#but i love that about the voice of the people being the voice of god

[mihsella]

touch starved

Minors DNI!! Sub!Bob Reynolds x Female Reader

Summary: You had been seeing Bob Reynolds for a while now, and after a couple of drinks you invite him over to your place. Turns out the time at isolation made him more touch starved and submissive that you could ever imagine.

Warnings: fem reader, vaginal sex, dominant female and submissive male tones, submissive man, crotch grinding, male overstimulation, making out, slight mention of drinking, unsafe sex I guess

Notes: I really really took heavy inspiration on someone called @squinch-depraved who did a sub!charlie slimecicle fic but I'm pretty sure they deleted their blog. I also got some amazing one liners from @nightprompts, thank you so much!

If you are more into dom!void go read my other fic That other side of you. Love you!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------You had to admit it, you were head over heels for Robert Reynolds from the moment you first saw him.

Back then, you were just an intern at the Thunderbolts HQ, running errands, fetching coffee, organizing press conferences, whatever Mel needed. You weren’t exactly close to the team, though you shared the occasional chat with Ava or Bucky. Still, you’d stepped into their meeting room a handful of times.

It was on one of those cold autumn afternoons, the kind where you just wanted to stay at home and cozy up, when you were asked to retrieve some leftover merch from the meeting room. You went in, oblivious to the presence of anyone else, when you suddenly heard a shuffle from behind you.

"Oh...hi...sorry" A man's voice said timidly, stuttering over his words. A figure emerged from behind a panel. He wore a dark blue hoodie, and had thrown on a pair of sweatpants, clearly not expecting anyone. He slowly made his way towards you, and as he stepped into the light you started to distinguish his features. His deep blue eyes barely looked at you, avoiding your gaze as he fidgeted with his hands. His dark, long hair framed his soft face as his smile shined under the afternoon light.

"Oh, Mr. Reynolds. You scared me" You said, smiling at the boy in front of you.

"Oh I'm so so sorry, I was just uh...reading...you know"

You realized you had never seen him face to face, only heard the rest of the team mentioning him from time to time. And god, was he beautiful up close.

"Well, everyone else is at the press conference, are you not coming down?" You asked curiously.

"No no, it 's fine. I'm not big on being on TV or answering questions or well talking to people I guess" He replied, almost embarrassed at his own shyness.

"Okay then, uhh....see you around!" You smiled, making eye contact with him as he did.

"See ya then" He smiled back, making a small awkward wave as he did (and regretting it immediately).

From then on you saw him around more, in the cafeteria, in the training room, in the hallways, and you always hit it off. You talked about basically anything, and you ended up considering him your closest friend in the HQ. It wasn't until one day, when you were chatting in the tower terrace, that you realized he was more fidgety than normal. Tugging on his sleeves and tucking his hair behind his ears. He looked nervous, like if he wanted to say something but just couldn't figure out how.

"I'm sorry, do you, do you want to go out sometime??" He asked jumpily.

"Like a date??"

"Yeah I guess, like a date"

And so you two met, for coffee, for dinner, for a walk in a park. First a couple of times per week, then basically every night. He was a hopeless romantic, a surprisingly classical gentleman. He bought you flowers, called you beautiful, looked into your eyes like you were his world. And god, he was so nerdy and timid. "I'm sorry I just, I haven't been with someone for a really long time" He said, as he timidly leaned in for your first kiss.

It wasn't until a couple of weeks later, when he had completely broken out of his shell, that you decided to invite him over to your apartment. You both had a couple of drinks on you, nothing to make you drunk but enough to boost your confidence. And you laughed as you made your way in. Once you were inside, you both fell into the couch, laughing in each other's arms as you settled down.

You looked into his eyes,he was so pretty, so soft, he wanted you so badly, and he made you know it with every single stare. He tucked your hair behind your ear as he reduced the distance between you, leaning in to meet your lips. A slow couple of delicate kisses as he cupped your face, his hot breath against yours. You were hungry for him, he was finally there for you and only you. He slid his tongue through your lips, and you opened your mouth, letting him explore every part of it.

“You really wanted this didn’t you??” You asked, smiling at him.

“Y….yes” He replied, embarrassed at his own desperation.

You put your legs over his, slowly climbing on top of him as you keep kissing him. You ran your fingers through his hair, pulling his head back to meet your gaze. He looked so vulnerable, so pretty, his soft eyes looking up at you, glistening as they alternated between your eyes and your lips. He swallowed, looking up at you in desperation, begging you to keep touching him.

You made your way towards his neck, leaving wet kisses all over it. Your hot breath against his throat made him feel otherworldly, and you felt him shiver from just your touch. A pathetic whine escaped his lips as he threw his head back, looking at the ceiling. You started sucking on his neck, one hand scratching his torso and the other pulling on his hair, running your fingers through his scalp. "Y-you are so good at this" He said, stuttering and breathing heavy as he did. You started pulling on his shirt, signaling him to take it off, which he did desperately exposing his abs as you ran your fingertips over them. He sloppily unbuttoned your blouse, struggling with every button and apologizing, choking a groan as he got full view of your tits.

You started grinding your hips against his crotch, a slow, tortuous rhythm as you moved towards his mouth, biting his bottom lip. He whined into your mouth, desperately trying to buck his hips into you to gain some friction. “You are so touch starved aren't you baby??” You smiled, looking down at him.

A whimper escaped his lips as you fastened your pace, pushing yourself harder against his growing bulge. You felt yourself starting to get wet, his crotch rubbing perfectly against your clit. He felt like he was gonna cum just from this, just from your touch against him. He was painfully hard, his cock pushing against his boxers, wishing that you would just ruin him already.

"H-hurts...p-please" He couldn't even get his words out correctly, whines interrupting every word.

"Please what baby? Use your words" You replied, shocked at your own sudden cockiness.

"Please touch me, please" He said desperately, his hips trying to increase your rhythm.

You got off him and started undoing his pants, noticing how utterly big he was. You ran your fingering through his growth over his boxers, eliciting a whine as he shivered under your touch. "Please....I beg you." You smiled, slowly taking his underwear off, making him suffer with every single touch. His cock was glistening with precum, he looked down, almost embarrassed at the sight. "It's okay baby" You said reassuringly.

You got up, aligning him against your entrance. You were already wet from how desperate he was, yet he still didn't fit that easily. You slid down, slowly, taking in all of him. His cock sliding through your folds. "Oh...god" He choked out, throwing his head back as he did. You felt him hit your core, filling you in perfectly as you adjusted to his size. You grabbed his shoulders, slowly pumping in an out of him, each movement eliciting groans from him, You felt so perfect around him, he hadn't been touched in so long, and the way your walls wrapped around him was just ideal, his mind felt hazy, only thinking about fucking you. You increased your pace, filling him against your folds with every single pump. He whined with each thrust, a collection of desperate moans escaping his lips each time.

"What's wrong baby? Can't handle it?" You asked, pulling his hair so his eyes met yours.

"I can....fuck.....I can handle it" He said, out of breath as he looked at you.

You grabbed his shoulders, pushing yourself harder against him. He grabbed your waist, helping you steady as you found a perfect rhythm. Your moans syncing, each thrust leaving you two out of breath as he slid in and out of you, hitting that perfect spot everytime. "That's it baby, just like that" Your words made him whimper under you, as he fucked into you harder, feeling himself about to spill. With one deep groan you felt him filling you, his cock pulsating inside you. He was so overwhelmed, so overstimulated, gasping for air as he looked at you.

"Oh, but I'm not done with you yet." You said, digging your nails into his shoulders and pushing him down. "Just a little more, you can take a little more can't you baby?" You cupped his face with one of your hands, his eyes glistening.

"Y-yes, I can" He said, his mind hazy from how sensitive his cock was, from how tight your walls were against him.

"Such a good boy aren't you?"

You thrust yourself against him, each pump painfully wrapping around his over sensitive cock. He whined in pure desperation, not even able to hold you anymore, dropping his hands to his sides. "God..god I-" He gasped, unable to even form a coherent sentence by this point. You felt yourself about to spill just from how vulnerable he was being for you, your core tensing up as you felt that familiar feeling building inside you. His whines filled the room, his eyes stuck to yours, oscillating to your breasts from time to time. With one last thrust you collapsed into him, moaning and shivering as you fell into his arms.

You both took deep breaths, looking at each other and smiling. You got off him, kissing his forehead and putting his messy hair away from his face. "That...that was great baby" You said, still out of breath as you laid your interlocked his hands with yours. He looked at you silently, still hazy from all that you had given him.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is my first time writing a sub!man and my second time writing smut in like 4 years, and I don't know I feel like i didn't do it that well so sorry if this doesn't live up to your expectations. English is not my first language and my brain is foggy and tired. Pleaseeee give me ideas and recommendations I'm willing to write anything you guys want but I'm strill trying to figure out how to put a requests button on my profile. Love you!!! (GIVE ME IDEAS NOW!!!111!!)

[heesmiles]

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

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

pairings 𝜗𝜚 criminal ! 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 ୨୧ He 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.

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.

(★) @izzyy-stuff , @beomiracles , @dawngyu , @hyukascampfire , @saejinniestar , @notevenheretbh1 , @hwanghyunjinismybae, @ch4c0nnenh4, @kristynaaah , @simj4k3 , @sangiewife , @hyunj00 , @firstclassjaylee , @teddybeartaetae , @i-am-not-dal , @xylatox , @desistay

[ari-ana-bel-la]

hi honey, i absolutely love your fics, they've made me smile, laugh, cry and scream in cuteness. i was wondering if you could do this trend:

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMB7Aupdp/

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMB7D47xE/

but with the drivers and their daughters/sons, like driver says 'im so hungry i could eat a child' and their kids reactions... if you dont want to, there's no problem at all. love 🩷🩷

Only Kidding

It was a slow Friday at the paddock—calm skies, mild temperatures, and everything running on time for once. Lando sat back in the team hospitality lounge, his race suit unzipped down to his waist and tied at his hips, a plain white T-shirt clinging slightly from the heat. But he didn’t care about that.

All his attention was on the small girl curled in his lap, playing with the braided bracelets on his wrist.

“Careful,” he said gently, watching her fingers tangle a little too tight. “That one’s from Monaco. I like that one.”

Yn looked up at him with the same big brown eyes that made people double take whenever they walked by. “I’m being careful, Daddy.”

“I know you are,” he said with a smile, brushing his hand over her curls.

She looked so much like him it was a little ridiculous sometimes. Same nose, same smile, same stubborn little pout. His heart squeezed just looking at her. Five years old and already the most important thing in his world—no contest.

Max walked into the lounge with a cold drink in one hand and a slightly mischievous grin. “Mate, she’s gonna braid those onto your face if you don’t stop her soon.”

“She can do whatever she wants,” Lando replied without hesitation. “She’s the boss.”

Yn beamed proudly and held up his arm. “I’m decorating!”

From the couch beside them, Ria laughed. “You’re doing a great job, love.”

Lando leaned his head back with a soft sigh. “God, I’m starving. I could eat a whole child.”

There was a pause.

A very small, very deliberate pause.

Yn froze. Her tiny fingers stopped playing with his bracelets. Slowly, she looked up at him, wide-eyed.

“You could… what?” she asked, voice quiet and slightly horrified.

Max choked on his drink.

Lando blinked, confused by her sudden stillness. “What?”

Yn carefully slid off his lap, step by step, not breaking eye contact.

“Baby?” he said, raising a brow.

She didn’t answer.

She walked—no, tiptoed—straight to Ria and climbed into her lap without a word, still looking at Lando like he had grown fangs.

Ria burst out laughing the moment Yn clutched her like a safety blanket.

“Oh my god,” Max wheezed. “She thinks you’re gonna eat her!”

“I was kidding!” Lando said, now cracking up too. “Yn, baby, I swear—I was joking!”

Yn blinked slowly at him, her little hands fisted in Ria’s hoodie.

“Why would you say that?” she asked seriously, as if this was a courtroom and he was on trial.

“I was hungry! It’s just a joke people say sometimes!”

“You said you could eat a child,” she repeated, dramatically betrayed.

Ria was shaking with laughter now. “Honestly, I’d go hide too if my dad said that.”

Lando leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Come here, monkey. I promise I’m not gonna eat you. You’re my whole heart, remember?”

She hesitated, still snuggled against Ria.

“You said you were hungry.”

“I was. But I meant I could eat, like, a really big sandwich. Or a mountain of pasta. Not you.”

Max threw in, “Yeah, I don’t think you’d taste very good anyway.”

“Max!” Ria hissed, laughing harder.

Yn’s mouth twitched.

Lando noticed. “Uh oh. Is that a smile?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.” She turned her face into Ria’s shoulder, giggling quietly.

“I got you,” Ria said softly, kissing her head. “We’ll protect you from the Big Bad Hungry Dad.”

“I’m not the Big Bad anything!” Lando insisted, dramatically affronted. “I’m your dad! I read you bedtime stories and make dinosaur-shaped pancakes!”

“You do,” Yn admitted shyly.

“And I sing terribly in the car just to make you laugh.”

She nodded again.

“So can I please have my snuggle-bug back?”

She finally looked at him properly, serious again. “You really won’t eat me?”

“Not even a nibble.”

“Not even a toe?”

“Not even a toe.”

Yn wriggled out of Ria’s lap and padded back over. Lando opened his arms wide, and she dove into them like a little rocket. He hugged her tight, lifting her slightly onto his lap again.

“You scared me,” she said into his chest.

“I know, baby. I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful with my jokes, yeah?”

“Okay.”

From behind them, Max mumbled, “You know, if you just packed snacks like I told you—”

“Not the time, Max.”

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-🤍🦢

[mia-can-yap-too]

What?:- Sukuna is immortal. You keep being reincarnated. Only one of you remembers. It doesn't stop him from finding you in all your lifetimes.

Warnings:- hurt n comfort, sfw, yearning, mentions of death, not exactly historically accurate, sukuna commits arson in every lifetime too

Heian Era (Japan, 900s)

Sukuna doesn't remember how he turned into a monster. He doesn't remember when people started calling him a cursed being. A demon, a God. Unnatural and unwanted. He can not remember if he was ever looked at with gentleness, only fear and hatred. Well, not before you at least.

You were a shrine maiden, bound to the Gods with silk and silence. Your temple sat nestled in the mountains, shrouded in cherry blossoms and untouched by war.

He remembers the day he arrived.

The land trembled beneath his steps. The birds stopped singing. Priests fell to their knees, and villagers hid.

You were told to hide, too. You're not sure why, but you watched him from the gardens, your eyes meeting his through fallen cherry blossoms.

"Are you not afraid of me?" he had asked.

"Why should I be?" you had answered.

He had laughed for what he now considers the first time in his life. It was as if it was torn out of him. Sudden and unexpected. It was a terrible, beautiful sound.

He hadn't taken long to return, something he couldn't quite name pulling him back.

The other maidens ran. Yet again, you stayed.

He sat with you beneath the moon, and for the first time, he talked about things beyond killing.

He told you about the loneliness. About the weight of time. He told you about a childhood he doesn't remember now.

And you listened. You offered tea. You told him about your own experiences. About your fear of dying. You never told him to leave.

But peace isn't meant for monsters.

The villagers had had enough of him, they were tired of cowering in fear. The priests called for an exorcism, and the maidens told them about his fondness for you.

And so, you were offered as a sacrifice. They ignored your screams as they dragged you to the alter. They broke your bones to keep you from moving.

Sukuna arrived as wrath incarnate. He tore through them with bloodied hands and shoved what it truly meant to be a monster. But it didn't matter. He was too late.

He held your broken body close and used his sleeves to wipe the blood from your mouth, even though it only smeared it further.

You had smiled at him then. Sukuna would never find anything that came close to it.

He tried asking you to hold on for a little longer.

"As long as I'm in your arms, what do I have to fear?"

Your voice trembled like the fallen cherry blossoms in the wind.

Then, you died.

Ancient Greece (Athens, 400 BCE)

You were the daughter of an Athenian philosopher. Sharp, eloquent, always questioning. You didn't fear the gods. You debated them. You would call Olympus flawed, and the Fates overrated.

Then he came.

They said he was a child of Ares, a savage hero. They said he couldn't bleed. That, once, he fought 100 men and walked away laughing.

It was your curiosity that made you ask him, "Do you like being mythologized?"

He had smirked then. "Would you rather know the truth?"

You fell in love with him slowly. You were drawn to his silence, drawn to the way he would never touch the food at feasts and the way he never looked at anyone the way he looked at you.

He didn't pray. He didn't kneel. But if you begged hard enough, he would tell you about other empires, about old temples and cherry blossom trees. Whenever you asked how he knew, he would stay silent.

In the moments between waking and sleep, he would hold you as if you would vanish if his grip was too loose, as if you would slip between his fingers like fine sand.

You were poisoned by a jealous student of your father, one who feared your brilliance, your ambition and your love for that bastard.

Once again, you collapsed in his arms. Only in your dying moments did you remember what was before.

He kissed you softly before he laid you down in your final resting place.

Athens burned that night. He made sure no flame touched you.

Later, stories spread that your demise was inevitable, caused by your defiance to faith.

The Renaissance (Florence, 1500s)

In Florence, beauty ruled, and only the bold were remembered.

You were born into a family of artisans. Clever with a brush, invisible to the elite.

He found you in the shadows of a chapel, watched the miniscule tremble of your hands as you painted saints.

He bought all your paintings. He never spoke your name.

He offered you a commission. Endless portraits. Of yourself.

You finally asked his name.

"Sukuna," he whispered, as if it were a secret.

"Have we met before?"

He gave a rare smile. "Yes."

He asked you to teach him art.

You never exactly believed in fate, but as your hands guided his, a sense of deja vu arose. It felt as if this was how it was always meant to be, your hands slotted in his.

You painted him just once, the only time he allowed it. You called the piece 'Remembrance'.

You burned in a fire this time. An accident had set your studio ablaze.

Sukuna was too late. He always was.

He ripped through the flames and pulled you from the wreckage, but your lungs had already blackened.

Florence never saw him again. But left in a burnt chapel was a sculpture of a woman. She had ash in her hair, and her eyes were closed peacefully with a soft smile. The plaque beneath read 'My Soul, Repeating.'

The artist is still unknown.

Modern day (Tokyo, Present)

You're a university student. Studio arts major, to be specific. You're quiet, skilled, observant, and known for painting things you've never seen. Temples that no longer exist, battles no history book mentions, and a man with red eyes.

Your professors say you have an 'ancient eye'. You laugh it off. Though sometimes, you cry in your sleep.

You meet him outside a museum. He stands still in front of your painting. 'Repetition' it is called.

In it, a woman bleed in the arms of a weeping man.

You stop and admire him for a moment before you actually approach.

"Do you like it?"

He turns, his all too familiar eyes meet yours. Your heart stops.

You don't know him. But your soul does.

His voice is quiet. "I've seen this before."

You sit with him on a bench outside. You ask him for his name.

He says it's Sukuna. You say yours.

You don't ask how he knows your favorite tea. Or why his hand slightly shakes when you brush his sleeves.

This time, you don't die. This time, he marries you.

He waited centuries to hold you close. He swears he will never let go.

—

a/n:- 400! wow cant believe it, honestly. i dont usually write this typa stuff, but with the power of the AOT soundtrack and determination, i pulled through. if this flops guess whos dying next

m.list

[anticanonsposts]

Can we get some König fucking reader against the window? I love your works sooo much ❤️❤️❤️

ofc sweet thing <3

(I'm rly trying to get back into writing bc I miss it and I'm so much less stressed lately) so I hope y'all enjoy this!!!

cw: nsfw (mdni), chubby! reader, sex obvi

Your breath was fogging up the glass in front of you. Thank god your crippling fear of heights was muted considering the amount of things you had to distract yourself. Like König’s right hand clamped over yours, pressed against the glass of the window in front of you. Or his left hand’s fingertips digging into your left love handle continuously pulling you forward and backward onto him. And, the best distraction, König’s leaking dick thrusting in and out of you, seemingly only rubbing on your g-spot. 

“Having fun?” you chuckle/choke out between heavy breaths, turning your head slightly to look back up at him. 

You and König were house sitting. Someone he used to work with had a loft overlooking (insert whatever big city you pretties want <3) and they needed someone to stay for a week and keep an eye on things. This loft also happened to have floor to ceiling windows almost all around. Usually König was very private about your sex life, wanting to keep it private, and he would never define himself as a voyeur. But a little bit of gin for him, wine for you, seclusion, the idea of having you all to himself for the week. And you just so happened to be wearing one of his favorite lounge around the house sets that you often wore. The one that made every jiggle and bounce of your body more embellished. The one that regardless of his mood, always got him in the mood. And thats the story about how you are now balancing on your knees on a very expensive ottoman, König doing the same behind you, both of you with a hand (at times both) braced against one of the over 11 foot tall window panes. 

You’d usually feel a bit self conscious, even though you knew you were much too high up for anyone to see. And if they did, they were most likely some top percent people with hobbies much more perverse and devious than this. But given the rhythm with which König was fucking you and that in the slight reflection of the glass, you could see that König’s face was even redder than yours. His eyes glued to your jiggling ass and how your back twisted and contorted to fuck back onto him. 

“Scheiße yes Liebe!” was almost all he was able to muster out, trying to keep himself together. To be honest he could have finished several minutes ago but you were making such pretty sounds and having such a nice time, he didn’t want to cut it short. A couple more grunts were quickly followed by several ‘Ja’s as he abandoned his hands on the glass and instead dug both of them right into the back of your hips, angling your pelvis down slightly more and drilling into you. 

“Ohhhh fuck König, please please please” you whimper out, mouth agape, eyebrows scrunched up, with all of the energy you have left trying to give him the best ‘please cum in me’ eyes that you can. 

Fortunately his balls were slapping against your clit at an even enough pace, you were all set to cum. But to make it hit harder, as he feels your core start to tighten and flutter around him, he takes his left hand and gently cups your jaw and pulls your face up to stare out the window. Flicking your eyes up to his reflection you can see that he is staring out too. And finally after what seems like hours of pure bliss, your voice starts to get higher and higher until your core snaps and you start cumming around his dick. Coating it completely with your orgasm. And he, quickly returns both hands back to your hips as his start to stutter and he releases inside of you. 

As you both stilled you whimpered a bit trying to move your hips away from his due to the slightly uncomfortable feeling of being filled up. You loved it, but usually his length, girth, and amount of release got you feeling a little stuffed down there. But you also wouldn’t trade this feeling for the world. 

Breaking you from your daze, he pulls you with him to sit back on his heels, wrapping his arms around you. One toying with your tits and the other pulling your face to the side to connect your lips together. After you had both mixed your drools together enough he gently pulls away, his half lidded eyes flicking between your eyes and lips. This week will definitely push you both to your physical and intimate limits. <3

[meganwritesfanfics]

How to Save a Life (Dr. Jack Abbott x Reader) Part 5

Word Count: 1931

TRIGGER WARNING: DISCUSSION OF PTSD.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Jack prayed. He wasn’t religious by any means, but he needed a task; he needed something to do as he sat and waited for news. He had been sitting and waiting for hours; he could feel that all of the blood that covered his arms and was soaked into his clothes was starting to dry. But he didn’t dare move.He held Y/N’s necklace in his hands and slid her wedding ring onto his dog tags, they had been brought to him by Garcia, an hour into waiting. 

He couldn’t stop thinking about the future he had already dreamed about, and one that at any moment he could find out that he had lost. 

Once Y/N had told him she was pregnant, he could picture the future. He imagined building a crib, the late nights rocking his child back to sleep after they had woken up crying. He had already planned on the play set he would build in the backyard when they were old enough. In his mind his baby was a girl, and he could picture taking her out on daddy-daughter days out. And lord help her when she decided dating. His baby wasn’t even born yet and he could never imagine anyone ever being good enough for her. 

But all of these thoughts were hanging in the balance, he knew the odds of the baby surviving were very slim. The trauma your body had gone through was enough to cause a miscarriage. 

He crumbled, placing his head in his hands. He had always feared that his life with Y/N was too good to be true. Jack couldn’t imagine he would ever find someone as wonderful as Y/N. She was the light to his dark, she was the sweet to his sour, she was the day to his night. People were often surprised they were together, not just because of the age difference, but also because of how different of people they were. But somehow she fit with him perfectly. 

She brought out happiness in him, he thought he had lost long ago. And she knew how to calm him down when he had bad days. He loved the quiet moments with her the most. On the rare times when they both had days off, he loved just being in her presence. He loved when she cuddled up next to him while he watched sports. She would sit with her book in her hands but her head rested on his shoulder. She didn’t even have to say anything to be a comfort to him. 

“Jack,” A voice brought him out of his thoughts and he snapped his head up to see Robby standing in front of him tears in his eyes. 

“Is she…” Jack asked terrified as he got to his feet. 

“She’s fine, they said everything went really well. She going to be just fine.” Robby said his voice cracking. 

Jack let out a cry. “She’s ok.” He sobbed. 

“She’s ok.” Robby said and he pulled his friend into a hug. 

“Wait,” Jack pushed back. “The baby, what about the baby?” 

“That baby is stubborn as hell Jack, it is definitely your kid. Everyone is calling them a miracle baby. I told them of course they survived, that baby is an Abbott.” 

“Oh thank God.” He cried pulling Robby back into his arms 

“They said she should be waking up shortly if you wanted to go and see her.” 

“Yes! Thank you Micheal. Thank you so much for everything. I owe you big time.” 

“You know Micheal is a great name for a baby. Could do Michelle if it’s a girl.” He teased as he gave Jack a pat on the back. 

Jack laughed as the two of them walked towards Y/N’s room. 

They had just walked in, when they could see Y/N stirring. 

“Baby,” Jack said as he rushed to her side. 

“Jack,” She murmured as she started to try to sit up. 

“Y/N, you need to take it easy. Just stay laying down.” 

“The baby, Jack the baby. Please tell me…” She started to panic reaching out for Jack’s hand.

“The baby is just fine. Robby called her a miracle.” 

“I did not use the word miracle.” Robby insisted. “I just called her an Abbott. 

“Her?” Y/N smiled. 

“Jack’s convinced it’s a girl.” 

“You are?” Y/n said as she looked up at him. 

“Call it intuition I just feel like that’s a little Michelle in there.” He said as he placed his hand on her stomach. 

Y/N laughed. “Did Robby convince you to name our baby after him?” 

“I just added some suggestions to the conversation.” Robby smiled as he walked over to Y/N’s bedside. “I have to head back, but I’m so glad you are ok. I can’t be down one of my best residents.” He kissed her forehead. 

“I’m going to tell Langdon you said I was one of your best residents.” She smiled . 

Robby laughed. “Call me if you need anything.” 

“Are you ok?” Y/N asked. 

“You scared the shit out of me Y/N.” Jack said his voice cracking. 

“I didn’t think he would actual hurt me.” She said her voice cracking as she gripped his hand tighter. 

“I’m so sorry, I should have gotten you out of there, I was trying to figure out a way to get you away from him but I…” 

“Jack,” She quickly placed her hand on his cheek. “Don’t do that, I know you want to blame yourself but don’t you dare.” 

“I could have lost you Y/N. We did lose you for a while. And it was the closet to hell I ever want to come.” He sobbed as he leaned forward and placed his head on her hand. 

“Oh Jack,” Y/N said as she reached over and ran her fingers through his hair. “It’s ok baby, I’m here.” 

It took a while for Y/N to recover but the minute she was given the go ahead, Y/N was begging to go home. She missed their house, she missed Cooper and she missed being able to fall asleep in Jack’s arms. Jack had taken off 2 full weeks to help make sure Y/N could get all settled at home, although he fully planned on taking off more, terrified that if he left her alone, she may completely vanish. 

Jack had brought her some comfy clothes for her to leave the hospital in, it included her favorite t-shirt of his to wear, and her favorite pair of sweatpants. Both smelled so much like Jack and their home that Y/N felt like she could cry. She couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that her life has almost ended, and she had almost lost everything. 

She tried to pretend she wasn’t affect deeply by the shooting, but Jack could see that she was jumping at every small sound and her eyes were quickly checking her surroundings whenever they went into a different room. She looked just like him. 

By the time they made it out to the car, Y/N’s hands were shaking, she kept expecting to see Driscol turn the corner waiting for her again. 

“Y/N,” Jack said as he helped her into his truck. “Talk to me, what’s going on?” 

Y/N sighed as she reached her shaking hands out to grab his. “I’m so scared Jack.” She said her voice breaking. “I keep thinking something is going to happen, I’m terrified of someone hurting me again or god forbid someone hurts you.” 

“Oh baby.” Jack said as he grabbed her face in his hands. “I am never going to let anything happen to you again I promise. And you don’t have to worry about me, nothing is going to happen to me.” 

“You can’t know that for sure. It was such a normal shift before Driscol showed up. And hell you know that people are just getting more violent. I don’t know how I am supposed to go to work and pretend like I’m not watching my back everytime I work with a patient. And I’m going to lose my mind everytime you go to work, I’m terrified you won’t come back.” 

He recognized and empathized with everything Y/N was saying. It was fears that were already filling his head. He knew that he would be panicked the whole time Y/N was at work, afraid of losing her again. But seeing Y/N having the same fears, really showed Jack how unhealthy and devastating those thoughts were. 

“Y/N, will you consider going to therapy with me. I am feeling the same fears, hell you know I already don’t want you to work while you are pregnant, but I know that you would go absolutely insane without anything to do. I think it would be good for us to talk to someone. I can talk to Dr. Cody and see if he has a couples therapist he can recommend, or if you would rather have someone to talk to by yourself I can see if he can recommend someone for you as well.” 

Y/N leaned into Jacks hands as she brought her hands up to grab his wrists smiling. 

“When did you become so wise?” 

“Someone told me once that you can’t just keep all of your thoughts to yourself, sometimes you have to share them with others, so that way they don’t eat you alive. She was far wiser than me.” He smiled as he pulled her in for a long kiss. 

“Let’s go home.” Y/N said and Jack about ran to the driver’s side of his truck so ready to have her back home. 

As they pulled into the driveway, Y/N as she saw the banner that was hung on the door. It read Welcome Home Y/N. 

“Who…” She started as she looked at Jack tears in her eyes. 

“Dana got Harrison Mckay and Tanner Langdon to make it for you.”  Jack smiled as he leaned over and kissed her cheek. 

“I just…” She said. “It’s beautiful.” 

He quickly hopped out and rushed to her side. 

‘I’m so happy your home baby,” He said as he helped her walk from the car to their front door. 

She could hear Cooper parking through the door, and she couldn’t help but beam. 

“Aww Coop, I missed you too.” She smiled as Jack opened the door and Cooper came barreling at her. 

“Cooper, be careful.” Jack laughed as he bent down to give Coopers some good petss

“He’s ok, he just missed his mom.” Y/N said and she leaned onto Jack so she could pet Cooper. 

“Y/N,” Jack said hesitantly wanting to make sure Y/N didn’t hurt herself. 

“I’m ok Jack. I’m better than ok, I’m back home with my boys.” She smiled. 

“Let’s get you sitting down, Doctor’s orders.” He said as he ushered them towards the couch. “Why don’t I put on one of those trashy tv shows you like.” 

“Hey don’t call them trashy, you know you love them too.” She smiled as he carefully helped her onto the couch, pulling her into his arms. 

The minute they were sat on the couch Cooper came bounding up, snuggling right into Y/N side his head laying on her stomach. 

“He is so ready to meet his sister.” Y/N smiled as she gave Cooper some good scratches.  

Jack couldn’t help but smile, so happy to have Y/N back home and safe in his arms. 

Taglist: @rosewritesitout, @brnesblogposts @emma8895eb @qardasngan @keileighr

[genshingorlsrevengeance]

Can I request Herta with an S/O who's a massive tsundere?

(H:SR) Herta with a tsundere S/O

Oh, what's that? S/O was being stubborn and getting too embarrassed to say what's on their mind?

Funny/Cute as it was, Herta doesn't have time for this.

Do you think such a beautiful, smart, and young genius like her has time to wait for S/O to stop twiddling their thumbs to say they wanna hold hands?!

Hell no! That's a waste of time for her, AND S/O!

That being said, many people ask: "Madam Herta, if you find that part about S/O annoying, why did you even agree to be with them?"

And her response is rather simple.

(Herta) "And that is any of your business, how, exactly?"

The way Herta gets around this little quirk of S/O's: Isn't it obvious? Just directly bring up whatever to where they can't beat around the bush.

(Herta) "I need a test subject and need to spend time with someone who can actually listen, S/O. Dinner will be made on time, probably."

(S/O) "...Shouldn't you ask if I want to be a test subject?"

Herta simply raised an eyebrow at S/O. They opened their mouth to say something else, but it's not like spending time with their (definitely young and attractive) girlfriend was the worst thing.

Even if there was at least a 50% chance of them imploding.

(S/O) sigh "Alright, what are we doing?"

And being fair to S/O, Herta doesn't really mind nor care of their blushy-attitude that they give her.

If anything, it makes them a little more fun to be around. Heavens know that Herta is a handful to be around, the least she could do for her beloved (test subject) was to return the favor.

Alongside Asta, and some of the Genius Society, S/O was also a voice of reason to stop some insane plan or research she had, lest the entire Herta Space Station blinks into some god-forsaken star, or some other freak abomination.

It also puts S/O's social skills to the test! They can't be a tsundere if they need to tell Asta that Herta was harnessing the power of a star to do Aeons knows what.

And that was the least of S/O's concerns. What they really had to worry about was when she was bored and had free time.

(Herta) "Hm...While I'm here on the Station, S/O, we need to get you a new set of clothes!"

(S/O) "You're not going to make me go into your wardrobe again, right?"

(Herta) "Well, I do intend for you to help me sometime in the next three years, so no, obviously. But that being said..."

She snaps her fingers and immediately, several puppets burst into the room.

(S/O) "You didn't need to snap to summon them."

(Herta) "Has it occurred to you that I do things because I like to, S/O?"

(S/O) "I think that's one of the first things I learned about you..."

(Herta) "Exactly! Now, let's have you visited by the Emanator of Beauty!"

About an hour passes and the entire room is devoured by rolling racks of clothes, with even some of the puppets acting as Coat Hangars, with their arms out-stretched into a T-Pose.

All the while, Herta is sitting on a floating key, trying to decide which shade of purple matched S/O the best, researching some other things on the side of a tablet.

With S/O checking themselves in a mirror, also held by a smaller Herta.

Herta appeared busy with the many things occupying her, S/O stealing a glance from the mirrors and quietly smiling to themselves.

(Herta) "...It'll last longer if you take a picture, y'know."

S/O shifted their eyes away and blushed, mumbling something under their breath much to her amusement.

(S/O) "D-Don't tease me!"

(Herta) "Hm? And you are going to do what exactly? If I continue to do so?"

Suddenly, Herta was by S/O's side, giving them the smirk they (loved) were irritated by so much.

(S/O) "I-I..."

(Herta) "Ah, get flustered. Naturally."

Herta chuckles to herself as she hands the outfit to S/O to try on, finally stepping back onto the ground and checking both herself and her lover in the mirror.

(Herta) "Now, chop chop! Try it on!"

(S/O) "Will this even look good on me?"

(Herta) "I'll ignore the doubt you have in my fashion sense, which is a crime against me I'll have you know, and say, obviously! I'm the one who chose it, and you're the one wearing it."

S/O's face heated up from Herta's own flavor of compliment and took the outfit, preparing to change again.

All the while, Herta just smiled to herself, and turned away for them to change.

She was still looking, and S/O knew that, but for the sake of their prideful heart, they chose not to say anything.

But...admittedly, S/O loved the attention, and Herta knew that damn well.

It was nice to have someone that could understand each other in a more intimate way, and it went both ways.

...Most of the time, anyways.

Its kind of hard to view your girlfriend the same way once she harnesses the power of a nearby star with some unfathomably complicated device just to see if she could and prove some random-ass researcher four hundred sectors away wrong.

S/O was prideful in not admitting they liked to kiss her, but holy shit that was kind of a whole other level.

===

A/N: Do you guys tell how much I love writing Herta? She's so damn funny. I always knew I had a taste for insane brunette scientists (See Hange), and DAMN Herta scratches that itch.

[velvetinks]

A Day Like This

Joel Miller x f!Reader

Warnings: Subtle smut references (afterglow), parenting, major angst/Joel’s death implied at the end, heavy emotions, child character (age 2), deep love and loss

It was still dark when you felt the bed dip behind you.

Warm arms slid around your waist, pulling you in tight. A familiar nose nuzzled the back of your neck.

“You’re up early,” Joel murmured, voice rough from sleep.

You smiled into your pillow. “So are you.”

He pressed a slow kiss to your shoulder. “Can’t sleep without you.”

You reached down and laid your hand over his.

“Happy anniversary,” you whispered.

Joel hummed. “Mmm. Three years.”

“Two and a half,” you corrected, smirking. “You didn’t call it official until you asked me over pancakes.”

“You were already mine before that.”

He kissed your neck again, slower this time.

You shifted beneath the covers, turning toward him. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, his gray-flecked beard brushing your cheek. He looked younger in the mornings. Softer.

“Don’t wake her,” you said gently, glancing toward the small cot at the corner of the room.

But it was empty.

Joel followed your gaze, then sighed. “Shit. She already up?”

You both heard it at once—the light pitter-patter of toddler feet on hardwood just before your daughter’s small voice called out:

“Daaaaaddy!”

Joel groaned, burying his face in the pillow. “I thought I had at least another ten minutes.”

You laughed and kissed his temple.

“Welcome to fatherhood, Mr. Miller.”

Her name was Rosie.

Rosalind Miller, if you were being formal. But no one in town called her that.

She had your eyes and Joel’s everything else, his hair, his nose, his stubborn scowl when she didn’t get her way.

Joel was soft with her in a way you’d never seen. When she was born, he cried so hard you thought something was wrong. And then he held her, clumsy and careful, like she was something ancient and sacred.

She followed him everywhere now.

When he went to the stables, she toddled after him in boots too big for her feet. When he chopped wood out back, she’d bring him sticks and pile them beside his boots. When he sat on the porch, guitar in his lap, she’d curl up on his chest and hum tunelessly with him.

She was his entire world.

And he was hers.

That afternoon, you convinced Maria to take Rosie for a few hours.

“Anniversary, huh?” she said knowingly, eyes twinkling. “Go enjoy yourselves. I’ll bring her home for dinner.”

You and Joel walked hand in hand to a quiet spot outside the gates—a little rise overlooking the frozen river where the two of you had kissed for the first time.

You laid out a blanket and shared canned peaches, a chocolate bar Tommy had somehow bartered for, and a small flask of whiskey Joel pulled from his coat with a smirk.

“For old time’s sake,” he murmured, raising it to his lips.

“God, you’re romantic,” you teased.

He leaned over and kissed you—slow and deep, a little like goodbye.

You didn’t like the way it made your chest hurt.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you whispered.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re saying something you’re too scared to say.”

Joel looked down at your joined hands.

“I keep thinkin’ about how lucky I got,” he said. “How close I came to dyin’ alone. How I almost didn’t find you. Or Ellie. Or…”

“Rosie,” you finished for him.

He nodded.

“I spent twenty years losin’ people. Then suddenly I had a family again. I didn’t know what to do with it.”

“You learned,” you said, reaching up to cup his face. “You’re still learning. And you’re a good dad, Joel.”

He looked away quickly.

But not before you saw the tears in his eyes.

That night, Ellie came over for dinner.

She brought Rosie a carved wooden rabbit and let her ride on her back around the living room, both of them giggling like idiots.

Joel just watched them with this quiet, faraway look. Like he was burning every second into memory.

After Rosie fell asleep in her crib, you stepped out onto the porch with him, the cold air biting at your skin.

He stood behind you, arms around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.

“Didn’t think I’d make it this far,” he said softly. “Didn’t think I’d ever have a home again.”

“You do now.”

Joel kissed your temple.

“If anything ever happens to me—”

“Don’t,” you whispered.

“But if it does”

“Joel, stop. Please.”

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he held you tighter.

“I love you,” he said.

It wasn’t the first time he’d said it.

But it felt different that night. Like he needed you to believe it more than anything.

And you did.

God, you did.

Two days later, he was gone.

The patrol. The barn. Ellie’s scream. The sickening sound of bones breaking.

You didn’t have time to say goodbye.

But you found Rosie in his flannel shirt that night, curled up in his chair like she was waiting for him to come home.

She didn’t understand what death meant yet.

But when she looked up at you with those big brown eyes and whispered, “Where’s Daddy?”

You broke.

Because how could you explain that he died protecting someone he loved?

That he died trying to keep the world gentle for her?

That he died with your name on his lips?

You buried his guitar beside the river, right under the oak where you kissed him for the first time.

Rosie leaves flowers there sometimes.

And when the snow falls soft and slow—quiet like that anniversary morning—

You swear you can still feel him wrap his arms around you.

Like he never left.

Like love, real love, doesn’t die easy.

[lady-arcane]

People Like Us Don’t Survive Love :

You met him when he was still almost whole.

Geto Suguru—with his easy smile and sleepless eyes, the boy who said the world was cracked like glass and still tried to carry it in his bare hands. Back then, he hadn’t yet decided to hate it. Not entirely.

And you—naïve enough to believe that love could be a soft place to land. That maybe, just maybe, you could be enough to keep him tethered to the light.

You were wrong, of course. But that’s the thing about people like you and Suguru.

You want to believe in beautiful endings even as you sharpen your teeth for the fall.

-----

He used to say things like:

“If we were gods, would you still love me?”

And you’d laugh, kiss the corner of his mouth, say:

“Only if you didn’t act like one.”

He didn’t laugh back. Not really—

-----

You knew he was slipping long before the massacre. Not by his actions, but by the pauses between them.

The silence after missions stretched longer. The way he’d stare at children with something like dread curdling in his eyes. His hands still touched you gently, but his words grew heavier, like they were being dragged out of a well.

He told you he was tired. He told you that saving people started to feel like holding sand with bloodied fingers. He told you that no one cared.

You told him you did.

That was the problem.

-----

When he finally broke, he didn’t shatter. He peeled. Like an old wall cracking in slow motion, truth flaking off with every breath. You watched him rot and rebuild in the same breath.

“You love me,” he said once, “because I haven’t hurt you yet.”

“That’s not true,” you whispered.

But it was.—

-----

The last night you saw him before he disappeared, the moon was hanging like a sickle in the sky. He wouldn’t look at you when he spoke.

“You make me hesitate,” he said.

You stood still, heart in your throat. “Good. You should hesitate.”

“No.” His voice was quiet, almost reverent. “That’s why you have to go. I can’t carry this part of myself anymore.”

And by this part, he meant you.

-----

But he didn’t kill you. He could’ve.

Instead, he left you alive with the softest kind of violence: the knowledge that he was still out there, being terrible, being brilliant, being lost—and that somewhere deep inside, he still loved you.

That was the cruelty. Not the leaving. But the not-quite.

-----

You dream about him sometimes.

In those dreams, he comes back. Not reformed—don’t be stupid. No, in your dreams, he’s still the Geto Suguru who believes the world needs fixing, but he’s tired and he crawls into bed beside you, smelling like blood and smoke, and he doesn’t say sorry.

He just touches your face like it’s still sacred.

You always wake up aching. You never tell anyone.

-----

When the world speaks of him, they call him a traitor.

You never correct them. What’s the point?

(You just nod and keep your mouth shut and bleed quietly in places no one can see.)

Because how do you explain that you were loved by a ghost long before he died?

How do you explain that you watched him become the villain, and still sometimes miss the boy who asked if you thought cursed spirits cried?

---

You’ve tried to hate him.

God, you’ve tried—

But how do you hate someone who was sick and brilliant and yours before the sickness won?

How do you hate someone who once touched your hand like it meant something?

How do you hate someone who almost stayed?

-----

And the worst part?

You understand him.

Not the killing. Not the cruelty. But the loneliness beneath it. The isolation of knowing too much, feeling too much. You’ve seen the way the system feeds itself—how kindness is disposable and the weak get left behind. You know how loud the silence is when you scream into the void and no one listens.

You just chose to survive it differently.

He burned.

You buried.

-----

You saw him again once. Years later.

He didn’t smile.

You didn’t cry.

But when your eyes met across that broken corridor—battle rising, blood in the air—you saw it again: hesitation. The ghost of the boy he was. The boy who once made you tea when you were sick. The boy who told you cursed spirits were just grief given shape.

He didn’t say a word.

Neither did you.

And then he left you standing there.

Again.

-----

Sometimes you wonder if he ever loved you.

If maybe it was all projection—an echo of his old self reaching for something warm before he extinguished the last light.

But then you remember the way he looked at you. Like you were the only thing in a crumbling world that made him consider staying.

And that’s worse.

Because he did love you.

And still chose this.

-----

People like you and Suguru—

You don’t survive love.

You dismantle under it.

Because when you give yourself to someone who’s breaking, you don’t just lose them. You lose the part of yourself that believed you could fix them. That love could be an answer.

You survive the aftermath, sure. You keep breathing.

But you are never, ever whole again.

-----

He exists now only in half-memories, in the spaces between sleep and sobering clarity. You never say his name. You don’t need to.

It echoes anyway—

Suguru.

Suguru.

Suguru.

A name like a wound.

A god who tried to save the world and hated you for being the reason he couldn’t.

-----

[grain-of-sando]

i don't believe this (i'm in love again!)

cm punk x reader

You don't watch wrestling. You don't know why you even agreed to go to this wrestling show. However, you DO know that whoever the cutie that's in the ring right now seems to be looking directly at you.

OR

CM Punk sees you in the crowd and falls in love.

WORD COUNT: 3007 TAGS: gender neutral reader, meet-cute, ecw/roh punk, punk is in luvvvv TITLE INSPO: hit by the sugarcubes

(cross-posted to ao3, read here !!)

You don’t really watch wrestling. Like, at all.

On a Saturday night, you normally would be staying inside and watching a crappy movie while barely awake, but instead, you’re sitting inside of a venue watching a match all because your friend begged you to go with her. She promised she’d pay for a meal afterwards, and it’s not like you have anything to do, so you begrudgingly went.

Despite your hesitance, you were having a good time watching, even though you didn’t have a clue what was happening. Maybe the Ancient Greeks were onto something with Gladiators, because every single move that happened in the ring made the whole crowd erupt like animals.

As you asked something to your friend about how much longer this is gonna be on for, the entrance music of a new wrestler suddenly filled the room, making some of the more dedicated wrestling fans start cheering. You looked around to see who was entering until you saw him.

Oh my god, he’s cute.

While you watched this wrestler you had no clue about sauntering out into the ring, you shamelessly ogled at him. He came out in a black zip-up jacket with a white stripe across the chest, along with some red shorts and some generic black boots. As he combed his taped-up hands through his bleached hair, you could make out a piercing on his lip with the silvery metal glimmering from the light upstage. Despite his more alternative look, his face looked full of energy, which says a lot considering you weren’t sitting close to him in the slightest.

Not to mention he had a great build… You probably had no chance, but it doesn’t hurt to stare.

“Who is that?” you yelled while leaning over to your friend. The room was so loud that your yell was equivalent to a whisper. Your friend looked over at you and shouted back, “CM Punk!”

You were about to ask her what the hell CM meant, but as you were glancing back at this CM Punk guy, you noticed it felt like he was looking at you.

Okay, don’t be delusional.

You blinked a couple of times to make sure you weren’t being crazy, but the more you looked at him, the more it felt like he was truly staring at you. You gave a smile in case he truly was looking, and maybe you’re truly insane, but you could’ve sworn he smiled back.

-

“Okay, okay, maybe you were right,” you started, walking out of the arena with your friend. “Wrestling is fun to watch. I was wrong. Happy now?”

“Now I am!” your friend replied, snickering. You were about to ask her where she parked, but suddenly your friend stopped walking and said, “Oh, shoot, would you mind if I run to the bathroom really quickly before we go?”

“Go do your thing, I’ll wait here,” you assured, waving her off. She gave you a little “I’ll be quick” before she scurried back into the arena, leaving you standing in the cold outside. The parking lot was full of people shuffling into their cars and talking amongst themselves about the different matches.

As you looked around and fiddled with the hem of your shirt, you heard a voice behind you.

“Uhm, hi, hey,” the voice started. You turned around, shocked when you realized the voice was CM Punk. He looked tired and less… well, half naked, with him sporting a grey shirt under his jacket and some regular blue jeans.

Was he really looking at you during the match after all?

“I, um.. I saw you in the audience,” CM Punk started, fidgeting with his hands as he spoke. “I knew I'd be mad at myself if I didn’t try and talk to you.”

He seemed to be nervous, but his eyes remained fixed on you, which gave you the opportunity to admire their hazel-green color. God, he looked even cuter when face-to-face with you. You must’ve been a saint in a past life because karma had to be the only reason he would even notice you.

As you guys exchanged your hellos and formalities, he asked, “Do you, umm… have any plans right now?” You might’ve accidentally given him a funny look at his question, because he immediately started to backtrack and say, “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound like a creep, I just… would you maybe wanna go grab a bite with me?”

You were about to say yes in a heartbeat before you remembered your friend. Crap, she was your ride home…

“Um.. I’d love to, can I just call my friend super quickly?” you say, trying to smoothly pull your phone out from your pocket. CM Punk nodded and said, “Sure, sure, take your time.” If you didn’t end up going out to eat with him, at least you know he’s nice.

You stepped away and quickly sped through your contacts to find your friend, silently pleading for her to pick up for every ring. The second you heard her voice, you immediately started speaking.

“Hey, sorry this is sudden, but you know that CM Punk guy that just wrestled, like, 20 minutes ago?” you said quietly, trying to seem casual about how excited you are over this.

Your friend said on the other line, “Uhm, yeah, duh, what about him?”

You paused. “Okay, so… He may have just asked me out.”

“…Lying is a sin, you know that, righ-”

“I’m not lying!” you argue. “He just asked me if I wanna go get food with him, but I didn’t want to abandon you since that’s kind of a crappy move-”

“If you’re telling the truth and he seriously just asked you out, I’d be pissed if you didn’t go!” your friend interrupted you. “Go get that man!” You gave a sigh of relief and said, “Okay, okay, see you tomorrow then!”

With that, you hung up and turned back to CM Punk. “Well, where to?”

“I know there’s a diner nearby,” he said, seeming way more relieved at you officially accepting his offer. “My car’s somewhere in this area, except I can't see shit in the dark…” He muttered that last part, but you still caught it and giggled at his annoyance.

The two of you walked around the parking lot until he pointed to a grey car in the distance, picking up his pace. When the two of you reached the car, he quickly unlocked the car and hopped into the driver’s seat while you opened the passenger side door. His car wasn’t anything fancy, and honestly, the inside was pretty cluttered, but you didn’t care in the slightest. He could’ve had Fred Flintstone’s car, and you would still be gushing.

“Sorry for the mess,” he said, picking up some of the random receipts and junk lying on the passenger seat.

“Don’t worry, my car’s not any better,” you assured knowing damn well you clean your car regularly, sitting down and closing the car door. He grabbed the steering wheel, tapping on it with his fingers before saying, “Um… I don’t do this often. I don’t, y’know, normally ask out people after matches.”

He looked over at you. “..and I wasn’t even expecting you to not reject me from the get-go. You’re really gorgeous. Out of my league by a mile,” he said earnestly, gazing at you in a way that made you know he wasn’t just trying to flatter you.

You gave him a bashful smile and said, “You’re not giving yourself nearly enough credit.” You couldn’t see his face very clearly in the dark, but you could’ve sworn you saw his cheeks turn ever-so-slightly redder.

Punk turned his key on the ignition and started slowly pulling out of the parking space, scanning around for the exit in the dark lot.

-

You and Punk arrived at a small diner near the area that seemed to be aiming for a 50s vibe, but then again, all diners have that “sort-of-vintage-sort-of-given-up” decor. He pulled into the parking lot and rummaged through his center console until he pulled a beat-up leather wallet.

Taking the key out of the ignition, he turned to look at you again and said, “Okay, ready to go?” You nodded and opened the door, moving over to his side and walking into the diner together.

After sitting down and ordering your meals from the waitress, you turned your attention back to your date. In the diner’s artificial light, you could see him way clearer compared to in the dark outside. His eyes looked more visibly tired, probably because he just got pummelled by a grown man not even an hour ago. As he shrugged off his jacket, you noticed his tattoos more clearly. Sure, you saw he was tattooed when he was out in the ring, but it’s hard to pick up detail when you aren’t face-to-face with the guy. As his hand pulled on the sleeves of his jacket while taking it off, you noticed the tattoo on his hand that said ‘NO GIMMICKS NEEDED’, not to mention his knuckle tattoos that spelled out ‘DRUG FREE’… You barely had a conversation with him so far, but his tattoos seemed to tell a story in themselves.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Punk jokes, grinning at your obvious staring. You yanked your gaze back to his eyes, slightly embarrassed, saying, “Sorry! I just – I really like your tattoos.” “Oh? Thank you,” Punk looked down at his arms as if he forgot he had ink on him. “You got any yourself?”

You shook your head. “I wish. I just don’t have any good ideas for what I’d wanna put on my body, like, permanently.” As you spoke, you aimlessly admired the heart tattoo he had near the inside of his arm. “Trust me, if I had a good idea, it’d be on me already.”

“If it makes you feel any better…” Punk lifted the sleeve of the shirt he was wearing to reveal his large Pepsi tattoo resting atop his shoulder. “I don’t have the most meaningful tattoos ever.” As he let go of his sleeve, he rested his elbows on the table and leaned closer to you. “I think you’d look great both with and without tattoos, though.”

Just as you were about to compliment him back, the waiter came strolling over with your guys' drinks and plates of food. After taking a bite from your surprisingly good burger, you looked back up at Punk, who must have been starving after his match because a good third of his burger had already been scarfed down.

“So, how’s it like being a wrestler?” you asked, making him perk up. “Sorry, that’s probably a lame question,” you backtracked, taking a sip of whatever soda you ordered. Punk shook his head and replied, “No, no, it’s not lame, wrestling’s… a very weird career, to say the least.”

“Weird?”

“Well, for starters, I get paid to get beat up and beat up other guys,” Punk jokes, making you stifle a laugh. “It’s definitely fun, though. Not for everybody, but I’m not everybody,” Punk quipped while stuffing his face with the fries he ordered.

“Do you only do wrestling?” you followed up. “Like, for work, I mean.” Punk nodded, swallowing before continuing, “I used to work at a comic book store, but once my wrestling career took off, I just stuck to this.”

“That’s enough about me, though… what do you do for work?” Punk asked, sipping his drink. You still feel like you don’t know nearly enough about this guy, but if he’s asking you questions, who are you to not like the attention?

“I’m in school right now,” you say, “I’m getting my bachelor’s, but I work as a receptionist part-time.” You pause, trying to get through your words without seeming like such a bore. “It is not as cool as wrestling, that’s for sure.”

Punk chuckled at your own self-deprecation before adding, “–way less injuries, though.”

“If injuries are your dealbreaker, I think you might be in the wrong line of work,” you jokingly counter.

Punk laughed at that, sipping his drink before saying, “You think?”

“Wait, wait, wait.. now I need to ask,” you start, “What is the worst injury you’ve ever gotten?”

Punk thought to himself for a moment – okay, if he’s thinking, then at least he didn’t get something crazy – before answering, “I once fractured my skull.”

Wow, nevermind.

“Okay, I was gonna explain, you can pick up your jaw,” Punk chastised, smiling at your shock. “It was… I wanna say it was near the beginning of my career. I tried to do a neckbreaker move, and I thought I broke my neck while the match was going on, which, y’know, that’s still–” Punk furrowed his brow and winced, “– but whatever. Anyways, once the match was over, it felt like the biggest challenge just walking from the ring to backstage.”

“Other than that… maybe a broken nose,” Punk finished, acting like he just told you a mildly infuriating anecdote, meanwhile you were still trying to envision how the hell a fractured skull probably feels like. You shook your head and commented, “I don’t know if I’ve ever even gotten, like, a fraction of that level of pain.”

“Trust me, you’re not missing out,” Punk noted, stuffing his face with some of his fries.

The two of you talked casually about your guys’ lives and interests as you ate – or, in the case of Punk, inhaled – your meals. When the waiter came back to ask about dessert, Punk raised an eyebrow at you as if to silently ask if you were still hungry, but it was getting late, and you unfortunately had work the next morning. Once Punk – who insisted on paying for your food despite you telling him you were definitely capable enough to pay for your own $8 meal – covered the bill, the two of you walked back out into the cold and into his car.

While Punk turned the car on and adjusted the heating, you looked over at him. A nearby light pole was casting a halo around his silhouette, making him look otherworldly despite his unassuming look. The light against his jet-black hair made him look like a solar eclipse you can’t seem to look away from.

“What?” Punk asked you, noticing you staring. “Do I got somethin’ on me?” He brought his hands up to half-hazardly wipe whatever he assumed was the reason for your gawking. Instead, you just shook your head and said, “You just look really good right now.”

“You know, it’s unfair how nervous you make me,” Punk teased while starting his attempt to pull out of the parking lot.

As Punk merged onto the nearby road, he glanced over at you and asked, “Where do I turn?”

“Keep going down this road,” you signaled, all while digging in your pocket for your phone. All your most recent messages have been your friend begging for details on your date, so you sent a quick ‘on my way home’ text to hopefully satisfy at least her craving for how long the date was.

As Punk drove, the two of you mostly sat in silence, only broken up by your directions. The lack of conversation wasn’t awkward; if anything, it felt comforting being able to sit in each other's presence without feeling an obligation to keep speaking. As the two of you reached closer and closer to your house, you told him to make a turn at the Circle K nearby.

“Just drop me off here,” you said, pointing to the convenience store’s neon sign. Punk turned into the lot, but he furrowed his brow and asked, “You sure?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I wanted to pick up a few things anyway.” Punk parked at the front of the lot before proceeding to rummage through the center console of his car for a pen and an old receipt for CVS.

“I have another show here tomorrow,” he started, flipping the receipt over to the back while scrawling something on it, “but in case you can’t make it…”

After he finished writing, he held out the receipt with his phone number on the back. “Give me a call sometime. I really enjoyed hanging out with you.”

You grabbed the receipt from his hands, giving him a bashful smile. “I enjoyed it too.”

You held the receipt, but your hand didn’t move away from his. Instead, the two of you just held onto it while staring at each other. He had a soft expression, but the fiery glint he always seemed to have in his eyes made you feel like you were all he was focused on right now. You noticed his eyes seemed to be bouncing from your eyes to your lips.

“Can.. can I ki–”

You cut him off by answering his question before he could even get all the words out, closing the distance between you two with a soft kiss. His lips felt soft against yours, and although you could’ve stayed in his car and kissed him senseless for eternity, your body was aching to go back home as fast as possible.

You pulled away and looked at his astonished expression. His hazel eyes looked so blown out you would’ve assumed they were black if you didn’t know their true tone, slightly widened just looking at you like you’re an angel descended from the heavens. You tried not to giggle at his expression, instead moving some of the stray hairs out of his face before grabbing the receipt.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” you say. Punk nodded, seemingly still starstruck and saying “yeah, yeah” while you opened the door and stepped out. You waved goodbye at him before closing the door and scurried over to the front of the Circle K. You watched him reverse out of the lot and drive off as the wind blew against you.

You just met him, but somehow it felt like you’ve been wanting to know him your whole life.

(let me know if you enjoyed reading!!! im new to posting on tumblr so lord knows i need all the interaction i can get LOL)

[strawb3rryg2l]

The Temp, Part 1

Characters: Robert Reynolds x (Female) Reader.

Summary: Mel trains a new temp - Y/N. Y/N just wants a normal life, one where she can forget her past as a spy and start anew. When she meets The Thunderbolts, she can't help but notice Robert Reynolds... or Bob, as everyone calls him. He's quiet, shy, and seemingly holding a lot inside. She almost feels the same, even if she doesn't know him personally. They find a likeness in one another and grow closer.

Warnings: reader is an ex-spy, talks of self-doubt, spoilers for the movie (Let me know if there any more warnings I should put).

Word Count: 1790

Note from the author: This is my work and not only will it be posted on this account (@Strawb3rryg2l) . It will also be posted to my account of Archivesofourown (@ Strawb3rrygal). I will link it here once it is uploaded. This is a work in progress, and my first ever fanfiction so please be kind. This movie brought back my love for Marvel, and I'm super excited about this series I will be writing. This is my first attempt of a slow-burn, friends to lovers, and smut (mueheh). So without further ado... Happy reading!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Being the assistant of the new Avengers was quite an ordeal. 

Y/N had shadowed Mel. It was only supposed to be temporary work. Y/N was only meant to cover Mel during her vacation. She was leaving for her well-deserved three-week trip to the Dolomites in Italy. Y/N was willing to work.

Willing… and quietly watching everything.

Being Valentina Allegra de Fontaine’s assistant was more about information control than coffee runs. There were reports to catalog, people to monitor, egos to smooth over, and secrets. So many secrets. Y/N learned quickly that everyone was watching someone else. Everyone had blood on their hands. Y/N just made sure no one noticed hers.

Y/N adjusted her blazer in the mirror before stepping into the conference room. It was Day Four, and so far no one had asked too many questions about her. She was just "Mel’s temp." That was good. Low profile. Safe.

The morning’s meeting was more like a war council. The Thunderbolts — or whatever unofficial name they were using now — gathered in a quiet buzz of tension. Yelena Belova lounged in her seat like it might bite her. US Agent was already annoyed about something. Bucky looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. Ghost was halfway invisible, and Red Guardian was arguing with the espresso machine in Russian.

And then there was him.

Robert Reynolds. Or Bob… which is what they called him.

He walked in like he wanted to disappear. Hood up. Shoulders tight. Hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his worn coat. The others gave him space. It seemed like a respectful distance. A low hum seemed to follow him, like the room shifted to accommodate a presence far too big to be human.

Sentry. The man with a million exploding suns inside him.

He sat quietly near the edge of the table, a glass of water in front of him. He stared into it like he expected it to show him something.

Y/N didn’t mean to stare. But there was something about the way he held himself like he was bracing for a disaster no one else could see.

She recognized the feeling.

When Valentina spoke, her voice cut through the tension like a scalpel. "Three weeks. That’s how long we have until we present our team to the U.S. Government. We need order, presence, and we need good optics. So we behave. Understood?"

Y/N took notes, nodding at key points like Mel showed her. No eye contact. Don’t fidget. Be useful, invisible, forgettable.

Then Bob spoke.

It was a mumble, barely audible. “What happens if Void shows up?”

Silence.

Valentina didn’t blink. “Then we all hope to God we don’t have a repeat of New York.”

Bob flinched like she’d slapped him.

After the meeting, Y/N found herself alone in the hallway, pretending to review her tablet. Bob was standing near a window, gripping the railing like it might vanish. The skyline reflected off the glass. He didn't look at her, but he knew she was there.

"You’re new," he said.

"Temporary," she replied.

He nodded, still not looking. "That’s good. People don’t last long here."

"You seem to be doing alright."

He let out a short breath. Not a laugh, not really. “You think?”

She almost smiled. “No.”

That earned her a glance.

His eyes were tired. Not just physically like his soul hadn’t slept in years. But there was something in them that wasn’t entirely broken. Just… quiet, waiting.

“You don’t talk much either,” he said.

“I find it keeps me alive.”

He looked at her a moment longer, then turned back to the skyline.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know the feeling.”

—————————————————————————————————

It was day Five of Y/N being an assistant and she was restocking the files in Valentina’s private office when she felt it, a presence behind her.

Too close. Too quiet.

In an instant, her fingers tightened around the steel pen she’d been using, eyes flicking to the nearest reflective surface. A silver-framed photo of Valentina shaking hands with someone who was probably on a kill list.

A shadow moved just behind her shoulder.

She turned fast not enough to strike, just enough to confront.

It was Yelena.

"Relax," the assassin said, popping a stick of gum in her mouth. "You looked like you were about to stab me with a Montblanc."

Y/N exhaled slowly and loosened her grip. Her fingers were white.

“I don’t like being snuck up on,” she said coolly.

Yelena tilted her head, intrigued. "Interesting." 

Y/N said nothing. She just tucked the pen back in its holder, turned to reorganize the folders, and kept her face blank. Yelena studied her for another moment, then walked off, humming.

The tension stayed in Y/N’s shoulders even after she left.

This is a desk job. A normal job. That’s what she reminded herself every morning in her tiny New York studio apartment. It barely fit a bed, but it had a window that looked out onto a sliver of Central Park, and for the first time in years, she could wake up without her fingers twitching toward a weapon.

The job paid well (extremely well) and it had benefits. Like if she did a good job she might get a good letter of recommendation for a full time. That used to be unimaginable. Now it was survival. Not in the blood-on-your-hands way. In the groceries-in-the-fridge kind of way.

She wanted this. She wanted quiet.

But the instincts didn’t go away just because you filed paperwork instead of targets. They just got quieter, sharper, lingering.

Later that day, she ran into Bob again in the break room, of all places.

He was sitting on the counter, cradling a cup of coffee. He looked up when she walked in.

“Montblanc pens are expensive,” he said.

She blinked. Word got around quick. “Excuse me?”

“You were going to use one like a weapon earlier.” He shrugged. “Just saying. Would’ve been a waste.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Were you watching?”

“No,” he said. “But I notice things.”

There was no smugness to it. Just a quiet admission, like he couldn’t help it. Like his mind was always ticking, cataloging danger. It made her pause.

“Old habits,” she muttered, pouring herself a cup of the bitter coffee.

Bob glanced at her. “You trying to break them?”

Y/N hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I am.”

He looked down into his coffee. “Me too.”

She sat on the far end of the table, not too close, but not too far. They didn’t speak again, not for a while, but the silence wasn’t awkward. It was a truce. A shared stillness between two people with shadows stitched into their skin.

It felt like the quiet recognition of someone else who was also just trying to breathe.

—————————————————————————————————

It was raining on the sixth night.

Thunder rolled low across the sky, and the windows in the briefing wing trembled slightly with each boom. Most of the team had gone home or tucked into whatever shadows they slept in. Valentina was overseas on a black-site visit. The building was eerily still.

Y/N stayed late to finish organizing next week’s logistics brief. It was busy work, a little pointless, but it kept her hands moving. Kept her from thinking too much.

When the printer jammed for the third time, she let out a tired sigh and leaned against the table, rubbing her temple. The storm outside felt too close. She hated storms. It brought memories.

Thunder always reminded her of flashbangs.

Behind her, a door creaked open.

She turned sharply and saw Bob standing in the doorway.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. His hair was damp. No hood. No coat. Just him, in a soft looking hoodie, holding a paper bag.

“You’re fine,” Y/N lied. Her heartbeat hadn’t settled yet. “Shouldn’t you be… I don’t know. Sleeping? Flying? Saving the world?”

He gave a tired shrug. “The world’s still turning. I thought I’d get takeout.”

He held up the bag like it was evidence.

“I didn’t know you ate takeout,” she said, unable to hide her surprise.

He smirked faintly. “I don’t. Usually. But I figured… if I’m trying to be normal, maybe I should start somewhere.”

He stepped into the room, hesitating just slightly before gesturing to the table.

“You hungry?”

Y/N looked at the leftover files, then at the bag.

“What kind of takeout?”

“Thai. Hope you’re not allergic to peanuts.”

She wasn’t.

They ate on opposite sides of the table, cross-legged in their chairs like two kids at a sleepover. The food was warm. The silence wasn’t heavy this time, it was easy. Familiar.

Halfway through, Bob spoke without looking up.

“Do you ever get tired of pretending?”

Y/N froze, her chopsticks hovering over the noodles.

“Pretending what?”

“That you’re okay. That you belong here. That you're not scared you're gonna slip up and ruin the whole thing.”

The words hit too close. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she set her container down, carefully, and stared at him thoughtfully.

“Yes,” she whispered. “All the time.”

Bob didn’t move. He just nodded.

“I used to be afraid of the Void showing up again,” he said quietly. “Now I’m more afraid of what happens if I get too comfortable. If I let myself believe I’m just a guy with a job. Because that’s when it sneaks in.”

Y/N turned her head slightly, watching him. The way his voice cracked, the way he didn’t look at her when he spoke like he was afraid he’d see fear on her face.

But she could only feel understanding.

“I don’t know what it’s like,” she said gently, “to have a part of yourself that powerful. But I do know what it’s like to have a version of yourself you’re trying to outrun.”

He looked at her, really looked. And for the first time, Y/N saw him soften, just a little.

“I used to be good at running,” he said.

She smiled faintly. “Me too.”

He didn’t speak again for a while after that. Y/N didn’t move, just enjoyed the silent understanding between two people who only wanted a bit of peace. 

He cleared his throat after a while and Y/N looked up.

“This was nice.” He said.

She nodded, and he closed his container. He got up unsure, looking at her once more, and shook his head as though he was fighting against a thought he had had.

“Would you want to do this again?” She found herself saying. She’s not sure why she said that. Maybe it was how Bob didn’t make her feel like an intruder, or a spy, or a ghost.

Just a person.

He seemed surprised and slowly a smile crept on his face. “Yeah, sounds like a plan.”

————————————————————————————————

[humpster35]

Matt, Please pt 2

This is a part two of a smut I did awhile back. If you wanna read part one it’s here https://www.tumblr.com/humpster35/774316341524037632/matt-please-this-smut-includes-unprotected

Includes: crying, guilt, asshole!matt, anger, aftercare, confused feelings, anxiety, panic attack, mentions of sex and slight yelling

His hands danced across my skin, it felt as if my body was rebuilding itself everytime he touched me. It’s strange, a few minutes ago he obliterated my body and tore me apart. I guess it’s only right for him to put me back together again. Matt helped me out of the tub and dried me off.

“There. You’re all clean now apple.” Matt’s toothy smile could be heard from venus. The simple action of him smiling at me could have my mind go blank for days on end. “I never liked that you know.” Matt ran a hand through his beautiful messy hair before sticking his tongue out and holding up a peace sign. “Liked what?” I roll my eyes and push his chest. “You know exactly what i’m talking about Matthew.” I pull up the boxers he gave me to wear. “Your smile. It’s one action and all of sudden i’m coming apart again.” Feeling a tear almost slip from my eyes I look away.

“What you gonna cry now? Hm?” Matt grabbed my hips and gently stood me between his legs. “Did I mess up? We didn’t have to—.” “Matt just stop it alright. We fucked. It’s over.” Confused, Matt studied my face not letting me look away. “Tell me whats wrong apple. You usually wash up after sex right?” I watched as he started walking out of the bathroom, he grabbed his phone and started scrolling through it. “God you are just the biggest asshole Matt.”

Matts head snapped in my direction. His eyes were now filled with anger. “What the fuck?” I stormed over to him. “Matt you honestly don’t think before you speak do you?” Matt scoffed as he walked up to me. I looked up at him while he bit his lip. “I’ve never had sex before. You were—.” “What? I was your first time huh?” I remained silent. Growing frustrated with my inability to communicate Matt took my chin and lifted my head up. “Apple, please look at me okay?” I nod.

There it was, that same look that got me into this mess. His face, it’s so intoxicating when you’re staring up into the face of an angel. People say devils are scary but i’d say Matt has them beat. After all, the devil was an angel. Closing my eyes I decided to just tell him the truth. “Matt you were my first time.” Silence suffocated the room as we stand in front of the bathroom door. I continue to stare at his eyes, maybe they’d change and he wouldn’t care as much. Even if I am hurting on my end, he could at least move on.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Matt’s voiced said with a hint of anger. He backed away from me, his hand once again running through his hair. “You told me—heh—you fucking told me that we could have sex.” “Matt I—.” “No don’t you FUCKING say a word. Alright?” My lips trembled as he yelled at me. “Y-You told me that I could do that to you? That-That I could take something so special away from you, without me even knowing.” Seeing the pain and guilt in Matt’s once cheery eyes made my blood run cold. I never once thought about how he would feel, maybe a part of me just thought that as a guy he would like me more if I lied? “Matt I didn’t tell you because I knew you already had experience plus I trusted you. It wasn’t a big deal for me.”

The biting of Matt’s nails can be heard in this deafening silence. He had just found out that this girl whom he’d always promise to care for and love, lied about her virginity. “Apple…do you know about March?” Y/n walked up and sat next to Matt on the end of the bed. “March?” He nods as he takes her hand into his, a quick smile shows on his face before he started speaking again. “Back in March we had a video to film in Boston. I remember that, almost the whole week you had been so upset over us not being there with you.” Matt carefully caressed my hair. “Chris and Nick will never let me live this down but uhm….I bought you apples.”

I shot Matt a confused expression. He chuckled lightly and kiss the back of my hand. “I bought you apples because they reminded me of you. You know…..I had known about your little endeavors on trying to fit in and impressing us.” I felt the corners of my lips lift as tears started to fall from my eyes. “So why do apples have to do with right now?” Before he could speak I hear his voice crack. “You know you’re the only girl in the world a man would wanna buy apples for. I know you love them, i’ve seen the way you take your time to peel the skin.” Matt cleared his throat and wiped a tear. “You uh-you take the knife and you go slow because—you’ve never learned to hold it correctly and uhm…” More tears fell from my eyes as I begin to understand what he was gonna say.

“You take the peels of them and you save them. That’s it, you save them neatly. Chris and I would see them put up in a container in the fridge but uhm….Ricky, the guy you’ve been talking to at that time…he didn’t like apples.” “Matt please stop-.” “Hes never liked apples because you have to peel them. You’ve never liked when someone just bites into an unpeeled apple haven’t you?” As my vision becomes blurry from the tears, I nod and place my head in his lap. “An apple. You want someone to take time to eat it, no rushing. In your eyes it’s rotten if eaten unpeeled.” “Matt, please i’m sorry—.” With steady hands, Matt lifts my head up and stands up. He wipes his eyes and grabs his phone. “Why would you let me make you rotten.”

“Matt you didn’t make me rotten i just —.” “YOU JUST WHAT? Hm? I FUCKING RUINED YOU.” I cried so hard I couldn’t hear Matt cursing to himself. “FUCK. WHAT THE FUCK. Y/n I literally asked you if this was okay. Why did you let me continue?” Matt grabs my by my shoulders and lift me up, sitting upright now I feel him embrace me. We stay like this for awhile, as my crying turns into hiccups I kiss his shoulder. “Matt i’m really sorry. I’m emotionally right now because this is all new for me and FUCK—I don’t know I just…I thought I could be fine with this.” Matt intently watched me as I spoke, he knew he wanted to say something more but this moment was so important for him. “Just breathe. Apple.” “Y-yea?” I say on the verge of hyperventilating. “Hey, look at me alright?” I nod, squeezing my eyes shut for a bit so I can repress the urge to scream. “In and out. Do it with me.” “I-In.” I breathe in slowly while Matt rests his hand on my chest. “Good, and now..out.” With the feeling of his gentle hand on my chest, I let go of all the air I had brought in. My mind felt at ease knowing that he was the one doing these exercises with me.

“Good. Goooood girl.” Matt rubs my back. “Good girl.” After I let out my sniffles, I watch as Matt grabs a tissue from the bathroom and bring it up to my nose. “Blow.” Doing as he says I blow into the tissue, all of the residue of my previous panic attack simplified into slimy colors of green and yellow. “Now…i’m going to reheat the pizza okay?” I nod while drawing circles on his thigh with my finger. “Apple I don’t want you to ever feel guilt about me feeling guilty. I’ll admit this does make me feel bad-.” My face started to frown and look away but May quickly grabs my face. “-BUT-But only because I thought I had hurt you. I would never wanna hurt you.” Looking outside the window, I watch as the cotton colored sky highlight the dull city below. In some way, my brain felt colored. It felt as if someone had filled in an empty parking lot and I could finally go inside the store. “Matt.” The boy turned his attention to the window as well. Matt softly pulled y/n closer and held her. “Yes?” I smile feeling his warmness. “Do you love me?” Matt turned his head down and stared into y/n’s eyes. A million feelings raced through his body, he’s never felt this way before. Could it be love? Was he capable of loving someone whose soul can capture a thousand waterfalls? “I-.”

Matt’s phone started ringing. The caller ID saying a name all too familiar……Madison.

Part 3???

Guys this took awhile to even do a part 2 to that smut because I honestly didn’t think people would enjoy it. Now i’m open to all comments, if you guys wanna see something or me to make any changes and what not please let me know.

[sammick]

i know people hc remmick haunting sammie even after he's dead and it's so southern gothic catholic guilt i love it . hear me out though what if it's still remmick haunting sammie but it's remmick before the vampirism. sammie feels so much about it because he's seeing sides of remmick that were so vulnerable and sammie feels like he shouldn't be seeing them at all. sammie learning things about remmicks past before and after the colonialism. the guilt eats away at sammie, he thought remmick had always been cold hearted. and sammie feels for remmick even more, when he knows he shouldn't. sammie would have told the twins about it ,they would have giggled at him being down bad or some foolishness. it never does gets easier missing his cousins. now when remmicks ghost appears before sammie he is still startled, even if its remmick beckoning him into his arms. pressing kisses to his neck, begging sammie to never let him go. every night he hopes remmick cant feel his heartbeat. what sammie can never seem to notice is remmick just as flustered, holding him so tender. remmick holds sammie tight through dawn until the morning and hes okay with it. prying remmicks arms off gently when he has to get up. soon enough the company started to remind sammie of home, warm, gentle feeling like the young lovers that come to his shows. sammie hopes it heals something deep in remmick . and oh my god the way remmick feels about it!! he loves to hug sammie from behind when he's making food or standing on the side of the stage, looking so longingly at sammie. never hearing a voice as beautiful and full of emotion. fighting the urge to float his way into sammies arm mid performance and kiss him right there. remmick had never felt so in love with someone, and he never would after sammie. even when his ghost is still on earth his heart will cry out for sammie. when sammie holds him it feels like everything he's endured was worth it for those sweet moments. when sammie spins records he can't stop himself from looking right into sammies eyes, feeling every note of a sweet song just for him. saying sweet nothings in his language and secretly wishing it was about him. they were comfortable and sammie wouldn't know what he'd call it but it was definitely deep in his heart, remmick could feel it too. everyday he felt it and it never had to be said, remmick always whispered i love yous in sammies ear when he was asleep. and sammie hoped remmick knew every love song he performed was for him.

[berrytheicecream]

“Baby Steps” - Young Zaun Siblings fic

(In which Vi attempts to teach Claggor, Powder, and eventually Mylo how to read. She likes her new family. She just wants them to feel safe).

(I’ve briefly talked about this scenario in one of my other posts, and this is kinda like fleshing it out. I love it sm. In order not to make this beginning part that long, my yap is at the bottom of yall wanna see it. Like my last fic, Vi is 9, Clag is 8, Mylo is 7, and Powder is 5. BUT!! I’ve changed a few of my hcs after listening to what others thought. Thinking back on it, having the boys being found like a few DAYS after the riot feels WAYY too quick. So now, Claggor was found two weeks after the riot, and Mylo a month and a half afterwards. Not too long bc any longer and they probably wouldn’t have survived out there on their own.).

(ALSO!!!! A lot of the concepts in this fic are based off of the official spinoff game “Jinx Fixes Everything” in Act 2, including the book Vi uses. You can watch it here!)

(if you wanna connect these fics story wise, this takes place a while before the Claggor cooking fic. Anyyyways, I just rlly like thinking of how the younger version of the siblings would’ve initially gotten along and started to trust each other and see each other as family. god this fic took way too long to make for literally no reason 😭😭)

The muffled, incoherent shouts and footsteps from upstairs had yet to stop. It kept the basement quiet, even with the four of them in there. Even after the riot had ended, people were still seeking refuge at the bar. From injuries, or attacks, or infections, or the Grey, or starvation—anything and everything that sprung from that one, singular event at the bridge.

She hadn’t even properly talked to Vander that morning. He’d been too busy attempting to keep things in order upstairs, to take responsibility over all the chaos. But people were confused, and angry, and they were fighting and lashing out and it was just so loud. So unbearably loud, lasting so uncomfortably long.

Vi felt Powder scoot closer to her, gripping onto the fabric of her clothes tightly for comfort. The pink haired girl held her in her arms, staring at the door leading to the one place she could consider home.

The Lanes was her home, but never once had it felt safe like homes were supposed to. She’d felt safe with her mom and dad, and she was trying everything in her power to feel safe here, as well.

And yet she still found herself on edge, even if she’d known Vander before. Still found herself cautiously protecting her baby sister despite them being in their own little corner of The Last Drop.

Though it wasn’t necessarily just theirs anymore.

She had brothers now.

Two boys, both just as lost and concerned as she was. The elder of the two, Claggor, sat on the sofa, flipping through the pages of an open book while glancing up at the door in the same way she had. Fear or sadness didn’t strike his face, but the apprehension was visible in his posture. And the younger, Mylo, lay on the other bed Vander had just assembled for them—because he hadn’t expected to bring in more than two children—on his side and facing the wall while hugging his legs.

They were desperately trying to feel safe, too. She knew that.

“Vi…?” Powder whispered, and she jolted from the sound. She looked down at her sister’s doll-like eyes, heart swelling with a sense of pity. “What’s going on…? Where’s Vander?”

“…Vander’s busy. There’s just a lot of people who need help up there, Pow-Pow.” She grimaced, her hold on her growing tighter. “It’s a bad time for everyone.”

The blue haired girl’s voice was reduced to a whisper as she looked up at the ceiling, flinching at the thuds from what were likely wine bottles slamming against tables. “…Why are they so angry?”

Vi hesitated, feeling anxiety course through her veins. “They’re not…angry.” She shook her head. “They’re confused, and scared, and hurt, and aren’t themselves cus…cus they’ve lost a lot.”

“…Maybe they need a hug.” Powder spoke softly.

Sometimes it was painful to be the one to fully comprehend what was happening. Sometimes she wanted Powder to understand, so she wouldn’t be alone.

But she was too young. So instead, she said, “Yeah. Maybe they do.”

“Well, I…-!” The yelling seemed to ease as only faint mumbles and murmurs were heard from outside, and Vi felt a sigh of relief leave her mouth.

“See? Vander’s takin’ care of it.” She tried her best to put on a hopeful tone, and Powder’s nervousness seemed to fade, if only a little. She smiled at her older sister.

Claggor stood up at the silence then, the look of worry from earlier having eased slightly. “…Um,” His voice was shaky, attention slowly turning to him. “V-Vi…?” The name left his mouth as if he’d struggled to remember it.

“Yeah?” Claggor had been with them for a few weeks. But clearly, he still wasn’t fully accustomed to his situation. While he was definitely calmer and quieter than her other siblings, he would stammer and freeze up a lot. He’d avoid going upstairs when the bar was crowded, and sometimes he struggled to even speak at all with Vander, instead just remaining quiet when the man was nearby.

He’d started growing a little more familiar with his new life recently. But it was still far from comforting.

The brunette finally walked up to her, outstretching his hands to reveal a book in his grasp. “…Can you read this story for me?” She blinked in confusion at the sudden request, taking the book from his hands. “M-My mom was the one that…she read to me when I got stress-y.” He glanced back at the door, flinching at every loud noise from above. “I-It’s just really hard with it being so loud up there. And I don’t…know if Vander can come down right now.”

Vi looked down at the cover, the corners of it damaged and harsh against her fingers. The illustration was chipped and covered in dust, clearly an old book Vander must’ve found laying around and gave to them.

A rat lay illustrated right in front of her, the title spelled in bold letters.

“Sump Rat Dreams”

Something clicked in her mind then—or at least, whatever bits of it wasn’t clouded with a constant whirpool of stress from the past month. She glanced up at her eight year old brother, then to her sister.

They were desperately trying to feel safe, too.

And maybe she could do something about it.

“…Do you know how to read, Clag?”

He picked at his nails, gaze dropping to the ground. “Um…no, not…not really.”

“Mm.” Vi turned towards her sister. “And I know you don’t,” She pinched Powder’s nose, making her giggle. Vi turned to both of them, forcing an enthusiastic tone onto her voice. “Okay then. We’re gonna have a little reading lesson.”

Interested sparkles grew in their eyes, with Claggor taking a small, more open step forward . “…Y-You know how to read? Like, really read?” He spoke with amazement, and she nodded. “How…?!”

“…My mom taught me,” Vi forced down the way her heart stung with pain, refusing to let her face and posture falter. She shook the thought off, moving to sit on the ground against her bed to leave more room for her siblings. “Come on,” Powder was quick to follow her, crossing her legs and sitting beside her while Claggor did the same, just on the opposite side.

The eldest opened the small, mostly illustrated book, skimming through the words. She quickly realized it wasn’t exactly beginner-friendly. Definitely easier than other books, but not her first choice for teaching. She would’ve used the books her mom had if she could’ve.

Admittedly, she wasn’t even that good at reading on her own. But she had to teach them how to read. She knew she had to. To get their minds off of the commotion upstairs, and to help them grow while Vander was busy.

If they really were going to be her new family, she had to help all of them in someway. Even if it was as small as reading.

Her family.

The pink haired girl’s eyes subconsciously drifted to Mylo. He was the newest—only having arrived three days ago—the most agitated, and arguably the most distant. He hadn’t really engaged in conversation unless he needed something, but his actions said enough.

When Vander found him, he’d bitten his finger out of defense. And now, even with a roof above his head, he shoved them all away when they got close. Snarled at them angrily when they did anything. Jumped at the littlest sound. Readied himself in case he needed to fight.

But a part of her didn’t blame him, though. 

He’d been out on the streets longer than she had in the aftermath of the riot. Had seen things she hadn’t. When Vander had brought him in, he’d looked horrible. Sometimes she’d get frustrated at him, but that thought always creeped back into her mind, and all that remained was pity.

“…Wanna join us, Mylo?” Vi offered, and he flinched at the sound. He glared back at her for a few moments before sneering, choosing to face the wall once again, now hugging himself. “…No. Alright.” She returned her attention to the book. “Um…so there’s different parts to this—wait, where should I…” She flipped a page and turned towards the brunette before placing the book in his lap. “Clag, tell me if there’s anything there you understand. Then I’ll know what level you’re at with this.”

“Wuh-? Oh, uh…” He squinted, looking at the words for a few beats before letting out a sigh of defeat, refusing to meet her eye as a look of shame crossed his face. “Um…I-I dunno. I mean, I’ve seen some of the stuff here on signs around the market, but…I dunno what it means. S-Sorry.”

“Hey, it’s alright. That’s why we’re learnin’ this. No one’s born knowin’ everything. Let’s just start at the beginning.” She forced a comforting smile to form on her lips for the boy, and the shame and discomfort seemed to seep away as he smiled back. Vi took back the book from his lap, clearing her throat, pointing at the page. “See these words?” The two nodded, eyes glued to her finger. “Each symbol is called a letter, and they have sounds connected to them. You can put a bunch of letters together and make a word, and then you can put a bunch of words together and make a sentence. That’s the order—letter, word, sentence. Got it?”

Claggor’s eyes lit up with curiosity. “…So like building blocks?”

“Yeah.” Vi smiled softly, ruffling her brother’s hair, pleasantly surprised by his small laugh. She placed the book down on the ground for them all to see. “But you cant immediately go to sentences. To understand that, you gotta understand words, so you gotta understand letters. Let’s start there.” 

“I remember mom teachin’ you that.” Powder observed, tapping her hands on her knees rhythmically. “There’s a lot of them, though. Is it hard?”

“No, but you gotta actually try.” Vi snickered softly. “Okay. Letters come together to make the alphabet. Do you know the alphabet, Clag?” The boy shook his head. “Okay. So, the alphabet’s all the letters together.”

The boy raised an eyebrow. “But I, um…thought the letters together were words?”

“That’s different. Cus…with words, you’re puttin’ specific letters together to make something. In the alphabet, they’re all still their own thing, just kinda organized. Um…” She looked around her. “Pow, pass me your chalk.” The blue haired girl eagerly stood and rushed to her small stash of belongings, digging through them to find a single pink chalk.

Vi flipped open the book, looking at the blank inner cover, opening her palm for Powder to place the chalk in. She slowly began to scribble down each letter, trying to make her sloppy handwriting comprehensible for her siblings. Eventually, she reached “Z,” and so she stopped. “…That’s the alphabet. All 26 letters.”

Powder blinked in confusion.“…How much’s 26?”

“We’ll…do numbers next time,” The pink haired girl reasoned, dreading the thought of it. “Just know that’s all of them. And they all come with a sound.” She pointed to the first one. “A—Say it with me.”

Claggor and Powder look at each other, mouthing “…Aeeee…” slowly just as Vi had pronounced it.

“Yeah! Good job, you two!” She smiled softly at them, and they both returned the look. A look of bliss and innocence and joy.

It was nice to know she was the one bringing it to their faces.

“Wait, and…and they all have a different sound…?” Claggor winced. “That’s, uh, a lot to remember.”

“Yeah, but…you’ll get the hang of it. Just takes some time and practice.” She reassured him. “But there’s good ways to memorize it! Like…A stands for A-pple. There’s…different sounds for A, actually—I forgot. B-But we’ll get there later…!” The pink haired girl cleared her throat, eyes moving to the next one. “And this one’s Bee. Beeee. Like the animal. Can you-!”

The shouting and commotion upstairs began again.

Vi instantly stopped, reaching for Powder and Claggor, hugging them close. The blue haired girl squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears, while the boy grimaced and made himself smaller. “…It’s okay.” She murmured, looking at the door. “It’s okay.”

She could hear a glass bottle shatter, and if she focused hard enough, Vander’s voice was audible. His words weren’t clear, but the stern and concerned tone in his voice was enough.

He was trying his best to stop it. Stop all the suffering, and the confusion, and all the emotions ravaging wildly through the Lanes.

Somehow, his efforts had momentarily payed off, as the fighting was short lived and the bar stilled upstairs, faint murmurs and chatting returning.

Vi slowly loosened her hold on her siblings—still holding onto them carefully—and looking at them to make sure they were alright. Powder was still tense, eyes squeezed shut. Claggor wasn’t too different, even if he tried to appear to be. “…It’s okay.” She repeated once more, trying to get the phrase through her own head. “It’s gonna be alright.”

“…W-Why are they so scared?” Claggor asked weakly. “Vander said…we have to come together when we’re scared.”

“…It’s not easy for some people, Clag.” She explained. “When you’re scared, it…sucks. And you don’t feel like yourself. So you…do stuff you wouldn’t ever do.”

Powder blinked. “Why…?”

“There’s no real reason, Pow. It’s different for everyone,” She gave them one last squeeze before lowering her arms, ending the embrace. “But it will get better. I promise. Vander’s takin’ care of it.” She forced a grin onto her face for their sakes. “Plus…if anything happens, I’m here. I’ll protect you guys. I’ll take anyone down and kick their butt if I gotta!”

Hopeful sparks shone in their eyes, the tension leaving their body as they looked up at their big sister. And she could read it in their faces, see that their demeanor shifted upon seeing her own smile, her courage.

It made the weight on her heart feel more tolerable.

They felt safe. Even if just a little, her siblings felt safe.

The eldest paused for a few moments, taking a deep breath. “…You guys ready to get back to reading?”

They both nodded, so she reached for the book once more. As she did so, her eyes caught Mylo sitting beside them—quietly, slightly farther away, just out of her sight had she not turned her head. He still hugged his knees uncomfortably, staring at her. “What are you lookin’ at?”

Vi blinked a few times, face softening with care. “…Nothing. Just didn’t hear you. Are you doin’ okay?”

“I-I’m fine. Don’t ask dumb questions.” He scowled, crossing his arms. “I just…got bored.”

“We’re learnin’ to read…!” Powder beamed at him, trying to replicate what her big sister had done, as if her tone and optimism could share with him the comfort she felt.

“I know, idiot! I could hear you from over there. I’m not deaf!” He snarled at the blue haired girl, making her smile falter as the excitement faded from her eyes. Mylo lifted his gaze to see the disapproving look on Vi’s face and the concerned one on Claggor’s, instantly cowering and looking away once more.

The eldest sighed, adjusting the book in front of her so they could all see it. “…You're not an idiot, Pow-Pow. I mean, you’re learnin’ to read—you’re a little genius.” Her sister’s spirit slowly lifted once more, nodding. Vi turned her attention to the younger boy. “…Mylo. Apologize. Please?”

He scoffed weakly, brows twitching with hesitancy. After a few beats of silence, he grumbled, “…Fine. Whatever. Sorry.”

The pink haired girl stared at him, and he refused to look back. Despite her disappointment, she didn’t see his hardened gaze or harsh sounding voice. She didn’t see what the boy wanted her to see.

She saw a scared kid.

“…You can stay, Mylo.” She muttered softly.

“What-?”

“…You can stay,” She repeated. “It’s gonna be okay. You’re safe here. I promise.” A small smile built up onto her lips for the boy, who gained the courage to lift his eyes up at her, hardened and defensive gaze softening slightly. He nodded, scooting closer to them. “Okay. So, C. Cee. C for…C-laggor.” She gave her brother a light tap on the nose with her finger, making him giggle. “That’s…also got different sounds to it. We’ll get there, promise.”

“…When’s my name gonna show up?” Powder asked impatiently, practically bouncing where she sat. “Is it next?”

“It’s a couple of letters away. And technically…Mylos’ would be next.” Vi glanced over to her the younger boy, who lifted his head up at the mention of his name. Powder whined weakly at that, pouting. “But then you’d be next.”

They all looked down at the book, waiting for her to continue, all their attention on her. Eager to learn, hopeful that they’d end up as knowledgeable as her.

They were counting on her. Vi knew that. She was the eldest, it made sense.

And they were her younger siblings. Even if her brothers weren’t related to her by blood, they were still her brothers.

So she would keep going. Keep trying.

For them.

𓍹ׄ⭒ׅ𓍻

“Down in the Sump, where the muck and bile all mix together in a foul, toxic pile, there once lived a sump rat who dreamed of much more.” Vi flipped the page, voice soft. She raised her head for a second to check on the three before looking back at the book. “…She dreamed of wide windows and bright open doors. She dreamed of a chance to get out of this place, to best all of her friends in this great big rat race…” Her voice trailed off as she looked up.

A warm smile build onto her face.

The three were asleep—or at least, finally at peace. Claggor and Powder hugged onto each other, with the youngest having her head resting against her brother’s shoulder.

Mylo kept his distance. He wasn’t even turned to face his siblings, and she was the only one able to see his face.

But that didn’t matter to her.

What mattered was that he was actually asleep. Asleep, and not tense or defensive, not tossing and turning and shivering from fear and paranoia. In the past three days since Mylo had joined them, Vi hadn’t been able to sleep as much as she’d hoped—though that had been a pattern. She didn’t sleep when she came with Powder. She didn’t sleep when Claggor arrived. And now, she was still restless.

They were all for different reasons, but for the past three days, it had been because she was too focused on the Mylo’s breathing, and how even though she slept across from him, she thought she could hear his heartbeat pounding rapidly.

He was even more terrified at night than during the day. She couldn’t imagine what nights were like outside, out open in the Undercity. It was already dark and freezing in the mornings, and she knew briefly of how horrible it was at night.

But she didn’t know it like Mylo did. She didn’t live through it. So he’d always be tense at night, even in the warmth of the indoors, and now he wasn’t. He finally wasn’t.

It was a relief.

The air finally felt still now. Calmer. Quiet. She knew Vander was likely cleaning up, but she couldn’t hear him. The world had fallen asleep.

Yet her head was still wide awake. Yelling. Repeating. Remembering. Every little detail, every sound, every sensation. It just made her heart squeeze tightly with agony, and she slowly set down the book on the desk beside her to look down at her pants.

Her whole body felt exhausted. She hadn’t even done much, but all her limbs were aching and burning. Her mind was spinning, throat closing as she tried to focus on the faint sound of the unstable, rickety ventilation which rung loudly around the basement.

She’s grown used to the sound. She knew she had, she’d been able to sleep through it before.

But now it felt so much louder. So much faster, frantic, as if it would break at any moment.

Vi anxiously lifted her head up to see her siblings once more. Her family, she knew. They didn’t share the same blood like she did with Powder, but they were her family. Her brothers.

Children. Children, who had the misfortune of being born on the wrong side of life’s coin. Children who were still confused, and didn’t know all the horrible things that the Undercity had to offer. Children younger than her, even if not by much. Children like her.

Children who were counting on her.

The worried expression changed to one of determination as Vi took a deep breath, hands balling into fists. She stood from her seat, gently brushing hair off of Powder’s face. Tilting Claggor’s head into a more comfortable position. Carefully adjusting the blanket over Mylo’s shoulder. He surprisingly didn’t flinch.

And as she took a step back to look at the three, she hastily swallowed back the apprehension creeping through her veins, straightening her posture.

She was their big sister now.

The pink haired girl looked down at her fists, feeling her nails sink into her skin from how firm they were.

They were her younger siblings.

Her body moved quicker than she thought it could, moving towards the two lone candles sitting on the desk beside the book.

She had to protect them.

Vi blew out the candle, darkness surrounding her in an instant.

No matter what.

(foreshadowing/symbolism/metaphors go crazy in this one actually. also did y’all realize the siblings died in alphabetical order or am I looking way too deeply into this…tho I guess powder didn’t actually die at the end lawl)

(Anyways…Vi’s definitely felt a need to take care of her siblings, especially at the start when they were all still scared and weren’t used to this new family. As the eldest, she felt responsible over them, even if it was a lot of pressure for a literal 9 year old. Of course as she aged, this hasn’t left, but slightly evolved. Idk how to exactly word it, but her responsibility over her siblings has changed from when she was little compared to what we see in the show, mostly thanks to Vander and her own desire to fight. Her hatred for Topside only fueled this need to take care of her siblings).

(But as for the reading stuff: Felicia probably realized that there was a chance she could die at any moment, especially in a place like the Lanes, and taught Vi to read and write when she was 7-ish, and even then it took a while because she didn’t have a lot of time or resources to do so. She was literally ABOUT to start teaching Powder, and planned to do so more after the riot, but…that never happened. As for the boys, a similar thing happened with them—their parents just didn’t rlly have the time or energy to sit down and teach them bc of their jobs. Also yes, kids naturally learn to speak and understand words out loud without education while reading/writing has to be taught, it’s human brain stuff idk).

[ama3003]

The Cost of Sides

Character: Bucky Barnes

Requested: Yes! I didn't want to respond directly since it does contain some Thunderbolts Spoilers but I really hope you see this. If you do see this, please message me that you did so, I can have some peace of mind.

The request started with "Can I request a fic for Bucky please? I’m wanting lots of angst of reader and Bucky not seeing eye to eye after..."

Type: Angst

Summary: You and Bucky seem to be on opposite sides.

A.N: DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T WANT THUNDERBOLTS TO BE SEMI SPOILED!!!!!!!!!

Again THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS ARE IN THIS FIC

3...2..1...

You met Bucky through Steve during the U.N. bombing fiasco—back when everything was falling apart and nothing felt safe.

From that moment on, you were in it with him. Every step, every fight, every quiet moment in the aftermath. He never had to ask; you were just there.

And when Steve died, when the weight of it all came crashing down, the two of you leaned on each other like you were the only solid thing left in the world. Somewhere in that grief, love happened. Slowly, then all at once.

After that, you were just… you and him. No big declarations. No drama. Just this steady, easy rhythm.

Sure, there were arguments—small ones, over stupid things like laundry or leaving dishes in the sink—but never real fights. Nothing that stuck. You could read each other so well it never got that far.

Until you played the video Sam sent you.

“Ladies and gentlemen, meet the New Avengers,”

And there was Bucky. In the center. Wearing his suit. Standing with them.

Your heart dropped so fast you couldn’t breathe for a second. Not because you thought he betrayed you or Sam though he definitely did—but because he let it happen. Because he stood there, quiet.

You didn’t want to pick sides. God, you really didn’t. But it felt like he already had.

He said he didn’t ask for it. Said he wasn’t even sure how it happened. But he kept showing up to their briefings, kept running missions with them, kept wearing that title like it didn’t burn.

And the worst part? The government—the government—was backing them. Funding them. Controlling them. You grew up watching them twist heroes into weapons. And now they had Bucky.

You tried to talk. At first, it was calm. Then it wasn’t.

Now it’s been fourteen months. And you barely recognize the way your fights stretch out, sharper, faster, more frequent. Less about the Avengers and more about everything that’s not being said.

You still love him. That’s not even a question. And he loves you. You know that. But sometimes love isn’t enough to close the space that’s growing between two people who don’t see the world the same way anymore.

You try. You both do. But it’s harder than it used to be. Way harder.

This morning, you show up at the compound with coffee in your hands, the paper tray trembling just slightly from lack of sleep—and everything else. It’s your way of saying sorry without saying the words. Not for what you fought about, but for the way it happened. For the silence after.

That’s how you find yourself stepping off the elevator and into the team’s living space chest still aching from the night before—just in time to hear it:

"Weren’t you going to talk to him?"

"I already did," Bucky says. His voice is low, tired. Like he’s already lived through the argument in his head too many times to want to say it again.

"And?"

"It went poorly."

You stop just past the doorway, your stomach twisting. You shouldn’t have heard that. But now that you have, you can't pretend you didn’t.

“You spoke to Sam?” you ask, stepping into the room fully.

Everyone looks up. The weight of too many eyes lands heavy on your skin. No one says anything. They don’t have to. Everyone knows what’s been going on—what’s been quietly breaking between you and Bucky for over a year now.

“I brought coffee for everyone,” you offer, your voice quieter than you meant it to be. It doesn’t hide the tension. It only highlights it.

Then, gently to Bob: “I got you decaffeinated tea.”

“Thank you,” Bob says, offering a soft smile, trying to smooth out the edges of the moment. But it doesn't do much.

You turn back to Bucky, heart in your throat. “You spoke to Sam?”

He exhales slowly. “Yeah. I did.”

“Why?” you ask. You already know the answer. You’re just hoping it’s not the one you’re thinking.

“To see if he would stop all of this,” he says, rubbing a hand down his face.

You stare at him, jaw clenched. “I told you he wouldn’t. Ross is breathing down his neck. He basically has his hands tied.”

Bucky shakes his head, frustrated. “That doesn’t give him the right to make this whole thing hell for us. It’s not our fault that Valentina decided to do all of this.”

You feel the words catch in your chest before they come out. “But you didn’t fight it.”

The room is still. Even the air feels heavy.

Yelena, sitting off to the side, casually adds, “You do know that he filed for copyright of the name.”

Bucky turns toward her, caught off guard. “Did he?” Then his eyes swing back to you. “See? We're not doing anything. He’s taking it too far.”

You feel heat rise in your chest. Not anger exactly—something messier. “Look, the Avengers stay with the one who has the shield. He has the right to start up the team again. And don’t forget—you’re the one who told him he should.”

“I never said that.”

You glare at him, the words hitting before you can stop them. “He vented to you, Bucky. You gave him advice. You told him Steve didn’t make a mistake handing him the shield. You told him to lead—to build something new. The Avengers. And now not only is there a new team, but you’re in it. With the same government that once tried to erase him. And you didn’t even try to understand his side."

He scoffs, voice rising. “Sam’s side? He’s the one who doesn’t want to speak to me! He’s the one who’s blaming me like I planned this!”

“What happened during that call?” you ask, arms crossed tightly in front of you like it’s the only thing holding you together.

“I told him—” Bucky starts, then shrugs, eyes flicking away. “I told him he was being ridiculous. That there’s already an Avengers team. That there’s no reason to start a second one.”

Your lips part, but it takes a second for the words to come. “So you basically told him to back off.”

“He’s making this really difficult,” Bucky mutters.

You feel something in you crack—quietly. You can't keep arguing. You lost all willpower. You grab your purse off the counter. “I’m not doing this right now,” you say, more to yourself than to him.

But behind you, his voice calls out, rough and wounded. “You’re not even going to hear me out?”

You stop. You turn. Slowly. “I’ve been hearing you out for fourteen months, Bucky,” you say. “Every time. I’ve listened. I’ve tried to understand. But you signed on with them. What more is there to hear?”

He steps forward, like being closer might help you hear him better. “It’s not like that—”

“No?” Your voice trembles, but the anger in it keeps it from breaking. “Because it feels like exactly that. And fine, let’s say you didn’t sign up for the politics, but you’re still here. Standing next to them. Like that shield and that name didn’t come with blood and pain and history.”

His shoulders tense. His jaw tightens. That flash of guilt flickers in his eyes again—but he swallows it down too fast. Again.

“This isn’t about Sam.”

You almost laugh. “Everything is about Sam.”

“I didn’t want this,” he snaps. “But sometimes we don’t get to wait for the perfect cause to show up. The world’s on fire. Sam had time—he could’ve acted. But now he’s creating this new team out of spite.”

You look at him like you don’t recognize him for a second. “And sometimes you don’t even realize you’re helping the very system that tried to erase your best friend from history...That tried to bury you.”

He flinches. That one lands. You can see it in the way he goes still.

You take a shaky breath. “Sam bled for that shield. He earned it. But they made him prove himself again and again. Until he was almost broken. And now you’re smiling for the cameras next to the same people who happily tried to hand that legacy to John.” You glance at Walker. “No offense.”

“Some taken,” Walker mumbles. You ignore him.

Bucky’s face darkens. “I haven’t forgotten what they did. But I haven’t forgotten the threats out there, either. This team… it’s not perfect. But we show up. Sam’s team haven’t shown up at all.”

“And when they do?” you say, stepping closer. “Are you really going to go up against Sam? Against his team? Over a name?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

It feels like a punch to the ribs. You stare at him, voice soft and hollow. “And what about me?”

That shatters something in his expression. You see it—the flicker of fear he tries to bury but can’t. Because this time, it’s different. You’ve fought before—circling this dilemma for months, both of you carefully pretending it lived outside your relationship. Like you could keep love and ideology in separate rooms. But this? This is the first time the line disappears. The first time it feels personal.

And you can’t pretend anymore.

“We’re a family, Bucky. After Steve, it’s always been us three. And now you're ready to go against him? Over a group name that we both know belongs to him.”

“I want to be where I can help,” he says, quieter now. “Sure, the government backs us up, but we're not letting them control us. We're on the right side."

Your eyes burned, but you refused to let the tears fall. “And what happens when the lines between right and wrong blur, Bucky? When the people you’re working with start justifying things again?"

He doesn’t answer right away.

You lower your voice, barely above a whisper now. “What happens when history repeats itself?”

He looks at you, offended. “You think I’d let that happen again?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “And that’s what scares me.”

The silence hung there like a bruise. No one said a word.

Silence settled between you again, broken only by the muffled sounds of the team whispering amongst themselves, trying not to be obvious, failing miserably.

You turned toward the window because it was easier than looking at him. Easier than seeing what was—or wasn’t—left in his eyes.

Your voice came out quieter than you meant, cracked at the edges.

“I can’t follow you into this, Buck.”

You heard him breathe in—sharp, like maybe he hadn’t expected that. Or maybe he had.

“I never asked you to,” he said. But there was something in his voice. A break. A catch. Something small but real.

And somehow, that made it worse.

You nodded, once. No drama. No grand speech. Just… done. Then you turned and walked toward the elevator.

No one stopped you.

You felt their eyes on your back. You felt his most of all.

The elevator dinged open, and you stepped in stiffly, trying to keep your hands from shaking and your heart from breaking right here in front of them.

The doors started to close.

He still didn’t move.

Still didn’t say your name.

And that? That was the part that broke you. He was letting you go.

Only when the doors shut and you were alone did your shoulders slump. Only then did the breath you'd been holding finally let go—and it came out shaky.

You didn’t cry. Not yet.

You pulled out your phone, meaning to call Sam. Ask if you could crash for the night.

But your screen lit up before you could type.

Your lock screen.

That damn photo.

You and Bucky, wrapped up in each other, grinning like idiots. Some blurry picture someone else had snapped at some rooftop barbecue. He had his arm around you, his mouth near your ear. You were laughing like the world wasn’t ending.

Back when things still felt easy.

Before sides. Before names meant more than people.

Before all of this.

You stared at it, and your chest ached. Actually ached.

Different times. Different battles. Same man.

But maybe not the same love.

You’d followed him through hell and worse. You would’ve followed him anywhere.

But not this time.

Not into something that went against everything you believed. Not when it meant losing pieces of yourself just to stay close to him. Not when it meant standing against the memory of the only real family you've ever had.

Ahhh, I seriously love getting Bucky requests—they're always my favorite to write!

Also, I know this whole Sam vs. Bucky situation has stirred up a lot of emotions, but honestly, their friendship is so strong that I doubt it'll last long.

Anywhoooo I hope you enjoy this one! Love you all and thank you for all the support!!!!!

Pleaseeeee send me more requests (I'm on a Bucky roll right now lol)! And to those who have requested don't worry I'll get to yours soon!

[slamminslamminmcgill]

waiter waiter!!! can i get more house md smut with a side of intox <3

I GOTCHUUUUUUU ive been thinking a lot abt it can you tell >:3

warnings: intox, hard drug use, cnc/noncon/dubcon, somno, gaslighting, humiliation, mentions of date rape and suicide, homophobia/transphobia, slurs, sph but make it t-dick, medical kink, 🏠 being 🏠

reader is a trans man/transmasc. anatomical terms used are cunt, slit, and dick/t-dick

so. house has no qualms drugging people for his own personal gain. he’s done it to wilson, cuddy’s mother, a nuisance neighbor, and god knows how many patients. but i don’t think he’d do it to have sex with someone. he has multiple reasons for this, the simplest being that he doesn’t need to.

“date rape is pathetic. if you can’t get people to sleep with you of their own free will, that’s what we call a ‘you problem’. you should worry about fixing your own life instead of ruining someone else’s. or, you could do the honorable thing and just kill yourself, like the noble samurai.”

he also wants his partner in the moment with him. someone excited, responsive, someone who will react to his every touch and beg for more. it’s an ego boost for him.

that being said, however, he’s absolutely into intox sex. it’s probably one of his biggest kinks. he’s fascinated by the effects of drugs, how a little bit of this or a tiny bump of that can augment the experience, either for himself, or a willing lab rat.

house gets off on documenting the experience. sometimes he’ll ask you questions about your high and put your answers in writing. sometimes he'll film the session (with or without your knowledge. i bet he has hidden cameras. depends on if he’s worried about participant bias). most commonly though, he'll narrate his findings into a voice recording.

he's fully clothed with you naked on his lap. your head's been spinning for a while now, thanks to that brownie he fed you earlier. he's got one hand pinching your nipple; the other lazily stroking your cunt, tracing up and down your slit, creating a baseline level of arousal for you. "current time is 11:57, almost 3 hours after ingestion. subject is presenting with dilated pupils, impaired motor skills, decreased cognitive function..."

he pinches your t-dick and jerks it aggressively, causing you to jolt upright and yelp in shock, "a-aah! f-fu-OH! fuck!” you start to leak into his hand.

"subject is self-lubricating adequately—" house’s fingers slip off your t-dick. he huffs in frustration, but gets right back to it, “perhaps even excessively, and presents with healthy erectile tissue despite underdevelopment.” he stops jerking you to suck on your neck and smack your cunt with an open palm. “you get that? that’s big smart doctor-speak for ‘you have a tiny dick.’” he starts to jerk you again. “an adorable, tiny little baby dick. it’s almost like you’re a real boy.”

it's not always a clinical trial with him, though. he’s also into more casual, personal, intimate intox play. things like drinking games or sharing a bong together. he loves pressuring you to do one more shot, take one more hit, let yourself slip further and further. he’s such a bad influence.

as you two get better acquainted over time, you’ll build trust in each other, and house will want to take more risks with you. he likes to call you on the phone at random with ideas.

he leaves you a voicemail, “you ever hear of ketamine? it’s a dissociative anesthetic. used as an antidepressant, a party drug, and horse tranquilizer. let me know if you’re interested, because i wanna give you some and then fuck you in the ass. alright! gotta go, talk soon. later, fag!”

after enough sessions together, he’ll pop the question: “how do you feel about loss of consciousness? are you okay with waking up to me using you?”

he invites you to spend the night, and you’re greeted at the door with some water and a mysterious pill.

“what’s this?” you ask.

“wanna find out?” he answers.

a few sessions like that, and then house will escalate. suppose an offer of a pill turns into a surprise injection in your bicep.

if you don’t pass out, you’ll have to guess what he gave you based on how it makes you feel. on edge? heart’s racing? a stimulant. dizzy? can’t think straight? a benzo. your body’s heavy, and the world seems like it’s lagging? ketamine.

but it’s not always obvious. you’ll be hours into a session, paranoid, overanalyzing your senses, trying to pinpoint what’s different than usual, but nothing sticks out. overall, you just feel… good. that’s all it feels like. no wacky colors or crazy thoughts, just good. but house always makes you feel good. in fact, his mouth is making you feel really good right now. what the hell did he give you? it’s gotta be something, right?

he’ll come up for air while he’s eating you out, “any guesses?”

you’re panting, gasping for all the air you can get in this brief moment’s respite, and you have no fucking clue. “i don’t… fuck, i don’t know. i can’t tell.”

“hm! sounds about right.”

“wh… wha?”

“i gave you a sugar pill, dummy. thought you would’ve figured it out by now. god, you’re stupid.”