#Rain is also in a lovely sky blue dress

[heesmiles]

MAMA, I'M IN LOVE WITH A CRIMINAL P.JS

೨౿ ⠀  ׅ ⠀   ̇ 24k ⸝⸝ . ‌ ׅ ⸺ word count.

pairings 𝜗𝜚criminal ! jay ៹ rival family ! kang ! reader ᧁ;smut ˒ angst ˒ violence ˒romeo and juliet au

warnings ⊹₊ ⋆ smut body worship fingering (in a church) angst graphic depictions of violence dark themes (i’m being serious) kidnapping held captive death injuries forbidden romance romeo and juliet au some toxic religious beliefs small town vibes ft taehyun (txt) ft yunah (illit) ft felix (stray kids) made up names for jay's parents fictional death of real life idols

in which ୨୧He was a mystery. One you didn't know if you could solve. Hidden behind the shadows of his past and his duty to his family. He was no man for you, no. You needed a good man, a man that could provide and you knew that. So why did you want him so bad? No matter how dangerous, no matter how wrong.

★ ! rain's mic is on ⋆ ͘ . lord. I seen a tiktok edit to Britney Spears 'criminal' with jay and I literally couldn't stop thinking about it. I'm a sucker for Romeo and Juliet type of stories and jay is so perf for this. Also; I hope you guys will understand the ending to this — i tried to make it clear that i was not romanticizing the things that happened in here but also make it known that not everything is black and white in the world; sometimes decisions are more complex than just simply right or wrong. If you have any questions on my intentions with the ending; feel free to respectfully ask and i’m more than happy to explain. There will be no part two. THIS IS A REPOST.

The chapel smells like old pinewood and older secrets. You sit between your brother and your mother, stiff in your Sunday best, your spine straight as the hymnals stacked behind the pew. The stained-glass windows cast slivers of color across the congregation, blood reds, bruised purples, the blue of a cold winter sky. Light falls like confession, quietly and without permission. You are not paying attention to the sermon. You never do.

The pastor drones on at the pulpit, words like smoke dissolving into the high beams of the chapel ceiling, but your mind drifts toward the murmuring of silk dresses and the creak of wooden pews, toward the undercurrent of small-town theater playing out in god’s house. Your father sits to your left, a statue carved of stone and pride. You feel the tension in his body like a heat source; silent, simmering, the kind of rage that has long since been iced over by responsibility. Your mother holds Minji in her lap, fingers curling gently around your little sister’s arm, but her eyes are watching everyone else in the church. 

The pews smell of lemon oil and something more human, powder and old perfume, the sweat of people trying to look holy. Minji starts kicking the pew in front of you, gently at first, like she’s testing the patience of the wood. Tap, tap, tap. Then harder. Thud. Your brother, Taehyun, flicks her a warning glance, but says nothing. You lean over, whispering sharp and low, like the way your mother does when guests are over “Minji. Stop.”. She glares at you with the full offense of a seven-year-old wronged. Her lip trembles. You already know what’s coming before she opens her mouth. 

She starts to cry; loud, wet, dramatic sobs that echo off the vaulted ceiling like thunder in a quiet storm. Heads turn. A few old women in floral skirts give sympathetic glances; others look annoyed. The pastor doesn’t pause, but you feel the church shift, the way it always does when something unscripted happens. Your mother turns to you, lips tight, voice sweetly cutting.  “Take her to the bathroom,” she hisses, her nails brushing your wrist like a warning. “Now.” You nod, standing and tugging Minji’s hand. She follows, sniffling, dragging her feet like she’s on the way to execution. You step out into the aisle, heat rising in your cheeks from the attention; most eyes pretend not to watch, but you feel them. You always feel them. Small towns are built on watching. You rush to the bathroom in the very back of the church, closed off and muggy. Surrounded by a long hallway of doors upon doors with who knows what in them. 

The bathroom smells like baby powder and old tile, the kind of sterile clean that never truly feels clean. Minji is humming a made-up song to herself behind the heavy door, the sound broken now and then by the rush of the faucet and the scrape of her shoes against the floor. You lean against the opposite wall, arms crossed, eyes flicking across the narrow hallway that leads deeper into the back corridors of the church; the kind of place children are told not to wander and adults forget to remember. It’s quiet here. Too quiet. You can still hear the low cadence of the sermon through the walls, like a heartbeat underwater. But underneath that; there. A sound. A sharp rustle, then a low thump. Muffled. Human. 

You stiffen. For a moment, it’s nothing. Could be a broom falling over, could be the wind sneaking through the stained glass seams. But then it comes again: a grunt, quick and strangled. Another thud. You glance toward the end of the hall, where a door hangs slightly ajar. Beyond it, darkness pools like ink in the corners of the church’s storage room. A place for old hymnals, broken nativity statues, forgotten folding chairs. You shouldn’t move. You know this. Every instinct in you, trained by caution, by family, by a lifetime of walking straight lines, tells you to stay planted, to wait for Minji and return to your seat and never speak of what you thought you heard. But curiosity, you’ve learned, is a quiet rebellion. A whisper that grows teeth. 

So you walk. Slowly. Barefoot-quiet in your heeled shoes. You reach the door, place your palm on the wood, breath hitched in your throat like a prayer waiting to break. You lean in, ear to the crack. Another grunt. And a voice; feminine, breathy, choked with a sound you’ve only ever heard behind closed doors in dramas you weren’t allowed to watch. You flinch, but your hand betrays you, fingers curling around the handle like it belongs to you. And then you open it. 

The light from the hallway slashes across the room, carving shadows into skin. You freeze. Park Jongseong. His back is bare, muscles flexing like a marble sculpture brought violently to life. His shirt is bunched around his waist, and his hands are on a girl. A girl you recognize, barely. Yumi. Her mouth is open in a gasp that doesn’t get the chance to leave. Her dress hiked up like it never belonged to her in the first place. Their limbs are tangled, their sins so vivid it feels like you're watching a sacred text being burned. Jay looks up. His eyes catch yours like a knife catches light. They widen, not with guilt, but with recognition — you, of all people. The breath leaves your lungs like glass shattering on cold tile. You slam the door so hard it rattles the frame.  

You’re trembling, though you don’t know if it’s from shame or shock or some strange cocktail of both. You spin around, heart thudding a war drum in your chest. Minji is just stepping out of the bathroom, drying her small hands on her dress. She doesn’t notice the way your hands shake as you reach for hers. Doesn’t see the way your eyes are wide, unfocused, filled with something that shouldn’t be there. “We’re going back,” you say, voice too high, too sharp. She doesn’t argue. Just nods and follows you, humming again, a tune too sweet for the ruin in your chest. 

You walk back into the sanctuary like a ghost in a girl’s body. You sit beside your mother, folding your hands in your lap like nothing happened, like you didn’t just see sin spill in a place meant for salvation. Your father doesn't glance at you. Taehyun doesn’t notice. But your mother turns slightly, just enough to give you a once-over; the kind that sees everything and says nothing. She thinks the crying was too much for you. She thinks you’ve been startled by your sister’s fit. And maybe she’s right, in a way. You’ve been startled. You’ve been unmade. 

And across the church, hidden in the shadows of holy silence, you feel him. Jay. And it’s not just what he did. It’s not just the shame of seeing it. It’s the way he looked at you. Like you were the one caught. Like he had nothing to hide. You stare straight ahead at the altar, but your mind stays in that room, with the taste of heat and velvet breath and the raw burn of a boundary shattered. You were innocent. Now, you’re aware. And awareness, you’re beginning to realize, is the beginning of every great tragedy. 

The service ends with the gentle hush of murmured amens and the rustle of Sunday clothes brushing past one another like leaves in a breeze. The congregation begins its slow migration out of the pews, a tide of polite smiles, handshakes, and the same conversations they’ve had for years, wearing different dresses. Your mother and father slip easily into their places; your father all firm nods and clipped words, your mother like a practiced socialite, her smile painted just perfectly at the edges. You, Taehyun, and Minji remain behind, lingering in your spot like the forgotten echo of a hymn, three children carved from the same silence. 

Minji swings her legs, her little shoes knocking against the pew in soft rhythm. She’s already forgotten the earlier outburst, too busy playing with the lace trim of her dress and watching Soojin across the room with an expression that flickers between curiosity and envy. Taehyun leans back, arms crossed, eyes roving lazily over the crowd. You try not to look for him. Not for Jay. But your eyes betray you like they always do, wandering before your mind gives them permission. And there he is. Standing by his mother, tall and lean like a shadow at sunset, too sharp around the edges to be beautiful, but too striking to ignore. Jay. His hands are in his pockets, posture relaxed, but there's a glint in his eye, dangerous, knowing. His mouth tilts into a crooked, unbearable smirk when his gaze meets yours. 

Like a match lit in the back of your throat. He knows. He knows you saw. You look down instantly, cheeks burning, staring at your shoes as though they can explain how to erase memory. But there’s no forgetting the picture burned into your eyelids. No way to smother the sound of that half-stifled breath, the friction of skin, the fall of a name not yours. You hear your name drift through the air like a ripple over still water. “Come here, sweetheart,” your mother calls, her voice sweet enough to sting. You rise on instinct, smoothing your skirt with trembling hands, and walk the long aisle toward her like you’re walking a tightrope, each step balanced between ruin and restraint. 

She stands with Jay’s mother, who is dressed in pastel pink, too pristine for the venom coiled beneath her voice. Their conversation is coated in sugar, but you can hear the brittle underneath; like porcelain tea cups about to crack. “Oh, she’s grown so much,” Jay’s mother says, her smile wide and empty. “Just lovely.” Your mother laughs, high and bright like wind chimes in a storm. “Time goes fast. I can barely keep up.” 

You can feel their words curling around you like ivy, decorative and choking. You nod, bow your head politely, try not to flinch as Soojin skips up to Minji and pulls her by the hand to the patch of grass outside the chapel. They giggle, bright as birdsong, unaware of the blood history buried beneath their fathers’ names. And beside them, like a wolf in Sunday clothes, stands Jay. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. He looks at you like he’s still in that room. Like he can still see you there, wide-eyed, breathless, trembling at the threshold of something you shouldn’t have witnessed. His smirk deepens, lazy and cruel, and you feel it all the way in your stomach.

Your skin prickles. “What the hell was that look?” Taehyun mutters behind you, his tone low, edged with suspicion. He nudges you sharply with his knee, and you nearly stumble. You keep your eyes on your feet. “Nothing,” you say, too quickly. “I’ll tell you later.”

Taehyun narrows his eyes but doesn’t push. He knows you. He knows when to wait. You stand there, between your mother and your enemy’s mother, with your hands clasped and your mouth sewn shut, while your past, your present, and your sins walk the churchyard outside; laughing like children, smirking like boys who don’t believe in consequences. You think maybe you don’t either. Not anymore. 

The conversation begins to wilt, as all forced things do; smiles sagging at the corners, eyes flicking elsewhere in search of escape. Your mother and Jay’s mother trade the kind of compliments that glitter like broken glass: delicate, dazzling, and meant to cut. Behind them, laughter ripples from the church lawn, where Minji and Soojin chase each other in slow, dizzying circles, their dresses fanning out like blooming petals, too young to know the soil they’re rooted in. You glance once toward Jay, who leans against the edge of the wooden steps with his hands still buried in his pockets, his dark hair curling slightly at his temple, his expression unreadable now, less amused, more distant, as if even he feels the weight pressing down from generations above him. And then your father arrives. 

He moves through the crowd like a tide against stone, unyielding and deliberate. The chatter quiets a little wherever he steps, the way air thins before a storm. You feel him before he speaks; a presence that coils around your ribcage and makes your breath shallow. His eyes are sharp beneath the brim of his hat, and when he stops beside your mother, you see the brief flicker of something harden in Jay’s mother’s posture. “Mrs. Park,” he says, voice even, smooth, but cold in the way marble is cold. “Where’s your husband this fine morning? Too busy for the Lord?” 

She blinks once. Her smile holds, but only just. “Business,” she replies. “He’s out of town, dealing with a shipment issue in the city.” Your father’s silence stretches just long enough to make everyone feel it. “I’m sure he is,” he says finally, the words slow and heavy, like stones dropped into a still pond. The implication hangs there; thick, clinging, undeniable. 

You feel your stomach twist. Even the sun seems to dim for a moment, slipping behind a lazy cloud as if to shield its eyes. Your mother steps in like a practiced violinist interrupting a wrong note mid-performance. Her hand grazes your father’s elbow with the familiarity of a thousand such interventions. “Well,” she says lightly, too brightly, “we should be going. The roast will overcook if we linger much longer.” She turns to Jay’s mother with that polished grace only women in battle can master. “It was so lovely catching up. Truly.” 

Jay’s mother nods. Her smile has slipped further now, the edges brittle. “Of course. Always.” You’re ushered away quickly, your mother’s hand at your back firm and urging, her pace brisk as she gathers Minji from the grass, calls for Taehyun, and pulls your family together like a shepherd herding sheep out of a lion’s den. No one speaks until the church doors are behind you, the air suddenly cooler, less suffocating.

You’re nearly free. The gravel of the church path crunches beneath your shoes as your family moves forward, a cluster of matching postures and purposeful steps, like soldiers retreating from a battlefield dressed in Sunday best. The weight begins to lift from your chest, bit by bit, with every step away from those lingering glances and brittle conversations. You tell yourself you’ll forget what you saw, that it was an accident, a fleeting mistake swallowed by stained glass and holy silence. But just as you pass the old oak tree near the chapel gate, a hand snakes out and closes around your wrist. You freeze. The world seems to narrow into a pinprick.

Jay. His fingers are calloused, his grip strong; not enough to hurt, but enough to root you to the spot like a nail through your spine. He’s close. Too close. His face is calm, cold, carved from the same shadows that seem to cling to him even in the daylight. There is no trace of that smirk now. No mischief. No boyish charm. Just steel. “Don’t tell anyone what you saw,” he says, low and sharp, each word slicing into the quiet like the snap of a branch underfoot. “Or you’ll regret it.” 

There’s no drama in his voice, no raised tone, no overt threat. Just certainty. Like a promise. Or a prophecy. Your breath lodges somewhere beneath your ribs. You can’t even muster a word, only a nod, small and trembling, as your heart begins to stutter inside your chest like it’s trying to run ahead of you. He lets go as suddenly as he appeared, melting back into the periphery like a sin you can’t prove you committed. The imprint of his touch remains, hot and phantomlike, as you hurry back to your family with your head down and your thoughts unraveling at the seams. You slip into step beside them just in time to hear your father’s voice break the fragile calm. 

“If I ever catch you talking to the likes of Park Jongseong,” he says, without turning his head, “I will ship you off to a convent so fast you’ll be reciting rosaries before supper.” The words hang in the air, stark and heavy as thunderclouds. “Yes, Daddy,” you say softly, your voice a breath against the wind, your eyes fixed on the ground. And that’s it. No argument. No protest. Because even if you wanted to fight, what would you say? That you didn’t talk to him? That his hand found yours, not the other way around? That he threatened you? That you saw something you can’t unsee?

No. You say nothing. You bow your head like the good girl you’re supposed to be. Like a daughter dressed in obedience and stitched with silence. But beneath your skin, something writhes. Something that feels a lot like shame and a little like fear, but more than anything, like curiosity warped by danger. And as the chapel disappears behind you, you realize this is how it begins. Not with a kiss. But with a warning. 

That night the dining room is warm with the scent of roast chicken and buttered root vegetables, the table laid with modest care, linen napkins folded neatly, wine glasses filled just a touch too high, as though the evening itself demanded the illusion of celebration. Outside, the crickets begin their song beneath the veil of twilight, and the house hums gently with the quiet rituals of family: chairs scraping wood, silverware clinking like distant bells, Minji humming to herself between bites of mashed potatoes. 

You sit across from Taehyun, who nudges your foot under the table once, curious, wordless, but you give him nothing. Not yet. Your mother, dressed in her favorite pale blue blouse, cuts her meat with careful precision, while your father, ever the figure carved from unyielding stone, sips from his wine like it's an act of judgment rather than indulgence. The conversation flits from the mundane to the mechanical, your father talking about a shipment delay, your mother noting the fundraiser next month, Taehyun making a dry comment about work. You listen halfheartedly, moving food around your plate, your thoughts wandering back to the church, to the oak tree, to the ghost of a hand still wrapped around your wrist. But then your mother says it. 

“So,” she begins lightly, as though she’s offering a dessert menu instead of kindling a fire, “Jiyo invited us to dinner next Saturday.” The clink of your father’s knife against his plate is immediate. A small, sharp sound that lands like a gavel. 

“She what?” he says, his voice too calm, the kind of calm that thins the air. Your mother waves her hand, trying to dismiss the storm before it forms. “Just a friendly gesture. She said she’s wanted to reconnect. It’s been years since we’ve sat down like civilized people.” Your father laughs, but it’s humorless, a short, cutting sound like a blade being tested. “And you said yes?”  

“I said I’d think about it.” 

He sets down his fork, dabs his mouth with a napkin, and leans back in his chair like a man preparing to deliver a verdict. “You know how I feel about Chul. That woman chose to build her life beside a snake. What makes you think we owe them the performance of kindness?” 

“She’s not her husband,” your mother says, her tone still soft but no longer passive. “She’s always been sweet to me. To the kids. Especially when you were… gone.” The word lingers — gone — and you feel it hit the table like a dropped stone. Your father’s jaw tightens. “There’s nothing sweet about a woman who lays down with scum and lets him poison the earth around him.” 

“Well,” your mother says, straightening her back, her voice sharpening to a whisper-thin edge, “then I suppose I must be just as rotten. I married a man who once made deals with him too, didn’t I?” The silence that follows is deafening. Your father turns slowly to her, his expression unreadable but his eyes like winter; the kind of cold that doesn’t melt come spring. “Say that again?”

Your mother holds his gaze for half a second longer, a war trembling behind her lashes. But she looks away. She says nothing. Only returns to her plate and cuts her chicken in silence. And that’s it. The conversation dies. No one breathes too loudly. Minji doesn’t notice, she hums and chews and swings her feet. Taehyun reaches for the salt, eyes flicking to yours with quiet warning. Your appetite vanishes like mist in morning sun.

Outside, the wind brushes the windows like fingers trying to get in. Inside, you realize that your family is not made of glass, but of iron, bent into shape by betrayal, rusted over with resentment. And some metals, you think, cannot be reforged. Only buried. 

The night unfurls like silk, cool and gentle, stitched with stars. The backyard hums with crickets and the distant rustle of trees whispering secrets to one another in the dark. You’re curled on a poolside lounge chair, the spine of your book bent beneath your thumb, but your eyes have glossed over the same sentence three times. The page is just a veil now; something to hide behind while your mind wades through the wreckage of the day. The pool glows a soft, pale blue beneath the surface lights, and Taehyun slices through it like a blade through water. His strokes are steady, strong, the kind of motion that speaks of routine, of something he’s learned to rely on. You envy that; his ability to push everything down, to lose himself in rhythm and breath and the sound of water folding in on itself. 

You sigh and adjust your legs, the night air cool against your skin. Sometimes, in rare hours like this, you let yourself believe Taehyun might be the only one who truly sees you. The only one who knows how to read the pauses between your words, the weight behind your silences. Besides Yunah, who is far away tonight, it's always been him; your confidant, your reluctant protector, your brother. He swims one final lap, then glides to the edge and pulls himself out in a single fluid motion, water streaming off his skin in rivulets that catch the dim light. He grabs a towel from the back of a chair and rubs it through his hair, gaze flicking toward you, unreadable but searching. You wait. You know it’s coming. 

He sits at the pool’s edge, legs dangling in the water, shoulders still rising and falling from exertion. The silence thickens, until finally he breaks it. “What was that today?” he asks. “At church. Jay looked at you like…” He pauses, frowns. “And then he grabbed you. What the hell was that about?” You close your book slowly. The words don’t come easily. They never do when shame tangles them first. But this is Taehyun. If there’s anyone you can give them to, raw and imperfect, it’s him. 

“I saw something,” you begin softly. Your voice is barely a whisper, as if the night might shatter if you speak too loudly. “In the church. When I took Minji to the bathroom.” His eyes don’t leave your face. “There were… noises. From one of the storage rooms. I thought someone was hurt,” you say. “But when I opened the door, it was—” You hesitate. “It was Jay. With some girl. Yumi, I think. They were…” 

Taehyun groans, dragging a hand down his face before you can even finish. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, hugging your knees to your chest. “I slammed the door shut. I didn’t even mean to see it.” 

“And that’s why he grabbed you?” Taehyun says, his voice laced with disbelief and anger, a storm gathering behind his words. “That’s why he gave you that look; like he was daring you to open your mouth.” You nod. “He told me not to tell anyone. Said I’d regret it.” 

Taehyun curses again, sharper this time. “What a goddamn asshole.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, shaking his head like he’s trying to physically rid himself of the thought. “He treats people like shit. Always has. He walks around like the world owes him something for the family name he was born into. I don’t care how tragic his little story is; his dad screwing over ours, his mom pretending to be sweet, he’s just as rotten.” 

The silence stretches again, heavy with unspoken fears and the slow bloom of something darker. “He’s sick for doing that in a church,” Taehyun mutters, his voice low and hard. “And then threatening you about it? He’s lucky it was you who saw him and not me.” You glance at him then, at the way his jaw clenches, his hands balled into fists against his thighs. It should comfort you, the fierceness in him, the way he leaps to your defense without question. But instead, it only deepens the ache inside you. Because no matter how wrong it is, no matter how much your brother’s fury burns bright and righteous, there’s a whisper in the back of your mind that still wonders what it is about Jay Park that makes your heart stutter like that.

“I won’t talk to him,” you say quietly, more to convince yourself than him. “Good,” Taehyun says, looking over at you. “Because that boy doesn’t just bring trouble. He is trouble.” And yet even as the stars blink overhead and the pool water laps gently against tile, you feel the echo of Jay’s voice coil around your spine like smoke. You know what you saw. And worse; you know what you felt. You tuck your head against your knees and close your eyes, wishing the night could swallow the memory whole. But some things, once seen, never go quiet again. 

The house is still, cloaked in the velvety hush of after-hours, when dreams drip slow like honey and silence wraps around the walls like an old lover. The moon hangs low outside your window, its pale light slanting across your bedroom floor like an invitation, or a warning. You wake to something — not a dream, no — but the low hum of voices bleeding through the stillness, muffled and sharp, like the scrape of metal under cloth. Your breath catches. You sit up slowly, ears straining. The clock beside your bed reads just past three. The voices murmur again. 

You slip out of bed on bare feet, the cold floor biting against your skin as you tiptoe to the door. The hallway yawns long and dark before you, stretched like a corridor in some haunted chapel, the air thicker here, like it's been keeping secrets of its own. You hold your breath and follow the murmurs, each step soft, careful, barely there. The kitchen glows faintly ahead. dim yellow light spilling out like spilled whiskey beneath the doorframe. You press yourself to the wall and lean forward just enough to see. Your father stands near the table, sleeves rolled up, a glass untouched by his hand. Taehyun leans against the counter, arms crossed, face grim, eyes flickering toward two men you’ve never seen before, older, stern, the kind of men who carry weight without needing to raise their voices. They speak in hushed tones, but the tension rides every syllable, thick and bitter. 

“…can’t let them find out we’re disturbing their shipments,” one of the men says, low and urgent. “If Chul gets wind of it, he’ll burn this town down to find the leak.” Your heart jolts. Shipments? Leak? “They already suspect something,” the second man adds, fingers drumming against the table like a metronome counting down to disaster. “That little punk, Jay, he robbed one of our guys. Sent a message. You know what that means.” 

Your father’s face is carved from stone. “Of course I do.” Your stomach twists. Jay. “He’s getting reckless,” the man continues. “Acting like he’s untouchable. We don’t deal with people like that.” 

Taehyun’s voice is calm, but edged like a blade honed too long. “He can try,” he mutters. “If he comes near our side again, I’ll handle it.” Your blood runs cold. There’s no hesitation in his tone, only the promise of violence. Your hand flies to your mouth, breath trembling through your fingers. The room spins slightly, your body suddenly too small, too quiet for the weight of what you've just heard. The world feels different now, fractured. You’d known there were histories buried beneath this town, old grudges and whispered deals that had sunk roots deeper than the oak trees. But this — this was something else.

They weren’t just rivals. They were at war. And Jay, whatever he was to you, whatever strange heat curled around your being when you thought of him, was in the center of it. 

You back away from the doorway, heart racing, afraid they’ll hear the thunder of it. You scurry down the hallway like a ghost retracing its steps, back into the sanctuary of your room where shadows feel safer than light. You close the door with trembling hands and slide down the back of it, sinking to the floor. Your mind echoes with voices; dangerous, sharp-edged voices and Jay’s name spinning like a coin tossed too high. Sleep does not find you again that night. Only questions. And fear. 

The morning slips in on golden threads, soft and unassuming, the kind of light that warms the wooden floorboards and dapples the countertops in sleepy patches. You haven’t said a word about what you heard the night before those heavy truths folded into the silence between heartbeats but they thrum beneath your skin like a second pulse. Still, when your mother calls you down the hallway, brisk and bright, you answer as if nothing inside you has changed. “Put on something nice,” she says, her voice already trailing off into the kitchen. “We’re heading to the bake sale. Church is raising funds for that wedding coming up. Sohiya and Heeseung, bless them.” 

You pause with your hand on the stair rail, her words wrapping around your throat like ivy. Sohiya. She was your age, sweet and soft-spoken, with delicate wrists and laughter like wind chimes. And Heeseung, kind-eyed and quiet, the type who always held the door open and bowed his head when he prayed. The idea of them marrying, so young, so sudden, presses strangely on your chest. You dress in silence, the pastel linen of your skirt swishing against your legs like a lullaby as you smooth your hair, your reflection half-faded in the antique mirror on your wall. Outside, the town is already stirring, the sleepy streets of your village slowly waking, touched by the scent of sugar and cinnamon wafting through the breeze. 

At the town square, white tents have been strung with bunting, and tables bow beneath the weight of confections, pies with latticed crusts, sugar cookies shaped like doves, and cupcakes topped with icing roses that seem too delicate to eat. The air hums with the soft murmur of neighbors, laughter bubbling here and there like springwater. It is all so pleasant, so falsely perfect, like a painting trying to forget the shadows in its corners. You spot Yunah by the jam stall, her dark braid swinging as she waves you over with a grin, her mother deep in conversation with someone about flour prices and wedding favors. As soon as you reach her, she grabs your arm and leans in, eyes glinting with mischief. 

“Have you heard?” she whispers, the kind of tone that makes your stomach drop before you even know why. “Sohiya’s pregnant. That’s why the wedding’s so rushed.” Your brows lift in quiet shock. Yunah nods, savoring your reaction like a bite of forbidden cake. “I heard it from my cousin who heard it from Eunju, who heard it from her older sister. Her parents found out last week and demanded the wedding happen before anyone else starts talking.” 

You glance across the bake sale and find Sohiya near the lemonade stand, her hands wringing the hem of her blouse, Heeseung standing beside her like a ghost, present, but hollow. She looks tired, like someone who’s been carrying a secret too long, her smile wilting at the edges every time someone congratulates her. Your heart aches in the quiet way only girlhood understands. You’re the same age. You’ve braided your hair the same, sat in the same church pews, hummed the same hymns. But now she’s stepping into a life that feels ten years too soon. A house. A husband. A child. 

“I couldn’t imagine,” you murmur, voice soft and low, “being married right now.” Yunah shrugs, biting into a shortbread cookie. “You and me both. But you know how this town is. A scandal like that?” She shakes her head. “It’s either a wedding or exile.” You nod slowly, eyes lingering on Sohiya, on the way she keeps glancing over her shoulder like the whispers might catch up to her. The same way you feel the breath of last night’s secrets still clinging to yours. Beneath the sugar and sunlight, the square feels brittle. Like one wrong word could make it all shatter. 

It happens suddenly, like thunder splitting the hush of an approaching storm. One moment you’re nibbling on a vanilla cupcake and nodding along as Yunah whispers about scandalous bridal fittings and strict seamstresses, and the next, the air warps; sharp, brittle, buzzing like a struck wire. The shift is instant, the kind of moment that bends the bones of a quiet afternoon and sets hearts galloping. You hear it first; a voice, sharp and raw with fury. Then the low, sickening thud of someone being shoved against a wall.

Your head snaps toward the commotion, and the whole bake sale ripples with the echo of gasps and stilled conversations. Tables tremble, frosting smears, and parents clutch their children a little closer. Near the corner of the community center, just beneath the old iron sconce where flyers for choir practice flutter weakly, Jay is pinned; pressed against sun-warmed brick by another boy, taller, angrier, eyes gleaming with betrayal. It’s Felix. You know him. Sweet-talking, easy-laughing Felix who works at the town’s little mechanic shop and always smells like motor oil and mint gum. His voice is raised now, ragged and venomous. 

“You fucked my girlfriend, you sick bastard!” he roars, his arm slamming across Jay’s chest, voice loud enough to slice through every inch of sugar-sweet air. Yumi is there too, her mascara running like rivers down her cheeks, her hands fluttering uselessly in front of her as she pleads with Felix, voice breaking like porcelain in her throat. “It wasn’t like that, please,” she cries, grabbing at his arm. “Please, stop. It was a mistake — he didn’t mean—” 

But Jay only stands there, infuriatingly calm. There’s a half-lidded smirk painted across his lips, smug and gleaming like polished obsidian. “Relax, Felix,” he drawls, voice thick with venom-laced honey. “I didn’t know she was yours. She didn’t exactly say no.” The words are a match. Felix snaps. His fist connects with Jay’s jaw in a brutal arc, a punch that sounds like thunder cracking bone. Gasps scatter like doves taking flight. Yumi shrieks, and a cupcake tray crashes to the ground somewhere nearby, frosting splattering like a pink and white wound. 

Jay stumbles back from the blow, hand flying to his cheek but then he laughs. Actually laughs, a low, taunting sound, wild and cruel and so full of gall it steals the breath from your lungs. “You hit like a fucking choir boy,” he spits, blood blooming on his lower lip like a rose in ruin. People rush in, pastors, parents, volunteers with gloved hands and worried brows pulling Felix back, dragging Jay away, trying to stitch dignity back into the seams of a moment too far undone. 

The crowd swells, then parts. Jay is being hauled out by a man in a navy windbreaker and a church elder with trembling hands. But even bruised, even bleeding, Jay looks untouchable; smirking like he owns the goddamn town. And then he sees you. Eyes dark as ink, wild with something you can’t name. He meets your gaze across the chaos, across the bodies and ruined cakes and shattered calm. He winks. It’s slow. Intentional. And it sets your spine on fire. You forget how to breathe. He disappears into the crowd, the echo of that wink burning behind your eyes like the sun. 

Your heart is still galloping when the crowd begins to settle, when the ripples of scandal soften into murmurs and murmurs dissolve into sugared distractions. Parents usher children away with tight smiles and tighter hands, as if sweetness could scrub away the memory of fists and curses. Jay is gone, at least from sight. But not from your mind. “You know,” Yunah says beside you, folding her arms, her voice sharpened with knowing, “he’s no good. Just trouble in designer clothes.”

You nod, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. What you’re expected to believe. What every decent girl in this village is raised to fear. But inside you, curiosity blooms like a slow-burning match, small and dangerous. You mumble something about needing the bathroom and excuse yourself before she can press further, her eyes already narrowing in suspicion. The church looms behind you as you slip away, its whitewashed walls glowing warm in the early afternoon light, the air thick with the scent of sun-baked frosting and wilted roses. But beneath it — just barely, you catch another scent. Smoke. Acrid, earthy, wrong. 

You follow it. Each step feels reckless, like dancing barefoot on a chapel floor. Like carving your name into a hymnbook. The scent grows stronger as you round the corner of the church, your breath catching in your throat like a moth in a jar. And there he is. Jay.

He leans against the wall like he was born to break rules and balance on the edge of forgiveness. One foot propped behind him, head tilted back, the collar of his shirt loosened and stained with a drop of blood near the seam. His cigarette glows like an ember in the low light, the curl of smoke rising from it like a ghost ascending. He doesn’t look surprised to see you. In fact, he barely even glances your way. Just takes a drag, exhales slow, like the chaos he caused hasn’t even nicked his soul. Like the fight, the punch, the girl, the whispers, none of it mattered. 

“Didn’t think you’d come looking,” he says finally, voice low, almost bored. But there’s a thread of something else underneath; taunt or tease, you can’t tell. “You don’t seem the type.”  You should leave. You should turn around, march back to the bake sale, and pretend you never followed smoke down a church wall. But your feet stay planted, heart hammering as loud as the chapel bells. You don’t say a word. You just watch him, silently, like he’s a puzzle carved from shadow and sin and the ache of wanting something you know you shouldn’t. 

Jay flicks ash onto the gravel path, his eyes cutting toward you through the smoke, one brow raised lazily. His lip is split, a bloom of red painting the edge of his smirk. “You see something you like?” he asks. And for one terrible, breathless moment you don’t know the answer. The question drips from his mouth like smoke, slow, curling, coaxing. Not crude, not exactly. But not innocent, either. It lands somewhere in the charged space between your ribs and your throat, where breath gets tangled with hesitation.

You should scoff. Roll your eyes. Offer him the same disdain he so casually invites from the world. But you don’t. Because there’s something about the way he looks at you; like you’re not just another girl in a white dress and soft shoes, but someone he sees through, into. Like he knows your name and the weight it carries. Knows the walls you live behind, and the cracks that run silent and deep beneath your polished smile. You step closer without meaning to, arms crossed loosely, trying to look like the kind of girl who doesn’t care what boys like him say. But your voice comes softer than you mean for it to. “I didn’t come looking for you.” 

Jay chuckles, low and dark, like gravel skimming the bottom of a stream. He doesn’t believe you. That much is clear. He drops the cigarette to the dirt and grinds it out with the heel of his boot, the smoke hissing away like a secret being silenced. “No?” he says, stepping just slightly forward, head tilted. “Then why are you here, church girl?” You flinch a little at the nickname. It’s not mean. But there’s weight in it. A reminder of everything you’re supposed to be. Everything he isn’t. 

“I heard… noise,” you mumble, eyes darting away, to the cracked siding of the church wall. “From earlier. I just… I wanted to see if you were okay.” Jay scoffs this time, straightens, stretches the muscles in his shoulders like a wolf rising from slumber. “You mean after I got punched for screwing some girl who cried over it?” 

He says it like it doesn’t matter. Like he doesn’t matter. Like none of it, the punch, the drama, the girl, was anything more than a flicker in the dark. And still, the wound at the edge of his lip glistens like it wants to be noticed. You hesitate, then speak quietly. “That was cruel. What you did.” 

He watches you now, like your words are more interesting than they have any right to be. “Probably,” he agrees, not flinching. “But she knew what it was. I’m not the one playing pretend.” The words settle over you like dust, heavy and old and aching. You want to hate him. You really, truly do. You want to believe he’s everything your father says, that he’s rotten at the root, grown from betrayal and greed and the same sharp-edged steel his father used to cut yours down. 

But he looks at you then, and there’s something in his expression, not smugness, not bravado; but something rawer. Wearier. Like he’s been fighting a war so long he’s forgotten what peace feels like. You find your voice again, softer now. “Why do you act like this?” Jay blinks slowly, like you’ve asked him a question no one’s ever dared to. Then, in a voice barely louder than a confession, he says, “Because people already made up their minds about me a long time ago. Figured I might as well give them what they want.” It slices through the silence like a nail through silk.

You swallow, the wind tugging at your skirt, the chapel bells tolling in the distance; calling the faithful back inside, as if to protect them from boys like him and girls like you who linger too long in the gray. Jay takes a step back, pulling another cigarette from the pocket of his jacket, but he doesn’t light it. Just rolls it between his fingers like a habit he hasn’t learned how to quit. “Run along now,” he mutters, eyes dark. “Before your daddy comes lookin’. Wouldn’t want you shipped off to a convent, would we?”

And this time, when he smirks, there’s no cruelty in it. Just something almost sad. You hesitate one more breath, just one, before turning, your footsteps light on the gravel, your heart anything but. But as you leave, you can feel his gaze still on your back. Burning. Etching your outline into his memory like a prayer he’ll never speak. 

You scurry back around the side of the church, fingers fumbling with the hem of your dress, your breath still tinged with the ghost of smoke. The sun presses down hard now, warm and high in the sky, yet you feel cold beneath your skin, as though the truth of that boy has left a frostbite behind, unseen but pulsing. The bake sale has resumed its sugary rhythm, laughter bubbling from ladies with sunhats and teenagers handing out lemonade like the world isn’t slowly unraveling around you. As if it’s all sweet and simple, and boys like Jay Park don’t burn holes in the script you were meant to follow.

Yunah finds you with a look that speaks volumes, one brow raised, lips pursed slightly like she already knows you’ve done something that would make your parents spit their tea. She doesn’t say anything, though. Just hands you a paper plate with a melting brownie on it and raises her eyes toward the sky like she’s giving you a silent prayer. You offer a small, guilty smile and fall in step beside her. But your thoughts are no longer here. They wander, wild and unbidden, to the shadows of last night. 

To your bare feet on the cold wood floor, the whisper of your nightgown brushing your ankles. The hush of the house heavy around you as you crept down the hallway, drawn like a moth to the faint hum of voices in the kitchen. You hadn’t meant to listen. But once you’d heard, you couldn’t unhear it. The names, the threats, the implication that beneath all this civility was something far darker. Something like war. “We can’t let them find out we’re disturbing their shipments.” — “That little punk Jay needs to be dealt with.” — “He can try,” Taehyun had said, his voice sharper than you’d ever heard it, like a blade honed under moonlight.

Your father, standing there like a general. Cold. Unmoving. He hadn’t even flinched at the suggestion of retaliation. Of vengeance. You hadn’t wanted to believe it, but there it was, your family wasn’t just at odds with the Parks over pride and betrayal. There were stakes hidden deeper than Sunday sermons and fake smiles at bake sales. Stakes that bled and burned. Stakes that made boys disappear and fathers never come home. Jay. A name spoken like venom in your house, a boy your father swore was born from rot and ruin. A boy who had dared to look at you today with something that felt like a challenge. Or a warning.

Your fingers tighten around the paper plate in your hands, the brownie trembling on the wax paper like it knows it doesn’t belong in your grip. You don’t belong here, either. Not really. Not with your head full of cigarette smoke and secrets. Yunah is saying something beside you, but the words slip past like water on stone. You nod when you’re supposed to. Smile when expected. But inside? Inside, you’re still standing at the edge of that hallway, hearing the words that changed everything. Inside, you’re still by that church wall, staring into the eyes of the boy your father would rather see buried than anywhere near you. And worse than all of it is the ache that curls low in your belly because you don’t know if you’re scared of Jay… or of how much you want to understand him. 

That night, the air in the house is thick with something unsaid. Like storm clouds gathering just out of sight, grumbling low and slow in the distance. The walls creak with old secrets and the whispers of generations past, all of them watching, waiting. You lie in bed, the covers tangled around your legs, staring up at the ceiling where the shadows stretch like spiderwebs. But sleep doesn’t come. Not when your mind is still caught in that kitchen, when you still hear your father’s voice like thunder and Taehyun’s like flint striking stone. 

The question gnaws at you, small and sharp and relentless: what did they mean? What are they doing, what is Jay tangled in that your family feels the need to speak of him like a threat, like a ghost they can’t quite kill? So you get up. The floorboards are cold under your feet, the hallway dim save for the light spilling beneath Taehyun’s door, a golden sliver cutting the dark. You hover there for a second, unsure, your hand paused mid-air. Then you knock gently, once, twice. 

“It’s open,” his voice calls out, slightly muffled. You step in and find him hunched over his desk, textbooks spread like wings, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looks up at you, blinking like he’s surfacing from underwater. “What’s up?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting just barely. “Don’t tell me you need help with trig again.” 

You close the door softly behind you and step further into the room, suddenly unsure how to phrase what’s been burning in your chest for the past twenty-four hours. So you just say it, straight and small:

“I heard you. Last night. You and Dad.” His entire body stiffens like wire pulled taut. He leans back in his chair, pen dropping from his fingers as his face darkens with something between disappointment and dread. “You weren’t supposed to hear that,” he says, his voice low, more exhale than sound. “Conversations like that aren’t meant for young girls.” 

You bristle. “I’m only a year younger than you.” He gives you a look, half warning, half weary affection. “And that year makes a difference.” 

“No, it doesn’t,” you insist, crossing your arms. “I’m not a child, Taehyun.” He sighs and runs a hand through his damp hair, frustration flashing across his face like lightning. “You think being an adult is about age? It’s about what you’re ready to carry. And you’re not ready for this.”

“Then help me understand.” Your voice is soft but steady. “Help me understand why everyone talks about Jay like he’s poison. Like he’s something to be eliminated.” The name slips out before you can stop it. Jay. A matchstick against stone.

Taehyun’s eyes narrow. “Why do you care?” 

“I don’t —” you start, but the lie tastes bitter. He stands abruptly, the chair legs scraping against the hardwood. “You do care. Don’t lie to me.” 

You look away, your heart pounding like it wants out of your chest. “I saw him today,” you admit. “At the bake sale. We didn’t talk long. I just —” 

“You talked to him?” Taehyun’s voice cracks like a whip. “Are you out of your mind?” 

“He didn’t hurt me—” You started. 

“That’s not the point,” he snaps. “You don’t know what kind of shit he’s involved in. What his family is capable of. This isn’t some schoolyard rivalry, alright? This is blood and business. He’s dangerous.” 

“You don’t get to tell me who to talk to,” you hiss, your hands trembling. “You’re not the boss of me.” His jaw clenches so tight you swear you hear it grind. “Actually,” he says slowly, icily, “I am. Until you know better, I am.”

That does it. The fury rises in you like a storm tide. You don’t shout. You don’t cry. You just spin on your heel and stalk out of his room, your footsteps like gunshots down the hallway. Behind you, Taehyun doesn’t follow. He just lets the door click shut between you. And you, you retreat to your room with your chest heaving and your thoughts in shambles, torn between the brother who wants to protect you and the boy who might just ruin you.

But wasn’t that what drew you in the first place? Not the danger.The possibility. The proof that something — someone could make you feel something real, even if it burned.

The bell above the shop door tinkles faintly as you step out into the embrace of night. Mrs. Chen waves at you from behind the counter, her fingers still dancing with a needle and thread as the lamplight paints golden halos around her silver hair. You smile, small and tired, the weight of the day settling in your bones, and close the door behind you. The sky outside is bruised with twilight, bleeding violet and blue as the sun disappears behind the hills that cradle your little town. The street lamps blink on one by one, flickering like hesitant stars, and the cobbled road that winds through the town glows amber in the gathering dark. 

You wrap your shawl a little tighter around your shoulders, feeling the press of the cool evening air against your skin. The walk home isn’t far, just fifteen minutes down roads you’ve known since childhood, roads that smell of lilac and woodsmoke and safety. Roads that always, always felt like home. But tonight, something feels different. It begins as a whisper at the base of your neck. That sense; not quite sound, not quite sight but the ancient, instinctual knowledge that you are no longer alone. Your footsteps echo a beat behind yours, too steady to be wind, too light to be mere imagination. 

You glance back. A man. Far enough that he could still be a coincidence, close enough that your pulse begins to drum faster. You turn onto a narrower lane, hoping to lose him in the winding streets, past Mrs. Lee’s bakery now shuttered for the night, past the small chapel with its bowed iron gates and flickering candles in the windows. Your footsteps quicken. So do his. You try to convince yourself it’s nothing; just a late walker, a neighbor maybe, but your hands are starting to shake. Then you hear it. 

The scrape of shoe leather quickening. The sound of breath, heavy, sharp, close. Panic surges like a tide inside you. You break into a run, your feet pounding the pavement, your breath catching in your throat, heart clawing at your ribs like a wild animal. But you don’t get far. A hand slams over your mouth. Another arm snakes around your waist, yanking you back so fast your heels lift off the ground. You try to scream, but your voice is strangled by a palm that tastes of sweat and cigarettes, of something sickly and metallic. The world tilts. You’re dragged, stumbling, into the shadows of an alley.

The narrow passage smells of rust and rot, wet stone and old things. Your feet scrape against gravel, your knees buckle, and still he drags you like you’re nothing more than a sack of flour. “Shhh,” he hisses into your ear, breath hot and rank, “make a sound and I swear to God—” But you’re fighting now, kicking, flailing, desperate not to disappear into the black corners of this town like a ghost no one will remember. Your mind reels. You think of Taehyun. Of your mother’s soft hands. Of Jay’s cigarette smoke curling like a warning. You think: not like this. Not like this.

You are a wild thing now, thrashing and clawing like some animal pulled too soon from the womb of safety, a fledgling bird tossed mid-air and told to fly. His arm is like iron around your chest, squeezing until breath is no longer breath but gasps made of salt and fear. You kick. You scream. The sound doesn’t even sound like you, it's raw, primal, jagged like broken glass tearing up your throat. Then instinct, burning desperate inside your veins, you sink your teeth into his hand. Hard. Hard enough to feel flesh give, to taste copper and skin and filth. He howls, a sound not quite human, and in the next heartbeat, his hand rears back and strikes your cheek with such force that the world spins. White-hot pain blossoms beneath your eye like a cruel flower, petals blooming in shades of red and violet.  

You fall. Hard. The gravel bites into your palms, your knees scream, but nothing compares to the kick to your stomach that follows. A boot, sharp and merciless, lands right where your breath lives. It punches the air from your lungs and leaves you folded on the earth like a broken prayer, stars exploding behind your eyes, nausea clawing up your throat. He’s above you now, shadowed and snarling, and there’s a moment, a single, stretched-out beat of time, where you wonder if this is how the story ends. A foot raised. The night around you holding its breath. Your body too stunned to move. 

Then it happens. A blur. A sound like thunder colliding with flesh. The man is ripped away from you in an instant, tackled to the ground with such force that the cobblestones rattle. You hear the grunt of fists meeting ribs, the dull wet thud of a punch, another, another, bone against bone, like a drumbeat played by fury. Jay. He’s on top of him now, all sinew and violence, his face carved in rage, lips peeled back like a wolf in the final act of warning. His fists fly like they’ve waited their whole life for this moment, no technique, just raw, vicious instinct. The man beneath him sputters, tries to buck him off, but Jay is unrelenting. There’s blood, somewhere, someone’s and it paints Jay’s knuckles like war paint. 

“Touch her again,” he growls low, venom slithering through each syllable, “and I’ll make sure you never touch anything again.” He says it not like a threat, but like a promise carved in stone. You can’t move. You can barely breathe. You're crumpled on the cold ground, blinking through pain and fear and disbelief. But through the haze, you watch Jay stand, chest heaving, jaw clenched, the man groaning at his feet like something discarded. But Jay doesn’t stop. 

His knuckles keep rising and falling like thunder crashing on a cursed shoreline, relentless, wild, each blow drawn from something deeper than fury, a darkness that lives in his marrow, in the cracks behind his eyes. The man beneath him is coughing now, spitting blood between laughter, a cruel, rasping sound that haunts the alley like a specter. And Jay, jaw set like a guillotine, grabs the man by the collar, shoving him harder against the wall, until the bricks groan and dust spills like ash. “Who sent you?” Jay spits, voice sharp enough to cut air. “Who do you work for?” The man just chuckles, a hideous, broken sound leaking out of a bruised throat. His lip splits wider with every word, but still he smirks like a man with nothing left to lose. 

“You think I’d ever tell you?” he sneers, coughing through blood. “You’re just a kid playing gangster.” Jay growls low in his throat, an animal sound, and the next punch lands with such weight it echoes. The man gasps. You flinch. The wind shifts and carries the scent of blood and cigarette smoke into your lungs like smoke from a funeral pyre. 

You push yourself up, your limbs trembling, bones whispering protest. Pain blooms in your side where his boot struck, your face throbs, but still you crawl forward, palms scraping against gravel and broken glass. You reach them. Jay’s crouched like a storm about to strike, the man limp but still smirking like he knows some secret that Jay doesn’t. “Stop,” you say, voice hoarse, barely a whisper, like something stitched together with threadbare breath. “Jay, stop. You’re going to kill him.”

He doesn’t even look at you at first. His eyes are locked on the man, flame-red and feral, his chest rising and falling like the sea before it devours a ship. Then slowly, he turns, and there's something broken in his face, something wild and bitter and unspoken. “Good,” he says, teeth gritted like steel on steel. “He deserves to die.” The words fall heavy in the dark, sharp as glass in a chalice. You reach out, your fingers barely grazing his shoulder and shake your head, a tremble chasing the motion. “Please,” you whisper, not sure if you’re begging for the man’s life or for Jay’s humanity to return. “Please… just stop.”

He breathes in hard. For a moment, the silence stretches too long, pregnant with violence and decision. But then something flickers behind his eyes, a light sputtering back to life, weak and shaking, but there. Jay lets go. The man crumples to the ground, groaning, blood trailing from his mouth like ink from a broken pen. He stares at Jay, equal parts terrified and awed, and then stumbles to his feet, sways like a drunk ghost, and bolts into the dark alley without another word, just the sound of his heels slapping pavement like a heartbeat fleeing death. The world is quiet again. But not peaceful.

Jay turns to you, breath ragged, hands stained red. His jaw twitches as if he’s trying to say something, but the words dissolve before they can take form. He just steps forward, closing the space between you and reaches down, hand outstretched. “Come on,” he says, voice quieter now, softer, not sharp enough to cut but still trembling from what it almost became. You stare at his hand for a moment, at the boy who just fought like a monster to save you. And then, with shaking fingers, you let him pull you up from the wreckage. 

He looks at your face, and something flickers in those storm-dark eyes of his; something close to concern, but too buried beneath bravado to fully surface. His fingers ghost the edge of your jawline, not quite touching but close enough to feel like lightning waiting for the right tree. He tilts your chin ever so slightly, examining the swelling beneath your cheekbone with an expression that makes your stomach twist. “That’s going to bruise,” he mutters, voice low and sandpaper-rough. You nod, slowly, wincing as the movement stirs pain. “Why did you help me?” 

The question hangs in the cool night air like incense in a chapel, sweet, uncertain, sacred. He shrugs, a movement so nonchalant it’s maddening. Like he hadn’t just saved your life. Like the blood on his knuckles wasn’t still drying into his skin. “I don’t know,” he says, eyes flickering away like they don’t owe you the truth.

You stand there, aching and trembling and furious at the way your heart stutters beneath your ribs. You should be scared. You should be disgusted, shaken to the bone from the violence, from the pain still blooming like a bruise across your ribs. But all you can feel is warmth curling in the pit of your stomach, uninvited and undeniable. “Thank you,” you whisper, unsure if it’s gratitude or confession. 

“Don’t,” he says sharply, cutting his gaze back to yours. “Don’t thank me.” His tone is firm, but not cruel. It’s the sound of someone who doesn’t want to be a hero, who’s been told too many times that he doesn’t deserve kindness. And maybe he believes it. Maybe that’s why he can’t take your thanks, because it tastes too much like absolution. He glances down the road, toward the dim golden lights of town, and then back at you. “I’ll walk you home.”

You hesitate. “You don’t have to—”

“I’m not asking,” he cuts in, already moving. So you fall into step beside him, the silence between you stretching long and strange. Your body aches with every step, and yet you feel like you’re floating, disconnected, dazed, and tethered only by the steady rhythm of Jay beside you. Like gravity shifted the moment he touched you, and now you orbit around him whether you want to or not. When your house comes into view, a knot tightens in your chest. The porch light is still on, like an accusation. You can already imagine your father’s face, already hear the questions wrapped in thunder and expectation. Jay stops at the edge of the walkway, still cloaked in night. 

“When your father asks,” he says, voice low, “don’t tell him I helped you.” 

You blink. “What?” He looks at you, unreadable. “Make up a lie. Say you fell or something. Just don’t bring me into it.” 

There’s no warmth in his voice, no smile, not even the smirk you’ve come to expect from him. Just a quiet, raw kind of resolve, like he’s asking you to keep a secret that might burn you both if it ever saw daylight. You nod. “Okay.” Jay lingers for a moment, as if he wants to say something more, like maybe this night changed something in him, too. But whatever it is, he swallows it down and turns away without another word. 

You watch him go, his silhouette swallowed by the dark, and then you push open the door and step into the light of your home, where lies are stitched as easily as hems and truth is just another thing buried beneath silence. The bruise blooms like a purple flower across your cheekbone. The door clicks shut behind you with the hush of finality, as if the night itself is sealing the pages of its most brutal chapter. But there is no rest in this kind of silence, only the jagged inhale of your mother’s gasp as she turns from the hallway and sees your face under the dim foyer light. 

Her slippers skid against the wood as she rushes to you, hands fluttering like frantic birds, afraid to touch, afraid not to. “Oh my god — what happened? What happened to your face?” Her voice is thin, stretched like silk pulled too tight. You flinch as she brushes your cheek with trembling fingers, and just like that, the whole house stirs. Taehyun barrels in from the kitchen, his voice already rising. “What the hell happened?” 

Your father follows in his shadow, his presence larger than the room, chest puffed with immediate anger and the bitter scent of panic barely masked beneath the cologne he always wears. “Who did this to you?” The world tilts slightly as all eyes converge on you, their questions digging at your skin like teeth. You open your mouth and close it again, suddenly aware of how fragile the truth is, how it quivers in your throat, aching to be spoken but dangerous to free. 

So you breathe in, steady and slow, and choose the half-lie with the cleanest edges. “I was walking home from Mrs. Chen’s,” you begin, voice carefully pitched between tremble and calm. “There was a man… I didn’t recognize him. He followed me, grabbed me. I fought back. I bit his hand. He hit me, but then —” You hesitate, careful not to look in the direction of the window, of the dark where Jay had disappeared only moments before. “He must’ve gotten spooked. He ran off. I don’t know why.” You lower your gaze as the lie coils around your tongue, heavy and sour, but necessary. 

Your father’s fists curl at his sides, his jaw set so tight you wonder if he’ll ever speak again. “A man did this to you?” he growls, like the words themselves are fire in his throat. “He laid hands on you?” Taehyun mutters a curse and kicks the wall, hard. The sound cracks through the air like lightning, loud enough to make Minji stir upstairs. Your mother’s hand moves from your cheek to your arm, guiding you to the couch with the reverence of someone handling broken porcelain. She’s whispering something now, prayers, you think. Or maybe just the names of every saint she knows. 

“I’ll find him,” your father says, voice flat and cold. “I don’t care if I have to turn over every damn rock in this town.” 

“Dad —” you start, but he’s already storming toward the back office, barking orders to no one and everyone at once, a storm given form and fury. Taehyun sits beside you, anger still rolling off of him like heat. He watches you with eyes too sharp, too knowing. “Did you really not see who it was?”

You shake your head, slowly. “It was dark. It happened fast.” He exhales through his nose, not convinced but not ready to argue. “I’ll walk you from now on,” he says. “No more being out late by yourself.” You nod, grateful and guilty all at once, because what you’ve said isn’t the truth, but neither is it a lie that came easily. And somewhere, in the places they cannot see, your body still carries the memory of Jay’s arms, of his rage not directed at you, of the unspoken promise that lived briefly between the blood and bruises. You fold your hands in your lap and lower your eyes, letting your family whirl around you with worry and vengeance and vow. And inside, you tuck your secret into the hollow behind your ribs, where all your dangerous truths now live. 

The church bells toll in the morning like an old warning, iron-voiced and hollow, their echoes slipping through the mist that clings to the town’s narrow streets. You walk beside your family in silence, each step heavier than the last, as though shame itself has taken root in your heels. The church rises before you in its usual whitewashed sanctimony, but today it feels more like a stage and you, unwilling, have become the play. You step inside, and instantly, the weight of a hundred unspoken things crashes over you. The air is perfumed with lilies and incense, but beneath it, there's the acrid tang of gossip, hushed tones curled behind cupped hands, eyes flickering like candle flames in your direction. You feel them long before you see them: judgmental, narrow gazes that prick against your skin like nettles. Their stares are veiled in piety, but you know better. You've been raised in a house of wolves pretending to pray. 

“They say her daddy’s sins are catching up with him.”

“She was always going to be a target with a name like his.”

“Poor thing — pretty won’t protect you from retribution.”

You don’t hear the words exactly, but they ripple through the wooden pews like ghosts, rising and falling with the organ's song, threading themselves between hymns and halfhearted smiles. It’s in the way they glance at the bruise blooming on your cheek like a crushed violet, in the silence that stretches too long when you pass, in the pity dressed up like politeness. You lower your head, eyes fixed on your polished shoes, hands clasped demurely in front of you, but your pulse hammers in your ears. You don’t dare look around. You don’t need to. You can feel the weight of it all pressing down on you like a stone in your chest. The truth you swallowed last night has soured in your gut, bitter as wormwood. 

And then, you feel it. A gaze unlike the others. Heavy, direct. You look up instinctively and your eyes lock with Park Chul; Jay’s father. He is sitting two rows ahead with his family gathered close, looking too much like a king among snakes, his tailored suit flawless, his posture regal, and his smile; oh, that smile, it slithers across his face like oil on water. It doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s nothing warm there. Just calculation. Recognition. He sees the bruise. He knows what you’ve left out. The smile he offers you is slow, like a blade being drawn from its sheath.

You blink once and look away, your heart suddenly loud in your ribs. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the pew as you sit down beside your mother, who is already lost in prayer. Your father doesn’t notice, he’s too busy glaring across the aisle at Chul, his disdain worn proudly like a second suit. Jay is there, too, seated beside his sister and looking maddeningly unaffected. He doesn’t look at you. Not at first. But as the choir begins to sing and the congregation rises, you catch it, just the flick of his eyes toward yours, the shadow of a smirk tugging at his lips before he turns his head away like nothing ever happened. 

You stand, too, murmuring the first verse of the hymn without really hearing it, the sound a dull hum in your ears. And even though your lips are moving, your mind is far from holy things. Because something is shifting. And though you can’t name it yet, can’t shape it into something solid, you know, deep in the marrow of your bones, that the bruise on your face isn’t the last mark this war will leave. The sermon drones on, words thick with dust and self-righteousness, echoing off vaulted ceilings like old warnings written in blood and parchment. You sit in the pew like a ghost in borrowed skin, present in body but floating elsewhere. The preacher’s voice is meant to be comforting, commanding, divine, but today it’s just noise, a hum beneath the cold stares and whispered rumors still clinging to you like static.

Another glance. Another hushed voice behind a lace-gloved hand. You feel it before you see it, someone’s eyes skating down the bruise along your cheek like it’s a badge you chose to wear, like you’re not already burning beneath their judgment. Your heartbeat climbs, fluttering in your chest like a caged moth. The walls feel too close, the pews too narrow. You can’t breathe. You rise, a breath of movement in a still room, and excuse yourself softly. Your mother doesn’t look up. Your father is lost in thought, your brother staring ahead like he might kill a man with his eyes. You slip out the heavy doors like a shadow, letting the sun kiss your skin again, warmth meeting chill. Outside, the world is quieter. Calmer. Honest. 

The church steps are cool beneath you, stone soaked in centuries of rain and repentance. You hug your knees to your chest, resting your chin atop them, and try to slow your breathing. The air carries the faint scent of roses from the cemetery down the hill, and further still, the faintest trace of last night’s terror still lingers behind your ribs. Footsteps behind you, Soft but certain. Crunching gravel. You whip around, heart climbing into your throat. But it’s only Jay. Only. 

He stands a moment, watching you with that unreadable expression of his; half smirk, half storm and then lowers himself beside you without a word. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t lean in close. Just sits, legs stretched out in front of him like he owns the steps, the church, the whole damn town. You open your mouth to thank him again, to tell him you haven’t stopped thinking about the way he pulled you up from the darkness like a ghost from the grave, but before you can speak, his voice cuts across the silence. “Don’t,” he says. Not cruel, not cold, just… tired. Like he doesn’t need your gratitude weighing down what he did. Like it was inevitable.

Then, quieter, more tentative: “Are you okay?” Your heart stutters at the question. You nod, slow. “Yeah. I think so.” He scoffs, not at you, but at everything. The town. The church. The bruises on your face and the venom on their tongues. “Fuck what those hypocrites in there think,” he mutters, eyes flicking toward the stained glass windows above. “They’d rather pray for sinners than help them. Would’ve left you bleeding on the street if it meant saving face.” 

A breath of laughter slips from your lips. Not out of humor; more like release. Like someone finally said what your heart couldn’t. And something shifts. The air between you thickens. No longer easy, no longer innocent. It crackles now, like a wire pulled too tight or a sky just before thunder. You turn to him, and he’s already looking at you, really looking, like he sees through the bruises and the silk dress and the good-girl smile you’ve worn like armor for years. Like he sees the fire buried beneath the ashes. And before you can think, before you can flinch, he leans in. 

His mouth is warm and certain on yours, and everything slows. The birdsong quiets. The breeze stills. Your breath catches, trembling in your lungs, and for a moment you forget where you are, who you are, just lips and heat and the wild drumbeat in your ears. It’s your first kiss, and it doesn’t feel gentle or hesitant. It feels like a match struck against stone, sudden and bright and dangerous. He pulls back, just slightly, and his eyes hold yours with something fierce and searching. As though he's not sure what to say, or if he should say anything at all.

And then, with aching softness, he leans in again and places a second kiss on your lips, quieter this time, reverent almost. A kiss like a secret. A kiss like a promise or a threat. You don’t know which. Then he stands.

Doesn’t say goodbye. Doesn’t look back. Just runs a hand through his hair and strides back into the church as if nothing just happened. As if he didn’t just turn your world on its side. And you sit there alone, the stone still cool beneath you, the taste of him still on your mouth, your heart trying to decide if it should beat faster in fear or in longing. And for once, you don’t feel like a girl waiting to be told what to do. You feel like a match still burning. 

You don’t know how long you sit there, still as breath in a cathedral, the stone steps beneath you holding the echo of his kiss like holy ground. The air around you feels different now, touched by something raw and shimmering, like the hush after lightning splits the sky. Your fingers brush your lips, still warm, still tingling, as though they remember him better than your mind dares to. You’re not sure if it’s madness or magic, but whatever it is, it’s lodged in your chest like a second heartbeat, louder than the church bells, steadier than the sermon inside. Eventually, you rise, legs stiff from sitting too long, and drift back into the chapel’s shadow. Inside, the congregation is standing, voices rising in a hymn that scrapes the heavens, all sharp harmony and practiced devotion. You slip into a seat beside Yunah, whose gaze flickers toward you. There’s something unreadable in her eyes, not judgment, not surprise, just knowing. She doesn’t ask, and you don’t tell. Some moments are too fragile for words, too wild to be captured without breaking. 

The service ends, and the tide of townsfolk washes out of the church, trailing perfume and rumors behind them like smoke. Your family is gathered near the front steps, your mother speaking softly to the pastor’s wife, your father speaking not at all, his eyes like twin flints scanning the crowd for any spark of danger. Taehyun stands off to the side, arms crossed, watching Jay with the wary contempt of a guard dog who’s seen the wolf smile. You don’t say anything as you fall into step beside them. Your father reaches for your shoulder like a shield, and you let him, though you feel the ghost of Jay’s touch burning on your skin. The day unfolds like it always does in towns like this, slow and sun-soaked, filled with the scent of pies cooling on windowsills and the soft echo of children’s laughter skipping down cracked sidewalks. But inside you, something is stirring. Something restless and wild and hungry for the unknown.

At home, lunch is quiet. The clink of cutlery against porcelain plates sounds louder than usual. Your father doesn’t ask again about last night, he simply studies you, the way a man might study a cipher he doesn’t like not knowing how to read. Your mother fusses over your bruises with gentle hands and worried eyes, placing a cold compress against your cheek as though she can will the world to be kind with the sheer force of her care. Taehyun is brooding beside you, silent but heavy, like a storm that hasn’t decided whether to stay or roll in angry over the hills. But even with their eyes on you, even with their questions unasked but still hanging in the air like incense, your thoughts are elsewhere. 

You think of the alley. The press of fear. The sharp, unforgiving sting of a slap and the curling pain of a foot against your ribs. You think of the man’s laugh, hollow and fearless, and how Jay’s fists had answered it like judgment. You think of Jay’s eyes, dark as spilled ink, and how they’d searched your face like he didn’t want to miss a single flinch. How he kissed you like he had nothing to lose and everything to gain. You think, absurdly, foolishly of what it would be like to kiss him again. And that thought terrifies you.

Because you shouldn’t want him. You shouldn’t even know him. He is every warning your father ever gave you made flesh. He’s trouble written in bold letters across your stars, a promise of ruin in every glance. But still… you want to read him. You want to open that book and trace every redacted page with trembling fingers. That night, you sit on your bedroom floor, your journal cracked open in your lap like a confession booth. You don’t write his name. You don’t dare. But you write how it felt to be seen. To be saved. To be kissed like the world had stopped spinning for a heartbeat. You write it down not to remember, but to prove to yourself it happened. That it was real.

Outside, the moon hangs low, a silver eye watching you from behind thin clouds. And in the silence, your body aches, not from the bruises or the fear, but from wanting. From wondering. From knowing that something has shifted inside you, and nothing will ever be the same again. You lie back on your bed, staring up at the ceiling as though it might whisper answers to your questions. You close your eyes, but sleep does not come. Only his face. Only that kiss. Only the fire you didn’t know could live in someone like you.

The night presses against the glass like a velvet shroud, moonlight sifting through your curtains in soft, trembling strands. The tapping begins like a whisper too shy to speak, delicate and insistent, a beckoning on the other side of the veil. Your heart jolts, caught between sleep and something more primal; something curious, something afraid. Barefoot and cautious, you cross the cool wooden floor, each step light as breath, each movement threaded with unease. When you pull the curtain aside and see him; Jay, standing beneath your window like some starless phantom, your pulse skitters. He’s bathed in silver, his jaw sharp in the moonlight, a shadow of rebellion scrawled across the lines of his face. His hand lifts, two fingers beckoning you closer, not like a thief in the night but a boy who’s lost and desperate and burning with something too big for words. 

You lift the latch. He climbs in without ceremony, without sound, landing like wind on the floorboards. The air shifts the moment he enters, and suddenly your small, worn bedroom feels like a world away from everything else; everything loud, everything righteous. You barely whisper his name before his hands find your face, cradling it with a hunger that feels like grief and something more dangerous. He kisses you like he’s been drowning since birth and your mouth is the first breath of air he’s ever tasted.

It’s urgent, almost clumsy in its passion; his fingers lost in your hair, your hands curled into the cotton of his shirt, anchoring yourself to something that shouldn’t feel safe but somehow does. He walks you backwards with care disguised as chaos until your knees hit the edge of your bed, and you sit, breathless, dizzy. He follows, mouth never straying too far from yours, until the world disappears around you. But you pull away, gentle but firm, your palms pressed against his chest like a barricade made of hope and confusion. “What are you doing?” you whisper, your voice trembling not from fear, but from the storm gathering beneath your ribs.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes search your face like he’s looking for absolution in your gaze, something holy to balance the weight of whatever he carries. Finally, he breathes out, low and rough. “I needed to see you.” You sit in that truth for a beat, the quiet humming between your heartbeats. “Is everything okay?”

Jay looks away for the first time. His jaw clenches, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. “No,” he says, simply, honestly. “But it doesn’t matter.” A bitter smile plays on his lips. “My father wants something I don’t want to give him.” You nod, not asking, not pushing. There is so much you don’t understand yet, but you understand him. The way he sits next to you with shoulders heavy and breath uneven. The way his fingers find yours again like it’s instinct.  

Your hand finds his cheek. It’s a quiet gesture, a lullaby without words. “You can stay,” you whisper. He exhales, and there’s something sacred in the way his forehead falls against yours. The kiss he places on your lips this time is different; softer, deeper, unhurried. It tastes like gratitude and confession, like the first pages of a book too dangerous to read aloud. His hands settle at your waist as if anchoring himself in you, and yours curl around his shoulders. You don’t speak again. Not for a while. You let the silence fill the cracks, the breaths between kisses soft and slow, the kind that linger and promise without saying anything at all. 

And when he finally falls asleep beside you, his head resting against your shoulder, you stay awake a little longer, watching the way the moonlight rests on his lashes. You think of what it means to keep a secret this delicate. What it means to fall for someone forged in the fire your family fears. You don’t have the answers. But for tonight, you have him. And that is enough. 

Dawn unfolds like a sigh across the sky, the pale blush of morning slipping between your curtains and brushing the walls in hues of gold and rose. The world is still hushed in its waking breath, and for a moment, it feels as though time itself is holding its inhale, reverent of the quiet magic nestled between tangled sheets and slow, secret heartbeats. You stir, not with the abruptness of alarm, but the gentle unraveling of sleep's cocoon. There’s warmth beside you, not the abstract kind, but the tangible, breathing presence of someone tethered to this moment with you. Jay lies on his side, propped slightly on an elbow, his gaze fixed not on the window, nor the ceiling, but on you. 

There’s something unguarded in the way he looks at you; no smirk, no mask, no carefully constructed armor. Just eyes like storm clouds caught at sunrise, soft and searching. It startles something in your chest. You blink sleep from your eyes, voice still laced with dreams as you ask, “What time is it?” His lips quirk, that familiar crooked grin ghosting over his features as he leans closer and murmurs, “Almost six.”

Then, without waiting, without asking, he presses a kiss to your lips, slow and deep and reverent, like he’s memorizing you all over again, like he’s tracing every fragile thread that tethered last night’s chaos to this quiet intimacy. You kiss him back, languidly, until the haze lifts just enough for reality to set its feet back down. You pull away, breath brushing his cheek, and whisper, “What are we doing, Jay?”

There’s a pause, a brief flicker of hesitation across his brow. His hand, warm against your hip, stills. “We’re having fun,” he says at last, like it’s simple, like it’s something that doesn’t ache to hear. You sit up, the sheets slipping from your shoulders like petals falling in protest. There’s a steel note in your voice now, a tremor wrapped in resolve. “I’m not just some girl you kiss in the dark,” you say, eyes catching his. “I don’t do this. I don’t just… fool around. I believe in love.”

He’s quiet for a heartbeat too long. Then he sits up, too, crossing the small distance between you with one hand gently cupping your jaw. The air stills. His thumb traces the edge of your cheekbone as his eyes search yours. “You’re my girl,” he says, voice low, like a promise soaked in shadow and light. “If you want to be.” The simplicity of the words catches you off guard. No grand declarations, no silver-tongued poetry. Just that raw and real and something you can hold. 

A blush colors your cheeks like the blooming of first spring after a cruel winter. You nod, your voice a thread of warmth, “I want to be.” And then you’re kissing again, with a new kind of urgency, not born from fear or secrecy or rebellion, but from the aching sweetness of something finally named. His hands cradle you with more care this time, reverent, as if he knows what you’re giving him. Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt, anchoring him, anchoring yourself to the weightless gravity of this moment. 

It grows heated; breath against necks, hands skimming skin, whispered sighs and unspoken want. But there is no rush, no need to chase the edge of desire. You pause, your forehead pressed to his, and he doesn’t push. He stays. He breathes with you. And in that moment, it feels like the world, with all its judgment and fury, has fallen away. There is only this morning. Only this softness. Only the boy who held you under a bruised sky and the girl who believed, still, in love. 

His kisses continue softly, his hands still like steel on your hip — grazing the skin where your pajama top rose slightly. “Jay..” You trailed, breathless. 

“Yes, sweetheart?” He looked at you with heavy eyes, a dopey smile on his face. You were playing with fire here — suiting up to get burned. This was dangerous, who knew what your father and Taehyun would do if they knew Jay was in here with you, kissing you. It could very well be the end of him as you knew it. Your hands found Jay’s chest, pushing slightly to give yourself room. 

“I’m worried.” You say, your voice small. “My family hates you —” 

“Who cares?” 

“I do.” Your voice was stern. You wanted him to know you were serious. That even though you sometimes hated how protective they were, you still loved them, respected them. And what you were doing right now in your room was forbidden, it was wrong. A part of you didn’t care. You felt free from the shalkes tied to your life for the first time and you’d do anything to keep that feeling. But an equal part of you felt ashamed at the lying. You were not one to lie. Especially to your family. 

“They can’t tell you what to do.” Jay’s tone is soft like he knows this is a delicate topic. He’s using his kid gloves on you and you hated it. 

“They don’t.” You huffed. Jay’s eyebrow lifts slightly, like he doesn’t believe you in the slightest. “Fine.” You sigh. “They do.” 

“Don’t let them.” 

“It’s not that easy Jay.” 

“It can be.” He argues. “Just do whatever you want.” 

“You try doing that with a father like mine.” The words slip from your lips before you could stop them, before you could think. Because Jay did have a father like yours; they were one in the same no matter how much they hated each other. Jay looked at you like he understood your slip up. He said nothing further, he didn't need to. It was an unspoken agreement between you too. 

“Jay?” You asked warily. Jay hums, returning his lips to your collarbone as he leaves feather-like kisses over the skin. “What did your father want you to do that you didn’t want to?”

You don’t miss the way his entire body stiffens like a statue made of clay. You don’t miss the second he takes to answer and the shift in his tone. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about that, okay?.” He says, a smile on his face. You stay silent and he doesn’t elaborate, instead reattaching his lips to your neck once again. Maybe in distraction, or maybe because he really didn’t care — either way, it worked. 

You allowed him his freedom to roam your body as he pleased. and you enjoyed it, god help you — you actually enjoyed it. You craved more and like the devil himself took over you, your lips parted only a sigh leaving “Please.” 

What were you asking for? Were you ready to have sex? To lose your virginity? and to Jay of all people? You weren’t sure. It was like Jay could sense your hesitance, his head shaking no as soon as the words left your lips. “You’re not ready, baby.” He whispered into your temple. and he was right. You weren’t. So instead he stayed in your bed. Not much longer but long enough for you to really miss him when he left. 

It was barely seven am when he decided it was time to climb out the window he came from the night before leaving only a whisper of himself and the memory of his lips on your own. It was a hollow feeling, one you couldn’t show when the rest of your family awoke and crawled out of their beds. You had to act normal. Like the enemy wasn’t right under their noses only a door down for the entirety of the night. 

The morning light was pale and indifferent, stretched thin across the sky like a faded lace curtain, and you watched your father and Taehyun disappear down the long gravel drive, their figures swallowed by the dust trail of the pickup truck and the unspoken weight of their business. You didn’t need to be told anymore, it was stitched into the sharp glances exchanged over dinner, into the coded conversations that dropped into silence when you entered the room. “Shipments,” they called them. But you were no longer a child swayed by misdirection and empty euphemisms. You had lived enough in shadows now to know when men spoke in half-truths and loaded words. Still, you said nothing. Because silence, you were beginning to learn, was its own kind of survival.  

Your mother bustled through the house like a hummingbird flitting from flower to flower, gathering Minji’s shoes and packing a tin of the sweet bean buns Mrs. Lee down the road had brought over. You watched her from the hallway, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, half-lost in your thoughts until she mentioned she’d be taking Minji over to the Parks’. “To play with Soojin,” she said, not looking up from her careful wrapping. Her voice was light, casual, like it was nothing more than an errand, like the name Park didn’t hold tension in your bones and a sudden, blooming heat in your chest. “I’ll come,” you said suddenly. Your mother looked up, startled, brows slightly lifted. “You want to come?” Her voice held a delicate edge of suspicion, like she couldn’t decide if she’d misheard you or if you were up to something you hadn’t yet put into words.

You nodded, steady. “Yeah,” you said, reaching for your coat. “I’d like to see Soojin.” That was the lie you chose. And to your surprise, your mother offered no protest, just a quiet, searching look and then a simple, “Alright then.”  The drive to the Park house was quiet, save for Minji’s soft humming in the backseat and the rhythmic turning of tires on dirt. The landscape rolled past in sepia tones, fields dotted with brittle grass, fences leaning like tired old men, the occasional burst of gold where the last stubborn wildflowers refused to bow to autumn’s chill. And then, the house appeared, grand in its own weathered way, with its wide porch and flaking paint and the lingering ghost of old money, old power, clinging to its bones. Soojin ran out to greet Minji, her laugh a bright trill in the cold morning air, and your mother excused herself inside with Mrs. Park, Jiyo, with a container of red bean buns tucked beneath her arm like a peace offering. 

You lingered on the porch, pretending to straighten Minji’s jacket, pretending not to scan the windows, not to listen for footsteps. The air was thick with anticipation, though nothing had yet happened. That was the trouble with secrets, you carried them even when no one asked you to, let them soak into your skin until they colored everything. And then there he was, Jay, stepping out from around the side of the house with that same easy, careless gait, a cigarette between his fingers and mischief in his gaze. He was the storm you had let into your room, into your lungs, and now he lingered like the scent of smoke in your pillowcase. You didn’t speak, not yet. Just held his eyes as he approached, the ground between you crackling with everything unsaid, everything that was coming. And in the quiet beat before words, before explanation, you realized you hadn’t come here for Soojin at all. You’d come for this, to stand in the belly of the lion’s den and feel the pulse of something forbidden, dangerous, and real. 

The sun was yawning low over the tree line, casting molten ribbons of gold across the Park’s backyard where Minji and Soojin chased each other in dizzying circles, their laughter rising like wind chimes caught in a summer gust. You watched them through the gauzy screen door, a ghost on the threshold, your arms folded across your chest like you could contain the gnawing question that kept pressing against your ribs: Why had you come? Inside, your mother and Jiyo sat in the sitting room with glasses of white wine that caught the light like glassy honey. Their voices rose and fell in polite crescendos, dulcet tones masking whatever quiet rivalries or histories they once shared. You could see the familiar curve of your mother’s mouth as she smiled too much, nodded too often. The room felt warm and distant, like a dream you weren’t quite invited into. 

You didn’t feel like staying downstairs, didn’t feel like sitting with women who spoke in codes and closed-lip smiles. “Excuse me,” you said softly, stepping into the living room. “Could you tell me where the bathroom is?” Jiyo looked up and gave you a generous nod, her hand gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. “Upstairs, last door on the right,” she said, then turned back to your mother with the easy grace of someone who had already forgotten you were there.

You climbed the stairs slowly, each step creaking beneath your weight like a warning whispered through wood. The house above was hushed, muffled by carpet and secrets. You passed doors half-ajar, the sterile scent of lemon cleaner and aging wood perfuming the air. But when you reached the top of the stairs, something stirred in you, an itch, a pull, the unmistakable gravity of curiosity. You didn’t go to the bathroom. Not at first. You wandered. 

It started as a glance into rooms left ajar. A study with a too-clean desk, a guest room with a bed so stiffly made it looked untouched by any soul. And then, Jay’s room. You knew it without needing to be told. The door was slightly cracked, and the air that filtered through was familiar, cologne and cigarette smoke, sweat and something wild, something him. You pushed it open. The room was dim, cluttered but lived-in. A guitar leaned against the far wall, strings dusty but taut. Sketches littered the desk, some crude, some startling in their intensity. A record played softly in the corner, a crackling blues tune that seemed to slow time. You stepped further in, eyes skating across his world, your fingers itching toward the mess.

You told yourself you weren’t snooping. But then you saw them. A pair of sneakers shoved halfway beneath the bed, saturated with dried blood, crusted around the soles. Beside them, a shirt, rumbled and wrinkled, with a maroon stain blooming like a dying flower across the chest. The sight of it stilled the air in your lungs. Your mind raced. You knew that shirt. Or thought you did. It haunted the edges of memory, like a face seen once in a dream or a name heard in a half-slept conversation. Your fingers hovered above the fabric, not quite brave enough to touch it, not quite smart enough to turn away.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice broke across the room like thunder ripping through a still sky. You spun around. Jay stood in the doorway, a silhouette carved in shadow, his face unreadable and hard. The kind of hard that wasn’t born overnight, it was forged, sculpted in fire and violence and too many buried truths. “I — I was just —” you stammered, your throat drying like sand beneath sun.

“You were just what?” he growled, stepping forward. “Looking through my shit?” His eyes blazed with something you didn’t recognize. Not anger exactly, something deeper, more wounded. Betrayed, maybe. Or scared. You opened your mouth, tried to explain, tried to make it sound innocent, but the room felt like it was tilting, spinning around the bloodied cloth and your thundering heart. He was inches from you now, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. “You shouldn’t be in here,” he said, his voice low, like gravel and regret.

You swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.” But even as you said it, you knew sorry wouldn’t fix this. You stiffened, the air around you charged like the moment before a summer storm breaks, still, electric, heavy with the promise of thunder. Your fingers twitched away from the shirt just as his voice split the silence again. “I was looking for the bathroom?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Jay said, his voice cutting through the space between you like a cold blade. “You weren’t looking for the bathroom.” You turned to him, spine straightening like iron pulled through a fire, and lifted your chin. You took a breath, steadying your pulse, willing your voice not to tremble. “Don’t talk to me like that,” you said quietly, firmly, like a line drawn in the sand. “I asked you not to.” 

He blinked, thrown off by your calm. His chest rose sharply with a breath he hadn’t meant to take. For a heartbeat, the fire between you crackled without direction. Then you reached down, hand hovering once more above the bloodied shirt, and asked the question that had begun clawing at your ribs since the moment you saw it. “What is this, Jay?” Your voice wasn’t accusatory, just soft, curious, laced with something more dangerous than suspicion. Concern. “Why is there blood on this? Are you hurt?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked to the shirt, then back to your face, something stormy building behind his lashes. Without a word, he stepped forward and yanked it from your hand with a violence that wasn’t meant for you but sliced through the moment all the same. “Mind your own damn business,” he growled, gripping the fabric so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Don’t touch my things.”

The room seemed to grow smaller, the walls pressing in. Your stomach twisted, not in fear, but in hurt. The air between you, once filled with charged possibility, now choked with something unspoken and ugly. “I care about you, Jay,” you said, voice softer than it had any right to be. “If that blood’s yours, if you’re hurt, I deserve to know. I want to know.” He looked at you, really looked, his features warping with conflict. And then, so quietly it was almost a breath, he admitted, ���It’s not mine.”

You waited, searching his face for more; anything. But his jaw locked, and his eyes shuttered, and you knew he was already pulling away from you. “Then whose is it?” you asked.

“I’m not telling you.”

“Jay —”

“I said I’m not telling you.” There was finality in his voice, a wall thrown up in a single breath. The boy who kissed you on the church steps, who tapped at your window like a lover from a poem, he was gone now, replaced by something harder, colder, cloaked in silence. Something broke in you. Not loudly, not with fireworks; but quietly, like frost spreading across glass. “Fine,” you said, each syllable clipped and cool. “Keep your secrets.” 

You turned and walked past him, your shoulder brushing his as you stormed through the door. His scent lingered; cologne and smoke and something wild, and you hated how your body still ached for him even as your heart folded in on itself. You didn’t look back. Not even when you heard him sigh behind you. 

The hour was brittle with sleep, the kind of silence that makes the world feel like it’s holding its breath. Your room was bathed in pale moonlight, the only sound the hum of the summer night outside; until the tapping began again. First gentle, like fingertips brushing a memory. Then louder. More insistent. A quiet desperation dressed in knuckles against glass. You curled tighter beneath the covers, clutching the edge of your pillow like it might anchor you to the dreamless dark. You didn’t want to see him. Not tonight. Not after that. Your heart was still bruised from the words he’d thrown like stones, from the blood he refused to explain, from the locked vault of his silence that you could not pick no matter how softly you knocked.

But the tapping wouldn’t stop. You hissed under your breath, casting a panicked glance toward your door; no footsteps yet, no flickering hallway light. If your mother woke, if Minji stirred... you’d never hear the end of it. Gritting your teeth, you kicked off the covers and padded to the window, throwing back the curtain with a fury that masked the fluttering inside your chest. There he was.

Jay. Like some bruised ghost conjured from a fever dream, standing half-shadowed in the night. But the moment your eyes landed on him, all that anger, the sharp, glittering shards of it, melted away like ice against fire. His face was a tapestry of pain: lip split, eye swelling, blood at the corner of his mouth. There were scratches across his neck, and he was holding his side like something inside him was broken. You pushed the window open without a word and stepped back. He climbed in slowly, like every movement cost him something. And when his feet hit your floor, his strength gave out, he sank onto your bed with a groan, his head tipping forward, hair falling over his eyes.

“Jay,” you whispered, kneeling beside him. You reached for him instinctively, your fingers ghosting along his arm. “What happened?” He winced, jaw tightening. “Don’t ask.”

“Jay —” 

“I can’t tell you,” he said, voice raw and quiet, like something torn. “Just — don’t ask.” And for once, you didn’t. You swallowed your questions, letting them die inside your throat. Because the way he looked, beaten, broken, and showing up at your window anyway, was answer enough for now. You fetched the first aid kit you kept hidden in your drawer, remnants of scraped knees and childhood falls, and returned to him. The bed dipped under your knees as you leaned in close, the soft sound of tearing wrappers and unscrewing ointments the only conversation. He hissed as you dabbed antiseptic across a gash on his temple, his hands gripping the bedsheets so tightly his knuckles went pale. But he didn’t pull away. 

You worked in silence, your touch gentle despite the chaos churning inside you. There was a sacredness to the moment, a kind of intimacy that didn’t need words, just breath, and closeness, and the quiet permission to fall apart in front of someone. You brushed the blood from beneath his nose, cleaned the dried smear along his jaw. Your fingers trembled, not from fear, but from the unbearable tenderness that unfurled inside you. He looked at you then, through one bruised eye and one clear, his lips parted like he might say something. But nothing came out. 

You could’ve leaned in. You could’ve kissed him right then, let him forget the pain with the press of your mouth. But you didn’t. Instead, you cupped his face, thumb stroking gently beneath the bruise that bloomed like a violet shadow under his eye. “You didn’t have to come here,” you whispered. “I didn’t know where else to go.” And your heart cracked wide open. 

Jay turned his face toward you, and for a moment, he looked unbearably young. Not the smirking boy with chaos on his tongue, not the ghost who haunted alleyways with fists and fury, but just a boy, lost in something far bigger than himself. The confession was quiet, barely more than breath, but it landed heavy in the hollow of your chest. You looked at him for a long moment, searching the shadows in his face for something, fear, regret, guilt. You didn’t find it. Just sorrow. And a strange, bitter tenderness. 

There was a silence, then. The kind that doesn’t ask to be filled. The kind that stretches its limbs across a room and curls up beside you like an old friend. Your fingers found his beneath the covers, roughened knuckles grazing your softer skin, and for a time, you just breathed together, matching rhythm for rhythm, heartbeat for heartbeat. But then it spilled out of you, like water through a cracked dam. “I hate the secrets,” you said, voice catching. “I hate not knowing. I hate feeling like I’m being kept away from something real.” 

He turned to face you fully, his brow furrowed. “They’re not to hurt you,” he said. “They’re to protect you.” You scoffed lightly, the sound bitter on your tongue. “That’s just another way of keeping me in the dark.” Jay reached up, brushing your hair back from your face. His fingers were still trembling slightly from whatever hell he’d crawled out of, but his touch was impossibly gentle.

“There are men out there,” he said slowly, “much worse than the one who grabbed you in that alley. Men with no soul behind their eyes. Men who would burn down your world just because it’s beautiful. If they ever came for you…” His jaw tightened, that fire lighting behind his gaze again. “I’d burn the whole fucking earth down first.” Your breath caught. There was no poetry in his words. No soft metaphor. Just pure, raw promise. And it hit you harder than any poem ever could.

Your chest ached with a tenderness so sharp it almost felt like grief; for the boy in your bed, for the pain in his silence, for the thousand versions of himself he had to bury just to survive in the daylight. And in that quiet ache, you leaned in. Your lips met his like a secret, like a prayer. Not rushed. Not ravenous. Just two souls pressing together in the quiet lull of honesty. His hands cupped your face with reverence, as if you were something sacred he wasn’t sure he deserved. You kissed him again, and again, letting the silence slip away with every touch. This wasn’t heat. It wasn’t the chaos that had sparked between you before. This was slower, deeper, an unraveling.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and he whispered something you couldn’t quite make out; maybe your name, maybe a plea. You didn’t ask. Because for now, this moment was enough. 

The night seemed to stretch on forever, suspended in the quiet hush that followed whispered promises and half-spoken truths. The air in your room was still, yet it hummed with something electric and unspoken; like the pause before a storm or the moment just before a symphony begins. Jay lay beside you, his fingers threading gently through yours, his gaze roaming your face as if memorizing it, committing it to something deeper than memory, carving it into bone, etching it into breath. You turned to him, eyes wide and open like the night sky, and he met your gaze with the same soft wonder. No more walls. No more masks. Just two young hearts aching for something real in a world built on silence and shadows. “I want this,” you said, voice no louder than a falling feather. You were ready to give yourself to him; completely. 

Despite the lord's word of marriage before intimacy this felt right. At this moment you couldn't think of anything more perfect than this. He didn’t ask if you were sure. He saw the truth written in the way your hands trembled as they found his face, in the way your breath hitched not from fear but from anticipation, from a kind of reverent awe. The kind that settles between two people who have never done this before; who, even if one of them had, had never done it like this. 

There was no rush. No fumbling urgency. Just slow hands and soft sighs, as if the whole world had narrowed to this moment; the curve of your cheek beneath his touch, the shape of your name in his mouth, the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. Outside, the night pressed close to the glass, the moon a silver sentinel watching over the hush of your room, the silence of surrender. When you gave yourself to him, it wasn’t with hesitation; it was with trust, wrapped in candlelight and starlight and the unspoken understanding that nothing would ever be quite the same. Not after this. And in that moment, you weren’t the daughter of a man wrapped in danger. 

“Oh my god.” You sighed out as he thrust into you with a decadent ease. His touch light, his hands roaming your body like he owned it. And tonight, he did. Your moans were quiet — not to disturb your mother and sister. The soft thump of the headboard against the wall only slightly worrisome to your otherwise clouded judgement. Tonight, He wasn’t the boy with blood on his hands and secrets behind his teeth. You were just two people, breaking open beneath the weight of something delicate and real. 

He held you like something precious, like a wish whispered into the dark, and you clung to him like a prayer. And when it was over, when your bodies stilled and the world exhaled around you, you lay in his arms with your heart thudding softly against his chest. Not afraid. Not uncertain. Just full. And maybe that was the real miracle. Not the act itself, but the way you both emerged from it; still whole, but changed. Softened. Strengthened. As if love, in its quietest form, had found you in the dark and called you home.

Morning came like a whisper you didn’t want to hear; pale light creeping through your curtains, unwelcome, stirring you from the warmth left behind on your sheets. You reached instinctively for him, for the imprint of his body beside yours, but your fingers met nothing but the cool quiet of an empty bed. Jay was gone. You sat up slowly, sleep still crusted in the corners of your eyes, the remnants of last night clinging to your skin like faded stars. It wasn’t disappointment that he’d left, he was never the type to stay but a hollow ache bloomed in your chest all the same, tender and unnamed. You didn’t know if you expected a note, a goodbye, or even a lie wrapped in sweetness, but the absence spoke louder than anything. And still, you weren’t sorry. 

Your house felt changed when you walked through it; heavier, like the walls had swallowed some of the night’s truth and were trying to keep it secret. Your father and Taehyun had returned, the sound of the front door slamming earlier than sunrise pulling you halfway from sleep. Now they were back and the air was different, taut like a fraying wire. You didn’t know what had happened during their absence, but Taehyun carried the shadows like a second skin. He moved through the house like a ghost with a fuse in his chest, snapping at your mother over nothing, brushing past you with glass in his eyes, his hands shaking when he thought no one could see. You stayed out of his way. The silence between you two felt sharp and uncertain, like the edge of something waiting to be named.

Dinner that night was a ritual gone wrong, a prayer said with a mouth full of venom. You sat at the table, poking at your food, the warmth from your mother’s cooking doing little to ease the unease curling in your stomach. Your father, red-cheeked from whatever he’d been drinking, leaned back in his chair like a king on a crumbling throne, waving his glass with a crooked smirk. “That bastard Chul still thinks he can outplay me,” he muttered, voice thick with contempt. “His whore of a wife putting on fakeness like she’s better than the rest of us. And that boy of theirs... that Jay. Arrogant little shit. You can see the rot in him from a mile away.” 

You stiffened. The words felt like claws scraping against your skin, peeling away the quiet you’d wrapped around yourself. You looked up, your fork frozen in your hand. “He’s not like that,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, but it rang clear through the room like a church bell cracking. “You don’t know him.” The silence that followed was immediate and suffocating, like the house had stopped breathing.

Your father’s face twisted, his eyes going dark in an instant. The chair groaned as he shoved it back and stood, fists curling like thunderclouds. “Don’t you ever defend him again,” he snarled, the words spit like poison. “Do you hear me? If I ever hear you say that bastard’s name in this house again, I’ll lock you away so tight you’ll forget what sunlight feels like. There is nothing about that boy worth defending.” Your breath caught in your throat, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. Your mother said nothing, eyes fixed on her plate like it could save her. And across the table, Taehyun stared at you; not with anger, not with disgust, but with something else. Something unreadable. Suspicion, maybe. Or worry. Like he was trying to put together a puzzle that suddenly had one too many pieces. 

You looked away first, throat burning, fingers shaking under the table. The warmth of last night felt galaxies away now, replaced by the cold realization that you were dancing with danger on a threadbare stage. And everyone around you was starting to notice. 

Sunday returned like clockwork, draped in solemn hymns and ironed dresses, as though the week’s secrets hadn’t been dragging behind you like chains. You found yourself sitting in the same pew as always, hands folded politely, head bowed beneath the weight of a hundred stares that whispered like ghosts behind you. The church was beautiful in that way all cages are, ornate, holy, and full of silences no one dared name. Incense curled like serpent smoke in the air, clinging to your lungs, your clothes, your bones. Jay was there. He always was. 

But today, he looked like the devil in disguise, ink-black suit pressed sharp enough to wound, and that crooked halo of hair that caught the light like it knew exactly how to tempt. He didn’t sit near you, didn’t look your way. Not really. But you felt him, his presence a gravity that tugged at your pulse. You couldn’t breathe right, couldn’t think right, not when the ghost of his mouth still lingered on your skin like last night had never ended. When the time for confessionals arrived, you rose slowly, walking the familiar path toward the booths. The red velvet curtain felt like blood between your fingers, and the small wooden seat creaked beneath your weight. You bowed your head, ready to whisper into the lattice the half-truths you’d rehearsed in your mind. But then you heard it. 

The rustle of fabric. The soft push of the curtain behind you. The scent of cigarette smoke and something darker, familiar. Before you could turn, Jay slid into the booth beside you, his body too close, his knee brushing yours in the dark. “What are you doing?” you hissed in a breathless whisper, heart already rioting in your chest like a church bell rung wrong. 

He didn’t answer at first. The space was small, too small, like a secret made physical. You could feel his breath at your temple, the heat of him seeping into your skin. “Forgive me, Father,” he murmured, voice low and sacrilegious, “for I am about to sin.” You turned sharply toward him, eyes wide. But in the dark, you could barely make out his expression, just the glint of something wild in his gaze. His hand found yours in the stillness, fingers threading through with the quiet urgency of someone drowning. 

Jay—” you tried to protest, but he leaned in, forehead resting against yours, and the world tilted. “I want you so bad.” he said, softer now, like a confession. “I couldn’t help myself.” Your breath caught, and suddenly you weren’t in a church anymore. You were in a storm. You were in a dream. You were in that fragile place where you didn’t know where faith ended and he began.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, though you didn’t really want him to go. 

“I know.” His hand slipped to your jaw, tilting your face toward his. “But I had to see you. Had to let you know that you’re still mine.” His lips brushed yours like a prayer, slow and reverent, and you kissed him back, like you were trying to absolve every wicked thought in your head, every rule you’d ever followed, every chain you were ready to break. The booth was a confessional, ye; but what you whispered into each other’s mouths were not sins. They were truths. Unholy. Beautiful.

You hear a rustle next to you — the priest had entered the booth beside you, ready to hear your sins. Your eyes widened with a mix of panic and excitement. You were not the type of girl who hopped into confessionals with their boyfriend. You weren’t the type of girl to rebel in anyway, it seems like lately that's all you've been doing. 

“Good morning.” Father Lee sighed from the otherside of the confessional. “I will begin with a prayer.” Jay’s fingers danced delicately along the lines of your dress, pulling the hem up slightly. Your eyes are wild as they shoot to his face. Jay only sends you a smirk in response, his thumb ghosting over your panties. 

“Dear heavenly Father..” Father Lee starts the prayer but his words fall on deaf ears, the only thing you can concentrate on is the way Jay’s fingers feel over your clothed clit. Circling his thumb like a bird on prey. “We’ve come here today to atone for our sins..to seek forgiveness… —” 

Jay’s moves your panty to the side; now ready and bare for him. Your breath shutters in your throat as a moan threatens to spill past your lips. You let out a squeak as Jay’s fingers found your sensitive nub rubbing slowly up and down. Jay looks at you with a devious smile, lifting his unoccupied hand to shush you with a finger against his lips. Your eyes narrow in his direction. This was so wrong. So so very wrong. How could you let him do this? How could you like? 

“We ask you, our lord, to bring peace unto us. To help us prosper —” Your hand grips Jay’s shirt, a sigh leaving your lips as he dips one single finger into your entrance. 

“Oh god —” You let slip out. A wave of panic washes over you. 

“Yes.” Father Lee hummed. “Call onto our lord and our savior..” Jay adds another finger his pace quickening along with your breathing, your chest heaving and moans knocking at lips begging to be set free. 

“Yes, god.” You whimpered, moving your hips to better aid Jay’s fingers. “Yes, yes, god.” 

“That’s it.” Father Lee nods. “Call unto him, as he is the only one who can judge you.” You feel your orgasm building in your belly, clutching onto Jay’s shirt and the arm chair you sat in; the small booth becoming hot and humid. Luckily your chants had been mistaken for prayer — something you knew you’d be ashamed of once the haze of Jay’s magnificent fingers faded. 

“I’m–” You whispered low, so close you’re not even sure Jay had heard you. He continued his movement inside you catapulting you closer and closer to your end. 

“Do you accept this prayer and are you ready to confess all your sins?” Father Lee says as a closing statement. Your orgasm washes over you like a wave, pleasure coursing through your veins straight to your belly. You convulsed around Jay’s fingers withering under  his touch. 

“Yes! Yes!” You chanted “Oh my god.” Your breathing was uneven. Father Lee shuffled beside you. “We can begin..” He trailed off. 

“Tell me, what would you like to confess?” Your eyes find Jay’s once again as your breathing slows. What did you just do? Jay flashes you a smile, a shit eating grin that you can’t help but send back. You were in trouble with him, you were falling in love with him. And nothing good could come from that. 

The morning opened soft and unsuspecting, wrapped in the perfume of maple syrup and brewed coffee, the clink of cutlery on porcelain playing a quiet lullaby in the kitchen. You sat across from your mother at the table, a gentle spring of sun dripping through the curtains, casting golden bars across her cheekbones. She looked peaceful, almost angelic, eyes trained on the television in the other room, the morning news murmuring low and steady in the background. Minji giggled somewhere down the hall, her laughter like bird song, but your focus remained tethered to the screen, distant, detached, until you heard the name. “Breaking this morning,” the anchor announced, her voice dipped in solemnity, “the body of Lee Felix, was found submerged in Blackwater Lake just after midnight…”

You froze. The fork slipped from your fingers and clattered against the ceramic plate, a jarring sound in the otherwise delicate quiet of brunch. Your breath caught like fishbone in your throat, your entire body leaning unconsciously toward the screen, as if proximity could rewrite the story you were hearing. The screen flickered. A photo filled the frame. Felix.

Smiling in that too-cocky way he had at the bake sale, his cheek bruised, his eyes alight with some reckless thing. But it wasn’t his face that rooted you to the ground like a gravestone. It was the shirt. The unmistakable burgundy fabric. The fraying collar. The splash of print along the bottom edge. The shirt you’d held in your hand just days before, trembling with unspoken questions, stained with blood and too many terrible possibilities. Felix was dead. The shirt was his. You couldn’t breathe.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, a tremor leaking into the quiet air. Your mother looked up in surprise, her brows creasing with maternal concern. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” You were already moving, scraping your chair back so violently it nearly tipped, heart pounding so loud you could barely hear her through the static in your head. You mumbled something, a headache, a book you left at the shop, you weren’t sure. Lies came too easily these days. 

You didn’t wait for her permission. You ran. Out the door, down the walk, across the street. The wind caught at your hair like fingers trying to pull you back, but you didn’t stop. The streets blurred around you, faces passing in a smear of color, sunlight too bright and air too thick. Every step closer to Jay’s house was like descending deeper into a question you weren’t ready to ask, but couldn’t leave alone. You didn’t hesitate to slam your knuckles against the front door, the sound thunderous in the quiet morning, like something wild had come knocking. The door opened too slowly for your frayed nerves, and Jay’s mother stood on the other side in a lavender cardigan and confusion painted across her face. 

“Oh… hello, sweetheart,” she said, blinking at your expression. “Is everything all right?” 

“I need to see Jay,” you said, your voice sharp and breathless, like it had been carved from ice. She flinched slightly at the urgency, but stepped aside, her brows drawing together. “He’s upstairs…” You didn’t wait for further instructions. You moved past her like a wave breaching the shore, like fury given legs and purpose, charging up the stairs that once felt so intimate, so safe. Each step was a scream. Each breath a question with no answer.

His door was closed. You didn’t knock. You pushed it open with trembling hands and a pounding heart, ready to wield truth like a blade. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, thumbing through a worn paperback, the early light painting soft shadows along the cut of his jaw. He looked up, startled, and then he smiled. “Hi, beautiful. What a surprise.” You could have wept. For a moment, you could have let the lie of his voice fold around you and lull you into peace again. But the pain sharpened you, drew you back into the wound he left open. 

“Cut the bullshit, Jay,” you snapped.

He blinked, the smile faltering. “What’s going on?”

You stepped further into the room, the space between you tightening like a noose. “Felix,” you said, your voice trembling at first, but hardening with every syllable. “They found his body. He’s dead, Jay. And he was wearing that shirt, the one I saw in here. Don’t lie to me again.” Confusion flickered across his face for the briefest second. A hesitation. Then a breath. Then something darker took root behind his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking abou — ” 

“Don’t.” Your voice cracked like thunder. “Please don’t lie to me again.” A long silence stretched between you, thick with guilt, with ghosts, with things unspoken and too dangerous to name. Finally, Jay stood. His hands trembled. “I didn’t want to,” he whispered. “But it wasn’t supposed to go that far.”

“So it’s true,” you breathed, your heart crumpling like paper inside your chest. Jay looked at you then, really looked at you. Not with the charm he wore like a second skin, not with that crooked smile, but with a hollow kind of desperation. A boy unraveling in front of the girl he swore to protect. “My dad…” he began, his voice thick. “He wanted to send a message. He made me follow Felix after the bake sale. Said we had to scare him. But things got out of hand. I — he — ”

But his confession never found its end. Because in the next moment, there was a hand. It covered your mouth. Strong. Cold. Reeking of cologne and iron. You tried to scream, but it caught like thorns in your throat. You thrashed, but the grip was vice-like. Jay’s face drained of color. His eyes widened, not in confusion, but in shame. In knowing. He didn’t move. From behind you, a voice like oil and gravel poured into your ear.

“Good job, son,” it said, calm and cruel. “Right where we wanted her.” You couldn’t see him, Jay’s father, but you could feel the venom in his smile. The triumph.

Your blood ran cold. You looked at Jay. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t reach for you. Didn’t fight.

And that was the worst part of all. The boy who once held you like he could protect you from the world now stood silent as it swallowed you whole. Everything went black. The last thing you remembered was his eyes. And how he didn’t even blink. 

The world came back to you slowly, like a fog lifting, like a dream turning to ash in the light of dawn. The first thing you noticed was the ache. Not just in your limbs, which were bound tight and cold against the wooden arms of a chair, but deep in the soft animal center of you, where all tenderness used to live. There was a throb behind your eyes, a ringing in your ears that ebbed and pulsed like the ocean, but no comfort came with the sound. Just dread. Just the realization that this wasn’t a nightmare. You were really here. The room was dimly lit, bare walls stained with time and secrets. The air smelled like mildew and something sharper, gasoline, maybe, or the acrid ghost of sweat and fear. Your heart pounded in its cage as your vision cleared and faces came into focus.

Chul was there. So were two men you’d never seen before, both cloaked in the quiet violence of people who had done unspeakable things too many times to remember. One was smoking, the other cracking his knuckles absently, like he was waiting for permission to break something. You realized with a start that the "something" was you. And then there was Jay.

He stood a little apart from the others, like the guilt itself had pushed him away. His eyes were on the floor, fixed on a crack in the tile like it was the only thing holding him to this earth. Not once did he look at you. Not when you stirred. Not when you cried out his name. Not when you whispered, “Jay?” as if saying it softly enough would undo everything. You struggled against the ropes that held you, panic rising in your throat like a scream half-formed. “What is this?” you demanded, voice raw and hoarse. “What the hell am I doing here?” 

Chul stepped forward, all easy menace and slick suits, the kind of man who wore his power like a second skin. His mouth curled into something that was almost a smile, but not quite. “Payback,” he said simply, like that single word explained the rot in the walls, the bile in your throat, the betrayal eating you alive from the inside out. He crouched beside you, eyes level with yours, and you hated how calm he looked, like this was just business, like you were nothing more than a bargaining chip on a bloody chessboard. 

“Your father,” he said, voice smooth as oil, “has been a real thorn in my side. Took down nearly every operation I had on the east side. Raided our shipments, turned men against me. You know how much money I’ve lost because of that self-righteous bastard?” You stared at him, your mouth dry, your stomach turning over with nausea and fury. 

“You’re lying,” you whispered, but the words held no weight. “Am I?” Chul chuckled. “You’re just a pawn, sweetheart. Your old man declared war, and war always has casualties. You just happened to be the most… convenient.” Your gaze darted to Jay again, desperate, pleading. But still, he wouldn’t meet your eyes. He stood there, carved of stone, spine rigid, jaw clenched.

“How could you?” you asked him, voice shaking, eyes burning. “Jay, please… how could you?” But something in your question broke him. Or maybe it simply exposed what was already broken. His shoulders heaved once, and he turned abruptly, storming from the room without a single word. The door slammed behind him like a sentence passed. Your heart shattered in real time. The betrayal settled into your bones like frost. You were alone now with wolves.

Chul clicked his tongue, rising back to full height, then nodded toward the men beside him. “Don’t worry, princess,” he said. “We’re not gonna kill you… yet. But if your daddy wants to see you again, he’s gonna have to cough up something big. Otherwise?” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. They left you then, all of them, the door groaning shut with finality and locking behind their footsteps. The silence that followed was unbearable. You sat there, in that cold, empty room, and the sob that broke from you was ragged and deep, a sound pulled from the belly of something ancient and wounded. Tears fell hot and relentless down your cheeks, carving rivers through the dust on your skin, baptizing you in despair. 

You had loved him. With the kind of reckless tenderness that only a heart untouched by betrayal could offer. And he had handed you over like a gift-wrapped threat. You didn’t know what was worse, the fear of what was to come, or the ache of what had already been lost.

Four days passed like smoke curling in a dark room, slow, choking, shapeless. Time didn’t pass so much as it bled, drop by drop, down the walls of your confinement. There were no windows in that room, no clocks, no way to mark the hours except by the grumble of your stomach or the ache in your spine. You lived in the rhythm of silence broken only by the door creaking open, just once a day, when she would come. Jay’s mother.  She entered like a ghost, quiet and grieving, her eyes rimmed with something too deep for sleep to ever touch. She carried with her a tray of food, a bowl of water, a cloth to wipe the bruises blooming across your face like cursed flowers. She said little, only the softest of whispers falling from her lips, prayers to a God that seemed to have turned His back on this house long ago. She would kneel before you, brush the hair from your face with fingers trembling as if your pain were a flame she longed to touch but could not bear to hold. “I’m sorry,” she’d murmur, like a litany. “I’m so sorry.” Then she would rise and vanish once more into the dark.  

Jay never came. Not once. And that betrayal festered like a splinter lodged too deep to remove, its pain dull and constant, until it owned you. But the fifth night was different. You felt it before it began, an electricity in the air, a crackle in your bones. The door opened like a breath being drawn, sharp and final, and in stepped Chul with the air of a man who enjoyed drawing blood from stones. His suit was immaculate. His smile, not.

“Well,” he said, striding toward you with slow, deliberate steps. “Looks like Daddy dearest doesn’t want you back after all.” The words crashed over you like waves too high to rise above. You gasped, shook your head, tears leaping unbidden to your eyes. “No,” you whispered. “No, you’re lying — he wouldn’t — he —” Chul crouched, one hand on the arm of your chair, the other cupping your chin with mock gentleness. “Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he said, tone slick with venom. “This is what happens when you pick the wrong side.” And then the slap.

It came like thunder, a sudden crack of bone against bone that left your ears ringing and your vision swimming. Your head snapped to the side. The copper taste of blood bloomed on your tongue. You barely registered the movement beside him until a voice, hoarse, breaking, cut through the din. “Stop!” Jay shouted, lunging forward, only to be yanked back by one of the other men. “Don’t touch her!” Chul’s laughter was a bark, cruel and sharp. He turned to Jay and struck him hard in the stomach. Jay doubled over, coughing, and Chul’s voice hissed through the room like smoke curling from a fire.

“You idiot. You love her?” he spat. “You really think that means anything here?” Jay didn’t answer. He couldn’t. But his eyes oh, his eyes, finally found yours. And in them you saw ruin. You saw remorse painted in broad, bleeding strokes. You saw a boy unraveling beneath the weight of his choices. A boy who had built his house upon the sand and now watched the tide take it all away. Chul pulled out his phone, leaned down, and took a photo of your face. “Let’s send this to her dear old dad,” he sneered. “Maybe this’ll make him reconsider.” 

You tried to turn your head away. You tried to disappear into the corners of the room, to become so small the violence couldn’t find you. But the blow came anyway. Sharp, final, slicing through your mind like lightning through a tree. The force of it sent your chair tilting, your cry echoing like a bell rung in mourning. “Stop it!” Jay shouted again, voice ragged with desperation. Chul raised his hand for another strike, and then the world changed.

The gunshot split the room in two. It was not the loudness that startled you but the silence that followed. A breathless, unnatural stillness, as if even the air had forgotten how to move. Chul’s eyes widened in shock before his body pitched forward, collapsing like a house gutted from the inside. Blood pooled around him, red as prophecy, thick as grief. Behind him stood Jay. Still. Gun in hand.

Smoke rising from the barrel like a spirit torn from its shell. He didn’t move. Not at first. Just stood there, breathing hard, his expression hollow and carved from something beyond pain. He looked older in that moment. Not like a boy. Not even like a man. Like something ancient. A myth unraveling in real time. Then he dropped the gun, and it clattered to the floor like a broken promise. He rushed to you, hands trembling as they touched your face, your shoulders, your bindings. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, again and again, as if the words could erase the hurt, the betrayal, the pieces of yourself that now lived in a place too dark to name. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know — I didn’t know how to stop him. I should’ve — God, I should’ve…”

And for the first time, you saw him for what he truly was. Not your savior. Not your villain. But a boy who had been used like a blade and turned back to find himself stained in the blood of everyone he loved. Jay’s fingers worked at the ropes in frantic desperation, his breath uneven, ragged with panic and something else, grief, maybe, or guilt so deep it had built a home inside his lungs. The ropes gave with a rough snap, and your hands were free, your legs unbound but the weight that clung to your chest, to your soul, was not so easily unknotted.

And then the world broke open. The thunder of boots against tile. Shouts reverberating down the hall like echoes from a war long lost. The door burst open in a flurry of violence and authority, police in black and navy, weapons drawn, voices commanding surrender. Behind them, a storm of familiar faces: your father, his jaw set in stone, and Taehyun, eyes wide with something between horror and relief. And in the center of it all, your body still trembling, Jay standing before you with blood on his hands, his father’s, and maybe his own. They pointed the guns at him. They shouted at him to step back, hands up. 

He did. Quietly. No resistance. Just a soft exhale from lungs that had been holding the moment too long. His eyes flickered toward you once more, and something like peace passed through him, fleeting and fragile. The cuffs clicked around his wrists like fate locking its teeth. “No!” you cried, stumbling forward before your knees could give way. “Wait — wait!”

The officers halted just long enough for you to cross the room, pushing past your father’s grasp, past Taehyun’s startled call. You stood in front of Jay, close enough to feel the heat of him, the sorrow radiating from his skin like the fading warmth of a star long burned out. He blinked at you, the shimmer of unshed tears catching on his lashes like morning dew. You reached up, took his face between your hands as if to memorize it, every angle, every flaw, every beautiful, broken piece. And then you kissed him. Fiercely, tenderly. Like the world was ending, because maybe, in some way, it was.

Your forehead rested against his when you finally pulled away, breath mingling with breath, time halting between heartbeats. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words shattering against your skin. You didn’t say it was okay. Because it wasn’t. Not really. Not ever. But you let him hold your gaze, let him see that despite the betrayal, despite the blood and the lies, despite everything, you still saw him. Beneath the wreckage. Beneath the boy who had chosen wrong and tried, far too late, to make it right.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice breaking. “I love you.” And then they took him. Through the door and out into the blinding blue morning. The house echoed with the quiet that follows storms, shattered glass and distant sirens, your own pulse pounding in your ears like a drum. You stood there long after he was gone, your wrists red and raw, your heart half in your chest and half walking away in a squad car under the watchful eye of justice and tragedy alike. Your heart is split open like a wound that hasn’t quite healed. Like a prayer said to a god who may or may not be listening. You carry him with you, in the silence between breaths, in the spaces love once occupied. Some nights, when the wind howls just right through the trees, you swear you can hear the echo of his voice.

Not calling for forgiveness. Not even for understanding. Just saying your name like it was the only true thing he ever had. And somewhere out there, the world goes on.

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox

[jinx-xxed]

Rainy Days

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

A/N; More dad Wriothesley because I cannot stop thinking about him 🤕 it’s been raining a lot here so it inspired me to write this :P also follows a few of my headcanons from my last dad Wrio post!

Summary; With the wet season upon Fontaine, there’s no one who enjoys it quite like your daughter.

Content; Pure fluff, girl dad Wriothesley, fem reader, husband Wriothesley, playing in the rain, sweet silly family content

Wc; 1.6k

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

“Mama! Mama!” Marcille yells as she comes bursting through the back door. There’s mud caked on her shoes just as there always is when she plays outside, Marcille being eager to dig into the grass and dirt to find whatever new bugs wait in your backyard. It makes you think that maybe Wriothesley was right to give your daughter the nickname June bug. Just before she’s about to step onto your clean linoleum floors, Marcille stops herself and stays on the mat just like you told her to do when her shoes are dirty. Then she eagerly continues, “it’s about to storm again!”

You set down the rag you’d been using to dry the dishes, joining your daughter by the door. “Oh my, would you look at that.” You say, studying all the dark clouds that are rolling in from the horizon. They promise rain, possibly lightning and thunder too. “Sure seems like it, huh?”

The weather’s been this way for the past week or two, with Fontaine’s rainy season having fallen across the nation. It’s all cloudy skies, muddy yards, and puddles on the streets, along with the occasional howling winds and horrid thunder. It’s something you’ve easily gotten used to since you’ve always enjoyed the rain; that familiar smell right before it comes down, the cozy atmosphere whenever you’re able to curl up inside and listen to it tap against the windows and the roof. However, when you’re in the city, you can see the deep seated wariness in people’s eyes as they look up to the sky and see those heavy clouds, even though the prophecy has long since been buried. Some things never truly go away, you suppose.

Marcille, on the other hand, has taken after you with her love of the rain—the only difference is that she likes to be out in it. She’s been greatly enjoying playing outside in the weather and getting to see what worms wriggle out of the dirt to escape the flood. You’ve had to wrestle her into her rain coat every time while she claims she’s perfectly fine and definitely won’t get sick if she goes out in just her overalls, tee, and sneakers.

You hear the first few drops hit the ground before they steadily grow in number and speed and next thing you know it’s fully coming down. Marcille bounces on her toes, excitement written all over her face. “Mama! Can I go play?” She asks, struggling to hold herself back from just darting out into the downpour.

“Yes, Marci, but you know the rules, you need to get into your rain gear first.” You tell her, already digging into the closet for her cute light blue coat and frog boots. She begrudgingly lets you get her all dressed, the finishing touch being pulling the hood securely over her black and gray hair. “And remember, if there’s any thunder you come back inside.”

“I know, mama.” She groans, even as her eyes sparkle with anticipation.

“Alright, go on.” You say with a chuckle.

Marcille doesn’t need any more permission than that, immediately turning and darting out the door, flying off the steps, and into the rain. She giggles happily, spinning around in the droplets and flinging water off her sleeves. You watch her from the safety of your blissfully covered porch, instead content to just feel the nice and cool misted breeze blowing in. There’s a small smile on your face while you listen to the way she laughs and splashes about. You’re glad your daughter is such a happy kid, full of a love for life that’s changed both you and Wriothesley more than you could realize. Her joy is contagious, her fascination with every little thing refreshing. She’s one of the best things to happen to you two without a doubt.

You’re broken out of your thoughts by a hand on your back, making you jump. You look to your left and struggle to not burst out laughing at the sight of your husband.

Wriothesley’s absolutely soaked, his hair plastered to his forehead and his jacket dripping onto the porch. He smirks, clearly not too bothered by it. “Hey, sweetheart. You can laugh.”

You do just that, unable to get over the fact that he looks like a drowned dog. You pull him in despite the water drenching his clothes, brushing the hair from his face and kissing him while his hands find their familiar place on your hips. You hold his cheeks as you pull away, his skin a little cold from the rain. “Did you forget your umbrella?” You say through a giggle.

He sighs in defeat. “Yes, I did. I was too eager to come home.”

You hum. “You are back awful early. Did something happen?”

He shakes his head. “It’s more what didn’t happen. Barely any substantial paperwork, and nobody decided to cause trouble so I was… encouraged to leave early.”

You can only imagine it was probably Sigewinne and Wriothesley’s new assistants haggling him to leave the office and just go on home. You can’t complain really, you’re glad he’s been open to changing his work ethic so he can be with you and Marcille more often, so he can have things outside of the Fortress. He still handles 99% of Meropide of course, but he’s at least beginning to share a small part of the burden. It’s clearly gotten rid of some of the tension in his shoulders, even if he refuses to admit it. Both you and Sigewinne can see it clear as day, anyway.

Wriothesley kisses you again before looking to Marcille who’s crouched close to the ground, intensely watching something that’s probably without a doubt a bug. “Is she having fun?” He asks you, fondness instantly making his features soften.

You huff a laugh. “Of course she is, she’s been having a ball with this weather.” You then call, “Marci! Papa’s home!”

You giggle when your daughter’s head snaps up and you hear her gasp, little splashes following her rapid footsteps as she runs through the yard and back up the steps. She practically tackles her father’s legs, Wriothesley barely stumbling while he chuckles. He scoops her up with ease, both of them equally soaked by the rain. He brushes a stray droplet off her cheek with his thumb as she beams. “Hey, June bug. You have a good day?”

She puts her little arms around his neck and nods eagerly. “Mhm! Mama took me to the bakery today! We got something for you too, papa!”

Wriothesley’s eyes widen. “Really? You did? Thank you, princess, that’s very sweet.”

She looks triumphant, pleased at the memory of her insisting you get Wriothesley something at the bakery too—even if you were already planning on it. She took a long time deciding on something, looking through every option in the bake case. She at last settled on a vanilla teacake, proudly telling the baker, Augustine, her choice so he could pull it out for her. He played along, telling her she picked a very good one and she had grinned.

“Oh! Then we had lunch with Gracie and her mama at the sandwich place! It was so good, I wanna go again tomorrow! And, and, we went to the bookstore and got new books for me to read!” Marcille explains.

Marcille’s school is currently on their spring break, which means you’ve gotten to spend the last couple days with your daughter. It’s been nice, taking her around Fontaine and having her help you where she can with your inventor work. She’s always curious about what you’re tinkering with and you end up relenting, letting her see the less dangerous bits. It’ll be nice when Wriothesley has time off tomorrow so he can have his own day with Marcille—you know she’s been looking forward to it.

“You’ll have to show me later, June bug. Sure sounds like you had a fun day, huh?” Wriothesley asks as he sets her down, though she still clings to his pant leg. She nods again, then gazing longingly at the rain that’s still heavily falling. You already know what she’s going to ask before she even looks up at her father.

She blinks innocently at him. “Papa, will you come play with me?”

He sighs and smiles, putting a hand on her head. He’s unbelievably weak to her. “Of course, princess. Let me just get my rain coat so I don’t get even more wet, alright?”

“Yay!” Marcille beams, then darting off back into the yard and immediately jumping in whatever puddles she can find.

“Won’t you join us, my love?” Wriothesley asks you teasingly, holding out his hand to you and laughing as he watches your face scrunch with distaste at having to go out in the downpour. But despite that, you give in and take his hand anyway because otherwise you’d feel like you’re missing out on something.

You both put on your rain coats, his black and yours a dark blue, and you tug on your rain boots. Now shielded, you two join your daughter. Marcille squeals happily when she sees that you’ve decided to come out into the rain as well, her joy undoubtedly spreading to you once again as you match her grin.

While most are hidden inside their homes, waiting out the bad weather, the three of you embrace it. You and Marcille dance around and she asks Wriothesley to make little ice sculptures from the water, one of his secret talents he only brings out for you two. He makes tiny animals and flowers in an instant, even creating beetles and butterflies in the palms of his hands—his newest creations that took a lot of perfecting. You watch as Marcille laughs and Wriothesley smiles, and you realize that few things are better than this.

You really do love the rain.

[sorcerous-caress]

Type of romantic gifts they'd give you

[Bg3, fluff, nb!reader]

[Wyll, Karlach, Gale, Shadowheart, Astarion, Laezel, Halsin, Minthara, Karniss]

Wyll

Flowers. Each bouquet conveys a different meaning and tells a hundred tales about his feelings for you. From the petal colours to the delicate ribbon holding the stems together, not a single detail was overlooked.

Enteries to both worlds. Invites to the most eloquent galas reserved for the noble class, elegent clothes and glittering jewellery. And warm heartfelt welcomes into the most popular tavrens for adventurers, even the dangerous ones greet you and Wyll with cold drinks and a warm meal.

A shoulder to lean on, someone to be your own hero. The royalty treatment becomes the norm for you, a quiet dance in your shared home, swaying slowly as the rain scatters against the windows outside.

.

Karlach

Cheesy handmade coupons for hugs. Physical affection is a big part of the way she shows love, yet no hugs feel better than the ones she knows both of you want, rather than only her. These hand drawn coupons are to give her reassurance in a way that you also crave her embrace as much as she does.

Taking you out to her favourite spots. Introducing you to all her past and current friends. Absolutely involving you in every aspect of her inner circles and slowly integrating you into her world. She wants all the people that she loves to know each other, to be there, and to support each other. Friends, family, and neighbours, she craves a community.

Carrying your stuff. Be it your bags, equipment, or anything. She enjoys being strong for you, never letting you lift a heavy thing ever. Giving you her jacket if you get cold, even switching your shoes if yours are uncomfortable. Dress however you want, she knows how to fight after all.

.

Gale

Homecooked meals. Frozen soup in food containers. You'll never go hungry with him around. Love is a major ingredient in each dish he makes, recipes passed down from generations. Restaurants' food becomes dull in comparison. No bakery dessert can compare to his home baked pie.

A picnic near the sea side. It's windy, the air is refreshing and nice. Waves come crashing gently, almost brushing against your feet before retreating back. Tara purrs in your lap, her wings warming your hand underneath it as you scratch her fur. Gale is by your side, telling you about a new discovery he made in his research. Content in staying by your side despite the crown laying at the bottom of the ocean in front of you.

Constellations seeming brighter, the sky looks as if it held twice as many stars than usual. There's a sparkle in his eyes, wrinkles at their edges from his smile.

.

Shadowheart

Wine/non-alcoholic drinks and sweets. She has a taste for delicacies and sharing them with you. Whatever she picks, it's always somehow very rich in flavour, melts against the tongue, and the aftertaste is an experience by itself.

Takes you to her home, visiting her parents who welcomed you as if you were another child of theirs. For the first time in her life, she has a family, and she wants to include you in it. You are a part of it, after all. A part of her.

Nursing your sickness away, sticking with you through thick and thin. Even at your most ill of states. She doesn't pat an eye at you throwing up, sneezing, or not having the energy to shower. She helps you through it. She never judges you over it, unconditional love in its purest forms as she ensures your recovery.

.

Astarion

Precious poetry he wrote himself. As much as he scoffs over anything too chessy, he can't help using his mother tongue and spinning endless lines about you in elvish in his private journal. On the rare occasion, giving you a glimpse through it. Pretending to leave his journal open by pure coincidence in front of you, on the exact page of the peom with your name on it.

The both of you traverse the underdark. He takes you to a special spot he found under a sussur tree. The blue glow of the silver branches lights up the edges of his hair like a halo, and your eyelids feel heavy with your head on his lap.

Stiching the holes in your clothes. Maintaining them in his free time and making sure they are cared for. Each piece that might hold a sentimental value to you or a precious memory receives special treatment from him. Sometimes, he stiches a joke or two into your undergarments that you don't realise until much later on.

.

Laezel

Gifts you a sharp and expertly smithed sword. Silver in colour with various ruby red stones decorating the handle, it feels at home in your grip, specifically made for your hands.

Takes you as her guide through Faerun, let's you introduce her to the places you love, the things you like. You can tell her interest is genuine, he curiosity is evident as she tries everything you recommend to her.

Reads to you, each night she'd indulge your curiosities and read one of the many githyanki literature disks you've accumulated. Her voice never tires, she pronounces each word with care and emotion. It's beyond soothing, even her comments inbetween narrating the story never fail to make you smile.

.

Halsin

Blessings of nature extend to you as well. The birds don't fly away when you approach, the tree branches don't get caught in your clothes, and the bugs take a polite detour around you as they crawl. He shares the love he received with you.

You've never seen so many children rush to you before, look up to you with respect, and search for guidance. He grants you the opportunity to raise the ones who will hold the torch after us, to imped your wisdom upon them, and help shape a better future.

Never growing cold again, buried deep against his soft fur as gaint bear paws hold you so softly. Despite the pouring snow outside, you sink deeper into his warm embrace. Cute round ears flicker in the corner of your vision, and you can't help but rub them alongside his soft belly.

.

Minthara

jewellery, each one is unique and more expensive than the last. Various earrings with pearls and necklaces with glittering diamonds. Even a special one that hugs your neck deliciously, with her name on it. Body accessories hugging your curves and wrapping around you. A pair of matching rings.

Takes you into her heart, behind the iron walls, behind the mazes of ice. Shows you her tender beating vulnerable flesh, the small kindness she protected so fiercely and hid from the world. Her true love, yours for the taking and yours alone.

The disembodied heads of your enemies in a gift box wrapped for you, everyone who has ever wronged you has their skulls displayed on the shelves. She becomes your blade, your sword and shield.

.

Karniss

Prayers. Offers them to you as he kneels, talking in a hushed tone as he begs a greater being for your safety, for your heart, and for you love. For their blessings upon him to shield you from the darkness, his split mind making him seeth in anger and hatred at all those who dared hurt or question you.

Brings you to his nest, a small cave with tight webs shielding the entrance. He teaches you how to slip through them, holds you close as he lifts you in his arms and makes passage inside. You're a very welcome addition to his home, his sanctuary.

Gifts you his venom regularly. Whether it's a kiss as his fangs slip past your soft lips and bleed venom down your throat, or a bite into the soft flesh of your neck that injects it directly into your veins. He builds up your resistance slowly so he may protect you from himself and anyone who tries to steal your life away.

[zumicyt]

Billie comforting reader after reader has a long and bad day 🥺🙏

thank you so much for the request baby!! also yes yes yes!!!

safe place ● b.e

pairing: billie eilish # fem!reader

contains: FLUFFFF, Billie being an amazing girlfriend, overworked!reader, stress, comfort.

summary: lately work has been overworking you and billie feels like you need a break.

it was raining outside. the dark clouds were hiding the majority of the sky and stars. soft music played from the radio of your car and you were trying your best to take deep subtle breaths. you were almost fired from your job today because you had forgotten to bring some important papers that you had been working on for weeks. your boss yelled at you and told you to go home. it was now 7:32 pm and you were on the verge of tears. work has been so hectic lately and all you wanted now was your girlfriend.

you open the door of yours and Billie's shared apartment and shark runs up to you and licks your face. "Hi sharkie!" you tiredly say and take off your sneakers. you don't see billie anywhere until you hear large footsteps against the wooden steps. "Hi baby!" billie runs up to you and hugs you tightly. she senses a change in your behavior and cups your face. "What's wrong my love?" she sweetly says. at that point you can't take it anymore. "I can't billie. I'm so done." you say through tears and she shushed you and hugs you tightly. "I know baby. I know. Come on, let's go lay in the bed." you nod and follow your girlfriend into your shared bedroom. she gets you a fresh pair of pj's and changes you. she constantly checks on you to make sure your okay and it melts your heart. she picks you up and lays you gently into the giant bed. "now tell me baby, what's wrong?" billie plays with your hair and waits for your response. "I've told you, work has been so much lately and I almost got fired today for not keeping up with some important papers and I know it's my fault but still. then I was getting yelled at by my coworkers because I came into work late and I just couldn't do it anymore." you start tearing up once again and she hugs you. "I'm sorry honey. c'mere." you dig your face into her neck and inhale her sweet scent. she runs her hand through your hair and the other draws shapes on your back. "lets run you a shower okay?" billie gets up and begins a steamy shower for you. she picks you up and undresses you. you get into the shower and she starts washing your hair and massaging your scalp. she gets a few body scrubs and runs them over your body. you feel so relaxed in the moment and start getting sleepy. after your shower billie dresses you in your pj's and lays you down for bed. she pulls the velvet covers over your body and kisses your head. "i love you my baby." she whispers and walks out of the room

you wake up and look at the clock on your phone. 5:16 pm. you stretch your shoulders and look around for Billie. she's not here. you get out of the bed and put on your house shoes and walk downstairs. you see billie in the kitchen making something and humming to music. you go behind her and hug her. you feel her smile and interlocks your hands with hers. "did you sleep well?" billie asks and you just mumble. she giggles and pulls you to hug her properly. she peppers kisses all over your face and you both start to giggle. "what are you making?" you ask. "cupcakes! wanna help?" you nod instantly and she hands you a mixing spoon to mix the batter. after that is done she puts the tray in the oven and takes your hand to the couch. you both sit down and she starts scrolling the TV to find a movie. you settle on Spiderman No Way Home and wait for the cupcakes to finish. you hear the beep coming from the oven telling you the cupcakes are done. you and billie decorate the cupcakes with blue icing and start eating them. billie ends the night with cuddling you on the couch and whispering sweet things into your ear.

[esamastation]

I've been writing some first sentences / prompts as idle writing exercise and here's the first 100. You're welcome to use any of them, if you get inspired.

-

Across the deep blue sky streaked a comet, with a purple tail trailing after it like skirts of a dress and several small companions chasing her.

Across the cell the older man farted loudly in his sleep - which was good, since for hours now John had been wondering if he'd gone and died.

Before the grand three story mansion the half a million dollar Porsche burned merrily.

Backstage, half deafened by the deep bass and the beat, Jane threw up all the whiskey she'd been drinking that night. 

"Call me when you get there," was the last words John heard from his mother, before his hometown was engulfed by a blazing inferno. 

Cloud seeding was probably a good idea, once, back when rain was still mostly water and frogs were only a ground level issue.

Dark academia was, in John's honest opinion, an oxymoron - but that didn't mean he didn't look damn good in a waist coat and ascot.

During the end of the world there were a lot of people who wasted their time looting and running - but in the end, it was the people covering under their beds who survived the longest. 

Elephants are unappreciated as hallucinations, in Jane's most expert opinion - with elephants there was rarely any doubt about whether she was hallucinating or not. 

Effervescent, John thought as he bled over his crumpled up crossword puzzle, a gaping hole in his chest, and sighed, who even uses a word like effervescent.

For all the times Jane had driven him mad with her stunts, John loved her crazy ass - he just wished she'd drawn a line before murder.

Fall descended upon the countryside like a knife - with a swift brisk breeze that brought with it a cutting frost and killed all their crops in a single night.

Grave is such an unpleasant place to wake up in. 

Gulls raced the ship to the shore, despite being easily able to outpace her - whether they were like vultures circling a dying beast or doves bringing the message of hope and safety, John welcomed their company nonetheless.

High on the church tower, a little runaway devil was miming the acts of sodomy and making rude gestures at the gathering crowd of shocked and horrified parishioners.

Hot, acrid air blew in through the vents before John shut down the car's air-conditioning - not quickly enough to block out the stench of sulfur.

Inclined to be polite, Jane let the sexy bombshell into her office, even taking a moment to appreciate the figure she made even though she wasn't that kind of detective.

In the last moments of her life before the zombie virus scrambled her brains, Jane thought about John and concluded, there's a man whose brains she'd like to eat.

Just as the bell rang for midnight, the vampire lord took out a notepad and said, "Let's start with your parents, shall we?"

Jackal puppies are kind of cute, thought the mummy, even as they attempted to unravel his binding and probably feast on his desiccated flesh.

Kitchen is a bad place to fight ninjas, John thought, completely tuning out whatever Jane was ranting about; too many knives.

Kicking the door open without looking, John read through the front page again and so completely failed to notice the fact that there were people in his house.

Leading with, "We have only twenty hours to live," might've set an awkward mood for the rest of the meeting - but it was damn effective. 

Lowering the rope feet by feet, Jane cursed her armour; it was pretty and impressive, sure, it got her all the ladies, but it also creaked with every move and the dragon was waking up.

Man's defining flaw is definitely hubris, John decided, but started the jetpack anyway.

Most of the city had already evacuated by the time Jane made it out of the basement, with torn ropes still hanging in her wrist and fury burning like an artificial sun in her chest.

Media tried to give the invaders new names, each more fantastical than the last, but the public had already made its mind - they called the aliens Kaiju right from the start.

"Now that civilisation has fallen, it's the survival of the fittest," declared her former highschool bully, before Jane racked the shotgun.

Night fell upon the office like some kind of hex, wearing on their already frayed nerves; the Deadline approached.

On her deathbed, Jane would announce a game, a treasure hunt to her great fortune - fortune which didn't even exist anymore.

Owned by the worst kinds of people, attracting the worst kind of user base, using the worst tech and implementing the worst kinds of terms and conditions… is it any kind of surprise that virtual reality went on to destroy a whole generation of people?

Parking the spaceship on top of the tallest skyscraper was probably an overkill - but it certainly got the message across.

Power cut off three days after the end - on the exact fucking moment John hooked his electric car to a charger, of course.

Quills aren't great tools for stabbing, maybe - but they hold poison very well.

"Qilin are supposed to mark the king, aren't they?!" he demands while again narrowly avoiding being stabbed by the unicorn deer from hell.

"Questions will be after the presentation," said John firmly to his captive audience, chained to their seats.

Rather than die in ignominy like the rest of her family, Jane made something of herself, digitising her mind at age of thirty and becoming a ship's AI by fifty.

Rest of the tenants were asleep when John broke out through the third floor window - and thanks to a whole lot of sleeping pills, so we're the attendants.

"Verily I say unto thee," slurred the handsome, completely shit-faced elf, "Thou truly art a harlot of the highest degree."

Venting her frustrations by throwing her smart phone across the street was a terrible idea - not only would Jane need a new phone now, but it hit a random passerby smack in the middle of the forehead and now she's going to be sued… again.

Without any damn sense at all, John falls in love on the same day he'd planned to kill his dad.

While busting up some dance moves on the battlefield isn't the best way to win a battle, sometimes it wins out an audience with a king; in unrelated news, Jane thinks she might be about to become the court jester.

"X marks the spot isn't driving directions, John - oh, shit never mind, I see it," Jane says into the phone, and gapes at the house - a true modern masterpiece if she ever saw one.

"X," the alien argues, sounding like a buzzer from a TV show, and lifts a laser gun to emphasise the point.

Yawning as he refilled his coffee cup, John didn't quite register the earthquake until he was two swallows in - moment later, the house begun falling apart

Yesterday everything was fine and Jane's world was normal, ordinary, blessedly boring even; today, she met John again.

Zero effort was spent in writing the actual article; the headline "Aliens Conquer the Moon" by itself was enough to sell the papers.

Zealous isn't how Jane would describe John, exactly; completely batshit crazy is much closer to the mark.

One thing could be said about the whole portal incident; it definitely turned a new leaf in Jane's life.

Two of the bandits had already broken into the back of the wagon - judging by the sound of it, they'd also found the gold.

Three times Jane had thrown John's clothes out of the window and into the street, and he was damn well going to make sure there wouldn't be a fourth time.

Four of Jane's students quit on a monday and another two would follow in the following week; by the end, she'd figured the problem might be her syllabus.

Five new starts lit up the night sky, which by itself was already an astronomically significant event - the fact that they were in a circle made it less significant and more ominous.

Six bullets in John's gun, each with its own target and a plan and chance to change destiny - and he missed each and every fucking time.

Seven is supposed to be the lucky number, but somehow all the worst things in Jane's life happen on the seventh - including this.

Eight coins in his pouch is a pitiful showing for a season's hard labour, except for one thing: they're each and every one of them magic.

Nine years old, John thought grimly looking over the crime scene, the blood, the body, and the unrepentant culprit - nine years old and already with blood on her hands.

"Ten outta ten," Jane breathes, her body limp and her vision full of stars, and sighs happily, "Would fly again."

Already Jane's hands were shaking, and she'd barely begun; cutting up frozen bodies was never going to be her favourite part of the job. 

Before the fire John used to love swimming, but now the scent of chlorine makes him want to cry.

Calling her boss at one in the afternoon to tell him she'd be late, Jane mused whether she should consider moving to an area with fewer reported spatial anomalies.

Deciding he'd had enough of zombie dogs in his lawn, John invested in automated machine guns - big mistake. 

Enemy drone sightings had gotten fewer and fewer in the last two days, as the fires had died down and the base laid in ashes - the plan, it seems, worked.

Figuring out she'd done enough for one day, Jane set aside her saw and hammer and went looking for a dog to play with - it shouldn't be difficult, the estate has about two hundred of them. 

Going with his gut feeling, John got a baseball bat and a trash can lid before investigating the noises coming from his basement - whether it was racoons or demons from the underworld, they wouldn't catch him unawares.

Hiding under her bed was a comfort thing Jane refused to feel ashamed for, not after it had saved her life twice. 

Including the weird kid in the game seemed to be a great idea - up to the point where John started throwing up frogs and Jane started floating during musical chairs.

Joking had been Jane's defence mechanism since she'd been young, and it usually worked, but going "Ey, how you doing?" at a serial killer was probably not the smartest plan. 

Keys rattling like a bunch of chains and his heart pounding in his chest, John peered into the darkened office and lifted his flashlight.

Lifting the well cover, Jane leaned back, fully expecting it to smell awful the way still water not disturbed in decades should - and the fact that it didn't was alarming.

Mowing the lawn on the eve of the asteroid impact might not be the most productive use of his last hours on earth, but John didn't care - even now it brought him peace.

New hires always get the worst jobs, Jane reminded herself while picking everyone's trash around the office - at least she was still being paid.

Oatmeal for breakfast, lunch and dinner got pretty boring after two months, but thank god John had even that much prepared.

Pleased with her progress so far, Jane lifted her hand and wiped John's arm - she isn't sure why he wanted the tattoo of a bunch of random letters all over his arm, but it was coming along nicely.

Quelling his rebellious stomach the best he could, John reached for the baby wipes - changing diapers is a basic fucking task for a dad, and he's going to do it, he's not going to throw up and he's going to do it. 

Rationally speaking, what she was seeing couldn't be what she was seeing - because portals to other worlds weren't real - but in her heart…

Singing as he worked, "Going down to the river,"  John lifted another log over his shoulder - ignoring with long practice the way his coworkers gaped at him.

Trying for several different things was how Jane had gotten where she is now - ballroom dance, coding, waitressing and working at a zoo might look like they had little to do with each other, but each was a useful skill for an assassin.

Under his house there's a basement and under the basement there's dirt, and under that, well, John isn't sure, but whatever it is makes a lot of very concerning noises.

"Vacancies 0," informed the sign of a clearly long abandoned roadside motel - of course they pulled over to check it out., 

Without John at the helm, the ship wouldn't budge, the AI simply refused to respond - which is unfortunate because someone had thrown John out of the airlock about half an hour ago.

Xylitol gum and old cigarettes - there was something very nostalgic about that scent, Jane thought, as she watched the old woman push her shopping cart over the crack in the pavement and right into the ditch.

"You know you're going to have to clean that up, right?" John asked as they watched the blood dye all primary colours of the carpet in hues of red.

"Zoom!" went the kid on her tricycle as she drove right over John's foot that morning, somehow breaking two toes in the process.

The store keeper glared at John and John glared right back - between them the dragon egg rocked gently side to side.

For as long as Jane had known him, she's never seen John read - which isn't really something you notice about a person, not until they have to do the thing… and they clearly can't. 

Finding people was rarely the hardest part of starting a new adventuring party, since there were always some newcomers hanging around the tavern - bringing them all back alive though…

Deciding that he needed some professional help with his problem, John went to consult the wizard, who then pointed him to a witch… who pointed him to a sorcerer… who summoned a demon… who pointed at him and laughed.

Even before everything changed, Jane had had a bad feeling about things, like, the sky shouldn't be that colour and she didn't used to get that many static shocks and the TV didn't use to be that… purple.

John and Jane tossed a coin over who got the first go at the treasure - and of course the coin landed on its side. 

Digging for gold used to be an honourable profession for loners and lunatics - now it's all about grave robbing and tomb raiding.

There was a noise coming from outside like the world was ending, but Jane was almost done with the damn report and not about to let herself be distracted. 

The doctor looked at him sadly, the way they do when there's nothing to do and no time left, and said, "I'm sorry, there's no easy way to put this; sir, you're inflicted with stage two lycanthropy."

When she was a kid, Jane pretended she was capturing fairies and sticking them into her doll house as prisoners - when she turns twenty one, this comes back to bite her in the ass.

Finding out that he got an inheritance from some relative he didn't even know about was one thing, but finding out that he'd inherited what was clearly a haunted mansion?

Before John met Jane, his world was dull and colourless, boring from start of the week to the end - now he can just taste technicolour his world has become… which is probably not a good thing.

There's a monster in Jane's closet, tied up with Christmas lights, hanging from a coat hanger, re-thinking all the choices in his life..

Seven days after his wife left him, John reconnected with his mother and took up the family grimoire again.

For the second time in twenty four hours Jane was sitting down to talk with a dead person - which was, even in her line of work, a bit unusual.

The fact that John went from being a secret agent to a nanny might've amused his brothers - but none of them knew the absolute abominations he was taking care of, and yes, Jane, the sidearm is necessary for his work, thank you very much!

-

Modify them as you see fit, etc etc. If any strike as especially good/horrendous, please let me know!

[sananaryon]

The Journal of Luz Clawthorne Noceda, documenting the Frogvasion of the Boiling Isles.

I.e. I finally got around to making some art of my own for my edgy owlphibia au, specifically as told from Luz's very flawed and unreliable point of view. Feel free to ask me about details of the AU because I love talking!

Text and image description under the cut.

Image description: Four pictures of illustrated journal pages, each with one or two illustrations done in watercolour and ink.

The first page has watercolour and ink drawing of the Titan's skull from The Owl House, with the sky, clouds, and the moon in the background. The archive house, resembling a crown, is hanging aroudn the right side of the skull with a piece broken off. Above the skull, the castle from Amphibia is floating surrounded by smaller shapes too small to make out. Parts of the skull and land around it is smoking. On the right side of the page is a symbol resembling a frog's foot done in bronze ink, with the label "Empire's sigil?"

Text:

3 N.E.

36. abruary.

1 month after Frogvasion

Journal of Luz Clawthorne Noceda. It's been one month since the start of frogvasion (Bailey says that's a stupid name but she got her name from an old science-fiction book so she doesn't get a vote,) and I am writing this in our new resistance HQ (Hooty play Empire Strikes Back) at King's island.

I have decided to write this record of events [text is struck out]because auntie Lilith forced me [struck out text ends, next sentence is written in cursive] for the sake of future historians and to give the view of someone living through historical events. [cursive ends]

So, to recap: One month ago on the 3-year anniversary of Belos getting his ass kicked for good, a giant floating castle with an army of frog-shaped robots and warships popped out of thin air (or from a giant rainbow portal). Then a lady in a dress showed up in the middle of the party and gave an alien invasion speech about us joining the Empire of Calamity [frog foot symbol is drawn here]. So Raine (Lord High Prince) (that's witch prime minister) went to talk to her but then she did some mind control shit and we got them the heck out of there.

And now an army of frog robots (Frobots) are conquering the isles led by some crazy powerful fire god!!! I should probably explain her, huh?

Signed: Luz C. Noceda & Lilith Clawthorne.

[text ends]

The second page has a watercolour painting done entirely in blue and white, depicting a woman in silhouette with glowing white eyes. She has an afro and is wearing a dress and making a pose with one hand to her chest and one out to the side, and there is a halo above her head. Next to her is text saying "Looks human. Probably isn't."

Further down on the page is watercolour and ink drawing depicting an indistinct red figure kneeling to the blue figure from before, this time with her skin and hair coloured brown. Next to the red figure is the text "WTF?" with an arrow pointing to the figure, and next to the blue lady is text saying "Blue all over" "Glowy eyes" and "She's not that pretty."

Text:

The Blue Princess

(We don't know her name)

The first of the Empire of Calamity Leaders (???) who appeared.

She just appeared in the middle of the victory/anniversary feast and demanded we surrendered to her Emperor (we've had enough of that here, thank you). Lord Prince raine stepped up to talk to her, but it took like 5 seconds before they were kneeling. Sorry lady, we know what mind control looks like and we're not falling for it. [the "for it" is slightly smudged] woops.

Weirdly, Raine says they never felt a compulsion to kneel, and that it was more like the first time they met Belos - that this person is important and should be bowed to. I don't get how that's different but they say they also remember thinking she was the most beautiful person they've seen, so maybe it's a charm? Raine has snapped out of it, so it doesn't last long.

The princess hasn't appeared since then so she might not be a fighter, but Lilith is making potions of anti charm with B's moms, just in case.

signed: Luz C. Noceda.

Powers: Mind control

Weaknesses: Not a figher (???)

suspected

[text ends]

The third page has a watercolour painting of a dark silhouette with one arm raised surrounded by red flames. Above their head is an orb of white made up of lines curling in on themselves.

Next to the main painting is a watercolour and ink drawing of three figures. One is an indistinct man in purple with a topknot and cape, one is an indistinct green lady with palm-like hair, and one is the same figure from before. The former two are shooting abomination goop and vines towards the latter.

Text:

The Red General

(no name either)

The leader of the Empire's army. Since the start of Frogvasion, they've been leading that army of frogbots from city to city, ordering surrender and burning and pillaging when not met with compliance. They always wear that armor, so no idea what they look like. We just call them the Red General.

(Boscha wants me to write that she calls them "that red psycho." I said that's not very nice to people with psychosis and she said "eat my ass" so I said maybe later.)

They showed up first when we were evacuating the Council House (former Archive House) cuz a floating castle had started floating above it. And when I say "showed up" I mean cracked an entire wing while burning like a meteor.

Darius and Terra (she got out on probation) tried to hold them of while we evacuated, but...

I know plants can burn, I never thought I'd see abomination goop boil.

Darius is at the other base, recovering, but [text struck out and indistinct] He'll be fine. Bailey is just worried.

Red hasn't done anything like that again, but we'll be careful

Signed: Luz C. Noceda & Boscha

Boscha stop stop messing up the ink

-L

Make me

-B

I'm telling Lilith

-L

[text ends]

The fourth page is taken up by a watercolour painting depicting a pair of orange and yellow eyes with white pupils surrounded by darkness.

Text

The Emperor

Emperor of Numberless Worlds

The princess mentioned them. We know nothing

Boscha made dark chokelate and spilled all over this page.

-L

[text ends]

[ayyy-pee]

Discord 18+ - Twitter - Masterlist

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Female Reader

Story Summary: Following his mothers passing, Nanami inherits his family's rundown bakery. With the bakery on its last leg, Nanami reluctantly takes on the task of trying to save what his family has worked to keep for decades, but he can't do it alone.

Genre: Bakery/Coffee Shop AU

Warnings: Workaholic meanie Nanami, employee x boss relationship, but also enemies to lovers, death, grief/mourning, profanity, jealousy, fluff, angst, Nanami owns a bakery, parental loss, Nanami is bad at feelings, I don’t know if I’ll do smut for this one but sexual tension, mutual pining, Nanami is sort of an asshole here

Art by: Ilameys + (Unknown artist (right pic). I'd love to credit the artist so if you know who it is, please let me know!)

Chapter 2 - Wienerbrød

Chapter Summary: You try to bake something new!

You kick your shoes off as you enter your apartment. With your phone wedged between your ear and your shoulder, you groan in irritation as you storm into your living room.

“I’m telling you, Shoko. This guy is such a fucking asshole. Shut me down the second I asked him a simple question,” you’re ranting as you flop down onto your couch. “He’s got to be the most pessimistic person I’ve ever met. He did nothing but pick apart the entire bakery and tell me how shitty it was, tried to establish some strange dominance thing in the kitchen after offering me the job… the kitchen,” you stress dramatically, wavering your arms as if Shoko can see you. “My domain! Can you believe him? He doesn’t give a shit about the actual bakery. He’s a total businessman type. Stiff, boring as hell and a dick. I don’t know why I said yes to the position. I’m going to hate my life.”

You exhale sharply once you’ve finished your tirade. On the other end of the line, you hear your friend inhale deeply. You didn’t have to ask to know she was sucking on a cigarette, likely almost finished with it and prepping her second, maybe third. After a short beat of silence, you hear her exhale. “Hmm, is he hot at least?”

“Extremely,” you admit through gritted teeth, rubbing away the tension quickly forming between your brows. “That’s the worst part.”

You hate to think it, you loathe to admit it, but Nanami was so very fucking attractive, like stupid hot and it pissed you off! Those thick arms practically bulging through his dress shirt, those veins that exposed themselves and ran enticingly along his forearms when he rolled his sleeves up. His chiseled features, those sharp cheekbones, even his frown was attractive. And god, you didn’t even want to think about his waist. 

Anyone with eyes could see Nanami Kento was an insanely beautiful man, modelesque even. But it only served to piss you off more. His constant gloomy attitude was so off-putting, it almost took away from his beauty, like a rain cloud threatening to cover a blue sky.

“Anyway,” you sigh, putting a stop to your own thoughts as you stare up at the ceiling.  “That’s beside the point, Shoko. He’s an asshole, but it’s obvious he needs help to get his bakery up and running. I think it’s family owned. He told me that he grew up in the bakery. Seemed miserable about it, though.”

“Interesting,” Shoko manages, though she sounds rather disinterested. “Well if he had to pick anyone, he definitely hired the best person for the job. You’re annoyingly positive.”

“Okay, rude.”

“I just mean you’ll balance his negativity well. Just try not to let him walk all over you. You’ve worked with plenty of dickheads before. What’s one more?”

You hum, your mind already accepting your fate. “I guess you’re right.”

“You know I am. The guy clearly needs help and you love this kind of thing - taking something old, miserable and rundown and making it loveable again.”

You hum again, listening as Shoko blows out another breath of smoke. “And who knows? Maybe you’ll do the same for the bakery, too.”

“Right. Wait– what?”

“I gotta go. I’ll call you later.” She says, voice light with humor. The line goes dead and you roll your eyes at your friends comments as you let the day's events wash over you. Nanami said he wanted to sample some of your desserts on Monday and see some new recipes. You can do that.

The moment you’d stepped into the bakery’s kitchen, your mind raced with possibilities. You felt at home there. The kitchen felt like it had been loved, like it was properly used and cared for, albeit old and a little rundown. That was okay. It gave the kitchen personality and you loved that. You wanted to continue giving the kitchen the love it deserved.

Nanami told you he’d grown up in that kitchen, but he truly seemed to hate even being in the building. You tried to picture a chubby little blonde boy with his arms crossed and a scowl etched across his face standing in the kitchen covered in flour and icing. Adorable, but definitely not the man you’d met today. You wondered how it came to be that he now owned this bakery when he seemed to despise it.

And you wondered if there was a way to get him to learn to love it again.

You shake your head, pushing the thought away. It wasn’t your job to turn his frown upside down, so to speak. It was your job to make sure the bakery was successful as it’s Head Baker and that’s what you intended to do.

- - - - - -

The weekend came and went just as quickly and now you find yourself standing in the kitchen of the bakery with Nanami as the sun barely begins to rise over the city. You pile your notebooks onto the large metal table in the center of the room. Nanami reaches over, taking the notebook sitting atop the stack.

“Are these your recipes?” He asks, flipping through the pages.

“Yep. These are some pastries I created on a whim. I was thinking we could go through and select what you like, maybe tweak some so that they fit more of the vibe you’re going for with the bakery. Or are there any pastries you’d like to keep from the previous owner?” 

Nanami’s dark eyes shoot up from the notebook to look at you. You hold his gaze, trying to find anything behind those eyes aside from the clear hatred he holds for this bakery, but you don’t. It’s frustrating.

“No,” is all he says.

“Okay…well, we can start from scratch then. Let me know what you see that you may like.”

Nanami replies with something between a grunt and a hum. “I’ll review a few of these and will follow up. If you want to get comfortable and organize the kitchen to your liking, go ahead. Please try and have a sample pastry ready within the next few hours.”

He turns to go into his office without so much as a look back.

You sigh, trying to get used to this silence you were sure you’d be working in everyday whether Mr. Nanami was there or not. You couldn’t wait to establish a menu so you could bring staff on. At least then you wouldn’t feel so alone.

You wander through the kitchen with a notepad, looking through all of the smallwares and jotting down what you see in case you need to place an order. There seems to be many of the supplies you need here already and in good condition - spatulas, mixing bowls, flour sifters, icing tips. The bakeware also seems to be well supplied with an array of bread pans, muffin tins and cake pans. This place was fully stocked as far as you could tell. 

You shuffle over to where three mixer appliances sit on a counter against the wall, setting your notepad down to inspect them. They’re a little older, but they turn on and mix just fine. You’d bet they mixed better than some of the newer models. You decide you’ll keep them.

As you lean one of the mixers over to check its condition, you find a small booklet lying underneath the stand. You pick it up, gently setting the mixer back down before you open it to inspect it. It’s a tiny black leatherbound journal with very faded gold lettering in a language you definitely don’t know.

And you? Well, you’re nosey as hell, so you carefully peel back the cover, taking in the elegant writing etched onto the first page.

To my baby boy

There’s some strange writing scrawled beneath this in what looks like English letters. You can’t really tell, but it seems to be some message in whatever language this is. You turn a couple of pages and let your eyes roam over what’s written within. The rest of the pages you can read fairly easily as they’re in English. You can see immediately that these are recipes. The booklet is full of pastry dishes, both sweet and savory. They appear to be foreign pastries and you feel your heart race with excitement as you imagine making them because while you were adventurous with your baking, you’re positive you haven’t tried to make any of these. 

And Nanami did want to sample your baking, so why not give him something he’s not going to see in your portfolio?

Eagerly, you begin moving through the rest of the kitchen equipment, taking out what you need to begin.

- - - - - -

The kitchen is full with the smell of fresh dough baking. The quiet hum of the ovens working calms you as you sift through the recipe in the booklet you’d found earlier. You decided to make one of your original creations while also trying your hand at this new mystery pastry in case Mr. Nanami liked both…or one…or none. Shit, you didn’t want to imagine him not liking either.

You stare down at the ingredients already in the mixing machines.

“Alright. So, water, 2 large eggs, a teaspoon of salt, unsalted butter, active dry yeast…” You read through the remaining list of ingredients until you reach the end. “And now…flour?” You squint down at the notebook, the words scribbled messily on the paper, time having faded the ink. You can’t really make out the measurements written out. It looks like 2 ½ cups. You’ll try it and hey, if it doesn’t work, you’ll simply adjust the recipe to find the right mix. Easy.

Just as you’re sorting through the measuring cups, Nanami emerges from his office with your journals, mouth set in its usual hard line as he makes his way to you. He sets the books down, and you swear you see him inhale the sweet scent of the pastries currently baking in the oven before softly exhaling. You open your mouth to say something before quickly shutting it because he’s back to business in about .02 seconds. You really can’t read this guy, so you don’t try to. You redirect your focus back on to your task.

“These look good,” he tells you, his finger tapping on the book stacked on top. “I placed a post-it note on the recipes I think may work for the soft opening, but I’d like for you to make a sample of them beforehand. Maybe just a few a day.”

You nod, acknowledging his request but far too focused on scooping your guesstimate of flour. Nanami eyes you carefully, brown eyes staring as you carefully run your finger over the top of the flour. The excess falls carelessly onto the table and just before you pour it in, Nanami speaks, his voice halting your movements.

“What are you making now?”

“Hmm?” You ask, glancing over at him. “Oh, something called…” you peer down at the booklet, “Wee-ner-brod?” You’re one hundred percent positive you butchered that pronunciation, but how do you even pronounce ‘wienerbrød’? 

Clearly Nanami knows because he surprisingly lets out an amused chuckle before he asks, “Wienerbrød?” With what you assume is perfect pronunciation. And you’re not sure why, but the sound of his deep baritone laugh makes your stomach twist in a strangely pleasant way.

“Yes! That!” You point to Nanami with your free finger. “I’m making…” you stumble your way through the pronunciation again and get another small laugh from Mr. Nanami which makes your own lips curl up in a smile.

“I didn’t know you knew how to make Danish pastries.”

“I don’t, but you don’t learn without trying.”

“True. What step are you on now?” Nanami asks curiously, coming up to stand next to you. This close to him, you can truly see just how large he is. Not to mention, he smells incredible. You ignore the way the mix of the aroma of baked goods and his cologne almost makes your eyes want to roll back. You’d never smelled something so tantalizing before.

Nanami calls your name and you clear your throat, trying to re-focus.

“Oh, um…well I’ve added mostly everything and now I need to incorporate the flour - about 2 ½ cups.”

“Your calculation is off.” He affirms gently, eyeing the measuring cup in your hand.

You snort, “Are you suddenly an expert in Danish baking or something?”

“I can throw a few things together.” He says and you peek over to see him rolling the sleeves of his very nice (and probably very expensive) shirt up to his elbows. Your eyes roam over, drinking in the sight of those thick veins that you couldn’t get out of your head over the weekend protruding from his forearms, the way his muscles flex with the slightest movement and you wonder for a moment what it would be like to grab onto those arms while he –

“As I was saying,” Nanami’s quiet voice interrupts your reverie. “2 ½ cups is close, but you actually need 2 ¾ cups for this recipe.” He reaches in front of you to grab a ¾ measuring cup and again, you’re assaulted with the scent of his cologne. Your mind erupts with thoughts of nothing appropriate for an employee to be thinking about their boss, but you can’t help it!

You blame it on that damn smile of his and that laugh. It’s thrown you off of your game.

Nanami takes the measuring cup you’re holding and replaces it with another. “You also need to use your hands to mix this.”

You might faint.

“Is that…” you lick your lips, mouth suddenly feeling dry. “Is that completely necessary?”

Nanami slowly adds small amounts of flour into the mixer bowl while kneading with his other hand. “It’s time consuming, of course, but it allows for more control over the dough. You can feel the dough's texture…if it’s too dry or if it’s too wet. From there you can determine if more water or more flour is needed.” You watch as his brows furrow in concentration, a little surprised by his knowledge around dough. Though it shouldn’t be surprising given that he grew up in this very same bakery. Of course he’d know.

And once again, your stomach does somersaults.

Damnit, he was definitely going to need to stay out of the kitchen if you were going to stay employed here.

As Nanami continues working through the recipe, you chat idly about general things. He tells you a bit about his time as a businessman, but doesn’t elaborate on what exactly led him to own a bakery. And you tell him a bit about yourself, trying to keep the conversation light as this was the most you’d both interacted since your interview and you’re surprised by how well it’s going. You don’t want to ruin it by poking and prodding.

As the conversation goes on, you watch him very carefully as he works the dough, ignoring the way your heart races watching him do the very thing you do almost daily.

“The end result should be somewhat sticky,” he states.

And oh god, something was getting sticky alright…and it lay between your legs. Your eyes are glued to the bulging muscles of Nanami’s forearms working the flour into a thick doughy substance between his large, thick fingers. Your gaze moves up his stupidly sexy arms, to his biceps straining against his shirt and you imagine him flexing so hard, it rips to shreds, falling in tatters to the floor. The cartoonish image almost makes you want to laugh. And you would have if your eyes hadn’t continued their journey, higher to his tight shoulders moving in circles as he presses his palms into the dough. Higher to the tension in his jaw, the muscles rippling as he grits his teeth with focus. The kitchen suddenly feels unbearably hot and you’re not sure if it’s the ovens running causing the temperature to rise or the view in front of you.

Nanami had never mentioned he knew how to bake. But why would he? It was your job to know. You also never thought to ask after the sour note your interview ended on despite you still being offered the position. You could not stand him upon first meeting and now here you were practically drooling into this batter over how incredibly sexy he was when he was baking.

Nanami slowly pours flour in again as he kneads the dough with expert precision. The way he grips it in his hands, the way his fingers deftly sprinkle flour into the mix. You wonder what else those big hands can do.

The oven timer dings and you snap out of your lewd thoughts, pretty sure sweat is forming on your forehead from your fantasies. You spin around quickly to slide on oven mitts before you pull the pans from the oven. You’d chosen to make miniature fruit tarts with a vanilla pastry cream. A simple recipe, but absolutely to die for. Setting the tray down, you return to Nanami’s side just as he finishes kneading the dough.

And you try to hide the frown pulling at the corner of your lips when you realize you’d lost your perfect view.

He moves to the sink to wash the remaining dough from his hands, returning with plastic wrap to cover the mixing bowl. “I hope you weren’t planning on completing that today,” He says before turning to head toward the walk-in refrigerator. When he emerges, you shoot him a questioning look.

“I was going to let the dough rise for a few hours while I worked on some other things.”

He hums in acknowledgment, but shakes his head. “For this dough, you need to do a long rise for the best result. Overnight is best.”

“Okay, you’re the expert Danish pastry baker apparently,” you tease, earning you another small chuckle from him and you feel your face heat up at the sound.

What is with you today?

“How did you come up with the idea to make Wienerbrød anyway?” He questions suddenly. “Just seems a bit random given what recipes you’d given me to review.”

“Oh!” You rush back over to the mixers excitedly and grab the booklet, holding it up for Nanami to see, a wide grin on your face. “I found this under one of the mixers. It has some strange language I can’t read in the front of it…I’m assuming it’s Danish? But some delicious sounding recipes from what I could understand when I skimmed through. I decided this would be a good idea to take myself out of my comfort zone to try something new.”

Nanami takes a step forward, squinting hard at the little journal in your hands. Suddenly, his eyes widen slightly and he snatches the book from your hold. He opens it to the first page, where the foreign message is scrawled down before he snaps the book shut, his lips pursing in displeasure.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs in clear irritation. “Next time you find something that is very clearly a personal belonging, please bring it to me before you take it upon yourself to poke through something that isn’t yours,” he snaps, his voice clipped.

The shift in tone takes you aback.

“Oh. I’m sorry, Mr. Nanami. It just seemed to belong to someone who knew their way around baking so I–”

“I didn’t ask for the reasoning behind your nosiness,” he cuts you off and you feel your own irritation begin to slowly rise. “Is this a habit of yours? Digging through people’s belongings and taking things that aren’t yours?”

You scoff, folding your arms across your chest defensively. “If you’d let me finish, I’m trying to apologize –”

“I don’t want an apology. I want you to show up here, bake and leave. Not spend your time digging through someone else’s belongings.”

You inhale sharply, trying to gather your thoughts. This conversation has taken an unpleasant turn and the last thing you want to do is have a blow up with your boss. You feel like you’ve actually made progress with him today and this feels like a setback waiting to happen.

“Again, Mr. Nanami, that wasn’t my intention. I just wanted to try something new. I had no idea this book…” you wave your hand in his direction. “...would be such a sore spot for you.”

At this, Nanami seems to bristle. “My sore spot,” he stresses the words, “is nosey employees who don’t just do the job I asked them to do. I asked you to make a sample pastry –”

“And I did,” you cut him off, gesturing to your tarts cooling on the table. “And I had enough time to try my hand at something new, which is why I wanted to try something new and present it to you.”

You sigh when Nanami meets your response with silence.

“What’s the issue here? You had no problem with helping me make this until you saw that book,” you say, pointing at the small black journal he holds. Your gazes lock in an intense staredown and even as Nanami annoys you, you can’t help but find his frustratingly pretty brown eyes completely mesmerizing. 

Ugh, stop.

“The issue,” Nanami stresses, “is you sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“Excuse me? It’s just a recipe book. Why are you so upset about it? Is it yours or something?”

“Again, poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“Mr. Nanami, with all due…respect,” you grit out the last word because he was really starting to piss you off, “if we’re going to be working together as closely as we are, there needs to be some trust here. It’s just a recipe book. I apologize for overstepping, but you can tell me why referencing this book to make Weenerbrod is such a big deal.”

You could swear you see the ghost of a smile on his lips just before he rolls his eyes, correcting your pronunciation of the pastry again, just as he turns his back to you. “You are my employee, I am your employer and that’s it. My helping you to bake a simple bread does not make us friends. Please complete the sample pastries I requested of you and we can reconvene once they’re finished. End of discussion.”

Nanami heads to his office without another word, slamming the door behind him.

You can only watch him disappear from your sight, seething. Left standing in the kitchen alone after yet another faceoff with your new boss, you’re suddenly reminded of your earlier conversation with Shoko.

Just try not to let him walk all over you. You’ve worked with plenty of dickheads before. What’s one more?

You resist going after Nanami and giving him a piece of your mind, instead following his instructions to finish your samples. You won’t push him. Clearly that little book meant something to him and he had no intention of sharing. And he was right. It wasn’t your business to know…

…But you can’t help feeling upset that the light mood of earlier is now gone.

You sigh, ignoring the pit in your stomach as your anger begins to subside. Instead, you move to the walk in refrigerator, gathering the ingredients to make the vanilla cream for your tarts.

Your mind is still racing with the conversation that just took place even as you mix your ingredients and pack the cream into the icing decorating bags. You realize for the first time since meeting Nanami that he wasn’t only this stoic tyrant that enjoys barking orders. He was someone with interests, someone with depth, someone who clearly enjoyed the art of baking the same way you do. You saw the look in his eyes as he guided you through making this pastry. And while you’ve barely known Nanami, you’re familiar with the look on someone’s face when they’ve participated in their passion. He looked…happy. Clearly, there’s more to Nanami than you know.

More to him than what he was willing to show you. For now. 

You’re annoyingly positive.

Shoko’s words make you roll your eyes as they echo in her head. Because you know she’s right.

[animefic143]

First Time

Fem Virgin!Reader x Virgin!Goku

This was a request (my first one!)… hope I did okay!

Warnings: Loss of virginity, vaginal bleeding, drunk/tipsy sex (still consensual!) unprotected sex, creampies, multiple positions.

‼️Minors/ageless blogs dni!!‼️

🧡🥃🧡🥃🧡🥃🧡🥃🧡🥃🧡🥃🧡🥃🧡

The city was lit up with the bright lights of the buildings. Against the backdrop of the dark night sky, they looked like stars. Awnings of every shop and cafe dripped with water, the last remnants of the rainstorm that had just passed.

Your heels clicked on the pavement, splashing in some puddles, as you briskly walked home. You breathed in the fresh air and the “rain smell” with a smile. One thing you always loved was the small things in life. Something simple like a rain or a nighttime walk could bring such joy to you.

Feeling hungry, you stepped into a ramen shop - the only one still open at this hour - to get some late dinner. You placed a to-go order and waited patiently near the counter, only to hear a woman’s voice say your name. You looked up and saw a blue haired woman giving you a big smile.

“Bulma!” you cried, giving her a hug. “Oh my god I haven’t seen you in ages!”

Bulma looked you over, almost in surprise, “Look how much you’ve grown up!”

You smiled, “Yeah, I’m a big girl now!” You glanced over behind Bulma and saw a group of familiar faces sitting at a table eating. “Come on you have to sit with us!” Bulma grabbed your hand and pulled you to the table.

Reuniting with the rest of the old gang was exhilarating. You used to spend most of your time with these people, yet you hadn’t seen them in years. You used to play dress up with Bulma. Yamcha used to play ball with you. Master Roshi (attempted) to teach you to be a great fighter. You were a bit of a rival with Krillin, but also close friends. And then there was Goku…

*************************************************

Hey, are you alright?” you looked over and saw a little boy your age eyeing you curiously. “I’m fine! Go away!” you snapped. You saw the confused and hurt look on his face and immediately felt bad. You were quite literally sitting on the forest floor crying and clutching your scratched and bloody arm, and this kid was just trying to help you.

You sniffled and said quietly, “I… I hurt my arm.” The boy strode up to you, ripping a piece of his shirt to wrap the wound. “You must’ve gotten into something bad to get hurt that bad!” It was now you noticed the tail twitching behind him. After bandaging your arm he extended his hand and smiled, “Have you eaten yet today?”

*************************************************

“You just look… so different,” now standing outside the restaurant, Goku couldn’t stop looking you up and down.

“Yeah well, I’m a woman now,” you shrugged, “you’re all grown now too… but I’d know you anywhere… the hair gives it away.”

Goku laughed and scratched the back of his head - his laugh was also something you’d know anywhere - and said, “Yeah, I’ve been training even more and I’m a lot stronger!” “I bet you are!” you smiled. He always was focused on being the strongest. And damn all that training gave him a nice body…

“What about you? Do you still train?” Goku began to walk with you. You walked in step with him and shook your head. “No, I don’t think that lifestyle is meant for me… I guess I’m the kind of person who can’t be focused on one thing too much. I need… variety. Can’t feel stuck with something.”

Goku nodded, “I guess I understand that… for me fighting is always something different, y’know? I can always push further and learn something new! And my opponents always teach me something!”

You grinned at seeing his excitement at just talking about it. “I’m glad it makes you so happy, Goku.” He smiled at you but didn’t say anything. You changed the subject. “Bulma said you’re getting married soon, that’s great!”

Goku’s face beamed. “Yeah, she’s really awesome, I can’t wait! Apparently I agreed to marry her as a kid but I didn’t mean to.”

You cackled. “But you do love her, right?”

Goku nodded, “Of course I do! She’s a good fighter, and a good cook!”

At this point you’d reached your apartment building. “Hey, it was really nice seeing you again, Goku… we need to hangout more!” “You should come to the Kame House tomorrow, we’re all gonna be there! Unless you’re busy…” Goku offered.

“Hey, I’m never too busy for you guys! I’ll be there.” you unlocked your apartment door. Still on the sidewalk, Goku smiled and waved. “Great! Can’t wait to see ya!” With that, he called for his Flying Nimbus and flew away.

*************************************************

“Do you live alone?” you asked the boy, who you now knew as Goku, as you chowed down on a fish he caught. “Yeah, my grandpa died a while ago… he was killed by a monster.”

You looked devastated. “I’m sorry… that’s sad… my grandpa died too… he got really sick.”

Goku frowned, “Wow, looks like we’re both all alone. We should stay with each other… y’know, to take care of each other!”

*************************************************

The next day was a stark contrast to the previous, sunny and bright and warm, not a cloud in the sky. The Kame House was bustling with all your friends, and the smell of good food wafted through the air. You reminisced more about the old times and all the insane adventures you went on and foes you fought. Even after talking the night before, there was a lot of catching up to do.

After several hours, the sun began to set and you heard Bulma screech. “Goku, I swear you eat everything in sight! What are the rest of us supposed to do??”

Goku looked confused, and you laughed. He had eaten most of the food that had been prepared. “I say we go back to that great ramen place!” Oolong cried. “Sounds like a plan!” Bulma pulled out a capsule that turned into a vehicle. Everyone hurried towards it, but you and Goku stayed at your places sitting on the floor. “You guys comin’?” Bulma asked.

“I couldn’t eat another bite!” Goku said. “I’m not very hungry,” you followed up. You were half lying. You just wanted to be alone with Goku. Bulma shrugged. “Alrighty then… we’ll be back way later! I kinda wanna go shopping in town…” Everyone then started talking about the things they wanted to do in town, and finally the jet flew away, leaving you and Goku in peace.

“What about you?” Goku asked suddenly. You cocked your head. “What about me what?”

“Are you getting married?” he looked genuinely curious.

“Oh!” you laughed heartily. “Um… yeah I don’t think so. Marriage is a lot of work and time… you know what I said about feeling stuck with something? Getting married sounds like a trap to me.”

Goku looked like he was really processing your words. “So you don’t have anyone?”

You nodded. “Yep, it’s just me. But like… I like it that way. I can have my fun without anyone getting in the way.”

Goku looked confused, “Do you think I’ll still be able train when I’m married?”

You laughed again. “That’s not really what I mean by fun, Goku. Speaking of which…” you stood and headed to the kitchen and rummaged through a cabinet, pulling out a bottle of whiskey. “Here we go! Now we’ll have some fun.”

“What’s that?” Goku asked. You giggled. “Alcohol, silly. It makes you feel… fun.”

“Oh yeah, I think I tried some with Bulma once at a fancy restaurant, it didn’t do a lot to me!” Goku watched as you took a swig and offered it to him. He followed your example and took a long gulp, almost spitting it out and coughing. You laughed, “Bulma probably gave you wine before, this is a bit stronger stuff… you don’t have to try more.” Goku shook his head, processing the taste, “No, it doesn’t feel bad going down, it just tastes different!”

For the next half hour you took turns taking sips from bottle til you were both pretty tipsy. Goku was giggling more and more, which made you laugh more and more. In your intoxicated state, you attempted to screw the bottle cap back on the whiskey but it rolled away from you and under the sofa. “Oh shit!” you cried, and you and Goku busted out cackling. “I think we’ve had enough!” you giggled as you tried to reach for the cap. “Gokuuuuu! I can’t reach itttttt!” you whined.

Goku crawled towards you and laughed as he reached under as far as he could. “Here I got it!” he said, pulling out something that was definitely not a bottle lid. You both stopped giggling and blinked as you stared at the adult magazine. “Oh… Master Roshi always did like these,” Goku said. You leaned in and whispered, “I never looked at one…”

Goku nodded, “Me neither.” After a second you both laughed again, having the same thought. He sat up against the bottom of the sofa and you got very close to him - grasping his bicep - as you leaned in to open it up like it was a novel.

You both drew in a little gasp as you immediately saw the completely naked women inside. Goku was particularly shocked, his mouth dropping open. “Oh… so that’s what they look like underneath…”

“Goku!” you cried, “have you really never seen a naked woman?” Goku shook his head, “Of course not, what reason would I have?” You were genuinely surprised, you figured his fiancé would’ve taught him something.

He turned the page and there were now pictures of women being joined by naked men. Now it was your turn to gasp. “You’ve never seen a naked man before?” Goku asked. You shook your head then you both started laughing hysterically. At least you had something in common: virginity.

As you stared at the explicit images with Goku, taking in the forbidden sights, you began to feel things inside yourself. You were particularly intrigued by the idea that a man’s “thing” could go inside you like that. You wondered if Goku felt the same way, then he spoke, “Do you think it… really feels good? They look so happy about it.”

You looked up at him, wondering if he was thinking the same thing you were. “I don’t know,” you answered honestly. “Wanna try?” you both spoke at the same time. This made you both laugh again and before you knew it, Goku was untying his belt and you realized he was serious about this. You began to remove your own clothes, getting distracted by Goku revealing his perfectly sculpted body. Once you were both nude, he finally looked up you, and his cheeks turned red. “Wow! You’re really…” his voice trailed off but you didn’t need him to finish his sentence - his rock hard cock was all you needed to see to know he liked it.

You smiled and laid back on the floor, spreading your legs. “C’mon! I’m ready!”

Goku appeared above you, and you felt your core heat up at the sight of his huge form pinning you down. “Well… I think it just goes right… here!” Goku shoved his cock in your hole. You cried out - that had not felt so good. “Oh shit! The fuck??” you sighed. You liked the idea of him being in you, but it felt like you’d been torn open.

“Did I hurt you?” Goku looked concerned. You nodded but told him, “Keep going, please.” He gave you an unsure expression but did as you asked, pumping his length in and out. “Oh, wow! This feels really good!” he panted between thrusts. You winced. It still felt like you were being split apart, but if Goku was happy, you didn’t care. You distracted yourself by focusing on his bulging muscles and his blissful face as he fucked you. It sure was hot.

Goku suddenly arched his back and felt his thrusts faltering. Given how he felt, he thought it was over. That was sex. He pulled his cock out and stayed above you. “Is that… is that it?” you panted. “I don’t know,” Goku said, looking at his still hard dick. “I thought that was it but I still feel like something needs to happen.”

To give yourself a break, you lowered yourself beneath him and instinctively grabbed his cock, making him gasp. His tip was leaking with something white but there were also some red streaks on it. Odd. You imitated how your walls clenched around him by pumping your fist on his length. It was kinda fun, although you weren’t sure what would happen. In a matter of seconds, the dick you were staring at shot out stick white fluids that went all over your face, chest, and of course your hand. Goku let out a loud groan, his legs twitching. You got out from under him and sat up, both of you panting. He stared at the liquid that covered your chin, cheeks, neck, and breasts. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know it would do that!”

You shrugged, using your shirt to wipe off. “It’s okay… it wasn’t bad.” Goku laid back. “That felt really great! Did you feel anything like that?”

“No,” you laid next to him, looking between your legs and seeing only a little fluid there mixed with blood. “Whoa are you bleeding!” Goku got scared. “Yeah but it’s fine, I think it’s just because I’ve never done that before… I guess.” After you sat in the quiet for a few minutes, he turned to you, “Do you wanna try it again?” You gave him a sly smile.

You found yourself on your stomach now, Goku determined to imitate a position he saw in the magazine. He entered your hole again from behind, his crotch almost flush against your ass. He stayed there a minute, then saying, “Your butt is really nice… makes me wanna grab it!” And with that he grasped your ass cheeks as he pumped into you again.

You bit your lip and made fists as you tried not to cry from the pain. As much as it hurt you didn’t want to stop. The more he went, the less it began to hurt. You slightly unclenched your fists and let out a moan that was of true pleasure instead of pain. It was starting to feel nice, having that big thing in there. You suddenly felt him hit a certain area deep inside that felt real good. “Oh, Goku! Right there!” you whined. He kept hitting it and you felt like you were in heaven. You didn’t know you could feel like this. The more he hit it the more you gasped and moaned.

“Oh yeah, right there! Oh fuck, Goku, Goku!” You kept pathetically panting until you felt something inside you explode. “Ohhhh! Aaaaahh!” your moans started to come out strangled as you felt a climax wash over you. Goku pulled out suddenly and flipped you over, pumping his cock briefly before spurting all over you again with his cum as you yelled out. Between your first orgasm and the high you got from being covered in his fluids, you’d never felt so good. This time a little got in your mouth and you swallowed it down, tasting its saltiness.

“Goku… Goku…” you sighed, “that was so good…”

Goku smiled. “It never stops feeling good!” You looked down and saw more blood in your vagina, but this time there was a lot more fluid.

Goku (almost lovingly) wiped the cum off of your face, and got distracted by your breasts. He wiped them as well and gave each of your nipples a swipe of his tongue. He smiled at you and asked, “Can we go one more time?”

You responded by moaning, “Oh, fuck yes,” and allowed him to flip you over again. This time you were more on your knees. He again entered you from behind and fucked you mercilessly. The room was filled with the sounds of your passionate sighs and moans, you breathing out, “Your girlfriend… is gonna be really… lucky… Goku…”

“I hope… she’s … as tight as you…” Goku panted.

“Oh! Oh! Yeah, that’s it!” you felt another crescendo coming on. God, it felt good. You squeezed his cock as you came, biting your lip and moaning. This caused Goku to reach his climax, him yelling out again as he spurted his fluids into you this time. Fuck, that made you feel nice.

He slowly pulled out and you both laid there panting. Once you both caught your breath, you looked over and saw Goku smiling at you. He put his arm over your stomach, as if holding you next to him. “(Y/N)… you’re really pretty… and you made me feel really good…”

You smiled back, “Thanks, Goku… you’re really handsome… and you made me feel good, too…”

You were silent again for a bit. You then stood (a little shakily, given the rough sex not to mention the alcohol) and started to put your clothes back on - with the exception of the cum-stained shirt.

“Do you think I should still marry Chichi?” Goku asked. You paused, not expecting such a deep question. “I mean… if you love her, sure. Don’t break up with her for my sake. I’m not in love with you, Goku. You’re my friend, and we had fun, but I don’t want a relationship. Marry Chichi, she loves you.”

Goku looked a little disappointed but he quickly smiled. “I guess you’re right… besides, we can still do this sometimes, can’t we?”

[twistedheartsclub]

Fit To Be Chosen male X Female Reader .4

CW: Grooming, age gap, forced marriage, emotional manipulation, obsessive behavior, psychological distress

The day after the rain and the kiss, the house was still. The sky hung low, heavy with unshed clouds, and the halls of Carroway Manor carried the muted hush of a family trying to pretend nothing had happened.

Y/N sat curled on a chaise near the hearth in the drawing room—her embroidery untouched in her lap, her eyes unfocused on the fire. A book lay beside her unopened. The same passage had haunted her for days: “There is no imprisonment so cruel as that which wears the disguise of affection.”

Isadora entered with a soft knock, hand resting gently on the curve of her five-month belly. Her dress was robin’s egg blue, her posture still elegant despite the new weight. She closed the door behind her, then crossed the room with a knowing look.

“Everyone says you’ve been unwell,” Isadora murmured, sitting beside her. “That you caught something in the rain.”

Y/N offered a small smile. “Perhaps I did. Something I can’t quite name.”

Isadora reached for her hand and held it. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Y/N hesitated, her voice low. “What does one call it, Isa… when the man you are to marry frightens you, but when he looks at you, part of you forgets why you’re angry?”

Isadora didn’t speak at first. Her eyes moved, calculating.

“Fright is not love,” she said gently. “But sometimes… fright disguises itself as fascination. I remember my own wedding night—I didn’t know if I was terrified, or simply unprepared.”

Y/N gave a quiet, bitter laugh. “No, I’m quite prepared. It’s just that—”

Her voice faltered.

“I know what he is, and still I dream of him. Or maybe of the idea of him—what he could be if he weren’t so… so very him.”

She expected Isadora to scold her for such confusion. Instead, her sister-in-law gave her hand a squeeze.

“Then learn him. Know what kind of man he is when he thinks no one is watching.”

Later that day, Y/N arranged to be seen in the library—not reading, not hiding, but present, as though she were merely indulging in thought.

And of course… Hawthorne arrived.

He entered silently, gloved hands folded behind his back, dressed in grey and black as always. He looked less like a man and more like a portrait—tall, still, dangerous.

“I was told you’ve been ill,” he said.

“I was told you kissed me in the rain,” she replied, not looking up.

A long pause followed.

“I had assumed,” he murmured, “that you had recovered your sharp tongue.”

She closed her book. “I’ve recovered something, at least.”

He approached slowly, and she let him. Her fingers twitched in her lap. When he came to stand beside her, his shadow spilled across her like ink.

“You look lovely today,” he said quietly.

“Thank you,” she replied. “I dress well for my captors.”

He chuckled—low and warm, but his eyes flashed with something darker.

“I prefer the term husband.”

“That role requires affection, I believe.”

“Then you must teach me.”

She looked up, startled.

He bent slightly, lowering his voice. “I know I’ve frightened you. I do not apologize for loving you… but I will apologize for forgetting you are not yet mine.”

The word “yet” curled around her spine like a snake.

“I should like to… court you properly,” he added, almost stiffly, as though the phrase pained him. “With your father’s permission, of course. But also yours.”

Her lips parted in confusion. “You’ve already won.”

“I don’t want a victory,” he said. “I want devotion.”

His gaze softened—for a moment. Just long enough to unsettle her.

“Would you walk with me tomorrow?” he asked. “Chaperoned, if you like.”

She nodded slowly, still unsure.

“Good,” he said.

Before he turned to go, he added, “You ask yourself if you could ever love me, I see it in your eyes.”

She blinked.

He smiled faintly. “You will.”

Y/N paced her room after dinner, biting the edge of her thumbnail. On the table lay the two letters he had written her this week—elegant, carefully phrased, too warm to ignore, too sharp to believe.

In one, he’d praised her wit. In another, he’d written: “I think of your lips and wonder if your silence is punishment or invitation.”

She’d hidden that one under her mattress.

She didn’t want him.

But she wanted…

something.

And she would use his want against him.

If she had to survive this—if she had to marry him—she would become what he desired most: the woman he loved, feared, and worshipped.

And then, she would destroy him.

With a soft breath, Y/N whispered aloud into the candlelight: “If you want a willing bride, Your Grace… then let me become one you will regret ever touching.”

.

The day was soft and grey, as though the sky itself had pressed pause on the season. A low mist clung to the garden hedgerows, the scent of damp lavender rising with every step. Y/N walked with Hawthorne down the graveled path that wound through the orchard, her arm looped through his, gloved hands resting lightly.

She wore pale green muslin, the shade chosen by her mother for its “fresh, feminine delicacy.” Her hair was pinned in soft coils at the nape of her neck, a pearl pin tucked just behind her ear. She looked sweet. Innocent. Composed.

But beneath that, her thoughts twisted like the ivy curling around the trellises nearby.

She smiled when she needed to. Laughed at something he said, just enough to encourage him. He was speaking about land taxes and horses and some pending import laws, but she only half listened. Instead, she studied the way his brow furrowed when he thought, the careful way he avoided stepping too close—until he didn’t.

“Thank you for walking with me,” he said after a silence.

“I should be thanking you,” she replied smoothly. “I was beginning to think I might forget what fresh air feels like.”

His lips twitched at that. “The Carroway house does have a way of… echoing.”

Y/N smiled. “Especially when all five of my siblings are in it at once.”

He chuckled lowly, and she sensed the warmth of approval. She tilted her head just slightly.

“May I ask you something of a personal nature?”

“You may.”

“You spoke of your sister once—Margaretta, was it?”

His step slowed. “Yes.”

“She’s grown, isn’t she? Older than me?”

“Twenty-two.”

Y/N nodded softly. “That’s a fine age. Is she—does she live with you at Raventon?”

“No,” he replied, eyes fixed ahead. “She lives in the north. At our mother’s childhood estate. I visit her when I can.”

Y/N studied his face. Something cold had crept into his tone. The careful mask of control he wore slipped, just for a breath, enough to reveal something more—hurt.

“She must be very dear to you,” she said gently.

“She is,” he said after a pause. “She’s… quiet. Steady. She rides. Reads too much, I’m told by the governesses. Writes letters she never sends.”

“She sounds quite brilliant,” Y/N said with real warmth. “Do you miss her?”

His mouth tightened. “Yes.”

The word was quiet. Raw. It caught her off guard.

Y/N lowered her voice. “I would very much like to meet her.”

His gaze flicked toward her, sharply, almost suspicious.

“Why?”

She smiled gently, a real one this time.

“Because if I am to become a part of your life, it would be my honor to know the woman who already lives in your heart.”

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. His eyes narrowed faintly, as though trying to see through her sweetness. And for the first time since their engagement was announced, he looked… uncertain.

Then: “I shall bring her to town.”

“Would she wish to come?”

“She will,” he said firmly. “She is very proper. She will wish to meet my bride.”

“I think I might like her very much,” Y/N said softly. “I promise to be kind.”

He gave a small nod. “She needs kindness. We both did. Once.”

They came to a stop by the white marble bench under the arch of tangled roses. The chaperone paused behind them, pretending not to listen.

“You’re very different today,” he said.

“Am I?”

“You’re… gentler.”

“I’m trying to be kind, Your Grace. I know how much you value obedience.”

He smiled faintly, his eyes dancing.

“I value sincerity more.”

“Do you?” she asked.

“I do,” he murmured. “Especially from you.”

And for a single breath, she felt that if she said anything—anything—he would believe it. She could craft him into whatever man she needed, and he would bend himself to match.

The power terrified her.

And thrilled her.

They turned to walk back, and his hand brushed hers again—deliberately this time. He didn’t look at her. But she felt the question in his touch.

She let her fingers graze his once… then withdraw.

Let him wonder.

Let him want.

The parlor was bright with filtered afternoon light, the tall lace-curtained windows casting soft shadows across the polished wood floors. Tea had been poured, cakes arranged neatly on porcelain platters, and every chair was filled with a woman of importance in Y/N’s life.

Her sisters reclined gracefully near the hearth, fanning themselves and offering idle observations. A cousin giggled as she tasted a sugared biscuit. Isadora, ever luminous in her condition, sat with a hand on her belly, listening patiently. The air was thick with talk of color schemes, seating arrangements, and—of course—babies.

Y/N stood on a platform before the full-length mirror, arms gently outstretched, while Madame Cheval, one of London’s most feared and famed seamstresses, bustled around her like a storm in silk.

“Still, still,” Madame murmured, frowning as she tugged a swath of embroidered ivory into place. “You twitch, my lady, and the bodice will never lie as it should.”

“I’m trying,” Y/N replied gently, her voice thin.

“Try harder. Your waist refuses to be tamed.”

Another pin. A prick of her ribs. She flinched.

From her chair, her mother sipped tea and dabbed delicately at the corner of her eye with a lace handkerchief. “Oh, do look at her,” she sniffled. “My youngest. My baby bird, nearly a bride.”

Y/N forced a smile, but her lips trembled with effort. Her fingers clutched the folds of the dress beneath the silk overlay, knuckles white.

“She’ll make a fine wife,” one of the older women said, nodding sagely. “Such a gentle face. And quiet—that’s the mark of a good girl.”

“She’s always been obedient,” her mother added with watery pride. “Even as a child, never caused a fuss. Unlike the others.”

The others—her sisters—laughed politely at the jest.

Y/N wanted to scream.

“She’ll give him children by spring,” someone mused.

“Hopefully boys,” another added.

Isadora looked up from her tea and caught Y/N’s eyes. Her smile was soft, but her gaze sharp with understanding.

“She’ll make a fine mother,” Isadora said, but her tone was lower. More measured. “When she’s ready.”

Her mother dabbed again. “You know, I used to dream of this day. I always said—‘my little dove will fly straight into the arms of a great man.’ And now—oh, I hardly dare believe it—The Duke of Raventon! Hawthorne Vale! A man of honor. Position. And he so clearly adores her.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed. Whether from shame or heat or fear, she could not say.

She stared at her reflection, the dress still unfinished but already suffocating. Layers of satin and embroidered tulle clung to her like a cage of beauty.

A veil of pearls had been discussed.

A train long enough to fill a ballroom.

She felt as though she were being costumed for her own execution.

Her mother stood and came closer, laying a trembling hand on her shoulder. “You look beautiful, darling. Just like I dreamed. Like your sister did, like I did. Every girl dreams of this day.”

But Y/N wasn’t dreaming.

She was awake, painfully so.

Madame Cheval stepped back, admiring her own work. “He will be pleased,” she said simply.

And with that, the room filled with laughter again. Tea was poured. A name card was discussed. The organist had been secured. The bishop would officiate.

The date had been set.

Two weeks.

Fourteen days.

And then Y/N would be his.

She stood, still half-pinned into the gown, and tried not to cry.

Tried not to scream.

Tried not to run.

Because to do so would be to disappoint them. All of them. The mother who cried. The sisters who laughed. The friends who smiled and envied.

But most of all…

It would mean disappointing the man who had already taken so much—and would now take everything.

The morning passed quietly, sunlight breaking through the last of the grey clouds, casting pale golden beams through the east-facing windows of the breakfast room. Y/N had taken her tea alone, choosing to remain quiet even as her mother chattered about napkin colors and flower garlands.

She’d just risen to take her usual walk—intending to escape the planning and ceremony talk—when a knock at the door interrupted her exit.

A footman approached, clearing his throat politely. “A letter, my lady. Delivered by hand. The seal bears the Raventon crest.”

Y/N’s breath caught for reasons she could not explain.

She took it delicately, breaking the wax with her thumb. Her eyes scanned the fine, looping script.

Dearest Lady Y/N,

I am most honored to have received your kind invitation, and I must say I am quite excited to meet the lady who has so thoroughly captured my brother’s usually impenetrable attention. I’ve heard much about you already—your kindness, your spirit, your poise.

I shall be arriving to town on the morrow and would be greatly pleased to make your acquaintance properly.

Yours sincerely, Margaretta Vale

Y/N read the words twice. Then once more.

She wasn’t sure what stirred within her—relief? Curiosity? A strange sense of gratitude?

She tucked the letter inside her book, laced her gloves, and made her way to town.

The square was buzzing with the usual market day chatter—bakers with soft loaves beneath linen cloth, children darting through with sticky fingers and wild grins, vendors calling their wares. At the fountain in the center, where ivy crept up the stone and the water sparkled bright under the sun, Y/N’s friends awaited.

“Lady Y/N!” one of them called, waving.

Y/N joined them, threading her arms into theirs as they took their usual place seated along the edge of the basin, where the low splash of water dulled the noise around them.

“You’re glowing today,” said Anne, the sharper of the two, fanning herself lazily. “Is it wedding joy at last, or are you hiding something delicious?”

Y/N smiled, coy but genuine. “Neither. Though I did receive a letter this morning.”

“From him?” they asked in unison.

“No.” She laughed, pulling it from her book. “From his sister. Margaretta.”

“Oh!” Clara’s eyes widened. “The mysterious one? The one tucked away in the north? Is it true she’s never even been presented?”

“She’s twenty-two,” Y/N said, “and already more dignified than most of us will ever be. She’s arriving tomorrow.”

“Did you invite her?” Anne asked.

“I did. I thought… if I’m to marry into his family, I should know the ones he loves.”

The girls shared a look—Clara more approving, Anne more intrigued.

“You’re playing the part well,” Anne said with a sly grin. “You may win this game yet.”

Y/N glanced down at the water, letting her smile fade just enough.

“Or lose it beautifully,” she murmured.

The conversation drifted for a while—mention of dresses and how someone’s cousin had been spotted riding with a footman—but then Clara nudged Y/N sharply with her elbow.

“Are we not going to speak of the kiss?”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

Anne’s eyes narrowed like a cat’s. “The kiss. In the rain. The one you refused to write about in your last letter.”

“Oh,” Y/N exhaled, heat rising to her cheeks.

Clara clapped. “There was a kiss!”

“I—” Y/N began, flustered, glancing around. “Not here—”

“Oh, absolutely here,” Anne grinned. “We’re by a fountain. The gods demand romance.”

“It wasn’t…” Y/N trailed off, eyes lowering. “It wasn’t supposed to happen. He found me. I’d run off. I—I was upset, and he appeared, and—”

“And?” Clara prompted breathlessly.

“It was raining,” she admitted, brushing her fingers along the stone edge. “I was soaked and furious and crying. And he was angry too. He shouted at me for being foolish. And then…”

“Then he kissed you,” Anne finished. “Like some dreadful gothic novel.”

Y/N let out a helpless laugh, cheeks burning. “Yes.”

Clara squealed, clutching her arm. “And?”

“And what?” Y/N groaned.

“Was it awful?”

Y/N paused. Her voice softened.

“It was... wrong. And terrifying. And yet... I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

Her friends were silent for a moment, watching her carefully.

Anne’s smile faded just a touch. “Be careful, Y/N.”

“I know.”

Clara linked arms with her again. “Well, if you must marry a brooding duke, at least let him be a good kisser.”

Y/N chuckled, but her heart beat wildly in her chest. Because yes—he had been. And she hated herself for remembering the taste of rain and the heat of his hands on her waist.

But tomorrow she would meet Margaretta.

And perhaps—perhaps—the girl he loved could teach her something about surviving a man like Hawthorne Vale.

When Y/N mentioned to her mother that the Duke’s sister would be arriving within the day, the older woman paused mid-sip of her morning tea, her brows lifting.

“Margaretta Vale?” she asked, voice light but eyes sharp.

“Yes,” Y/N replied. “She’s written me. I thought it proper we become acquainted.”

Her mother smiled, but Y/N saw the way her gaze flicked toward the hallway—calculating.

“A Vale girl, hm?” she said. “Well. If she is anything like her brother, she’ll be most difficult to impress—but I do wonder…” Her voice lowered thoughtfully. “Your brother, William, has been dreadfully unattached for far too long. Perhaps—”

“No,” Y/N said at once, too quickly. “No matchmaking. Please.”

Her mother gave a mild, amused laugh. “Don’t be dramatic, darling. If the Duke is to be your husband, it is only natural to think of… alliances.”

Y/N said nothing more. But she felt the familiar tightness in her throat that came whenever her life was bartered in the name of family duty.

That night, she went to bed early—her body sore from another dress fitting, her spirit wearied from too many voices calling her lovely, obedient, ready.

By noon the next day, a dark carriage with the Raventon crest arrived at her family’s estate. A footman assisted her in, and she rode in silence through the quiet, fog-laced countryside.

The Duke’s home was larger than she remembered, more severe than beautiful. Its stone arches and ivy-strangled walls seemed to watch her approach like a quiet sentinel. Yet, as the doors were opened and she stepped inside—

Warmth.

A light, unfiltered and honest.

“Lady Y/N!” came a voice from the marble steps.

And there she was.

Margaretta Vale.

The woman who descended the stair was tall, slender, and radiant in the most unexpected way. Her hair was the same shade as Hawthorne’s, dark as black ink, but her eyes were soft blue, like periwinkle petals caught in a breeze. She wore a gown of deep wine red and smiled with such open affection that Y/N felt her shoulders loosen at once.

“I’ve been waiting eagerly,” Margaretta said, offering both hands. “You’re even lovelier than I imagined.”

Y/N flushed and curtsied. “You’re too kind. I—I’ve been quite looking forward to meeting you.”

“You must be famished. I had Cook prepare something. You’ll forgive me for not waiting for my brother. He’s out riding. He’ll likely sulk when he hears he missed your arrival.”

Y/N smiled at that, surprised by the gentle teasing in her tone.

Margaretta led her through the sunlit halls, past elegant tapestries and somber portraits. The home still held its gothic edges, but it felt... softened now.

They entered a sitting room dressed in muted pastels, the windows open to a blooming garden, and a late luncheon spread laid delicately across the table—roast pheasant, fresh berries, soft bread still warm.

As they ate, the girls spoke easily. Y/N found herself laughing—laughing—at stories of misbehaved ponies and a governess who fainted at the sight of a snake. For the first time in what felt like months, she was at ease.

Until, over dessert, the tone shifted.

“I used to hide in that window seat,” Margaretta said quietly, nodding toward the curved alcove behind them. “When I was little. When Father was in one of his... moods.”

Y/N’s fork slowed. She looked at her new companion—Margaretta’s smile had faltered.

“He was not a kind man,” she said after a moment. “Especially not to Hawthorne.”

Y/N reached out without thinking, laying her hand atop Margaretta’s.

The woman looked down at the touch—and tears trembled in her lashes.

“I remember once,” she said, voice low, “when I was seven, he struck me for dropping a glass. My brother—he was sixteen, I think—he stepped in front of me. Took the rest. Without flinching.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

“He told me after,” Margaretta whispered, “that some men are born with fists instead of hearts. And that he would never become one of them.”

Her voice cracked.

And then, as though realizing too much had been said, Margaretta pulled her hand away gently and sat back. Her posture straightened. Her tone lightened.

“But it’s all quite behind us now. He... he tries his best. I know he can be cold, but he loves fiercely.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “Yes,” she murmured. “I can see that.”

“I know he frightens you,” Margaretta added, almost too quietly. “But he has been alone for so long. He does not know how to be anything but... relentless.”

Y/N swallowed hard.

They sat in silence for a few beats, the only sound the chirping birds from the open window.

Then Margaretta smiled again, this time with a practiced grace. “Come. Let me show you the garden. The white roses are blooming early this year.”

Y/N stood, following.

And though her hand still tingled where Margaretta’s had clutched it, her mind was full of something else:

A boy, just sixteen, shielding his sister with his back.

And the man that boy had become—

A man she could neither love nor forgive…

But perhaps, for a moment, she could begin to understand.

The garden had taken on the golden hue of late afternoon, the light softening as it danced through the boughs of wisteria and warm ivy. The air was fragrant with roses and sweet alyssum, and laughter floated like songbirds between the hedges.

Y/N had not laughed so freely in weeks.

She sat beside Margaretta on a stone bench near the flowering trellis, her bonnet long forgotten, her gloves tucked neatly in her lap. Margaretta had just mimicked a bishop’s pompous toast from some dreadful supper, and Y/N was breathless with laughter, wiping the corner of her eye.

“You’ll have to stop,” she gasped. “You’ll make me utterly unpresentable—”

“Nonsense,” Margaretta teased. “Your cheeks are lovely with color. My brother’s stone heart may even crack at the sight.”

“Doubtful,” Y/N murmured, smiling despite herself.

They were still giggling when the voice came from behind them.

“I had not realized I was being so thoroughly mocked.”

Y/N’s head turned, and she rose instinctively, smoothing her skirts. There he stood: Hawthorne Vale, the Duke of Raventon, framed by the low arch of vine and light.

He looked like something carved from shadow and sunlight. His dark riding coat, brushed with flecks of trail dust, made the ivory of his shirt even whiter; his collar unfastened at the throat gave him a touch too much ease for a nobleman. But his eyes—grey like a storm preparing—were fixed on her alone.

Margaretta stood as well, a touch sheepish. “You’re back sooner than I thought.”

“I rode quickly,” Hawthorne said, his gaze still not breaking from Y/N. “I was… eager to return.”

Margaretta’s eyes sparkled, but she said nothing. “Well, I shall let you two walk. The white roses won’t stop blooming without me.”

She excused herself with the grace of a duchess, slipping down the path and disappearing behind a veil of lilacs.

And then they were alone.

The breeze shifted. Y/N pressed her hands together, aware—too aware—of the heat in her face.

Hawthorne stepped forward, his voice lower now. “You look happy.”

“I was,” she answered, too honestly.

He smiled faintly. “That was unkind.”

Y/N blushed. “Forgive me. I only meant…”

“That I darken your joy?” he supplied smoothly. “You’ve made that clear before.”

She faltered. “That’s not what I meant.”

His eyes softened, but only slightly. He walked past her, toward the nearest patch of blooming roses, and brushed a thumb gently over one of the petals.

“You and Margaretta seem well-matched,” he said, turning back. “She’s rarely so cheerful. I thank you for that.”

“She’s… wonderful,” Y/N said, stepping nearer. “Not like you at all.”

He tilted his head. “No?”

“No,” she whispered. “She’s… warm.”

His mouth curved. “And I am not?”

“You’re...” Y/N hesitated. “Something else entirely.”

There was a pause. A long one.

He stepped forward—slowly, deliberately—and reached for her hand. She did not pull away. His touch was careful, fingers warm and strong as they closed around hers.

“I very much wish to kiss you in this very moment,” Hawthorne said, voice hushed, dangerous in how sincere it sounded. “May I?”

Y/N’s breath caught. Her body, traitorous and trembling, tilted slightly toward him.

She was supposed to hate him.

She was supposed to ruin him.

She was supposed to lie, manipulate, and win.

And yet—

Her lips parted. Her gaze fell to his mouth. Her hand did not move from his.

But then—

She pulled back, only a fraction, but enough.

“No,” she said. “Not today.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then—

“Very well.”

He lifted her hand instead, turned it gently in his, and kissed her knuckles.

The touch burned.

He looked up at her as he held it there, his eyes unreadable.

“I am a patient man, my lady. But not forever.”

And with that, he released her hand and turned, beginning the walk back toward the house without another word.

Y/N stared at her palm like it had been branded.

Her heart raced—not from fear. Or not only from fear.

There would be no undoing this.

And now—she feared—there would be no turning back.

The sun filtered softly through the tall windows of the east tea room, catching the delicate gold filigree on the porcelain cups and dancing across the fine cream linen set out for the afternoon. The gentle clink of silver spoons echoed faintly beneath the whisper of lace-curtained breezes, and the scent of early roses from the garden drifted in like a silent invitation to forget all troubles.

Y/N sat on the settee nearest the window, her book propped lazily in her lap, though her eyes had not moved across the page in several minutes.

“Lady Whistledown would call me flighty,” she muttered beneath her breath.

A sigh escaped her lips as she leaned her head against the window frame. The silk of her morning gown creased softly beneath her arms, and the light warmed the side of her face. She blinked at the words on the page: “He leaned in, voice thick with longing...” and promptly snapped the book shut.

Her fingers twitched against the worn cover.

It had been two days since she last saw him.

Two days since Hawthorne Vale, the Duke of Raventon, had kissed the back of her hand like it belonged to him. Since he had told her plainly—without hesitation—that he wanted to kiss her. As though such things were so simple. As though the ache in her chest was a natural reaction.

She hated that he was handsome.

She hated more that he knew it.

And she hated—most of all—that she now waited for the next letter as though it were a balm to some part of her she had never noticed was sore.

“Distracted again,” came a voice.

Y/N turned and saw her mother sweeping into the room, her rings clinking lightly against the arm of the nearest chair.

“I’ve had the cook begin preparing duck confit for tomorrow,” she announced with a small clap of satisfaction. “We shall serve lavender cakes and lemon cordial after, of course. You’ve done well to invite her, my dear. A proper friendship with Lady Margaretta will secure your place quite comfortably.”

“I didn’t invite her to be strategic,” Y/N said, though her voice lacked force.

“No,” her mother agreed, taking a sip of her tea, “but strategy never hurts.”

Y/N offered a tight smile and excused herself not long after, her book still clutched to her chest.

Upstairs in her room, she stood by the writing desk where a small vase of violets had been set beside the Duke’s last letter.

She hadn’t reread it since that night.

She wouldn’t.

Her thoughts turned instead to tomorrow—lunch with Margaretta, polite conversation, tea and laughter—and maybe, just maybe, a moment alone where she could ask what she truly wanted to know:

Why does he look at me like that? Why me, out of every woman he could have?

She had wanted to forget him today.

But the scent of tea roses… the feel of sunlight on her wrist… even the page in her romance novel—all of it brought his voice back. That deep, patient voice that lived somewhere behind her ears now. That voice that said:

“I am a patient man, my lady. But not forever.”

Y/N pressed her hand to her chest, furious that her heart betrayed her with every beat.

Laughter echoed lightly across the terrace where the young women had settled after luncheon. A linen parasol cast cool shade upon them, and the lingering scent of thyme-roasted duck mingled with the breeze. Birds chattered in the hedges, and the distant sound of the estate fountain murmured like a secret too shy to speak aloud.

Margaretta reclined with languid grace on a tufted settee, her fingers idly twirling a fan, though the day was not warm enough to require it. Y/N sat opposite her, cross-legged on a soft cushion, a half-eaten lavender cake on her plate and pink in her cheeks from wine and conversation.

“I used to imagine,” Y/N was saying, “that I’d go to the continent. Italy, perhaps. Or France. I would take my sister and we would wear dark veils and pretend to be widows with a dark past. The sort of women men fear and envy.”

Margaretta laughed—genuinely and richly. “Scandalous!”

“Oh, terribly so,” Y/N grinned. “We’d take lovers and then send them away with only poetry and a single glove.”

Margaretta waved her fan. “And your family would perish of shame.”

“One could only hope,” Y/N said dryly, sipping her cordial.

But the humor ebbed when Margaretta’s fan fell still in her lap.

Her smile remained, but it turned pensive, folded in thought. She looked out toward the garden hedges, where a cluster of roses leaned heavy with bloom.

“I must tell you something,” Margaretta said at last.

Y/N straightened slightly. “Of course.”

“My brother…” Margaretta hesitated, then met her eyes. “Hawthorne. I believe he truly loves you.”

Y/N stilled. The breeze tickled her curls, but she didn’t move.

“I—” she began, but Margaretta raised a hand.

“I know what you wish to say,” the duke’s sister continued. “You feel coerced. Trapped. And perhaps, yes, you are. But not by love. Not even by Hawthorne. We are trapped by birth. By duty. You and I… we are daughters, not heirs. Pretty baubles meant to be placed beside men who carry swords or titles.”

“That doesn’t make it right,” Y/N said, voice tight. “He—he touches me like I belong to him. He kisses me without asking, speaks as though I’ve already said yes. I’m not his.”

“No, darling,” Margaretta said gently. “You are his obsession. That is… worse.”

Y/N flinched. Her mouth opened to protest—but she found none worthy.

“You don’t have to excuse him,” Margaretta added quickly. “But you do have to understand him. He has only ever loved once before. And she married another. He lost her, and I fear… he swore never to lose again.”

Y/N looked away. “It’s not my burden.”

“No,” Margaretta said, quietly. “But it has become your future.”

Silence stretched long between them, until the weight of it nearly drove Y/N to tears.

“I don’t even get to choose,” she whispered.

“No woman does,” Margaretta said with sudden fierceness. “Choice is a myth we tell ourselves to sleep at night. My brother speaks of ‘letting’ me marry, as though my life belongs on a ledger. I am two-and-twenty, and I’ve never spent a night beyond walls without permission. My freedom is a fantasy stitched between embroidery hoops.”

Y/N looked at her then—really looked—and saw not a noblewoman, not a duke’s sister, but a girl not so different from herself. Caged. Clever. Bitter with sweetness.

“I shall convince him,” Y/N said suddenly. “You’ll come live with us. Once we are married, I’ll insist upon it.”

Margaretta blinked. “Truly?”

“You shall live freely in my house. We will read every forbidden book and drink French wine and write ghastly poetry.”

A smile bloomed on Margaretta’s face—one of hope, fragile and fluttering.

“And you,” Y/N added, reaching across the tea tray, “will give me your wisdom. I’ll need it.”

Margaretta took her hand, squeezing tightly. “Then I’ll give it freely. And should you ever wish to poison my brother, I know several apothecaries in Bath who will not ask questions.”

Y/N burst into a surprised laugh.

But as the laughter faded, both girls sat still, hands joined, a silent pact forged beneath the soft light of a sun that had never once asked them what they wanted.

The week of the wedding dawned with clear skies and frantic hearts.

The manor was alive with the rustle of silks and the clatter of polished shoes across marble floors. Servants moved like whispers down the corridors, their arms full of linens, glassware, ribbons, and flowers. Musicians were booked, carriages confirmed, menus finalized. And amid it all, Lady Vale—Y/N’s mother—was a storm of lace, pins, and pressed lips.

“Do not forget to have the parlour curtains pressed,” she snapped at a maid. “And see that the lemon tarts are made without the cursed rosemary this time—I shan’t have guests thinking us provincial.”

She turned to her youngest daughter, her eyes bright with the kind of tearful urgency only mothers possess when they are sending a child away.

“You’re to be a duchess,” she said for the fourth time that morning. “You must stand tall. Smile graciously. Be still when spoken to, and pleasant when silent. There is no greater joy for a woman than to be chosen.”

Y/N merely nodded, her fingers twisted in the folds of her skirt. Her engagement ring felt cold on her hand.

She was tired.

Not the sort of tired that sleep could cure, but a bone-deep weariness from pretending. She smiled when required, agreed when spoken to, sat politely while women discussed her future as though it were embroidery thread being passed around.

Every evening, she was fitted—again and again—into her gown. The finest French seamstress her mother could afford had arrived the week prior, and now her fingers were like claws, always tugging at fabric, measuring, shaping Y/N into someone worthy of display.

"You have such a delicate frame," the woman would mutter with a pin in her teeth. "You'll float, not walk."

But Y/N did not wish to float. She did not wish to be graceful or demure. She wished to run—barefoot through mud, if it would keep her free.

Hawthorne had written her three letters since the last time they spoke. All handwritten. Each sealed with his crest and his strange, steady affection. The first spoke of a garden he hoped to build in her honor. The second of a painting he’d once seen that reminded him of her smile. The third… the third she had not finished. It sat unopened beneath her pillow.

He had visited the estate only once that week—to speak with her father in the study. Y/N had watched from the top of the stair, clutching the rail like a lifeline as their voices hummed below. When he left, she did not go to him. And he did not call her down.

Her heart should’ve leapt to see him.

But instead… it had clenched.

On Thursday morning, three days before the wedding, Y/N stood in her chamber window with a cup of tea gone cold in her hands. The bustle of carriages arriving outside meant guests had begun to trickle in. She could hear Isadora in the next room, laughing softly with a cousin. Her sisters had taken to practicing their curtsies in the mirror. Even Margaretta was set to arrive later that afternoon.

And still, Y/N felt hollow.

She tried to be happy.

She reminded herself of the good: he had been respectful—lately. His sister adored her. He was well-read, generous, and above all… consistent.

But joy did not come.

As she stared out at the budding fields beyond the garden, she whispered aloud—

“Why do I feel like I’m burying myself instead of marrying?”

She didn’t cry. She was past crying. There was only stillness now. A soft, aching quiet.

The wedding was in three days.

And all she could think of was whether she’d ever feel like herself again.

@cutelittlesugarfairy @lilyalone @alebrasil0101 @amanduhh1998 @bananaasfordewin @rachfart @hopingtoclearmedschool

[druidwolf21]

Some soft fluff because what a day I've had and I need this lol

Roboute guilliman/F reader

fluffy

Very short but I needed this out

Dreaming

Guilliman swept a hand across his brow, wiping sweat and grim from his face as he looked up at the sky. The sun beat down heavy on him as he blinked and smiled, returning his gaze to his work.

His muscles worked and burned as he set about scything ears of corn, bringing them down with a long swing. The scythe felt heavy in his hands as he swept it back and forth, focusing only on the heat, the feel of the wood and the soft noise as the plant fell.

And he worked

And worked

Until the sun began to slow edge down.

Taking a long inhale he finally stood straight and stretched, his back cracking after hours of bending. He flexed his hands and smiled at the dull ache he felt.

Making his way through the raining stems, he headed towards the wooden cabin resting at the edge of the field, a soft warm glow flicking in the window and faint smoke spiraling from the chimmney.

His smile stretched further and he ducked through the door and was met by the smell of fresh warm bread the heat of a smokey wood fire and the faint bubbling from a large pot hanging over the flames.

You spun round, your dress twisting around your legs as you met his sapphire eyes and grinned, face still flush from the warm meal you had been cooking.

"roboute! Just in time my love, have a seat and I'll get you a drink" you patted your hands on your apron and collected up a glass and pitcher, setting it at the oaken table and pouring out a drink.

Guilliman sighed gently and sank into a chair, sipping from the glass. The wine was sweet in his tongue as he watched you flitted about the kitchen, filling a bowl with stew and gently placing it in front of him, along with a wedge of still warm bread.

You stood behind him, dropping your arms over his neck and nuzzling up to him, your hair tickled him as rested his head against yours.

"you work so hard, my love" you murmured "perhaps tomorrow the land can wait and we can go to the lake" a slender finger gently traced circles in his chest as you spoke. "I'll even wear that blue dress you like so much"

He twisted and caught your lips in a chaste kiss as your began to pull away.

"of course my lady, I could think of nothing I'd like more"

You gently ran a hand through his blonde hair before taking a seat at the table.

My love

My. Lo o v e

M y L o

My lord

Guilliman jolted slightly and scowled at the voice that dragged him so violently from his revere.

"what, sicarius?"

"The mechanicum have sent a serf to deliver some documents to you and an official from the high lords has also requested a moment of your time"

Guilliman rubbed his brown and gathered his thoughts.

"your lady is also at the door, lord Primark"

Guillimans head shot up and he rose from his seat

"Send her in" he waved to the marine.

You entered through the massive doors, your dress, that blue dress he loved so much, sweeping the floor . Your hair speckled with small shining stones which caught the light as you moved towards his desk. A delicate necklace chain hung from your neck, depending to your cleavage, the ultramarine sigil bouncing on your skin.

"roboute, my sweet, don't you think it's time you took a break" you sighed gently, laying a hand on his as you finally reached the desk.

"the imperium waits for no man, love, not even me" he smiled grimly, eye darting from the necklace and where it hung, up to your face.

You caught the look and smiled

"perhaps we could go to the lake? It's been so long, things will run without you for an hour? You gently kissed his cheek and pressed your forehead to him.

The Primark returned your smile with a dazed look.

He couldn't tell if this was still a dream, but hopefully this one didn't end.

@cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @beckyninja @lemon-russ @moodymisty

[sodapopwrites]

a ballad of flame and shadow part four

pairings - lucien vanserra x rhysands sister!reader, azriel x rhysand's sister!reader.

summary - When she falls into another length of darkness after the events of Calanmai, her, lucien, and azriel all look back on past memories.

word count - 3.5k

a/n - oh my god. this is a long one and azriel is so down bad. i'm so sorry. i love writing him pining and upset and not knowing how to deal with his feelings. i swear it'll get happier. not soon maybe. but eventually. also shout out to the rest of the inner circle who have to deal with these two's bullshit.

read the rest of the series here!

“She doesn’t want it” 

His  stubborn words to Cassian interrupted his every thought. There was a strange truth to them. 

“He doesn’t want this. Not now.” 

He wasn’t supposed to hear that. It wasn’t for him. But the confession in her words haunted his every movement. It was her truth that she had disguised as his. She couldn’t do this. Not now. He was right. In some sense he was right when he told Cassian she didn’t want the bond. He tried to relish in that. In that small victory over Cassian. But it never stuck. 

When. When. When. When. 

It was all he could think. When would it be okay to tell her? When would the weight of it not crush her? When her brother returned? If he ever did. It had been too long. Rhysand had been gone for far too long. He feared that the damage done between them was something even the high lord couldn’t fix. 

In the days after Calanmai she had tried. Tried to go back to whatever normal her and Azriel had built. Tried to continue to let herself sleep in his arms. Tried to let his easy warmth spread through her. But she couldn’t. Not when that golden thread threatened to snap in place every time she drew too close to him. Not when she let herself once again fall into a spiral of guilt. 

“It wasn’t enough” 

Lucien's rage followed her back to Velaris. His curse a weight on her shoulders. A burden she unnecessarily chose to bear. And Azriel watched as she let darkness consume her just as she had done when Amarantha had first taken over. He knew that darkness well. He was forged from it. He let her withdraw from him and he let himself be consumed by memories of before. 

Starfall the year before Rhysand had gone under the mountain. The year before Amarantha’s party. 

Azriel’s gaze had not left her once since she entered the room. Her dress, a blue so dark it was almost black, sparkled with a thousand cobalt diamonds, they hung from her dress like glittering drops of rain. He tried not to think too hard about the color choice. Tried not to notice that the diamonds draping her form glittered the same blue as the siphon laid over the center of his chest. Tried not to wonder if it was a conscious decision on her part. Her hair flowed down her back in a cascade of midnight curls. He watched her eyes glitter, reflecting the light of the stars twisting through the sky above. Everything about her effervescent, bright with life. He wanted to drown in it. Instead he held himself back. In a corner of the room. Let his shadows curl around his chest protectively. He stopped himself from going to her, from reaching out to her. Her eyes finally found his, twinkling with a mischief that sent sparks through his entire body. His shadows circled tighter. 

She crossed the room and stopped in front of him, smiling like she knew a secret she wanted desperately to tell him. 

“Why is it that during every party I always find you skulking in some corner?” 

A smile played at the corners of her lips as he shrugged half heartedly. 

To keep myself from pulling you into the nearest room and consuming you whole. That’s what he wanted to say. But instead he held his facade of indifference. It didn’t deter her this time though. 

“You’re too beautiful to hide yourself away you know.” 

She was teasing. It was clear enough that she was teasing. It had to be. But when he held her gaze for a moment too long after her compliment she blushed and sipped her drink in an attempt to hide the flush of her cheeks. Maybe there was some truth to it. 

“More beautiful than me?” 

Cassian’s voice cut through the tension of the moment. Azriel had to physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes at his friend's intrusion. Instead he scoffed and received an offended look from the Illyrian general. 

“Aw Cass. You’re pretty too.” 

Now that was teasing. She laughed as Cassian clasped his hands over his chest as if he’d been stabbed. 

“Why is he beautiful and I’m pretty?” 

“At least I didn’t call you the funny one”

Cassian rolled his eyes. 

“I am the funny one” 

Azriel’s eyes flitted between the pair in front of him. Slightly amused. 

“I’m funny” 

His voice was soft and only  a little defensive. Cassian let a hand fall to his brother's shoulder and offered him a look laced with mock sympathy. 

“Oh Azriel. You are many things but funny is not one of them.” 

She tried to muffle her snort in another sip of her drink. Azriel looked to her, asking for some sort of defense. She gave in immediately. 

“Maybe you’re just not bright enough to pick up on the subtleties of Azriel’s humor.” 

Cassian scoffed at her comment and looked her up and down, “Nice dress. Those diamonds.” He let out a low whistle before sparing a quick glance at Azriel’s siphons, “They look awfully familiar.” 

Azriel watched her closely. Waiting for her response with a new found intensity. She only shrugged before saying, 

“I like blue.” 

Cassian’s eyes were filled with mirth as he watched the shadow singer's eyes rake over her body, over the glittering diamonds. He knew exactly what Azriel was wondering, he was wondering it himself. 

“Any particular reason why?” 

He was baiting her. If there was one thing Cassian loved to do, it was bait the pair before him into a conversation about their unspoken feelings for eachother. She brushed the question off and turned entirely away from Cass, looking now only at Azriel. 

“Dance with me.” 

It wasn’t a request. Azriel pushed himself off the wall and let himself take the hand she had outstretched to him. He let her lead him to the dance floor. Let himself wrap his arms around her and hold her closer than he ever should have. He let her wrap her arms around his neck. Her fingers playing gently with the hair at the nape of his neck. The touch sent a shiver down his spine. He swayed them gently to the music and only let himself look away from her once. He saw Cassian and Rhysand watching the two of them dance, snickering to themselves. He shot them a quick glare before returning his focus to her entirely. 

“What is the reason why?” 

His question came out as a hoarse whisper. It sounded much more desperate than he meant it to. She looked up at him. Knowing he was asking the same question Cassian had asked moments ago. She let her eyes fall to the siphons adoring him, and then back up to his face. She gave him a small smile. 

It was the only answer she could let herself give. The only answer that didn’t outright tell him she searched for small pieces of him everywhere. In every color, in every star, in every scent and feel. She searched for small pieces of him to carry with her. The only bits of him she ever dared to allow herself. 

Azriel's eyes were closed. Clamped shut. Trying desperately to hold onto that memory. He shouldn’t let himself look back, not after those days had been gone for so long. But he had to. It was all he could do to keep himself from following her into the endless haunting night she had resigned herself to. 

────────────── ⋆✩⋆ ──────────────

Lucien had grown quiet and more brooding since his encounter with her at Calanmai. He sat down at the sprawling lunch table with Tamlin. The high lord of Spring court’s gaze was fixed on his friend. He stared at him with a nervous concern. 

“What’s wrong with you?” 

Lucien looked at him blankly before shaking his head. 

“You’ve been sulking for months, ever since the Rite, you’ve been just…” 

Lucien continued to stare at him. 

“...Well dare I say unpleasant.” 

Lucien sighed deeply. He pushed his food around his plate before responding, 

“Too bad you’re stuck with me forever. Or until Amarantha finally decides to kill us.” 

Tamlin let out a low growl. His patience stretched thin by the ginger’s foul mood. By Lucien’s lack of hope for their situation. Lucien bristled at the sound of it and stood up, excusing himself from the meal, and walking briskly out of the dining room. He made his way back to his room and sat on the corner of his bed. He let his head fall into his hands and he rubbed at his eyes. 

Regret flooded through him. Regret at the way he had reacted to smelling the shadow singer on her. Regret at the way he had made his resentment all too clear to her. Regret that he hadn’t embraced her or kissed her while he had a chance. He wanted it all back now. Everything they had before. 

She had come to him the evening after Starfall under some pretense of work. She always came to him as if they had something serious to discuss, and she always let it devolve into an easy flirtation. 

They lay beneath a willow tree, far from the manor, so no one would know of her presence. Lucien propped himself up on one arm to look at her. She was bathed in the orange light of sunset. Her eyes closed and her breathing slow, as if she was sleeping. His hand came to the side of her face and he slid it from her face, down her neck, and to let it rest on her shoulder. He traced lazy circles across her skin, letting his fingers swirl farther across her skin, over her collar bones and dangerously lower. She hummed at his soft touch and opened her eyes. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Admiring you” 

She smiled. The expression almost sad. Her eyes searching his so deeply it was like she was almost looking for someone else. He didn’t let it faze him. That expression was one she held often, and he chalked it up to having to hold the secret of the exact nature of their meetings. He cleared his throat. 

“So what exactly is the business you had to discuss with me?” 

His tone was light and careless as he leaned closer to her, waiting for her response. 

“Mmm. You know I can’t really remember”

He let a wicked grin spread across his features, “Oh no?” His hand traveled farther down her body and she arched into his touch. 

“Must not have been important.” 

Her voice wavered as his hand continued its exploration. He brought his lips to hers. She chased him as he pulled away and there was a clear amusement in his tone as he said, 

“How disappointed your brother would be.” 

She tried not to recoil at the statement, “Interesting time to bring up my brother.” 

“I’m just so sure he’d hate what this meeting has devolved into.” 

“Just shut up and kiss me.” 

She pulled him back to her lips, trying to kiss away every mention of her family. Of her complete lack of professionalism. Guilt laced her every movement against him. 

God maybe she had been right. It was all he could think. Maybe she had been right. When was he ever not concerned about her family? About where she came from? Why else would he be so secretive about his affections for her? It wasn’t fair to her. To hold that over her. But he never seemed to be able to help it. That deep seated mistrust of the night court and all it held. Those it held. 

He wanted it all back. He wanted her back. Maybe he could let it be different. Maybe he wouldn't have treated every moment with her like a distraction from her. From what she was. Who she was. 

He pushed his palms further into his eyes. The sharp pain of it sent some relief. An escape from memory. 

────────────── ⋆✩⋆ ──────────────

She stopped herself from seeking Azriel out constantly. Stopped herself from going to his room when nightmares sent her hurtling from sleep. Stopped herself from going to dinner just to sit next to him. Instead she spent her days traipsing to Amren’s apartment, much to the general annoyance of the silver eyed female. Or training with Cassian. She avoided Mor with everything she had. Not wanting to answer the golden haired female’s questions. Always about Azriel. Always about why she wouldn’t just tell him what he meant to her. 

She couldn’t let herself deal with it. 

She sat in a plush chair that resided in the corner of Amren’s apartment. Amren was reading some ancient text and ignoring her as best she could. 

She sighed. It was probably the fourth time she had let a gust of breath fall past her lips, all too audibly. 

“Oh good lord. What?” 

Amren’s voice was laced with annoyance. 

“Nothing”

“Just go talk to him”

“No”

“Stubborn girl” 

She looked at Amren, opening her mouth to spew some defensive excuse. Amren spoke before she could. 

“So Calanmai didn’t yield the results you hoped for?”

It was the first time anyone had brought that night up to her. She curled into herself now. Amren narrowed her eyes, 

“What exactly were you expecting from him?” 

“I don’t know”

“What did you want from him?” 

She thought about it. What did she want from Lucien? What did she want to happen when she snuck off to the bonfires of Spring Court. 

“Comfort” 

Amren clicked her tongue and shook her head waiting for the high lord's sister to try a different response. A more honest one. 

“Fine. Not comfort.” She paused, “Distraction I guess.” 

Amren gave her a small nod, “From Azriel.” 

Not a question. A statement. One that made her raise her hands in defense and shake her head. 

“No. From everything. From…from everything.” 

Amren studied the girl before her. Her gaze held the truth. It was a distraction from Azriel. A small use of the fox to distract her from the golden pull she feared so deeply. 

“What exactly are you so afraid of?” 

Amren’s voice was softer now, her best attempt to be sympathetic. 

“That he only wants me now because soothing some part of my pain, of my guilt, lessens his own.” 

“Are you really so blind?” 

She seemed a little surprised by Amren’s question. She quirked an eyebrow waiting for her friend to continue. 

“He doesn’t only want you now. Use your brain for once. Look past the darkness of the last few years and let yourself remember.” 

That was all Amren said before turning back to her book, shutting her out once more. 

Let yourself remember. 

When she returned from Spring Court, the day after Starfall. When she had slid into her seat beside Rhys at the dinner table. She avoided eye contact with everyone as she always did when she returned from a tryst with Lucien. She tried to make herself small enough that no one would notice her. It didn’t work. It never did. 

“Any news from Spring Court?” 

Rhysand kept his tone even. But asking the question simply to remind her that he knew exactly what she had been up to. He watched her deflate a little before lifting her head to respond to him, 

“Oh you know. Roses in bloom. Flowers….Usual spring stuff.” 

Cassian let out a small laugh at her lame attempt to play it off. Mor narrowed her eyes, 

“Spring stuff?” 

The judgment in Mor’s tone was evident. 

“Yeah spring stuff.” 

She started to eat. Still avoiding the gaze of everyone. Especially the shadow encircled male sitting at the end of the table. But Mor pushed the subject further. 

“Why him?” 

She shrugged. Really not wanting to talk about this. 

“Why not one of your own?” 

She looked up at this. Stared at Mor’s implication. 

“One of my own?” 

She didn’t miss the way Rhysand’s eyes flickered towards Azriel. Didn’t miss the way Azriel shifted in his seat and let his shadows unfurl, hiding him somewhat from her sight. The insinuation simmered in her stomach as she shook her head and continued eating. But after a moment of silence, a moment where everyone’s eyes were still on her she said, 

“The only people I’m ever around are you guys.” 

It was Cassian that spoke up now, 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

There was humor in his voice, as there always was when everyone ganged up on her. A small part of him enjoyed watching her squirm. Okay a large part of him. 

“Not a bad thing. Just a vaguely annoying one.” 

She stood up from the table, not able to bear it anymore. The judgment. The way Azriel wouldn’t look at her. Everytime she came back wreaking of Autumn and flame, he couldn’t bear to look at her. Couldn’t bear to be more than a couple feet away from her. As if he didn’t want to even be near the faint whisper of someone else on her skin. 

She swept out of the dining room and shut herself in her room. She ran a bath. Scrubbing herself of any trace of Lucien Vanserra. She let the warm water encompass her. She sank into it. Letting her head sink beneath the surface. She held herself under water. 

The way Azriel’s shadows came around him in a shield of defense everytime anyone mentioned their names in the same sentence together. The way his eyes lingered on her when he smiled, as if her joy could prolong his. The way he trailed close behind her like he wanted her every footstep to be filled with his own. 

She couldn’t breathe. She let the thought of him consume her. He didn’t want her. He didn’t want her. He didn’t want her. A chant. A reassurance. 

She’d been in love with him for too long. She’d wanted him for too long to no avail. 

He was too beautiful. Too powerful. Too important. He didn’t want her. He was too loyal. He wanted her happiness the same way he wanted Rhysands. He didn’t want her. He wanted to serve his highlord and he wanted to keep the inner circle safe. That was why he guarded her. He didn’t want her. 

She couldn’t breathe. 

She rose from the water. Taking deep calming breaths. 

A short knock came at the door of her bedroom. She closed her eyes bracing herself for some dull and vaguely mocking lecture on taking her duties more seriously from Rhysand. She wrapped her robe around her and headed for the door. 

It was not Rhysand. When she swung open the door. Azriel stood before her. He took in her wet hair and the way the robe clung to her damp skin. He swallowed once. Refusing to let his eyes drift from her face. She cocked her head in question. He pulled something from his pocket and held it out to her. 

A necklace. A thread thin silver chain with a small cobalt diamond dangling from it. 

She stared at it. She remembered her dress from the night before. Remembered the way his eyes lingered on the dangling gems. Remembered the soft questioning of their color. She looked up at him, at the shining cobalt siphons he always wore. 

She gently took it from his outstretched hand letting it dangle from her fingertips. A small piece of him…from him. Offered up willingly. 

“I uhm” His voice was low. Nervous even. “I thought you’d like it” 

He didn’t want her. He didn’t want her. The chant racing through her mind as she tried to come up with something to say. Instead she looked back down at the stone of the necklace. No. Not stone. The same glass that made up the siphon on his chest, on his hands, on his shoulders. A small piece of him. 

A nod was all she could muster. 

She was still looking anywhere but at him. He cursed himself silently. Maybe this was stupid. Giving her this. Maybe it was too much. Too obvious. But as he watched her leave the dining room. As he let Mor’s comment about her settling with one of her own and Rhysand’s immediate look towards him sink in. He had to do it. As soon as dinner ended he had excused himself and had retrieved the necklace that he had been saving for her. That he had debated giving to her for years now. He had let his feet carry him to her room. Had decided that he had to try. To give her some wordless notion of his feelings. 

He pulled the necklace from her fingers and motioned for her to turn around. She did so without question. She let him lay it around her neck, let him clasp it, let him brush his fingers so so briefly through her hair. 

She looked towards Amren once more. Letting her words wash over her again at the memory. 

“He doesn’t only want you now. Use your brain for once. Look past the darkness of the last few years and let yourself remember.” 

Maybe he had always wanted her. The thought made her pale. She shoved the feeling of the golden thread in her chest down. She couldn't do this. Couldn't let herself hope when everything seemed so hopeless.

When?

She didn't know.

[xuchiya]

"As long as with you" || jeong yunho

| genre: fluff. fluff. fluff | mentions: dislike. rain.

  your entire body shakes when you see clouds form and grey hues were amongst them. you have been a total rainy weather kid from the beginning, you were thrilled to be under the heavy or light rain, just to feel the coldness of the water drop down from the sky.

"yuyu~ it's gonna rain! it's gonna rain!" if an imaginary tail can be seen, yunho would have noticed how it swishes side by side, excitedly. He can hear from the couch how you were squealing when the sky rumbled while he crumbled deeply on the cushion.

you seem to love the weather; yunho seems to be the opposite. He threads to it. He does not like how the blue sky disappears behind those thick grey clouds, it's like consuming the entire world with its darkness.

Now, yunho does not fear darkness nor the weather, it's just not soothing his taste. He likes sunshines, he likes when the sun creates a blissful feeling that it calms him down that he will see this again tomorrow, the very next day and everyday.

“Here it comes!” You cheered, sliding the window door open. The wind immediately greeted you, making the curtains sway beside you. Unbeknownst to you, Yunho stood up quickly before you could step out and enjoy the rain, he had closed it shut, shutting down your excitement.

Staring, then blinking at the sudden actions of Yunho, “Ah-Ah Yunho?”, you were so blinded by excitement it took a while for you to notice his pale face. Your eyes widen. Completely abandoning the rain plan, you sat Yunho down on the couch.

You run a hand on his hair while your other hand circles his palm, “Oh Yunho~” He shakes his head, “No no, I’m okay darling. I’m just scared you’ll hurt yourself out there.”

You smile at him, squeezing his hand, “Of course I won’t but I know that is not the only thing that … scares you.” Yunho does not like talking about his dislike of rain. He didn’t not have any phobia of them nor traumatic childhood memories, it’s just the way it is scary that he won’t be able to see the bright blue sky again.

Shakily, Yunho nodded, “I do not like rain. I never like them, maybe because they rain too hard they cause so much calamity in places or because they pour down so much that it makes me hope less and less that this will be my everyday mood and I do not like it.”

You were unaware of his dis-likeness towards the weather you loved so much, maybe because you grew up loving the only weather that sent calmness around you. The sun is your enemy, you hated how hot it was, how it burnt your skin and almost dried all your favorite plants and flowers planted on your backyard yet by the looks of it, Yunho loved the bright sunlight.

It took a minute, between you two, you just realized how opposite you two were. Hence Yunho being portrayed as the golden retriever and loved absolute sunshines, they were also scared of things too. They retreat to their spots that calms them down.

Taking his hand again, urging him to stand up, “Come on.” Yunho was confused until he was dragged inside your shared room and dressed him up in a raincoat, a bucket rain hat. You took off his socks and plunged them into soft rain boots. 

You giggle, “So cute.” before taking him back towards the sliding window door that Yunho eyes widen, looking at you then towards the rain. You giggle running outside to which you howled and jump, watching as the rain drench from your head down to your feet while he stood still inside.

His heart thumps but then he realises that there’s nothing to fear. It just dawned on him, he did not like the rain, you do not like the sun yet here you both were loving each other despite resembling both you do not like. Yunho loves you despite liking darkness while you love Yunho despite loving the breeze sunshine.

Opposites do attract but they worked out.

As Yunho slowly urges himself to step outside, he removes the rain hat as he takes a step out of the door, removing the boots before he unbuttons the rain coat before running outside. The cold raindrops fell on his cheeks, the wind blowing on his drench skin yet it tickled him.

You turn around when you hear a giggle, your eyes widen when you see Yunho— not wearing all of the rain coat set; rather you watch how the water had drained all of the dryness of his clothes. The rain poured down on him, his hair was sticking to his forehead yet it made him more beautiful.

“Yunho— EEK!” You felt your stomach leaning on his shoulders as he placed you there and spun around. You hold onto his shirt while you chuckle, “Yunho!”

You dance, run on the streets, laugh and giggle. You never thought Yunho would overcome his own dis-likeness towards rain this fast. He seems to enjoy it as much as he loves the sunshine. You were distracted with the thought of him when you felt a warm hand on your waist and pulled close to a broad chest, looking up Yunho is already smiling on you.

“Care for another dance darling?” You chuckle, placing your arms around his neck. Swaying gently even with no music, Yunho leads you to dance rhythmically. You look up at him, to catch him already staring softly at you.

“What?” He shakes his head, leaning down to chase a soft kiss on your lips before pulling away, “I think I found my new favorite.”

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head to the side, “What is it?” 

He looks up, the raindrop slowly splitting on his face and cascades down to his neck before gazing at you, pulling you close to him, “As long as I’m with you, I love the rain.”

[e-dubbc11]

Scars

Photos are not mine. They are courtesy of Pinterest/Google.

Pairing: Billy Russo x F! Reader

Warnings: Mentions of childhood trauma, attempted kidnapping, fluff, smooches

Word Count: 1.8K-ish

Summary: Billy comes home while you’re taking a nap, he notices a scar on your ankle and wants to know the story of where it came from

A/N: I found this idea online somewhere. I needed a little help with new ideas and this caught my eye. I hope you like it!

As always, thank you for reading!  I appreciate it so much and comments, reblogs are welcome and encouraged. Don’t be shy to tell me your favorite part. 💕💕 💕

The weather outside your window changed quickly from the early afternoon sun immersing the surrounding buildings in its warm light to it disappearing behind the fast moving gray clouds that swallowed up the bright blue sky.

“Where did the sunshine go?” You said out loud to yourself from your penthouse perch, gazing down at the busy city below.

This time of year could be quite unpredictable as far as the weather goes. Late summer was still very hot, sometimes less humid, and could get a little cool at night into the early morning. But also the sun could be blazing in the sky one minute and the next time you looked outside, your once blue sky was now fully covered in dull gray clouds, ready to rain down on top of you.

And then you heard it, the sound of light rain tapping against the window as you gathered everything you needed to give yourself a relaxing home pedicure. You had the bubbling and warming foot spa, the lavender bath salts, moisturizing lotion, and all of the tools you needed.

Soaking your feet after a long day at work felt wonderful. The hot water bubbled under the balls of your feet, massaging away the stress of your day. As you inhaled sharply and let out a forceful exhale, your shoulders relaxed and your eyes closed, tuning everything out except the rhythmic sound of your own heartbeat in your ears.

Hopefully, you will be finished before Billy comes home.

**********

Faintly, you could hear the rain drumming against the roof. Earlier, that sound had lulled you to sleep and it was also the first thing you heard as you were starting to stir. After painting your nails, you told yourself you were just going to close your eyes for a minute while they were drying.

An hour later, you didn’t even hear Billy come home.

The strong scent of nail polish hung in the air as he walked through the door. Billy called out to you but you didn’t hear him.

“Baby?” He said softly.

No answer.

Meticulously, Billy put his things away…his keys, jacket, gun. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his dress shirt sleeves so he could roll them up to his elbows. He followed the scent of nail polish to your shared bedroom and paused in the doorway to briefly watch you while you slept.

Outside, the sky was gloomy and overcast but inside you were his bright spot. You were the warm afternoon sun that danced across his face and made him smile after his dismal ride home.

Billy carefully walked over to the bed, looked at your newly painted toes and smiled because you had painted them black, his favorite. They shined like patent leather even in the dimly lit room. Your hands were resting on your stomach and he watched as your chest rose and fell gently with every breath you took.

He committed to memory the way you looked at that moment, the soft comfortable shorts you were wearing, his hoodie that you constantly stole from him to keep your arms warm, and he loved the peaceful look you had on your face while you slept.

When he looked closely at your ankle, he spotted a triangle shaped scar that he had never noticed before. Billy thought he had memorized every inch of your body but he didn’t remember if you had ever mentioned how you got that one.

Reaching for you with his agile fingers, he lightly and slowly traced the outline of your scar, while desperately trying not to wake you. Billy had a very light touch but between the rain and the slight tickle you felt on your ankle, your eyes gradually fluttered open.

A sly smile stretched across your lips as you looked down and saw him tracing the scar on your ankle.

“Whatcha doin’, handsome?” You asked.

Before turning his head to look at you, Billy smiled and replied, “I was admiring your fresh pedicure when I noticed this scar and I don’t know what it’s from, I thought I knew every mark on your body. Why don’t I know about this one?”

Billy’s tone was somber and his lips pulled back over his teeth like he was upset that he didn’t know all about your scar.

“It’s just an old bicycle injury, Billy. It’s not a big deal.” You replied and shrugged at the same time as you tried to conceal how nervous you were.

Billy brought his gaze up to yours, his endless brown eyes looked like two black ink wells and the muscles in his jaw tensed when he asked about the scar.

“Tell me, my love.” He said with an uncomfortable smile, almost like he knew it wasn’t JUST an old bicycle injury.

“Billy, I don’t know—“ You had started to say before he interrupted you.

“Just tell me what happened, sweet girl.” He said calmly. “It’s ok.”

Trying to smile, you sat upright in bed with your back resting on the headboard. It had been a long time since you had thought about that day.

It was around this time of year, late summer, the sun was high in the sky so it had to have been around lunchtime or a little after when you were outside playing with your brother and your cousin. You were probably around 11 and the three of you were getting ready to ride your bikes back home from the park where you were playing.

You were the oldest, it was your job to watch out for the younger ones, so you let them ride up ahead of you. Once they had turned onto your street, you felt immense relief that you were almost home and that’s when you sensed a car slowly pull up behind you.

And then you heard that voice.

“Hey sweetheart, you lost? Anyone ever tell you how pretty you are?” He had said with an evil smile.

“Pretty…” Billy hated that word. As you looked over at him, he had clenched his fist, his face was flushed with rage, while he gripped the blanket on the bed so tight that you thought he may rip it.

You couldn’t recall what the man looked like when he called out to you but you do remember his voice. It sounded like he did nothing but smoke cigarettes all day, it was deep, scratchy and made your skin crawl, like fingernails on a chalkboard.

Nervously shaking your head, you said, “No, I’m fine.”

Your heart was leaping out of your chest and you felt the sweat on your brow about to trickle down your forehead when you decided to make a run for it. When you forcefully pushed down on the bike pedal, your foot slipped and you ended up slicing your ankle on the jagged teeth of the pedal which is when another man jumped from the car and tried to grab you.

But you managed to pedal as fast as you could to catch up to your brother and your cousin who were waiting for you around the corner from where the man tried to grab you.

They didn’t follow you and you never saw them again but the memory always came back when the scent of clove cigarettes was in the air, or heard a deep raspy male voice, or felt someone walking behind you.

It was something from your childhood that you never spoke of again until now, not even to your brother or your cousin who were with you that day. And you’ve been looking over your shoulder ever since.

Knowing what Billy had been through as a young child, your entire body tensed watching him seethe with anger. His cheeks were flushed and you could hear him grinding his teeth while still tightly gripping the blanket in between his fingers.

“Billy? Say something, please.” You said, breaking the silence.

He gently kissed the scar on your ankle and crawled from the foot of the bed up to you, pulled you into his chest and kissed the top of your head. His heartbeat pounded against your ear as you melted into his arms and closed your eyes.

“You don’t look over your shoulder when you’re with me, baby.” He said in a slightly confused tone.

You pulled away to snake your arms around his neck and look into his eyes.

With a warm smile, you replied, “Being with you is the ONLY time I don’t look over my shoulder, Billy. Because I know they’d have to get through you to get to me.”

Billy gently pressed his lips to yours which tasted like peppermint. His shoulders relaxed a little as he smiled back and said, “I’ll never let anything happen to you, sweet girl. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”

After finally telling someone your secret, the weight of that secret had finally been removed from your chest and you could breathe a little easier now. Your terrifying childhood experience that had been kept inside all of these years was finally out in the open but you were ok with it.

“I love you.” You said in barely more than a whisper as your eyes welled up with tears. “So much, Billy.”

Billy just smiled, lightly brushed his knuckles against your cheek, and kissed you again before saying, “I love you too, sweet girl. And I’ll pay to have that scar removed, just say the word and it will be gone.”

In that moment, you felt so loved, so seen, and understood. All he wanted to do was make sure you were happy, that you were ok, and he would do anything for you to make that happen, even going as far as paying to have your scar removed.

“Oh Billy…that’s so sweet. But my bike probably saved my life, and yes, looking at that scar reminds me of that day but I’m very thankful for that bicycle and the mark it left on me…literally.” You said, trying to smile. “Thank you, my love.”

Although your experience wasn’t the same as Billy’s, he knew it could have been so much worse for you than it was but that didn’t make him any less angry about it. Your only wish was that he had been able to escape his worst nightmare also.

He knew what kind of real life monsters existed in this world and that he may never have had the chance to meet you if they had taken you. You were the person that understood him the most and loved him for exactly who he was. He didn’t even want to think about what his life would be like without you…but he’d never have to.

“Well, if you ever change your mind…” Said Billy, pulling you tight to his chest again.

You would always be there for each other, for love, comfort, or just to listen.

Relaxing into his embrace, you kissed him on the neck, and said with a smile, “I know, baby…I know.”

It felt good to finally let go.

Tag List: @wheresthesunshinesblog @idaoftheburningmind @rafaelakelley @fakehappy27 @snowkestrel @music-indie-tv @kayhi808 @munsonownsmyass @gijos @fictional-hooman @celestialend @nutmeg17 @k-marzolf @vaguekayla @rosaleenablack @danzer8705 @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @aoi-targaryen @rachlovesactors @qu1etwolf

Others that might enjoy: @itwasthereaminuteago @fluffyprettykitty @jvanilly @imagine-a-fictional-boyfriend @mrsbillyrusso @colereads @ittybxttykxttytxtty

If you’d like to be added (or removed from) my tag list(s) for the ever so handsome Billy Russo, just let me know and thank you again for reading! 💕💕💕 If I tagged you but you didn’t want to be, just let me know and I’ll never do it again.

[50calmadeuce]

Ch. 20: The Wedding (R)

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the Top Gun: Maverick world, trademarked by Paramount Pictures Corporation. I do not claim ownership of the characters and the world that I am borrowing.

The story and situation I am creating are a work of my imagination and I do not ascribe them to official story canon. This work is for entertainment only and is not a part of the storyline.

I am not profiting financially from the creation and publication of this story, but I do hope it gives you happy thoughts.

These stories are my own, so please do not take them and use them for yourself without my permission. If you see them somewhere else, please let me know. :)

The morning of the wedding was absolutely perfect. The sun beamed down, and only a few fluffy clouds dotted the sky. The temperature was expected to reach the upper 70s, with a light breeze that promised a comfortable day ahead—and no rain in sight.

Jake had spent the night in the bunkhouse, so the tradition of not seeing the bride the night before the wedding remained intact.

You sat in a chair, relaxed but focused, as the stylist worked on the final touches of your hair. Your makeup was already done, and everything was falling into place for the big day.

You had decided on a braid, delicate flowers woven throughout, which also served as a natural veil.

Phoenix opened the bedroom door and stepped inside.

“Y/N, you look beautiful!” she exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine admiration. “Wait until you see this.” She motioned toward the open door and called, “Come on in, buddy.”

Christian walked in, dressed in blue jeans, a white dress shirt, cowboy boots, and a black cowboy hat.

You smiled happily and picked him up.

“Yake say I cowboy.”

“Does he now?”

“Yup!”

You pressed a kiss to his cheek just as there was a knock on the door.

“Who is it?” Phoenix called.

“It’s me,” Jake replied. “Is Christian in there?”

“Yeah. Hold on.”

You gently set Christian down, and he ran toward the door Phoenix had cracked open, closing it behind him.

“Mommy pretty,” you heard Christian say from outside.

“Mommy’s pretty every day, little man,” Jake replied with a chuckle.

“No. Super pretty!” Christian insisted, his voice fading as they walked further down the hall.

“All finished,” the stylist announced.

“Thank you,” you replied, your gaze meeting Phoenix’s in the mirror. She gave a subtle nod, signaling for the stylist to exit the room.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice full of concern.

You hesitated for a moment before replying. “I’ve been thinking about Christian a lot lately,” you admitted quietly.

Phoenix's expression softened, and she took a step closer, her hand gently resting on your arm. "I can imagine. It's a lot to process, especially with everything going on." Her voice was gentle, understanding.

You nodded, looking down for a moment, gathering your thoughts. "It’s just... there’s a part of me that feels guilty, you know? Moving on, getting married again." You took a deep breath, looking back at Phoenix. "But I also don’t want to live in the past forever."

Phoenix squeezed your arm reassuringly. "You’re allowed to love Christian and remember him. But you’re also allowed to open your heart again, Y/N. What you have with Jake—what you’re about to start—is a new chapter, not a betrayal."

You let out a shaky breath, her words offering you some comfort. "I just hope I’m doing the right thing."

Phoenix smiled warmly. "You’re doing what feels right for you. And that’s all anyone can ask for."

“I listened to a video he sent me when he was deployed years ago, a couple of days ago,” you confessed, your voice soft.

Phoenix’s expression softened as she listened, her eyes understanding. "That sounds like it was tough," she said gently.

You nodded, feeling the weight of the memory. "It was. Hearing his voice again… it just brought everything back. I still miss him. I always will." Your voice wavered slightly, and you quickly wiped away a stray tear.

Phoenix’s hand found yours, squeezing it reassuringly. "You don’t have to let go of him to move forward, Y/N. It’s not about forgetting. It’s about finding a way to live with both of those parts of your heart. Christian will always be a piece of you, but so will the love you’re building with Jake."

You took a deep breath, her words grounding you. "I know. I just… I want to make sure I’m being fair to both of them, you know?"

"I do," Phoenix replied. "And you're doing just that. You’re honoring the love you had and the one you're creating now." She gave you a small, encouraging smile. "Even though I still don't understand how you fell in love with the cockiest pilot I've ever met. You’ve got this."

You laughed softly. “If you’d ever seen Christian in uniform, you would’ve understood.”

“Come here,” Phoenix said, her voice gentle as she leaned in. The two of you embraced, the hug offering comfort without words.

An hour later, you stood with Phoenix on the back porch of the ranch, the sun beginning its descent in the sky.

“You ready to do this?” she asked, her voice calm but filled with excitement.

You glanced at her, taking a deep breath. “Yeah.”

Together, you started walking toward the side of the barn, where a vast pasture stretched out, with a small lake glistening in the distance. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight before you.

Sheila had truly outdone herself in just three days’ work. The setup was perfect. Off to the side of the western arch, you saw Jake and Javy standing tall in their Navy dress uniforms. When Jake spotted you, you swore you saw his eyes begin to water, but the look in them was pure happiness.

Mr. Whitaker had flown in to attend and to go over some paperwork, but other than him, the guests were mostly Jake’s neighbors—people who had known him since he was a boy.

Phoenix walked you down the aisle, her steps slow and deliberate, the weight of the moment settling in. When you reached the altar, you handed her your bouquet, your eyes locking with Jake’s as he gently took your hands into his.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have gathered here today to unite these two in holy matrimony…” the pastor began, his voice steady and warm.

As the pastor continued, you barely heard his words over the pounding of your heart. Your eyes stayed locked on Jake’s, and you could see the emotion in his gaze. It wasn’t just love; it was something deeper, something that spoke of years of waiting for this moment.

Jake gave you a soft, reassuring squeeze of the hands, his thumb gently stroking the back of your fingers, grounding you. It felt like the whole world had faded away, leaving just the two of you in this moment. You smiled, feeling a weight lift from your shoulders, replaced by a sense of peace.

The pastor’s voice brought you back to the present. “Do you, Jake Seresin, take Y/N to be your lawfully wedded wife, to love and cherish her for as long as you both shall live?”

Jake’s voice was steady, his answer certain. “I do.”

The pastor turned to you. “And do you, Y/N, take Jake Seresin to be your lawfully wedded husband, to love and cherish him for as long as you both shall live?”

You looked up at Jake once more, your heart full. “I do,” you replied, your voice steady but full of emotion.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the pastor said with a smile. “You may kiss the bride.”

Jake leaned down, his lips finding yours in a kiss that felt like the culmination of everything that had brought you both here. It was soft at first, then deepened as if to reaffirm every word spoken.

The applause of the guests was distant, a gentle backdrop to the moment that would forever change your lives. As you pulled away, Jake’s eyes sparkled with joy. “I love you,” he whispered, his words a promise.

“I love you too,” you replied, your heart full and sure.

Tags: @smoothdogsgirl @alwayshave-faith @devil-angel-winchester @khouse712 @illisea @hookslove1592 @tgmreader @juliemarauderfan @djs8891

[wayfayrr]

Here is the menace with Falling Star. So gather 'round, sit back, relax and please stay in your seat. Kick your feet up and grab some popcorn. Oh, and of course, lest we not forget, enjoy the show.

Here we go with a person from afar. Is as old as the stars and travels from world to world this is Lumine!Reader.

They are really old but nobody can exactly say how old as they look like 16 to 17 and are 158 cm tall.

They normally go by the name "Traveller" as they hide their real name, but since the Chain already has a Traveller.

They took the name "Viatrix".

Their Constellation is called "Viatrix" which means Traveller in Latin.

They have a twin brother, Aether. They are actually inseparable but they got separated by a unknown god named the Sustainer of heavenly principles.

Their abilities also got sealed.

They are a fabulous swordfighter and with their twin they are an unbeatable duo as the cover each others blind spots. But they are stronger than their brother.

From the two of them they are the rational but friendly one.

They are always collected and serious and they will say if they don't like something. They are the calm one of the duo.

But they also the strategist and would be a great detective.

But they love to explore and climb around, even Wild would be surprised how fast they can climb mountains even when it rains, they use their elemental energy and gloves to have a better grip.

But they have to take more breaks then their dear twin brother.

They can dive and jump out of the water like a dolphin and even jump from the water onto land and immediately attack if they have to.

They wouldn't be the most affectionate person and if someone got their heart they would hug and kiss their partner occasionally but not all the time.

They also cook very often, mainly because of Paimon, their guide in Teyvat, as she is always hungry. But since then they began to love cooking.

Reader has chin-length except for two locks of shoulder-length hair framing their face. They also have two light-blue Inteyvat flowers pinned on the right side of their head and two pale blue feathers tucked at the left.

They wear a sleeveless, backless, box pleated white tunic like dress-shirt, which is on back longer than by the front. It's held up by crossed black straps. They wear a long two-tailed scarf, with each tail having a gold, flat diamond-shaped ornament attached to the tip of the tail.

Their legwear consists of angled thigh-high stockings and white ankle-high boots.

They can use different elements, Anemo(Wind, Geo(Earth), Electro, Dendro(Plants) and Hyrdo(Water) as they met the Chain.

Their Song is "Dream Aria" from IONIC.

Reader learned about Yandere Chain and their first escape attempt.

Reader's PoV:

I woke up as Paimon shook me awake and as I looked at her she was covered in blood and looked terrified! I took her in my arms and looked around but only Sky was sleeping beside me in his bedroll.

„When did he change his place? Wasn't he beside Wild over there?“ I thought to myself and looked to the space by the other side of the campfire and me, where Sky laid before.

I stood up with Paimon and walked with her to the river nearby to wash her. She was shivering in fear. I've never seen her like that. We fought multiple monsters and people on Teyvat, so why was she so scared? As I got her out and dried her gently with Anemo she literally stuck to me like glue.

„Paimon, what's wrong? You look like you seen a ghost.“ I looked at her and she has tears in her eyes but she pshed me.

„Don't so loud!! They may hear us!!“ Paimon whisper-shouted at me so I looked confused at her.

„Who Paimon? Who could hear us?“ I whispered back but Paimon just looked at the camp and I understood what she wanted to say.

„The group? What have they done Paimon?“ she pointed into a direction and I sneaked to the direction and saw Wolfie eating bones, human or hylian bones.

The others of the group looked at him and gathered the bloody clothes. They put them in a fabric bag but they were also very bloody if I see through the reflection right. Paimon hid her face in my shoulder and I held it there. Then Wolfie turned into Twilight?! I had my suspicions but never thought I was right. So I sneaked back to the camp.

„Are you crazy!? Why are you going back there!?“ she whisper shouted at me

„I need to get a sword they took mine for "maintenance" probably to make me defenseless!“ I said back and looked around the camp for a sword but the only one here was the Master Sword.

So I tiptoed to Sky and pulled the sword out of her sheath. As I got her I began to sprint into the opposite direction of the group.

„Wait, what about Sky? He is in danger if we leave him there with these lunatics!“ said Paimon worried but scared.

„No, he is one of them. Do you remember as everyone except for Wild went for "hunting"? They never came back with anything of the forest. No squirrels, no deer, no boar or even a bird, but they came back with a meat that was from a horse?“

„Is that why you said we shouldn't eat it!? You thought it was a person!?! Eeek!“

„Well not really, at first I thought they tried to poison us as we are not from Hyrule. I thought they saw us as a threat. But now I know they wanted us to help to get rid of the evidence.“ I explained everything but then Paimon jumped... Uh... floated higher in fear

„But they have Wolfie... Uhm Twilight... Uhhh... They have someone with a good nose! We will be discovered in the matter of days!! Or hours if they are back already.“

„That's why I look for mud. If we cover ourselves with it our scent will be overridden by the mud and he will not know where we are!“

„Good, Traveller. Paimon is scared...“

„I know Paimon. But don't worry, I protect you! I will get us back to Teyvat! I will find Aether! And never return to Hyrule!!“

„Who taught you to speak their language actually? Paimon is curious.“

„It was a knight in-training back then. Aether and I taught him some fast moves with the sword and he taught us his language. His name was "Link" like the boys back there.“

„Do you think they are related?“

„I think, it's more like they are his reincarnations. This eyes... I never forget how he looked at us and how they sparkled when we showed him something new. They have a part of him, I'm sure but thanks to their journeys and upbringings they developed differently than how he was.“ I sprinted more as I saw a mud pond and jumped in with Paimon.

I just bathed her but that doesn't matter right now. Our survival was more important than hygiene right now. I bathed us in mud before taking Paimon and ran into another direction but still away from the camp and the group. I just wished I had my abilities, if I had them I could fly away easily. But now I had to avoid all villages, towns, people, guards and especially the royals and the heroes. If one of them sees me, they will find us and I can't accept that! They scared Paimon to death!

„Spirit of the Sword, I know I'm not a hero of this world, I know I'm not even Hylian or from this world, but please, help me to flee from your crazy wielders!“ I thought to myself while the sword started to emit a blue glow and I saw multiple beacons in the in the horizon, but only I am able to see them as Paimon couldn't see them.

„Thank you, Sword Spirit. With that I can see the group in the distance and avoid them even better. I hope your ready, because I won't hold back when they try to catch and fight me!“ the sword blinked blue before going back to normal. Now I want to save her as well! She doesn't need a bunch of psychos as her wielders! I will take her with me to Teyvat, maybe she will like it and the gods over there are way nicer than Hylia.

This is how Reader's first attempt to flee and they were really good, especially with the beacon on the Hero's Spirit. But they will catch them eventually. Maybe in a dungeon or after entering a portal. But it would be funny if the Chain wouldn't be able to wield Fi anymore because Fi also fell in love with Reader. Just imagine a Yandere Sword Spirit. She may be asleep but her conscience is still awake. So the group would definitely delude themself into thinking that Reader woke up and got attacked. And as we all know Sky is a hibernating bear when he is asleep, took Fi to protect themself and Sky. But they will definitely notice that Paimon is more fidgety around them and that Reader and Paimon talk way more in teyvatian than usual. But they discarded it as soon as Reader mentiones that Paimon isn't feeling well, because of the shadow, which they believe as they can't understand that they plan to run away again but this time to Teyvat. Away from the group forever. But they get the meat for cooking for Paimon and themself and just said that the last meat they had with the group made Paimon sick and they don't want Paimon to feel sick all the time and as the group sees them as Paimon's parental figure so the boys try to fill the other spot, which is hard as hell as Paimon can't understand them and vice versa. Ughh... Why are Yanderes so crazy to handle?

OOOOHHH another genshin reader!!! lumine makes so much sense too - and also???? the way that she's been to hyrule BEFORE????? with aether albeit but she's visited before????????? AND MET A LINK BEFORE?????

Hell with the link described they met WARS before?????? it'd be an interesting take if that is the link - and he just hasn't joined the chain yet, reader could be why he ended up siding with them even

it's a shame the chain are so set on being controlling with them though - they really can be incredibly stupid at times, because sometimes there really are better ways to act. it's good for reader though they aren't like a frog being slowly boiled, they actually know to try to GTFO of the situation there

PLUS FI????? sweet baby yan sword spirit love them so, if they're a yan too though.... maybe there's a way to bond their sword to them... or something happens to their original blade so they can never use it again...

also poor paimon sfvdvgdfgvdszf never getting the chance to learn the language and is just lost there not understanding (i'd say teach em but they would probably let it slip they know the language)

[eliza-and-her-monsters]

the tortured poets department

Bonus Chapter

Info Post

Moodboards

Part I

Prev Part < - > Next Part

Contains/TW: HAPPY LATE V-DAY LESBIANS!! i’ve had this idea for a while and i knew my elmelia girlies had been starving for a while so i wanted to give you another bonus chapter 💙 not a ton of warnings i don’t think besides subtle mention of self harm and set in a long term residential psych facility. HOWEVER, this is not meant to romanticize psych facilities in any way! i’m someone who has personal experience with staying in one and i do know of a couple long term facilities that throw celebration events for the patients that have been there for a while and i really wanted to portray some sort of healing for them as well! also some content of caitlyn being the sweetest big sister of all time because i will not have her portrayed as a villian in this verse 😤 lastly just your usual tooth rotting fluff and our lovely angsty pairing xx (also some liiiite future character cameos from some of your other fandoms maybe?? 🤭)

WC: around 3.4k?? i think??

Bonus Chapter

Midnight Rain

It might’ve seemed odd, supremely out of character, a take that would’ve made you think I was completely taking the piss even; but Ellie really fucked with formal events. And the moment she had set foot in the facility to now, she had been raving about the wellness gala the facility threw at the end of the summer. Set about a week before our release with invites sent out to all of our families it was sort of made to be a celebration of all of the improvements we had made over the summer. Tell our success stories. Inspiration porn if you will.

Nevertheless though after a summer of wearing and washing the same pairs of jeans and sweatpants most of us were dying for the chance to get dressed in our finest and finally start to actually feel special, for once. Given the fact it was a gala, and fancy parties was what my parents did best, I almost even expected them to show up. But whenever Caitlyn popped in during visiting hours earlier that day to drop off our outfits I was hit with the same disappointing news. While they made a generous donation and they send their love, they’re unable to make it.

It wasn’t surprising… I guess in the long run I should’ve expected it. As usual though, right before it was about to start I still found myself alone on the rooftop garden, ruining what little bit of makeup I had managed to put on without Caitlyn’s help. It was almost picture perfect, a girl alone in a ballgown, black mascara and eyeliner streaks running down her face. It really was the most perfect dress too, my favorite color, the perfect shade of navy blue that slowly faded to a lighter hue towards the bottom that seemed to flare with layers of tulle in the most perfect way. The bodice decorated in intricate beadwork of various constellations and single stars that almost rivaled the midnight sky. And with off the shoulder tulle sleeves, it had been the first time all summer that I wasn’t hiding my scars from somebody besides Ellie. The first time I actually felt comfortable in something enough to do so, that they’d be too busy staring at the dress rather than my arms. But the people I wanted to see me for who I was the most weren’t here, and I don’t think they ever would be.

“Cinderella?” Ellie’s familiar sing-song voice carried from the entrance causing me to lift my head and glance back at her. God, she was breathtaking even in the most simple of outfits. Clad in a silk button-down shirt that matched the main color of the dress perfectly, a sleek pair of black dress pants, a black suit jacket, and of course, the trusty pair of combat boots she never took off. I even wore similar ones of my own underneath my dress. “You know you’re only supposed to run away whenever the clock strikes 12, right? Not whenever the mascs are getting ready because you know it’ll still take them longer.”

I let out a tearful chuckle despite the ache in my chest, pushing myself up to my feet to whirl around to face her. “Sorry I uhhh… I really needed some air. Too much hairspray.” I spoke with a little sniffle, eyes softening as she approached with a gentle look of sympathy in her own eyes. And I almost hated it, had I not loved her so much. “You look- a-absolutely stunning, Ellie. I-I’m sorry if I’m- fucking any of it up.”

“Oh fuck off, you’re the only reason I look this good anyways.” She said with a shake of her head before sliding her calloused hands into my own as the hint of a smile ghosted on her lips. It didn’t last too long though before she was letting out a sad sigh and pulling herself closer, running gentle hands along my bare arms. “You look beautiful too, you know? And I’m really sorry your parents can’t see that.”

“It’s nothing new, I-I don’t even know why I’m still up here crying like- there are so many people who have it worse. I mean- you don’t even have any family coming and you still have to be the one to comfort me like, i-it’s so unfair.” I rambled on, the incessant tears already pooling in my eyes again.

“Hey, shut up.” Ellie spoke with the upmost love, only shaking her head as she slid those protective but so gentle arms around me. I muffled another tiny sob into her collar, letting the tears soak onto the fabric and hopefully not turn my face into even more of a mess than it already was. “I have family, I have you… and I think that means Caitlyn’s taking me on as her own too? I mean I could definitely be wrong but-"

“Oh no, she definitely has. And she’s also definitely not letting you pay her back for that outfit by the way.” I spoke through another tearful giggle of my own as I lifted my head from her shirt. “Think of her as like your sister-in-law except we’re not engaged or anything.”

“If we’re still chronically bitchless by the time we turn 30 though then we might as well because honestly I still struggle to picture any of my future girlfriends measuring up to you right now because like- like actually wow, h-have you looked in the mirror? Because my heart feels like it’s gonna beat out of my chest just looking at you.” She was breathless as she rambled on, cheeks rapidly turning as red as roses as she let her eyes scan me down once more. And finally I could feel my eyes start to dry up, the ache to disappear from my own chest as she effortlessly stitched up the previous breaks from before. It never did take her too much.

“Don’t tell them that because I’d hate to put a bitch in her place.” I teased with another laugh, lifting my arms upwards to prop on her shoulders. From a certain angle it almost looked like we were dancing together, a silent duet with no company but the stars. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel anything for her in that moment. An innate fear that one day she actually would move on, she actually would find somebody that measured up to me (not that I thought I was much) and slowly we would grow apart. I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep on her chest at night, I wouldn’t be able to hold onto her arm during meltdowns, or make her silly little flower crowns that she’d always wrap around the little bun she wore her hair in.

“Hey, what’s on your mind?” She finally spoke up over the roaring silence, brushing aside a stray piece of my hair with the most delicate of touches.

“Too much… I think.” I said with a shaky sigh, hands curling around her shoulders as I tried to bite back the words. But god I had been trying like hell all summer to keep those words at bay, and I just didn’t think I had the strength to anymore. “Do you think in another life… it could’ve been us?”

“Baby-” Her voice came out in a sad sigh as her gentle hand pressed to my cheek. The nickname was rare, though it always felt like she wanted to say it more, instead patching it up with friendlier diction and connotations. It was moments like these I don’t think she could help herself though.

“Look, I know- I know it can’t be this one, I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it. But in another life maybe? Maybe we met in a different way and it just… it worked out?” I explained, each statement narrowly bracing for the hit of disappointment as my voice shook more and more with each word. But it never came, instead I could only feel Ellie’s hands sliding around my waist to bring me back into her, tucking my face back into the crock of her shoulder.

“Yeah, I really do.” She spoke with another sad sigh as she leaned her cheek against my head. “In another life, I think we either met in a record store or a bookstore. You couldn’t reach the top shelf and you needed a far more capable lesbian to help you-"

“Hey!” I exclaimed with a laugh as I gave her a playful shove causing her to only giggle and shrug.

“I mean it’s true, you can’t reach the top shelf, can you?”

“Neither can you without standing up on your tiptoes!” I fired back with a stern finger pointed her way.

“Well maybe in this universe I’m like, 5’8 or 5’9 maybe?” She suggested with a little tilt of her head as if seriously weighing the options.

“Oh, fuck off!” I rolled my eyes as I slipped my hands back into hers. “That’d just give you more opportunities to tease me.”

“Which you secretly love, might I add. Am I wrong?” Ellie read me with ease just in time for my cheeks to flush as I gave her another little shrug of my own.

“I like to cuddle into people whenever I hug them.” I admitted simply, Ellie’s small smile only growing in victory.

“As I thought.” She said with pride before stealing a look down at her watch. “Anyways, not to change the subject or anything but I am glad I caught you alone because- I have something I really wanted to give you. That’s totally not gonna help our star-crossed lovers case at all but… oh well.”

“Els, you didn’t have to get me anything- I- I didn’t think to get you anything.” My eyes were soft and cheeks red with embarrassment this time as she reached for the inner pocket of her suit jacket.

“Surely you don’t think I only get people gifts because of what they’ll get me, right? Besides, part of it’s mine anyways.” She said with a shy little shrug, back to being the same awkward yet somehow charming girl she was whenever I first met her. “So… I’ve been thinking a lot about how you call me the sun, and I think I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re the moon. And I could probably go on and on and on saying the cheesiest shit of all time but with the purpose of you not finding me cringeworthy, I won’t… and, I’ll just give you this.”

She pulled a jewelry box from her pocket, my eyes immediately widening and softening all at the same time as she pulled the velvet case open. In it sat two matching necklaces, one in the shape of a sun completed with little yellow diamonds and jewels, but blank on one side to fit the pendant of another necklace, a silver crescent moon magnetically attached, lined with little blue jewels. “Oh… my god, Ellie, these are beautiful. I- I’m never gonna take it off.” My vision went blurry once more, probably for the millionth time but this time for a vastly different reason as I placed my hand against her arm. “You picked these out yourself?”

“Well, I had a little help from Caitlyn on the outside but overall, yeah.” I watched her cheeks nearly glow the moment I lifted up onto my tiptoes to place a soft kiss on her cheek.

“Can you put it on me?” I asked, already bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet in excitement. It was like I had done a complete 180 from even just a few minutes earlier.

“Yeah, i-if you’ll put mine on?” Ellie said shyly.

“Well, obviously.” I giggled, whirling around to sweep my hair out of the way. I had to rise up on my tiptoes to latch Ellie’s behind her neck, not wasting any time to reach for the pendant and connect it right with my own. My smile only growing at the sight before softening to a more relaxed one. I couldn’t remember the last time I had truly felt relaxed, but my head against her shoulder underneath the stars with our conjoined necklaces I felt pretty close to it. “I love you, Els.” I muttered, lifting my arms to drape around her shoulders just as her own slid around my waist to pull me into the most gentle and innocent of embraces.

“I love you too, baby.” She sighed against my hair before brushing her lips to my temple. We lingered in that position for a moment… a long moment, and I probably could’ve stayed there forever in some silent dance with her. But before we knew it we were letting out matching sighs and prying ourselves off of each other. “You ready to do this? Oh- wait…” She began, reaching into her pocket once more to pull out a little compact of my face powder. “Figured we’d probably need this.”

“Because you know I’m a crybaby?” I questioned with a little giggle that she only followed with one of her own.

“You might be a crybaby, but you’re my crybaby.” She spoke, gently dotting the powdered foundation along the darkened tear streaks. “There, good as new.” She smiled softly, letting her soft hand linger against my cheek for just a second longer.

“Thank you… for everything.” I whispered, letting my head lean into her hands ever so slightly. “Now, let’s do this.”

~

The main public hall felt like it had been completely converted, from your casual check-in and visitor’s room to the doors of the ever elusive ballroom being thrown open and elegant white carpets leading from the entrance straight into the large expanse of space. The room was decorated in lush white flowers, shining fairy lights and lanterns. Large circular tables surrounded the outside of the ballroom, each seat labeled strategically with every name of the patients and the family that had rsvp-ed. And right on time I could see that familiar expanse of straightened navy blue hair clad in a sleek power suit with a silk tie of the same color of my dress.

“Right this way, Ms. Kiramman.” The orderly spoke as he lead her along the carpet, but it didn’t take her long to spot the two of us standing at the top of the stairs the moment her eyes scanned the room.

“Caity!” I practically squealed, feeling just like my 14-year-old self excited for her big sister to come home from college. Even if she did come home often, the joy never went away.

“There you guys are! I was beginning to think you were leaving me hanging!” She grinned as I broke out into a run towards her, tossing my arms around her shoulders just as I felt my feet leaving the ground as she wrapped me up into her safe arms. “Ellie, I could probably pick you up too if you wanted.” Caitlyn teased as she shot her a little wink before setting me back on the ground, immediately causing me to pull Ellie right in to our group.

“I’m cool with just a hug.” She replied with a little flush.

“I can definitely do that.” Caitlyn said with a soft smile as she pulled her right in next, and slowly I could even see Ellie relaxing in her arms. Caitlyn’s hugs were always the best though, her hugs were healing. “I’m trying really hard not to act like a mom right now but… I-I really am so proud, of both of you.” She began, each hand gripping one of ours with that delicate minuscule little smile of hers. “I know spending your summer in a psychiatric facility probably wasn’t at the top of your list but still… I’m so so proud of you. Also the house was really quiet over the summer and it drove me crazy so, it’ll be nice to have you back.”

“Oh, with Ellie staying with us it definitely won’t be quiet.” I giggled, trying to refrain from crying any harder than I already had. Meanwhile I think Ellie’s eyes were already swimming with tears.

“Thanks again, Caitlyn… for everything. You guys sort of saved my ass this year.” She sniffled, gluing her eyes to the floor as if not wanting anyone to see the obvious emotions she wasn’t used to being able to show.

“Hey, Williams, Kiramman!” A familiar voice sounded from the back entrances where the patients were filing in.

“Oh my god, Pricefield! You guys look so cute!” I practically squealed as I whipped around to face the couple with a bright smile.

“Take it in, you’re not gonna get me in a dress often!” Max exclaimed, gesturing towards the simple yet stunning blue silk dress that seemed to match Chloe’s hair perfectly and hugged her figure in just the right way.

“I’ll catch up with you guys inside.” Ellie chuckled a bit to herself as she placed a soft kiss against the top of my head.

“Tell those two psychos they better be at our table.” I giggled, glancing over my shoulder as I watched Ellie take off towards the couple in excitement.

“Chloe, since when did you own this slutty little number!” Ellie exclaimed as she picked at the sheer lace black top tucked into a pair of simple black dress pants with a black suit jacket buttoned over top.

“Since they wouldn’t let me wear it by itself! Now, why didn’t you tell me Millie’s sister was so fine!” Chloe added under her breath, but everything carried in a room this big. I don’t think she particularly cared about not being heard either.

“Hey!” Max scolded as she gave her a firm swat on the stomach.

Caitlyn let out a snicker from next to me as I slipped my hand in the crook of her elbow, “Pricefield?” She questioned with a lifted brow.

“Chloe Price and Max Caulfield… they’ve been dating since they got here so we call them Pricefield.” I explained with a chuckle of my own and a little squeeze of her arm. My breath hitched right in my throat the second we stepped inside the broad expanse of the ballroom however. “Wow, this is- this is incredible. I-I feel like I’m finally getting to experience prom.” I almost felt like a little kid stepping into a real life fairytale. Like a princess come to life.

“Oh, this is way better than prom.” Caitlyn laughed as she scanned the tables for our names before her eyes lit up. “Here we are!” She exclaimed, stopping right at a large circular table, white placards with our names scrawled in gold cursive sat side by side. “Now, before Ellie comes back… I have to ask.” She whispered underneath her breath as she pulled my chair back.

“Oh, here we go.” I flushed with a little roll of my eyes as Caitlyn plopped into the seat next to me.

“Come on… you guys are cute and she seems to make you really happy.” She said with her eyes softening as I instinctively reached for the moon pendant around my neck. “It’d be okay if you were, you know?”

“We- We talked about it, I-I guess.” I sighed, gulping an almost sad lump down my throat. “We just both decided it was ultimately probably a bad idea, dating your psych ward roommate that later becomes your inseparable best friend.” I explained with a shake of my head as I felt Caitlyn slip her hand into mine to give it a small squeeze. “Love’s just… really really complicated, you know? And what I love about Ellie is that our friendship isn’t… and I just don’t want that to change, I guess.”

“Love definitely is rather complicated.” Caitlyn sighed with a knowing look in her eyes as she lifted an arm to wrap around my shoulders. “But if you ever change your mind, she does have my approval.” She added with another soft smile.

“I can think of nothing more important, Cait.” I let out a snicker as I leaned my head against her shoulder, tightly slipping my arms around her in a side hug. “Thank you… for saving my life. I-I’m really trying not to get too emo but… still, thank you. You’re my- You’re my hero, Caitlyn.”

I barely had the chance to sniffle before Caitlyn was catching the stray tear with her thumb, “Oh Mills, you’re mine too.”

Credits: absolute BOMB dividers by @thecutestgrotto 💙

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