#THE NETTING??? I feel like even the COLOR makes it more jarring LIKE???

[cwispihae]

Had to take a swing at this insane Usopp fit GOOD LORD

[abbotjack]

Showing Up Anyway

THE LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST , PREVIOUS PART : IRREGULARITIES

summary : A wedding countdown set against night shifts, compliance deadlines, trauma bays, and Target registries. Two imperfect people, choosing each other again and again.

word count : 16,330

a/n : Here it is.. the long-awaited new official chapter in the series! I’ve been working on this one since I released the prequel back in May, so it’s been a labor of love (and many, many rewrites). Because it’s grown into something bigger than I expected, I ended up splitting it into two part. This chapter is the lead-up, and the wedding + honeymoon will be posted later this week. Thank you for your patience ♡

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI !!! slow burn, emotional intimacy, wedding planning, night shift/9–5 relationship dynamic, war references, hospital setting, mass casualty events (mentioned), depictions of burnout, dissociation, anxiety, perfectionism, implied PTSD, suicidal ideation mention (15 months chapter), partner care during illness, grief and loss, parental death, strained mother/daughter relationship, reader is competent and exhausted, pie charts as emotional coping, soft possessive Jack, love through the mess, mutual devotion

18 Months Until the Wedding — Tuesday, 7:52 PM | Kane & Turner LLP, Federal Compliance Division, Downtown Office ✧ Lesson One: Love Is Showing Up Anyway

You’ve forgotten what time it is.

Not in a casual way. Not like, oh, it’s later than I thought, but in the disorienting, jarring way that happens when your body and your mind are no longer in sync. When the clock reads 7:52 and you swear it was just 4:30. When your hands are still typing but your vision keeps blurring out at the corners. When the last thing you ate was a protein bar shoved into your mouth between flagged grant summaries, and your coffee’s cold and untouched next to your elbow.

You’re still in work mode... or what's left of it.

Your office glows down the darkened hallway, the only one still lit. Everyone else is gone. Even the interns who pretend to like staying late. You haven’t moved in hours, not really... just shifted, stiffened, cracked your neck now and then and blinked too long at your dual monitors, waiting for the numbers to make sense again.

There’s a manila folder open on your desk. Pages covered in fine-tipped notes and color-coded underlines. Red for risk. Pink for inconsistencies. Blue for double checked lines. Your system. Your safety net.

This case is bad.

Worse than AGH.

Which says something, because you still wake up some nights thinking about those trauma logs. But this one? This one is messier. Bigger. More money. More eyes. More ways to screw it up.

Your phone buzzes again. A soft, short vibration against your desk.

You don’t look. You can’t.

If you look, you’ll remember that Jack’s been calling. That he texted an hour ago. That he probably texted again. That your silence is saying something you don’t mean to say.

So you keep your head down. Keep your pen in your hand. Keep breathing like it’s your job. You tell yourself: If I stay ahead now, I’ll have breathing room later. If I catch everything early, I won’t be drowning come next quarter. I can be sharp. Composed. The kind of person who doesn’t fall apart eighteen months from now, standing at the end of an aisle she didn’t give herself permission to enjoy.

That’s when you hear the knock.

Soft. Muffled through the glass door.

You look up.

Jack.

He’s standing just outside your office, half shadowed in the hallway light, one hand braced against the frame. He’s in his hoodie, the dark gray one with the thinning sleeves. Hair still damp from what must’ve been a quick, distracted shower. There’s a takeout bag in his other hand. His brow is furrowed.

He looks worried.

You can feel it in your chest.

You stand. Walk over and unlock the door. Jack slips in with a kind of quiet you’ve only ever seen in him when something’s wrong.

“Dale let me up,” he says, gently.

“Security Dale?”

“Yeah. He said I looked like I knew where I was going.” Jack shrugs, but there’s no humor in it. “Figured he recognized me from the Christmas party. Or the bake off thing… or that time I had to come rescue you after the emergency stairwell coffee disaster."

You almost smile.

You don’t.

He looks at you for a long moment, eyes dragging across your face. Down to your posture. Your hands. The tired set of your shoulders. “You didn’t answer your phone,” he says, softly.

“I turned it on silent,” you reply, not quite meeting his gaze.

“I texted.”

“I know.”

“I called.”

“I know, Jack.”

He doesn’t move.

The bag in his hand sags a little with the weight of the cannoli inside. You recognize the bakery stamp on the side. “I just…” You swallow. “I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

“I know you didn’t,” he says, too quietly.

He takes a few steps toward your desk. His limp is more pronounced when he’s tired, you’ve learned that. He favors the left, absorbs with the right. It’s subtle, but tonight it’s worse. Which means he didn’t rest today. Which means he was waiting for you. That realization makes your throat burn.

Jack sets the bag down gently next to your folders. Then he turns and looks at you again. “You’ve been here how long?”

You hesitate. “Since seven.”

He doesn’t sigh. He doesn’t raise his voice. But something in his jaw shifts. “You eat?”

You don’t answer.

“Water?”

You glance at your bottle. “It’s full.”

He nods. Like that tells him everything.

“Jack,” you say, trying to head off whatever he’s about to do. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I just need to get ahead of this—”

“No, you don’t.”

He walks around your desk, slow but deliberate, and crouches down beside your chair. Places a hand on your knee.

“You’re trying to outrun it,” he says. “The stress. The risk. The idea that if you just work hard enough now, you won’t have to panic later. That if you make yourself perfect, the rest of the world will back off and leave you alone.”

You blink fast. Jack’s voice softens, breaks a little at the edges.

“But baby,” he says, “you already fixed everything that needed fixing.”

You shake your head, jaw tight. “No. I didn’t. This case is a mess. If I miss even one item, the feds will escalate it. The firm gets hit. The client sues. And I...”

“You what?” Jack asks, gently. “You don’t get to marry me?”

Your breath stutters. He leans in a little, eyes locked on yours. “You think I need you to earn that? Like it’s some kind of performance review?”

You look away.

“Don’t,” he says, voice firm now. “Don’t look away. You haven’t looked at me in a week.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“I know. I’m not mad. I’m not here to fight you. I’m just—” he exhales, “I’m scared. Because I see you disappearing and I can’t get to you. I’m on nights. I sleep while you work. And I keep hoping we’ll meet in the middle but you’re getting harder to find.”

The words hit harder than you expect. Right in the ribcage. You press your fingers to your eyes. “I just want it to be good, Jack.”

“It is.”

“But it needs to be perfect.”

“It already is.”

You let your hand fall. Look at him.

“I’m not perfect,” you whisper.

Jack reaches for your hand. Laces your fingers together. Holds them there, like they matter. “You are the most perfectly perfect person I have ever loved,” he says, with a kind of quiet conviction that shatters you.

And then his voice softens again. “I made a cake tasting appointment.”

You blink. “What?”

“Late slot. Guy said we could come in right before close. I figured you might need sugar and something dumb to make fun of.”

You stare at him.

“It’s not about the wedding,” he adds quickly. “I mean... okay. It is. But it’s really just an excuse. To get you in my car. To get you out of this building. To sit across from you and watch your eyes do that thing when you taste something you don’t expect to like.”

You let out a quiet laugh. It breaks on the edges. Jack stands slowly, careful with his leg, and offers you a hand.

You take it.

And when he tugs you up, when he wraps his arms around you and holds you close, when he presses a kiss into your temple and whispers, “Come home,” you finally let yourself lean.

Not because the work is done. But because you don’t have to carry it alone anymore.

Not tonight.

17 Months Until the Wedding — Saturday, 9:03 PM | Wedding Reception, Oakmont Country Club ✧ Lesson Two: Love Is Not Looking for a Mirror

You’ve lost track of how many chandeliers are in this tent.

Three? Four? A dozen? All you know is that they’re casting this impossibly soft glow over everything. Over polished cutlery and thousand dollar centerpieces and sequins and pressed tuxedos. The whole place looks like the inside of a champagne flute.

And somewhere in the middle of it all is Jack.

Your fiancé. Your problem. Your person. Leaning against a cocktail table like he didn’t just spend fifteen minutes pretending to care about someone’s hedge fund. He’s already ditched the tie. His shirt sleeves are rolled up. His boots... yes, his boots, because Jack Abbot will die before he wears dress shoes (unless it's for something that involves you), are planted wide, stance loose, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

He looks like the only real thing in the room.

“You realize we are the only people here not wearing pastels,” you murmur.

Jack doesn’t look at you. Just raises his glass in mock salute. “We’re a bold contrast.”

“We’re the problem.”

He grins. “And yet here we are. Still invited.”

“For now.”

“Until someone’s mother tries to seat us closer to the photobooth.”

“You were mean to the photobooth guy.”

Jack shrugs. “He asked me to smile with props. That’s a crime.”

You laugh and sip your drink. Jack watches you over the rim of his glass. His gaze flicks down, from your eyes to your lips to the skin just visible beneath the off-shoulder neckline of your dress. The look is slow. Possessive, but not in a showy way. Just… anchored. Like he needs to keep reminding himself you’re here. That this is real.

“I like this dress,” he says, like it’s a secret.

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Even though it’s…” You gesture vaguely. “Wedding-y?”

“Especially because it’s wedding-y.”

You study him for a moment. His jaw’s clean-shaven. He wore the suit you laid out without complaint, but only because you didn’t try to get him into something double breasted or God forbid velvet. And even now, stripped of the tie and already sweating under the lights, he hasn’t taken off the jacket. You know he’s doing it for you.

“You look good too,” you say, quieter this time.

Jack doesn’t respond. Just slides his hand around your waist, fingers brushing the zipper at the small of your back. “I feel like a security risk,” he murmurs.

“You look like you want to start a bar fight with the DJ.”

“I do want to start a bar fight with the DJ.”

You grin. “Too many Ed Sheeran remixes?”

“One is too many.”

You lean in, your voice dropping conspiratorially. “We’re gonna have to pick a first dance song at some point.”

Jack groans into his drink.

“I’m just saying,” you tease. “This could be us.”

“I’d rather deploy again.”

“Jack.”

“No, really. Give me a Kevlar vest and a sandstorm over choreographed dancing any day.”

You’re still laughing when a hand taps your shoulder. It’s Charles, the bride’s dad. All broad smiles and cologne. A little too tipsy. A little too charming. You don’t even remember shaking his hand during the ceremony, but suddenly he’s there.

“Mind if I steal her?” he asks, already offering his arm.

You glance at Jack. His entire expression changes in a heartbeat. His smile doesn't falter. But the warmth drops. Just slightly. “Go ahead,” he says, voice even. “Just don’t drop her.”

Charles chuckles like it’s a joke. You press your fingers lightly to Jack’s hand and let yourself be led onto the dance floor. The lights are even warmer here. The music soft and nostalgic. You sway politely, smiling when you’re supposed to, nodding through a conversation about how much everyone’s grown, how wild it is to see college girls getting married now.

You feel Jack watching you the entire time.

When you return, he’s already standing, glass abandoned, jacket unbuttoned now. His eyes cut through the crowd to you like a spotlight. “You let him spin you,” he says the moment you reach him.

“It was one spin.”

“He dipped you.”

“I dipped myself.”

He gives you a look.

You grin. “Jealous?”

“I’m not jealous,” Jack mutters. “I just have eyes. And a pulse. And an extremely vivid imagination when I see someone else touching you.”

You let that hang for a beat longer than you need to.

Then, “Would you dance with me if I asked?”

Jack doesn’t flinch. “No one else,” he says. “But yeah. You? Always.”

You blink. Then slide your hand into his. His palm is warm. Dry. Familiar. You lead him out. The music’s slow again. Nothing formal. Nothing choreographed. Just something you can move to without thinking. Jack pulls you close. One hand at your waist. The other curled loosely around your hand.

“This is nice,” you say.

“Don’t get used to it.”

“You’re so romantic.”

“Keep saying nice things,” he whispers. “I’ll put the tie back on.”

You laugh against his chest. You’re silent for a few moments. Just the music. His heartbeat. His breath against your temple. Then quietly, you say: “Would you wear it?”

Jack doesn’t answer right away.

You tilt your head to look up at him. “The mess uniform. At our wedding.”

His body tenses almost subtle. His hand at your back stops moving. You’re careful not to fill the silence too fast.

“You don’t have to,” you add quickly. “I just... thought about it. I didn’t know if you’d already decided. Or if you didn’t want to. I mean... God, forget I said anything—”

Jack shakes his head, voice low. “You don’t have to walk it back.”

You look up.

His expression is faint. But not cold. “I haven’t put that thing on in years,” he says. “Didn’t think I’d ever have a reason to again.”

You squeeze his hand. “I’m not asking because of the photos. Or the guests. Or the aesthetics.”

“I know.”

“I’m asking because it’s yours. And I love all of it. Even the parts that still scare you.”

Jack’s jaw tightens. Not defensive. Just... moved. After a long moment, he nods. “If you want me in it, I’ll wear it.”

You stare at him. Then, because it’s Jack, you whisper, “Only if I get to unbutton it later.”

Jack groans.

You grin.

The song changes again. He leans in, nose brushing your temple. “You’re dangerous,” he mutters.

“You’re obsessed with me.”

“Undeniably.”

He kisses you. Not for the tent. Not for the guests. For you. And you think, this isn’t the wedding I pictured growing up.

But it’s ours.

It’s real.

And it’s so much better.

16 Months Until the Wedding — Sunday, 10:24 AM | Their House, Kitchen ✧ Lesson Three: Love Is Letting It Be Ugly Sometimes

The skillet is smoking. Your eyes are stinging. And for some godforsaken reason, the fire alarm is going off like you’ve just staged a small domestic war.

You’re barefoot on cold tile, wearing Jack’s ripped-at-the-hem Purdue sweatshirt and no bra. There's flour on your cheekbone, batter on your forearm, and the only thing more scorched than the eggs is your patience. You reach for the dish towel. Swat at the smoke alarm. Miss. Swear. Swat again.

It screams louder.

Of course it does.

You drop the towel, slam the pan on the back burner, and curse under your breath so hard it echoes. From upstairs, a voice:

“Hey... what the hell—?”

And then: footsteps. Jack appears a second later at the landing, shirtless, drawstring of his sweatpants trailing loose. He stops cold in the doorway, taking in the scene: the haze of burnt oil, the crusted pan, the smoke alarm, your arms mid-air like you’re about to start round two with the ceiling.

You look at him. He blinks at you. “…Are we under siege?” he asks.

You point the spatula at him. “Not now.”

Jack squints. “Is this… an emotional spiral or a kitchen fire?”

“Pick one.”

He walks in, quiet, slow, like you’re both in a hostage situation. Then casually grabs a chair, drags it under the smoke alarm, climbs up, and yanks the battery out. The beeping dies mid-wail.

Silence.

You close your eyes.

Jack steps down. Sets the chair back. Then gestures vaguely around the kitchen. “You wanna walk me through the crime scene?”

“I was making breakfast.”

“That’s a strong word for what’s in that pan.”

You glare.

He holds up his hands. “Hey. Just trying to understand the chain of events that led us to DEFCON 3 at ten in the morning.”

You turn your back on him and run cold water over the edge of the skillet. Steam hisses up like it’s offended. Jack leans against the counter. Watches you. “You’re not mad about the eggs,” he says.

“No,” you mutter.

“So what is it?”

You don’t answer. He waits. Not pushing. Just there. You scrub at the pan like it wronged you personally. “I just wanted to do something nice,” you say finally. “Something simple. Something domestic and… normal.”

Jack lifts a brow. “You chose a frittata.”

“I chose trying.” Your voice cracks, and you hate that it does. “Because everything’s been work and logistics and checklists, and I thought... maybe if I got it right today, I could feel human again.”

Jack’s face softens. But you keep going. The words start pouring before you can stop them. “And you’re off, for once, and we’re here, in this house we actually get to live in, and I thought, if I made something that didn’t come in a takeout container, maybe I’d stop feeling like a failure.”

His eyes flick over you, the sleeves rolled to your elbows, the flour in your hair, the exhaustion smudged beneath your eyes.

“You’re not a failure,” he says.

“You didn’t see the frittata.”

“I saw a woman I love trying too hard not to fall apart.”

You freeze. Jack steps in. Takes the ruined spatula from your hand. Sets it down. “Babe,” he says, voice low. “You don’t need to impress me.”

“It’s not just you,” you say. “It’s the wedding. The planner. The project. The group chat with your family that has seven unread messages about linen swatches. And I—Jack, I don’t want to be the girl who fakes it through her own engagement. I want to be ready. I want to be good.”

Jack cups the back of your neck, thumb brushing behind your ear. Not possessive, anchoring. “You are good,” he says. “You’re so fucking good, I forget sometimes that you’re human.”

You exhale. Your eyes are wet now. Not crying. Just on the edge. Jack leans his forehead against yours.

“You burn things sometimes. You forget coffee filters. You start spiral-cleaning the second you get overwhelmed.... you alphabetize canned goods.”

You crack a smile. “You told me to.”

“Look,” he says, thumb tracing your jaw. “I love the girl who color codes our budget. I love the one who triple checks the emergency contacts. I love the one who’s already mapped the guest list like it’s a war plan.”

“That’s not—”

“But I also love this,” he says, eyes on you. “Right here. The mess. The smoke. The ruined pan. All of it.”

You bite your lip.

“I don’t need a picture perfect fiancée,” Jack adds, softer now. “I need you. The one who’s in this with me. Even when it sucks.”

You look at him. And it clicks, how he’s always known how to let you be messy without flinching. That he doesn’t need the Pinterest version of your love. Just the one standing in front of him. You throw your arms around his neck and bury your face in his chest. He wraps around you instantly, warm and solid and sure.

“So,” Jack says, voice muffled against your hair. “You still want eggs?”

You pull back just enough to look at him. “You’re not gonna try and make a second frittata, are you?”

Jack grins. “God, no. We’re ordering bagels and pretending none of this ever happened.”

You smile, even as you swipe flour from your cheek. “I love you,” you say, quietly.

He kisses you. Fast, firm, forehead to yours.

“I know.”

Then he pauses.

Tilts his head.

“Do we still have any of that fancy jam?”

You laugh. “You mean the one you said tasted like ‘fruit that went to private school’?”

Jack lifts both hands in mock defense. “It grew on me.”

You shake your head, grinning now.

The house still smells like smoke. The kitchen’s still a disaster. But it feels lighter. Like you can breathe again.

Like love doesn’t need to look good to be right.

15 Months Until the Wedding — Tuesday, 6:41 AM | Their House ✧ Lesson Four: Love Is Knowing When to Knock Softly

You’re not supposed to be awake. But the buzz on your nightstand has weight. You reach without thinking, already expecting the worst. The screen lights up.

ROBBY (6:41 AM)

Hey Jack’s okay. Just wanted to tell you before you hear from anyone else... He was on the roof after the crash but it was different this time, He was past the railing

You sit up too fast. Everything blurs. Your throat tightens, stomach dropping straight through the mattress. The room is too quiet. Your heart fills all the space.

Past the railing.

Not the usual. Not just air. Not just darkness and coping.

You try calling him.

Nothing.

Again.

Still nothing.

You’re already out of bed. Hoodie. Keys. Phone in hand. You don’t remember putting on socks. Don’t remember how the floor got so cold. Just that your hands won’t stop shaking. You get as far as the front door when you see it. Headlights, slow, pulling into the drive.

You pause. Your hand’s already on the knob.

The door opens before you touch it.

Jack steps in.

The porch light hits him in pieces. Boots, scrubs, jaw, eyes. His face is flushed from the cold, but something in him is too still. He stops when he sees you. His mouth opens like he’s going to speak, but nothing comes out. Not at first.

“I was gonna shower first,” he says finally, voice low. Hoarse. “Didn’t want you to see me like this.”

You don’t speak.

You just walk straight to him and wrap your arms around his chest, burying your face in the fabric of his scrubs. You don’t care that he smells like sweat and disinfectant. You don’t care that your knees go weak halfway into the hug. He doesn't resist. He just stands there, breathing you in.

Your hand fists into his back. You press your forehead to his shoulder. “Don’t do that,” you whisper. “Don’t not come home.”

He exhales slowly. Doesn’t answer. You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are rimmed in red. Not crying, past crying. The hollow, end-of-the-line kind of tired.

“How bad?” you ask, voice barely above a breath.

Jack blinks slowly, like answering costs him something.

“Bad enough,” he says. “Bus crash. Kids. No warning, no prep. Half the bay was still flipping rooms. One of the boys was—” His jaw locks. “He was wearing a little league jersey. I thought about what I’d say to his parents, but the mom was already there. She knew.”

You don’t realize you’ve moved until your fingers are in his hair, carding slowly. He leans into the touch like it’s the first real thing he’s felt all night.

“I went upstairs,” he says, voice breaking in the middle. “Didn’t mean to. Just ended up there.”

You nod slowly.

“I know.”

“I wasn't going to jump,” he says. “But I didn’t not want to.”

That’s when your breath catches. His voice is low and steady, like he’s reciting numbers, charting vitals. Like if he says it clinical enough, it won’t count as a confession.

You lift your hand to his face. His skin is cold. Your thumb brushes the space beneath his eye. “I’m here,” you whisper. “You’re not alone. You never were.”

Jack’s eyes close, and for the first time, he doesn’t look like a doctor or a soldier or a man trying to hold the whole world in his chest. He just looks tired.

“I kept thinking about how this house has your name on the lease,” he murmurs, like it’s some unholy secret. “That you’ll come down the stairs and find out I left you with that.”

You swallow hard.

“I’d burn the house down if it meant keeping you in it.”

That gets him. His throat bobs. He drops his forehead to yours and exhales. You wrap your arms tighter. “I didn’t know how to call you,” he admits. “Didn’t know what I’d say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” you murmur. “You just have to let me in.”

He nods once. Then again, slower. The silence shifts. Not heavier. Just more shared. You guide him to the couch. Don’t ask. Just pull him down beside you. You curl into him the way he always curls into the dark. Quiet, without demand.

You press a kiss to his jaw. To his temple. To the place behind his ear where he’s warmest. “I need you to promise me something,” you say.

Jack glances sideways. “Okay.”

“If it ever gets too loud, if it gets bad like that again... call me.”

He starts to shake his head. You stop him with a hand on his cheek. “I mean it. Even if you’re just sitting there thinking about it. Especially then. You call.”

Jack doesn’t nod. He just presses his face to your shoulder, hand clutching the back of your top like it’s the only thing keeping him from unraveling.

And you let him.

You stay until the sky lightens further. Until the birds start. Until his breathing slows.

Later, when he finally falls asleep with his head on your lap and your fingers in his hair, you reach for the blanket on the back of the couch and drape it over both of you.

You don’t sleep. You don’t move.

You just stay.

Because this, this moment, is what the love lesson is: Not saving. Not fixing. Just being there when the roof stops feeling safe.

And showing up again in the morning.

12 Months Until the Wedding — Sunday, 1:12 PM | Highland Park — Back Room of a Florist-Wine Bar Hybrid ✧ Lesson Five: Love Is Reading the Fine Print

The upstairs room smells like citrus and eucalyptus. Not overpowering, just enough to remind you the space doubles as a wedding florist during the week and a sensory friendly poetry venue every third Thursday. Rain beads against the windows, soaking the outside world in silver. You and Jack sit at a mismatched table of reclaimed wood, surrounded by dried flower bundles, stacks of linen bound vow books, and a pot of herbal tea that tastes faintly like pine.

Your officiant, Ramona, wears wire rimmed glasses and Doc Martens. She’s in her fifties, has a doctorate in philosophy, and once paused a funeral for a rainbow. You trust her almost instantly.

“I like to get a feel for the texture of a couple before I start writing their ceremony,” she says, flipping open a folio. “Not just your origin story. The actual feel of you. Your voice, your contradictions, your shared language. I want the ceremony to sound like something you’d say to each other in the car.”

Jack smiles faintly. “In that case, I hope you like petty arguments about traffic and why she won’t use Google Maps.”

“Because Google Maps tried to kill me once,” you mutter.

Ramona grins, pen poised. “Let’s start.”

She glances down, then back up. “This won’t be formal. Just real. Answer however you want.”

You both nod.

“What surprised you the most about falling in love with each other?”

Jack speaks first, after a beat.

He doesn’t look up right away, just rubs the pad of his thumb over his lower lip like he’s turning the words over in his mouth before committing to them. “I think what surprised me most was… how quiet it felt,” Jack says, voice low but steady. “Not in a dull way. Just... safe."

He glances over at you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She didn’t storm in. She just… walked in with a ledger and started pulling the wires out of the bomb like it was her job.”

A pause. Then, a little softer:

“I’m not easy. I know that. And I’ve had a lot of people… love me in theory. Love the idea of what I survived, or what I do. But not a lot of people have stayed long enough to love the parts of me that aren’t so noble. The sharp stuff. The quiet.”

He exhales through his nose. “But she did. She just stayed. And I kept expecting it to feel terrifying, but it didn’t. It is just easy”

You shift slightly in your seat before answering.

“I didn’t think I was someone who could be surprised,” you say. “Not in relationships. I’ve seen enough messes, enough ruined budgets, enough imploded dynamics, enough emotional disaster zones with overdue invoices... to assume most things unravel exactly on schedule.”

You glance at Jack. He meets your eyes without flinching.

“But he didn’t unravel. He endured. And more than that, he met me where I was. Not just the good parts. Not just the organized, always-has-an-answer parts. He saw the panic underneath the planning. The anxiety under the armor.”

You smile faintly.

“And he didn’t flinch. He just asked what color highlighter to use.”

“Tell me about a time you misunderstood each other... and what you learned from it.”

You go first this time.

You sit forward a little, folding your hands in your lap, searching for the right entry point.

“There was a week early on… maybe four, five months in. Jack had back-to-back trauma shifts. I was in the middle of a government bid audit that was leaking data requests like a pipe. We barely saw each other. I think we passed like ships. He’d get home just as I left for work. It wasn’t… dramatic. Just silent.”

Your voice softens.

“And I took that silence personally. I thought he was pulling back. That maybe I’d asked for too much without realizing it. Or—God—forgiven too easily. That maybe I’d read into it wrong.”

Jack looks over at you, brow tense, but you’re not crying. You’re just being honest.

“So I did what I do,” you go on. “I built walls. Quietly. Strategically. Tried to get ahead of the hurt by preparing for it. I told myself if I just didn’t need him, then it wouldn’t matter. And he... he noticed. But he didn’t push. Not right away.”

A beat.

“And then one morning, I came downstairs and he’d made coffee. He was sitting on the floor in yesterday’s hoodie with a post-it on the mug that said I’m sorry I haven’t had words lately. I still love you, even when I’m empty.”

You pause, blinking once.

“It wasn’t the silence that was the problem. It was the assumptions we each made about it.”

Jack nods slowly before answering.

“I thought if I just kept showing up, if I kept the ship running, she’d know. That she’d feel it. That I didn’t need to explain I was drowning a little because explaining it felt like another form of work.”

He rubs the back of his neck.

“But she’s not a mind reader. And I’m not made of stone. And somewhere in the middle of that week, I realized… she’d rather hear messy truth than be left filling in blanks I’m too tired to name.”

He looks at you.

“I’m learning how to name things.”

“When do you feel the most loved by each other? Not the big moments. The small, almost invisible ones.”

Jack answers. He leans back in his chair, eyes flicking toward the window like he's watching the answer unfold in the back of his mind before bringing it forward.

“When she packs my bag,” he says eventually. “I never ask her to. She plays it off like it’s just practical. Habit. But it’s more than that.”

A beat. He shifts forward, voice lower now, rough at the edges.

“There’s always something in there that says, I love you. A folded note in the side pocket. A packet of ibuprofen. One of those overpriced protein bars she claims she only bought for the office. My phone charger wrapped up right, because she knows I won’t do it right myself.”

He taps a finger against his thigh, thoughtful.

“It’s her way of saying I can’t be in the trauma bay with you, but I can make sure you're okay when you get out. And that… that’s love. The kind you feel before you name it. The kind that doesn’t need a witness.”

He turns to you, something soft pulling at the corners of his expression.

“She takes care of me in ways I didn’t know I needed.”

You answer without taking your eyes off him.

“When he comes home and doesn’t make noise.”

You pause, let that hang there for a second.

“It’s gonna sound weird, but... he comes in soft. After twelve hours of blood and adrenaline and chaos, he doesn’t slam the door or crash into the fridge or announce that he’s back. He just… re-enters quietly. Takes his boots off by the door. Showers without waking me. Leaves his pager in the kitchen. Like he’s trying not to break the spell.”

You smile faintly.

“And then he’ll climb into bed and just rest his forehead against mine. Not to wake me. Just to check that I’m breathing okay. That I’m there. That he’s home. And sometimes I’ll pretend to still be asleep because the moment is too good to interrupt.”

A breath.

“That’s when I feel it most. The care that doesn’t need to be loud.”

“What’s one completely ridiculous thing about your partner that you find weirdly endearing?”

You jump in first, already grinning.

“He can’t whisper,” you say, and Jack immediately groans.

“I can whisper,” he protests.

You raise a brow. “Jack. You stage whisper like a man doing bad improv.”

Ramona laughs. Jack mutters something under his breath, but he’s smiling.

“It’s not just that it’s loud,” you go on. “It’s the urgency. Like he thinks if he says it fast enough, it’ll count as subtle. He’ll lean over during a formal event. Like, say, the staff Christmas dinner where my boss is ten feet away, and be like: ‘That guy’s absolutely embezzling.’” You mimic the hoarse, rushed tone. “‘Look at his shoes. No one buys those on a public salary.’”

“And I was right,” Jack says.

You point at him. “You always think you’re right. And somehow, even when you are, I’m still the one doing damage control.”

“You got engaged to a trauma doc with a forensic brain and a God complex,” Jack says, palms up like he’s pleading the fifth. “At a certain point, that’s on you.”

Jack answers next, looking far too smug.

“She makes her bed like she’s preparing for a hotel inspection,” he says, deadpan.

“That is not ridiculous,” you interject.

“She fluffs the pillows. Under the decorative pillows. There are sub pillows. There’s a throw blanket with diagonal angles measured like it’s a geometry quiz. I watched her adjust the fringe once because it looked ‘unsettled.’”

You try not to laugh. “Fringe can have a mood.”

“It can’t,” Jack replies. “And here’s the thing, I ruined the whole bed three hours later. And she still makes it like it’s a sacred ritual.”

He shrugs, softer now.

“I don’t know. It’s her way of making order out of chaos. And maybe I’ve had enough chaos that the order feels like a love letter.”

“What’s your most controversial opinion about your partner’s habits or routines?”

Jack answers first. He sighs like he’s been waiting to get this one off his chest for months.

“She thinks spreadsheets are a coping mechanism.”

He looks at you, then at Ramona. “And not just in the ‘I’m organized’ way. I mean she builds full-scale tactical battle plans in Excel. I once walked into the kitchen and she had a spreadsheet open titled ‘Contingency Plan – Worst Case Guest Seating.’”

You shrug. “That was responsible.”

“That was psychotic,” Jack replies, deadpan. “There were color coded tabs for in-law arguments, dietary restrictions, and what to do if someone dies on the dance floor. She had a section labeled ‘emotional fallout’ with subcategories.”

He looks at the officiant again. “And, she once made a pie chart of our arguments.”

“It was an illustrative tool,” you mutter.

“It had a legend!” Jack says. “She gave our passive-aggressive silences colors!”

Then he softens. “But the part that gets me is that it’s not an act. It’s how she steadies herself. How she makes sense of the world. When things start to spiral, she opens up Excel and starts building structure. Order. Exit plans.”

A breath.

“And I used to think it was funny... or neurotic. But now I think it’s the bravest thing in the world in a way. She tries to organize the storm because she wants to make sure everyone makes it through it alive.”

He smiles, crooked and quiet. “I get it now. I just… wish she’d let the pie charts go.”

You answer next, slow and steady.

“Jack eats like the fridge might explode if he opens it too fast,” you say. “Like he’s afraid it’ll startle.”

Jack groans. “It’s called moving with intention.”

“No, it’s called closing the door with your foot while holding a spoon in your teeth like you're stealing fire from the gods.”

Ramona laughs. You go on.

“He doesn’t meal prep. He meal guesses. He gets home at 7AM after twelve hours of pure hell and just stands there, staring into the fridge like it’s a patient he’s trying to diagnose.”

Jack shrugs. You smile, fond, but exasperated. “One time, he made an entire dinner out of half a lemon, three olives, and a protein bar.”

Jack raises a finger. “It worked.”

“You were starving two hours later.”

“Then it mostly worked.”

You pause, then look at him more softly.

“But here’s the thing. He doesn’t ask for much. He’s not high maintenance. He’d eat cereal and call it a meal. But when I bring him something, when I actually cook, he eats it like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Like it’s church. Like someone made the world quiet for a second.”

You glance down, voice gentler now.

“That’s what gets me. The way he treats care like it’s rare. And sacred. Like it’s a surprise every time someone chooses him.”

Ramona smiles gently. “Well,” she says. “That’s more than enough to work with.”

She closes the folio.

“Y’all are going to ruin me, you know that?”

Jack raises his eyebrows. “We try.”

And as the rain thickens outside and the air inside settles into a quiet warmth, you realize that somehow, even with opposite schedules, opposite coping styles, and two wildly different calendars, you’ve built a kind of rhythm neither of you saw coming.

A new kind of fluency.

A love that speaks in fine print and late-night texts and hand touches under the table.

And right now?

It speaks just fine.

13 Months Until the Wedding — Saturday, 9:16 AM | Target Superstore ✧ Lesson Six: Love Is Not Dividing the Closet

You’ve been here for forty-six minutes and Jack Abbot has scanned:

one neon green NERF blaster

a velvet throw blanket that you told him would attract lint like a graveyard attracts ghosts

and a plastic skull-shaped candy bowl from the Halloween clearance bin.

“Essential,” he says now, holding it aloft like Hamlet’s skull. “Picture it. Movie night. Swedish Fish. Macabre ambiance.”

You stare at him. “Honey... we are building a wedding registry.”

“Exactly,” he says, slinging the registry scanner like it’s a sidearm. “A registry should reflect the soul of the couple.”

“Which part of the skull screams us?”

Jack gives you a beat of mock-thoughtful silence, then, “Probably the part where it looks normal until you look closer and realize something deeply unhinged is going on beneath the surface.”

You snort, try to fight it, fail miserably. “Put it back.”

He sighs, dramatic and long suffering, and places it in the nearest red cart as if he's someone laying a hero to rest. You don’t remember who suggested doing the registry in person. Probably you. Jack’s always game for an errand, especially on his post shift high. The weird adrenaline laced exhaustion that turns into mischief if left unchecked.

He met you in the parking lot after you ran a few errands, holding a coffee you hadn’t asked for but probably needed. You were still cloudy from spreadsheet hell, and he looked like a man whose entire shift smelled like antiseptic and sorrow. And yet, he grinned. That sharp, sideways Jack grin, all teeth and unslept eyes and: “Let’s go argue about towels.”

You said yes because you loved him. And because, if you’re being honest, you wanted to see what kind of towels he’d fight for.

Spoiler: Jack doesn’t care about towels.

“I just think it’s weird they’re labeled ‘quick dry,’” he says now, poking one. “Like that’s not the basic expectation of a towel.”

“They dry the person quickly,” you argue. “Not themselves.”

“Then the marketing is a lie.”

He holds one up to his face, rubs his cheek against it like a cat. “Too scratchy,” he declares. “This one feels like the trauma sheets after a code.”

“That is the most horrifying comparison you could’ve made.”

“You brought me here,” Jack says. “This is on you.”

You sigh, rub your temples. “Can we just pick something practical? One brand, one set, good reviews, nothing red or teal or embroidered with ‘his’ and ‘hers.’”

Jack frowns. “What about ‘hers’ and ‘also hers’?”

You pause. “That’s kind of funny.”

“Or,” he says, lifting a grey towel, “we each pick one. Yours is practical. Mine’s wildly impractical but emotionally satisfying.”

“Like you?”

He grins. “Exactly.”

You find yourselves standing in front of a display of Dutch ovens, and something about the look of them makes you both go quiet. Jack nudges one of them. “Do you actually want this stuff?”

You glance at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” He shrugs, scans the floor. “I know you. I know you’d be just as happy cooking pasta in a scratched up pan if it meant we could put the rest toward something practical. You’re not here for the aesthetic.”

You smile. “I want our house to feel lived in. Not staged.”

Jack hums.

“Then why do it?” he asks. “Why the registry? Why drag me to aisle forty seven of hell?”

You look at him.

“I want things we choose together,” you say finally. “Not just things that end up in our house because someone handed them down or because I panicked during a flash sale.”

You gesture to the rows of over designed bakeware.

“This isn’t about what we own. It’s about what we build.”

Jack is quiet for a moment. Then, in that way he does, the way he softens without warning, he says, “Okay. Let’s build something.”

You leave the store with a registry that includes:

a beautiful, neutral-toned towel set

one aggressively orange mixing bowl, Jack’s justification being, This feels like something I would’ve stolen from your college apartment if I’d known you back then.

a Dutch oven you didn’t think you’d care about but kind of love

…and, yes, the goddamn skull candy bowl... which Jack, apparently, couldn’t wait to add to a registry and just bought outright.

“Compromise,” Jack says, loading it into the car.

You shake your head. “You’re lucky I love you.”

He leans across the console before starting the engine, presses a kiss to your temple, and murmurs, “I’d register for that, too.”

You roll your eyes. But you’re smiling.

And somewhere, between aisle forty seven and the trunk of Jack’s ancient car, you realize: You’re not building a registry.

You’re building a home.

And you’re doing it with him.

10 Months Until the Wedding — Saturday, 11:22 AM | Solstice Bridal Studio ✧ Lesson Seven: Love Is Letting Yourself Be Seen

The mirrors catch you before you’re ready. Three angles. Soft lighting. The kind of dress that doesn’t just lay on your body, but convinces you that you need to stand still and see yourself.

It’s not even the first one you’ve tried on. It’s not the most dramatic, or the most expensive. But something about this one, the way the neckline settles against your collarbone, makes everyone go quiet. And that’s what gets you. Not the price. Not the lace. The silence.

“Holy shit,” Kennedy breathes, mouth half covered by her prosecco flute.

“She’s gonna make me cry,” Mara mutters from the couch, already dabbing at her mascara.

Bri grins like she’s known this was the one since you walked in the door. “Jack's gonna pass out.”

You blink fast and try to laugh, but it catches halfway. You can't cry, not yet, but your hand curls slightly at your side. A quiet tic Jack would recognize. A holdover from stress.

Heather sees it too.

She doesn’t say anything at first. She just leans forward, elbows to knees, that steady, unreadable look you’ve only ever seen in the trauma bay. Like she’s assessing the wound before calling it what it is.

You remember the first time Jack told you about her. Heather Collins, resident, terrifyingly competent. Back then she was just a name. A force of ER nature. But then came the double dates, you and Jack meeting Robby and Heather at trivia nights, or that one ill-fated bowling night where Robby showed up in scrubs and Heather casually demolished everyone with perfect form and no trash talk.

The friendship wasn’t immediate. Heather’s not the kind of person who gives herself away. But slowly, with each shared plate of dumplings, each side glance during a rant from Jack or Robby, it started to shift. She started sitting closer. Started texting you outside of plans. Started staying after for one more glass of wine.

Then one night, she invited you out. Just you. No boys. No buffer. You sat at the bar until closing, talking about work, womanhood, the unspoken heaviness of holding yourself together for everyone else. She told you, without flourish, about her miscarriage. About how she’d gone back to work two days later. Now she’s here, sitting among the champagne glasses and velvet armchairs, and her voice is the one that cuts through the noise.

“It’s a good dress,” she says softly. “But that’s not why you’re freaking out.”

You flinch. Not visibly, but enough that Heather raises an eyebrow.

You glance at your reflection. Then away. “It’s just—” You swallow. “I didn’t expect it to feel like this. So... much.”

Mara pipes up from the couch. “That’s because it’s working.”

“It’s not just the dress,” you say. You’re talking to the room, but really you’re looking at Heather. “It’s the moment. Like… this is the part where everything starts to count. Like if I let myself be excited, I have to admit that it’s real. And if it’s real... what if I mess it up?”

Heather doesn’t answer right away. She stands. Crosses the room quietly and stands beside you at the mirror. “You won’t,” she says.

You huff a laugh. “You can’t know that.”

“No,” she agrees. “But I’ve seen you love him. And I’ve seen him love you. And I’ve worked in trauma for years. Trust me, that kind of loyalty? It’s not common.”

You blink again. Your throat’s starting to close.

“Also,” Heather adds lightly, “I’ve watched that man wince every time he leaves your house in the morning. Like he’s being separated from a lung.”

That makes you laugh. Shaky and wet but real. Your friends start chattering again behind you. The stylist murmurs something about bustle options. But Heather stays quiet beside you, like she knows what it’s like to be surrounded and still feel alone.

You glance over at her. “I’m glad you came.”

She gives you a look that isn’t quite a smile, but close. “Me too. For what it’s worth… you’re allowed to feel overwhelmed. And you’re allowed to be the bride.”

You nod. “Even if I don’t know how?”

Heather’s voice softens. “Especially then.”

You step down from the pedestal and turn toward the group. Kennedy’s already waving her phone around. Bri’s asking for champagne refills. Heather stands with her arms crossed, watching it all unfold. She meets your eyes, and in that steady gaze is a kind of permission you didn’t know you needed.

You don’t know if this is the dress. You don’t know if there’s a right one.

But you do know, this is the first time it hasn’t felt like you were pretending.

And that counts for something.

9 Months Until the Wedding — Tuesday, 12:03 PM | West End Bridal Co. ✧ Lesson Eight: Love Is Allowing The Unexpected

You’re thirty two minutes into your planning meeting with Tessa, your wedding coordinator, and Jack has already declared open hostility toward the word “tablescape.”

“You know what that sounds like?” he says, shifting in the antique French armchair that’s clearly not built for him. “Some kind of military op. Like we’re storming the beach... but with dinnerware.”

Tessa, unfazed, makes a note on her tablet without looking up. “Noted. Groom prefers classic, not coastal.”

He shoots you a look. “She didn’t even flinch.”

You mouth, be nice.

Jack doesn’t look particularly bridal. He’s in scrubs under a hoodie under a jacket, hair still damp from a too fast shower. He came straight from The Pitt, where he worked a fifteen hour overnight shift and left his name tag in the trauma bay. Again. His prosthetic leg creaks every time he shifts in the dainty chair, but he hasn't complained. Not once.

You’re in your work blazer, still wearing the same lipstick from this morning’s conference, and you’re trying not to over highlight anything in your wedding binder.

Tessa taps her stylus. “So. Let’s go through tone. Theme. The aesthetic of the day.”

You glance at Jack, who gives a shrug that somehow says, Don’t look at me. I still think we should’ve eloped.

“I want it to feel like us,” you say slowly. “Not too formal. But still intentional.”

Jack leans back, stretching his bad leg out to the side. “She means she wants people to cry. But in an elevated way.”

“Jack.”

“I’m being supportive.”

He is. In his own dry, night shift warped way. Tessa looks between you like she’s taking notes for a relationship case study.

“What about colors?” she asks.

“No sage green,” you say instantly. “Or beige.”

“No dusty anything,” Jack adds. “If the name sounds like a 19th century disease, we don’t want it.”

You glance at him. “You really did not sleep.”

“I’m choosing to channel that into productive critique.”

The next few questions blur. Venue confirmations, vendor scheduling, cake flavors. Jack starts quietly doodling in the margin of your to-do list with your pen. He draws a tiny anatomical heart, then another, then writes: you’re here in one ventricle, in all caps.

Tessa asks, “What kind of ceremony are you envisioning?”

You go quiet. Jack tilts his head slightly, watching you. “I think we want something honest,” you say. “Not too rehearsed. Something that feels grounded. Real.”

“She means I’m not allowed to quote Star Wars,” Jack says, “which is a shame, because Yoda had a lot to say about commitment.”

Tessa smiles. “And vows? Writing your own?”

Jack’s voice softens. “Yeah. We are.”

He doesn’t say more than that. But you feel it in your chest. The way he says we. Not I. Not her. We.

Tessa scrolls. “Let’s talk must haves.”

“Food,” you both say in unison.

Jack grins. “Specifically, food that will not insult the working class palate. No foam. No flowers. No dishes that look like they would appear out of 'The Bear.'’”

Tessa nods seriously. “Comfort food, elevated. Got it.”

“Also, no DJ who talks like he runs a podcast.”

“And no cover bands who turn every song into a ballad.”

“No slideshow of us as babies set to an Ed Sheeran remix.”

You both keep going, rapid fire, in perfect sync. The list is ridiculous. You’re laughing. Tessa is trying to keep up. And for a moment, it feels less like planning and more so something that has you and Jack at the very center of it.

Eventually, the meeting winds down. Tessa gives you a revised checklist, a follow up email promise, and a very stern warning not to book any new vendors without looping her in. You stand. Jack rises slower, like the shift just hit him all at once. He picks up your binder before you can and slides it under his arm.

Outside, the afternoon sun makes the city haze look almost gold. Jack stops just before you reach the car. “Hey,” he says.

You turn. His face is tired, unshaven, his eyes still a little red from the night. But he’s looking at you like he remembers why he does all of it. Every shift. Every sunrise.

“You did good in there,” he says quietly.

You blink. “I didn’t say anything that important.”

“You didn’t have to,” Jack replies. “You were you.”

He steps forward, brushes your hair behind your ear, like he’s done a hundred times, but somehow it still feels brand new. “I’ve been in rooms where people don’t show up for each other,” he says. “You always do. Even when you’re exhausted. Even when you’re scared.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’m really glad it’s you,” you whisper.

He leans in and kisses you. Tired, slow, sure.

In the middle of a busy sidewalk, in front of a studio, with traffic groaning in the distance and the wind catching your coat hem, it feels like the world pauses just long enough to let you breathe.

Nine months to go.

8 Months Until the Wedding — Saturday, 11:38 AM | East End Convention Center ✧ Lesson Nine: Love Is Knowing When to Bail

You knew it was going to be a disaster the second someone handed Jack a glitter coated swag bag that said Bride Vibes Only in pink script.

He looked at it like it might explode.

“I think it’s cursed,” he said flatly. “Like, if I open this, I get possessed by the ghost of a bridezilla.”

You didn’t even bother to hide your grin. “Don’t open it, then. You’re already a lot.”

Jack gave you a look. “I’m exactly enough. You knew what you were signing up for.”

What you were signing up for, apparently, was a wedding expo with three indoor fountains, nine signature cocktail stations, a ring light photo booth, and a host named Sebastian who referred to himself as your “love concierge.”

The harpist in the corner was playing a slowed down version of Beyoncé’s “Love On Top.” Someone offered you champagne at 11:40 in the morning. Jack’s eye twitched. He was wearing blue jeans, a button-down you’d only seen twice before, and that wary, bracing for impact look that meant he was trying not to be rude. Trying very hard.

“We’ve been here twelve minutes,” he said, deadpan. “And I’m one cake pop away from declaring war on the string quartet.”

You patted his chest. “Deep breaths, Dr. Abbot.”

He muttered something about this being worse than the time he had to disimpact a bowel during a mass casualty event.

You tried. You really did. You tasted a sample of fig compote. You listened to a sales pitch on laser engraved chair signs. You nodded solemnly while a woman named Lisa explained the spiritual benefits of biodegradable confetti. Jack trailed behind you, loyal and suffering, occasionally squeezing your hand like he was making sure you still existed. But his eyes were starting to glaze over. Somewhere around the personalized ice sculpture booth, he stopped pretending.

He looked at you and said, very gently, “Babe, I love you. So much. So very much. But I think I’ve developed wedding themed vertigo.”

You burst out laughing. “Okay. That’s it. We’re pulling the plug.”

And just like that, you were gone. No excuses, no apologies. Just a shared glance, a silent agreement. You ditched the expo, Jack’s cursed swag bag still in hand, and made your way three blocks over to a dingy little diner with sticky menus and laminate tables. It smelled like maple syrup and something fried in oil that had been alive during the Bush administration. Jack held the door open for you like it was the Ritz.

“This,” he said, sliding into a booth, “is my version of a sacred space.”

You joined him, already feeling the tension bleed out of your shoulders. He looked so much more himself here, relaxed, hair still a little messy from sleep, prosthetic leg stretched out under the table like it had a right to exist there. Which it did. Which he did.

You took his hand across the table. “Thank you for trying. Really.”

He shrugged. “Hey. I’ll wade through ten thousand cupcakes on sticks if it means I get to marry you.”

You rolled your eyes. “That was disgustingly sweet.”

“I’m trying to keep you off balance,” he said, grinning as he reached for his coffee. “Gotta maintain the upper hand before you add another color to the pie chart argument. What are we at now, eight slices of doom?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not doom. It’s detail.”

The waitress brought you coffee. Jack took his black, always. You drowned yours in cream and sugar. He made fun of you for it every time, but this time, he just smiled and watched the way your hands cradled the mug like it was anchoring you.

Then quietly, you say, “Do you think you want kids?”

Jack didn’t move for a moment. Didn’t flinch. Just blinked, like he was adjusting to sudden sunlight.

“That’s not a trap question, by the way,” you added quickly. “I just realized we’ve never really talked about it. Not seriously.”

He was quiet for a while. Not with fear, but with thought. “I think… there was a time I couldn’t picture it,” he said, voice low. “Not because I didn’t want it. But because it didn’t feel real. Like I wasn’t allowed to imagine that kind of softness. I spent so long being the guy who works nights, eats leftovers cold in the staff lounge at 3AM, and comes home covered in other people’s blood.”

You reached out, gently brushing your thumb along his knuckles.

“But then you,” he continued, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “And suddenly, I’m thinking about things like first steps and reading bedtime stories with terrible voices. I think—I think I’d like to be the kind of man who makes space for that. For them.”

You were already blinking back tears. “Don’t cry,” he said, soft but teasing. “We haven’t even ordered pancakes yet.”

You smiled wetly. “I’m just trying to picture you with a baby strapped to your chest in one of those wrap things.”

Jack looked genuinely alarmed. “You mean the infant burrito slings?”

“Yes. That.”

He grinned. “Only if I get to wear the kid to Costco.”

“I’d marry you tomorrow.”

His face went still, open and serious. “Good. Because I’m already yours. For whatever kind of life we end up choosing. Whether we get three kids or ten dogs or just the weird skull bowl.”

You laughed then. Loud. Unfiltered. And he looked at you like he never wanted to look away.

They didn’t have champagne towers or harpists at the diner. The lighting was bad and the toast was cold. But sitting there with Jack, talking about maybe somedays and what ifs and little half formed dreams neither of you had dared name until now.

It felt like a life.

7 Months Until the Wedding — Friday, 9:09 AM | Their House ✧ Lesson Ten: Love Is Letting Go of Control

You’re not vacuuming anymore. You’re just standing in the center of the living room. You took the day off from work, burned a precious PTO day you couldn’t really afford, just to make sure every corner of the house looked untouched by stress. The rug has been vacuumed three times. The couch cushions have been rotated, reshaped, and fluffed to showroom precision. There are fresh flowers in three different vases, one strategically tucked behind a framed photo so your mother won’t accuse you of trying too hard. Or worse, trying to impress her.

When Jack walks in, still wearing his scrubs and the exhaustion of a long night shift, he clocks everything at once. The third round of vacuuming and the arrangement of coasters. And then he finds you. He leans against the doorway, watching you in that way he does sometimes. Quiet, concerned, like he’s mentally noting which version of you he’s walking into. Then he speaks.

“Okay,” he says softly, tipping his head. “Just checking in, is this a cry for help?”

You don’t laugh, though you want to. You just shake your head and lower the vacuum handle.

“She gets in at noon,” you say. “I still need to re-steam the curtains. And I don’t think the towels are—”

“Baby,” Jack interrupts softly. “She’s not bringing a clipboard.”

You meet his eyes. “No, but she’ll make one.”

He walks over, gently plucks the cord from your fingers. His hands linger at your wrists.

“I know this isn’t easy for you,” he says.

You look away. “It’s not about her. It’s just... she’s never seen this house. Or… this life. And part of me feels like if it’s not flawless, she’s going to decide I’m a failure.”

Jack doesn’t speak immediately. He waits. Always lets you come to your own senses.

“She got harder after my dad died,” you finally say. “It was like… she had to control something. And I was what was left.”

His hands move to your shoulders. “You’ve never told me that.”

You shrug. “There was never a good time. And I didn’t want to make it your burden. You already hold so much.”

Jack shakes his head. “You’re not a burden. Your grief isn’t a burden.”

You press the heel of your hand to your forehead. “I keep thinking, if I just get every part of this wedding right, then maybe she’ll relax. Maybe she’ll think I turned out okay.”

Jack steps closer. “Hey. You didn’t turn out okay. You turned out brilliant. And if she can’t see that, it’s not because you’re not enough. It’s because she never figured out how to deal with losing the person who made you both softer.”

You inhale. It shudders. “I miss him.”

“I know,” he says, voice low. “I know you do.”

There’s a beat of silence. Just the two of you, standing in the middle of your over cleaned house with the weight of grief buzzing low between your ribs. Then, quietly, you say, “When we talked about kids…”

Jack stills, but he doesn’t flinch. “…I don’t know if I can be her,” you finish. “I don’t want to pass down everything she made me afraid of. I don’t want to love someone in a way that makes them small just because I’m scared.”

Jack’s hand slides down to yours. “You won’t be her.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you,” he says simply. “I’ve seen how you love. Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re scared. You make space. You give people air.”

You blink hard, trying not to cry. “But what if I mess it up? What if I don’t know how to be soft?”

He leans in until his forehead rests against yours. “Then we learn,” he whispers. “We learn together. And if we get it wrong, we try again. We don’t weaponize the love. We don’t use silence as punishment. And we never let fear win. Not in this house.”

You’re quiet for a long time, breathing through it. Jack waits. Always. Not pushing, not pulling. Just holding steady like he always does.

Finally, you nod. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” you murmur.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s talk about how I’m going to be the buffer when she inevitably asks why we don’t have a cheese course.”

You snort, softly. “You think she’ll wait that long?”

Jack grins. “I give it twenty minutes. Tops.”

You finally move toward him, tuck your head against his chest. He holds you like it’s instinct.

Later, when your mother arrives and critiques the driveway lighting before even stepping inside, Jack only smiles. He helps with her bags, offers her coffee, listens to her dissect your color palette without blinking. And when you look at him, you realize this is what it means to be loved in a way that lets you lay your weapons down.

Jack catches your eye across the kitchen later and winks.

You don’t need to impress your mother. You just need to be you.

6 Months Until the Wedding — Friday, 9:14 PM | Their House ✧ Lesson Eleven: Love Is Remembering

The wine glasses are still half full.

The record player is still spinning.

You’re barefoot in the kitchen in that navy button down from Jack’s side of the closet. The same one he wore on your first date, sleeves now rolled to your elbows, hem grazing the tops of your thighs. Your hair is a little undone. Your makeup is mostly gone. The house smells like rosemary and lemon and something human. Skin warmed cotton. Cologne, maybe. Him.

Jack’s standing in front of you, backlit by the soft kitchen light, shirtless and half smiling. Not cocky. Not confident. Just blissful.

He steps closer. “I remember the second you got out of that Uber,” he murmurs. “You looked at me like you already knew what would happen.”

“And you looked at me like you hoped I was right.”

Jack huffs a laugh, low and hot. “I was fucked from the second I saw you.”

His hand finds your waist. The other cups your cheek, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw. He kisses you slowly like he has time. And you melt. Because this is the same man who once looked across a candlelit table and said, “I’ve never been afraid of blood. But I’ve always been afraid of this.”

And still, he stayed.

You pull him closer, fingers curling into his shoulder, the press of your bodies so familiar it’s muscle memory. He kisses you again, open mouthed and low sighing, like he’s trying to say something without words.

“Bedroom,” you whisper against his mouth. Jack lifts you before you finish the sentence. Your bedroom is dark, the only light coming from the hallway, honey warm and soft across the sheets. He lays you down like you’re something precious. Like you’re a promise he’s keeping.

“This feels like that night,” he murmurs.

Your voice catches. “It is that night.”

But not rushed. Not new. Not unknown.

This time, he knows your body. He knows how your breath hitches when he kisses the spot below your ear. He knows how you sound when you try to keep quiet. He knows where to touch, where to slow down, where to ruin you just right. Jack pulls your his shirt over your head with quiet precision, mouth following the trail he uncovers, throat, collarbone, the soft dip at your sternum. His hands settle on your hips. His grip is firm. Grounding.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he says, voice low, like he’s afraid saying it too loud will break the spell.

“You always say that when you’re about to wreck me,” you whisper, breathless.

He smirks.

Then wrecks you anyway.

Slow. Intentional. Every movement like a memory. Every kiss a callback. Every shift of his hips like a vow. When he sinks into you, it’s with a sound that feels like a prayer. You gasp, hands curling against his back, body arching to meet him. He stills for a moment. Just looks down at you. “You good?”

“Jack,” you whisper, “move.”

He does.

The rhythm builds. Steady at first, then deeper, more urgent. Like the years between that first night and this one has only made him hungrier. His hand laces with yours, fingers gripping tight.

And you remember—god, you remember—the way he looked that night when you offered your hand. The look of disbelief. Of awe. Of the first time he let himself hope. You pull him closer now. Mouth to his ear. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Jack groans. Half laugh, half sound of someone holding on too tight. You both fall apart like that. Like two people who stopped being afraid of what this could become. When it’s over, neither of you move right away. Jack stays above you, chest heaving. Then slowly lowers himself, rolling to the side but keeping one hand anchored at your waist.

Later, your head on his chest, your fingers tracing a line down his sternum, he murmurs, “Three years.”

You hum, lazy and warm. “And?”

“I still remember the color of your dress. The way your eyes looked in candlelight.”

You smile. “What color was the dress?”

“Midnight blue. Just barely clinging to your shoulders.” His hand drags softly along your bare spine. “I almost didn't want to touch you that night.”

You tilt your head up. “Why not?”

“Because I knew,” he says. “If I touched you… I’d never want to stop.”

You kiss him slow.

He doesn’t stop.

Not for a long time.

And somewhere, in the soft haze of lamplight and breathless laughter, with his body warm against yours and the echo of that first night lingering like a heartbeat, Jack Abbot falls in love again.

He didn't think that was possible.

5 Months Until the Wedding — Friday, 2:04 PM | Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center ✧ Lesson Twelve: Love Is Letting Yourself Be Taken Care Of

It doesn’t happen in the way anyone expects. No warning. No graceful fade. Just... collapse.

You’re at the office copier. Fluorescent lights humming above you, screen blaring a “paper jam” message you can barely read. You haven’t eaten. You haven’t slept. You’ve had a fever for days. Ignored it. Took DayQuil. Drank tea. Told yourself it’d pass.

It doesn’t.

Instead, your knees give out. Your coffee spills across the floor. And then the world tilts hard and fast.

You crumple like paper.

The only sound is your body hitting the tile. Then a scream. Then running footsteps. Then everything blurs.

Jack is halfway through his shift at The Pitt when the trauma alert comes through. Female, syncopal episode at a downtown office. Fever. Hypoxic. Unresponsive en route. He’s barely listening. Just another Friday.

Until the EMT’s voice crackles over the intercom and says your name. Jack stops moving. Stops breathing. The world narrows like a camera lens. He doesn’t remember barking for a room or snapping at Dana. All he knows is that when the stretcher rounds the corner,

It’s you.

Soaked in sweat. Eyes half-lidded. Fever warming every inch of your skin. IV started. And still, still, you’re shaking.

“No. Move. Let me in.”

“Jack—”

“She’s my fiancée,” he growls. “I’m not standing behind the glass.”

They don’t argue. He’s already at your side.

“Hey. Sweetheart.” His voice fractures. “It’s me. I’ve got you, okay?”

You blink slowly. Your lips move. But no sound comes out. Then your oxygen monitor starts to plummet.

“Sat’s dropping. 86. 82. 77—”

“Get me heated high flow and the crash cart,” Jack snaps. “Get cultures. Ice bath, now, not when you get around to it. Go.”

“Jack, maybe we should assign this to—?”

“She’s my patient. She’s mine.” He doesn’t yell it. He doesn’t need to. The words come out low and final, grounded in panic and something older than fear. Someone peels off your shirt, which is soaked through. Jack doesn’t flinch. He’s already pressing his palm to your clavicle, counting your heartbeats with practiced fingers.

“God, you’re burning up,” he whispers. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

You can’t answer. You’re too far gone. The team lifts you. The ice packs and cooling blanket is placed. Your body seizes. Jack catches you before you arch off the bed. Holds your face between both hands. Anchors you there with his voice alone.

“I know, I know, I’m here. You’re okay. I’ve got you, baby, stay with me. Just... stay.”

Your teeth chatter. You moan softly, in pain, confused, slipping in and out. Someone says something about intubation if your O2 doesn’t rise. Jack growls a curse under his breath, brushing hair out of your face.

“She hates the cold,” he tells them.

A nurse stares. “How do you...”

“She’s my fiancée,” Jack says again, quieter now. “I know everything.”

You wake up in a hospital bed, hours later.

The fever’s broken. Your head pounds. There’s an oxygen line under your nose and the soft hum of a monitor nearby. And Jack is there. Sitting in a chair beside your bed, elbows on his knees, hands knotted tight in front of his mouth like he’s praying.

“Jack,” you croak.

He’s up in an instant. At your side. His hand goes to your cheek, trembling. His voice drops to something hoarse and hollow: “Oh, thank God.”

“I’m okay,” you whisper.

“You’re not.” It comes out too fast, too sharp. His eyes close. He steadies himself. “You weren’t. You didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t want to be dramatic,” you mumble. “I thought it was just a cold. You’d picked up a double. I didn’t want to interrupt your night.”

Jack pulls back like he’s been struck.

“Interrupt?” he says, almost stunned. “You don’t interrupt my life. You are my life.”

The silence crackles.

“We practically had to put you in an ice bath,” he whispers. “You weren’t breathing right. You had a fever of 105. I didn’t know if—” He swallows. “I didn’t know if I was going to lose you before we made it to the altar.”

You blink hard, eyes stinging. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I just, I thought I could power through it. I didn’t want to bother you.”

Jack’s eyes flash. He leans forward, voice breaking open. “If I’m supposed to call you when I’m on the roof,” he says, “then you are supposed to call me when you can’t stand up. That’s the deal.”

You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Yeah,” you say. “That’s the deal.”

He leans in slowly. Forehead to yours. His hand wrapped around your wrist like a tether. “I need you to stop pretending you don’t matter,” he murmurs. “You do. To me. To everyone. But mostly me.”

You nod again, smaller this time. Jack brushes a kiss to your temple, slow and steady. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

“You’re here,” he breathes.

And for the first time in days, your chest feels lighter.

Because Jack is here. Still worried. Still angry. Still your doctor, your fiancé, your home.

4 Months Until the Wedding — Sunday, 3:12 PM | Their House ✧ Lesson Thirteen: Love Is Remembering the Yes

The dining table looks like it’s been through a minor catastrophe.

There are RSVP cards in chaotic stacks that no longer correspond to any known system. A rogue envelope lies open and abandoned, its flap torn. Wax seals, once delicately arranged in a tin, have spilled across the oak surface. A roll of postage stamps is unraveling off the edge close to your mug of half-cold tea.

The scent of teakwood hangs in the air burned low from the candle you lit nearly two hours ago when this still felt exciting. Fun, even. Jack is hunched at the far end of the table, brow furrowed in surgical concentration, the exact posture he wears when threading a central line or building a cabinet without instructions. His sleeves are rolled up. His penmanship has started to slant. There’s a smear of dark ink along his thumb joint.

You’re on the hardwood floor with your back against a dining chair, legs stretched long in front of you, an envelope balanced on your thighs. Your hair is twisted up with the same pen you used to address the last twenty five envelopes. It doesn’t feel particularly secure.

Jack exhales, not dramatically, just a long slow drag of air. “I’d rather do a thoracotomy than figure out if your Aunt Cynthia counts as plus one material.”

“She does,” you mutter. “Unless you want to trigger another text chain where she threatens to rent a llama”

Jack winces. “She still says that like it’s a metaphor.”

“It’s not. She tried to get one for my cousin's baby shower.’”

He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t comment. You can tell he’s trying not to smile. Jack glances at you sideways, amused. “You sure you don’t want to elope?”

His voice is dry but there’s that softness underneath it. That Jack softness that sounds like teasing but scans like an offer. His hair is a little wild from running his hand through it too many times. His shirt is slightly rumpled from leaning too far across the table to double check addresses. His face is tired but glowing in the way it gets when he’s fully immersed in something. Even this.

Even you.

“I do want to elope,” you say, voice light. “Right after we lick seventy six more envelopes and threaten each other over the font size on the return address.”

Jack gives a quiet, exaggerated shudder. “You adjusted the kerning again, didn’t you?”

“I like even spacing!”

“You are chaos incarnate,” he mutters fondly, sealing another envelope with the wax stamp you bought off Etsy at 2:00 a.m. on a whim. There’s something special in the way he handles it. Not just careful, but intentional. Like every invitation is a promise. Not just to your guests, but to each other. It’s such a small thing. But Jack’s always understood the weight of small things. You stare for a moment longer, chest tight with something unspoken.

“Hey,” you murmur, setting down your envelope. “Can I ask you something?”

He looks up immediately, eyes alert, not worried, just open in that way he only is with you. It still makes your heart ache, how freely he listens. “Always.”

“When’s the last time you RSVP’d to something?”

It’s a question born of nothing. A whim. Or maybe not.

But Jack stills.

Not dramatically. Just entirely. His hands still, the seal halfway lifted. His shoulders freeze in place. His eyes go somewhere else for a long moment. Then, finally, he sets the seal down and says, quietly, “My friend Caleb’s funeral.”

You don’t move.

Jack doesn’t either.

“He was in my unit,” he adds, voice lower now. “Didn’t make it home. The funeral was back in Boston. They sent the invite in an envelope like this. Heavy paper. Formal. Starched. With his name misspelled on the return address.”

You reach for his hand before you think it through. You just move. He lets you. Doesn’t flinch. But he doesn’t look at you, either. His eyes stay on the stack of finished invitations, like they’re keeping him tethered.

“I didn’t go,” he says after a while.

Your voice is soft. “Why not?”

He draws a breath. Holds it. Lets it go slowly, through his nose.

“Because then it would have been real.”

Your throat catches. Jack’s eyes flick toward you then, like he’s checking your reaction even though he doesn’t want to. Or maybe because he needs to. You squeeze his hand. You don’t speak. You just hold him steady.

“It felt like... if I went, if I said yes to that... that would be the shape of my future,” he continues. “Loss. Grief. Empty chairs. I wasn’t ready to make that kind of peace.”

There’s a pause. His grip tightens around yours. “It’s not that I didn’t care. I just couldn’t...”

You’re quiet for a long moment.

Then you shift toward him, still sitting on the floor, knees brushing his. “Jack,” you whisper. “You’ve said yes to so many things since then.”

“I know,” he says. “But this one, this whole wedding thing, it’s the first time in years where I feel like I’m not waiting for something to go wrong. I’m not just surviving. I’m—” He breaks off. Starts again. “It means something different now.”

“What does?”

“Saying yes. To this. To you. To us.” He swallows. “It doesn’t feel like the end of anything.”

“It’s not,” you say, fierce and low. “It’s the opposite.”

Jack shifts off his chair and sinks down to the floor beside you, knees pulled up, hands laced in yours. “You know how we said we’d call each other when we’re 'stuck on the roof'?” he asks suddenly.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

“Well...” he squeezes your hand. “I think I also need to call you when I get stuck on the floor. Inside my head. Inside some old envelope that showed up eight years too late.”

You nod. Your voice is rough. “Deal.”

He kisses you. Slowly. The envelopes dwindle. The light shifts across the kitchen. Outside, a neighbor’s lawn mower hums. A dog barks at nothing in particular. Somewhere far off, the city goes on, unaware.

You sit there in the middle of it. Legs tangled. Tea gone cold. Surrounded by stacks of hand-written names and tiny declarations of presence.

Later, just before the sun sets, you gather the last of the invitations and slide them into the box. Jack walks beside you down the driveway, the early evening sun casting long shadows across the sidewalk. His fingers brush yours the whole way.

You pause at the mailbox. It feels... ceremonial.

Jack looks at you. “Ready?”

You look back at him. “Yeah. You?”

His nod is slow. Steady. “Yeah.”

3 Months Until the Wedding — Tuesday, 4:02 PM | Downtown Pittsburgh ✧ Lesson Fourteen: Love Is Sharing the Blueprint

The office is warmer than you expect. Not by temperature, but by tone. There’s golden afternoon light catching on the glass table, a faint smell of espresso drifting from a side counter, and a little dish of peppermint bark sitting like a dare beside a crystal coaster. Outside, the city hums. You can see the tops of yellow bridges cutting across the Monongahela, traffic crawling like toy cars.

Jack sits beside you, relaxed but alert, still wearing his scrubs beneath a quarter zip. Badge clipped. It’s almost 4PM; he’ll be heading straight to the hospital after this meeting. He doesn’t say anything when he notices the bowl of peppermint bark on the table, just quietly nudges it toward you like an unspoken offering.

“I’m not getting roped into another Are Roth IRAs Romantic? podcast after this,” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear.

You nudge his ankle with yours under the table. “You liked that episode. You said the hosts had good banter.”

“I said they had predictable banter,” he corrects. “One of them mispronounced ‘fiduciary’ three times. I was physically in pain.”

Across the desk, Annette, your financial planner, late fourties, elegant sweater set, kind eyes, a well practiced brow raise, smiles without looking up. “You two always talk like this?”

“Only when money’s involved,” you say, and Jack makes a noise of quiet agreement.

Annette closes the folder she’s been reviewing. “Well, I’ll say this. You’re ahead of most couples I meet three months before a wedding. Joint checking, good credit scores, already fighting about the candy dish on your registry…”

Jack leans back. “It’s a skull. With fangs. It’s delightful.”

“It’s a Halloween decoration,” you say. “It's not even October."

“Which is exactly when one should prepare for spooky season and buy it early,” Jack replies.

Annette clears her throat gently, smiling. “Let’s get into it, then.”

She moves easily through the numbers. Earnings, benefits, deductions. The two of you answer questions about emergency funds, insurance, whose student loans still exist (yours). Jack answers most things with dry, grounded precision, occasionally passing you a sticky note or circling a detail he wants to revisit. You feel the rhythm of the thing between you. But the shift happens like it always does... with a question that you aren't prepared for.

Annette sets her pen down.

“And how are you both feeling about long-term planning?” she asks. “Five years out, ten?”

There’s a pause. Not the awkward kind... just the kind that asks you both to reach for something a little deeper. You glance at Jack. He’s already looking at you.

“I think,” you start, slowly, “we’re trying to take it one thing at a time. Wedding first. House projects. Then... see what we grow into.”

Jack’s quiet a moment longer. Then: “I want to start a savings account.”

Annette tilts her head. “For what specifically?”

Jack doesn’t look at her. He looks at you.

“For a kid,” he says simply.

You blink.

There’s no hesitation in the way he says it. No performance, no apology. “I mean—” he continues, eyes still on you, voice softer now. “Not tomorrow. Or even next year. I just... want to start planning like we believe we’ll get there. Like we’ll be ready.”

Your heart thuds against your ribs. You sit with it. With him. With the man who once admitted that for years, he didn’t RSVP to things because it felt like making a promise the world would take away. And now he’s sitting in an office with paperclips shaped like dollar signs and a coffee ring on his printout, saying he wants to open a savings account for your future child.

You clear your throat. “You really want to?”

Jack gives the smallest nod. “I do.”

And not the wedding kind of I do. The this is what I’m choosing, every day kind. “I know I talk about wanting control,” you admit. “Budgets. Plans. Lists. It’s how I survived for a long time. After my dad died... things stopped feeling stable. Money especially. So I overcompensated. I still do.”

Jack doesn’t flinch. He just slides his hand and brushes his thumb over yours. You keep going. “But with you... it’s different. It’s not about trying to protect myself anymore.”

He looks at you like you’re the most legible thing in the room. Annette clears her throat, but there’s a softness in her eyes. “Would you like to set up a short-term and long-term goal tracker? Just the basics: house, retirement, hypothetical mini-human?”

Jack grins faintly. “Throw in a new vacuum. Ours doesn't like the stairs.”

“I’ll make a note,” Annette says, flipping a tab on her binder.

The meeting wraps with warm handshakes and follow up dates. You leave with a slight ache in your throat, and a new joint account scheduled to open next month titled “Future Projects.”

In the parking garage, the air smells like cement and late summer. Jack walks with one hand in his pocket, the other brushing against yours. You stop by your car. “You really want to save for that?” you ask quietly. “Even if it’s still just a... maybe?”

Jack shrugs. “I don’t think it’s about certainty. I think it’s about faith.”

You lean into him, forehead against his shoulder.

“Maybe we can start small,” you murmur. “Like... every time we skip takeout or return something impulsive, we put twenty dollars in the account.”

Jack hums. “So far we’ve returned a decorative vase, an extra toaster, and sequined napkin rings.”

You grin. “So... sixty bucks and counting.”

He tilts his head and kisses your temple. “Look at us. Practically billionaires.”

You don’t say anything.

You just lean there, pressed into the warm beat of his chest, the folder with your blueprint tucked between you.

2 Months Until the Wedding — Thursday, 5:11 PM | Their Backyard ✧ Lesson Fifteen: Love Is Letting It Be Messy

There’s a suspicious gurgle from the corner of the yard.

You glance up from where you’re kneeling in the dirt. Gloves muddy and sweat dripping down your neck despite the breeze. Jack’s by the hose spigot, frowning down at the PVC pipes you both thought would make a perfectly straightforward raised bed irrigation system.

That gurgle? It turns into a hiss.

Then a pop.

Then a full pressure geyser.

You barely have time to yelp before it hits, an arc of cold water blasting Jack in the chest. He stands there, dripping. You don’t laugh. You shouldn’t laugh.

But you do. Helplessly. Loudly. The kind of laughter that curls your shoulders and steals your breath, muddy gloves pressed to your face. Jack just stares at you. Soaked. Hair plastered back. T-shirt transparent against the muscle of his chest. He blinks. Water drips from his nose. “You find this funny?”

You nod, gasping. “Oh my god, I think this is the best day of my life.”

He glances down at himself. “Well, whose idea was it to do ‘just a little weeding and measuring’ before dinner?” he asks, stepping carefully over the spray like he’s walking through landmines. “Whose grand plan was the backyard irrigation system?”

“Yours.”

Jack levels you with a look. “No. I said, ‘We should probably look into drip irrigation.’ You said, ‘We’re smart. We can DIY.’ And then you watched a TikTok and ordered pipe fittings.”

You blink. “You seemed excited.”

“I was tired. I was impressionable.”

You tug off your gloves and wipe your brow with your forearm, still grinning. “Do you regret saying yes yet?”

Jack tilts his head, water still running down his jawline. “To the irrigation system? Yes. To you? Never.”

That wipes the smirk off your face. Because even now, mud-streaked and sun-tired and definitely going to need a plumber... Jack Abbot still looks at you like there’s no place he’d rather be than ankle-deep in a mess you made together.

You drop the gloves. Walk toward him.

He meets you halfway.

“You’re soaking wet,” you murmur.

“You’re filthy,” he says, brushing a thumb against your cheekbone where dirt smudged.

You loop your arms around his neck. “Perfect match.”

He kisses you and it's warm despite the cold spray still misting around you. You taste water and earth and something sweeter, deeper. Home.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours. “You know this means we’re showering before dinner, right?”

You smirk. “Together?”

Jack sighs dramatically. “For water conservation.”

“Sure,” you say, stepping closer. “For the environment.”

He kisses you again.

Somewhere behind you, the hose explodes off the connector with a comical pop. Neither of you move.

Eventually, you call a real plumber. But you keep the crooked garden bed just the way it is. Half-built, half-wrecked, and entirely yours.

Because the thing about building a life with someone like Jack Abbot is that it’s never going to be clean.

It’s going to be messy.

Imperfect.

Soaked to the bone, blistered hands, laugh until you cry kind of messy.

And if you’re lucky?

It’s the kind of mess you both keep choosing. Over and over again.

1 Month Until the Wedding — Friday, 7:12 PM | Their House ✧ Lesson Sixteen: Love Is in the Ordinary Hours

The dryer hums like a lullaby you don’t remember learning as a child.

You’re sitting on the hallway floor. Legs tucked under you, fingers combing absently through a basket of clean laundry that smells like cedar and soap and the detergent Jack picked out because it “smelled like something you’d like.”

The overhead light flickers once before settling. The sky outside is pinking at the edges, and the air feels like summer wanting to stay.

Jack is here.

Dressed in his scrubs—black, slightly wrinkled from where they sat at the bottom of the clean pile. He’s half-sitting, half-sprawled across from you, one socked foot nudging yours beneath the basket. He smells like mint and steam and the smallest trace of your shampoo.

He’s supposed to be at work in twenty minutes.

The towel in your hand goes unfolded for the third time.

Jack watches you with that half-smile... the one that starts in the corner of his mouth and makes you feel like you’re glowing even when you’re just folding bath towels and trying not to cry over how close it all is now. One month. Thirty days. Four Friday nights.

“You know,” he says, voice low, teasing, “if you keep folding the same towel over and over again, I’m going to start thinking you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” you lie.

He tilts his head.

You groan and bury your face in the towel. “Fine. I’m nervous.”

Jack leans back. “Talk to me.”

You pull your knees up to your chest, still holding the towel. “I don’t even know what I’m nervous about. It’s not the getting married part. It’s not you. It’s—god, I don’t know. I think it’s just that everything’s about to... happen. And I keep thinking about how I want it to feel, and what if I mess it up?”

Jack exhales and reaches across the laundry pile to gently tug the towel from your hands. He folds it neatly. Of course he does, surgical corners, and sets it aside.

“You won’t mess it up,” he says simply.

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re you,” he says. “And you love me. And I know that like I know how to put pressure on a wound.”

You blink. “That’s your metaphor?”

“I’m not a poet,” he says. “I’m a trauma doctor. It’s the highest praise I’ve got.”

You laugh, breath catching. “Well, in that case.”

Jack grins and reaches for another towel. Folds it perfectly. Sets it aside.

You let yourself watch him for a moment. The ease of him. The steadiness. The way he anchors you without even meaning to. Then you sit up straighter. “Okay. But we still haven’t written our vows.”

Jack doesn’t look up. “I have.”

You stare. “What?”

“I mean—they’re messy. And they’re not done. And there’s definitely a metaphor about drywall I need to workshop. But yeah. I started.”

“You told me we’d write them together.”

“I know. I lied. I was lovesick and weak.”

You swat him with a pair of socks.

He just smirks.

You narrow your eyes. “Well, I’m writing mine in private.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Oh, we’re doing secret vows now?”

“I want them to be a surprise,” you say, firm. “I want you to hear them for the first time when I say them. On the day. With everything.”

Jack quiets. Something flickers in his eyes. “Okay,” he says, softer now. “Yeah. That’s... yeah. That’s good.”

“You sure?” you ask, suddenly nervous again.

He nods. “If that’s what you want.”

You study his face.

He’s quiet.

Then, still watching you, “I might cry.”

Your heart thumps.

You whisper, “Really?”

He shrugs a little, like it’s no big deal. “I almost did when you added me to the grocery list app when we started dating. That felt like commitment.”

You snort. “Jack.”

“I’m serious. I was seen.”

You’re laughing now, full on, and then you’re leaning forward and grabbing his face and kissing him hard enough to tip the laundry basket sideways.

He kisses you back with all the quiet passion you love about him. His hand at your jaw, his other arm sliding around your waist. The laundry shifts beneath you. You don’t care.

You pull back, breathless. “Okay. Then I have a surprise for you.”

Jack’s eyes narrow. “What kind of surprise?”

You grin. “Wedding night. But you have to wait.”

His voice drops. “You’re cruel.”

“You like it.”

He nods solemnly. “Desperately.”

You kiss his cheek. “You’re going to love it.”

“I already love you,” he says.

You pause.

He means it. You can feel it in your bones. You sit there on the floor, pressed together, surrounded by socks and half folded towels, and suddenly your eyes sting with the weight of how much this is.

You reach for his hand. “I can’t wait to marry you.”

He squeezes it. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

Jack checks the time and sighs. “I really do have to go.”

You groan and flop onto the floor. “Nooooo.”

He stands, leans down, kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your lips.

Just before he reaches the door, you call after him.

“Jack?”

He turns.

You give him the softest smile you’ve got.

“Promise me you won’t cry before I get through my whole vows. You have to make it through. I’m dramatic, structured and I need the audience.”

Jack grins. “I’ll try.”

“You have to.”

He opens the door.

“I’ll do my best,” he says. “But you have no idea what you sound like when you’re in love. It’s lethal.”

Then he disappears into the night shift air, the door shutting gently behind him. You’re still sitting on the floor. The laundry is still warm. And somewhere in the pile, half folded, slightly wrinkled, is the T-shirt you’re planning to wear while you get ready for your wedding.

You pick it up.

And tucked beneath it, where you’re positive you didn’t put it—is a sheet of paper. Folded twice. Your name is on the front. Jack’s handwriting.

You freeze.

Your fingers tremble.

Then—footsteps on the porch.

You look up.

The door opens again.

Jack���s head pokes back in through the door, one eyebrow raised, that familiar crooked smile already in place.

You blink, caught between the paper in your hand and the man in your doorway.

Jack grins.

“Whatever surprise you’re saving for our wedding night…” he pauses, voice dropping, eyes steady, teasing but real. “Just know I’ve been in love with you through every version of you. And I’m not surviving that night. I’m surrendering.”

Then he’s gone again.

And the wedding is suddenly, wildly, heartbreakingly close.

[mariaofdoranelle]

Maria plz bring back the booty call i need it to continue

Your wish is my command, Nonnie! <33

The Booty-Call Dare - part 3

Written for @throneofglassmicrofics, July prompt “Healing”

Part 1 | Part 2

Warnings: idiots idioting

Words: 1064 (sorry!!!!)

The decision to put Rowan’s key in separate keychains from her car and apartment was much more emotional than logistical, Aelin thought as she searched the bottom of her big work purse at his apartment door.

Having Rowan’s key was okay, a rational decision, but having it along with her own felt like too much. Looking after him while he healed from two broken ribs was inevitable—Aelin had work most of the day, but she was still the person he was closest with in town—this wasn’t what she was confused about.

She knocked on the door before opening it to make her presence known, just to be sure.

“Over here,” he called from the kitchen.

Aelin thought she loved that pre-hookup anticipation, but that hour of wait became a whole week, two more to come—the situation brought a queasy feeling in her stomach, always skipping between overjoyed and terrified.

In the kitchen, Aelin found her friend in a clumsy attempt to clean a white powder off the floor with a broom, an open jar of creatinine on the counter before him.

“Rowan Whitethorn,” Aelin said slowly, in a low but chastising tone. “You’re not allowed anywhere near a broom… or the gym!”

“I’m not! I—“ Rowan paused under her pointed look, busted between a broom and gym supplements. He sighed. “Have I told you how much I hate this?”

Aelin came closer to hug him, and decided to give him a leap of faith—he’d mentioned before taking creatinine even on his days off the gym, and he wouldn’t be stupid enough to exercise with two broken ribs. These days of rest were taking a toll on him, she knew for a fact that Rowan hated feeling useless.

She pecked his lips. “My poor baby.” A few strokes on his cheek as Aelin struggled not to laugh. “Is all this rest stressing you out?”

“Not funny,” Rowan grumbled. Still, he leaned in to give her a warm kiss, biting her lips. “But I like this.”

“You like what?”

“When you call me ‘baby.’”

Shit. Those butterflies again.

Pesticides. Fly swatters. Nets. She needed to kill those butterflies because being with Rowan romantically, much like their friendship, felt too easy, too safe—too dangerous, risking the fall when their booty-call was fulfilled and she was left with nothing.

It was supposed to be a no-strings-attached hookup, and now they’ve been chastely canoodling for a week. It was the longest she’s ever waited before having sex with someone—this was an okay time, but they’ve been seeing each other daily, and Aelin never waited seven dates to sleep with a guy.

Does it count as a date if you’re dining together and kissing while waiting to fulfill a no-strings-attached booty-call?

“I’ll call you that again…” Aelin slid her hands from his head to his shoulders. “If you let me clean this mess. And wash your hair.”

Aelin didn’t miss the slightly greasy aspect of it, or the reason for it—his arm movements being limited due to the fracture.

Rowan ducked his head, his cheeks gained an adorable reddish color. When she looked at him, all thoughts and doubts that were floating around her like dust settled back down, and she only had half a mind to worry—Rowan was either kissing her thoughts away or driving her insane with his stubbornness.

Rowan opened his mouth to argue, but experience stopped him.

He doesn’t want to “take advantage” of her help.

She’s doing it whether he likes it or not.

They’ve had this conversation many times, in many ways this week.

To soften the blow to his feeling worthless, Aelin pressed their foreheads together and said in a sultry tone, “Wait for me in the tub, will ya?”

Rowan looked down at his torso and let out a pained breath. “Just so you know, this is not how I pictured you and me in the tub for the first time.”

Aelin chuckled and kissed his cheek before shipping him off to the bathroom. The creatinine mess was quick to clean, but she stayed a bit longer to assess things. His house was suspiciously clean. Too clean for someone who wasn’t supposed to do most house chores.

At the bathroom, she found him already dunked in water, patiently waiting. Aelin sat at the head of the tub and grabbed the bottle he’d strategically placed close to her: 2 in 1: shampoo & conditioner, the bottle said, before a huge picture of a pine tree. A huge upgrade from his ‘one soap for everything’ system.

“Very high-end stuff. Are you opening a hair salon, Buzzard?”

“I’ve got this little tuft now.” Rowan pointed at the short strands on the top of his head. “Gotta take care of it.”

Aelin had barely begun to massage his scalp when his eyes fell blissful closed, a serene, close-lipped smile on his lips.

“You’re no better than a house cat,” she said, massaging his head. He let out a low noise in his throat that might very well have been a purr.

It happens in moments like this, when Aelin looks at him and his mere existence sends her dangerous thoughts like Oh my God, I think I like you. It wouldn’t be a problem, as long as she found metaphorical pesticides to kill the butterflies soon.

Fingers in his hair, she leaned down to peer at his face. “Is this when you assume you’re better off telling me if you can’t do something?”

However, Rowan took advantage of their proximity to tug her face closer for a messy kiss. The position was a little awkward at first, but it got better when Aelin moved to his side, sitting on the edge of the tub.

Rowan’s kiss was slow, he hungrily explored her mouth with a rough touch on her hips. The fire he ignited under her skin made her melt into a needy puddle under his touch. Aelin kissed and nipped the skin of his neck, then went back to his mouth, pressing herself against him. It was only when they broke the kiss that she realized his wet body dampened her white shirt, making it near transparent—

“Fuck,” Rowan muttered under his breath, eyes on her torso before he sneaked his hands under Aelin’s shirt, one hand holding her waist and the other teasing her breast through the lace bra.

She moaned into the kiss and leaned closer to Rowan, but that single movement made her lose her balance; in the next moment, Aelin had fallen into the bathtub.

If she and Rowan couldn’t keep it together, the cold water did the trick and tampered the mood, Aelin realized as she laughed it off.

Rowan tugged her closer for a cuddle and kissed the top of her head, knowing they’d just found themselves on the verge of a forbidden strenuous activity.

One week down, two more to go. Aelin would never admit that the wait wasn’t so bad.

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[marcusmettalus]

Where Land and Myth Tread.

Part 3

(Continued from here)

Ostia Haldus coughed violently as she staggered off the elevator platform, gripping with one hand onto a convenient guard railing as she tried to clear out her lungs. The other elevator passengers were giving the outlander woman a wide berth as they made their way down the platform towards the various arrival terminals surrounding the Space Elevator.

Grand Dame Noémie Durand of Karseille was letting the Imperial guest go through their coughing fit in peace, the air here on Midgård was quite different in comparison to the smog choked Hive Cities that many Imperial were accustomed to, or the factory choked Forge Worlds. Midgård was the capital world of the Kingdom, the seat of power for not only the Riksdag but also High King Surtr.

"Frakk, urgh,, I feel like I might spew in a minute. What kind of machine spirit cursed contraption was that? You said it was an elevator, not a bloody dropper. My heart and stomach just swapped places!" Ostia glares at her supposedly benevolent guide during this trip to Midgård, and now she felt like Noémie was actively trying to make her sick or something.

"Oh do not be so dramatic, it is an elevator for all intents and purposes. It rather jarring for all people when they first take I assure you. The ride up to the space port is much more comfortable I dare say however. Now Ostia cheri, let's keep moving so we don't block traffic. Allonz, Allonz." Noémie hooks an arm with Ostia's free arm, helping the Scion back upright and making their way down the walkways to arrivals.

Ostia grumbled some more under her breath while using the back of her hand to rub off anything from her mouth, giving a short glare at Noémie's very nonchalant approach to everything in life. It's already been one heck of a joy-ride these past few months, and if the galaxy had anything to say about this, it was that the ride was not going to calm down anytime soon. No matter what came round the next bend, it was almost something either a pleasant surprise or a serious head-turner.

Ostia still recalled when Noémie did a tour of the various Knights the various Dynasties of Karseille had in their hold, before getting the real surprise of witnessing the Knight called Dominion move on its own volition and even spoke. Though calling it actual human speech is another thing, the substance and tone was there in its words regardless.

"There should be a little time before we are truly required to make our appearance with the Ambassadors and the High King, so we can take in some sights here within the Capitol. Surely you would like to see something of their unique culture and faith? You are clearly more open minded in comparison to those frankly uncouth Inquisitive types,," Noémie rattles on some more, breaking Ostia out of her thoughts and now aware the duo had already made it through the arrival halls and toll gates. Ostia turned her gaze round to see what Noémie pointed out prior, before freezing in her tracks.

The city outskirts spread out across the valley before Ostia, and perched on the horizon were great edifices of stone and iron, towers and buttresses dotted along various monuments and constructs. Nowhere near the sheer scale of Imperial Hives or the like,, but the breadth of colors and materials mixed in the streets and boulevards, the clearly newer homes and skyscrapers being neighbors with centuries old brick mansions and malls. Ostia felt as if she was looking at an old relic tapestry from a bygone age, a mural depiction of what a civilization from before the Emperor or his like ever came to power. Locked in a time before Imperial modernisation and culture shifts.

On Imperial worlds and stations, one was always reminded of the present wars across the Imperium: vox hailers and Ecclesiarchy priests crowing at the citizens, propaganda and recruitment billboards and vox-net, the flotilla of Imperial Navy patrolling to and from almost every port. But here,,

"Do they even know that there is war going on? Out there in the Galaxy?" Ostia finally spoke, her eyes following the miniatures of citizens milling through the avenues and workplaces. "They know. Every single one of them." Noémie nods solemnly, a more neutral tone in her voice this time as she senses Ostia's mood change.

"But,, this doesn't feel like one being affected by the war. It's almost,, idyllic, calming even. Is this really the capitol?" Ostia still held onto Noémie's for a bit longer as she looked across the expanse of the city. Broad roads of cobblestones, foot bridges of wood and steel crossing over streets and canals, heaving open-air markets dotted through the districts.

"In the eyes of Midgårds people, yes. Kalmaholm was never meant to become a metropolis, but with Surtr's reign and the love of his new people,, it went through changes to accommodate the new center of a growing power." Noémie sighs gently under her breath, a softer gaze across her face as Ostia tries to spot where the High King may have his Palace or such like.

"Grand Dame Durand! What a welcome sight on your return." Ostia and Noémie turned to find the owner of the new voice, and spot the approaching men. Ostia has another heart skip however,, the man in question addressing her guide was not only huge, but had clearly visible neuro-ports dotted along his bared forearms and under his vest collar. Was he an Astartes?

"Ah! Löjtnant Lukas Tøva, so good to see you in warm health. And so well groomed as always, I must compliment you Midgårdians on your spring outfits." Noémie quickly releases her guest and regales Lukas with praise. If Ostia didn't know any better, she might have guessed the Dame was interested in the guy.

This Tøva character stood tall over Noémie and Ostia, easily half a head above R'tan in height though the main difference was his build. A broader chest and shoulders, with an overall heftier stocky appearance than the usual Astartes chiseled image that Imperial Propaganda would have one imagine. Tøva was clad in simple clothing of a dyed leather vest with a long sleeved linen tunic beneath, thicker weave trousers and what appeared to be rubber-soled slippers or shoes. The only thing which made Tøva distinct from his attendets was the metal badge pinned to his vest, with the seal of office he held.

"Hahaha you flatter me Grand Dame. I trust your journey here was without trouble? And I was informed you had brought guests however, ones that were not formally announced till you had already traversed The Veil." Tøva changed his tone while addressing Noémie, while his eyes turned to focus onto Ostia some meters behind.

The hairs on the back of her neck immediately stood on end, breath catching a scant moment when Tøva's eyes locked onto Ostia's. She always felt the gaze from an Astartes was cold or distant, but with R'tan it was vastly different, those held warmth, mirth and tender care. Tova's was something else entirely.

It felt as though Ostia was staring down the barrel of a bolter, having caught the attention of some apex predator in the bushland and locking eyes with them. The eyes were amber jewels beneath the trimmed brow, glinting sharply with calculating intent and precision. Ostia needed to reach for her weapon, her bolt pistol, something in hopes to get those eyes off of her. Now.

"Löjtnant Lukas, please be at ease. No need to scare my friend like so, she is a representative of House Haldus from the Imperium! Her House are allies of mine in this conflict with the enemy. Our, Enemy." Noémie firmly jabs the Astartes in the chest with an scolding finger, not enough to jostle the man but plenty enough to break his gaze with Ostia and scowl a little at Noémie.

Ostia felt her lungs open up again, her sudden tension and axienty melt away just as quickly they were forced onto her. Not exactly the most heartwarming of greetings she has had on a new world, but it wasn't the worst welcome she's had either. Her time here on Midgård is going to be eventful she thought while she cursed under her breath.

"Groxshit,,"

(Ostia Haldus belongs to of course @rowscara!)

[waka-chan-out]

your fics are so good!!

idk if you take requests but if you do, could you do a third gym fic (tsukki, bokuto, kuroo, akaashi) with a switch reader?

Third Gym Reunion

akaashi, kuroo, tsukishima, & bokuto x switch!reader

Plot: Your boyfriend, Akaashi Keiji, gets invited to meet up with his old practice buddies. His friends already know you have an open relationship and are fully ready to take advantage of it.

post-timeskip, obviously.

word count: 8.5k (jesus christ !!)

content warning: (deep breath) established relationship, open relationship, five-some (if that’s even a word), sub!bokuto, reader calls bokuto puppy, bokuto with mommy kink, oral (m. and f. receiving), praise kink, degradation, snowballing, spanking, hair pulling, spit-roasting, finger sucking, calling tsukki his given name, spitting, in my canon akaashi and bokuto have hooked up before so you’ll see the repercussions of that in this story, don’t mind me putting in an anal warning for them here, slight exibitionism but not really, slight overstim but not really, essentially it’s filth.

“For the last time, no,” Keiji said.

“Why not? I want to meet the boys,” you whined, grasping at his forearm. He kept staring straight at the road, seemingly immune to your pleading.

“Because I know my friends. It will not end well.”

“How come? Don’t you trust them?”

Keiji laughed. “Absolutely not. Bokuto I can talk into behaving. Tsukishima and -- oh god -- Kuroo? Absolutely not.”

“What could they possibly do?”

“They know we’re more . . . open, love. They’ll try to take advantage of that.”

“What’s so wrong with that?”

“Babe!”

“What? You said they’re all tall, right? Are they handsome?”

Keiji shrugged, then shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. My answer is no.”

“Why don’t you just take me along? I’m sure they’d bring a girlfriend if they had one. You’re the lucky guy out of the three of you.”

“What if they try to . . . proposition you?”

“If they’re icky, I’ll say no.”

He turned to you, alarmed. “And if they aren’t?”

“Are you saying they aren’t?”

“Answer the question.”

“If they aren’t, I’ll look to you for approval.”

“No.”

“What? You don’t even know they’re gonna ask.”

“You haven’t met them. Bokuto is going to take one look at you and be latched onto you all night. God only knows what Kuroo will do.”

“What about the other one?”

“Who?”

“The blond.”

“Oh, Tsukki? He’ll just insult you. I doubt he’d ever sink to asking me.”

You smirked. “He sounds fun.”

“Only some --” Keiji noticed your cheeky expression. “Hey! No.”

“You never know.”

“I know.”

“Whatever you say, Kei.”

“Don’t call me that around them.”

You pouted. “Why?”

“That’s Tsukishima’s first name.”

You grinned. “So you’re saying I get to come as long as I don’t use your nickname?”

Keiji sighed. “I guess so. I’ll never hear the end of it if I don’t.”

“Yay!” You hummed happily, then turned to him with a cheeky smile on your face. “Wait . . . is Bokuto the one that you--” Keiji cut you off by clapping a hand over your mouth.

“Don’t.”

“I’m right! Oh my god, Keiji, I’m excited to meet him.”

“It’s been a long time, love. He probably doesn’t even remember.”

“Oh please, if it was with you, he remembers.”

Keiji’s brows knitted together.

“What does that mean?” he asked. You wiggled your fingers at him.

“You’ve got very memorable hands.”

His face flushed a bright red and he turned away from you.

“Shut up,” he muttered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your confident demeanor only faltered slightly when you arrived at gym three, where they all used to practice together. Only Kuroo and Bokuto were there and, as you suspected, they weren’t even remotely icky. Kuroo was tall with dark hair, his dress shirt and pants hiding a slim but muscular frame. He looked like he had just come from work. Bokuto on the other hand was huge. He wore simple sweatpants and a sweatshirt and looked thoroughly happy to be there. He was holding a volleyball and yelling when you and Keiji stepped through the doorway.

“What do you mean I’ve gotten worse? I’m a professional!”

“You’re a dumbass that can’t receive the ball.”

“And you’re a scammer!”

“Bokuto, this is my work uniform. I don’t scam people.”

“You look like a scammer.”

“I work for a legitimate company!”

“Yeah? Prove it.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No, I’m not kidding. See? Scammer.”

“Bokuto-san,” Keiji called from the doorway. “His company is real. You need to calm down.”

“Aghakshi!” Bokuto sprinted for his friend while Kuroo fell into step behind him, a pleased smile on his face. Bokuto wrapped Keiji up in a bear hug.

“You’re late, ‘Kashi. Kuroo was mean without you.”

“I’m not mean.” Kuroo placed a hand on his chest. “I am a very nice man.”

“No, you’re a scammer and a liar.”

“I’m not --”

“Guys,” Keiji butted in. He gestured behind himself to you. “This is my partner, Y/N. Please behave around them.” Both men’s eyes froze on you, making you distinctly aware of your height difference. Keiji wasn’t short by any means, but these men were huge.

“Hi,” you said, pasting a cheerful smile across your face. “It’s nice to finally meet you guys. I’ve heard all about you.”

“I guarantee we’re worse in person,” Kuroo said, eyes sparkling as he reached out to shake your hand.

“Why do you do that?” Bokuto asked, eyebrows drawn down in a frown.

“It’s the truth.”

“It’s not the truth,” Keiji stepped in, separating your hand from Kuroo’s. You hadn’t realized you were still holding it. “You’re both dorks and they know it already. Stop being weird.”

“Hi,” a bored sounding voice came from directly behind you. You turned around and shrunk against Keiji. Tsukishima stood behind you, shaggy blonde hair just barely hiding his serious eyebrows. He was thin, too, but tall. He and Kuroo were about the same size, but seeing Tsukishima so close to you made your heart pound.

“Tsukki-poo, how are you, buddy?” Bokuto yelled, pushing past you to wrap his friend up in his arms.

“Don’t call me that.” Tsukki sounded bored and annoyed, but you knew he wouldn’t have come if he didn’t miss his friends just a little bit. “Who’s the little one?” he asked, staring down at you with cold eyes. Bokuto grinned, still hanging onto him.

“That’s Akaashi’s partner. Isn’t that cool?”

“Sure. You guys fuck other people, don’t you?”

Silence. You stared at the ground, eyes wide in amused disbelief.

“That. Well. You aren’t wrong but that seems inappropriate.” Keiji was bright red and only burned brighter as he spoke.

“Not as inappropriate as you describing your sex life to us. Do they know you do that?”

“Yes, I do,” you said, staring up at him. “Slow down, lamp post. I think you need to relax.”

Kuroo let out a hyena laugh. “I like them,” he said.

Tsukishima rolled his eyes. “Are we playing or not?”

“Playing,” Keiji said.

“Fine. Akaashi, you help tiny. Bokuto, you can be on their team.”

Bokuto frowned. “Why? You guys just have two middle blockers.”

“Kuroo can receive and both of us can spike.”

“Who’s going to set for you?” Keiji asked.

“I can,” you chimed in. Keiji’s friends all turned to you in surprise.

“I played through college. It’s only fair. Bokuto and Akaashi against me, Tsukishima, and Kuroo.”

Kuroo smiled, eyes glinting again as he stared at you. “I think that’s a brilliant plan. Ok with you, ‘Kashi?” Keiji narrowed his eyes at his friend, who still had his eyes trained on you.

“They can play setter for you. That’s it.”

The three other men looked at each other in surprise. The implication of his words was . . . jarring. You smiled nervously and walked to one side of the net. You shrugged off your jacket, revealing a thin long-sleeved shirt that no longer covered the back of your leggings. You could feel at least two men’s eyes on you, but you ignored it. All you had to do now was prove you could still play volleyball.

“You know the rules, then?” Tsukishima asked, tying his shoes tighter.

“I’ll be just fine, Tsukki-babe,” you said. He cringed at the nickname. “I’m more concerned with how Kuroo is going to play in his work clothes.

“Give me a minute, dearest,” he said, walking past you with a bag in his hands. “I brought clothes.”

“Hustle up, buddy, or we’ll start without you.”

“Shut up and practice before we lose to the chaos twins.”

Tsukki scoffed. “Like we’re going to lose to them. Bokuto’s going to go emo-mode in ten minutes, guaranteed.”

“Emo mode?” you asked. Tsukki’s brows raised and he smiled for the first time since you had met him.

“You’re dating Akaashi and you don’t know about Bokuto’s emo mode?”

“I guess not.”

He let out a delighted laugh, completely out of character but quite sweet. “God, you’re in for a treat.”

Kuroo returned in a short pair of red athletic shorts and a black t-shirt.

“Is that the same outfit you had in high school?” Keiji asked, a smile on his face.

“The very same,” Kuroo said, laughing and stretching his arms across his chest. “Well, not the exact same clothes, but the same colors. I outgrew my old stuff. I’ve gotten much bigger since high school.” He winked in your direction.

“Gross,” Tsukki said.

“Shut up.”

Tsukishima rolled his eyes. “Can we start?” He shrugged off his own jacket, revealing a long-sleeved shirt and athletic shorts.

“Who gets first serve?” Keiji asked.

“There are more of us. You guys can start,” Kuroo said.

“Bokuto, do you want to serve or should I?” Keiji turned to Bokuto, who looked grumpy at the lack of attention he was getting.

“You do it, ‘Kashi.”

“Are you sure?”

Bokuto nodded vigorously and Keiji walked to the back line. You stood up towards the net while the other men backed up on the court.

“Nice serve,” you yelled.

“Shut up. He’s on the other team,” Tsukki said, sounding exasperated.

“He’s my boyfriend.”

“So, you should want to kick his ass,” Kuroo said. You laughed and Keiji hit the ball over the net.

It went to Tsukki, who easily bumped it up. It traveled high in the air, thank goodness. You were a little rusty, but this made it much easier on you.

“Left!” Kuroo called, hand in the air. You pushed the ball his way, satisfied at the way it lifted off your fingers. You missed this feeling. It landed right against Kuroo’s hand, who slammed it down. It barely grazed the top of Bokuto’s fingers before spinning off and hitting the ground. Kuroo ran for you immediately, grin on his face.

“That was great! I gotta say, I thought you were going to suck, but that was great.” He continued rambling as you turned to Tsukki.

“What did you think, tough guy? That was a nice receive.”

“It wasn’t that impressive. I just knew it had to go high so your dumbass could actually hit it.” He sneered as he spoke, but from the way he was rubbing his forearms you could tell he was excited too. Though he played on his own, you were sure he missed practicing with this group.

“I’d like to see one of your famous blocks next time,” you teased.

“Then tell Bokuto-san to receive the damn ball.” He turned away from you and walked to the back line.

“Hey!” Bokuto had gotten into a receiving position, hands on his knees waiting for your team to serve. You couldn’t help but notice how thick his thighs were, even through his sweatpants. “Can we go or is Tsukki-dude gonna keep complaining?”

“We’re going,” Tsukishima replied, picking up the volleyball that Keiji had rolled over to his feet. “Relax before you use up all the energy in your brain.” You couldn’t help but snicker. His responses were so quick. He was an ass, but he was charming in his own way.

Tsukishima took his place on the back line and easily popped the ball over the net. Bokuto received it and sent it up high. Keiji had to run for it but he got under the ball. Tsukishima and Kuroo took their places on the net, following Bokuto closely with their eyes. You backed up and bent your knees, ready to receive if they somehow missed it.

They didn’t miss it.

The ball hammered into Tsukishima’s hand and he flexed his fingers, sending it straight back down over the net. Kuroo hollered and slapped him on the back, while Bokuto drooped down and a pouty expression came over his face.

“It wasn’t a hard spike. I don’t know why you’re freaking out,” Tsukishima said as Kuroo continued chattering on about how much he’s improved.

“Aghashkiii,” Bokuto said. Tsukishima’s attention was on him in an instant, eyes twinkling.

“Oh fuck, it’s happening.” He gestured for you to come closer. “Shortie, are you watching?”

“Yes, I’m watching. What’s going on?” You approached and watched as your boyfriend’s shoulders fell in a deep sigh.

“Kashi, we have to switch,” Bokuto whined. “You can’t set it to me anymore.”

“Told you it’d be less than ten minutes,” Tsukishima said, expression smug.

“Is he gonna be okay?” you asked. Kuroo laughed.

“He’ll be fine,” he said. “He just needs his setter. Akaashi, on the other hand, will barely survive. He hasn’t had to deal with this in years.” You snickered, then briefly wondered if they knew about Bokuto and Keiji’s . . . antics back in the day.

“Does he do this on his pro team?” you asked.

“Not that I’ve seen. Either they’re better at managing it or Bokuto just goes full baby for Akaashi.” Kuroo rolled his eyes and walked away.

You laughed to yourself. What an idiot. However, he was an idiot that was wrapped around your boyfriend’s finger. Interesting.

“Bokuto-san, are you sure?” Keiji was saying. “Your setting isn’t very precise.”

“Apparently neither is my spiking.”

“Fine. Good luck.” Bokuto didn’t see Keiji shake his head as he spoke. Tsukishima grabbed the volleyball again, a wide smile on his face.

“God, I can’t wait to see this one,” he said, then raised his voice so the other men could hear him. “Akaashi, it’s coming to you!” Keiji nodded and got into position. Bokuto’s eyes were still wide and blank as he got closer to the net.

Tsukishima hit the ball right into Keiji’s arms. He bumped it up without much trouble and shouted for Bokuto.

“Get under the ball, Bokuto!” He backed up to start a spiking approach.

“I got it!” Bokuto sounded frustrated. He ran for the ball, settled underneath it, and . . .

It clattered to the gym floor behind him. His expression remained blank and focused on the air above him, even when his arms flopped down to his sides.

“Our point!” Tsukishima called, smiling again. He ducked to the other side of the net and grabbed the ball. He really was a brat.

“Bokuto --” Keiji started.

“I don’t want to play anymore,” Bokuto said, slumping to the gym floor.

“You can’t just give up like that,” Kuroo interjected, sounding more amused than frustrated.

“I can and I will. Let’s just go to dinner. I don’t want to be sweaty if we’re going somewhere nice.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were grateful that Keiji had convinced you to bring something nice to wear to the restaurant, otherwise you would have looked completely out of place. Kuroo had put his work clothes back on. Keiji had thrown on a sweater. Tsukishima wore a button-up and a vest and Bokuto was wearing a blazer with a t-shirt. Somehow, the outfits suited them.

“So,” Kuroo said between sips from a bottle of beer. “Akaashi has told us all about you.” You chuckled, pushing around the remaining rice on your plate.

“Is that so?” You glanced at Keiji, who sat beside you. His cheeks were slightly pink. He looked precious, like he was skating right on the edge of a giggle fit.

“Yep,” Kuroo continued. He had a sly smile on his face and looked all too happy to be talking to you. He leaned toward you across Tsukishima’s lap, who frowned and shoved him off. Kuroo flopped back down, leaning on an elbow on the table in front of his tall friend. “I’d say we know more about you than you know about us.”

“You know, that’s probably true.” You leaned on the table and matched his posture.

“Lame. Akaashi, why don’t you talk about us?”

Keiji took a deep sip of his drink and shook his head.

“Because I knew meeting you guys would do all the talking,” he said.

“What’s that mean?” Bokuto said a little too loudly, leaning into Keiji’s lap. Keiji looked down at him patiently, cheeks flushing a bit darker.

“It means your personalities are so aggressive that they need no explanation.”

“I’m not aggressive!”

“But your personality is.”

Bokuto frowned, not understanding but accepting the answer.

“So, what do you know about me?” you asked, turning back to Kuroo. He shrugged, staring into space to consider your question before giggling.

“What are you laughing at?” You narrowed your eyes at him. You knew exactly what he was thinking, but you wanted him to say it.

“The…nature…of your relationship with our boy Akaashi.”

“Yeah?” You tipped back your glass and grinned.

“We’ve heard all about it.”

“All?” You turned your face towards your boyfriend.

“Not even close,” he said through a smirk.

“What?” Kuroo asked, snapping his gaze to Keiji. “You’ve told us so much.”

“And there’s so much more to explore,” you said with a smug smile and exaggerated gesture.

“Yeah? With who?” Bokuto chimed in. You leaned over to Keiji.

“You’re right. That didn’t take long.” Keiji shook his head at your words and finished off his drink.

“I told you not to trust them,” he said. He turned his attention back to Bokuto. “With anyone, Bokuto-san.” Bokuto’s eyebrows nearly raised off his head.

“Anyone?”

“Anyone.”

“Truly anyone? Or are you one of those couples that acts like they’re kinky but really just watches porn together or something?” You were surprised that Tsukishima decided to chime in now, but you weren’t surprised by his comment. He was the type that had to see to believe. You narrowed your eyes at him and ran a finger down the back of his hand, which still clutched his glass on the table.

“Try me and find out,” you said. His eyebrows twitched and he looked away.

“Wait wait wait wait,” Kuroo cried, leaning over Tsukishima again. “Is that an offer?”

“What would you say if it was?” you asked. Keiji scoffed.

“Seriously?” Bokuto asked, eyes huge. You shrugged and looked at your boyfriend.

“What do you think, Kei?”

Tsukishima choked on his drink, staring at you with wide eyes.

“Kei?” he asked, a deep flush crawling up his cheeks.

“Jesus Christ,” Keiji said, rubbing his eyes. You laughed.

“Sorry, Tsukki. Short for Keiji.” Tsukki’s eyes remained trained on your face, looking not-quite-convinced with a hint of something you couldn’t quite place. You turned back to Keiji before you could get more distracted. “Well?” He let out a long sigh.

“Whatever you want, love.” He looked defeated, but you could tell he wasn’t unenthusiastic about the idea. You saw the way he had cupped a hand on Bokuto’s hip earlier, supposedly to keep him steady as he leaned into his lap. You couldn’t suppress a grin as you glanced back at the other men at the table. Bokuto looked confused, eyes still wide. Kuroo had paled, and Tsukishima seemed to still be reeling from you accidentally using his given name.

“Our place is closest,” you said. All three men looked like they had just been slapped.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It started off awkard. There was plenty of time between your statement at the bar, getting the check, everyone finding their way back to your and Keiji’s shared apartment, and getting in a mental place where you could bring them all into your bedroom. Keiji had thrown a box of condoms and a small bottle of lube onto the foot of the bed, making everyone’s eyes go wide. Without kissing, touching, some sort of foreplay, it felt awkward, but truthfully, you had no connection to these men. They were just hot strangers that knew your boyfriend. You could do this.

“Who do you want first, love?” Keiji asked. You stared at the expectant faces in front of you. Kuroo’s eyes were glinting. He would be fun, but you didn’t want to jump into him right away. Tsukki was a silent brat, sitting on the couch with his arms crossed. You’d fix that later. He wasn’t a problem to deal with first.

“Bo?” you said. The large man perked up at your words, wide eyes trained on yours. “Come here, baby.” You gestured for him and he complied, swallowing hard as he crossed the room to you. You stood as he got to you and pushed him to a seated position on the bed.

“You seem eager, puppy,” you said, sinking to your knees in front of him. He inhaled sharply.

“I’m not--oh!” His sentence was cut off as you palmed him through his sweatpants.

“You aren’t what, Bo? You can tell me.”

“I-- shit.” His eyes fluttered closed as you established a slow rhythm, feeling him getting harder at your touch.

“You aren’t going to talk to me?” you pouted. You tried to sound sympathetic but you spoke through a small smile. “You haven’t been touched like this in a while, have you?” He shook his head and let out an unsteady breath.

“Want me to help?” you asked. “Want me to suck your cock?” There were several inhales from the wall behind you, but you kept going. You rose up a bit, keeping a hand between his legs as you kissed along his neck.

“Yes,” he breathed.

“Aw, puppy, you know you have to ask better than that.”

“Will you -- fuck -- will you suck my cock?”

“So close, Bo. What do you call me?” There was the sound of Tsukki saying “seriously?” before he made a quiet grunting noise. Someone had elbowed him in the side.

“Ma’am?” Bokuto asked.

“Is that what you want to call me?”

He inhaled sharply and your hand ground into him harder. “I don’t want to say it.”

“Aw, puppy, why? You know I’m here to help.” You closed your teeth lightly on his earlobe and he exhaled hard, making you almost worried for his poor lungs. You whispered into his ear. “I want to hear you call me something pretty when you come down my throat.” His hips bucked up into your hand and he muttered something under his breath.

“What did you say, Bo? I couldn’t hear you.”

“M--” his eyes darted to the other men standing against the wall. You grabbed his face and made him look at you.

“Don’t worry about them. What do you want to call me, pup?”

“Mommy,” he said, so quiet you could barely hear him. You drew in a sharp breath. You were expecting something good, but that exceeded expectations. Your reaction seemed to give him a little confidence, because he spoke louder this time. “Mommy, please suck my cock.”

“Jesus Christ,” said a voice behind you. It sounded like Kuroo.

You grinned. “Good boy. Help mommy take off your pants.”

He immediately did as he was told, tugging them off and letting you throw them to the side. He was big, a little longer and thicker than Keiji. You felt heat rising in your stomach imagining your boyfriend in this same position years ago, using his adept fingers and skilled tongue on the man sitting in front of you.

“So big, puppy,” you said, smiling up at him. Let me help.” Before he could respond you had settled your lips over the head of his cock, swirling your tongue before taking him in deeper. He swore loudly and buried a hand in your hair. You hummed at his noises and moved your head faster. The room was filled with lewd noises that were quickly drowned out by Bokuto’s breathy whimpers.

“Talk to her, Bokuto-san, don’t be shy,” Keiji said. This is why you loved Keiji. He could swap personalities so fast, especially with the right partner.

“Feels good,” Bokuto stuttered, head tipping back. You heard footsteps approaching and felt a warm figure kneeling down behind you.

“Good girl.” It was Keiji. He leaned his face into the side of yours and undid your pants, slipping his hand down the front of them. “So wet already, love. I knew you were a slut, but Jesus.” He slipped his fingers inside you for a moment, wetting them before circling your clit quickly. He had a setter’s hands, precise and sure in every movement. You moaned and took Bokuto all the way into your mouth. He exhaled sharply and swore above you.

“You look so pretty with his cock down your throat, darling. Go faster for him, yeah? He likes it.” You complied, bobbing your head up and down and eliciting a series of loud noises from Bokuto.

“I want you to come when he comes, love. You’ll be good and do that for me, right?” You hummed in what you hoped would be interpreted as agreement and you sunk into Keiji’s touch. He knew exactly what to do to send you reeling in no time at all.

“Bokuto-san, tell her when you’re about to cum, yeah?” Bokuto nodded frantically and Keiji slapped his thigh. Bokuto jumped at the sudden strike, bucking his hips deeper into your mouth. “Use your words, Bokuto-san.”

“Yes. Fuck. I will, I promise.”

“Good boy,” Keiji said, rubbing faster circles against you. You continued to moan and you felt Bokuto twitch in your mouth. You knew he was close and thankfully, you were, too.

“Close, ‘Kashi.”

“Tell them, not me.”

“Mommy, please.” Bokuto moaned loudly. “Gonna cum soon.” Keiji leaned in close to your ear again, never losing his pace on you.

“Don’t swallow. Make him clean up his mess,” he said. You reached behind and squeezed his arm so he knew you understood, shaking a bit with your own approaching orgasm.

“Fuck. Holy shit,” Bokuto groaned, hips bucking as he came into your mouth. You continued moving on him as Keiji sent you over the edge, moaning around Bokuto’s cock.

“Dirty girl,” Keiji said through a laugh, pulling his hand away and returning to the wall. You pulled off of Bokuto, making sure not to accidentally swallow as you straddled his lap. He twitched at your advances, staring wide-eyed at your still-full mouth.

“Mommy, too -- fuck. Too sensitive.” You smiled and pressed your lips against his. He parted his lips instinctively, allowing you to kiss his own cum into his mouth. He swallowed obediently, moaning a bit as he did so. You smiled into the kiss, grinding your hips a little against him. He inhaled in a panic and pulled away, burying his face into your chest. You laughed and ran a hand lovingly through his hair.

“Good boy, Bokuto. Such a good boy. Should we let Kuroo go next? Wanna watch him fuck mommy?” Bokuto nodded against you, chest still heaving. You turned your head to face the wall. Keiji was smirking. Kuroo’s face was bright red. Tsukki didn’t look too phased, although you could see that he was fully hard.

“Kuroo, hon,” you said. He stiffened and pushed off the wall. “Bokuto says he wants to watch you fuck me.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Don’t be difficult. Get over here.”

Kuroo swallowed hard and approached you. You planted a quick kiss on Bokuto’s head and climbed off of him. He let out a gasp at the loss and laid back on the bed.

“Where do you want me?” Kuroo asked. You stared down at his hands and the growing bulge in his shorts and shook your head.

“No. Tell me where you want me.” You began working off the buttons of his shirt.

He raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

You nodded.

“Lay back.”

You smiled and did as you were told, scooting farther up onto the bed. Bokuto shifted so he wasn’t in the way. Kuroo smiled and leaned on top of you, capturing your lips in his. He was eager, tongue slipping easily into your mouth. You could still feel the happy curve of his lips as he moved against you, sliding one hand deep in your hair and the other curving around your waist. You kissed him back enthusiastically, surprised but delighted by the genuine affection. The hand on your waist slipped up under your shirt, like he wanted to pull it off but was too focused on the kiss to pull away. You tugged away from his lips and he followed, eyes still closed. You chuckled and sat up a bit under him, pulling your shirt over your head and capturing his face between your hands, pulling into another eager kiss. He breathed a sigh of appreciation and ran his hands over your newly exposed skin.

He pulled away and buried his face into the crook of your neck, kissing and lightly biting the sensitive skin. You sighed and tangled your hands in his insane hair. He kissed down, stopping just above the fabric of your bra. He tipped his head up to look at you, eyes bright. He licked his lips and you felt heat reaching the very tips of your fingers. You ran your fingers through his hair and nodded, giving him all the go ahead he needed to pull down the front of your bra and take a nipple into his mouth. You sighed again, grip in his hair tightening. He let out a huff at your reaction and circled his tongue. He bit down gently and you let out a gasp, locking your legs around his midsection.

“Kuroo,” you breathed. He didn’t break away from you, just let his eyes flicker up to meet yours. You felt a blissed out smile reach your lips at the sight. “Take off your fucking clothes.” He sucked harder on your chest for just a moment, eliciting a gasp from you, then leaned back down to kiss you again, grin on his lips. He only kissed you for a moment, tongue hungry in your mouth, before tugging his shirt over his head and throwing it to the side recklessly.

“Oi!” Tsukishima called out from the side of the room. You and Kuroo both laughed as you worked in tandem to get his belt loose and pants open, kissing clumsily as you went. As soon as you got them down and he kicked them to the side, you pulled your legs up and wiggled your pants down. Kuroo reached behind you and unclasped your bra (something that took even Keiji several tries and a hearty laugh) and began to kiss over your chest again. You tipped your head back and reached down, wrapping your hand around his already hard cock through his boxer briefs. He hissed against you, biting down where he was. Your breath caught in your throat.

“Jesus,” he said as he pulled away again, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your lace undergarments and tugging them down. He stared at you for just a second before snatching up a condom and ripping it open with his teeth. “Flip over,” he said, voice rougher. You complied instantly, breathing heavily from the kisses and adrenaline. You were faced with a stunned Bokuto, who you had forgotten was still laying -- or now, sitting up -- on the bed. You laughed and reached out for him. His eyes were wide as he laced his fingers through yours. From behind you, Kuroo teased your entrance. You sighed and leaned your head forward onto your arm, bracing yourself. He pushed in gently at first, shuddering out a deep breath at the contact. Impatiently, you pushed back onto him, feeling his full length sinking into you.

“Fuck,” he groaned. He leaned forward on top of you while your fingernails dug into the back of Bokuto’s hand. He began moving his hips slowly, the curve of his dick hitting perfectly inside of you. You leaned forward onto your hand, still clasped with Bokuto’s. Kuroo sped up his strokes, leaning back up and getting a bit rougher. His hands found their way to your hips, tugging you back against him as he moved. You choked out a moan as he pushed into you deeper with the new motion.

“Kuroo,” Keiji said. Kuroo apparently didn’t hear, swearing under his breath. Keiji scoffed. “Tetsuro!”

“Fuck -- what, Akaashi?”

“Don’t talk to me like that.” Kuroo ignored him, slowing down for a moment, hitting a particularly deep part of you that made you whine and bury your face further against Bokuto’s hand. “Kuroo, hit them.”

“What?” Kuroo sounded slightly incredulous, or at least as incredulous as he could sound when out of breath and buried inside of you.

“Spank. Them.”

Kuroo chuckled slightly and brought one of his hands back to rest on your ass, rubbing it before winding it back and landing a heavy smack against you. You bucked up at the motion, your back losing its arch for a moment. Your mouth fell open and you felt Bokuto reach up, running a finger along your lip in fascination. You looked up at him, tongue lolling out to make contact with the digit. His eyes widened and he pressed the finger onto your tongue. Kuroo landed another hit on your ass and you jumped forward, taking Bokuto’s finger far into your mouth. He shuddered out a breath. Kuroo smacked you again and you moaned loudly, still maintaining eye contact with Bokuto. His breath was picking up as he watched you, tongue swirling around his finger.

“God, you really like this, don’t you?” Kuroo asked, a smile evident in his voice. “What if I . . .” he reached forward and gathered the hair at the nape of your neck, tightening his fist so he was pulling it without yanking your head backwards. Your eyes fell shut and you let out a muffled moan, the sensation adding a layer of delicious pain on top of the pleasure racking your body.

“I knew it,” Kuroo continued. “Jesus, you’re fun.” He gasped, hips jumping slightly. You heard a scoff at his words. Your eyes flickered open and found the two men still sitting on the side of the room. Keiji was smiling, but Tsukishima looked like he was trapped in a haze, unable to fully comprehend what was happening in front of him. You pulled off of Bokuto’s finger with one last slide of your tongue. He shivered and brought his hand back against his chest.

“Tsukki,” you sang. Tsukishima looked up, eyebrow cocked. You let out a gasp and your eyes flickered closed for a second as Kuroo landed another smack. You smiled at the tall blond and the expression dropped off his face. “Come here, Tsukishima.” He rolled his eyes.

“You seem occupied,” he said, voice wavering just a bit. You bit down on your hand as Kuroo slowed down again, dragging his cock nearly fully out before steadily driving back in.

“Tsukishima, I’m not playing that game,” you managed through a gasp. “Get over here.” He rolled his eyes and stood, beginning to approach you. Your eyes met his hungrily. “Take off your shirt,” you said as he stopped in front of you. You moved so you could face him, Kuroo moving with you and adjusting to the new angle easily. Tsukishima made no move to follow your instruction, staring down at you with an unreadable but distinctly gruff expression on his face. You scoffed and reached out, grabbing his waistband and pulling him to you. You could see his dick, long and thin, fully hard through his slacks. Impatiently, you pulled at the button until it opened. You yanked down, freeing him from his pants and undergarments  in one motion. You wasted no time leaning forward and wrapping your lips around him, hollowing your cheeks and moaning as Kuroo picked up his pace again.

“Jesus fuck,” Kuroo gasped. Tsukishima didn’t look like he knew what to do with his hands, holding them up by his chest in surprise. You hummed around his cock, looking up at him. He held eye contact, previously cocky eyes wide. Kuroo let out a groan and dug the tips of his fingers into your hips.

“Fuck. I’m cl -- fuck!” he groaned, hips stuttering. He wasn’t even capable of finishing a coherent thought, pounding into you from behind. He moved your entire body with each stroke, making you involuntarily take Tsukishima deeper into your mouth at every forward motion. Tsukki finally relaxed a bit, hands gently burying in your hair as Kuroo’s swearing got louder. He leaned down, supporting himself with one arm on the bed and the other wrapped around your midsection. He plucked at your nipples, elliciting surprised sounds from you that were muffled against Tsukishima.

You felt the moment Kuroo came. His face pushed into your back, panting breaths heavy against your skin as his hips broke their rhythm. He pulsed inside of you, dragging a groan from deep in your chest. Tsukishima’s grip on your hair tightened and he let out a sharp hiss, clearly trying to hold back any noise.

Kuroo finally pulled out and tipped away from you, probably realizing how close he was to Tsukishima. He stood up and took a few steps back, brushing his black hair, now sticky with sweat, out of his eyes. You popped your mouth off of Tsukishima and ran your hands up quickly, popping the buttons of his shirt open from the bottom up.

“What--” he started. You cut him off.

“Bo, baby, move.” Your order was gentle but firm. Bokuto recognized your tone immediately, scrambling pantsless up from the bed and moving out of your way. You sat up on your heels and pulled on Tsukishima’s shoulders, pushing him down onto the bed. He sat down and backed against the headboard, brows furrowed. His face flushed when he looked down and realized he was fully exposed, but you remedied that easily, crawling into his lap and silencing whatever snarky remarks were boiling in his brain to calm his nerves. You planted a heated kiss against his lips.

He was a gentler and less smiley kisser than Kuroo, but more precise. Every movement of his tongue felt like a calculated effort, feeling out your weak spots and taking advantage of them once he found them. You sighed and sat farther down in his lap, grazing his cock between your legs. You ground down slightly before realizing -- shit. You were so distracted by the kiss that you almost forgot. You leaned back, breaking the kiss but remaining in his lap. You snatched up a condom and wagged it in front of Tsukishima’s eyes. He scoffed.

“No need to act so giddy,” he said. You just smiled at him, taking in the vision of the red faced man in front of you. His lips were slick and parted, like he was desperately waiting for another kiss, and his glasses were slowly de-fogging. You laughed and captured his lips in yours again, biting lightly at his bottom lip and just barely teasing him with your tongue. When you pulled away, he followed you slightly, then immediately sat back and blinked, like he was trying to cover up the motion. You huffed a laugh and slid his glasses off his face.

“Kashi,” you said, holding them out behind you without breaking eye contact with Tsukishima. You felt them leave your hand and you returned your touch to Tsukki’s face, running your thumb along his bottom lip.

“Cute,” you mumbled, nearly laughing again at the way his face turned an even darker shade of red.

“Agashi,” Bokuto whined behind you. You laughed and peered over your shoulder. Bokuto was squirming. He had put his boxer-briefs back on, but you could see that he was hard again, probably painfully so.

“Keiji, love, take care of him,” you said, carefully putting on the gentle tone you used with Bokuto. Keiji slid next to Bokuto, whose eyes were now wide, and you turned back to Tsukishima knowing your boyfriend had everything under control. You heard Bokuto gasp and Kuroo mutter “Jesus,” but you just held the condom up to Tsukishima’s mouth. He looked at you with confusion written on his face.

“What?” he asked.

“Open,” you replied, holding it closer to his mouth. His eyes grew wide but he leaned in, opening his mouth and closing his teeth on the wrapper. You smirked at him and tugged at the foil. You pulled out the condom when it was finally open and tossed the wrapper from Tsukishima’s lips to the side. You replaced it with your lips as you moved your hand between your legs and slipped the condom onto Tsukki. He gasped at the contact, leaning his head back against the headboard. You followed him with your lips and deepened the kiss as you wrapped a hand around him, lining him up with your entrance. You sunk down, not giving either of you a chance to really react until he was fully sheathed inside of you. He broke from your lips and leaned his forehead against your cheek. He let out a shuddering gasp and wrapped his arms around your waist. You turned your face and kissed his forehead, then lifted up slightly and sunk back down onto him. He gasped and you began to rock more steadily, slowly picking up the energy and pace.

“Fuck,” he muttered. His head fell to the crook of your neck and he let out a sigh, fingers burying into your skin.

“God, you feel good, Tsukki,” you breathed into his hair. He grunted in response, lips pursing to kiss at your skin. You sighed and tipped your head back, exposing more of your neck to his eager lips. His hands shifted to your hips and he gripped them tightly, pulling down as you slid over him, making him hit you somehow even deeper. You gasped and threw your arms around his neck.

“Shit,” you whispered as he took control of your pace, pulling you down hard. “Tsukki,” you sighed, ruffling his hair.

“I--” he started, but was cut off by a sweet, choked sound that came from deep in his throat. “Say my name again.”

“Tsukki,” you said. He shook his head against you. As he tipped his head up towards yours, you heard the familar click of the lube cap and felt weight sink onto the edge of the bed. You were unsure who it was until Bokuto let out a strangled gasp. Ah. Keiji really was taking care of him. You pressed a quick kiss against Tsukishima’s lips and leaned your forehead against his.

“Say my name like earlier,” he said. “The other one.” Your eyes widened and you smiled.

“Are you sure, Kei?” you teased. He groaned. “Aw, you like that?” He didn’t respond, but his face was screwed up into a look of concentration and pleasure that almost looked like pain.

“Again.”

“You feel so good, Kei.” He moaned, a sound you didn’t think you were going to be lucky enough to hear. “So good. Fuck, Kei.” You scattered his name into bouts of praise and swearing. He removed one of his hands from you, making you have to keep up the pace with your hips. You didn’t understand why until his thumb pressed firmly against your clit, starting to draw small, focused circles against it. Your hips stuttered out of pace and you moaned, tightening your grip around his neck. You were so oversensitive from Kuroo and Keiji’s advances that the movement on your clit was almost too much. Your breathing was coming in gasps.

“Bokuto-san, relax,” you heard Keiji say, though it felt like it was a thousand miles away.

“Get off of my fucking foot,” Tsukishima said, sounding frustrated even though the words were strained. Your eyebrows pinched together, frustrated.

“Move, Bokuto,” Keiji said, and you felt the weight shift again.

“Kei,” you said, loud enough to give Tsukishima pause. “Don’t pay attention to them.” He looked suprised.

“I --” he started.

“No.” You cut him off with a particularly devastating buck of your hips, and his expression changed. Just a moment later, though, he was glancing behind you at the source of the muffled gasps and whines behind you. You grabbed him by the jaw and stopped moving.

“Open,” you said. His eyebrows knit together.

“What?”

“Open.” You ran your thumb down his bottom lip, holding it for a moment before he complied. You leaned above him and spat.

Shock was the first thing to flash over Tsukki’s eyes, followed very quickly by something dark. He swallowed, staring into your eyes like you just set him on fire.

“Learn your lesson?” you asked. He said nothing, but his hands returned to your hips and dug into them, like he was begging you to move. “Good,” you said through a smile. You began to rock into his lap once more.

He let out a genuine moan, choppy and desperate and gorgeous. It was like that one motion made him yours, completely. His thumb returned to your clit, rubbing faster and more desperate circles. You crashed your lips into his, moaning into his mouth as he returned the favor. There was something so intimate in his motions. It was hard to believe this Tsukishima was the same asshole from earlier.

“Fuck, Kei, I’m close,” you said. Tsukki nodded, forehead still pressed against yours.

“Come with me,” he mumbled. If you weren’t so close to him you wouldn’t have believed he said it, but sure enough, you were both leaning against each other like your lives depended on it. He started swearing, small “fuck”s that grew in volume the closer he got. You could feel yourself reaching the peak, eyes squeezing shut and body locking. Right when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, right when you were about to beg Tsukishima to hurry up and finish so you could die against him, his grip around you tightened. He could still move you, riding out his orgasm inside of you, but he squeezed you so close you thought you could shift into his chest if you really wanted to. Your body shook, jerking involuntarily against his thumb. Both of you were panting, and it felt like the world went black around you as you kept your faces pressed together.

You couldn’t tell when the moment ended, but when it did Tsukishima was kissing along your shoulders and allowing you to slump against him, arms barely holding you up.

“Why don’t you lay down?” he whispered, and you nodded, feeling almost drunk. You swung your leg off of him, shuddering at the loss of him inside of you. He laughed at your reaction and pressed a kiss against your forehead as you laid on your back.

“Love, scoot closer,” you heard Keiji say. Fuck. They weren’t done with you yet. You opened your eyes to finally see what had been happening behind you while you were falling apart in Tsukishima’s lap.

Bokuto was laying on his back, legs pitched up slightly. Keiji’s hand was pressed flush up against him, preparing him for who knows what else. Your eyes widened and, without thinking, you did what your boyfriend told you to do.

“Bokuto, turn around,” Keiji said, and Bokuto did as he was instructed. He looked blissed out and shaky, but allowed himself to be pushed forward until his face was laying against one of your thighs. He smiled up at you, as if he was greeting an old friend intead of laying ass up with your boyfriend positioning himself behind him.

“Y/n, open your legs.” Fuck. Bokuto’s cheeks flushed and he turned to look back at Keiji.

“‘Kashi, I--” He was cut off by one slow, perfect thrust by Keiji. You did as you were told, staring up at Keiji’s face in awe. His eyes had closed and he looked unbelievably content.

“You know what to do, Bokuto,” he said. “Just make sure you breathe.”

With that, Bokuto buried his mouth against you.

There wasn’t even a moment of hesitation, like Keiji’s commands were magic. He had been like this as long as you had known him, but judging by the surprised sounds Kuroo and Tsukki made, it wasn’t the Akaashi they knew.

Bokuto seemed hungry, like you were the one thing holding him back from starvation. His tongue made long strokes against you, making your hips shake. He stopped every so often to focus on your clit, swirling his tongue or sucking harshly. You weren’t even sure what kind of noises you were making at this point, just that someone was making a lot of sound and it was more than likely you. Akaashi’s thrusts were slow and deep, making Bokuto groan against you. It was an overwhelming feeling, your boyfriend fucking someone else into you. With how oversensitive you were, you didn’t think you’d last long.

Your orgasm wasn’t a slow build this time. It was choppy and harsh, almost painful as Bokuto sucked enthusiastically on your clit. Your legs couldn’t stay open on their own, crushing his head between your thighs as you made a panicked noise. The rumble of another groan from Bokuto is what sent you over, back arching and head leaning back into the bed. You were breathless, not making much sound as your body reacted out of your control. You had to push Bokuto off of you and slide away in order to get him to stop. He was so eager it seemed like he would have tried for another if you hadn’t escaped.

Now all you could do was watch as Akaashi leaned forward, taking Bokuto’s cock in his hand and timing movement with his hips. Bokuto was drooling onto the bed, making the sweetest whining noises you had ever heard. He came quickly after that, crying Akaashi’s name into the comforter as his lower body jerked. Akaashi fucked him through it and followed soon behind, face scrunching and breaths coming out as gasps.

Bokuto collapsed against the bed as Keiji pulled out, yanking off the condom and tucking himself back into his slacks like nothing had happened. God, he was a piece of work sometimes.

You stood, collecting your clothing from the floor. You pulled on your shirt, not bothering with your bra. You didn’t even know where it was.

You missed the left leg hole of your pants twice before Kuroo finally wrapped an arm around you and helped you get them up, even buttoning them for you once they were on.

“Well,” you said, but it came out strained. You coughed, smiling up at the group of men. “That was . . .” You couldn’t finish the sentence, letting out a choppy laugh instead.

“That was,” Kuroo agreed, laughing with you.

“If you guys would be willing . . .” Tsukishima said.

“Can we please do that again?” Bokuto said, a bit too loud for the room. Keiji’s eyes grew wide.

“Not right now!” he said. Bokuto laughed.

“Not right now. But sometime?” They all turned to face you, looking precious and eager. You laughed, then sighed heavily.

“Absolutely.”

[balkanradfem]

So I've talked before about my burning desire to go and build a separatist tribe of women in nature, preferably in forest next to a mountain or somewhere far out so that nobody would bother us. I've been keeping on building that dream in my head, but also in many practical ways, trying to prepare myself for it. This tribe would have to function out of capitalism, off grid, without the use of money or even electricity, unless one day I figure out how to produce some. So we use only technology that is not harmful to nature and produce everything we need to survive.

It sounds so surreal, but it's not a particularly wild idea, because humans have been doing this for millenia and lived, I presume, with way less of their population depressed and suicidal. It wasn't more than 80 years ago humans lived without electrity or modern commodities, my 85yo neighbour can still remember bathing in collected rainwater and washing the clothes in the river. (Don't worry, we wont have to wash the clothes in the river, I found a way.)

So what I'm proposing is in fact, far more reasonable, climate conscious and healthy than living in capitalism, only problem is: It's less convenient.

We're to assume it's convenience that brings us comfort and happiness, but I'm about to propose a counter-argument: It's not. It's boring and makes everything very impersonal and unsatisfactory. I can tell, but only because I've been shifting into that inconvenient, more-effort-put into survival kind of life. And, it's been a very fun, weird time.

So as you can see by my posts, I've been learning to grow food and to make meals from self-grown food only, and eating feels different. It's far from impersonal when you bring a handful of seeds into life, then harvest and store and eat that; you know where this food has been. You know the food's story and it's been interlaced with your own story to the point where it's no longer something you consume, you have memories with that food. It means something to you. And, it's way, WAY harder to throw it away. You do not waste what you build up from scratch.

I've also been venturing into other self-sustaining missions, like, cleaning products and preserving resources as you would in nature, figuring out hygiene without capitalism, and this is where my life got weird. If I wanna wash my hair, I go and make tea, then wash my hair in that. Funny snippet, lemon balm tea actually darkens your hair the more you use it, people in my life now legit think my hair is black, it's not! It's brown but the herb made it so dark nobody can tell. I've since found out there are also herbs that make your hair lighter, or even give it a blue-ish glow! That is way fun. Washing hair like this is a more effort than shampoo, but I feel different about it. Proud I did that, or just happy I never have to buy a shampoo maybe.

If I wanna do laundry I'll go and cut open some conkers, since I still have a bag of unprocessed ones and they work as a detergent. If I wanna clean something I use vinegar I infused with orange peel, it smells amazing. If I need to go to the bathroom I'll skip on toilet paper and use family cloth. Now what is that? I actually heard someone on youtube say that word and researched it and found out that before toilet paper, people used rectangular strips of white cloth, to clean themselves, and they were all washed so it was reusable and wasted no resources since you could cut any old cotton shirt into strips and use it. Now a lot of people react with 'ewww' but hear me out: you don't use it for number two unless you have a washing liquid to immediately throw it into (I don't), and, do you throw away any underwear that you've used just once? They get about as filthy as that and then you put them thru boil cycle in the washing machine, they take so little space inside it's forgettable, and you can use them forever. I actually only had to buy toilet paper once, this entire year. 10/10. Also, extremely comfy and soft to use. If anyone wondered.

I also cook my food in weird ways, mostly having it wrapped in towels instead on a stove top, I rarely heat any bathroom water and either use cold or I also discovered I love heating a pot of water and just spilling it over myself instead of showering, it feels so good! It's so gentle and pleasant, showers are agressive and mean in comparison, it's like they hate you and are trying to spray you away. Water gently spilling from a pot on your body loves you and wants you to be happy and experience pleasure and love.

So I'm not trying to brag too much here but I haven't visited a grocery store in two months (figured out how to buy flour directly from the company lol) and maybe visited them 7 times this year altogether, isn't that kinda wild? And yes I'm giving myself a little star for good pandemic behaviour. I earned that. I just seem to not need stuff anymore unless they're oil and flour and maybe some salt and sugar. And it wasn't ... that hard. I mean okay, poverty and general anxiety are fueling my behaviour for sure, but it feels very much like... it's not that impossible to do without stuff, if you're crazy stubborn and don't have many alternatives.

I've also been prepairing for this life in a savage hermit hoarder type of matter; I've collected jars obsessively, stored every little produce net or bag that anyone brought to my place, I collect dumb promotional newspapers to start fires with in the future, and I can make baskets out of it, I stored every plastic cup or container ever because I can grow seedlings in those, I collected all seeds in any way available to me, I don't throw away any fabric anymore bc I can sew new things, any soft and spongy textured thing is stored to make seating space on future chairs and cushions, and I value every bit of knowledge coming my way only in regard to how it could help me survive.

I haven't figured out the medicinal side of this, or the social aspect, but at this point it feels very wrong for me to be in a city, renting out an apartment, and then living half like a little savage on the side and refusing to go to the store. I should be in my little cob house dammit, and cooking in my cauldron on top of a fire. I should be bathing in rainwater and have plants on every surface of my home. I should have soil available to grow all my food. And optimally have a big swing and a tree house and an obstacle course in the forest. I wanna drink water that I discovered in a spring or collected from rain and filtered with the coal I made. I wanna know how earthen floors feel under my bare feet.

So anyways, how many of you'd wanna join a tribe where we live in cob houses and tell stories around a fire and change our hair color with tea and presumably spill water over each other because hygiene is important? Also we never shave or care abt how our faces look and we shed the light onto downfall of capitalsm because I feel like, if we all (the population) just bought flour, oil sugar and salt, a lot of things would go down super fast.

[i-stan-nct-and-satan]

Not Broken Part 11 (Jaehyun Mafia AU)

Not Broken Masterlist

Jaehyun X Reader 

Trigger warning: Mentions of abuse

Awakened by the rays of sunlight that shined a little too brightly for comfort, I lifted the covers over my head, keeping my eyes shut in the hopes that I could continue my much-needed slumber.  

I felt myself melting into the mattress. It felt so much softer than I had remembered. The pillows fluffier, the duvet silkier, and the entire bed felt roomier than I was used to.

Everything was so warm, so nice, so... comfortable. I wondered how long it had been since I felt this at peace.

My eyes fluttered open at the thought.

How long had it been?

I threw the bedspread off my body to see that I was wearing something that definitely didn’t belong to me. I normally went to bed either in a tank top and boxer shorts or in my day-clothes depending on whether or not I drank too much the previous night but right now I was wearing satin teal pajamas covered in a seashell design. It felt too early in the morning to have this much to process, even without the confusion surrounding the tacky nightwear.

This isn’t my bed. This isn’t my bedroom. Where am I?

After the initial shock of having woken up in a new place finally managed to wash away, the memories that I was free of during my harmonious slumber were back and I felt as though I were drowning in them.  

I noticed my breathing was almost at the point of hyperventilation, so I took in several slow breaths to calm myself.  

The last thing I want to do in this scenario is panic. I must be smart about this.  

After a split second of searching, my eyes landed on a window. I stood up from the bed and quickly yet quietly moved towards it.  

Maybe I'll have a better chance of escaping if I climb out through here.

I easily removed the window screen before wrestling with the window itself, trying to figure out how to open it. It was unlocked.  

Yes, yes, yes!

No, no, no!

After finally managing to open the window wide enough to climb through, I stuck my head out to find that I was at least three stories high and that there was no way to climb down without a rope.

I looked to the bedsheets and practiced tying them together like in the movies, but the satin fabric slipped undone as soon as even a little pressure was added to the knots.  

Curse these soft fucking sheets.

Just as I started to realize that the window plan wasn’t going to pan out, I spotted a nearby door.

My nerves worsened as I walked towards the small beacon of hope. If I wanted to make it past them in a house I knew nothing about, I was going to have to be quick in my escape.

My hand reached for the knob. I hesitated, noticing the coldness of the metal before a small bout of adrenaline encouraged me to turn it. I swung the door open more harshly than I had intended but the adrenaline had taken hold and I ran into a fucking closet.  

What the fuck? Ow!

I rubbed at my forehead.  

As if I wasn’t bruised enough already.  

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I, Y/N, tried to escape by running into the bedroom closet.  

Thankfully, the closet was filled with enough clothing that it served as padding to my idiocy.  

Still on the floor of the closet, I waited a few seconds hoping that any noise that may have arisen from my sudden encounter with the closet wall wasn’t enough to draw any attention to the fact that I was awake.  

Stepping out, my eyes noticed two more doors. More slowly this time, I opened the first one, still taking every precaution not to make any unnecessary noise.  

Bathroom.  

Okay, on to the next one.  

I knew that this time it had to be the right door given the fact that it seemed pretty unlikely that they had built an entire room around me as I slept.

I turned the knob expecting a clicking sound but it never came.  

Locked.

I sighed in frustration.  

Of course, it was locked. What did I expect?

I turned around, resting my back against the door as I slid down to the floor.  

A groan left my mouth as my image reflected itself on a large mirror on the other side of the room.

I hadn’t had a chance to look around the room yet since once I realized it wasn’t mine, I had become preoccupied with the goal of leaving it. Now, seeing as I had nothing else to do, I figured I could at least find something to turn into a makeshift weapon or something along those lines.  

Taking in the bedroom’s décor, I noticed that it was a lot less flashy than the bedroom that used to belong to IU. Where her room was mostly covered with purple detailing, this room was filled with more black and grey tones. The walls were painted a plain white color. The hardwood floors were coated in a dark glaze that really drew attention to the wood’s natural patterns. The room only had 5 pieces of furniture: a bed with a charcoal-toned net canopy, the sections of which were tied around the tall wooden bed poles; a nightstand that matched the wood of the bed; a medium sized vanity table, on top of which was the mirror I spotted my reflection in, with a small matching chair, along with armchair on the other side of the room that reminded me of one of those movies where wealthy old men would sit in front of the fireplace smoking a cigar.  

I carefully stood up, painfully aware of the aches and pains that taunted every nerve. I walked towards the vanity, never talking my gaze off the mirror’s reflection. My eyes weren’t as swollen as they once were, but I couldn’t help but notice that they were even darker than before.  

<><><><>Flashback<><><><>

“Bruises take around six days from the point of the injury to fully develop. After that, they’ll turn slightly green, then yellow, and then they’ll start to slowly fade away,” My mother told me as she rummaged through the cupboards.  

I was sitting on the bathroom counter, watching her as she searched for the first aid kit. My older brother, the one who ended up disappearing with our inheritance, had pushed me down after I tried to join him and his friends in their soccer game. My knee hadn’t been scraped since my jeans shielded its impact, but it was obvious that a bruise was starting to form. I was eight at the time.

“So, they don’t turn purple immediately?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“That’s so stupid! You mean that I have to wait for it to get purple before it goes away?”

My mother rolled up my pant leg, a slight smile adorned her features.  

“Sometimes things get worse before they can get better. That’s the way life is,” She hummed opening a jar that lacked any sort of label.

She noticed my pouting expression and let out a chuckle.  

“But you know, you don’t have to just sit there and put up with it. That’s why we use vitamin k cream, to clot the broken capillaries so that the bruises fade faster,” She explained in her usual sing-songy tone.  

“That’s so stupid. What does that even mean?” I whined.

“You’ll understand when you’re older.”  

<><><>End of flashback<><><><>

I smiled at the memory but the tears that filled my eyes revealed the real truth.  

My mother always seemed to know exactly what to say. It was like she always knew that everything was going to be okay, no matter how bad it appeared to be. That knowing smile which reassured me that things would turn out the way they were supposed to, ended up being a false comfort. Things didn’t turn out the way they were supposed to. Not then when she and my father died in that car accident, and not now.

My mom wasn’t here to tell me everything was going to be okay and she never would again.  

Staring at myself in the mirror, the tears spilled over one by one, until a sudden series of knocks started coming from the locked door.  

I tried to wipe the tears away using the sleeve of the pajamas, but the unabsorbant satin merely spread them over my cheeks.  

Seriously?

“Y/N? I’m coming in now,” the voice announced.

Making one last effort to wipe the moisture from my face with my hands, I turned towards the opened door. The first thing I noticed was red.

It was Taeyong.

I didn’t allow myself to feel relieved that it was him entering the room instead of one of the more violent members, especially since he was still one of the men who had been holding me captive.  

He was holding a lunch tray with a bowl resting on top of it. I couldn’t see what it was at first but as he drew closer, finding out the contents of the bowl wasn’t my biggest concern. I retreated from the man’s approach by climbing onto the bed only for him to walk past me to set the tray on the vanity.

“How do you feel?”

Still foggy from having woken up, I passed on coming up with any form of a snarky response. Instead, I just stared at him.

“You slept for quite a long time, but I guess that makes sense since you weren’t able to get much rest the night before,” He commented, referring to the lack of sleep I received due to the adrenaline shot I was given at the time.

He leaned against the wall across from me. I stayed silent.

“I’m not gonna ask you if anything hurts, because I know that everything probably hurts right now, but I’d like you to answer some questions for me,” Taeyong explained.

He stared at me expectantly.

“Nod your head if you understand.”

I paused before nodding.

Taeyong’s gaze lingered on me awkwardly before kneeling in front of the nightstand beside the bed.  

I lifted my feet onto the bed out of instinct but either he didn’t seem to notice or was purposely ignoring my jumpy antics.  

“Do you feel any dizziness?” Taeyong asked as he opened the nightstand drawer.  

He took out a first aid kit before turning to me. I shook my head.

“What about swelling?”

Again, I shook my head.  

Taeyong continued to ask me a grocery list of questions regarding how I was feeling. I answered no to most of the questions by simply shaking my head but then he started asking things I couldn’t silently answer.  

“Where does it hurt the most?”

“My ribs.”

“Huh, how would you describe the pain?”

“It’s aches when I inhale,” I replied, downplaying the extent of which the pain was restricting my ability to breath comfortably.  

“Okay, what else?”  

“My head hurts.”

Taeyong opened the first aid kit and brought out a small flashlight.  

“And you said you weren’t feeling any dizziness, right?”

I returned back to answering with subtle head nods.

“Keep your head still and follow the light with your eyes.”

I did as Taeyong instructed as he performed a series of tests I hadn’t gone through since I had participated in my middle school’s sports team.

“No concussion, that’s good. I was worried that you hit your head on the floor when the chair broke.”

I frowned at the memory in which Winwin tried to explain how Jaehyun had basically destroyed the chair with me in it.  

“What else hurts?”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. It would have been easier if he asked, what didn’t hurt. I was too tired to make any effort to express my anger over the current situation and it wasn’t like he didn't already know.  

“Everything else just kind of aches.”

“I see,” Taeyong pondered.

“I’m gonna have to take a look at your rib so I need you to um...”

He seemed reluctant to finish his statement.

“Could you remove your shirt for me?”

I stared at him blankly.

“Uh, I can go grab you something to cover up with while I take a look at it- Uh, your rib, I mean.”

I took in a shallow breath.

“No need,” I replied, unbuttoning the pajama shirt.  

“I assume you were the one who dressed me in these wine aunt pajamas in the first place. Am I correct in that assumption?”

Taeyong nodded sheepishly.

“Then it isn’t anything you haven’t seen before.”

I let the top fall past my shoulders.  

I scowled at Taeyong making it clear that I wasn’t trying to act coy, I was just tired and didn’t really care what he saw, especially when it seemed like half of the members had seen me naked in one form or another.  

“Which side does it hurt on?”

“This one.”

Taeyong sat on the bed on the side of me I had referred to, the side opposite from the vanity. His hands hovered over my body as if asking permission to touch it. I looked him in the eye but made no expression of encouragement. Once he got the hint that I wasn’t going to give him any, his hands met my skin.  

I flinched at the sudden contact and I could feel the goosebumps that began to dust my exposed skin. I hadn’t been embarrassed before, but after being touched by his cold hands, a small shiver went up and down my spine. I began to feel self-conscious, worried that my hardened nipples would give him the wrong idea. I did my best to avoid his gaze by fixing mine on the vanity, but was instead met with his reflection, which seemed to be even more uncomfortable than I was. His features were tinted a light shade of red that almost matched his fiery locks.  

“Sorry,” He muttered as he continued to carefully feel around my ribs.  

“Ah” I winced as his hands found my injured rib.  

He quickly withdrew his hands from my body.

“Are you okay?”

“Just peachy,” I groaned through clenched teeth.

“I’m sorry but I’m going to have to push on it a bit to make sure it isn’t digging into your lungs.”

Just great.

I couldn’t believe the situation I was in but here I was.

“Do what you have to do,” I grumbled.

Taeyong’s hands returned to my body. The injury was in the most awkward spot possible. Two inches to the left and his hands would have been touching my breast.  

“Ah, ah!” I winced again.

“Just a little longer... and done.”

His hands instantly retreated from my body and were now raised in front of his chest like a contestant on a competitive cooking show. One whose time had just ran out and was required to cease any finishing touches he might have been adding to his dish.

Once he realized what he was doing, Taeyong lowered his hands and stood up from the bed.

“Uh, umm. Good news, it isn’t broken, probably just cracked.”

“Yay for me,” I cheered in a monotonal voice.  

“There isn’t much that we can do for a crack rib. It’ll heal on its own. I can get you an inhaler to help with the breathing and prevent you from developing pneumonia, but that’s pretty much it.”  

Taeyong’s face had returned to its normal color once I finished buttoning the pajama shirt over my chest.

I looked up at him. Visible sympathy in his eyes. He must have thought I was pitiful, and he would have been right. I wanted this whole thing to be over, but the end was far from sight.  

“Here, take this,” He instructed, handing me a small white pill and a glass of water from the tray.  

I just looked at the pill and Taeyong immediately noticed my hesitation.

“It’s just a regular aspirin. We have stronger stuff, but I don’t know if you’d be willing to take it.”

“I would prefer it actually,” I replied.

Taeyong let out a small chuckle instantly regretting the action when he saw the coldness in my gaze.

“Sorry,” He muttered apologetically before taking out a what I assumed to be a hydro or an oxy from his pocket.

He handed me the pill and reoffered me the water which I readily accepted.  

“You should eat some food with that. Here, I brought you some dakjuk, I hope you are okay with eating meat.”

He gestured toward the vanity and pulled back the chair. Too hungry to refuse the gesture, I got up from the bed and repositioned myself at the vanity. The pain made it difficult to bring the porridge to my mouth but I pushed through it.  

“I’m sorry for undressing you while you were unconscious,” Taeyong began.

“I thought you’d be more comfortable in these. I’m sorry they aren’t to your liking.”

I set the spoon back into the bowl before turning to Taeyong.

“Really? Are you sure you weren’t inspecting the product?”  

“What?” Taeyong asked in response to my sudden accusation.

“I know that the only reason you’re administering first aid is so that you can sell me off to the highest bidder. I’m sure damaged goods don’t sell as well,” I elaborated bitterly, making it obvious how much disdain I held for the man who was pretending to be concerned for my well-being.

When Taeyong finally understood what I was insinuating, he began to trip over his words, struggling to find the right way to assure me that his intentions were anything but sinister. I turned back to face the mirror only to glare at his reflection instead. After having finally ceased his unintelligible rambling, Taeyong brought his hands to the side of his head and sighed.  

“Okay, you’re right. I lied about why I changed your clothes, but it wasn’t because we plan on selling you or whatever.”

My expression softened slightly waiting for further explanation.

“The clothes that you were wearing belonged to IU. When Jaehyun recognized them as IU’s clothes, he got angry and told you to take them off, which I’m guessing you misunderstood as him suggesting something else which is probably why you fainted.”

Unable to believe that he was finished, I continued to stare at the red-headed reflection for what felt like several minutes.  

“Okay, first of all, that’s stupid and second, why didn’t he just say that?” I demanded.

Taeyong rubbed the sides of his head.

“I don’t know. It’s complicated. This is complicated. Everything is so goddamn complicated!”

I flinched at the sudden rise in volume and sunk into the stiff chair.

Taeyong glanced at my shrinking figure and immediately regained his gentle composure.  

“I won’t try to explain Jaehyun’s actions toward you by telling you about his sister. I have a feeling that you wouldn’t think of it as a proper excuse for what he’s done and I don’t blame you. What I will say is that you don’t have to worry about it happening again. Those pj’s were what we could find at the moment. Due to the current situation, all unnecessary staff have been sent home so we couldn’t have one of the female maids dress you. For that, I’m sorry. I took your measurements while you were asleep and sent them to one of our on-call maids, so that you’d have clothing for the remainder of your time here. I had her hang most of them up in your closet. Anything that couldn’t be hung was put into baskets on the floor. If they aren’t to your liking, we can send someone out for clothes that are more suited for your comf-”

“Wait, what? The remainder of my time here?” I gawked.  

“How long are you planning on keeping me here?” I demanded, sounding more upset than intimidating.

“I’ll let Jaehyun explain all of that to you when we go see him.“

“W-what?”

“He sent me here so that I could bring you to him.”

“No way. I’m not going.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N, but you don’t really have a choice. I’m surprised he allowed you time to eat first.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel like I owe him?”

“No, it’s supposed to help you understand that he might not be so willing to accommodate you in the future if you don’t cooperate with us.”

I couldn’t help but feel defeated. I never saw myself as the person to just go along with whatever someone said, especially not someone like Jaehyun. Sadly, I couldn’t ignore the situation I was in, not unless I was willing to withstand even more damage.  

“I’ll let you get dressed. Knock on the door when you’re ready. If you take too long, I’ll come in, whether you’re dressed or not,” He warned, interrupting my thoughts.  

Making his exit, Taeyong left me alone with my reflection, closing the door behind him.

I glanced around the room, hoping to find a clock of some sort, but to no avail. Looking at it, the room seemed very minimalistic, as though it were a guest room that often went unoccupied. It didn’t surprise me though. If this building was able house to every member of NCT 127 and still have empty rooms, then it made sense that they wouldn’t put as much effort into furnishing the rooms with the least amount of traffic. I just kind of wished it had a clock so that I could keep track of the time.  

I walked over to the closet and opened it. I hadn’t considered that the clothes were meant for me when they had cushioned my failed escape attempt earlier. I was amazed by how much they had bought for me in such a short amount of time. I respected the maid’s shopping ability. I couldn’t say the same for her taste though. I enjoyed dressing up or I guess... dressing down for burlesque shows, but I didn’t like to dress up in my everyday life. Don’t get me wrong, I like to feel pretty as much as the next girl and I’m not ashamed to say it. It’s just that the closet was filled with colors I usually tried to avoid and it reminded me of a closet that would belong to one of the desperate housewives. I tended to gravitate towards blacks and dark blue colors and sometimes the occasional white, but it almost always ended up with a huge stain before the day ended. This closet was filled with more colors than I knew existed and if you think I was exaggerating, I wasn’t. Well, maybe a little.  

I rummaged through the closet ignoring anything I deemed too fancy for a meeting with the man I loathe, which turned out to be all of the closet. Giving up, I considered not changing for our meeting so that I could show him how little I cared about respecting him, but after insulting the pajamas’ seashell design so many times in my head, I decided to just pick something before Taeyong came barging back in.  

I took out a pair of leggings from one of the baskets and put them on, checking the mirror to make sure they weren’t too see-through. Then, I found an emerald green dress. The color caught my eye and greatly reminded me of not only the necklace, but of the dress I had stolen from IU’s corpse. Maybe a detail of the story, I was glad to have left out. Unlike the dress from that night though, this dress was very casual looking. At first glance, I had almost mistaken it for a long-knitted sweater. Maybe it was. Either way, it covered enough of my lower half that I didn’t have to pick out anything else to wear underneath besides the leggings.  

I looked in the mirror. The dress was nice, but still too nice to feel completely comfortable in, especially when it was paired with two black eyes. My hair was a mess, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want Jaehyun to think for a second that I was trying to impress him, so I allowed it to remain in its tangled state.  

Just as I knocked on the door, I realized that I had forgotten to look for something I could have used to protect myself, but it was too late.  

“You look nice.”

“Pound sand, Taeyong.”

Taeyong raised his hands in a surrendering motion and I heard a laugh.

It wasn’t just Taeyong, Doyoung was there too.

Great.

Based on how much of the house I had already seen, I thought that Jaehyun’s office would be several minutes away, but here we were only a few rooms apart. There wasn’t enough time to psych myself up and before I knew it, I was already being forced through the doorway by a less than patient Doyoung.  

I nearly stumbled onto the floor but was able to catch myself at the last minute. The first thing I noticed going in was an empty desk, then the large window behind it and the bookshelves on each of its sides. I could hear Taeyong scolding Doyoung in a hushed tone as they also entered the room. I was relieved thinking that it was only us three who made up the room’s inhabitants, until a deep voice announced its presence, startling me in the process.  

“Ah, good. You’re here.”

Jaehyun was leaning against another bookshelf beside the door we walked through. He was holding a short crystal glass filled with a clear liquid and a few noticeable ice cubes floating around.  

He pulled his body off the wall and approached us. Taeyong and Doyoung stood behind me but that didn’t stop Doyoung from holding me in place by my arm, not that I was brave enough to go anywhere anyway.  

Jaehyun stopped directly in front of me and took a sip of his drink. His eyes grazed over my body like he would a car when inspecting its new paint job.  

“I assume you two brought her here without any problems?”  

Jaehyun’s question was directed toward the two men behind me, though he kept his eyes fixed on me as he asked it. I avoided his gaze.

“That is correct, sir, I made her aware of the circumstances she’d be putting herself in if she refused to come willingly,” Taeyong announced.  

The intimidating man tapped the glass with his middle finger a few times before responding.

“Good, you may leave us now.”

Following their boss’s orders, the two men exited the room. The sound the door made as it closed felt a lot louder to me than it probably was.  

Jaehyun made his way to the desk and sat down, setting his drink on a nearby coaster while I stayed put.

“Aren’t you going to sit down?” He asked with a sly smirk.

I looked at the chair facing opposite his. His desk was large enough that it would provid quite a bit of separation between us, but it still wasn’t enough. Nevertheless, I obeyed.

I kept my eyes glued to the drink on the table, but in the corner of my eye, I could still see him staring at me, an amused look on his face.  

“Oh, I’m sorry. Can I offer you a drink? I’m drinking a gin and tonic, myself.”

I could feel my stomach turn sour as my mind flashed back to that night I almost drank the spiked gin in Lucas’ wine cellar.

“No? Then let’s get to the point, shall we?”

My eyes flashed towards him for a split second. His voice had gotten noticeably colder and so had his expression.

“You were brought here under suspicion for being involved in the murder of one of my family members. That reason being the emerald necklace you wore matched the one owned by said family member, a necklace that was specially designed for her wear.”

The way he spoke about his sister as if she were a stranger was baffling.  

Were they not close or was he trying to be professional? Clearly, he had to have been torn apart by her death for him to have acted the way he did towards me.  

“Since I recognized the necklace, we certainly had reason for suspecting your involvement in her death which is why we brought you here.”

Brought? He makes it sound like I was invited here for tea and a chat.  

“During the interrogation, you refused to tell us your actual relationship with Lucas and so we may have taken things further than we usually would have to extract the truth from you, given the importance of the matter we were asking you about.”

May have taken things further than usual? Was this supposed to be an apology? 

It sounded like he was reading from a script.

“I didn’t tell you that I killed Lucas because I thought you would kill me if you found out!” I angrily blurted out.

Jaehyun’s eyes continued to look at me in disinterest as though he had expected the abrupt disruption.

“Seeing as your story has been confirmed,” He continued, ignoring my outburst like he would a child’s tantrum.  

“-we now know that you are not involved in IU’s death and that you somehow managed to kill the person responsible-”

Jaehyun’s eyes showed a hint of distaste as he finished his sentence.

“-even if it somehow occurred by accident.”

I could feel the rage bubbling inside of me.  

“I recognize that you may feel as though I’ve committed a great injustice towards you.”

“Are you fucking serious right now?” I stood up from the chair and slammed my fist on the desk unintentionally spilling the contents of the half empty glass on the desk. The liquid managed to drench several important looking documents, but still, Jaehyun made no effort to save them.  

Yet for the first time, Jaehyun’s eyes showed something other than utter discontent. They widened in surprise at the sudden gesture only to return to their previous state within an instant.

“That being the case, I would like you offer you reparations,” He kept going, leaving me astounded, my fist still on the desk.  

“We are willing to offer you 120,000,000 won (roughly 100,000 USD) in exchange for your silence.”

I didn’t care how scared I was of this man. He thinks that he can call me in here and tell me that this is my fault? That he isn’t responsible for all the shit that happened since that night? I was kidnapped, bound, beaten, injected with adrenaline and starved. I’ll never be able to return to the Heart Breakers again. Wendy could be dead for god’s sake! And this bastard thinks that he can just pay me off in exchange for my silence?

“No.”  

Jaehyun raised his eyebrows at my response.  

“Really? I thought it’d be a good deal for someone like you. I guess I could raise th-”

“Someone like me?”

I had been avoiding his gaze for most of our meeting thus far, only taking the occasional glance to gauge his reactions, but I had gotten gutsy. I looked him directly in the eye with an intensity I didn’t know existed. I knew what he meant but I was daring him to say it outright.  

I questioned my state of mind as I swore I could see the slightest smirk on his lips.  

“Oh, I just meant that for someone of your profession, I’m sure there are a lot of things you’d be willing to do to earn such a generous amount of money.”

I was shaking. I couldn’t believe this was happening, not that I was surprised. I wasn’t exactly expecting a warm apology, however for him to not only take zero responsibility for what he did to me, but to insult me?  

“We can negotiate the specific amount at a later time, but for now, you will be given full accommodations during your time here. If you need or want anything within reason, someone will fetch it for you.”

“During my time here? I told you that I had nothing to do with IU’s death. You said you confirmed it! You can’t just keep me locked u-”

“You are free to leave whenever you want, but I’d advise against it.”

Confusion took over my features and I silently scolded myself for being so easily readable. The man in front of me began to elaborate.

“Wayv, the group whose leader you killed knows of your actions from that night and have demanded we hand you over to them. Now I can’t say I know for sure what they want with you, but I can tell you it isn’t good. Once we found your name, we had no trouble finding information about you, such as your home address and I can guarantee that Wayv is capable of the very same.”

“W-what?” I asked, knowing full well what he meant.

Instead of repeating himself or rephrasing his words, Jaehyun merely tapped his fingers on the desk as if he were keeping time.

Wayv wanted me dead. There was no denying it.  

“So what? If I leave then that’s it, I’m dead? What am I gonna do, just stay here forever?”

“That’s up to you, but I can assure you that we are working to take down Wayv. We may require your assistance in the near future, but nothing is decided yet.”

“My assistance? You mean use me as bait?”

“Not necessarily,” He answered.

I gawked at him in disbelief.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, now I have to remain here under the same roof as him. It didn’t matter how big this house was, there would never be enough rooms between us.  

“The money we’re offering you is to compensate you for your silence once you leave, but for reconciliation, I will allow you to stay here until Wayv is dealt with. I’ll make sure my men and staff do everything in their power to make you comfortable during your stay here as long as you’re willing to follow a few house rules.”

“Rules?” I quirked.

“I’ll have Taeyong explain all of that to you once you head back to your room.”  

Jaehyun stood up and finally started collecting the soiled documents that had remained on the desk all this time. I simply stared at him, waiting for him to go on, but he didn’t. It was like he was silently telling me to let myself out, but I’d be damned if I was going to make this easy for him after all he’d done.  

I knew that he was right and that leaving this house was suicide, yet I couldn’t stand the idea that he believed he was doing me a favor instead of what he was actually doing which was throwing money at the mess he made of my life.

I stayed there and watched him, knowing that he would eventually have to acknowledge my presence since I made no effort to remove myself from his office.

After several agonizing moments, Jaehyun looked at me and stopped what he was doing.

“Taeyong? Could you please come in and escort Miss y/l/n to her room?” He called out.

Shit.

Taeyong entered the room and walked towards us. I had to take my chance.

“I have a request,” I stated clearly.

Taeyong froze in place unsure of what he should do while Jaehyun quirked an eyebrow.

“And what might that be?”

I swallowed hard, previously unaware at how much my nerves were affecting my body.

“That night, the night you took me, no, kidnapped me. I saw one of my closest friends get shot. Wendy. I want to know if she is okay. Not just her, I want to make sure they’re all okay, and if not, I want you to do something about it.”

Jaehyun paused, deliberating on my request.  

“Is that all?” He asked.

“Yes.”

“And if she didn’t make it?  What then? How do you suppose I make that right?” He pressed, dropping the papers that were in his hands back onto the table.

I looked down at the floor. I didn’t know how he could make things right... in any sense, but I had to know whether Wendy was okay.  

Jaehyun eyes left my softly trembling frame to meet Taeyongs. I didn’t see this but Taeyong nodded his head signaling something to his boss.

“I’ll send in some of my men to search out what they can about your colleagues and the state of your friend Wendy. I’ll let you know what they find. Taeyong?”  

Taeyong grabbed my arm and brought his lips to my ear.

“Come on,” was all he said before guiding me out of the office.  

As we walked through the doorway, I immediately spotted Doyoung leaning against the wall with a bored look on his face. Taeyong paused for a second to give him an update.  

“I’m taking her back to go over the house rules, you good?” He asked.

Without answering, Doyoung fixed his gaze on me as I was half hidden behind his colleague.  

“Boo!” He half whispered half shouted.

I jerked back slightly only to recoil in embarrassment.

Taeyong rolled his eyes.

“I guess we’ll be off,” He announced, motioning that it was time for us to head back.

<><><>

Doyoung waited until Taeyong and I had disappeared from his vision before knocking on his boss’s door.  

“Come in,” Jaehyun consented.

Doyoung opened the door and propped himself against the doorframe. Jaehyun looked up at him from his desk chair.

“What?” Jaehyun demanded.

Doyoung chuckled at his boss’s intimidation tactics and took his time in forming a response, something most other members wouldn’t dare to do.

“I said, what?” Jaehyun thundered.  

Although Doyoung’s laughter had faded, his smile remained. He took a step forward and closed the door behind him.  

“Did you really mean it when you said she was free to leave, Boss?”

Jaehyun’s furrowed brows relaxed. Leaning back in his chair and propping his feet on the table, he opened his desk draw and pulled out two cigars. Doyoung walked over to his desk and sat in the very chair Y/N had used only a few moments prior. Jaehyun extended one of the cigars to the man who readily accepted. Doyoung leaned forward as Jaehyun lit his cigar with a silver lighter, feet still on the desk. Running a hand through his oddly streaked hair, he took in a puff of smoke and held it for a few seconds before releasing it into the air. Jaehyun took his time in lighting his own cigar before turning back to Doyoung.

“Say what you will about the old codger, he always did buy the best stoags,” He laughed examining the cigar band.  

“Stealing from daddy’s stash, are we?” Doyoung jokingly mocked.

Jaehyun’s face turned cold. Removing his feet from the desk, he leaned forward, staring into  Doyoung’s eyes.  

“What did you say?”  

Doyoung matched the man’s intense gaze, leaning in to show his lack of fear. Their eyes remained fixed on each other’s, unblinking until-

“Pfft!” Jaehyun chortled, Doyoung instantly joined in his laughter.

“So, you heard everything, huh?”

“Well, you did ask us beforehand to wait by the door until you both were finished,” Doyoung reminded.

Jaehyun nodded before setting the cigar down on a marble cigar stand.

“So, you’re really going to let her go?”

“Of course not. If Wayv wants Y/N, then I will do everything in my power to make sure she’s out of their reach.”

“Then why did you tell her that she was free to go?”  

Jaehyun paused.

“I’m still not sure she’s telling the truth.”

“Sir?”

“If she’s working with Wayv, then she’ll have no reason to stay other than to find out information. Taeyong is informing her of the rules she’ll have to follow as we speak assuming she chooses to stay. These rules will make it impossible for her to gain access to any information we don’t want Wayv to know. If we make it clear to her that these are the conditions under which she may stay at the estate and that they will continue to be enforced until Wayv is dealt with, then she will have no reason to stay since her life wouldn’t actually be in any danger in the first place.”

“You really thought this through, didn’t you?” Doyoung complimented.

“Right down to the last detail,” Jaehyun mused.

“So, what are the rules?”  

“Taeil is currently bugging and placing cameras in her room, which she will be informed of. Only the bathroom is free from any form of recording devices. These cameras are transmitted through wiring to a house computer disconnected from Wi-Fi and therefore unhackable meaning she won’t be able to send any messages to Wayv through the cameras. She will be under constant supervision and she will be unable to leave the room without-”

“-being escorted by one of 127’s members for the entirety of your excursion out of your room,” Taeyong read out loud.

We had returned to the room I had woken up in and Taeyong had started informing me of the rules that were listed on his clipboard.  

“What? This is ridiculous.” I exclaimed.

Taeil was setting up cameras, checking to make sure there were no blind spots.

“There won’t be any cameras in the bathroom so feel free to change comfortably in there. As long as we have the room completely covered, we’ll be able to see anything suspicious you might bring in there,” He explained.

“The boss said he believed my story. Why is he making me follow all these rules and why do I have to have cameras in my room?”  

“He does believe you. We still have to take precautions though given you aren’t a member of 127,” Taeyong interjected.

“There are still more rules we need to cover. You aren’t allowed to leave the room during any of 127’s meetings without specified permission from the boss. You will not be allowed access to any devices that allow you to contact anyone outside of this house, but don’t worry, we will have plenty of things available for your entertainment. You are allowed to ask for anything within reason.” Taeyong continued.

“What do you mean, within reason?”  

“Okay, good question. Things within reason are things such as clothes, books, makeup, small pets, furniture.”

“Pets?”

“Yeah, small ones like cats or birds. We could have one delivered tomorrow if you wanted. Just don’t name it Louis.”

“What? Why?”

“Umm. Don’t worry about it. Anyways, things that are out of reason are things that can be used to break any of the rules on this list along with things in extreme excess like houses or things that are impossible to fulfill.”

I stared at Taeyong in disbelief.

“Oh, and you can just ask me or Taeil when you have a request. It’s best not to ask the boss himself since he has a lot going on now.”

“What if I want to leave my room?”

“There will be a member at your door at all times. When we’re all in a meeting, we’ll either have a member stay in your room with you and catch them up later or we’ll have one of the staff watch over you. When you want to leave your room, just open the door and whoever is there will act as your escort.”

Hopefully Doyoung won’t be guarding my room all that much.

I stopped for a second to process everything he was saying.

“And if I refuse to follow the rules?”

“I can make arrangements for you to go back home or wherever you want to go along with the money that was promised to you if agree to our confidentiality agreement, but I have to warn you, you won’t last long out there with Wayv on your case and we have other ways of making sure you keep quiet. Ways that aren’t as beneficial to you as the agreement is.”

“So, I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

“You always have a choice. Sometimes the best option just isn’t what you’d hope.”

I made no efforts to hide my frustration as Taeyong moved on to explaining how things would be from now on. Meals would be made by the few staff that were kept on hand which according to Taeyong, were not that many. According to him, they had a few staff members that were specially trained to double as bodyguards in case of any house invasions. Besides these select few, the majority of staff were sent home on paid leave to prevent any issues while dealing with Wayv. There were always risks of traitors so limiting the amount of people who entered the household was necessary. Sometimes they would send outside staff to go on delivery runs, but everything that came into the house went through inspection. I was allowed to eat in anywhere and anytime I wanted, but if I chose not to leave my assigned room, meals would be delivered three times a day at set mealtimes. Taeyong told me that he would find a clock for my room. He also asked if the room was to my liking, telling me that he chose one of the smaller rooms since he believed there was a large chance that I would feel more at home in one of the less flashy rooms. He was right but he still offered to move me into a bigger one if at any point I choose to do so.  

Taeyong left for a little bit and returned with the clock he promised. During his absence, Taeil explained to me where all the cameras were in the hopes that it would make me feel more comfortable knowing. It didn’t. Taeil left and then it was just me and Taeyong.  

“I know that this will be a drastic change for you but try as best you can to adjust to your new surroundings. You might have to follow several rules but remember that you are a guest in this house, and you won’t have to worry about anyone hurting you here.” He promised, getting up to leave.

“That is, unless I break one of the rules,” I muttered.

Taeyong stood in the doorway, looking at me with those same sympathetic doe eyes he had flashed me earlier. I hated them. I hated how they were always filled with pity.  

“Try your best not to,” He told me as he started to close the door.

“Welcome to the Soo-man estate.”

I looked at the clock.  

11:42.

How was it still this early after everything that happened today?

[eyestumblin]

I'm several years late but after finally watching Aku no Hana (anime) I was really impressed with the director. I've been watching some candy colored fantasy anime on the recommendation of friends (a different conversation entirely) and this very bitter realism was a refreshing palette cleanser, even if it was honestly hard to get into and stick with to start. Despite the interesting execution, a purposefully feel bad plot with unlikable protagonists can be hard to want to watch. The first six episodes were a challenge to push through, but once the momentum and tension had built and snapped, instead of dreading what would happen next I was sucked in.

I think this show would have been well suited to a movie format instead of television, as it felt sometimes like episode recap, preview, and opening/ending credits interrupted the narrative flow enough to feel like filler at times. The choice to see character's actions and situations unfold without much, if any, time skipping also contributed effectively to the feeling of realism, so it was jarring to have the "real time" pace interrupted in the final episode with a rush of things to come. I accepted the chaotic jumble of future sight as a kind of surreal prophecy, but later read it was a preview of a second season which sadly never came out. I am left wishing instead for a complete film made by this team.

Seeing the look of the manga and live action adaptation, I dont think I'll read or watch them. Feel bad stories arent my cup of tea in general and what I really appreciated about this anime was the pain taken to capture realism; not only in the writing, but also in the look and movement of each person and the composition of each frame.

When asked at a Q&A panel at Animazement 2013 why he didn't make the adaptation a traditional live-action series, he responded that in live-action, the focus is on the actors and not the characters. 

By rotoscoping, both the reality of the human bodies and faces moving in space, and the sublimation of the actors into a hand drawn world, succeeded in sharing so much more information than just video or imagined drawings. The rare surreal special effects also feel naturally integrated thanks to everything already being animation. When I was younger I think I would have hated rotoscoping for being "lazy" or requiring less draftsmanship from the artists, so I can understand why this choice netted backlash. Where I'm at as an artist right now, however, the level of real detail this process retained seems well worth the effort of essentially making the show twice.

I appreciated aku no hana's honesty. Despite its purposeful unpleasantness, it did remind me in some ways of being that age. Teens are almost like adults, and yet so different inside and out, and I think a lot of media fails to depict that as clearly as this show did. I'm grateful for the reminder.

[whitefoxed]

Come Wake Me Up

@the-muse-mansion | Re-Archived: Written to this.

Days turned into weeks and weeks into months, three seasons have since passed from the last time the ground here crunched beneath the soles of his shoes. Stumbling in the dark, Lise saw the previous barren trees and shrubbery were now heavy with leaves, rustling dryly like quiet murmurs of disapproval at his approach. The night’s cold wind chilled him to the bone.

Dressed in only a white dress shirt, black trousers and loafers, the doctor’s usual tidy appearance was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a look of disarray, the shirt’s top buttons missing, leaving a vulnerably revealing V neck though its upturned collar was an obvious attempt of trying to curb that indecency. Its sleeves were rolled up to the man’s elbows however, making no effort to hide the hand like purple marks around his wrists. That brown hair too, was in a tousled mess, though it had traces of fingers having combed through it in failed effort.

Yet except for that and the lack of colour on his lips, the brunet who now stood at Adam’s door and knocked with the back of his knuckles, was not that much different from the he who stood here last. Breathing in, he let out a quiet sigh. “Open the door… it’s me.”

It was exquisite torture. Waiting each day for a word, a call, a letter, anything to show that he wasn’t hated and despised for some mysterious reason. Though he could not think of any reason for that to be the case, Adam could not think otherwise. Silence was all too telling after all.

So he lost himself to his music, compositions darker than any he’d written before, harsh and jarring manifestations of his own self loathing born of the conviction that he’d managed to screw this up somehow. It was all that kept him from ending it all in a desperate attempt to escape. That and the small undying hope that Lise would return one day.

Cursing to himself, Adam worked to re-hair his violin bow. It had not stood up well to the last bout of emotional outpouring. It was a task he was not fond of but one he was well practiced at. Even so his fingers stilled as a step sounded at his door. The words that followed would have sent him to his knees had he already not been seated. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible.

If he’d been asked, Adam couldn’t recall leaving the couch and yanking the front door open. “It’s you,” he echoed almost feebly as he drank in the sight before him. Had he finally gone off the deep end and was now left to hallucinations? Would his mind manifest such vivid markings and bruises on the pale skin? Would he imagine the disheveled state as some sort of explanation as to Lise’s absence? He simply had no way of knowing. “Is it you?” he asked with hope coloring his voice like a child hoping the nightmare wasn’t real.

There wasn’t any sound beyond the door, nor would it be unexpected if the one he called upon chose to ignore him, but Lise knew it wouldn’t be long before he was answered. Because despite having ran away from this very porch months ago and abandoning his friend behind, he could still keenly feel that man’s gentility that would afford him at least a word: to stay or go away.

Just as the lingering beauty that was their friendship resurfaced from the watery depths of his memories, the door opened and Lise saw, his lily maid still alive and gazing upon him in the familiar form of a dark haired man. The hand he had kept raised to knock again slowly fell to his side, as he took in the sight, as haunting and beautiful as the name his mind had bequeathed Adam.

“… Yes… May I come in? It’s cold out here.” Tiredly, grey eyes - brighter than normal, as if touched by fever - raised and met the other’s searching gaze proper as he spoke with long shallow breaths in between. It was indeed cold out here, but what truly bothered him was the vulnerability of being exposed in the open. Where any predator could take him.

Seeing how Adam was looking at him and thinking he should explain his sudden return, Lise broke into a chuckle and dropped his head to his right shoulder, revealing dried, new scars on his pale neck. His own pallor was not the same as Adam’s, it was livelier, like the blush of pink sunlight over fresh snow. But it made the dull red craters all the more grotesque.

“I made a mistake last year… I left a true friend.” Voice cracking with a broken smile, Lise blinked away his watering eyes, unconscious of how his arms had wrapped around himself defensively.

By force of habit, his dark gaze flicked out to the night stretching out beyond the circle of his porch light. Lise, by all appearances, was alone though why Adam was concerned by that, he couldn’t say exactly. Perhaps it was nothing more than instinct.

Stepping aside, he invited the human into his home, door closing and locking behind him. Questions flooded to the fore, each jostling for position to be the first voiced. And with each detail the vampire’s eyes noted, the more difficult it became to remain calm. Whatever had happened in the past, and it was clear a great deal had occurred, Lise was safe here. Only Eve ever sought him out Others avoided this dying and decrepit city in favor for the more thriving metropolises or artistic meccas.

“Where have you been?” Fuck. He tried for neutrality in tone but damn him if there wasn’t the brush of hurt and accusation underlying his words. Biting back the rest of his questions, Adam busied himself with tugging a blanket off a chair and wrapping it around the slender frame of his friend and urging him to sit closer to the fire.

Where indeed. “…Lost.” Not that he hadn’t thought of giving a proper answer, like being at his work and the hospital, staying in strictly human places during the day and home at night, drinking with people he knew and just plainly avoiding vampires… until recently. But he couldn’t bring himself to, seeking the comfort of what was their friendship with such poetic conversations.

It was a shame he only realised now how he disappointed and failed to reciprocate the respect Adam gave him.

A blanket was then draped around his shoulders, drawing his scattered gaze back upon the dark man beside him before he followed Adam’s urging and brought himself to sit nearer to those flames. Chill had permeated deep into his bones and as if the strained vigilance he had kept on his journey back here finally broke from knowing he was finally safe, the cold suddenly became unbearable and his teeth clattered, shivers turning even his hands shaky.

Lise wrapped the blanket tighter around himself, turning his eyes back upon Adam. “I’m sorry.”

“Lost? A simple word for the time that’s passed. A simple word for the look I see in your eyes now. A simple word for the way you are curling upon yourself.” The idea of an apology, no matter how heartfelt, was put aside for the moment. Understanding must come first, if understanding was to be had.

“Be clear with me Lise. Something has happened and I would have the truth of it before this goes further.” If there were revenge to be had, by all the darkest demons that resided within him, Adam would have it. First he needed answers, he needed information.

Warmth from the blanket and fire seeped through his skin, calming the tremors. The fear that hounded his heels since he woke up and made his way here seemed to have been held at bay by the door. His gaze flickered from Adam to where it was, then back around them, and for the first time felt grateful that Adam kept his curtains closed all the time.

Shaky lips pursed and parted, far too dry as he thought about how to phrase his words. Feeling safe, he did not even think of lying, nor did he have the energy or intention to. “I’m sorry… I got scared. So… I’d left. Stayed home. Worked. Stayed with humans.” With every word he spoke, his arms got tighter around his legs, having brought his knees up somehow. He could not look at Adam anymore, too ashamed, keeping his gaze on the wooden floor.

”But… I missed you… and us… it’s been too long, and I didn’t know how-” Guilt strangled his throat and he choked, coughing before he could continue. “So I thought I’d try to know more first.” Read up on vampires, ask questions on the net and-

“There was a human-friendly bar.” Different from his words prior, these echoed out emptily and Lise’s eyes blanked out, having found their direction somewhat at the fire. When they came back into focus, they dropped to his bruised wrists. “Been there for a week… met someone. He was cool… said he had something in his car to show me. Then…” This.

Two nights. He had been lucky. Guy went out and the ropes were not that tight. Kicked a window and made his way here. But he did not want to think about those two nights.

Adam watched and listened in utter stillness. With each second it seemed as if Lise turned into some hardened but brittle thing that would shatter at the wrong word or gesture. And so Adam remained unmoving lest he misstep.

Ah, but then, the words started to sink in and the images they painted became clearer. And the knot in his stomach grew and tightened. He knew of such bars and the dangers they presented to the overly trusting or the unwary. He was humbled by the intent Lise had held but infuriated by the way he went about satisfying it. With a clenched jaw and a dark look that was quickly averted, Adam managed to maintain his calm exterior.

“What did he look like? What was his name?” The vampire’s voice was soothingly soft but no less intense. He now had intentions of his own. Someone beloved to him had be terrorized and he could not let it stand. “Where was the bar?”

Led by Adam’s gentle voice, Lise answered without thinking. “Andy… I think they called him Andrew.” He blinked and shook his head, as if trying to clear his mind. “Brown hair, tall… bigger than me or you…” He was shaking again, but this time it went unnoticed by the man himself, who was busy soaking in the warmth of the fire. “Looked like them P.E. teachers…” The nice, sunny kind of guy… funny how a vampire could be sunny… Lise gulped, remembering how it all turned terrifying instead.

He didn’t notice the change in Adam, still too caught up from his escape.

Bar?… Lise’s eyes finally moved to try and meet Adam’s, as his head took its time to shift from remembering that vampire to reverse and recall the bar he mentioned earlier instead. “Erm… it’s called the Hook-Up… you can find it on main street at Corktown… just knock to go to the basement… that’s why I-” His breath hitched again, before he stopped talking. Instead he stared at his long lost friend… well, the friend he abandoned for so long.

Adam moved closer as he stored the description away. The name wasn’t familiar but that meant little in the long run. Names were as changeable as the seasons for those who lived centuries. “Shhhh,” he said softly, attempting to soothe the tremors away the best he could. “You don’t have to worry about him,” he continued, assuming that the shaking was born of the fear that this Andrew would find him again. “That’s why what?” he asked, genuinely curious as to the ending of that sentence.  It didn’t really matter in the long run what Lise had been going to say but damned if Adam wasn’t just a little starved for his friend’s company and quick thoughts. In the back of his mind the vampire was busy trying to sort out everything necessary for Lise’s recovery but he found himself at a loss. So for now it was this; a comforting hand on a shoulder and a soft word. Revenge could wait for now though no forever.

“-Thought it was safe.” Staring at Adam, the words he had forgotten finally returned to his tongue and he breathed. After so long, his friend was still his friend and still cared. It was like the fact finally caught up with him. Lise breathed in deeply as he tried to keep his eyes from watering.

Corktown was filled with humans. It wasn’t that popular, but there were plenty of bars popping up in the area that made it attractive. Even at night there was quite a crowd with enough neon lights to brighten up the whole street. For just one of them to have a small vampire friendly bar downstairs seemed well- friendly enough. He just didn’t think he could be so easily kidnapped in ‘broad daylight’. “Adam, I’m sorry.” He apologised again, more lucid this time.

“How… have you been?” Without even noticing, his tremors had ceased and the blanket around him was finally warm enough.

Resolutely, Adam shook his head. “You have nothing to apologize for. I, on the other hand, do. I made you feel unsafe, made you feel as if you had to flee.” With a clenched jaw, he bit off the rest of his words. This was neither the time nor the place for self recriminations. He focused on practical issues instead. “I have nothing to offer in the way of food or drink but I can order out easily enough. Are you hungry?”

He stood and went in search of his phone. Having only recently joined the current decade in regards to telephonic communication, Adam often misplaced the device as he rarely had use for it. He located it under a stack of papers after a minute of searching. “Allow me to correct myself,” he muttered as he fished out the charging cord. “I’ll be able to order in a minute or two. Damned thing is dead again.” He glanced at Lise as he spoke, pleased to see that he looked more at ease than he had.​

Lise bit his lip. Guilt still clawed at him listening to Adam’s reply, but he already couldn’t quite remember why he was so scared of Adam in the first place. Sometimes a perfect memory isn’t all that perfect. What he felt made little sense.

“Mn… yes.” It had been two days since he last ate. Apparently Andy didn’t think much of feeding a soon-to-be-dead prey. Lise snuggled in the comfort of the blanket, soft from age and use. Watching Adam fish out the dead communicator, a nostalgic smile crept unknowingly unto his lips, amused and relieved that Adam’s still the same after all this time. Such was the image Adam would see when he glanced back at Lise, who was much more relaxed than when he came in before. Quiet crackles of firewood and Adam’s rustling about fixing the phone were all very comforting sounds, with familiarity rushing back after two nights of horror. With it, came the exhaustion that slowly weighed itself on the young man and he leaned against the coffee table nearby, trying not to sleep.

He gave a glance to the clock on the wall then moved to check the heavy drapes. It was nothing more than nervous fussing in an attempt to keep questions and anxiety at bay. What should he be doing now? What would be best for his friend? What were the chances that Lise would be followed here? On a level he was hoping that would be the case but not at this moment. Now was for his friend.

He moved with careful deliberation, not that he ever truly rushed anywhere anyway, stopping to kneel next to the huddled figure. “Your eyes are starting to close,” he observed quietly. “Let’s get off the floor and find a place for you to sleep?”

"We’re not ordering food?...” Lise mumbled groggily, squinting his eyes open to look at Adam.  Struggling to keep himself awake, he nodded anyway to what Adam said, thinking he should listen to him to not trouble him further. Stumbling as he tried to get up, another wave of dizziness from the anemia rolled over him.

He would try to follow where Adam led him though, and as soon as they reached their destination, his remaining strength drained out of him and he crashed down, legs left hanging off to the floor. It would be at least some hours before the man will wake up again.

[fictionadventurer]

The Dust That Falls From Passing Stars: Part 1/3

Snow clouds covered the midnight sky, but it seemed the stars were all down here tonight. Stars poured light from street lamps onto snow-covered cobblestones.The glowing heavenly stones glimmered from the coats and necklaces of the wealthy theatre patrons who bundled into plush carriages.  A star even glowed at Lorenz’s throat—a bright green star in a cloak pin that would grant him entry to the House Diriks ball. Once, such a pin would have been an impossible dream, but in his year of fame, wearing it had become almost routine.

In a crowd as grand as this, there was no chance of finding a cab in the after-show rush. Better to walk the eight blocks than stand like a beggar in the snow.

A voice from the street called, “Fortuin!”

Snow crunched beneath Lorenz’s boots as he stopped in white glow of a star lamp. He lifted his top hat and saw a hatless man in a blue silk suit leaning out of a carriage caught in the crush of traffic.

Lorenz acknowledged him with a wide-armed wave. “Evening, Coeman.”

The star jeweler’s son’s eyes had an alcohol glaze. “Look at you!” he crowed. “All dressed up for a party!”

Lorenz and Coeman were both shopkeeper’s sons, but that was like saying a hovel and a palace were both houses. Lorenz came from a long line of grocers, while wealth fell from the heavens onto Coeman’s family lands. Coeman was ever amused by those who worked for their living.

Coeman cried, “Did the lady unchain you from the piano?”

Lorenz gave a thin smile. “Even genius needs refreshment.”

Coeman laughed. “Only you’d call a walk in a snowstorm refreshing.”

The light dusting of flakes could scarcely be called a shower, much less a storm, though it probably seemed like one compared to the plush comfort of a starfall family’s carriage.

Lorenz shrugged, then smiled, pretending indifference. “I’ll get there faster than you.”

He strode away, leaving Coeman and his carriage stuck in the crush of traffic.

From the street, voices shouted, horses wickered, wheels clattered upon cobblestones, and Lorenz wove among the hoop skirts and overcoats of his fellow sidewalk pedestrians. As Lorenz turned a corner, his cloak billowed, and a hand caught upon the hem and held him fast.

He stopped, then looked down into the dirt-covered face of a ragged young girl, a small, shapeless form somewhere between eight and eighteen, who sat in the gutter holding a small jar of glittering dirt.

She lifted it toward Lorenz’s hand. “Stardust, sir? Two pennies a pinch.”

Even if he had a cigarette to light or needed his hands warmed, the girl’s stardust wouldn’t have done anything—it was ten times more dirt than dust. Incompetent even for a dustgirl.

He yanked his cloak out of her hand, but pity soon overcame his annoyance, and he dropped a silver krenin in the girl’s lap.

Her eyes shone as if he’d tossed her the star at his throat. “God bless you, sir.”

Lorenz tipped his hat and strode away. A bit of blessing and a lot of hard work had brought him to his current heights. He loved that success gave him the means to become one of those towering figures of generosity that so lifted up the downtrodden.

That lofty feeling carried him all the way to the entrance of House Diriks. The house’s towering gray façade dominated the street, a castle within the city limits, built to with all the embellishments of current architectural fashion. Crystalline windows gushed starlight into the cold and dark of the city, illuminating the arriving guests. The carriages were like wheeled palaces, and the people coming out of them wore silks and velvets and furs that glistened in the glow of the stars they wore on their necks and ears and hands.

In that colored crowd, there was one spot of brown. A ragged girl, older than the one Lorenz had seen near the theater, held a small clay jar that faintly glimmered with stardust. Yet she didn’t offer the ladies stardust to adorn their faces and necks, didn’t approach the gentlemen with an offer to light a cigar. Instead, she scurried away, her eyes on some distant destination.

Very strange. What dustgirl would waste such an opportunity? These people would carry her week’s salary as pocket change, and would likely throw a good portion of it at her feet just to keep her from coming too near. She hadn’t been chased away, and she hadn’t so much as looked at the crowd. Leaving could only mean she had better plans in mind, and Lorenz, his curiosity piqued, decided to discover them.

He trailed her along the house’s western wing, sticking to the shadows between the glowing windows. Wide balconies extended from all the rooms on the upper floor, all filled with laughing, chattering party-goers who glowed in the light of the stars they wore. Aestus stars glimmered like flames to warm their lightly gloved hands. A hundred colors of decorative stars adorned necklaces, tiaras, earrings, cuff links, and were even sewn directly into ball gowns and suit coats. A thousand captured constellations that made it look as though their wearers had fallen from the heavens.  

The winter winds blew scraps of stardust from their finery. It whirled in the wind, blew over the balcony, and scattered on the sidewalk below. This shower—not the spectacle above—drew the dustgirl’s eyes, and she knelt on the snow-slicked stone beneath it, scraping with cold-chapped hands on the ground as she raced to gather as much stardust as possible into her battered clay jar.

Lorenz found himself entranced by the tableau—the bright and laughing elite above and the earthy desperation below. There was cruelty here, but also beauty, something that pierced deep into the true nature of things in a way that he rarely considered. He could make a lyric out of this—not one of his light, theatrical pieces, but a real and honest piece of poetry. The complacent rich who wore the heavens at their hearts without a thought, and a girl who thought herself fortunate to gather up the crumbs. A downtrodden soul who scratched in the dirt, yet came up covered in the dust of the stars.

When the ground had been cleared of its heavenly bounty, the girl turned her attention to the still-falling flakes. Could she capture it all, Lorenz wondered. How would she separate the stardust from the falling snow?

As if in answer, she unwound her ragged cloak from her shoulders and spread it like a net between her arms. Half the flakes faded within moments of landing on the fabric. Lorenz’s heart flared in admiration as he caught the trick of it. Her body-warmed cloak melted the snowflakes, leaving her with a haul of pure stardust cleaner than anything that could be gathered by any other dustgirl in the city.

He felt a strange connection to this girl, who took such pride in doing such a humble job so well. He’d never looked at a dustgirl with anything other than pity, or perhaps relief that his family had never fallen so low. But here was courage, enterprise, intelligence, and Lorenz found it more inspiring than anything he’d seen from tonight’s crowd of starfall elites.

As the girl bobbed and weaved beneath the stardust shower, a deep-voiced shout shattered the peace.

“You! Girl!” A thick-limbed guard in the blue and silver of the House Diriks staff raced toward her, boots clattering. “Get gone, you filthy scavenger!”

The tableau shattered. The girl crushed her cloak to her chest and tried to run, face white with panic. As she pivoted, her foot slipped on a patch of ice and she landed on the ground in a tangle of limbs.  

“Get gone!” the guard shouted again. “We don’t need rat-thieves crawling ‘round!”

The girl scrambled into a sitting position, but still failed to find her feet. The guard removed a thick cudgel from beneath his cloak and drew his arm back for a blow.

Before Lorenz could think, he stepped out of the shadows, grabbed the girl’s shoulders, and pulled her out of the path of the descending club. She slid easily on the ice, and the guard stumbled as his cudgel met empty air. As the guard flailed to keep his balance, his weapon caught Lorenz on the shoulder.

Lorenz barely felt it through his anger. He unbent himself and demanded, “What do you think you’re doing?”

The guard found his feet, but his tongue faltered, stunned as he stared at this unexpected gentleman. “My…apologies, sir. I didn’t see…”

“Is this how you treat innocent women? Beatings and blows?”

The guard snapped, “She’s a thieving scavenger, sir.”

At his feet, the shivering girl looked at the ground, ashamed in a way she hadn’t been while gathering the stardust, as if the guard’s words had the power to turn her into the very thing he claimed she was.

It reminded Lorenz of some of the things that had been said about him in his early days in high society. It softened his heart and hardened his resolve. He’d do what he could to make the guard look at this girl with the respect she deserved. With all the indignation he felt, he shouted, “A thief, sir? She is my guest!”

Lorenz squared his shoulders, straightened some folds in his cloak, and loosed the cloakpin at his throat to show it to the guard. The silver setting bore the crossed swords and crescent moon of the House Diriks crest, and the center of it held a polished fragment of a glowing green star. “I am Lorenz Karel Fortuin, and my patron is Lady Diriks herself.”

The guard gazed at the pin, his face growing white. “That’s real.”

“It is.”

“And this girl is your guest?”

Thankfully, the night’s shadows hid details. Lorenz draped his now-unfastened cloak over the girl before the guard could get a better look at her clothes.

Lorenz murmured to the girl in soothing tones. “I told you to dress warmer, Anya.” Anya was a good name—vague enough to apply to peasant or princess.

As the shock passed, the guard grew more truculent. “Why was she gathering stardust?”

Lorenz asked, “What girl could resist a glittering starshower? It’s not illegal—fair falling stardust is public property.”

The guard didn’t seem quite convinced, so Lorenz turned his attention to the girl. He examined her face, crusted with sweat and snowflakes, cheeks chapped red from the cold. Her mouth was hanging open in surprise, and her brown eyes were wide with shock and hope. “Has he hurt you?” Lorenz asked.

“No,” she said.

“I’m glad of it,” he said gently. Then he turned back to the guard and snapped, “You ought to be glad of it, too. Harming a guest of House Diriks? Your lady would not be pleased.”

The guard’s pale, slack face suggested that he understood all too well what he’d escaped.

Lorenz helped the girl to her feet. She was taller than he’d realized, but impossibly thin. Swathed in his cloak, she looked breakable as glass.

“Stand tall,” he whispered, and when she stood more like a frightened lady than a battered street urchin, he escorted her past the baffled guard.

The guard watched them go with narrowed eyes, and Lorenz cast one cautious glance back toward the balcony. Most of the crowd stood heedless of the scene below, but a few sharp eyes followed Lorenz and his guest. Fortunately, he had plenty of experience in crafting scenes for balcony crowds.

Lorenz led the girl toward the house’s main doors and urged her toward the white silver-veined marble of the main staircase. “Let’s get you inside.”

She gave him a sharp, shrewd glance, more like her old self with the guard out of reach. “What are you doing, sir?”

Her words held a hundred other questions. Who are you? Why are you helping me? What are your intentions? He couldn’t hope to answer them with the eyes of House Diriks upon them.

“I’m helping you,” he whispered. He gestured in the guard’s direction with his eyes. “Until he’s out of the way.”

She took a step away from his side, and for a moment, Lorenz thought she’d bolt with his best cloak. But she merely examined him, top to toe, and seemed to come to some internal decision. “Thank you, sir,” she said, and started up the stairs.

The great blue doors opened before her, granting them entrance into the warmth and light of the House Diriks foyer. Lorenz bustled his guest past the outstretched hands of the attendants and toward a fireplace set between the curving staircases. She stared wide-eyed at everything they passed.

Lorenz smiled at her. “What do you think?”

“So bright,” the girl breathed.

Hardly fine poetry, but not an uncommon reaction upon entering the Dirik’s family’s city home. The Diriks House starfall was the prime landing place for solara stars—the largest and brightest that fell to Earth, with the purest, whitest light. Their decorations emphasized it on this dark midwinter night, with the crowning glory of a silver-limbed chandelier, holding half a thousand stars. Their light glinted off the silver veins in the marble flooring and the gilding in the deep blue wallpaper, sparkled on the bits of snow that swirled through the doors and brightened the eyes of the dustgirl guest who stared in wonder at it all.

He brought her to a wooden chair near the fireplace, hidden behind a marble pillar holding a bust of a House Diriks founder.

Here in the light, he could finally get a good look at her. She was thin and slight, but she was older than he’d realized—twenty at least, with softness to her face but a shrewdness in her eyes that hinted at experiences that had aged her further. Her hair was that indeterminate color between yellow and brown, wrapped in a ragged crown around her head. Her nose was dripping from the cold—he offered her a handkerchief before she wiped it on his cloak—and her eyes were as bright and green as the star in his House Diriks cloak pin.

“Are you well?” Lorenz asked her. “You took a nasty tumble.”

“He didn’t hurt me,” she said, speaking for the first time in more than a whisper. Her accent flattened and elongated her vowels—as stereotypical a specimen of the city’s lower classes as he’d ever heard. Lorenz had worked long and hard to train similar—though never so strong—tics out of his own voice.

“Did you keep the dust?” he asked.

Her dark eyes flashed. “It’s mine by right. I didn’t steal it. It fell fair, right to the ground.”

He dampened a smile. “I don’t plan to take it from you. The law’s on your side, so long as you didn’t knock anyone down to shake it loose.”

“I didn’t,” she insisted.

“There you go.” He couldn’t keep a lilt of amusement from his tone.

The girl caught it and scowled. “Why did you bring me here?”

“I told you. To get you away from the guard.”

“What’s that matter to a gentleman like you?”

He understood her suspicions. Many among the upper classes had little patience with their inferiors. “I guess I’m not as much of a gentleman as I appear.”

She went white, and seemed to try to fuse herself to the back of her chair.

“No!” Lorenz gasped, realizing the double meaning too late. He felt ill at the thought. “That was not an innuendo. I have no ungentlemanly intent toward you.”

The terror in the girl’s eyes changed to something livelier and more glittering. Almost as though she was laughing at him. “Don’t fret, sir. I believe you.”

Gruff with embarrassment, he said, “I only meant that I wasn’t born to this world.” Wasn’t much above a dustgirl myself when I started out.”

That amusement changed to interest. “That so, sir?”

He puffed up a little. “Rose through my own merit.”

“And you got a starfall lady’s crest. Is she sweet on you?”

Lorenz tried and failed to imagine Lady Diriks feeling tender emotions toward anyone, and felt ill at the thought of her pursuing someone so far her junior. “Lady Diriks is my patroness. I’m composer and lyricist at one of her theaters. I write showtunes, operettas.”

“They’ll pay you money for anything, these starfall swells.”

Pride wounded, Lorenz squared his shoulders. “They’re excellent songs. I’ll bet even you’ve hummed a tune or two by Lorenz Fortuin.”  

Her dark eyes stared into the distance before brightening with recognition. “That song about the lady!”

Lorenz wanted to point out this didn’t much narrow down the canon of music, but then she softly sang the first bars of a tune that was clearly “Nightingale’s Lament.” A surprisingly smooth alto.

“One of my better ones,” Lorenz said.

She smiled. “It’s pretty. I sing it to the little ones sometimes.”

“You have children?” he asked in surprise. She was old enough for it, he supposed, but not by much.

“Sisters,” she explained. “Three of ‘em. Oma watches them when I’m working.”

Supporting three young girls—and possibly, a grandmother—on pinches of stardust. It was poverty he couldn’t imagine.

He couldn’t think of anything to say in response. “I suppose,” he said, brushing the toe of one foot on the marble floor, “that you’ll need to be getting back to them.”

“Eventually,” she said, settling into her chair with a sigh. “But it’s cold out there and this fire’s so warm.” She closed her eyes, languid and content.

Her few minutes in the warmth had transformed her. The hard-edged desperation of the street had softened, and her pale, cold-chapped face had taken on a warmer glow. By now, the guard would be long gone, the balcony crowd distracted by their own amusements, but he couldn’t imagine forcing her back into those freezing streets so soon.

The girl looked at the fire, the star-filled chandelier, the skirts and furs and star necklace of a passing duchess.  “I’ll have one hell of a story to tell them at dawn.” They won’t believe the things I’ve seen.”

The words sparked a wild idea, more brilliant than the stars around them. Following the impulse, he asked,  “Would you like to see more?”

She looked at him warily. “How do you mean?”

“I really am allowed to bring a guest to these events.”

Her expression became hard and skeptical. “You want me to stay?”

“Why not?” Lorenz asked. His mind supplied a dozen answers, but his showman’s side and his romantic side teamed up against his more practical inner voice. Even a dustgirl had a right to see a glorious spectacle once in her life, and what could compare to a midwinter House Diriks ball?

The girl tugged Lorenz’s cloak around her snow-stained clothes. “For one thing, I ain’t dressed for it.”

Caught up in the excitement, his imagination spun glorious possibilities and leaped over obstacles. “House Diriks provides fully-staffed powder rooms for these parties. The maids can clean you up. Your dress will be a charmingly rustic costume.”

She looked up those stairs with longing. “Do you think so?”

A significant part of Lorenz didn’t, but it was tackled and sat upon by his more optimistic side.

“Just picture it,” Lorenz said. “The finest music, the most illustrious people. Food from the finest chefs on the continent. There are people in the city’s oldest families who can’t enter a House Diriks ball, but you could be an invited guest.”

He was drunk on the drama of it. It was madness, but such glorious madness. A melodrama fit for his finest operettas. The downtrodden dustgirl, pulled from the gutter to experience one night of luxurious enchantment. He would be her generous benefactor, her benevolent guide to this elegant world.

Her eyes sparkled in the starlight. His enthusiasm was infecting her. “You really mean it, sir?”

“I do.”

She grinned. “I’ll stay.”

He clapped his hands together in satisfaction. “Excellent! You won’t regret it.” He put his hand behind her back and began to lead her away from the seat behind the pillar. “I’ll be Lorenz to you, if you’re to be my guest. You’ll need to be Anya for the night. Those on the balcony may have overheard us.”

“That suits me,” Anya said.

He led her away from the fireplace and toward a yellow-papered door in a small alcove. “Very well, Anya. Let’s get you ready for the ball.”

[absconditum-imaginaerum]

Desert Twilight | Juyeon

Juyeon | Desert Twilight Words | 3,539 Notes | Camping!AU; Big fluffy desert stargazing. That’s it. It’s a standalone fic, but makes references to Ablaze, my first Juyeon camping fic! They do go together, but don’t need to be read together. Enjoy! 

When he called you and asked you to get just a small bag of clothes and essentials ready, a smile broke onto your face while you gripped the phone a little tighter, holding it closer to your ear as you listened to his sweet voice through the phone. Whenever he called you with something impromptu like this, you knew he had been thinking for a while, and it was bound to be one of the best times of your life.

It was about three in the afternoon, he said that there would be some driving to do and a plan to spend the night so to bring your favorite fluffy blanket. You quickly threw a bag together with just a few things he asked you to bring including clothes, toiletries, and a refillable water bottle. He mentioned he’d be by to pick you up pretty quickly, so you anticipated the knock at your door.

You pulled it open with a smile on your face that seeped up into your eyes, a glittery gaze you looked at him with as he stood in front of you with a smile of his own. He eyed the fluffy blanket in your arms before leaning in to press a soft kiss against your lips, a greeting in and of itself.

“Ready?” he asked you.

An eager nod was your reply. He backed up slowly, coaxing you out of the house but patiently waited for you to lock the door behind yourself and he helped you with your bag and blanket. You eyed the 90s pickup he was leading you towards, a baby blue colored Chevy that had obviously had some refurbishing work done, but you were smitten nonetheless. Ideas flew through your head about what this impromptu getaway would entail; you caught him looking at you when you smiled over at him.

“Where are we going?” you asked him.

“You know I won’t tell you exactly,” he replied, reaching for your hand to lace your fingers just long enough to kiss the back of your hand before tugging open the back door of the crew-cab vehicle to toss your bag in the back seat before opening the passenger’s side door for you, helping you into the lifted vehicle. “But I know it’s been something on your bucket list for a while.”

Just the thought made you giddy. The squeak and subsequent slam of the door didn’t even jar you before you watched him cross in front of the truck. The inside was nicely detailed with beige leathering, dash chrome polished and shiny. You wanted to ask him what strings he had to pull to find it, but it seemed less important when he got into the truck next to you.

“It’s a drive, so if you fall asleep, I won’t be offended,” he told you with that look in his eyes that made your knees weak, a small smile on his face that you begged to kiss off his lips. He seemed to be able to tell, because he didn’t wait for you to find the right words to reply—instead, he leaned in, teasing your chin with his soft fingers just enough to tilt your jaw up to mesh his lips with yours, a little more lingering this time.  

He must have known you pretty well, because it wasn’t long after he got on the highway out of the city that you were getting heavy-eyed. You were always the same on road-trips. Something about driving made you sleepy. It never stopped the way he’d occasionally look over at you, a shy grin on his lips that he occasionally entertained with his teeth while his hand smoothed over your knee. The aviators that sat loosely against his nose and the way the blasting air conditioner swept his hair back made him look like a regular in a desert west movie.

The sun against your face and the skin of your arms was as warm as the late spring in the desert and it lit up your smile like a hundred diamonds as he looked back towards the road, removing his hand from your knee to reach behind the seat you were sitting in.

“Do you know how hot you look driving an older pickup the way you do, all swaggered out?” you asked him, eliciting a laugh that lit your heart on fire.

“Please,” he laughed, “Do you always have to say things like that when I can’t even lean over to kiss you?” he teased back, looking back over at you for a second over the frame of those glasses, giving you a look that had your heart almost skipping a beat.

“Only if it frustrates you a little bit,” you teased back, taking his hand from behind the headrest of your seat to kiss against the back of his hand, watching the way his teeth captured his bottom lip again. “Sometimes I like to rile my man a tad when he can’t do anything about it,” you uttered just loud enough for him to hear as you turned your attention out the window—it was obvious now that you were intending to leave civilization.

The exaggerated purr he gave you in response sent a shiver through your spine as you resettled his large and warm hand against your bare thigh, causing you to teeth at your own bottom lip as you tried to keep your gaze out the window. Despite Juyeon’s warm touch and your easy conversations, you still fell unconscious against the door, but not without lacing your fingers over the top of Juyeon’s hand against your leg.

As much as he wanted to talk with you, or just sit silently with you, he adored the sight of your sleeping just a tad more—any instance in which you were completely serene lit his heart ablaze. The destination was coming up fast, and the moment you hit unpaved road, you were jolting awake.  You stirred a bit, trying to configure what was going on before realizing you were on a dirt road. Then it all hit you—he brought you out to the middle of the desert and suddenly you knew what bucket list item he was talking about. The giddy grin returned to your face, too excited to form a coherent sentence—you had dreamed of disappearing deep into the desert even if just for one night for a bonfire and some stargazing, totally uninterrupted by city lights, in the warm and dry air, surrounded by creatures different from grassy hilltops amongst wildflowers and rock formations, fine sand under your feet.

The truck’s suspension made almost no noise against the uneven terrain, despite your jostling bodies. You watched the landscape pass, the wildflowers you’d dreamed of, colored rocks reflecting in the setting sun, the beauties that came with a high desert climate.

Another few turns onto other roads, but more paths less traveled until the car stopped, thrown into park and Juyeon was turning to look at you with orange sunset hues against his russet tinged skin.

“Is this my desert stargazing date?” you asked him, although it was more rhetorical.  The look on your face put tingles in his stomach.

“It gets so much better,” he told you, barely a whisper before he pulled the keys from the ignition and hopped out of the truck, opening the back door to pull some things out before you even had a chance to collect yourself. When you finally got out, you noticed a circle of rocks in a dugout pit that you were sure he would have hit and you were surprised you didn’t see him drive over it; perhaps you were paying too close attention to him.

“Babe, will you help me with this box?” he called from the other side of the truck. You hurried around, helping him lug a box of wood from the back of the truck—a true desert fire-pit was in your future and the way your eyes glittered, Juyeon could see, as you helped him with the box was more than he could ever imagine. He handed the box over to you while he reached deeper into the truck to pull out a small cooler to follow you around the bed to the fire-pit, next to which you set the box of chopped wood and other fire supplies.

Juyeon set the cooler down by that box and touched against your waist, just enough to put your eyes on his while his hand slipped away as he approached the tailgate of the truck, pulling it down to reveal the plush mattress that fit perfectly in the bed, covered with pillows and blankets strapped down with a bug net you weren’t quite sure how he was going to finesse up, but you were sure it was already planned. You could see small fairy lights lining the perimeter of the bed and your heart all but melted in your chest.  

He looked over his handy work, pleased already with the way things were turning out, but he could feel your eyes in his back, nothing but looks of complete adoration as you looked at, you swore, the love of your life. He tugged open a small door towards the tail of the truck, a few plugs on the inside that he plugged the lights into, twinkling as the desert sky around you started settling into dusk before he looked over his shoulder.

Enamored; that was the only word you could use to describe the way you looked at him. You could feel the knot in your throat, but you didn’t mind it one bit when he finally captured your gaze, turning fully towards you and took one step to grab your hips and turn you to lift you onto the tailgate.

“Did you plan all this all by yourself?” you asked him; it really was too good to be true.

He took a moment to reply, reveling your warm hands cupping his cheeks and carding through his hair, eyes fluttering a little bit as he mustered a small nod. “For you, my love,” he told you, “consider it an early anniversary gift. We’ll have a fire and roast s’mores and watch the stars and fall asleep under the charming desert sky littered with all beautiful hues of oranges, pinks, and purples—”

Your warm lips slanted against his as you leaned over, silencing him for just a moment so you could wrap your head around it. Gentle fingertips against the curve of his jaw had him shuffling more squarely between your legs, tugging at your hips with broad hands as a sigh exhaled from his nose, that turned a little more vocal when you pulled back too early for his liking. Your hands caressed down his cheeks, tugging against his lip with your thumb as you smiled down at him, nipping at your own bottom lip as you watched him.

“I can’t tell what’s more charming, you or the desert sunset,” you teased him; you both knew it was he who charmed you the most.

“I think the desert’s got me beat,” he teased back, and tugged you off the back of the tailgate to swing you around, listening to your playful squeals and giggles that made it all worthwhile to him before finally setting your feet back in the sand. “Help me build this fire? Since you’re the best at it.”

You remembered all the times you went camping with him and the boys before you became official, and how good of a fire-maker you’d become over all those years and camping trips. You scoffed, but it didn’t hide your sly grin as you stepped around him towards the box and the circle of rocks.

“Watch and learn,” you teased. There was a bit of dry fibers in there that you placed in the center of the dug-out pit and tilted some kindling twigs against it. You pushed passed the lighter fluid in the box—all the wood was as dry as the desert and would light in a second—for the matchbox, striking once and lighting the dry fibers underneath which were quickly eaten up by the flame. Gently, you continued to lay small twigs, getting progressively bigger until the fire was strong enough to start crossing logs.

“Fire’s a lot easier to build out of dry logs rather than gathered driftwood,” you reminded him as you finally stood to your feet, brushing your hands off after moving the box away from the flame so the supplies and other flammables wouldn’t catch.

“I know, it’s just really sexy watching you make fire,” he told you, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you against him so he could sway with you for a moment. You rolled your eyes at him, but your hands slid up against his chest nonetheless despite the look he was giving you.

The sun was going down, and the high desert tended to get a little chilly in the evening and nights. Juyeon had put out two camping chairs for you and kicked open the cooler for some food. You couldn’t help but lean your head against his shoulder, the evening going by so peacefully, the desert wildlife out in full force, chirping and howling as twilight began to set in. It reminded you of all the times you’d roasted marshmallows with Juyeon in the past, under scrutinizing and suspicious gazes. It had been a couple of years since you finally decided to break the news not only to each other, but to everyone else as well.

You were so caught up in your thoughts about that night that you hadn’t even realized the half-s’mores between Juyeon’s fingers extended to you. You startled a bit, and took it from him—he’d become a much better marshmallow roaster under your guidance and always made them perfect.

“You’re awfully far away for being right here next to me,” he whispered to you, reaching over to clean the chocolate up from the side of your mouth with his thumb.

“I was just thinking about how much better you’ve gotten about roasting marshmallows since two years ago,” you told him. Instantly the memories of that camp came back to his mind. He smiled at you, perhaps too gently, as the thoughts all came rushing back and he couldn’t help but lean down and refresh his memory of the first kiss you shared in the washing tide of the water against your feet. “And a better kisser,” you breathed against his mouth with a smile when you finally found it in you to push him back a bit before he was capturing your lips again, but you had one last thing to say. “And, you always give me the last marshmallow, now,” you reminded him.

Juyeon’s warm breath against your mouth welled butterflies in your stomach and a shiver up your spine as you held his jaw. His eyes sparkled like the universe condensed as he looked at you, and you could almost read what was going on in his mind.

“You better let me watch the stars, Juyeon, I swear I’ll fight,” you warned him, drawing out the purr that was begging to rip from his throat. He kissed you again, chastely, and finished up roasting marshmallows with you. You were left to put out the fire and clean packages and things up while he made final preparations, erecting some poles here and there while the truck bed squeaked underneath his movements. You stowed the cooler back in the cab of the car and tugged your big blanket from the seat on the other side, all but tossing it onto him before you climbed into the bed of the truck, tugging the tailgate closed.

The fairy lights flickered across your face as you looked up at your man; the sun had gone down deep against the horizon and the purple hues were fading to darker blues. So, when he finally got the bug net situated and looked down at you, his jaw almost dropped.

“You,” he started, finishing affixing the net to its proper hooks before plopping down on the mattress in front of you, “are perhaps the most ethereal being on this planet.”

“You’re really trying to out-charm the desert, aren’t you?” you teased, trying to stave the blush threatening your cheeks. He gave you a shy smile, finally looking away from you before taking handfuls of blankets to move them around, to properly spread them across the mattress over the two of you while you turned to fix the pillows—too many for two human beings—across the top against the cab. You couldn’t count how many blankets were across you, but they felt heavy, which you knew you would need with no heater out in the wilderness where there was little around to trap the heat—even the sand did a poor job most nights.

Juyeon slithered down on his back, deep under the blankets and helped you follow suit to tuck an arm under your head, laying you half against his left shoulder enough so that when he tilted his head, it leaned against yours. He killed the lantern light and the fairy lights to leave you in next to complete darkness, bringing the stars out like fireflies in a field.  

He could barely make out the noise of complete awe that escaped from your lips, one that would have fallen from his, too, as you both looked up to the speckled sky, milky waves casting paths across the vast darkness—it was easily the greatest amount of stars visible to the human eye. With no lights for miles, constellations became even more vivid, stars could be picked out without squinting too hard or guessing and trying to follow other dim stars; no, these stars were bright, these stars were nothing short of absolutely breathtaking.  

Neither of you were star experts, by any stretch of the imagination. Constellations were hit or miss depending on the day, but Juyeon prepared to wow you. He pointed up to the sky occasionally, explaining where the beginning of a certain constellation was until you were able to find it, tracing the constellation with a long finger pointed to the sky as he told you the name and any random facts he could remember about said constellation. It was the quietest and most serene you had ever heard his voice, and the fact that he learned them for you filled your heart to the brim.

You swore you could watch the stars for hours, especially huddled up next to his warm body, legs somewhat tangled under the blankets, fingers playing with each other when he finally stopped telling you things about them and occupied more of his time kissing against those fingers. The desert was less than quiet, but it was filled with soothing sounds of nature, of all kinds of bugs you’d never hear in the city, wildlife you’d never see in the city.

“Thank you,” you whispered to him, interrupting your gaze to turn your head up as far as you could in an attempt to look at his face. “Thank you for planning this, for driving all the way out here, for making this absolutely the most perfect date I could ever ask for.”

“You’re going to make me soft if you don’t stop,” he told you, turning his mouth against your temple to place a couple of kisses against it. He didn’t hate when you got like this with him, in fact, it melted his heart more than he could explain, but it wasn’t something he could ever get used to.

“Maybe I like it when you’re soft,” you teased him.

“Aren’t you watching the stars?” he asked.

“Right now, baby, my attention’s all on you,” you whispered back, turning enough that you could barely snag a kiss against his jaw. You could feel his shoulder shift under your head, his arm rolling you into him a little tighter.

“I will tickle you until you cry,” he threatened.

“You only ever say that when I’m pushing buttons just right,” you replied with a grin and a soft laugh as you reached up with your right hand to touch soft fingers against his jaw.

“Maybe because you are,” he all but growled back, moving you ever so softly so he could pull his shoulder out from under your head, resettling it into the vast amount of pillows cushioning you from the cab of the truck before he was slithering between your legs, shoveling his arms under your shoulders to hover over you on his elbows. He could see you almost clearly in the light emanating from the millions of stars and the moon that seem to cast at the perfect angle.

He nuzzled his nose against yours softly and had your eyes fluttering, arching into him in a way that drove him crazy before his mouth slanted against yours for a few soft and short kisses.

“You know I love to monopolize your time and attention, even in the face of the stars.”

The desert was charming, but Juyeon had the upper hand.

[arrow-guy]

Author and Auror (2/??)

Synopsis: Eleanore Vaughan has never been one for the spotlight. Her cousin, Rosaline, is the one best suited to the limelight, and is happier for the attention. Though Nora is most comfortable tucked away in her book shop, what happens when Grindelwald’s sudden takeover flips her world upside-down and thrusts her into the inner circle?

A/N: Alright, here we are with chapter two, more exciting stuff happening and a little more angst and all kinds of nonsense. As soon as this chapter is through, we’re out of canon material and it’s entirely from my brain meats, with help from @thorne93 ​.  Again, I literally haven’t seen Crimes of Grindelwald since it was in theaters, so this will not be fully accurate. Anyway, have fun!

Page dividers by @carryonmyswansong​

Previously, with Rosaline…

Pairing: Theseus ScamanderxOFC

Word Count:  3.8k

Warnings: Fire, kidnapping, angst

Part 1

We appear in a cramped living room and immediately fall away from one another. Jacob and Tina situate the now unconscious man on the chair and ottoman. He begins to convulse and Newt looks over him with renewed interest. He instructs Jacob to grab a pair of tweezers, declaring a sort of parasite has found a host in our newest hostage. Newt pulls it from his eye and hands the tweezers off to Jacob. I take them from him and search for a jar in which to put the parasite. With the man settled, Rosaline and Newt drop down into Newt’s suitcase to take care of the zouwu. I poke at the wards around the home and am surprised to find them to be significantly stronger than expected.

I lean against the wall and cast a Tempus charm before waving it away and taking in the substantial number of jars lining two floor to ceiling shelving units.

“How do you know Newt?” Tina asks.

Jacob looks between the two of us and presses his lips together. “I’m gonna go look around. See if there’s some food or something.”

I nod. “Be careful. We don’t know who’s home this is.”

“Yeah, sure,” he answers, already halfway up the stairs. “What other trouble could I get myself into?”

I laugh and turn back to Tina. “I went to Hogwarts with his brother and then worked with him at the ministry for a while before opening my bookstore. I ran into Newt while I was on holiday one year and he needed help with an aged porlock. Poor thing could barely walk and it absolutely hated Newt. I was wearing a sweater my mother knitted me with a horse on it, and porlocks love horses, so it calmed down enough for Newt to handle it. I worked with him on and off for a couple years after that.”

“And your sister-”

“Cousin. Rosaline.”

She nods once. “Cousin. How does she know him?”

“They graduated together. She’s been his assistant for nearly six years now.”

I watch as her hands bunch up the legs of her trousers. I tilt my head to the side, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She clears her throat. “Why did you leave the ministry?”

“Because being my own boss was much more appealing than being someone’s secretary.” I lift my chin and loosen my tie. “Newt tells me you’re an auror.”

Her brow furrows. “Did he just tell everyone he knows about me?”

“His circle of friends is very small,” I say. “News travels fast.”

“How much do you know about me, then?” she asks.

I shrug. “Enough.”

The case swings open and Newt climbs out and offers Rosaline a hand. They talk in hushed tones, their heads pushed together. Newt says something and Rosaline shrugs and offers a counterpoint. Newt shakes his head, his lips pursing. I watch Tina eye them and press my lips together. A loud thud startles Rosaline into pulling away from Newt and I narrow my eyes as Tina’s shoulders visibly relax.

“What was that?” Rosaline asks.

“Jacob probably got into something.” I meet Tina’s eyes. “Tina. We should go check on him.”

She nods slowly and pulls herself away from the couch. She heads up and I follow along behind. Rosaline shoots me a questioning look and I look very pointedly at Newt and make a shooing motion. She swallows and nods. I give her a thumbs up and hustle to catch up with Tina.

I find Jacob on the floor, caught in a net. Tina crouches beside him, wand out.

“What the hell happened?” I ask.

“I saw this ball thing on the desk. I swear it looked like a regular ball of string, but then I touched it and now I can’t feel my legs.”

“Didn’t I tell you to be careful?”

“To be perfectly fair to you, I probably wasn’t listening very closely.”

“Circe, it’s like wrangling crups,” I mutter.

“I got no clue what that means, but I’m gonna agree with you.”

I laugh and search for the loose thread that should unravel the trap. It’s right at the back of Jacob’s neck. I pull on the short section and the entire net comes apart. I snap my wrist and the string shivers before rolling back up into a ball.

“How’d you know what to look for?” Tina asks.

“It’s just a string trap. Dumbledore taught me how to make them when I was in my sixth year at Hogwarts.” I look over the ball of string, noting how frayed it appears to be, before setting it back on the desk. “But something tells me whoever taught him lives here.”

“We should go back downstairs,” Tina says.

I nod and gesture for them to follow me, but not before telling Jacob not to touch anything else. I lead the way down and freeze when I hear Rosaline talking to Newt. Her voice waivers and my hand tightens on the railing.

“-I’ve seen your heart break before and I couldn’t do anything about it, even though desperately I wanted to. If you felt the same towards me, I’d think you would’ve said something before now. I don’t want to be a last resort. Just thought you should know how I feel.”

Jacob takes an extra step down and the stairs creak. Rosaline jerks her head up and I press my lips together and dip my head when she meets my eye. I shove my hands in my pockets and saunter the rest of the way down the stairs. Tina follows behind, her shoulders rigid, and Jacob carefully picks his way down the rest of the staircase. Once on the ground floor, a long silence stretches out between the group. It’s broken when Jacob coughs. My eyes flick to him and he pulls at this shirt collar.

“We should go to the Ministry,” Newt blurts out.

“I’ll go with you!” Tina and Rosaline say in unison.

Newt looks between me and the two of them and I shake my head.

“How about I divvy up the groups?” I suggest.

“Wha-” Tina starts, but I cut her off.

“Newt, Tina, and I will go to the Ministry. Rosaline and Jacob, you’ll stay here with the man from earlier.”

“What?! Why am I staying behind?” Rosaline is outraged.

I sigh softly. “Because you’re our best line of defense until the master of the house returns. Three of us is worth one of you.”

She tips her chin up and sets her jaw. “Can’t argue with you there.”

I deadpan. “Really?”

“Alright,” she snorts. “I’ll stay here.”

“Fantastic, thank you.”

Tina, Newt, and I gather together and apparate away from the living room. We land outside of the entrance to the French Ministry. The cage to the elevator closes around us and Newt pulls a phial from his breast pocket. He drops in a strand of hair and I bite the inside of my cheek.

“Polyjuice?” Tina questions.

“Just enough to get me inside,” he explains. “Sorry ahead of time, Nora.”

I shake my head and refuse to look at him as he tips the contents of the vial into his mouth. “It’s fine. Just don’t be surprised if I can’t make eye contact with you.”

“That’s fair.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tina asks.

“We’re getting into the Ministry, no questions asked. Anything else isn’t important,” I say.

We step off the elevator and I immediately grab Newt’s arm. He’s a good two inches taller now. Tina quickly falls in line beside us and we make our way to the archives as calmly and quickly as we possibly can.

“Who are you supposed to be?” Tina hisses.

“Theseus Scamander,” I answer.

“What?”

“You remember me saying my relationship with my brother is complicated?” Newt asks. Tina nods. “Well…”

I glance to my right and my blood runs cold. My hand tightens around Newt’s arm and I freeze where I stand. “Newt.” I hiss.

“What?”

“You two need to start walking.” I push him away from me and do the same to Tina. “Now.”

“I don’t understand,” he says. He’s shrunk again and his hair is going back to its original color and texture. I jerk my head to the right and his eyes follow. “Oh.”

Theseus stands a ways away, speaking closely with Leta. Alarms sound throughout the atrium and Newt scrambles away from me, dragging Tina along with him. The noise draws Theseus’ attention away from his fiance and, with all his looking around, his eyes land on me. He whispers something to Leta and glances around before striding over to me. I shove my hands into my pockets and my right hand closes around my wand, instantly calming the hammering of my heart.

“What are you doing here?” he hisses when he’s close enough to not raise his voice.

I shrug. “I heard there was a circus in town. When I got there, it was gone. I thought I might take a look at the Ministry archives while I was still here. I heard they’ve got a two hundred year old transfiguration text stored away somewhere.”

“Cut the nonsense, Nora.” He scowls at me, and I raise my eyebrows at him in surprise. “I should have known you would follow Newt here. You’ve always had a soft spot for him.”

“Ugh, please, Theseus,” I shake my head. “I thought you trusted me more than that!”

“Are you kidding me? I don’t have time for this.” He shakes his head and takes a step back. He moves like he’s going to go around me and I pull my wand from my pocket and point it at his chest. “What, are you going to stop me?”

“Depulso,” I flick my wand and he falls onto his back and slides across the marble floor. “Locomotor mortis.”

His legs snap together and his eyes go wide when I turn to run.

“I really am sorry, Theseus!” I call.

“GET BACK HERE!” he roars.

Instead, I turn on my heel and race off in the direction I sent Newt and Tina. I weave through slow moving, elderly ministry workers and my shoes fight to find purchase on the smooth flooring when I go around corners. When I see the woman tasked with looking after the genealogy records standing in front of the doors, I slowly creep back out of the room and search for a way over the top of the vault walls. There’s just the wrought iron ivy that climbs the walls around the circular room that leads up to the next floor.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a deep breath and make a break for the opposite side of the room. As soon as I have my hands in the Ivy above my head, I wedge my foot into a space and begin hauling myself up the wall. It’s not far to the top, but even then I have to scrabble to find a grip on the floor as my fingers begin to slip as soon as they touch the marble. When I can bring my other hand up to the railing of the next floor, I pull myself up and swing one leg over and drop to the marble as quietly as I can manage.

Leta Lestrange stands to my left, fully facing the archives. She hasn’t noticed me yet and I hold my breath, hoping to keep quiet for just a short while longer.

“Lestrange,” she murmurs.

Below, the shelves of family trees begin to shift, rising through the air, smoothly weaving through one another. The specific shelves holding the Lestrange documents come forward. Newt and Tina cling to the shelves for dear life and I can feel my eyes grow wide. Newt sees me and presses a finger to his lips, telling me to be quiet. I squint at him and shuffle closer to Leta.

“Hello, Newt,” Leta says.

“Hello, Leta,” Newt’s voice holds his usual timidness.

I stand up and brush my hands off on my pants and join the group. Newt climbs around the shelves and helps Tina over the railing before holding a hand out for Pickett to climb onto.

“Where’s your cousin, Vaughan?” Leta asks. “Doesn’t she follow Newt everywhere?”

I shrug. “We switch weeks sometimes.”

“Well, you came all this way for nothing,” Leta says, holding out a slip of paper to me. “My records are gone.”

I scan the text and hand it back to her, shaking my head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Grindelwald took my family tree,” she sighs.

A great hiss pulls us away from the conversation. The woman from downstairs slinks towards us flanked by several charcoal colored matagot.

“What are those?!” Tina asks.

“They’re matagot,” Newt explains. “They won’t hurt us unless-”

There’s another hiss and Leta sends a stunner at the one closest to us. It splits into two and the rest of the pack launch themselves at us. I cast depulso, and push them back for a moment, allowing Newt time to release his newly befriended zouwu. It escapes from his case with a mighty roar and swipes at the matagot. They cling to its fur and tail, but it still allows us to climb onto its back.

“Where are we supposed to be going?” Newt asks.

“The Lestrange mausoleum,” Leta answers.

The zouwu skitters to a stop with the matagot still clinging to it’s fur. We slide down from it’s back and the zouwu shakes it’s entire body, dislodging the matagot. As soon as they hit the grass, they turn to house cats and scatter into the graveyard. Leta and I stand off to the side while Newt calms his new friend. I watch with a smile on my face as the Zouwu rubs up against him and he laughs and scratches it’s chin. Tina distracts it from Newt with the bell toy and manages to get the zouwu back into the case without any fuss.

We trudge through the rows of mausoleums to the looming structure of the Lestrange’s. I file in through the door behind Tina and Leta leads the way to the main chamber. When we arrive, there’s already two other people there. I recognize the young man as Credence from the sketches that Newt made after coming back from the states. The young woman beside him shivers from the cold that radiates from the solid marble from which the mausoleum is carved. Listening in on their conversation feels very much like an intrusion.

The man from the sewer appears from the mouth of the doorway, taking us all by surprise. I learn that his name is Yusuf. Leta’s half brother by way of her mother. His wand is pointed straight at Credence. He believes him to be Leta’s half brother by way of her father. I watch with horror as she sinks to her knees and opens her family tree. As she explains what happened to her real brother. As the flower that represents her chokes out the branch that supports her long dead baby brother, I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes and I turn away, shaking my head. A doorway opens up at the other end of the room. I pull the others attention to it.

“We should go through,” I say. “Grindelwald is bound to be on the other side.”

“Are you mad?!” Leta hisses.

“No more than you,” I answer. “We came here to get in his way, didn’t we? It’s not as if we can do it from here.”

No one protests.

The hallway opens up into a large amphitheater. Hundreds of witches and wizards are gathered together. I catch sight of Rosaline and immediately split off from the others to get to her. I can hear Newt calling after me, but I ignore him in favor of getting closer to Rosaline. Someone grabs hold of my arm and drags me into one of the rows of people. I try to pry their hands away, but their grip tightens instead.

“It’s starting soon!” the young woman gripping my arm exclaims.

“What is?”

“Grindelwald himself will be addressing us!” she says, excitement dripping from every pore. “We are truly lucky to be witness to such a historic occasion.”

She only releases me when I take a seat beside her. I glance around the amphitheater, trying to find any familiar faces. Rosaline is still stuck between a pair of witches who lean forward in their seats. Two rows below her stands Jacob with a blonde woman, whom I assume to be Queenie, glued to his arm. Newt and Leta are nowhere to be found. Tina, who had been walking down one row over from me is completely gone from my sight.

The address starts and I quickly find myself focused on what’s being said. When Grindelwald begins showing the assembly his visions, I cover my face with my hands and shake my head. A ringing starts in my ears and when it goes away I pull my hands from my face when Grindelwald calls aurors down from the edge of the amphitheater. I catch sight of Theseus leading a group down one row and my hand immediately goes to my hip, searching for my wand. Other groups of aurors file through the crowd. A flash goes off across the room and a young woman falls limp. All hell breaks loose as Grindelwald creates a circle of blue fire and his followers lash out at the numbers of aurors before apparating away. The women who had blocked me in disappear and I bolt for Rosaline. She’s fighting off three wizards, each coming at her from a different side, and loosing. She barely manages to dodge a hex when I’m close enough to counter. I knock two back and send a slicing jinx at the one who’s left standing. He screeches and disapparates. As Rosaline prepares to go after the two wizards I’d managed to knock down, a witch hurls a particularly nasty jinx at us and we barely manage to throw up a protego before it hits. The witch grabs the two felled wizards and apparates away.

“FUCK,” I yell over the roar of the battle. “You alright?”

Rosaline nods. “Thanks for the save.”

“Good. We have to find Newt. Did you see where Jacob disappeared to?”

“I think Queenie dragged him off a ways. I’ll see if I can find them. You get to Newt and Theseus.”

I nod once and grab her face to press a quick kiss to her forehead and push her away. “Be careful, you hear me?”

She snorts. “What do you take me for? I’ll be fine.”

I grit my teeth and force myself to keep quiet.

We part ways and I head in the direction of the row I last saw Theseus in. He and Newt are trying to fight their way through the fire and making absolutely no headway. I race over and slide to a stop beside them to add my protego to theirs. One of Grindelwald’s followers skips through the fire ring to stand beside him and a wizard tries to do the same after hesitating only a second. He immediately begins to burn up and disappears altogether. My eyes go wide and I just barely manage to cast another protection charm before a tendril of fire manages to singe my trousers.

In the distance I can hear raised voices, arguing over something I can’t quite place.

“Where’s Leta?” I call to Theseus and Newt.

Newt points to the other side of Theseus. I can barely see her through the heat and the way Theseus’ suit jacket flaps in the air currents. I shoot glances over at the argument that’s taking place just a short ways away. Rosaline stands to the side of Jacob and Queenie. Queenie steps away from Jacob and walks through the fire. Grindelwald greets her with open arms and the grip I have on my wand tightens as I put as much energy into protection charms as I can possibly manage. Tendrils of fire go after the small number of aurors left and I see Credence walking towards the middle of the amphitheater. The young woman he was with grips his arm and pleads with him not to go. He looks pained as he pulls free of her grasp and walks through the fire. Grindelwald is pleased but turns his attention elsewhere when Theseus yells “NO” at someone. I tear my eyes away from Credence to see Leta walking towards the ring of fire. Grindelwald makes a remark that I can’t hear and Leta responds before stepping into the fire.

She turns back to Theseus and Newt and says, “I love you.”

She and Grindelwald raise their wands to one another, but Leta burns up in the fire with a gut-wrenching scream that lingers even after she’s gone. There’s no time to react because Grindelwald has set his sights on someone else.

“Ah, Ms. Vaughan,” he says, a sinister smile creeping across his face. “So kind of you to join the fun! I see you’ve survived the fire.”

Rosaline steps through the fire and my heart drops.

“We both have our secrets, Grindelwald.”

“Oh, trust me, my dear, I know.”

His hand flashes out and grabs her wrist, quickly pulling her against his chest. One arm wraps around her waist and he presses the fingers of his free hand to her forehead. Rosaline falls limp and he moves his mouth close to her ear.

Anger bubbles in my gut and I feel the air crackle around me. Magic courses down my arms and into the palms of my hands. I let loose a blood curdling scream and bring my hands together, releasing a massive burst of magic into the amphitheater. It doesn’t do anything to the fire and I can feel hot tears streak down my face as Grindelwald disappears with Rosaline. Newt wraps his arms around Theseus and I, and apparates outside the mausoleum.

A frail looking, white haired man greets us and gives us instructions for an incantation to stop the fire inside the mausoleum from spreading and destroying Paris. When he’s sure we understand his directions he tells us to form a circle around the mausoleum. I am on the side opposite Newt and Theseus with an auror on either side of me. I wipe away my still flowing tears and recite the spell and stab the tip of my wand into the soft soil under my feet. A great wall of light forms, stopping the movement of three dragons formed by the blue fire from spreading any further into the city. When the fire has dispersed, the spell flickers and fades away. I look out over the ruined graveyard, my chest heaving with the exertion from the spells. The realization of how many people we’ve lost washes over me and I clamp a hand over my mouth and fall to my knees. I kneel there, quietly sobbing and trying to reign in my emotions before someone finds me.

--------

Part 3

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this chapter, please reblog, comment, and/or shoot me ask! Feedback would be greatly appreciated!

[girls-scenarios]

Drown Me In Your Love

Idol: Irene (Red Velvet)

Prompt: An angst to fluff scenario where Fem!Reader is a siren who is in love with country-side!Irene from Red Velvet? One day when Irene comes to visit her cove for a we're-friends-but-we-both-secretly-want-more-and-it-always-feels-like-a-date-is-this-a-date? Sailors have discovered the siren reader and have her trapped in their nets to study her - unaware that she is drying out and dying or maybe not caring. Please and thank you, don't stress yourself if possible !!! <3

Writer: Admin Kiwi

A/N: I was suddenly inspired and then I wrote for five straight hours today to finish this. It’s very long, as you can imagine. Sorry this took us so long but I hope you all enjoy!

Warnings: Some cursing and minor violence.

♡ Tip Jar♡

Irene wasn’t sure how she’d explain herself if anyone asked her why, every Friday at noon, she took a break from her farm responsibilities, packed a lunch in her basket, and headed off towards the beach. Thankfully, there weren’t very many people that would care. She lived and worked alone on her small farm and cottage tucked far away from the small village, because that was how she’d always liked it.

People annoyed her; she much preferred the company and sounds of her farm animals, and the peaceful push of the wind against the mountain that rose up behind her home. Twice a week, a man in a truck picked up her goods to take into the market or to transport to the vendors in the city who sold handmade goods. She gave him produce, weaved clothing and blankets, and whittled wood carvings, and he brought her checks from the bank, and they spoke very little. She only made a trip to the village when she had to, about once a month. This was just the way she liked it. She had always hated speaking to others.

At least, she had until she met you. But you were different.

For one, you weren’t exactly human. When she’d first seen you during a walk on the secluded beach, she’d thought she was dreaming. A human-like woman with the long, blue-green tail of a fish. But you were very real and incredibly beautiful, and when the two of you had locked eyes, she’d fallen for you right then and there.

It hadn’t been easy to get to know you. You were wary, diving out of sight whenever she stepped closer to the water’s edge. But after weeks of trying, she was finally able to get you to trust her. And, as it turned out, she enjoyed talking to sirens.

It had been months since that first encounter. But as she headed down the long-forgotten path that lead her to her own slice of heaven, her heart still spiked in her chest, sending the butterflies in her stomach fluttering again. In the crook of her arm, she held her basket, packed today with sweet fruits from her garden and roasted sandwich with all her favorite toppings. Her long skirt swished at her knees and the wind caught at her hair as she descended the old stone steps to the beach and breathed in the salty scent of the ocean.

As soon as her sandal clad feet hit the sand, a familiar head popped above the water and she laughed, tucking her hair behind her ear and approaching the ledge against the rock wall that created the secretive cove.

“You look excited today,” she called, and a chirp answered her before you dove back underwater and resurfaced at the shallow end of the pool near the ledge, the furthest you could safely go.

“I am! I’m always excited on Fridays.” The word “Friday” still sounded choppy and foreign on your tongue: you hadn’t known what a Friday was until you met Irene. When you spoke, there was a musical, whimsical tone to your voice that made her chest twist. It was almost like the sound she’d heard in music boxes as a kid, but more unique. More enthralling.

“I’m excited too,” she said, placing her basket on the ground. In a moment, she was out of her long skirt and picking up her lunch again, leaving the garment laying on the sand as she walked carefully on the ledge to meet you. Once she was far enough out, she placed the basket beside her and sat down, slipping her legs into the water and grinning as you swam up and put your hand on her knee. Through the clear water, she could see your long tail waving gently, the golden stripes and spots that covered the scales bright even under water.

“What did you bring me today?” You peered at the basket, making Irene laugh again, kicking her legs slightly.

“Do you only get excited because of the food I bring?”

“No! Well, slightly.” You tilted your head, giving her a sheepish smile that showed your teeth, sharper than her own. She figured she should be afraid of them, but she wasn’t. “But I get excited for you too!” You rested your elbows on the ledge and pulled yourself slightly up, leaving your colorful tail in the water, and she wondered when she’d gotten so used to seeing the naked torso of a woman. Yours especially, glittering slightly as the scales that decorated the short fin on your back, the two fins on your side, and freckled parts of your stomach reflected the sun. Your hair dripped and stuck to the edges of your face and, without thinking, Irene reached over to tuck it behind your pointed ears and out of the way.

“Good to know,” she said affectionately. “Since you’re excited to see me too, I’ll tell you what I brought.” After a pause to make you let out a dolphin-like whine, she reached into the basket and pulled out your favorite: fruit. At the sight, you chirped again, splashing your tail, and she giggled as she opened the container and set it down on the ledge where you could reach it. “I knew you’d be excited.”

“I love fruits. I don’t get stuff like this in the ocean.” You happily began to eat, leaning your body against her legs, and she felt a spark go through her, just like she did every time you touched her. Swallowing, she turned to grab her own food and leaned back against the rock wall, looking up at the clear sky. For a moment, everything was silent other than the sound of the waves lapping against the shore, and she felt the exhaustion from hard labor making its way out of her shoulders. She loved her farm, but this…. There was something magical about this place. She wouldn’t trade this for the world.

“What’s the ocean like?” She asked you suddenly, looking out through the opening towards the vast sea beyond. You hummed a musical tune as you pondered her question, following her gaze.

“Wide open,” you answered finally, resting your head on her knee. “And endless. It feels as if you could swim forever and ever and never bump into land again.”

Irene shuddered at the thought. “That sounds terrifying.”

“For a human, maybe.” A smile played on your pink lips as you looked up at her. “But for me, it’s beautiful. I never have to worry about drying out. There’s thousands of fish and coral and things you would have never seen before. I’ve explored shipwrecks and I’ve found wonderful, strange things. It’s a beautiful place.”

“It sounds like you love it,” she said, then titled her head. “Then why do you stay here in this cove?”

“I go out into the ocean around here, you know.” You then giggled and the sparks were back, flying through her skin as she gazed at you, half in and half out of the water. “But I have something that makes me want to stay.”

Her heart pounded in her chest, and she blamed the sun for the heat in her cheeks. “And what’s that?” Her voice was soft, and as you locked your eyes with hers, she ran her fingers through your hair, enjoying the feeling of your toned stomach and breasts against her thighs.

“I think you know the answer,” you sung, before smiling and grabbing her hands. “Come swim with me, Irene.” Your smile was enough for her to let you pull her from the ledge into the water with a splash. The water was still shallow there and she emerged with a sputter and a laugh, kicking her feet underneath her and enjoying the cool relief of the water.

“I have to walk home after this, you know,” she complained, pushing her soaked hair from her face, but she was smiling and you just laughed your musical laugh, swimming in circles around her.

“You’ll be okay,” you soothed, right before flicking your tail and splashing her with water. She sputtered again and turned around, splashing water back at you with her hands. This just made you laugh again until she did it harder, turning her entire body. Then your eyes gleamed and you grinned.

“What-.” Was all she got out before you tackled her, and she gasped in air and closed her eyes before going under. She would have panicked, but your strong arms locked tightly around her torso, your tail moving between her legs, and the two of you emerged a second later, her arms wrapped  around your shoulders. She gasped for air and whined for the first time in her life as she wiped the sea water from her eyes. “I can’t breathe underwater like you,” she said, trying her best to sound mad, but failing as soon as she saw how close your face was to hers. It was just the two of you, floating in the middle of the cove in each other’s arms, and her heart began to pound. Pressed chest-to-chest against you, she could feel yours pounding as well, a flutter under your sun-tanned skin.

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t let you drown,” you said, your voice barely a whisper, and she felt your breath against her lips. Once again, there was silence other than the tide, washing in and out with a tug at her body. Then you leaned in, and she let her eyes close.

Kissing you was not like kissing a human, not that she’d kissed many humans in her time. There was something different about you, about the way your lips felt against hers. They were soft, yet firm, and you tasted like strawberries and the sea. A spark ran through her body and made her shudder against you as your tail fluttered against her legs and your rough fingertips pressed under her shirt against the small of her back, a sharp nail pricking at the skin in a way that curled her toes.

When she pulled away and opened her eyes, she saw spots in the air and gasped for breath, her mind racing. She’d just kissed you. No, you’d kissed her. Oh god, she’d fallen in love with a siren.

“T-that was weird,” you said, tilting your head. “It just felt right to do.”

It was then that Irene’s stomach fell. She’d always heard tales of sirens drawing in humans but being unable to love. Was it even possible for you to feel the same way you did? Sirens and humans were different after all. And how would this even work? She couldn’t live in the sea, and you couldn’t live on land. She could never marry you like she might another human. She could never give you a home, or sleep beside you. Tears welled up behind her eyes as she stared at you and wondered how fate could be so cruel. You were the only one she loved, and yet she could not be with you.

“Irene?” You frowned and moved your hand up to brush away a tear, then stared at your finger in confusion. “What’s happening?”

Right. Sirens cried pearls. You would have never seen a human cry tears before. Shaking her head, she released you and quickly wiped at her face, taking a deep breath and forcing a smile. “It’s nothing, I just got water in my eyes. It’s past lunch and I have to go.”

You blinked, but released her when she pushed against you, turning to watch as she swam back to the ledge and pulled herself up. “Wait,” you said after a moment, following her. Your eyes were now large and round, staring up at her, and it hurt to look at you, so she busied herself with repacking the basket. “What’s the matter? You’re leaving so fast.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and she meant it as her heart fractured in her chest and she picked up her basket. “I have a lot to do today, so I have to go.”

“Oh.” You were frowning again. “I’ll see you again Friday?” There was such hope in your voice, and Irene swallowed. Then she turned back and gave you a smile, knowing that she could never say no to you. Even if it meant ripping her own heart to pieces.

“I’ll see you again Friday.” With that, she waved at you and turned away, walking back to her skirt. To her normal, human life, away from you.

The walk back home was colder than usual.

-

Working on the farm kept her busy, at first. She could take care of her animals and weed the gardens and throw herself into her work to avoid thinking about you. She worked until her fingers and feet were sore and she dropped into bed, falling to sleep in an instant without any time to think about anything.

But you appeared in her dreams. Every night, she heard your twinkling laughter and saw your earnest eyes. And she couldn’t help but think about you as she woke up, her heart hammering as her lips remembered the feeling of kissing you.

Eventually, while drinking tea and looking out over her land, she gave in to the thoughts about you and let herself wonder. You had seemed so sad when she left. And you had been the one to kiss her. What did that all mean? What did the touches mean? What about the looks in your eyes and the gentle way you held her? Were the legends about sirens wrong? They had been wrong about you being evil: you were playful and mischievous, sure, but not evil. You didn’t want to eat her. Did that mean they could they be wrong about love too?

Her heart ached in her chest and she sighed, burying her face in her hands. She wanted, so badly, to see you again. Her fingers itched to touch you once again, to push your hair out of your face and to feel the scales on your stomach, the fin on your back. She wanted to see you smile that sharp smile that she loved so much, wanted to trace the glittering freckles that dotted your face. Most of all, she wanted to capture your lips again and hold you close. She wanted to love you. And she knew she wouldn’t be able to leave you.

But what could she do? Could she ask you about love? About the legends? About the kiss? If you couldn’t love, her heart would be broken. But if she didn’t ask and pretended not to love you, her heart would break anyway.

She breathed in and opened her eyes once again to stare out the window. The sun was setting over the sea, casting an orange glow over the countryside. One of her dogs barked and the sheep answered, and somewhere, the late-night insects were beginning to sing. Peace settled over the cottage, and she sipped her tea. She couldn’t stay away from you. If it was her fate to love a siren, then she would accept it. She would make it work, just like she’d made living alone as a woman work and owning a farm alone work.

Despite the evening calm, her nerves refused to settle down and she pushed the tea aside to pull out her knife and a piece of wood. The piece was rough against her hands but the hobby wove the tension from her shoulders through her well-trained hands. With a low hum, she started to whittle, letting her mind wander again as she searched for the seashell hidden somewhere under the bark.

-

When Friday came, she once again packed fruit into her basket before setting off down the path. This time, though, her shoulders were tense, and she wondered why. She had accepted her fate, so why was this cloud of dread still hanging over her shoulders? Was it because of the dreary weather? She tried breathing deeply as she walked down the path, but nothing helped the feeling of unease, and a frown settled on her face. As her foot hit the first stone step, she heard something and froze.

Voices.

Her heart stopped as a high-pitched squeak echoed from the cove. She’d only heard that sound once, but she knew what it meant. It was a sound of distress, and it was coming from you.

She dropped the basket as her heart came back to life and started to pound until she could hear it. Faintly, she could hear men’s voices, and when she stepped down a few steps to peer around the tall palm trees, she saw them: three sailors, and past the cove, a rowboat. Another squeak drew her eyes down to the feet of the three men and she gripped at the rocks, panic seeping through her body. You were tangled in a net on the beach at their feet, twisting and turning your body and trying to cut at the ropes. Each time you did, one of the men would kick at you to stop you, despite the smoke coming up from your body. The biggest man laughed as you hissed, while one of the smaller ones cursed.

“Damn it, she almost bit me!”

“You’re too jumpy, Tell,” said the laughing man. “What’s she gonna to out of water? She’s helpless now.” At his words, you hissed, and the smaller, one, Tell, jumped back.

“I don’t like this, boss. It reacts like it can understand us!”

“Don’t be stupid,” the third man said, “it’s just a fish.”

“Not like any fish I’ve ever seen,” the boss said with a chuckle. “It’s a fish that’s gonna make us a lot of money. First ever mermaid, caught by Captain Ellis, Tell, and John. What do you boys think of that?”

“I think she’d better be worth the hassle,” muttered Tell.

“Oh, she will be. Think of the money, men, think of the money.”

Irene swallowed and slowly backed up the stairs, her mind spinning as she tried her best not to breathe too hard. She could hardly think through the terror fogging her brain. You would dry out if you were left on land any longer. And those men! Kicking you! Who did they think they were? Anger flared up, joining the terror, and she clenched her teeth together. She had to do something…. But what? Working on a farm had made her strong, sure, but not strong enough to take on three sailors by herself. She had to outsmart them somehow, to distract them long enough to get to you. Her hand fell to her pocket and she pulled out the seashell she’d carved, along with her whittling knife. She would be able to protect herself with this. And the shell….

Slowly, she stood to her feet and crept forward. Past the beach was a dense patch of trees and other foliage that led to another, larger beach further on. If she could get the men to go in there, she could stand a chance of getting to you before they could come back out. Winding back her arm, she aimed at the trees, held her breath, and threw as hard as she could.

The heavy wood landed with a thud just inside the tree line, rustling leaves as it fell, and all three of the men turned to look. At that moment, your eyes met hers over the stone stairs, and you froze, realizing what she was doing.

“What the hell was that?” Asked the boss, frowning at the trees. Tell looked nervous, glancing between you and the end of the beach.

“You think someone found us?”

“Nah, no way,” said John, stepping towards the sound. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“There is a port at a village not far from here. Could be villagers.” The captain moved up beside him and Tell followed behind, glancing around. When all three of them had turned their back to you, you quietly cupped your hands around your mouth, and Irene watched in awe as your lips moved, but no sound came from them.

Instead, the sound came from inside the forest. Singing.

“Shit, someone is there,” said Tell, and the boss turned around to shove him forward.

“Well then don’t just stand there, let’s go in there and find them!”

You changed the tone of your voice, and the men picked up their pace towards the woods. “Man, there’s two, that’s two voices.”

“Wait,” said John as they approached the trees. When he looked back, you’d gone limp again, and she once again found herself holding her breath. “Shouldn’t someone stay with the fish?”

“She can’t move. The net’s too tight.”

“Guess you’re right.” With one last look at her, they stepped into the trees, and Irene let out a relieved sigh. As quietly as she could, she bolted down the stairs and ran towards you, her now-bare feet making less sound in the sand. You let out a whimper as she approached, and to her horror, she noticed that the skin on your arms was glowing red. You were drying.

“Hold on,” she whispered as she pulled out her knife, deftly cutting at the ropes. Internally, she cursed, biting her lip as she worked. Why did fishing nets have to have so many pieces? She didn’t have the time for this. As she slashed at the lines, the net loosened and you were able to move enough to use your sharp nails and teeth against the net. Finally, it fell away, and she scooped you up in her arms. Your skin was hot to the touch and her heart pounded in her ears again as she turned towards the tide.

Just then, she heard steps approaching, and her heart dropped. They were coming back.

She moved as fast as her legs could carry the two of you, running into the water as yells echoed out behind her. It was harder to move the further out she got and the more the sand shifted, and she could hear the splashes of them entering behind her, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying, her head too jumbled up to decipher the words. All she had to do was get past the shallow end, if she could just-.

A hand reached out towards her shoulder, and your tail twitched back to life and slipped from her arms, your eyes flashing as they opened. Your hiss echoed through cove, stronger than before, and you wrapped your arms around Irene, diving backwards off the shallow end and into the ocean.

Water drowned out the noise and all she could do was hold her breath, squeeze her eyes shut, and hold onto you. Your body twisted and waved against hers and water rushed past her, threatening to sweep her away. Just as she thought she might burst from holding her breath, the water broke and the gasped in air, her body shaking and quivering from the fear. There was nothing underneath her and nothing around her but water and her eyes stung and she felt like crying, but you touched her face, your rough fingers gentle, and she opened her eyes instead.

“We’ll be safe,” you said, your voice quiet. The two of you had swam far out away from the cove, but when she looked around, she noticed a large ship floating nearby, and worse, the three men were rowing towards them. Her body began to panic again.

“(Y/N), they’re headed this way, what do we-.”

“I’m a siren.” Your eyes pierced through hers, suddenly cold, and she understood. “Cover your ears and don’t uncover them until I tell you. I won’t drop you.” Your arm was firm around her waist, and so she did as she was told, plugging her ears the best she could.

She watched, then, as you took a deep breath, and began to sing. She still hear, just a bit, and her heart tugged her towards you, so she pressed her fingers to her ears harder, humming softly to block out your voice. The men in the rowboat froze, then slowly began to row in sync, changing course to head for the ship instead of the two of you. She watched in amazement as the men, unblinking, climbed back onto their ship, leaving their rowboat behind. They were like zombies, mindlessly doing as you ordered them.

A moment later, the ship began to move. Slowly, at first, then faster as the modern motor kicked in. Still, you didn’t stop singing until it was just a dot in the horizon, and Irene was beginning to feel cold and lightheaded.

She blinked when you pulled a hand away from her ear, smiling softly. “They’re gone. You can uncover your ears now.”

“C-cold,” she whispered, her body beginning to shiver, out of its trance. In a moment, the two of you were beside the rowboat and you were lifting her over the edge and out of the water. The wood was warm, and a jacket was sprawled under one of the seats, which she gladly picked up and wrapped herself in. Both of you were silent for a moment, finally able to relax, before you started to push the boat, swimming back towards the cove.

“Thank you,” you finally said, and she turned back to look at you. Your eyes were earnest, and she swallowed, her heartbeat picking up again for an entirely different reason. “I would have died if you hadn’t shown up. You put yourself in danger because of me. I owe you my life.”

“I was so scared,” she admitted, wrapping the jacket closer around her. “But I couldn’t just watch them hurt you like that. I had to save you.” As the two of you entered the cove, she felt tears once again pricking at the back of her eyelids. “I guess this is it, then.”

“What?”

“You can’t keep coming here. They know where you are. Wouldn’t it be unsafe for you to stay?”

You stopped pushing the boat and swam around to the front, pulling your weight up on the side so that you were looking her in the eyes. “I’m not leaving,” you said with a determined stare, “and they won’t find me again. I told them to set sail for a mythical treasure, they’re doomed to wander the seas forever searching for something they’ll never find. They’ll never come back here.”

“You can do that?” Her eyes widened, and you grinned.

“Yep. Along with some other things. Don’t worry, though. I wouldn’t do that on you.”

“But they were able to catch you. Couldn’t someone else come and do the same thing?”

You shook your head. “They were only able to catch me because I let down my guard. When I heard someone on the beach, I thought it was you. I had been thinking about you all week, thinking about what we did and what you said. So, I wasn’t ready when they threw the net over my head, and I panicked. I can’t use my spells when I’m on land, I’m too weak. But you brought me back to the water, and we beat them together.” You grinned toothily, and the butterflies in her stomach started to flutter again, bringing heat back to her cheeks.

“Y-you were thinking about me?”

“Yes. Were you thinking about me too?”

Finally, Irene laughed, and a wave of relief washed over her. “I was thinking about you too, (Y/N). All week. I couldn’t think of anything but you.”

“What were you thinking about?” You shifted further onto the boat, your tail flicking excitedly in the water, and she smiled affectionately, leaning forward to brush your hair back with her fingers, just like she always did.

“I was thinking about our kiss, and how much I missed you. And how I love you.” There. She’d said it. Her heart jumped into her throat and she stared into your eyes, desperately searching for an answer.

She got it in your smile and giggle. “Is that what humans call this feeling?”

“You feel it too? I thought, I mean…. Not to be rude or anything, but we have a bunch of tales talking about how sirens can’t feel love.”

You scoffed and shook your head. “We can feel what you humans call love, but we call it something else. Love is when you want to mate with someone for life, right? And when your heart is happy around them, and when you want to touch them and hold them close and protect them, right?”

“Well, right.”

“Then we feel love.” You let out a chirp, similar to the one you always used to greet her. “There. That’s how we say love.”

A smile spread over her features, and the sun peeked out from behind the clouds. “That’s so cute!”

“Thank you!” You chirped again, then reached your hand out, touching Irene’s knee. “I love you too, Irene.”

In that moment, Irene found that she didn’t care about the specifics or the what-ifs. She didn’t care about the future. All she cared about was the warmth welling up inside her chest, and you. Giggling, she slipped out of the jacket and off the chair, bending down on her knees so that she could cup your face and kiss you.

Your lips still felt the same, except this time, you kissed her with passion, wrapping your arms around her shoulders and pulling her down into the shallow water once again. You kissed her as if you had been afraid you’d never kiss her again, humming a happy song against her lips as your hands held her tight. When she pulled away, you whined and leaned in again, capturing her lips once more, and she smiled into the kiss, allowing her hands to wander into your hair. She loved you, and you loved her.

And as the sun shined down onto the little cove and you pressed your forehead against hers, your chirps echoing off the rocks only for her to hear, the ocean didn’t seem quite as cold anymore.

[bluezey]

Here me out. Imagine big brother Barley standing up for little Judy after he found out she was getting bullied at school because she's a hybrid child, which isn't really a common sight. I just picture him telling her how special and unique she is because he's the best big brother in the world 🥺

Barley slammed the front door shut behind him, dropped his lunchbox wherever, gave a big yawn and a stretch. This latest job is even more unbearable than the last one he had. But, he gotta keep it up. He has to save up to move out, or at least so he doesn't get fired again.

He grabbed a change of clothes, went to the bathroom, showered and got dressed. He was on his way downstairs, ready to crash on his bed until he was ready to move again, when he thought he heard something coming from Judy's room. Curiously, he peeked inside to see Judy sitting on her bed. The little elftaur would usually be playing with her toys or making a mess of her coloring and activity books, but instead she was just quiet.

Barley knocked on the door before announcing, "May I come in, fair Judith?" Judy nodded. Barley came rushing in and body flopped onto the bed. With how loud it rattled you think Barley broke it. Judy bounced up and down a few times, but returned back to being still, the frown remaining on her face and her elf ears turned down. Barley's face fell into concern. "You okay?"

Judy nodded again, but was a terrible liar when it came to lying to Barley. "Do you think I'm weird?"

Barley shrugged it off. "Psh! Everyone's weird if you think about it. We've got trolls, mermaids, gnomes..." Judy began to cry, Barley realized that was the wrong thing to say. "Hey, don't cry. What's wrong?"

"There's these kids at school," she began.

"I thought you had lots of friends," Barley commented.

"Not the elves and centaurs in my class," Judy continued, her tears falling down her pudgy blue cheeks. "There's these three elves in my class, they wouldn't talk to me since day one. I overheard them on the playground calling me weird. They made fun of my ears and called me "four legs."" She wiped her nose on her sleeve. "And these centaurs, there two boys. They would openly tease me every other day on the playground. They call me ugly!"

Barley was shocked. Judy has been going to elementary school for months, and she said she enjoyed it. How long has this been going on? She said the elves ignore her, but say bad things behind her back. But the centaurs, they could have ganged up on her since day one! "Have you told the teacher?"

Judy shook her head. "The only time they did anything was when one of the centaurs pulled on my tail."

Barley's fist clenched tightly behind his back. But then he calmed down quickly when he remembered that they're just kids. Still, something needs to be done about this. Barley sat up and looked Judy straight in the eye. "Judy, don't listen to them. They don't understand you because they've never seen someone like you before. But your rarity doesn't make you different. Your rarity makes you beautiful. You are one of a kind, no one can take that away from you. Do not make anyone hurt you just because they refuse to know you. Just because you're the only elftaur in the world, that doesn't mean that you're the only nicest, pretty, strongest soul in this world. There are others like you, they are your real friends, Judy."

Judy sniffled, her cheeks a little dry, a smile quivering onto her face. "Thanks, Barley."

"Now, have you told your teacher about this?" Barley asked.

"No," Judy replied.

"Then tell her after class, when the elves and centaurs aren't looking," Barley said. "If they keep bothering you, you tell me, or mom and dad. We'll help you get through this." Barley leaned in and gave Judy a comforting hug, Just squeezing back with all her might. Barley began to overact in pain saying, "Oof, you are strong! Think you can pin Sir Barley of Awesomeshire?"

Judy giggled, then said, "I don't feel like wrestling right now."

Wanting to cheer her up, Barley thought a moment as he scanned the room. He caught sight of Judy's butterfly net sticking out of her closet. "Wanna go to the park and catch bugs?"

Judy finally smiled brightly. "Yes."

Barley mussed up Judy's brown hair. "Then onward, Princess Judy!" Barley quickly grabbed two butterfly nets and a few empty jars before running out the bedroom to catch up with Judy

[thiswasinevitableid]

Could you do #28 indruck? Or maybe OT4?

#28 was: Mermified. I went with Indruck. Hope you like it!

The rocks on the window start the night he moves in.

He writes it off as an anomaly, or perhaps kids from the town deciding to toy with the new resident.

After three nights in a row, he’s beginning to understand why this house was such a bargain. Yes, it’s a lovely houseboat for one on the Pacific coast, offset from much of the neighborhood for privacy. But every night, small rocks and shells will hit your window, disrupting your already tenuous sleep schedule.

It can’t be a human, because his bedroom faces the ocean, and he’d hear or see a boat or paddleboard or whatever else they used to get there. For awhile he assumes it might be a ghost; his last apartment was actually haunted by a miner who died from the Spanish Flu. They got along rather well, as he didn’t manifest often and Indrid was always careful to leave him offerings or tokens of respect on days like his deathaversary. 

But after scoping the house top to bottom, using a Oujia Board, and just politely asking if there was anyone there who needed to talk to him, he’s disregarded that possibility. 

And tonight, he’s made the mistake of sleeping with the window open, meaning the chunk of bull kelp hit’s him square in the face.

“Oh for goodness sake.” He sits up, sticking his head out the window to glare at the waves.

The waves glare back.  Or, more accurately, a face sticking out of the waves does. 

“Do you mind?”

“Yeah, I mind a whole fuckin’ lot.” The man swims right to the side of the house, locomotion too smooth for there to be legs beneath the water, “I mind because this whole area is under my protection, and this big fuckin house is gonna fuck up this cove.”

He knew there were merpeople along this coast, he just wasn’t expecting to see one up close. Or for it to be so grumpy.

“I’ll have you know I asked for multiple modifications to this house before I moved in. It is designed to have almost zero impact on the marine environment.”

“Uh huh, sure.”  The merman crosses his arms, “you ain’t just sayin’ that to get rid of me.” A flash of yellow light under the water. 

“Well, technically, I am. I would prefer to not have you hurling things at my window every night because you think my leaving is the only way for your patch of ocean to be safe. A strategy, I take it, that worked on my predecessors.”

“Yep. Most left after a couple of days.”

“Most probably had more places they could go. I do not.”

“Ain’t my problem. Never shoulda let them start buildin’ here in the first place; wrecks havoc on the forest.” He glances towards open water, tips of giant kelp just visible in the moonlight. He sounds tired. 

“How about this: you keep an eye on this cove, and if you notice any issues directly caused by my home, I will leave. But if not, you stop throwing things at my window.”

“Fine.” The merman turns, makes to dive under the water, then spins around, “but if I catch you tryin’ anythin’ funny, next time I’m throwin’ a shark through the window.”

The next night brings welcome silence at his window. The day after, however….

“What are you doin’ here, anyway?”

“Good afternoon to you as well.” Indrid doesn’t look up from his drawing; a benefit of being born with odd, future seeing abilities is that he isn’t startled by the merman’s appearance (said abilities don’t function well when he’s sleep deprived, which is why he didn’t see the merman’s initial appearance coming). 

“I mean, y’all can build houses wherever you want up on land. Why live on the water?”

“Because I find it peaceful. I have limited luck living in cities, and have grown used to isolation.”

“Don’t humans have to have jobs? You ain’t left here except once to get food.”

“Spying is impolite.”

“So is livin’ on someone else's turf without askin!” The merman raises out of the water, and Indrid finally gets a good look at him. He has dark hair, mismatched eyes and, just visible, a row of fins like those of a leafy sea dragon dotting his lower back. Ironically, his build is one Indrid finds attractive, a mix of muscle and fat that undoubtedly would feel nice to hold. Were it not for the complication of the tail.

“I am an artist. I draw for a living, hence my ability to live out here. And nobody told me there was a merman living around here, so I did not have the option of speaking to you ahead of time.”

There’s a huff of annoyance, and he barely moves his drawing out of the way of the splash as the merman disappears. 

Three days later, he’s once again sitting on the back deck when he hears, “You ain’t seen an injured seal around, have you?”

“No.” He looks up, finds the merman looking thoughtful as he scans the waves and shoreline, “ah, what does it look like? What color is it?”

“Smallish, speckled grey. Got caught in a net and all torn up gettin loose, but I can’t find it.”

“I will keep an eye out. Should I signal you if I see it?”

“Hmmm….yeah, that should work. Maybe hang somethin’ bright' on that line?” He points to the clothes line. 

Indrid closes his eyes, focuses on the futures.

The merman sniffs, intrigued, “somethin smells good.”

“It’s my lunch. It ended up not quite being what I wanted, you are welcome to try some.” 

The merman grabs the take-out bowl of soup, sipping from it gingerly. His face lights up, and then he gulps the remainder down.

“Damn, that was good.”

“It’s french onion soup. I can bring you more in the future if you’d like. Also, odds are good you’ll find the seal you seek on the beach about a mile that way.”

The merman blinks, “Shit, really? Thanks man.”

“You are welcome.”

The merman hesitates, a flash of white, barely visible in the daylight, zips under water, “Uh, name’s Duck by the way.”

Indrid smiles, “Indrid. Good luck with your search, Duck.”

Duck smiles, bright and friendly as the beach on a hot day, “Thanks.”

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

Indrid awakens with a cry of alarm. It’s only a nightmare, not even a bad vision, and yet he’s so rattled sleep becomes an unreachable goal. Hoping the night air and lapping waves might help, he drags a blanket onto the back deck, laying down with his back to the water. The nightmare pursues him still, setting off a dozen related memories and fears in his mind until he’s shuddering, trying not to cry. 

A cool hand touches his hair and he freezes for a moment before another gasp pushes from his chest, the images flooding his system too much to ignore. The hand continues down his back a ways, then starts at his head once again. 

“Why?” He says, not even sure who he’s asking it of.

“Helps the seal and otter pups when they get upset. Thought it might help you too.” Duck replies, “I was doin’ a night round and heard you yell. Came to make sure you were okay.”

He wants to say thank you, but the words are weighed down by the realization of how long it’s been since anyone did such a thing. 

“You...pet the pups? Doesn’t, doesn’t that make it difficult if they are eaten by something?”

“A little. Sharks got as much right to live as they do, but still, sometimes they need comfortin if their parents are out huntin. Not my job to protect ‘em from predators. I’m just the keeper of the forest. Means I look out for the animals, the plants. Nature does most of the work for me; lot of my job boils down to makin sure humans don’t fuck everything up.”

“It is a habit we seem to have.”

A pause, Duck’s fingers playing gently with his hair, “Not all of you.”

Indrid rolls over and Duck rests his arms on the deck, soft blue flashes coming off his tail. 

“Will you tell me more about what you do?”

“Sure.”

Duck talks and Indrid listens until finally his eyes droop closed. He wakes up hours later, a bit chilly but with the blanket drawn around him. He wonders how he avoided falling into the water in his sleep. Until there’s a soft splash as his nighttime gaurdian slips back into the waves.

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

“Ta dah! No, wait, stay over here. That’s a good boy.” Duck proudly circles the large ray he’s herded near Indrid’s boat as Indrid sits down to draw. Over the last few weeks, he’s brought the human more and more items to include in his illustrations, after Indrid mentioned he was working on a pictures for a book about marine life. 

It started with brightly colored shells or seaglass left on his deck, then Duck would ask for mason jars or bowls to help place a fish safely where Indrid could sketch it. Lately, he’s taken to shepherding larger sea life where Indrid can see it; seals, otters, rays, even a shark. It’s almost as if he’s showing off, and Indrid notices that his tail flickers bright green whenever Indrid flaps his hands with excitement or thanks him for his help. 

Duck visits him every day, even on days when there is no drawing to be done. They talk, or eat together, and Indrid has even hung a hammock out so they can talk well into the night without him accidentally rolling off the deck or Duck having to watch over him until he wakes. Duck can only be out of the water a short time, but he’ll join Indrid on the deck to sun himself, tail bright green and leafy at the “V” that marks the tip of it. When Indrid asks about the lights, Duck explains that they’re tied to his emotions, something to help merpeople signal to each other even in the darkness or murkiness of the ocean. 

Indrid buys a kayak, paddles out into open ocean with Duck as his guide, the merman eagerly showing him his favorite places, introducing him to wildlife, and generally mooning over him whenever he thinks Indrid isn’t looking. 

The mooning is mutual, of course. Duck is funny and kind, easy going now that he knows Indrid is not a threat to his beloved kelp forest. He’s also painfully handsome in Indrid’s eyes, but the futures show scant chances for Indrid to admit this fact without torpedoing the relationship. 

Their laying side by side on the deck tonight, dusk creeping across the sky. In the fading light, he notices Duck’s fins flashing between white and green.

“Are you alright, Duck? You’ve been rather quiet tonight.”

“Uh, um, yeah? Fuck. Uh, you remember me tellin’ you about my friend Aubrey?”

“The one dating the human surfer girl?”

“Yep. They, uh, Aubrey said they finally worked up to kissin. I never heard of mer kissin’ a human and likin’ it before, usually we do it on dares when we’re young and foolish.”

“You seem to be going somewhere with this.” Indrid rolls over, smirking at the future he sees. 

“No, uh, fuch, uh, I mean, would, would you ever wanna try it?”

“With any merperson, or just you?”

“Me.” Duck says softly.

Indrid leans in, cups the back of his head to draw him into a kiss, salt and sun mingling on his lips as Duck moans. Sun-warmed skin caresses his back as Duck pulls him closer, and a cool, smooth tail hooks over his ankles. 

“Indrid, I, I really, really like you.” Duck whispers, kissing a line along his cheek.

“I really, really like you as well, Duck.” Indrid runs a hand along his side, watches his tail light up bright blue at the touch.

“Can, can we try bein’ together? Like Dani and Aubrey are?”

“Of course.” Indrid grins, then gives a muffled laugh as Duck kisses him once more, rolling atop him, wiggling happily as the kiss deepens, Indrid teasing his fingers along his fins to make him whine. 

Then the mer gasps, dropping into the water and coming back up panting.

“Shit, that was close.”

“You were out too long?” Indrid shifts to his stomach

“Yep. Can’t blame me for gettin’ distracted, and honestly I’d fuckin pass out if that’s what it took to kiss you again.”

Indrid bends down, kissing him softly, “no need for such drastic measures yet. But I agree it would be nice to have, ah, dalliances that can last a bit longer. I’m sure we can think of something.”

They try filling the bathtub with seawater, but can’t get Duck to it. Indrid opts to swim, but he’s not a strong swimmer, and any beaches where they could be half in and half out of the water are either too well-traveled or made out of sharp rocks that hurt them both. 

They have some success when Indrid lays on his side, facing the water, to touch himself, moaning Ducks name and telling him just what he’ll do to him once he’s able as Duck frantically kisses him, tail flashing blue and purple. 

But after night after night of longing looks, too-short embraces, and kisses at odd angles, he decides enough is enough. 

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

“Why have you come, young man?”

“I wish to make a deal. There’s something I need you to enchant.”

The man grins, cat-like and hungry, “Very well. But it is going to cost you.”

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

Duck circles the patch of kelp he’s checking for the tenth time. He can’t focus, should just go home and rest, but he needs to keep occupied so he stops worrying about the note he found on the deck two days ago.

Duck, 

Have a problem that needs solving. May be gone several days. Don’t worry, it will be alright.

Love, Indrid.

In spite of the reassurance in the letter, he’s terrified that Indrid might be hurt. Might have left him entirely. 

An unfamiliar shape flits in the corner of his vision, and he turns.

“Holy fuck.”

“Good afternoon to you too.” Indrid grins, swimming to him a bit gracelessly with mottled black and red tail. The red and black fan of fin on his lower back flashes bright green for a moment. 

“Indrid.” Duck says with awe, not quite believing his eyes even as his tail curls around Indrid’s own.

“Indeed. I, ah, found someone who would help me. Help us.”

“Are you, uh, stuck like this?”

He shakes his head, “No, I have a charm” he holds up his wrist to reveal a small cord, “I can go back to being human as needed. But I, ah, I can no longer see the future. I...that was the trade for this.”

“You gave that up just for me?” Duck cups his cheeks, brushes their noses together.

Indrid grins, “Yes. After all, whatever the futures may hold, whatever I can no longer see coming, does not matter half as much as the future I’m holding right now.”

[sharpen-jadescythe]

Sharpen And His Butterflies

I was going to keep this one about Sharpen’s innermost feelings to myself, but then I saw that Jiroki’s character, who has so many beautiful sad moments, might enjoy a very sweet story.

Sharpen left her side at dawn. Well, he didn't exactly leave. He looked the Kaldorei woman over for several long minutes, the longest in all of their date together it felt, and decided that he'd better let her sleep, rather than pester her for romance a third time. Beautiful long legs, sea green hair… Anyway, Sharpen was already starting to feel guilty about not getting Jiroki breakfast at a decent hour.

He said to himself, "Well, I'm whipped already then. And I think I like it." Sharpen felt his thick neck, joking quietly, "And so, where did I put my collar again?"

Sharpen had kept his deep admiration for Jiroki a carefully guarded secret, for months. But then things got very silly indeed, when he realized he was even resisting telling her about it…

And so, of course, after Jiroki agreed to spend time with him? Everything about their first date got planned carefully. In fact, Sharpen had run out of time, he'd been making such detailed, anxious arrangements. He knew where everything was supposed to be, mostly. And what to do. But Sharpen felt an idiot now, recalling how he paced at his home in front of the mirror, going over a couple key things to tell Jiroki, rehearsing that. The one thing he couldn’t quite get to? Sharpen thought he might pitch their camp in about that area, near the waterfall. Just not the exact spot. He rushed, giving the Goblins down in Booty Bay instructions. They offered some ‘romantic lovebirds getaway package’. He remembered going, “Fine, yes. I’ll have that. Whatever it costs…” Sharpen hated to leave that one part about the tent, the most important part, to the Goblins. But, lucky him—lucky for both of them, it went very well. The view of the crystal ocean and the green, green trees was stunning. And the ivory tent couldn’t have been more enticing, lit by so many heavenly candles the night before. Now he’d made it to the morning after. So… cool. A success, right? So why did he feel so nervous, even moreso than before?

Jiroki seemed like she might stay sleeping for at least a few more hours. Hopefully, through all his careful effort, he’d given her peaceful dreams. Right? Him waking up first and her still snoozing away mid-morning was a good thing? Wasn’t it?

Why did he feel like he’d somehow ruined things? What if she screamed at him when she got up? But why would she even do that?

Sharpen raised green eyebrows, wondering if he was going nuts. Possibly, yes. Food. Go get some food, Sharpen. You need to eat. In fact, where were the coffee trees?

Hot coffee doesn’t grow on trees, Sharpen. Not like that!

On the very morning he worked his ass off months for, Sharpen ignored his nervous thinking and did not sleep in with the woman he adored. He decided to just… just keep busy. The Night Elf man dutifully took his shotgun and went off to forage. He did a preliminary sweep around the campsite, ensuring no dangerous creatures would be about while he was gone and Jiro slept. After, Sharpen hiked for a mile or so. He knew where the avocado tree was, and the fig tree up on the other hill. He found mangoes--he considered bananas, but they weren't all that romantic for breakfast and there were terrible spiders up banana trees, usually. Sharpen went out his way for citrus. He smelled a passionfruit tree and was completely right about the ripe fruit. Pairs of tropical birds and buzzing insects were already visiting the spot, having their breakfast. Maybe it was silly, but a pair of flirtatious green parrots reminded him of Jiro and himself. One was getting groomed, unusually patient for a parrot. The other was frantic about getting it exactly right, all the little feathers on the top of her poor head. She looked like a female to him. Knowing parrots, it was bound to erupt into something squawking, loud and passionate any moment. For now, though, both were being unnaturally good.

All of the fruit got tossed in a netted bag Sharpen slung over his shoulder. His walk eventually brought him down to the beach. He slipped off his shorts and speedo and walked naked into the water. Sharpen used a bit of soap to help cleanse himself. It was the same, but then again it was not. It delighted him to pass the white wedge of soap over biceps that she gripped, the chest that turned her on. His abs… lower… how many times had she called him a beast? Her beast?

“Tiger…” he repeated Jiroki’s nickname for him. He’d earned it so fast. Yes, she made him feel like a tiger. Another thing, tigers could swim very well. Sharpen dove underwater. His head, shoulders, his back, then the curve of his wet buttocks silvered in a flare of hot sunshine and he went under the blue waves. The Night Elf’s skin was a coral color, usually. His naked body made a vibrant blaze beneath the water as he made athletic strokes beneath the falls.

Salt water in his love bites stung. But he liked that Jiro had done that to him. With her cute little fangs. He got turned on several times, fantasizing while swimming. But Sharpen was a very skilled swimmer in his own right. He managed to stay focused on what he was doing and not swim out too far. He wished Jiroki was there with him, swimming like last night.

Sharpen remembered how she looked in the water from below, how her thighs looked as she treaded water and was certainly wondering where he’d gone to. Right before Sharpen used powerful strokes to suddenly seize her at the surface, slide fingertips up those very tempting, creamy thighs, and tickle her. Only tickle her. He had wanted to do so much more, but Sharpen remembered telling himself to hold back.

Not to touch her, not too much.

Then, of course, he couldn’t stand it and grabbed Jiroki the moment she stepped foot on the beach with him. He played like he was only teasing. She soon learned how much he meant it.

Returned now to the beach, Sharpen dressed alone, completely unbraided his hair to dry it, and had a seat. He gazed across the water at the very spot of their actual dinner date, and where they'd made love. Where he caught Jiroki fish for supper. All for the first time. Sharpen wondered if there would be more times, and how many? Wasn’t it too complicated? Ash and burned stones from the campfire were still there, far across the water.

Sharpen tried to live in the moment. "Eggs. If I can poach some, way out here in the middle of nowhere? She'll be totally impressed. And of course, I have the rest of that salsa I used..."

Back at the tent above the waterfall, Sharpen indulged in one last quiet moment by the fire. He'd sliced everything with his hunting knife and it was arranged beautifully on one large banana leaf. He was down to the last one. The other, he accidentally dropped over the cliff edge. Sharpen eventually turned so that he could no longer see it floating away off into the crystal ocean way, way down there.

Well, that meant he was out of supplies, finally. This was going to end. It had to. He couldn’t keep her out here, even if he wanted. He was going back to his home and she would return to hers. Another thing nagged at him, which seemed unfair. He was craving a lot more alone time with her, possibly too much. He had no idea that they'd be so compatible in that aspect and he was finding her irresistible. He never wanted to stop. She was experienced and creative and free with herself in this... perfect way. Sharpen could feel himself smiling now, it almost hurt.

Thought cleared from the Night Elf man’s mind as lust took over. Thankfully, a part of him that had camped a thousand times knew it was about time to take the small pan he'd brought off of the hot stones near the campfire, then use a knife to help tip the eggs onto the leaf. He routinely scraped the last of his homemade salsa from its jar, right ontop.

An elegant jungle breakfast. Yes, again, he'd done everything right.

But now, Sharpen was afraid to take it in to her.

A white butterfly came and landed at the edge of the leaf. It was so sweet and small, Sharpen didn't have the heart to shoo it away. Then, it fluttered up in drunken arcs over their meal, in a sunbeam. Just as fast, it swifted right into the tent. Sharpen decided to abandon what he was doing. Why not enjoy being irresponsible and follow it? He went inside the tent just in time to see the little butterfly alight on Jiro's shoulder. The tiny thing opened and closed its wings, perfectly content.

"...She is sweet, isn't she?" Sharpen confided in the butterfly. "And you chose her over all the other flowers in the forest. What a compliment.” Then, he couldn’t resist coming out with it, “Maybe I’m the same way. I find myself worrying about… I just want to make her happy. Sometimes, she seems so sad and I just want to make her so very happy."

Sharpen lay back down and placed a hand on Jiro's naked hip. He didn't want to disturb Jiroki, or his friend the butterfly at all.

He watched it, and the butterfly watched him, until suddenly it flitted up into the air and danced away. Sharpen wondered if he was really going to let Jiro’s perfect breakfast sit out there and get covered with flies. Was he that petty about having to wake her up and eventually leave their little love nest?

Sharpen sighed at himself and turned to lay on his back. His wavy green hair, everywhere. It went down to his waist.

Then, some other feeling Sharpen made him look up, a hunter’s instinct that they weren’t exactly alone. At the top of the tent, there were small white butterflies everywhere, resting or playing and flirting with each other, flickering gray and white or silver in the pale dawn light. Those aromatic red flowers he tied to the beams for decoration (the Goblins did a good enough job, but it needed some ‘Night Elf-ing up’ as Sharpen explained to the irritated workmen), that had attracted the butterflies... So. He’d tried to clear the area of wandering tigers, monkeys an hour earlier. But he didn't think to defend his lover against a swarm of butterflies. Well, Sharpen couldn’t. And they were so beautiful.

Sharpen decided to rest and not to worry. Everything he'd secretly done, everything he felt, everything he knew about himself regarding her but couldn't say...

There was no stopping it anyway, no denying it. And it wasn’t wrong. It would reveal itself and settle on everything and be sweet. This… particular problem, it wasn't like rain or a storm that you could just take shelter from. Love was more of a ‘get over it or get under it’ type of thing. So he'd better go on and make up his mind how he was going to handle this. And not waste any more time. Unless he wanted to worry about maybes and what ifs forever. Meanwhile, the real elements, wind, rain, beasts, would eat Jiro’s breakfast.

"And love is a force of nature too, people forget that..."

Caring about someone. That wasn’t a weakness. In a way, wasn’t it also… Yes, it was. It was power. Then, louder so she could hear him, "Jiroki? Wake up, darling. Breakfast is ready. And look what you attracted to our tent all on your own, you sweet foxy thing you."

At last Jiroki turned over to face him. She opened her eyes. Once a Sentinel, a former Watcher, Jiroki sensed the tension in him, didn’t miss a thing. “What’s gone wrong?”

Or, you could go straight through love. Let it pummel you from all sides.

Sharpen smiled easily, figured he could take it.

“Nothing, really. Jiroki, did I ever tell you--being near you always gave me butterflies?” He pointed up above, to the red flowers and all their new friends.

“Sharpen! Awww…”