeys for good measure. Rocking your hips into you as he paints your neck with his lips.

Suddenly, your hips are being lifted into the air as he wraps his arms around you as if getting ready to suplex you. The way he starts fucking you is just as disorientating as a suplex would be. He's hitting your sensitive spot dead on turning your legs to jelly as they dangle in the air.

He's manhandling like you're a doll and you love it, especially when you can see it all happening in the mirror. The way his veins on his arms were popping with effort as he milks his cock with your pussy like you're a fleshlight.

“That's it, breed me, John.”

Hearing you say that only made him double his efforts.

“Is that what you want? Want me to get you pregnant?” John says, his fingers gripping your hips, clearly excited at the prospect. You nod desperately like you need to have it or you'll die.

You gasp, whimper, cry and reaching out for anything to keep you quiet.

“N-need you to fill me up,” You stutter out, “Need your cum in me.”

Then you're given a brief break when he pulls you back from the mirror, tossing you back into the bed. But two seconds don't even pass before he's feeding his cock back into your needy hole.

“J-john!”

You squeal a little too loudly and never you know it his hand is on your chin guiding your own panties in your mouth. 

“Such a pretty sight,” John says as he cages you, fingers intertwining as he pins you against the bed.

 You know you won't be able to keep going much longer. Wrecked doesn't even begin to describe what you were and your orgasm was about to knock you into a whole new dimension.

Feeling his cock twitch, you lock your legs around his waist and he finishes deep inside of you which triggers your own orgasm. His hot cum fills you up, painting your fluttering walls as he effectively breeds you.

The both of you lay there catching your breath as your orgasms pulse through you. This was what life was about; having sex with hot single dads. 

You come back to your senses, just barely and have an evil idea.

Seeing the opportunity fate had presented you for payback, you flip your positions climbing on top of him and riding him into overstimulation. A strangled cry that was supposed to be your name falling from his lips. 

“Baby…” John whimpers as his body tenses up, abs contracting lines he's already about to cum again.

You could get used to having him at your mercy, bottom lip trembling as he tries to keep it together. 

“I like seeing you like this. So desperate for me and only me.” You pulling him to your lips by his hair. He groans but he's into it, he'd let you have your way with him just as much as you let him have his way with you.

“Only you,” He replies and you believe it. 

Your hand away from his hair, letting John's head hit the mattress, before going in and leaving your own string of love bites. He bites his lip, all but writhing under your soft touch. 

“Someone might see those.”

“Then you can explain to them what I did,” You say throwing his words back in his face.

You keep fucking until you tire yourselves out, your bodies sticky and heaving. It was as good as you imagined it would be and you're kicking yourself for not giving in earlier.

John's hand rests on your thigh tracing little patterns as you play with his hair when he asks a very pertinent question.

“Are you on birth control?”

Your eyes widen when you realise you are in fact not on birth control. With the downright sad lack of sex you were having before John walked into your life there was no reason to be on it.

“No”, You gulp,“We'll talk about it in the morning?”

John hums in agreement and holds you against his chest in a vice grip that screams “You're mine.”

In the morning, you’re happy to feel John’s arms still wrapped around you, his face pressed against your shoulder, his breath slow and even. Peaceful.

“Who wants pancakes?” you call out, later in the kitchen, sliding a golden stack onto the table with a grin.

You have a slow, sweet morning breakfast—the kind where everyone’s still in pyjamas, laughing over spilt flour and slightly burnt edges.

“Oh! Let me go get the syrup. Can you show me where it is, Tommy?” you ask.

Tommy nods enthusiastically, hopping up and heading toward the pantry with you, eager to help you find it.

Back at the table, Lily narrows her eyes at John, clearly sizing him up. Then, dead serious, she delivers:

“If you hurt my mom, you die. Understood?”

John blinks, caught off guard for a second, but then a slow smile tugs at his lips. He knew exactly where she got that intensity from.

“Understood.”

“Good,” Lily says, her expression finally softening. “You make great spagbol so I'd hate to have to kill you.”

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

It’s been a few months since you and John started dating — the kind of comfortable, lived-in months where you had keys to each other's places, regularly took the kids out together, and fell asleep on the couch on each other. 

Unlocking the door, John and Tommy step inside, and they’re immediately hit with the scent of burnt toast, a low hum of music, and the unmistakable energy of mild chaos. They were here to pick you and Lily up to carpool to the Saturday morning game, but it looked like they’d walked into a warzone, and at least it smelled like pancakes.

“Morning!” Tommy calls out as he looks around, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. 

“Oh hi, guys,” you pant out from somewhere in the kitchen, out of breath and flustered. He doesn’t need to be able to see you to know you’re going through it.

Lily’s sitting at the dining room table, calmly sipping orange juice like she’s been through this before. Tommy runs over and sits beside Lily, swiping a pancake off her plate.

“Mom’s having a meltdown,” she says, totally unbothered. “It’s pretty intense. She yelled at the coffee machine.”

John raises an eyebrow and walks to the kitchen, and there you are, wearing one sock and a hoodie that you actually stole from John, batter on your cheek, surrounded by open containers and the remnants of pancake making.

“It’s so good to see you,” You cry as you practically jump into his arms. You let go of him so you can continue your spiral when he stops you. 

“Honey, you’re running around like a headless chicken. Let me help,” John offers.

You hesitate, then sigh and reach into the mess on the counter and pull out a hairbrush. “Can you finish braiding Lil’s hair for me? She’s lost her lucky cleats, and I need to find them before we leave.”

“On it.”

He kisses your forehead, warm and steady, before heading into the kitchen.

Lily watches him approach with guarded suspicion. “Please don’t mess this up.”

John grins. “Don’t worry, I’m a professional.”

He ruffles her hair on purpose, just to rile her up, and she bats his hand away with a huff and a laugh. 

Meanwhile, you’re darting around the house in full-on panic mom mode — lifting couch cushions, checking under the bed, even inside the fridge for some reason (you never know), until finally, you spot the missing shoes. Inside her toy chest, naturally, buried under a plastic tiara and two mismatched Barbie legs.

You walk back into the dining room to the sound of laughter, Tommy’s head thrown back as John tells some ridiculous story, funny voices and all. Lily’s giggling along too as he finishes tying off the braid with surprising skill.

You lean against the doorframe, heart swelling. It’s loud, it’s messy, but it’s yours. And in that moment, it hits you: this is what happy looks like.

“Found it,” you say, holding the shoes up triumphantly.

John looks up, grinning. “See? I told you everything would come together.”

You smile at him. This is perfect; he’s perfect.

“Are we ready to go?” you call out, grabbing your bag and keys.

They respond in a chorus of “Yeah!” and “Almost!” as shoes squeak across the floor.

Clambering into the car like a small tornado, Tommy buckles in and grins over at Lily. “Losing team’s parent buys ice cream,” he declares.

“Ohhh, bold move,” you say, raising your eyebrows in the rearview mirror.

“Looks like you’re buying ice cream,” John says smugly, sliding into the driver's seat, glancing at you like he already knows today’s outcome.

“In your dreams,” you shoot back, smirking as you start the engine.

This was the kind of happiness that sneaks up on you when you’re not paying attention—and all it took was yelling at a hot dad at a soccer game.