#with no morals in the way that otherwise stopped her and twisted that in a totalitarian way

[manonsmartini]

Brewing in Secret — Sophia Laforteza (18+)

✒️ explicit sexual content ! · cheating · closeted sophia · secret affair · religious imagery · public sex · oral sex · morally gray · deception · praise and degradation · g!p reader

Summary: Inspired by “Scotty Doesn’t Know”. Everyone thinks Sophia is with Scotty—he certainly acts like she is, and she never bothers to correct him. But the truth lives in shadows. She’s not your girlfriend either, but her body says otherwise. She’s intoxicated with the lying, the risk, and with the way you ruin her without ever being caught. (4.2k words)

Everyone thinks he’s her boyfriend.

Scotty. All jawline, expensive sunglasses, and smug charm. He who shadows Sophia like he owns her. He’s at every show, posts them together constantly, and mouths her lyrics like he wrote them. And she never corrects anyone.

To the world, she’s his.

But at 2:17 AM, when the city slows and the glitter fades, it’s you she calls.

Sophia’s fingers tremble on the screen as she texts you from Scotty’s Tesla. He’s dropping her off at her West Hollywood loft after an afterparty. Everyone’s drunk. She’s buzzing too, not from champagne, but from the adrenaline of being watched, praised, and desired by everyone… except the one person she wants to be seen by.

You.

She opens the door in silence, and there you are, leaning against the wall in a hoodie and black boots, eyes dark and unreadable. Her throat dries instantly.

God, you look like everything she’s not allowed to want.

She’s still wearing her red mini dress, the one she wore on stage, skin-glossed in sweat, voice raw and sultry. Scotty had kissed her cheek backstage. You had watched from the shadows, your jaw flexing, unreadable.

Now it’s just the two of you.

You step inside and brush past her, but Sophia grabs your arm, almost on instinct.

“I hate lying,” she whispers, voice already cracking.

You don’t answer.

Because you hate hiding.

Her breath hitches when you press her back against the wall, the door still ajar. Your hand curls around her waist, possessive. She tenses, then melts, like she always does.

You kiss her like it’s punishment and she moans like it’s prayer.

The memory of her back against that wall lingers—in your hands, your mouth, your jaw.

But by the time the next time comes, it’s not a penthouse or a hallway. It’s your van. Again.

The van rocks gently on its springs, hidden behind the backlot of an old strip mall in Echo Park. You know this spot, quiet enough to vanish, dangerous enough to thrill. Sophia’s moans are muffled by your mouth as you kiss her breathless, her hands twisted in the hem of your shirt, nails biting through the fabric, desperate.

The engine’s off, windows fogged, and the only sound in the van is her breath—sharp, uneven, already unraveling.

Sophia’s legs are spread across the back seat, her dress wrinkled around her hips, her head thrown back against a pile of old jackets and denim. You’re kneeling between her thighs like it’s Sunday Mass and she’s the altar.

She’s not in church, but you’re on your knees.

She’s already soaked through her lace underwear. You felt it the second your fingers slid over her, teasing her open. Now, with her hips grinding against yours, her thighs shaking, and the windows completely fogged, you’re inside her. Slow, deep, dragging every inch like you have all the time in the world to ruin her. But you don’t.

Her phone is somewhere in the front seat. If Scotty calls, if he drives by, if anyone sees, it’s over. But neither of you stop. That risk only makes her cling harder.

Sophia has never felt fuller.

Never more stretched, more taken. The pressure of you inside her is dizzying—thick, forceful, and unforgiving. She gasps as your hips roll deeper, hitting that spot that makes her eyes fly open and her legs clamp around your waist like she’s trying to keep you there forever.

You know her better than anyone.

You know where to press, where to bite, when to go slow and when to ruin her. She wants to be ruined. She just doesn’t know how to ask for it without guilt bleeding into every gasp.

But you read her body like scripture.

And today? She’s damn near praying.

“Oh my god,” she whimpers, and it’s not a prayer. It’s a surrender.

Your hands are everywhere, cupping her jaw, gripping her waist, pulling her into you harder. Her body gives and tightens around you, pulsing with every sharp thrust. She’s so close already, it’s almost embarrassing. But you know her rhythm. You know how to drive her right to the edge and hold her there, begging, whining, whispering your name in a way no one else gets to hear.

“Please,” she breathes, voice cracking. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop, please—”

You don’t. You pound into her harder, the van creaking beneath you, her spine arching off the back seat as your pace gets rougher. Her slick heat wraps around you like a vice. It’s heaven. It's sinful. It’s everything she pretends not to crave when she’s on Scotty’s arm in public.

You lower your body against hers, your chest to her chest, lips brushing her ear.

“He doesn’t touch you like this,” you growl. She shakes her head helplessly. “Say it.”

“No,” she gasps. “Only you. Only y—ah—!”

Her back bows as the orgasm hits her hard. Thighs twitching, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream. You feel it, the way her walls flutter around you, her whole body wracked with it, shaking apart under you like she’s coming undone for the first time.

You don’t stop. Not until you feel your own control break. You bury yourself deep, groaning into her neck as you cum, the force of it nearly buckling your arms. Her hands don’t stop touching you. Stroking, anchoring, keeping you there like you’re the only thing keeping her from floating off the earth.

For a long moment, the only sound is breathing, yours and hers, mingled and uneven. Then the buzz of her phone breaks the silence. You both freeze.

Sophia turns her head toward the front seat, chest still heaving.

She doesn’t reach for it.

Instead, she presses her forehead to yours, voice raw.

“We’re going to hell,” she whispers.

You smile, breathless. “Good. I’ll meet you there next Sunday.”

They sit three pews ahead.

Scotty’s arm is around her shoulders, his gold watch catching bits of morning light as the choir begins another verse. Sophia leans into him, angelic in her white blouse, eyes cast down as if deep in prayer. But her lips twitch, not in devotion. In guilt.

She’s thinking about you.

Because you’re already here, tucked behind the curtain of an old confessional booth. And you’ve left the door cracked just enough for her to see your silhouette, waiting.

She excuses herself halfway through the reading. Scotty barely looks up.

The booth creaks open.

Sophia slips in without a word. The curtain sways closed behind her.

You don’t speak. Neither does she.

Instead, Sophia lowers herself—slowly, silently—until she’s kneeling in front of you, head bowed like she’s about to confess. And in a way, she is.

Your breath hitches the second Sophia’s hands touch you, delicate but firm. Through your clothes at first, reverent, like she’s praying through fabric. Her eyelashes flutter when she looks up, lips parting, not to speak, but to serve.

You reach down, your fingers threading into her hair, and guide her.

The first contact is warm, wet, unbearable. You clench your jaw to keep from making a sound, your hips tensing as her mouth moves—slow, sinful, sacred. It’s the softest kind of blasphemy.

Your back presses against the wood as you exhale hard through your nose, biting down a groan. You can hear the priest’s voice echoing from the other side of the partition, reading a verse about purity and forgiveness. You almost laugh. Sophia’s anything but pure.

Sophia feels your hand tighten in her hair as she finds the rhythm that makes your legs twitch. Her tongue glided with practiced, worshipful strokes. She’s never felt more powerful and more desperate all at once. She’s kneeling in a house of God, mouth full of sin, trying not to gag on the thrill of it.

She knows Scotty’s probably wondering where she is, but she doesn’t care.

Not when she can feel you twitch under her tongue, your breathing growing ragged, your grip unsteady. Not when Sophia herself knows that you’re the one falling apart for her.

You press a hand over your own mouth as you release, not violently, but in shudders, in waves. She doesn’t stop until you exhale her name like a benediction.

You look down. Sophia’s still on her knees. Wicked. Smiling.

She wipes the corner of her mouth with her thumb, then presses it to her lips—soft, slow, like a final prayer.

She returns to Scotty before the closing hymn and sits down like nothing happened. But when she leans against him again, her lips still shine and her knees are dusty from the floor. And you? You sit back in the booth, breath steadying, pulse loud in your ears.

It’s not forgiveness she’s after. It’s you.

Sophia’s phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Her fingers reach for it, but your hand presses her wrist back into the pillow, not hard, just enough to remind her she’s not in charge right now.

“Let it ring,” you murmur against her ear, your voice like a growl buried in velvet.

She shakes her head, breath hitching, body trembling underneath yours. “It’s him,” she whispers.

“Exactly.”

You shift your hips and push deeper. Slow, cruel, claiming, and she chokes on a moan that sounds like your name blurred into a curse.

Sophia isn’t supposed to be here.

She told Scotty she was going shopping, that she needed a few hours to clear her head, maybe buy something soft and pastel for brunch next weekend. He offered to come, of course. Always the perfect gentleman, but Sophia said no.

And now she’s naked, pinned beneath you, legs wrapped tight around your waist, sweat slicking her back against your sheets.

You thrust again, deliberately slow. Her breath stutters.

“I have to—text him,” she gasps, reaching again.

You catch her hand, bring it to your mouth, and kiss her knuckles. Softly. Then slam into her, hard enough that the bed frame creaks and she cries out.

“Text him later,” you say. “Or don’t.”

Her body is betraying her again, every part of her tensing and opening, trembling and clinging to you like she wants to crawl inside your skin.

She’s close. You feel it in how she grips you, in the way her legs tighten and her moans turn to helpless whimpers. But she’s still trying to play good girl, worried about Scotty, the lie, the timing.

You’re past that. You grab her phone, hold it in front of her face, and read the message preview aloud, mocking gently: “‘Hey babe, still at Melrose? Let me know if I should pick up lunch.’”

You look her in the eyes, hand still wrapped around the phone.

“Want me to text him back for you?”

Sophia looks wrecked. Flushed, panting, pupils blown wide with guilt and pleasure.

Her mouth opens. But no words come out. So you toss the phone onto the floor. And start moving again.

Deeper. Harder. Unforgiving.

Her hands scramble at your back, nails raking, hips rising to meet every thrust. She’s not thinking anymore. She’s not anywhere but here under you, owned by you, completely undone.

When she cums, it’s not quiet, and you don’t let her stop.

You chase yours through the aftershocks of hers, watching her twitch and sob through the overstimulation, her legs trying to close around you. You don’t let them. She doesn’t want you to.

The room smells like sweat and sex and sin.

Sophia lies there ruined, one arm across her eyes, chest heaving. She finally reaches for her phone. You watch her type the lie with shaking hands.

Sorry babe. Long line at Zara. Might be a while.

The next time, it’s worse. Sophia’s bracing against the mattress, hair clinging to her neck, eyes blown wide, and then her phone starts to ring. Scotty. And you’re still deep inside her.

Sophia’s body is folded beneath you, cheek pressed to the pillow, thighs trembling from how long you’ve been at this—deep, rough, unrelenting. The rhythm of your hips slamming into her sends soft grunts out of both of you, skin slapping, slick, primal. You’ve got one hand fisted in her hair, the other gripping her hip like you’re trying to carve your name into her bones.

All this happening when her phone rings. You slow just a little.

She glances back, eyes wide, chest heaving. She knows that ringtone. You both do.

Scotty.

She hesitates. Then, unbelievably, she answers. Her voice is shaky, strained, an octave too high.

“Hey, babe…”

You freeze for just a second, not out of guilt. Out of disbelief. Then you grin. And start moving again. Hard.

Sophia bites the pillow, trying not to make a sound. You’re buried so deep inside her she can barely think, let alone speak, but she’s holding the phone to her ear like it’s her lifeline.

“Mhm,” she breathes into the call. “No, just… walking around.”

You snap your hips forward, grinding into her. She shudders hard. You lean down over her back, your breath hot on her neck, lips brushing her ear.

“You’re such a good liar,” you murmur, voice dark with amusement. “Almost convincing.”

She glares at you over her shoulder, face flushed, biting her lip until it nearly bleeds. Scotty keeps talking.

From what you can hear, he’s rambling about dinner plans. Traffic on the 405. Something about what wine they should pick up for her parents this weekend.

You’re still thrusting into Sophia’s warm cunt at a steady yet brutal pace. Every movement pulls a soft gasp from her throat that she tries to cover with fake coughs and quiet “mmhm”s.

She’s so full, so slick, and so close to breaking.

And Scotty? Still trusting. Still sweet.

He doesn’t hear her breathing. He doesn’t hear the wet slap of skin on skin.

He doesn’t know that his sweet Sophia is on all fours, being pounded into the mattress, phone clutched in one hand while her other fist grips the sheet like it’ll keep her from falling apart.

Your fingers slide between her legs—not gentle. She jerks, nearly dropping the phone.

“I said I’ll call you back!” she gasps suddenly, too loud, too shaky.

You freeze. There’s silence on the other end. Then she hangs up.

You grab a fistful of her hair, yank her up against your chest, still inside her, still pulsing.

“You really answered,” you whisper, incredulous. “You let him hear your voice while I was buried in you.”

Sophia’s breath stutters, her whole body trembling. You lick the sweat from her shoulder, your voice thick with desire and something darker.

“I could’ve made you moan right in his ear.”

And then you start moving again. Harder. Rougher. Worse.

Because she let you. And because Scotty still has no idea.

After that call, something in her changed. Or maybe it broke. Because she didn’t slow down after. Sophia simply got bolder. Hungrier. And you let her. Every secret meeting after that was darker, filthier—a dare to be caught. A countdown she couldn’t stop.

Sophia stopped pretending to feel guilty. Started showing up with no excuses. No hesitation. No panties. She didn’t just want you, she wanted the risk. So you gave it to her. Every week, every time, a new place. A new lie. A new way to make her forget how good it felt to be good.

The city is asleep, but she’s not. She’s not even wearing a bra under her flimsy silk tank, and you find that out the second your hands are on her, greedy, rough.

Her back hits cold metal. Your mouth is on her neck, your thigh between hers, grinding until she gasps. Her hand gripping your hoodie like it’ll keep her upright.

You lift her, and she wraps around you like instinct.

No foreplay. No patience. Just desperate thrusts against the back door of your van while a delivery truck drives past, the driver none the wiser.

She moans into your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin.

Her phone lights up in her purse: Scotty.

You thrust harder. She doesn’t even glance at it.

The thrill of the van didn’t satisfy her enough. At least not for long. Something in her cracked that night; the part that cared about decency, about being good. So next time, she gave you his front yard. And her body, like a dare.

The first snow came two weeks later. Gentle. Silent. Pure. Everything Sophia wasn’t. She texted you three words, “He’s inside. Hurry.” You didn’t ask where. You just showed up. And took her.

You should’ve said no.

But she was already on her knees in the snow, laughing breathlessly, cheeks pink and breath clouding the air like smoke. She dared you. Whispered something obscene just before she pulled her coat open and bent over the garden wall behind Scotty’s porch.

You didn’t hesitate.

You pulled her leggings down and pressed into her, hard and unrelenting, as snowflakes melted against her bare thighs.

She whimpered, biting into her glove to keep quiet. Scotty’s laugh echoed from inside the house. You grunted into her neck, teeth grazing her ear.

“You’re letting me fuck you on his front lawn.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Her body told you everything.

After the snow melted, so did what little shame Sophia had left. She sinned like it was holy. Mouth open. Knees bruised. Cross still hanging at her throat.

Every time you touched her, she begged harder. Cared less.

Until the only place left to fall was inside his house. And on his birthday, she did just that. With your hands around her hips. With your name in her mouth. While candles flickered downstairs.

The party’s in full swing downstairs. Music, laughter, champagne—all of it a blur under the pounding in your ears.

Sophia’s dress is hiked up, hands braced against the counter as you slam into her from behind in the guest bathroom. The mirror rattles. Her breath fogs the glass. Her eyes are glazed, mouth slack, body shaking with every relentless thrust.

She shouldn’t have come looking for you. But she did.

You shouldn’t have followed her upstairs. But you did.

Now she’s dripping, panting, trembling, and her hair a mess, lips bitten, and you don’t stop when her phone buzzes on the sink with “Scotty” flashing across the screen.

Her voice is a whisper, broken, “I shouldn’t—”

You grab her chin, force her to meet your eyes in the mirror.

“Too late.”

You slam into her harder. She doesn’t resist.

The two of you should’ve stopped in the bathroom.

But you never do.

Sophia doesn’t even button her dress when she grabs your hand, her lipstick smeared and thighs still shaking. She pulls you past the hall of family portraits, past the guests clinking glasses and laughing over gift bags, and leads you straight into his bedroom.

It smells like him; clean cologne, expensive linen, something careful and curated.

But she doesn’t hesitate. She kicks the door shut behind you and crawls onto the bed like she owns it. Or maybe like she wants to ruin it.

“Here?” you ask, breathless, disbelieving.

Sophia looks back over her shoulder, hair wild, eyes dark with adrenaline. Her voice is quiet, ragged, “I want you to fuck me where he sleeps.”

That’s all it takes.

You’re both on and in her in seconds, pushing her face-first into his pillows, your hips slamming into her ass as the mattress groans in protest. She gasps, burying her face in the fabric that probably still smells like Scotty’s shampoo, her fingers clutching the sheets like she’s bracing for impact.

You don’t go slow. You don’t show mercy. Not here. Not now.

Your hands are on her waist, dragging her back onto you, setting a rhythm that borders on violence, not in cruelty, but in possession. In punishment. For choosing him publicly. For lying. For loving this too much to stop.

Sophia cries out muffled, desperate, shameful. But she arches into your cock. Every thrust knocks the headboard against the wall. Every whimper she makes is swallowed by Scotty’s memory foam.

At one point, she reaches back for you, not to stop, but to pull you deeper. Her nails dig into your hip, her body convulsing as she teeters on the edge again.

Sophia’s voice is raw, “Harder.”

You don’t hesitate. You give it to her.

When she cums, it’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s filthy, drawn out, shaking.

She collapses into his sheets, slick with sweat, breathless and wrecked, lips open around your name like a prayer and a curse.

You collapse next to her, both of you breathless, ruined, and surrounded by everything that makes him him—his cologne on the dresser, the framed photo of him and Sophia smiling in Venice, the monogrammed robe hanging on the door.

She sees it too. She doesn’t move.

Just turns her head toward you, mascara smudged, eyes still shining.

“I think I hate myself,” she whispers.

You stroke a hand down her spine. “Then why did you bring me here?” She doesn’t answer.

And neither of you get up, but suddenly, you hear footsteps coming. You barely make it to the closet.

The second you hear footsteps climbing the stairs, you grab Sophia’s wrist and drag her in with you, heart hammering, breath caught somewhere between panic and hunger. She’s still half-naked, dress wrinkled, one shoe missing. Her lipstick’s gone, your mouth erased it.

The door clicks shut behind you just as Scotty enters the bedroom.

You press Sophia’s back to the wall, both of you breathing hard, heartbeat pounding in your ears like thunder. Through the slats, you can see him moving around the room, checking drawers, muttering to himself.

Sophia shifts against you. She’s still flushed, still ruined from the bed. Her mascara’s smudged, her lips swollen, your marks fresh on her thighs.

You grab her chin. Tilt her face up. She’s smiling. A sick, sinful little smile. You’re holding your breath. Sophia isn’t. And then silently, she sinks to her knees.

Your hand finds her hair. Tightens.

She unzips you with shaking fingers, tongue already darting out like she’s starving. You guide her down. Not gently.

Your palm presses to the back of her head, slow and firm, until she takes you deeper, lips parting wider, a muffled gag catching in her throat as she adjusts.

“Good girl,” you mouth, barely a breath.

Outside the door, Scotty is rifling through his dresser. He’s talking to himself. “Where the hell did I put it? It was right here yesterday.”

He’s a few feet away. So close.

You tighten your grip in her hair and roll your hips forward. Sophia groans, not in protest.

You feel her mouth tighten, cheeks hollowing as she works you with practiced desperation.

You push her head again, a little deeper, guiding her into a rhythm you like. She obeys not because she has to, but because she wants to. Her hands clutch your thighs, nails digging in every time you thrust just a little rougher, a little deeper.

She moans softly around you.

You slap the back of her head once, not cruel, just a warning. Quiet.

Scotty steps closer to the closet. You stop breathing. Sophia, however, doesn’t stop moving.

You press her down harder. Hold her there for a second—her throat tight around you, her fingers curling, body twitching.

When you let go, she pulls back with a gasp, spit glistening on her lips, eyes wild.

You meet her gaze in the dark and guide her right back down to your cock.

Scotty’s voice is on the other side of the door now. “I’ll check the kitchen,” he mutters. Footsteps. Fading. Door closing.

The moment the door shuts and Scotty disappears, Sophia moves like she never left your mouth.

You’re still half undone, the tension in your core white-hot, your thighs tight. She doesn’t wait for permission this time, she just takes you back into her mouth like she needs it. Like it’s hers. Like she’s chasing something she’s afraid she’ll lose if she hesitates.

Your hand finds her hair again, slower this time. Not forceful, but reverent.

She looks up at you once, and it’s that look that tips you over. Eyes half-lidded, lips stretched open, like she’s proud of what she’s done. What she’s still doing.

You try not to make a sound. You fail.

You tense, fingers gripping her scalp, and her hands just tighten around your thighs. You exhale hard, silent, like the breath’s been punched out of you.

When you finally let go of her, she pulls back, a thread of spit breaking as she swallows and wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist.

Sophia laughs, soft, breathless, shaky. “Happy birthday to him,” she whispers.

Downstairs, the lights are warm, the room buzzing with low music and clinking glasses. Scotty stands by the cake, smiling like nothing’s wrong, like everything is his.

You walk in first. Sophia follows two steps behind, lips freshly painted, dress smooth, perfume just reapplied.

She glides right back to him, slipping under his arm like it’s second nature.

He asks where she went. She leans in and says, “Just needed some air.”

You raise your glass to your lips, watching her tuck herself under his chin.

Then you lick a smear of cake from your thumb, the same thumb that had been tangled in her jaw minutes ago, and smile to yourself like the devil behind a mask.

[jikookncity]

Jaehyun x Reader - Bridgerton story (smut)

Duke Jaehyun and Lady y/n do not think highly of each other, tension is thick when he starts courting her best friend, but the tension might be laced with something more steamy underneath...

WC: 8.9k, Dirty dreams, unprotected sex, oral sex, dirty talk, table sex, riding, Jae seems like an asshole who disrespect women at first but I promise he gets better

----------

The Duke of Aelridge was holding court beneath the wisteria-covered terrace, surrounded by gentlemen whose laughter echoed across the lawn. From her vantage by the rose hedges, Lady Y/N had not intended to eavesdrop—only to escape the cloying conversation of Lord Pembroke, who had insisted she "smiled too little for a woman of her breeding."

But what she overheard was far worse.

“Women of the ton want scandal until they suffer it,” came the smooth, idle voice of the Duke. “They crave attention until it costs them their virtue—or their prospects.”

A ripple of laughter. Another lord chimed in, “And you’d know, wouldn’t you, Jeong?”

Jaehyun chuckled, deep and unbothered. “I’ve only ever taken what’s freely offered. If they wish to gamble their reputations, I simply play the part expected of me.”

Y/N stiffened. Expected of me, he’d said. As if it were a performance. As if women were nothing but bored creatures desperate for his attention.

A scoff escaped before she could contain it. Sharp, unmistakable. She turned on her heel, skirts snapping, heels clicking in rapid retreat across the gravel path. She didn't hear the footsteps behind her.

“Not a fan of the truth, Lady…?”

She cursed under her breath. He’d heard her.

“I wasn’t aware that hypocrisy counted as truth,” she replied without turning.

“Ah, so you were listening.”

She stopped. Slowly turned. He stood a few paces behind, one brow raised, arms folded leisurely across his broad chest. Even lounging, the Duke of Aelridge looked like he was used to being obeyed.

“I wasn’t listening. I was cringing,” Y/N said. “It’s astounding how men can twist self-congratulation into philosophy.”

His smile was all bite. “Would you rather I pretend otherwise? That these parties aren’t a performance? That everyone here doesn’t play their part—yourself included?”

“At least I don’t speak as though I’m above it.”

“But you act like you are.”

Her eyes flashed. “Perhaps I simply hold myself to a standard you clearly lack.”

For a moment, they just stared—neither yielding, both assessing.

Then she swept past him.

Jaehyun watched her go, the irritation simmering just beneath his smooth exterior. So she thought herself untouchable? Morally superior?

Interesting.

He had no idea who she was, but later that afternoon, as he observed her walking arm in arm with the ever-charming Lady Amelia Hargrave, the dots began to connect.

Amelia—the darling of the ton. Gentle, sweet, and completely unaware of her friend’s sharp tongue and barbed opinions.

A small, amused smirk played at Jaehyun’s lips.

If Lady Y/N thought him so awful, so predictably rakish—well, perhaps he’d give her a reason to think so. After all, what better way to irritate a proud woman than by charming the dearest thing to her?

And Amelia Hargrave looked perfectly delightful.

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

“I cannot believe it,” Amelia whispered, clutching Y/N’s arm as they strolled through the rose gardens of the Hargrave estate. “The Duke of Aelridge has called on me twice this week. Twice.”

Y/N arched a brow. “And the world still turns?”

“Y/N.” Amelia playfully swatted her arm. “You’re being impossible. You know what it means when a duke calls on a lady twice in the same week. Mother nearly fainted.”

“He’s a rake, Amelia.”

Amelia laughed, waving her hand. “You say that like it’s a confirmed diagnosis.”

“It is,” Y/N said flatly. “I overheard him bragging about his conquests not three days ago. He spoke of women as if they were games to be played, reputations to be wagered.”

“Oh, but you don’t like him, do you?” Amelia grinned. “You’re always so terribly fair, but the moment someone rubs you the wrong way, they might as well be declared villain of the realm.”

Y/N stiffened, then forced a smile. “I just don’t want you hurt.”

Amelia squeezed her hand. “He’s different with me. Gentle. Thoughtful.”

That was precisely the problem.

So Y/N made it her mission to supervise their every interaction, whether invited or not.

She “accidentally” appeared at tea the next morning, sliding into the seat beside Amelia just as the Duke arrived with his signature smirk and a bouquet of pale blue hyacinths.

“Lady Y/N,” he drawled. “How...surprising.”

Y/N offered her most innocent smile. “Isn’t it just?”

He said nothing, though his eyes lingered a fraction too long, jaw tight.

At the opera, when Amelia and Jaehyun shared a box, Y/N insisted on accompanying them, claiming Amelia’s mother had asked her to. She spent the entire first act loudly offering commentary on the soprano’s pitch, just to drown out their whispered conversation.

When Jaehyun tried to escort Amelia to her carriage, Y/N intercepted them with a feigned concern over a “lost glove.” When he reached for it, she let it fall again.

“Oh dear,” she murmured, eyes wide with mock dismay. “So clumsy of me.”

He bent to retrieve it with a barely contained sigh.

“You do know what you’re doing,” he muttered under his breath as he handed it back.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked sweetly, eyes wide.

He said nothing, only glared, then turned back to Amelia with a forced smile.

But by the third event—a garden luncheon at the Granthams—he broke.

Y/N was leaning against a tree, nibbling on a biscuit, her gaze flickering toward the pair seated across the lawn. Amelia looked radiant in lilac silk, head tilted toward Jaehyun, who was clearly trying to focus. But his eyes kept drifting. To the edge of the clearing. To her.

She caught his eye. Raised her biscuit in mock salute. Smiled.

And he rose.

“Excuse me, Lady Amelia. There’s something I must attend to.”

He stalked toward Y/N, who arched a brow without moving.

“Have you nothing better to do, Lady Y/N?” he asked, low and sharp.

“Than what?” she asked. “Enjoy a biscuit? Observe the flora? Ensure the safety of a friend?”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet here you are. Again.”

He stepped closer. She didn’t move.

“What do you want from me?” he asked, voice low.

“Nothing,” she replied, too smoothly. “But I do wonder… is it difficult, pretending to court someone just to annoy me?”

His eyes narrowed. “So you admit it’s worked.”

She took a slow bite of her biscuit. “Oh, Your Grace. I never said that.”

And then she walked away, hips swaying ever so slightly, leaving the Duke of Aelridge standing beneath the trees, utterly unamused and—far more troubling—utterly intrigued.

---------

“It’s terribly kind of him, don’t you think?” Amelia beamed, folding the invitation with careful fingers. “He’s invited us both to his country estate. The Duke! I never imagined I’d see Aelridge Manor, let alone be personally welcomed there.”

Y/N hummed, her smile pleasant and entirely false. “Yes. How generous of him.”

She didn’t need to read the cream-colored parchment to know exactly what it said. The Duke was being clever—throwing open the gates of his secluded estate, inviting his would-be courtship and her ever-watchful chaperone in one move. A perfect opportunity to display his supposed charm and moral reform.

He wants my approval, she realized. As if that’s something easily earned.

Still, refusing would only make her look more suspicious, and Amelia—sweet, trusting Amelia—was already flushed with hope. So, with a tight smile and a measured nod, Y/N agreed to the trip, tucking the invitation into her reticule like a warning bell.

Aelridge Manor was, of course, beautiful.

Golden light filtered through high windows. Ivy crept across stone walls in elegant twists. The surrounding countryside seemed plucked from an oil painting: fields that rolled into the distance, a lake that glittered like glass, horses that galloped with untamed grace.

And the Duke of Aelridge stood in the doorway, smiling like a man thoroughly pleased with himself.

“Ladies,” he said warmly. “Welcome. I hope the journey wasn’t too difficult?”

“Not at all,” Amelia said with a curtsy. “It’s breathtaking here, Your Grace.”

Y/N curtsied after her, meeting his eyes evenly. “Charming, truly. Like a stage set. I’m curious to see the performance.”

Jaehyun’s smile didn’t falter, but something in his jaw ticked.

Over the next few days, he was everything a mother would dream of for her daughter.

He rode beside Amelia during morning gallops, handed her down from carriages with a steady hand, laughed at her cleverest comments and listened with devoted attention to the most mundane observations. He took them on nature walks, invited them to private music recitals, arranged picnics on the lawn where the servants appeared just as the sunlight turned golden.

And Amelia, to Y/N’s increasing unease, was beginning to melt.

“He’s not what I expected,” she confided one evening, cheeks warm. “He’s thoughtful. And quiet when he thinks no one’s listening. There’s more to him, I think.”

Y/N tried not to bristle. “Yes, well. He’s a man accustomed to managing his image.”

Amelia looked at her. “Why do you dislike him so much?”

Y/N faltered. “I don’t dislike him. I simply...don’t trust him.”

“You think he’s pretending?”

Y/N hesitated. “I think men like him only reveal their sincerity when they believe no one’s watching.”

Unfortunately, Jaehyun had taken that as a challenge.

She began catching him alone more often—waiting at stairwells, lingering by the garden path.

“Enjoying yourself, Lady Y/N?” he asked one morning as they crossed paths in the orchard. He held a single plum in his hand, turning it slowly between his fingers.

She tilted her head. “Do you ever tire of pretending to be perfect?”

He chuckled, tossing the fruit up and catching it. “I’m not pretending. I’m trying. There’s a difference.”

“Trying to convince me or her?”

His expression sobered slightly. “Both.”

She blinked.

“I meant what I said,” he continued. “About wanting your approval. I realize I may not deserve it—but I’m not playing a game with Amelia. I don’t have a game to win anymore.”

Y/N didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Because for a moment—just a moment—he looked sincere.

And that terrified her more than any rake’s smirk ever could.

-----------

The manor was silent.

Outside, the wind whispered through the hedges, but within Aelridge’s grand halls, not a sound stirred. The moonlight spilled in pale strips through the tall windows as Lady Y/N padded barefoot through the kitchen, her silk nightdress trailing just above the cool tile. She clutched her shawl around her loosely, careful not to wake the maids.

She hadn’t meant to wander, but sleep had evaded her for hours—her mind a whirl of half-formed worries and something else she didn’t care to name. The cool air offered some relief, though she still felt vaguely flushed.

She found a jug of water and began searching the darkened cupboards for a glass.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

She froze.

The voice came from the doorway, deep and smooth and unmistakably male.

The Duke.

He stood in the threshold, backlit by moonlight, the crisp lines of his shirt unbuttoned at the top, revealing a sliver of chest. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, forearms crossed loosely. He looked... softer somehow. Less polished. Less performed.

“Apparently neither could you,” Y/N replied, straightening.

His eyes dragged over her, lingering—just for a second—on the delicate silk of her dress, the way it clung to her curves, her arms bare in the dim light, the hollow of her collarbone catching the moon.

“I didn’t expect company,” he said with a slight smirk, walking toward her.

“I didn’t want to wake the staff,” she murmured, moving aside.

Without speaking, he reached around her, their arms brushing as his chest pressed ever-so-slightly against her back. He pulled down a crystal glass from the shelf with casual ease.

The contact was brief, but it seared.

She could feel the warmth of his body even after he stepped away to fill the glass at the basin. He handed it to her, their fingers not quite touching.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

They stood side by side, the silence stretching. She sipped, not looking at him.

“Are you uncomfortable here?” he asked, voice lower now. “You haven’t looked like yourself.”

She shook her head. “I’m fine. Just thirsty.”

He gave a small nod, but he didn’t move away. Neither did she.

A pause.

Then Y/N turned slightly, her voice quiet but firm. “What are your intentions with Amelia?”

That caught him.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned and leaned back slightly against the edge of the counter, hands braced on either side, exhaling through his nose.

“I’m getting older,” he said finally. “Eventually, even a man like me must think of family. Stability.”

Y/N stared at him. “So you chose Amelia because she’s… convenient?”

“No,” he said, sharply. “Because she’s kind. Loved by society. Graceful. A good match.”

“Do you like her?”

“I respect her,” he said carefully.

Y/N frowned. “That wasn’t the question.”

His eyes met hers then, and the air between them shifted.

“No,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t... feel for her the way she might feel for me. But I could learn to. She deserves someone who can give her peace.”

“And you think that’s you?” she asked, her voice softer now, a tremor of something else beneath it.

“I thought it might be,” he said. “Until you started looking at me like that.”

Her breath caught.

“Like what?”

“Like you already know I’m lying.”

They were far too close now. Her hand still held the half-empty glass, but her gaze was locked on his, the weight of his words crackling between them.

She didn’t deny it.

Because she did know.

And suddenly, the kitchen didn’t feel so cold anymore.

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

They didn’t touch.

They didn’t speak further.

After a long, simmering silence, Jaehyun finally straightened and nodded once. “Goodnight, Lady Y/N.”

Her name sounded different in the dark. Warmer. Unpolished.

“Goodnight, Your Grace,” she murmured.

And then they went their separate ways—he toward the east wing, she to the west—each haunted by the same question neither dared ask aloud.

Morning came far too brightly.

Y/N sat with Amelia beneath the pergola, sunlight filtering through the climbing vines above. The scent of early summer hung in the air—peonies and warm bread and something almost sickeningly sweet.

Amelia stirred her tea, humming softly. “He’s joining us for a ride this afternoon. He said I could take Bramble—the chestnut mare he brought back from Italy.”

Y/N blinked. “He’s letting you ride Bramble?”

Amelia grinned. “He said I had a good seat.”

Y/N nearly choked on her tea.

“I mean on a horse, obviously,” Amelia said quickly, cheeks flushing.

Y/N set her cup down with care, then folded her hands in her lap.

“Do you… really like him?”

Amelia blinked. “Of course I do.”

“No, I mean… truly. As a person. Not just as the Duke of Aelridge.”

Amelia’s smile faltered.

Y/N kept her voice light but steady. “You’ve known him for two weeks, Amelia. Do you actually know him?”

Amelia sighed. “You think I’m being foolish.”

“I think you’re being charmed. Which isn’t the same.”

“I’m not chasing a title, Y/N,” Amelia said quietly. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“But you said it would be a dream—to be a duchess.”

“It would,” Amelia admitted. “Not for the gowns or the balls, but for the life it offers. Security. Freedom, in a way. Choice.”

Y/N softened, but only slightly.

“And Jaehyun? Does he make you feel something real? Something personal?”

Amelia hesitated. “He listens. He’s gentle. Thoughtful.”

Y/N thought of last night—the quiet in the kitchen, his voice when he said, I don’t feel for her the way she might feel for me.

“He respects you,” Y/N said slowly. “But that’s not the same as wanting you.”

Amelia blinked at her. “Are you saying he doesn’t?”

“I’m saying… just be sure. Before you lose your heart to a man who doesn’t know how to give his.”

They sat in silence for a moment, birdsong echoing in the trees.

“I didn’t think you cared for him at all,” Amelia said softly. “But you sound like you understand him better than anyone.”

Y/N looked away, heart beating a little too fast. “Understanding someone doesn’t mean you trust them.”

----------

The morning was soft with warmth, a gentle breeze stirring the leaves as the horses’ hooves crunched down the path toward the pond. Y/N rode with ease, back straight, curls loose beneath her bonnet, the basket of stale bread nestled in her lap. Amelia hummed beside her, cheeks pink with the glow of summer.

Jaehyun, riding just behind, was trying very hard not to stare.

But every time Y/N shifted slightly in the saddle, the silk of her riding habit pulling tight across her bodice, the gentle bounce of her body moving with the horse—

He cleared his throat. Hard.

It was shameful, really. He’d invited them here to prove himself a reformed man. To show he was no longer a rake consumed by fleeting pleasures.

And yet the sight of her, graceful and unbothered, hips rocking with every stride—he could barely think straight, just picturing her on his lap doing the same movements. His clothes felt too tight. His jaw clenched.

It’s not just desire, he told himself. It’s her. All of her. That maddening mouth and those eyes that see straight through me.

As they approached the pond, sunlight glittering off the water and ducks quacking greedily along the banks, Amelia suddenly slowed her horse.

“I feel faint,” she said softly. “I think I rode too fast earlier.”

Y/N was instantly concerned. “Do you want to rest? We can turn back.”

“No, no,” Amelia waved a hand. “Truly, it’s nothing. You’ve the bread—go on. Feed the ducks. I’ll wait in the shade just here.”

She guided her horse to a willow tree nearby, already reaching for her water flask.

Y/N hesitated, but Jaehyun was already dismounting.

He moved to her horse and looked up, hand outstretched. “May I?”

Y/N paused and then nodded, letting him lift her.

Their hands met, his palm warm and strong around hers, her waist held steady as she slid down. Her body brushed his chest just briefly. Neither spoke. When she landed, neither let go—not immediately.

Then, as if remembering themselves, they both dropped their hands at once.

Wordlessly, they walked to the pond, tearing bits of bread and tossing them into the water. The ducks surged forward with flapping wings and greedy beaks.

Y/N tossed a piece, smiling faintly. “They’re relentless.”

Jaehyun chuckled. “Like some people I know.”

She glanced sideways. “I thought you were trying not to be relentless.”

“I am,” he said, tone softer now. “Believe me.”

They stood for a moment in comfortable silence, the kind that felt strange between them. The water rippled gently, the ducks squabbling, but neither spoke—until Jaehyun did.

“I’ve spent years chasing… pleasure. Distraction. Anything to keep from feeling too much.”

Y/N turned to him.

He kept his gaze on the water. “But it never lasts. And it never fills the quiet. My parents loved each other so much and even that ended in tragedy. I wanted to avoid love and commitment for as long as I could remember to avoid that potential pain.”

She didn’t interrupt.

“But I want something more now. Something better. I want to set a good example for my sisters. They deserve to see what a real partnership looks like, the same way I did.” He finally looked at her. “Not scandal and bitterness. But respect. Warmth. A home.”

Y/N studied him, her brow furrowed. There was no smirk. No arrogance. Just quiet, steady honesty.

“You lost your parents young,” she said gently.

He nodded. “I was seventeen. They died within a year of each other. It turned everything upside down. My sisters needed comfort and I…” he shook his head. “I didn’t know how to be anyone’s safe place.”

Y/N’s chest tightened.

“And now?” she asked.

He looked at her, eyes searching.

“Now I want to be someone they can trust. Someone she can trust,” he added softly.

She didn’t ask who she was. She wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.

But for the first time since their unfortunate meeting beneath the wisteria, she saw something in him that couldn’t be faked.

A man who wanted to be better.

Not for pride. Not for power. But for the people he loved.

She dropped another piece of bread into the water. “You should tell Amelia that.”

“I will,” he said.

But his eyes stayed on Y/N just a little too long.

-----------

It started innocently—her laugh, somewhere in the back of his mind. The way she’d looked yesterday in the sun, cheeks warm, neck glistening with a single droplet of sweat he’d wanted to trace with his tongue.

Then it shifted.

Y/N was on top of him, riding him slow and deep in the moonlight. Her silk dress was bunched at her waist, breasts bouncing freely in front of him, hair wild around her flushed face as she gasped his name.

His hands gripped her hips, fingertips digging in, his head thrown back as her slick heat squeezed around him. She leaned down, mouth brushing his ear.

“Do I still look like I’m judging you now, Your Grace?”

He groaned in his sleep.

His hips bucked into nothing.

He woke with a jolt, sheets tangled, chest heaving.

Sweat dampened his collarbone, and his cock was painfully hard beneath the thin linen of his sleepwear. He swore, dragging a hand over his face.

This is madness.

He couldn’t keep doing this. Dreaming of her. Of Y/N. Not when Amelia was so close, not when he was so close to doing the right thing.

He needed to move forward. Fast.

So that morning, Jaehyun summoned a carriage. He had the perfect plan: introduce Amelia to his younger sisters. The final test. If she was to be his duchess, she would need to love what he loved. And Miri and Yuri were the center of his heart.

The girls arrived by noon—twelve-year-old twins with matching braids, bright grins, and too much energy for any one estate to contain.

He watched with fondness as they tumbled out of the carriage, clutching books, sketch pads, and one lopsided stuffed rabbit that looked like it had survived a war.

“Yuri, Miri,” he greeted, crouching slightly as they ran to him.

“Jae!” they shrieked, throwing their arms around his neck.

Y/N and Amelia emerged from the drawing room, and he turned to them, smiling. “Surprise. I thought today might be… instructive.”

Amelia blinked. “They’re your sisters?”

Y/N, beside her, smiled warmly. “Hello, I’m Y/N.”

“Are you the lady Jae’s going to marry?” Miri asked instantly.

Y/N laughed. “Goodness, I hope not. We’d drive each other mad.”

Jaehyun coughed, not meeting her eyes.

Amelia’s laugh was thin. “Well, I—children can be so... lively.”

“Do you want to read with us?” Yuri asked her, holding up a dog-eared copy of The Secret Garden.

“Oh, I’m not very good with… young books,” Amelia said awkwardly.

Yuri then turned to y/n, "will you read with us?"

Y/N smiled and stepped in smoothly. “I used to read that under my blankets with a candle. Let’s find a shady tree.”

She took the girls by the hand and led them outside, their voices already animated—talking about secret places and garden walls and what sort of flowers a princess would plant.

Jaehyun stood beside Amelia, watching them.

Y/N sat cross-legged in the grass, skirt spread beneath her, unbothered by the sun or her posture, listening with genuine interest as Yuri explained the entire plot of a fantasy book she loved.

Miri tugged at her braid absentmindedly and leaned her head against Y/N’s shoulder, and Y/N didn’t flinch. She wrapped an arm around the girl with ease, as if she’d done it a hundred times before.

Amelia, still standing stiffly, shaded herself beneath the veranda.

“Are they always so… loud?” she asked.

“They’re twelve,” Jaehyun said, keeping his tone neutral.

“They’re sweet,” she added quickly. “I just never had much experience with children, I don't really know how to talk to them.”

He nodded, but his eyes stayed fixed on the scene beyond the glass.

Y/N was laughing at something Miri said, throwing her head back in a way that made his chest ache. Her hands were expressive, her posture relaxed, her interest sincere.

She wasn’t performing.

She was just being.

And the realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

The woman he thought he should want was standing next to him.

But the woman he couldn’t stop dreaming about—the woman who looked so natural in the role he thought Amelia was perfect for—was playing tag with his sisters in the sun.

And he’d never wanted anything more in his life.

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

Amelia had always been the picture of calm decorum. She knew how to accept compliments with a blush, how to speak without offense, how to exist within the bounds of what society called admirable.

She knew how to be the kind of woman a Duke could marry.

So she had been patient—watchful, even—since the twins arrived.

At first, she thought she was imagining it: the way Jaehyun’s eyes followed Y/N across the lawn as she chased Miri with a bundle of wildflowers in her hands, how his smile pulled wider when Y/N’s voice entered a room, louder and unfiltered. He never smiled like that with her. Not even once.

Then she began to notice subtler things.

How Jaehyun’s throat bobbed slightly whenever Y/N got too close, how his fingers flexed at his sides when Y/N tossed a teasing comment his way. How he never interrupted her when they argued—in fact, he seemed to like it. Almost like he craved that friction, needed the bite of her words to stay engaged.

When Amelia spoke, he listened politely, nodded, sometimes even complimented her.

But he never reacted to her.

Not like that.

Not the way he looked at Y/N as if she were something untameable and beautiful, something dangerous and necessary all at once.

And then came the evening.

The sun was setting low, brushing gold across the countryside. They were walking together—Amelia on Jaehyun’s left, Y/N on his right. The twins had been sent inside for bath time, the air warm and pleasant, filled with the scent of honeysuckle and fresh grass.

Amelia had just turned to ask a question when she heard it—the thunder of hooves.

A horse. Untethered. Racing toward them down the path, eyes wild, panic in its gait.

There wasn’t time to scream. Barely time to think.

Jaehyun moved instantly.

One arm wrapped around Amelia’s waist, yanking her backward. The other slammed into Y/N’s side, dragging her down with him, twisting his body so that he landed hard in the dirt—not her.

Then he rolled them over and shielded her completely. His hand cupped the back of her head, the other braced near her hip, keeping her pinned beneath him but unhurt.

Dust swirled around them, the horse galloping past with a furious cry before disappearing into the trees.

Silence.

Then: heavy breathing.

Y/N’s chest heaved beneath him, her eyes wide, her fingers tangled in the folds of his shirt where she must’ve grabbed him on instinct.

Their faces were close. Too close.

His breath fanned over her lips, his gaze flickering from her mouth to her eyes and back again. She didn’t move.

Neither did he.

The world slowed.

And then—

Jaehyun cleared his throat roughly and pushed up off her.

“S-sorry,” he muttered, offering a hand.

She took it, her cheeks flushed.

He helped her up, then turned to Amelia, who was brushing herself off more shakily.

“Are you both alright? We got lucky the wild thing didn't trample us” he asked, voice low and tight.

Amelia nodded, but her heart wasn’t in her chest anymore—it was somewhere far away, aching, already grieving.

The walk back to the manor was quiet.

Y/N glanced at Jaehyun once. He didn’t meet her eyes.

Amelia didn’t speak until they reached the terrace steps.

“Your Grace,” she said softly, “May I speak with you?”

He turned to her, brow furrowed. “Of course.”

She gave a small nod, but her eyes were distant, and her smile—so practiced—wobbled for the first time.

Because in that moment, all the little signs weren’t little anymore.

They were loud.

And she finally understood the one thing Jaehyun wouldn’t say out loud.

He didn’t want her. He never had.

The sitting room was dim, lit only by the flicker of a low-burning lamp. Amelia stood near the window, arms crossed loosely, her posture calm—but her voice held a quiet intensity.

“You covered her with your body,” she said softly, not looking at Jaehyun. “You didn’t even think twice.”

Jaehyun froze in the doorway, guilt bleeding through his expression.

“I—I just acted,” he said weakly.

“No,” she said, finally turning to face him. “You instinctively acted. And your instinct was to protect her.” She let out a soft breath. “It just confirmed what I’ve been trying to ignore.”

His silence was louder than anything he could’ve said.

“You’re in love with her.”

Jaehyun didn’t respond. He didn’t move. But his face said everything.

And it wasn’t denial.

It was realization.

And regret.

“I never meant—” he began, voice rough.

“To hurt me?” Amelia finished. “I know. You’re not cruel, Jaehyun.”

He stepped forward. “I’m sorry.”

But she held up a hand. “Please don’t.”

Her voice wavered, just slightly. “I need you to be honest with me, not sorry for the truth. Was any of it real? Any of this?”

Jaehyun lowered his eyes. “In the beginning… yes. I meant to court you. Marry you. I thought you were the right choice. That it would be simple. Good.”

“And now?”

He looked up at her, pain evident. “It didn’t work out that way.”

Amelia gave a sad smile. “No. It didn’t.”

She paused, then turned toward the hallway.

“Y/N?” she called out.

Y/N appeared hesitantly, fingers still slightly dusted with flour from helping the twins bake. Her eyes flicked between them, alarmed.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, stepping inside slowly.

Amelia looked at her—really looked. And for the first time, saw clearly what had been there all along.

Not scandal. Not betrayal.

Just chemistry. Depth. Longing that had been hiding behind every jab and bicker and sideways glance.

Amelia smiled. It didn’t quite reach her eyes, but it was full of warmth nonetheless.

“I’m leaving.”

Y/N blinked. “What? Why?”

“I don’t belong here,” Amelia said gently. “And it’s time I stopped pretending I did.”

Y/N shook her head, rushing forward. “Amelia—no. Please. This isn’t—he and I—we’re not—”

“You are,” Amelia interrupted, her tone soft but unwavering. “You just haven’t admitted it yet.”

Y/N faltered, her eyes wide with guilt and confusion.

“I should’ve seen it sooner,” Amelia continued, brushing a hand gently down her friend’s arm. “But I see it now. And I’m not angry. I’m just… stepping aside.”

Tears threatened behind Y/N’s eyes. “You don’t have to—”

“I do,” Amelia said firmly. “Because I believe in love, Y/N. And you two—whatever this is between you—it’s not ordinary. It’s real.”

She turned toward Jaehyun, nodding once.

“Be better than your reputation,” she said. “She deserves that.”

Then she kissed Y/N’s cheek, offered them both a last kind smile, and quietly walked out of the room.

The door shut softly behind her.

Leaving Jaehyun and Y/N alone.

In silence.

In tension.

In something far too big to name yet.

Y/N’s eyes snapped open, sharp and furious.

“What did you say to her?” she demanded, voice rising as she rounded on Jaehyun.

He met her glare evenly but sighed. “It’s not my fault.”

She scoffed, stepping back, tension crackling in every inch of her frame. “No, it’s not. She saw through everything. You—you’re the first person of the three to be honest.”

Jaehyun’s jaw tightened but he said nothing.

Y/N shook her head, the anger boiling just beneath the surface. “I’m leaving.”

She turned on her heel, intent on storming out of the room.

But before she could get far, a strong hand caught her wrist.

He pulled her back until she crashed into him, breath hitching at the closeness, her pulse thunderous.

His voice dropped to something softer, more vulnerable. “Please… just give me a chance.”

For a moment, she looked up into his eyes—something raw and real swimming beneath the usual guarded storm.

And then—

“Jae!” came two excited shrieks from the doorway.

The twins burst in, cheeks flushed, pajamas wrinkled but faces bright with mischief.

“Read us a bedtime story!” Miri demanded, tugging at his sleeve.

“Please, Jae,” Yuri added, throwing an arm around Y/N’s waist. “And Y/N too! You have to tuck us in.”

Jaehyun looked between the twins and Y/N, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, I suppose a Duke’s duties aren’t done yet,” he said, sweeping the girls into a hug.

Y/N watched, heart softening as Jaehyun dropped to the floor, pulling the twins onto his lap. His voice was gentle and playful as he began the story, animated expressions lighting his face.

She realized she’d never seen him like this before.

Not as the rake. Not as the cold Duke.

But as a brother. A caretaker. Someone capable of tenderness.

Her mind wandered, unbidden and unstoppable.

What if this were us? What if we had children like them—wild and loud and impossibly alive?

The thought made her chest ache.

Had she fallen for him already?

Or was it something deeper—something she couldn’t yet name?

For the first time in weeks, Y/N didn’t want to leave.

----------

The rain battered the roof like a war drum.

Thunder rolled across the hills in waves, shaking the very bones of Aelridge Manor. Most of the household had gone to bed early, tucked away safely beneath quilts and candlelight.

But Y/N couldn’t sleep. 

Her thoughts were too loud. Her heart too unsteady. They were going back to the city tomorrow, this was their last day in the country estate.

She slipped quietly from her room, barefoot and breathless, the white silk of her nightdress clinging to her skin like mist. It was thinner than she realized—barely modest, really. Her nipples pebbled from the chill and the storm, the neckline low and loose, showing more skin than she’d ever dared in daylight.

She didn’t care. She just needed air. Stillness.

The library welcomed her like a secret—dim and warm, the scent of old parchment and pine smoke curling through the air. She moved to the window, lightning flashing across her reflection as she wrapped her arms around herself.

Ten minutes passed in silence.

Then she heard footsteps—heavy, fast, purposeful.

She turned as the door swung open.

And froze.

Jaehyun stepped in, rain-drenched and wild. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, clinging to his torso and revealing the hard planes of his chest, abs clearly visible through the soaked fabric. His hair was slicked back, droplets trailing from his temples down his neck, over the muscle of his collarbone.

He looked like sin incarnate—like something no gentleman ever should.

Y/N’s breath caught audibly.

He stilled when he saw her.

His gaze dropped instantly, taking in her body—the sheer silk, the soft swell of her breasts, the way the firelight highlighted the curve of her thighs beneath the fabric. His jaw flexed.

Her chest rose and fell, too fast, her skin prickling under his stare.

“You shouldn’t be in here this late,” he said, voice low and husky, thunder echoing behind him.

She swallowed, lifting her chin. “Neither should you.”

“I was checking the stables,” he said, taking a step closer. “The horses get spooked in storms. Didn’t want them injuring themselves.”

Y/N nodded, but her eyes hadn’t left his chest. His shirt clung to every ridge, the fabric nearly translucent under the heat of his body. A droplet of rain rolled down his neck, past his sternum.

She had never—never—seen a man so exposed.

Her lips parted. “You’re… soaked.”

“So are you,” he said quietly, his eyes dragging slowly back up to hers, y/n not quite catching it.

A bolt of lightning flashed outside, illuminating the room for a split second—and in that moment, they both looked at each other not as a Duke and a lady, not as adversaries or mismatched companions, but as something far more dangerous:

Two people entirely alone, entirely aware of each other.

Jaehyun’s voice was quieter when he spoke again, rough at the edges. “Did you come here to avoid me?”

Y/N blinked. “I came here to breathe.”

Another step. He was close enough now to see the tremble in her throat. The way her nipples strained against the thin silk. The pulse in her neck beating fast.

“I haven’t been able to breathe since you got here,” he said.

Lightning cracked again.

And still—they stood there.

Not touching.

But barely, barely holding back.

The storm raged outside—but the real storm was inside.

Inside the library, where Jaehyun took one deliberate step forward, then another, until Y/N instinctively backed away… right into the bookcase behind her.

Her breath hitched as her spine met the shelf, leather-bound spines pressing into her back. The scent of old pages, pine smoke, and him wrapped around her like silk.

He didn’t touch her.

Not yet.

But he leaned in close—so close—his lips just above her ear, his breath hot against her skin.

"You drive me absolutely mad," he whispered.

Y/N’s fingers curled into the edge of the bookshelf.

"You're the only woman who’s ever looked me in the eye and told me I was full of shit. The only one who doesn’t care about my title or reputation.”

His nose brushed the curve of her jaw, his fingers grazing the bare skin of her arm, then trailing up to the delicate strap of her nightdress, slipping it slightly off her shoulder with a featherlight touch.

“I dream about that sharp mouth of yours,” he murmured, “about how you always put me in my place. And about this body—" his fingers grazed just beneath her collarbone, her skin erupting in goosebumps, “—this maddening, perfect body bouncing on top of me while I lay in bed, watching you lose yourself on my cock.”

Y/N gasped softly, chest rising into him.

“I don’t care how it looks. I don’t care who gets hurt,” he said, voice rasping like gravel. “I’ve waited so damn long to do this—”

And then he crushed his mouth onto hers.

There was nothing polite about it. It was raw, desperate, consuming.

Y/N moaned into his kiss, arms flying up to wrap around his neck, fingers threading through his damp hair. Her back arched off the shelf, pressing her body into his. The cool silk of her dress slipped easily under his hands as he dragged them along her waist, then lower.

Jaehyun groaned into her mouth, grabbing her thigh and lifting it, hooking it high over his waist. She clung to him as he softly rolled his hips into hers, the fabric of his soaked trousers rubbing against her thin nightdress.

The friction made her head spin.

“You’re trouble,” he whispered against her lips, panting. “You’re going to ruin me.”

“Good,” she breathed, biting gently at his bottom lip.

He growled, gripping her tighter, their bodies locked together, rocking slowly, teasingly, both of them drunk on each other’s heat and the crackle of the thunderstorm outside.

The kiss deepened, mouths slanting together, hungry and slick, her moans swallowed into his tongue, his hands everywhere—her waist, her thigh, her back, her jaw.

And still—it wasn’t enough.

Not yet.

Not even close.

The air between them burned hotter than the fire crackling in the hearth.

Y/N gasped as Jaehyun's mouth returned to hers, hungry and wild. His hands moved with purpose now—gripping her thighs, dragging her impossibly close. The fabric of her nightdress clung to her skin, soaked in heat and want and sweat.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he growled against her lips.

Her breath caught when he grabbed the thin silk strap of her nightdress and shoved it down her arm, then the other, until the entire bodice dropped, baring her chest completely.

His eyes darkened, jaw tightening. “Fuck.”

He dove down, teeth grazing the swell of her breast before biting, not gently, and she cried out, one hand shooting up to grab a fistful of his wet hair.

"Jaehyun—!"

He didn’t stop. His mouth was hot and wet, tongue laving over the bite mark before sucking harshly on her nipple, making her back arch and her thighs tremble.

She yanked his head up and kissed him hard, her lips desperate, her body already pulsing.

Frantic hands went to his shirt, fingers flying, tugging at the buttons, shoving the soaked fabric off his broad shoulders with a frustrated grunt. He shrugged it away, not breaking the kiss, chest heaving, muscles rippling beneath her touch.

Y/N jumped, wrapping her legs around his waist, silk dragging across the bare skin of his stomach. He caught her easily—just one arm beneath her thighs, the other cradling her back.

“Good girl,” he whispered between kisses, lips brushing her cheek, her jaw, her throat. “You’ve been driving me insane for weeks, and now you’re mine.”

Her fingers clawed into his shoulders as he walked them to the nearest surface—the massive oak library table. Books scattered as he sat her down, never once parting from her lips.

“Do you know how many nights I’ve thought about this?” he murmured into her mouth. “How many times I’ve had to walk away from you hard and aching?”

She whimpered, grinding into his hips, feeling how hard he already was for her through his trousers.

“I’d ruin you right here on this table,” he growled, biting her lip between his teeth, “and then do it again just to remind you who made you feel that way.”

“Then do it,” she whispered breathlessly, tugging him closer. “Ruin me.”

And he would.

Oh, he would.

Books lay forgotten across the floor.

Jaehyun's hands gripped the edge of Y/N’s nightdress and slowly dragged it down her thighs, peeling it from her skin inch by inch until she was bare on the table—flushed, breathing hard, legs trembling beneath his touch.

He looked at her like he’d never seen anything so devastating.

“My god,” he muttered. “You’re perfect.”

She tried to speak, but the words dissolved on her tongue when he sank to his knees between her legs, spreading them with a reverence that made her ache.

He leaned in and stole a slow, savoring taste of her.

Y/N’s hips jerked instantly, a cry ripping from her throat as his tongue flicked over her clit and then deeper, teasing, sucking, lapping—his grip firm on her thighs as he held her down, her limbs thrashing from the unbearable pleasure.

“Jaehyun—Jaehyun—!”

“You taste better than I imagined,” he growled against her, voice wrecked. “Could stay here all night.”

She nearly sobbed at that, hips grinding into his mouth helplessly.

But then he stood—fast—pulling off his trousers and briefs in one swift motion, his cock flushed and thick, already weeping at the tip.

He looked at her laid out for him—panting, swollen, glistening—and groaned.

“You don’t know what you’ve done to me,” he said as he lined himself up, rubbing his tip through her slick folds, watching her squirm. “I’ve wanted this since the second you glared at me across that ballroom.”

He pushed in slow.

Y/N’s mouth fell open in a silent cry, her hands flying to grip the edge of the table.

The stretch—god, the ache—was incredible. Every inch of him pressed deep inside her, filling her in a way she’d never known. Her back arched, her chest heaving, eyes fluttering shut.

Jaehyun groaned loudly, stilling inside her for a moment. “So fucking tight. You’re squeezing me like you were made for this.”

She whimpered, moving her hips, needing more.

“Please,” she begged.

He began to move—slow, measured thrusts at first, letting her feel every drag of him, every inch stroking her walls. Her legs wrapped around his waist again, arms reaching for his shoulders, needing him closer.

The table creaked with every thrust. Her moans filled the room like music.

Then his rhythm changed—faster now, deeper, rougher—his body pounding into hers, her name spilling from his lips between broken breaths.

“Look at you,” he whispered against her neck, nipping the skin. “Taking me so well. So good for me.”

Y/N clung to him, whimpering, lost to the rhythm, the burn, the heat. Her nails dug into his back. Her thighs shook.

“I’ll always take care of you,” he murmured. “You hear me?”

“Yes—yes, Jae—!”

“You’re mine now,” he groaned, thrusting deep. “No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets your sounds, your body, your heart.”

Her climax crashed over her like thunder, her whole body shuddering, limbs jerking as waves of ecstasy rolled through her. She cried out his name, raw and desperate.

Jaehyun followed with a deep groan, his body stiffening, cock twitching as he spilled into her, his mouth buried in her neck, hands gripping her tight like he’d never let her go.

They stayed there, tangled and breathless, as the storm finally began to fade outside.

The storm had quieted.

Only the soft patter of rain remained, mingling with the uneven rhythm of two hearts trying to calm down after shattering every boundary between them.

Jaehyun exhaled shakily, brushing sweat-damp hair from Y/N’s forehead. Her bare skin was warm beneath his hands, her chest still rising and falling in aftershocks.

He looked down at her—completely bare, completely his.

And something shifted.

Without a word, he bent down, wrapping an arm beneath her thighs and the other around her back.

She blinked. “Jae—what are you—”

“Taking you to bed,” he said simply, voice thick with emotion. “You deserve better than a hard oak table.”

He carried her out of the library with ease, bare chests pressed together, her arms around his neck, her legs trembling slightly from what he’d just done to her. The halls were dark, the house asleep. It felt like they were the only two people in the world.

Once in her room, he laid her gently on the bed, tucking the sheets around her like she was something fragile, something precious.

He sat beside her, damp hair falling over his forehead, chest rising slowly.

And then—

He spoke.

No teasing. No flirting. Just truth.

“I’m in love with you.”

Her breath caught.

“I’ve been trying to ignore it. To fight it. To pretend it was something else. Lust. Irritation. Curiosity. But it’s not. I’m in love with you, Y/N. Hopelessly. Entirely.”

She sat up slowly, sheet clutched to her chest, eyes wide.

Jaehyun continued, voice low but certain.

“I don’t want Amelia. I don’t want anyone else. I want you. You’re it for me.”

He reached for her hand, kissed her knuckles gently.

“I want to marry you. I want to have children with you. I want to grow old and exhausted and happy at your side. I want every day to end with you, and every morning to start with your face on my pillow.”

He swallowed hard, eyes burning.

“I’ll spend the rest of my life loving you, if you’ll let me. I’ll give you everything.”

Y/N stared at him, lips parted, emotion clogging her throat.

Then she surged forward—pulling him into a deep, passionate kiss, their mouths crashing together like they couldn’t bear another second apart.

When they broke apart, her eyes were glassy but bright.

“I was scared,” she whispered. “I didn’t want to hurt Amelia. I kept trying to fight it too.”

She ran a hand down his cheek, thumb brushing his jaw.

“But I feel the same, Jaehyun. I think I’ve been falling for you from the very beginning.”

His chest caved with relief, and he kissed her again, softer now, slower—like a promise sealed in lips and breath.

Outside, the rain eased into nothing.

Inside, everything they’d been afraid of gave way to something real.

Something lasting.

Something theirs.

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

The morning sun broke gently through the curtains, golden light spilling across tangled sheets and bare skin.

Y/N blinked awake, still warm from the heat of Jaehyun’s body wrapped around hers. One of his arms was slung across her waist possessively, his face buried in her neck. She could feel his breath, steady and soft, against her skin.

She smiled, running her fingers through his sleep-mussed hair.

Moments later, the door burst open.

“Y/N!!”

“Jae!!”

Twin voices filled the room, followed by the sound of little feet padding rapidly toward the bed.

Jaehyun sat up with a groggy grin, already expecting it. “Good morning, monsters.”

Miri and Yuri climbed up without hesitation, ignoring the fact that the sheets were pulled hastily over their naked bodies. They flopped beside Y/N, throwing their arms around her, squishing her between them.

“We were gonna sneak in and wake you up,” Yuri said breathlessly, “but the door was unlocked!”

“We wanted to tell you—” Miri began.

“—we love you!” Yuri finished, hugging her tighter.

Y/N laughed, heart swelling at the unfiltered affection. “I love you both too, you little tornadoes.”

Jaehyun leaned back against the headboard, arms behind his head, grinning like a fool. “Guess we should tell them the news, huh?”

Y/N raised a brow, still catching her breath from the ambush. “Should we?”

He nodded, eyes soft as they locked on hers.

“Girls,” he said, voice low but filled with joy, “Y/N and I are getting married.”

Silence.

Then—

Shrieks.

The twins screamed with joy, throwing themselves on top of her in a heap, hugging and bouncing and nearly knocking her off the bed.

“You’re going to be our sister!” Miri cried.

“You’re going to live with us!” Yuri added, beaming.

Y/N was laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes, holding their faces and kissing their heads. “You two are going to make me cry.”

“Good!” they giggled, tackling her again.

Jaehyun just watched her with a quiet, reverent smile—his whole body relaxed, his chest full. She fit into his life like she’d always belonged.

After a few more minutes of chaos and cuddling, he cleared his throat.

“Alright, breakfast,” he said, gently nudging them toward the edge of the bed. “Go down and have the kitchen staff make you whatever you want.”

“But—”

“No buts,” he said with mock sternness. “We need grown-up time.”

The girls gave mischievous looks and ran out with a flurry of giggles, feet pounding down the stairs.

Y/N flopped back against the pillows, chest rising and falling, eyes sparkling. “They’re a handful.”

“They’re obsessed with you,” Jaehyun said, turning to her. “Can’t blame them.”

She looked at him—shirtless, golden in the morning light, that boyish smile softening the sharpness of his jaw—and suddenly, all that affection turned molten.

Without breaking eye contact, she straddled him slowly, knees on either side of his hips, letting the sheet fall from her bare body.

Jaehyun’s breath caught.

“Y/N—”

“This is how your dream went, wasn’t it?” she whispered, fingers trailing down his chest.

His eyes darkened instantly, hands gripping her thighs. “Exactly.”

She leaned down, brushing her lips across his jaw. “Then let’s make it come true.”

Her hips rocked forward, dragging against his cock as he grew harder beneath her.

He groaned, head falling back. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“And yet,” she teased, kissing down his throat, “you keep begging me to ruin you.”

“I’d let you,” he whispered, gasping as she lined him up and sank down slowly, taking every inch, just like in his dream.

“God, Y/N…”

She smirked against his lips. “You dreamed of me like this?”

“Every night,” he growled.

And as she rode him with slow, grinding precision—his hands on her hips, his mouth lost on her breasts—he realized that this wasn’t a dream anymore.

This was forever.

Their bodies moved together slowly, deeply—no rush, no desperation now. Just warmth. Connection. A rhythm as natural as breathing.

Jaehyun lay beneath her, one hand gripping her hip, the other resting over her heart, as she moved above him—soft sighs slipping from her lips, her forehead pressed to his, sweat-damp skin sliding against his chest.

He stared at her like he still couldn’t believe she was real.

Her name left his lips like a prayer when he came—his arms wrapping around her tightly, mouth pressed to her shoulder as he groaned through it. She followed seconds later, shivering with the release, collapsing onto his chest, breathless and boneless.

For a long moment, they simply lay there, wrapped in each other, the soft morning breeze cooling their flushed skin.

And then—

Jaehyun gently turned them over, laying her down beneath him again, but not for more.

He kissed her.

Softly. Reverently. Again and again.

Her cheeks, her eyelids, her nose, her chin.

“I can’t wait to wake up beside you every day,” he whispered between kisses. “To see you like this—hair messy, skin warm, lips swollen from me.”

She smiled, cupping his face, brushing her thumb over the dimple just barely peeking through.

“You say the filthiest things in the gentlest voice,” she teased.

He laughed, kissing the corner of her mouth. “You’re better than anything I could’ve dreamt of.”

Another kiss.

“And I’ve dreamt of you a lot.”

Y/N pulled him back down into a kiss, this one slower, lazier, full of everything they didn’t need to say.

Love. Safety. Home.

They made out for what felt like forever—legs tangled, hands roaming lazily, hearts open and unafraid.

And when they finally drifted off, limbs entwined beneath the sheets, Jaehyun still murmured her name like a vow.

Because she was his dream.

And finally, finally—

She was his reality.

----------

Tysm for reading! Subscribe to my patreon here for early access and exclusives that aren't posted on here. Leave a tip here.

Part 2 to be released in a few weeks <3

[yanderes-galore]

Fandom: Star Wars

Character: Darth Vader

Pairing: Romantic

Type of Fic: Concept (HCs)

Oh no... Anakin giving into the Dark Side... Hope I get things right :( Doesn't really go into it so you can imagine him non-burned if you want.

Yandere! Darth Vader Concept

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Overprotective behavior, Controlling behavior, Manipulation, Violence, Murder, Isolation, Possessive behavior, Forced relationship.

Darth Vader is an Anakin who lost... everything.

His morals, his wife, his mentors, his mother, everything....

He is now a being of ruthless violence to try and justify his actions.

In a way he still wants to protect...

Even if it means stomping out rebellion for the Empire.

Vader no doubt knows he's become a monster.

Part of him wouldn't blame his obsession, whoever they are, for hating his presence.

But a lot of what he does would be for them... you.

Anakin... Vader... doesn't like change.

He has trouble with attachment and that was his downfall.

He has trouble letting go.

He used to be such a nice person.

Now... much has corrupted him.

Anakin has always had trouble with love.

He never wants to lose the people he loves.

Allowing him to have an obsessive and possessive attachment to those he loves.

I imagine Vader is the same way... deep in him.

He's driven to crave power to try and prevent anything similar happening to anyone with The Empire.

He thought he lost his ability to love when he lost Padmé.

Yet... he finds someone new.

Meaning, as always, his love is only harmful towards those he loves.

Vader would fear losing the one he loves again.

In fact, at first he tries to ignore such an idea.

He can't be attached to another.

A Sith Lord like him doesn't have time for another like Padmé.

But deep down... Deep down he craves it again.

Vader is one of the most powerful Sith Lords in the galaxy.

He is a man who takes what he wants.

Power, love, vengeance...

If he really wanted you, he could have you.

But why does he struggle?

All he feels is suffering.

When he sees you, a Jedi, a civilian, a rebel, someone who works under him... whoever you are...

He thinks of those he loved before....

He... He can't do it again, can he?

He's a selfish man.

A selfish man who hurts and kills those he loves.

If he truly respects and loves you, if he isn't just using you to cope...

He should let you go...

Yet as always he can't.

Darth Vader is powerful, arrogant, impulsive, ruthless, impatient, intimidating... and most of all...

Selfish.

Compared to Anakin, he's quiet no matter how you decide to see him.

It doesn't matter if you see him as you do in canon, or if you choose to use the fandom's un-burned version.

I still imagine he wears the helmet, the suit... and you hear that twisted breathing.

You may never truly know the man who took you from your home, who isolated you for his own benefit.

All you know is a cold mask and deep voice.

Along with his cold touch.

Vader is a man full of conflict.

His feelings for you do not help.

Vader is still a man who refuses to let go.

Once he obtains these new feelings for you, he can't just... get rid of them.

No, part of him still wants to love.

He doesn't deserve it, he knows that...

It never stops him from treating you like you're made of glass.

When the Death Star was around, he gave you your own room.

If not, you're never far from him.

I would not be surprised if he was more overprotective and possessive than he was as Anakin.

Now he's determined not to lose you like Padmé.

He may have been unable to save her.

Yet he'll succeed with you, he refuses to see otherwise.

Those who interact with you are closely monitored.

Any harm that comes to you is swiftly punished.

You're given a high security room and Vader often prefers to visit himself.

Vader likes his privacy with you.

By this point, it doesn't matter if this is wrong.

Vader finds himself obsessed with you and your safety.

He feels he can find love in you.

He wants to love again even if he can't.

It pains him when you flinch away.

He tries desperately to cup your cheek, to hold you close.

Frustration keeps bubbling within him when his attempts to change you, to make things work, fail.

Which often leads to him scaring you when he uses the Force to pull you into his arms.

He needs to be careful with his anger.

He could easily kill you if left unchecked.

Then he'd be repeating past mistakes if he wasn't already.

Vader expresses... desperation towards you.

Desperate for a love he can no longer have.

He can't force what he had to happen again.

You may always hate him... He'll always be a monster.

But he's too selfish to let you go.

Even if you hate him, he still holds on to his twisted view of love.

Vader would kidnap you from your home, slaughter all you love, and isolate you beside him...

He'd do it all if it meant he could feel something again... If it meant he could have you.

Murder isn't something he thinks much about anymore. There's not much guilt now.

He's done it so much already for a cause he believes in.

A safer galaxy.

Don't you want a safer galaxy?

While originally dedicating this all to Padmé, he now makes his purpose revolving around you.

Affection is no longer something he really expresses like he used to.

He'll caress you, hold you close, squeeze you like his life depends on it as you sit on his lap.

Yet kisses are impossible, so is anything else.

You feel like you're just being used to cope.

For the most part... you are.

Vader just would never admit it.

He wants you safe, cared for, and loved.

All by him.

Sure, view him as a monster, he knows he is one.

However, this monster is doing all he can to keep you safe.

You may not be happy now... but you will be.

Soon you'll trust his words, won't you?

If he didn't want to love you, he would've disposed of you for being a distraction.

Unfortunately, his view of love isn't much better.

Vader's new view on love is preventing all harm.

That means killing people in front of you with his saber or powers.

That means isolating you.

That means locking you away for his eyes only.

He calls this love...

In reality, he's still a man afraid of loss, and he can't afford to lose you like everything else.

[mswyrr]

In a literary sense, I consider killing Lenore Dove Baird basically the final moral line crossed in Coriolanus' corruption arc. It connects to several important things. First, Collins has him sincerely liking and caring about little Maude Ivory, Lenore Dove's mother, when they were both kids. She has him find out about Maude Ivory's mental health issues due to Lucy Gray's Games and then lovingly give her a gift of sweets to "get some happy in her head" (tbosas 422). Using the Covey phrase and participating in what the older kids/adults of the Covey are trying to do to help Maude Ivory. It's not a coincidence that he kills Lenore Dove with poison sweets. What was once love has turned to poison, a gift that was affirming of life has become death because the giver has so changed in the decades of terrible choices that have passed.

Second, family used to mean everything to him as a child. Both the name and love for the people. In SOTR, he kills the last Baird -- Lucy Gray's niece, Maude Ivory's daughter, and the name itself -- and destroys the family he might have joined. We know from the main series that it's after SOTR that he and Tigris have their full split from each other too. He becomes someone who cannot be family to the person who loved him most and who he once loved deeply.

The granddaughter in the films somewhat complicates this -- but in the books there's a reading that he makes himself incapable of that kind of sincere familial love. There's no wife or kids mentioned in STOR, even if they exist. We only hear about his "work wife"/twisted mother figure and partner for 15 years minimum in creating more and more sadistic Games, Gaul (stor, 190). And Collins writes him as someone with *no heir*. No futurity -- Gaul was able to create an heir for herself by turning a teen into a "mutt," a Frankenstein's monster, but he's not even able to do that by the end. He's symbolically non-generative, infertile (obligatory Fisher King reference here). That's huge for someone who was so driven by family and legacy.

Third, there's the visual symbolism. Those damn angelic curls! He's in his late 50s and he still has them, albeit in a highly fake and controlled way. "His head dips slightly and a lacquered silvery blond curl falls onto his forehead" (sotr, 86). He's sort of the rotten image of the boy he once was -- the boy who gave Maude Ivory those sweets sincerely. By the time we see him again in the main series, he's defined visually by being snakelike.

Last but not least - the forest is a teenager having a breakdown. It's not something he couldn't have turned away from, on to a better path. That is an opinion that fire cannot burn from me. But Lenore Dove is an adult killing the niece of the girl he loved. Destroying what remains of her *family.* Her blood. It's like killing Lucy Gray again - for real and certain this time. No breakdown, no mystery and hallucinations. No delusions of it being self defense. With intent and premeditated. (And kudos to the casting of Lenore Dove - Whitney Peak looks so much like Rachel Zegler!). Putting his foot to the floor and gunning it over that final line in his corruption arc.

And then just to zoom out a bit to my pov on all of this -- I think, in the subtle magic realism going on, Haymitch literally laying Louella's death at his feet was a kind of prophetic moment. A call to see what all of this really is. Which he responds to by taking his poison of choice (actual poison) to silence his mind, the way Haymitch would use alcohol to silence his mind. I feel like opportunities to see what he was doing came like that, again and again. Which is why he repeated the (otherwise stupid) cycle of poisoning himself to kill others again and again.

As a vision of what corruption and evil actually ARE, I love it. It's so hopeful! So many moments to see what you're doing, so many chances to stop.

And I do think keeping his word to not lie to Katniss--and specifically telling her the truth about Coin--is -- not a moment of turning away (I think the last chance at that passes in SOTR but you could argue otherwise), but another example of how hopeful this story can be about people. One tiny shred of the boy who cared so much about honor was left and something good could be made of that by Katniss' choice. Lucy Gray was right and Gaul was wrong. There is "a natural goodness built into human beings" and we do all, on some level, sense when "you’ve stepped across the line into evil" (tbosas 496). And going against it is a lifetime of hard work, choice after choice after choice after choice, burying the person you might have been and the better world you could have been part of alive. And a hell of a lot of other people too.

It's a lie that some people are just "born evil" because their brains aren't neurotypical. It's, in particular, a lie fascists have used to justify the mass murder of mentally ill people. So - you'll forgive me for throwing that shit out in the trash where it belongs! That's not what Collins is saying.

And it's a lie that good people are just effortlessly good. It's a lie that's incredibly dangerous--especially as the cost of following our own inner goodness becomes higher and higher: that's what tyrants and fascists *do*--because it leaves people ill equipped to deal with going through impossible, painful things, being broken and damaged and tainted and still choosing good. It makes the stakes unclear.

It would have been better, by far, to die of exposure in the wilderness at 18 holding Lucy Gray's hand than to return to Gaul and become what Coriolanus became. It would have been an appalling thing, an obscene tragedy, for two children to die like that just because they loved each other and didn't want to participate in evil. And it's understandable why teen Coriolanus has a breakdown, unable to face the very real possibility of it. But it would have been better. Because the other option was a living death, with everything that was once alive inside rotting and turned to poison.

[berryispunk]

What Lingers

this is part 2 of "Haunted by You" part 1 here

pairing: Frankie Morales x f! reader

tags: ANGST, heartbreak, conflicted feelings, kinda love confessions, exes to????, did I mention angst?, husband! Frankie, daddy! Frankie, regrets, alcohol mention, longing, mention of addiction, an apology, betrayal, Frankie really needs a hug

summary: After Frankie's whole world shatters he finds himself back in a place he shouldn't be at.

notes: We got an alternate, way more heartbreaking ending for this which I put under the cut!

word count: ~ 3k

both parts also readable here

Frankie thought he was doing the right thing—the honorable, morally correct thing—by staying with the woman carrying his child. He told himself he could make it work, build the life society always told him was the ultimate goal.

So why did it feel like a prison?

The ache in his chest was a constant reminder—not just of what he lost, but of what he truly wanted, what he craved more than anything. You were always there, lingering in his mind, haunting his dreams when he finally managed to sleep.

He deserved every second of it.

The birth of his child should have been the moment everything clicked into place. The moment that made all the sacrifices worth it. But something felt off.

At first, it was just a whisper of doubt, a fleeting thought he pushed aside. He told himself it was exhaustion, stress, the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders. But as the days turned into weeks, the feeling only grew. It was in the way the baby’s features didn’t quite match, in the tiny details that gnawed at him when he laid awake at night. This child wasn’t his.

The thought was poison, eating away at him, and no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, it wouldn’t leave. Still, he loved the baby—God, did he love them. He held them close, rocked them to sleep, whispered promises into the soft dark. His heart felt full despite it never being fully healed after you broke up. 

But love couldn’t erase doubt.

After months of trying to swallow it down, he finally asked her. He expected denial, expected anger. What he didn’t expect was how quickly she snapped, her voice sharp, calling him crazy, accusing him of trying to ruin the one good thing they had. So he let it go. Or at least, he tried to.

Until that night.

Her affair had lasted for months—long before the pregnancy, long before Frankie had convinced himself he was doing the right thing by staying. And though she swore it was over, that she had ended it, it didn’t change a damn thing.

She hadn’t chosen him. Not then.

Maybe not ever. But he couldn’t blame her, he did the same. 

Frankie was absolutely shattered, devastated in a way that felt too deep, too consuming to put into words. He thought he’d prepared himself for the worst, but nothing could have braced him for this.

Everything he had sacrificed, every moment of pain he had endured to hold his family together—it had all been for a lie. Pain clawed up his throat, squeezing the air from his lungs. He wanted to scream, to break something, to disappear into nothing. Instead, his mind drifted to the one thing he knew could make it stop. Just for a little while.

Cocaine.

The thought hit him like a slap.

He could almost feel it—his pulse slowing, his mind numbing, the weight lifting off his chest. But at the very last second, something in him twisted, jerked him away from the edge. He exhaled, hands shaking, and almost without thinking, he grabbed his keys and walked out. His car moved on autopilot, cutting through the night, heading to the only place that made sense.

The bar. Your bar. The same one he had met you in months ago.

And there you were.

You sat alone, fingers curled around a glass, your gaze unreadable—distant—until you spotted him. Your brows furrowed, deepening as recognition set in.

"Frankie?" you asked, breathless, his name spilling from your lips—healing and hurting in equal measure.

How many nights had he laid awake, dreaming of seeing you again, of hearing your voice one last time? And now, here you were, and it all came crashing down on him. Every feeling he had buried, every sacrifice he had made to convince himself he was doing the right thing—only to realize it had all been a twisted lie.

But then, had he ever been honest with his wife? He had never told her the truth—that his heart had never truly belonged to her. That he had always kept a space for you, waiting, hoping, like a stray dog lingering at the edge of a home that was never really his, starving for scraps of something he could never have.

For a moment, he couldn't speak. His throat felt tight, his chest hollowed out by everything he had tried so hard to ignore. And you just stared at him, brows still furrowed, fingers twitching around your glass like you weren’t sure if you should reach for him or let him be.

"Frankie, what—?"

He shook his head. If he let you say his name again, he might break apart completely. He sank onto the barstool beside you, his fingers instinctively reaching for his neck, rubbing the tense muscles there—his nervous tick, the only thing keeping him grounded.

"I don’t even know why I’m here," he admitted, voice rough. "I just… I just started driving, and this is where I ended up."

You didn’t say anything at first. Just watched him, like you were seeing him for the first time all over again. And maybe, in a way, you were. He swallowed hard, staring down at his hands. 

"She had an affair," he said finally. The words burned, his voice cracking under their weight. "For months. The whole time. The baby… they aren’t mine."

Silence settled between you. Heavy. Suffocating. The kind that made his leg bounce nervously, the kind that was too hard to endure. Frankie let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. 

"And the worst part? It doesn’t even matter that she ended it. It doesn’t change a damn thing." He exhaled sharply, fingers pressing into the side of his neck as if he could squeeze out the ache beneath his skin. Then, finally, he looked up at you. "I stayed for a lie. I gave up everything for a lie."

Something flickered across your face—something he couldn’t quite place. Pain? Guilt? Understanding? Maybe all of it at once. But you didn’t speak. You didn’t turn away. So he kept going.

"I almost used," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Tonight. I almost went back to it." Your breath hitched, just slightly. He didn’t have to explain. You knew exactly what he meant.

"But you didn’t," you said softly.

His throat tightened, the sharp-edged emotions tearing him apart. And yet, here you were—just listening. He didn’t deserve that, not after your last meeting, not after everything he had done, the pain he had caused. But still, you stayed.

Frankie blinked hard, forcing down the lump in his throat. "No," he murmured. "I didn’t."

"I think I need a drink," he added, ordering the same thing he always did.

He shifted the glass in his hand, the ice clinking softly as he swirled it, watching the liquid move, mesmerized by the simplicity of it. Then, he took a sip, feeling the burn slide down his throat, grounding him—if only for a second. His whole world had just been turned upside down, shattered beyond recognition. And yet, here he was, sitting next to the only person who had never made him feel like the loser he knew he was. The only person who had every reason to curse him to hell… but didn’t.

Frankie exhaled, his fingers tightening around the glass. He wasn’t sure how to say it—how to make you understand what had been clawing at him all this time. He glanced at you, watching the way you held yourself, the way your eyes seemed to flicker with something he couldn't quite name. The silence between you stretched out, but this time, it felt familiar—like déjà vu.

He could almost hear your voice in his head, that night months ago, sitting at this very bar. He’d been about to kiss you, feeling the pull between you two, but you had stopped him. You had pulled away and told him, "You can’t risk your family."

And he hadn’t. Not then. But now? Now, it felt like the world had shifted, and the weight of everything—the lies, the betrayal, the things he couldn’t undo—came crashing down on him.

"I don’t know what I was thinking," he muttered, shaking his head, his voice rough. "I thought I was doing the right thing. That I had to go, had to try. But I was wrong. I knew I was wrong, even then."

He took a long sip, feeling the burn as it went down, but it didn’t help ease the ache in his chest. "I hurt you," he said quietly, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. "I walked away, and I didn’t let you say anything. I didn’t give you a chance. I was an idiot, stupid and reckless."

His leg bounced nervously under the table. He couldn’t stop it, couldn’t stop the restless energy that was building inside him, this need to say everything.

"You deserved better. You deserved more than that." He swallowed hard, looking away, his gaze falling to the melting ice in his drink. "Better than me, always had."

The silence stretched between you again, but it wasn’t as heavy now. It was just... waiting.

He finally forced himself to meet your eyes. "I’m sorry." The words felt too small for everything he had done, but they were all he had. "For leaving like that. For treating you like you didn’t matter when you were the only thing that ever really did."

He looked down at his hands, a shaky exhale escaping him. "I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just needed you to know."

His fingers curled around the glass, but he didn’t bring it to his lips. It was just a desperate attempt to hold onto something, to not drown. 

"Because I still care about you. More than I should." He paused, struggling to find the right words. "More than I know what to do with."

And there it was. The truth. Out in the open. The things he had kept buried for so long.

You were quiet for a long time. Too long. The weight of everything Frankie had just said seemed to settle on your chest like an anchor, pulling you under. It was visible on your face. But you kept yourself steady, breathing slowly, carefully. Finally, your voice broke through the quiet, soft but cutting.

"I'm sorry for what you're going through, Frankie," you said, your words almost too gentle, as if they were meant to soften the blow. "I really am." He felt a tightness in his chest, a strange mix of gratitude and regret, but he didn’t let it show.

"But I’m not in a place where I can just watch you destroy yourself again. I can’t do that. Not ever again."

Your words hit him like a physical blow. He wanted to say something, to argue, to explain how hard it had been—but it was useless. He deserved every ounce of it.

"An apology doesn’t fix anything," you went on, quieter now, and that’s when he felt it—the shift. Your gaze didn’t waver from his, and though he saw no anger, there was something final in your tone. "But for the first time in your life, you’re being honest with me. Instead of hiding behind your failures."

That cut deeper than he expected. For the first time, he wasn’t hiding from you, and yet, here you were, laying out the truth, and he couldn’t look away. The sharpness of your words settled into him, the bitter taste of his own mistakes lingering.

"I can give you that. But it still doesn’t change anything."

Your words felt like a door slamming shut, something irrevocable. 

"I can't go back, Frankie. Not after everything."

He opened his mouth to say something, but the words got stuck. There was nothing left to say, nothing left to fix. He had lost his chance.

Months had passed. Time, like the seasons, had moved on, relentless and unyielding. Frankie had spent most of it lost in his own head, wrestling with the weight of the past, the ache of what he had lost. It wasn’t easy—coming to terms with the fact that the one good thing in his life, the one thing that had kept him tethered to any semblance of happiness, was gone.

But somehow, he did. It wasn’t a clean cut—not by any means—but with each passing day, the pain dulled just a little more. The harsh reality of his life now felt like some cruel joke shared with his boys. Dark humor had become his coping mechanism. It was unhealthy, but it was better than the alternative. The world kept turning, whether he wanted it to or not.

And then, on a day like any other, something—someone—stopped him in his tracks.

A scent, faint but familiar, clung to the air. A smell he had once inhaled like a lifeline. The softness of it, like the last remnants of a memory, hit him before he could fully register it. He glanced around, his eyes landing on a woman walking a few steps ahead of him, her hair the same shade, the same way it used to fall over your shoulders. His heart skipped a beat, an old ache flaring up in his chest, sharp and heart wrenching. It was fleeting, just a glimpse, but it was enough to send his mind spiraling back.

The woman walked a few more steps before turning down another street, disappearing from view. But Frankie’s eyes remained locked on the spot she had vanished at, his pulse still racing, the pain still there—but now laced with something else. A desperate longing, one he’d buried so deep he thought it would never see the light of day again

And then, just as if the universe had decided to play a vicious trick again, you appeared.

You were standing right in front of him, suddenly impossibly real. Impossibly close. And just like that, his world snapped into focus. You, with that familiar smile ghosting at the corners of your lips, the same eyes that haunted him in his quietest moments now locked onto his, studying him, seeing right through him.

"Francisco Morales," you said, your voice light, teasing almost, but there was a softness there too. "I really can’t escape you, can I?"

The words landed in his chest, like a broken promise that still felt like it could heal him. His heart swelled with a bittersweet ache, as though everything he had lost, everything he had tried to let go of, was standing in front of him, alive and tangible, as if nothing had ever changed. And for the briefest moment, just before the walls he’d built around himself could fully rise again, Frankie allowed himself to believe that the universe was offering him a second chance—or at least the chance to make something right. 

He stared at you for a long moment, his heart still beating like a drum in his chest, but then he shook his head with a small smirk, as though trying to deflect the weight of it all.

"Same to you," he said, his voice light but carrying an undercurrent of something deeper. "You stalkin’ me or something?"

And just like that, a tiny spark flickered back to life between you two. You gave him a smile—just the slightest curve of your lips—but it was the kind he knew all too well, the one that only existed because of him.

ALTERNATE ENDING

Months had passed. Time, like the seasons, had moved on, relentless and unyielding. Frankie had spent most of it lost in his own head, wrestling with the weight of the past, the ache of what he had lost. It wasn’t easy—coming to terms with the fact that the one good thing in his life, the one thing that had kept him tethered to any semblance of happiness, was gone.

But somehow, he did. It wasn’t a clean cut—not by any means—but with each passing day, the pain dulled just a little more. The harsh reality of his life now felt like some cruel joke shared with his boys. Dark humor had become his coping mechanism. It was unhealthy, but it was better than the alternative. The world kept turning, whether he wanted it to or not.

And then, on a day like any other, something—someone—stopped him in his tracks.

A scent, faint but familiar, clung to the air. A smell he had once inhaled like a lifeline. The softness of it, like the last remnants of a memory, hit him before he could fully register it. He glanced around, his eyes landing on a woman walking a few steps ahead of him, her hair the same shade, the same way it used to fall over your shoulders. His heart skipped a beat, an old ache flaring up in his chest, sharp and heart wrenching. It was fleeting, just a glimpse, but it was enough to send his mind spiraling back.

The woman walked a few more steps before turning down another street, disappearing from view. But Frankie’s eyes remained locked on the spot she had vanished at, his pulse still racing, the pain still there. But as she turned the corner and disappeared from view, reality crashed into him like a cold wave. She wasn’t you. She couldn’t be.

The sharp pain in his chest only deepened. The ache that had never fully gone away flared up again, and suddenly, the weight of everything he had lost felt unbearable. He stood frozen in place, watching the empty street where she had walked, his mind unable to process the vicious trick his heart had just played on him.

It was as if, for that brief moment, he had allowed himself to believe in the impossible. That maybe, somehow, fate had found a way to bring you back. But it wasn’t you. It was just another woman, another fleeting image that reminded him of something he would never have again.

He couldn’t bring himself to move. He just stood there, paralyzed by the emptiness that settled in his chest. And as the seconds stretched into minutes, Frankie realized something he had refused to admit to himself before: the ache, the longing, the heartache—it would never go away. Not for her. Not for you.

He was still alone. And he always would be.

my masterlist - in case you're hungry for more :)

[redeclipsee]

This is just going to be a little rant about Galadriel, Haladriel, Celeborn and other thingies I've seen discourse about lately. And this is by no means discrediting people's opinions. I just wanted to talk about it lol

I've always been pro-ship. Ship whatever the hell you want. "Problematic" ships, morally wrong ships, just whatever. As long as you're not being an asshole to other people.

Which led me to Haladriel. Haladriel is easily the most popular ship of the show, and with the end of S2, I've seen people attacking the ship, but I've seen more people demanding for Haladriel to become "canon" and absolutely shitting on other characters, plots and fans who enjoy other parts of the show that don't revolve around the ship. And it's quite embarrassing.

In the show, Sauron and Galadriel are foil characters to each other. I don't think hoping for them to face each other each season is unrealistic or even bad. In fact, it's expected. Whenever Sauron chooses darkness, Galadriel will choose light. It's a dance with those characters. 

BUT demanding the romantic ship to become canon and being mean to everyone who says otherwise is bad. You don't need canon to ship them or read them as romantic (because let's be real, the show left it to interpretation, and it's fantastic). Sauron and Galadriel being canon makes absolutely no sense with the lore, the world and the characters. We already know what the characters end up like, so being childish because they won't kiss is embarrassing.

Which leads me to some people hating the character Celeborn. We haven't even seen him in the show and yet, top 5 hated characters. I've seen more people attacking people who want Celeborn and Celeborn and Galadriel giving the most absolute insane takes; "he's boring", "you want Galadriel to be a tradwife", "you just hate Haladriel shippers“, among others. Which all of them are insane. How can you say he’s boring when we haven’t even seen him on the show? Galadriel can be happy, have a loving husband and be badass, be for real. And well, people can ship whatever. If people like Celedriel more than Haladriel is their right? Just as people can dislike Celedriel and like Haladriel, just be kind to each other idk.

SAURON & GALADRIEL

For me, there was a little romance between Galadriel and Sauron on S1. I think Sauron fell in love with her light and her power. I think Galadriel fell in love with the understanding that Halbrand gave her that she couldn’t find in anyone else, her “darkside” was understood. But Sauron’s idea of love can’t be anything but twisted and Galadriel could never really love Sauron. So yes, for me, there was love, but it was twisted.

Sauron is obsessed with her light. He wanted her power just as he wanted Celebrimbor’s art. And he won’t ever renounce it, so he’ll chace it and tempt her at every occasion he can, because he wants her light. Sauron, who thinks he needs to control everyone on Middle Earth to “heal” it, naturally has an obsession with the Lady of Light.

But that’s all there is. Because Galadriel could never truly love Sauron even when he’s the only one that could understand her darkest desires the most. 

GALADRIEL'S JOURNEY

I’ve seen people saying that her speech of “all peoples of Middle Earth will always resist you” is bad because it makes Galadriel abandon her personal goal of hunting Sauron for the greater good, not allowing a woman to have her own agency and advocating for everyone else. And well, I would agree if we weren’t talking about a Tolkien adaptation.

S1 Galadriel is galloping alone. No one believes her, no one understands her, and she can’t stop her quest. She’s prideful and selfish to an extent, and it’s her choices alone, her own internal desire to bring Sauron down that, unaware, brings him back to Middle Earth. She fucks up monumentally. 

S2 Galadriel is about the consequences of her actions, but also, realizing she’s not alone. Her letting go of Finrod's dagger at the end of S1 was a beautiful way of letting go of her quest. Gil-Galad and Galadriel’s relationship in S2 shines because Gil-Galad is harsh on her as much as he believes in her, and he tells her that. S2 Galadriel has no company and has to deal with the tables turned around by being part of Elrond’s company. Elrond, who was also acting stubborn like a mule and refused to listen to anyone (just like her S1 self). S2 Galadriel is about her finding that she’s not alone and that Finrod’s quest is over, and it’s time to fight for Middle Earth, all of it.

Going forward is about her becoming the Lady of Light that we know in Lord of the Rings. And yes, she’ll always have a darkside, she’ll always be prideful and ambitious, and I’m so excited to see hints of that in the upcoming seasons, but I don't think saying her putting aside her personal and prideful quest is bad is fair to the story the show is trying to tell. This is Tolkien, and it makes complete sense for it to be like that.

So yeah, in resume… I love Haladriel, but I don’t want them to ever be canon. I can’t wait for Celeborn to show up, and I can’t wait to see how the show develops Galadriel’s journey in the upcoming seasons! Just remember to be kind to other people, even if they don’t like your ships.

[barrenclan]

Rainhaze’s end is finally here. I can’t say I’m surprise. Either way I truly enjoyed his fall from grace. It’s kinda hard for me to even interpret what he’s even saying. But from reading it over a few times, Rainhaze has become completely nihilistic. Rainhaze killed Asphodelpaw to completely submit himself into being Ranger’s “dog”. So now he acts and embraces that role. The old Rainhaze struggled with feeling immense guilt due to how much killing he was forced to do. It’s hard for anybody to live with that much amount of guilt. So no wonder that he’s changed. He has a new-found freedom of not giving a shit about his actions anymore. Another reason he may feel so euphoric after the Asphodel killing is that was his first ever choice in a long time. His first kill that Ranger didn’t force him to do. He’s finally gotten back control. Even if his agency is fully choosing to be someone else’s “dog”

I can’t help but feel pity for his bond with Ranger. He loved Ranger and Hacksaw in some twisted way. Because they made him into the person he is right now. Helped him discover a new found freedom that comes with life being meaningless. To not love them would mean to hate Rainhaze’s self. And Rainhaze couldn’t bare to feel anymore self-hatred. The fact he reached out to Ranger in his last moments, only for him to stab him in the back, honestly makes me feel bad for him

Though I think a tiny bit of his old, moral, self still lingers despite what he says. Because he still justifies killing Asphodel as if he was euthanizing her instead of straight up murder. Her life is as meaningless as his own life. He’s doing her a favor by stopping the suffering that is living. Deluding himself into think she wasn’t suffering in her last moments. Though right after he says that, karma hits him and he feels what Asphodel felt in her last moments. Realizing that death isn’t as peaceful as he thought it’d be

Not all Defiance members are nihilistic, but Rainhaze definitely embraced a certain meaningless to life that helps him cope with the weight of what he's done. He very, very much needed to justify his actions because otherwise he'd have the feel the full weight of them.

[in1-nutshell]

Hello it's me, I just want to say I love what you did with the the ask I sent, I didn't know I had to say what specific autobots so I apologize for that, if it's not to much trouble could you maybe do arcee and Bumblebee with the kid seeker buddy who looks up to Starscream for his skills in flight and wants be be like him someday? Again I apologize for not being specific.

More Kid Seeker Buddy!

Also, its fine if you forget to specify things like specifying, we all make mistakes.

Hope you enjoy!

Bot Buddy Kid Seeker having Starscream as their idol with Arcee and Bumblebee

SFW, Platonic, Familial, Cybertronain reader

TFP

Arcee

“Did…did you just complemented Starscream?”--Arcee

“Yeah! I mean that barrel roll with the missile trick was so cool! I really want to learn that—”--Buddy

“That’s a technique for the Con’s.”--Arcee

“Not if I learn it!”--Buddy

“Well, the only way your going to learn is if you’re a Con, but your not, are you?”--Arcee

“…”--Buddy

Arcee doesn’t take it well.

Might go off on Buddy.

This’ll cause a bit of a rift between Arcee and Buddy.

A big part of Arcee feels betrayed by this news. Starscream had a hand in so many of the problems the team faced, not to mention that he offlined Cliffjumper and nearly her.

There is a small part of her that understands Buddy though. That Buddy has only mentioned the aerial techniques to help the Autobots out better on missions. Nothing about wanting to be a mini Starscream.

But Arcee has a hard time letting go of grudges, so it takes some time for her to feel ready to talk to Buddy about the problem.

However, Arcee absolutely demolishes Starscream when he tries to get close to Buddy.

After a few days after the ordeal, Arcee will have a talk with buddy about what happened and about their position on the team as well as their family.

“You know… we all look up to different things or bots. I guess learning and practicing Starscream’s moves would be beneficial for you to learn.”--Arcee

“Really?! Because I’ve been wanting to use them to help the team more!”--Buddy

“And you do already, in your own special way, you already do. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, Buddy.”--Arcee

“Thanks, Arcee!”--Buddy

“Don’t mention it kid.”--Arcee

Bumblebee

“Bep? (What?)”--Bumblebee

“Sure, he has some twisted sense of moralities, but he didn’t earn Second in Command of the Seeker’s for nothing Bee! I gotta learn some of his moves!”--Buddy

“…Bep?(What?)”--Bumblebee

Bumblebee stops whatever he is doing and does a double take.

He doesn’t get it.

How could Buddy find something to like about that Seeker?

He goes to Optimus for guidance, where he takes a moment to look into Buddy’s position.

Being the only air alt mode, it separated Buddy from a lot of the ground activities the team did. And not to mention the underlying discrimination amongst Autobots to Seekers as they are usually associated with Cons.

He feels bad and promises to himself to be a better teammate and friend to Buddy after some reflecting. Maybe going out on patrol with them more or even have simple chats about anything with them.

Bumblebee is letting rapid fire out of his blaster when he sees Starscream come close to Buddy.

When everyone comes back to the base, he’ll apologize to Buddy on how he reacted and tell them what a great teammate they are.

“Boop bepbop bep! (That was some cool aerial tricks there, Buddy!)”--Bumblebee

“You think so? I’ve been practicing more than usual to get it down. That way I can be a bit more useful when it comes to more missions like this!”--Buddy

“Bep beop boop bop bep. Beep bop bop bep. Beep beep beep boop bop. (Just because you want to improve on some tricks that can help us, doesn’t mean what you’re doing now isn’t having a great effect on us. You’re a great teammate and even better friend, Buddy. You’re not just some weapon or back up plan, your family.)”--Bumblebee

“…Thanks Bee… it means a lot.”--Buddy

“Beep bep! (No problem, Buddy!)”--Bumblebee

[franticbindings]

I've been thinking that there isn't any reason for Steel to be playing such a long game if she really is a bad actor and in on/in support of stuff like the derrick - but getting Suvi into position for the spider business is a possible payoff for all of this. Otherwise why even pretend to be a good guy to fool some 20 year olds you could squash without trying, you know? Making the spider has been in the works for a long time. Sly knew about the conclave - someone else easily could have.

I'll be disappointed if Steel turns out to be In On It, or even Behind It All Along though. Great dramatic fallout for Suvi but in some ways it simplifies the situation. For everything we've seen from Steel up until now to be some kind of act just doesn't feel properly set up and I'm gonna feel : / about it.

There are a lot of places you could go with Steel as a villain - she betrayed Soft/Stone and Yoren was a good guy all along - a dramatic reversal to be sure but for that kind of twist to hold up to scrutiny at this point the plotting would have to be so INCREDIBLY intricate that I'm just not that interested when you could take the story somewhere that feels more honest and straightforward.

What I'm hoping for is that Steel really didn't know, but still sides with her duty when it turns out that she doesn't have the influence to put a stop to it because the citadel is so much bigger than her for all that she's important.

Edit: When I used "villain" here I mean just an outright antagonist in the conflict established in today's episode. As in, she has been lying about how great spirits should be respected, and has been all in on enslaving them all along. She wanted them to wait for her in Port Talon because she wanted to see how Morrow did it so they could do it again. There are plenty of reasons you could give that would make this position understandable and morally gray! Theres a war on! There's a great spirit plotting their downfall right now, after all.

I just most likely won't buy the level of flawless interpersonal deception over such an extended time with her relationship to Suvi as being a reasonable way for her to have pursued her goals unless there is some really intricate shit with a prophecy involved at which point I will roll my eyes.

[raphaellight]

What puts people in heaven and hell?

Despite having clues enough to MAYBE tell what definitelly doesn't influence whos in hell and who's ending up in heaven, I feel I didn't post for a long time enough to list possible ideas.

Let's start with what we know. Adam is in heaven, despite being a propostrous dick, while Angel still sits in hell, seemingly only because his soul is sold.

Leading PROBABLY a rather good life, with how much children appreciated her and how she stopped the class just to call her husband to wish him best on his birthday, Teacher for Helluva Boss ep. 1 ended up in hell after one, brutal, yet rage induced slaughter.

Souls just appear in heaven and hell, without any known trial. Even if there is some "soul limbo" where people are judged, they don't remember it.

Sinners can't leave the Pride Ring. (yes, it might be important to the topic). We don't know if winners can leave heaven, but noone said they can't so we can assume they can.

Also St. Peter has a list of People permitted to enter heaven.

What does it gives us?

"Lucifer" inspired idea, human soul is bounding itself to hell. A thing about "final death" of sinner is, their soul still wanders hell after being strucked with angelic weapons. Sinners can't leave Pride Ring. Maybe it's not that they can't leave it. Maybe the doors are locked from the inside. Pride, in christian philosophy/morality considered probably the worst of all sins, is the very thing that stops people from change. To deal with an issue, you need to admit you have one. To become better, you have to admit you're imperfect. I propose the symbolic connection between Pride Ring being the prison of sinners: they have to admit they want to go to heaven and want to change. You need to admit you aren't in your own heaven, which also is one of the preveiling christians idea. "Better to rule in hell than serve in heaven" as Milton states. “There are only two kinds of people in the end: those who say to God, 'Thy will be done,' and those to whom God says, in the end, 'Thy will be done.'". One of the things that connects people living in Hazbin Hotel, Angel, Husker and Sir Pentious (not counting Alastor and Niffty) is that they admit they are unhappy with how things are going for them. And you know what, for the fact story takes place in hell, they are extreme minority among hell's residendts. And maybe that's what it takes.

Look, everyone asked in ep. 6, "How isn't Angel Dust in heaven?" Apart from the biding contract, that may prove to be very hard issue to deal with in his way onto heaven, what if Angel already is in the good will? What if Lucifer opene a portal to heaven, Angel could just walk into there and no magical borders would appear.

That would explain Sir Pentious'es redemption. His demonic body if killed of, but because he pushed his Ego aside, because Charlie inspired him to admit he wants a better life, pride was no longer binding him to hell, his soul instead of wandering it left towards a figurative and literall light. And when he entered heaven, he got a new body. Vivienne herself said, that every sinner has a "heavenly form". What if all it takes to conjure it is to come to the gates of heaven and allow it to appear.

That doesn't explain a list. But just as with anything, we don't have a lot of information about it. It might have been just to place a known image of heaven. And pages of this book seem to be written by hand, possibly by St. Peter, so maybe he doesn't know before hand, but he enters those who appear.

So how is Adam in heaven? Well, because, despite his utterly twisted acions, he genuenly wanted to be there. He was truly not bound by his pride, at least in time of ascending, that he was not pulled there.

Or he never ate an apple. Of course christian story of Adam and Eve says otherwise, but take notice, intro to Hazbin Hotel actually specifies only, that Lucifer and Lilith gave apple to Eve. And then Adam, in the first episode, says "I never made a mistake in my life". I would say, that even for someone as egocentric as Adam, he would never say eating an apple wasn't a mistake when it placed evil in the known world.

But wait, what type of Evil?

"Not everything is spelled in ink." Sera says to Emily, when she asks about what decides who gets into heaven. And in the intro, when Charlie explains the story of heaven and hell, moment of eating an apple is the moment images shows some type of red, poison like entity, growing of it. Angels were shealding the world from evil. Eating an apple allowed it to enter the earth. It is represented with Eyes. And we know for a fact of concept arts of waiting to appear demon called Ruth. It's an element of that evil, that had to enter someone's heart for him to get a possibility to enter hell as a sinner. Because by defeault, everyone is destined for heaven. That's why Adam could enter it.

Or it is that he was still a semi-good guy when dying but phew thousand years in a country that says "You are better" did their thing and he became what we knew him for. Egocentric megalomaniac, who's acions are despicable and who's songs slaps.

Possible that I will continue this post, yet still just putting it for now as it is. Want to know your thoughs and follow for more of post like those

[yatori-morgana]

I want to clarify something, and it's something that's probably gonna piss people off. (This was edited after a post-sleep correction.)

I'm not against proshippers. What I'm against is specifically people shipping incest and pedophilia without seeing a problem with it or in an attempt to normalize something harmful in the real world. I literally couldn't give less of a damn if there's a major power dynamic or a large age gap between adults or literally what the fuck else gets people's panties in a twist these days.

All I care about is that you're aware the thing is bad in a real life setting. I just don't want to see the two aforementioned things for obvious reasons. But I also don't have to look at it. End of story.

But see, there's something to be had in a character that has specific, uh, "preferences." It can be used as a vehicle for a very compelling tale. For instance, I'd watched an anime sooooomewhat recently where the main character was cheated on by her husband — who was secretly in a relationship with his own sister. That was an assault on my eyes, sure, but it had narrative purpose and wasn't normalizing it in the way that, "Oh, people in real life should hook up with their family members!! So cool and hip!!" Ew? No?

That's why my DNI specifically states to stay away if you ship incest or pedophilia, not if you're a proshipper. I don't want to see those specific things. Again, for obvious reasons. But shipping, say, an abusive relationship (while understanding it's morally wrong in the real world) isn't something that's going to piss me off. It's just a matter of live and let live. It's only harmful if it's being treated as normal and innocent in real life settings.

Literally what is it hurting otherwise? Someone's feelings? Just stay away from the thing you don't like. Stop attacking them. (Weird how I've noticed more proshippers being kind to others than those against them. Just a thought about open-mindedness.)

Idk if I properly made the points I want to make. I'm tired. It's 5:30 AM, and I haven't slept a wink yet. Good night.

[onegianthotmess]

I’m gonna talk about Ettie’s Signature Spell because I’m on Book 2 in Twisted Wonderland and I find the scenario in my head very funny.

So, spoiler warning for Book 2!!!

I feel that Rougely and Ruggie would be the ones who sabotage players for the Spelldrive Tournament because even though Ettie is willing to do as Leona says, she will not go against her own morals since she believes that sabotaging in a competition is not okay at all and would rather face the best opponents and give it her all than cheat her way to get the upper hand. Basically, she just doesn’t like cheating as it goes against her beliefs of hard work above all and only being sneaky in order to survive.

Getting onto Ettie’s Signature Spell, it’s called “A Giggle For Your Thoughts?” and is actually quite devious despite the seemingly innocent look of how it works. Ettie’s Signature Spell allows her to force someone to laugh and they will not stop until she releases them from her spell. Even though people doubt her Signature Spell’s effectiveness, they immediately think otherwise when they realize just how much it hurts to laugh for three minutes straight without a single hint of stopping.

So, imagine the horror Ruggie and Rougely feel when Ettie finds out what they’ve been doing. They already know to not get their sister angry, but they knew that they were doing something that warranted her Signature Spell being used on them as punishment and they knew the torture her spell was. So just imagine both of them on the ground, crying from laughing because it hurts so bad due to laughing nonstop for ten minutes. Ettie has to hear full apologies and genuine promises to never do it again before she releases her older brothers.

Ettie learned from Grandma Bucchi and doesn’t tolerate nonsense from her brothers and knows how to keep them in line in her stead while at NRC. She learned from the best and is very quick to write to Grammy about it all and assuring her that Ruggie and Rougely have learned their lesson.

In other words, avoid having Ettie use her Signature Spell on you at all costs. Learn from Rougely and Ruggie’s mistakes, please-

[inquisimer]

IT’S FRIDAY MER!!!!! Let’s see some Solas x Lavellan for the prompt ❛ i’m sorry that i can’t save you. ❜ from the hit 'em where it hurts sentence starters? 🤷‍♀️👀😈

takes your angst and rotates it into fluff

some pre-ship solavellan for @dadrunkwriting

wc: 994

~~~

Irosyl frowned at the chess board, trying to make her confused expression one of deep thought. Across the stone platform, the Commander was very politely pretending not to watch her from the corner of his eyes. She hesitantly lifted a rook and rolled the marble cylinder between her fingers.

It clicked against the board when she set it down. Cullen gave up his pretense of ignorance and immediately folded his hands under his chin, considering. Suppressing a sigh, Irosyl’s gaze darted out across the gardens.

The things shemlen did for fun. And the things she apparently did to appease the shems.

She meant to look back, to pretend that she could do any sort of analysis on the Commander’s strategy, but the glint of sunlight off a bald head caught her eye. Solas was in the gardens, collecting elfroot by the looks of it.

“Savhalla!” she called, a bit louder than strictly necessary, but she wanted to be sure Solas could not pretend not to hear her. Plate metal scraped in an unpleasant screech as Cullen jumped slightly, but success! Solas turned so that she was looking at him in profile, one eyebrow slightly raised.

Elfroot in hand, he came closer. “On dhea’him, Inquisitor,” he said at a much more reasonable volume. His low voice slipped down her spine like silk and she suppressed a shameful shiver.

She frowned, though. “I thought we were over the nonsense of that awful title.”

A distressed noise came from across the board. Cullen gave her an exasperated look as he moved one of his smallest pieces to capture the rook she’d just placed.

“Fenhedis,” she muttered.

“You really must stop disparaging your title in public, Inquisitor,” Cullen said, the honorific rolling from his tongue pointedly. He tilted his head toward where a number of agents and servants were clustered, mere paces from their game. “It does poorly for morale and faith to have our leader so…”

He trailed off, probably searching for the least offensive way to phrase his concern. Ever merciless, Irosyl crossed her arms and frowned.

“Impertinent?” Solas suggested, the hint of a glib smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.

“I am not—“

“It is your move, is it not?” Solas cut her off smoothly, unquestionable with the infuriatingly smooth authority. He glanced over the board and this time his smirk reached the surface. “Well. They always did say losing was it’s own art form.”

Irosyl huffed, wondering why she’d called him over in the first place. “What, could you do better? It’s not as if chess was a common pasttime in my clan.”

“I could, yes.”

Irosyl rolled her eyes. She gave Solas her back and considered the board, as if looking at the pieces would actually help her. As she lifted one of her pawns, Cullen offered her a sympathetic smile.

“Do not feel bad,” he said gently. “They say chess is a skill learned over a lifetime. I’ve been playing since I was a child, myself.”

“Is that so?” Irosyl hummed curiously. She couldn’t imagine any of the wiggly, high-spirited children in her clan sitting still long enough to learn even the basic rules of this game. Nor would it occur to any of the elders to insist that they should. A pang of longing struck her heart and for a moment she longed to flee but—

“Oh, fenhedis,” she hissed. Cullen slid his queen along the board and a self-satisfied smirk pulled at the scar on his lip.

“I do believe that’s checkmate.”

“Of course it is,” Irosyl groaned, burying her hands in her hair. “Oh, Bull is gonna have my head over this. He’ll know I haven’t been paying attention.”

“I’m sure he knows already,” Solas commented. “He would be a poor spy otherwise.”

Irosyl’s face twisted in distaste. “Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

Stone scraped against stone as the Commander stood, sketched a bow to the elf across from him. “Thank you for the game, Inquisitor. I’m afraid I must take my leave and return to work.”

“Of course,” Irosyl waved her hand. “It was a…pleasant distraction, Commander.”

“Was it?” Solas asked, surprising Irosyl by sliding into Cullen’s empty seat as he walked away to the battlements. The other elf reset the board with deft, knowing hands, ignoring his partner’s surprised look. Lacing her fingers together, Irosyl rested her chin on them and regarded him with ill-disguised curiosity.

“And if it was?”

“Then I would have expected you to come up with a better way to express it.”

Something halfway between a laugh and a scoff escaped Irosyl. For as unreadable as Solas had been—since the beginning—he could certainly read her like a book.

“Yes, well…” She pursed her lips, considering the fresh alignment of pieces. Solas had given her the ivory half, so she was expected to move first. So he could gauge her style, no doubt. Bull had told her that intellectuals used such analysis to learn intimate details of their opponents.

Intellectuals. Irosyl wrinkled her nose.

“The commander is someone I must appease,” she said, nudging a pawn forward. “As opposed to this game which—“

She folded her hands and regarded him intently over them. “I will enjoy. Immensely.”

“Yes, well.” Solas cleared his throat—was it Irosyl’s imagination, or were the tips of his ears going pink? It should be able to tell against his lily white skin, but as in all things, he was hard to read. “I couldn’t quite save you from the Commander’s attention, so the least I could do is replace it with something more…palatable.”

“What high praise you give yourself,” Irosyl teased.

He rolled his eyes, then raised an eyebrow as she moved her pawn forward rather aggressively. “Is that the kind of recklessness the Iron Bull has been teaching you?”

Irosyl pouted.

Leaning forward, Solas pushed her pawn back to where it had been before. “Let me teach you how to beat him, falon.”

[sil-and-seals-blog-something]

I have DND in like, an hour and a half, so I gotta make this prompt/idea dump quick.

DPxDC ideas to dump on anyone who wants to hear!

This one is focus on a little piece of Jason and Danny’s revivals.

So, first, Jason. Jason has had multiple things attributed to his revival, so I gotta clarify his first. For this idea, I wanna focus on the one that is basically this; Superboy-Prime (alternate version of Superman from Earth-Prime, which is a world devoid of any superhumans. Superheroes are comic book characters there. He gets the powers of Superman and, over time, his morals twist into much darker and villain-like morals. There’s more to him, but I won’t get into that) basically punched reality hard enough (at some point) that a lot of things happened as a result, including Jason reviving, but the panel that shows this stuff makes it look like reality broke like glass. So, I imagine that that leaves some sort of mark of Jason. He’s alive because of reality literally getting broken. (Like, don’t get me wrong, I love the Lazarus Pits stuff and all, but I wanna see more about the reality shenanigans of Jason’s revival)

Danny is kinda in a similar boat of having a funky relationship with the fabric of reality. He died and revived WITHIN A HOLE IN REALITY OPENING UP INTO ANOTHER REALITY. That’s gotta have some funkier side effects than just being a powerful halfa. Vlad is a powerful halfa and he only had a blast of ectoplasm thrown at him. Danny had reality tear open on him.

(I only brought Danny up because this thought process technically counts for him as well. But, he actually has this used much more than Jason.)

I’d love to see these details used more. Like, are they walking tears or breaks in reality? Can anyone tell that they have funky reality stuff going on? Are they a danger to reality? Is the reality stuff a danger to them? Is it like an open wound? Can it be worsened? Can it be treated? Would they die (or worse, stop existing) from it being treated? Do they get anything from the funky reality stuff going on with them? Does it fade without causing problems? Or does it remain in the background in a way that they don’t even realize that something is off about them until something happens and now it’s this big thing they have to deal with? Would their reality funkiness be the same or different?

And for DPxDC? Jason could be a halfa or he could just be some undead (maybe not even a specific type of undead beyond having been revived) that feels funky, funky in a way similar to Danny that gets Danny’s rogue gallery thinking that Jason is like Danny and either decides to mess with him (like they would with Danny) or try to get him to meet Danny (whether that’s to make them friends or otherwise is up to the writer)

Why don’t we jump on other places in the DC universe as having high ectoplasmic levels? Like, (in some stories, like, I’m not sure if this applies to the common consensus honestly) Central City had that wave of energy from the particle accelerator that activated a bunch of peoples’ metagenes, and I’m pretty sure that it also killed some people. There’s also the Black Flash, who is basically a grim reaper for the speedforce, who’ll appear in Central Coty (due to the multitude of speedsters there). Central City can be reasonably stated to have, at least, rising ectoplasmic levels. The cities that face alien invasions would reasonably have a lot of deaths and therefore a lot of ectoplasm. We can use a lot of other cities as settings. Also, I’d love to imagine the different possible city spirits people could come up with? Like, I’ve seen Metropolis done a few time, but besides Metropolis and Gotham? No other location spirits. Like:

Themyscira: Probably an old/wise warrior. She’d be set in her ways (considering how Themyscira is), but like, who knows?

Central City: Probably a young one if existent (at least, younger than Lady Gotham)? I imagine this one changing to be like the Flash family or scientific because the two notable things about Central City, that I remember, is science stuff and the Flash family.

Metropolis AND Smallville: So, I’ve seen some people play with the idea of the spirit of Krypton going and becoming Metropolis’s, but like, what if they became Smallville’s instead? Since, that’s where the Last Son of Krypton was raised and all, and where Kryptonians go as a safe space, and the spirit of Krypton probably needs the retirement to a small town. Metropolis could probably get a city spirit that reflects both Superman and Lex Luthor (Superman and Lex are the big names for Metropolis and both shape Metropolis in different ways. Yeah, Lex isn’t the best person, but he does cause some good things to happen for Metropolis. I imagine that the two are equally defining characters for Metropolis) instead.

I just, enjoy the concept of city spirits and spirits that embody a place.

This idea here is less of a prompt and more of a thought. What if Boston Deadman had no idea about ectoplasmic ghosts? Like, imagine having to need someone to magically make you visible, and then finding out about a whole other sect of ghosts that can be both visible AND tangible that can also have the same powers as you, just as a common baseline. It’s just hilarious to me to imagine how vindicated Deadman would probably feel to find out that he could’ve become that type of ghost instead, but no, he just had to be a magically bound one instead!

Idea for those who don’t like Jason just casually being cured of Pit Madness. Genuine attempt to heal him leads to Jason going catatonic again. Play with that as you will.

Hope y’all have fun with these. Feel free to mix and match, or recommend pieces of work that already have these or something similar.

[krokaxe]

• OC SMASH OR PASS •

Tagged by: @koilarist

RULES: pretty self explanatory. include physical descriptions or pics, and propaganda. the “other” label can be used for “sexuality misalignment” (ie: oc is femme and you’re gay, vice versa or you aren’t into smashing but a specific thing you wanna do with them like perhaps hug or study them under a microscope idc).

• NIRVANA KARON •

• QUICK FACTS •

Name: Nirvana Karon; Bubs

Gender: Cis Woman

Pronouns: She/Her

Height: 5'7" before heels

Sexuality: Bisexual • Heteroromantic

• PROS •

Easy company if you're inclined to her flavour of cryptic, low-stress energy.

Conversational; highly intelligent, enjoys absorbing new information. Observational in the same vein.

Talented seamstress. Will be inclined to create custom clothing for you if you tickle her aesthetic draw; she enjoys beautiful people for obvious reasons.

Bilingual; latine heritage.

Musically inclined, but not so readily inclined to share unless you're considered intimate company.

Fucks Biblical, like worship; she is both altar and confessional. Prefers to take a control role/dominant stance and will not cave on that unless the relationship is romantic. Exceptions apply*.

Well connected with a great deal of clout in certain sectors.

Mixologist and bar staff for the nightclub Rapture. Dances are reserved for a pleasure only basis.

Consistent and reliable. She's difficult to shake from her status as permanently calm, collected and in control. Confident, independent.

Hedonist who will incline herself to indulgence for the sake of sensation.

Considerably well presented, well put together and knows how to hold her presence.

Information hoarder; the best person to go to should you want to know something. Albeit you'll have to barter for what you'd like to know.

Popular in the way the unknown tend to be. People want to know her; being in her company promotes you to qualifying as 'interesting'.

• CONS •

She is fully aware of the effect she has on people. She does not use this for good.

*Manipulation and game-playing come hand and hand with Nirvana exposure. She will change her behaviour to make you feel special if it serves her.

You have to earn the right to sleep with her by metric of being interesting, appealing and not being too stupid in her presence.

You will be stupid in her presence.

Criminal connection renders her dangerous to be around by default.

Liable to find you boring unless you maintain a degree of interesting, engaging or fun behaviour.

Emotionally closed off; incredibly difficult to know on a deeper level. Doesn't trust anybody unless she has a great deal of blackmail fodder, and even then there's thresholds of trust to consider.

Cryptic, lyrical manner of speech that can make her difficult to understand. Sometimes it's deliberate.

Her family won't like you. Full stop. Her baby sister might, but she'd like a sock with googly eyes. You will never matter to her more than her family or her agnda either.

You'll always be less than she deserves, can obtain, or knows she's worthy of. She'll let you try to prove otherwise until it gets boring.

The taboo is part of her framework; you cannot escape it. She will twist you toward darker fantasies no matter how immoral.

She wants to see if she can break you. She can.

Do you like snakes? No? You should leave immediately.

Nirvana isn't the worst member of the family to deal with. She'll feed you to the others for her own amusement.

Her morals are grey. She doesn't care for the concept for who deserves something and who doesn't; she's her own authority.

High risk, creates the highest rewards that keep people coming back over and over again.

Tagging: @datura-tea • @wastelandhell • @aelyosos • @luubyart • @ss-bullseye • @grimbothefool • If you'd like to do this and haven't been tagged, consider yourside tagged by me.

[avikats66]

In Defense of Ursa…

I don’t doubt that Ursa loved Azula when she was born, or that she still loved Azula throughout her childhood, though certainly that love became strained and damaged - even diminished - in ways it never did with Zuko. It was a tragedy that a wedge developed between them after Ozai took interest in Azula - in an entirely self-serving and not out of any genuine care or love way - because he wanted to use and exploit her as his daughter and a fire bending prodigy for his own power and pride. He groomed Azula - not sexually, but as the person he wanted her to be. A daughter and heir loyal to him, who would shared his values and traits, who would serve him and his wicked goals, who would be merciless and brutal like him.

Ursa was there as this process took place over a period of years, but we should consider the position she was in too. She certainly didn’t have equal power to her husband, who would have done his best to isolate her from Azula and prevent her from being turned away from his influence. And for a young child who’s got one parent praising and rewarding them for certain behaviour, then the other discouraging and disproving that same behaviour - even if not in abusive or unkind manner - that child is going to respond to and seek out the former with the greater positive feedback, without yet the knowledge or reasoning ability to evaluate the behaviour being taught to them on a critical or moral level.

Not only does Ursa not share equal power over the upbringing of her children (Azula even more so than Zuko given Ozai’s interest in her as above mentioned), she just a normal person in an awful situation no mother should ever have to be in. She is not a child behaviouralist or therapist, with knowledge or training about how to best go about helping a child in Azula’s situation; nor does she have access to anyone else who is. Indeed, she is surrounded by people who likely all either support or are unconcerned by/with the way Firelord Ozai is raising his daughter, or those who have even less power to possibly oppose him than she does, who could suffer grievous consequences or their very lives even for trying.

Ursa is trapped as the wife of the Firelord, unable to leave and take her children away from this PoS man and father. And she can’t stop him from doing his best to twist their daughter into a cruel and wicked person like himself; doesn’t know how to best help her even when and where she can, being blocked from or otherwise unable to try and intervene in the first place. And the older Azula grows, the more and more Ozai corrupts her, the less Ursa knows how to deal with it, the less hope she has of being able to heal it, and the more strained their relationship becomes. It’s a viscous circle: Azula learns a toxic behaviour/idea/belief from Ozai, Ursa tries to discourage her from it or teach her contrary, Azula is off-put and returns to Ozai where she will continue to receive clear and unambiguous positive affirmation and reinforcement, Ursa becomes more distraught and struggles to connect with Azula, Azula senses this and again goes to her father, etc. etc.

Could Ursa have done better, tried harder, done something differently in order to help Azula more? Yeah, probably, but I think she also very honestly did as best she could as can be reasonably expected of her given her circumstances as explained above. It’s very easy for us to judge her as viewers far-removed from this fictional situation - especially if we have never been in a similar sort of situation ourselves.

This is, of course, merely my personal headcanon based on limited canon information. There are many different interpretations and opinions on Ursa and her relationship with Azula; these are just some of mine.