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“Isn't it weird we worked out after all? Did you know it'd be this way?”
“No, I didn't know. But I hoped.”
Natalie Wee
Yor has her heart floating in a far-away fantasy, thinking that this only happens in movies—unable to completely grasp this new joy.
When the truth is out, she’s terrified for the dream they have lived to end (she doesn't know he expects the same from her too). But they're whispering their vows again to each other, the grenade pin already on her finger when he tries to give her a new one.
Even now she's trying to grow used to the idea of it: being the wife of the most known spy, and the mother of a telephat. It’s strange, but natural. How nothing's like before, how they both aren't the same as it was. Not the civil, normal marriage of the Forgers but the real them, their real marriage now: the spy and assassin.
What she never imagined is that her husband, the greatest spy ever known, begins to like to pamper her. She never imagined herself to live this, to feel like this, this adored.
She wonders. She keeps feeling herself floating away in a dream, in a wonderland.
They're sitting on the entrance of their home, waiting to get back inside after they're back from one of the few missions they have together, gunpowder and dust and blood in their clothes. Yor fidgets under her husband's burning gaze on her, piercing to her eyes until she looks away, embarrassed. He does it everytime she fights next to him, helping him out, like he's still unable to leave his amazement whenever he watches her display her movements like a professional dancer, black and kind and dangerous, landing between his hands as he holds her waist.
When he first met the Thorn Princess (not Yor, not the sun-side of his wife), she expected him to be weirded out, and scared. But even now he’s curious and attentive, helping and trusting her, and yet, she's the same with him as well, deeply admiring him. And under his gaze she's terrified of this new joy, of this bliss of being fully known for who she is and still be this adored.
But he's looking at her and in the middle of the night it is so easy for them to wonder how they didn't let themselves to be like this before (like they are right now), how real it all was even when they first met and even before (when he was a soldier, when she was all alone, when they were both lost in this world). But he takes her hand between his, delicate like any gentleman does to the girl he loves, and kisses the tip of her fingers.
It's the way his eyes sparkle against hers, his jacket on her shoulders, the heat of the summer night in the air, his gloved hand holding her fingers, the city lights coating them just like in the first night where he proposed to her.
It's the way he reaches for her without her even noticing, he's faster and quicker whenever he's longing to have her in his arms.
Now he's kissing her, in the way he only does when Twilight does with Thorn Princess, leaving her breathless: her skin tingling so much making her blood vibrate, throat hoarse as she murmurs his name between the kisses like he can never get enough of her, like she makes his heart swollen like a fist. He always touches her like this whenever he sees her fight, or they're at work together, leaving her pinned under his fingers, at his mercy, stardust falling from calloused palms.
She never imagined herself in a life like this. She never imagined that a legendary shadow like Twilight would be leaving her this breathless, leaving soft and short but quick kisses to her lips, never letting her catch a break as he lands on her mouth again tasting her tongue—his attention so delicate yet she still feels like burning. He's tender and slow and fills her with yearning as he pushes her more and more against the door of the entrance, making sure nobody comes. Using the little time they have as he always does, giving her the sort of intimacty they can’t do at home, where Anya can see or accidently read their minds.
When she's completely pressed between the door and him, his hands holding her arms with the touch of his gloves on the skin of her shoulders that make her shiver with a deep craving, Yor puts her hands on his chest to steady herself. And it takes her a moment to notice that his heartbeat under her palm is fast, too fast and louder, even more than hers. So her eyes open a little as she tries to pull away to give him some space to breathe, to slow down, until he quickly follows her and presses her hand harder against his chest.
"Listen," his voice rasps, demanding her to take care of it—like she's the whole cause of it.
Suddenly a moan escapes her, overwhelmed by his mouth that leaves repeated kisses on her temple and down her cheek, until she lets his heartbeat lull her into a deep stormy calm.
Under his moving hands she let's out a sigh against the corner of his lips, letting herself be drowned under him. And Yor never imagined herself like this, living this: letting Thorn Princess be a wife and a mother and a simple girl being deep-kissed to the point of fainting on the corner of the entrance of her home. It's like she's now living the youth she never got to live—all the love inside of her being melted in the man in front of her. That's when she begins to follow his pace, delicate and demandant, taking his lower lip between hers and feeling him sigh loudly against her mouth.
Until Franky's voice yells at them from the window of their home.
"You two! How many times do I have to say it? I’m not your babysitter! Get up here already!”
Loid lets go of her as he gives a tired, frustrated long sigh. Yor feels deeply embarassed as she adjusts her dress while he helps her stead herself, face completely red.
But she knows he will find his way back at her later in the night.
Yor wonders how, since he's used to being called for so many names, he now doesn't feel weird being know like Thorn Princess’s husband—how that alone creates a new fear and respect for him whenever he shows up, against any enemy he faces, all because of his wife. But what she doesn't know is that he takes pride in it now, aware of this new fame, taking her codename like he's married to that part of her as well.
But now, she also finds the same pride in being called and known as Twilight's wife, whenever any spy from his agency whispers in excitement around her—making her embarrassed, but content. What she fails to notice it's his fellow partners staring at her for too long, a blush and a smirk on their faces, and then the subtle way Twilight puts an arm around her waist or her shoulders without saying a word, his fingers running up and down on the skin of her exposed back of her assasin dress, making her shiver furiously.
She eventually learns that her husband can be a bit possessive when it comes to her. She shouldn't feel this happy about it.
She likes it when he touches her wounds.
She remembers it all: coming back late at the cold night, blood covering her dress, the endless silence. She remembers silently walking to Yuri's room, feeling the warmth and relief she needed at the sight of him sleeping—calm and safe and happy despite it all. The slight shaking of her shoulders would finally stop then, and Yor would remember that it was all worth it, if it meant seeing her little brother living the bliss of normality, of the everyday living. But Yor also recalls growing older and still coming back very late at night or on the early mornings, when she was already living alone: the silence like a hard pulse, the dust at her little home, the emptiness slowly becoming the only comfort after she was tired and sore and washing herself in the bathtub. But she was alright with all of that, she used to think, a home and her brother being happy and alive even if somewhere else was enough for her. She was fine with living in loneliness for the rest of the years.
Now whenever she comes back, she would walk towards Anya's room, peeking on the door as she finds her asleep on the bed, cozy and warm as she hugs her plushies—she's safe and happy, and Yor remembers the comfort and relief she felt back when she was a kid, back when she was full of maternal warmth as well—something that never left her.
And Loid's there, waiting for her. He always is.
His calloused palms would find her exposed shoulders, lips softly brushing her forehead before he's tugging her to their room, to take care of the few open wounds on her skin—massaging the parts that aren't painful but still too sore and uncomfortable, taking care of each spot with a dedication that shouldn't make her blush, shouldn't make her this happy.
He would stay still, staring, inspecting her frame as he asks in the delicate silence, “Does it hurt somewhere else?"
Even after she says no over and over, Loid would still check on her, until he's pulling her up on his arms as if she truly was a princess—sinking on the couch as he places her on his lap. And Yor feels herself become a child again when she's nuzzling on his neck like a chicken under a warm wing, letting herself be spoiled as her husband caresses her back.
“Good night," they both whisper as she closes her eyes, letting her body relax under him.
She's safe. Not in the sense of a wound or an injurity—not in the sense that she can't protect herself on her own. No. But she remembers the long ways back and being alone, the feeling worse than a deep wound.
But now Loid (no, Twilight) is here, her husband, and he recognizes her old loneliness into his own one. So he protects her from it. Cradling her in his arms.
Sometimes her husband stares at her for a bit too long, his expression unreadable even to her. She would tilt her head in wonder, about to ask him what's wrong. But their daughter, who happens to read minds, has a confused look as she stares back at her father.
"Uh, is papa smooching mama right now?"
And he would blush furiously, turning his head as he walks away. Meanwhile Yor would feel her face burning hot with her own blush as well, before she quickly follows him.
She learns the many routines that Loid still keeps, even after all truths are out. Some as simple as using two different teaspoons for sugar and coffee, or making sure to prepare Anya's uniform every night before she has to go to school the next morning. He still keeps all those little details that he had from when she only knew him as "Loid Forger", and it's adorable to see that her husband, known as this great and powerful spy legend, has those little quirks in the domesticity—as a normal young man and as a dedicated father. However, since their identities had been mutually discovered, Twilight begins to develop other customs that are entirely about his wife.
She can't help but notice how Loid always makes sure dinner is ready as soon as she finally gets back from work (whether is at City Hall or a sudden mission she gets), and when it's really late and Anya is sound asleep he still keeps her company (she notices the flowers ready on the table, and deep down she knows that the red ones are actually for her). Her assassin weapons and tools are now sorted and classified along with his spy ones, which he has always made sure are sorted, he now puts them together with hers as well. He leaves hot water in the bathtub ready, because he knows that she always wants to treat his wounds no matter what, and he has slowly accepted this routine of hers to the point of rubbing it off on him.
He slowly lets her into his hidden world, into his many sides, the domesticity of partners in crime. A routine just for her. Yor believes that there can't exist a better husband than him in the whole world.
But there are times where he can't keep his hands away from her. Whether it's pushing her against the door or the corner of the kitchen, bending her over the table or their bed as he rips her dress and leaving her only with her black heels, making her float in bliss as they rip pleasure from each other. It's new every time, and she sinks into the feeling of floating away in an endless dream, as real as it is. Her nails run down the muscles of his arms and he vanishes into her, showing her what he’s made of.
She wonders how she has been able to live without this all her life.
She’s amazed how he does it, at how he has been able to do all of this from the very beginning. How he's able to still work on Loid Forger's life, to have the double of work of his missions, to still take care of Anya and all the house chores he did from the beginning. It's his spy suit on, the pink apron and the spoon in hand, the smile whenever he welcomes them.
When he's tired, even more than her, he still holds her in his arms. He makes sure to make the meals she likes, to have the bath ready for her, to hold her in his arms all night when she's too tired. Yor isn't used to this. It's weird, new, something that makes her feel almost dizzy. Because she was always the big sister, the mother, the lone assassin that had to take care of herself and everyone. Yet now she's here, being pampered, and it makes her feel weird and fuzzy—like she's in a place she shouldn't be but doesn't want to leave.
But those little details from him are still present, and Twilight doesn't seem to be aware of it, as if taking care of her was second nature.
Yor asks him about it one day, embarassed, when they're together in the bathtub, her face half-way under water as he's behind her, whole body relaxed against the wall, arms holding her flush.
He stares back at her for a moment, confused, and hums back when he closes his eyes again.
"You're my beloved," he answers, so relaxed that he doesn't even open his eyes, or twitch a muscle. "I just want to take care of you."
She lets herself float together with him.
He confesses her his real name one night, and she repeats it over and over in the dark, imprinting it on her forever—sharing the scars with him.
She wondered.
Sometimes the old anxiety came back at her. No matter how many times they had the conversation in the past, no matter how much he made sure to erase all her insecurities and succeed, sometimes the old questions that haunted her from before.
When they learned the truth, they had apologized to one another over and over again. He whispered to her all the truths, asking for forgiveness even if she insisted there was nothing to forgive. Even if she looked for lies or untrust in his eyes, there was none (and Yor always knew that, even before she fell for him). She believed everything about him, about Operation Strix, but it made her overthink more, raising the old question again: was she good enough to be his wife? Was she acting right before? What about now?
What if he had married someone else?
What if they had never met?
What if things worked differently in many ways? What if the whole operation failed because of their marriage? Because of her hidden real job?
But Loid, Twilight, was there making sure to erase all her insecurities for once and for all. And even though he succeeded, the haunting doubts sometimes came back, and he always gazed back at her, expecting her to say something else—to change her mind. Because she was a part of himself now, an extension of his very being, as she carries a part of him that was always supposed to be there in him. And he's never had that overwhelming feeling with other women, with other people, not until he met this family that is his now: not Loid's, not Twilight's, but of his own very person that goes beyond any identity. But how can he begin to tell her all of this? How could he make her understand?
His wife looked afraid and little, when she moved her fingers nervously.
“It’s just—", she whispered. "If maybe, you had married someone else or someone from your agency—"
But she couldn’t finish the question, too painful to even say or imagine.
So he kissed her slowly, feeling her tense against his mouth as his thumbs caressed her cheeks. Loid would tilt his head a bit, pressing slower and deeper, wanting her to feel what even him couldn’t bring to say even with all the words in the world.
And she wondered.
She wondered.
She wondered.
She wondered—
Yet suddenly, she wasn’t anymore. She was floating under his mouth, dreaming and flying, feeling the joy. And their kiss was endless, when it was her leaving him without breath.
Sometimes he can be the clingy one, like a child.
Whether Loid is exhausted from work or everything in general, even if she's waiting awake for him to come back home late at night he would guide them both to them, and climb on it.
“Come,” he would always say in a raspy but eager voice, tiredly reaching an arm to her. “Let me hold you.”
And she would climb in together with him, until he's holding her flushed against him. Everytime he comes back late in the dark night, the arms circling around her waist come with his natural smell of cologne and almonds, filling her whole.
Whenever Yor looks over her shoulder, her husband is always already completely asleep, hair messy and face coated in exhaustion, holding on her completely. On the night table next to him, she can see his gun being thrown up there, next to the insignia of his agency, and she knows his mission must have been longer than he expected. She smiles warmly, happy and maternal in her skin, when he holds her tighter even in his sleep, just like he always does whenever he’s far too overworked and away from home. She puts herself against him in a way that she knows it’s his favorite position to sleep: hugging her from behind, arms around her waist and holding one of her free hands, while the other is lazily resting over one of his arms holding hers; then, his face hiding on her hair until he finds the warmth of her neck, his lips so very close to the skin he’s almost kissing her there at every second, making her shiver. She has no chance to escape from him in that way, and feels a bliss, sinking even more against his chest—smile big and blushed on her face.
And Yor knows that her husband would never admit awake that deep down he likes being spoiled as well.
A rainy afternoon. Love bites. The frame of her washing the dishes as he wipes them by her side—arms and hands softly brushing with the drops of water hitting the windows of home. Anya takes a nap in the next room as old songs sound from the radio on the night table, the melodies slowly reaching the kitchen.
“Would you like to dance?” he asks when they're done, and she's smiling and blushing when she takes his offering hand.
As she clumsy steps on his toes and he laughs as he tries to slowly guide her, the storm outside coats them in completely.
Sometimes the old questions come back at her, haunting, an echo that feeds the insecurities. What if he married someone else? What if we never managed to meet? What if—?
Now Yor lays sprawled across him, warm and relaxed after the shock of love-making. She asks the same question again, this time without any insecurity on her voice, but only mere curiosity—she knows that things could have end different many times, in many forms. In the silence after her question, she waits for him to give his many arguments and explications again, but all her husband does is run his fingers up and down on her nacked back, enjoying the press of skin-to-skin.
What if we never got married—?
"It wouldn't have worked at all, and not just the mission, but everything," his quiet voice echoes in the room. "Not without you."
With him completely pinned under her, she straightens her head up until she's completely watching over him, propping herself onto one elbow as she asks in a whisper, voice fragile, "Why?"
The silence makes her float towards him.
"Because it's you," he simply says, as if that's the most basic fact and the biggest truth in the world. "There's no one but you."
Yor is ready to answer again, opening her mouth to get back at his words and argue even with the blush coating her cheeks and ears completely (though she doesn't really want to win the argument anymore), but he takes her cheeks with one of his hands to shut her down, and smiles at seeing her sulk a bit at this. He then places a kiss on her pretty pouty lips, until he leans in again and begins kissing her deeply, taking her breath away.
And oh, how she loves him. She loves how he erases all her fears. How an attentive father and husband and spy he is. How romantic he can be, this time without forcing or faking anything, but because he legitimately wants to. She loves how embarassed he gets as well, whenever he gives her his attention, but never erases the passionate and loving way he reaches for her—like he does right now, ready to touch her again. And Yor smiles, following his warmth in the dark, finally accepting that she's more than enough.
When she awakes in the middle of the night, the silence is cut only by the soft wind and the rumor of crickets. Until she notices the arm around her, the exposed chest her face is buried into and then the soft breathing above her. She sinks deeper into his hold, happy.
Home. She's home.
In the dust and afternoon reflecting through the window, Yor lies in the couch, swollen fingers and moving a bit slower with the additional weight, but a big smile drawing in her face as she pats the head of her daughter who is holding on her stomach, arms trying to completely wrap around her as she puts her ear against her belly.
"Mama, I still can't read what my brother is thinking!" Anya exclaims as Bond comes next to her, tail happily waving.
Yor laughs again, gazing up when her husband places a pillow behind her back, coffee in one hand and his hair all messy, as he reminds their daughter for a million time that the baby isn't born yet, until he finally stares back at her, smiling. When she gazes at him, she suddenly remembers his words—there's no one but you—and Yor smiles back, warm and fully, because she feels the same way about him, about them. Because she knows that it was worth waiting so many years alone, so many days and nights on her own, simply to be living this moment.